A Tale of Three Churches

Maybe you’ve read Church for Sale and wondered where the idea of a “church for sale” came from.

Maybe you long to be part of a Church on Fire.

Or, as the Church on the Parkway series wraps up with the publication of Church on the Move this month, you’re reflecting on the church you call home or the church where you grew up. Just where does it fit on the spectrum of for sale/on fire/on the move?

It’s okay, too, if you’re just plain curious about where the idea for the series came from! Since the story is set during my own teen and young adult years, how much of it is true? Did I ever attend a “church for sale?”

First, the fun part! The idea for Church for Sale came when I thought I’d never, ever have another story idea. As I drove down a local highway near home a few years ago, I noticed that the small, countrified church building with white siding had a sign out front:

Church for Sale

Coming Soon

“How sad! I wonder what went wrong,” I said to myself. This had to be bad news. After all, I’d visited a church-turned-bookstore in Ohio and seen on TV more than one church building that had morphed into a restaurant, nightclub, or family home. It speaks volumes about my culturally-conditioned low expectations that I didn’t say, “Wow! That church must be booming. I wonder where their new building will be?”

But I now had a new storyline nibbling away at my brain. Church for Sale was underway. What went wrong…and what could go right?

As you visit Open Door Church, you’ll discover that a church can be “for sale” in more than one way. The building itself can be on the market for various reasons, of course. But the living, breathing (or barely breathing) organism of that local church body can also be for sale. As we watch modern churches, we make lots of value judgments about whether they’re “doing well” or not. Sometimes, attendance is the yardstick we use. How full is the parking lot? Often, success is equated with running lots of “cutting-edge” programs.

The leaders of the early Christian church knew the church could be “for sale” long before they had buildings. They knew it could be sold back to anybody who could entice its members with a trendy philosophy, a tweaked theology, or a familiar tradition. What the temptation was didn’t matter as much as the fact that someone fell for it. Just read the New Testament letters.

Churches were for sale back then, and they’re still for sale today. Be alert!

On a much lighter note, I loved revisiting another era while I wrote these stories. Oh, the days of avocado-color corded phones and harvest gold refrigerators, fuzzy sideburns, and long bangs! When walking down the street in Washington, DC, you could count an equal number of suits and bell bottoms. On Sunday at 11:00 a. m., the organist might blast out the Doxology, or a guitarist might strum Paul Stookey’s “Wedding Song” at your college roommate’s wedding.

Yes, we had a Bernie Rush or two, and at least one Lacy Seamands entertained us–and often derailed us.

But we also had our faithful Myrnas, Brians, Matts, Effies, and Julies. Praise the Lord–we saw a Dennis, John, or an Ardis catch fire from time to time!

It’s because of them–thanks to them–that the Church on the Parkway series was born.

Redeeming the Time

Today is the day I buckle down and resume a long-abandoned regular writing schedule.

Things haven’t gone quite the way I’d planned.

I woke up at 6:20 and declared it was too early to get up.

Pixie the cat has her own infallible internal clock. She worked on me again shortly after 7:00. Nibbling the edge of the lampshade by my bed usually does the trick. The combined crunch and wobble defy ignoring.

Not this time. Eventually, she retreated and I fell asleep again.

For a little while. I don’t remember how long.

Since today is Angie the dog’s twelfth birthday, I finally sat up, stretched, and wished her a happy (but low-key) birthday. Just how ironclad were yesterday’s promises of a long birthday walk in her favorite part of the neighborhood, anyway?

I checked on Penny, my sick little cat. Thank You, Lord, for her alert eyes, and not so much for the atypical messes she made in the living room. Angie the dog had contributed to the cleanup agenda, too. Break out broom and dustpan, squirter bottles of cleaner, mop and removable pads—then put them all back again. Keep Pixie out of the coat closet and hope Angie doesn’t think it’s time for a walk right now. You get the idea.

Check the thermometers on both sides of my fridge on the fritz. What does LL1 mean? Oh, well. Seems like it’s working better than yesterday.

