Into the Fire

Sunday's Offerings

It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery.

Galatians 5:1 (NIV)

You were running a good race. Who cut in on you and kept you from obeying the truth? That kind of pursuasion does not come from the one who calls you.

Galatians 5:7-8 (NIV)

Do not be deceived: God cannot be mocked. A man reaps what he sows. The one who sows to please the sinful nature, from that nature will reap destruction; the one who sows to please the Spirit, from the Spirit will reap eternal life.

Galatians 6:7-8 (NIV)

Saturday Sample

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I can, Pastor,” Dick agreed.
Elena walked into Dick’s office. “What’s going on, Dick?” She shut his office door.
“I’ve got an opportunity to get in this afternoon to see my pastor. Would you mind holding down the fort for me?” He already knew her answer.
“Of course. This’ll be good. I know that dream’s been bothering you.”
“Am I that obvious?”
“Dick, how long have we worked together? I ought to be able to pick up on a few things about you, don’t you think? Or should I just go about my business and forget about the friendship we have, etcetera?” There was just a hint of irritation in her voice.
Dick paused before he said, “You’re right, Elena. And quite frankly, I’m glad you can read me. It means a lot to have a friend in this office. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Thank you, and you know it goes the same for me.”

“Hello, Dick. Always good to see you.” Pastor Ron stood to shake Dick’s hand, firm and real.
“You, too, Pastor. And thank you for fitting me in so quickly.”
“So, what’s up? I could tell you were a little uncomfortable on the phone, and I can see on your face you’re a little uneasy. What’s going on?”
“About a week after Cee and I were married, I had this dream. Actually, it was a nightmare. Just before Christmas I had the dream again with only a few variations. Now I’ve had it again, same thing. The Lord has used dreams in my life before. In the beginning He actually gave me a picture of the devil I’ve never forgotten and used that dream as one of the tools to lead me to salvation. He also showed me a kind of hell related to alcoholism where once again I came face to face with the devil. Kind of as a side note, my brother Jeff had a recurring dream when he was a kid all the way up to the point of his salvation.”
“Jeff has shared that dream with me. It was truly amazing how God was in all of that,” the pastor said, his voice subdued.
“Anyway, as you can tell, there’s some fear involved here. I know I’m beating around the bush about the contents of this dream,” and his voice trailed off a bit.
“My gut feeling is you haven’t told anyone about this dream including Cee.”
“That’s correct.”
“May I ask what you hope to gain by keeping it a secret?”
“Good question since it obviously isn’t going away, and here I am in your office over a darn dream.”
“Well, you’re obviously afraid it’s prophetic which means it probably involves death or serious injury or illness to your wife. Am I getting warm?”
To Dick’s surprise his eyes began to fill with tears and he couldn’t respond.
“Dick, your father was very dear to you. He was taken out of your life at a very vulnerable and impressionable age. Emotionally and psychologically, it’s not unusual to fear that kind of loss again. Before you met Jesus Christ you couldn’t commit to a relationship because you didn’t want anyone meaning that much to you again because it might mean you would have to experience that incredible pain of losing someone you loved. So you chose ‘safe’ types of women—those who wanted the same casual, non-committal type of relationships as you did. If you happened to pick one who actually wanted to get involved with you, you shut down and backed out of the relationship. Right?”
“Yeah, true.”
“I can guess the dream involves Cee being taken away from you, dying perhaps, and you’re unable to do anything about it.”
“Pretty much, Pastor.”
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
Dick inhaled and pushed out the air. “In the first dream, we’ve just arrived in Hawaii on our honeymoon. We’re walking on the beach, and then we’re in our room. We’ve just made love for the very first time and we’re smiling and crying together in this incredible joy. Then I wake up from a sleep and turn to kiss Cee and she’s cold. She’s dead. I start screaming ‘Wake up!’, but I know she’s dead. And I wake up for real weeping.”
“Slight variations with the others, probably location and circumstance, with the outcome the same?”
“Yeah.”
“Dick, you’re well acquainted with what fear can do to a person, wouldn’t you say?”
Dick flashed back to his conversation last year with Jerry Barnes describing how fear was one of Satan’s greatest tools.
“Yes, you’re right. I am. I guess I got blindsided when it involved Cee. Frankly, it terrified me. Hit me at my weakest place.”
“Well, you know, you can turn this around if you want to.”
“Confront it, right? Tell Cee. Get it out in the open and address it and submit it to God. I feel so stupid now.”
“Don’t. When I first came to this church, I got sick. At first, I thought it was just stress—you know, the new pastor trying to be the ‘savior’ instead of letting Jesus. Anyway, I got to feeling pretty bad, so I went to the doctor. Didn’t even tell Linda I’d gone. The doctor took some blood and ran some tests and he did prescribe some antibiotics because I had a slight fever and a cough. Well, I loaded myself up with cough syrup and aspirin on Sunday because I had this notion that if the congregation saw me sick, they’d think I didn’t have any faith for healing. The truth was I was literally pleading with God to heal me.
“Anyway, the next week the doctor called me and asked me to come in, and I thought I was a goner for sure. I sneaked off to his office and got right in to see him. He already had the nurse take my temperature, blood pressure, check my throat, and all that stuff before he came in. Now this doctor was an older man and a good Christian. He asks me how I’ve been feeling this week and I tell him the truth about feeling apprehensive and not real good. Then he tells me that my tests came back perfect. That I was a very healthy man. He must have seen the surprise on my face because he laughed a little.
“’Did you think you were about to die, Pastor?’ Suddenly I realized that that’s exactly what I’d been thinking. ‘Don’t ever forget that you’re a target for the enemy’s fear tactics. If you succumb to them, you’ll become weak in your faith, and that will affect every area of your life robbing you of all of the power you’ve been given in the name of Jesus. Be strong in the Lord and in His mighty power,’ he concluded. I left his office a new man. All the way home I rebuked the enemy with a new fervor and a new revelation of both the power of fear and the power of the Lord. You see, I had to learn firsthand that the spirit of fear is nothing compared to the Holy Spirit.
“All of us have to experience certain things to understand the workings in the spiritual realm. It’s all part of the process. Over time we learn to go more quickly to the Lord instead of carrying things around longer than we should and allowing the enemy to wear us down. There’s so much trust involved in our relationship with God. Jesus is our Savior, our Advocate. Even though we have to go through the painful and traumatic things in this life, ultimately, we must and certainly can trust Him to always see us through them. One day we’ll be with Him and the pain and suffering will be gone.”
Dick stood. “Thank you, Ron. You’re a true friend. I appreciate you seeing me.”
“You know it’s always a pleasure. I wish we could find more time for fellowship. Just remember, Dick, we’re all human. We all have our weaknesses. The key is accepting them and asking the Lord to strengthen us where we need it most.”

