These old churches still standing...

I love driving around Pennsylvania. Not long ago a friend told me how much he loved Pennsylvania, saying he thinks it is one of the most pleasing states. I agree. To be true to myself, I can't help but highlight one of the best businesses of all time, thankfully standing every few miles as we drive down the winding roads; we have to grab a Wawa coffee as we go.

The sites never get old to me: the verdant stretches of open farm land, the tall and towering trees, the stone walls lining the properties of picturesque rustic homes and the old churches that have represented milestones over years and years of time. This last trip home, we drove around point by point, taking photos of these statuesque buildings that have stood the test of much change. It was especially quiet as I walked through some of their simple, delicate chapels, or wandered row by row through the seemingly endless cemeteries. It almost seemed surreal to take it all in, tombstones dating back to the 1800's and even some going further back. Who were these people and what were their stories? Oh to sit and hear what life was like from a firsthand perspective. Truthfully, I would given anything to know what they valued and how they spent their time. I would ask about family routines, books they read, how they saw the world. What if we could go back? What if we could be less tied to so much technology and the distractions that keep us from living real life? To simply walk outside, to feel the ground sink under my feet, to hear the birds and even the trees, to actually notice the Earth...this is how we come more fully alive. This is what we have lost.


So take a look at these buildings that retain the stories of so many who have gone before us. Look at their delightful frames and the unique features that still stand strong and alluring. Meditate on something so real as this.


This was my Great Grandmother's church, founded in 1715...

This headstone reads 1765...









Here is the chapel in Valley Forge, it is the Washington Chapel...








This church was founded in 1711...






Here is another beautiful, old church where my brother proposed to his wife...

Remembering Whitney...Remembering the Gospel.

By the fire, I sat and watched the entire funeral service for Whitney Houston. It was slated for two hours and instead went almost four. It was hard to turn it off. In tenth grade, I saw Whitney Houston in concert at the Philadelphia Spectrum. Dazzled, and mesmerized by her strong and steady voice, rising higher than us and seemingly effortless, we were all hoping it would never end. As I took in every story, every memory, and every song lifted in her honor, I wished I could recall that night in the Spectrum. My mind hasn’t retained any details except just this: that emotions were high and excitement was thrilling around me as I was watching and hearing one of my all-time favorite pop-stars, Whitney Houston! This was dreamlike for my young life, as I had splurged many times on magazines about her, went to every movie she starred in and of course owned all her CDs. Alone, in my car, and still to this day, I will sing along with that voice at the top of my lungs and depending upon the length of the road trip, have even lost my voice on a few occasions. Her songs never get old and somehow each one links back to memories and emotions from my days of high school, college and on...

There was no question, I had to watch this funeral. If for no other reason, I wanted to know more of her. The personal stories would be a window into the life of this woman who had been a part of so many lives and who has suffered so much with her own darkness. Frankly, I was hoping beyond hope for some evidence that her faith, starting in New Hope Baptist Church, in Newark, NJ, had been real, that her body and soul were genuinely free, in the presence of Jesus. Her post-Bobby Brown days left all of her admirers sad and discouraged with how he seemed to be the catalyst for a downward spiral. The top stories regarding Whitney were no longer about the next top hit that followed the last top hit, but instead rumors of abuse in her marriage and the war raging within her between wholeness and drug addiction. She seemed to be hijacked into a dark reservoir, and in some ways she drifted into the backs of our minds, distant. The life of this star became a mystery to us, but to those who knew her and loved her she was well known. These were the words coming from the pulpit of her childhood church. Such words remain, and even dispel the question marks regarding her war-torn soul.

In reflection, I am reminded again of the gospel. What a celebration it is that sinners have hope! Humbled, we all stand before the throne of Heaven and find mercy, forgiveness and salvation, undeserved. So we don’t hail Whitney Houston as an example of success, we can hail her as an example of brokenness. In the midst of all her money, all her fame, all her record-breaking, grammy-award winning take-aways, there is ONLY one meaningful piece of this sad story: the state of a soul. We will remember her accolades, but that one split second after death tells the true story.

There is only One who knows Whitney. He took the hit for all of her sin and He took the hit for mine. But more than just stepping in the way of a death blow to our souls, Jesus actually met the measurement of justice. This was a legal act. And as Paul says in Romans 3:19-21, “...every mouth [will] be stopped, and the whole world accountable before God. For by the works of the law no human being will be justified in his sight, since through the law comes the knowledge of sin. BUT NOW the righteousness of God has been manifested apart from the law...” That’s it. We are guilty and will have not one word to speak in our own defense. Silent before Him. And this is why we celebrate verse 21, “But now...” A way has been made where there was no way. It is a theme throughout all of Scripture. What is impossible for us to accomplish, is made possible by God, through Christ. It is clear that Whitney had no way to fix her life. There is nothing she brings to the cross of salvation. I can say the same for myself. Our silence will turn into utter worship before the King of Kings.

So we can celebrate Whitney only because we celebrate Jesus. We can celebrate her life, because we celebrate His death. We are utterly without hope and without ultimate healing unless He raised from the dead. This was what she was taught all her days. This is what her mom preached to her all her life. And as some who knew her well said of her, that though she felt shadowed by her own darkness, she knew well that the Lord was by her side, that He would be her help. Tyler Perry spoke of her well-worn Bible, marked with her words and highlights. These statements give us pause. They remind us of One who is higher, who forgives, who sustains, and who redeems us from the lowest place. Praise be to the Lord Jesus Christ.

Winter: Death is Alive.

There is a silence in the cold, frost-ridden, barren trees and brown landscape. It seems, in every way, dead. There is a forced isolation and with it, a redemptive promise of things to come. As I have driven around the back roads of Pennsylvania, my mind has contemplated the deeper message of this particular season. Even now, as I look outside, it snows. Understandably, most are waiting for Winter to pass. Signs of Spring are spinning in the minds of those who can’t feel their hands when they walk outside, where temperatures drop so low that the bite in the air is fierce and pinching. We look out the windows and see what seems like the bare bones left on the ridges of the creation all around us. In a way, it steals something from the vibrance of daily life.


Oddly enough Winter is my favorite season. Foolish I appear to those who hear me say it, and as I have lived in the south now for 15 years, I have come to love it, even crave it, more than I used to. Winter brings something unique that is often skipped or rushed through if one is not proactive to seek the treasure it offers. Death may line the surface, but so much more lingers below. Winter demands a waiting. Not only does it require this hectic society to stop and sit by the fire, it actually invites us into the wonder of stillness, warmth, community and delight found only in times of waiting and rest.

