I usually have a punchline, a lesson, or something I really want to tell you (hastily concealed in paragraphs).

Not today, unless my typing ends up taking me to an unexpected place.

I’m just practicing writing. Telling you what I’m doing. Hopefully sharing what Jesus is doing. Being a good steward of my time (That’s what my husband’s 7 am devotion taught. I was listening.)

My website has had issues for the past month or so. I know this because I tried to write a brag post about the grand babies the day after they were born. I couldn’t get it to publish. I tried for a week!

Instead I’ve used the extra time I’ve had to reorganize my closet. I cleaned my laundry room and the tiny spare room upstairs. I scrubbed the hard water stains in my shower. I washed the outside windows, knowing the dogs would quickly re-stamp their paws on the panes. I’ve written letters...and got them sent.

Yesterday I bought a neck hammock on Amazon. (That might be why my husband, Jason, graciously offered to fix my website...because I’ve resorted to online shopping.)

I’m not knocking my purchase. I honestly think it will help with my headaches and tension. I’m just detailing how I’ve been spending my time.

And that’s the thing. I do spend it. If time were coffee I’d turn my mug up and gulp it down rather than ever enjoying its fragrance or taking a sip. I’ve got to be going, doing, accomplishing, fixing, buying, selling something...quickly to the day’s last drop.

I don’t drink coffee, but maybe I could better learn to sip time.

That’s one thing this Corona craze has afforded many of us...the opportunity to create moments and treasure what we often miss. For those working more hours than usual, the departure from our norm has caused time-sipping to be something you at least know you’re missing.

I talk to Jesus more these days; both at length and in short waves. In this time of having need and in acknowledging a certain level of uselessness I find myself praying more continually, thanking him for His goodness and talking to Him about my concerns...I’m being more still. And it certainly provides knowledge that “He is God.”

When we talk to Him and acknowledge His presence in these days He wipes the built-up monotony out of the corner of our sleepy eyes and shows us simple ways to enjoy and share joy.

This morning I got a picture of a family member’s set table that’s hosted more family meals lately. I read where someone bought coffee for a nurse. I scroll through pictures of my new grand babies both telling God how good He’s been and asking for more of His grace.

Here are William and Archie at three weeks! Tell God how good He is for me, will you?

I’m sipping time. And enjoying knowing that others are getting back to sipping theirs too. All we need now is a front porch, or do we already have a place where we can slow down and acknowledge all that’s good and the One who’s provided it for us.

“Desire without knowledge is not good-how much more will hasty feet miss the way.” Proverbs 19:2

Embrace the slow down. Drink in time. Sometimes in sips.

 

Nothing riveting has happened today. I did get a pedicure with the youngest, Rylie, and my daughter-in-law, Haley, who invited us along while she used a gift certificate.

My pedicure didn’t turn out all that fabulous. I’ve decided that some nail techs don’t love it when you just order the Classic Pedicure. This lady flat out told me that my feet were in too bad of shape to get the lowest package on the tier. I waved her off. I’m just a classic (not deluxe) gal. No upgrade for me.

 

My two big toes look pretty decent. They’re a light blue in honor of the possibility that I’ve got a grandson growing in my sweet daughter-in-law’s belly. The other eight smaller toes, painted in Baby Takes a Vow-pink, are less impressive.

I think it was when the tech was painting these that she decided she’d make it known that she wasn’t enthused with my frugal girl package purchase. There’s just one light layer of pink on the eight baby toes. Extra paint is splotched on the back of one toe and between two others.

 

Enough about my toes. I can talk about anything, or nothing, but to cover important transpiring news I need to go back to precisely one week ago. Anybody who knows me knows that my love for chattering stops cold if I’m behind a microphone or on a platform. I was outfitted with both last Sunday.

 

Right before Christmas I was asked if I would speak on the topic of surrender to a ladies group in Beaumont, the last Sunday in January. That invitation to speak wrapped up an incredibly eventful year. 2020 started out with a one large checkbox: “January 26, Speak to the Westgate Ladies”. There was an unexpected lull thereafter.

