A Folded Check Slipped Into My Hand

Every so often throughout our decades of ministry, someone will slip a folded check into my hand. This happened recently, and I quickly thought, How lovely. Perhaps it is a gift for the women in the Global Bag Project.

Mary Ogalo had just graduated 11 seamstresses, awarded them certificates of achievement, and presented each with her own sewing machine (part of the value of which they will pay back to buy machines for other seamstresses who complete training).

Because I was talking with other people, I stuck the check in a pocket just to make certain I wouldn’t lose it in the joyful confusion of meeting and greeting.

An industrial-strength sewing machine with dual controls for electricity and for manual operation (when the power goes off in Kenya, which it is always doing) costs about $325. You can imagine my amazement when I opened the check and discovered it had been made out to me personally and that it was for $5,000. The short message on the distribution line indicated that it was to be used to spread the love of Jesus. I was left in kind of happy shock!

So as soon as I got home, I wrote a thank-you note and said, “I would love to know what God whispered to your heart?” Then I wrote out a $900 check for the Global Bag Project, a $300 check for a friend whose husband has had a freelance job but has not been paid since February, sent $1,000 to the Brendan and Kailey Bell fund to contribute toward paying down their catastrophic medical expenses. I put some money aside so I would be able to pay our friend from Mexico when he had a day here and there without work; the funds would help him and his expertise would help me. The rest I divided between my Hungry Souls ministry and a donation to Mainstay Ministries.

You get the idea—I had joy, overflowing joy at being able to share the generosity shared with me. Indeed, I spread the love of Jesus, absolutely happy with being able to do so.

When we teach about the God Hunt, one of the four categories we use to help people identify God’s intervention in their everyday lives is that of “help to do God’s work in the world.” This is a prime example. Go find some examples of your own.

I spy God!

Open Heart, Open Home

In Open Heart, Open Home (over 500,000 copies in print) award-winning Karen Mains steps far beyond how-to-entertain you hints to explore the deeper concepts of Christian hospitality-the Biblical way to use your home and an open heart to care for others like God wants us to. Countless pastors have recommended this classic resource as the meaningful example of how the Holy Spirit ministers to and through us to make other people feel truly welcome and deeply wanted.

Perfect for any womens bible study group, especially when used in tandem with the Opening Our Hearts & Homes Bible Study.

This new edition contains 54 helpful ways to make hospitality work whether you live on a country farm, in a house in the suburbs, or in an apartment in the city. Everyone in your bible study will appreciate the life-changing principles of this timeless classic.

Grab Your Copy of Open Heart, Open Home Now!

Comforting One Another

Comforting One Another uses Michelangelo's Pieta as a metaphor for learning how to comfort those hurting in life.

Author Karen Mains references her personal pain experiences, and unfolds a theology around the meaning of mercy, with pietas from art, literature, film, news photography, poetry and real life building pictures of how God's love can demonstrate itself through us in tangible ways in today's modern world.

This is a book for those who are suffering and for those who want to hold and comfort those who are suffering.

Karen defines a pieta as any person or group of people comforting and holding those who are broken or suffering, and in need of the healing touch of our Lord.

Get Your Copy Now of Comforting One Another Now!

Which Comes First?

Looking out my dining-room window on the barren March backyard, I saw the string hammock we purchased some 20 years ago, swinging forlornly between the two trees to which it is attached. Through the decades it has gone grey, but today I thought, Oh, I should really get a new hammock. That one looks pretty used.

Believe me, it has been used. Nine grandchildren, the oldest of whom is now 21 and the youngest of whom is now six months, have all swung to and fro in the hammock in the backyard.

I didn’t think about it any more. Come summer when the trees, bushes, grass and flowering plants are all green, when the four bright-blue pillows are bouncing on the string hammock, I’ll forget how forlorn and worn it looked in March. Because notes in my own grandmother’s hand, written to record some of the history of her family, indicated that her mother—my great-grandmother—had died after a fall from a hammock, I always check to make sure the hammock is solid. This grey hammock is sturdily attached to the two trees that guard it; not a string is frayed, not a knot untied.

It would probably serve us well for the next decade.

To read more, click HERE.

The Divine Offices

This week Karen is in the Dominican Republic directing a film shoot for Medical Ambassadors International. She would appreciate your prayers as you read these blogs. Filming in another country, on a low budget and without knowing the language can be tricky indeed. Shoot crews are well aware of their need for God’s help. Thank you.

The Divine Offices: A Manual for Prayer by Phyllis Tickle includes four of the seven Daily Offices: Morning Prayer, Noontime Prayer, Evening Prayer and Compline.

I love reading the Morning Office early with my husband—but even so, there is rarely a week where we hit a perfect score—Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. So during this Lent, I had a bright idea: I could read the four daily offices by myself without my husband (what a thought!). It has been a rich journey so far. Today’s reading was for the “Wednesday Nearest to February 17” (I am writing these blogs mid-week, in order for them to be edited and sent to our dear friend Dean Wilson, who sets them up and posts them)—quite a system to devise a reading plan that takes people through the year, no matter what year.

The flap copy on the book says, “The Divine Hours is the first major literary and liturgical reworking of the sixth-century Benedictine Rule of fixed-hour prayer. This beautifully conceived and thoroughly modern three-volume guide will appeal to the theological novice as well as to the ecclesiastical sophisticate. … The third and final book in the set, Prayers for Springtime, provides prayers, psalms, and readings for this season associated with rebirth.”

The Midday Office for the Wednesday nearest to February 17 is Psalm 113:

“Hallelujah! Give praise, you servants of the Lord; praise the Name of the Lord.
Let the Name of the Lord be blessed, from this time forth for evermore.
From the rising of the sun to its going down let the Name of the Lord be praised.
The Lord is high above all nations, and his glory above the heavens.
Who is like the Lord our God, who sets enthroned on high but stoops to behold
          the heavens and the earth?
He takes up the weak out of the dust and lifts up the poor from the ashes.
He sets them with the princes, with the princes of his people.
He makes the woman of a childless house to be a joyful mother of children.”

This is becoming a rich Lenten feed. You are also welcome at the table.

I spy God!

Flying Standby

My whole trip from Chicago to Modesto, California only cost $10.50—and that was my ticket for the Bay Area Rapid Transit from San Francisco to the end of the line at Dublin/Pleasanton where I was picked up by my hostess for that night.

By God’s great grace, “buddy” passes have been made available to David and me for this year; for only the cost of the taxes, we can fly anywhere this airline flies, in the States and overseas. So far there have been no taxes on any of my stateside flights.

Over January and February, David and I will have traveled miles worth the amount of $2800. The projections for March total about the same.

