A Gentle Answer

He had sacrificed his youth for his country, serving proudly in the days when the greater good was valued over individual comfort. He had served alongside honorable men, eaten unrecognizable meals with them, drawn on their strength when he wanted to run.

Those days had rattled him with fear, but he had taken pride in doing his job well. But although they had been assured this work was for the ultimate good, he still had to push back the confusion each time he saw the great cost of the “good.” By the age of twenty-five, he had seen more death and lived through more adventure than the forty-year-old employees in his shop today, the ones who roll their eyes at each other when he drones on about his experience in the war or his love for his country.

After the war, he met Alice by chance when he stopped at the ice cream parlor one afternoon. She was everything pure and bright to his sad, disillusioned mind. Her cheerful greeting caught his attention, but it was her peaceful spirit that convinced him she would always be a safe place for his experience and pain. Over the course of the next few months, with the intuitive use of her words and her silence, she soothed the places that hurt his soul.

For her part, Alice loved the depth in his eyes. She loved the way his smile did not take pleasure for granted, but rather collected each one and turned it over and over in his hands, thankful for its healing presence. Where she would see a pretty meadow from the car window, he would stop the car and get out and walk among the flowers, running his hands over their cheerful faces with a childlike appreciation. He would get on his knees and collect the prettiest daisies, threading their stems together into a makeshift bouquet.

“Come on, let’s go,” she would plead, “we’re going to be late — this is not the time to be picking flowers.”

And he would smile and rise, presenting her with the bouquet in an elaborate show. As she looked down at the bundle of daisies in her hands, each time — without fail — she would find one ugly, drooping flower among the bunch, one that did not fit with the rest. She would look up at him with a furrowed brow.

“Because,” he would say to her unspoken question, “that’s real life.”

They had not been going steady very long before they fell into the comfortable recognition that she would be his lifeline and he would be her anchor till death did them part. As a step in that direction, he got down on one knee in that ice cream parlor nine months after they first met, and they were married a few months later.

Their first year of marriage drifted by with the ease of an autumn leaf floating on the river, as conversations every evening stoked a bright fullness in their relationship. Each discovery brought new intimacy as they found themselves more fully known and loved. Everything was as it should be.

The next few years brimmed with fun adventures — a new home to enjoy, new babies to love, and a new business to run. He observed Alice, appreciated her dedication as she invested late nights and early mornings in their family. His heart swelled with pride as she alternately played with and disciplined the children according to their need. She was strong, with solid opinions that sharpened his own — his capable partner in business and in life.

But as they worked together toward their common goals, they gradually forgot how to be together, to rest in each other’s company. Early on, they had taken great care in arranging the store and spent many a happy afternoon dusting and rearranging their wares without distraction. Now those distractions were usually boisterous, often dirty, and routinely picked up dead animals.

As they corralled the children and managed their growing business, they found less time to speak to each other, and when they took time for conversation, harsh words crept in where harmony had always been. Afraid of this dangerous shift in their marriage and unsure of the best way to close the distance, Alice tried to hold him to herself on a tether of control, becoming critical of the things she had always loved about him.

“Could you pick up some flour so I can make bread with supper?” she had asked him one afternoon.

“I will, but I’ve got to say a few words over the squirrel. I think one of the dogs got him. The kids found his body in the yard this morning and made up a little box for his burial. They’ve asked me to see to it he has a proper funeral,” he explained, offering, “I’ll go get some right after that.”

“It’s not even a real funeral,” she insisted with frustration. “It’s a squirrel, a squirrel. Please just do the service after you get the flour.”

“But, Alice, it’s not just a squirrel to the kids. They want him properly laid to rest, and I intend to help them. The bread can still be ready in time for supper. Just give me a few minutes to finish this.”

She disapproved of the ways he spent his time, bossed him as if he were one of her children. She hoped to pull him, harnessed by her criticism, back onto the path she desperately wanted to walk with him. He felt her critiques keenly and began to withdraw to safer ground. It was an ominous cycle that made each desperately unhappy, though neither could see a way of escape.

One night, he found her in tears as she brushed her hair before bed.

“We’ve been married for ten years today,” she said flatly. “Happy anniversary. We made it.”

He had forgotten their anniversary. The monumental day had passed like any other — an afternoon sandwiched between a morning and an evening. Alice generally didn’t make a big deal of holidays, but anniversaries were different — they were a celebration of the hard work they had poured into their marriage thus far, and when lavishly observed, were an investment in the next year’s happiness. Until now, he had never spared an expense in honoring the day. But things at the shop had been so busy recently.

“Oh no, I am so sorry — ” he began.

“I guess I saw it coming,” she cut him off. ‘What are we even doing? We’re running this shop together, we’re raising a family together. But we don’t ever just spend time together like we used to,” she cried. “Why should today be special when none of the other days are? It shouldn’t have surprised me, but still — ”

“Now, Alice, don’t turn this into any more than it is,” he said. Of course today he’d made a critical mistake. Of course they’d been busy and lost touch lately. But all families have rough seasons. And, he noted bitterly to himself, she hadn’t mention their anniversary today either, until she wielded it now as a weapon.

“Any more than it is?” Alice burst into tears and told him exactly what it was. He stood staring at the floor, listening to her words as she verbally dismantled all that she had devoted her life to protecting. She got into bed, rolled to face the wall, and cried bitterly as she mourned both the years that had driven them apart and her words which now would fix them there.

He cleared his throat and quietly said, “If that’s how you feel,” then opened the door and walked to his truck. Though at first it would not crank, he refused to go back inside to finish the fight. After fifteen minutes of struggle, the engine finally yielded and sputtered to life. He drove dark back roads throughout the night, preparing his words and steeling his heart for the inevitable confrontation. He was only a few miles from home when his truck shuddered and then coasted to a stop. He pounded the steering wheel, cursing first his truck for its betrayal, then himself for the empty fuel tank. He kicked the door open and slammed it behind him as he started walking.

Trudging through the fields before sunrise, he rehearsed her faults, fine-tuning his monologue as he prepared for the clash. As he gained confidence from the evidence mounting against her, he suddenly remembered a verse his mother had made him memorize decades ago. Man that was a lifetime ago when we were kids. His sister had knocked his bicycle into a puddle so he threw mud on her and called her a dirty name. She tattled on him, and they had both been ordered to memorize a passage from the Proverbs. Why would that surface now? This situation is totally different. How did it even go again? It began to come back to his mind:

A soft answer turneth away wrath: but grievous words stir up anger.

The tongue of the wise useth knowledge aright: but the mouth of fools

poureth out foolishness.

The eyes of the LORD are in every place, beholding the evil and the good.

“Probably best you look away, God,” he said to no one in particular, “this may get ugly.”

But as he walked on those verses began to perforate his arguments, and he struggled to keep his points in order. He wasn’t sure if it was the beautiful sunrise, the brisk early morning exercise, or those pointed words from the King James version, but as he strode for home, his anger dissolved as a new feeling emerged in its place. He had spent the last couple of years watching his marriage swirl as the bathwater does before it goes down the drain — slowly at first, then faster and faster and faster.

No more, he decided as he walked through the fields. I’m plugging the tub. Armed with this new resolve, he abandoned his interest in the easy road, the one tempting him to walk away from a fight and keep on walking. As he passed through the fields that morning, he picked a handful of daisies like he had done so often during their early days.

