However, I am not one of these people.  As I write this, I am alone in a hotel room, spending two glorious days completely alone so I can write and pour out my heart and soul before God.   Did you catch that I described this time as ‘glorious’?

Spiritual giftings mingled with personality and life experience makes people like me more ‘up and down’ types, rather than ‘side to side’ types.  Forgive the technical lingo; let me explain.

Neither dominance is right, neither is preferable.  I daresay most people understand the side-to-side types far better than us up-and-downs.  One of my chilluns possesses a similar personality to mine.  Several decades past, our personality types would have been described as melancholy. 

The ‘up and down’ description does not imply bi-polar disorder, though I’m certain some people afflicted with this condition are melancholy.  Rather, my feeble descriptions are of spiritual qualities, spiritual realities.  People like me and my offspring experience incredible spiritual sorrows ~ yet are capable of the greatest of spiritual joys. Perhaps that’s why some of the best comedians are people who have experienced incredible pain.  People like us draw most of their strength from God, rather than from other humans.  Don’t misunderstand:  some people (like Pa) are used as His instruments to balance people like me with the benefits of ‘side to side’ relationships.  But for those like me, the bottom spiritual line, the place where I live is thoughtful introspection, painful admission of my shortcomings, which leads to the greatest freedom ever known.

Side – to –siders draw their strength from God, but perhaps most often through the ministry of other people.  Nothing wrong with that, just different. 

The temptation for us up-and-downers is to wallow in our pain, rather than give it to God for His glory.  Instead of seeing our deep relationship with Him as a rare gift, the too-typical reaction is to think ourselves somehow less than the side-to-siders.  The spiritual value of a person rarely equals the worldly value of that person.  But the spiritual value is far more important, because such value impacts everything the person does, says and thinks.

In Genesis 2:25, after God made all of creation, after Adam and Eve and everything else was declared to be very good, scripture says the humans were ‘both naked and not ashamed.’

 I spent a lot of years not comfortable in my own skin.  But a funny thing happened on the way to spiritual maturity.  I learned kind of by accident that the more honest and open and naked and unashamed I am, the more loved I will be. 

Naked doesn’t mean nudist, but means completely vulnerable before God and man.  Honest.  Not letting anything hinder my relationship with God, not letting anything hinder my relationship to others. 

When I’ve shared my story, my hurts, my stupid mistakes, somehow this lets go of my shame.  It just dissolves.  Standing naked before God and man melts away shame, that lying sensation that only serves as a barrier, between both God and man.

This is how God wants me to be.  Completely vulnerable, open and honest.  I am most loved when I am the most honest with the most grace.  Not just wielding-a-weapon honest, but tempered with his grace. 

When I combine my excruciating vulnerability with God’s big picture perspective, the result is connection to Him, connection to others, and the genuine love from both.  The courage to be less than perfect with compassion for others leads to connective bonds stronger than any other relationships, this side of eternity.

I am honored to have had the privilege of being naked and not ashamed, and look forward to sharing more of the deepest sorrows and the greatest joys He has poured into me in the Little House project. 

More to come.   CSB

I really did not choose to exit before riding ‘Soarin;’ my body wouldn’t cooperate.  After standing in line for more than an hour, only three rotations of Disney patrons stood between my family and our turn.  But a splitting head and convulsing stomach forced me to leave.

The cause of my extreme physical discomfort was the nauseating ride ‘Mission to Mars.’  The ‘mission’ took place in a simulated space capsule, with only forward visibility.  Thrusting and jerking on the takeoff and landing, the ride was a disaster for those sensitive to motion sickness.  It’s a wonder I didn’t embarrass myself and my family right there.

The intensity of the ‘mission’ prevented me from experiencing any semblance of weightlessness.  Not that that was necessarily an aim of the ride.  But given the advanced technology employed by nearly everything at the Disney parks, it’s certainly a possibility.

So a couple of weeks ago, while waiting for my sick laptop to be healed by a local computer conjurer, I noticed a bird flying near the parking lot where I sat checking emails.   I’m usually too engulfed in whatever is going on with the kids, Pa or my work to think deeply about flying birds, but that day I had time and no computer.