Was it really around nine when I settled in for my breakfast and quiet time?

Of course, the use of time came up today in Ephesians 5:15-16. I will admit this has surfaced as a candidate for my “verse of the year” in the past. I’m the same gal who underlined proverbs about laziness in her Living Bible as a teen. Hmm…do we sense a theme here?

See then that ye walk circumspectly, not as fools, but as wise,

Redeeming the time, because the days are evil. (KJV)

The King James phrase, “redeeming the time, because the days are evil” is memorable and poetic, issuing a clear challenge to the Christian. Hear the sound of battle between good and evil in the background. Who is going to win control of my time? Although “making the most of every opportunity” (NIV) and “making the best use of the time” (ESV) don’t call us to charge onto the battlefield, these translations also warn of “evil days.” This is war.

Does our use of time really matter that much to the Lord?

What would I have made of my day if I had gotten up at 6:20?

Most of us waste time more often than we’d like to admit. As Christians, we might agree that technically, it’s not ours to waste. Still, we have our unconscious categories like “quiet time,” “going to church,” “serving,” “errands,” “housework,” “walking the dog”…and “me time.” It’s hard to acknowledge that God is in charge of and entitled to all of it.

“We’re on a battleship, not a cruise ship.”

True. We do have a job to do.

We are also God’s beloved children. He helps us redeem our time, even when it’s misspent or when we start our day off on the wrong foot.

When the clock is ticking and my thoughts were too muddled to write something weighty and inspirational, my Father said, “Don’t worry. The words will come. Just write. Pick an easy idea from your list—something you know a lot about.”

Aha. Like wasting time. Okay, Lord, I can do that.

Telling the Stories of Jesus

Although I’m not fond of the slogan “Binge Jesus,” that’s exactly what I did during the Christmas season as The Chosen Season 3 aired. Each rewatching of an episode or its aftershow yielded new nuggets to savor.

When I got to the point where I could say the lines along with the actors, though, I decided enough was enough. I returned to other stories of Jesus written by Marjorie Holmes: Two from Galilee, Three from Galilee, and The Messiah. I discovered this author as a young adult. She wrote several collections of inspirational poetry, Ann Landers and other columnists quoted her, and her wisdom is even enshrined on the web.

If only I could move others with my writing as Marjorie Holmes moved me!

When I was ten, I wrote my first fan letter (to Maud Hart Lovelace and the characters in her Betsy-Tacy series). Ms. Lovelace was no longer living, but “Tib” wrote me back and sent me a picture!

Why not write another fan letter? Fifteen years later, I did—to Marjorie Holmes. I took the bold step of enclosing some samples of my own writing!

She graciously responded that I did have talent (had I really asked her that?!) and suggested how to hone my craft. She also invited me to come to a book signing in DC later in the fall. Feeling honored and very professional, I wore my brown striped suit and my favorite blue blouse. I bought her new release, God and Vitamins, and chatted with her a bit before she signed the book, adding a personal note of encouragement.

Once again, I’m devouring her series about Jesus. Just as Dallas Jenkins and his team have done for The Chosen, Ms. Holmes supported her imaginative story with careful, respectful research. Her descriptions are rich and vivid, and I couldn’t resist copying a few. Here is a beautiful passage in Three from Galilee* describing Jesus’ increasing consciousness of his identity:

As he lay there he could hear the earth’s heart beating, feel every point of light that glittered overhead, feel the secret life force pulsing in the meadows, the wind, the stream, the precious sheep he was tending.…So beautiful and somehow pathetic, bending their heads so trustingly in the starlight, knowing he would look out for them. They were his children. The world and its people, were they not his sheep and his children? He was responsible for them, he was one with the Father who had created them. He must somehow help them, he must comfort and carry them all.*

Yes, writing styles have changed since Marjorie Holmes, but her stories still inspire and stir the imagination. Carve out some quality time to read these three lovely novels sometime soon. They are truly binge-worthy.

