Chickens with Purpose (by Heather Sunseri)

I trying to remember where I first came across today's guest blogger, Heather Sunseri. I want to say Twitter. Which, for those of you still stubbornly refusing to join, has been an incredible resource for finding some of the best writers on the internets. Just saying, Sharkbait.

Regardless, Heather's a great writer and a great person.

Here's her bio:

I am a Christian, wife and mother of two young children. I have worked as a CPA for the past 15 years for thoroughbred horse farms and in public accounting in Central Kentucky. I spend my free time as an inspirational writer and enjoy the little things in life from long bike rides in the country to homemade pizza and family game night.

Chickens with Purpose

I’m always pondering God’s purpose in my life. You know, the big plan. And do I have enough faith to know when I’m living it?

As a young child, I was taught to smile through most anything. God won’t send you a memo with a bullet-point to-do list on how to live out His plan. You must put one foot in front of another, get your hands dirty, put a smile on your face and get to work. Of course, all that mixed with a heavy dose of faith that God will pick you up when you fall, and you’ll feel Christ’s love as you work. I find it’s easier to do good works–you know the “works, which God prepared in advance for us to do”–with purpose if you keep the faith. Easier said than done, right?

I’ve also been a big believer that God’s big plan lies somewhere in the midst of the little jobs we do along the path of life. And I hope that’s what I teach my kids. The problem? I almost forgot recently. So, thanks, God, and thanks, Mom, for the little reminders to find joy in the little things in life.

One day toward the end of spring break, my mother called to ask me if each of my children could have a baby chick as a souvenir from their spring break with my parents.

I was working long hours, as is always the case January through April 15th for a tax accountant, when the call came. “Can your beautiful children bring home a couple of baby chicks?”

My response to my amazing, caring and generous mother? “Are you insane? Of course they can’t have a chickens.”

“Not chickens. Baby chicks. They’re so cute.”

“I’ll have to think about it.” That, of course, was my way of saying “no” to my mom, but I was too tired (cowardly) to actually say it and listen to all the reasons of why I’m unreasonable, unfair, etc.

I hung up and did what anyone working in an office would do. I pled my case to the people in the neighboring cubicles. And of course, just as I suspected, they all sided with me.

Later that day, I gave my mom all the excuses. “We don’t live on a chicken farm. Sharon, my co-worker, says they’ll die within two days – all baby chicks do. They’re smelly. My neighborhood association won’t allow it. We don’t have anywhere to keep them. We don’t have an incubator.” (I really thought the last one was the one excuse that would do it.)

After my mom countered each one of those excuses, I was worn out so I said, “Call Mike (my husband) and ask him. I’m spent.”

Mike said, “Absolutely not!”

Instead of two baby chicks, my children came one with…

THREE BABY CHICKS, all named, and with a reminder from my mom. “Remember all the things you learned growing up on a small farm. Remember the hamsters, the cats, and breeding Labradors. Remember the baby bunnies we saved one year and the countless wounded birds. Your kids are learning to be caring to all of God’s creatures.” (That seemed like a stretch. We already have a dog, a cat, and fish.)

“But you let the kids name them. Like pets. You don’t name farm animals you have no intention of keeping.”

Alas, after two weeks with Prim, Comet, and Jenna, I admitted to my ten-year-old daughter that I was thoroughly impressed with how well she took care of the chicks. They had grown and thrived. She and my son had cleaned their makeshift cage twice daily, fed and watered them. They even took them outside on sunny days and played with them in the yard.

“I’m proud of you,” I said, trying not to sound too surprised one day while dear daughter fed the chicks water. “You have provided these three chickens amazing care. And you’ve helped your little brother to learn along the way.”

“They’re baby chicks, Mom, not chickens,” she said. “And of course I cared for them. It was my purpose.”

“Your purpose, huh?”

“You know how you’re always talking about doing God’s little jobs with a glad heart, well this was one of those jobs. If I do this job with purpose, He’ll trust me with something even bigger next time.”

“You think so, do you?”

“Yeah, and I’m hoping he’ll trust me with dolphins or a monkey someday.”

My daughter’s a dreamer like me.

But she’s right. It was her purpose at that moment. And she got me thinking. Wouldn’t it be nice if I tackled all of my jobs (toilet-cleaning, carpooling, volunteer work, my current career, writing) with the purpose and glad heart they deserved? Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we all did?

We don’t get to see the blue print God has for our lives, and sometimes we’re faced with not-so-easy of times. But through faith and love of Christ, we put one foot in front of the other, dig in and get our hands dirty, put a smile on our face, and we just might get a small taste of the big plan.

***

To read more from Heather Sunseri, visit her at Balance with Purpose and follow her on the twitter at @HeatherSunseri.

Meeting Jakob (by Jeff Selph)

Before I introduce my guest blogger today, I wanted to wish my beautiful, brave, butt-kicking friend Annie K a very Happy Birthday, and invite you to drop in on her blog and do the same. Love you, gal! (Y'all really need to stop having birthdays on Mondays and Wednesday. It messes up my schedule.)


And now back to our regularly scheduled guest post...



I usually write a short intro for the folks that guest post here, but Jeff has done such a good job explaining how our paths crossed on the internets, I'll just let him tell you. I will go on record as saying that he is one of many chronically sarcastic pastors (my favorite kind of pastors, btw) that somehow find their way to my blog. Wonder why that is...

Here's Jeff:

I am a youth and children's pastor in Kalamazoo, MI. The most important thing in my world is my family. My wife's name is Sarah, and my son's name is Jakob. I am a nerd. I have no problem with that. I grew up Baptist, but like sheep, I have gone astray. I am non-denominational.

I, like many of you, found this blog by reading funny comments left by Kathy on Stuff Christians Like posts. If I see a comment I like or hate, I usually click on the person's profile, check out their blog, and start liking them more or disliking them more based on what I see. My first visit here, I found her yelling at some kid for stealing her kid's Pokemon cards. It was kind of a rant. I like ranting and the idea of being mean to children, so I decided to subscribe. I have been amused, appalled, moved, and incited to rage many times over the last year, and I have enjoyed it.

A few weeks ago, Katdish - I really believe that is her real name, even if her mom calls her something else - pointed out that I had not offered to write a guest post for her blog yet. I was simultaneously flattered and confused. I was flattered, because I am not really a writer's writer. I don't think my blog even has a theme. So for someone to ask me to write for their blog is a novel and flattering concept. I was confused, because I don't know how this guest blogging thing works. I had no idea that you are supposed to offer to guest post on someone else's blog. I thought they were supposed to ask you. Is offering to write for someone else's blog not like inviting yourself over to someone else's house? I think it is exactly the same, and I was never allowed to invite myself over to anyone's house when I was younger. That explains why I've never offered my services to anyone, and probably never will, unless I become really famous, because I'd probably be really arrogant about the whole thing, and I would assume that everyone would want me to write for them. But since she has asked, I will write, and I will tell you about when I met my son.

My wife, Sarah, is Korean, but she has a very light, fair complexion. I am a real whitey, of Jewish and German descent. It doesn't get much whiter than this. I always looked forward to whenever we would have a child, because I really do think Asian kids are the cutest. My one hangup was that I was disappointed that if we had a child, he would probably not look anything like me.