My calendar squares were relatively emoty, save some random low key events, “Super Bowl Party”, “Career Day for Rylie”, and “Lunch with Alison”. (No offense to these guys.)

 

Last year there were constant flexibility and endurance tests. Last Sunday I suffered a good holy stretch as I spoke to a group of women, larger than I’m accustomed to. I'm ready for another workout, am I right? Just what am I supposed to be doing in 2020?

For the past three years I’ve worked on three books. Last year I finished the third one, we suffered a couple of tough losses, married off a kid, graduated a kid and I earned gray hair and wrinkles which I, in turn, have done my best to hide.

 

Last Monday and Tuesday were the first two days I could remember having a fresh slate and frankly I had no clue what to do about that. It was as if God had walked with me through awe-inspiring steep mountains and craggy canyons only to be seated on a bench right in the middle of nowhere. What to do?...

 

This past Wednesday a little road sign popped up prompting me that there is another attraction down the way from the roadside rest... And my toenails are painted for the occasion.

 

If you haven’t heard, Jason and I are going to be grandparents in July. We found out Wednesday that we’re going to be grandparents...to TWINS!

 

There’s one for each of us. (I hope my son and his wife and anybody else we’re supposed to share with isn’t reading this.) Just like that there’s a new kind of celebrating and planning...and praying. And I’ve got my name ready.

 

I’m going to be a Birdie!

 

Just like that I’ve got the fever...new purpose.

At the mall this morning a toddler trying to keep up with his mom leaned toward me and shouted Boo! And just like a good grandma I feigned terror for him. He gave a wild smile and carried on.

This afternoon, a girl riding in the back of her dad’s truck waved at Jason and I as if to say, “Hello, nice old people." Naturally, we waved back big enough to suggest we were sending gregarious greeting from our car to hers. I have a feeling that we could be good at this.

 

Or really, I have a feeling God is good at this.

 

Last night while dropping my daughter-in-law off at her house I got to spend a sweet minute with my son. He stood by my rolled down window and for sixty seconds it was just he and I and the stars hidden somewhere beyond the layer of hazy atmosphere. He was my boy again and I was his mama.

I’d barely driven down his street alone when I felt a presence beside me; one that reminded me that loss and change seldom come without God having prepared for something better down the road. It’s not that He owes us anything, He’s just that good.

 

I’ve got my toes painted for such an occasion. I’m feeling doubly blessed. Let the adventures with Birdie begin.

...no human mind has conceived the things God has prepared for those who love him... 1 Corinthians 2:9 

 

 

I attended a school so small that two grade levels were combined into a classroom. Being so, myself and a dozen other fifth and sixth graders had Mrs. Jones as our teacher in 1986.

We’d heard horror stories about her, one, because she’d get out her paddle to give you birthday spankings (I was getting mine in the picture below), and two, she was rumored to have stepped on eleven-year-old feet who insisted on being in the aisle instead of underneath their desk.

Still, fifth and sixth grade were the first years we got lockers. And every week we’d find a magnetic letter strip noting a handwritten assignment on our locker door. Mrs. Jones gave us jobs.

I always secretly hoped I’d get to be the “Film Person”. There was nothing that felt more important than getting to load the filmstrip onto the reel as our class gathered into the library for a lesson or, every now and then, a little entertainment.

I’d load it up and then I’d enjoy the show, not counting the times I took a short nap because what we were watching was a little less than thrilling.

Loading the film was my favorite job, but I loved having most any assignment; a reminder I mattered.

I’m no different today in that I still love tending to most things I’ve been tasked to, or volunteered for.

I continue to want to be purposeful, though I notice my attitude these days is a little lacking.

It’s often no longer about doing the job. Inseparable from what I’m tasked to do is often the silent and rather grueling assessments I give myself charge over.