*Marjorie Holmes, Three from Galilee: the Young Man from Nazareth (New York: Harper & Row, 1985), 112-113.

I Love to Write!

A TRIBUTE

Happy I Love to Write Day!

Before I fully absorbed the fact that LMNOP wasn’t a letter in the alphabet, I longed to write. I wanted to play Scrabble with my mother. I associated “Scrabble” with “scribble,” and so I scribbled all over the board.

“Mommy, is CDBBBA a word? How about DDDDOIHHHI?”

What a patient mother I had! She interrupted her sewing again. “You can’t have three of the same letters in a row,” she explained.

Mother’s love of reading was subjugated to my own for years. During my monthly earache/strep throat episodes, we’d curl up together. “Read more, Mommy!”

She grew hoarse and I finally fell asleep.

She started with the Little Golden Books and didn’t finish until the last page of The Lord of the Rings.

My cousin Glendys was another willing reader. On a recent visit, I pulled down my old copy of Heidi, scribbled on with red Magic Marker. We enjoyed chatting about that wonderful book we’d shared. In the decades since, like Heidi, I learned to love goat cheese. Glendys confessed she hates it, just like Heidi’s boarding school classmates did.

Much of what we learn about writing–the love of words and the knack of transporting someone off the page to another world–comes from reading. My third-grade teacher, Laura Wright, helped me find books I could identify with while continuing to grow as a reader. Laura Ingalls Wilder filled my days: inside, I’d read; outside, my best friend, Christy, and I would play “Little House.” I was usually the teacher in the one-room schoolhouse. (Teaching in my own one-room school is one professional goal I have yet to fulfill.)

Mrs. Wright also encouraged my writing. My first “published” poem, posted on the bulletin board (probably along with several other students’ work) was The Hunter. I knew nothing about hunting–or deer (except wide-eyed Bambi). “Kindness came to him as his finger left the trigger” is the sole quotable line from this poem. Editor’s note: change “as” to “and.”

Living in Virginia destined me to love history. Mrs. Sally Alne had drafted me to write the history play Ghosts! Ghosts! Ghosts! in fifth grade, so George Washington was hardly a stranger. One Sunday when I was twelve, we set off for Pohick Church, one of several churches he frequented.

“Would you like to sit in George Washington’s pew?” asked the usher.

“Of course!”

What an honor! We settled into our first president’s box, surrounded like eggs in a very large carton by Episcopalians who knew their way around the prayer book and hymnal. All we could do was huddle low on the floor of our pew as we fumbled through the books, trying not to disturb the worshipers with our helpless giggles.

After the service and a stroll through the graveyard, I had enough material to fuel the historical novel I planned to write on our newly-acquired used typewriter.

Sadly, I didn’t learn to type until ninth grade.

I escaped having teachers who loved to bleed red ink on my writing. (I do regret the gallons of ink I spilled on my French students’ papers. The urge to encourage and the pursuit of perfection don’t mix.) Nothing can compare with the freedom to play with words and discover your own voice.

I thank God that I was in my thirties before I received a harsh critique from someone whose work I admired.

It only set me back a decade or two.

Now I am surrounded by encouragers and honest, helpful critics–fellow authors, critique partners, and editor.

Providentially, I have landed here, reminding myself yet again of my love, despite the battle to write.

Playing with my memories, and not too concerned that someone will miss seeing my tongue, deliberately planted in cheek.

Prayed for–eons ago by grandmothers and mother, and even now by faithful warriors.

Grateful for those who nurtured my love of words.

Wordstruck.

So thankful that God lets me write for Him.

His Own Did Not Receive Him

How can such an old book always be new and life-impacting when I read it?

I’m talking about the Bible, of course!

Usually, something catalyzes the epiphany I experience. The unconscious backdrop for my latest reading of John’s gospel has been “The Chosen.” I’m seeing the people of the New Testament in a new dimension thanks to this television show.