In January of last year, we learned that Sarah was pregnant. We were so excited. We couldn't wait to find out the gender. Once we found out that she was having a boy, we started imagining what he would look like. Of course, he would have brown eyes, pin straight brown hair, almond shaped eyes, and a flat nose. He had to, because he was half Korean. Most half-Asian kids I'd seen looked predominately Asian. So we also figured he'd have a little bit darker complexion than me. We were hoping that maybe he could at least have my smile or ears or something.

Sarah had a scheduled c-section. The morning was hectic. They decided that due to previous back injuries that Sarah had sustained, they didn't want to do an epidural. They just knocked her out. So they escort me to the hall for "just a moment." A few minutes later, one doctor came out and told me that I had to stay out in the hall. I was pretty upset, because I didn't even tell Sarah that I loved her or give her a kiss goodbye, which I would have done if I had known. So they station me outside the operating room. I took out my camera, because I wanted to at least video the procedure for Sarah, since she was going to sleep through the whole thing. Not happening. A scrubbed up doctor walked to window, pointed at the camera, and told me to put it away. I couldn't video. So I took out my other camera to take pictures. Truth be told, I did take a little video with my digital camera, just to spite them. They don't know, but I feel better about it.

There was a lot of commotion and jerky movements in the delivery room. It looked like the doctors were trying to wretch Jakob free from Sarah's incision. I was a little nervous, because that's how I roll. But I kept my eyes trained on the doctor that would no doubt be holding my son up for me to see. After about fifteen minutes, a nurse came up behind me and told me to come with her. I refused. I told her that I had a good view of what was going down, and I wanted to get a picture. She insisted that I come into the next room with her. After a little back-and-forth, I agreed to come.

Inside the room, there was a screaming baby boy. I looked at him for a moment. It meant very little to me. I was too excited to meet my son. I started to walk right past him. There were two delivery rooms over there designated for c-section babies, so I assumed that he had just come from the room behind me. After a few seconds, I noticed that there were tags laying next to this screaming baby - who I found to be very distracting - were little hospital bracelets waiting to be placed on his ankles. They read, "Baby Boy Selph."

I had no emotional reaction at that moment. The very first thought that popped into my head was, "But he's white. He should be yellow." After analyzing his color for a moment, I got excited. I couldn't believe it. Through the screaming, i could see a few things about him: he had my mouth, his nose wasn't too flat, he had my hairline, and he was screaming uncontrollably. He actually looked a little like me. It was amazing.

I'm proud to be his dad. He's beautiful. I know, he's a boy, and I should say that he's handsome. He's that, too. Every time he starts doing something new, I get so excited. I anticipate that even when he aggravates me, I will always think the best of him. He's my son. And if he ever asks me what I thought the first time I saw him, I will tell him the truth: "But he's white. He should be yellow."

Shalom,

Jeff Selph

***

To read more from Jeff Selph, visit him at Selph Inflicted and follow him on the twitter at @jewda4.

5 Ways Sky Mall takes your Entertaining from Everyday to Epic (by Becky Miller)

I've said this before, but I'll say it again. Jon Acuff of Stuff Christians Like was the inspiration for me to start blogging in the first place. (You may send him angry e-mails at jon@stuffchristianslike.net). If Jon's blog was just about the writing, I'd still be a huge fan, but it's so much more than that. It's about community. The comments section of SCL is that community, and it is awesome. One of the charter members of what I refer to as the "SCL Posse" is Becky Miller, who is also awesome:

I met Katdish on Stuff Christians Like. Then we became Twitter friends when I decided to cyber-stalk the frequent SCL commenters, figuring that if we all liked Jon's sense of humor and perspective on faith, we'd have a lot in common.

Kathy generously invited me to guest post here to introduce my new blog, How-To Hospitality. I'm a wife and mother in New England who entertains a LOT. I'm also clumsy and easily sidetracked. This means I've had more than my fair share of hospitality foibles. I started How-To Hospitality to tell on myself and my hospitality fails and wins, hoping to help others in the process.

In keeping with Hey Look, A Chicken!'s skymalladocious posts, I present:

Five Ways Sky Mall Takes Your Entertaining from Everyday to Epic

Let's face it. The people who shop at Sky Mall are better than us. They make more money. They live in bigger houses. They have cooler gadgets. It stands to reason, then, that their parties are better than ours. What are some of your parties' problems, and how can Sky Mall meet those needs?

1. Problem: Store-bought soda is boring and predictable
Solution: Soda Maker Kits! $129.99


Make your own fresh soda with this machine. Not only will this take your beverage selection up a notch, the product description actually promises to save the planet.


2. Problem: Your fruit bowl is not tropical enough
Solution: Palms Fruit Hammock! $29.99

Your mangoes and coconuts should feel at home in an island-like environment. This product not only keeps your fruit fresher longer, it also adds that extra touch of authenticity to your luau theme. The only problem I foresee is having guests constantly ask, "What's up with your banana hammock?"

3. Problem: You aren't strong enough to scoop your own ice cream
Solution: Microwaveable Ice Cream Scoop! $4.97

My mom once told me about a girl she knew in high school who had a normal left forearm and a ginormous right forearm. The girl's summer job? Working at an ice cream stand. Don't let that happen to you. Buy this scoop today.

4. Problem: You broke your punch bowl by filling it with salad, putting it in the fridge, then later fishing for mustard on the back part of the shelf, inadvertently knocking the punch bowl out and shattering it on the floor.*
Solution: Lighted Party Fountain! $49.99

*Er, wait, maybe that was only me. You might not need this punch fountain after all.


5. Problem: Your guests don't want to hold their own root beer cans
Solution: Tex the Armadillo Can Holder! $29.95 (each)

Supply each of your guests with one of these darling figurines to hold their beverages. Don't forget homemade wine glass tags for each 'dillo. Martha Stewart has some lovely ideas for making your own wine glass tags.


But that's another post. Martha Stewart's parties are better than ours, too.

***

To read more from Becky Miller, visit her at How-To Hospitality and follow her on the twitter at @miller_schloss.

Christianity is no laughing matter (or is it?)

I was walking across a bridge one day, and I saw a man standing on the edge about to jump off. So I ran over and said, “Stop! Don’t do it! There’s so much to live for!”

He said, “Like what?”

I said, “Well, are you religious or atheist?”

“Religious”

I said, “Me too! Are you Christian or Buddhist?”

“Christian”

I said, “Me too! Are you Catholic or Protestant?”

“Protestant”

I said, “Me too! Are you Episcopalian or Baptist?”

“Baptist”

To read the rest of this joke (and the post that goes with it) follow me over to Kevin Martineau's blog Shooting the Breeze where I'm guest blogging today.

The Me I Don't Want to Be (by Kevin Martineau)

Today's guest post is from pastor, blogger and encourager Kevin Martineau. Lest you think pastors have it all together, he's here to tell you that that's not the case.

Hi! My name is Kevin Martineau. I am the pastor of Port Hardy Baptist Church on beautiful Vancouver Island. I am married and have three daughters. My blog is Shooting the Breeze and you can follow me on Twitter here.


Have you ever struggled with pretending to be someone that you are not or struggled with being what other people think you should be? I have.

For many years, I thought I had to have everything together as a pastor. I thought that all conflict was bad and it needed to be avoided at all costs. I thought that people wanted me to put on my big fake Christian smile and suck it up and pretend that nothing was wrong.