Waiting feels pointless, unproductive, and, more or less, a hassle to the accomplishments of the day. All in all, we have very little patience and almost no concept of redeeming the time for the development of our minds and souls. Always, the destination is the goal, while in the meantime we have lost a value for the journey. This season, this cold, barren land, whispers of a journey, a process, and a maturity at work. There are hidden pearls that must be sought after and pined for. It is uncovered only in active, purposeful waiting. In these moments there is a death to the plan, a death to control, a death to power. Forced inside, forced to stand longer, forced to sit longer, forced to think, forced to feel, forced to remember, forced to listen…These are lost values. As a matter of fact, we are afraid to think and feel for there arises regret and distress, memories we want to erase and voices that tell us lies we don’t want to believe. So, we stay busy, running, packing our days full with non-stop activity and unnecessary distractions. The rise of technology has created a numbness. There is now a way, with our phones, itouches, Blackberries, and other instant internet machines, to never have to wrestle through idle time. Now, when we linger in line, we can talk, email, search the web or just distract ourselves with a game. We don’t even have to engage another human being. What wealth do we miss that waiting has to offer? Maybe what we fear in stillness is essentially a passage to a surge of life, and an expansion of personal depth and meaning. Maybe the waiting is a ticket to overcoming and emptying all that gets trapped inside us: the pain, the suppression of darkness and the hurt long left unattended to.



The blustery wind tosses the chimes outside our door, leaving a delicate sound in my ears. The lake behind us, half frozen, has been the landing spot for a flock of Canadian Geese. The view of the weathered bird feeder outside the kitchen window has the most striking background of white snow highlighting the stark crimson of the Cardinal who frequents there. My eyes scan for these fortunes. These gifts are found in the waiting. A red fox scurries in the bare woods behind us, spotted so clearly. He ducks and dodges as if he knows our eyes have caught him. What still moves below the frozen lake? What is waiting under the white, frozen landscape behind us and all around? What buds of life linger in the trees so brittle and tall? The sun still comes up for a reason and these creatures still find food on what seems like a dead earth. Life is here, but hidden. Life is growing, but behind the scenes where we can’t observe. I love Winter for this reason. Beauty and movement and growth is constant, but in secret. Real life is most often this way. We miss what is cultivating and changing because we want to pass right through those dark spots, those lonely moments, those periods of lifelessness and death.




Not only have we been almost programmed today to skip over the “hard stuff,” but we also naturally detest pain and struggle and the taxing, twisting emotional work life requires for us to stay healthy. One of the most common experiences of the entire human race is the thorn of loneliness. Like Winter, it feels like a grave, leaving us isolated, cold and oftentimes hopeless about life. Loneliness is deep, at certain times more than other times, but it always settles like a mist around each and every one of us. Married, single, old, young, in the midst of loss, right after birth, well fed, or hungry, loneliness is present and raging. We hate it, run from it, throw distractions over it, make a phone call, drink too much, listen to music, stay online, talk ourselves out of it, and wish for that one accomplishment or arrival point that we believe will take it all away forever and ever. This particular universal norm, is steady and piercing. Like Winter, it breathes traces of stark landscapes and damp darkness. On the surface, and without much reflection, it is pointless and empty, only silent and cold. It bites like death.



The years passing reveal patterns. The young still believe they can find a missing key this side of eternity. Like we all did, they think it is possible to avoid loneliness and pain. As I interact with them every day at the high school where I work, I can see them pining for solutions, plans, goals and grades that will secure them from Winter ever coming. Sobering it is to me now that I thought this way, but I did. Maybe a best friend, the approval of that teacher, repairs made with my dad, a perfect career that fits all my gifts and passions, a solid paycheck, a spouse with a great look, a great job, and a heart like a hero...the list is long and keeps growing. The ache from Winter, the expiration of unmet expectations and desires still pulsing, blanket all of humanity like freshly fallen snow. Loneliness is inevitable and maybe for a reason. Maybe it’s good, like Winter. Maybe it’s necessary like the dying of the earth before the birth of Spring. I am learning slowly that it is a gift to the soul, one delivered in pain and loss. A process, not immediate...a season, not a moment.



It is true, that a life lived in, and embracing the reality of loneliness, instead of fighting it and running from it, is a life of depth, beauty and sacrifice. Hoping always for the first sighting of the daffodil means we miss the solemn beauty in grey skies, silver ice lining tree branches, calming silence, crunching sounds of snow boots on packed snow, sunsets through barren trees and the wind that howls outside while a fire rages in the living room. There is a sweetness here. One of my favorite authors, Henri Nouwen, speaks often of the solitude that must be sought after and deliberately chosen in order to find peace. We hate it, but if we did not fear it so much, maybe we would allow ourselves to sit in it for a time and settle in, anticipating the comfort that eventually comes. Active waiting, purposeful embracing of the chills that initially strike sharp, lead to the freedom we all long for. The freedom to be alone or not, to be still or active, to be quiet or conversing, to be in silence or surrounded by company. This is freedom: to be content and at peace with either as it comes.

Mental space is a foreign concept in many people these days. The fight against loneliness and the fear of suppressed thought rising up, keeps us moving and maxed out. This lifestyle saps us and shallows us. But Winter stills. Time alone opens up space and develops the depth of us. What we all long for in relationships is impossible without isolation, meditation, and contemplation. We enter our relationships with demands, and bleeding wounds for filling. Loneliness can inappropriately drive us where we have nothing to offer but our needs, nothing to give to our friends but our hallow, underdeveloped selves. But beauty arises in friendships when we offer one another the gifts that come from solitude. Like Winter, we offer the possibility of Spring. For how will we speak with wisdom, how we will know the truth about life, God and ourselves if we sprint with no breaks, if we never listen to what surfaces so we can replant it in the earth? Winter can’t last forever, it won’t. But it must come. It must stay for a time. The colors of flowers are more beautiful after living in the gray for a spell.

Her Soul, a Storm

The sky sometimes resembles the soul. It looks beautiful when it looks wild. Though years have passed, I still remember watching the storms roll in from the east, over the small town of Eddystone where my grandparents lived throughout all my childhood years. The skyline from the city behind us and the row homes across the street served as a backdrop to these unruly clouds. We sat, stomachs turning, waiting for these storms. They hit with vengeance, like the rush of a roller coaster ride. We screamed and beckoned for it to come. We clambered to stay dry, fighting for spots next to the wall, in from the edges of the exposed porch. The fierce wind came as if in slow motion, moving toward us and blowing every which way. Lightening blazed just a few towns over, followed by deep cracks of thunder. We were in a torrential downpour. Maybe, if we were lucky, it would last all afternoon. Sometimes the rain would hit us sideways and the clouds would mask the day as night, clouds that turned from gray to black to blue to white, all mixed together, dark and ominous, but mysterious and satisfying.