As a child of the sixties, I saw the same pictures of Jesus, the disciples, and the Jewish leaders in my Sunday school class that I saw in my beloved Egermeier’s Bible Story Book. Wearing spotless, wrinkle-free robes and standing or sitting placidly under a pastel blue sky dotted with fluffy white clouds. For the most part. Even the beggars looked presentable. The Roman soldiers stood by stoically in their shiny armor, scarcely more menacing than the friendly policemen we trusted back then.

Let’s talk about the Jewish religious leaders we love to hate. Even the most vivid pictures of the scribes and the Pharisees failed to convey their arrogance. The best cinematographer of the day could only allot a few seconds to the swish of a Pharisee’s robe when telling the gospel story in a feature-length film. And while Jesus reproved them for their wide phylacteries, their long tassels, and their lust for adulation, familiarity drained His words of their bite.

Enter The Chosen. In this television series, the Pharisees parade through the marketplace, robes billowing, and the crowds part in awe. Their luxurious lifestyle grates on the viewer as it’s contrasted with the ragged poverty of the average person in the street. The Roman soldiers inspire fear reminiscent of Nazis. Their armor clanks. They fling the occasional anti-semitic remark. Cringe-worthy–but real.

And the political intrigue. The conniving. The scheming. I’d always known the Jewish leaders plotted to kill Jesus, but seeing the seeds of this plot being sown by “real” people in scenes that could be played by politicians on Capitol Hill–game-changing.

But this is not a review of The Chosen. It’s about another game changer: these leaders knew who Jesus was. John showcases Jesus’ claims to deity and Messiahship in a way that’s lost to the modern reader, even though we’ve read our Sunday school lessons. We “know” that His repeated “I AM” statements were not mere poetic metaphors, but they lacked a gut punch.

Those statements were blasphemy in the eyes of the religious elite.

But not really.

Jesus was their Messiah.

And these arrogant, officious religious leaders knew it. They had heard the I AMs. They had seen the authenticating miracles Jesus had performed.

Jesus was their long-awaited Messiah and they didn’t want Him.

They didn’t “receive” Him.

Some people truly didn’t understand, but these schemers did. What was really in the back of their minds as they murmured in their chambers about how the crowds would respond to Jesus if they figured out who He was? When they strategized about how to persuade the loathesome Romans to prop up their patriarchal puppet show of a trial?

Power.

They didn’t want their Messiah after all.

They wanted their power.

People haven’t changed at all.

Do you want your King Jesus? Have you received Him?

Illustration “Peter the Fisherman” is in the public domain, Creative Commons Mark 1.0

Endless Conversations

When my college roommate and I manage to arrange a date for lunch together, it’s never soon enough. Anticipation builds long before the day arrives. By the time I reach the designated restaurant and we’re finally face-to-face, words tumble out. Sometimes we struggle to take turns talking and listening, but we do it with joy.

What do we talk about? Everything! Our families. What God has been doing in our lives. Stress. Our aches and pains. Our joys. Church. Politics. The food. What’s eating up all our time. Reminiscences. Hopes. Prayer requests (if we haven’t figured them out by now).

We consult “don’t forget” lists and jot down things to remember to pray about as we talk.

Sometimes, just as we’re getting ready to wind down and pay the check, we veer off on a tangent, reluctant to leave anything out. Occasionally, we have to settle for “remind me to tell you about such and such”… or “I’m going to try and remember to send you that video…”.

It’s messy.

It’s wonderful.

We definitely don’t do it often enough.

Whatever happens, I know I’m loved and that she’ll remember to pray for me, informed by that messy encounter known as fellowship.

I worry less after leaving some of my burdens with this dear friend.

No matter if she forgets half of what I’ve said. The Holy Spirit the third party at our table and heard the prayer that was our messy conversation. That same Spirit will prompt my friend to pray for me when I need it. And nudge me on her behalf, as well.

It’s messy.

It’s wonderful.

Messy and wonderful like my time with Jesus can be.