When he got home, he placed the flowers on the kitchen table with a note that said, “Since the war, I haven’t had anything to fight, mostly thanks to you. But somewhere along the way, I drew up battle lines with you on the other side. I don’t really know how we ended up here, but starting today, I want to be on your side again. I want to fight for us.” Then he slipped out the front door again to open the store before she woke up.

When she walked into the kitchen that morning, she glanced apprehensively at the bouquet, which evoked so many memories of their early years. She stepped closer for a better look. There, in amongst the beautiful flowers, was a hideously withered one. It was the one for which she was looking.

“Because that’s real life,” she smiled as the tears began to form. “I’m ready.”

It was the biggest fight of their lives — the daily falling in and out of love, the constant swelling and humbling of selves, the moment-by-moment strain of choosing to honor each other. But they fought it, and in the end, they won. Many times, they had feared they might not. But as she lay still, waiting peacefully as the sickness nudged her further into eternity, Alice’s final words to him were, “We made it. Come soon.” And that lovely smile.

It was the proudest victory of his life. He had learned in the war what it meant to serve the greater good, to offer oneself for the masses. But he learned in his marriage what it meant to sacrifice himself for another individual, one who often opposed or hurt him. In the end, the victory over the struggle brought a fulfillment only known by those who have experienced it.

During their first year of marriage, he thought he knew what it was to be fully known and fully loved. But as the years passed, Alice had shown him more and more what it meant…

The post Stories Between Friends – Devon Dial appeared first on Jody Evans, Author.

A Hammocky Invitation

I’ve heard more than a few people found the days of summer more crazy and hazy than lazy this year.

If this is you, please carve out a few minutes to find yourself a quiet place in the shade for a late summer read (or even two!). I’ve picked out a selection of stories from my blog shelf for you to choose from. Just click on whichever is most inviting to you today and enjoy.

• Non-fiction (10 minutes): The story behind my stories (Just in time for election season!)
• Fiction (18 minutes): A little romance (He’s not your everyday romantic hero)
• Fiction (15 minutes): A story of contentment (for when your life isn’t shaping up to be what everyone expected)
• Fiction: (14 minutes) A nudge in a Christmasy direction (reflections on the one Story that’s always in season)

(And if you really want to do it up right, may I suggest a frosty glass of fresh-squeezed lemonade?)

How about you?

Was your summer crazy, hazy, lazy or something else altogether? Please share your summer thoughts in the comments below. Or if that’s not the kind of sharing you want to do today, perhaps you might like to share this reading invitation with a friend who could use a quiet break. Of course, you are always welcome to do both : )

The post A Breath of Summer Air appeared first on Jody Evans, Author.

Light leaks dim through the slats of the shades. Dim light she senses through closed lids. Like the sun is a low watt bulb. Not fully day. She could sleep another hour, or maybe two. It’s early yet, but day is coming.

No use trying to sleep now with her brain crossed over from soft dreams to dim reality. No use at all once her joints, her eyes, her skin have come awake.

It’s a shock to her body, this act of waking. For how long it’s been this way, she doesn’t know. Doesn’t remember. For, with passing years, memory slips away as other comforts do.

The body shock isn’t the worst of it. That will pass, she knows. A little stiff and achy movement will lubricate the joints. A few sticky blinks and rolls will do the same for her eyes. She has faith enough to make these small movements. To execute without fear of failure.

Or, only a little fear. Not enough to stop her from trying.

It’s the heaviness of Christmas that presses her down into that kind of fear, piled as it is upon the daily weight of lagging behind in the ordinary, daily things.

Unwashed dishes in the sink. Wrinkled clothes in the dryer. A half-written grocery list and last week’s vegetables molding in the fridge.

The longer she lies here, scratchy eyes closed, the longer the list of undone duties grows, leaking into her consciousness as the ever insistent daylight leaks in through the blinds. A 50 watt bulb now.

And Christmas on top of it all. A whole house to decorate by herself. Gifts to buy. Parties to attend. Children and grandchildren to visit. Treats to bake. Meals to cook.

November 27^th and here are the days of December, already spent and overspent in her mind.

The hardest thing, though, the heaviest thing, is the memory of delight. The memory of glad expectation. The “should” of glad expectation.

She should know better. Should be better.

For she knows the grinchy turnarounds. The “God bless us every one” exclamation point that is the actual point of the season in the end. She knows it, but she doesn’t feel it. Not lately. Not this year. And there’s no good reason why she shouldn’t feel it this year. No new grief. No torn relationship.

She lies in her crusty thoughts, crusty eyes shut. Reality of ache and pulse and scratch. Of day coming on unstoppable. The minutes jamming together and together so she’s more and more behind the longer she lies here.

Her stack of books is less than an arm’s length away. Bible, devotion book, prayer book, prayer journal, gratitude journal. The lifelines needed to pull her up and out and into day these days. Up from the heavy downward pull. Out of her heavy, hopeless, overnight shame. Into a better, truer story. A story that exposes the early morning lies as lies. These lies, first thing in the morning, feel so much like truth.

So close, those books. Less than an arm’s length away.

But she has to move her arm. Has to flick on the bedside light and lay a hand upon the pile.

And before she can do that, she has to believe a better story waits.

Has to, at the very least, remember she believed such a thing before she fell asleep.

It seems impossible now and she wonders if today will be the day she doesn’t fight through… if this will be the day she just lies in bed and lets the undone things stay undone. Lets more pile on. Lets the whole thing avalanche and crush the last surviving bit of “have to” she holds in this unglamorous battle she fights armed with a pile of books on her bedstand. The “have to” that gets her reaching and reading and up and out into all the ordinary mornings.

The “have to” that’s gotten her through all the Christmas-is-coming days stretching back and back to the time when thoughts of Christmas were delight instead of burden. When she had a “want to” instead of a “have to.”

The idea that this could be the day she gives up doesn’t scare her as it perhaps should. No. This is, in fact, the first hint of relief she’s had in the minutes she’s been lying here with achy joints stilled and crusty eyes closed tight.

Only this can’t be the day. There’s the rhythmic, grinding swirl of her husband making coffee downstairs. The sizzle of batter on griddle. Pancakes.

Their daughter the pancake lover, she remembers, is here for the end of Thanksgiving weekend.

Today can’t be the day she doesn’t get up and out.

She’ll have to see people today. She’ll have to fake interest in life for another morning.

She needs those books, less than an arm’s length away. Not so much for herself—not for the woman who believes she would welcome the relief of giving up and giving in. She needs those books for the slim hope that they could make of her a woman who can indeed eat pancakes with her family on a late November morning.

She rolls her eyes with lids closed, breaking the dry seal. Unrolls stiff fingers. Presses them against the lids, feeling the soft bump of iris going by. A hard squint and, with the aid of her fingers, she opens a slit for the light to come in. The hardest part is done.

Reach.

Click the lamp to life.

Arrange pillows against headboard.

Lift gratitude journal and pen.

The hard work of remembering.

Then, at last, list thanks for yesterday’s gifts.

November 26, 2023

1. Thanksgiving leftovers
2. Family walk to the craft fair
3. Hugs from kids and grandkids
4. First hearth fire of the season
5. Bedtime prayers with my college girl.

Only five things, but it’s enough. She lays aside her gratitude journal, picks up the prayer book, Every Moment Holy.

