Psalm 139:13–16 (NIV) reads,

For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place, when I was woven together in the depths of the earth. Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.

This has become one of the most comforting verses for my life. I realize I have, perhaps like many others, attempted to circumvent God’s plan by inserting my own desires or, worse, misread how he wants to use the gifts he gave me to propel his kingdom forward. 

I’m not sure my plans are important anyway. It’s not that I don’t think we should plan for our future. Of course we should. Should we dream big dreams? Of course we should. But we should pray for God’s blessing that the aspirations we have coincide with his plans. 

But more importantly, maybe my job is to simplify my life by being open to, recognizing, and responding to the next opportunity he puts in front of me to further his kingdom. Maybe that’s always been his real plan. 

My friend Greg Murtha called that “intentional living.” Greg and I went years without speaking in person, but we stayed in contact with each other through social media. Greg went to heaven last year after a courageous battle with cancer. He went through more than seventy rounds of chemo. He posted almost daily about his journey, and his writings were perhaps some of the most compelling, God-honoring, joyous posts I’ve read. His focus didn’t center on whether he would live or die. He believed our lives are an extension of heaven, and therefore, we should celebrate. 

One of his last posts read,

What were we celebrating? As I have shared before, one of the Murtha Family Values is to celebrate. We believe if you have something to celebrate, then you should do just that … and you should do so today … not tomorrow (we’re not promised tomorrow). We also believe if you can go big with the celebration, then go big.

When Greg posted something, people responded with all the things you would think. Sweet and authentic words. Some were prayers. Some were sincere wishes for healing and health. I know they meant a lot to Greg.

I kept trying to think of original things to say when I read a post of Greg’s. I wanted to say something that would make people stop and admire some pithy, catchy phrase I penned, which, thank God, struck me as anything but authentic. My responses became less about my friend Greg and more self-serving. 

So I began to respond to every post with nothing more than “I love you.” 

One day, when I was working at a package-shipping store, I was exhausted from staying up most of the night before with my pooch. Iggy had just endured emergency surgery from ingesting the stuffing from my comforter. I would have thought after one bite, he would’ve thought, This doesn’t taste nearly as much like cotton candy as I’d hoped, and stopped eating. But apparently, he chose to make sure none of the other dogs got any of it. After that ordeal, all I wanted was to go home and get a good night’s sleep. 

All of a sudden, the front door of the store opened, and a guy walked in, talking on his phone and carrying a drop-off package. I heard him say, “Yeah, Greg. Hold on.” He looked up at me and said, “Tim?” I didn’t recognize him. “Greg, you’re not going to believe this. I’m dropping off a return for Laura, and Tim Holder is working here.” I clearly heard Greg scream through the phone. The guy in front of me said, “Tim, I’m Zach Murtha, Greg’s brother.”

Zach pressed the speaker button, and we were all yelling and catching up for a few minutes. Customers stared, and at the end of the conversation, Greg, as was Greg’s style, said, “Tim, you are a great man.”

I looked up to see Zach’s eyes filled with tears, as were mine. I could barely speak as I said, “Greg Murtha, I love you.” 

The twists and turns, the anfractuousness of life, shouldn’t surprise us. They happen every day, minute by minute. We either can be anxious about them and live in fear of what’s around the next bend or can recognize them for what God meant them to be: moments of pure affirmation that he is, in fact, in control. That specific moment was an opportunity for us to choose how we would respond before we were even born. It is not now, nor has it ever been about how much we can handle. It’s about how we respond to every opportunity we are given to show his power and love. 

A few years ago, I spent Thanksgiving Day with my precious mom and my brother-in-law and sister. We laughed a lot. We ate lunch with Mom at her retirement village, surrounded by quite a few people we had grown up around.

One of those lifelong friends was Fayetta Murray. She was ninety-one years old and as smart as a whip. She’d spent many years as an English and literature teacher at the junior high school I attended.

There have been a few teachers in my life whom I look back on and can emphatically say they made a significant impact on my life. Mrs. Murray is one of those teachers. 

I was terrified when I moved to Searcy. But Mrs. Murray would smile her great big smile, and I wasn’t afraid. She helped me know I wasn’t weird or a nerd for loving books. She helped me trudge through and process Great Expectations. She marched our class three blocks to the Rialto Theater on the square in Searcy, catty-corner to the old courthouse, to watch Romeo and Juliet. I think of her when I pull out Silas Marner every few years to reread. She rode the bus with us to the high school to watch their theatrical production of The Curious Savage, in which her daughter, Peggy, had a notable character role. It was not uncommon to see Mrs. Murray floating through a crowded hallway lined with students and lockers with a sweet, serene smile on her face and a faraway gaze in her half-closed eyes, waving her bone-thin arms up and down as if she were a butterfly in flight.

One day in her literature class, she passed out the exams precisely and methodically, old wooden desk by old wooden desk. I’m assuming she could tell if someone was hiding cheat notes that she would be able to confiscate. One of the guys in class was wearing a necklace made entirely of bones. I don’t remember if they were plastic or real bones, but they were definitely bones. Without missing a step, Mrs. Murray placed the test neatly on his desk, leaned down, and whispered, “Anyone we know?” 

There was another day, however, when Mrs. Murray was hurt. On that particular day, Mrs. Murray was the duty teacher in the lunchroom. She made a decision to correct a student for behaving badly. That exchange infuriated the student, who began yelling horrible things toward Mrs. Murray. The insults hurled toward her were so painful that she ran from the lunchroom in tears.

It broke my heart. I sat down outside the band room and wrote a note to tell her that I was sorry she was hurt. I climbed the stairs to the second floor of the old school building, where we were strictly forbidden to go during lunchtime; sneaked into her classroom; and placed the note on her desk.

Honestly, I don’t remember what I said in the note. I only remember that precious lady was wounded, and it wasn’t right. I left the note on her desk and sneaked away.

In the years—decades—since then, there have been a few times when I was privileged enough to run into Mrs. Murray, even at the funeral of a classmate’s mom, when she reminded me of that note. 