When I’m with the Lord, a jumble of words can tumble out, and I don’t have to worry about His reaction.

I can talk about anything with Jesus. My family and friends. How I feel about His work in my life. My worries. About getting old. What I’m excited about. Church stuff. Politics. My worries, again! Strength and wisdom to do what I need to do. The memory prompted by a smell, a sight, or a song. Hopes. All punctuated with occasional “I love You’s.”

It’s wonderful.

And no, it’s not Adoration, Confession, Thanksgiving, and Supplication.

It’s messy.

Even so, I know He loves to hear my voice, since He’s called me His friend.

I want to cultivate more messy conversations with the Lord.

Yes, I need to work on listening as much as I talk.

I’ll keep talking as I learn to listen.

A Teacher’s Journey: Meet Cassie Franklin

The traditional “Back to School” date is the Tuesday after Labor Day. Although school has already started here in Northern Virginia, my teacher DNA is programmed for tomorrow! Accordingly, it’s time to honor one of my favorite teachers, Cassie Franklin of The Substitute with a re-post. If you haven’t read The Substitute, this is a great time to check it out!

Remember that old saw, “Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach”?

Chances are, you’ve been tempted to think that from time to time about a teacher, but probably not often enough to justify the saying. Cassie Franklin, the main character of The Substitute, deserves a bumper sticker on her car proclaiming, “Those who can, teach.”

I’m proud to introduce Cassie and have you share in her professional and spiritual journey. Here’s a sneak peek at the back cover copy of my latest release, The Substitute.

She has a foolproof recipe for success and even shares it with others.

When her family moves, seasoned home economics teacher Cassie Franklin never dreams she won’t land a job in a school district known for hiring the crème de la crème. But when the first day of school rolls around without an interview, she begins to worry.

A call to substitute at Sully High School just might be her lucky break.

Or not. Sour staff members and a butchered budget sabotage her every move.

Under increasing pressure, Cassie fights to prove she’s still a professional. Can she tweak her cherished formula for success before becoming a total flop?

The Substitute is Book Two in the Sully Parkway series and is best enjoyed after reading Book One, The Jesus Car.

Now available on Amazon in Kindle and paperback versions!

Company Time

Do you have a love/hate relationship with time? I sure do! In the past, I’ve vacillated between boredom and wondering how to “kill” time, or stress and wondering how to “find” more time. When I was growing up, my mother set an excellent example for me. Even when she relaxed, it seemed that she was doing something constructive. She watched TV and ripped wrong stiches out of a dress she was making. She reserved a minuscule amount of time for reading just before going to bed. (I still think reading is more fun when I should be doing something else!) As a teen, I underlined multiple proverbs in my Bible, urging me to be diligent and imitate the busy ant. Mother’s message had reached my brain, although not always to my hands and feet.

By now you’ve probably guessed this post isn’t about having company over for dinner. But it’s not about time management, either. I started to write it in my head during the early months of the pandemic. At first time weighed heavy. With everything moving online, familiar activities such as church, Bible studies, and writers’ groups took less time.

Soon, though, I saw new needs around me and they filled much of that time. That was fine–up to a point. Sometimes they sucked me dry. Why did needs crop up when I felt the most tired?

Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t always follow the Holy Spirit’s promptings to respond to needs, although I usually tried.

A couple months ago, though, I just put my feet up and reclined with one basically frivolous mystery after another. For several days. I don’t binge watch TV, but I can binge read with the best of them. “I can do this. I’m retired,” I told myself.

Not!

I’m not retired from Kingdom service. I’m never “off the clock.”

Paul knew the struggle and challenged Timothy, “Never lose your sense of urgency, in season or out of season.” (2 Timothy 4:2, Phillips)

I’m no Paul–not even a Timothy–but their mission is my mission, so I’d often taken the challenge as my own. Now God had given me the chance to experience it on a new level.

I’m never “off the clock.” It’s always “company time.”

I accept the challenge. Lord, may I never lose my sense of urgency!