The problem was: SOMETHING was wrong! I was hurting. I was confused. I was anxious. I was stuffing my emotions and my passions. The result was a 3 month medical leave (or forced Sabbatical as I call it now).

During that time off (with the help of many skilled counsellors and much pain) I began to realize how much I had not been living out my true self – the me that God wanted me to be! I hadn’t been living out my passions because of fear and I wasn’t being true to myself, my family and the people that I had the privilege of leading.

This has been a 3 year journey now (and I am sure it is going to be a lifelong journey). I wish that I could say that I have it all together now but I don’t. I still struggle with some of these issues. Thankfully God continues to lead me forward on this journey and recently He brought a great book into my life to further help me. The book is The me I want to be by John Ortberg (who happens to be one of my favourite authors. I have read ALL of his books.)

I am only two chapters into the book and my world is already being rocked. Today, I read this chapter: “The Me I Don’t Want to Be.” In this chapter Ortberg challenges us to come to grips with the rivals that stop us from becoming the person that God wants us to be. They are:

The me I pretend to be.
The me I think I should be.
The me other people want me to be.
The me I am afraid God wants.
The me that fails to be.

This chapter really hit home for me because of all that I have already mentioned. I recognize that I need to do some more evaluation again. I need to drop the “masks” that have come up again and be the person that God wants me to be! I don’t want to go to back to being the me that I don’t want to be!

“Spiritual greatness has nothing to do with being greater than others. It has everything to do with being as great as each of us can be.” Henri Nouwen

Do you struggle to be the person that God wants you to be? What rival stops you the most?

An Old Man's Theory (by Duane Scott)

image courtesy of photobucket.com

I won't say much about today's guest blogger except to say I came across his writing recently and was impressed that someone so young could so effectively communicate through the written word. I'll give you a link to his new website at the end of this post, but in the meantime, please read about Duane Scott's conversation with an older gentleman he met on the jobsite this week:

Recently, our company has been working at a church. Today, the general contractor called and said he would appreciate if we could put a few vent chutes in so they could start putting sheetrock on the ceiling. Having sent all the other crews to different jobs, the only remaining option was for me to do it.

As I began working, I fought back disgruntled thoughts about the inconvenience while fast becoming bored with the repetitive job. That was, until I noticed a peculiar man.

He wore blue Dickie coveralls and on his feet were black dress shoes, looking oddly out of place in the dusty environment. Construction workers bustled around him, hanging sheetrock and noisily moving their scaffolding. It seemed the old man hardly noticed the commotion, but continued to silently sweep the sheetrock dust to the corners.

We all worked along side each other for a few hours, and never did I hear the old man say a word. Curious, I wondered why he was on the job and decided he must be the father to the general manager.

When 4:00 rolled around, the cords were wrapped up, drills and saws were put in their places, and one by one the workers went home for the day. When they bid the old man goodbye, he only responded by the nod of his head.

I continued to staple vent chutes in the trusses and the old man continued to sweep silently. When I was almost finished, I asked him, “Do you work for the general manager?”

“No,” he replied, leaning against his broom. A grin appeared on his wrinkled face, exposing a few missing teeth. With enthusiasm, he said, “I’m a priest at this church.”

With renewed interest, I noticed the black robes he was wearing under the coveralls. I didn’t know what to say, so all I managed was, “Interesting.”

He smiled and said, “That, it is.”

Switching the subject, I said, “Looks like I’ll be back in the morning. I didn’t bring enough vent chutes to finish the job. I’ll be here early enough so I can get ahead of the other contractors. That way, they won’t have to wait on me.”

“That’s okay,” he grinned, “You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t make a mistake or two.”

I laughed. Then jokingly I said, “By being a priest, I doubt you have that problem.”

“Look here buddy,” he chuckled, scolding and pointing a finger in my direction, “I’m still just as human as you are.”

I smiled, feeling a bit uncomfortable until he continued to talk. “I still make plenty of mistakes, and I still get into plenty of trouble.”

“A man your age surely doesn’t get into as much trouble as I do,” I said.

“Maybe not. But you should be glad you get into trouble.”

I raised an eyebrow and looked questioningly at him. Stifling a laugh, I said, “That’s an interesting theory. What makes you say getting into trouble is a good thing?”

“It’s all the trouble we get into in life that makes us realize how much we need God. Nobody could ever get into heaven if they never got into trouble.”

“So you are saying...” I asked, a bit confused, “that I should want to get into trouble?”

“Oh my,” he said, embarrassed, “That does sound like a... excuse my language... a hair-brained idea. What kind of priest am I?” He laughed, “That’s not really what I meant.” Eyeing me from head to toe, he continued, “You’re young. I have a feeling trouble will find you.”

I chuckled at the absurdity of the moment. It isn’t every day a priest looks me over and says I’m bound for trouble. More importantly, it isn’t every day a priest tells me getting into trouble is a good thing.

“It’s like this,” he continued, “God sits up there in His office, and everything you face in life comes across His desk for approval. And He will never put His signature on a trial or temptation that is too big for you to handle. Everything you face is only meant to bring you closer to Him.”

Saying goodbye to the elderly man, I marveled at the wisdom hidden behind his youthful eyes and mischievous grin. I admired his charismatic approach to life, and continued to think about the pearls of wisdom he had bestowed upon my young mind.

Some people curse their bad luck. Others become depressed by their misfortunes. Instead, maybe we should take the advice of the elderly man in the blue coveralls.

If trouble never found us, nor trials ever came, we would never need His grace... and it is only through His grace, that we are saved.

Yes, I like his theory.

-Duane Scott

***

To read more from Duane Scott, visit him at at his website and follow him on the twitter at @duane_scott.

Top 10 Worst Creativity Tips of All Time (by Demian Farnworth)

You may be wondering where I find folks to guest blog for me. Okay, maybe you're not, but I'm going to tell you anyway. Mostly from reading other blogs, and occasionally from the twitter. (Sorry, Facebook. It's not you, it's me.) I've actually got a fairly sizable list of folks I'm planning to ask. Sadly, that list is in my head, and I keep losing it. Anyway, I've been so pleased with all the guest posts so far, and my analytics tell me you have been, too. Damien was one of my twitter finds. I never know how people find me and follow me on twitter, but as long as it's a real person, I'll typically follow them back. I'm glad I did so with Damien, because he sent me a really great post.



Demian Farnworth is Managing Editor for an international humanitarian aid organization and blogger for Fallen & Flawed.

Top 10 Worst Creativity Tips of All Time

What do you get when you cross a cranky writer with an opium-induced dream? Nothing to gawk at, normally.

But English poet Samuel Coleridge defied the odds and cranked out an unforgettably creepy poem called "Kubla Khan".

The only problem is nobody can really tell us what the poem is about. Coleridge couldn't even do it. And unfortunately generations of poets have followed in Coleridge's footsteps ushering in an attitude that says true creativity occurs when you alter your mind.

But that's a terrible idea. And there are nine more really bad ideas on how to jolt your creativity. Let's take a look at them.

1. Wait for the Muse.
Want to make my skin crawl? Want to watch me clench my fists? Then tell me you can't write until the Muse moves you. In fact, if you're a professional, I might hit you. I'll repent afterwards, but I'll definitely swing. Professionals write whether they feel like it or not.

2. Get drunk.
Or stoned. Or huff glue. You'll write some of the most ridiculous stories, paint the most dysfunctional pictures while intoxicated. Funny thing is, they're masterpieces while you're high. But sober people will avoid you. However, get them drunk, and you're a genius. See no. 10.