I find it amazing that the smallest things, the slightest word of affirmation and comfort for a hurting heart, can make such an eternal impact. It’s incredible that the anfractuosity of life—this catawampus, serpentine, winding, curving journey—can still give us moments of absolute clarity.

We often spend way too much time feeling guilty for all the hurtful things we’ve done or said, when in fact, there are moments when we get it right.

Today I’m thankful for this sweet, precious lady who took the time to invest in me. One of my many dreams for heaven is to sit with Fayetta Murray, C. S. Lewis, Greg Murtha, and Jesus and just hang for a while. 

Psalm 136 (MSG) says,

Thank God! He deserves your thanks. 

His love never quits.

Thank the God of all gods, 

His love never quits. 

Thank the Lord of all lords, 

His love never quits. 

Thank the miracle-working God, 

His love never quits. 

The God whose skill formed the cosmos, 

His love never quits. 

The God who laid out earth on ocean foundations, 

His love never quits. 

The God who filled the skies with light, 

His love never quits. 

The sun to watch over the day, 

His love never quits. 

Moon and stars as guardians of the night, 

His love never quits. 

God remembered us when we were down, 

His love never quits. 

Rescued us from the trampling boot, 

His love never quits. 

Takes care of everyone in time of need. 

His love never quits. 

Thank God, who did it all! 

His love never quits!

I heard that Mrs. Murray, at the age of ninety-four, went home to see Jesus face-to-face. I love knowing she will be there to meet me when it’s my turn.

Thank God for the opportunities and for the bends, curves, twists, and turns in this beautiful, anfractuous life that beckons us to respond to him and others. It’s true. His love never quits.

You might write a note today that will be remembered forty-five years from now, making an eternal impact on a wounded friend. You might look at others, knowing nothing of their lives; speak a word of love and affirmation that will change the course of their journey; and not recognize the significance of that moment on this side of the veil. 

Watch for the moments. They are there. Recognizing them and responding to them is our God-given job, right, and joyous privilege. In every exquisitely anfractuous moment of our lives, we are given another chance to say, “I love you.”

Psalm 139:14 (MSG) says, “Oh yes, you shaped me first inside, then out; you formed me in my mother’s womb. I thank you, High God—you’re breathtaking! Body and soul, I am marvelously made!”

Other versions translate this verse as “I praise you for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Your works are wonderful, I know that full well.” 

When I first read Psalm 139:14, I, of course, thought it great that I was “wonderfully” made, and it seems I spent all my time, when thinking about this verse, landing squarely on the phrase “wonderfully made.” 

If people are going through a tough time and I feel it’s my responsibility to make them feel better—which, by the way, isn’t usually healthy—this verse is a go-to. If I can help them, even for a moment, recognize that they are “wonderfully made,” I’ve done a good thing. 

They are incredible. The Lord put them together exactly the way he wanted them to be. I can go through a litany of phrases with anyone who feels self-image-shamed, filled with guilt over past mistakes, or fearful that the Lord or people have forgotten them. I can remind them, as I do myself, that we are “wonderfully made.” That really is a good, sustainable concept. But I think it leaves out the single most pivotal point of the verse. 

When I tell people they are “wonderfully made,” if I leave that as a stand-alone thought, it could possibly lead to selfishness or a sense of entitlement, as if somehow we are owed some gift or merit awards because the Lord thinks we are off da hizzle. 

The truth is, he does think we are wonderful. But why does he believe this? First and foremost, he showed us how wonderful we are by the sacrifice of Jesus on the cross. 

And even that love leads to the most critical part of verse fourteen. There’s a reason David began the verse with the word fearfully. He wanted us to understand that although we are wonderful, the goal was that the Lord God, the Creator of the entire universe, reverently and with the highest expectation and design put us together molecule by molecule, cell by cell, atom by atom. 

The Hebrew meaning for fearfully in this verse means “reverential awe” or “worshipful respect.” We were created by the Lord reverently and in worshipful awe. Not that we are worthy of worship. But we were created in wonder by the One who is worthy of worship. There is no assembly line. There are no prefab molds. There was only God; nothingness; and, most surprising, his imagination. A clean slate.

There was an intense, holy time when God fussed over you and me. A fervent anticipation of who he planned for us to be. Why did he give each person on this planet such deferential treatment? Because he is faithful and solemnly serious to see his plans fulfilled. 

Ephesians 5:11–20 (MSG) says,

Don’t waste your time on useless work, mere busywork, the barren pursuits of darkness. Expose these things for the sham they are. It’s a scandal when people waste their lives on things they must do in the darkness where no one will see. Rip the cover off those frauds and see how attractive they look in the light of Christ … Don’t live carelessly, unthinkingly. Make sure you understand what the Master wants … Drink the Spirit of God, huge droughts of him … Sing songs from your heart to Christ. Sing praises over everything, any excuse for a song to God the Father in the name of our Master, Jesus Christ.

Why did God take on the self-imposed assignment of creating you? For his glory. God wants the world to see through you that he is good in every circumstance. He is reliable. He is faithful. He is unchanging in his mercy, wisdom, and holiness. He is not willing to waver in his devotion and interest in even the minutest aspects of your life. 

Realize the exactness of who you are in him. Recognize and fully accept the bottomless implications of why the One who holds the universe in place would take the time to fuss over creating you. Those truths crystallize every application of every thought, every display of compassion, every song, every learned eccentricity, every choice, every time you think you chose intuition, the guiding of his Spirit, every judgment you hold captive, every meal you make, and every soul you lead to Jesus. 

First Corinthians 12:12–31 (MSG) says,

You can easily enough see how this kind of thing works by looking no further than your own body. Your body has many parts—limbs, organs, cells—but no matter how many parts you can name, you’re still one body. It’s exactly the same with Christ. By means of his one Spirit, we all said good-bye to our partial and piecemeal lives. We each used to independently call our own shots, but then we entered into a large and integrated life in which he has the final say in everything … Each of us is now a part of his resurrection body, refreshed and sustained at one fountain—his Spirit—where we all come to drink. I want you to think about how all this makes you more significant, not less … But I also want you to think about how this keeps your significance from getting blown up into self-importance. For no matter how significant you are, it is only because of what you are a part of … The way God designed our bodies is a model for understanding our lives together as a church: every part dependent on every other part … You are Christ’s body—that’s who you are! You must never forget this. Only as you accept your part of that body does your “part” mean anything.