What struck me most about the birds was how they just soared.  No wing flaps at all.  With wingtips barely bent upwards ~ like the newest airplanes ~ the birds stayed airborne for minutes, often coming to rest where they had begun.  On that beautiful spring day, those birds demonstrated pure joy, just by being.

Funny enough, a couple of the birds shared the top of a cell tower.  I love irony; God often uses it to get my attention.  God had compelled me to put down my technology (not only was my computer dead, but my phone battery died just before I really began paying attention to the birds) and let Him guide my day where He desired.

What I saw on my technology-free day was an incredible spiritual lesson, certainly for me. 

You see, the birds jumped, out into nothing, yet they trusted that they wouldn’t fall.  Reality is, they aren’t jumping off into unfamiliar territory.  Where they jump might be unseen, but to them and to God it is not unknown.

My dream life is rich, symbolic, instructive.  I often dream of flying and soaring.  I’ve studied the symbolic meanings of many of my dreams, particularly those that repeat.  I know my dreams of flying represent times of great growth and forward motion in my ministry and life’s purpose.  These dreams are among my happiest, when I jump out into nothing visible, just holding onto what is possible, yet real.

I want to live like this everyday.  Jumping off into nothing ~ nothing I can see with my eyes anyway ~ and finding Someone safe to catch me.  Reality is, I never jump into the unknown, I only jump into what to me is unseen. 

Little kids love to be thrown up in the air, because they know that someone safe will catch them.  Little kids love to jump and flip on beds (at least mine anyway; Pa wouldn’t hear of having a trampoline ~ and I agreed with him ~ so our mattress did double duty) and jump off diving boards.  The feeling of hanging in the air, even for just a second or two, is only a joy because you know it is safe.  Whether it’s water, a mattress or a Pa to catch you, kids love that feeling because it is so exhilarating and yet so safe.

The women I work with at Northfield Ministries are desperate to be like these birds.  But unlike the birds, they’ve jumped off into the false promises of eating disorder, tempted just as Christ was by Satan to jump off the temple.  Trouble is, if we jump off into what is unseen and untrue, we don’t soar.  We crash.  In their desire to be weightless, the only way for these women to come back safely to solid ground is to jump off into the what and Who of Truth.  To the observer, it may look the same, but the truth of Christ and the lies of eating disorder could not be farther apart.

Before we left Disneyworld, I had another opportunity to ride Soarin.  It was beautiful; I’m so glad the family let me do this when we could have chosen something else.   This side of Heaven, I may never soar as I did on that Disney ride, or like birds on a sunny day, but I can soar spiritually every time I take that next right step. 

Following Christ is certainly a daily jump into the unseen, but it is never a jump into the unknown.  He can see everything, even when I can’t.  I’ve learned to trust that where He leads He will be.  I live with the anticipation and joy of every next right step, because every next right step provides a new opportunity to soar.

  I can hardly believe I’m here.  Already, there are things about this place I couldn’t know, ways that God is blessing me that is just beginning to unfold.

I picked this hotel somewhat at random, because it’s in a city too far for me to drive home on a whim, but close enough that it’s not an exhausting ordeal when it’s time.  I picked this city because I’ve been here on short stints a few times; I’m a little familiar with some major streets, but it’s not someplace I’m likely to run into anyone I know. 

I picked this hotel because it’s close to a YMCA, so I can use my membership to go work out. 

But reality is that God picked this for me, for such a time as this.  On my way here, with only a couple of dollars in change in my wallet, I prayed to spot the correct bank ATM on my way into town.  Didn’t see one. 

Driving into the parking circle of the hotel, I asked the bellman if he knew of such an ATM.  ‘Right across the street’ was his reply.  Score one for God.

I also prayed I would be able to get into my room early, before official check-in time.  I arrived almost an hour before check-in, and was quickly ushered to my room.  Score two for God.

The very helpful front desk clerk asked if I was traveling alone, and to my great delight she commented that the hotel provides free valet parking for women traveling alone.  Never thought to look into that!  Score three for God.

Since I know this city a little, I would like to explore a little, when the brain cells are fried and the eyesight has crossed and my fingers are frozen into typing position.  The bellman helping with my bags informed me that the hotel offers a complimentary shuttle to any location within a 5 mile radius, including many restaurants and all the other spots I might possibly want to go.  Score four for God.

