For one thing, ear candling isn't typically a "spa" type experience for me. My first encounter with it was back in the late 90's. My mom, sister and I had heard of ear candling and thought we would try it for ourselves. We decided to party like it was 1999 and ended up burning a hole in mom's brand new comforter. We did the procedure on each other, anxiously cut open the candle and shrieked, hooted and hollered over the disgusting amount of wax inside each candle. We didn't know then, that the wax was simply beeswax from the candles. Good times.
Fast forward a decade later. Our three boys are out of the house for the night. My husband and I haven't been alone or on a date in six weeks. We've got the house to ourselves for 12 solid hours. After watching an old episode of CSI New York, I announce at 9:30 that it's time for bed. And that I'll be needing some help with some ear candles.
"Why can't you just do it on your own?"
"It says right here on the box, "Never cone alone!"
"Oh my gosh. First, you're tired and want to go to bed at 9:30, then you want me to jam a candle in your ear and light it. Wow."
"I have to do this!"
I was trying to avoid having the doctor do it.
I got all the supplies; a lighter, the candles, a small paper plate and a slightly damp paper towel. And so it began.
The candle was hard to light. Once it did, the flame shot up, sometimes leaping over 6 inches high. My inner ear felt like it was on fire. My brave husband battled the flame, trying to keep my long hair from catching on fire. Neither one of us knew what was happening, but as the flame kept growing, we had to end prematurely. The slightly damp paper towel was no match for the now flaming torch. Finally, the flame ground out on the tiny paper plate.
I decided to forego the other ear realizing that is exactly how two highly educated people burn their house down.
I love being a freelance book reviewer. I have yet to read and review a book that wasn't good. My latest fiction read, is no exception. Bonnie Grove's first novel "Talking to the Dead" is excellent. I couldn't put it down. Bonnie's use of humor in this story is brilliant. I was laughing out loud, amazed at the way she inserts humor into what is traditionally a morose subject. Like Francine Rivers says in her endorsement, I can't wait for Bonnie Grove's next book!
It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!
You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
Bonnie Grove started writing when her parents bought a typewriter, and she hasn’t stopped since. Trained in Christian Counseling (Emmanuel Bible College, Kitchener, ON), and secular psychology (University of Alberta), she developed and wrote social programs for families at risk while landing articles and stories in anthologies. She is the author of Working Your Best You: Discovering and Developing the Strengths God Gave You; Talking to the Dead is her first novel. Grove and her pastor husband, Steve, have two children; they live in Saskatchewan.
List Price: $14.99 Paperback: 384 pages Publisher: David C. Cook; New edition edition (June 1, 2009) Language: English ISBN-10: 1434766411 ISBN-13: 978-1434766410
Kevin was dead and the people in my house wouldn’t go home. They mingled after the funeral, eating sandwiches, drinking tea, and speaking in muffled tones. I didn’t feel grateful for their presence. I felt exactly nothing.
Funerals exist so we can close doors we’d rather leave open. But where did we get the idea that the best approach to facing death is to eat Bundt cake? I refused to pick at dainties and sip hot drinks. Instead, I wandered into the back yard.
I knew if I turned my head I’d see my mother’s back as she guarded the patio doors. Mom would let no one pass. As a recent widow herself, she knew my need to stare into my loss alone.
I sat on the porch swing and closed my eyes, letting the June sun warm my bare arms. Instead of closing the door on my pain, I wanted it to swing from its hinges so the searing winds of grief could scorch my face and body. Maybe I hoped to die from exposure.
Kevin had been dead three hours before I had arrived at the hospital. A long time for my husband to be dead without me knowing. He was so altered, so permanently changed without my being aware.
I had stood in the emergency room, surrounded by faded blue cotton curtains, looking at the naked remains of my husband while nurses talked in hushed tones around me. A sheet covered Kevin from his hips to his knees. Tubes, which had either carried something into or away from his body, hung disconnected and useless from his arms. The twisted remains of what I assumed to be some sort of breathing mask lay on the floor. “What happened?” I said in a whisper so faint I knew no one could hear. Maybe I never said it at all. A short doctor with a pronounced lisp and quiet manner told me Kevin’s heart killed him. He used difficult phrases; medical terms I didn’t know, couldn’t understand. He called it an episode and said it was massive. When he said the word massive, spit flew from his mouth, landing on my jacket’s lapel. We had both stared at it.
When my mother and sister, Heather, arrived at the hospital, they gazed speechlessly at Kevin for a time, and then took me home. Heather had whispered with the doctor, their heads close together, before taking a firm hold on my arm and walking me out to her car. We drove in silence to my house. The three of us sat around my kitchen table looking at each other.
