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I came from a pretty “bright” place. I had a safe home, a loving family, plenty to eat, a bed to sleep in. I was able to go to good schools, I attended church, I went on to college and even graduate school. I married a wonderful man and we raised two beautiful children. There wasn’t a lot of darkness where I was from. Thankfully. Finding the Bridge   But, as God led me on this journey, I came to realize there is a very dark world—not very far from mine. People do life there every day, dealing with things I could not have even imagined. It was just on the other side of town, and yet it seemed worlds away. It was almost like two islands—one very bright and shiny, the other dark and gloomy. Separated by housing affordability, school districts, and job options, it was easy to stay on your own island and never venture across the ocean of indifference that lies between “us” and “them.” Yet, somehow, I found myself on this bridge that led to the other island. I found myself tentatively venturing across, meeting people on the bridge. Others who had felt the call to the dark island. And people who were trying to escape from it.    It was a rickety bridge, fraught with obstacles and challenges. There is a tension that tugs on you as you wrestle between your own human desires and the call God has placed on your life. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. There were many times where I just wanted to run back to my island and pull up the drawbridge! And, at times, I would  retreat to the safety of comfort and familiarity. But I am thankful that God gave me the perseverance to return to the bridge. To even cross over at times and wander in their world. To experience their island. It has been transformational—for me and, I hope, the people he sent me to. Boldly Begin the Crossing   God calls us to find these bridges that lead into the darkness and to boldly begin the crossing. He commands us to go therefore and make disciples of all [islands]. Seek out the least and the lost. Care for the widow and the orphan. We would honestly rather stay on our shiny island, comfortable and safe. But if we deny the call, we will miss the fruits of obedience. Who is on the other side of the bridge, waiting in the dark for you to bring the light?    And honestly, as challenging as the bridge might be, you meet the most amazing people there. You find people who are really seeking after God’s own heart, people who truly hunger to know him and to do his bidding. Many of these are fellow sojourners who have left the bright island to carry the light into the darkness.   You will also find those who are escaping the darkness, and they are some of the most amazing people you will ever meet! They have realized the depth of their depravity. They fully acknowledge their need for a Savior. And they have met him!! And they shine. With a brightness, honestly, that is brighter and somehow different from so many on the bright island. It is a light that comes from within. Not a superficial, shiny light that seems more like a thin veneer. It has the warm glow of a welcoming porch light, bidding, “Come! Let me tell you of the God who saved me. Let me tell you about Jesus!”  What Light Do We Carry?   There was a sad realization that some of the light—too much of the light—on the bright island was more like the blue-tinted coolness of fluorescent bulbs that produce harsher illumination. Rather than a warm welcoming glow, there tended to be an interrogating exposé as this bright, artificial light is cast on the sins of others—the accuser blinding the accused, hiding their own sin behind the blinding brilliance of that same light. And then there are false lights on the bright island . . .  like comfort and control, pleasure and power. Shiny, but superficial. There is warm, welcoming light on the bright island, to be certain. It can just be harder to see amidst all the false light.    My travels on the bridge have helped me see the stark difference between the artificial light of judgmental religion and the true light of a repentant sinner filled with the Holy Spirit. You know those aerial images taken by satellites as they circle the earth? The ones that show the bright lights of New York City and the nearly pitch black of the Amazon jungle? I have produced my own mental, aerial images of the islands and the bridge.    There is the bright island that is shiny and twinkly, but there is a harsh brilliance and a false allure. Kind of like a bug zapper. Bright and shiny—but it can kill. And then there is the dark island that is almost absent of light, but then . . .  what is that? A twinkle. A bright spot shimmering somewhere in the darkness. There are more flickers than I had once thought. Bright lights scattered throughout the dark island. Beacons of hope. How brave of them to stay.   And then I can make out the bridge, a narrow path between the islands, with bright lights crossing back and forth.  And like a moth drawn to the flame, the warmth of this light beckons the unbeliever. This is the light that will save. And as I watch the lights on the bridge, I suddenly realize… some people from the dark island are carrying light to the bright island!  It became clear to me, your light isn’t defined by where you come from—it’s where your light  comes from. I would take the soft glow of a few beautiful souls filled with the light from within over a whole island of people with artificial light. I am honored to be called to the bridge. I will stand in the tension. May I bring light to the darkness . . .  including the darkness that masquerades as light.    “Now this was the sin of your sister Sodom: She and her daughters were arrogant, overfed and unconcerned; they did not help the poor and needy.” Ezekiel 16:49 NIV   “Watch and pray so that you will not fall into temptation. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.” Matthew 26:41 NIV   “For God, who said, “Let light shine out of darkness,” made his light shine in our hearts to give us the light of the knowledge of God’s glory displayed in the face of Christ.” 2 Corinthians 4:6 NIV   “For such people are false apostles, deceitful workers, masquerading as apostles of Christ. And no wonder, for Satan himself masquerades as an angel of light. It is not surprising, then, if his servants also masquerade as servants of righteousness. Their end will be what their actions deserve.” 2 Corinthians 11:13-15 NIV

The woman was wearing more than one shirt—way more than one shirt! I could see the different neck lines and multiple shirttails poking out from under the jean jacket she had managed to squeeze over top of all of them. In fact, she had on so many layers, and the denim was stretched so tight, she couldn’t even bend her arms! She looked like a slightly more stylish, adult version of the little brother   in A Christmas Story as he bumbled down the sidewalk in his puffy snowsuit crying, “I can’t put my arms down!” It made me chuckle and it made me curious . . .  what in the world?! But then I realized, she was in distress. And she wasn’t alone. Behind her there were others, so many others. Unable to bend their arms, they were not able to feed themselves. They were not able to hold their babies. They were dying . . .    As I awoke at 2:30 in the morning, shaking the fog of sleep from my brain, I was thinking, “What a strange dream! Why were they wearing so many shirts?!” It didn’t take long for the main message to become clear—the clothing was the welfare system. In an attempt to be generous and kind, we give them one free thing after the other: food stamps, diapers, clothing, housing, medical care . . .  the list goes on. They wear welfare like the layered shirts, each given with good intentions, yet crippling them in the end.    Layer after layer of “welfare” immobilizes them to the point they are completely dependent on others. In the end we rob them of their work ethic, the satisfaction of a job well done, the pride of providing for their families . . .  their dignity. The family is broken—fathers walk away in shame disguised as wild living; children are removed from parental custody to protect them from those who were to be their protectors. God designed us to work, to be productive and fruitful—even before the Fall in the Garden of Eden. Squelching that in the human spirit inevitably leads to loss of a sense of self-worth, which leads to depression, which leads to hopelessness, which—far too often—leads to self-medication, numbing the intolerable pain and hopelessness with drink or drugs. Like falling dominoes, the welfare system can unwittingly initiate the cascade from poverty to all-consuming addiction.   We give them so much free stuff they forget how to work— they are not able to feed themselves. Welfare cripples to the point they lose their children— they are not able to hold their babies.  Lack of purpose and self worth sends them spiraling into addiction— they are dying.   Wayward Welfare   I couldn’t get the image out of my mind. So, I lay there, tossing and turning for the next three or four hours, wrestling with the dilemma of a broken system and how best to help. The bible is so clear, after all: we are to help the poor and the needy, to help the widows and the orphans! All of these programs—government led or Christian ministries—were designed to help these vulnerable populations. So, where had we gone so wrong? Why doesn’t welfare work?    