The truth is we loved every thunderstorm that barreled down and across Eddystone Avenue. Always, they fascinated us. What choice did we have but to submit to such clout? On the one hand, this power was scary, on the other it was good to know that big storms meant a bigger power presiding over me. Dark clouds still loom from time to time, but always, I am mesmerized by them, taken by them and comforted under their canopy.

The soul desperate in fear, wondering, doubting or confused is a picture-perfect blue, black sky. Turning in rhyme with the wind and moving forward with a vengeance, the dark night of heartbreak, its losses stacked upon losses, feels less like grandeur and more like the fiercest storm. I’ve seen it in the face of one I know. To her, this raging tempest has carved out a meaningless void, a mismatch of dark experiences and thoughtless words from those who mattered most. As I listen and watch her eyes, I see something in her far different from what she sees. The sky that seems dark and erie, that overshadows any grain-of-sand-sized hope is the start of a tapestry that she cannot yet perceive. And the sky that falls heavy with gloom? It is also a mysterious strength. Can a tattered spirit be exquisite? I’m finding it can, here, in her. This somber sky is one I love. Its depth, radiance, quality unmeasured and peace are a backdrop to her perplexing pain. Life is always this way, and it is this way in her. She can only feel the turning rage and the billows of clouds tossed out of control. Still, like the storms I saw years ago, her soul is captivating and radiant, admirable in its own right, and a storehouse of abundance.

This sky, this storm, is true fortune, untamed.

A lesson from a tiny bird.

Creation tells stories. All the time, in many ways, with strong, natural colors mixed with subtle, strange sounds. It groans in anticipation of the return of the King and it whispers of His presence here, now. My perception has gotten more keen over the years. I guess in a way, I have trained myself to “pay attention.” Annie Dillard, one of the finest writers, sees nature around her as a scrapbook, telling the tales of the making of the Kingdom of God. In her view, it both reveals and obscures Him. Both, and simultaneously. Wonder of wonders, mystery, complexity and beauty all wrapped into this One God. It propels us to search, and keeps us always looking for more.

I saw a small, hopping-about bird on my patio yesterday. Standing at the window I took the time to just notice. After discreet observation, I actually noted his efficient eating pattern, and gradually I saw right through him, into a bigger allusion. There surfaced a sermon, a theological truth fleshed out in this tiny, puffy, bird.

There hangs, in the bush outside our sliding glass door, an unsteady, unwieldy bird-feeder. I fill it almost every other day with popular sunflower seeds. Always hoping for a redbird, instead a grey, mechanical-looking Tufted Titmouse carefully landed on a branch and jumped onto the swinging feeder, looking for a convenient bite to eat. Quickly, he darted into an opening in the bush, and looked around, making sure all was private and secured. With a successive and redundant motion, he took the sunflower seed, smashed it on the branch, cracked it open, and enjoyed his small seed. Keeping his eyes on watch alert, he sat for a moment, and darted back to the feeder for more treats! After a time, it seemed to me like such hard work. And he kept going, repeating what was laborious and tedious. All for food!

I read an interesting quote today from the book Life With God by Richard Foster: “The opposite of grace is works, but not effort.” Our theology can sometimes lead us down a road veering off from the intended course. We are told to “Wait on God.” We are told to be still, that He will fight for us, and that apart from Him, we can do nothing. All of this is true, biblical and sound in doctrine. Yet somewhere along the timeline of our reformed faith, we started to believe that we are hamstrung, capable of only sin, wanting for everything, and therefore waiting exclusively on Him. I learned a lesson from the Tufted Titmouse: work hard. Search, seek, dig, find, endure and sweat for something of value.

Foster talks about God-ordained means of transformation. As people in such dire need for ultimate salvation and daily rescue from ourselves, we must participate in this faith. Meditation, fasting, prayer, study, solitude and silence, community and confession lead us into His transforming presence and life-giving resources.

So with a motivated heart, and with an expectant, watchful eye, submit to Peter’s bold command in the first chapter of his second letter,

His divine power has given us everything we need for a godly life through our knowledge of him who called us by his own glory and goodness. Through these he has given us his very great and precious promises, so that through them you may participate in the divine nature, having escaped the corruption in the world caused by evil desires.For this very reason, make every effort to add to your faith goodness; and to goodness, knowledge; and to knowledge, self-control; and to self-control, perseverance; and to perseverance, godliness; and to godliness, mutual affection; and to mutual affection, love. For if you possess these qualities in increasing measure, they will keep you from being ineffective and unproductive in your knowledge of our Lord Jesus Christ. But whoever does not have them is nearsighted and blind, forgetting that they have been cleansed from their past sins.Therefore, my brothers and sisters, make every effort to confirm your calling and election. For if you do these things, you will never stumble, and you will receive a rich welcome into the eternal kingdom of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.

Obsessed with Comfort...

I sat with a woman named Grace for a few hours. At 72 years old, she is full of wisdom, perspective and humility. Life has sifted out all the unimportant scraps and has left a list of what really matters. The two can often be confused for us today.

Near the end of our time, we talked about how beautiful her screened-in porch was and the nice breeze that came through on a rather hot, North Carolina afternoon. Her response has stuck with me, “I don’t really turn my air conditioner on much. You know, there was a day not too long ago when we didn’t have it. People seem to think all of us in the south were dying by the millions down here in the heat.” She laughed as she said it, but her point was strong. We hate being uncomfortable. Despise it, really. And at all costs attempt to find a way around it’s sharp sting.

As a culture we have “advanced,” or so we think. Stepping back and evaluating, I wonder just how driven we are by the idea of comfort. It dazzles us, in the distance, ahead of us, and tells us that peace is promised with just the right amount of certain stuff. Almost every new gadget, every upgrade and every better model, is meant to bring more ease, more comfort or more time. But for what? Our motivation is to arrive at a place of rest, and all the while we are working harder and longer hours, never learning what it means to be quiet and still, connected all the time. Ironically, we are more wealthy than any other country, and yet a population of more people with anxiety disorders than any other country. Since 1988, with all our “advancements,” antidepressant prescriptions have doubled every three years in America. Driven by and consumed with comfort, we are left wanting. Desperate and hollow.