There is no one else in this room right now but you. So you can’t say, “That’s true for everyone here but me. It makes sense for them, not me.” You are the only one here. I believe God is saying the following to you and to me:

I made you. I made you reverently. I thought about you. There’s not a single soul on this planet who can do what I’ve made you to do. No one can—only you. I fearfully made you. So stop being afraid. You no longer have permission to think that you are a less important part of the body I specifically, carefully, and with great hope and dogged determination designed. 

Seek wisdom from those who’ve been at it longer. Learn to be confident, adventurous, daring, courageous and unflinching with your faith, intrepid, and fearless and wholesome with your words. 

Before I created the world, I chose you. And because of my Son, no matter what you think of yourself, I choose you to be holy and without fault before him. And I am calling you to travel together with the rest of the body. Stay together. I have given you gifts that no one else in the history of time can fulfill. Your gifts. Moses wouldn’t be able to fulfill the plans I have for you. Not Abraham or Paul or any of the apostles. Not Lydia, Ruth, or Esther. My plans for you are unique in all the world. 

Don’t go along with the crowd. And don’t believe their weak expectations of me or my love and my heart for your success. Trust me. I’m worth it. And above all, stick together. That’s how the body will work. I knew you before “In the beginning” was written. And rest assured of this: I’ll be with you day after day after day, right up to the end of the world.

I don’t get to see my friend Jessie often, but she occasionally sends me a note. The following is an email from Jessie:

Hey there, Tim! You are someone who has always inspired me with your relationship with God. I can admit that I yearn for that. As my life gets more chaotic, I feel doubt creeping into my heart. Not doubt that God exists, but doubt that he is involved in our everyday life. Doubt that he has a master plan for me. I seem to feel there is a person within me that God wants me to be, and the choices I make can help lead me to be that person. 

We were given free will so we could choose God and choose to be that person he wants us to be. 

Tim, I end up asking a lot of questions that I could never get answers to. Questions of his motives. Questions that have probably been asked since the beginning. Is there any advice you could provide to help me find peace with this doubt? I still feel God’s profound love within me. But sometimes I get so down on myself I cannot find it. Any prayers or advice you could give would be most appreciated.

My reply was as follows:

Well, first of all, let me tell you that I think about you and how we used to sit down in the catacombs of Doubletree Veterinary Clinic. I remember how I loved taking care of the pooches with you, even if our most common chore was cleaning kennels. 

Never does a holiday go by when I don’t think of the recipe you gave me as I prepare pumpkin-swirl cheesecake. Still a family tradition. 

But believe it or not, my best memory of you is Prissy. Remember her? The little five-year-old Boston terrier we rescued who had been horribly abused and neglected. She had sustained a broken leg that Dr. Peck tried valiantly to mend. We never could get it to heal. Finally, we were forced to amputate. I wanted to change her name to Tripod. But we still called her Prissy. 

I remember her eyes and nose with an angry infection, and we cleaned her up and put meds in those wounds several times a day. 

I took her home, basically because I held her pretty much the whole time I was at work, carrying that precious girl everywhere. For two years, I was privileged to love on her, feed her, and let her curl up with me at night. She finally knew she was safe. I had an old sweater that she claimed and carried with her like Linus’s blanket.

And I remember the day, after all that work and love, when I found a bump on her head. After x-rays, we learned she would not be with us much longer because of bone cancer. She made it another six months or so. I came home one night to find her gone, curled up on my old sweater. 

I remember carrying her to the clinic the next morning, tears flowing, and laying her on the exam table, wrapped in that silly old sweater she loved so much. 

Heartbroken, I questioned why God would allow her to endure so much suffering only to die just when she knew she was loved and safe and could feel secure enough to trust. She was nothing but a pile of love. 

My most vivid memory of that day is walking downstairs to take care of other dogs that were boarding with us. You were already there, and when I told you Prissy was gone, you wrapped your arms around me and whispered, “No one could have loved Prissy the way you did.” 

Jessie, that was all I needed to move through the pain of losing that sweet dog. 

When I read your note yesterday, of course I remembered that tender moment. Honestly, after all these years, I still don’t think of it without getting misty-eyed. 

I don’t know that I have a one-size-fits-all answer to the question of doubt. We all have differing life experiences and come at and move toward our relationship with God from so many distinct and divergent train tracks. I can tell you how I think it works for me, though. Maybe it will help some. 

I have always believed in God. Always. There’s never been a doubt in my mind that he is the Creator of the universe, that he did everything he said he did, that Jesus is his Son and did everything he said he did, that he is all-powerful, that he is watching me and has a specific unique plan for me, and that he loves me. 

But possibly, probably because I correlated my relationship with my heavenly Father with that of my earthly father, I was programmed not to trust God. 

That was the big subconscious question: Is he reliable? Is he honest? If he is, why do I not feel like he’s active in my life? I felt guilt for my futile attempt to find fault with him because I couldn’t trust his motives. My head knew that he was never too good to be true. He is absolutely good and true.

My strongest desire was that I wanted my heart to follow. I finally figured out that I was waiting for him to prove he is trustworthy, when in fact, everything about life screams it.

I decided that if he is trustworthy, I needed to stop trying to understand his intentions on my own. Stop trying to control my definition of who he is supposed to be. Stop trying to create him in my image. I needed him to know that I will believe and practice trust, even when it seems counter to everything I think I need or want. It’s not always a feel-good moment, since many of those are, at best, superficial satisfaction.