(For His Glory; sequel to Hope Of Glory)

In regard to favorites . . .

We avid readers of fiction all have our favorite authors. Some of us can narrow our faves to a list of a few, and maybe there are some of us who if pressed will concede our top-notch favorite author—but usually with a caveat of some kind to insure that the others on the list are so close to that single selection the margin is nearly immeasurable or possibly noting that this favorite is in a specific genre.

But even among favorite authors, we have our less favorite books in their offerings. You know those you couldn’t wait to buy, but when you finally got the time to read them, the anticipation level far exceeded the actual end result? (I should give inspirational credit here to Michael Snyder for his Thursday post at The Master’s Artist. Go read it if you haven’t simply because of the valid multiple points he makes with his unique brand of humor.)

Even those of us who’ve written a few novels seem to number their appeal to us. One or two stand out for various reasons: our attachment to the characters; our experience while writing it/them; the way the words worked just right; the resolution; the quirks; the overall appeal. Who knows?

One of my most favorite authors is the great Frank Peretti. I love Peretti’s writing. However, I did not particularly enjoy Monster. I could still appreciate his writing—the usual way he depicts characters, scenes, uses the senses, and makes me feel like I’m reading a movie—but I didn’t care for the plot, unique as it was, and I wasn’t in love with the characters. Even with the letdown of reading that novel, I can hardly wait until he releases a new one. And for Peretti fans that’s usually a long wait these days.

It seems when many writers look back on some of their novels, they see glaring weaknesses and insist they would’ve done things differently. That seems plausible for the first couple, but after a point in time, it does seem like a writer must come to terms with how he/she tells a story at any given time. If authors drastically change after a couple of novels, perhaps it’s because they really no longer like the style they’ve used and must develop another. Voice evolves, but does it really change? If so, why? Was it un-genuine to begin with? Borrowed? An imitation?

How do you think you arrived at your favorite authors and why’d you choose to eliminate one or two of their collective novels from your favorites?