Did I do a good enough job?

Were my efforts understood? Appreciated? Criticized?

I don’t recall worrying about all that on days when I was the “Film Person.”

We all have assignments. Some we’re excited over and passionate about. Other jobs we complete out of a sense of duty or necessity (because, you know, there are bills, or nobody else would do it, or we were asked to.)

Whatever appointment you’re working through today, consider focusing on getting the task done to the best of your ability.

Be careful to know where your job ends and begins. Keep in mind that you’re responsible for loading the filmstrip, but not for those watching the film.

Don’t neglect to find joy in those things you’ve been privileged to be a part of. Be grateful, relax and enjoy the show. If it’s not all that enjoyable, maybe you can be like the simple film person I once knew and you can find satisfaction that you’ve done your part, and then catch a little rest.

Contentment is found by staying inside our calling to work, enjoy and rest.

“Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters”

Colossians 3:23

He wasn’t fancy or rich or famous. He was bald-headed and wore khaki coveralls. My Grandad had a kind smile, but would dutifully be the bad guy (although he wasn’t very gruff) if we grandkids misbehaved.

I don’t remember him ever telling me I was pretty. He didn’t brag on how smart I was or make a big deal out of any picture I ever drew, that I can remember.

I suppose he was proud of all thirteen of his grandkids, but our merit never had anything to do with being loved by Grandad. He loved us because he ‘was’ love more than loving us under some crazy notion that we’re always 100% lovable.

He taught me...

•Love does the dishes.

With a house full of capable hands whose statures probably fit up to the sink more comfortably, my Grandad was never above doing the dishes. He’d scoot up and wash.

•Love siezes the opportunity to make someone laugh.

He told jokes, sometimes the same ones, but he enjoyed bringing a smile. I loved the way his face lit up when he was about to say something funny. He was always in supply of jokes about the missing pinky finger he lost in a carpentry accident.

Visiting him in the nursing home, not long before he died, I asked him how he was doing. “Pretty good I guess. I’ve still got all my fingers and toes...Oh...uhp...wait,” he joked as he held up his hand and looked mockingly at his missing finger.

•Love serves.

Grandad was a giver. I learned about offering for Sunday school from him. If my brother and sisters spent the night on a Saturday night, we could count on finding an envelope the next morning at the bar that he’d made out with our name. There would be two quarters in it that clanked together when carried into church in our Sunday best. He was a veteran, a Gideon, a deacon, and ministered in the prisons.

•Love remembers.

Our Grandad lost most of his memory when our Meme died. I think most of us felt it was a grace gift from God that he lived in a world full of new stories, created so that he wasn’t missing her so much.

He’d tell that he was ten thousand years old and that he’d fought in five world wars. Once he told us he’d caught a thousand pound channel cat.

He’d told these stories having no idea who he was talking to. He’d forgotten me. But he continued to tell stories to delight, not because he knew a granddaughter or a grandson or a daughter or son was there to be entertained, but because he wanted anyone in his presence to feel welcomed and loved. He never forgot that.

•Love leads.

My Meme may have been the navigator, barking the familialy famous, “Watch the road George,” but it was my Grandad who stayed behind the wheel. In a truck bed fit with a camper shell, he and my grandma loaded up the grandkids and took us all over the country. We saw beautiful Ladybird Park, the dust devils of New Mexico and Colorado’s snow capped mountain peaks from a mattress in the back of the truck. I can't ever remember feeling any safer.

•Love follows.

A year and a half ago my Meme’s health wouldn’t allow for her to stay at home anymore. She needed special care. I’ve lived hundreds of miles away from my grandparents, but was able to visit the summer when my Meme had just been moved into a nursing facility. I sat by my Grandad who was in his chair facing the picture window in the small living room space of their cabin. “I can take care of myself,” he told me. “But if she’s there, I’m going to be there too.” For him, Meme was “IT!”

