The Sacred Space of Dark & Light

"In the beginning when God created the heavens and the earth, the earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep, while a wind from God swept over the face of the waters" (Genesis 1:1-2).

It all began in darkness. It all began in darkness and God was there. God was there, hovering over the face of the darkness deep. I think we get the characterization of God all wrong. We somehow envision him as this cosmic scorching beacon that just blasts out conquering darkness. But this is wrong. God has no need to conquer darkness. Darkness is harmless. It is nothing more than a state of readiness.

We fear the darkness as children. Surely there is something there that will take me and pull me into nothingness. There must be pain and blood and claws there. Underneath my bed, inside of the cracked closet door, outside of my covers. Surely there is death waiting for me and I'll die here alone.

But what is darkness except a stage awaiting the spotlight? A room anticipating the flick of a switch that will signify activity. The moment before sunrise when the earth has rested and cooled, or that beat between a Hollywood Studio logo that disappears seconds before the anticipated fanfare.

We fear the darkness, and we forget that God is there, hovering over the expanse of it all. In other words, we fear what might be there while we forget what definitely is there. The only thing that we can really know about darkness... is that God is there.

And so the darkness is a sacred space.

 After I was newly married, my bride and I rented a very small apartment just off the campus of Anderson University in Anderson, Indiana. The washer and dryer were beneath us in an unfinished and sparsely lit, spider-filled basement with an outside entrance. The only source of light was a single naked bulb that hung from its cord. It looked menacing. I'd stare at it while holding the outside door open. It hung there like a hangman's noose.

The only way to turn on the light was to abandon the open door. As you stepped into the basement, the door would slam shut behind you, cutting off the daylight and sinking you into total darkness. You then were forced to continue walking forward, feeling in the space ahead of you for that little silver chain. Once you found it, a simple tug down would activate the bulb, blinding you as you tried to adjust to the sudden burst of light.

There were two bits of madness that held my mind in those moments. The first was that I'd pull the chain to find myself suddenly face to face with something inexplicable when the light came on. The second was more simple, but perhaps more primitive. I had a simple fear that I'd get to the light and pull the chain... and find that the light would not come on.

I had actually had nightmares about this scenario. Pulling on the chain over and over... with no light, hearing sounds in the darkness and waking up with a start, soaked in sweat.

Late one night I came home from work to find a note that asked me to go down and switch clothes from the washer to the dryer. I smiled, happy to help, and then made my way to that basement door. I paused and gathered my breath. I knew I was an able bodied adult male, average build and reasonably strong. But still... this was simply unnerving. I shook it off, allowed the door to slam behind me and made my way through the darkness.

Right as my imagination was manufacturing fear one, a disfigured face in the darkness that would suddenly become visible when I pulled the chain, my fingers found and pulled on that light. I felt the chain slide down with its normal satisfying "click" that brought the light. But this time, the light flashed and popped, blinding me and then plummeting me into the dark.

What was that that I saw in the corner? 

I pulled the chain a second time, and a third time. NOTHING. I could hear myself breathing. I was convinced that I was not alone. I ran in the direction of the stairs. I misjudged the distance and crashed into them full speed, somehow falling up the stairs. I half crawled and half ran up the flight and flung myself through the door, into the welcomed light of the night.

I turned and stared at the door to that chasm of hell! It just was there, silent, remaining shut as I listed to crickets and heard distant traffic. Slowly my rational brain returned to me and I realized that I did not want to wake up to explain to my new bride that I was too chicken to switch the laundry because the light was out. 

I removed the small headlight from my bicycle and used it to light my way back down those stairs. I'll confess that I stood there, mid-flight while I shined that small light into every recess and corner in that crowded basement of abandoned furniture and spooky shadows. I crossed the expanse and moved the wet laundry from the washer to the dryer in what must have been a new world record time.

I stood again outside. I could hear the sounds of the dryer turning. Mission accomplished, I could make my way back inside of the apartment. I felt equal parts relieved and ridiculous. So much drama over a lightbulb. Seriously. I was still ten years old and afraid of skeletons under my bed.

How often in life though am I still dashing through that basement? I'm not saying that darkness is good. Oftentimes it is the result of some sort of destruction or malfunction. Even so, I'm learning that God can be found in those dark spaces. The things that I fear are only possibilities, but the presence of God there is a guarantee.

So maybe this is a dark space? 

"Go out into the darkness and put your hand in the hand of God. That shall be to you better than a light and safer than a known way. So I went forth, and finding the hand of God, trod gladly into the night. And he led me toward the hills and the breaking of day in the lone east." 

- Minnie Louise Haskins

 

Spirit Reclaimed

I set each foot down with care, remembering childhood walks with my father. He told me of how the Native braves would learn to run silently through the forest. Long ago I learned how to slip through the woods without snapping sticks or crunching leaves. Our fellowship of nine followed our guide single file over the ancient ground.

We were an unlikely party. A Native American, a war veteran, a girl from China, an inquisitive toddler, a teenage young lady who carried the legacy of her people, a white-bread married couple who gave without limits, a recent college graduate, and me. All of us... at our own individual stage in life, somehow converged in this moment to press spirit upon spirit.

We crossed under the barbed wire that marked the property line and pressed through the thorns and honeysuckle. The hillside sloped gently down underneath the cover of oak, ash, and hickory. The guide stones had let us here. This was the ancient artifact. The Shawnee Prayer Wheel.

Stones marked the four winds: North, South, East, and West. Smaller stones crossed the center both horizontally and vertically, forming a cross in the center. This was the traditional form of the wheel. This was used for communication with the One God, the Great Spirit. The Jews called Him Yahweh. The Shawnee called Him Gitche Manitou. Both identified Him as the Creator of all things and the giver of life. This was a place to be purified, to confess, and to be renewed.

Your spirit could be reclaimed here.

I was in need of my spirit to experience a renewal. I considered the scope of history here. The slamming together of perspectives. Here I was, a white man descended from those who arrived on boats, being blessed by the great humilty and grace of a man who was descended from those who had hunted and managed this land long before boats anchored ashore.

The present has an insistent way of slamming together with the past. Directly in the center of this Shawnee Prayer Wheel, verified to be from the 1700's, was a juvenile tree that grew up from its heart. It stood like a sentinel, guarding the Holy site and signifying its presence.

What are we to think of this modern intrusion into the ancient divine? Should it be plucked from the earth lest its presence shift the stones and disrupt the history here? Our wise guide told us that he had long ago considered exactly that scenario. He'd not planted the tree, but he had been watching it grow for the last ten years. While he'd ripped up by the roots thousands of young trees within the proximity of the circle, this one had been something different.