However, leaving San Francisco on Friday and what became Saturday morning was not quite such a positive experience. After my board meeting and a two-hour drive hitched with one of my colleagues, I waited in line at a very crowded gate for the red-eye flight that was scheduled to leave at 10:05 p.m., arriving in Chicago at 5:30 the next morning.

There were eleven names in front of me on the posted standby list, the flight was listed as full, and I began to have increasing doubts about making it out that night. Parents were waiting with their kids, grandparents were smiling indulgently at their rambunctious grandchildren, and I suddenly realized that it was the Presidents’ Day holiday. One mother explained, “The kids have the whole week off school, so we are heading out.”

Not such a great idea, planning to fly standby on a holiday weekend. One final red-eye was scheduled to leave from a gate nearby, so when names of the standby passengers who did not make the 10:05 flight were deleted from the public screen, I rushed to the gate of the 10:10 flight, only to find the door was closed. “Too bad,” said the gate attendant. “There was one empty seat left on the plane.”

I determined that from that point on, I would be just a little bit more proactive. If my instincts told me to move fast (the gate attendants are supposed to automatically roll the surplus names along to the next flight), I might make a point of showing up and questioning the fact of an available space by myself. My name had not been rolled over in time.

Earlier, because I arrived at the airport around 5:30 p.m., I had scoped out what I thought was a secluded spot behind a check-in counter with a row of seats without armrests. If I had to spend the night in the airport (thinking it would defeat the purpose of free airline passes if I spent the night in a nearby airport, wouldn’t it?), this was the space to plop. I hauled my leather tote, taking squatter’s rights over the empty corner, used my tote as a pillow and spread the blue wool shawl given to me by a dear friend. It was perfect blanket for a 70-year-old woman airplane-stranded due to too many holiday travelers.

I discovered that airports after 12 o’clock at night are not quiet places. The overhead lights stay on; I pulled out my eye shades, earplugs and stretched the wool blanket over my head. I still could hear the extraordinarily loud automatic announcements that rotated every five minutes. They were now even louder because there were no passengers coming and going through the aisles and gates: “Contact security if you notice any abandoned luggage…” “Subway sandwich stays open between 12:00 and 4:00. You will have to re-enter at Security when it opens.”

A group of night workers congregated in the gate area where I was attempting to sleep. Washrooms were getting cleaned; busy vacuums sucked up debris on the carpets and bare floors; carts with their beeping signals hastened back and forth on the tarmacs outside my windows; gated airplanes were being straightened inside and their tiny kitchens stocked for the early-morning departures.

I thought of all the people in the world who sleep in the transit centers that take folk here and there, back and forth, to business or to family gatherings—buses and trains and airplanes that carry hopeful travelers on the adventure of going on holiday.

Why was I sleeping in this airport? Why hadn’t I found a hotel? After all, all the other travelers waiting in line had gone somewhere—maybe home, maybe to more comfortable lounges I didn’t know about. While trying to fall asleep, I considered this question. I hate to spend money if I don’t have to—reason number one. In addition, by the time I found a hotel, took transportation to a hotel, checked in, got to my room and into bed, there would only be a few hours for me to sleep. Reason #2: I hate security check-ins! I’d rather sleep in an airport (particularly if I can stretch out) than go through those security lines again. Most of all, I wanted to be in the standby line early (6:05 a.m.) to see if I could take the first flight home.

I was content to sleep, like so many other thousands, in a transit center—at least for one night, but I did wonder slightly, dozing in and out of wakefulness, why the Lord hadn’t nudged me onto that empty seat to Chicago. And if not me, why not one of the other standby passengers eager to leave?

I spy God!

Familiar Faces at the Gate

The e-mail messages for this trip to the Dominican have been flying in flurries; there is so much to remember and to do. Copies of the film script need to be made in case we misplace our work scripts, and there may be a reason for other people to look them over. The shoot list, a schedule of must-get shots, needs to be prioritized and sent to the videographer; a day agenda of where we will be shooting and when must be compiled. The translator who volunteered to help needs to be contacted with information as to when we will need her. (Nothing complicates an out-of-the country shoot any more than the film team and the principals speaking different languages.)

David coached me on making sure we hit the bottom line of the script. My adult children, many who are involved in media—film, video and television—reminded me that this is a visual medium. Content is important they said but if we don’t get enough B-roll, there isn’t enough to work with in the editing room and the project is left with way too much talking heads.

I e-mailed Dr. Bibiana MacLeod, the Regional Coordinator for MAI in the Caribbean, and said, “Two days out from departure and I am getting the nervous-jervies; I am certain there is something major that I am forgetting.”

Phone call from the videographer: “Say, Karen. Are you sure we have reservations at this hotel? I’ve called and e-mailed, and they say they have no record of our names, and the hotel is full for the night of our arrival.” We both had visions of arriving in Santiago, gathering our luggage (including two carts of video and sound equipment), finding a taxi and arriving at the hotel, only to discover they indeed had no room in their inn and we would have no place to stay. Our couple on the ground was working in Cuba, to return shortly before arrival. Another e-mail to Bibiana for translation.

To read more, click HERE.

Lost My Purse at O'Hare Airport

Returning home from a trip, David and I made our way from Terminal Two to United Airlines Baggage Claim in Terminal One. We picked up our suitcases, took the elevator up one floor to the transit line, crossed the bridge, then rode the escalators one floor down and got ourselves ready to board the shuttle train to Parking Lot F, the long-term lot.

It was only then that I noticed I no longer had my black purse. Ordinarily, I haul shoulder-strap bags, but I’m trying to cut down on the weight of the luggage I drag through airports, and I had picked up a resale Liz Claiborne purse that was smaller, lightweight and would only hold so many travel items. My habit had been to slip the hand straps over the bar to my mobile computer-office bag where I file all my books and projects. Since it is on wheels, I can pull it behind me.


To read more, click HERE.

Remembering to Collaborate—Again!

The days that I remind myself that I am collaborating with God in his design for my life and ministry are the days when everything goes smoothly—often breathtakingly so. The days when I just cry “Help! Help!” are not so easy—I kind of bump and stumble and waste time and get delayed.

Yesterday was an example of a collaborate effort between myself, the all too human Karen, and the Divine, a great and transcendent and all-powerful yet intimate Heavenly Father.

Moved with compassion over the huge financial burden of my nephew and his wife after two premature births, both babies with allergies, and one with a twisted bowel (altogether some 18 weeks in the Neo-Natal Intensive Care Unit), I have taken it upon myself to raise the amount to pay off the remaining medical bills that are sitting on this young couple’s credit cards.