I thought again of the layers of shirts, each one given with such good intentions. But, think about it, if someone gave “a shirt” to a person “in need,” it would be a nice thing. But if it is done through anonymous transactions, they don’t realize that someone else has already given them “a shirt.” They don’t know if that person is really “in need,” maybe they could get their own shirt. The system is abused, intentionally or not, and little by little the layers are added and, ultimately, they can’t bend their arms! Crippling kindness.    It seemed logical that we simply strip them of all those layers in order to free them. Remove welfare! But then, those muscles that had gone unused—in many cases, for generations—were weak and atrophied. Their work muscles and their parenting muscles would need to be strengthened before they could effectively use them. It was funny because, as I lay there pondering all these things, I recalled a random conversation from the day before. My grown son had been tubing behind the boat with our grandsons and, apparently, they were pretty impressed with his grip strength. How could he hang on so tightly as the tube careened out of control behind the boat?! His answer was that he had an adjustable hand grip exerciser—a tool that allowed him to work on his grip strength as he watched TV or whatever. When the task got easier, he could make an adjustment on the tool that made it harder, gradually increasing his grip strength over time. Similarly, there would need to be a means to gradually increase those work muscles and those parenting muscles . . .    And I think that’s where we might come in, as Christians.  One thing that had become increasingly clear to me along my journey was that we—as the church, as the body, as the hands and feet of Christ—have left our post. We have relegated the care of orphans and widows, the most vulnerable in our community, to the government or to nonprofits and Christian ministries. When we see someone in need, we justify looking the other way because, after all, we have paid our taxes—there’s a welfare program for that! We pride ourselves in the fact that we have donated to this cause or that organization. We can wash our hands of their plight and go on our merry way with a clean conscience. At times, in self-righteous ignorance, we can even swing to the other side of the pendulum, justifying that they deserve the harvest their idle hands and their wild, reckless living have sown . . . and do nothing. In reality, these are both easy outs that don’t solve the problem. I’m afraid ministry is messy, and we are as good at finding ways to preserve our comfortable lives along with our conscience as they are at finding hand-outs.    Help That Helps   As Christians, we are called to love our neighbor—and that includes the poor, the widow and the orphan. But it looks different than programmatic, transactional welfare. These people do need food and shelter, to be sure. But perhaps even more so, they need loving relationships. They need unconditional, even undeserved love. God’s form of welfare looks more like a meal . . . shared around a table, like a bed . . . in a guest room. More challenging, for sure! I can relate to the easy out of writing a check to a food bank or local shelter. As it turns out, our hospitality and generosity muscles are as weak as their work and parenting muscles. Looks like we all need to go to the gym! Or perhaps, back to the bible . . .       As we begin to flex those generosity and hospitality muscles, it’s important to remember that God’s form of kindness and generosity doesn’t always look like one might expect. It might not even look kind or generous! There needs to be discernment on how to help and when to give. Help doesn’t always come in the form of money—it may be sharing wisdom or taking time to teach. Help doesn’t even always come in the form of help. Sometimes, allowing them to struggle through challenging times—even as we love them and encourage them—allows them to work those muscles and make them stronger. It allows them to realize they can do it!    Rolling over in bed, again, as my husband continued his snoring beside me, another memory bubbled to the surface. (It always amazes me how God can weave what seem to be just normal, everyday conversations into his lesson plans for me!) As we had spent time together over the Labor Day weekend, my son-in-law shared a story about something he had posted on the internet. He had shared a video of our youngest grandson struggling to climb up onto Pancho, their big ranch horse.  With some resourcefulness, impressive upper body strength, and sheer determination, he managed to climb aboard.  Sitting tall in the saddle, he looked proud as a peacock about it, too.  However, his expression changed quickly when his dad pointed out that he had forgotten to untie the horse!  He would have to get down and do it all over again . . .    Apparently, there were literally hundreds of comments on the post that berated my son-in-law for not helping my little grandson get on the horse.  They were especially aghast that he had not bailed him out and untied the horse for him.  I fear it is indicative of our culture, in many ways, and our approach to welfare, for sure.  You see, my son-in-law wasn’t being mean…he was cultivating character.  My grandson was learning resourcefulness and ingenuity, building strength, learning to overcome challenges, to persevere.  He was allowed to experience the pride of accomplishment . . . and to suffer the consequences of poor planning.  I bet he remembered to untie the horse the next time he went to get on!   Now, if my grandson had been smaller or weaker, he may have needed  some help getting on, and his daddy would have been more than willing to provide it.  But my son-in-law knows his son and knew he could do it if he put his mind to it.  Maybe if we form relationships with our neighbors that struggle (even if the “neighbor” lives in a different neighborhood on the other side of town), we would begin to know them.  Know them well enough to know when they need a little boost into the saddle or when they just need someone to believe in them and give them a little encouragement.  Because I have seen firsthand what the welfare system does to the human spirit, and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.  I would love to love them in a way that allowed them to ultimately sit proudly in the saddle, reveling in their accomplishment and ready to take on the next challenge—even if it meant suffering the consequences of some of their choices.    The Generous Generation   The welfare system is entrenched in our culture, and I’m afraid we may not be able to simply strip it away.  There are those who have become so reliant on it that to do so would leave them weak and vulnerable.  So, what is the answer?  I’m sure there is no simple solution, but I have come to envision what I call the Generous Generation.  We will need Christians who are ready to help in a way that helps .  To be willing to give—even as they are already giving in the form of taxes or donations, even if it is “undeserved”—in order to give folks who are trying to learn how to be independent a little boost into the saddle.  To be willing to say no once they become strong enough to do it on their own—even if it looks like a mighty struggle.  To offer wisdom and to take time to teach—when writing a check would be so much easier.  To love their children with  them, showing them a better way of parenting—rather than simply doing it for them.  To know them well enough to know what will actually help—empower rather than enable.  May God grant us wisdom and discernment as we exercise our own underdeveloped generosity and hospitality muscles!  We all have a lot of work to do as we take the reins back from the government on this issue of “welfare.”  But, as a horse lover speaking from experience, I hope we all can get in that saddle and begin to run, feeling the wind on our face and the power beneath us.  What an exhilarating ride!    I hope that one day, I have a sequel to this strange dream—and that this one actually comes true . . .    I dream of a day where all those extra shirts have been stripped away and those currently in bondage have been set free—they are once again feeding themselves, and holding their babies.  A dream where they are not only living , but living the abundant life offered through Jesus Christ.  I pray we can choose the messy, hard work of ministry—making disciples of all nations and teaching them to obey all God’s commandments—rather than settling for crippling kindness.   “John answered, 'Anyone who has two shirts should share with the one who has none, and anyone who has food should do the same.'” Luke 3:11 NIV   “For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’   Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’   The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’” Matthew 25:35-40 NIV   “And we urge you, brothers and sisters, warn those who are idle and disruptive, encourage the disheartened, help the weak, be patient with everyone.” 1 Thessalonians 5:14 NIV   “For even when we were with you, we gave you this rule: “The one who is unwilling to work shall not eat.”” 2 Thessalonians 3:10 NIV   “Anyone who has been stealing must steal no longer, but must work, doing something useful with their own hands, that they may have something to share with those in need.” Ephesians 4:28 NIV   “Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen: to loose the chains of injustice and untie the cords of the yoke, to set the oppressed free and break every yoke? Is it not to share your food with the hungry and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter—when you see the naked, to clothe them, and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood? Then your light will break forth like the dawn, and your healing will quickly appear; then your righteousness will go before you, and the glory of the Lord will be your rear guard.” Isaiah 58:6-8 NIV