It sprouted up in the perfect center. Its roots gave stability to the symmetry of the overall structure, solidifying the geometry of the pattern, preventing a shift downhill.  What seemed a modern day invasion was in fact preserving the ancient ground for future generations. Joseph was recorded in Genesis 50:20 when he said from his position of power over Egypt to the very same brothers who had sold him into slavery years before, “You meant evil against me, but God used it for good.” 

I needed time to stop and consider this. God’s ways are higher than our ways. His thoughts are bigger than our thoughts. I ponder my own life. My mistakes. My disappointments. And yet, there standing right in the middle of my mess… is God. Like a sentinel. Holding the ground, preserving the good for future generations. His presence gives order and meaning to it all.

I walked away from that place a little changed. My silent footsteps honored my dad and my renewed spirit honored my Father. May I continue to take each step with care, what the enemy of my soul meant for evil, God is using for good.

Burning the Living with the Dead: Some Things Need to Die

I am the vine and my Father is the vinegrower. He removes every branch in me that bears no fruit... Whoever does not abide in me is thrown away like a branch and withers; such branches are gathered, thrown into the fire, and burned. His winnowing fork is in His hand, and He will clear His threshing floor, and gather His wheat into the granary, but the chaff He will burn with unquenchable fire.

The background noise of my childhood was the dread of my adolescence, the desperate attempt of redemption for a young man, and finally, the unexpected identity of this veteran soul. Constant and steady truth, met with never-ending shifts in my personal perspective. What was once noise is now the symphony that pushes back my insanity. I calm my soul and listen to the crack and pop of the burning branches. Together they burn... what is alive and what is dead.

I am gripped by this realization. My own soul burns with what was once alive and with what needs to die. I am this inferno of past and present, of angel and demon. It all burns together. This is the only way of purification. The dry and dead fuels and heats the green and living. The stuff of the past and branches of the present. It all must burn together to be refined. The smoke causes my eyes to tear and I watch little wisps of what once was float away on the evening breeze.

The past two hours were spent ripping honeysuckle from the earth. This beautiful vine that flowers golden with sweet nectar... quickly spreads and smothers out all other vegetation. Beware. Not all that is beautiful is good. Honeysuckle was introduced to the land here. It grows its leaves earlier than the native plants and then steals the light with its leaves, holding them back as it spreads.

There was something immensely satisfying about gripping this deceptively beautiful plant with my hands, setting my feet firm into the earth, and then ripping it from the ground, roots and all. What was to big to pull would be lopped or cut, with poison sprayed on the stump. Clear out the chaff so the indigenous plants could again grow.

The harvested honeysuckle branches, roots, berries, and leaves were then dragged to the fire. 

They wouldn't burn on their own. They were too green and too moist. I looked across the field and saw a pile of fallen pine branches. They were dry and brown. Suddenly I had a thought... a memory of scripture that recounted burning chaff. Maybe in this instance the branches didn't need separated, living from dead.

No, here the dead was necessary to burn the living. What once was good and dead could be used to burn what is now bad and alive. Yes, that was it! The by product of what was once good, could be used to snuff out this present evil. And so I began to stack the layers.

A bed of dried pine branches, layers of green honeysuckle, more pine, more honeysuckle... pile it over and over until it towered at eye level. Light the pine and watch it flash! It burns hot and it spreads uncontrollably, it cannot be contained. It began to consume the honeysuckle. Like the story of Elijah and the prophets of Baal, the fire of God utterly destroyed the false Gods... the purity of the pine reduced the honeysuckle to ash. The indigenous in death defeated the interloper in life.

The land was being purified through labor, death, and fire. I stood in the smoke and considered this against my own journey. I've been through a time of purification. It required hard work on my own part. Self-examination, honesty, and change. It required death to bad habits and dangerous thinking. It required the hot fire of regret, grief, and even despair. Purification and reclamation come only with a price.

We must work for it. We must accept death to the old self. We must be willing to have our past and our present to be purified by fire. Only then are we again prepared for the new life of our indigenous soul to rise from the ash.  

John 15

Matthew 3

Native at Heart

Sterling holding an earthworm, or nightcrawler as we called them when I grew up here.

She held an earthworm in her hands with a smile on her face, that small life held in her hands. She adored it. Her brother looked towards her, capturing the moment in his own memory as he held an eagle feather.  We were all part of a fellowship of Native Americans and white people of European descent, walking the land and learning the history. This was a day of sharing deep history and bearing witness to tangible artifacts in the land. And yet... it was my ten year old daughter who best experienced the day.

Our Native American guide walked over to Sterling and observed the cradled night-crawler in her hands. He asked her if she had ever seen a salamander. Her face quickened as she said, "No." He flipped a log and deftly swept up the mud-puppy. He extended his hand towards her and she quickly laid the night-crawler to the earth and held her open hand towards him. The four-legged little creature slipped from his hand to hers.

I was enraptured with the moment. A descendant from Native American braves and a little girl adopted from China. History intersecting history, converging here in a moment shared with  a lizard thing. She immediately asked me if it was a boy or a girl. My intellect failed me as I responded, "I don't know." 

She carried the little fella (he looked like a boy) until we came to a barbed wire fence that we needed to cross and then she set him down. It must have been the journey of his life! Now the little mud-puppy fella was a stranger in a new land.

How often I have felt that way in my own life. Suddenly everything somehow shifts and I find myself in a new place.  This of course was not the case for Sterling. She was off to exploring the woods around her, running ahead of our guide and being called back by the sound of my voice.

Sterling was perhaps our soul-leader for the moment and we only subconsciously understood. She was leading us to be engaged in the moment... the immediate present. 

The world can shift in a moment. One spoken sentence changes everything. Grandma died last night. You have to wear a mask. I don't love you anymore. Yes, I'd like to have dinner with you. The power of spoken word. It changes our entire outlook with a breath. Nuclear.

Sterling. My ten year old daughter. She was grounded in the moment. What can I learn here? She is fully present, probably more than any of us. Grounded in this present reality while the rest of us are overthinking everything. I am arrested while I type these letters and words. I am called back to that moment. I stand on the trail, still... and I am listening.

It is the breeze that speaks to me. There is nothing threatening on the horizon. It is cool and light and serene. This is the reality of the world that I live in, but it is not the reality that I see. Too often I am caught up in the "what-ifs" of tomorrow and the "what-onlys" of yesterday.

"Dad, is it a boy or a girl?"

I had to travel so far to be present in that specific moment. It was as if my mind had been forcibly grabbed and pulled through the worm-hole of racing thoughts and slammed down into the earth on that hillside with her little face looking up to me expecting answers.

Mudpuppies, binary questions, and a mind that means the world to me. Sterling's question put me in the right head space for the rest of the day as together we followed the footsteps of our Native American guide and friend. I only had to open my mind as Sterling had opened up her hands. She received a salamander, and I received a fresh awareness of my place in that sacred space.