What about the “sucked dry” part, you ask? Don’t set yourself up for burnout!

Thankfully, the Kingdom works differently from our world. Jesus reminds us to work under his power, not ours, for real results. Paul had a thorn in his flesh to teach him to rely on Christ’s strength. “But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.” ( 2 Corinthians 12:9-10 NIV)

2 Corinthians 9:8 highlights this sufficiency so well: “And God is able to make all grace abound to you, so that in all things at all times, having all that you need, you will abound in every good work.” ( NIV 1984; emphasis mine)

Don’t forget that the Kingdom provides for rest, as well. We serve the God who rested after He created. He cares for sparrows and offers us an easy yoke.

This rest is grace–a provision–not an entitlement. (Preaching to myself!)

I accept the “company time.” challenge! I’m not punching a time clock. How about you?

On it!

Picture this. Your backseat cargo wobbles as you turn into the gravel lot of the huge barnlike structure serving as Ben’s workshop. You resist the umpteenth urge to throw your arm over the backseat to steady it and prevent further damage. Pretty soon, it’ll be Ben’s problem. He’ll fix everything.

The whine of a saw greets you as you step out of your car, followed by the heady scent of fresh wood. You wrestle the broken rocker out of the back, turn it upside down, and rest the seat on your shoulder. That oughta make you look at home in a place like this. You stride to the half-open king-size sliding shop door and enter Ben’s domain.

A helmeted head (likely Ben’s) bends in concetration and orange and yellow sparks fly as the creator welds metal together to form an object only he could identify. Chandelier? Table legs? Pipes for a giant sink? Given the loud sizzles emanating from the table, you tiptoe forward and have the common sense to keep a safe distance.

The welder lays his tool down and flips his helmet back, holding the creation up for inspection. “Oh, hey there! Didn’t hear you come in. You’re the lady with the rocker. Pam, right?” He sets the spidery metallic object down and pulls off his gloves.

“Right.” Suddenly shy, you glance briefly at the rocker, now sitting lopsided on the sawdust-covered floor, then at the burly guy clad in a blue flannel shirt and rubbery coveralls. Definitely Ben, king of restorations and wizard of furniture fixes.

Ben covers the distance between you in a couple of long lopes and sticks out his hand, then retracts it again. “Sorry. Old habits die hard. I’m Ben, by the way.” He tips his bearded head toward the rocker. “This the patient?”

You chuckle. “It’s on it’s last legs.”

He reaches out a hand and gives the rocker a push. “Or off its rocker.”

You look way up into his friendly blue eyes. “Will it be too hard to fix? I mean, it has sentimental value, but is it worth it?”

He hefts it to his shoulder, just like I’d done earlier. What d’ya know! “Sure. Restoration. That’s what I do.”

With one gentle heft, he sets the chair on the counter behind his worktable, waves a dismissive hand, and begins to don his gloves. “On it!”

He flips his helmet down again and bends over his creation. Quirky xylophone?

But he’s working on the pot rack thingy again, not your rocker.

You forgot to tell him you wanted the worn design on the back restored.

You didn’t ask him when it would be done.

Yikes! you didn’t even ask him how much it would cost.

And you certainly didn’t try to tell him how to do his job.

He’s on it.

You’re outta there. Leaving my broken rocker behind. Not coming back till he calls to say the job is done.

Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you. I Peter 5:9 NIV

Tug of World

During the approximately 81 hours of pep rallies I experienced (translation: endured) during my high school teaching years, Tug o’ War between the classes was one of the most popular games played. The freshmen developed school spirit by competing against the sophomores. The seniors usually triumphed over the juniors, of course. What was up with that?

Even this non-athlete knows that Tug o’ War starts with each side determined to win, taking a firm, strong stance. In a good game, things appear equal on both sides as players flex muscles, lean back, and grit teeth. Slowly, the balance of power changes as one side gains the advantage. If it’s still a good game, the advantage might shift again. In a less-than-equal contest, one side wins suddenly with a mighty tug.

