This land, dark earth soil, turned now and filled with seed, will become a picture of beauty.

Green, youthful stalks of corn shooting upward, drenched in sun and song and they will dance in the cool Iowa breeze. And the beans, a mosaic of beauty, shorter than the corn but lining the fields with an intricacy only they can portray.

I wander the land, lost in thought and dreams, many of which begin with “what ifs” and “what would have been” and “what will be” statements.

The tractors, they’re busy raising dust on fields and gravel roads.

I watch them as they drive past me, farmers waving friendly but their eyes fall quickly back to their fields — loyal to their occupations.

The farm will always be here, I know.

Leaning against the grain bins, I watch the grass bend and the pattering of a robin pecking and poking its way toward food, toward sustaining life.

And I wonder if I too, maybe, am doing that.

Just pecking and poking my way toward finding my life, that career and dream which sustains me, yet all the time carrying me away from the farm where a little part of my heart lies.

It makes me sick, thinking about it.

The stomach knots hold tight when I think of the swing in the loft, the way I used to chase my pet rabbits through the maze I’d built out of hay bales, and the time spent riding to and from the field atop a pile of corn in a gravity wagon.

My children, if I have children… what will they have for memories? The question lingers long like the scent of just-turned soil.

A rooster runs across the yard.

The rooster we chased for three days after the chicken coop door had been left open.

The rooster which, every morning before dawn, bravely crosses the yard and climbs on the front step and salutes the morning sun, waking my mother before sneaking back to its place in the barn.

I’ve named him The Rogue Rooster and I laugh now, imagining the way his red hat, also known as a cocks comb must jiggle just like an antique alarm clock jiggles when the bells start knocking.

These memories, they’re mine.

Fond memories.

So now I understand why my dad, when congratulating me of another semester done, has a look in his eye that tells me he wishes he could say more.

In one breath, he tells me, “I’m so proud of you. You’re living my dream.”

And another breath, this one just a sigh, words breathed but unsaid is about here, this Iowa earth. It’s his life, his legacy, and his knees are giving out and in a few years, he will retire.

But the farm, it will always be here.

I promise that to him, today… because a man’s life isn’t over when he retires from this life.

His legacy carries on.

And the grandchildren, they’ll be told the story of The Rogue Rooster.

For all of you who’ve been wanting to follow me on Facebook, I finally have a page.  Please consider joining the community of friends.  

And also, linking this post with Jennifer Lee today… consider stopping by her blog for more stories. 

I think this, as I read the words, not once, not twice, but over and over.

“He staggered not at the promise of God through unbelief; but was strong in faith, giving glory to God.” – Romans 4:20

Fingers trace the words again, looking for a loophole, a way out of not having this kind of faith.

Because the truth is, I stagger. I stumble. And often, I don’t have belief.

“The important thing to remember when we stumble,” I remember an elderly church member saying, “is we don’t forget to pray before picking ourselves up.”

I take comfort in this.  Because this much, I do.  When I stumble, it’s God I cling to; it’s the throne of Grace I crawl to.

But I read the ending of that scripture again.

“But was strong in faith, giving glory to God.” 

“I wish I had this strength.”

But my whisper is lost in the longing.

Today, and every Monday following, I invite you to join me in unwrapping His promises, gaining this strength and belief in the goodness of our Lord.

Next week’s promise can be downloaded here. Stick it on your fridge, by your computer, fold it in your pocket. Allow yourself to think for a few days about this promise and then… write.

If you have a blog, you can link your post here every Monday.  (But if Monday doesn’t work for you, Tuesday or Wednesday is great too.)

If you don’t have a blog, you can share your thoughts with me by emailing them to duane2scott@gmail.com. (I may ask to share your thoughts here on the blog.) 

It’s warmth penetrates the room, sneaking through blinds to fall across the bed we sleep on.

“Just a nap,” I told her earlier, “Won’t you come nap with me?”

She’s wrestling with the vacuum hose when I tell her, making this house into a home and she doesn’t want to give in but I go anyway, taking the dog with me.

She’ll surrender eventually.

So we sleep, until I wake up and she is beautiful lying wrapped in peace. And I want to wake her, tell her I miss her and I want to go and do and just be together.

The dog, so plush and furry, lies on the floor… also deep in sleep.

I want to wake him too. To squeeze him tight until he’s gasping for air but he knows it’s just me and the weird way I love.

All I have to do is move.

The dog will wake up and Southern Gal will slide her warm arm across my bare chest and hold me tight, pulling me deeper under the covers.