She was there naturally, but for me, I had to remember again that despite the noise of our American culture, we are all created native at heart. 

Tire Swings, Sandboxes, and the Back Door of Heaven

My memory of the story likely comes from my mom's retelling. I was a little guy and I was traumatized, stuck in a tree. This wasn't just any tree, it was my favorite tree in the world. It was a Hickory tree and it dropped nuts all over my railroad truss, triangle shaped sand-box and my tire swing. My Dad had built these things for me and he had crafted both of them with his hands, improving on their design with his own ingenuity.

A typical tire swing simply hang with a rope tied around a discarded and worn tire. Dad's tire swing hung horizontal, creating a seat that could hold three people, supported by three ropes bolted into the tire, cinched into a single knot that was joined to the rope that was secured to the giant branch some 20 feet above the dirt ground.

Rather than a simple tire of sand, Dad had somehow gotten his hands on three railroad ties. These were the giant hewn pieces of wood that ran horizontal underneath the iron rails of the great American railroad. I suspect their acquisition had a tie to his employment with one our our nations great steel mills, Armco. 

The three ties were arranged in a triangle position, each about 6 feet in length, providing about 15.5 feet of surface area that was covered by fine sand, about 8 inches deep. My sandbox was a magical place that hosted countess galactic battles, die-cast car cities, and army man campaigns. Sometimes aliens invaded and and even monsters were defeated. The good guys won every single time.

And above it all... I managed to lose my grip while climbing that tree, and wedge my knee into the v-shaped juncture of the two main branches. I was a calm and independent little fella. I quietly began to work my leg back and forth so that I could free it. But it was hopeless... I was stuck.

Pride was defeated, the war was ended, the aliens, soldiers, and monsters had won... I was freaking out. I began to cry out for my mom, who was inside the house, about a basketball court's length away... although to my 5 year old perspective it was an absolutely insurmountable distance! Like the epic moment in a movie when hope appears over the horizon when all hope is lost... my mother suddenly came running out of the back door of the house.

All of my bravado immediately melted into gasped tears and shattered words as I began telling her to "call dad so he can get his chainsaw and cut me out!" I was convinced that my only salvation was the architect of this magic space. The man who had created me a tire-swing that lifted me off of the earth and a sandbox of limitless adventure, he was the only one who could save me.

And then there was only my mother's calm voice that took over my universe. She was consoling me, soothing me, telling me that everything was going to be ok. I was incoherent at first, continuing to insist that only my father and his chainsaw would save me... but she continued to talk and hold me. She calmed me. She held my wedged knee between the branches, and she lifted me free.

Unexpected liberation. No chainsaw. I clung to her with sobs of relief. She was the hero of the day. My entire world-view shifted. The creator that space was not my savior that day. But the one who saved me intimately knew me. Her rescue was perfect and beyond my comprehension. 

This has become a metaphor for my life. So many times there have been solutions in my own head that missed the mark. I was waiting for a chainsaw when the hero in the moment was already holding me, telling me to gently release my struggle. The rescue has already been arranged. It is not by my own struggle. It is not by my own intellect, imagination, or demand. My rescue is simply my yield. My surrender. My acceptance... to the help that has already been provided and has ran to me to provide my salvation.

Come unto me, all that are tired. That was the invitation to us all from a savior some 2000 years ago. The rescue of Jesus is enough. He too was stuck on a tree... a cross. Hanging there for us all. No-one came to rescue him. He died there. He died there to become the rescue for us all.

And he runs out the back door of Heaven, to hold you and to free you. He is the creator of this place of our imagination and our countless stories... He is the architect and He is the one to free us.

Hickory nuts, sandboxes, tire-swings, and heroes... my faith was built in those days. 

Liminal Space: the Way Station of My Soul

The sound of the fountains below my fourth floor apartment provide the music of the night. The new fresh air of these fall nights pulse into my window with a rhythm nearly like breathing. This is the time of day when the busyness yields to the quiet. My body rests as my soul reviews the day and reasserts itself as the ruler of my heart.

My mind has so much to process of the day. I think of my three children and I picture them safe and sound. I shove worry out of my head and instead paint for them sweet dreams as I talk to God about their future. My mind wanders to a lady whom I've known for some time and I pray fervently that perhaps her affections might again turn my way.

The night for me holds hope. The depth of the cosmos on display, lighting up eternity. I can literally see for years, for light years. My eyes take hold of things that once were, are now, and are yet to come. The surface tension of my soul is no less greater than that of the sun, and the resulting revolutions of its gravity pulls all that I love closer to me.

Liminal space. That is exactly where I find myself on this early autumn night. Liminal space, the physical space between one destination and the next, a cosmic way station. A latin rooted word that describes this time between what was and what's next. 

"Are we there yet Daddy?"

The liminal space of a road trip. Are we there... yet? And what do we do in the intermittent time? We remember who we are, celebrating stories and memories. We are present in the moment, playing license plate games and seeing who can hold their breath through the mountain tunnels. We talk about our preferred future and we plan our days. We remember that we are in this together. Liminal space... what seems merely transitory, is in fact... definitive.

There is no wasted time on this planet. The in between moments prepare us for our next. The sound of the fountains, the feel of the breeze, the smell of the cool autumn air... it all stills our heart for what is yet to come. This is the still, small voice of God. 

Walking with Dragons

The air is perfect tonight. It is late September and a little bit of warm air has returned to let us know that mother nature is not quite ready to yet give up the summer. The autumn equinox may have passed, but summer has an encore! Tomorrow is forecasted a warm 84 degrees and I plan to warm my skin in it's beam. But for tonight... it is a perfectly wonderful landscape to walk with my dog in the glow of the lights of the night, wearing running shoes, cut-off jeans, a simple t-shirt, and my favorite black jacket. 

The sign near the water of the pond reads, "No swimming, boating, rafting, or skating." It is cleverly disguised to look like a classic wooden post and planks, but it is a pre-fab steel replica of what was once substance. It lacks the pull and ware that accompanies true world time and space. Ironically, it presents as artificial nostalgia, poorly cloaked in this modern world mimicry of things that once held value.

Conversely, the night sounds are abundant and unmistakably  refreshing. Crickets are the big deal, their sounds reminding me of my childhood reading of A Cricket in Times Square, and a fascination of that micro-universe within that self-inflated city. I was so captivated by that book. One little cricket in the glare and movement of that giant city! We all possess so much magic... the stuff of potential that outshines the challenges of living. There are things in this life that yet remind me of that.

I look at my ten year old daughter. She has not yet abandoned the magic. She fears bees and wrestles with the conundrum of whether wolves or dragons are the coolest of creatures. Today she and I agreed that a wolf-dragon would be the ultimate of creatures. I mean, why not? The Never Ending Story had a "Luck Dragon" that was a combination of a dog and a dragon. Surely a combination of a wolf and a dragon would be an upgrade. 

