Christians of every ilk have boldly expressed their opinions about the events taking shape at Asbury University over the past two weeks. Some are calling it a revival and celebrating the heartfelt outpouring of worship and reverence for the Lord Jesus Christ demonstrated by hundreds of college students and modern-day pilgrims crowding the campus chapel. Others have expressed skepticism and question whether the gathering is driven by emotionalism or social media hype. Still others are wagging a collective finger of correction, saying the group at Asbury is not preaching repentance or sharing the gospel of Jesus Christ, or that they are being programmed by nefarious puppeteers in high places.

To all of this I say, “Peace. Be still.”

The seas of the Christian church are roaring, and what should be viewed as an outpouring of love and an expression of God’s glory instead has caused discord between believers. As those professing faith in Christ dig in their heels on their preferred narrative and shoot flaming arrows at anyone who does not agree with their personal assessment, the world is watching. So is God, and I believe His heart is grieved.

“In the meantime, when so many thousands of the people had gathered together that they were trampling one another, he began to say to his disciples first, ‘Beware of the leaven of the Pharisees, which is hypocrisy.’ …I tell you, everyone who acknowledges me before men, the Son of Man also will acknowledge before the angels of God, but the one who denies me before men will be denied before the angels of God. And everyone who speaks a word against the Son of Man will be forgiven, but the one who blasphemes against the Holy Spirit will not be forgiven.” (Luke 12:4, 8-9 ESV)

The Apostle John exhorted believers to “test the spirits to see whether they are from God” (1 John 4:1). But there is a difference between testing the spirits and casting judgment. To malign the corporal worship at Asbury University is to assume we know and understand exactly how God wants to move among the younger generation, and the way He will move across our nation. To speak anything negative without visiting the gathering firsthand is gossip at best, slander at worst. And statements like, “It’s no different than a Hillsong concert” or “These people are deceived” may be born of pride or even personal trauma rather than discernment. Who are we to question where or how God chooses to reveal Himself? Who are we to judge whether those lifting their hands in worship have a personal relationship with the risen Savior? Man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart (1 Samuel 16:7).

John the Beloved goes on to write:
“By this you know the Spirit of God: every spirit that confesses that Jesus Christ has come in the flesh is from God, and every spirit that does not confess Jesus is not from God. This is the spirit of the antichrist, which you heard was coming and now is in the world already. Little children, you are from God and have overcome them, for he who is in you is greater than he who is in the world. (1 John 4:2-4 ESV)

Little children.

Many of these students are babes in Christ. Many are new believers; others may be born again on the spot as they encounter the unadulterated love of God for themselves. Have they heard the gospel? I don’t know. I wasn’t there. Odds are, neither were you. So, how can one who has not personally born witness to the message preached at Asbury claim with certainty that the conversions are insincere, or the assembly misguided in the manner in which they choose to pursue Christ?

I have read testimonies of Muslims who came to faith in Messiah because Jesus visited them in a dream. I have heard stories of people radically saved out of drug and alcohol addiction not because they read a gospel tract or warmed a church pew, but because they cried out to our merciful God and Father from the tear-stained tiles of a bathroom floor. Do we dare scrutinize the merit of a gathering centered around the adoration of the King of kings? Do we dare question the intentions of those who chose to visit the chapel and see for themselves, or believe God would turn a blind eye, should wicked people want to lead them astray?

“Whoever confesses that Jesus is the Son of God, God abides in him, and he in God. So we have come to know and to believe the love that God has for us. God is love, and whoever abides in love abides in God, and God abides in him…. If anyone says, ‘I love God,’ and hates his brother, he is a liar; for he who does not love his brother whom he has seen cannot love God whom he has not seen. And this commandment we have from him: whoever loves God must also love his brother.”
(1 John 4:15-16, 20-21 ESV)

Love does not mean condoning wrong doctrine or accepting unacceptable behavior. But it does mean assuming the best of people. It means bridling tongue and text before posting skepticism or judgment on social media.