God, we tend to choose favorites, but you treat us all as favorites since you are no respecter of persons. Thank you for that. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

In a noble . . . Pursuit of Honor

Haven’t I described myself as a rule-breaker when it comes to writing? Well, I officially broke my own self-imposed rule of reading only Christian fiction. And let me tell you why. Recently on the radio I heard two interviews with NYT bestselling novelist Vince Flynn promoting his latest release Pursuit of Honor. Baited and hooked me. Why? Because he’s willing to expose the ridiculous positions of certain government politicians and their issues when it comes to protecting and preserving this country. So the very next day I headed to Border’s and didn’t even flinch when I picked up the hardbound book and proudly took it to the register, actually anxious to contribute to this novel’s sales. Let me just say there were places in the story where I cheered!

I love Mitch Rapp. The antithesis of politically correct in a world gone mad where injustice so often seems to preside over justice in multiple ways, and the pseudo rule of law prevails over common sense, Mitch Rapp delivers the hammer blows to crooked politicians and evil terrorists. The CIA covert operative, who describes himself as “damaged goods”, is one of the elite few unafraid and willing to do whatever it takes to either get information or silence it. Rapp and his covert cohorts do the unpopular, the ugly stuff, things that remain anonymous to almost everyone. Thank God for these people.

The story opens just after explosions erupted in Washington D.C. at the National Counterterrorism Center killing 185 people including public officials and CIA employees. The heroes of the aftermath, who were able to kill all but three of the terrorists who escaped, are unofficially given instructions to do whatever is necessary to find them in spite of the hand-wringing politicians who still blame the USA for creating its enemies. The calculated, heroic, but daredevil actions taken by Mitch accompanied by his partner Mike Nash to subdue the terrorists in the attack must remain unknown to keep Rapp’s and Nash’s identity a secret.

The hunt for the three remaining terrorists continues with the story moving back and forth between Rapp’s methods for finding them along with the CIA’s political maneuvering to keep their efforts clandestine and effective to revealing the terrorists’ escape routes and botched plans due to the narcissistic desires of their leader who calls himself the Lion of al Qaeda.

When Rapp’s partner and friend Mike Nash shows signs of cracking under the pressure of what is required of them, Rapp figures out a way to get Nash “out” which will allow him to keep his beautiful family intact. The unexpected consequence of trying to keep Nash and his family safe results in a new kind of terror.

From the writing standpoint, Flynn shifts POVs against the “rules”, and it’s no problem whatsoever. From the language standpoint, this is a man’s man book and the f-bombs prevail along with other profanities. However, the language flows without shock value just as you would expect to hear it in each instance. If I had written it, I would’ve chosen to write around the specific uses of the cuss words, but I’m certainly not condemning Flynn’s writing for his choices. Even though this is one of the reasons I’ve eliminated secular novels from my reading, this story is too important, Flynn’s storytelling too good to be missed. I’m so glad I read this novel. I hope we get to see the movie. It’ll take one special actor to play Mitch Rapp.

If you love this country and understand the dire position of keeping it defended, you will love this book. If you understand the basis for concealing certain critical information—even at the risk of some of it being polluted and leaked by politicians and used by traitors—you will appreciate this story. If you enjoy do-or-die concepts in action-driven novels with a hero who commands respect with just enough charisma to keep his killing-machine persona admirable and attractive, Pursuit of Honor is the book for you.

Father, you have kept the USA in your hands, and I pray you would not abandon us yet. I ask for your personal blessing upon Vince Flynn. I pray you would give him insights into who you are. I also pray that you would continue to give him meaningful important stories to tell. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

The ol' "What you see is . . .

. . . what you get." But what do you see anyway? Sometimes I think it’s more a case of “What you hear is what you get.”

If you see an individual with purple spiked hair, several pierced places on the body, inked designs displayed for view and alluding to hidden areas as well, chances are you’re going to make assumptions as to the person’s values, attitudes, and/or character.

If you see an individual on a bicycle in black slacks with a white shirt and black tie, most of us will piece together what we know of a particular religion and attach it to the young men riding those bikes.

If you see a man in an expensive suit with a designer briefcase who seems to carry himself with an air of importance, most people will also assign certain possible occupations to the guy.

Who knows if anyone will make the right assumptions by simply seeing these people? The young men on the bikes hold the most likely odds for correct evaluations. The other individuals get viewed with pre-conditioned responses. If someone despises body piercing, tattoos, and any punk-ish replications, the usual immediate reaction is disdain with an attachment of criticism for the character of the person based on what is visibly displayed. If someone else resents corporate types, lawyers, or anyone else who effuses money in their appearance, the same disdain and negative evaluation will surface upon that first glance. And even viewing the kids on bicycles peddling their cult beliefs will arouse disdain or dislike from some.