3. Eat meat.
Long ago some Chinese mystic-artist always ate meat before he fell asleep so he could have great dreams. [Give me a break on the ambiguity. I read it somewhere. Just don't know where.] I don't recommend this tactic either...because what happens if your dreams dry up? They will, artist boy.

4. Toy with Twitter.
Despite what social media pundits want you to believe--Twitter is not a inspiration factory. It's a chaotic cocktail party that will rob you of time. Doesn't mean you can't hang out there. I do it myself. Just don't depend on it for creative ideas. You'll get sucked away and totally forget what you were doing.

5. Smoke cigarettes.
No one's flat-out preached that smoking cigarettes inspires. But stroll by any bistro and all the artists and poets and writers will be puffing away. Cigarettes kill, people. Then again, if you don't care, you are guilty of number 7.

6. Fall in love.
If you depend on the unpredictable, violent emotions of new love **cough, cough, LUST, cough** then you might rock out a killer freshman album. Girls will stalk you. Men will envy you. Mothers will hate you. That is until your sophomore album rolls out. Then they'll see you for the one-hit wonder you are.

7. Becoming a sadist.
Blame it on the Romantic poets: They were ones who thought a true artist suffered. So what about the thousands of years of creative output before then? And frankly, what the Romantic poets and Co. have created are marginal footnotes to enduring masterpieces.

8. Don't create.
The Salinger principle of creativity states "you can't create it without killing it." You're guilty of this if you fear that perfect artistic idea will get ruined if you commit it to paper or canvas. Get over yourself and create.

9. Specialize.
I'm guilty of this one. The idea that you will create great work if you do nothing but one thing. This is problematic because some of the best ideas come to us from fields that are far different than ours. Become the explorer. Not the homebody.

10. Thinking you are a genius.
Or a "serious" writer. [Now, where did that come from? See no. 7.] Personally guilty in this category. Picasso said that it took him a life time to learn how to draw like a child. There's liberty in simplicity like that. And great art.

Listen: This list was generated after twenty years of failing hard in my own attempts at creative writing and a simultaneous ten years of working as a professional writer and editor. I've seen these tips and attitudes come from my own mouth and the mouths of other writers. Do any of them ring a bell? Would you add any? And if you're guilty, don't worry. So am I.

***

To read more from Damien, visit him at his blog Fallen & Flawed, follow him on the twitter @DFarnworth, or visit his Facebook page:Demian Farnworth.

Spring is a Declaration (by Linda Yezak)

Spring has sprung! Or at least it's trying its level best around these parts. To welcome it in, Linda Yezak sent me a guest post on that very subject. (You may remember Linda's interview with Billy Coffey last week over at Author Culture.)



Linda Yezak lives in Texas and writes romantic comedy. Her novel, Give the Lady a Ride has attracted some attention and is now on an agent's desk, awaiting its fate. Linda teaches an adult creative writing class, serves as a free-lance editor, and is an editor for Port Yonder Press.


photo by Beckey Z

Right now, as I write this, I can look outside the patio windows and witness nature's celebration of spring. The squirrels are engaged in a chase and the ducks in a dance that always results in new life within weeks of the festivities. Birds sing sweet love songs, flowers arc their necks toward the sun's caress, weeds push through the cracks in the concrete or bloom white as powdered sugar in the field.


photo by Beckey Z

After one of the most unusual winters Texas has ever had, this display of warm weather activities seems almost a miracle. In a part of the state that rarely sees snow, we got it three times. At one point, the pond froze over so badly our senior male Muscovy duck, “Drake,” got frustrated trying to get out of it. And today, he's actively engaged in creating a brood of new ducklings as if the past icy experience never happened.


photo by Beckey Z

That's the glory of spring. It's the great eraser, the instant defroster, the immediate heart-warmer. Early spring comes wrapped in a bright green promise of awakening life, of crops in the soil and blooms on the peach trees. Of foals and calves, chicks and ducklings, fawns and 'coon kittens. Spring revitalizes the soul and quickens the spirit of all of us who huddled in wool coats and plodded through the sodden, sullen days of winter.


photo by Beckey Z

Spring is God's declaration that He still loves us. Of all the ways He shows His love, the return of life, beauty and color after the winter's gray hues and bare tree limbs will always be one of my favorites. He showed us the depth of His love when He allowed His Son to be sacrificed for us. He showed us the power of His love through His Son's resurrection. He shows us the continuation of His love through the annual arrival of spring.


photo by Beckey Z

The Declaration of Love, signed by God's own hand with vivid colors, and celebrated by His creation with music and dancing and birth and life. How can we not love Him in return?

***

To read more from Linda, please visit her at her blog 777 Peppermint Place. She also created and contributes to Author Culture, and Port Yonder Press. You can follow her on twitter, too: @pprmint777.

***

A very special thanks to Beckey Zimmerman of Zimmages for all the beautiful photographs in this post. She's an amazing photographer. You should check out some of her other work!

Is Religion a Crutch? (by Helen Migon)

My friend Helen sent me this post last week, and I am honored that she would ask me to post it here on my blog. Thank you, Helen.

From the movie Unstrung Heroes

Sid Lidz: Religion is a crutch. Only cripples need crutches.

Arthur Lidz: A crutch isn't bad if you need it, Sidney.

Danny Lidz: All of us are cripples in some way.

Sid Lidz: Well, I'm not.

I cried like a child at that point in the movie. I cried because I knew that I do need to lean on God. I cried for all of humanity, who without God, is worse off than lame. I cried for the fictional character Sid Lidz, who is as needy as any other character in that movie, but fails to recognize it. He thinks he is the strong one, but he is zapping the strength from those around them who need God, and know it. He thinks he is the strong one, but he is actually the most pathetic character in the whole movie. I felt sadder for him than anyone else.

This weekend, I went to a wake for the mom of a friend of a friend. I have never met this woman before, but know of her through my friend Irma. My friend Irma has been concerned about her friend, Samantha , for quite a while. She and Samantha work together. She likes Samantha, because Samantha is a nice person, but is concerned about her, because Samantha is does not believe in God. Her excuse seems to be hypocritical Christians. I don't know the details, so I am unprepared to say whether she is overreacting, or if if her experience was so horrible I'd like to feed a few lions myself. My heart just breaks though, that her reason for not leaning on God is that some people suck.

Anyways, I met her for the first time at her mom's wake. I wasn't there to witness to her or anything like that. I just thought that since I had gone through the loss of my own mom a short time ago, and still have issues of my own I am praying through (and have people praying for me as well, thank you very much if you are among them), I'd be of some use. I don't know how to explain... I find sometimes that looking into someone's eyes, and seeing that they too feel similar pain helps me feel at one with them. I feel more understood, and therefore comforted. I went there to offer that to her.

Now, I need to tell you before I go on, that I really do love my Momma. Not a day goes by that I don't miss her. Every day some small thing reminds me of her, and I get all choked up because I miss her, and end up calling someone or emailing them to try to feel better, and not spend another day wallowing in grief. So it surprised me deeply to look into Samantha's eyes, and see a pain deeper than my own. Surely she couldn't have loved her Momma more than I did mine. How is that even possible?

