Finally admitting defeat, I sit and wait.

My phone is a constant buzz.

“What are you doing?” she asks.
And then, “Should we just heat up that grilled chicken for dinner?”
“Maybe you could help dad book us a motel,” my mother texts.
And then, “Never mind. My flight might get me in earlier than I thought.”

My fingers type quick.
The train inches off the road.

I slam frustrated on the accelerator and I’m not sure why because where I’m going has no time commitments, no responsibilities.

Nothing but open air, dragonflies darting, and miles of paved trails for jogging.

Parking my car, I tighten my running shoes and grab a bottle of Gatorade. Stretching my legs has never felt so good and the sun is behind me and nature is before me so I run like I’m escaping everything.

Some rights reserved by Rodolphe Breard

My mind, a constant whirl, slows.

But my phone in my pocket doesn’t. Not even a quarter mile down the trail, it starts beeping. Constant badgering. I clamp my jaw in annoyance. The messages keep pouring in.

Slowing to a walk, I read the texts. Not a single one is important.

Standing there, I make one of the tiniest little discoveries and it’s just a little switch that turns my phone off and after flipping it, I feel disconnected but then I start to run and I can think again so I think about neuroblastomas and how they’re found on the adrenal glands and no, no, that’s the pituitary that secretes the thyroid hormone and goodness, aren’t our bodies fearfully and wonderfully made.

My mind slows. Turns heavenward. To the Creator who communicates best during silence. During solitude.

I watch the dragonflies, the worried skitter of a rodent, the way the wind makes the tree branches sway and wildflowers dance.

This moment, breath deep and long, heart strong and sure… are my green pastures and still waters. My heart weeps for all the times I’ve missed them in the past, these nourishing moments where nothing matters except Him and I, together, talking or not talking at all.

Together.

It’s the closest thing we have to heaven this side of eternity and yet we ignore it, answer the call to a busy, noisy life instead.

Legs shaky, lungs exploding, I lean against my vehicle. And the thought comes. Startling. A warning:

If the noise of our lives has the capability of robbing our time with God, it can also rob us of our Salvation.

What about you, friends… how do you make sure you walk beside the still waters on a daily basis and not allow the noise of technology and life get in the way?

Linking this with Jennifer Lee today. 

Sitting in the passenger seat reading, my eyes grow heavy. The book falls. Then Southern Gal drifts onto the rumble strips and I wake abrupt and start the cycle all over again; read, sleep, wake.

“Coffee. I need coffee.” My words are emphatic. Guilty. Sleeping in the middle of the day is evidence of improper caffeine consumption so I find my phone and locate the nearest coffee shop.

Starbucks.

Glancing again at my phone, I notice that while I slept, my buddy had sent me a message so I type back, groggily: Sorry. Fell asleep. Getting Starbucks soon so I’ll stay awake.

His reply caught me short.

“You can’t go to Starbucks. At least, that’s what people are saying these days if you wanna be a good Christian. Starbucks supports gay marriage.”

I scan the article moments later. In it, Barton says: “If you know that when you buy a cup of Starbucks, 5, 10, 15 cents is going to be used to defeat marriage, can you do that? The answer is ‘no.’”

We’re ten miles away from the Starbucks, the one and only coffee shop in the vicinity, when I realize I have a choice to make.

Weariness boils inside me, hot like rage.

All I know is I’m suddenly tired of everything being so complicated and people telling me to “do this” and “don’t go there”.

First, it was the Chick-Fil-A debacle. Then Abercrombie & Fitch. Then Starbucks.

And although each cause has worth, I’m tired of Christians lining up and protesting and boycotting because I’m convinced of this:

So we build a fence around us.
Shout from behind its white walls.
Separate ourselves. We’re better, you know.

We’re better than those sinners over there at Starbucks and Abercrombie so we hold up signs touting negativity and in the process, we wallow in a bit of hatred and in the recesses of our minds, we tell ourselves that no, our sin of hatred isn’t nearly as great a sin as the sin of those we protest against.

And during this process, we somehow manage to forget sin doesn’t come with a numerical value of awfulness attached to it. We forget the ground is level at the foot of the cross. “Blessed are the peacemakers” and “this world is not your home” have been forgotten also.