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. (1 Corinthians 13:4-7 NIV)

Do not quench the Spirit. From the videos I have seen and the first-person testimonies I have read, the events taking place at Asbury are reverential. Beautiful. Holy. No one has documented hysterical fits of laughter or shouting. No one is staking claim to the pulpit, hawking their wares, or pushing their personal agenda. 

Jesus told Peter to feed His sheep. Those of us who have been sitting at the feet of Jesus for many years have a tremendous responsibility to not only demonstrate the love of Christ—the humility, patience, and faith of the Savior—but to protect the “little children.” We are called to make disciples and to encourage and exhort one another in the faith, not criticize one another’s maturity or zeal.

If you have a concern that those gathered at Asbury University are being led astray by hirelings or that wolves in sheep’s clothing have infiltrated the flock, I exhort you to go examine the matter for yourself. Get in the car. Book a flight. Go, but go with an open mind.

And if you won’t go, then pray. Pray for God to cover His people—believers young and old from every walk of life—and to protect them from any scheme of the enemy. God is not a man that He should lie, and He is the same yesterday, today, and forever. Those in Christ are the children of Abraham, and God’s prophetic promises to His sons and daughters still hold true today:

“‘No weapon formed against you shall prosper, and every tongue which rises against you in judgment you shall condemn. This is the heritage of the servants of the Lord, and their righteousness is from Me’ says the Lord” (Isaiah 54:17 NKJV).

Watch. Pray. And have faith. Thanks to the gathering at Asbury University, conversations about Jesus have spilled over into the mainstream media. God is on the move, and I can promise, you ain’t seen nothing yet.

“Remember not the former things, nor consider the things of old. Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert. The wild beasts will honor me, the jackals and the ostriches, for I give water in the wilderness, rivers in the desert, to give drink to my chosen people, the people whom I formed for myself that they might declare my praise.” (Isaiah 43:18-21 ESV)

“After these things I looked, and behold, a great multitude which no one could number, of all nations, tribes, peoples, and tongues, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, clothed with white robes, with palm branches in their hands, and crying out with a loud voice, saying, ‘Salvation belongs to our God who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb!’” (Revelation 7:9-10 NKJV)  

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Does he see me?

In marriage, the two become one flesh. Craig put off his earthly body, but my flesh is still here, and in a way, he still is here, too. I am sure he’s busy about the Father’s work in some form or fashion I can’t understand. But through the deep imprint on my soul, Craig is also busy through me.

Our shared experience in business informs my pursuit of new ventures to bring hope to the hurting through books and speaking. His playful approach to cooking gives me courage in the kitchen and inspires me to share goodies with family and friends. And when I minister to someone experiencing hardship, I hear his words of wisdom leave my lips. The person I am today reflects the person Craig was to me. He taught me to share love more freely.

These are the things I ponder, as the holidays draw near and Craig’s birthday approaches. The thought of carrying his legacy gives me comfort. I’m no longer running by his side, but I carry the baton for this last leg of the race. Team Thompson for Team Jesus.

I don’t know whether he sees me, but I see Craig in me. The love of Christ connects us still. So I give him a hug in my heart, as we pass another milestone. His words of encouragement echo in my soul, and I look forward to another day to be about our Father’s work.

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But, we were not on vacation. We were on a rescue mission. The poolside hammock in Campeche, Mexico was a trauma ward gurney. Craig was sick, and we were desperate to get him well.

In the preceding weeks, we had gone to great lengths to extricate ourselves and our business from a lucrative client relationship. We’d hired expensive attorneys to ensure that we weren’t in breach of contract. We willingly turned over our crew and our operations, desperate to pull Craig out of the field as quickly as possible. The work didn’t matter. The money didn’t matter. We needed to save him. Craig wanted to live.