We talked a bit. I eavesdropped as I listened to people comfort her. Not one person spoke of hope. At my Momma's wake, nearly everyone reminded me of mom's love for God and others, and assured me that my family is one by one reuniting in Heaven, and praising Jesus that we will be together once more, but this time without heartache for all eternity.

People shared fond memories of her mom with Samantha, but I know myself that right now, fond memories bring an ache rather than soothe. There will never be another thing to remember on this Earth. I failed at neatly putting away every instant with her away in my mind as a treasure. One day I will find that isn't so. I know this from the experience of losing my Dad. Wait. I don't really mean "losing" him, but being separated from him by the chasm of death.

Samantha, on the other hand, has "lost" her mom. Or at least Samantha believes she has. I do not know if Samantha's mom was a Christian or not. I do know that Samantha believes that all she has of her mom is in the past. Samantha had mentioned to me that she regrets being with her mom at the last. It was so hard. It gives her painful memories, when memories are all she has of her mom now.

I on the other hand, have regretted not being there when my Momma died suddenly and unexpectedly. I am slowly letting that go. Through prayer, I am slowly coming to believe that God took her when she was ready to go. Would she have been so ready and willing with my tear stained face at her side?

In my own pain and regrets, I have God to lean on. I am thankful for that. I am thankful that Momma and I share a Savior, Jesus Christ. I am not ashamed to lean on His cross. I am not ashamed to be a "cripple". I have always needed God, and I always will. And yes, I believe that is true for everyone. My heart breaks for those who drag themselves along instead of recognizing their need and leaning on Him. It is only by leaning on Him that we can stand at all.

Proverbs 3:5
Trust in the LORD with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding.

***

To read more from Helen Migon, visit her at Random Musings and follow her on the twitter at @HelenatRandom.

Snippets (by Elizabeth aka Clarity-Chaos)

One of the things I really like about blogging and social media (okay - Twitter mostly - I've just never much been into Facebook, et. al. - but that's just me...and I digress).

Where was I? Oh yeah...One of the things I like about what I was just talking about is the whole seven degrees of Kevin Baconness of the experience. I'm pretty sure I know Elizabeth through Heather of the EO, who I know through Jon Acuff of Stuff Christians Like. But who knows for sure? Throw Twitter into the mix with a bunch of seemingly unrelated bloggers and it's all one big smorgasbord of information and awesomeness.

A few days ago, Elizabeth mentioned on the twitter that she was introducing this new idea on her blog. And I think it's pretty much brilliant, and artsy and cool. I also thought the more folks involved in it the better. But I'll let Elizabeth tell you about it:


"It is impossible that you have no creative gift...the only way to make it live and increase is to use it...." says the inspirational Brenda Ueland (1891-1985).

I had the idea rolling around in my brain for a while. Pages in my journal filled with little snippets - a few words strung together, a sentence or two. They dropped in from the clear blue and stood solidly alone, but they held the capacity for a great big story.

And then I thought --

I wonder what stories they'd spark in someone else?

And Snippets was born - a new segment of collaborative art I hope to make a weekly tradition on my blog, Boy Crazy - Finding Clarity in the Chaos. Here's the idea - each week I'll wrap things up with a Snippet for you. Imagine a great big quilt hovering out there in our collective imagination. I'm just showing you a patch. Maybe even just a thread.

Here's where you come in. Drop by on Fridays, read the Snippet and let your creative winds whirl. Come back anytime before Thursday night and in the comments (I'll start a McLinky if I get enough people playing along), leave a link to your blog, your flickr page, your etsy shop, whatever you have (if it's a verbal response, you can even leave it right there in the comment box) - and send us over to your interpretation. You can take a photo, paint a picture, design a room, write a poem, a story, a dialogue. Be literal or metaphorical.

There is no right way to do this.

Won't you come play along? Check out Snippets {edition one} for a few examples, and there's still time to contribute for this week. Tomorrow (and every Friday), I'll link to everyone who contributed, maybe feature my favorite interpretation, and I'll introduce the new Snippet for the upcoming week.

I'd love to see what you come up with!

And a big fat thanks to Katdish for spreading the word! I'm so excited. (Art makes me happy.)

This week's Snippet (contribute by Thurs evening):

He was more like an onion than an artichoke.
When you peeled back all the layers, there was no heart inside.
And he always made her cry.

Super Exclusive Sneak Peak for Katdish's readers!! (can you stand the excitement?) Next week's Snippet (going up Friday):

And when she finally spoke, her words dropped like pebbles in a tin pail.

- elizabeth

***

Cool beans, huh? I know how creative y'all are in so many different areas. So please stop by and contribute to the project. I like artichokes (not so much to each but to decorate with), so I submitted this picture of the table in my front entry:



I can't wait to see the end result!

Art makes me happy, too!

***

To read more from Elizabeth, visit her at Boy Crazy - Finding clarity in the chaos and follow her on the twitter at @claritychaos.

Enjoying the Barbecue (by Peter Pollock)

Today is my friend Peter Pollock's birthday. I give him a hard time, but in all sincerity, I will say he is one of the kindest, most considerate people I have had the pleasure of "meeting" here on the internets. I have also had the privilege of working with him on a very rewarding project this past year. In celebration of his birthday, I thought I would repost a guest post he wrote for me last year. Happy Birthday PP Bottle!:


Don’t get me wrong, I love ribs. BBQ ribs, when done right, are some of the most convincing arguments I’ve ever seen to the existence of God. Nothing beats ribs, in my opinion.

I also like chicken, carne-asada and tri-tip – (oh tri-tip, you’re so wonderful) but nothing, I mean nothing makes a good barbecue complete like burgers and hot dogs.

Maybe it’s just because when we were growing up burgers and ‘dogs were all we could afford, I don’t know. What I DO know is that I love my burgers and hot dogs.

Now, I’m sure that there are plenty of people out there who will disagree with me. Many people don’t like either burgers or hot dogs. There are also people (like my wife) who like one but not the other.

I don’t understand it personally. I like just about every kind of meat, but burgers and hot dogs, despite their differences, just happen to be my favorites.

Do you have a meat preference? Do you have a meat prejudice?

As I was sitting here salivating over the thought of some great BBQ food, I started thinking just how different burgers and hot dogs are. Burgers are round and flat, hot dogs are long and fat. Burgers are made from beef, hot dogs are made from… other stuff that I don’t want to think about right now. Burgers are dark brown (or black if I forget and leave them on too long) hot dogs are a lighter brownish color. As for the taste... there’s really no comparison, totally different.

Yet both are foods, both are great when cooked on a barbecue grill and both have little or no nutritional value, which is not surprising when they taste so good!

This all reminded me of the Church.

I’m on a journey with the Lord, a journey to rediscover his Church. A Church that I thought I knew but I’m rapidly discovering I don’t know the half of.

We, the Church, the family of God, brothers and sisters born again into the family by Christ’s blood, are a vast and incredibly diverse bunch of people.

We’re as similar (and different) as burgers and hot dogs and, just like I love my meat both circular and tubular, I’m learning that I can love this big, crazy family and everyone in it.

It’s easy for us to say that we don’t like a certain kind of BBQ food and dismiss it as nasty and inedible and we often apply to same ease of dismissal to other Christians. We don’t like something that they do or say or believe so we distance ourselves from them and turn our noses up at them like they’re tofu-burgers.