The GPS guides us to Starbucks. My wife, she smiles at the kind lady helping us. Tells her to have a great day.

Driving away, I sip the black coffee and it feels like warm peace and I wonder what would happen if we’d have the occasional Bible study there, in their comfy leather chairs with the aroma of espresso igniting our conversations.

“5, 10, 15 cents is going to be used to defeat marriage” the words come to my mind.

And then I remember the words of a grey-haired man who said: God is more concerned with how we spend 10 minutes than how we spend $10.

When the pros and cons are weighed in my mind, I decide ten minutes of exhibiting kindness and love is far better than standing behind a picket fence in sin.

The coffee, it’s just an added blessing.

What do you think? Does it matter where you buy your coffee?

Photo courtesy of James Maskell

The clouds bear down. Imminent, playful, dangerous.

Somewhere a dog barks worried and there’s always this thing within a person, a monster still alive in the soul, wanting to rise up in times like these.

He feels it crawling upward, this slow dread of fear and with inescapable power, it plagues his mind while the cold wind tosses itself against his lone frame.

What should a man do in a world frozen with fear? Fear of rejection, of unworthiness, of loneliness, of failure?

He drifts toward the river, water rushing angry and “it’s still rising”, the old farmer says, “and if it doesn’t stop, the whole town will be flooded.”

There are flash flood sirens and orange cones and signs saying “Bridge Out Ahead” and there’s no way out because the water is rising, rising, rising and this is like fear, always rising, rising, rising.

In a world reacting to fear – desperately searching and buying and being who they aren’t - how does a man react out of being loved just the way he is?

Standing on the bridge now, the rain slams wet against his skin and it soaks his shirt, sticks it hard against his chest heaving with the need for air.

How does a man breathe when the world is telling him nothing in his life is enough; that it’s impossible to be content with each breath, each moment, each gift?

The numbers aren’t enough for a publisher.
The account balance isn’t enough to cover the bills.
The person in the mirror isn’t enough to be worthy of anything good.

The water is rising, rising, rising.

He walks home now, tired he picks his way and the willow on the bank of the river tosses it’s long, slender branches toward the ground and this is how we should live too, he decides, bending our knees against the earth and giving our fears to Him once, then again and again.

Here, in the shadow of the cross, there isn’t better and best, rich and richer, holy and holier. 

The root of fear is the lack of trust, he decides, and needing to remember this, he picks up his harp hanging on the willow tree, walks into his life, and starts playing a song.

Shaky it starts, stronger it grows – and the song, it goes like this:

“Tis so sweet to trust in Jesus,
Just to take Him at His word;
Just to rest upon His promise;
Just to know, Thus saith the Lord.

Jesus, Jesus, how I trust Him,
How I’ve proved Him o’er and o’er,
Jesus, Jesus, Precious Jesus!
O for grace to trust Him more.”

What are the fears you face, friend, and what’s stopping you from trusting them fully into your Father’s hands?

Photos courtesy of Mark Leary

Two people, one young and one old, who once walked in and out of our church doors… are knocking now on heaven’s.

Love holds them close in our hearts; God holds them closer still.

So we wait… for either an earthly healing or an eternal healing and either way, it’ll be grand.

But it’s times like these, heaven bends low and the whispers, they make us a little homesick.

Related Post: What Heaven Will be Like

And I still don’t know what he was talking about or why he was telling me but I was his son that day and he was my dad who was growing older so I listened.

His gaze, it never faltered and the branches whipped wet across the gray sky and after sitting together in comfortable silence, he stood and left and this is how wisdom comes to us… quiet, forceful, then gone.

Being receptive to that which aids us through life requires a quiet heart and that day, my heart was hushed and I heard.

Last night, I watch the tired lines of my dad’s face in the flicker of the campfire and his words came to me again and I have no idea why.

Because I have no power of my own other than that which is lent me from the Father above and it isn’t until I’m lost in thought driving home from the warm brownies and ice cream that I understand.

Living our life with responsibility is the loudest testimony to the power of God and mountains are moved, friends, when we smile at those who are hurt, when we reach for the broken, feed the hungry, clothe the naked, love the unlovable, see the unseen.