Several times my mother opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Our words had turned to cotton, thick and dry. We couldn’t work them out of our throats. I had no words for my abandonment. Like everything I knew to be true had slipped out the back door when I wasn’t looking.
“What happened?” I said again. This time I knew I had said it out loud. My voice echoed back to me off the kitchen table.
“Remember how John Ritter died? His heart, remember?” This from Heather, my younger, smarter sister. Kevin had died a celebrity’s death.
From the moment I had received the call from the hospital until now, I had allowed other people to make all of my bereavement decisions. My mother and mother-in-law chose the casket and placed the obituary in the paper. Kevin’s boss at the bank, Donna Walsh, arranged for the funeral parlor and even called the pastor from the church that Kevin had attended until he was sixteen to come and speak. Heather silently held my hand through it all. I didn’t feel grateful for their help.
I sat on the porch swing, and my right foot rocked on the grass, pushing and pulling the swing. My head hurt. I tipped it back and rested it on the cold, inflexible metal that made up the frame for the swing. It dug into my skull. I invited the pain. I sat with it; supped with it.
I opened my eyes and looked up into the early June sky. The clouds were an unmade bed. Layers of white moved rumpled and languid past the azure heavens. Their shapes morphed and faded before my eyes. A Pegasus with the face of a dog; a veiled woman fleeing; a villain; an elf. The shapes were strange and unreliable, like dreams. A monster, a baby—I wanted to reach up to touch its soft, wrinkled face. I was too tired. Everything was gone, lost, emptied out.
I had arrived home from the hospital empty handed. No Kevin. No car—we left it in the hospital parking lot for my sister to pick up later. “No condition to drive,” my mother had said. She meant me.
Empty handed. The thought, incomplete and vague, crept closer to consciousness. There should have been something. I should have brought his things home with me. Where were his clothes? His wallet? Watch? Somehow, they’d fled the scene.
“How far could they have gotten?” I said to myself. Without realizing it, I had stood and walked to the patio doors. “Mom?” I said as I walked into the house.
She turned quickly, but said nothing. My mother didn’t just understand what was happening to me. She knew. She knew it like the ticking of a clock, the wind through the windows, like everything a person gets used to in life. It had only been eight months since Dad died. She knew there was little to be said. Little that should be said. Once, after Dad’s funeral, she looked at Heather and me and said, “Don’t talk. Everyone has said enough words to last for eternity.”
I noticed how tall and straight she stood in her black dress and sensible shoes. How long must the dead be buried before you can stand straight again? “What happened to Kevin’s stuff?” Mom glanced around as if checking to see if a guest had made off with the silverware.
I swallowed hard and clarified. “At the hospital. He was naked.” A picture of him lying motionless, breathless on the white sheets filled my mind. “They never gave me his things. His, whatever, belongings. Effects.”
“I don’t know, Kate,” she said. Like it didn’t matter. Like I should stop thinking about it. I moved past her, careful not to touch her, and went in search of my sister.
Heather sat on my secondhand couch in my living room, a two seater with the pattern of autumn leaves. She held an empty cup and a napkin; dark crumbs tumbling off onto the carpet. Her long brown hair, usually left down, was pulled up into a bun. She looked pretty and sad. She saw me coming, her brown eyes widening in recognition. Recognition that she should do something. Meet my needs, help me, make time stand still. She quickly ended the conversation she was having with Kevin’s boss, and met me in the middle of the living room.
“Hey,” she said, touching my arm. I took a small step back, avoiding her warm fingers.
“Where would his stuff go?” I blurted out. Heather’s eyebrows snapped together in confusion. “Kevin’s things,” I said. “They never gave me his things. I want to go and get them. Will you come?”
Heather stood very still for a moment, straight backed like she was made of wood, then relaxed. “You mean at the hospital. Right, Kate? Kevin’s things at the hospital?” Tears welled in my eyes. “There was nothing. You were there. When we left, they never gave e anything of his.” I realized I was trembling.
Heather bit her lower lip, and looked into my eyes. “Let me do that for you. I’ll call the hospital—” I stood on my tiptoes and opened my mouth. “I’ll go,” she corrected before I could say anything. “I’ll go and ask around. I’ll get his stuff and bring it here.”
“I need his things.”
Heather cupped my elbow with her hand. “You need to lie down. Let me get you upstairs, and as soon as you’re settled, I’ll go to the hospital and find out what happened to Kevin’s clothes, okay?”