I miss him, but I’m thankful that a year and a half after our Meme entered into the presence of God, he followed. Because of their faith in Christ, their love and their example, I’ll follow someday. We don’t grieve like those without hope.

But today, I’ll do the dishes. I’ll do my best to share laughter. And I’ll remember to love.

I found this charm this morning in my catch-all tray. I took it out of my jewelry box a month ago to use its chain. Since, it’s just sat there, waiting for me to notice it.

I’ve never worn it. It’s not exactly my style, not to mention it came from a funeral home. One Valentine’s Day years ago my husband received it as payment from a funeral director and passed it on to me that tired evening when he got back home.

The necklace/earring set has come up a time or two through the years when a conversation has gone like, “Speaking of funny gifts...”

Today I saw that heart of gold a little different. It wasn’t picked out at Dillards or our local boutique as “something I’d love.” It wasn’t hard-shopped for, but it was hard-got. It was after ushering another family through grief that he came home and gifted me with it.

At the end of the day I’m certain he loves me best, but I’m married to someone who also loves and serves those he’s been called to. I’m thankful for that, and maybe a little proud. He works long hours; some of them are harder than I know.

I’ve seen that same sense of duty and gift of provision in so many spouses in weeks past. I watched husbands missing family dinners to fight fire and tend to emergency. I witnessed spouses go without meals and without sleep to provide for those they love and to serve/give to/build their community. Now that’s a gift.

When we’d just been married a couple of years, this same guy got me a pair of jumper cables for Christmas. Bewildered, I left them hanging out of the stocking and chunked them at him. He smiled and then encouraged me to look a little deeper. Not lady enough to deserve them, I pulled a strand of pearls from the bottom.

Already grateful recipients or not, we’d all do good to look a little deeper. Meager-seeming gifts are often most meaningful. And the best gifts aren’t really those things we wanted to receive, but instead those unrequested offerings and surprising recognitions where love came from deep down.

---

I know I've told you, but I've just come out with another book. For those of you who are local, I'll have copies of "Unending Surrender" to purchase this Saturday, December 7. There will be a book signing and cookies at FBC Nederland from 2-4. I'll also have copies of "The Village Girl Handbooks" for purchase.

If you aren't local and would like to get your hands on a copy, head on over to Amazon.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1699891834?ref_=pe_3052080_397514860

I try to write several times a week. Sometimes I have to wrestle out some words. Other days, like today, I whistle while I work because I've had an experience worth sharing, or else, I've come upon something in scripture that jumps out and jostles me into excitement.

Several days ago I was reading in 2 Kings how the prophet Elisha sent his servant Gehazi on a mission. He told him to tuck his cloak into his belt and to run with Elisha's staff to a boy who had died. Remember that... tuck cloak...run

I remember filing the tuck your cloak phrase so that I could go back to study it a little more in depth. Just five chapters later we see Elisha giving the same command to a another man from the company of prophets. 

Tuck your cloak into your belt...and go.  2 Kings 9:1

Elisha was commanding the young prophet to anoint Jehu king over Israel. He then told him what to do after. He instructed, after anointing Jehu,

Open the door and run; don't delay. (v.3)

The young prophet did as he was told. Observers saw a man with a tucked cloak ask for a private meeting with Jehu. The man anoints Jehu, and then he runs off. Scripture tells us that those watching called him a maniac. Him going about this business appeared anything, but ordinary.

The command to tuck your cloak is similar to God's command that we find twice in Job when He tells Job to Brace yourself. It's like the imperative Jeremiah gives when he says, Get yourself ready. These verses are saying, Be about your (right) business.

Cloaks were long. I'm supposing the fact that Elisha twice tells prophets to tuck their cloaks before running, that they're able to hurry a little better with the tail of the cloak lifted off the ground. Maybe better noted, I don't recall the command, Take your cloak off. 

Nearly the entire night a driving wind pelted rain against my bedroom window. The tile in the kitchen felt wintry on my bare feet this morning. Which reminds me of a few things. Get your coat.