If that individual with spiked hair and the like spews out f-bombs in casual conversation while sneering at passers-by, well . . . if someone didn’t have a negative to reaction to his decorative attire, the behavior might inspire a not so favorable reaction.

The young men on the bicycles will inevitably be polite in their desire to indoctrinate, but chances are some people will only be offended by their proposals without being offended at their personas.

If the well-dressed man demonstrates a snobbish or curt reply to the simplest of greetings, he will inevitably be downgraded to not so complimentary status by the average person who’s just trying to be cordial.

Words do great or horrible things. They encourage or they damage. They bring laughter or elicit tears. No matter what your appearance might be, your words will ultimately define you. And when you contemplate another individual, so often what you hear is what you get. Cruelty? Comfort? Lies? Truth? Deceit? Integrity?

Do your words match your appearance? Do they supersede how you look?

When writers write, they tell so much about themselves. Their worldview is present somewhere in the story. And because of how they write, readers will determine if the worldview, the ways of those words, will captivate them. It’s not a simple thing to write a novel. As in all written words, communication must be accurate. Whether funny or sad, dangerous or frightening, thoughtful or profound, the written words speak about the author of those words. The readers hear those words and either choose to listen or choose to disregard.

So . . . sometimes what you “hear” is what you get.

Father, your words are true. Inarguable. We need your Truth. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

Great stuff.

Okay, today I'm sending you on a trip. Just because you'll enjoy this so much more than anything I could come up with for today. This is the fun stuff. Really.

http://www.noveldoctor.com/

(I don't know why this link isn't working, but if you go down to the Technorati Tag and click on it, I think you can get there from here. If not, take the time to go anyway. It'll be worth it.)

Lord, I'm desperate for you. Jesus, you are it for me.

The Grind

Few of us have avoided slipping into the grind of life. It often comes to us via our jobs. For others it arrives on Monday morning when we must head to school. Still others face it making endless lunches and sorting through mounds of reappearing laundry.

Needless to say, life presents the opportunities for, or hazards of, slipping into “the grind”. It seems there are multiple reasons for this occurrence.

Number one, there is nothing new under the sun according to Solomon. That means it’s difficult to experience something unusual to us on a regular basis. The older we get the more we’ve seen and done which also suggests we can become cynical if we’re not careful, or hopeless at our worst.

Number two, when the mundane of the everyday dominates our existence, we tend to forget the basis for seeking inspiration. That inspiration sometimes awaits us in silent and obscured places. The reason for this can be as simple as finding value in the ordinary requires a certain faith with a measure of determination. Will we look for it?

Number three, when the options are few or significantly limited, we can feel boxed in, our directions stunted, our desires for change shoved away in frustration.

And these are just the normal hindrances. What about when “the grind” hits our creative energy and brings it crashing to the basement of our brain. No ideas. No right words. No nothing to lead us to that place where our spirit elicits fresh images which are transmitted to our fingers. The stale odor of overused words permeates our efforts, and the stinking results convince us we failed our attempts at recovery.

The grind comes in multiple forms, and, as so many facets of this journey through life, we simply must experience it to appreciate when it is lifted and the freshness of anticipation re-enters our psyches.

As Christians, we understand that every good and perfect gift comes to us from God through His Spirit. But sometimes I think we overlook the gifts because we disregard or ignore the obvious provisions of breath and abilities and thoughtful considerations. We assume these blessings must come in mega doses, enclosed in the gift wrap which assures us when we open them up, they’ll contain a material item we can enjoy.

Some days, the wonder of waking up is amazing. And truly it is a gift to experience life. But yet we can’t help but wonder why some wake up to suffering and pain. We can’t control the grind in others’ lives. We can only learn to appreciate the provisions in our own. The conundrums of the world are not ours to solve.

If today you write one sentence which feels right, the grind has passed you by for that moment. Be grateful. In fact: be grateful anyway. For all the pain and frustration you experience in this life, God has provided a way to spend eternity in perfection. There’s an end to all of this. Pick your place. The grind will end. Eventually. Anticipation will return and inspire your work and your words. And Jesus will see you through the maze of mental calisthenics if you let Him.

These certainly do seem like Monday morning thoughts on a Sunday night . . .