He hadn’t slept more than three hours a night for months, continually ripped from his slumber by horrifying nightmares or debilitating muscle cramps. He likely was malnourished as a result of a limited diet while working six days a week in the north Texas plains, combined with rewired plumbing from a gastric bypass years prior. Only after his death would I learn about the connection between vitamin deficiency and brain function. Take your B12, my friends.

We fled to our favorite city in Mexico with dreams of buying a house and starting fresh. We imagined a slower pace and a home for ministry and fellowship. But Campeche was hot in June, and we hadn’t anticipated the afternoon storms. Our previous visits had been in January and April, when you could spend leisurely days strolling through cobblestone streets in the historic city center. On this trip, we limited our walks to early morning and sought refuge indoors to wait out the stifling humidity and mid-day rains. The excursion was not without its high points, of course. We ate well and visited with friends and created cherished memories. But the elements seemed to conspire against us, and our efforts at relaxation felt forced. We continued to fight an unseen foe as we returned home to Texas.

Still, we kept fighting. We railed against the darkness side-by-side. And we experienced noteworthy victories. I learned to be more patient, to demonstrate grace, and to humbly ask forgiveness the many times that I failed. Craig’s friends rallied around him with encouragement and prayers, often spending hours with him on the phone. Craig even slept through the night once or twice.

We also discovered that his physical and mental exhaustion had deep roots. Memories of childhood trauma emerged from the recesses of his mind. The lucrative-yet-taxing client project had filled our coffers, but also pried open a Pandora’s Box of pain that needed to be addressed. Craig’s counselor was compassionate, our pastor supportive, his doctor pragmatic. The consensus was for him to start on antidepressants, at least for a short season. I hated the idea but wanted to honor Craig’s decision. He hated the idea but was desperate for relief.

Four days after starting the prescription, he was gone.

Craig had been on the same medication before, years earlier. But he was 40 pounds heavier then, and his body chemistry was different. He wasn’t malnourished, sleep deprived, or starved for serotonin. And, although we were aware of the potential side effects, reading the prescribing information from the FDA months after his passing was a kick in the gut:

“Suicide is a known risk of depression and certain other psychiatric disorders, and these disorders themselves are the strongest predictors of suicide. There has been a long-standing concern, however, that antidepressants may have a role in inducing worsening of depression and the emergence of suicidality in certain patients during the early phases of treatment.”

The next page states in bold letters:

“All patients being treated with antidepressants for any indication should be monitored appropriately and observed closely for clinical worsening, suicidality, and unusual changes in behavior, especially during the initial few months of a course of drug therapy, or at times of dose changes, either increases or decreases.”

Monitoring. Close observance. I can so easily question whether I did enough. Whether I should have canceled my lunch plans the day he passed. Whether I missed any warning signs.

But, it was a good day. Craig took an hour-long power walk in the morning, because he knew exercise could increase serotonin in the brain. (You don’t exercise when you’re planning to die.) He finished writing an essay about sonship and emailed it to a new mentor in the faith. He journaled that morning about feeling encouraged after a phone call with a friend who had a potential job lead. And the day before, Craig had scheduled three more appointments with his counselor.

The man in the hammock wanted to live. He loved life. He loved people. Seeing the photo in my social media feed left me momentarily crippled, sobbing at the kitchen table. But, then, I decided to write. Love demands action. People need hope.

Sometimes, the chemotherapy doesn’t cure the cancer. Sometimes it does. Everyone struggles with depression at one time or another, or knows someone who has battled those demons. The ultimate cure is love. If you are struggling today, know that you are worth fighting for. Know that we are in this fight together. Craig was a valiant warrior and mighty man of God. He never gave up the fight, and neither will I. Neither should you. Take to heart today his words of exhortation:

“Rise up. Do not quit before the miracle happens.”

© 2020 Leslie J. Thompson. All Rights Reserved.