Trying to be sensitive (sometimes, as we all are learning, helping actually hurts), I interviewed my nephew and his wife, consulted with my sister and brother-in-law, talked with a few close friends, wrote a draft letter, had it edited, ran that past everyone for suggestions or corrections, then sent it off to the designer via my son who manages our print projects through his company, Pathmaker Marketing.

Yesterday, when I came into the office, two boxes of No. 10 business size envelopes—100 in all— were sitting on my desk. It was my plan to print a tag line on them and hopefully, a photo of the for-sale sign on their house (due to the huge payouts for the extraordinary hospital bills, their out-of-pocket premiums that are now the equivalent of another mortgage payment).

I had decided that we could save funds and run off the envelopes and the designed letter on the color copier in our office, but I had never needed to learn how to run this kind of project through our copying machine. Searching through my computer programs, I found the one that teaches users how to run off multiple envelopes as well as the short lecture that teaches how to do your own design.

We decided that a tag line on the envelope should read: “Update on Baby Merrick: Kailey and Brendan Bell.”

Just as I was struggling with this, one of the faithful volunteers who helps out several hours a week (and without whom I could not be productive) came into the office. She is a retired home-economics teacher and used to office equipment.

“Oh, I know how to do that!”

Of course. I had prayed the prayer of collaboration. Our editor, who is part-time knew exactly how to manage the program when she ran into glitches and was available just when we needed him before he was called away because of an emergency in his family. I didn’t want to include a photo of the baby on the outside of the envelope and ship it through public mail, so I settled on what I felt was an even stronger image of the For Sale sign in front of the house.

Before my editor left, all three of us figured how to run multiple copies through the copier and how to make sure they were printed in color. My volunteer assistant and I stuffed the envelopes with a reply envelope on which I handwrote in red ink—“Baby Merrick Account”—and as she left the office, she took the envelopes home, packed them in a sturdy box and had them in the mail by 4:46 p.m. My sister could begin addressing envelopes while we waited for the letter to return from the designer.

What a collaboration!—done and out the door. Why is it I don’t remember to always get myself into this attitude and understanding that God is as interested in collaborating in my life as I need Him to do so? Not only that, I think He takes as much joy in working with me as I take in those days that go like smoothly oiled mechanics in some kind of master clockwork machine.

Perhaps this attitude of collaboration with my Heavenly Father is just not as yet a habit and the more I work at it, the more it will work in me to become a practice. At any rate, I strongly recommend that those who are not collaborating with God on creating their lives with him should try out this delightful practice.

“So he shepherded them with a faithful and true heart, and guided them with the skillfulness of his hands.” Psalm 78:72

I spy God!

It’s Important!

Our five-year-old granddaughter, Eliana, came rushing out the door of her house when she saw our car drive up her driveway. “Come! Come!” she shouted, running in her stocking feet across the muddy lawn to the backyard of the next door neighbor. She paused when she sensed we weren’t following close on her heals. “Come! Come and see!” And then, just to make sure we felt the urgency she was feeling, she called, “It’s important!”

When we reached the neighbor’s back yard, we could see what all the fuss was about. Their yard was broadcasted with thousands of blue scilla flowers, little tiny stars sprinkled, as if by magic, throughout all the grass. These were the first flowers of an all too cold, too long-delayed Midwestern spring.

Eliana paused to see if we were appropriately in awe, standing in her muddy stockings and without a coat and jacket. She swept her hand, while grandly gesturing to include the whole wondrous display. “See,” she said. “It’s beautiful!”

Many of the ancients who wrote what is known to us moderns as wisdom literature made exactly the same point. Some think that the most important thing we can do to grow ourselves spiritually is to pause—stop our frantic pace—to open our eyes and to see.

“It’s important!” said the five-year-old child, too impressed to put on a jacket or shove her stocking-feet into shoes. Indeed, it is.

“With my whole heart I seek you …” Psalm 119:10. It is important. Come! Come and see!

I spy God!

Rent Due

Due to my travel schedule and the fact that Carla Boelkens, the Director of the Global Bag Project, volunteers one day a week in the GBP office, neither one of us has had time to appropriately market the beautiful reusable shopping bags the Kenyan women make to earn a living for themselves and their children. Consequently, we have had few home parties in the last months, and home parties are our major venue for selling their products.

I’m clearing my schedule for the days ahead so that I can rectify this, but for the time being, the $225 rent for the storage room we use as a Global Bag Project office is overdue.

I had a meeting in Danville, Illinois this past Saturday. Danville is about three hours from West Chicago, where we live, so I looked forward to the drive downstate as a time I could spend concentrating on prayer, and I had several wonderful uninterrupted hours interceding for the people I love and thanking God for all the amazing gifts He pours into our lives. On the drive down, I decided that I would use the money from my book table sales to pay for the rent, which I thought was about $250.

The women’s meeting was a delight. I’m pretty sure that if I attended Second Church of Christ in Danville, Illinois, all the gals who planned this event would become close friends—believe me, that is a wonderful feeling to have about all the strangers one meets on the road if you are part of the speaker’s circuit.

When I opened the envelope that held my honorarium, I discovered that I had been paid almost $200 more than the fee I was offered—this was an unexpected and welcome generosity (since my personal checking account was down to $34.41). What a lovely God who cares for us in such immediate and practical ways!

Not only that, I discovered that I had sold $249 worth of books, only one dollar short of paying for the GBP rental fee. How does He do this? I wondered. With all His children all around the world, how does God give us what we need when we need it almost to the exact amount? Obviously, I could make up the dollar difference.

I had money enough to pay for the groceries I bought on the way home for the crowd that was coming for Sunday dinner (I’d taken $100 in small bills from my checking account to make change for the book table).

Coming in the front door, I called out to David, “I’m home!”

He replied, “Oh, I have a surprise for you.” It was a small—but nice—royalty check for a book I’d written. (All in all, an exceedingly profitable day.)

This morning, sitting at the desk, I realized (and had forgotten) that my Social Security check is electronically transmitted on Wednesday. Now I have money to pay for help with spring cleaning the yard (two teenagers of close friends are my yardmen), buy topsoil and compost for the garden boxes and the new cold frames, and plant the cool weather crops that hopefully some nearby nursery has started for me.

I’m a wealthy woman! And—the monthly GBP rent is $225, not $250—so I won’t even be out one dollar to make up the difference. Actually, I sometimes feel a little sad for people of great wealth. How can they possibly know the delight of living day to day and seeing God meet their needs, pay their bills in unexpected ways, or feel the rush of joy that comes from knowing that a Heavenly Father loves you so much? Do they even understand that He is able to provide for you down to the last penny?

“On this day the Lord has acted; we will rejoice and be glad in it.” Psalm 118:24

I spy God!