We need our covering.

God clothed Adam and Eve because their own fig leaf outfits weren't adequate. Cloaks, coats and covering are mentioned throughout scripture, but my favorite mentions include

• that we're clothed in garments of salvation Isaiah 61:10
• We put on righteousness, it clothes us. Job 29:14, Psalm 132:9
• We put on Christ. Romans 13:14

We can't do without Jesus.

We need instructions.

Too often, we have Jesus, but we forget to consult Him, or remember Him when we go about our day. We do our thing, hoping He'll bless it. What is Jesus calling you to? Scripture will tell us. Prayer will inform us. We have a habit of running without listening to our master's call (not to take our cloak off, but) to tuck in our cloak. Interestingly, righteousness is referred to in Isaiah as the belt.

Righteousness will be his belt and faithfulness the sash around his waist. Isaiah 11:5

We need to be tucked into Jesus to be able to do anything right or good or purposeful.

Get your instructions before going.

We need to be feverish about doing God's business.

I don't hide the fact that Peter is my favorite Bible character. He's impulsive and he's completely passionate. I relate.

In 1 Peter 1:13, he tells us to be sober...alert...ready. In my estimation he exemplifies that readiness while fishing after Jesus' resurrection. John 21 tells us that Peter and the disciples have been fishing, but have caught nothing. Jesus calls to them from the shore. Peter recognizes Him and jumps in the water, but not before...putting on his outer garment. Maybe some would see him as being a little tetched in the head, or as some maniac (remember the running young prophet?) I see Peter in his inadequate self, always knowing he needs his covering.

The other disciples row to shore in the boat. Peter couldn't wait. When he heard His master, he put on Jesus...went to Jesus. He got about the most important business.

So what do you say? Put on your coat today.

I'm sure you've heard me by now, But I wrote another book. Read the first chapter by clicking on the link below, or check out the book on Amazon.

Read Chapter One

Buy Unending Surrender Here

It was a really good day, I told him as I leaned over to peck him good night. We had all three kids, four including our precious daughter-in-law, at the dinner table. Our oldest, Hayden, turns twenty-three tomorrow. Jason grilled steaks, as per Hayden’s request, and I fixed two boxes of Kraft macaroni (also Hayden’s choice) along with some asparagus and fried zucchini. The zucchini was my idea, after being insulted by Hayden's boxed macaroni idea.

Dinner last night was accompanied by happy memories and impromptu character impressions, one of our favorite forms of entertainment. We had cookie cake and then somehow talked Hayden, and Haley (his lovely wife), into watching Dancing With the Stars, with us. It’s a tradition the girls and I have. During the DWTS season, we have a standing date to watch it together, and to have dessert. We guess what scores the judges will give each performance and, sometimes if we’re particularly fond of a dancer, we’ll cast our votes on our phones.

 

This season White House Secretary, Sean Spicer, is one of the contestants. He has about as much coordination and sauve as I do (I lay flat on the floor immobile for several minutes last night before I went to bed after forking my toes on the upstairs metal shoe basket that’s been there for six months.) Though Spicer has consistently been one of the lowest scoring dancers, he’s managed to stay on the show every week due to popular votes versus his Cha Cha or Viennese Waltz skills. I kind of like the guy. He gives it his all, even though his all isn’t what the next guy’s is.

 

He survived elimination again last night, much to the frustration of our two girls, Hallie and Rylie. To express their disdain at America’s choice, they got up from the couch and faced each other in our living room. While the credits played, they gave a captivating rendition of the dance Sean and his partner Lindsey had performed. They took turns dancing awfully, intentionally misstepping much to my delight. I tried to sneak a video of them, but got caught.

 

I’m hoping to commit their dance, and their raucous giggles to memory. I’m hoping to commit the whole night to memory. We ought to give due diligence, not only to remembering the remarkable, but to creating it. 

Insist on family time.

Have dessert.