She reads “A Liturgy for First Waking.” The one asserting she is not the captain of her own destiny.

Oh, the surprising good news of this reminder. She is not in charge. She does not belong to herself. She is Someone Else’s problem to deal with.

She reads aloud the words asking Him to teach her to shepherd small duties with great love. She prays on through, the prayer shifting her burden of self over to Another, exchanging her own unbearable shaming, heavy, hopeless, bossing of herself for a bearable yoke. One perfectly fit for her by a Good Master.

And the call comes up the stairs on the heels of pancake steam and bacon hiss. Her youngest child’s voice, “Breakfast is ready!”

Prayer words linger. The small duties of this day…

1. Breakfast with husband and daughter.

And then, perhaps, one box from the attic. One small box. The one with her daughter’s favorite creche figures. Perhaps she can ask for help, even, with that one small box.

She rises from bed, wraps soft into bathrobe, slips into slippers, walks down and sits. Three pairs of hands clasp in prayer over pancakes. Then the glide of buttery knife along softly browned surfaces. She  proposes the idea and her daughter offers a willing and syrupy smile. Her husband offers breakfast cleanup and Christmas tunes.

And she, who had nothing good to offer in the dim almost morning, offers this one small duty.

Offers one small box of Christmas.

Offers one small thing with great love.

The post The Ghost of Christmas Dread appeared first on Jody Evans, Author.

The bad news is not every good scene makes it past the final cut. This is one of the hard things about being a novelist. You write so many words. Get close to so many characters. Sometimes, too many. As I worked my way through another revision this week, I realized this sweet old guy wasn’t going to have a place on the pages of dance teacher Rachel’s 70 weeks of prayer story. So what’s the good news? He still has a place in Rachel’s heart. And in mine. And because I get to share his story here, maybe he’ll find a place in yours, too.

A story from the middle of week 22 

Some lessons I could almost do in my sleep. Mr. Hope’s are not of that category.

He may be pushing ninety, but he’s still as exacting as ever when it comes to technique. Eight weeks to go before the Colorado Star Ball and I’ve just about worked everything out for my assistant to go to the competition in my place this year. Only two students left to tell. I’m convinced Celia will do fine with every one of them.

Now, it’s a matter of convincing Mr. Hope.

“Once more,” I say to him. “And watch those heel leads.”

Moon River lifts us into the rise and fall that seemed at times could only ever be a fall for the feeble man who took his first lesson with eighty-two non-dancing years under his belt. But now, beyond all expectations, his dance hold is firm and, despite that one arthritic finger pressing into one’s shoulder blade with a tad more pressure than is ideal, he has become our most popular leader in the Friday night practice parties.

He showed up four years ago with his eager granddaughter who, fearing Grandpa would quickly follow on the heels of the grandma who’d died just six days before their 65^th wedding anniversary, had purchased our introductory special and talked him into being her partner.

The granddaughter, Danielle, faded away after the special, but her granddad has gone on to enter and place in six pro-am competitions and I’m not sure how he’s going to take the news that he’ll be dancing with a new teacher this year.

With the last line of the song he takes our twinkle into an oversway, holding the final pose as we’ve rehearsed.

“Well done! Let me grab your folder and you can help yourself to some water. I’ll meet you at the table to go over some notes.

“I brought my own liquid refreshment, church lady,” he says with a wink.

“Mr. Hope, you know that’s not allowed.”

And he does know. And he also knows I’m well aware the clear liquid in his bottle is nothing more than water with a splash of peppermint.

Like many of my longtime students, we’ve almost developed a script. These repeated private jokes and light flirtations build a sense of loyalty without crossing into the dangerous waters of intimacy.

Still, students do tend to become possessive of their teachers.

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” I say once we’ve settled at the table. “You’ve probably noticed Celia’s started working with a few of my private students. I’ve put you on her schedule next week.

I give him my brightest teacher smile, but lines grow deep on the ridge between his eyes. I can see I’ll be needing every day of lead time I’ve given myself.

“I wouldn’t ordinarily do this so close to a competition,” I explain. “The thing is, I’ve got two concerns and I believe this could be the solution for both.”

He perks up at this as I knew he would. I imagine his problem-solving brain kicked into gear as soon as I mentioned two concerns. One would not be enough of a challenge for Mr. Hope.

He opens the note pad that comes to every lesson. Not the same notepad, of course, but the exact model I remember from when he whipped it out after his very first one. He must have a lifetime supply. I imagine heaps of them stowed in his garage.

“First concern?” he asks, his pencil-equipped hand hovering steadily over the page.

“I suppose my first concern is Celia. She’s a wonderfully quick learner and has a lovely way with the students. It’s just she’s not as, what would you say…”

“Perky?” He writes this on his notepad.

“Uh, yes, we can go with perky. Not as perky as the stereotypical dance teacher. So, I’m afraid some of my newer students might read that as a lack of skill and confidence. They might feel slighted if they’re scheduled with what they consider an inferior teacher.”

“Well, isn’t she?”

“Inferior?” I say.

“Yes. She clearly has less experience.”

“Less experience certainly, but when it comes to the partnership dances, a less experienced follower offers value that a more experienced teacher can’t.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, the leader has to learn to adjust his communication with each partner. Adjust the height of his hold and the lift of his arm for the turns.”

Mr. Hope lays down his pen, his look direct and open. The scowl lines have softened. “So, how can I help with this concern?”

“Your lessons with Celia will help establish her position here as a valuable teacher. When the others know you are scheduled with her, they will be more open to what she can bring to their lessons.”

“And your other concern? You said you have two.”

“Mr. Hope.” I take his cold, dry hands in mine across the table. I return his steady gaze with a careful smile. “You are my other concern.

“Me?”

“Yes. I’m afraid I’ve let you get too comfortable. It isn’t good for a student to get all his instruction exclusively from one teacher. But I also know you aren’t one to back away from a challenge. I want you to trust me that Celia is ready to take you to the competition in June.

His gaze falters, and I see a shadow of the frail and grieving man I remember hanging on his granddaughter’s arm.

“It’s just so hard to lose a partner,” he says.

I open my mouth to reply, but he stops me with a squeeze of his hands.

“I know,” he says. “It’s not the same. Not at all the same.”

He releases my hands and picks up his pen. “And you’ll be back, when?” His wrinkled cheeks lift into a smile as he records the dates in his notebook.

Just in time, too. The bell over the door rings and Mr. Boyer walks in. One down, one to go.

The post Stories From 70 Weeks of Prayer – Dancing with Hope appeared first on Jody Evans, Author.

Trust in the Lord with all of your heart and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him and He will direct your paths. Proverbs 3:5-6

From: 70weeksuvprayr – Kristyn

Subject: A Week of Trusting – Week 33

Date: July 7, 2002 

Dear friends,

As I write these words to you, it is 10:30 on Thursday night.

I have responsibilities in the morning, working at camp (have I mentioned I got a summer position doing housekeeping for Camp Kairos?).

But it is already Thursday night and I want to meet with you, my dear friends, before another busy day passes. I thought I would be brief–just share some unconnected, random thoughts and happenings of the past week.

Then I started to gather these random thoughts and, lo and behold, they aren’t so unconnected after all. A single thread runs through each one. Can you guess what that thread might be? Read carefully and I think you will see it.