Pilot in the Jump Seat

“The pilot will give up his seat and sit in the cockpit on the jump seat. There are now two seats and if you hurry, we can get you on this flight to Portland, Maine.”

The gate attendant had figured out a way that David and I could both make this flight. We had been standby passengers number 3 and 4 with four empty seats registering on the overhead screen that shows the list of standbys and how many seats are left empty.

I shuddered when the monitor showed that there were now only three seats left, then two, then one. “Both of you can’t fit on this flight. Do you want to fly separately, or do you want to step down?”

As David and I paused, then jointly decided we would wait for the next flight (some five hours later), which would land us at our destination around 11 o’clock at night, she suddenly had a bright idea. “Wait here. If I don’t come back, just know that the plane’s doors have been closed and the flight is scheduled to depart.”

To say the least, it was a tenuous moment, but we are learning to exercise absolutely trust in this flying without tickets world. Airlines move their flight personnel to and fro using the open seats on scheduled flights and sometimes our places in line are commandeered by their necessity to go where they go.

In just a moment or two, she was back, hurriedly hastening us down the runway. “Make sure you thank the pilot,” she called to us about five times. I figured that was pretty important to do.

“Glad you made it on board,” said a stewardess.

“Who do we thank?” I called out. She pointed to a pilot scurrying into the cockpit. “Blessings on you for doing this,” I called to him. “I will bless you this whole flight.” He ducked his head—a younger man, a little embarrassed by the attention—but he had given up a seat with legroom so that one of us could take it and so that both of us could be on the same flight. This meant we would arrive at our destination with plenty of time to find our way after a two-hour drive.

But really, as generous as this unknown man was (moving probably because he thought of his own friends and family members who had also been given standby passes; two extra passes are granted to each employee), it is really God to whom we are suspecting we owe a debt of gratitude. This is the fifth or sixth flight we’ve taken in the last months with standby passes where we’ve been given the last seat on an airplane. Somehow (knowing how really busy and preoccupied He must be), assigned Standby Angels seem to be negotiating seat arrangements, no-shows, and our ownwould-be flyer anxiety levels.

He shall give his angels charge over you is much more than a comforting and familiar phrase from Scripture. These days, it is a practical reality. I think of it every time I am given the last empty seat on an airplane, no matter what my number may be in the standby line.

I spy God!

The Good Thing About Colds

I returned from Maine with a cold coming on. Oh, drat! I thought. It seems that the last few months since Christmas have been spent treating and recovering from one minor physical distress after another. But a cold is a cold, so I doctored myself with Airborne®, the “Effervescent Health Formula” (according to the label) “Created By A Second Grade Teacher” who was tired of catching her students’ communicable diseases. And, I sent David to Walgreens to pick up bottles of Dayquil® and Nyquil®.

On Saturday and Sunday nights, I slept a good six hours deeply without waking once. On Monday, I dragged myself into the office, but came home early. On Tuesday, I decided to bow to the inevitable and stayed home, napping in the morning, then reading on the couch in the living room where David made a fire for me in the fireplace.

I finished reading 1969: The Year Everything Changed by Rob Kirkpatrick. I labored through our book club book (deadline: this coming Sunday) titled, My Name Is Red by Orhan Pomuk, a modern Turkish author writing a murder mystery set in the 16th Century Ottoman Empire and dealing with the narrow world of the court miniaturist artists. (It was a good book to read on a sick day because it required one’s full attention.) I finished off the small pile of magazines that I hadn’t had time to read, waded through Richard D. Wolff’s Occupy the Economy: Challenging Capitalism and finished the final chapters of Christopher Hitchen’s Love, Poverty, and War: Journeys and Essays, which I have been reading off and on throughout the year since he died.

I did make my dentist’s appointment Tuesday afternoon. Feeling badly that my cold was four days fresh, I apologized to the hygienist, “I thought about cancelling my appointment.” “Oh, no,” she said. “We have all these little kids through here.” Indeed, I could see several wiping their noses even as we spoke.

“In fact,” said the dentist, coming in and shaking my hand, which I instructed him to wash, thinking of all the tissues I had been using (one was even now tucked under my thigh as I was stretched prone on the examining chair). “I think we protect ourselves from bacteria and viruses too much. The first year I was in practice, I caught everything. After that year, I have just been healthy. Getting sick is often the way the body strengthens the immune system.”

So he examined and cleaned my teeth. We commented on the new technology. He scanned my mouth and tongue and gums with a blue light ray to determine that I had no cancer. He came up with a treatment plan for the dental work I needed in the days ahead and somehow the two of us started exchanging humorous comments and started laughing so much that the gals at the desk gathered in the hall to see what was going on in the examining room.

So this is what is good about colds:

You have an excuse to come home early from work.

You can take a morning nap.

You sleep well at night due to the decongestant and antihistamine syrup you swigged at 9 o’clock in the evening.

You can read through all those piles of books that you have neglected.

You can cancel on evening meetings.

You can go to see the dentist anyway and he won’t catch your germs because he’s developed dental antibodies.

You discover that your new dentist has a sense of humor.

Your husband will bring you a bowl of popcorn in the afternoon when you have gone to bed.

You can enjoy one of the last fires of the season in the fireplace.

You have time to thank God for the good life you have lived and the many graces that are experienced in each day, day after day, day after day, even when you have a cold.
I spy God!

The Random Habit of Telling Good News

I’ve been trying to get all my medical exams and tests done in the first few months of this year, and it is an enormous interruption to fit it all in because of my already-full schedule. But since I’ve not had a breast exam or a Pap smear or a bone density test (not to mention blood work, etc.) for the last six or seven years, and since Medicare pays for that yearly examination, I really didn’t have any excuse not to proceed, especially since my doctors are all retiring. Consequently, I’ve also had to put together a new medical-personnel system.

My sister recommended a general physician. She gave me an exam, then recommended which tests I needed to make appointments for at the nearby hospital. Our office manager pulled the names of dentists who are open to new patients and also accept our Delta Dental insurance. I actually drove past their offices to see which I liked the best before I made a phone call. (At my age, dentists are a big deal—I have one molar missing and one that has broken in half.) And I signed up with a kinesiologist to begin examining the places where I was nutritionally or chemically imbalanced.

When the hospital outpatient office called again to inform me that they needed to retake one of the imaging photographs and that I needed to make an appointment for another mammogram, I was too busy to get upset about it. We have no history of breast cancer in our family, and frankly, I have other physical ailments that are of bigger concern to me (like my lack of sleep). Lots of friends have also been called back for repeat exams, with no negative results.