Essentially, we are seeking what we are made for, “blessing” from the Lord. This is what He does, this is who He is. Throughout scripture it has always been His theme, to pour out blessing to His people. Our definition becomes the problem. I have often wondered what Jesus really meant when He promised that those who follow Him will be “blessed.” Repeated over and over in Matthew 5 in The Beatitudes, Jesus uses this particular word. However, the situations that lead to blessing, are quite the opposite of what we think of today. Here are Jesus’ words based upon the New International Version:

3 “Blessed are the poor in spirit,
   for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
4 Blessed are those who mourn,
   for they will be comforted.
5 Blessed are the meek,
   for they will inherit the earth.
6 Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,
   for they will be filled.
7 Blessed are the merciful,
   for they will be shown mercy.
8 Blessed are the pure in heart,
   for they will see God.
9 Blessed are the peacemakers,
   for they will be called children of God.
10 Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness,
   for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
   11 “Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me. 12 Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.

Each verse uses a phrase we would hardly admit to as a personal goal. And yet according to the way of the Kingdom, life-changing blessing comes from such seemingly upside down traits. It is not uncommon to hear people refer to America as a “blessed nation,” and as I have reflected more on scripture, the life of Jesus and the insatiable drive our materialism creates in us, I would firmly disagree. If blessing meant, “a lot of stuff,” than America would absolutely be considered blessed, but according to the biblical definition we must rethink this statement altogether.

I work in a private, Christian school where most of our families are financially in the upper bracket of society. Over many years of observation, I have noticed that the kids who seem to have the most materially, are in fact the least content. There is an unsettledness in them, an emptiness that plays out with a demanding response to circumstances that have not quite gone as they hoped. When they slam up against an unexpected roadblock, they become angry and frustrated. Their goal of comfort and avoidance of pain, were not met. They are floundering. There is no question, we all struggle with disappointments, and yet scripture speaks to a life-changing reality: this is not our home. Often Jesus reminds us of the fallen state of the world and the pain that comes along with it. In John 16:33 Jesus says, “In this world you WILL have trouble, but take heart, I have overcome the world.” We would be hard pressed to find anything in scripture that speaks of comfort and ease as a promise this side of heaven; it is quite the opposite. The path to the cross would be a brutal one tangled with physical pain, spiritual darkness and personal betrayal. Nothing about the story of salvation would be easy, and as His followers, He promises we will endure the same.

With careful observation, one can see the stories of the gospels are fierce and drizzled with blood, fear, and loss. Salvation itself would come to mankind through the horrific death of Jesus. His words shatter any hint that His objective would be our comfort: “Take up your cross daily and follow me.” Essentially, He is telling us to die to comfort, worldly success and the consumption of stuff that we think will buffer our lives from pain. He calls us to die to ourselves. And yet, if you or I sit in front of the T.V. for even thirty minutes, or skim through a magazine in the rack, we will be amazed at the push for the pursuit and obsession with personal comfort. We have forgotten our higher calling and in turn have narrowed it down to nice cars, stylish clothes, and a neighborhood with a name. Slowly and subtly, we want to take over the throne. Our personal comfort becomes our driving force, our top priority and over time, we have formed an idol that in turn will destroy us. We have subtly gotten off track by misplaced desire. Tim Keller put it this way in a recent quote on Twitter:

You've distorted your deepest wish by trying to make it into your savior, and now that you finally have it, it's turned on you.

Idolatry leads to a slow, dark transformation, changing our values and stealing our peace, joy, purpose and hope. Instead, the call is for us to worship the Creator of all good things, and to experience His goodness here as He intended. Our eternity starts now, inklings of Heaven are all about us, and yet we have lived each day for smaller, selfishly motivated gratification. We have settled in and inevitably, when things don’t provide us pleasure, we cave into fear and anxiety. I want my students to know fullness here and now, and not by obsessing on personal comfort, but by obsessing on their part in the distribution of the Spirit here. This was the gift Jesus gave to His people when He departed, the Spirit, to go and impart His presence to every human being. To be a part of change and purpose so powerful, that comfort and personal happiness are no longer the goal, but a by-product of tilling the sacred soil around us.

Jesus calls us to know Him and experience Him here, to be ambassadors of His, to bring His continued presence here; to redeem, transform and unveil Him to the furthest corners of the earth. Jesus seeks to bless us, to truly bless us. We will experience authentic satisfaction when we redefine what matters and when we stop seeking personal comfort as our most valuable end. We are reminded of a higher goal: His Kingdom. His promise is clear, “blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.”

The Springton Reservoir: A Childhood Treasure Chest.

The woods behind my house are splintered with my memories. They swipe across my mind like the overgrown branches swipe cross my cheek as I walk the path again. Old bottles we thought were antiques left by old pioneers and fisherman from the early 20th century. Scanning the piles of leaves and broken down trees for left antlers after falling off adult deer that roamed behind our house at dusk and dawn. We found old bones and pieces of more bones from dead animals either fighting to their death or fading away from old age and disease. I can recall, in the dim places of my memories, the enormous nests of Canadian Geese, the towering rock we would climb on like it was a mountain range high, the still water with Blue Gill and Bass we hoped to catch. Winter was serene. Soft, like a dusting of peace, there was snow everywhere. Crunching broke the silence, but we still knew we were alone. The ice clinked like a song when pierced by our tossed rocks, and when it was thick enough, we would be brave, and careless, riding our bikes across the lake believing it was firm enough to hold our middle-school selves...or at least we hoped. Tuned to the sounds around us, our ears were sharp and alert, ready for a display, a sliver of God’s goodness and beauty. We waited and anticipated, until all of nature would birth for us a moment from the bowels of the spiritual world. Inevitably, it would come, like turning the corner at just the right time.

Like a stroke of a brush, these sights, sounds and stories have painted the colors of my story and the framed snapshots of a childhood preserved. Closing my eyes, I can go back in a moment. Walking those paths: I am back in elementary school, middle school, high school, visits home from college, and in from North Carolina over Christmas break. My blood runs rich with these recollections.

My thoughts will begin to turn, and with ache and longing, I desire to sketch this picture for everyone, to walk those paths in their own histories and to have built the same forts in their younger years. In many ways, it is quite sweet and even sacred. For no one really knows except Kim, Mark, Tim and me...we share the sights, sounds, colors, treasures, and stirring that is brought to the surface when any one of us wanders down with the boys, or alone...and faintly, in our thoughts, like a distant echo, we hear the bell ringing again, and mom calling us home for dinner.

Twitter is spiritual....well, that's a stretch.

Embarrassing, I know, but I have a Twitter account (dawnpoulterer) and a range of people/news that I follow and keep up with, providing me snippets of information. Just enough to keep me distracted and aware. I only check it a few times a day and so most of the time, I breeze through it. Like taking shots of truth, I follow daily quotes by the brilliant men of history and the present: C.S Lewis, A.W. Tozer, Spurgeon, Luther, R.C. Ryle, Mark Driscoll, Tim Keller and many others who share random, insightful thoughts. Scrolling, I have found some inspiring quotes that have stopped me with thought and meditation.