I believe that I shall look upon the goodness of the Lord
    in the land of the living!
Wait for the Lord;
    be strong, and let your heart take courage;
    wait for the Lord!
PSALM 27:13-14 (ESV)

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This is Amazing Gracie. She is a Jack Russell Terrorist (not a typo) and the first dog I have ever owned. She is fickle with her affections, pees in the upstairs hall whenever she feels like it, and has breath like a back-alley bar on a Sunday morning. I adore her.

Gracie was originally Craig’s dog, although we picked her out together. I grew up with cats and always considered myself a cat person. But Craig claimed that he wasn’t a dog person, just a Jack Russell person. He fell in love with the breed after seeing Gene Hackman’s fictitious pup in the film “Crimson Tide” and owned several Jacks before we were married. He always named them after famous Rat Pack-era performers, starting with Francis Albert Sinatra (who went by Frankie), and then Louis and Keely, after the legendary lounge vocal duo.

A few months into our nascent marriage, Craig suggested adding a Jack Russell to our home. Knowing the desires of my heart, he had already blessed me with two kittens—Junior and Miss Kitty—and it was only fair that I return the favor. We visited a friend whose momma Jack recently had birthed a litter and there fell in love with a roly poly puppy, whom we affectionately dubbed Fat Elvis. Although tempted to take him home, we recognized during our visit that the responsibilities of a dog would be taxing as we were learning to navigate life as newlyweds. So, we postponed the decision for another day.

That day came several months later, when Craig drove us out to a mobile home in the country. The owners were breeding Jack Russells to earn extra income and had advertised the pups for sale on Craigslist. (I have since repented of buying purebreds and am a strong advocate of always adopting from a shelter.) We sat on the floor of their double-wide as a bevy of wire-haired puppies pranced around in our midst. After a bit of verbal wrangling with a young gentleman picking out a pup for his mother-in-law, we called dibs on Amazing Gracie—Craig came up with the name—and brought home the most lovable little terror I’ve ever known.

I learned much about parenting through raising Grace. Dogs are not the same as kids, of course, but the effort, joy, and heartache of teaching a youngster to behave bear striking similarities. Gracie also helped Craig and me to bond in our marriage. We lived in an apartment back then and would take her for early morning walks around the neighboring golf course as we talked about our plans and dreams as a couple. We let her romp and play (and pee) in the sand traps, and I would carry her home for the last half-mile when she was still little and couldn’t keep up with her humans. When we moved to a house and transitioned career paths, I took over walking duties, enjoying brief windows of solitude while shepherding Gracie around the block. I had become a Jack Russell person, too.

We tried to get Gracie a brother once. That did not go well. His name was Bing—after the “White Christmas” crooner—and we acquired him on a whim from a parking lot pet adoption fair. The shelter staff knew that his momma was a Jack, and at the tender age of ten weeks, he looked every bit the breed. But the father’s heritage was unknown. Turns out, daddy was a big boy—maybe a spaniel, a pointer, or even a pit bull. And whereas Gracie and Bing played gleefully while he was still young, the bigger he grew, the more ornery she became. Ultimately, she lived up to the etymology of the word and was a real bitch, picking fights with Bing to demonstrate her dominance in light of the fact that she was greatly outsized. After nine months and 9000 tears, we found Bing a new home with a family that owned 70 acres out in Tioga. For once, it was true that our dog “went to live on a farm.”

That was more than a decade ago, and Gracie has been the only canine in the house ever since. She is feisty and funny, and sheds enough fur for a dog ten times her size. She has tolerated the comings and goings of other cats in the house—Jackson and Miss Kitty being her current feline siblings—and has somewhat mellowed with age. In the wake of Craig’s passing, she also has provided unbridled emotional support. Although the cats give me comfort, a dog offers a unique kind of companionship that in many ways defies description. And some days, she was my only reason to get out of bed in the morning.

Gracie brings out my codependent side, demanding that I take her for daily walks, loving on me at her leisure, and requiring me to prepare her meals. Lots of meals. Craig used to say, “In every relationship, somebody gets trained.” I am quite confident who runs the show in our house. But, this far into our association, why rock the boat?