However, sitting in the waiting room of the “Breast Treatment Center” with six other women all wearing those ugly hospital gowns, then having to wait a little longer than I expected (“You know this could take up to two hours,” said the nurse at the counter. No, I hadn’t known that) made me realize that I was a little anxious.

The eventual conclusion was that the original photo had shown what they were calling a little tissue shadow—nothing at all to be worried about—and that I didn’t need to wait for a second opinion on the x-ray.

It was then that I felt how good it is to have good news. Often, many of us go through life with shoulders unknowingly clenched waiting for the bad news that doesn’t come (given a whole lifetime of living) more than it does come. Our papers and the Internet are filled with horrific stories of murders and human aberrations, fires and famines and floods—no wonder we all too often expect the worst.

Years ago, Oprah Winfrey made popular the random-acts-of-kindness movement. “Your toll has been paid by the gentleman in the car in front of you…” and other sorts of small considerations. It was actually a lovely idea.

However, what about another movement that encourages random good-news bearers? “Here’s some good news,” we could say to one another. “You do not have to replace your water heater.” “You have unexpected money coming to you from an unexpected source.” “You are healthier than you think you are.”

Would these kind of comments eventually help us unclench our clenched shoulders? Would we be able to see, with enough good news, that much of the universe is a benign and loving place created so we could enjoy and be at wonder about its glory?

How remarkable that the word “Gospel” means “the good news.” God looked into the long future of mankind’s historic passage and knew that this reality of good news would be imperative for our survival, for our fruitfulness, for our constant encouragement. Scriptures say that the apostles “went about preaching the good news of the Kingdom of God.”

So let us speak this word of power; let us look into our own personal lives and detect what, exactly, is the good news of each day. And let us tell it to others. Then let us look into the divine plan in the world and discover the good news that is in God’s mind. And let us tell it to others. “On this day the Lord has acted; we will rejoice and be glad in it.” (Psalm 118:24.)

I suspect—in fact, I can promise—that this practice will make a huge different in our outlook and how we feel about our lives. Let us learn to live in the good news, and let us randomly get into the habit of sharing it with others.

I spy God!

Advent Watching

Did any of you see the recent movie Argo, directed by and starring Ben Affleck? It’s about a secret operation to extract six U.S. diplomatic personnel who escaped from the U.S. Embassy at the beginning of the Iran Hostage Crisis. That historical event happened in 1980.

In May of that year, Mount St. Helens erupted, hurling steam and ash 60,000 feet into the sky. The November 1980 election put Ronald Reagan in the White House, replacing Jimmy Carter. That December, Beatle John Lennon was shot to death outside his New York City apartment. Oh yes, that’s right, most of us think. But old news is just that—old news—we don’t think about it much.

Not to the Christians living in Jerusalem in the year A.D. 66. Roughly 32 years earlier Jesus had prophesied:

“When you see Jerusalem surrounded by armies, you will know that its destruction is near. Then let those who are in Judea flee to the mountains, let those in the city get out, and let those in the country not enter the city. For this is the time of punishment in fulfillment of all that has been written.”

(Luke 21:20-24, the Olivet Discourse)

In the late summer of 66 A.D., 32 years after Jesus spoke those words, a Roman force of 40,000 soldiers came from Galilee to quell a riot in Jerusalem. Would you believe that huge army was not only resisted, but routed?

Reveling in their triumph, the jubilant Jewish defenders began promoting the cause of complete independence from Rome. In the spring of AD. 67 the Romans began their retaliation under the ruthless leadership of Titus, the son of the Emperor Vespasian. He led the 50,000 troops that had gathered on the Mediterranean Coast toward Jerusalem to lay siege to the city.

Christians, remembering the words of Jesus spoken three decades earlier, began leaving in large numbers, settling in Pella, on the west side of the Jordan River and north of Jerusalem.

Read the complete article about Advent Watching by visiting my blog. 

Church Potluck

Last week, partly because of so much travel, and partly because of the arthritis that I suspect is beginning to make its home in my body, I just didn’t have the energy to tackle the work that is complaining to me about not getting done.

Moreover, I had volunteered to be in charge of the church potluck. We are just forming missional communities, and each one is delegated to take care of various potluck dates, but because we are all new to this system, I was a little dubious about what kind of help I would have.

Because our church meets in a school gymnasium, most everything we need has to be hauled from our storage trailer or from our homes, then we need to clean up and haul everything back. My list included: pack up coffee pot, creamers, sugar, white mugs and basket for discards; pull three bins down from the attic, which store 100 rattan serving plates, paper plates, plastic silver already rolled in napkins, tablecloths; clean off outside lanterns and stand; refill salt and pepper shakers, spoon brown sugar in a crock and chopped nuts in a bowl; load up roasting pans with 50 aluminum-foil covered sweet potatoes. Needless to say, our car was full.

To read more, click HERE.

Extraordinary Journeys

My faith that God is guiding my journey is tested every time I use my standby pass to travel by air. A friend has graciously made this available to me, and we are beginning to total up the amount of monies we are saving as David and I both have a great deal of journeying in our schedule this year.

However, my trust is tested every time I check in, receive my boarding pass (with STBY clearly labeled on it), then find a place in the waiting room to see whether I make the flight or not. The trip I took two weeks ago entailed a leg out of Chicago to Phoenix, then out of Phoenix to San Francisco, then from San Francisco to Modesto, from Modesto to San Francisco, and finally from San Francisco back to Chicago.

The mid-morning flight from Chicago to Phoenix was fine. My name was number four on the posted standby list. The plane was large, other travelers had flown out on earlier flights—I was even assigned a seat in an exit row, where the leg room is much more compatible than in the painfully crowded economy rows.

Leaving Phoenix for San Francisco was another matter. The 10 o’clock flight was full, the plane was smaller, and my name was number six on the list. I have made it a rule of thumb not to scoot from counter to counter, trying to take care of myself, but simply to trust the process of boarding and reassigning. I’m learning to simply let the Lord take care of me. Because I was troubled that morning by something pressing upon my heart, I decided not to read or make notes for writing, but to spend the time in prayer and to include all the strangers who also were waiting to fly to San Francisco.

Because I was paying attention, I realized that a good number of folk were traveling through San Francisco to different points in China. Our flight was delayed due to fog in the Bay Area, and the gate attendant called for people connecting to Seattle. About four people were reassigned to another flight. They weren’t on the standby list, but it did mean that more seats had become available on the full plane.

To read more, click HERE.

A Little More Lenten Help Along the Way

I took a vow that I would not watch television during the 50 days of Lent. Along with this vow, I also promised that I would take the supplements provided by the kinesiologist I chose to see on the high recommendation of a friend.