Finally, in yet another magnificent gift from God, access to the YMCA across from the hotel is complimentary for hotel guests.  No out of town fees.  All of this at the same price as the other hotel I considered several miles away.  Score five for God.

I feel a little overwhelmed, like the good Lord expects big things of this time, to make the accommodations so safe and perfect for this solitary traveling female.  It’s just another way He’s shown me recently how deeply He loves me.  He knows how meaningful this time is to me; He knows how desperately I’ve longed for solitude and time to talk with Him.  He knows how writing is a deeply personal and intensely spiritual act for me, and when I can’t write regularly (which is the norm with the work He’s given me with Northfield Ministries and family commitments), I begin to starve spiritually. 

So for the next 48 hours, I feast on Him.  I bask in the glory of this place He has perfectly prepared for moi.  Little ole me.  Nobody special, but someone who means the world to the Lord.  God, you are so very good and kind to this unworthy sinner.

CB:  Special Delivery is book two in the Freedom (human trafficking) series. For anyone who may not have read book one, Deliver Me From Evil, can you fill us in on the focus of the series in general, and Special Delivery in particular?
 
KM:  The Freedom series is a three-book fiction series built around the horrifying topic of human trafficking. People often ask me why I decided to write about such a dark topic. First, I explain that I’m not writing about a dark topic; I’m writing about the Light that shines in that darkness. And second, I believe the Church should be at the forefront of the modern-day abolition movement to set the captives (modern-day slaves) free. The three books in this series specifically follows the life of a young woman named Mara, who was sold into sexual slavery by her own parents in Mexico, and then smuggled across the border into San Diego by her uncle who then served as her pimp. A strong sub-plot throughout the series tells of two sisters in the Golden Triangle of Thailand, Chanthra and Lawan, who are also trapped in a brothel. Finally, a teenage girl named Francesca, kidnapped in Juarez, Mexico, and forced into prostitution, is introduced in book two. Special Delivery picks up two years after book one, Deliver Me From Evil, ends, and continues with the stories of Mara and Lawan, as well as others carried over from book one. Mara hopes she is finally free to pursue her own life because she was rescued from the brothel and her testimony helped lock up her uncle for life. But the man has underground connections and is driven by revenge to reach out from behind bars and deliver the ultimate punishment to his niece.

 CB:  This isn’t the first fiction series you’ve written on nationwide and even worldwide social issues, the one previous to this being the persecuted Church. What draws you to these difficult topics?

 KM:  As a Christian, I believe I am compelled to use my God-given gifts to honor God in all I do—and that includes exposing the deeds of darkness, calling sinners to repentance, and taking a stand for righteousness by doing all I can to help rescue those who are suffering. I dare not turn my back on “the least of these.” I also believe that God placed this sort of burden on my heart even before I became a Christian at the age of 26. I’ve always been a champion of the underdog, a “soap-box” preacher, if you will. When I met Jesus, I simply redirected that passion toward His people, realizing I couldn’t effect real change in my own strength anyway.

CB:  With your obvious passion to right social and moral wrongs through the power of the Gospel, how did writing and speaking enter into that?

KM:  I’ve known I wanted to be a writer since I was a child—never wanted to do anything else. When I was a teenager I told my then boyfriend (now husband) that I was going to be a writer one day. What a blessing that God allowed me to fulfill that dream! After becoming a believer and growing in my faith, it was natural to take my passion to fight for others and incorporate it into my writing. Speaking, on the other hand, was an entirely different story. I was terrified of public speaking when I was young, and the day I received Christ I made a “bargain” with God, promising to do anything He asked of me—so long as it didn’t include public speaking. (Does God have a sense of humor or what???) Now, when I stand in front of audiences where I believe God has called me to speak (and actually find myself enjoying it!), I tell my listeners that if God has called them to do something and they feel it’s impossible, they can consider me their “visual aid” that NOTHING is impossible with God IF we will simply take that first step of obedience and let Him fulfill His purpose in and through us.

CB:  With the topics of the worldwide persecuted Church and human trafficking under your belt, what other issues are you dealing with in your writing?