Jessie, it’s a habit. I wake up every day and tell him that I will choose to trust him today. I purposefully memorize Bible verses that call for trust. And let me tell you, having a scripture or two close by has made an extraordinary difference. A couple of my favorites. Joshua 1:9 (NIV) says, “Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.” What I love about this verse is that he doesn’t ask or plead with us not to be afraid. He commands it. It’s not a request; it’s a proclamation, an imperative that demands trust. And trust is not something that comes naturally to us in a culture that breeds mistrust. 

Again, it’s a habit. And while God builds trust, I spend an abundance of time asking for patience while he perfects it in me. I find myself affirming my belief in his absolute good motives for my life on a daily basis. I trust his plan because I trust his love. I trust his love because I choose to give up control of my desires and what I think I need, even my dreams. Nothing in our society would teach us that this makes sense or is even appropriate. 

Everything about my relationship is based on the idea that God is, in fact, the only trustworthy being in all of existence. Every person, every government, every idea, and even every religion will, in some way, disappoint. Only belief in the One dependable, honest, powerful God is worthy of our trust. 

I read a book a long time ago with a chapter titled “The Adequacy of God.” Again, our culture would see the word adequacy and define it as “just okay” or “barely up to par.” But when I looked it up, I realized my definition of God needed to be more adequate: “as much or as good for some requirement or purpose; fully sufficient, suitable, or fit.” For me, my trust in him, the habit of trusting him, is adequate. He is entirely sufficient. His trustworthiness is appropriate, as is his desire to be found trustworthy.

I find ways every day to tell him that I will choose to give up my control and trust him. When I drive to work, I tell him, “Today I will trust you.” When I have to make hard decisions, I seek out community and, yes, trust, because I know where and from whom they build their confidence. Every time I tithe, I pray, “I trust you.” When I catch myself trying to control my dreams and wants, I sit back, take a deep breath, and say, “I’m sorry. You take control. I trust you.” 

I wish I could tell you I have this down to a fine art. But I fall. And then I get up and give control back to him again. And the amazing thing I find is that the reason I desire to trust him more is because I desire a relationship with him more. 

You don’t develop trust with God and come out unscathed. I can’t take time to think about how I feel or about my circumstances. I have to focus on his character, his motives. I don’t ignore my pain or confusion. I just remember that he is adequate. He fits my environment. In that moment and in that experience, he is good. And it’s easier to give him control because I can give him the glory. And I find great joy in that. 

Jessie, his motives for you are not just loving and right and wise. They are pure. Here is another of my favorite verses: “What then shall we say to these things? If God is for us, who can be against us? He who did not spare His own Son but gave Him up for us all, how will He not also with Him, graciously give us all things? Who shall bring any charge against God’s elect? It is God who justifies. Who is to condemn? Christ Jesus is the one who died—more than that, who was raised—who is at the right hand of God, who indeed is interceding for us. Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or danger, or sword? … No, in all these things, we are more than conquers through Him who loved us” (Romans 8:31–37 NKJV).

As hard as it may seem to us in the midst of the struggle, everything God does is wise and loving.

God is for you, Jessie. Don’t attempt to trust him because it’s the right thing to do. Trust him because he’s God. Trust him because he loves you. Don’t trust him expecting to understand his plan. Just believe that he has one. Trust that he is working it out with your best interest foremost in his mind. And believe that more often than not, that plan will be unveiled in a mind-blowing, ridiculously breathtaking, astonishing, anfractuous direction that you never expected. You will delight in the surprise of seeing your dreams and needs unfold in ways you couldn’t have thought of on your own. You will breathe deep and nod with the satisfaction of knowing it was perfect for you. It’s the only way it could happen to instill a gentle trust that leads to a more profound love and relationship with him. 

He’s good. He’s so good. He longs for you to know it and fully live it. One last verse, and I’ll leave you alone. This is one of my top-five verses. It’s Zephaniah 3:17 (NIV): “The LORD your God is with you, the mighty warrior who saves. He will take great delight in you, in His love He will no longer rebuke you, but will rejoice over you with singing.” 

You can trust him because he takes great delight in you. He doesn’t yell at you. He believes in you. He is intimately interested in you and has great plans for you, even if you don’t easily see them now. 

You said there is a person in you that you think God wants you to be, and your choices will help determine who that person is supposed to be. Jessie, you are already that person. He used his vast imagination to make you unique from any other human who has ever lived. The only thing you need to do is—and here’s the simple answer—live your life in relationship with him. It’s similar to what you said to me a long time ago. No one could have loved you like he does.

Practice trust.

Practice trust, and listen for the song. He has one for you, you know. Your very own song sung by the One who breathes out stars into his ever-expanding universe. 

I have no authoritative reference, but I’m relatively certain my tune is a hybrid of Dan Fogelberg; Donna Summer; and Earth, Wind, and Fire, with just a soupçon of Barry Manilow. 

Jessie, that same God is singing your very own song over you right now. When that truth becomes more than a fleeting idea, you will walk without shame or fear, doubt or mistrust. Your days will be cool, God will be your friend, and you will experience a bit of heaven right here on earth. 

The most precious discovery? It was never about you. It was all for his glory. He is rejoicing over you. If that alone is not worthy of our trust, I don’t know what is.

Love you,

Tim

Proverbs 14:4 (NIV) says, “Where there are no oxen, the manger is empty, but from the strength of an ox come abundant harvests.” Now, I’m not calling my friends oxen, although I could stand to lose a few pounds. This scripture jumped out at me as I wrote this essay. 

Yesterday was a perfect day. A few childhood friends decided to get together to celebrate our sixtieth year of life. For at least forty-five of those years, we have known where we all were and kept up with each other’s lives. 

I moved back to Arkansas in 1994, and we have made it a point to be together as often as possible. I live in Little Rock and struggle with chronic fatigue, which forces me to slow down and rest—totally against my nature. Judy, who is retired, lives in Conway, where she led the band for thirty years. She has cataracts, which means that after surgery, she will never have to wear glasses again. Sherry works for the literacy program in Searcy and also facilitates adoptions for an agency there. Billy lives in Clarksville and is in the transport industry. Billy has no major maladies, as he hasn’t turned sixty yet. We shall wait. We shall wait.