In yesterday’s sermon, our pastor tackled the subject of spiritual warfare, beginning a series entitled Winning: Put on the Full Armor of God. He’s dealt with this before, and one of the most useful aspects of his teaching was the technique of naming our spiritual battles. Earlier, I shared how I applied this technique in Battle of Loopy Lie Valley and The War for Independence. Once I identify what mind games the enemy is using in my spiritual battles, it’s harder to ignore them. Sometimes I’m in the middle of full-blown conflict without realizing it, and having a list of battles won previously with God’s help wakes me up and calls me back into the fight. It just occured to me that Could I Interest You in an Appetizer? grew out of my facing The Day of Distraction, another frequent battle.

So what is Tug o’ World and what do I do about it? At first, I’m standing firm, Kingdom priorities in order, viewing the world around me from a relatively mature believer’s perspective. I’m making an effort, with the Holy Spirit’s help, to stay on mission. “This world is not my home” is a growing reality in my life, not just a song.

And then I listen to the news just an hour more one day. And the next. The familiar voices and faces are comforting. And then I leave the television on as I do things around the house instead of listening to Christian music. The tug of the world is so subtle. I scroll mindlessly through Facebook, duped that something there will inspire me–still watching the news, of course. Gradually, my world is very different. If I’m not careful, I might find myself in the Skirmish of Imagination Inflation before I know it, worrying about being an invisible senior locked away forever “for my protection” or plotting a dystopian novel I do not intend to write.

A friend is having a new home built nearby. She’s immersed in design details and appliance purchases, and runs her ideas by me. Recently, I got my neighbors together to have our sad, sagging townhome fences replaced and I had my treacherous front steps rebuilt. Fun, positive conversations and projects providing a welcome distraction from current events. I watched HGTV instead of the news. But then I started salivating over appliances and flooring samples in Home Depot and dropped into bed still thinking about my next project. Tug o’ World had shifted from politics to material things, but I was still losing the battle.

Praise God that He does not leave us alone, wandering about the battlefield like soldiers with amnesia! Much more patient that a drill sergeant, He teaches the same lesson over and over in different ways, presenting me with weapons and showing me how to use them.

Here are a few of these scripture weapons:

Hebrews 12:1-3, in particular the command to “fix my eyes on Jesus” from verse 2. Sometimes a reminder is enough to prepare me for the next tug of the world. Way back when I was taking driver’s ed, one of the students in my car needed a constant reminder to “watch the road.” Scary! Those prompts kept us alive, though. Fixing my eyes on Jesus helps me win the battle.

When Proverbs 3:5-6 “insisted” on becoming my 2020 verse of the year, I admit I was disappointed. Why this oldie instead of something new and challenging? Ha! I had no idea how pertinent this advice would be in 2020! I can’t pretend to understand what’s going on right now or know how it will play out, but God does, and I need a constant reminder to lean on Him. I need to submit to Him in everything–not an easy task, but so important for straight paths and winning my battles. (Preaching to myself again–I’ve forgotten this verse lately!)

The book of Revelation has encouraged me lately. In particular, Chuck Swindoll’s Living Insights Commentary has helped me see in more graphic ways the reality of what’s become a platitude: God is in control. Oh, how the enemy wants me to think I need to be in control, or certain politicians should or shouldn’t be in control! There are so many weapons here in skirmishes of Imagination Inflation that I had trouble choosing. Here’s a sample from page 107 in the application of Revelation 5:1-14:

The One who is worthy to exercise judgment and rule over the earth will accomplish His will through your life. Human history is littered with the wreckage of failed attempts to fix humanity’s problems, but we can turn to Christ, who has paid the price to bring about a glorious future. When we trust in Christ instead of ourselves, the evil and opposition of the world seems much less daunting. It’s all subject to Him! When we see His brilliant splendor looming on the horizon, we can endure this present darkness with ever-increasing hope.

Enough said!

Stay in the battle. Preaching to myself.