Gracie is 15 now, and although still spry, her remaining days are limited. I’ll have her another year or two or three, and then the grief will return. After hundreds of walks and thousands of nights sleeping side-by-side will come the hard goodbye. But for now, I will savor every day we have together. And when the wonder-pup eventually heads to doggie heaven, I will cherish the memories—just like I do of her daddy, the one who gave me Amazing Grace.

© 2020 Leslie J. Thompson. All Rights Reserved.

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I stood in his shoes tonight. 

I was hanging up clothes after getting changed for bed and looked at Craig’s side of the closet. Everything is still as it was the day he died, save for a few things I’d given a former inmate we knew from prison ministry. I scooped my arms around a cluster of shirts and rested my head against the fabric. The hangers underneath felt nothing like Craig’s shoulder, and his scent was long gone, but I clung tightly to the memories. 

Looking down, I noticed his flip flops on the carpet. They were a staple of his summer wardrobe, along with his dark grey sneakers and the leather sandals he had on when he passed. The sneakers are still in the same spot by the bedroom door where he left them the morning of July 6, 2018, after working out. I nudge them here and there during the week, and I relocated them for a day when I had the flooring replaced. But for now, they still live by the door, offering the illusion of normalcy. 

I hadn’t given Craig’s flip flops much thought before this evening, but standing in the closet, I saw them in a new light. How could I have overlooked their value? Because, the last thing to touch the padding of those flip flops were the soles of his feet. 

I slipped my right foot into the oversized shoe, navigating my toes into place, then stepped into its mate. My skin touched where his once was. It was the closest I could get to touching him again. I closed my eyes and let quiet tears fall as my feet nestled into the impressions he’d left behind. 

He stood here. 

Probably not here in the closet, of course. Odds are, I’d picked up his shoes from downstairs and put them away while Craig was busy at the computer or watching TV. But he had stood in these sandals with his bare feet, and they had been shaped by his weight and his walk. So, I stood in them, too, hoping to absorb any remnant of his DNA through my skin as I felt the weight of my grief. 

Moments later, I stepped back onto the carpet and wiped away the tears. Self-pity is always lurking in the wings, along with the temptation to hide in dark places. But those flip flops had not lived in the closet. They’d been on walks through the neighborhood and trips to the pool and vacations in Mexico. They were meant for the sun. 

Craig loved people. He used food and travel and new technologies as entry points for deeper conversations and lasting connections. An extrovert and an encourager, he touched countless lives. Standing in his shoes, I reflected on the journey that we walked together, and how he always challenged me to step out of my comfort zone.

Even now, I hear him cheering me on from the rafters, telling me to keep moving. Where grief wants to stay stuck, he says there is more to come. I am walking through unfamiliar terrain these days, but I am never alone. The Lord continues to guide my steps, and I trust in Him. So in the morning, I will get up and get dressed, slipping on my own shoes to pursue God’s promises. Because each day brings a fresh opportunity to connect with others in hopes that I, too, can leave a lasting impression.

© 2019 Leslie J. Thompson. All rights reserved.

For you have delivered me from death and my feet from stumbling, that I may walk before God in the light of life.

PSALM 56:13 (NIV)

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.

PSALM 23:4 (ESV)

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Earlier this week, I discovered an unusual video that my husband left behind. He was testing a new camera gimbal and recorded jerky footage of our living room furniture as he fiddled with various settings on the remote control. I watched eagerly, waiting for a greater narrative to unfold, but Craig had switched off the camera after less than a minute. Others may have found the footage unremarkable. To me, it was priceless.

I could hear him breathing.

The sound of Craig’s breath gripped my heart as if he were reading me a love poem. Every inhalation, every sigh, had been imprinted in my soul during our 14 years of marriage. I recognized the slight huff as he lifted the camera and the way his breathing changed when he was problem-solving. I listened to the air flow from his lungs as he went about his work and pictured the way he pursed his lips while deep in thought. The tears came.