Michael Ende, what do you say? I'm thinking that Sterling is onto something and you and my daughter could collaborate to add to your "Luck Dragon" concept to create the "Wolf Dragon." It would be the natural progression of the story. Wolves are instinctually pack animals. They are intuitive, typically not aggressive, intelligent, and get unreasonable negative press sometimes. This girl of mine... she causes me, a Shepherd, to romanticize the wolf.

I bought her dragon earrings today. They were the pure dragon, non wolf type. They looked amazing with her dark hair. The smile on her face was confirmation of their absolute perfection. We had looked at them earlier online, combing through thousands of designs. The earrings that seized her attention and animated her choice, were remarkably similar to the tattoo of a dragon on my left shoulder, that is the tattoo that symbolizes her. My Chinese little fierce fire-breather.

I had that tattoo made while we were awaiting her adoption. China had just shut down adoptions to the U.S. We had the choice of switching to another country, or waiting on the chance that adoptions might re-open. I doubled down with a permanent skin commitment, and after six years, Sterling came home. 

In this world of fear, of rules, of masks that cover our faces... tonight was a simple walk under the stars with my dog by my side. I pull the air into my lungs and I taste the night. It tastes exactly like the nights of my childhood in Preble County, Ohio. It tastes like that night in Guanghzou when I spun in the moonlight over the Yellow River, holding my little daughter in my arms on a midnight cruise.

There is magic yet to be held in this world. You don't need a Luck Dragon or even a Wolf Dragon. I pull this night air deeply into my lungs. I pause to really listen to the sound of the simple cricket. I stop to open the eyes of my heart and look at the people who matter to me most. I take this moment to think of the best memories of my life and pull from those snap-shots the bits of wonder that made me. And now I make this declaration, this is who you I am created to be.

Created with a unique purpose for this time. All my fears, my risks, experiences, hopes and dreams... oh how remarkable it is when I consider that no-one else on this planet is quite the equation of me, of Sterling. So don't yet go softly into this night.... open your eyes to the dragons and wolves and ten year old visions of this world.

There is beauty and adventure and even meaning and peace yet here to be found. It is time to swim, to raft, to boat, and to skate. The sign is nothing more than a distraction.

Bowing at the Altar of Reclamation

And he bowed himself, and said, What is thy servant,
that thou shouldst look upon such a dead dog as I am?
2 Samuel 9:8

And Mephibosheth ate continuously at the King's table was lame on both feet, with all the land's of his father restored.

When I was a kid, the altar sat at the front of Poasttown Church where my grandfather would preach. It was where people went when they had a deep concern, a health scare, wanted the pastor to pray with them, or needed a holy space to meet with God. While I worked as a missionary in Guatemala, I learned about the altars of the Maya and Aztecs, sometimes covered like the alters of the Old Testament, redemption only purchased by blood. But also in the Hebrew scriptures, we find a different type of altar, one that gives a testament of a historical event, an alter of remembrance.

Joshua set twelve stones from the river Jordan after he led a nation across it on dry ground. He wanted all who saw that place to know that God had done again the miracle performed when the Israelites crossed the Red Sea on dry land (Joshua 4:20-24). There are times when the actions of God reach into the problems of our lives and He inexplicably restores us back, regardless of our situation, or mistakes, and things both not our fault, and entirely our fault.

Mephibosheth, the son of Jonathon, Saul's grandson deserved to die as the heir of David's formal rival. But King David adopted him as his own... not because of who Mephibosheth was, but because of the grace and character of the King. This is the same experience that God has given to me. A reclaimed life. And so I write these words, building this altar of reclamation.

Reclamation goes way back with God. All the way back to the origins of creation. This was the way that order came from chaos, heaven itself pulled from the madness of the void. We know so well the beautiful creation ex nilo, the spoken word of God that created the world from nothing. But how often have you heard of the reclamation of the chaotic seething mess that resulted from that initial action? Genesis speaks of it as the earth as a formless void, a worthless desolation, a literal place of misery, destruction, death, sorrow, and wickedness.

And then, from that madness, God created again. He re-created, he reclaimed the world. Genesis uses a new verb here that means to create from previously existent materials. And then, He uttered the words, "Let fall out illumination!", and placed all things into beautiful order. 

Fast forward from that space and time some many, many years later. Again, the world was in chaos. And suddenly the sky was split above the heads of sheep and shepherds... and again God arrives with an explosion of light and sound as tens of thousands of angels shout, "Glory to God in the highest!" giving the ultimate declaration of all time that God again had returned to reclaim what was His!

Our God, the one who created, recreated, and reclaimed. The one who restores us day by day. To Him I stretch out my arms in this place, to Him alone I bow. To Him who alone is worthy. And it is Him that brings order from chaos, life from dead things, and even explodes darkness itself with light from His very mouth. Light and life can grow from darkness and death when He speaks. To Him all glory and power and honor forever and ever. Amen.

And so this is why I bow. This is the same God who again has reclaimed me. I can bow at that old fashioned altar of my grandfather. I can walk away from that blood covered altar of sacrifice. The God of reclamation shed His own blood to set me free. And I can build this altar of remembrance so that all who pass this way will see that He is the same God who parted the Red Sea, split the Jordan, and shouted light into the cosmos of time.

Whatever your situation, I am here to bow beside you and introduce you to the One who is here to meet you. To bring light. To give you life. To again bring order into your chaos. There is a seat at the King's table for you. Come. His arms are stretched wide. Light and life fall from his face for all who bow.

After all, maybe you’re already on your knees?

Shock the World! A Shout of Reclamation: Take Back what the Enemy Has Stolen

The time for timidity has ended. The time alone on the biblical mountainside has come and gone. The wind has blown. The voice of God has spoken. The time of deep reflection, of introspection, of soul-searching, dark-nightedness and even flagellation has come to its bloody close. I have been righteous and and I have fallen short. I am human and yet I am filled with the very Spirit of God that gave life to Adam, saw Hagar, gave a voice to Balaam's ass, called Hosea to marry a prostitute, strengthened Samson to smash pillars, emboldened David to kill a giant, Joseph to interpret dreams, Daniel to stare down lions, and Mary Magdalene to wash the Messiah's feet with her own tears and hair... it is is this same radical Christ that enables me to again find life in this moment. 

The human part of me has fallen short, and yet the God part of me has never waivered. "Come lift your head weary sinner, all who strayed and walked away. Unspeakable things you've done. Fix your eyes on the mount. Let the past be dead and gone. Come all saints and sinners. You can't outrun God" (Crowder, Lift Your Head Weary Sinner, 2014).