Let them dance dangerously close to the lamp (or play basketball.)

And while it's happening, stop what you’re doing and soak it all in.

Hallie’s going on a road trip this weekend. Though I’m a proponent of ditching worry, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t worried about her safety on the road.

 

Rylie has another tryout tomorrow. She has an athletic stature and a competitors heart, but that has yet to help her survive the sports eliminations that have come around a couple of times a year for the past two years.

Last year, she tried out for drum major. Knowing she wasn’t going to get it, she approached me five minutes before the tryout results were announced and nervously laughed, asking me if I had my It wasn’t in God’s plan speech prepared. 

 

The truth is, we can't insulate ourselves well enough to perfectly combat every disappointment. Believe me, I’ve tried. The night she didn't make drum major, we took her and her sister, who’s heart (by the way) had also been broken the same day, to Roadhouse aiming to make them feel better by feeding them steak. I’m sure I spouted off perspective and Jason told bad jokes. 

 

We have some control over how we respond to the tough times, but last night reminded me that the time surrounding the difficult bears more weight than I’d considered. What’s in the storehouse when times are meager? The Burdens added another meal around the table last night. We added bad dancing and laughter. 

 

We have no choice but to allow disappointment its place in life.

But merrymaking in the lulls in between? That’s up to us.

 

I've written a book! Get chapter one for free, or use the link to buy the book below.

Read Chapter 1 of Unending Surrender

Get Unending Surrender book here!

I have the privilege of carting a car full of youth on Wednesdays. I grab my youngest, Rylie, a couple of usuals, and then typically there's a new teen they've invited to our Wednesday night youth service.

I get to hear new music and snippets of interesting conversations. I know which teachers they love and which classes they're scared to fall asleep in.

Aside from the time one of them brought a snare drum along for the ride, our rides are pleasant.

Besides taking them to church there's a group I take home. We decided last night that maybe they should start doing Rock Paper Scissors to see who goes home last. Even though they argue like siblings, they enjoy each other.

Last night's debate piece was centered around the word bound. Eighth grade is taking the PSAT. Hoping it was something I hadn't missed, I asked if it was something we were supposed to have signed up for. They explained that it was for college bound students.

My daughter said that she wasn't college bound, thinking that it insinuated that college was around the corner. A lively discussion ensued about what the word bound meant. You could be Colorado bound, but still stop at Bucees and other places on your way, one kid said.

And it got me to thinking. Everyday when I get up do I correctly consider where I'm bound? Or am I shortsighted in my planning; only thinking about Bucees or the traffic in Dallas?

We're gifted with a sun that rises and sets, marking off a day, but eternity is the big prize.

Each day is a stop. Hopefully we pause to give thanks when we find ourselves out with a friend or on a date with our spouse. Surely we take a mental snapshot for keeping when we see our kids in a rare moment; getting along.

There are other days, and seasons, when heaviness pulls the hands of the clock almost to a stop. Our kid suffers. We wait for a test to come back.

Our journey is marked with road construction, shortcuts, road signs, passing lanes, and access roads. All of these things are worth our notice. It's just that every break and speedway is insignificant in light of our destination.

The map maker directs us to be glory bound. And glory rides with us; making the difficult along the way more bearable and the sweet, sweeter.

"Who shall come and go with me, I am bound for the promised land."

 

I've written a new book.

Check out Unending Surrender here!

 

 

I hate asking for things. Fundraisers are the worst. Don't get me wrong. I know that playgrounds are built by the sweat of little salespersons. Trips are made possible by the generosity of people who buy cookie dough in a plastic tub. I probably dislike asking for things from people because I know how I sometimes say yes when I want to say no. I'm also familiar with the guilt feeling that comes with saying no.

It's not just fundraisers that I think many of us avoid like the plague. We just don't like asking for anything; much-needed aid or small favors included.

Studying the third chapter of 1 Kings this morning, I was going to stop at verse 27, but when I got to it, a Moabite King had just done something awful so I read on.