A quote that someone tweeted not long ago is one of my favorites. It is made up with just a few words, but chapters of theology. G.K Chesterton is one who can seem to me too deep to grasp. I have not even ventured into the pages of Orthodoxy, but I have been often tempted. So here it is...a reminder to me that even one of the most amazing scholars, when he truly knows Jesus and has understood the reality of the gospel, will be a picture of the humility of Christ. It is clear in this short quote:

When asked what was wrong with the world, G.K Chesterton said, "I am."

A Love Affair with My Books!

I spent all day yesterday going from shelf, to other shelf, to other shelf, reorganizing and cleaning out my books! It haunts me to ever move again, as in the back of my mind I know..."Those books are going to be the death of me!" By far, they will be the biggest thing for me to lug to the next local.

But I have no qualms about that. As many conversations as have been had, I still have not gotten a Kindle or a Nook, and am just not sure I can do it. If you sneak in the room at just the right time, you may catch me with my nose stuffed in the middle, smelling the pages. If I had it my way, I would crawl up in there and live out the rest of my days IN a book!

So, this summer I went up North where the market is high for used items: books, clothes and anything thrift! It's hard to find used bookstores in Charlotte. Not much of a market for them it seems. But in Lancaster, PA my sister, mother and I went from shop to shop and looking for the deals we always seem to land. Inevitably they would be ready for the next place and wandering about only to finally find me tarrying in the section with all the books. As usual, I found some classic treasures, and as usual, I couldn't resist the purchase! They would roll their eyes as I walked out with another small stack. As I packed my car to head back to Charlotte, I stuffed every last crevice with another good read!

In light of my purchases, I went on a cleaning frenzy a few days after my return. At the end of it all, I had two high stacks of "get-rid-of-em" books, and it felt so good. Painfully, I weeded out the ones I would never read again, or those simply of no use to me now as I have changed my taste. All Henri Nouwen books need to be on the shelf next to my bed; all counseling books need to be set up on the red bookshelf personally made for me; all my Charles Spurgeon, A.W. Tozer, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Andrew Murry, Mother Teresa, C.S. Lewis, Martin Luther, and Brennan Manning need to line up next to each other on the big bookshelf downstairs so that as I walk by I am reminded of my heroes and what Kingdom living is all about! The titles alone still melt me, "The Pursuit of God," "Glimpses of Jesus," "Musings of Heaven," "The Cost of Discipleship..." They lived with one foot always in the eternal, supernatural world. They seemed to look at life with purpose that is lost today in the chapters of narrow, shallow books that are now stacked on the shelves of the Christian Bookstores. On any given day, I could pick up any one of those books and read a page and be left with much musing and inspiration...like opening a treasure for the soul.

So, today I spent some time in the Gospel of Mark. As always, amazed with the authority of Jesus and His manner of speaking with boldness. I wandered by one of my bookshelves and saw this title whispering my name..."The Imitation of Christ," by Thomas a Kempis. Another classic, and I knew, "If I open this book up, I will be more freed by its content than if I left it alone." So here are a few nuggets I read that I will leave with your worn out, weary soul...

"Grant me, O sweet and loving Jesus, to rest in thee above all creatures, above all health and beauty, above all glory and honor, above all power and dignity, above all knowledge and subtilty, above all riches and arts, above all joy and gladness, above all fame and praise, above all sweetness and comfort, above all hope and promise, above all desert and desire: Above all gifts and presents that thou canst give and impart unto us, above all mirth and jubilation that the mind of man can receive and feel...

Because thou, O Lord, my God, art supremely good above all; thou alone art most high, thou alone most powerful, thou alone most full and sufficient, thou alone most sweet and most full of consolation...

Come, oh come; for without thee I shall have no joyful day nor hour; for thou art my joy, and without thee my table is empty...

For there is none like unto thee in all whatever is wonderful in heaven and earth. Thy works are very good, thy judgments true, and by thy providence the universe is governed. Praise therefore, and glory be unto thee, O Wisdom of the Father: let my mouth, my soul, and all creatures together, praise and bless thee."

from chapter 21

Luke 6:45 reads, "The good man brings good things out of the good stored up in his heart, and the evil man brings evil things out of the evil stored up in his heart. For out of the overflow of his heart his mouth speaks."

Be good to your soul and to those around you, read some of the classics...

A Visit on the Porch with Grace.

Shade trees surrounded the screened-in porch; the breeze was pleasant. We sipped coffee from Honduras and chatted about life from each angle of our own experiences, broad and yet similar, finding our common ground: Jesus. On Sunday my friend Christine asked me if I wanted to meet for coffee with a beautiful woman, 72 years old, who had been mentoring a college-aged girl, mutually connected through the Fellows program. There was no hesitation. Immediately I knew I wanted time with her and to inevitably leave refreshed and revived.

I’m so lost without the bedrock faith of those who have traveled for so long before me. As I sat, I hung on every word she spoke and in turn expressed my own thoughts to see if she agreed. Her faith has been her lifeline for more years than I can fathom and has stood the test of time, tragedy and change. The truth is, faith like that becomes the very core of a person, like that barbed wire that grows into the tree after years of living alongside one another through seasons of growth and weather. I can trust the faith of a woman like this and I can see all the truths I have learned solidified in her journey of years and years. What confidence and what peace this brings. Stories such a hers become a sign that what we believe is real and lasting. What started with the prophets and was embraced by the disciples, apostles and on through the ages of church history, shows up on a screened-in porch in a southern home in the life of Grace.

I find myself quite nervous that the generations before us, who still teach us of the rich experiences of life lived without technology, air conditioning and the self-esteem movement, will disappear and we will flounder in the waves of nothing special and all things superficial. There will be those few who separate from the tyranny of the urgent and not-so-important, and who will swim upstream and thankfully leave their wisdom behind for us like morsels on a dirt road leading to hidden treasure. But I fear there will be only a few. Unfortunately, we have placed ourselves, our accomplishments and our own inventions in the center of the universe. In turn, we have become dull and arrogant.

I guess in the end, I am inspired and motivated to be different from that. To sell everything I have to go buy the treasure in the field and to live my life by such a cost. Truth is, I can only ask that this be given to me by the Spirit. For in and of myself, there is nothing but dust to offer.

One of the richest days. Natalie's Story...

Every once in awhile I am invited into a secret place, hidden in the deepest, fragile spot of a soul. I never take it lightly and sometimes I’m left, like this time, mysteriously changed. My Natalie and I stood at the headstone of her brother: 1989-1999, it read. Stark and bold. His name and these short dates hold an unfathomable story of loss, one that needed to be told again...