KM:  My Christmas 2011 book, A Christmas Journey Home, dealt with the immigration/border problem, and my Christmas 2012 novel, Unexpected Christmas Hero, will be about homelessness in America. The next issues-related fiction series I have on tap—which I am just starting to write, by the way—is called the “Patches of Courage” series and will begin releasing in late January 2013. Book one is The Moses Quilt, based on the life of Harriet Tubman, and will be followed by The Christmas Quilt and The Impossible Quilt. This series of books will highlight historical American women whose Christian faith enabled them to walk in great courage and make a difference in the lives of countless people.

CB:  Where can people find out about you and your books/speaking/appearances?

KM:  They can go directly to my website (www.kathimacias.com or www.boldfiction.com) or my Easy Writer blog: http://kathieasywritermacias.blogspot.com. I’m also on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, Google, and various other social sites. Would love to hear from all of you!

CB:  Where can people find out about free book giveaways on this blog tour?

KM:  The blog tour host is giving away a set of two books from the Freedom Series -  Book 1 (Deliver Me From Evil) and Book 2 (Special Delivery). Also, readers can follow @ChristianSpkrs on Twitter or follow on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/CSSVBT.TheFreedomSeries for more book giveaway locations on the tour.

I was given a complimentary copy of this book from the author in exchange for posting the author’s interview on my blog. This blog tour is managed by Christian Speakers Services (http://ChristianSpeakersServices.com).

Special Delivery 

This weekend is shaping up to be entirely focused on purity, pretty much by accident.  Tonight, precious almost teenager daughter is having a ‘date’ with Pa.  Now Daughter is worldly enough and sassy enough to think this is a truly perverted idea.  (I really wish she would hold back her opinions once in a while).  So rather than thinking this a fantastic opportunity to enjoy her favorite restaurant, I had to explain at some length the idea of a father-daughter date:  to show her how a young suitor should treat her when she’s having an actual date.  (Sidebar:  I wonder if Whitney Houston’s father did this for her?  Given her choice in husbands, it seems unlikely. Perhaps her life would have had a different outcome if the men in her life had treated her like the beautiful gem she was).

In this very same weekend, the mustachioed almost-adult male person who lives in my house will be attending a high school mixer, then a purity dinner and on Sunday morning, receive a purity token in a ceremony with several of his peers at our church.  This perpetually funny man-child so little resembles the baby I used to wrestle with and dance with that it’s like he’s an alien invader in my home.  I used to ask him where he came from, until one day he replied ‘Your loins.’  I don’t ask anymore.

A few days ago, said man-child was extolling the virtues of a mini-survival kit he has seen online.  I nod and smile politely at these kinds of men-only ramblings.  Don’t they realize women-folk couldn’t care less about the size and capabilities of various knife blades and gear useful for catching, killing, cleaning and eating (all with the same blade) food?  How often has he actually been compelled to use such tools in this way?  Even though we do live on the prairie, the answer is never.

In the middle of such rambling, he mentioned that condoms can hold up to a liter of water. 

Hmm.

I had never actually uttered the word ‘condom’ in his presence, though I was quite confident that he knew the term, based on some interesting exchanges I had observed between him and some friends.  (No, I was not spying or eavesdropping.  I was in the kitchen, where he says women are supposed to be.  He just says this to make me mad.  It usually works).

But more insidious is the sad fact that even though I had never mentioned prophylactic devices (and apparently, neither had Pa), he has ample opportunity to learn about these ‘water holders’ and much worse, not only from his friends, but with a small swipe of his fingertips on his electronic gadgetry.

Purity is an uphill, lifelong battle, never more so than in our polluted culture.  I’m constantly reminded of its importance, and the difficulty.    Perhaps this is why God chose that my name would be ‘pure.’  (And pain.  I can’t forget THAT).

From random Bible verses to the youth group focus to the work we do at Northfield Ministries, somehow God has underscored this week that my life is all about purity.  Much of what we do at Northfield is to help women see God at work.  After all, the pure in heart will see God.  Without purity, no one can see Him.

There’s no denying that some losses can’t be put back, especially innocence, virginity and trust.  A friend in ministry once said ‘God isn’t a God of virginity.  He’s the God of purity.’  And Jesus Christ covers us with His purity, when we are His.