Sunday – The pastor spoke on Colossians 4:2

“Continue steadfastly in prayer, being watchful in it with thanksgiving.”

He focused on the need to be steadfast and patient in prayer and I suddenly realized something about my faith. I realized there are times, far too many times, when I have an attitude of patient tolerance toward God. I know that sounds awful–it is awful–but it’s true. I act as if it is a great act of courage to put my trust in Him. There is a sense of self-sacrifice. Like I am saying, “Okay, Lord, this isn’t the life I dreamed of. Some painful things have happened–things I would never have planned. I’m sure you’re doing the best You can, so, even though I can think of some really wonderful solutions, I’m not going to take control here. I’m just gonna trust You (aren’t You lucky?).

Not exactly a picture of steadfast, watchful, thankful prayer!

Monday – I attended a funeral for my friend’s father

To my prejudiced eye, it seemed the mortuary was mainly filled with two types of people–the hard-drinking, fun-loving, country club, golf-playing set and the hard-drinking, fun-loving, hardworking, blue collar set.

The service was led by two Episcopal priests. I thought they would be gentle with this crowd. I thought they would go easy on the “what happens if you die without Jesus” stuff. But I was wrong. The first message brought tears to my eyes as the priest spoke about the One who brings light out of darkness and life out of death. I thought about my husband and the dark path he walks–a path that, it seems, leads to death.

And who was this bold Episcopalian who spoke so shamelessly of the transforming power of Jesus? One of Paul’s old high-school drinking buddies.

Tuesday – My morning devotions

Here are excerpts from that morning’s reading from two of the books on my bedstand:

Oswald Chambers’ My Utmost for His Highest – July 9

Do you have even the slightest reliance on anything or anyone other than God? Is there a remnant of reliance left on any natural quality within you, or on any particular set of circumstances? Are you relying on yourself in any manner whatsoever…? Will you examine yourself by asking these probing questions? …Is your relationship with God sufficient for you to expect Him to exhibit His wonderful life in You?

“The people said to Joshua, ‘No, but we will serve the Lord! “‘ (Joshua 24:21).

This is not an impulsive action, but a deliberate commitment. We tend to say, “But God could never have called me to this. I’m too unworthy. It can’t mean me.” It does mean you, and the more weak and feeble you are, the better. The person who is still relying and trusting in anything within himself is the last person to even come close to saying, “I will serve the Lord.”

We say, “Oh, if only I really could believe!” The question is, “Will I believe?”

No wonder Jesus Christ placed such emphasis on the sin of unbelief. “He did not do many mighty works there because of their unbelief” (Matt. 13:58). If we really believed that God meant what He said, just imagine what we would be like! Do I really dare to let God be to me all that He says He will be?

God Calling – July 9

Joy in Me. Joy is infectious. Trust and pray. It is not sin for one who knows Me only as God, as Creator, to doubt Me, to question My Love and purposes.

But for one who knows Me as you do, as Friend and Saviour, and who knows the world’s God as Father–for that one to doubt My purpose and saving Power and tender Love is wrong indeed.

Wednesday – Walking my dog at sunset

I was thinking about the “last days.” Thinking about all the lost souls meeting their doom. Perhaps, some of those souls will be those dearly loved by me. How tragic. How sad.

Then, I realized. I’m looking at this world and at mankind as some kind of failed experiment (for how can it not be failure if even one beloved person is lost?). Can this be true? Can God fail? Can Love fail? Am I, heart aching at the thought of losing my loved ones, capable of more love and compassion than He who created love and is Love? Surely not!

Thursday – Busy avoiding responsibilities

I should have been getting ready for the yard sale I scheduled for Saturday, but I didn’t. After work I put in some time shaping my book proposal and then went to see the Young Continentals.

I need to do well with this yard sale. I need to get rid of all this extra “stuff” cluttering my house and garage. And I need to come up with the money for the mortgage before the late fee kicks in on the 16th. If I don’t take care of this who will?

Did you see it?

You know, the common thread running through? Well, it seems to me that God is trying to teach me a little something about trust. It seems I should learn not to rely on myself or on my circumstances or ideas. It seems I should learn to really start…trusting in Him… Hmmm… I think I’ve heard that somewhere before : )

Good night, dear ones, it’s 11:30 and I’ve got to go. As always, I thank you for your prayers. Have a blessed week.

Trusting in Him,

Kristyn

INSPIRED BY A TRUE STORY

In late fall of 2001, Rachel Wilson, a ballroom dance teacher living in the small mountain community of Pine Lake, California, discovered her husband, Ben, in an extra-marital affair. Her initial response was much as might be expected—tears, anger, despair, thoughts of revenge and more. Then, through a series of unlikely events she was led to an unexpected response – a 70-week journey of prayer with friends.

She wrote an email asking if anyone would commit to praying for her family for 70 weeks, not supposing many would agree to such a long endeavor. To her surprise, more than forty said yes.  

Kristyn is a new friend who joined Rachel’s prayer journey after her husband Paul, who had been struggling with alcoholism for years, walked out on her and their four children. As their friendship and faith grew, Rachel asked the group to pray for Kristyn’s family as well as her own and invited Kristyn to add her own stories to the weekly email updates.

The post Stories From 70 Weeks of Prayer – A Week of Trusting appeared first on Jody Evans, Author.

He answered, “I tell you, if these were silent, the very stones would cry out.” Luke 19:40

From: 70weeksuvprayr – Rachel

Subject: A Bountiful Harvest – Week 38

Date: August 15, 2002 

Hello friends,

I’ve heard it said that one of the best ways to get your mind off your own troubles is to find a need and serve someone else. That’s how I got talked into spending a week as a camp counselor in a no-frills cabin, bunking with a bunch of teenaged girls.

I actually love camp, so I was happy to be asked. I was, in fact, looking forward to being encouraged in my own hard journey by the transformative work God so often does when His people come together to pray, worship, sing, study His Word, and live in community for a whole week.

And then came the first evening service.

I stood there in the back of the chapel and tried to worship. Really, I did try.

Nearly 100 teens filled the seats. In the first three or four rows, several seemed glad to be there–glad to participate in all aspects of camp. But I was distracted by others, especially near the back of the room, in the rows just ahead of me. These appeared completely disconnected from worship–kids who only tolerated the singing and preaching so they could get onto the real purpose of camp–recreation and free time and (perhaps, the biggest draw) meeting the cute guy or girl they were now checking out across the aisle.

I attended camps in my youth and I’ve been a counselor about a dozen times for kids and teens. Even though I love camp, I’m no starry-eyed novice with romanticized expectations. I’ve seen my share of apathetic and rebellious campers, yet, I don’t believe I’ve ever had such a strong sense of futility and hopelessness about any group of teenagers as I had at the beginning of this week. So many seemed unreachable. I pictured walls built high around each one with a sign in bold black letters saying, DO NOT ENTER.

As camp went on I discovered the program directors had been so bold as to schedule a concert of prayer for the final night of camp. I must confess, I didn’t think it would go over with this group—a two-hour prayer meeting for kids who, in all the preceding days of camp, mostly ignored whatever was going on up front to talk (not so very quietly) to each other.

Honestly, I thought it would be a stretch for even the most mature Christian campers among us. But I held my tongue and the plan went forward without my unhelpful thoughts.