When I was a little girl, my grandparents lived on a farm. Visits there were glorious fun for me and my siblings. I can remember making forts out in the grove. Under the canopy of great elm trees, we would set up a little house. With the plum thicket as the back wall, we would set up wooden crates as our cupboards. Sometimes we would even add little pieces of cloth for the cupboard doors. Large leaves made great slices of bread or pie crusts, and a little mud and crushed berries the perfect jam or filling. We would serve “tea,” inviting Grandma to join us at our little table that was actually a large stump from a felled tree. We would prepare “lunch” to take to Grandpa in the field. Little children, modeling life as they had experienced it. When she was a little girl, she was raised on the reservation. She and her siblings and cousins would play together, creating a liquor store from the cans and bottles they found in the ditch. Selections ranged from Pabst Blue Ribbon to Jack Daniels with everything in between. Little single shots, empty cans, glass bottles. One would be the cashier, the others would come to make their purchases. Little children, modeling life as they had experienced it. Waking up, I could smell the coffee wafting back to my room. Somehow, a gentle assurance that all was right with the world. My dad was always the first one up. With a family of seven, four of them girls, my dad would get up at the crack of dawn to beat the rush in our only bathroom. As I roused from sleep and stumbled out to wait my turn in the bathroom, he could always be found in his recliner . . . a mug of warm coffee in hand, Paul Harvey on the radio. All was right with the world. Waking up, she would stumble out to get ready for the day. There was no smell of coffee, rather the stench of stale cigarette smoke. There was no dad in the recliner, rather a man—who was not her father—lying naked on the couch, watching porn, hollering at her to bring him another beer. All was not right with the world. As I lay in bed at the end of the day, the peace and quiet of the still house calmed me and the gentle whir of the oscillating fan gently lulled me to sleep. I had had a snack and brushed my teeth, Mom and Dad had come to tuck me in and say goodnight. I shared a bed with my sister, and sometimes she would ask me to sing her a song and I would make up a sweet little song that I would sing quietly in the still of the night. Drifting off to sleep, we could rest easy, knowing that in the morning there would be the smell of coffee and Paul Harvey. As she and her brothers lay in bed at the end of the day, they could hear the door opening and closing. People gathering. The conversation growing louder and more raucous as the alcohol began to take its effect. They would lay in bed, betting with each other on how long it would be until the cops showed up. There was some fun competition in it . . . also a little trepidation. Sometimes, it wasn’t just a warning. Sometimes, mom would be taken away. Sometimes, child protective services would come on the heels of the cops, to come upstairs and take them away. And so, it was a bet you didn’t really want to win. They tried to get some rest, having no idea what the morning would bring. “Start children off on the way they should go, and even when they are old they will not turn from it.” Proverbs 22:6 NIV “All your children will be taught by the Lord, and great will be their peace.” Isaiah 54:13 NIV “Oh, that their hearts would be inclined to fear me and keep all my commands always, so that it might go well with them and their children forever!” Deuteronomy 5:29 NIV

The seeds that were planted at the Answers in Genesis conference I attended had been germinating—pressing against the soil of my soul, desperate to emerge and stretch towards the light. I learned there was going to be a four-day conference called Creation College. I had to go! It would be held at the headquarters of Answers in Genesis and attendees would get a preview of the soon-to-open Creation Museum. The good folks of my little country church agreed to sponsor my trip and I was on my way to Kentucky!   As before, there was this incredible sense of slipping into comfortable shoes. Many unrealized tensions were released as I learned more and more; I was like a sponge. I went to as many sessions as I possibly could, took copious notes, bought materials, and talked to speakers and people. There was one woman I always bumped into. She seemed to be at the same sessions, I would see her in the hallways, in the cafeteria. We ended up sitting together often, and eventually, I asked the standard question, “So, where are you from?” Her answer left me speechless. “I’m from Canton, South Dakota.” That was where I lived. Remember, we were in Kentucky! I marveled that of all the people I could have met, God orchestrated a meeting between two people from the same small town in South Dakota—in Kentucky. We couldn’t help but take note of the coincidence (not!) and felt sure we were meant to walk together in our ministries back home, armed with all this new knowledge and evidence for our faith.   Upon returning, my mental sponge was so full I just had to wring it out! I couldn’t stop talking to anyone who would listen about all I had learned—Acts 4:20 took on a whole new meaning. Admittedly, seeing Jesus do miracles would be far more mind-blowing, but I simply could not help but speak about what I had seen and heard. I led a Bible study, I spoke to the women’s group, I spoke to the high schoolers, and I even spoke to the primary school kids! I remember taking my kids’ Fisher-Price Little People pirate ship as a stand-in for Noah’s ark. I marched little plastic animals up the ramp, two-by-two. Dogs, cats, dinosaurs . . . Hold on! Dinosaurs? Two of these little preschoolers were brothers whose dad was an engineer. These kids knew a thing or two. And they were emphatic that dinosaurs did  not  go on the ark. They went extinct sixty-five million years ago, before there were even people. These kids were like four and five! I remember thinking, how could this be?! Indoctrinated—brain-washed—about evolution by the age of four! The world was speaking loudly—the church had better speak up.  We  had better speak up.  I  had better speak up.   You know, I did end up meeting with that gal a few times. I even loaned her some curriculum and materials I had purchased. But my creation ministry didn’t exactly flourish then . . . you know, the hamster wheel.   “As for us, we cannot help speaking about what we have seen and heard.” Acts 4:20 NIV   “If anyone causes one of these little ones—those who believe in me—to stumble, it would be better for them to have a large millstone hung around their neck and to be drowned in the depths of the sea.”  Matthew 18:6 NIV

He was only three . . . but he knew a lot. At least he thought he knew a lot! I had been having some really interesting conversations with my three-year-old grandson. They may have been better categorized as debates. He had very strong opinions. I wouldn’t know where he got that . . . I watched my three grandsons on Fridays, but this was the first Friday in a long time, since COVID had hit, that his big brothers were back in school. So, it was just Shaeden. He showed up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and, first thing, took off for the basement—where all the toys are. There was an amazing amount of noise for one small child, rising up the stairwell to our living room where we were finishing up our breakfast. Before long, he was back upstairs—but with a toy gun. “Hands up!” he says to Papa. To which Papa quickly obliged. With no hesitation, the toy gun went off in rapid fire: BANG! BANG! BANG! . . . Shaeden: Cain said that we can still shoot, even if they put their hands up. Nana: No, you can’t. If someone puts their hands up, that means you don’t shoot. Shaeden: Cain said you can. Nana: Cain was wrong. Shaeden: Cain knows things. Nana: I think Cain was mistaken. Shaeden: No, he wasn’t. Papa: Nana knows things, too. Shaeden: Well, Cain said that if they put their hands up you can still shoot. After a brief pause, while Nana regrouped . . . Nana: Do you know what it means when someone puts their hands up? That’s their way of saying, “I give up,” “I’m done fighting,” “I don’t have a gun,” “I’m not going to shoot,” “Don’t shoot.” Shaeden: Cain said you can still shoot ‘em. Pause . . . Nana: What did you have for breakfast this morning? Shaeden: (in a Western drawl) Put ‘em up, boys! Hey Winston, (our Corgi) put ‘em up, son! BANG! BANG! BANG! . . . I’m not sure who won that one . . . To celebrate the end of summer and our first day with just the two of us, we decided to run to Sioux Falls where we played at the park and hit the Pickle Barrel on our way home. He seriously would just eat the pickles, but I usually got a little meat or cheese or chips down him, too. This time, as we were eating, three police officers came in for lunch. I pointed them out, thinking he would think it was pretty neat to see them in their uniforms and all their gear. Rather, his eyes got big . . . he hugged the table . . . he crouched down a bit (you can’t get down much lower at the table, really, when you are only three!). He looked at me and very quietly, but stone-faced serious, asked “Are they going to kill us?” My heart sank a bit. The poor little man! I don’t think it occurred to him that they were there to get a sandwich and a pickle! In his mind, there was going to be a shootout. Nana: Oh, no baby! The police officers are nice. They protect us. We are the good guys. They just get the bad guys, so we can be safe. As he ever so slowly