I’ve learned that stories shape us as they bend and turn us around and into becoming a certain type of someone. It’s true that we will gladly retell the tales of bountiful moments, full of joy when we laughed and smiled and celebrated. To be sure, if it were up to us, we would set up camp there, on days when the sun shined bright and terror felt a million miles away. Tossed upside down unexpectedly, and undone by dark clouds, torrents of rain and wind; this too is our reality. Try as we may, there is no secure shelter from such trauma, and we run, tiring, until it finally reaches and sweeps over us.

There was nothing awkward about this day. We stood, as if it just made sense to be there together. Over a year ago, she told me, with no warning, that she had lost her little brother to leukemia. Silent, I sat, looking at her eyes fill with tears and stunned that I had taught this girl for months and never knew that she had endured such a tragic loss. Conversation opened up and she shared an abbreviated version of the whirlwind that swept through the life of her family. Words never work. They don’t rightly settle the questions, emotions and raw experiences such as this one placed before me. Like a treasure, I tucked it away.

Strangely, I will admit, now and then I wander around this same cemetery only a few miles from my house. Looking up and all around, immediate perspective spins into view. Headstones to my right and left, in front and behind, rows and rows and rows, remind me that I have one life, a short time, and no warning as to when it will be snatched up. In seconds all the superficial entanglements fall away like dross. Sobering, is how it feels. Inspiring in a way, but heavy on my heart. I wanted to know where Natalie’s brother was buried and she welcomed my request to go with me and show me. Essentially I was asking her to reenter a painful place, and to allow me the privilege to step nearer to her heart. I knew she understood what I was asking, though neither of us acknowledged it initially. Saying yes to my request was saying yes to this rare level of vulnerability. Every part of me was grateful and humbled.

Her hair was back and braided, her riding boots high and to her knee, she stood with a sweet smile on her face. Leaning over she sat her Nalgene bottle on the ledge of the headstone and we walked back through the memories sealed inside of her mind, like a trap door. Five and so small, Natalie was changed, broken by loss and rebuilt over time but never who she was before. “He died almost on his birthday, “ she said. His little body seemed to bruise easily, and after tested with positive results they up and moved to Duke, living away from home, her dad taking a leave of absence from work and the whole family walking a dark road together. Natalie doesn’t remember many details, but feelings of confusion were messy yet real; something big was changing her entire family, and she was feeling the surge rushing over them. Under the surface, my sense has always been that Natalie is deep and genuine; she glides along with thoughts most people never ponder.















As I stood next to her, with all my questions and curious contemplations, I wondered if she understood what I understood: this trauma, though in some ways full of hazy details, has molded and shaped the core of who she is. Like a small seed, growing and turning around every part of her mind, heart, and soul, spreading into her desires, perspectives, dreams and fears. I told her this realization and while I did, something welled inside of me, like a rush of emotion that transported from that five year old tiny girl, and straight into me. I fought it, but couldn’t. The power of her story left a dusting over me that day. I left sad and thankful all at the same time.




Who would Natalie be if she never had this brother who came for ten short years? Her parents, who would they be? Her sister? In talking, she got it. She knows it’s true. Though so young, Natalie speaks a language no one else her age quite gets; too often she shuts it away, unless asked.

I'm so very glad I asked. It's one of the richest days that I will never forget. "I hope this crack in your life turns you toward Jesus and not away from Him," I said through my tears. "It already has, I know it has. Watching my parents handle this the way they have has been so good for me."

I’ll go back there on my own again soon. I'll pray for Natalie.
The ripple from this surge never stops. It never, ever stops.

High School English Class Revisted...and good for my soul.

It’s been 22 years since I sat in my American Literature class in high school.

Miss Morrison. In so many ways, I am a product of her long-term investment. Who I am now in 2011, mirrors so much of who she is. However, I, a lesser version her, continue to want to be more like her in every way.

Pacing slowly back and forth in the front of the room, slowly, and with intentional eye contact. I can picture her back in my class, arms enfolded over her literature book, sitting just so. Perfectly timed questions provoking thought and inspiration string through the lesson. Years have passed and I still recall my own experience. It’s quite true, though odd, but I never wanted the bell to ring. A piece of me came alive in that hour and it has never died. Every day, her explanations on whatever work we were examining seemed to me so truly profound. The meaning of words, the deeper descriptions of images, the themes tied to each new scenario on each new page, images dissected in the lines of every stanza, the color motifs, the underlying messages telling the tales of the human race...I discovered this: literature is art. I recall having this distinct epiphany. It happened with short stories, poetry and, most effectively with The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne. Digging with deliberate watchfulness, like opening a treasure chest, we were taught to explore.

I have since not been the same.

She inspired me again today. Drifting back to those years. I sat in a small desk in the back right corner, set to listen. Yet now with an advanced mind and 22 more years of real life. Combined, these make a profound adjustment to the intake and judgment of a poem. Unfortunately, I have lost some sharpness to my insights, yet have gained real life and the gut-wrenching humility that comes with failure. In this way, years later, I certainly have more in common with those who penned those timeless lines, and that seems to matter quite a bit concerning interpretation.

Jealous, I sat. Seems strange, but I would go back if I could. Not to return to the long, self-focused years of High School. But instead to hear, to contemplate, to learn, to understand, to be taught the meaning of the lines of the poem, the novel or the essay at hand. In the end, I would love to go back and see how I am like the Romantics, the Puritans or the Revolutionists. Their words, their insights, adorations and contemplations would be more like shaping tools instead of test material or just pointless information. Human beings passing down messages that are altogether timeless and essential to us in our lost, modern world. They, in quiet rooms, trapped in cold, New England winters or looking out over miles of vacant hills and verdant valleys in undeveloped lands, spoke what is often unspeakable. Lost in the vast, deep of creation. Nature sang to poets in ways it still cries out today. Her words are hidden in sounds and colors and landscape and wind. But we hide in dark rooms with wires and plugs and speakers and sounds of cars and guns, or digital guitars and drums. A made up, virtual world that has secretly stolen the real engagement of adventure and the true lessons found in defeat. It’s never a real battle, it’s not a true cause, it’s not hands-on training, testing, or falling; no risking, not hurting, no planning, no true loss. It is nothing like authentic life. These games are a weak substitute for fresh air, damp dirt, and cool grass.

Walt Whitman, in Song of Myself, sat still in a field, smelled the air coming over valleys and through the leaves on tress, sweeping across his cheeks. Quiet and alone, filled with thoughts leading to other thoughts, settling into discoveries and valuable observations. He writes...and then questions us who are lost inside our four walls and closed windows:

Have you reckon'd a thousand acres much? have you reckon'd the earth much?
Have you practis'd so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?

Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of
all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions
of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through
the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.