 Jonah tried to outrun God. He was swallowed by a great fish and vomited out to get it right. Moses tried to outrun God. He killed a scum-bag, hid his body, and got called out. I've tried to outrun God. Apparently he created Usain Bolt. Bonus material: you can't outrun God. He is already at the finish line, awaiting your lame limp. You may even find that He is beside you and running with you, behind you and kicking your butt, or even ahead of you and dragging your nearly lifeless body despite your failings. I have been in all of those positions. I find myself where I am... fully because of Him.

Pesky, un-relentless, always faithful (and annoying) Him. Blasphemous am I? No, not quite, although I'm on the edge. I am annoyed by God because I'd rather that He was false, fake, and untrue. I could have blown Him off and moved on with a meaningless life. Live and let live and let die. But... His promises are true. And so, there is something here worth grasping.

Let me state again... His promises are TRUE.  And they are inescapable. This God is REAL. His promises are REAL. His power... yeah, it is REAL. And He can heal. He can mend, He can reclaim the life that you were created to live. He is reclaiming me.

He once split the sky over Bethlehem and a few scraggly Shepherds were there to witness... "Fear not! For behold I bring you good tidings of great joy!" This was the ultimate declaration... God had returned to reclaim what was His from the point of creation. It was time and He had returned to take back what the enemy had stolen... all the way from the time of Adam. All the way to the time of me. All the way to the time of... you.

Yes. It is time to shock the world. Nothing has changed. That is the shocking news that I have to give to you. It is as is always has been. With all of the noise of the world: politics, Hollywood, social media, Kardashians, fashion, and trends... we are still just naked standing beside the tree of knowledge of good and evil. We're still just Eve and Adam... and we're still trying to make sense of this garden and the God who planted us here. 

Nothing has changed since the dawn of everything. And God still speaks His words of creation, "Let there be light."

I am here to chose that light. It is time to hold it high and explore our creation. Let's shock the world together. This is not the end time... this is only yet a beginning.

The Day I ate Spit and Had the Richest Meal of My Life

It was the second week of June in 2012. Our family was a full year away from moving to Guatemala, but I packed up my oldest, Caleb age 12, and he and I went with a small team to build a house for a mother and her two children in the village of Cerro Alto, Guatemala.

He was amazing that week, first climbing a tree and watching the village, the wood fires, the young boys with their games in the dirt, and our construction of the wood framed house. By day three he was down from that tree and already learning the language that he'd master in the years to come.

We finished the work that week, dedicated the house, and handed the key to the single mom who was raising an infant and a young girl. Mercedes would awaken at dawn each morning, courtesy of local roosters, and she'd first make a trek to carry back the days firewood on her head, stacked on a small pile of rags. She'd get the fire started and then while it burned, she'd make another hike down the mountain to gather water for the day. By the time the sun was shining, she was prepared to begin her days preparation of their primary nutrition for the day, corn tortillas.

This would be her ritual every day before she would join into the hard labor of constructing a home, while keeping her infant swaddled on her hip. At the end of the week, we watched and cried while she unlocked a door for the first time in her life and led her children into their first home. Little beds, stuffed animals, a kitchen table, and a door that locked... these were all firsts for them, and each little detail was a new chance at a better life. For the first time ever, that night they were guaranteed to be dry and to be safe.

Caleb and I boarded our flight the next morning and returned to the pace of our first world life.

One year later we would return with our entire family. We'd sold and donated everything we had, reducing our belongings to only what would fit into the maximum requirements of the airlines: 2 suitcases and one carry on per person... a total of 15 items. It was thirteen really, because that included a Pack 'n Play and a stroller. 

Our little family, three kiddos, Caleb age 13, Aleksandra age 10, and Sterling age one... we made our way back to Cerro Alto to lead a team and build two more houses. What an experience this was with our newly adopted baby from China. We certainly didn't disclose that to the Chinese officials during our exit interview! They couldn't know that we were pastors and missionaries. 

And so we worked the week and completed the houses. New dedications, new families under roofs, new keys placed in hands. 

During the final prayer of the final home, while I had my eyes closed, suddenly a small and rough hand grasped my own. I opened my eyes and I gasped. It was Mercedes and her baby was a year bigger, still swaddled to her side!

She had came and found me. She began tugging at my hand as she said, "Vámonos! My feet followed her and I was delighted to see that she led me to her house, there very place where I had been one year before with my son. Her fire was burning and a steel plate was over the top of the flames. Her house had been painted a deep and beautiful blue and she had built herself a small hutch filled with chickens. The door of the house opened and out walked her daughter, smiling and laughing!

Mercedes reached into a bucket and scooped out a handful of corn that had been smashed and mixed with water. She asked me if she could cook me a tortilla. Enthusiastically I said, "Yes!" And so a year ago this would be a tortilla made by a lady who slept on a clay floor. The tortilla would have been made in her home of adobe brick and corn stalk walls. Now she did so outside of her secure home. The corn had been ground down by hand and had been grown on her own land. She cooked on open flames using wood that she had carried on her back up the mountain path. 

She had no access to any type of healthcare, medicine, or financial support. Her family existed on about $5/ day. And even with all this hardship, she shared with me what she had with a smile.

 

Her hands began to pat the paste in her hands with practiced and expert skill. She rotated and flipped the batter as her hands continued to rhythmically pat, pat, pat. I was looking at the chickens in their pens when I heard the first sound from her mouth. Ptttt! It sounded like she spit. Hmm. Must have had something in her mouth. Maybe a fly was buzzing her. And then she spit again. My mouth dropped open as I watched now the operation.

Open palm of batter, a puff of spit from her mouth into the batter, pat-pat-pat, spit, flip and rotate, pat-pat-pat, spite, flip and rotate, and so on. All between big smiles on her face and the hopeful little face of her daughter, sweet little Kendra. All I could do was smile back as my mind freaked out and tried to think of a way to escape! Surely I could not eat this spit-made tortilla!

And then she held it out to me with the most beautiful smile I have ever seen. It was the moment of truth. Mercedes eyes were locked onto me, her baby strapped to her hip, her gorgeous little daughter beside us. The chickens clucked in the pen and a breeze blew soft across the mountainside.

I took that tortilla. It was warm and it represented the sacred relationship that existed between me and my son and this woman and her children. We had shared  a week on this land and together we'd built a home and extended hope. I bit deep into that tortilla and ate it and the next two that followed. I will confess that I was also silently praying for my own well being!

Mercedes and Kendra were delighted. They asked if I'd brought my family and I took the opportunity to tell them two things: (1) my family was here and I was going to go get them, and (2) they'd already eaten and so she did not need to prepare them tortillas! Moments later I returned with my family and together we all celebrated Mercedes and her new life!