We filed into the meeting room on Friday night, the chairs now stacked along the edges, and sat on the floor, gathering around an ingenious camp “fire” made up of logs strategically placed around an electric fan gently blowing red and gold tongues of streamer “flames” toward the ceiling.

And guess what happened next.

Despite my doubts, the concert of prayer idea did go over. In fact, two hours in, when the speaker announced those who didn’t want to continue were free to return to their cabins, not one person left. Every last one of those teens stayed to pray on.

When, a few minutes later someone spontaneously began a worship song, everyone else joined in. The last notes faded and another lone singer took the initiative, followed by another. And another after that.

At 11:30 (way past curfew) one of the adults flipped the lights on to signal the close of the service. And no one wanted to leave. These “unreachable” kids walked from person to person giving heartfelt hugs (even to counselors!).

So how did this happen? Was it the phenomenal speaking techniques? Outstanding recreation? Delicious camp food? Extraordinary counselors?

Perhaps these things played a part, but I think the real work was done during free time in a quiet, unspectacular set apart room. The directors had assigned each of us staff members to go there and pray for 20-minutes every day, covering the whole afternoon as one filed out and another filed in.

I know of no better way to break down walls and reach the unreachable. What else but the power of God is able to shine light through the darkness and show His children the way back Home?

Trusting in Him,

Rachel

INSPIRED BY A TRUE STORY

In late fall of 2001, Rachel Wilson, a ballroom dance teacher living in the small mountain community of Pine Lake, California, discovered her husband, Ben, in an extra-marital affair. Her initial response was much as might be expected—tears, anger, despair, thoughts of revenge and more. But, through a series of unlikely events she was led to an unexpected response – a 70-week journey of prayer with friends.

She wrote an email asking if anyone would commit to praying for her family for 70 weeks, not supposing many would agree to such a long endeavor. To her surprise, more than forty said yes.  

This camp story was modeled after an event that took place at Camp Maranatha during Teen Camp in the summer of 2002.

I hope this story inspires you to take a few minutes to pray for any struggling families you know and/or for the staff and campers at Christian camps serving God throughout the world this summer and beyond.

The post Stories From 70 Weeks of Prayer — A Letter From Summer Camp appeared first on Jody Evans, Author.

Walk in wisdom toward outsiders, making the best use of the time. (Colossians 4:5)

Subject: Week 31 – Talking to Strangers

Hello dear ones,

It’s hard to believe only eight days have passed since my last message to you—eight days of playing nanny and guest, Space Needle diner, train passenger and mom. What a treat to be picked up at the train station by my own very tall and self-sufficient teenager (who can cut her own meat and dress herself)!

On the last Sunday of my trip to Washington, with Marco and Holly expected home in the afternoon, I decided to take their gang to church by myself.

And by some miracle, children fed and dressed, diaper bag packed, animals tended to, the four of us (little Tyson, Sadie, Mannie and me) made it to the Sunday School check-in station by 9:00 AM!

(Those of you familiar with my time management skills and directional abilities may pause for a moment of silent amazement.)

With the kids safely in the care of trained Sunday School teachers, I was free to stand alone in the sanctuary Sunday morning, singing unfamiliar songs in a room where I hadn’t even the slightest acquaintance with one soul.

And I felt like I was Home.

The sermon on prayer (of all things!) focused on Colossians 4:2-6:

“Continue earnestly in prayer, being vigilant in it with thanksgiving; meanwhile praying also for us, that God would open to us a door for the word, to speak the mystery of Christ, for which I am also in chains, that I may make it manifest, as I ought to speak. Walk in wisdom toward those who are outside, redeeming the time. Let your speech always be with grace, seasoned with salt, that you may know how you ought to answer each one.”

The pastor suggested believers pray for open doors and the wisdom to share the good news in a way personally tailored to the needs of the individual.

This struck me because, in the weeks since my husband left, it seems God is opening doors for me to reach out to strangers. I had already had several interesting encounters during my Washington vacation, but the one for which I felt least equipped was yet to come.

Mid-morning on the first day of my train ride home, a young man was assigned the seat across the aisle from me. He seemed agitated and told the Amtrak employee he needed to sit alone—he had a medical condition that caused anxiety attacks when he was too crowded.

He also wore lots of spiky jewelry and several (in my opinion) scary looking tattoos.

Not knowing what else I could do to help, I prayed that God would comfort this man and arrange for him to sit wherever He chose.

I’ve sometimes wondered what effect, if any, my wifely prayers and “words of wisdom” have had on my husband’s struggle with depression. Now, in this unexpected season, I’ve begun to think the words and prayers of strangers may have a greater power to break through to his deepest needs.

So, now I find myself praying for strangers with much the same attitude that Melanie Wilkes expressed in Gone with the Wind.

(Yes, yet another life lesson from Gone with the Wind. Melanie, not knowing if her husband had survived the war, chose to treat each weary soldier in the way she hoped someone else might be helping Ashley if he were trying to get back home to her. In this way, she felt the kindness she showed to others was somehow a gift to her husband as well.)

The man didn’t get moved to a new seat and he spent most of the day with earphones on, drawing in a sketchbook. Never directing a word, or even a glance, toward me.

Then, in the early evening, he asked where I was going (the standard conversation-starter on a train) and we engaged in a bit of small talk.

Since he was holding a sketch pad, I asked if he was an artist. It turned out he was drawing tattoo designs and we got into a conversation about tattoos and the meaning of their symbols and the prejudices of the general public (me!) toward those who choose to decorate their skin in this way.

We talked into the early hours of the morning, covering the subjects of abortion, addiction, jail, divorce, rehab, being a young parent, his disappointment with God (he said he had prayed many times for a job and help for his hungry family with no answer), being raised without a father, living on the streets at 14, and other “big talk”.

I shared with him some of the ways God has been working in my life and he asked me some hard questions. I remembered the advice from Ken Poure to learn to pray with your eyes open and, as I spoke and as I listened, I silently prayed words from Colossians 4–that God would lead me so I would know how I ought to answer.

Sometime past midnight, we talked about that emptiness that never seems to be satisfied and I told him I believed it would never be fully satisfied in this temporal world because we were created for eternity. I told him about a life with a God who isn’t about rules, but about love and grace.

When we had earlier been talking about the difficulties of parenting young children, he had told me he didn’t allow his daughter to play on the other side of his apartment complex because he couldn’t hear her or see her and wouldn’t be able to help her if she were hurt or in danger. I now suggested that his daughter, who he told me rebels against this rule, probably thinks him unfair. I suggested she might think he is just trying to ruin her fun.

“Is it possible,” I asked, “that there is a God who loves us as you love your daughter? A God who sometimes behaves in ways we don’t like, simply because we don’t understand?”

Many of the questions that came up in our discussion happen* to be addressed in The Journey of Desire, a book I happened to have with me. So, at about 1:30 AM, I offered the book for him to read and I fell asleep.

We didn’t speak again until the next morning when I woke up to the last call for his stop. I noticed he was asleep and shook him awake in time for him to return my book, grab his things, and detrain (I swear that’s the term they use).

I don’t know if anything I said will have an impact on that young man. I do know I will remember some of the things he told me. (I certainly have an increased understanding of tattoo application!)

My prayer is that, if I somehow stumbled upon a few words that God meant for him to hear, the message will be repeated in other ways and places so that he will start to consider the possibility that he is dearly loved by his Creator.