Whitman means for us to take hold and breathe in the air, and touch the grass and feel the wind, and smell the leaves. First hand is better, he says. Alive our senses come, and this we were meant for. Ironically, we think ourselves advanced with the expansion of technology, broad pages of information with images from across the world. Sound bites, photos and a disconnected, distant experience is stealing the full development of who we are.

But instead, to sit under the shade of a tree in an open field, to breathe in the outdoors and stare straight up into the vast, blue universe...these pieces of living art pump our veins with warm blood, alive.

Desperate Whitman is, in a way I often feel:

I am mad for [Nature] to be in contact with me.

It’s much more than just the beauty for our eyes, or the oxygen it brings to our lungs. If we listen carefully, we can also hear the beckoning of trumpets. Paul said it well, “We know that the whole creation is groaning...” And likewise, we groan, “longing to be clothed instead with our heavenly dwelling.” The Romantics understood the seduction of Heaven whether they named it as such or not. Our days, our vision, our dreams are atrophied by black boxes and high tech screens. Walt Whitman spoke a different language, a universal expression of what sits inside all of us, waiting to be ignited.

Lisa Morrison taught me such language in a high school classroom 22 years ago. She lives in front of me still. I hope to speak it today in my own classroom. The truth is, words are limited, yet only for a short time. The sky will split, and what the poets fought to announce to the ages, we will echo with them, in perfect rhyme and meter.

Sad but True...just a thought to share.

Most Christians live as if they need another Savior. Like Jesus doesn't work so maybe buying a lot of stuff will.

We're not really all that...

Sometimes I hate intellectual banter.

Honestly, it can smell of such arrogance and sound a bit like we’re “playing God.” We are silly and small. We know very little and yet act as if we have the corner on the deepest, most obscure thoughts that no one has ever had. Essentially, we think far too much of ourselves. We admire people like C.S. Lewis and hear stories of him and the Inklings sitting around in their Oxford pub speaking about fantasies and theology and the webbings of life. Ironic it is. We mimic them and somehow think we are the same, and yet the image of being smart and clever is far more motivating than truly learning from one another. We discuss topic after topic and comment on every new wave of thought as if we are the masters of words and opinions, thinking we have finally made a point no one else has ever made. It’s the world of the internet, free range thought and late night postings. Sadly, we have come to believe we are smarter than God Himself, and somewhere along the way we became arrogant enough to think we can more effectively speak for Him since He can’t quite make His own defense with enough clarity for the human race to be at ease.

Danger lurks around these platforms. Worship is misplaced. We begin to bow down to our own minds, and our personal, sophisticated creativity and have come to assume we are worth “following” on our blog, Twitter, or Facebook. Our goal, as Tim Keller says in his new book, The King’s Cross, is to get the rest of the world to “orbit” around us; instead of pointing them to “orbit” around someone far bigger. Now, of course I hesitate and have to consider my own participation in this, the writing world. Truth be told, I hate the tension that steals most of the experience from me. Underneath, deep inside of me, are many thoughts rolling around, and some that I wholeheartedly believe are worth sharing. However, I delay the delivery of these words all the time. Throwing my words, opinions and thoughts under my personal microscope, I critique my motives and discipline my intentions like a child who is wandering far off to do what he wants, void of all consideration and wisdom, narrowed by only the thought of self. I, too often, become the person who I am so frustrated with and as fear tangles around me, I restrain myself.

Those “thinkers” who are long gone, who we admired so much, were drenched in humility. Men like C.S. Lewis did not think highly of himself, he thought because he was a genuine intellect. He did not chase an image, he chased the truth. He did not chase a name, he chased clarity. A.W. Tozer taught himself by reading and re-reading, searching and thinking. He was quiet, awkward and mild. Charles Spurgeon preached to 10,000 people at a time on any given Sunday and yet lived hidden in the power of secret prayer. It seems their goals were different than the goals of the 21st century writers. We want a name. Many budding writers think our own minds are wells of inspiration and hidden theory and we thrive on our pulpit of self-promotion. This pride is our greatest barrier to truth. Our insights are clouded with cynicism and arrogance.

So I’m not sure about the balance. We who love to write, are called to write. Those who love to sing, must sing. The artist must paint. The dancer must dance. Our goals, our motives, our reason for doing what we do, must first take the stand and come under question. We must face our own cross-examination. Pride steals. It makes us ineffective in what we say and do. Human beings can smell it a mile away. C.S. Lewis said this of pride,

There is one vice of which no man in the world is free; which every one in the world loathes when he sees it in someone else; and of which hardly any people, except Christians, ever imagine that they are guilty themselves. I have heard people admit that they are bad-tempered, or that they cannot keep their heads about girls or drink, or even that they are cowards. I do not think I have ever heard anyone who was not a Christian accuse himself of this vice. And at the same time I have very seldom met anyone, who was not a Christian, who showed the slightest mercy to it in others. There is no fault which makes a man more unpopular, and no fault which we are more unconscious of in ourselves. And the more we have it ourselves, the more we dislike it in others.

So to those who write: Weigh your words carefully. But more than that, weigh why you do what you do. We are, and never were meant to be the center, that place is reserved for One.

His Promise Kept....

"Isn't it funny how day by day nothing changes but when you look back everything is different...." --Prince Caspian (C.S. Lewis)

I've held on to this hope. My counselor told me one time, "Dawn, it is a gift that you have friends who have known you long enough to be able to tell you that you are a different person than you were years ago, but the truth is, you are different whether you 'feel' it or not, or whether your friends can tell you or not. Jesus promises, and has made a commitment to you, to change you. He is doing it each day. It is a fact."

What a significant, and truly restful thought. The anxiety I feel at times over my own soul and my own state is appeased by this truth: He is making me more like Jesus and it has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with His promises.

Hold on to this when you fall. Keep focused on this fact when you see the same strongholds creep in again. Everything is truly different. And the greatest hope is that one day, the veil will be removed and what we see now in part we will one day soon see in whole! This is the hope of Heaven. This is another promise we cling to.

I Corinthians 13:12---
Now we see things imperfectly, like puzzling reflections in a mirror, but then we will see everything with perfect clarity. All that I know now is partial and incomplete, but then I will know everything completely, just as God now knows me completely.

El Morro...