inched his way around the corner of the table, along the side, sidling up close to me in my chair . . . Shaeden: Yeah, but are they going to kill us? Nana: Oh, no honey. They won’t shoot us. Shaeden: I want to go home. Can we go home? Nana: Let’s finish our lunch and then we’ll go home. Shaeden: I want to go home. Nana: Police are nice. Do you know that Boijan, Ella’s daddy, is a police officer? He is nice . . . Shaeden: Boijan is a police officer? Nana: Yep. Shaeden: Does he have a gun? Nana: Yep. Shaeden: Does he have a black . . . (searching for the word for flak jacket, and settling for) shirt? Nana: Yep. Shaeden: Does he have a police car? (Clearly checking for all his credentials.) Nana: Yep. Shaeden: I want to go home. Nana: Have a few more bites of sandwich. Driving home . . . Shaeden: (Mumbled comments from the back seat about bad guys and squishing their guts out and blowing their heads off . . .) Nana: We don’t want to squish their guts out or blow their heads off! We should love them! Shaeden: (incredulous) Why would we love them?! Nana: Because Jesus tells us to love them. We don’t want to shoot the bad guys, maybe arrest them and take them to jail. Maybe they will learn to be good guys. Shaeden: Oh, no (he assured me). These were very, very bad guys. (Coming out more like vewy, vewy with his three-year-old battle with r’s.) We should shoot them. Nana: If we tell the bad guys about Jesus, maybe they will become good guys! Pondering this… Shaeden: Jesus lives in our hearts. Do bad guys have hearts? Nana: Yes! Bad guys have hearts. They just don’t have Jesus in their hearts yet. We need to tell them about him and then they won’t want to be bad guys anymore. After a pause . . . Shaeden: Maybe we could fly a plane up there and tell him that these guys are vewy, vewy bad guys . . . For clarification . . . Nana: Fly up to heaven and tell Jesus? Shaeden: (thoughtfully) Yeah . . . maybe . . . Nana: Jesus already knows the bad guys and he loves them. He just wishes they knew about him. In the Bible, it says that Jesus wants us to go tell the bad guys about Jesus and how much he loves them. Shaeden: I will not talk to the bad guys. I would shoot them. Nana: I go into the jail and talk to them. I love them. Shaeden: You go into the jail? With the bad guys? They could kill you. Nana: I love them. Shaeden: I will not talk to the bad guys. They are vewy, vewy bad. Pause . . . Nana: Hey look, you can almost see the water tower . . . I’m not sure who won that one either . . . A realization slowly dawned on me. He was only three. How early we indoctrinate, never even meaning to, about “bad” guys and “good" guys. Cops and robbers, cowboys and Indians…they seem such harmless, childhood games. And there is good and evil. There is a real battle. But when did we, especially as Christians, decide it was okay—even good—to teach our children that we should hate the bad guys . . . kill the bad guys. But then, we were indoctrinated, too. It’s a tough cycle to break. I hope this won’t be my last showdown with Shaeden. I hope we have many more opportunities to discuss the good guys and the bad guys. I hope that one day, Shaeden loves the “bad” guys . . . and wants to tell them about Jesus. I believe he will. “But love your enemies, do good to them, and lend to them without expecting to get anything back. Then your reward will be great, and you will be children of the Most High, because he is kind to the ungrateful and wicked.” Luke 6:35 NIV “Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse.” Romans 12:14 NIV “Devote yourselves to prayer, being watchful and thankful. And pray for us, too, that God may open a door for our message, so that we may proclaim the mystery of Christ, for which I am in chains. Pray that I may proclaim it clearly, as I should. Be wise in the way you act toward outsiders; make the most of every opportunity. Let your conversation be always full of grace, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how to answer everyone.” Colossians 4:2-6 NIV

When the kids were little, we rented a farmhouse on a nice little acreage where we could keep our horses and accumulate critters. While it was nearly a hundred years old, it was actually in pretty good shape. I loved the French doors between the dining room and the living room, its wide woodwork, the open staircase, and the built-ins. This had been quite a home in its day, and it still had a sense of elegance and grandeur. But it also had some cracks in the plaster, several generations of paint speckled on the crown molding, and some of the flooring may still have been from the seventies.   My son was little, but apparently this had not escaped him. My sister was in the process of building a beautiful, brand-new home, and, innocently enough, my son asked me when we would get to move into a "nice" house. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I think it went something like this: “You should be grateful! There are people living in  cardboard boxes !” I may not have handled it perfectly, but I resolved that one day I would take these kids on a mission trip to a place where they would experience what real poverty looked like. Going Therefore . . .   So, something like 10 years later, we were on our way to Jamaica. I served as the youth leader at our little country church and this was my chance. These kids would get to see what the world looked like outside our little bubble. Of course, that wasn’t my only motive, we were “going therefore”! We would take the gospel to these people who had so little. At least they would have Jesus! Nearly thirty people from our little church (with an average attendance of about 100) went along—high school kids and many of the parents, as well. We had fluorescent green shirts made up with a paraphrase of 1 John 3:18, “Not Just Words . . . Action!”   And we jumped into action. Miss Paula, as the little Jamaican orphans called her, built her mission model around that of creation week: work hard for six days and rest on the seventh. We replaced peeling wallpaper in the orphanage, the men put in a new water tank to collect rainwater, we visited people with disabilities, and we went to a home for juvenile delinquents. I must add a couple of qualifiers to the last part of that. "Home" was an abandoned sugar refinery with gaping holes in the roof (which would explain why the beds were scattered haphazardly throughout the rooms), and "juvenile delinquents" often meant boys from the streets. Boys who simply had nowhere else to go.   We helped them with schoolwork and played with little toy cars they had made from milk cartons with pop bottle lids for wheels. And our kids learned to play cricket! A stick served as a substitute for the bat and the only ball they had kept getting lost in the jungle that encroached upon their playing field. But, in that moment, kids were just kids. Light-skinned, dark-skinned . . . rich or poor . . . they were just kids playing ball. These "delinquents" that, if I am honest, I was a little afraid to bring our children around, were just kids in need of love. Just like any other kid.   With the exception of a little cricket and some dancing in the downpours that would happen every day around five o’clock, we did indeed work hard for six days. And surprisingly enough, when the day of rest came, no one wanted to rest! Even as we climbed Dunn River Falls and swam in the Glistening Waters—major tourist attractions in Jamaica—I would hear kids commenting on how they wished they could have gone back to finish the wallpaper or hold the babies one more time. It was then and there that I deemed the trip a success. These kids—well, all of us—had found joy in service—what we were designed to do. They were learning, as I had been, that so many of our "troubles" get so much smaller when we see the challenges so many others face.   Lacking What Is Needed   But perhaps the greater eye-opener for me was that most of these people already had Jesus. Indeed, they seemed to know him far better than us! You see, these people  needed  Jesus. He was  all  they had! They lived in shacks made of corrugated tin. Their fences were made of rocks, piled up, and topped with shards of broken glass embedded in cement. Their children lived in orphanages and on the streets and in abandoned sugar refineries—not because they didn’t want them . . . because they couldn’t afford to feed them. One of the neighboring towns had the highest murder rate per capita—in the world. But they had Jesus. I saw smiles and laughter and joy under circumstances I am not sure I could even bear. More joy than many of the privileged and wealthy that had everything their heart could desire over in the United States. Maybe . . . more joy than me?   For the first time, I truly realized the difference between happiness and joy. Happiness depends on our circumstances. Joy comes from Jesus. They may have been poor and hungry—in need of food for their bellies. But without realizing it, I had been poor and hungry, too—in need of food for my soul. I went intent on giving . . . I ended up receiving. I had intended to show my little, now nearly grown son what real poverty looked like. And I guess I did. But I feel the table was somehow turned. After all, what is "poverty"?     “Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you. And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.” Matthew 28:19–20 NIV   “Dear children, let us not love with words or speech but with actions and in truth.” 1 John 3:18 NIV   “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” Matthew 5:3 NIV