Until recently, I haven’t been the kind of person to “preach” to strangers. I still don’t try to create opportunities for such encounters. I just try to remember my life is not my own. I try to be available for God’s plans for me and trust in Him to equip me for each moment.

I continue to pray God will surround my husband with His people—people who are willing to pray for a stranger—people who are willing to talk to a stranger about Love that never fails.

I know that each of you love someone who has wandered from the path that leads to joy in the Lord.

I pray that, like Melanie Wilkes, we will be brave enough to show kindness to strangers, and perhaps, somewhere, other believers will show kindness to the “strangers” we love.

Trusting in Him,

Rachel

*During my stay in Washington, I was told something I had never heard before—the Hebrew language has no word for “coincidence.” Hmmmmm.

INSPIRED BY A TRUE STORY

In late fall of 2001, Rachel Wilson, a ballroom dance teacher living in the small mountain community of Pine Lake, California, discovered her husband, Ben, in an extra-marital affair. Her initial response was much as might be expected—tears, anger, despair, thoughts of revenge and more. But, through a series of unlikely events she was led to an unexpected response – a 70-week journey of prayer with friends.

She wrote an email asking if anyone would commit to praying for her family for 70 weeks, not supposing many would agree to such a long endeavor. To her surprise, more than forty said yes.  

The post Stories From 70 Weeks of Prayer – Strangers appeared first on Jody Evans, Author.

As you come to Him, a living stone rejected by men but in the sight of God chosen and precious, you yourselves like living stones are being built up as a spiritual house, to be a holy priesthood, to offer spiritual sacrifices acceptable to God through Jesus Christ. 1 Peter 2:4-5

From: 70weeksuvprayr – Kristyn

Subject: Under Construction – Week 49

Date: October 31, 2002 

Thoughts from Kristyn, November 2002—

Mother’s Day 2001. Not a happy day for Wilma, Ethyl and Lucy (not their actual names). I know this because each of these friends talked to me about it in the two days after Mother’s Day. Three separate conversations with the same theme: pain and weariness in a marriage marred by alcohol.

After the third conversation, a still small voice whispered…

Gather them together to pray

The nice thing about a still small voice is it can be easily drowned out by busyness and, failing that, loud music–even praise music will do in a pinch (and one can still feel virtuous when listening to praise music!).

Why would I want to silence that still, small, voice, you wonder? Why silence that voice with its innocent message? What could be wrong, after all, with a gathering of women, praying for their families, their marriages, their husbands?

Well, you see, I had heard this message eleven years before and that time I fell for it.

Back then, in response to the still, small, voice, I timidly invited another group of hurting women to my home to pray. I had some expectation that God would then intervene in our marriages. Perhaps, He would teach us how to be better wives. Perhaps he would deliver our husbands from those things that were tearing our homes and bruising our hearts.

Then again, perhaps not. Only two months after that original group began meeting for prayer, my husband moved out. And he was only the first. Others in the group experienced an acceleration of the difficulties in their marriages. This was not what we were hoping for. In some cases (including mine) divorce came to look certain.

Then, somehow, after the most painful three months I’d ever experienced, my marriage was restored—brought back from the brink of destruction.

I was grateful for the lessons learned and the miraculous second chance, grateful even for that painful time of separation. For in that season of pain, I felt God’s love and presence in a more real and personal way than ever before.

Still, when I sensed that familiar message to gather and pray in May of 2001, I resisted. The intervening years had taught me how to live in a pretty functional, somewhat joyful way with my husband. These other women were struggling, sure, but if I listened to the voice and started this group, I feared—superstitiously, perhaps–my marriage would be the first to be broken.

I didn’t resist for long, though. That still, small voice is relentless. The busyness and the loud music have to stop sometime, and there it is again, with its gentle, persistent message… Gather them together to pray.

So, I did.

Four months later, my husband Paul was arrested–his first DUI.

Life was getting harder, but my friends and I prayed on. Maybe this would be his wakeup call. Maybe now the cost would be so high he’d be willing to do whatever it took to be free of the drugs and alcohol that held him captive. Maybe now God would answer my prayers for my husband.

Maybe.

Three months after his arrest, Paul moved out.

This was worse, yet. But we prayed on. By then, the members of our original group had been slightly recast. Though her husband’s struggles are of a different kind, Rachel (her actual name) had been added and Ethyl could no longer meet with us because of  scheduling problems. (She may have gotten out just in time.)

Two weeks ago, Wilma called. “I asked Yogi to move out, yesterday,” she said. “His drinking and behavior just keep getting worse.”

Now Wilma is walking around in that semi-conscious state I experienced in the hours and days and weeks after Paul left. Yesterday, I gave Lucy a call. Her husband, who had been living sober for nearly a decade had slipped back down into the sludge of addiction. She had asked him to move out. There was nothing more for her to do.

Now, before you say, “Thanks for that wonderfully inspiring story about prayer,” let me share an illustration that came to me as I spoke to Wilma. I was thinking about how we brought our marriages to God back in May, asking him to repair them.

“Here’s a mess,” we’d said, “Please fix it.”

Now, it’s messier than ever.

But, wait.

Have you ever looked around at your orange shag carpet, Formica counters and harvest gold linoleum floors and said, “This has got to change”? What do you do? You call up an expert, invest a small fortune, and expect to have your home transformed into a place of comfort and beauty. Then, what happens? Well, those guys invade your home and start-ripping up carpet and pulling down cabinets. Before long, you can’t even have dinner in your own house, your hair is full of sawdust and it’s a perilous journey just to get a soda out of your refrigerator—if you can find your refrigerator!

Where is the cozy home of your dreams? It may not have been pretty. It may have even been a bit embarrassing. But your home was clearly a better place before the “experts” stepped in. What you had wasn’t so great, but now it seems you’ve lost everything.

So, do you kick the experts out and try to salvage what you can? Do you? Of course not. What do you do? You sit tight and do your best to ignore the mess. You trust that the work being done is a necessary path toward achieving the result for which you asked.

That’s right, you trust, and you wait.

I think back to those nights when those women and I first gathered to pray. We weren’t especially happy with the state of our households. We went to the Expert and handed the project over to Him. And now, things are pretty torn apart for Wilma, Lucy, Rachel and me.

Did we make a mistake, do you think?

Or do we just need to wait and trust that all these things will work together for good?

It seems to me that God must be at least as reliable as a construction worker.

“For I am confident of this very thing. That He who began a good work in you will be faithful to complete it until the day of Christ Jesus.” (Phil. 1:6)

Trusting in Him,

Kristyn

Thoughts from Kristyn, years later—

That still small voice. Have you heard it? Have you, like me, tried to ignore it? Even been afraid of it? I have to admit obedience to God does not always make life easier. Or even happier. And sometimes, it triggers a whole remodeling plan that isn’t at all a project I want to get into.

But we’re always in some phase of remodeling, aren’t we? At least those of us who have entered into a saving relationship with Jesus. Whether or not He restores the marriage, fixes the issue at work, builds the ministry so passionately longed for, there’s that little thing called sanctification in the fine print. There’s that continual construction. That transformation process. And for what purpose? That we might enjoy a better life? More peace and joy and inspiration?

Sometimes I wake up heavy with no clear reason.

Usually, when this happens, I just say a quick inward prayer or sing a few lines of a hymn or praise song to remind me of what I know.

Usually that’s enough to get me up and at ‘em.