I got to a familiar, and much happier, passage. In chapter 4 we read about a woman who's lost her husband. Debt collectors are coming to take her two sons as slaves.

She cries out to the prophet Elisha, who then asks, How can I help you? What do you have in your house? (2 Kings 4:2)

At first, this woman says that she has nothing...at all, but then notes that she has a small jar of olive oil (hardly something that would appear useful in her predicament.)

Then Elisha, the prophet, tells her to hit up the neighborhood for empty jars. He throws in, Don't ask for just a few. Don't hum-haw, in other words, ask for jars...a bunch of them. Be bold about it.

There's not a big deal made, but I did notice in verse 5 that they, her sons I assume, brought her the jars. Maybe she hated asking for things too.

You might know the rest of the story. She's instructed to pour the oil that she has into these empty jars that have been collected. With only the little bit of oil she had, we read that she kept pouring until there wasn't a jar left.

She was able to sell the oil to pay her debts. There was enough left to care for her and her sons.

Reading past a couple of despicable kings this morning landed me on some good reminders.

Sometimes we need help. I love how the story isn't about someone doing everything, but instead, about everyone doing something.

God could have had Elisha write the widow a check. He could have petitioned her to get full jars of oil, or other donations from the neighbors. He didn't. He had her collect empty jars. The prophet, the widow, her sons, and the neighbors were involved in the process.

This past weekend a group of teenagers and adults gathered together to mourn the loss of one of our high school students, Jason, who we lost to suicide. We also met to get the word out that the suffering are never alone. Some brought their testimony to the event. Some just brought themselves, but were armed with a smile and a hug. Some adults provided transportation. Some brought cookies. We all sang and held hands at the end.

Some brought not much more than their broken hearts, but God would employ those too. Those who knew Jason would make a video at the event's end letting his family know what he meant to them.

When the widow in scripture was asked what she had that could be of use, she had to think about it.

Your servant has nothing there at all, except... 2 Kings 4:2

God never leaves us empty handed or at a dead end.

Sometimes we just have to ask for help, as uncomfortable as that is. We have to recognize our inability to secure all our needs independently.

Likewise, we have to remember the exception; what we do have when it feels we've lost everything. (For the widow, it was a little bit of oil.)

More than anything, we do best to trust that God supplies our needs. He's just gracious enough to let us play a part.

...we have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us. 2 Corinthians 4:7

An empty jar (or half empty jar) is just as useful as a full one when we put it into the hands of God.

 

Things I could be doing right now:

• Finishing the laundry
• Loading the dishwasher
• Sitting outside (It's 73 degrees...my sweet spot.)
• Rescuing the dusty, stray sock underneath my husband's chair
• Enjoying the fact that my new book was published five days ago

What I'm doing instead:

• Staring at the half-folded, half-wrinkling load of clean laundry in front of me
• Ignoring the dishes and the sock
• Listening to the sound of the neighbor kids playing football in their yard

• Doing the finger hover over my keyboard thinking about how I can best let you know about my new book.

I'll probably have a hard time hushing up about it because it took me more than six hundred and fifty days to write. What am I saying?!... It kind of took my whole life to write, because, well, you see, the book is on surrender. My life, in its entirety has served as a pretty nifty non-example of what a wholly surrendered life looks like. I've been half-surrendered, or else, Now I'm surrendered, now I'm not.

I would spend forty-something years hoping that being a genuine do-gooder who sits near the front pew on Sundays and REALLY loves Jesus would be enough. The grace of Jesus makes me enough. But, two Januarys ago my stubborn self would write, sign, and seal a promise to God. Only He can help me deliver. You better bet I'm asking His help... every day.

If you'd like to know a little more about the letter that prompted the book "Unending Surrender", download chapter one for free below. If you already just know that you have to have this book, skip right down to the second Buy this Book NOW! link.

Get Chapter One

Buy Unending Surrender NOW!