Wherever I’ve been, seen and done, purity is what matters at the end of the day.  Helping other people see God where they haven’t before, helping remove the spiritual blinders from their lives is the greatest high I’ve ever known.  Nothing else compares.  The purity God has allowed me to see and touch and experience in my ministry work has ruined me for any other.

And that’s the best part of purity.  We are ruined for anything less.

God, give my kids and my spiritual children hearts that desire your purity.  Even in this polluted world, help them see you Lord.  Let them be ruined for anything else.

On the day before our 18^th wedding anniversary, while Pa was hard at work at Northfield, I bought my own anniversary flowers at the grocery store.  I arranged them into three beautiful displays, and hope they live long enough so I can use them at the Northfield office this week for our open house.  Pa informed me upon his return from Northfield that he had been thinking of taking me to the grocery store to get some flowers.  But he didn’t.

Pa started today by singing ‘happy anniversary baby, got you on my mi-hind’.  Mere moments later, he told me I smelled like a cow.

What he meant was that I smelled like leather (or so he says), but given his advanced age, he couldn’t summon the world ‘leather’ when complimenting – er, commenting on – my aroma.  “Cow” doesn’t exactly bring to mind the most aromatic of smells.  Cow conjures up splat patties, methane-filled barns, mud-encrusted fur.   Perhaps I really do live on the prairie.

The day quickly went sideways when I came downstairs, presented Pa with the card I oh-so-thoughtfully procured from the drug store the day before our anniversary, only to receive nothing in return.  Nada.  No card.  Not expecting a gift, but NO CARD. 

In his defense, Pa exclaimed ‘but I was working at Northfield all day yesterday!’  Humph.  There are 364 additional days in the year in which he could have purchased a card for me, his true love.  Yes, I did mention this to him.

So Pa quickly set to the task of making me a card.  Not the construction paper and crayon kind known to spring from juvenile fingertips, but one from actual card-making software. 

In typical Pa-DIY fashion, Pa likes the freedom to craft his own prose.  Pa likes being able to quick-like-a-bunny run to the computer and make a card, when he hasn’t taken the time to go get one.  And Pa hates to spend money.  So I’ve received one of these cards on pretty much every momentous occasion since Pa discovered this software.

Why, just this past Christmas, Pa penned a lovely message, praising me for the sacrifices that are routinely mine in this family.  Like wearing socks with holes, or eating the food nobody else wants (the chilluns and Pa call me the family goat). 

But in his haste to complete my Christmas card, he forgot a critical step in card-making:  spell-check.   

My sacrifices became transformed into scarifices.

Pa did not have a ready definition for ‘Scarifices’.  I have been left to ponder the Freudian meaning and symbolism behind this transposition.  Did he really mean ‘scary faces?’  I do a mean chicken impression.  And a gorilla impression.  And pig noises.  And the evil eye.  Maybe I should stop now…

Perhaps he meant ‘scar faces.’  I do have a scar on my face, from a bike accident when I was 9 years old.  I forget about it, it’s faded so well.  I remember feeling like a total freak with the stitches and the healing process so prominently displayed on my face, right out there for all to see.  I remember my parents disagreeing about whether or not plastic surgery was needed, implying that my face would be hideous without it.

Or maybe what he really meant, in his kindly misspelled way, is that he really appreciates my sacrifices.  Being the coupon queen of America, eating the leftovers, driving a 14 year-old car (whenever I need to travel with a fire extinguisher onboard, that’s my limit.  That was my limit with the last car we replaced), all so we can keep our kids in their wonderful pioneer Christian school.  Working hard to open Northfield for residents and the weekend program, so other women trapped by the eating disorder demons can be set free, even though I’m paid no salary for what I do.  Or maybe it’s because he sees me lay aside my dreams and desires so others can achieve theirs. 

I am a blessed woman, and it’s not because Pa is going to purchase me anything encrusted with diamonds to make up for the stunning lack of a card this morning.  No, I am blessed because every day, he tells me he loves me, he tells me I’m beautiful, and he means it.  Of course, he can’t see without his glasses at all, but isn’t that just like God?  As I’m nearing that threshold of attractiveness, about to cross the Styx river of beauty, from which no one returns, Pa’s eyesight is failing in direct proportion and speed to the increase in wrinkles, age spots and gray hairs sprouting unsightly all over my pioneer body.