I like having a few prayers or songs in my pocket to lift my mood and inspire me for my work of the day.

But it doesn’t always work that way.

Sometimes I exhaust my catalog of morning prayer and praise and that heaviness just hangs on. Then my failed attempts to lift myself by turning to the Lord add a sense of guilt to that weight.

I must not be doing it right.

Or maybe God isn’t listening or doesn’t care.

I don’t often go there these days. I know better. But sometimes those thoughts enter in, as they did yesterday, and I grapple for Truth. I wrestle through the strands of my tangled mind for the right verse. For the right prayer. Sometimes I don’t find it and, eventually, just get my heavy self out of bed.

No joy. Not much hope of that changing today. But I’m vertical, anyway.

Yesterday, in that heavy, mopey, joyless state, I reluctantly went through my morning routine. I almost skipped the prayer I’ve been reading lately with my morning coffee. Almost.

I’m so very glad I didn’t.

Because there it was. The very thing I needed, in the first line of that liturgical reading. Not an answer but a question:

Oh, children of the Living God, what is your Father’s greatest desire for you today?

There in the prayer I had been reading daily for the last few months, God picked me up out of my sludge and faced me in a new direction. Or, at least, a new angle. I was still facing Him. Only now I could see I started the day asking Him questions that all had an Oh, God, what must I do to feel good enough to get up and face this day for You flavor.

Not bad questions. Not bad to be looking to God to be my Helper and Sustainer and Inspiration.

Only, now I saw (to my shame) I had not considered asking Him what His desire was for me that day.

Honestly, even if I had considered it, feeling as weak and low as I did, I may have been reluctant to ask.

I guess there are still times I’m afraid to hear that still, small, voice. Still afraid of the next big construction project that might ensue.

That small voice asks such big things of us sometimes.

The answer to that liturgical question, the next lines in the prayer, proved to be no exception. In fact, it is in my estimation, the biggest thing of all.

To love your Eternal King with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind and with all your strength.

What an amazingly big request! What an awesome assignment! His desire is for us to love Him. Fully love Him. This is something I actually want to do. Yet, if I’m honest, far too big for me. Even if I could manage to love my Eternal God with all my heart, soul, mind and strength, it wouldn’t be big enough.

Looking at that verse from Peter about living stones, I know my best efforts of love are not holy enough, not perfect enough to be truly acceptable to our Holy Perfect God. I guess that’s why all that dusty, dirty, noisy remodeling is necessary.

But, friends, that messy building project I sometimes want to sidestep is good news for all of us assigned to the task of being “a spiritual house, a royal priesthood.”

Good news because of this: As we come to Him… we are being built up… through Jesus Christ.

The very thing He desires of us–a thing we can never do sufficiently on our own–He is building us up to do successfully.

INSPIRED BY A TRUE STORY

In late fall of 2001, Rachel Wilson, a ballroom dance teacher living in the small mountain community of Pine Lake, California, discovered her husband, Ben, in an extra-marital affair. Her initial response was much as might be expected—tears, anger, despair, thoughts of revenge and more. But, through a series of unlikely events she was led to an unexpected response – a 70-week journey of prayer with friends.

She wrote an email asking if anyone would commit to praying for her family for 70 weeks, not supposing many would agree to such a long endeavor. To her surprise, more than forty said yes.  

Kristyn is a new friend who joined Rachel’s prayer journey after her husband Paul, who had been struggling with alcoholism for years, walked out on her and their four children. As their friendship and faith grew, Rachel asked the group to pray for Kristyn’s family as well as her own and invited Kristyn to add her own stories to the weekly email updates.

The post Stories From 70 Weeks of Prayer – Under Construction appeared first on Jody Evans, Author.

Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. (Philippians 4:6-7)

Subject: Week 67 – A Taxing Time With Jesus

Dear Praying Friends,

I have been wanting to write to all of you since last Wednesday and feel a little bit like St. Paul in his letter to the Romans: “I do not want you to be unaware, brothers, that I planned many times to come to you (but have been prevented from doing so until now)…” Now, at last, I am seated before my computer, five days later, tapping out a message on my keyboard.

First, I want to thank everyone for your prayers for Emma. Her fever broke the night I sent the emergency prayer request and she was able to participate in all planned activities for the remainder of the Florida trip. Her team received trophies for each of their three competition routines (3rd for prop, 2nd for military, and 1st for high kick). Some of her team mates even came up with a little song they sang several times over the course of their time in Florida (“Captain Emma. She’s our hero!”). Lots of good memories being made.

Last week, as Emma was packing for Florida, she casually said, “Oh, yeah. Mom, I need you to go online and submit my FAFSA form while I’m gone. The deadline comes before I get back.”

“The FAFSA form?” I asked, my stomach already knotting.

“Yeah, just finish it up and send it in,” she said, cheerfully innocent of the knowledge that filling out government sponsored financial aid programs for college students is only slightly less stressful and complicated than, say, performing brain surgery.

“Sure, honey,” I said behind my bravest smile. The valiant effort to disguise my terror did not, apparently, fool my astute and observant daughter.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Oh, nothing really. Maybe we could just pull up the website before you leave to see if there are any details I might need you to help me with,” I said with nonchalance, acutely aware of tiny blood vessels bursting beneath my skin.

We got online and I looked over the material.

“Oh, looky here,” I said cheerily. “They need to know about my 2002 taxes. I guess I’ll just have to figure out my taxes, too.” Oh no. This is too much. More government forms. I had planned on adhering to the Scarlett O’Hara Tax Return System until April 14th: “I won’t think about that now. I’ll think about that tomorrow.” This changes everything!

A couple of hours later, Emma headed off to begin her Florida adventure and I waved good-bye, assuring her I would take care of everything before she got back. You remember the old roadrunner and coyote cartoons? Remember the expression on Wile E. Coyote’s face at the moment he discovered the anvil meant for the roadrunner was now flying in his direction? Yeah. That was me.

Fortunately, I realized I needed to tackle this federal form marathon with the same approach I use when faced with a new knitting pattern. I know, the connection is so obvious. Knitting–government forms. How could I have missed it? Of course, a mistake on a knitting pattern has very little potential for a prison sentence, but other than that they are practically the same thing, right?

So, I applied knitting instruction principles and focused just on the part I understood. I didn’t worry about the part coming up that seemed to be written in a cross between Pig Latin and German, but trusted, instead, that I would figure out what to do about that when I actually got there.

When I picked up my happy but exhausted daughter at the high school five days later, the paperwork was behind me. With only a few panic-stricken phone queries to sensible Kristyn, and an unexpected phone call from “Fred” that came in the middle of my I-need-Emma’s-Driver’s-License-number-right-now-and-she-has-it-with-her-somewhere-in-an-amusement-park-in-Florida crisis (he came to my rescue with a suggestion that I check our car insurance policy), I had completed the forms and submitted them, believe it or not, two days before the deadline! The most amazing part of all is that this was achieved without even one tear. Imagine. Taxes without tears!

You’re wondering how this is possible, aren’t you? I mean, the knitting instruction approach, as wise and insightful as it is, can’t be entirely responsible for the calm and dignified way I overcame the terrors of government forms. Well, I have to admit you’re right. There is more to it. The secret is this:

Whenever I got to a question that was confusing, I did my best to answer accurately and honestly and I reminded myself that whether the FAFSA people find a way for Emma to go to college or the IRS people find a way for me to go to prison, it’s all in God’s hands. All these things, as crucial and distressing as my stomach may believe them to be, are only temporary. Just a small thread woven into eternity that, light or dark, will be a part of a beautiful bigger picture. I turn again to 2 Corinthians 4:16-18:

“Therefore, we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.”