But I don’t.

I just lie here, hand laced in hers, and dream of five minutes from now, when my life will be the dream I awakened too.

It says it here…

The stars are the very breath of our Father.

And when we take but a moment to notice such a simple thing as the stars…

We notice Him.

The contractors are all excited for the ground, finally thawed, to be broken and the busyness of it all lands on my desk in blue-inked sketches and rebate forms and approved estimates with signatures.

 I want to be excited too, like my dad in the office next to mine, but my eyes are blind to it all.

Blind to all this… empty; this race for more contracts and bigger houses and heated shops to park the classics all redone.

To be numb to it all would be nice… to not be staring down a summer away from the hospital would be even nicer.

But it must matter, this all, at least to some point.

So I talk straight to my dad, ask him how he finds enthusiasm for it everyday; this exchange of money and greediness and he stops me before I become annoying.

“Duane…”

Then this:

If everyone only wanted to do what would be most appreciated by God, or what they think would be most appreciated by God, then we’d have no one doing what actually needs to be done.

I want to talk back at him just a bit, tell him how I can’t wait to spend part of my summer  giving children much needed shoes in Zimbabwe, but I bite my tongue instead because this lecturing back is becoming a habit of mine lately.

So I learn a hard lesson today.  

Perspectives and God’s will and people’s passions are different because we are all… different.

Neither is right or wrong or good or bad and it’s all the pieces working together that make the old grandfather clock work; time ticking forward like the earth spinning in space. The earth, where people go to work and do jobs, a shuffle of money between hands, some of which might not have a pure intent.

I listen as he answers the phone again.

And here, I finally understand it in full.  The reason this all matters.

The way my dad dips deep within himself and laughs through the phone and asks how each person’s day is going even though his to-do list and schedule is overwhelming.

The way he works without complaint to make his subcontractor’s day easier, sometimes doing their job for free.

The way he makes friends with each person he meets during the day and the way they respond; like they’ve just had a fresh breath of Jesus.

It’s his own mission field, right here in the thick of Iowa fields. 

Right here in the middle of building large houses for divorcees with hurt hearts and bank accounts filled with money.

Right here in the drafty cold house where a single mom lives with her “saving grace”, she tells us as she nods to her baby boy with dimples.

Right here… and I couldn’t see it. 

And it makes me wonder.

And stumble just a bit.

Because how can a missionary fly across seas if he rarely remembers to be one at home? 

llow the weekend to wash over you, my friends…

Let it cleanse away the weary.

Let each drop renew your spirit.

And when the rain is over, when all the world is made new… may His crazy love break through and shine upon your face.

Linking with…

crawling from margin to margin in the heavens, the quill is dipped in ink indelible and soon, the words become chapters.

Chapters of a life becoming a story; penned by the Author of love.

A love story, if you will.

It starts like this…

“Once upon a time, on a tiny, little planet called Earth, there lived a child who loved God…”

Each day, His mercies are new and I reach toward the rising sun with anticipation and flip the page, whole-hearted enthusiasm to see what the Author has written for today.

This story, it isn’t about perfect people.

It’s about you and I, and although we fail, the Author has perfect control of each scene; He knows how the story ends.

Trusting it into His hands, we reach for the promises written new there each day… Promises of forgiveness, redemption, salvation.

Gifts of love.

Into our hands, these gifts are given… so we in turn, can give.

Nearly a month ago, I flipped the page and saw it; there, written in comforting script, the suggestion was given to go.

To Zimbabwe to an orphanage.

To give because I’ve been given.

And His words of gentle suggestion, they stole their way into my heart until that day I couldn’t bear it and just laid it bare, this desire to fullfil the chapters which had been written.

This morning, I swallow hard as I flip the page and see the words.

With trembling faith, I step forward.

Into this story, I give myself.

To you, dear friends, I give the truth.

I need your help.

Because of oil prices, tickets have risen and the cost of my trip has increased. Below, is a button which allows you to donate on my behalf directly to H.E.L.P., the non-profit organization which I will be traveling with. All donations are tax-deductible and you are able to print a receipt listing this exemption directly after you have donated. 100% of these donations help alleviate my trip costs. (And.. thank-you? It seems so small.)

(If you are reading this via email or RSS reader, you’ll need to come to the site to see the donate button. Click here.)

“And that child, who lived on a tiny little planet, climbed on a plane carried by prayers and support of his friends, and flew to some of My other favorite children. Orphans, they are called. But I adopted each of them… long before they were even born.”