Thank you Lord, for 18 years of married life with Pa. 

In the midst of suffering, shame

In the midst of chaos, a clarion

Herald the coming of the Name.

In the midst of fury, forgiveness

One, amid obscurity

From tribulation, triumph

Earthly powers behold Purity.

In the midst of malice, mercy

Amid annihilation, Noel

In the midst of grief, God’s glory

Spirit bursts forth, now to dwell.

In the midst of violence, virtue

Begotten gentle dove

In the midst of murders, a manger

No purer form of love.

In the midst of evil, Emmanuel

Freeing souls from their captivity

In the midst of kings, the King

Princes prostrate before Nativity.

In the midst of atrocity, alleluia!

In the midst of pain, relief

In the midst of desperation, deliverance

for this unworthy thief.

In the midst of heartbreak, healing

Amid injustice, joy

Turning sorrows into solace

Greatest gift, sweet baby boy.

(c) Catherine Boyle 2002

Pa and I and the chilluns spent Thanksgiving in south Florida with relatives.  In case this is news to you, Pa hasn’t always lived on the prairie.  He hails from seafaring Florida stock, and has repeatedly attempted to kill me with watercraft.  Though this post is likewise about a near death experience, Pa is not wholly responsible.  Much to my dismay, my lucky fin is partly to blame.

Over the river and through the woods is the wimpy version of our bi-annual trek to tropical climes.  The overstuffed wagon can practically drive itself.  We routinely sojourn at all the same rest stops (which says something about the predictability of our liquid consumption), restaurants, hotels and gas stations.  We know if Pedro has put up a new sign to advertise South of the Border.  In this most recent trip, we learned that South of the Border has an actual spa.  I’d advise against testing the veracity of that claim.

Since our previous trip to Florida, the relatives procured a pair of kayaks.  The chilluns could not wait to try out said kayaks, and in fact were water-bound within 15 minutes of our arrival. 

I love the fact that the chilluns love the water.  Though a lifelong land-lubber, I have always been drawn to the peaceful rhythm of the ocean.  I don’t need to touch the ocean with any part of my person, but it is quite delightful to be ashore.

Shortly after the chilluns’ maiden kayaking voyage, Pa had his turn.  The chilluns and Pa all raved about the experience, and so encouraged me to become a kayaker.  Reality is that they all mercilessly heckled me until I agreed to drive-crew-steer-captain the kayak. 

Hard to believe, but true, I had already decided to give kayaking a try.  Our Florida locale is quiet water, just a simple dock moored in an imperceptibly moving watery bayou.  That, and people who can barely propel themselves on land routinely paddle softly past the in-laws’ home.

Getting into a kayak some four feet below the level of the dock without a ladder was a challenge, but Pa helped (while uttering some less than charitable expressions about my gracefulness).  With paddling skills honed from a recent parent-kid triathlon, I was soon moving forward. 

Twist, dunk, pull; twist, dunk, pull.  What could be more simple?

Pa advised me not to kayak alone (not entirely sure what THAT was about), so I dutifully followed the son towards a nearby sandbar.  Nearby is a relative term; in kayaking-distance it took about 15 minutes, or at least 5000 paddle strokes, but who’s counting?

Padding proudly past the verdant gardens and homesteads of fellow kayakers, my heart swelled with pride.  I was now one of the boat-people.  With every stroke and pull of the paddles, with every splash of sea water on my bottom, I was one with the water.

The kayaking excursion went ~ well, swimmingly ~ until the son exited the bayou into the churning intercoastal waterway.

The intercoastal is a series of bodies of water that are practically open ocean, water between barrier islands (such as the one where Pa grew up) and the mainland.  Jet skiers, power boats and touristy cruise ships zipped by in immediate proximity to the purposeful paddling of my son.

Bravely facing the danger ahead, I did exactly what any good pioneer would do:  I made the executive decision that my kayaking fanny needed to head back to land.

Go ahead, call me a chicken.  So I don’t love swimming in seawater; there’s nothing wrong with that! 