Fatigue filled the small spaces between my bones. “Okay.” She led me upstairs. I crawled under the covers as Heather closed the door, blocking the sounds of the people below.
Glenn Packiam has written a great book about knowing God. His authenticity, honesty and hope make for a great read about truly knowing God and rejecting a life that isn't rooted in the truth of Scripture.
Packiam doesn't just have me at hello with this quote:
"God was my Jerry Maguire, my ambassador of quan, and my prayers were spiritually cloaked versions of asking Him to "show me the money."
but fully wins my heart when he talks about how he and the woman who is now his wife, stopped on the side of the road and confirmed their love for each other, in the little town I was married in. Secondhand Jesus is a thoughtful read and I highly recommend it.
It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!
You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
Glenn Packiam is an Associate Worship Pastor at New Life Church and the Director of New Life School of Worship in Colorado Springs, Colorado. He was one of the founding worship leaders and songwriters for the Desperation Band. Glenn's worship songs, like "Your Name", "Everyone (Praises)", "My Savior Lives", and "We Lift You Up", are being sung in churches all over the world. Glenn is the author of Butterfly in Brazil. Glenn and his wife, Holly, and their two adorable daughters, Sophia and Norah, live in Colorado Springs.
List Price: $14.99 Paperback: 224 pages Publisher: David C. Cook; New edition edition (June 1, 2009) Language: English ISBN-10: 143476639X ISBN-13: 978-1434766397
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Thursday
Life couldn’t have been any better. We had been in our new house for just over a year, and it was almost time to start decorating for the holidays. Winter’s frost was just blowing in over the Rocky Mountains. These were days of sipping hot chocolate and looking back over a year of steady church growth, rapidly expanding influence, and a company of close friends to enjoy it with. On top of all that, my wife, Holly, and I were expecting our second child, another girl. Life was good and there was no end in sight.
And then it was Thursday.
Everyone was distracted at work. There were meetings going on, first upstairs and then off campus, and later on campus in an impromptu staff meeting. Internet clips kept us glued to the screen as we tried desperately to decipher truth, accuracy, and some reason to believe the best. But as Thursday soldiered on, doubt was sitting lower and more heavily inside me.
I remember the feeling when I got home. My heart was kicking against my chest with frantic irregularity as I ran up the stairs to our room. The sinking, tightening knot in my stomach seemed to sink with each step. I opened our bedroom door, and with breathless shock sputtered, “Babe, some of it’s true.”
I had just returned from an elders’ meeting where I learned that the seemingly absurd accusations leveled against our beloved pastor had enough truth in them to warrant his removal from office. On Friday, we learned that he would never be allowed back. By Sunday, we were sitting in church with hot tears racing down our faces, listening to letters that told us words we never thought we would hear. Our pastor had been a prominent national figure because of his role as president of the National Association of Evangelicals. He had been featured on Barbara Walters and other major news shows, had been called the most influential pastor in America. It was the biggest religious debacle in my lifetime. And it happened at my church. My church.
Thursday came and everything changed; my unshakeable “good life” became a nightmare of uncertainty. Would the church implode? Would everyone leave? Would I have a job next week? Could I ever get hired in ministry again? The songs, the influence, the success, the notoriety—it all became foolishly irrelevant.
Slowly, I replayed the past. The preceding years had been heady times. Our pastor’s meteoric rise to the evangelical papacy paralleled the growing muscle of a conservative Christian movement now beginning to flex in the public square. The young men who had helped build our church, myself included, now found themselves swimming in much bigger circles of influence. We were talking to the press, traveling to Washington DC, and dropping more names than Old Testament genealogy. We had become powerful by association. And it was intoxicating. We were like the eager young men in Tobias Wolff’s fictitious memoir of an elite prep school on the Eastern Seaboard, full of idealism and world-changing dreams.
It was a good dream and we tried to live it out, even while knowing that we were actors in a play, and that outside the theater was a world we would have to reckon with when the curtain closed and the doors were flung open.1
On Thursday, the theater doors flung open. The dream was over now. There was no thought of making an impact or changing the world. It was now about survival. How could we help our church stay intact?
As the days became weeks, it became clear that our church was made up of strong families who truly were connected to each other. It is a community akin to a small Midwestern town. So what if the mayor is gone? We’re all still here. I watched men and women rally together in a heroic display of Christ-like love.