Friends… I cannot thank you enough. For the support, the prayers, the love… but can I ask? Look closely… what’s written in your life book today?

(Images courtesy of Help End Local Poverty)

Except today.

I settle, slow and easy into the couch, run my hands over its worn suede, and ease slowly back; sore from a car wreck that morning. A car wreck that could’ve taken my life and I remember now the way she bit her lip and just sat there. It wasn’t what one would expect from a mother after what happened on the interstate that morning at 6:30.

Seventy-five miles per hour, a deer in the dim morning light, no time to swerve.

It could’ve been worse.

She stares at me, asks me how bad my car looks, and begins to cry.

It’s 10:30 in the morning and she hasn’t combed her hair and I ask if she’s feeling well.

She nods through tears, looks me straight in the eye, pulling wisps of grey hair behind her ears, and says it.

All of it.

She tells me that Grace isn’t enough.

That more than anything we need a redemptive spirit.  Because in this day and age, Grace has become our crutch, our way of saying, “I don’t need to follow Him… or even have Faith. His Grace covers all.”

She tells me Grace doesn’t cover our sins unless redemption is its platform; unless we are willing to “take up our cross and follow” and how it isn’t my fault, how I’m just a victim of the circumstance of living in this century when everything about living for Christ is watered down until that Living Water is so cheap and easy we don’t understand the price it really cost.

How our Savior carried His own cross, blood dripping on the path known as The Way of Grief… so we, first of all, would be given keys to Everlasting Life, but secondly, that we also would take up our cross and follow.

She tells me following Him is more than what I’ve been doing.

It’s walking into the world and yet, being willing to be different; being willing to be persecuted for one’s Faith.

She points out areas in my life I need to allow the Lord into, to first find this need for redemption and then allow His Grace to work.

She never says it out loud, but I know.

I know she worries if I had died that morning, I wouldn’t be ready to meet God.

And it hurts.

Deep, her words drive and I retaliate and tell her where she has it all wrong.

How I don’t get caught up in all the rules but simply want to feel God’s love each day; how I wake up each morning and know His mercies are new. How my way seems easier and more free, and this…

“Look at you,” I say it, tell her straight and I know my words are hurting but I can’t stop, “I don’t want to be like you when I grow up.  I don’t want to be your age and still sitting in my chair at nearly noon without my hair combed because all I can do is worry about all the technical aspects of being a Christian. Have you ever read Psalms?  It’s all about being happy and I don’t want a life-time of whatever you’re doing because it doesn’t look like your happy.”

I know this isn’t true.

And I walk out, stiff with determination that she needed to hear it and I was justified in my words.

I drive toward my house and the guilt falls.

Picking up my phone, I start typing words but hers comes in first.

“To my knees. And I know I don’t know how to express myself but you are my pride and joy and my heart is too tied up in all you do and I have to learn what all mothers have to learn…” 

She never finished her text.

Just that, my phone never beeping again and I stare through eyes swimming with tears and wonder what it was that all mothers have to learn.

To let go? Heaven forbid, for I need her guidance and insight. Because who knows me better than the one who has seen me grow and do and become?

I text her then, tell her that she isn’t wrong, that I want the depth she has.

That I don’t want to cheapen Grace and I want to live my life following Him.

“Me too,” she replies, “I’m going to be happier too.  I’m going to go back to serving the Lord I used to know and always have known until lately.”

Me too, Mom, me too.

I don’t text her back but her smile is so beautiful the next time we are together and she catches my eye and knows.

She knows I’ve traveled on knees to Calvary’s hill and seen the cruelty my Savior suffered so I could live redeemed.  She knows I’m sold out and willing to follow and take up my cross. She knows I’ve been drinking from that Living Water and she knows I now know that Grace isn’t cheap.

With one look, she knows.

Because she’s my mother.

Linking with these wonderful ladies today.

I know it’s too fast.

I bump the light on my phone to see a clock and hold my fingers against my wrist, counting the pulse for fifteen seconds.

And I worry a little bit more.

It’s okay, I tell myself, and I see my heart, the way it would look on a heart monitor and how we wouldn’t even be concerned if I were in the hospital.

So I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling, thinking this way I can’t hear my own life beating, one lub-dub at a time, ticking toward that final number of 2.5 billion the average heart beats.

The atriums on the top of the heart contract, then the ventricles, pushing blood through the lungs where oxygen and carbon dioxide exchange, then back to the heart to be pushed to the rest of the body.

Like clockwork, precise and perfect, over and over again.