Turning my watercraft steadily 180 degrees, I heard faint shouts from my son.  I ignored them. 

Mere moments later, I had masterfully (okay, a little less than that) turned my kayak around.  Paddling back down my safe little bayou-bubble, I agreed with myself that this was the most sane course of action.  No need to get too crazy with the first kayaking expedition.  No need to kayak into white water or even water with a hint of chop.

Nearing the family dock, I summoned Pa with my lovely lilting voice.  (Pa does a heartless mocking impression of my voice, something akin to a screeching chicken.  The things I endure.).  Pa arrived, chided me for deserting the son, and instructed me how to decamp from the kayak. 

On an unstable object on actual moving water. Where there’s no ladder.  Four feet below the dock.

I’m not sure how any human is supposed to actually do this, much less one who has just become a true ‘boat person’, but this was my task. 

You can guess the rest.

I really became one with the water.

Blame it on Pa (who to his credit was able to retrieve me from the water in spite of his obvious amusement with the situation), blame it on kayaking inexperience, blame it on my lucky fin.  I’m clearly imbalanced as it is, with this short right leg that has caused multiple years of pain and suffering, and required a small army of doctors, treatments and physical therapy.  But stop your mockery right there!  ‘Imbalanced’ does not apply to my mind.

Given the way I over-think most things, it didn’t take too long to start looking for a lesson in this traumatic experience.  Was my ‘unexpected bath’ merely a reminder of my lack of physical grace?  Did my refusal to kayak mean that I really do lack courage?  Even if Pa and the son thought it wimpy, wouldn’t my life insurance agent be happy with my kayaking decision?

I’m in an intense season of life.  It’s not just Thanksgiving-Christmas-one kid birthday-one Pa birthday-our wedding anniversary season, it’s crazy get Northfield Cumberland Home open season too.  And it’s the end of the year, a time when this big head tends to think too much about goals accomplished and goals yet to attain.

My experience ‘in the drink’ so to speak reminds me of not just one, but the sum of my life’s spiritual lessons.  When I avoid the turbulence long enough, eventually I get thrown right smack into the middle of it, oftentimes not of my own choosing.  I can’t forever avoid getting wet or messy.  Much as I want my life, my person, my house (which is still not 100% ‘back’ since we finished the floors) to be perfectly ordered, that seems not to be God’s preferred means to accomplishing His will.  I have my lucky fin and quite a few other weaknesses that throw me off balance, rocking my tidy little world. 

Being in ministry is to at once live in the middle of turbulent white water chop, while at the same time, experience superseding peace (most days anyway).  In some ways there’s more inner calm when there’s more turbulence.  The turbulence paradoxically proves that I’m on the right track, for I’m living what Christ promised real believers. 

I can laugh about the kayaking mishap now; I’m sure it was hilarious to watch.  God frequently proves to me that He has quite the sense of humor.  So go ahead, join Pa and the chilluns ~ and me ~ and apparently the Lord Almighty ~ in chuckling over my kayaking finesse.  Even though I don’t always enjoy rough waters, and I really hate being cold AND wet, somehow this is exactly where He wants me. 

Now, can anyone tell me where to find a good deal on a dock ladder?

My natural bent for quickly devouring and dissecting books took over with Wagon of Fools, leading to a snap judgment of its tone and intentions.  Too preachy, too transparent, blatant proselytizing.  At once repellant and magnetic, even for me, an evangelical Christian. 

But then I read page 2.  And page 3.  And the longer I read, the more I was moved, the more I felt the author’s heart.  Like very few other books I’ve read, Wagon of Fools left that indelible impression of an author who has gone deep places with God, places of sorrows and joys that most people will never know.  Insights of this depth are hard-won badges of spiritual honor.  The spiritual tone of Wagon of Fools constantly reminded me of The Shack.  Both authors have swum in the deep end with God.

The author wrote under a pseudonym, understandably so.  I suspect that he or she is closely associated with the secular Jewish worldview dominant in American Judaism and even in Israeli culture.  Truth is usually poorly received, especially when delivered by one of your own.  The desperate hope of this author is clearly to tear off the blinders from those who will not listen to his voice.