It wasn’t long before the shock of scandal gave way to the discomfort of introspection. This was ultimately not about a fallen pastor; it was about fallen nature, a nature we all have lurking within us. It became less about the worst being true about him, and more about the worst being true about us. We began to allow the Lord to turn His spotlight, one more piercing than the light of any cameras, on our own hearts. Secret sins, recurring temptations, hidden pride all looked sinister in His light. There was no such thing as a little white anything. Every weakness was now a dangerous monster with the potential of ruining our lives. Couples began to have difficult conversations with each other, friends became more vulnerable than they had ever been. Honest was the new normal. That sounds so strange to say.
But far beyond discussions and confessions, one question, one I never thought I would have trouble answering, relentlessly worked its way to my core. It surfaced from the pages of Henri Nouwen’s book, In the Name of Jesus. Nouwen had been an influential theology professor at Harvard, living at what most would have considered the apex of his career. But something was wrong.
After twenty years in the academic world as a teacher of pastoral psychology, pastoral theology, and Christian spirituality, I began to experience a deep inner threat. As I entered into my fifties …I came face to face with the simple question, “Did becoming older bring me closer to Jesus?” After twenty-five years of priesthood, I found myself praying poorly, living somewhat isolated from other people, and very much preoccupied with burning issues.2
But Nouwen’s inner wrestling was largely unnoticed by those around him, which made it more difficult for him to accurately gage the condition of his heart.
Everyone was saying that I was doing really well, but something inside was telling me that my success was putting my own soul in danger. I began to ask myself whether my lack of contemplative prayer, my loneliness, and my constantly changing involvement in what seemed most urgent were signs that the Spirit was gradually being suppressed … I was living in a very dark place and … the term “burnout” was a convenient psychological translation for spiritual death.3
Haunted by the emptiness of his own spiritual walk, Nouwen started on a journey that eventually led to his resignation from Harvard. He took a position as a chaplain at Le Arche, a care facility for the handicapped. There he learned what it meant to live out a life of love and servanthood, to live as Christ among the broken, to truly “lead in the name of Jesus.” I had read his profound and honest reflections years before, but as I reread them in the wake of the scandal, I found myself convicted. Nouwen’s question dealt with something deeper than sin; it was about the essence of the Christian life, the thing we must have above all else.
I remember sitting with a few friends in my living room on New Year’s Eve, reflecting on how insane 2006 had been. We decided to have a little dessert and ponder the year that was now in its closing hours. Each couple took turns reviewing highs and lows of the year. For the most part, it had been a good year. Bigger and better opportunities, unexpected financial success, the births of healthy children, and the accelerated elimination of debt were some of the items on the good list. But we had also experienced Thursday, and “bigger and better” now seemed as days long ago, auld lang syne. The events of that day in November now overshadowed everything the next year might hold. Everything was good now, but how long would it continue? Would the things that had gone awry last year create repercussions that would undermine all the things we had held so dearly? For some, the fear of losing the jobs they loved was becoming a distinct possibility. The reality of how suddenly a curve in the road can appear was sobering us.
And then I raised The Question: Did we—did I—know Christ more as a result of the passing of another year? Were we any closer to God? It was not the sort of question to answer out loud. I wrestled with it in silence. It was a question of my own relationship with Christ.
I have been a Christian since I was a young boy. I spent my high school years sitting in on the Old Testament history classes my mom taught at our church’s Bible college, listening to sermon tapes, and praying and planning with my dad as he and my mom planted a church. My youth was defined by long quiet times, meaningful journal entries, and leadership roles in our youth group. I was a theology major in college and had been in full-time, vocational ministry for six years. Yet in the wake of Thursday, none of this mattered. Did I truly know God … today? Was my knowledge of Him active and alive, or stale and sentimental?
There was no easy or succinct way to answer that question. But as I allowed it to burrow its way in my heart, I began to see something. I had long lived subconsciously believing that God was a sort of cosmic agent, working to get me bigger contracts and better deals while saving me from scammers and opportunists. God was my Jerry Maguire, my ambassador of quan, and my prayers were spiritually cloaked versions of asking Him to “show me the money.” Not necessarily literal money—just comfort, success, good friends, an enjoyably smooth road, an unmitigated path to the peak of my game.
If you had suggested that theology to me, I would have condemned it, criticized it, and denied three times that I even knew of it. It wasn’t until Thursday came and went that I saw what was lurking inside. I had slowly bought the suburban rumors of God. My house was an evidence of His blessing. Our growing church was an indication of God’s pleasure. Things were going to get better and better while I kept my life on cruise control. Never mind that I had struggled—mostly unsuccessfully—to have consistent time alone with God. Forget that I had hardly spent time worshipping God offstage.