God is often very funny when he takes us at our word. Not only have I been too busy to watch television, our DirecTV cable does not work. I tried to turn on the television for my granddaughter and her friend, Jake, but for some reason, it just wouldn’t cooperate.

Checking the cable connections in the back, the little notations on the back of the television over the electronic holes were all written in techno-Greek, and it truly was techno-Greek to me.

But I got the point—God was gently reminding me that I had made a vow and He was going to gently help me keep it.

Yesterday afternoon, I had a little time, fiddled with the remote commands, and got the television working. We had a clear HD picture, clear audio, the channels switched as designed. “Television’s working,” I reported to the houseful of people who were wondering what had happened to the TV. “Don’t ask me how.”

But I didn’t stay to watch it. I marched upstairs (only to get out of bed and take the handful of supplements I had forgotten to count out and swallow) and finally, went to bed.

“Present your bodies, a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable unto God, which is your reasonable worship.”
This is the Scripture I’m chewing this month (some teachers call it meditation, but the word in Hebrew, I’m told, means “to chew on”). It is Romans 12:1. I am slowly working out what it means to be holy and acceptable. I still have a lot of figuring to do to fully understand this, but I know it has something to do with me getting healthy, learning how to sleep deeply, and not spending hours zoned out in front of the television.

God has made that perfectly clear (and there are people who say they don’t hear His voice, can’t guess His intentions). That is not my experience, not my experience at all.

I spy God!

Jake Can Do It!

I have been on an extraordinary schedule the last month—a January trip to visit possible filming sites in the Dominican Republic, a board meeting in California, starting up our missional community at the church, grandchildren visiting, back to the Dominican for a film shoot in February, home to a preaching assignment, then out to California again for a book I’ve been contracted to form.

All along the way, I’ve felt like a surgeon in the operating room where efficient, highly trained nurses place in my hand the exact tool to get the job done. In addition, I’ve tried to catch up on all my neglected medical exam (didn’t show up for a thyroid examination, and missed to breast exam appointments). David has been taking phone and Skype interviews on the documentary film he put together that focused on the slaughter of Nigerian Christians at the hands of the Boko Haram, Islamist extremists.

I’ve had people over for dinner and our eldest granddaughter took her spring break to introduce the new boyfriend to this side of the family. My journal (when I’ve gotten to it in the midst of all this busyness) is a record of evidences of God’s care.

Take the granddaughter’s new boyfriend, for instance. Jake arrived in our home just in time to haul the leather chair out of my daughter’s home, get it in the back of her truck, then take out the old recliner in David’s study that now refused to do anything but recline. The discarded chair was moved into the garage and the new leather recliner (well, the one I bought at Goodwill for $14, at any rate) was hauled upstairs. (It looks great—very.)

Jake had also spent a half-hour shoving Christmas boxes up that were waiting for a hand in the garage (and crowding our car when we parked it). Not only did he happily and willingly give a hand with the physical stuff, but he also helped David set up the new iPod that was purchased so he could Skype for these video interviews as well as have a portable means of communication so that he would not be tied to the personal computer at the office.

Oh, let’s see, it’s March, I really need help getting those boxes up into the attic—WHOA! Jake can lend a hand.

David’s knee has been bad, but I have a truck and some strong college kids. We can get the broken chair replaced with that stylish leather chair.

How in the world are we going to get this iPod figured without help?—oh, wait; we have help. Jake can do it.

I can go on and on, but I think you get the point. This morning we talked with a classroom of Palestinian children. Their teacher, a daughter of a friend of ours, had been reading them our book, Tales of the Kingdom. So we Skyped one another, and there were all the kids popping in front of the camera, waving their hands to ask questions. We talked for a half-hour before their school day ended.

And guess what? It was all to the exquisite timing of our granddaughter bringing her new boyfriend up from Indiana Wesleyan where they both go to school who “just happened” to be around when we needed him. Jake can do it. (Scalpel. Forceps. Needle and thread.)

Thank you, God. I spy You!

A Little More Lenten Help Along the Way

I took a vow that I would not watch television during the 50 days of Lent. Along with this vow, I also promised that I would take the supplements provided by the kinesiologist I chose to see on the high recommendation of a friend.

God is often very funny when he takes us at our word. Not only have I been too busy to watch television, our DirecTV cable does not work. I tried to turn on the television for my granddaughter and her friend, Jake, but for some reason, it just wouldn’t cooperate.

Checking the cable connections in the back, the little notations on the back of the television over the electronic holes were all written in techno-Greek, and it truly was techno-Greek to me.

But I got the point—God was gently reminding me that I had made a vow and He was going to gently help me keep it.

Yesterday afternoon, I had a little time, fiddled with the remote commands, and got the television working. We had a clear HD picture, clear audio, the channels switched as designed. “Television’s working,” I reported to the houseful of people who were wondering what had happened to the TV. “Don’t ask me how.”

But I didn’t stay to watch it. I marched upstairs (only to get out of bed and take the handful of supplements I had forgotten to count out and swallow) and finally, went to bed.

“Present your bodies, a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable unto God, which is your reasonable worship.”

This is the Scripture I’m chewing this month (some teachers call it meditation, but the word in Hebrew, I’m told, means “to chew on”). It is Romans 12:1. I am slowly working out what it means to be holy and acceptable. I still have a lot of figuring to do to fully understand this, but I know it has something to do with me getting healthy, learning how to sleep deeply, and not spending hours zoned out in front of the television.

God has made that perfectly clear (and there are people who say they don’t hear His voice, can’t guess His intentions). That is not my experience, not my experience at all.

I spy God!

And Works His Lenten Purpose Out Through Internet

On Friday, as I was spending the day pulling my sermon for Sunday morning together, a news story popped up on my computer screen. I did not call forth this story—it actually interrupted my Web research—and I almost erased it, but then noticed it was about the traffic sinkhole that opened up in the small town of Seffner, Florida, taking out the bedroom where a young man, Jeff Bush, age 38, was sleeping.

The story caught my eye because one of the points of my sermon was the fact that there are lies we tell and lies we don’t know we are telling. According to psychologists, these hidden faults are called lacunae. Webster’s dictionary defines a lacuna as a hole, a ditch, a gap in what used to be. I was emphasizing that these hidden lies are dangerous if we don’t pay attention to them. Just as I was thinking about closing the news story, I realized that God had given me the perfect illustration for the black holes in our soul that we must come to terms with when we develop a lifetime practice of becoming people of penitence.

Can you imagine how powerful this story was to the hearers of this sermon?