It was terrifying and chaotic. The sense of urgency was so great, and yet I felt completely helpless. I could only watch as the scene unfolded. It was like a short clip from an action film or, while this came to me before the era of mass shootings, it could have been a scene from a mall where there was an active shooter. In this scene, in my mind’s eye, there were escalators everywhere—going up, going down . . . passing to the right, to the left—packed with people. There was sheer terror and panic in the air. Pandemonium. I was on an escalator that was moving along at a steady pace, slowly moving upwards. There were others with me on that escalator. And from that escalator, I could see other escalators—destined for other places—packed with people. So many people.   I knew that mine would lead to safety, but I was just as certain that the other escalators would lead the people to danger and destruction. And they knew it, too. They were desperate. Pushing and shoving, climbing over and trampling others in their desperate attempts to get off that escalator and onto mine. I saw people that I loved on those other escalators . . . slowly and inexorably moving towards danger and destruction. But there was nothing I could do about it. Nothing they could do about it. It was too late.   Ushering Others to the Ultimate Escalator   I don’t know if it was my mind’s way of processing things or God’s way of revealing this really important truth to me—perhaps it was both—but upon awakening, it was clear to me that this was like a Hollywood version of Matthew 7:13–14 : “Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it. But small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it” (NIV). A familiar scripture, one I knew well. But did I really  know  it? The Apostle John was given “the rest of the story,” and it is cryptically given to us in the book of Revelation. Cryptic, yet crystal clear. There is a day coming when time runs out. Jesus is coming again to judge the living and the dead. At that time, we had better be on the right "escalator"—the narrow road that leads to life. By then, it will be too late to change escalators.   But it is not too late now! We have been given time. God is a loving God and wishes that none would perish. But he has left us with a task. As believers, as his  followers , we have been commissioned to help people find their way to the right escalator! We are to go, therefore, and make disciples of all nations. Do we somehow know that without really  knowing  that? Do we believe, or do we  believe ? How urgent is our sense of sharing the gospel? Are we equipping ourselves to do so? Do we sense an imminency that motivates us to move from complacency to action? I cling to the feeling I had on that escalator, and it moves me to “go, therefore.” No one knows the day of his return.  So, we’d better get moving!   “Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it. But small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it.”  Matthew 7:13–14 NIV   “Anyone whose name was not found written in the book of life was thrown into the lake of fire.”  Revelation 20:15 NIV   “The Lord is not slow in keeping his promise, as some understand slowness. Instead he is patient with you, not wanting anyone to perish, but everyone to come to repentance.”  2 Peter 3:9 NIV   “Therefore keep watch, because you do not know the day or the hour.”  Matthew 25:13 NIV

You’ve maybe heard this little story or some version of it.   As she prepared to put the Christmas ham into the oven, her husband asked her, “Why do you always cut the end of the ham off before you put it in the oven?” She thought about it for a while and realized she didn’t really know! “I’m not sure—my mom always did it. Maybe it makes it juicier or something,” she responded as she put the lopped-off ham into the roaster and into the oven. A few days later, she was thinking about her husband’s question and decided to call her mom. Expecting a culinary rationale for the long-standing tradition, her mother’s response came as a bit of a surprise. “Oh, I always had to cut the end off because my roaster was never big enough.”   I feel that there are so many things we do in the church that are kind of like that. They had a wonderful intention or purpose initially. We do them over and over, year after year. Gradually, it becomes just the way church is done. “We’ve always done it that way.” Over time, indeed over generations, we can forget the original idea behind it, and the spiritual meaning can be lost. The tradition itself becomes more important than the original intent or spiritual symbolism. While the Bible says absolutely nothing about what color the altar cloths should be in any given liturgical season or how long the sermon should be, what order the service should go in, or who can speak from which pulpit, these traditions can become very important to people. Maybe too important. It becomes eerily reminiscent of the legalistic traditions of the Pharisees . . . and Jesus didn’t think too highly of them. He scolded them in Matthew 15:8–9, “These people honor me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me. They worship me in vain; their teachings are merely human rules” (NIV).   Even more worrisome, what if our faith itself has fallen prey to the "my mother always did it" syndrome! Sometimes I wonder if we go through the motions just because it’s expected. What if we have come from such a long line of Christians during a particularly peaceful and prosperous era that we don’t even know why we believe. We just believe because we are "supposed to."   God has put some very special people in my life who haven’t "just always believed." I have seen how brightly the light of Christ shines against the darkness. I have seen people literally transformed and become new creations. I have even found myself jealous of these baby Christians and their precious, life-giving relationships with Christ. They have helped me see Christ in a whole new way. They have helped me to not take his precious gift for granted. I pray differently, I believe differently, and I have experienced God in ways I never knew possible.   What about you? Have you taken time to evaluate why you believe? What you believe? Why you go to church on Sunday mornings . . . or why you don’t? Are the traditions and obligations of church wearing you out, or is your relationship with Christ giving you new life? These are pretty important questions that we better get right—God doesn’t have any grandchildren. And somehow, I just don’t think he really cares what color the altar cloths are!   I am not saying that all traditions are bad or that we have to scrap everything and start all over, but we should never let traditions get in the way of true worship and effective evangelism. Sometimes, change can be a good thing. Not always easy, but sometimes a very good thing. Sometimes there’s a better way to bake a ham.   “You have let go of the commands of God and are holding on to human traditions.” Mark 7:8 NIV   "Woe to you Pharisees, because you give God a tenth of your mint, rue and all other kinds of garden herbs, but you neglect justice and the love of God. You should have practiced the latter without leaving the former undone."  Luke 11:42 NIV   "Yet to all who did receive him, to those who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God —children born not of natural descent, nor of human decision or a husband’s will, but born of God."  John 1:12-13 NIV

John 14:21 had become somewhat of a life verse for me. You see, I always thought that keeping his commands meant: following the rules —you know, commands , like the ten commandments. Somehow, I made that into me trying to be good enough. Oh, I knew all the scriptures about how we aren’t saved by works, but rather by grace. And yet, I found myself striving . . .  for perfection. I also found myself comparing myself to others to see how I was doing, which led to being self-righteous and judgmental. I fear I more often brought the Bad  News to people.    Without realizing it, I had ascribed to "checkbox Christianity." I thought that going to church regularly, serving on committees, singing in the choir, teaching Sunday School, and serving at potlucks would surely show my love for him! And while it did, I fear I had been missing the whole point. 1 Corinthians 13 reminds us of the importance of love. Without it, even the most profound words sound like the annoying clang of a cymbal and the deepest knowledge and faith mean nothing. Matthew 23 warns of hypocrisy and scolds the religious leaders of the day. Despite their attention to the details of religious traditions and rituals, they had failed to love . . .  to show compassion and mercy. Had I fallen prey to the same misled convictions?   Now, as I follow my trail of "bread crumbs," I realize that I am  following His commands . . .  that are specifically for me  . . .  for today ! When I claim Christ as my Lord, he becomes my Master. Therefore, I need to follow his commands—for I am his servant. And in doing so, he is pleased and promises to show himself to me. And, indeed, he has! I have been blessed by this revelation. He has become more real than I had ever thought possible. And I have become consumed by the desire to share these realizations with others. I believe that is called . . .  sharing the Good  News!   “Whoever has my commands and keeps them is the one who loves me. The one who loves me will be loved by my Father, and I too will love them and show myself to them.”   John 14:21 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   “If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing.” 1 Corinthians 13:1-3 NIV   “Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You give a tenth of your spices—mint, dill and cumin. But you have neglected the more important matters of the law— justice, mercy and faithfulness. You should have practiced the latter, without neglecting the former.” Matthew 23:23 NIV