We take so much for granted with the people we hold dear. Their mannerisms. Their gait. The sound and cadence of their voice. We tacitly cherish those qualities, yet rarely give them any thought. For 14 years, I laid next to my husband in bed at night, quietly comforted by the sound of his breathing. Those times that he would snore, I preferred to forego sleep rather than have him move to the couch. Even when we fought, I wanted him near. Next to me. Sighing deeply.

In the creation story, God formed man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the very breath of life. Whereas God had spoken the rest of creation into existence, man was different. God’s divine breath made Adam a living being.

I could hear the breath of life in that video—the wind from Craig’s mouth carrying the melody of his spirit. That haphazard scene of the living room couch reveals how his presence once filled our home, even when no words were spoken. I will listen to it again someday and cherish a sound I hadn’t much considered before. It’s a sound we should never take lightly, as each breath holds the essence of someone we love.

© 2019 Leslie J. Thompson. All rights reserved.

The Spirit of God has made me, and the breath of the Almighty gives me life.

JOB 33:4 (ESV)

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I let the dog out this morning and looked up at the waning stars. The day was still quiet, but dawn was fast approaching. Another milestone. 

“I never would have imagined,” I said out loud to no one. A brief sense of defeat washed over me as I watched our Jack Russell go about her routine. She turned toward the door, ready for a treat. And I counted my blessings. 

Today marks 14 months since Craig crossed over to a world we cannot see. Rather than mourn, I reflected on what God has done. In 14 months, I have been to Nicaragua and Guatemala, to Florida and Oregon and Kentucky. I have celebrated family gatherings in the summer and the fall, eaten pizza on the beach, and discovered the beauty of Lake Michigan. I have helped a long-time friend get back on her feet while I learned to walk again myself, hosted small group meetings in my home, and sponsored a table in Craig’s honor at a benefit dinner. I have stayed engaged in Women’s Bible Study, prison ministry, and the Rotary Club, and soaked up buckets of love and support from friends old and new in each of those realms. I have reconnected with former classmates and coworkers, prayed over the sick, painted the bedroom, and celebrated Passover. 

I have cried more in 14 months than in the 14 years prior. But those tears watered the roots of my faith. Losing my earthly husband spurred a deeper intimacy with my Creator and a hunger for His Word. And as I have pressed into Him, I have experienced His boundless love in surprising new ways. He whispers to my heart, shows me special signs, and sweetly demonstrates His care through all of those who continue to rally around me when I fear I’ve been forgotten. 

Yesterday, I received a letter from an inmate whom I met through prison ministry. His name is Hezekiah, and he is 85 years old. I admired the beautiful cursive penmanship as I read his words of encouragement. “Since your husband Craig has been summoned by the Lord to another area of glory, the Lord has challenged me to check on you,” he wrote. He reminded me that some days may feel more burdensome than others, but God will never leave me or forsake me. The joy of the Lord is my strength. 

Hebrews 13:3 says, “Remember those in prison, as if you were their fellow prisoner.” How could my heart not leap at his note? This precious man, who has spent decades behind bars, knew the danger of being bound by grief and self-pity, and he remembered me. HE remembered ME. 

I still count the days, but I also count my blessings. I have walked 14 months without my husband, but I had 14 years of marriage with him. I am so grateful for the adventures and laughter and lessons we learned. If it weren’t for Craig, I never would have met Hezekiah or all the other brothers in Christ behind bars, or all my friends at Rotary, or everyone I know through Quest and Fellowship of the Sword, or even our neighbors next door. Craig had an unwavering passion for people and lived to love others. Today, I will honor him by doing the same.

© 2019 Leslie J. Thompson. All rights reserved.