“The rest of the family were wakened by a loud crash, then the cries of Jeff Bush. By the time his brother, Jeremy Bush, reached the bedroom, the furniture was going, the floor was gone and he could hear his brother’s cries from the bottom of the sinkhole. Bush frantically tried to rescue his brother by standing in the hole and digging at the rubble with a shovel until police arrived and pulled him out before he too became a victim to the still sinking hole. Eventually the cries were no longer hard and monitors found not sign of life.

“I couldn’t get him out,” wept the brother. “I tried so hard. I tried everything I could.”

These quotes were also given to me: The first from Fyodor Dostoevsky in Notes From the Underground:

“Every man (and woman) has reminiscences which he would not tell to everyone but only to his friends. He has other matters in his mind which he would not reveal even to his friends, but only to himself and that in secret. But there are other things which a man is afraid to tell even to himself, and every decent man has a number of such things stored away in his mind.”

The second quote was from Joseph Conrad’s book Lord Jim, in which the character Marlow says:

“It is my belief that no man ever understands his own artful dodges to escape from the grim shadow of self-knowledge.”

At the close of the sermon and before taking Communion, we all meditated on Psalm 51. “Clear thou me from hidden faults. Keep back thy servant from presumptuous sins; let them not have dominion over me! Then I shall be innocent and blameless of great transgression.” In other words, “Help me to become aware of the sinkholes in my own soul so that they will not be able to suck me into themselves.”

It is an incredible feeling to realize that you are in a communicative collaboration with God your Maker. Indeed, He helps us to do His work in the world.

I spy God!

The Work of Lent: Noticing What I’ve Failed to Notice

Sometimes (most of the time) the sermons we preach to others are really the sermons that we should be listening to ourselves. In the sermon I gave in our church, using the life and music of Johnny Cash as a springboard for thoughts about repentance (Lent According to Johnny Cash), I mentioned this quote from R. D. Laing:

The range of what we think and do—

Is limited by what we fail to notice;

And because we fail to notice—

There is little we can do to change

Until we notice how failing to notice

Shapes our thoughts and deeds.

Admittedly, this quote has to be read several times to understand what the little saying means, but it is profound in its potential impact.

Failing to notice (or neglecting to pay attention to) own motivations, character frailties, or inner knots is a human default. We don’t really want to know what it is we don’t want to know about our selves.

Lent is a time set aside by the early church fathers (and mothers) as a 50-day period to notice, to consider our own souls, to self-reflect on the error of our ways, so that we can develop the capacity for self-knowledge. Self-knowledge is the goal of any introspection, and when we reach it (finally and often with some kind of agony), one of the byproducts is the capacity to notice what we have not been noticing.

No matter how old you are (I am 70 years of age), this process never ends. And because I preached a sermon last Sunday on this process, I have been asking myself, “What is it I am still not noticing?”

Since I have taken a Lenten vow not to watch television for these days leading up to Easter, I’ve also diagnosed the reason for too much time spent as a couch potato is the fact that I am fatigued by 3:00 in the afternoon and just holding on until I can go to bed by 9:00.

A friend sent me to her kinesiologist, and we began the process of discovering at what points I am nutritionally and chemically deprived that might contribute to fatigue, why I am not sleeping well, and what is causing the cycle of allergic reactions that plague me all through the year. To put it simply—watching too much television is only the presenting problem. The causes of the afternoon and evening fatigues that overwhelm me are rooted somewhere in the intricate balance and imbalances that make up the sum total of human entity.

It has been an intriguing journey, and I am popping all kinds of supplements morning and evening, but a month into this experiment, I am feeling better. I’m paying attention. I’m looking inward. I’m definitely noticing.

“That it may please thee to inspire us in all our several callings,

to do the work which thou givest us to do, with singleness of heart

as thy servants, for the common good.

We beseech thee to hear us, good Lord.”

—The Book of Common Prayer

Familiar Faces at the Gate

The e-mail messages for this trip to the Dominican have been flying in flurries; there is so much to remember and to do. Copies of the film script need to be made in case we misplace our work scripts, and there may be a reason for other people to look them over. The shoot list, a schedule of must-get shots, needs to be prioritized and sent to the videographer; a day agenda of where we will be shooting and when must be compiled. The translator who volunteered to help needs to be contacted with information as to when we will need her. (Nothing complicates an out-of-the country shoot any more than the film team and the principals speaking different languages.)

David coached me on making sure we hit the bottom line of the script. My adult children, many who are involved in media—film, video and television—reminded me that this is a visual medium. Content is important they said but if we don’t get enough B-roll, there isn’t enough to work with in the editing room and the project is left with way too much talking heads.

I e-mailed Dr. Bibiana MacLeod, the Regional Coordinator for MAI in the Caribbean, and said, “Two days out from departure and I am getting the nervous-jervies; I am certain there is something major that I am forgetting.”

Phone call from the videographer: “Say, Karen. Are you sure we have reservations at this hotel? I’ve called and e-mailed, and they say they have no record of our names, and the hotel is full for the night of our arrival.” We both had visions of arriving in Santiago, gathering our luggage (including two carts of video and sound equipment), finding a taxi and arriving at the hotel, only to discover they indeed had no room in their inn and we would have no place to stay. Our couple on the ground was working in Cuba, to return shortly before arrival. Another e-mail to Bibiana for translation.

Last week I was worried about getting myself from the airport at night in a taxi, a woman alone in a mostly strange city. Then Paul and I compared arrival notes, discovered we were taking the same American Airlines flight from Miami, and that the three of us—videographer, audio guy, and myself (general gofer and untried director’s assistant, as well as script doctor and script editor) could take one taxi together to the hotel that we didn’t know whether or not we were booked into!

E-mail from Bibiana: “Not to worry. (Bibiana is an Argentina and speaks fluent Spanish.) I talked to the desk clerk (calling from her home in Canada). He has rooms for the three of you under my name.”

I don’t know why I can’t remember this; it seems as though I forget it every day (every day). God does not abandon us ever, not when we are in pain or sorrow, not when we are ecstatic with celebration, not when we are confused by chaos, not when we are lost or on standby, not when we travel.

Our flight to Santiago, Dominican Republic, went smoothly. We sailed through immigration control, picked up our bags, were waved through customs. Then we saw familiar faces at the gate where those long lines of family and friends and drivers waited to meet and greet all who disembarked from Flight 4537 from Miami.

Our translator had come to find us along with Hiram DeLeon, our contact on the ground who speaks about as much English as we speak Spanish (maybe more, which is not a lot) and without whose services this film project could not be a success.

Help me not to forget, Dear Lord, that You are always waiting at the gate to greet us, in the loving guise of people who sincerely care about doing the compassionate thing. Help me not to forget.

I spy God!