Mutual generosity made all the difference. It isn't so much about what you have to give, it matters much more that you simply give whatever you have. 

I don't care where you decide to be generous, I don't care where you give. If you have a calling to help the homeless in America, then do it. If you have a desire to serve the destitute in India, then do it. If your neighbor is without healthcare... then spend your money to buy him what he needs. Our daily challenge is the same wherever we are... be a force of good. Live out your belief.

I See Dead People… and They Come for Me

 This is a phenomenon that I share with my uncle Stephen. It has happened to me for as long as I can remember. Certainly as a child it seriously freaked me out. As an adolescent, I'd turn and avoid it. But as an adult... I've simply yielded to it... and I've had inexplicable encounters.

Ok, so they aren't really dead people. But how else do I explain them? They are nearly dead. They are clinging onto life with broken fingernails. The bright sunshine day conceals their terror, their existence in the vacuum of being unseen, unloved, and isolated... due to their own unalive, hollow soul.

Why do they see me? I am sure it is because I saw them long before they saw me. I cannot help it. They glow like beacons from afar. Their faces captivate me and halt my day. Like I said, it has always been this way. 

And then they come for me. This part I do not fully understand. It must be my countenance or expression? Maybe they see me like I see them... highlighted and unmistakable. I do not know. What I do know is that EVERY single time they have insights about me. This makes absolutely no sense. 

Oh the stories I could tell you... of the seriously mentally ill man who I saw in the hospital right before he made his escape. He told me that I was recently divorced. He told me that he knew I had been a pastor. He told me that he knew I'd served in Guatemala and that I was feeling lost. He was dead right on every account.

I make no defense and I give no justification. I only am here to testify of these extraordinary encounters.

November 2019, the last normal holiday we'd all experience before COVID-19. It was not a normal holiday for me. It was my very first as a divorced man. I was feeling very alone, totally isolated, and quite dark within myself. I was a charlatan, you see? I had been a pastor, a chaplain, a missionary, a husband... and now my identity was a divorced man. I was ashamed and felt useless.

I took walks. Really long walks. I'm talking about walks that could last for hours. I had no destination in mind. No purpose or direction... I simply couldn't sit in my apartment. It was too small and there were too many accusations in my mind that bounced off of those walls. And so one sunny day, like so many before it... I went for a walk.

But that day was different. I had walked to an adjacent apartment complex that had a pond. I walked onto the deck above the pond, laid on my back, put my ear-buds in listening to One Republic, closed my eyes, and shut out the world. I felt peaceful. The warmth of the sun was on my face and my jeans and plaid shirt felt somehow just right in the Indiana sun. 

Suddenly I felt threatened and I open my eyes. There was a man literally in my face! He was staring into my face, only inches away.

I immediately pulled away, sliding across the wood deck, my hand going to the .380 concealed in my waistband. I gripped it and stared at him... the air between us thick and electric.

He raised both hands into the air, palms facing me and said, "Hey, whoa... I'm sorry, I have been trying to get your attention." He immediately told me his name and said he was recently discharged from active duty in Afghanistan. He said he came home and he and his wife couldn't make marriage work. He said that he came home broken, and now he was devastated. He said that he'd lost everything he loved and his life no longer mattered. He told me that he wanted to die.

I stared at him. I was a bit stunned. I mean yes, this sort of thing happens...  a lot... but it had never been this much literally in my face.

All I could manage to say was, "Why are you talking to me?"

I would have told you that me waking up to a stranger in my face was the most shocking event of that sunny day... but it was not. The words he spoke next upped the ante. "Well, you're a pastor, aren't you?"

WHAT?

I was a divorced, ex-missionary, ex-pastor, ex-chaplain, loser laying on my back with a pistol on my hip. I was afraid, freaked, lonely, bitter, and angry... with the world. With myself. With God. Freaking God! How could He let this happen? Where had He been when I needed Him? When my family needed Him?  I'd given Him everything and lost it all.

And now this deranged stranger was calling me out as belonging to GOD? I scooted even farther away from him... as tears fell down my cheeks.

Realization flooded down over me like rain. God had not abandoned me. God saw me here. The realization that I was the one who gave up on God... was arresting. Somehow I gained a new world perspective in that moment. I looked the man in the eye and I said, "How could you possibly think that?"

His response, "I don't know. I was sitting on my balcony, right up there on the fourth floor and I saw you walking towards me from way off. I felt like that I should talk to you and I made a deal with myself that if you came and sat on the deck, I'd come down and talk to you." I just stared at him.

He continued, "Not only did you walk on the deck, but you layed down on it, flat on your back. I've never seen anyone do that. And you wouldn't leave. And so I walked down the stairs, crossed the lawn, and came to your side."

He repeated himself, "You're a pastor, aren't you?" I was laying there with visible tattoos and multiple piercings in my ears. I scrunched my face and said, "How could possible know that?" He said, "I don't really know. I just know that you are." He had me. I confessed, well, I have been. But I'm not any more. He leaned closer, looking me in the eye and said, "Yes you are. You still are, and I need you to pastor me."

I told him that I was divorced, that I'd walked away from ministry, that I still held my license and ordination... but I was a hypocrite! He shocked me yet again as he leaned over, hugged me, and sobbed. He told me that I was the perfect pastor for him.

Over the next hour and a half he poured out his life story. He told me of an early faith in God, and how Afghanistan had beaten it out of him. He seen to much. Done to much. Remembered too much. And suddenly there I was... simultaneously telling him of the God who sees him and loves him, while I was experiencing the embrace of that same God while I spoke. 

It was a holy moment. There was restoration that happened for us both. How can I possibly explain this? Here is what I do know. The God of Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Joseph, and Jesus... I know Him. He has been faithful to me always. Always.

As suddenly as the young man arrived... he stood up and announced that it was time for him to leave. He started to walk away, and then turned back and looked at me intensely. He said, "I don't want anything to do with church, but if you pastored a church, I'd attend there. Don't give up. Remember who you are."

And then he turned and walked away. 

I was stunned. I'm still stunned. This happened two years ago and I'm just now processing it as I put these words down. You know what is also weird? I've never seen him again. I've walked that same path. I've duplicated my behavior and laid on that deck. But, I never saw him again.

I see dead people... and they come for me. And sometimes, they restore me. And you know what? I'm still a pastor.

He Never Liked My Earrings but He Loved Me

 Hi Pop. Are you going to talk to me tonight? It has been a while since you've visited. I miss you and I could really use your conversation.

"Pop" is what I called my maternal grandpa. My mother's dad. His name was Carmel, but to me he is forever "Pop." I never even thought of it as an aberrant referral to grandpa, it was simply who he was. The whole family called him "Pop."