We ate cheeseburgers at Market Cafe in Bald Knob and recounted ancient tales of growing up in Searcy. All topics were, as always, open for discussion, except one. In high school, we vowed we would never be like our parents, so our one and only concrete rule was to never discuss bowel movements. Ever!

Because a few—not all but a few—of us grew up in excruciatingly dysfunctional homes, this group of friends was our safe place. 

We were all in band together, so there were plenty of travel stories. In our junior year, we made a trip to Six Flags over Texas. Billy and I were in a long line for a roller coaster. We thought it would be hilarious to intentionally get into a heated, although completely fake, verbal argument. We also decided to have the disagreement in a foreign language. Neither of us speaks a foreign language. We held the surrounding group of complete strangers spellbound for about fifteen minutes as we spewed forth red-faced, nonsensical verbal assaults on each other. 

Later in the day, we found ourselves in line for the Spindle Top, a big barrel of a ride in which people stand inside against a circular wall. The barrel starts spinning faster and faster. At some point, centrifugal force takes over. The floor drops out from under you, and you are plastered against the wall. 

Bill told me he had ridden it before and knew a cool trick: “Work up a big mouthful of spit, and the moment the floor drops, let ’er fly. The wad of spit will shoot to the people on the opposite side of the barrel. They will be so concerned with the floor dropping out that they’ll never know who did it.”

As the door to the barrel closed, with probably thirty people against the circular wall, I began the job of collecting. I mean, this was going to be one epic spitball. As the barrel started to spin, my anticipation built. The dude straight across from me, probably twenty-five feet away, was going to be very surprised. 

The floor dropped. I spit.

My face immediately metamorphosed into a slimy bowl of soup. 

At first, I was so shocked I couldn’t do anything but stare at the dude across from me and wonder how he could have been completely dry. Trying to raise my arms to wipe it all off was futile. The force caused me to slap my face rather than make the intended windshield-wiper action I intended.

There was nothing for it, in the end, but to weather it out for another forty-five seconds till the ride ended. I heard the people on either side of me emit a well-deserved gurgle of repulsion. “Ew!” 

I glanced to my left and saw Bill, strategically positioned five people away from me, laughing hysterically and slapping himself in the face, vainly attempting to wipe tears from his eyes. 

That’s just one example of our shenanigans. Growing up in a small town, we learned how to be creative. I will save for later stories the times Billy and I sneaked into the drive-in movie theater in someone’s car trunk. 

Years later, Billy, Judy, Sherry, and I could still laugh ourselves silly over that and many similar memories. Once we composed ourselves and finished our burgers, we decided to go to my mom’s retirement village for a few minutes. Some of the friends she hadn’t seen for forty-some years. What a blessing to watch her hug them and kiss them on the cheek. I took a heart picture. It was a joy to watch them all get caught up and spend time with one another. 

I thought about heaven and all my friends and family who were already there. I knew that was a taste of what heaven would be like. To sit in one another’s homes and get caught up on our lives and how we plan to spend the next few millennia hanging with each other and Jesus. 

Closing our visit, Mom informed us it was time for her to go to bingo. We said our goodbyes, and she left, heading toward the cafeteria. 

But we had one more stop to make. Another friend lived in the same retirement village as Mom: Fayetta Murray, our junior high English teacher. 

We traipsed up to the third floor and got lost. We wandered through wings A through C and walked our cheeseburgers off while trying to find wing D. 

We finally stood in front of her door. I knocked and heard her singsong voice: “Come in.” I opened the door and saw Miss Fayetta propped up on her bed, reading. She looked up, laid her book in her lap, and smiled. “Tim Holder? In the flesh?” 

I said, “Okay, we are not going to invade you. But I have a surprise for you.” 

She hopped up while I turned around and ushered everyone into the small living room. Mrs. Murray looked at them and said, “Bill Townsend. What a sweet face. Judy Lance and Sherry Treat.” Of course, Judy and Sherry have different last names now. 

I said, “We all got together to celebrate our sixtieth birthdays.” 

Mrs. Murray said, “Well, guess what? Yesterday I turned ninety-two.” 

Sherry smiled. “I turned sixty yesterday.” 

We sat down to talk for a bit. Mrs. Murray hadn’t seen Billy, Judy, or Sherry in probably forty-five years. We were amazed she remembered that Billy had lived across from the football stadium. She then proceeded to remind Judy that her dad had worked for AP&L. We sat for a good while and told stories and laughed. 

When it was time to leave, I looked across the room and saw a precious lady who I knew loved the Lord. I smiled and said, “Mrs. Murray, we’re here because you made a difference in so many others’ lives. We want you to know that you are important.”

She smiled her humble, sweet smile and simply said, “Thank you.” 

I really wanted to see Mrs. Murray stand up and glide through the room while wistfully waving her arms up and down like a butterfly the way she used to do down the halls of our junior high school. 

We took a group picture; held her sweet, brittle, fragile hands in ours for a few precious seconds; and left. 

Realizing we’d forgotten to get a picture with Mom, we went to the cafeteria to find her. Apparently, bingo time in a retirement village is serious business. When we walked in, everyone’s face was buried in a bingo card. I think I may have seen sweat on a couple of furrowed brows, even the ones with strikingly blue hair. Some used checkers chips as markers. Others used glistening red jewels as their markers, the kind of glass you find in the bottom of vases filled with plastic flowers. 

We attempted to be quiet as we looked through a crowded room for Mom. She was in the exact center. I stealthily took the lead as the four of us traversed the chairs to get to her. More and more heads looked up to see the unwelcome intrusion. By then, I’d lost my nerve and dreaded the steps still needed to reach Mom. I reckon I would’ve felt the same if I had been at the White House and accidentally stumbled into the Situation Room during the Cuban missile crisis.

Two college-aged girls calling out the numbers picked out of a rolling cage looked at us with embarrassingly fake and condescending smiles. Not to be deterred, I knelt down next to Mom and said, “Sorry. We forgot to get a picture.” 