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Recently, I traveled with my sweet friends Alan and Lori Caplin to Lexington, Kentucky. I have never been to Kentucky and quickly learned that Lexington is known for two things: horses and bourbon. The weather was magnificent during our stay, and I captured snapshots of the scenery in my mind. Over three days and three nights, we explored our surroundings, enjoyed fellowship with newfound friends, and prayed over those battling infirmities of the body and heart. By far, the most memorable part of our trip, however, was a visit to the distillery.

Lexington is home to more than a dozen distilleries and breweries, and travelers come from far and wide to sample their wares. Ironically, none of the three of us drink (save for a glass of wine on a special occasion, perhaps), so the tour guide’s continual efforts to have us taste various beers and spirits fell flat. The move of God, however, did not.

We learned on the tour that Kentucky is the perfect environment for making bourbon, because of the distinct seasons—they have very hot summers, and very cold winters—and because of the water. You see, Lexington sits on a bed of limestone, and the water takes on special properties as it flows through the rock. Then it is mixed with grain and distilled, continually exposed to the fire to be purified so that the resulting product tastes like fire itself.

…for they drank from the spiritual rock that accompanied them, and that rock was Christ.

1 Corinthians 10:4b NIV

During the distilling, the tour guide explained, the liquid that evaporates off is called “the angels’ share.” I envisioned the sweat of our brow rising to heaven with our prayers as we are tried by fire. Throughout the process, the master distiller also continually tests the spirits. You do not want the head (which is pure alcohol, like moonshine), our guide noted, and you do not want the tail (which is cloudy and tastes bitter). The master distiller is looking for the heart. What they call “the sweet stuff.”

When distilling is done, the process still is not finished. The refined alcohol is poured into oak barrels (which themselves have been charred by flames), and aged for at least four years, until it is mature and ready to drink. During the aging process, the product already has great value. It turns into whiskey, which many enjoy. But only when it has aged sufficiently—only when it is fully mature—does it become fine bourbon, a product of even greater worth.

As we were leaving Kentucky, Alan popped into a shop at the airport and blessed me with a last-minute gift: a baseball cap emblazoned with the brand-name Maker’s Mark. The three of us immediately knew the meaning. He has set His seal of ownership upon me. I am His masterpiece, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which He prepared in advance for me to do. The Lord Almighty is His name, and I pray that wherever I may travel, all can see that I bear my Maker’s Mark.

Now it is God who makes both us and you stand firm in Christ. He anointed us, set his seal of ownership on us, and put his Spirit in our hearts as a deposit, guaranteeing what is to come.

‭‭2 Corinthians‬ ‭1:21-22‬ ‭NIV

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I can see the milestone on the near horizon. One year. A whole year. Where I used to count up—one week, one month, six months—now I’ve been counting down. Saturday will be 365 days since Craig passed. One year since my world changed. A year of transition, revelation, deep sorrow, and occasional joy.

One year.

Others have been counting, too. Friends and acquaintances have reached out this past week with words of comfort and concern. “How are you doing with the big day coming up?” “Do you have anything planned that day?” Their questions are rooted in sincerity and deep compassion. Yet, I found myself texting a fellow widow to ask, “Is it normal to want to punch them in the throat?”

I am an ingrate. But, grief is not logical. My friend affirmed my mudpuddle of emotions and shared from her own journey. The end of her message summarized so perfectly my feelings as I watch the days and hours tick by.

“There’s no such thing as an easy answer to these types of questions. If I say I’m doing well, then I’m lying. But, there’s no way for me to succinctly explain to you something you just can’t understand if you haven’t experienced it,” she wrote.

Yes. That.

Truthfully, though, I am doing well. Last week was marked by two days of crippling grief and brain fog. But, yesterday was brilliant. I watched a friend’s son get baptized. A mid-day video shoot for a long-time client went exceptionally well. In the evening, nearly 20 people gathered at my home for food and fellowship, healing prayer and a time of teaching in God’s Word. The day was a series of successes and cause for celebration. I cried briefly as I said goodnight to my absent husband, but I went to bed grateful. I dare say, I felt content.