Family lore said that he was "Pop" because at a Christmas gathering, his growing stomach placed too much pressure on his shirt and the button "popped off." According to legend that was the origin of his name... but I'm not sure... I think I knew him as "Pop" long before that episode. I think it just cemented the moniker. Probably, Pop was just what his kids (my mom an her siblings) called him as they grew up. Even so... I love the button-pop story and well, how about we just go with it?

He died. It was a shock to me. He'd been dying for years, but still the moment of his passing just seemed far too abrupt. I mean... he was living and breathing. And then he was just... dead. 

No.

I had never had a moment of life without Pop. 

His voice had always been strong. His eye contact intense. His words... unfiltered. One thing that he had NEVER been... was silent. The silence was unbearable. It was so evident of his absence.

I remember when we met for dinner at Olive Garden. It was the first time he saw my earrings. He had tears in his eyes and I've never felt so awful. I was making my grandpa cry. 

He asked, "Buck (he called all of his sons and me Buck... I have no idea why) are you still my good little Chad?" I answered "Yes." I'll confess now though that I was not. As he feared, my physical appearance was representative of the condition of my heart. But what was I to say in that moment? I did not want to cause a scene at family gathering. "Pop, you know I am. I love you." He nodded and hugged me so tight. So tight.

When I was unfaithful to my marriage so long ago... he came to me. Weeping. Filling my heart with truths. I am so thankful. He saved me then. I returned to my wife and we spent an additional decade raising our children. Thank you Pop. You gave us that.

Here is what I cannot explain. I still talk to him, he visits me while I sleep. The setting is sometimes the living room of his and Mamaw's house on Marcie drive, sometimes it is at my uncle Stephen's house where he lived and died... and sometimes he literally stands at the foot of my bed and speaks to me and in those moments I feel awake and present.

He still scowls at my earrings. And he tells me that he loves me. He asks me how I am doing. He listens to me and he smiles at me. He tells me how much he loves Caleb, and Aleks, and Sterling. He tells me that they are special and he asks me if I realize how blessed I am. He weeps when I speak of my divorce, and he speaks encouragement when I mention my future.

He mourns my losses, celebrates my blessings, and gives me hope for the future. He is my Pop.

I miss his toothpick that he chewed on, his hat that always perched sideways on his head. His scent of Old Spice and wing-tip shoes. I miss his arm that would be around my shoulders on Sunday night prayer meetings. He was my Pop and he made my world feel safe.

And here I am now. 

My earrings have grown from two to six. I no longer am married. My household is split. I am at the mercy of a crucified God. And I find mercy. I talk to my Pop at night. I swear it is really him. He isn't happy about every decision that I've made... and yet, he is still my Pop. His love shines through his eyes and he sees that I'm doing my best with what I have in this moment.

That is his ring. He wore it for years. It is 10 carat gold and I don't know if the stone is diamond or composite. Frankly I don't care. The worth of this ring far exceeds it's composition. This ring was on the hand of the man who wrapped his arms around me for so many years... and even now... finds a way to talk to me in my dreams. 

Pop. I'm trying here. I love you. I know I've made some pretty major mistakes. But I also know that this story isn't yet over. The God you taught me to love, He is still with me. I cannot escape Him. Your influence covers me still. Your ring sets on my finger.

I look at it daily. Every single day. I see it as your legacy and God's promise. My story is not yet fully written. Your ring, your legacy, your promise to God... it yet lives on in me.

Broken and imperfect. Even Earring bearing... and yet the Love of God and you... compel me. Let's do some crazy Kingdom things... earrings and imperfections and all.

God uses broken vessels. I am a broken vessel. And I still hear you.

2 Tm 2:15 "Do your best to present yourself to God as one approved, a worker who does not need to be ashamed and who correctly handles the word of truth.

Amen.

Never Too Late to go Home

 

The familiar sound of my Facebook Messenger app squirrel-diverted my attention away from my attempt to write. A video appeared on the screen from a trusted friend and so I pressed the play arrow. The view was clearly from the passenger window and the first house that I saw looked deeply familiar. Could it be? I saw the old fencepost go by and a smile exploded on my face as my childhood home appeared on my iPhone.

My Dad and Grandpa Harry built that fenceline that still stands on the back lot of the property. My Dad, my Grandpa Carmel and I built that front room that extends from the front of the house. My Dad and I once ripped down a portion of that chain-link to the left of the garage when we'd forgotten to detach a chain before slipping the transmission of that step-side truck into Drive. I'd backed my Dodge Horizon into the house one day while my Dad sat inside... hearing the collision and knowing immediately what had happened.

I'd taken a thousand three point shots on a basketball goal that was no longer there, hugged some amazing dogs, sat in a treehouse, and imagined tragedy and heroic comebacks a million times in that backyard. This was the home of my childhood, the geography of my greatest imaginations and memories of all my best friends. All of my grandparents who are now gone... embraced me on that plot of land.

Time stood still as my heart swelled and broke with thanksgiving and loss all rolled into a single powerful gut punch. I want to go home.

Several of you who know me best and perhaps love me most have recently reached out with a sincere, "Chad, how are you really doing?" If you were here to ask me this in person, you would all be met with an uncomfortably long and blank stare.

Life.

I could tell you the tough things, but at the same time I'd be internally chastising myself for focusing on the whiney negative things of my life that are either self-imposed natural consequences, or positive things in my life that I tirelessly work to reframe as negative. 

How am I? I'm freaking insane. I'm better than I've been in years. I'm studying and praying again. I'm writing again. I'm investing into my church and into my work with the non-profit. I'm this inexplicable mixture of saint and sinner. I'm blessing lives and uttering curses. I'm beating myself with heat and pressure into a better person and I'm enjoying a stiff drink before falling asleep.

How's that? And really, how are you? 

Now... to those who asked that question... please don't take offense. Any writer worth her or his salt knows how to write for dramatic effect. You and I are quite good, and please do not stop asking. I do need you. This is just a late night purge and attempt to bleed a little on this cyberpage.

Life for me follows one of two patterns: (1) drought and (2) flood. I have been in a 7 year drought. It was like everything I touched died. Ministry... lost. Marriage... lost. Identity... lost. And like a dying man in a desert, I just kept walking. No excuses here. I have no-one to blame but myself. I had an overwhelming wave that consumed me that just drowned me in an inexplicable feeling of unease.

The past two years have been about healing. A return. A reclamation.

I'll recount this incorrectly, but the recollection I'm recording is how it felt in my soul. The sequence of events and facts are assuredly incorrect. My memory exaggerates things and my psyche adores the exaggeration. I mean, come on, any good story is worth a little color.

While living and working in Guatemala, one of the pastor's who'd been a part of my ordination (bless his kind heart), was Tim Kufeldt. I absolutely adore that man. He brought a team from his church to work alongside us there. Together we built homes and giant chicken coups. His team was extraordinary. They were absolutely kick-ass.