God in Small Things

Have you ever gone on a God Hunt? A God Hunt begins when you teach yourself to look for God’s hand at work in the everyday occurrences of your life. Here’s one of my personal God Hunt Sightings:


This week Karen is in the Dominican Republic directing a film shoot for Medical Ambassadors International. She would appreciate your prayers as you read these blogs. Filming in another country, on a low budget and without knowing the language can be tricky indeed. Shoot crews are well aware of their need for God’s help. Thank you.

In small things do we see His hand. I need to fly into the Dominican Republic, go through immigration and pick up my baggage. I am scheduled to arrive at 8:40 in Santiago and will probably complete all the arrival complications by 9:30. Then I am supposed to make my way to the curb, through a crowd of milling Dominicans who are waiting for family and friends, find a taxi, ride off into the approaching midnight with this cabbie stranger and direct him to the hotel without my knowing a modicum of Spanish beyond “Ola!” and “¿Cuál es su nombre?” (“What is your name?”)

Today, however, five days before I am supposed to depart, I was working up a day schedule for the shoot. When I entered the arrival times of the crew, of myself or of the principles, I realized I was scheduled to arrive in Santiago about the same time as the videographer and the sound man.

“Is there any possibility that we will be arriving on the same plane?” I shot off in an e-mail inquiry. Sure enough, the two film guys and I are scheduled to fly out of Miami on the same flight.

I praise God for His manifold loving provisions, for His care. Today (I am writing on Ash Wednesday), the Scripture read in the liturgy this morning reminded me:

The people: We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord.
The liturgist: That it may please Thee to inspire us, in our several callings, to do the work which thou givest us to do with singleness of heart as Thy servants, and for the common good.
 :    
The people: We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord.
The liturgist: That it may please Thee to preserve all who are in danger by reason of their labor or their travel.



Male companions in a taxi for a night ride is a small thing, but I am not so small before the Lord that I am not worthy enough to be a recipient of His loving care.


I spy God!

Tap-Dancing During Worship

Dick Ryan, the director of InterVarsity’s outreach to art students on campuses across the country, arranged for me to be part of the team that seeks to encourage professionals in art-related fields to mentor these young and eager creators. So the last week of January, after traveling in Mexico and then going on with my husband to visit sites for a film shoot in the Dominican Republic, I arrived at Armerding Hall on the campus of Wheaton College, with an active allergy that had been blasted into my system by the pollen, smog, car emissions, etc. that settles in the valley where the city of Santiago rests and doesn’t go away.

It was a wonderful day, and the lectures, conversations with other professional mentors, as well as exchanges with the art students, reminded me how little of this I have right now and how much I miss and need it. I also spent eight years of my life serving on the InterVarsity Christian Fellowship board of directors, where I learned to know and love many of the IV campus staff. How wonderful to be interacting again, even briefly, with these young adults who’ve given up careers that could have been much more profitable financially in order to dialogue with and introduce Christ to the students in our country’s university systems.

At the end of the day, we were led in worship by a young man who played the harp. I have actually never seen this before—praise and worship music backed by harp music. He explained that all were welcome to bring their art discipline into the worship experience. Papers had been hung on the walls for those who chose to paint or draw. Musicians were invited to bring their instruments or voice to the platform and join in. “And if you dance, please feel free to dance in the aisles or up here with me.”

It took a little while for the arts students in the audience to warm up to the idea, but eventually some began working on the papers on the walls, a young woman took her violin from its case, and in time many of us were content to sit in our seats and join in the worship in our own way.

This whole Saturday, due to my very active allergy, I went through the schedule with a box of tissues in one hand and a pocketful of cough drops. As much as I enjoyed the day and luxuriated in the company of people with similar passions, I really needed to get home, dose myself with Nyquil and go to bed.

I noticed a young woman quietly dancing in a doorway. I could see her out of the corner of my eye, but she was hidden from most of the rest of the audience. Suddenly, a tall young black man stepped onto the stage and started to tap dance out his artistic discipline, turning it into worship. We all were electrified. He was beautiful; his movement was exquisite and holy. He had brought his tap shoes in case this opportunity presented itself.

The day ended with a prayer of blessing given by Michael Wilder, the Dean of the Music and Art Conservatory at Wheaton College, and then another prayer by myself.

Oh Lord,
Help these people to be true;
True to the vision of what You have meant them to be
And are helping them to become;
True to Yourself who is creating in them more than they
Could ever have dreamed or imagined;
True to others, with a kind of integrity that respects
How You have made us all different and unique;
And true to the community of the world into which
You seek to help us pour out our gifts and peculiarities.
Help them to be true.
Help them to be true.
In Christ’s name,
Help them to be true.

This prayer was designed on the spot as I was watching that young man tap-dancing during worship, being true to what it was God intended for him to be.

I went home, took Nyquil, hooked up the electric heating pad and went to sleep, but I was better in my soul because of that day, because of the arts professors and the InterVarsity staff and the eager students and because of one lovely young man dancing before the Lord.

I spy God!

Out of Debt

Through the extraordinary generosity of a friend who has been a long-time supporter of our ministry, we have paid off the last credit card debt that accumulated when we launched the Global Bag Project in 2008. We opened a home equity account to pay for purchasing portable camera equipment that works best in developing countries so that we could record the stories of the bag-makers. The $30,000 loan would also enable us to capitalize the start up of this idea to help women lift themselves from beneath the poverty line.

Great ideas being what they always are—more difficult than originally imagined—we weren’t able to do much more than keep up with the interest payments.

However, this friend’s gift, divided half between a 2012 donation and then half at the beginning of this year, enabled us to pay off all credit card debt, finish off the home equity loan, and pay back a small loan given to us by a ministry that seeks to help new businesses that specialize in microenterprise ventures, which is the nature of the Global Bag Project.

I can’t think of a more eloquent example of grace than this kind of donation given so freely and so cheerfully. Simply, God has paid off our debt. He and His Son agreed that an ultimate sacrifice would be made so that we would no longer have interest payments to make, and that we would also owe no more money. Sometimes I get used to this story of redemption, but being in ministry all my adult life, where we have been dependent for our very living on the generous offerings of not only friends but strangers, reminds me, quite frequently, of the joy, the exuberance, the wonder of having my debts paid.

When I called my friend to thank her for this huge gift, she said, “Well, God has been very generous to me. I also want to be generous to others.”

In 2 Corinthians 8:7 it says, “But just as you excel in everything—in faith, in speech, in knowledge, in complete earnestness and in your love for us—see that you also excel in this grace of giving.” Giving, on whatever level, is nothing more than understanding that God has been generous to us all—He has forgiven our debt—and we need to be generous to others. Dollar debt, forgiven, is an incredible metaphor for this unbelievable spiritual transaction.

I spy God!