And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds, not giving up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but encouraging one another—and all the more as you see the Day approaching.

HEBREWS 10:24-25 NIV

Life is a series of mile markers. Some bring great joy—graduations and weddings, new homes, new jobs, new birth. Others mark times of sadness and loss. The death of a parent. The death of a spouse. The death of a dream. But, the journey does not stop at the milestones. They are simply indicators of the profound events that we’ve experienced along the way, and point to the road ahead. They shape our perspective as we look back and look forward while helping us to find our place in the present.

And so, I face the road boldly, and encourage myself with the promises in God’s Word. He gives us beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of despair. Yes, this is my temporary home. But, who knows what milestones lie beyond the next hill?

© 2019 Leslie J. Thompson. All rights reserved.

The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is on me,
    because the Lord has anointed me
    to proclaim good news to the poor.
He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,
    to proclaim freedom for the captives
    and release from darkness for the prisoners,
to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor
    and the day of vengeance of our God,
to comfort all who mourn,
    and provide for those who grieve in Zion—
to bestow on them a crown of beauty
    instead of ashes,
the oil of joy
    instead of mourning,
and a garment of praise
    instead of a spirit of despair.
They will be called oaks of righteousness,
    a planting of the Lord
    for the display of his splendor.

ISAIAH 61:1-3 NIV

The post As the Day Approaches first appeared on Out of the Herd.

In my early teens, I went on a memorable trip to Cuxhaven, a small town on the north coast of Germany. Ironically, I don’t recall whether I traveled with classmates or my family, but the trip itself has stuck in my mind—stuck being the operative word.

Droves of tourists travel to Cuxhaven each year to visit the Wadden Sea National Park and enjoy the cathartic experience of wading through mud. When the tide rolls out along the coast, the seabed turns from sandy loam to viscous slime. The mud extends hundreds of yards out to the horizon, making it possible to slog one’s way on foot across the tidal flats to small dune islands offshore. Mudflat hiking is both exhilarating and exhausting, and feels not unlike walking through quicksand (although not as perilous). With each step, you sink into the wet earth, the muck rising above your ankles. Lunging forward, you wait for the ground to stabilize beneath your toes, then extricate your other foot and continue plodding along.  

The brisk sea air and swooping gulls provide pleasant distractions along the journey, but once in a while, the mudflat catches you in its grip. In those moments, you humbly extend a hand and ask a fellow traveler for added leverage to help you get unstuck. You shouldn’t walk alone.

For the past year, I have waded through the mire—trudging forward, day by day, in the wake of losing my husband. At times, each step required my full focus, as I wriggled free from the sticky grief to forge ahead. Other days, I chose to rest and listen to the sound of birds and distant waves while savoring the cool breeze on my face. Standing firm in unfamiliar surroundings, I experienced brief but not infrequent moments of beauty and peace. And daily, without fail, God was there to pull me out of the mud. To keep me from being trapped in my circumstance.

He did it through the prayers uttered by friends and strangers, through hugs in church pews and laughter in coffee shops. When I extended my hands to the heavens in the quiet morning hours or gripped my pillow in the dead of night, He was there. A gentle pull, a whisper of strength. Another step.

The ebb and flow of the North Sea tide is constant. Eventually, the waters move in again, nudging wanderers back toward the shore. Mud gives way to solid ground, and you can pick up the pace. Aching muscles and wobbly steps still bear witness to the challenge of the journey, but in time, you resume your stride. Each step comes without thinking, and you can walk freely again. Lighter. Stronger. Unstuck.

***

I waited patiently for the Lord;
    he inclined to me and heard my cry.
 He drew me up from the pit of destruction,
    out of the miry bog,
and set my feet upon a rock,
    making my steps secure.

PSALM 40:1-2

The post Unstuck first appeared on Out of the Herd.