That’s not what God created the Church to be. Yes we all need a little correction now and again and we all have some bad theology that we believe. None of us are perfect but we’re all God’s children – and Daddy just wishes that we would appreciate our differences and get along instead of hating our differences and constantly fighting.

Let’s all enjoy the huge barbecue that is the Church and appreciate the wonderful diversity that God has built into it.



To read more from Peter (and to wish him a Happy Birthday), check out his blog, Rediscovering the Church and follow him on the twitter: @peterpollock.

The Honest Stain of Truth (by Amy Sorrells)

Last month I introduced you to Amy Sorrells. If you missed that post, you can find it here. In case any of you are still wondering, "What's so special about Amy Sorrells?", I invite you to read the following post from her and see for yourselves:



Professor Moore* looked like Jabba the Hut, jowls of flesh hanging over the collar of his shirt. He watched, smirking, as other co-eds and I jockeyed for seats around the long conference table, Professor's preferred room arrangement for this, our first college creative writing class.

Until I met Professor, I could always count on my writing pleasing teachers and professors. But assignment after assignment came back with haphazard red-pen scratches. I imagined Professor held my paper for a brief moment before tossing aside.

Professor enjoyed two things: making students cry and picking favorites. I landed in the first group, and was left out of the second like a scrawny girl in a middle school dodge ball game during gym class.

The class favorites wrote about sex, of course, and they wrote about it often. Though I lamented my mediocre scores, I refused to write about something so sacred just for him.

One fateful morning, my alarm clock malfunctioned and I was late for Professor's class. When I arrived, he stopped class and laid into me with a barrage of insults. On and on he spat about how lazy, irresponsible and stupid I was, daring to enter his class late. Too hurt to hold back tears but to proud to leave, I stayed for the whole class.

My notebook was a soggy mess.

That day, I resolved to please Professor--if not shock the hell out of him--with my writing.

And I did.

I wrote a short story full of violence and deceit, sex and betrayal, blood and fine champagne.

The story disgusted me.

Professor loved it.

I hated Professor for a long time after that.

Years later, I realized my sordid short story paralleled scars of abuse from my childhood. The rage I felt toward Professor was a pivotal breakthrough from flowery, Pollyannic prose, and the beginning of my journey of writing hard, writing real and learning to write well.

I can't say I agree with Professors tactics.

But I might understand, now, what he was trying to do.

See, good writing involves daring to go to deep and frightening places. Like John Coffey--the man who breathed light and life into dead things in The Green Mile--hearts come alive when we breathe into still and long-forgotten places.

Words become life when writers allow the pen to pull them places no one else wants to go.

Like leper colonies, places in the soul exist where fear hangs like shadows, veiling what we don’t understand and shielding us from disease and pain. And yet, the only way to be real and alive is to allow the pen to touch diseased and painful places.

It is the unsought job of the writer to burst through the gates of leper colonies . . . to run to those who are bandaged and losing limbs . . . to embrace those who smell like rotting flesh . . . and to caress touch-starved hearts until they stop trembling and maybe, just maybe, believe in life again.

Good writers learn to distinguish the honest stain of truth from pencil scratches on paper.

Good writers learn the events in life which enslave us are the ones which set us free.

Good writers endure hours--even days--of depression that come when the pen finds fragile, tender places.

Good writers touch ugly, diseased places, in order to touch ugly, diseased places of others.

Good writers allow the pen to pull them.

To set even one person free.

*This name has been changed for obvious reasons, although I do believe this professor is dead, and has been for quite some time.

***

To read more from Amy you can visit her website: Amy K. Sorrells

on twitter: @amysorrells

and Facebook: Amy K. Sorrells

God doesn't want your BS (a repost by Jason S)

I’ve been in ministry for years now, but I officially became lead pastor of our church way back in December of 2008. It has been thoroughly wonderful so far, and I am so blessed at who and how God has put us together as a church here in Juneau, AK to see His purposes accomplished.

I am amazed though at how much I feel like a politician. I have to motivate people, inspire, encourage, make (only) positive changes, share a vision for the future, and deal with people—some of whom feel I have not lived up to one or all of those things. I live and learn while raising a family and working a full-time job besides the one pastoring our church.

One thing I’m not so good at, and for the most part refuse to do, is BS people. I know, I know—a politician who can’t BS is done before he starts, but I think the church has been filled with it for too long (so has politics, but that’s another post). In fact, a lot of churches are so filled you can barely get in the doors on Sunday (nice visual, huh?).

We have tended toward not dealing with things, faking it ‘til we make it (which never seems to come), concealing disappointments because anything else is a “lack of faith,” and so on.

We’ve settled for pretending Christianity instead of living and experiencing it. You didn’t get the job you wanted? Well, let me regurgitate a bumper sticker I read once that I don’t really believe (because my life proves it) but will hopefully make you feel better. You just heard you have Ovarian Flu? It’s okay, just trust God and He’ll make everything better.

I’m not saying this as condemnation, but I know the temptation is always there. It’s easier to BS than to walk with somebody where you don’t want to go.

Romans 15:15 & 16 says, “Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn. Live in harmony with one another. Do not be proud, but be willing to associate with people of low position. Do not be conceited.”

That’s not easy. Neither is Jesus’ command to love each other as He loved us. That’s the point, it’s divine and supernatural work. I love that the verse says, “live in harmony.” We’re not all robots spouting the same clichés and going through the same experiences. We flow together to make something new, that’s what harmony is: diverse sounds coming together.

The beginning of Romans 15 gives us the template to live above the BS. We offer our bodies as living sacrifices. It’s in surrender that we can make a difference and truly walk with people. God’s not buying it and we’re not helping anybody, so let’s put the shovel down.

Just the other day, I was tempted to BS. I was writing about a great church event we had that went very well, but didn’t draw all the people I thought it should have. I wanted to gloss that over and put a “spin” on it then I thought, “why do I want to do this?”

The sad answer that has plagued mankind since the beginning was staring me in the face at that moment: pride.

Pride says I need to be recognized, I need to have all the answers, I need a big church to be important, I need 100 comments on my blog post. That’s why we BS and try to make ourselves look better, but better to whom?

We already have God’s heart and attention, what more could you ask for?

What do you think? Are you guilty of piling on the BS or are you working hard to get it out of the church and/or your lives?

***


Behold the power of the sweater vest!

To read more not BS from Jason, check out his blog, Connecting to Impact and follow him on the twitter at @br8kthru.

Another Allegory (by Jeff Holton)

I love the blog carnival. It introduces me to the writing of so many great folks here on the internets that I might have otherwise missed. I suppose this bi-monthly extravaganza has become Bridget Chumbley and Peter Pollock's bloggy equivalent of Kevin Bacon. That's how I first came across Jeff Holton...

Jeff Holton is an instructional designer in the San Francisco Bay Area. He works full time, teaches high school Sunday School, lives with his wife and two young children, and still somehow manages to find time to blog at Big Planet. Small World. Once publicly maligned by the religion editor of Newsweek, he still nonetheless spends far too much time identifying other people's typos. He has never climbed Mt. Everest, and most likely never will. And he's okay with that.

Jeff sent me a story that he wrote way back on November 30, 1993. An oldie, but a goody!


image courtesy of photobucket.com

A friend of Sigmund Freud once asked the psychoanalytical theorist if his almost constantly present cigar was a phallic symbol that somehow connected with a repressed oral fixation. Siggy responded, "Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar." Keep that in mind.