The more my wife and I searched our own souls, the more we realized we had become passive, complacent, at times even indifferent about our own knowledge of God. We had been lulled to sleep by our own apparent success, numbed into coasting by our spiritual Midas touch.
What began in the days after Thursday was a journey, a road of uncovering and discovering, of stripping away what thoughts of God we now knew were rumors and finding again the face of Christ.
These were not rumors that came from one man, one pastor. In fact, it’s hard to say that any of them did. Any search for the headwaters would be misguided anyway. Because that’s not the point. It’s not where the rumors came from; it’s why they came at all.
Here’s what I’ve learned: Rumors grow in the absence of revelation. Every time we keep God at arm’s length, declining an active, living knowledge of Him, we become vulnerable to rumors. Lulled by false comfort and half-truths about God, we—in Keith Green’s famous words—fall asleep in the light.
What the Heck is Going On?
Until life comes to a screeching halt.
There are moments when time stands still. Our old vision of the world, like a scrim on a giant set, rolls up out of sight, leaving us with a jagged, stark picture of reality, its edges sharp, rough, and bare. Everything looks different, feels different. Things that once peppered our lives with meaning are now completely irrelevant and vain. Things we had ignored and overlooked are now incredibly clear, almost stunning in the forefront. The football team whose games you would never miss now seems horridly trivial. The powerful boss you were trying to impress, you now scorn and dismiss. The child you once wished would
just go to sleep, you now run to hold in your arms.
A death of a loved one, the finality of divorce, the weight of debt crushing into bankruptcy—these are the moments that shake us, that wake us up and make us numb all at the same time. My moment is not that tragic in light of others. I think of a friend whose wife is facing a medically incurable disease. Or another friend whose wife decided married life was overrated and the party scene was where she belonged. I know a father who can’t escape the grief of losing a child years ago. Sorrow covers him like a cape and time offers no oxygen. There is no way to compare tragic moments. The game of my-moment-is-worse-than-your-moment, while possible, is seldom profitable. Pain is acutely real to those who are breaking under its weight.
These are the “what the heck?” moments. The moments where everything stops except you, as you slowly look around. Examining. Reflecting. Puzzled. Bewildered. The silence is broken by a bellow from deep inside: “What the heck is going on?” Or some less sanitized version of the same. How could this be? And what’s more, how could this be while God is with me?
The psalmists understood this feeling well. Fully two-thirds of Psalms are laments, an old-fashioned term for a “what the heck?” moment prayer. Imagine these words being prayed at church:
Why, O LORD, do you stand far off? Why do you hide yourself in times of trouble? (Ps. 10:1)
My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from saving me, so far from the words of my groaning? O my God, I cry out by day, but you do not answer, by night, and am not silent. (Ps. 22:1–2)
My tears have been my food day and night, while men say to me all day long, “Where is your God?” (Ps. 42:3)
These were covenant people, people to whom God had made an unbreakable promise, a promise to bless them, protect them, and make their days go well. So why on earth were they being pursued by enemies, losing their belongings, and getting depressed—all while watching the wicked flourish? It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t lining up with the covenant—or at least their understanding of it. And so they took their complaint up with God.
What’s interesting is that for the most part, we don’t find out how God specifically responded. There are “Psalms of Thanksgiving,” where the psalmist restates his lament in the past tense—recounting how he was in trouble—and then gives thanks to God for delivering him. But the “lament psalms” grossly outnumber the “thanksgiving psalms.” We don’t know if all became well on earth all the time. But we are told two crucial things: the consistent character of God—good, just, faithful, loving—and the characteristic response of the psalmists—the choice, the vow, to praise. In one of the psalms quoted earlier, the words of lament are followed by these words of praise:
Yet you are enthroned as the Holy One; you are the praise of Israel. (Ps. 22:3)
Maybe in some ways, the Bible is written the way the Oracle in The Matrix prophesies: It only tells us what we need to know. It does not tell us all there is to know, only what we need for life and godliness. Here is the lesson of the psalmists: All of our experiences and emotions can become a springboard to find God and see Him for ourselves. God is present on every scene, waiting, wanting us to seek Him, believe in Him, and worship Him with every ounce of our existence.
Our discussion here is not first about suffering. The question of whether God causes it, allows it, or has nothing to do with it, has been voiced since the days in the garden. Our discussion here is simply that these moments—whether they come from our free will, the Devil’s evil schemes, or God’s strange providence—present us with an opportunity. Regardless of your theology, these two things are common to mankind: We all experience a measure of suffering, and every experience can be redeemed.