This is how I want to live today. And tomorrow.

And the days will come and go, seasons will reign cold and warm, my hair will thin, maybe turn gray and when the last sun sets on my life, my hope is my Father will welcome me Home saying:

“Well done, my good and faithful servant; thou hast been faithful over a few things… enter thou into the joy of thy lord.”

And I shall enter.

Nothing to study. No papers to write. No appointments to attend.

You keep someone bound long enough they won’t know what freedom feels like and it’s a scary place, to stand out in the breeze and have nothing to think about except the breeze because the breeze is so empty, really, and the birds twittering can only be enjoyed for mere seconds but polycystic kidney disease goes on forever.

That’s what I was thinking about when I attended graduation, how I didn’t know what I’d do when I got home that evening.

So I walked with Mr. Watson to the river by my house and I watched the poof of his tail, the way it bounced proud, taut on the end of the leash. I marveled at a hummingbird, how it hovered on seemingly invisible wings, crop-dusting the riverbed. And the sun, she plucked her eyebrows in the mirror of the water and I was drenched in suffocating thoughts of absolutely nothing to do.

I scrolled to the calendar on my phone. Checked my emails, too. Nothing. So I ambled back to the house and when I got inside, I exclaimed, “You know what? I have a river close to my house!”

My dad-in-law stared, popcorn midway to his mouth, as if I’d been out in the sun too long. But my mother-in-law understood. “It’s like you’re seeing everything with new eyes, isn’t it,” she said and I nodded.

Later, on the way to the graduation party, I told Southern Gal, “It feels like I’ve been born again and I don’t really know who I am. Hopefully I still like me when I figure it out. Even more, hopefully you do too.”

That night, in the glow of the campfire, I chuckled.

The next day, tripping over an inappropriately shaped pail in an antique store, I laughed.  (I nearly had to send SG to the car for the same reason but that’s a story all its own.)

A few days later, I unwrapped a new canvas and held my paintbrushes again.

Each day has brought something new and everyday, I fill my lungs – fill them deep with His love, and I start by blowing the dust off my soul.

It hasn’t been without difficulty, though. And I’ve learned that when we say goodbye to one thing and hello to something new, it’s okay to be scared. It’s okay to be terrified. There’s an uncertainty in change and it’s this timid dance into something new that requires us to lean on a Partner. And that Partner, He says:

(The painting, titled “Trust”, is already sold. In the near future, once this site is redesigned, I’ll share a few more available for purchase. Thank you.) 

Behind her, on the TV, a sultry, skinny lady eats yogurt and she murmurs with each bite like she’s making love.

I pray the young girl doesn’t notice.

At the tender age of eleven, she has been diagnosed with anorexia nervosa, a condition in which the individual obsesses about their weight and the food they consume.

Some rights reserved by ! Santiago Alvarez !.

I invite you to finish reading The Life of the Body, Week Three over at The High Calling where each Monday they are discussing The Life of the Body: Physical Well-being and Spiritual Formation by Valerie E. Hess and Lane M. Arnold.

And yet, a quiet voice: Share his story.

So I stand on weak knees and make my way to the front of church and the people, they stare as my nervousness grows. But I press on and in front of all those eyes, I tell his story; how his time card here on earth has been punched, how he’s looking from this world to that world, how he forgave much because he had been forgiven more.

“I guess his story is so inspirational to me,” I stammer, “because I wonder what I’m also doing to make sure I’m in heaven.”

Shortly after, sliding back into the pew, I regret ever standing and my stomach twists again.

I manage to survive the rest of the service and then I drive home… in silence.

We’re sitting together over a simple meal of grilled burgers and baked beans when she says it.

“I’ve been thinking… after you shared that man’s story in church, that I’d like to volunteer at hospice.”

Her voice is quiet, unsure, and when I glance at her, she lowers her gaze.

Growing up together, going to the same church, I know why her face is lowered.

Because she, like me, was never as good as her peers. Like me, she likely was the topic of other family’s dinner conversations. Like me, many religious people were probably quick to point out her lack of Jesus but slow to extend his understanding love.

Self-confidence can be shattered in mere seconds and can take a lifetime to be rebuilt.