The guy at the next table yelled, “Bingo!” Mom shoved her card away. I thought she was mad. And she was—but not at the intrusion. She was mad because she’d lost. The guy at the next table began calling out his winning numbers, as though someone might have thought he’d lie just to win a pill separator or the ever-popular chip clip. 

Mom grabbed my hand and pulled me down close. Bill, Sherry, and Judy all jumped in, and we got the picture. Just to be rebellious, the lady next to Mom said, “Hey, let me take one for ya.” She snapped the photo, looked at it, puckered her lips, and said, “Not bad. Except”—she pointed to Sherry—“I chopped her head off.”

Memories like that are what binds friendships. After seeing Mom and Mrs. Murray, we went back to Sherry’s house and spent a little more time processing the day.

We haven’t fully figured out what was so special about our group. Was it generational? Was it being in band together? Was it a small-town dynamic? Was it a combination of some or all of those things? One thing we do know for sure: it’s definitely a God thing. 

We are not oxen, but these friends are part of my herd. We know that the memories we build together today and the memories we’ve spent a lifetime building will never be lost. I’m thankful for technology and the terrific pictures I can take with my iPhone, but the most important, substantial pictures I take are heart pictures. I took plenty of those that day. 

C. S. Lewis said in The Four Loves, “A friendship is born when one man says to another, ‘What! You too? I thought I was the only one.’”

The four of us friends, and a few others who couldn’t make it for our outing, are different in many ways. Somehow, when we were just kids, subconsciously on our parts but certainly not God’s, we chose to look for similarities instead of differences. It brings home to me the truth that God never meant for us to travel this journey alone. He was deliberate in telling us that two are better than one.

Lewis also said, 

In friendship, we think we have chosen our peers. In reality a few years’ difference in the dates of our births, a few more miles between certain houses, the choice of one university instead of another, the accident of a topic being raised or not raised at a first meeting—any of these chances might have kept us apart. But, for a Christian, there are, strictly speaking, no chances. A secret master of ceremonies has been at work. Christ, who said to the disciples, “Ye have not chosen me, but I have chosen you,” can truly say to every group of Christian friends, “Ye have not chosen one another but I have chosen you for one another.” The friendship is not a reward for our discrimination and good taste in finding one another out. It is the instrument by which God reveals to each of us the beauties of others.

Think of your friends. Be deliberate. If you haven’t already, start taking heart pictures, whether at the Spindle Top, a retired teacher’s home, or a mother’s bingo game. Those pictures are eternal. 

By the way, later that day, I got a text from Mom: “Yay! Y’all brought me luck. I bingoed right after y’all left. Big ole package of bite-sized pretzels.”

All my life, I’ve worked hard to understand attributes of God. I could sit here for hours and pour out a list of virtues and features of his character, each one colored slightly differently and with contrasting significance for us based on our personal experience with his infinitely deep, eternal love. 

However, as hard as I look, I have never seen listed as one of his attributes the word arrogant. I know that he is a just God and a jealous God and that he is perfect, and I know that he knows that. Because, well, he just is. I believe it. I love that about him. I love that he can be perfect and still love someone like me.

But if he knows it, I know it, and I know he knows it, why in the world would he feel the need to create angelic beings who fly around him day and night whose primary duty is to forever proclaim, “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty. The earth is filled with his glory”? 

The closest I’ve ever come to deserving those phrases is having a Yes Man doll. When I simply pull a string, the goofy-looking doll tells me how great I am, saying, “I couldn’t agree with you more completely,” “Oh yeah! I’m behind you all the way,” “I’m sure whatever you’re thinking is correct,” “Say, I wish I’d thought of that,” and “What more can I say? When you’re right, you’re right.” 

Seraphim literally means “burning ones.” Seraphim, whose name could also have derived from “ones of love,” had six functional wings, according to Isaiah 6. They used two to fly all around and above the Lord, two to cover their feet, and two to cover their eyes, so they don’t even get to see how amazing and perfect he is. All they can do is fly close enough to experience him—to feel him. More than likely, just like Moses, they couldn’t bear seeing the face of the Creator of the universe without becoming charred Cheez-Its in a millisecond.

But they felt the same impossible energy that infused dead cells at an atomic level and resurrected the beloved Son of God. They were there when that same impossible energy brought back to life my own perishing heart. “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty.” 

In Hebrew, using a word twice showed the importance of a person or object (e.g., “Verily, verily,” “Moses, Moses,” “Saul, Saul”). Definitely an attention-getter. 

A word used three times meant off-the-chart perfection. So the seraphim, “the ones of love,” are proclaiming God as totally and utterly perfect. 

Bringing that down to a more human level, I have always thought Jesus asked Peter three times if Peter loved him to match the three times Peter denied Jesus. That might be partly true. But is it also possible Jesus used that moment to show Peter he would make something perfect out of Peter’s failure? The third time Jesus asked broke Peter, who replied, “You know all things. You know that I love you.” Could Jesus, in that perfect moment, have revealed this undeserved, unconditional love to Peter, and Peter finally believed it? 

In my human mind, the whole seraphim thing sounded like a dull job at first—saying the same thing over and over throughout all eternity. I kept hoping, for the seraphim’s sake, they at least had shifts they changed out every twelve hours or so. Or they could at least say, “Hey, can you please take over for a while? I’ve got to get some caffeine.”

But then I read 1 Peter 5:7 (TLB): “Let him have all your worries and cares, for he is always thinking about you and watching everything that concerns you.” Love in action. And the only response is to scream from the rooftops how stunning God is. If God is always thinking about me and watching everything that concerns me, he would be, by logic, doing the same thing for everyone. That would mean the seraphim are experiencing God’s immediate love for each and every one of us each and every time they fly around his head. 

In other words, they aren’t saying, “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord,” because it’s just their job; they are reacting to a new facet of his love for all his children. They are so overcome by the sheer weight of his unfailing love for us and all he created that they have no other outlet than to scream out how perfectly magnificent he is. They have, as we do when we experience his bloodred grace, no one earthly word to express how blameless, faultless, and absolute his love is for us. So we along with the seraphim can only cry out, “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty. The whole earth is filled with his glory.” 