C. S. Lewis wrote, “God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pain: it is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world.”4
Crumbs of Rumor
Too often, we walk through life with our hands fixed firmly over our eyes and ears, ignoring and avoiding the living presence of Christ with us—maybe from fear or guilt or simple apathy. But every once in awhile, our hands are pried off our face, our eyes are almost forcibly opened, our ears are unplugged. We catch a glimpse for ourselves, a glimpse that will be our undoing. And our salvation. In that moment, we are ruined and redeemed by that little glimpse.
Job had that experience.
He never auditioned for the role, never signed up for the part.God chose him. He chose him, we are often told, to prove a point to the Devil. But I’m beginning to wonder if God chose him to show Himself to Job, to save Job from the stiff, straight lines he had drawn around God. Think about it. The story doesn’t end with the Devil returning to heaven and saying, “Okay, God, you win. You were right. Job didn’t curse you. He does indeed serve you for nothing.” If that were the central tension in the story, there is a glaring
lack of resolution.
A series of ridiculously unfortunate events befalls Job in a very short span of time. What takes place in the lengthy remainder of the book is a dialogue between Job, three of his friends, and a presumptuously precocious young man named Elihu. After sitting silently for seven days, the three friends can’t bear to hold in their wisdom. One by one they present their cases to Job, trying to explain why he is suffering and what he should do about it. They generally agree that things have gone so poorly for Job because of some hidden sin in his life. They plead with him to go before God, repent, rid himself of his sins, and make peace with the Almighty. Job refuses. He insists on his innocence and laments to God with words that are
uncomfortably honest.
Then Elihu speaks. He dismisses the elders’ wisdom, preferring his own fresh insight. He is less willing to condemn Job for sin, but not as reluctant to rebuke him for pride. He hints at God’s sovereignty and our inability to fully understand His ways. But he, too, echoes the familiar refrain that obedience will lead to a prosperous, pleasant life, and that disobedience will lead to tragedy and sorrow.
As arrogant and simpleminded as Job’s friends may seem to us, as hard as it is to imagine ourselves saying something like that to a friend who has just lost everything, remember that they are simply
articulating the prevailing wisdom of the day. It was their misguided understanding of the covenant that gave them this simple premise: Obey God, and all will be well; disobey, and you will suffer.
That formulaic and faulty view of the covenant may be the reason the book of Job is included in Hebrew Wisdom Literature. It may be that the purpose for the book of Job is to counter an overly black-and-white view of life. Perhaps God understood that humans would take the rich, profoundly unique covenant that He had made with His people and reduce it to simplistic, pithy phrases. Maybe God knows our propensity to redact the living words of relationship into rumors that spread like fire—and that sooner or later, we will get burned.
What if the book of Job is not all about some intergalactic dispute between God and the Devil? What if it’s really about revelation and relationship with mortals?
At the end of the story, after Job asks God over and over with the nagging persistence of a two-year-old why he has suffered, God responds. Not with answers, but with questions—questions that bring Job to his knees. Finally Job cries:
I admit I once lived by rumors of you; now I have it all firsthand—from my own eyes and ears! I’m sorry—forgive me. I’ll never do that again, I promise! I’ll never again live on crusts of hearsay, crumbs of rumor. (Job 42:5–6 MSG)
This is the climax of the book of Job. It’s the way this incredibly moving story of suffering resolves. The mention of God restoring to Job more than what he lost is sort of an afterthought, a footnote to the story. It comes after Job finds firsthand knowledge of God. The story of Job is first and foremost a salvation story: God saved Job from small, narrow, rumor-laden views of Himself. And then Job lived holy-ever-after. It’s what happens when rumors give way to revelation.
I have come to the uncomfortable realization that I have believed rumors about God that have kept me from Him, kept me from really knowing Him. I suspect I am not alone. This book is about some of the more popular rumors, and the path to finding the truth. What you read here is not intended to be the basis for your view of God. Instead, this book is an attempt to jog your mind, stir your heart, provoke your questions, and whet your appetite for the quest, for the journey that only you can take. The journey that Job took. A journey that is not necessarily one of suffering, but one that by design means eye-opening, paradigm-shattering discovery. So yes, in some sense it hurts. It’s a journey that begins with your fist to the sky and can end with your knees on the earth. A journey that begins with questions and ends with speechless worship.
Mine began on a Thursday.
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS:
1. What are some of your “what the heck?” moments?
2. Do you think your knowledge of Christ is active and alive or stale and
sentimental?