Glancing at the food in her plate, I wonder if, like me, her stomach twisted when she admitted she wanted to do something for Christ and my heart crashes into my plate along with the hamburger I hold.

It doesn’t taste good anymore because my stomach has twisted too.

Sitting here, writing these words to you, I weep.

I weep for her, for myself, for all the broken people sitting in churches with a tired self-confidence and a tired faith. I weep for everyone who has been told by others that Jesus could never use someone like them who isn’t…

Religious enough.
Spiritual enough.
Talented enough.

However,

Maybe you’ve listened to their gossip too.
Maybe your voice has been ignored in Sunday school.
Maybe you’ve compared yourself to the “holier” person in the pew in front of you.

Maybe, today, it’s time to stop listening to the masses of confused voices but instead, start listening to the voice of the One who simply says, “Take up your cross and follow me.”

Oh, it’s not an easy path, the one that follows Christ, and it definitely isn’t comfortable.

Perfectly fitted suits and perfectly suited people aren’t found on this path, but instead, the people are full of scars and self-doubt and messy pasts. They don’t have every scripture memorized and chances are, they can’t read the Hebrew, Greek, and Latin translations. Their sinks are full of dirty dishes, their children know what a spit-bath is on the way to church, and sometimes they fall asleep reading their Bibles.

As Charles Martin says, “A broken cup can still pour water” and it’s these broken, beautiful people whose cups are overflowing onto this broken, beautiful world.

I do not share these words to call attention to myself but to give hope to others who have been ridiculed and hurt, who have been told they aren’t enough.

Friend, you are enough. You are beautiful. You are His.

Although the words above do not directly reflect the final chapter of Wonderstruck by Margaret Feinberg, her thoughts were the launching point for this post. As this is the final chapter in the book, Shelly Miller and I would like to thank each one who took part in these weekly discussions. And if you have a suggestion for the next book, please tell us! 

The cloud of cosmic dust has been known for several decades for its distinctive dark silhouette shaped like a seahorse.

Some rights reserved by Skiwalker79.

But these new photos, using deeper infrared vision reveal the true depth of the horse head.  Up close, it doesn’t look like a solid mass, but a wispy, delicate, surreal presence.

Now, that beautiful cloud of dust has been floating in space for longer than anyone knows.  And for all but a moment in time, the only one who has enjoyed its beauty has been the one who created it, God himself.  In fact, there are vast reaches of space that only God enjoys, out of human sight.

The further we look, the deeper we dig, the more earnestly we seek – it all leads to just more discoveries of God’s creative energy.

The Bible opens with five words, words which I have posted in my elementary art classroom: “In the beginning, God created.”  But those five words are just the beginning.  The story also ends with God creating.  In fact, God’s creativity stretches infinitely beyond the boundaries of the story of the Bible.

God endowed humans with the capacity to do many things.  But of all the things we can do, I am convinced that in the act of creating, we are connected in a special way to the mind of our Creator.  When we shape and polish the world around us as we see fit, we are acting with God.  When we take satisfaction in our work, we feel how God feels.  There are so few things in life that align our minds in such a special way to God’s mind.  It is too bad that so many great artists have felt alienated in our churches.  It’s sad that so many Christians have no creative outlet whatsoever, or that churches are often sterile, uncreative warehouses of worship.  It is somewhat ironic that so many public (i.e. “pagan”) schools are cutting art programs when the potential to find God in paint or brush is as infinite as God himself.

We don’t have to be creative.  Neither does God.  We don’t have to create to make money, or to become famous, or to show off.  God lets us discover what He has created in our own time, to give Him credit or to pass Him over.  For all that He has created, and for all the glory He gets from it, He is really rather humble about it.

We create because we are human, and we carry God’s DNA in us.  It’s a gift from our Creator.  Creating makes us human.

Matt Appling is a teacher, pastor and writer in Kansas City, Missouri.  He has taught, pastored and mentored in a variety of church and school settings.  You can get his first book, Life After Art, read the first chapter for free or watch the preview video at LifeAfterArtBook.com.

If you would like to win a signed copy of this book, please leave a comment below before Wednesday, May 8. I highly endorse Life After Art (my name somehow found its way inside its cover) and Matt is not only a friend, but a Creative whom I admire. Thanks for playing along!