Wagon of Fools contains seven short stories, ranging from topics as diverse as autism, secular Judaism and Christianity, miraculous provision for Jewish refugees in World War II-ravaged Europe to the story of an unloved wife.  Threaded throughout the stories are searing insights seldom seen in print. 

In the first story ~ the one I initially judged too harshly ~ this Christian was reminded that the rest of the world doesn’t think like me.  The narrator remarks that “unlike the people in the village – even the Rebbe (rabbi) – my father thought one could talk with God like a man talks with his friend.”   Of course, I DO talk with God as with a friend.  But many of my neighbors and friends don’t think this is possible.  I know this intellectually, but seldom deeply absorb this truth in my open yet somehow still-insulated world.

“Macushla,” the story of the unloved wife, is peppered with poignant prose:  “…[Macushla] wondered why it sometimes required pain and blood and loss for…flashes of insight to penetrate the human consciousness” and “when hope dies, self-discipline carries out the casket.”  Methinks the author knows of which he speaks.

Other truth and wisdom threaded throughout the book included “…A true heart loves best that which most reflects God’s own heart”;   “…death had been used to heal death as sin is sometimes used to kill sin” and  “if we have the heart to do His will, He will make known to us what that will is.” 

The most powerful if impossibly improbable story dealt with autism.  “When Revelation Kissed Reason” described autism as a “…concentrated symbolic manifestation in one human being of mankind’s condition without God…” and “…an analogy physically manifested in the lives and behavior of autistic children that represented mankind’s spiritual condition apart from God.”  We are utterly helpless without God; we are all like autistic children when we navigate this world without Him. 

If you allow it, Wagon of Fools will peel off your blinders.  Without Christ, we’re all the unloved wife; we’re all the refugees hiding from a cruel and savage tyrant, who wants to steal, destroy and kill us.  We’re just a group of fools, fumbling around without understanding without Him as our guide.

Samuel Benjamin Gray (whatever your real name is), you have artfully and thoughtfully made your points.  May those for whom you care so deeply receive this work in the spirit in which it is presented.

A review copy of Wagon of Fools was provided by the publisher through www.bookcrash.com.

With all the media focus on OPM (pronounced ‘opium’, and just as addictive), whether it’s government graft, Wall Street excesses or the clueless occupiers (almost all of whom are living off someone else’s worked-for funds), it’s no surprise Hollywood has recently released a movie titled ‘Margin Call.’  Truth be told, I’d never heard of it until writing this post.  What a shocker:  the plotline revolves around a financial crisis at an investment bank.

Though our investments are as solid as investments can be these days, much to my dismay, the rest of our life seems to be operating without a margin. 

Flying without a net.  Hit it and get it.  Hardly any time for analysis, much less analysis paralysis.

There’s the mandatory carpooling and grocery shopping and food prep and medical visits and homework help and problem solving that goes with the territory of kids.  There’s the nearly endless floor project that will almost certainly steal my sanity if it extends beyond Thanksgiving.  There’s the cheerful wifey stuff I should but rarely ever do, irritating the ever patient-Pa.  Nothing X-rated in that comment.  When it’s time to collapse at night, I want to snuggle with the feline for a few moments.  There’s not room for the feline AND Pa.

There’s my work with Northfield; so close to opening, and yet so far away.  Most of our issues would be resolved with money.  Brother or sister, can you spare a dime?  Or 20 or 30,000? 

And then there’s my writing.  Right where you can’t see it, there’s a book being birthed, made up of madcap adventures on the prairie.  Only time I seem to write is times like now (when I’m supposed to be cheering my kids at a sporting event; here comes the guilt) or sometime prior to 6am. 

So on this day of too many things demanding more than I can give, I throw my hands up and pray Lord, be my margin.  You’ve promised to be my rest.  Thank you because I have energy for all of these crazy things, when even a year ago (as my kids put it) my legs didn’t work after 8:30pm. 

Thank you for leading me and refreshing me every time I spend time in your word, even when my prayers are mostly missiles, too much like barked orders, rather than a languid conversation over a hot cup of tea.  Maybe it’s better this way.  Those missiles are usually launched from a spiritual posture of clinging to your feet.

Lord, be my margin.