3. What are you looking for God to do in your heart as you read this
For Christian woman in need of a daily dose of comfort and inspiration during these tough times comes A Cup of Comfort® for Women of the Bible Devotional: Daily Reflections Inspired by Scripture’s Most Beloved Heroines. The book is filled with stories of motherhood, sadness, joy, grief—everything is explored in this book. Readers will gain strength and courage to face life’s obstacles when they read daily reflections through highlighted biblical heroines.
Enjoy an interview with two of the contributing authors, Kat Crawford and Audrey Hebbert of Omaha, Nebraska.
Question: You have interesting, well-done pieces in 12 anthologies. How many and what were your writing goals for these pieces? Were your goals met?
Kat Crawford: I’m a story teller. Anthologies were a natural fit for sharing my life experiences. Honestly, my main goal—get published. I didn’t care about the money, I desired to see my name in print. That goal changed when a reader sent me an email. “Your story helped me…” Today’s goal, share how God helped me in a way that gives Him the glory and helps the reader find hope in their journey.
Audrey Hebbert: I have devotionals in only three COC anthologies, but I hope to have more very soon. Normally, I write mostly books, which means that I don't always get a shorter message out timely. These little devotional nuggets pack a powerful punch--otherwise they are not chosen for the anthology, and I'm convinced that they're helpful for most people. I wrote about adopting our daughter in the COC Devotional for Mothers. My words encouraged her, especially, and added a dimension to the anthology that had not been covered yet--adoption.
Question: In COC Women of the Bible Devotionals, we were to select a woman of the Bible for each piece we submitted, and write a short devotional for each selection, along with appropriate scripture and a prayer. Whom did you choose, and why?
Kat Crawford: Five of my devotionals were chosen. I searched for woman we don’t normally hear about. Even after all my studies I still wrote about Anna in the temple, “The Notebook of Joy”; and Mary, the mother of Jesus, “Let Go and Let God”. The less known women chosen were Nympha, “My Home, His Church”; Tryphena and Tryphosa, “His Faithful Workers”; and Euodia and Syntche, “Choose to Get Along.”
Audrey Hebbert: I wrote about Gomer and Hezekiah's mother. Gomer's story is poignant, without a happy ending. And yet God still uses the story to convey His everlasting, neverending love. Hezekiah was named the most God-fearing king in Israel! And yet his father was the worst idol worshipping, child-sacrificing king. As I researched, I realized how much Hezekiah's mother swayed him to worship the God of Israel, rather than worshipping the Canaanite gods. Without her influence, he would have followed in his father's footsteps.
Question: Writers often learn something significant when they write. What did you learn when writing about these women?
Kat Crawford: When writing about Tryphena and Tryphosa, I reflected on the older women I’d met while holding Cup of Comfort book events last year. The women serve with such joy. When I read how Paul instructed Euodia and Syntche to get along, I realized how fortunate I am to have strong friendships that have stood the test of disagreements.
Audrey Hebbert: I have "always" known about godly Hezekiah, but I never knew his background. He also had a godly grandfather influencer. I was encouraged to keep praying/influencing my family when I learned of his godly forbears' examples.
Question: Do you have selections in as yet unpublished COC books? Which ones and the subject?
Kat Crawford: Yes. My article “Vision in a Verse” will be released in A Cup of Comfort Bible Promises in March 2010. In 1976 a friend encouraged me to choose a Bible verse for each year. I prayed, studied and read, nothing jumped off the page for a yearly verse. So I visited the local bookstore. What happened turned into a humorous and life changing event, one worth writing about.
Audrey Hebbert: Recently I submitted one article to the editors of COC devotional for people going through hard times. I do not yet know if it will be accepted, or not.
Question: Do you have anything else in the works at this time?
Kat Crawford: I have several articles scheduled to print in different magazines. In April Love is a Verb with Gary Chapman (Five Love Languages) and my own book, Capsules of Hope Survival Guide for Caregivers is now available, too. It is more than a memoir. It is a resource guide of help and hope.
Audrey Hebbert: My book, Green Light Red Light, hit store shelves in November 2007, and I'm working on a second edition, especially for ebooks. It's a funny, fascinating story of Monica Moore's 17 years as a short-term missionary in China. I'm researching for the second book in the Monica Moore series about Pakistan, India and Iraq. My Motocross Mania should be ready to present to editors at a writers conference at the end of March. I write blogs, one connected to my website, and guest blog for other people. My book reviews appear on several websites, including Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble, Christianbook.com, and wherever the author requests.