Except mine is too fast, time wasted just lying here staring at nothing, thinking thoughts like this, twisting all over the place.

Thoughts about the man at the gas station, handing over $20 in oil-stained hands, hoping to win big. He scratches quick, tosses them in the trash and walks out without looking up.

And now I wonder, if a guy could play to win an additional 2.5 billion beats of the heart, would I play also?

So I fumble in the darkness for a shirt, dresser drawers banging loud like two cymbals in a marching band, neighbors all up and alerted calling 911 because I live on a very, very quiet street.

I sink into the chair with the keys in front of me, determined to make sense of it all, get it into words, so I can sleep.

But the more I sit and think and try to write it out, the more I think that maybe, just maybe it’s not meant to make sense.

Maybe the senseless moments are the moments that it all comes together, like some sort of left-foot, right-foot thing… everyone watching their feet in the grocery store until you’re suddenly doing the tango with a fat man in the cereal aisle, Captian Crunch guffaws as you both move left and the Lucky Charms leprechaun throws rainbow-colored marshmallows when you both move right.

I grin, realizing my heart has slowed.

Rubbing my hand against my chest, I no longer feel it bounding but instead, I notice, in my attempt to dress in the dark I’ve managed to put the shirt I’m wearing on backwards because the tag is scratching my throat.

And then I start to see it all.

The way Mr. Watson, my dog lying next to me, has all four paws in the air until I clear my throat and he spins fast, hair flopping over eyes but he is on his feet in case I need his assistance, (oh yes, at your service, master) in getting the mail at 2:30 AM. Or assistance eating string cheese, his favorite.

Mmmm… string cheese. Strips of mozzarella perfection sliding down one’s throat… with a cold Pepsi.

I think about that old adage about the tree and the forest or something and I wonder “does a pepsi can make a sneeze if the wife is too asleep to hear it and scold one for the amount of caffeine one ingests”?

And then, there, it all makes sense.

All the senseless comes colliding together with precise chaos.

Maybe the reason I’m up is I’ve had a little too much caffeine.

No Pepsi then.

But string cheese definitely.

And I’ll take an appetizer of “too tired to sleep” twisted humor.

And a lifetime, yes, all 2.5 billion beats, of finding joy in this journey… even this journey at 2:58 AM.

And then, the way He takes the pieces and makes something new. (2 Corinthians 5:17)

In three minutes, she has said it all.

The story of how she, after years and days and hours of resistance, finally accepted the only way to live a full life is to be drenched with that everlasting Life. (Revelations 22:1)

And so, the water drips from her head mixing with tears of redemption as she kneels at that sacred throne and commits to a lifetime of Him. How she, like Simon walking The Way of Grief with Jesus to Calvary, will help carry the cross, the purest symbol of renewal; a symbol reaching out to all the world.

But this is only the beginning, I want to tell her. I want to remind her how hard it is, how every day one must kneel and commit the day to Him. How a determination must be made each morning new, every day saying “Today, I will live for the Lord. I’ll worry about tomorrow when tomorrow comes.” (Matthew 6:34)

Just a simple step each day, continuous committment.

How is it then, that there are days, maybe weeks, maybe months even… where that Well of Living Water keeps spilling over, cool waters full refreshing, untouched by the lips of the sinners.

Sinners like her… like you… like me.

It seems so easy, this…. this dipping of hands into water and drinking all that grace, grateful hearts revived until the song of the redeemed spills from our lips to all the world.

And yet, too often, the numbers are few at the well of Living Water.

I remember now, the conversation I had with God at the Well once.

Sitting on a bench at the park, I followed the playful bounce of my dog, the way the cool spring air flopped his ears around and I smiled, these small moments I wouldn’t trade for anything.

The sun dipped lower, cool air wrapping itself around me. Standing to leave, I called to my dog and then…

The wind stilled.

The sun came out from behind a cloud.

My dog laid down beside my feet, tired from play.

As if it were a call to stay, I sat back down.

And this I’ve learned.

Being still is the first act of committment. Because when our hearts are stilled and our ears are turned to the voice of the Father, it is then we can drink, full and deep from this Well of Living Water.

And the love I felt in that moment, spilling words of full repentance as I drank from the spilling Well, words cannot explain.

It was so simple. So beautiful. Jesus loving me. Me loving Jesus.

And the way, when I stood to finally leave, I knew it too…

Everything  just seemed like it was going to be… okay.

A life renewed, I desire.

Again and again. Day after I day.

Dear friends, may we never forget to drink from this Well.