The lake shimmered seductively in the high summer sun.

He sat on the dock with his legs dangling over the side, his toes just dipping into the water below. He wiggled his feet a little, causing tiny ripples to emanate from the center of the disturbance. She sat next to him.

"My feet won't reach," she said, as she turned to him with a smile. "My legs are too short."

He quickly turned to her and exclaimed, "Good!"

"Good?" She looked puzzled. "Why good?"

"Think about it," he began. "What is this?"

She adopted a tone of voice that was slightly condescending as she stated the obvious. "It's two people sitting on a dock just off the shore of a lake in the summertime."

"No, no, no. I don't mean that. I mean much more generally, what is this?" he asked again.

"Um...it's a story?" she answered, seeking approval.

"Exactly. And what kind of story?"

"Um...fiction." She thought for a moment and then added, "You know, you're really ruining the suspension of disbelief by having the characters admit that they're not real."

"Just hang in there for a few minutes. You'll get the point," he said.

"How do you know?" she asked.

He responded with a wink, "I asked the author."

"Anyway, getting back to my question," she remembered, as the stream of consciousness returned to its origin, "why good?"

"Oh, yeah. Well, in fiction, what does water represent?"

"You're sick!"

"Just answer the question, for the sake of the readers."

"Alright," she took a deep breath, not wanting to say this. "It represents repressed sexuality. It has Freudian overtones."

"Precisely. So you see, you're not supposed to be able to touch the water. Women in fiction represent purity and innocence."

"Oh, and I suppose you're playing the part of the typical macho male jerk?!"

"Not exactly, I--"

She shot to her feet, stood up, and exclaimed, "Alright Mr. Know- It-All! Let's see how you respond to this!" Throwing aside all moral symbolism, she dove headfirst into the lake, and as she surfaced, reminded him that she didn't know how to swim. "It's freezing in here, and I'm going to drown," she said calmly, "but realize that if you jump in to save me, the implications will be easily spotted by the educated reader."

He looked up and down the length of the dock for any sort of life preserver, but there was none to be found. This was going to have to be an unprotected rescue. (Apparently, they often are when they are done in the heat of passion.) Being the archetypical hero, he bravely shook free of all convictions which hindered his necessary and heroic actions, and dove in headfirst in a magnificently graceful arc to save the young lady.

Later, as they lay on their backs on the dock drying off in the slowly sinking summer sun, she said, "I can't believe you did that. I can't believe you dove in headfirst and sacrificed all your morality and purity in such a foolish motion. Do you realize that the reader will never again be able to respect you as the protagonist of this story?"

"Honey?" he said, with a tone of voice that showed he was obviously quite annoyed with her.

"Yes, dear?" she said, bracing herself for an argument.

"Sometimes a lake is just a lake."

***

To read more from Jeff Holton, visit him at Big Planet, Small World and follow him on the twitter at @JeffHolton.

The Darwinian Evolution & the Ink Panther (by Rob Johnson)

Some of you may be wondering (or not - I don't know) what the qualifications are to guest post on Hey Look a Chicken. Well, they're pretty loosy goosey actually. They are people I have found through twitter and/or other blogs and I like their writing. That's pretty much it. The first question I get is typically, "Is there any topic in particular you would like me to write about?". My answer? Anything you would typically post to your blog. I found Rob Johnson through twitter. If you follow him (and you totally should), then you know he's very funny and often ridiculous. (Not at all like me.) Here's a sampling of some recent tweets:

Post Lost spoilers & I will come to ur house, stop up ur toilets, let ur dog out onto the street, & erase ur DVR settings. I mean it.

@fotomaven No. I don't drink either. In my mug you will find horrible tasting water. In its defense, however, it's gin.

When Tweetdeck gives me a Mention without the little 'chirp' sound I feel cheated.

Okay, so maybe he's like me a little...

Anyhoo, when I asked Rob to send me a guest post, I was expecting ridiculous/funny. This is not that at all. It's like all smart and stuff. And I hope you will enjoy reading it as much as I have. (Even if my brain hurts a little.)



My Take on Darwinian Evolution in About 500 Words

I want to thank the lovely and talented Kathy Richards for the opportunity to make a guest blog post here. I enjoy reading this blog and the positive spin it takes regarding God. It has inspired me to revisit a subject many non-believers use as a crutch when they think of the world as we know it: evolution.

Darwinian evolution was an unguided, unplanned process of random variation and natural selection. However, evolution via random and gradual mutations can't explain some very complex biological systems. Contrary to Darwinian evolution, it appears (and is widely accepted by scientists), that biology itself shows signs of a "designer." This deduction is arrived at via design deduce of the physical structure of a system.

Aspects of biology strongly appear to be designed. Even Richard Dawkins says, "Biology is the study of complicated things that give the appearance of having been designed for a purpose." (The Blind Watchmaker 1996, p.1) Dawkins doesn't believe biological structures were a product of intelligent design, but he admits they "overwhelmingly impress with the appearance of design."

There are structural obstacles to Darwinian evolution, coupled with physical reasons to think that Darwinian evolution can not do what its proponents claim for it. The structural reasons are “irreducible complexity."

Irreducible complexity contradicts the premise that evolution could operate slowly and gradually one mutation at a time. An irreducibly complex structure cannot evolve that way, for this simple reason: you have some system and it has a number of parts and they act on each other and they are all necessary for the function to exist. You take away one or more of the parts and the function is no longer present.

Think of it this way, and by example, the mousetrap has various parts: a spring, a wire hammer, a catch, a board that holds it all together. Take away any part and you have a meaningless and purposeless collection of parts. There is no way that it could slowly evolve into that complexity.

Another example is a bacterial flagellum. The flagellum is a whip like propeller that a bacterium spins to move. Any part of the flagellum apparatus, without all the rest, is purposeless. Like a mousetrap without one of its necessary parts, this one would be broken as well.

Critics and militant atheist's responses to irreducible complexity are wishful thinking. They argue that someday they will be able to explain them by random events and such will contradict the designer postulate. Nevertheless, they continue to make grand Darwinian claims as if this evidence already had been discovered. Such claims are urban legends.

Evolution can explain many things, but not everything.

I believe in multi-verses; worlds without number and without end, each of different degrees of glory and far more glorious than that in which we reside.

How utterly horrible would it be, to believe that Life begins, and has its ending, in this temporal sphere. I believe in an Intelligent Designer. One who has my best interest at heart, if only I have Faith. And yes, my faith has evolved. But that is a discussion for another time.

***

To read more from Rob Johnson, visit him at Rob from the Internet and follow him on the twitter at @InkPanther.

Daily Miracles (by Michelle DeRusha)

A Massachusetts native, Michelle DeRusha moved to Nebraska in 2001, where she found gargantuan grasshoppers, looming grain elevators and God. She’s raising two rambunctious boys with her husband, Brad; works part-time for Nebraska public television and radio; launders Sponge Bob briefs on a regular basis; and writes about finding faith in the everyday on her blog Graceful and in a monthly column for the Lincoln Journal Star.

***

“The great revelation had never come. The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark; here was one.” ~ Virginia Woolf

I’m always on the lookout for miracles. The Bible, I’ve noticed, teems with them. A raving lunatic witnesses his demons funnel into a herd of pigs. People rise from the dead and start doing jumping jacks. Peter slides across a roiling sea.