Father, I need to trust you above all. I need to listen, love, and obey. I love you, Lord. In the Name of Jesus.

Sunday's Offerings

Good and upright is the Lord;
therefore He instructs sinners in His ways.
He guides the humble in what is right
and teaches them His way.

Psalm 25:8-9 (NIV)

Saturday Sample

Ten o’clock finally rolled around, and Hutch walked into Mick Webster’s barn with his tools. Nelson had four head for him to shoe, and instead of having the grooms hold them, Nelson held every one of them.
“So, Nelson,” Hutch began as he shaped a foot, “you know a place a guy could rent? Don’t much like stayin’ in the motel plus it’s too expensive.”
“As a matter of fact, there’s a duplex right next to my place that has a vacancy. And if I’m not mistaken, an elderly man lives in the other half of it so you probably wouldn’t have to deal with a lot of noise and visitors. It’s not a new place by any means, but I’ve been inside the units, and they’ve got a decent floor plan. The landlord is the hands-on type, and when I looked at them they were really clean. I almost rented one of them, but I had a roommate at the time, so we went for the two bedroom house instead. For some reason, I couldn’t give up the space when she moved out of state. Must be because of all those years livin’ in tack rooms. I lease my house year round. It’s only a couple miles from here. Quiet neighborhood. There’re only five houses left in the area. Mostly tilt up warehouses goin’ up around there now or office buildings. I’ve got the guy’s number at home. If you want, drop by the house when you’re done and we’ll give him a call. I’d ask you to stay with me—and you certainly can till you find a place—but I’ve gotten kind of used to the solitude, no offense.”
“None taken. I’m afraid I’d be lousy company anyway. Besides I rented my motel room for a week, but I’ll set up a time with ya so I can take a look at the place. Man, that would take a load off, ya know?”
“Yeah, I do. Comin’ into a strange town trying to work and make a friend or two.
That’s why I stayed in tack rooms so much in the early years I think. Just didn’t want to deal with trying to find a place. Then once you live in a place like when you’re married, man, you just don’t want to go back to that tack room.”
“That’s a fact.”

For some reason conversation came easy for these two men. Nelson had a reputation of not saying much to anyone unless it pertained to specifics with the horses, so his grooms were a little surprised that he was holding their horses to be shod in the first place and then to hear him talking and sharing racetrack stories with this new horseshoer—nothing short of unusual to them.
Hutch wrapped it up at Mick’s barn, made his plans to meet Nelson later that afternoon after chores, and then went on to Brady York’s barn arriving about 20 minutes sooner than he thought he would. As he sat in his truck recording his billing information about the horses he’d just shod, Michael Lawrence walked up to his truck and introduced himself.
“Brian Meriwether said to look you up—I’m in the same boat as Brady. He and I used the same shoer. I don’t know what you said to Brian, but you certainly impressed him, and, believe me when I say Brian hasn’t had much good to say about any of his fellow shoers,” Michael explained with a smile and a little trace of bewilderment.
Hutch laughed. “Yeah, I guess we kinda hit it off a bit. Well, sure thing. Did you need me today? I’ve got six head I think here at Brady’s.”
“No, not today, but I sure could use you tomorrow at around 10:30 if that’s possible.”
“Yeah, I can do that. How many you got?”
“I’ll just have two tomorrow. My wife and I do most all of it ourselves. Just a small stable. If we could maybe catch two a day, that would be good for us.”
“Yeah. I’ll fit you in. Tomorrow at 10:30 then?” he confirmed as he wrote it in his book.
“Thanks. Really appreciate it.”
“Good, then.” Hutch got out of his truck and went to the back to get his tools. “Business as usual,” he said to himself with some satisfaction.

(For His Glory; sequel to Hope Of Glory)

The devil in your eyes.

I’ve seen the devil in your eyes.
Lovely and cruel
Sweet and vicious.

I’ve heard the devil in your voice.
Kind and cutting
Whispers and threats.

Your skin is taut with fire.
Touching you is like being singed—
Skin peels back inflamed
In pain.

You wrap around them like a boa.
Striking like a cobra
After the mesmerizing dance
Venom, fatal.

The glee pervades your defiant stance.
Unleashed control
Head back howling
Exacting revenge.

The prettiness is encased in ugliness.
No longer do those blue eyes glimmer.
Instead they shout obscenities
In meager tones.

You are a shell.
Vacant.
Wicked.
Empty.

God, please resurrect. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.