The year 2009 marked the height of what would become known as the Great Recession. Times were tough economically. Businesses were really struggling. Charitable giving was down. That’s when I felt God ask me to quit my job as a research scientist and start a ministry using horses to help people. Thanks, God. No, I mean it! Thanks, God! Because that is where I started to really see God at work. That is where I started  my  descent, and God began his rightful ascent in my life.   Having finally agreed to step off the hamster wheel, it was like I finally saw the invitation I had cast off to the side—to the party I had missed all those years ago. Or perhaps the date was set for just this time. At any rate, I picked it up and dusted it off. The wheels set in motion the summer those girls came to ride horses at the farm so many years earlier began to churn in earnest.   As I looked into doing some kind of horse ministry on our little farm, I visited with an old friend who had been running a horse boarding facility for years. I wanted to talk weed control, fencing, liability insurance . . . God had other ideas. She had been hosting a little summer program called Handi-Riders, which used horses to help people with disabilities. Before I knew it, I joined forces with them intending to include a Christ-centered mentoring program for kids from hard places.  And  we had a 20-year lease on the entire boarding facility—for a dollar a year. That’s right, twenty bucks! Handi-Riders became HorsePower, and we were off to the races. I hadn’t asked God for an indoor riding arena. I hadn’t even thought of it! Yet here it was, an unprayed answer!   The Bible emphasizes the importance of asking God through prayer, yet often we fail to do so. We will say, after we have tried everything, “Well, all we can do is pray,” when that should be the very  first  thing we should do. And too often we focus on the “unanswered” prayers, not realizing  God answers all prayers . The answer might just be to  wait —or  no . In this season, God showed up and showed off through a whole series of unprayed answers! Even as my pride or unbelief kept me from seeking God first, he showed up in the most amazing ways—providing things I needed and was striving for in my own strength even before I asked.   One day, as I came up the gravel drive to HorsePower, I could see our part-time maintenance man busy tackling the weeds around the outdoor arena. Weedwhacker in hand, he ambled towards my car and leaned on the door to chat through the open window. He was likely in his seventies, retired other than the few hours we could pay him for at the barn. He could fix anything, worked hard, and was the nicest man you could meet. But today, he had a bit of a gripe. When would we be getting a tractor? He pointed out the obvious fact that it was near impossible to manage a horse barn without one, especially at his age. We had a feeble, old hand-me-down tractor with a broken bucket that no longer raised. We could shove the round bales around a bit, but it was useless to pull fence posts, pick up rocks, or dump manure. I commiserated with him but confessed I had no idea how we would ever afford a tractor. We were barely making payroll.   Providence   It wasn’t but a few days later that I received a phone call out of the blue from our board president. What she had to share made my mouth drop open in awe. She had received a call from the Lennox Lion’s Club. They wanted to donate a tractor! God is simply so amazing. It wasn’t a surprise cash donation, not even “just the right amount,” which, of course, would have clearly indicated God’s working. It was the very thing we needed—a  tractor ! Signed at the bottom, as I’ve come to say:  Love, God . I hadn’t mentioned my conversation with the maintenance man to anyone on the board. I didn’t know anyone from the Lennox Lion’s Club. And I hadn’t prayed about it, either. It was just what we needed, just when we needed it: Providence.   The spring of 2010 was unusual because of heavy rains that came long before the ground thawed. The frozen ground was unprepared to receive the deluge, creating a muddy mire in the few feet that were thawed before being stopped from going further by the frozen subsoil. This barnyard, designed initially for horse people with trucks and four-wheel drive, was  not  designed for the vans and mini-buses that brought out folks with disabilities using wheelchairs and canes. Seldom a day went by that spring that one or more vehicles didn’t get stuck in the mud, requiring the assistance of a chain and a tractor. (Thank God, literally, at least we had the tractor!) We tried to make light of it. The caregivers that brought our riders out to the barn took pride in not yet getting stuck—until the day they got stuck, which seemed inevitable. We thought of making T-shirts that said, “I Survived the Spring of 2010 at HorsePower,” with mud splatters as part of the design!   One large van became especially entrenched, nearly buried up to the vehicle’s underside. Most of us were too big to fit underneath to get the chain wrapped around the axle. One of our best volunteers was a tiny little thing, and she agreed to give it a try. She was able to get underneath, all right, but she emerged looking like she had been in a mud wrestling contest! As luck would have it— no , as God alone could orchestrate—this woman’s husband owned a quarry and had all kinds of connections in the gravel and paving industry. She went home to inform him that,  somehow , they would be putting in a parking lot at HorsePower. As a result of that divine appointment in the mud, we got a paved parking lot, fully equipped with a curb and gutter, absolutely free! Five or six vendors in the community donated labor and materials to meet our pressing needs. Other than this petite volunteer, I didn’t know any of them. I hadn’t  dared  to pray for an entire parking lot! Just what we needed, just when we needed it: Providence.   Times were getting even tougher. Hay prices were skyrocketing. Donations had been dwindling, and we were looking at some pretty big red figures in our year-end ledger if something didn’t come through—to the tune of $30,000. I hustled to find grants, in-kind donations, new donors, and old donors. I remembered a family foundation that had given $1,000 before. I would give them another try. Every little bit would help. I didn’t pray.   This foundation was established by the family of a friend with whom I had gone to school, attended church, and been confirmed. While her father had passed away, another man was listed as the director and, assuming it was her uncle, I decided to invite him out to the barn. They say a picture is worth a thousand words. Maybe some cute kids on ponies would be worth at least as many dollars, if not more! When this man arrived, he was far younger than I had envisioned and vaguely familiar. It turns out it was not her uncle but rather her cousin. And he had been confirmed with us as well! Assuming he was a believer, I proceeded to share all that God had been doing in my life and how he led me away from a career in science to this nonprofit, using horses to help people. After “God this” and “God that,” he finally stopped me to say, “Kaia, I am not a believer anymore. I am agnostic, at best. I wish I could believe. I would love for my daughter to have something to believe in. But I am just not sure there even is a God.” As it turned out, he had so many unanswered questions about his childhood faith. Scientific "proofs" had all but robbed him of any faith at all.   I sat and pondered this, in a bit of a dilemma. Scientific evidence was a huge part of my faith journey, and I wanted so badly to hear his questions and see if I couldn’t help him see how the evidence actually supported the Bible! But I wasn’t here to evangelize. I was here to raise money for a secular organization that let me have a little faith-based mentoring program on the side. The internal debate didn’t last long. I didn’t care if he didn’t give a dime. If this prodigal had questions I could answer that might turn him around and send him back to the Father, it was a no-brainer. So, nearly two hours later, with a whole lot of discussion on geological, biological, historical, and archaeological evidence for the Bible and very little on therapeutic horsemanship, we parted ways. I was pretty sure he wouldn’t be giving any money to HorsePower, but I was consoled by the possibility that maybe, just maybe, he would be giving his heart to Jesus.   A few weeks later, nearing the year’s end without much of a dent in the $30,000 deficit in our budget, I received a call from this gentleman. He had decided to donate to HorsePower after all! He was wondering if I could come to get the check so it would be cashed before the end of the year. Absolutely! So, I met him on the arranged date and time to receive the donation. I opened the envelope and withdrew the check made out to HorsePower—for $30,000! We ended the year in the black. Just what we needed, just when we needed it: Providence.   Beggar in a Suit   Between my career in research and my time in the nonprofit world, I had spent much of my adult life asking people for money. Just before my time at HorsePower, at the beginning of the Great Recession, the head of the hospital where I worked had called me a beggar in a suit! I had been able to get money for our research program even though he had announced at the meeting just prior that no one was to come asking for more money anytime soon! I didn’t really think of it as "begging." I was  inviting . I was inviting people to participate in the exciting research we were doing. I was inviting people to support an amazing cause out at HorsePower. The key word in all this was . . .  