It's not easy for me to choose blessings, miracles, over mere coincidence. In twenty years of “unbelief,” doubt became my natural, instinctive reaction. Doubt was my default. So choosing to see the blessing, the miracle, has had to become a conscious choice, one I make each day.

This fall as I was watering the garden I suddenly heard my son Noah yell: “Quick, Mommy! Come here! Come here! Hurry!” his voice urgent, pressing. I walked over to take a look.

Floating on a gentle current along the tops of the phlox was a most curious bug, a miniscule creature about a quarter the size of my pinkie nail. To me it looked like a thin shred of paper; the kids decided it resembled a teeny piece of Kleenex. The insect bobbed along the bee balm for a bit and then floated over to my sons, navigating its linty body between them, as if to take a closer look at their big bauble heads.

My youngest, Rowan, named the bug “Klee Klee,” the word he uses for Kleenex. We sat on the curb next to the flower garden and marveled at the insect as it gracefully inched its way over the mountainous folds of Rowan’s tee shirt, its snow-white wings wispy and ragged.

I would never have noticed this delicate creature of course, so bent on watering the drooping coneflower and deadheading the bee balm, wrenching the ivy’s suffocating grip off the phlox and pulling the weeds. But the kids insisted I look, squealing and bellowing so persistently I was forced to tune in, if only to quiet the racket.



And when I did I was overwhelmed with gratitude and awe.

In her book Expecting Adam, Martha Beck marvels over her son Adam’s uncanny ability to teach her a fresh way of seeing. “He is constantly reminding me that real magic doesn’t come from achieving the perfect appearance, from being Cinderella at the ball with both glass slippers and a killer hairstyle,” Beck writes about Adam. “The real magic is in the pumpkin, in the mice, in the moonlight; not beyond ordinary life, but within it.”

Sitting on the curb with my two kids, awestruck by Klee Klee -- the delicate ruffle of his body, the gentle tickling of his feet over the fine hairs on Rowan’s arm -- I witnessed God’s way of illuminating the extraordinary within the ordinary. I uncovered real magic. I chose to see the miracle.

***

To read more from Michelle DeRusha, visit her at Graceful and follow her on the twitter at @negraceful.

What's in His Name? (by Kelly Langner Sauer)

Kelly Langner Sauer is a wife, mother, writer, poet, photographer and a self confessed rambler. Her photos are, much like her writing, often beautiful, soulful and breathtaking. I am so pleased she agreed to write a post for me in the midst of the joy and chaos of new motherhood. Here's Kelly:




Her name was Bethany.

It was such a big deal that her name was Bethany. It still stands out in my mind. I get into names.

She said that God had given her that name.

She said that she had known God intimately, the way I wanted to know Him.

She said that God had taught her to surrender fully and completely.

She said a lot of things.

But she never mentioned the name of Jesus.

...

Just over a year ago, I received an email from a reader, asking me about the poem I have posted on my blog by S. Lewis. (The poem was written and given to me by a dear college friend during a very rough time in my story, during the beginning of the end of my misconception of God.) She identified with my then-description of myself as Gomer, Hosea's wife.

And she referenced something I had said in a recent ramble-post, something I was chewing on, something I had scribbled out without too much thought, something about God calling us to do things sometimes that the rest of the world couldn't endorse.

I had been talking about His calling on my life to love someone. I had been talking about His leading me out of "church" and into Himself.

I was neck-deep in a Flickr addiction at the time. Closed off to my husband. Putting off my daughter. Battling every day to do better before I inevitably gave in and gave out and gave up. Pushing God away for the guilt of it all. The crushing guilt.

At first, Bethany's email was another distraction. A flattering distraction. I pursued the correspondence, looking for more affirmation, looking for her story.

I got her story all right.

And then some.

...

She said she was a member of what many have termed a cult.

She said she felt she could talk to me because it seemed I was the kind of person who was willing to listen.

She said God had told her it was all right.

She gave me the website for her organization.

After looking at it, my husband and I agreed with the many.

And we weren't so certain that God was behind her invitation to engage her in conversation about her "church."

In fact, I was certain that I was not to engage her. God gave me permission only to speak the name of Jesus.

...

Billy Coffey wrote about the thin places this week. The places where dark and light collide and mix into inky halflight, the places in our world where there is a crack into another world, the places in ourselves not yet yielded to God in this war between principalities and powers in the strongholds of the spiritual.

I was living in a thin place when Bethany wrote to me.

I had been too willing to pursue knowing God because it was the right thing to do, too willing to leave off Jesus because speaking of Him made me uncomfortable. Embarrassed.

I was living on the edge, and I had no response to her "have you ever surrendered your whole life to God?" I had no answer for her, "I have done that, you can too, if you'll just do what I did."

For two days, my husband and I talked. And talked. And talked. Our conversation was long and deep. We talked about spiritual warfare. We talked about who I was in God, about my misdirected passion. We talked about my failure. I named it as the sin it was. We talked about grace. We talked about Jesus.

...

Her name was Bethany, a name given to her by the spirit who possessed her.

Her testimony was her surrender, her "higher" right, her knowledge of "God."

My testimony was Jesus Christ and Him crucified.

I had no answer to her story, to her argument, to her deception.

I had no justification for my own sin, my lack of surrender, my thin-place-dwelling.

She needed nothing more than what she had found.

I needed everything. It was a choking, desperate need for redemption.

...

This is how I learned about the Gospel. This is how I encountered the Truth who is the Way and the Life, the Word who became flesh in the person of Jesus Christ, the Lamb who was slain for my justification, from whose hand I can not be removed. This is how I began to speak the name of Jesus, to discern the Holy Spirit from the subtle lies of other spirits.

Bethany had obtained the ultimate surrender. She had become a slave to her god. She was moved by a spirit. She had fellowship with something more powerful than herself.

I had not surrendered everything to God. I still haven't. I still struggle to offer myself willingly to Him, to let go of the things in me that would identify me as a slave to righteousness. I don't always recognize the leading of the Holy Spirit in my life. I don't always feel the nearness of God-fellowship that I want.

But I know this: I am justified in Jesus. Because of Him, I reckon myself dead to sin and alive to God. I am already crucified with Christ, yet I live. My faith is not something I have dredged up through trying to have more faith. It is the gift of God. My redemption comes by this faith in the Son of God who became sin for me.

I still sin. I still fail Him, fail my family, fail myself. I am every day desperate in need of a Savior.

...

Her name was Bethany, "house of figs."

Jesus cursed a fig tree once for bearing no fruit.

My name is Kelly, "warrior."

Kelly Anne.

Anne means "grace."

His name is Jesus. Immanuel.

"God with us."

...

"What, then, shall we say in response to this? If God is for us, who can be against us? He who did not spare his own Son, but gave him up for us all—how will he not also, along with him, graciously give us all things? Who will bring any charge against those whom God has chosen? It is God who justifies.


Who is he that condemns? Christ Jesus, who died — more than that, who was raised to life — is at the right hand of God and is also interceding for us. Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall trouble or hardship or persecution or famine or nakedness or danger or sword?


"As it is written:

'For your sake we face death all day long;

we are considered as sheep to be slaughtered.'


No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord."


- Romans 8:31-39

(Image © Informal Moments Photography)

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To read more from Kelly, I invite you to visit her at This Restless Heart and follow him on the twitter at @arestlessheart.