Audrey Hebbert, M.A., Omaha, Nebraska, is a retired teacher/business owner with many published magazines articles, devotionals and one book. Learn more atwww.audreyhebbert.com
Just finished reading Sammy Tippit's God's Secret Agent. It's an autobiography about Sammy Tippit who has preached the gospel on every continent. This book covers his time in the 70's through 90's where he went behind the Iron Curtain and other closed countries to share the love of Christ.
I had the pleasure of hearing him speak at the Writing for the Soul conference and then briefly met him as he autographed my copy of God's Secret Agent.
The back of the book says it will will expand your vision. That it did. I found his continuing story very inspiring.
Sammy talks about measuring success by the results of our actions. It is so easy for us to do that. When we do, we feel unsuccessful most of the time. Most things in life just don't stack up to our lofty standards. Instead, Sammy helped me to discover that success is measured only in obedience. If I do what God is asking me to do, then I don't have to worry about the outcome. I've already won and received all the success I need.
What are you using to measure success in your own life?
Amazon launched a new feature today and blogs are now able to be published on the Kindle. Go HERE to sign your blog up!
Unfortunately you cannot make your blog available for free. Amazon decides the price, but you do get a small percentage of the subscription fees. Also, the Kindle subscriptions don't show video, so in the future you'll have to go to www.Audrakrell.com to see upcoming videos recorded with my sweet Mother's Day present, the FLip Video HD Camcorder.
To subscribe to my blog on the Kindle click HERE. You get a free 14 day trial and updates delivered wirelessly to your Kindle. At only $1.99, you can't afford not to get it!
I saw The Soloist the other day. Very interesting movie. At the end a statistic was shown stating that there are 90,000 homeless people in the greater Los Angeles area. I wondered how many of them are children? A lot I would imagine.
We're all familiar with different ways we can help the homeless population. We must keep a vigilant eye however, over the children in our own lives. We can abandon them and still breathe the same air. Meeting their needs for food, clothing and shelter aren't enough. They need our emotional presence and availability, their whole lives through.
Our children may not look like this little girl on the outside, but let us not forget to keep a heart watch at what's on the inside.
Amazon unveiled the newest addition to the Kindle Family today, the Kindle DX. Available now for pre-order, you're gonna want to get in line for this one.
Amazon's new addition is anything but a baby with the screen spanning 9.7" of diagonal e-ink. With 16 shades of gray, the Kindle DX reads just like a newspaper. Not only does Amazon offer over 275,000 books, but several US and International newspapers and favorite blogs are delivered via wireless connection in under 60 seconds.
With Amazon's new newspaper offerings, they just might save the sinking newspaper ship. As a writer, this is good news. And as a reader and lover of the printed word, this is great news.
It's amazing how many times we act with abandon. In a child, playing with pure abandon is beautiful and joyous, in adults it can be downright childish.
Such is the life of a shopper who often gives in to reckless abandon and is always spending money. You know the kind, something good happens, so he goes out needing a caffeine or food fix, a clothing shopping spree or just one more big gadget. And it feels so good, so she super-sizes the crave and gives into the "more of everything is better" way of thinking.
There is help for this way of life, for what has become know as the American Way. It's called Shopping Nut and it helps you save money on everything, even dining out while traveling.
Well I don't usually quote Randy Jackson, but "We've Got A Hot One Baby!" Just finished The Noticer by Andy Andrews and could not put it down.
It's a quick read, compelling and moving. A powerful story of desperation, hopelessness and terminal thinking. But a drifter named Jones comes to town and has the gift of noticing. He sees things that others mostly miss and is unable to be hopeless. Jones believes that a life worth living only takes some "perspective."
I could quote the entire book, but have chosen the one that spoke to me the deepest.
"Think, learn, pray, plan, dream. For soon. . . you will become."
I highly recommend this book, for a little perspective. It makes a great gift for anyone. The book is being released today and you can order your copy by clicking the Amazon box in the lower right corner.
Andy Andrews has also started The Noticer Project. It is a worldwide movement to notice the 5 most influential people in your life. You can do it privately, join the Facebook Noticer Project group, post a note on Facebook, or take your mentor out for a cup of coffee to say thanks.
Whatever it may be, it just might change your life. And it will offer hope, something our world could use a whole lot more of.
This is Audra noticing Steve. You have shown me the love and grace of our Father in Heaven. You make me want to be better, make me want to do the next right thing. I'm grateful beyond words for the positive influence you constantly have on my life.
Who are you noticing today that has been influential in your life? Better tell them-
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