I . It seemed like the future of the research program depended on me. The sustainability of HorsePower depended on me. And it was a heavy load to carry. While I relished the accolades and the recognition for  my  ability to raise the funds needed, it was a heavy load.   One day, as I was having coffee with a coworker, I remember confessing that I just wanted to be part of a ministry that depended on  God  to do the heavy lifting, where we would pray earnestly, trusting that he would provide for all our needs. Not that I wasn’t willing to do my part, but in light of these recent unprayed answers, I was hungry for more of God and less of me! I wanted to follow God so closely that he would make the way clear. He would orchestrate events, touch people’s hearts, and prepare the soil for rich harvests for  his  kingdom work!   As I left that coffee shop, my phone rang. It was the voice of a stranger. Someone from a new church that had started up in town. They were having their vacation Bible school and were looking for a good cause to give their offerings to. Someone had recommended HorsePower! While the offerings amounted to several hundred dollars, it also resulted in a gift from this stranger’s workplace—which amounted to several  thousand  dollars! I had never heard of this church. I didn’t know of the community fund offered by the workplace. I hadn’t prayed. Completely unsolicited, perfectly timed with my confession: Providence. It was signed at the bottom:  Love, God .   So, while the Garth Brooks song thanks God for unanswered prayers, I thank God for unprayed answers. These much-needed, perfectly timed, unsolicited gifts were building a foundation under my faith that no scientific evidence could have made. God is great, and God is good. Just think if I actually began to ask, to trust . . . to believe?!   “And my God will meet all your needs according to the riches of his glory in Christ Jesus.” Philippians 4:19 NIV   “Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us.” Ephesians 3:20 NIV   “He must become greater, I must become less.” James 5:20 NIV

The wrestle was real. I have gained greater appreciation for the struggle these women have with their addictions. I can remember thinking, why don’t they just quit drinking? Why don’t they just give up drugs? I couldn’t really relate, because I had never had an addiction . . . or so I thought. I was realizing, more and more, that while my addictions may be different—perhaps even socially acceptable—they are addictions, none the less. God was opening my eyes to that same struggle in me. Why couldn’t I just leave my old self-righteous, judgmental self behind? How easily I slipped back into my own sins. The ruts are deep. The path familiar. I was realizing it takes a lot of work . . . and a lot of time. At least for some of us. So, throughout the season of Chrysalis, I found myself not only “slipping” . . . I had a full-on relapse! I had fallen off the wagon, as they say. As I stepped into the leadership role, as I had a board and donors to appease, as I began to provide for and “fix” these women . . . the old me was back in a big way. I was in control and my old sense of legalism was rearing its ugly head. The grace and unconditional love God had been working so hard to put in the place of my judgment seemed to slip away as, once again, I began to judge their behaviors. They weren’t following the rules! They didn’t do things the way I thought they should. And I’m embarrassed to admit that it didn’t only bother me for their own good—it bothered me because of how it reflected on Chrysalis . . . on me . After all, people were watching. It totally changed the relationships I had been working so hard to foster. Some became frustrated with my sudden need to control them and to “oversee” them. I remember one saying, “I don’t need another probation officer! I already have one!” What she needed was a friend . Others came to expect and rely on the things we offered, with a sense of entitlement that only served to distance their affection and feed my judgment. Obstacles . . . so many obstacles. Once again, I was so confused. Were these just hard transitions that I needed to press through? Or were they signs I was heading the wrong way? Was God shaping and redirecting? Or was the devil obstructing and diverting? I was so confused. I needed time to think. No, I needed time with God. I had to be still. I had to quit running on the hamster wheel for a minute and seek the counsel of the only One who had the right answers. My amazing husband supported me in the decision to take a weekend to just get away, a spiritual retreat of sorts. I checked into an extended stay hotel that had a little kitchenette. I wouldn’t leave for 48 hours. No TV. No phone. Just me and God. I prayed, I journaled, I listened to praise and worship music. I dug into the Word. He led me to the most interesting places . . . Listening to the Voice of God On Saturday morning, my devotional was on listening to the voice of God. Apt, considering that is just what I had come to do! However, it came with a sting of conviction. Here I was. Expecting the God of the universe to show up on my timeline. Now I had time. Now I was ready to listen. How arrogant, really . . . And yet, our amazing God did show up! Even as he may have been frustrated by my failure to listen or hear or heed before or offended by my arrogance to suggest he show up like a genie when you rub the bottle…I think he was just pleased that his child wanted to meet with Him. Needed to meet with him. I think back on my journey in prayer. How often I had done it out of a sense of obligation, of duty. How often I had muttered a rote, memorized prayer, even as I thought of other things. How often I had prattled through a list. How often I had prayed only when I needed something. How often I had done all the talking—probably not really expecting to hear anything back. But on this journey, I had come to realize that prayer is a dialogue, a conversation . I actually expected to hear from him. I looked forward to our visits. So, as we sat together on this morning, he led me to scripture after scripture . . . taking me to places in the Bible where he had spoken to his people before. In different times, in different places, under different circumstances . . . but God remains the same. He talks to his people. Maybe not through a burning bush or writing on the wall. But he still wants to speak to us. Henry Blackaby has summarized it well, I think . . . “God speaks by the Holy Spirit through the Bible, prayer, circumstances and the church to reveal himself, his purposes and his ways.” God led me to Isaiah 30 and 31, where it talks of when the Israelites were unwilling to listen to the Lord’s instruction. Going so far as to tell the prophets to quit bringing visions of what is right—they just wanted to hear what they wanted to hear . . . pleasant things. Indeed, they kept turning to Egypt, rather than God. Relying on the strength of men and horses. They needed to be reminded that “ . . . the Egyptians are men and not God; their horses are flesh and not Spirit.” But, we are also reminded that when we cry for help, he will be gracious and he will answer us. Isaiah 30:21 was a verse that seemed to leap off the page . . . and to keep coming up in different contexts: “Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, “This is the way; walk in it.” I remember thinking, “Why is the voice coming from behind? I want to be walking with God!” And then, it was like, “Duh. It was referring to when we have walked away from him.” I had strayed to the right or to the left. John 10 speaks of the Good Shepherd and his flock. His sheep will listen to his voice and follow him. They follow him because they know his voice. They will never follow a stranger—they will run away from him. What voice was I listening to . . .? And then there is the time where God speaks to the church of Laodicea, through John, in Revelation 3. It was described as neither hot nor cold . . . it was complacent! The church, personified, cries, “I am rich; I have acquired wealth and do not need a thing.” Again, it reminded me of the church, of many Christians, today—arrogant, self-sufficient . . . comfortable! But scripture goes on to say, they were actually “wretched, pitiful, poor, blind, and naked.” Again, I was reminded of how God had revealed my poverty. How blind I had been, for so long. How I thought I had been dressed so finely, but I had been naked. What stands out most to me to this day, however, was reading in 1 Samuel 15 about how the prophet, Samuel, had relayed God’s message to Saul that he was to annihilate the Amalekites. To leave no survivors. To “put to death men and women, children and infants, cattle and sheep, camels and donkeys.” Yet, in spite of these clear instructions, Saul decided to take their king, alive, and keep the best of the sheep and the cattle . . . and he set up a monument in his own honor . He didn’t obey God’s instructions, and he took the glory for himself. Yet, when he saw Samuel, he said, “I have carried out the Lord’s instructions!” And Samuel’s response is another part that jumped right up off the page at me . . . “What then is this bleating of sheep I hear in my ears?” Again, I felt the sting of conviction. Try as I might to have followed God’s leading, somewhere, once again, I felt as though I must have done what was right in my own eyes. I asked the Lord, “What are my “bleating sheep”? Where did I stray to the right or to the left? Where did I get it wrong?” Taking Things into My Own