It means “Fortress.” In Old San Juan, Puerto Rico there stood beyond rolling, green hills a tall, stout fortress. Its walls high and its image one of strength and might. People peppered all about with kites and chairs and food. Kids rolling down the inclines and playing round after round of hide-and-go-seek. Behind all the activity, stands a powerful image of warfare. Defense. Protection. Resolute resistance. Back in the 19th century there was no frolic or play, laughter was scare and fear intensified every moment of reprieve, stealing any potential lightheartedness. War colored everything. Land was the goal, ownership and power were the driving force of the time. As I walked through the rooms and looked out over the rough waves rolling in from the North, I began to wander into the spiritual world. Peter calls it a war over our souls. He goes on to say that the Devil prowls around like a lion, seeking to kill. He is subtle, crafty, pointed, fixed on a goal of destruction. Troops led under his fierce command are enraged with his imparted fury and nothing or no one gets in his way.

Except one.

There is a force unstoppable and in place, a ready shield. There is a power that stands high above the ocean, thick walls of barbaric stone unbreakable, unbeatable and guarded day and night. Nations rise up, people strategize attacks, evil is vigilant and harsh in its movement toward the Kingdom of God and all its followers. This is war. This is conflict and combat. With much precision and detailed method, our authorities advise, collect data, observe enemy patterns and set up for the ensuing battle. Bloodshed is necessary and expected. Losses are inevitable. All precautions must be taken for each and every individual. A Commander will instruct, but cannot demand his platoon to obey; he can give credible counsel and delegate necessary procedure, but he cannot make one engage in the fight. Or better said, he will not.

In this war where the platform is unseen and the enemy invisible, we must prepare with different strategy. As I walked through El Morro and turned in a full circle around me, walls bordered every side and canons were set up at each post, ready to blast out the enemy coming in at night, in secret, concealed in the loud rage of the ocean. They were hard to spot, and as they ventured in they hit a barrier of great might, and it still stands centuries later. It remains in tact and strong. The spiritual battle is altogether unconventional and yet vaguely familiar to those who have fought these historic battles for land and sea. New eyes, new senses, unique and distinct plans. Strange measures must be made. This is an exotic, raging war over the souls of all mankind. He prowls in wait. This enemy is real, his death wish is the warrant on our lives.

Towers of concrete and wide walls are not needed in this battle on this plane. Paul spells it out in Ephesians: “Put on all of God’s armor so that you will be able to stand firm against all the strategies of the devil.” The protection we are to wear is quite mismatched from the strong site I saw in old San Juan. Truth, Readiness, God’s righteousness, Peace, Faith, Salvation, and the Word of God. No guns, helmets, swords, or grenades; no arrows, spears, chain mail or tanks. Everything is different. And in no way more simple, or less scary. The fight is executed in a realm unseen by human eyes and it cuts with a sharp and steady blow. We are to be engaged and we are to be ready. We are all participants, those with the name of Christ written on their souls are to be cautiously prepared for dispatch.

That’s you. That’s me. Each of us who take a place in the Body of Christ. So when I stood, so small, at the base of such a monstrous palace of protection I knew that this was a shadow of one much bigger, wider, more steady, more solid, more sturdy and more sure than any earthly stronghold. Understanding the battle is foundational to preparing for it. Who is our enemy, how does he fight, what are his patterns, what are our fears, what makes us crawl back, what makes us motivated, what are the weapons fashioned against us, who is fighting alongside of us, and who ultimately has our back? What does it look like for me to be a part of this invisible, but very real, attack against the people of God and the reign of His Kingdom?


We are vulnerable. There are weapons forged against us. If we sit still and hope for an arrow to miss us, or for the enemy not to notice us in our secret spot, we will soon be overtaken. Our enemy is smarter than us. The tools and ammunition must never sit in the closet useless and rotting. Instead these means of defense must be employed and unlocked or we sit helpless on enemy ground. Many have learned, with little time, to use weaponry, to shoot a gun and dodge a bullet. But what about the use of Truth, or Peace...what does it mean to fight with the Spirit of God?

“The Kingdom of Heaven is like a treasure that a man discovered hidden in a field. In his excitement, he hid it again and sold everything he owned to get enough money to buy the field.”

Work, labor, toil, sweat, seeking, engaging, listening, sitting, reading, memorizing, re-reading, studying... “You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart.” ALL YOUR HEART. This battle is not for the faint of heart or the lazy, fearful and aimless. There is nothing about walking into a battle with a passive demeanor or response. There is clear direction. There is a means, a detailed and often painful process. Jesus called us to be a part of a Kingdom vision. It is not small.

So the weapons we fight with are not of this tangible world and yet we are to learn to engage them with vigor and hard work. He is the one to equip us and ready us; He is the one to send us out with supernatural aptitude and skill. He builds into us all of what we need. So arise, go ahead with confidence, tap into the potential that sits in full supply. Beware of the loss of shrinking back or forgetting the One who mounts His Horse with all authority. For you ride under His lead, you advance with His course of action, you are shielded by His wings. So, fear not. The Kingdom is within you. All that you need to fight, is all that you have already. Seek truth, righteousness, peace, salvation, and above all else, may His Word be our food.

Don't let your eyes rest, you may miss Him.

It is always refreshing to read the words of the saints. Have you ever sat with the writings of Charles Spurgeon or contemplated the thoughts of A.W. Tozer or Francis Feneoln? They were each so bold. So focused on one thing. Inspiring, to say the least.

I have some back issues, to put it lightly. The honest description is that I feel like an 80 year old trapped in this body. Some days are worse than others, but none without pain. In the end, I would say, though at times it is hard for me to really believe it: pain is a driving force, a sharpening tool, a humbling push, a necessary thing. I say that, while at the same exact time I can tell you boldly that I hate it. My mind wanders to a saint who lived above and in spite of her wrenching pain: Amy Carmichael. Look her up. Read a few of her thoughts and you will unearth some higher perspective. I just have a few lines of something I read today from a collection of her writings named, I Come Quietly to Meet You.

In one of the apocryphal books it is written: “Go your way, and see beauty and greatness...as much as your eyes are able to see” (II Esdras 10:55)...as much as your eyes are able to see. It is only when we look and look and look that we really see. And the more we know of the object we are looking at, the more we see in it...It is the I in you and me that blinds our eyes. The loss of I--that I may know Him, see Him with new clearness in all creation...even in the souls of the unlovable and unbeautiful. I want more and more to see His is goodness and His beauty. Not vaguely, nor just from time to time. I want to see Him truly, continually, in His work, in those who love Him, in His book, in Himself...

Not just from time to time...we settle for that every single day.

Amy Carmichael sat bedridden for many years suffering with intense neurological pain from a fall. She was expected to recover and never did. These were the years, in her bed, that she wrote of the treasures of the spiritual world. She came alive when her body was quite useless. But from ashes of pain came the beauty of her pen.

So today, as I am in pain, as are many, I look to Amy as a reminder of the beauty around me, all the time. Ash Wednesday approaches and leads us into a season of Lent. Let it be that we look for as much as our eyes can see....