Nancy Hulshult was on that team. She was a clown. I mean... for real, she was the real deal. And on the same team was a man from another Central American country (I cannot remember which). His name though, was Felix Escobar. Tim, Nancy, and Felix were life and breath to my soul. The three of them knew no obstacle. They were absolutely a force and their combined work was evidence of the miraculous nature of the God named as "I AM."

After my family left Guatemala expectantly, I lost all contact with them as my life fell apart.

But the story does not end there. There was a word being whispered yet... "reclamation."  

Thanksgiving of last year found me in isolation with Caleb, my the 20 year old son. He'd been sent home from his university with an active case of COVID-19. I invited him in and together we braved that virus and burned through Star Wars and every Avengers movie. It was a feverishly wonderful time!

And that is when I received a book in the mail from Nancy. She had written a chapter of me and my family in Guatemala. She spoke of the impact and character of our children. I read those words... I and wept. I cried Biblically for days. All I could see is what I had lost. We had everything. We had family. We had faith. We had guts. We were out there and we were doing it. We freaking pushed back the gates of Hell and reclaimed lives.

And we lost ourselves in the process. Our sacrifice was too great.

How does one recover from that? When you win countless battles and then lose the war of what matters most?

I had to breath deep in those days and take account of the blessings that still surrounded me. God had been good and blessed my ex with a good man. Caleb was strong and graceful and faithful, finding a path of ministry. Aleks was tenacious and determined and was clearly finding her way with beauty and power. Sterling was growing up, possessing humor and intelligence. God was still faithful!

Meanwhile the missions in Guatemala were still thriving. The Christian American School, Catalyst Resources International, and the fledgling Ministerios Iglesia de Dios Guatemala all were being used and blessed by God. His mission and story continued. Our work there was not in vain. We planted. God harvested. The enemy attacked. We fell. God's plan continued.

We now rebuild. We are not finished.

Nancy, the same Nancy, reached out to me via Facebook messenger and we began a dialogue of what would it look like to co-author a book. What if we together told God's story of restoration. How He rebuilds broken and dead things. How He can bring new life where there is no hope. How He can take the clear defeat from our enemy... decimation and undeniable destruction... and somehow from that rubble grow something beautiful and new and even powerful.

I agreed to engage in the conversation. I said yes to exchanging stories and began laughing and even crying as I read her stories and saw my own truth reflected in God's interactions with her.

I do not miss the irony that I am reflecting on God's reclamation... and He is restoring me in the process. 

6088 West Elkton Gifford Road, that was my home address growing up. It is about a mile from a retreat center where I've been invited to take my family this Christmas. That was the first convergence. And then there was a chance to share there with a group that I've accepted. And then... my parents decided to move from their home in South Carolina, returning to this very same town that houses the retreat center, and that same town that held me as a wondering, imaginative, and untested young boy. 

I want to go home.

And perhaps I can. I'm exploring those options now. God may very well be making a way where there was no way. He is, after all, the God of reclamation, and I am learning that it is never too late to go home.

Sometimes “Just Barely,” is absolutely Perfect!

Sterling Mei Shepherd holding Scorpion at the Olivia Pool near sunset.  Fearless. Bold. Preparing to strike this world. Almost eleven years old, but fiercely wanting to be eighteen. She is my youngest and God was wise to send her to me last. This one is freaking nuclear. The way she attacks life, she is Genghis Khan, taking no prisoners, unapologetic, and she loves more than anything... beating boys at their own sports. You should see her throw a spiral football. It is quite shocking. I've never seen a football thrown with such intensity. I've always told my kids that they have nothing to prove to this world, but she wholly rejects that. She is out to prove everything.

This child is the one who challenges me. On everything. She makes me rethink my philosophy on life. In the past, I saw her as a problem child. Recently... I have been enlightened to understand that THIS ONE is created and placed in my life... for such a time as this. I am learning so much from this little fission reaction. Explosive as the sun that silhouettes her perfect picture. 

Today she was determined to walk on her hands from one end of the pool to the other. This is a feat that she has accomplished already... multiple times. But today... it was difficult. Hmmm... not sure why. Last evening we feasted on popcorn and Texas Roadhouse. We'd gone to the cinema and watched Jungle Cruise. Maybe her little powerhouse body was still recovering from our revelry?

Nonetheless... she was absolutely hell-bent on completing again that hand-stand walk from one end to the other of the pool. She'd stand on the concrete on the pool edge, flip down to her hands with her feet in the air, abdominal muscles tightened, and begin her trek, hand to the ground, moving forward. Her efforts today were failing. She'd fall to the side or roll forward, landing on her feet... never truly falling.

I watched her silently... collapsed on the concrete. She lost her balance again. She literally sat with her hands holding her head. She looked at me and said, "Dad, this is so frustrating. I know that I can do this. Why do I keep falling?"

I am father. I am sage. I have wisdom, Ya... right, I had nothing intelligent to say in that moment. I paused. I gave the moment some space.

She looked at me and said, "I'm going to try again. I nodded and and smiled. "You can do it."

She walked back down to the far side of the pool. Her eyes met mine and we exchanged a smile. Her face then shifted... there is the warrior. I see her. That is the one that can conquer the world. She bent down, landing on her hands... feet to the sky, abs taunt, and began her forward movement.

Hand over hand. She'd move forward four or five feet, and then balance check. Sometimes she'd have to move backwards a bit as her feet balance checked or her weight shifted. But she fought. She continued to move forward. I literally held my breath. This was a battle. My daughter was fighting for progress. Each foot gained was like watching confidence grow. 

She crossed the line that marked the end of the pool. She cleared the mark... and collapsed across the finish line!

In a heap on the concrete, her eyes met my smile. I was sitting up on my chase lounge, my hands were giving applause! She did it! 

She said to me... "Well, Dad... I made it, just barely." Her eyes were downcast. But I felt a giant smile erupt over my face as I spoke the words that won the day...

"Sterling! That was SO AMAZING. Sometimes "just barely is absolutely perfect!" It was like watching a movie... right at that last impossible moment... the hero did just enough... to do the impossible!

This is definitive of my girl. My Sterling Mei. She has what it takes to shock the world, to save the day, to make everything right. Sometimes... just barely, is absolutely perfect.

" And who knows but that you have come to your royal position for such a time as this?" -Esther 4:14b.

Sterling... there will be a day, sometime that I cannot yet see in the future... that you read these words from me. I do not know why they will be perfectly what you need in this time... but I do know that they are perfectly stated. Whatever you're facing at this point... you have what you need. Stand firm. Draw strength from you faith and from your story. It is no mistake. You are created for this time and this space. Kick ass, child. Be bold. Hold to your faith and do it. -Dad.