Hands As I thought back on the journey to develop Chrysalis, there had been these “perfect” properties—big houses, roomy shops, riding facilities . . . but none of those doors had opened. In the meantime, I had been moved out of the institutions, due to COVID. I was now walking right alongside women going through some really hard things. I was having to watch them as they were homeless, and struggling to find work, and facing challenges that were beyond my comprehension. Perhaps things had just not moved fast enough for me! Perhaps I had decided to rent houses. Perhaps I had decided how best to “help” these women. And, perhaps, I had made them somewhat of a monument . . . to me . This was beginning to sound familiar. Our impatience or impertinence can have serious consequences. I felt so convicted, so repentant. I heard a story once, about a man who spotted a butterfly as it struggled to emerge from its chrysalis. Feeling sorry for it, in its exhausting struggle, the man set about to help. Using a scissors, he carefully cut away the restraining chrysalis, and the butterfly staggered out. But something didn’t look quite right. Its abdomen was swollen and its wings were wet and furled, appearing stunted. The man waited to see when it would take its first flight, but its wings never did unfurl. They never fully developed. This butterfly was destined only to walk, never learning to fly. The man later learned that struggling to escape the chrysalis was actually a critical part of the process. Squeezing out that tiny opening would force the fluid out of its body up into the wings so that it would be ready for flight once it found freedom from the chrysalis. The struggle was part of the process. I am afraid that can be us, in ministry at times, as well. I hated to see these women struggle! I wanted to help so badly. If only I could make it easier for them . . . But then, sometimes the struggle is a critical part of the process. Preparing them to fly, once they find freedom. So, I have to be really careful to be discerning—is what I want to do helping or hurting? Empowering or enabling? I have come to learn the answer is not always the same. I pray that I can learn to really hear the Lord and follow the Holy Spirit’s leading. In forming Chrysalis, had I done what was right in my own eyes? Had this been my “bleating sheep?” Had I been stunting their wings . . .? The “Bigger Thing” There were many amazing insights in my God conversations that weekend, but I left feeling like he was correcting my course. I had slipped deep into the rut of my past “addiction,” but God was faithful to set my feet back on the right path. I felt confident that I was to do this ministry as a ministry —not a job. That I was to be a friend —not a boss, or a landlord, or a “probation officer.” That it was about relationships —not transactions. I was reminded of a conversation I had recently had. I had met with a gentleman who could potentially be a donor for the Chrysalis venture. We each shared a little of our past. I was a recovering Pharisee, the Lord having brought me down from my pedestal. He was a recovering drug addict, the Lord having lifted him up from the pit. I went on to tell him of all my dreams for Chrysalis. As I wrapped up my appeal, he appeared thoughtful. With perhaps some reservation, he began to share what was on his heart. “I feel like if you get caught up in the running of this—gesturing to the right, indicating the house, the shop, and the barn we had just been discussing . . . you will miss the bigger thing —gesturing more broadly in the air to the left, indicating the part of our conversation where we had been discussing the need to reach other “Pharisees,” people like me who didn’t know what they didn’t know. There already were housing programs. There already were job opportunities. While they did need those things—and I am so grateful to those called to provide them—what they really needed was Jesus. And Christ’s ambassadors, largely, were sitting in their pews. They needed someone to rouse the ranks. To shake God’s people out of their “comfortable” and rally the troops. In the midst of all these ponderings and musings, I felt like God was asking me to tell my story—one recovering Pharisee to another. Just as a recovering addict makes a great addiction counselor, perhaps my story would help others who struggled with my form of addiction—judgment, control . . . comfort. After all, I have long felt that our ministry comes from our misery. That which God saves us from is that which God sends us to. I could hear that persistent verse, ringing in my ears, “This is the way; walk in it.” So, it looked like the Chrysalis chapter was over almost as soon as it had begun. We had houses for about five months and the social enterprise didn’t get much beyond a few rag rugs and some grade-school quality butterfly paintings. There was $1,000 left in our account . . . just enough to pay the accountant to file our taxes, then the coffers would be empty. But it was not for naught. I had learned so much. As a parent, sometimes we let our children go ahead and try something we know isn’t what they should be doing. They simply have to figure it out for themselves. They would learn from their mistakes. The struggle is part of the process. God is a loving parent, too. He let me give it a try. After all, all things work together for good to those who love God . . . even what may look to the world like an absolute failure! So, in the end, it was not for naught. It was God’s way of saying, “This is the way; walk in it.” “The Lord came and stood there, calling as at the other times, “Samuel! Samuel!” Then Samuel said, “Speak, for your servant is listening.”” 1 Samuel 3:10 NIV “Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, “This is the way; walk in it.”” Isaiah 30:21 NIV “You say, ‘I am rich; I have acquired wealth and do not need a thing.’ But you do not realize that you are wretched, pitiful, poor, blind and naked.” Revelation 3:17 NIV “When Samuel reached him, Saul said, “The Lord bless you! I have carried out the Lord’s instructions.” But Samuel said, “What then is this bleating of sheep in my ears? What is this lowing of cattle that I hear?”” 1 Samuel 15:13-14 NIV “I will lead the blind by ways they have not known, along unfamiliar paths I will guide them; I will turn the darkness into light before them and make the rough places smooth. These are the things I will do; I will not forsake them.” Isaiah 42:16 NIV

The Fourth of July found us gathered, once again, at my sisters’ lake cabin. Their families shared a tiny cabin on a postage-stamp sized lot, and we made an ever-widening circle of lawn chairs as people spilled over to the lake or into the cabin. As we staked our claim, dragging over our cooler and setting up our chairs, my sister warned, “Just be careful, that is fresh sod there.” And so, there was. A patch of bright, vibrant green. Lush and rich. Still moist from the most recent of its frequent waterings. We were careful not to drag the cooler across it or have the legs of our chairs press into its yet vulnerable surface. With everything settled strategically, we didn’t give it much thought after that. Just a few days later, however, I awoke once again with a vivid image in my mind. It was that sod, but it was no longer lush and green. It was brown and shriveling, the edges curling up as the dried sod separated from the earth below. It didn’t take but a minute for me to grasp its meaning. It was like a new believer . . . it was my friend . . . She had been so on fire! She was bright and vibrant, everyone who met her could see Christ in her. Her newfound faith was simply contagious and life-long Christians and new believers alike were attracted to her. She had been newly released from jail, sheltered in a half-way house with a lot of support. And then she went out to face the world. And the world was winning. Old temptations were creeping in even as the pressures to find a job, hold a job, make rent and do life were piling on, and she was struggling to bear up under them. She lost her apartment, she lost her job. She quit going to church, she missed our scheduled visits, and it was getting harder to reach her on the phone. The light was fading. Her faith, for the moment, appeared brown and shriveled. Peeling up from the new foundation as life dragged burdens across it and trampled on it . . . and it was dying for a drink of water. Living water. It came to me like the turning on of a light bulb. Just like that vulnerable little patch of sod, until she established roots, she needed protection and lots of water—a safe place and a whole lot of Jesus! Again, I found myself thinking about the role of the church, of believers. We were maybe a little bit like the lawn around the new sod. Not quite so lush. Not quite so green. But we could take a little traffic, we could withstand a little drought, we could take on the elements—if we were firmly rooted… In the Word. In Christ, himself. I vowed to reach out to her. To try to help her figure out a safe place. To extend a cup of fresh water. Living water. And to water frequently. So she could establish roots. “The seed falling on rocky ground refers to someone who hears the word and at once receives it with joy. But since they have no root, they last only a short time. When trouble or persecution comes because of the word, they quickly fall away.” Matthew 13:20-21 NIV “…whoever drinks the water I give them will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give them will become in them a spring of water welling up to eternal life.” John 4:14 NIV “Whoever believes in me, as Scripture has said, rivers of living water will flow from within them.” John 7:38 NIV