And another favorite…

“Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” Philippians 4:6-7

As I tackle federal forms, or finances, or developing dance programs, or seemingly insurmountable pain… Whatever this life brings, however weak and foolish I may be… I am not too weak when I remember, along with St. Paul: “I can do all things through Christ Who strengthens me.” Or as Jan Caron puts it in her Mitford series, “Philippians 4:13 for Pete’s sake!”

May the Lord bless each one of you, my dear friends.

Trusting in Him,

Rachel

INSPIRED BY A TRUE STORY

In late fall of 2001, Rachel Wilson, a ballroom dance teacher living in the small mountain community of Pine Lake, California, discovered her husband, Ben, in an extra-marital affair. Her initial response was much as might be expected—tears, anger, despair, thoughts of revenge and more. But, through a series of unlikely events she was led to an unexpected response – a 70-week journey of prayer with friends.

She wrote an email asking if anyone would commit to praying for her family for 70 weeks, not supposing many would agree to such a long endeavor. To her surprise, more than forty said yes.  

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Author’s note: In case there’s something bigger taxing you

I made light of Rachel’s taxing time with government forms in the story above. Just a few days after it was over, this character was able to see humor in the situation. But that isn’t true of everything that taxes us, is it? Look up synonyms for taxing and here are a few of the words you might find:

arduous, burdensome, challenging, demanding,

exacting, grueling, killing, laborious, onerous, toilsome

Not very funny words, are they?

I do try to employ humor to make light of my trials. In fact, I like to make molehills out of mountains whenever possible. There are times, though, when I’ve faced a few mountains too arduous, grueling and killing for even my sarcastic optimism.

Maybe, with the passing of a decade or so, I will be able to look back at those onerous things and laugh, but I seriously doubt it.

Dip into the synonym-well for onerous and words like brutal, cruel, excruciating, grim and grievous will explain why I think it unlikely I’ll ever muster a smile, let alone laugh, over certain hard things no matter how much time passes.

When a precious relationship is torn asunder,

when a precious person is ravaged by illness,

when a precious dream is ripped to shreds…

These are taxing in ways best described as killing.

In time we may recover, to a degree, but with sorrows that push into infinite depths of despair, tongue-in-cheek exaggerations lack even the tiniest ring of truth.

When wrestling with taxing things of the more onerous variety, a knitting instruction analogy for handling a taxing time, would surely offer more annoyance than encouragement.

If that is the case for you today, perhaps, you’ll appreciate those instructions quoted above from Philippians. Words that offer far more than a lighten-up chuckle, or an understandable explanation.

Words that bear repeating.

Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

And so, along with Saint Paul, I encourage you to bring your most taxing issues to our Lord that you might somehow rejoice, pray, give thanks, and rest protected in the unfathomable peace of God.

The post Stories From 70 Weeks of Prayer – A Taxing Time With Jesus appeared first on Jody Evans, Author.

Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light. (Matthew 11:28-30)

Subject: Week 15 – Rainy Day of the Spirit 

Fellow Strugglers and Warriors,

I spent the morning trying to fight off what I’ve been calling a “French depression” (so called because there is an element of elegance and sophistication in it that demands a French word of description such as malaise or ennui—now don’t I sound smart?).

I have been overwhelmed this week by too many things to do and not enough time, or perhaps, inspiration, to do them. Yet, I know my Provider supplies enough of everything I need—even time. So, after a few uninspiring pep-talks to myself, I decided to accept today as a rainy day of the spirit.

What I mean by this is that I have been like a child with big outdoor plans, staring morosely out the window as the rain washes away all my little girl dreams for the day. If the child will only accept that her outdoor plans will not happen, she can instead turn to indoor rainy-day pursuits like homemade cookies, hot chocolate, puzzles, and books.

This is the course I now choose. I could attempt to do the tasks that press in upon me, twisting my stomach in knots, but they shall still be here tomorrow when, perhaps, the weather of my heart will be more favorable for productivity in practical pursuits.

Instead, I am going to be like my friend, Scarlett O’Hara, famous for saying, “I won’t think about that now, I’ll think about it tomorrow. After all, tomorrow is another day.”

(By the way, did you know Margaret Mitchell’s original title for Gone with the Wind was Tomorrow is Another Day and feisty Scarlett was first named Pansy O’Hara? Thank goodness for editors!)

This malaise (a vague sense of mental or moral ill-being—Webster’s Ninth New Collegiate Dictionary) has me thinking about something I’ve observed as a mother and as a dance teacher.

It seems the learning process goes through certain stages and not all of them are pleasant.

Each time Emma, as a baby, went through a period of several days of extreme fussiness, I found I could expect her to soon acquire a new skill, such as sitting up, crawling, or walking, once the fussiness had run its course.

I have seen this in my dance students, too. I, in fact, warn them to expect it (though I avoid the term fussy).

There seems to be a level of saturation in learning new skills that tends to confuse and frustrate human beings, often making us want to give up. I tell my students that when I introduce new elements, steps, and principles of dance. I explain they may feel awkward at first, but they will soon begin to believe that learning to dance is a real possibility.

I also warn them that as I add more information, moving beyond introduction to actual teaching, they will reach a point where nothing makes sense, and they won’t even feel they can remember the few things grasped at the beginning. This is a sign, not that they were foolish to think they could ever learn to dance, but that they are now making the information their own. It is being processed and shaped into something that will become natural—like walking—without so much conscious effort.

So, I’m wondering, is this same process at work when we are learning new “skills” in our spiritual and emotional lives?

I feel an abundance of spiritual insight and information has been showered upon me in these last fifteen weeks. So much so, I was beginning to think I could learn the secret of always walking in faith, always enjoying that perfect peace which passes understanding.

But, from my rainy day huddle by the window, it looks like maybe these first weeks have only introduced me to these spiritual principles.

Maybe actual learning is only now beginning.

Maybe I just need to trust my Teacher knows how to train my mind and spirit to move in newer, better ways.

And maybe I should trust that somehow fruit is being produced in my life, even on my fussy days.

The thing is, there is always more to learn, always new material being introduced and struggled through and, hopefully, made our own. It’s a process that repeats again and again.

So why should I try to force myself into a different part of the process?

Why not just accept the rainy days like a good girl and enjoy a cozy nap or curl up with a good book?

“After all, tomorrow is another day.”

Trusting in Him today and for all my tomorrows,

Rachel

INSPIRED BY A TRUE STORY

In late fall of 2001, Rachel Wilson, a ballroom dance teacher living in the small mountain community of Pine Lake, California, discovered her husband, Ben, in an extra-marital affair. Her initial response was much as might be expected—tears, anger, despair, thoughts of revenge and more. But, through a series of unlikely events she was led to an unexpected response – a 70-week journey of prayer with friends.

She wrote an email asking if anyone would commit to praying for her family for 70 weeks, not supposing many would agree to such a long endeavor. To her surprise, more than forty said yes.  

The post Stories From 70 Weeks of Prayer – Rainy Day of the Spirit appeared first on Jody Evans, Author.