The burning ones of heaven are constantly reminded of how the Lord puts love into action. He doesn’t just make promises; he fulfills them.

If you pass me on the 67/167, sometimes you might see me and think I’m talking to myself. But what I’m really doing is joining with the angels in proclaiming how perfect the love of my Father is: “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty.” 

First John 3:18–20 (MSG) paints a picture of how real love should look: “My dear children, let’s not just talk about love; let’s practice real love … It’s also the way to shut down debilitating self-criticism, even when there is something to it. For God is greater than our worried hearts and knows more about us than we do ourselves.”

One day, at my former job, working register number one, I glanced up to see a long line of customers. Standing beside the lady next in line at the counter, I noticed a little girl who was maybe six years old. The child was a miniature Shirley Temple with brown hair. She had the curls and rosy cheeks. I waited for her to break into “On the Good Ship Lollipop.” As I looked at her, though, I noticed that she stood very still and seemed to be fighting back tears. In one hand, she held a small book, Yertle the Turtle, and in the other, she held a pen that read, “Teachers are the heart of learning.”

I assumed she belonged with the lady I was checking out. But when I finished with her, the lady left, and the little one walked to the center of the counter. 

There were probably four people waiting in line behind her and a few more over at the imprinting station, all within earshot. I looked down at the precious little girl. Our eyes met as she looked up and laid the two items on the counter. She said something to me so softly I couldn’t understand her. I looked at the next lady in line, hoping she was the child’s mom. She shrugged and mouthed, “I don’t know.”

So I said, “I’m sorry, sweetie. What did you say?” 

I leaned down closer so I could hear her. Her chin quivered as she whispered, “I wanted these. But I took them without paying for them.”

I knew exactly what was going on. I really hoped all those in line would understand my taking a little extra time. I wanted us on a level playing field. I walked around the counter and got on my knees so we were eye to eye. I feigned extreme seriousness, furrowing my brow, and said, “Well, little one, how do you feel about it?” 

“Bad.” 

“Are you sorry for taking those things without paying for them?”

The tiny head crowned with curls nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Are you ever going to do that again?”

Her voice was as broken as her heart. “No, sir.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what. I’ve done some pretty silly things in my life I sure wish I hadn’t done. But you know what? I know Jesus forgave me for doing those dumb things. And I know he forgives you. So I forgive you too. I forgive you, little friend. Thank you for bringing these things back and being honest. That was the best thing you could have done. You’re a very, very good girl.”

She didn’t seem convinced as she turned to leave. She got about four steps away from me, when I said, “Hey.” She turned back. “Can I have a hug?”

There they were—the Shirley Temple dimples. She ran to me and buried her little head in my shoulder. As I held her close, I could feel her sobs and her tears hitting my neck. 

I looked up to see a tall man, Dad, at the end of the counter with tears in his eyes and his lower lip quivering. He smiled and gave me a thumbs-up. I gently turned her around, facing her dad. As she walked away, he said, “Okay, come on. Let’s go home.”

Although I did the best I could at verbally conveying how much, despite her actions, God truly cared for her and loved her, the real breakthrough didn’t occur until I put those words of love into action. The words may or may not have been adequate by themselves. But I hope she will remember the feeling of forgiveness and love from the hug, the action. There’s something about the physical action of a hug that mere words just can’t convey.

I stood up and turned to see about ten people wiping their eyes. We all stood there for a few minutes and discussed which Maxwell House Christmas commercial made us cry hardest.

When I got home and had time to process, I thought about the seraphim, ones of love, flying around God. We all shouted together, “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty! The whole earth is full of his glory!”

As I’ve read stories from the Bible, I’ve found myself interested in my definition of the word hope. I don’t think I’m speaking out of turn when I say most people in our culture don’t understand the term. They equate hope with not much more than a characterless wish that some life experience will turn out for the best—or all life experiences will turn out for the best. 

If hope is only a verb meaning “wanting something to happen or be the case,” it seems passive. It’s a sort of namby-pamby admission that although I believe God’s promises are true, the best I can run toward is an uninvolved, apathetic sort of weak-kneed armchair faith. That kind of faith expects only a God who understands my limitations in the belief department and loves me anyway.

I hope heaven is real. I hope I get to spend eternity there. I hope the Lord is true to his promises. 

For years, based on what I believed of hope, I couldn’t connect with folks of faith in scripture who were inspired by the Holy Spirit and wrote about their hope. How could they have walked and talked with God and Jesus and had only hope (a wish) that they would finish the race in his presence? 

Such a wimpy idea didn’t work for me. It almost seemed disingenuous to say I hoped or wished for things I couldn’t see. I knew they were real—as real as the iPad I’m writing on or the wrong-colored pants and shirt I wore today for choir. Even more so. There are times when I could almost explode from the reality of life unseen and promises yet to be unwrapped. 

So how was I to reconcile what I knew to be real with what I thought was a correct definition of a single word?

One day the Lord clearly said to me, “Is hope only a verb?” 

I immediately looked for scriptures with the word hope. When I read them with hope as a noun, the skies burst open, and blessing after blessing fell into my heart. 

Hope isn’t static. It’s not flat, spiritless, or wavering. It’s moving. It’s unpredictable. It’s a strong and confident expectation that what my heart knows is true and real will one day be seen with my eyes. 

My hope is that heaven is real. My hope is that I will spend eternity there. My hope is in Jesus. It has made all the difference. 

Although hope is a noun, it’s incredibly active. It calls me to be alive in every moment. Hope is a land, a green tree, the place I pitch my tent. It’s not a dream. Check the following verses out. Use the noun, not the verb.

When life is heavy and hard to take, go off by yourself. Enter the silence—bow in prayer. Don’t ask questions: Wait for hope to appear. Don’t run from trouble. Take it full-face. The “worst” is never the worst.

—Lamentations 3:28–30 MSG

Before you know it, his justice will triumph; the mere sound of his name will signal hope, even among far-off unbelievers.

