Twenty years ago on December 28, 2000, as a 14 year old high school freshman, I sat at Carrabba’s across from a 24 year old Young Life leader (who I thought was a lifetime ahead of me), and I told her, in halting and hesitant but holy words, that I’d decided to “give my life to Christ” and that I just wanted her to know.
If production is our only measure, we’ll believe we have nothing to show for a season of stillness. But if we’ll let the Lord have His way in these moments, perhaps we’ll know another side of Him. We thought He only came to harvest the fruit. But here He is—He has come to us when all we have to show is a few miraculously green, unwithering leaves.
He hasn’t moved. He hasn’t changed. He hasn’t shifted with the shadows.
We don’t have to go back to find Him where we knew Him.
We turn around to remember His faithfulness to us years ago, and we worry that we cannot climb back in time. We want to return to days when we were more faithful.
But as we turn to look back, a strange thing happens: we find ourselves face to face with the God who has faithfully stuck beside us. We expected to look back in time, but surprisingly, we looked back to Jesus.
Beginning on March 24, each Tuesday, I’ll send a short, written devotional along with a video-message about one of the women in the gospels who encountered the Man of Christ. Included in that devotional will be several reflection/discussion questions. Each week’s lesson will also include a prayer prompt or activity to encourage us to actually practice posturing ourselves to more quickly recognize and respond to the promptings of the Lord.
One of my favorite recent traditions is a vacation in the Florida panhandle. It is everything I mean when I say the word “vacation”—just enough to do to keep me occupied but no pressure to do more than I want. There aren’t places to visit, and there’s nothing that you “have to see.” I love a good trip—the kind where there’s things to see and places to explore, but I love those slow days in Florida that remind me how it feels to really rest.
Our culture has taken a strong stance against sin. Not against sin, actually, but against the label. So, as though we could wish the wrongs away, we excuse and re-label and explain away our every flaw and failure.
I've written a New Years' post every year for the past four years, and even though I don't feel like I have much to say this quiet first night of 2018, it feels like I should continue the tradition.
Advent has always been one of my favorite times. I think it's the stark contrast of a room dimly lit by treelight with the rush of the racing world. It stirs my heart to long for home even more than usual. My home is a haven from a world that wears me out, and I love it in any season, but this one is my favorite. Never does stillness seemed so countercultural. Never does it seemed so right.
It’s been a really long time since I’ve felt like I’ve had any words to share. But last week I found an old blog post—one about these times of quiet, these times when we are tempted to feel lonely but are actually invited into the presence of Jesus Christ alone.
This weekend I sat in a room with a group of women, most of whom I don’t know well, and had conversations centered around the Lord. I got to hear their struggles and their hopes and their fears. I got to hear how the Lord has been faithful. I got to hear how they wonder if He will be. I got to hear them encourage one another that He would be always be.
I'm here to take up for the innkeeper this Christmas. (The innkeeper who, incidentally, isn’t even mentioned in the Bible). This poor, unmentioned man gets such a bad rap. Everybody must have told Mary and Joseph that there was no room.
The living room is perfectly lit for Christmas. It’s cozy and warm. And it’s quiet. Maybe it’s the long, winter(ish) evenings or the fog that lifts slowly as the day starts. Maybe it’s the Christmas tree or the wooden manger scene beside it.
The living room is perfectly lit for Christmas. It’s cozy and warm. And it’s quiet. Maybe it’s the long, winter(ish) evenings or the fog that lifts slowly as the day starts. Maybe it’s the Christmas tree or the wooden manger scene beside it.
I wrote this post over two years ago. It's surreal to read it because it seems like a lifetime ago and I can also remember it all so clearly. But I've been thinking about it recently. Maybe it's because it's Advent and the mother of Jesus seems such a relevant character. Maybe it's because the days are shorter and quieter and it's usually easier in winter for me to remember to crawl up quiet with our Lord.
My roommates and I spent last weekend in Tennessee with Bethany’s family, and one night the three of us ended up playing a game called Say Anything. Eventually, we put the scorecards away and used the questions as late-night conversation prompts. (As though our conversations need prompting.)
I hear people say that the Lord won’t give you a platform until your character can sustain the spotlight. I suppose that may be true (although there are about a thousand ways to get a platform that don't involve the Lord's giving it to you, but that's not what I'm here to talk about). I'm here to talk about what I rarely hear people say.
I have been quiet here lately. Because I haven’t known what to say. Hate wreaks havoc on a tired world. Fear swells up angry and a nation takes sides. Hurt breaks hearts that come up swinging. Well-intended words offend. Accidental insults wound souls already raw. Silence feels like safety, but it feels like hiding too.
Resignation. The word has been rolling around in my head for the better part of a month. Not the traditional two-weeks notice kind of resignation – the other kind. The kind that slips in unnoticed and allows us to continue but keeps us from enjoying it