Favorite Posts I’ve Read This Week

What is a Sunday Still by Margaret Feinberg

“The Sabbath isn’t about what’s done or left undone, but about breathing in the goodness of God.”

What will God Hang on His Refrigerator? by David Rupert

“I wonder if when we get to heaven, God will have a refrigerator. What accomplishments will he hang? What matters to Him?”

I Have no Idea what I’m Doing and Neither Does Anyone Else by Justin Zoradi

“The stuff I hear most often are excuses from talented people who don’t think they have the creative ability to live a life with great purpose. They say they don’t have the vision or the work ethic. They haven’t received their “calling” written in permanent marker on the bathroom mirror. They focus on their past to purposely sabotage their future.”

It Begins with the Leap by Michelle DeRusha

“For me, leaping has made the difference between unbelief and faith. It’s made the difference between living passively and living passionately. It’s made the difference between existing comfortably in the box and thriving in the wild open.”

Favorite Thing to Consider

It’s that time of year, folks, when people everywhere are hanging up balloons and painting signs on cardboard in desperate attempts to sell last year’s excess. If you or someone you know are hosting a garage sale, would you consider doing it for the orphans? Help One Now will assist you with the process. Read about Garage Sale 4 Orphans here.

Also, my wife and I are running this “remote 5K”, to help raise money for a school in Uganda. Maybe you’ll run with us? It’s a great opportunity to get outside, get active, and give a little love. Sign up here.

Favorite Self-Post

What Heaven Will be Like

“This, this is what heaven will be like,” he sobs and he leans back, presses his face into the sun as if he can reach God and another patient pushing an IV pole squeezes his shoulder.

Favorite Quote of the Week

Favorite Comment on the Site

From Karmen, in response to The Scars We All Wear

“I understand the cutting, though I never cut. I was afraid I would cut too deep, go too far, so I hit. I wrote this in my journal almost 3 years back:

“I want to slash at my arms, tear my flesh. Open wound upon gaping wound. I am angry. So angry. Yet, I don’t know what I am angry about. I want to rip at my skin and release the anger in the ripping. I want to bang my head against hard surface until my vision blurs and my step becomes unsteady. Banging, banging, banging until thoughts slow. I want to run. Run hard and fast. Run far where no one can find me, but there is no where to run to, nowhere to run. I want to hide in the quiet stillness. No sounds, no sights, just light and stillness, but their is no quiet stillness to be found. I want to scream. I want to scream so loud that the world takes notice. I want to kick and to shout and to become hoarse and exhausted from the screaming.
I want to be seen, to be heard, to be known, and still be loved after the knowing. I look at my bruises and they scream failure at me. They aren’t deep enough – dark enough – honest enough. They don’t adequately represent the hurts and the anger that I feel inside. So, I hit harder – again and again until I can touch the pain and feel it swollen and tender beneath my fingertips. I see the picture of me, smiling, and I hate it. I want to punch it, smash it into a zillion pieces. I find my fingers digging into my eyes and I have to stop myself. I have to stop my nails from tearing across my face in jagged streaks.”

The pain has always been there, but the hitting only lasted for a moment in time. A month maybe two. I discovered that I could never make the bruises be enough to encompass all the pain and so I stopped. It is the talking and the writing that has helped to ease the pain. The harming was a way to put visible to the invisible. It is a cry to be heard and to be seen and still be loved after the seeing. It is many things.”

Favorite Moment of the Week

When my sister called and said I was now an uncle to two perfectly healthy boys. Yes, twins. Since she lives away, I can’t wait to see them so I’m planning to drive straight down there after school to love on those nuggets.

Least Favorite Moment of the Week

When I got sick. And while I was sick, I begin this book called Start: Punch Fear in the Face, Escape Average, and do What Matters by Jon Acuff. Now, the book is very inspiring so when I lifted my hand to punch fear in the face, literally, the only thing I managed to accomplish was dislodging a ball of phlegm. Oh, the irony. Epic dream fail.

What were your favorite things you read this week? What were your favorite / least favorite moments? Go ahead, share them below.