—Matthew 11:21 MSG

People of all nations, celebrate God! All colors and races, give hearty praise! And Isaiah’s word: There’s the root of our ancestor Jesse, breaking through the earth and growing tree tall, tall enough for everyone everywhere to see and take hope! Oh! May the God of green hope fill you up with joy, fill you up with peace, so that your believing lives, filled with the life-giving energy of the Holy Spirit, will brim over with hope.

—Romans 15:12–13 MSG

The lines of purpose in your lives never grow slack, tightly tied as they are to your future in heaven, kept taut by hope.

—Colossians 1:5 MSG

We who have run for our very lives to God have every reason to grab the promised hope with both hands and never let go.

—Hebrews 6:18 MSG

At least there is hope for a tree: If it is cut down, it will sprout again, and its new shoots will not fail.

—Job 14:7–9 NLT

And listen to this if you’ve only wished:

I saw God before me for all time. Nothing can shake me; he’s right by my side. I’m glad from the inside out, ecstatic; I’ve pitched my tent in the land of hope.

—Acts 2:27–28 MSG

I believe the power of prayer cocoons us in safety as we individually or corporately petition God. I believe prayer is an energy field that repels the Enemy’s darts from puncturing our faith, our passions, and even our dreams. It’s one of the reasons I have dogs: I love walking around the house while talking to God, so if neighbors chance to see me dancing, singing, or just talking, they will think I’m playing with my pets. 

I believe connection with our Father God and our best Friend, Jesus, should be the most natural, commonplace, normal thing we do.

So I asked the Lord to give me more opportunities to live out of my hope. The realness of hope, not just a wish. 

Then a conversation happened at work, propelling me into one of the most normal adventures of my life.

I stood behind the cash register at work at a Christian bookstore. On a counter behind me, we’d displayed the book Heaven Is for Real, marked on sale. One day a tiny lady probably my age (young!) came through the line. I, as per protocol, asked, “Would you be interested in purchasing Heaven Is for Real for five dollars today?”

She looked up at me and smiled. “No, thank you.” There was a slight pause, and then she said, “I know heaven is real.”

What I’d learned earlier in the week was forefront in my mind. “Yes, ma’am. Me too.”

She looked me square in the eyes. “I’m going to see it very soon.”

Every energy synapse in my body began firing at warp speed. The air around crackled with electric, spiritual activity. I wanted to take my shoes off. My focus shifted immediately from what I thought was an unusual experience to a confident expectation of the genuinely natural. “Really? How can you be sure?”

She spoke quietly, as though she didn’t want to cause anyone in hearing distance to be uncomfortable. “I have esophageal cancer. I have very little time left. I am moving into hospice next week.”

I chose—surely prompted by the Holy Spirit—to live that moment in the secure assurance of hope. “Wow, you know what? I have a friend who died just a couple of months ago from that same thing. He’s home now. His wife, one of my dear college friends, died several years ago too. I love knowing they are together now. And I love knowing I will see them again. When you get home, would you find Chris and Vicky Dell and tell them I said hey and can’t wait to see them?”

She looked up at me, and tears filled her eyes. The reality of her bright future filled with a secure, real, substantial, tangible hope suddenly crystallized for her. She wasn’t scared. She didn’t have to be. She suddenly realized there was and always would be work for her to do. She was important.

I asked her if I could pray with her. She nodded. Walking her to the end of the counter, I took her hand. I thanked the Lord for the opportunity he’d given me to meet that precious lady I knew I would see again. I thanked him that his promises are true, and I thanked him for the hope of heaven.

When I finished, she looked up at me and said, “Chris and Vicky Dell, right?” 

“Yes, ma’am. Chris and Vicky Dell.” 

“I will find them.”

I watched as she walked out the doors into the sunlight. 

The vacuum—the feeling that nothing else in the world was really real and that nothing was more significant than that single moment—slowly evaporated. But the sweet aroma of what it feels like to be in a position of real normalcy and the standard of how I should live my life overwhelmed me. 

Suddenly, the curtain between the natural and what I always felt was the supernatural was far less defined. I felt as though that little lady’s transformed body would soon merely walk around the corner to a cool, familiar restaurant where she’d not yet been. And I knew my friends would be there.

I was sure that when she got there, she’d find my buddies and say hey for me. I imagined the Master Chef preparing a fantastic meal at that cool little restaurant. I hear the Master Chef preparing the meal is impressive, far beyond five stars, since he is the One, after all, who created the entire star system. 

I am confident I will see that precious lady again. That’s what is normal. That’s where I have pitched my tent. That is my hope. 

Hope is feeling the grass of heaven beneath my earthbound feet.

The church I grew up in was a blessing. It was a great place to learn a lot about Jesus. I was raised memorizing the books of the Bible, the names of the twelve apostles, the Lord’s Prayer, and the Twenty-Third Psalm. I can sling a slew of stand-alone verses that have remained cemented in my conscious and subconscious and rise to the surface when needed. 

This church was also excruciatingly strict in its theology and practices. Baptism was essential, and the biblically accepted form of baptism was total and complete immersion. In a few ultraextreme, hard-hat, conventional congregations, it was believed that if any molecularly small part of the body was not completely submerged during that beautiful statement of faith, the baptism did not take.

Today watching baptisms is still one of the most emotional and magnificent experiences I sit through, whether it’s in a church service, a swimming pool, a lake, or a stream. Although I’m not as legalistic as I was growing up, when I watch a baptism, I still lean to the right, doing my part to make sure the baptizer is shoving the baptizee as close to the bottom of the baptistery as humanly possible. 

I once received the following note from my lovely, dear friend Cathie:

Last Friday night was such a special night for me. My choice to be baptized was an act of worship for me and a moment of great joy in my walk with the Lord. I very much felt the solemnity of offering my life as a sacrifice to the One who has redeemed me with a price. My heart was feeling the grace of being led by the Spirit to make the choice to truly follow Jesus. As I stood in the baptismal pool, I looked out on the people who were gathered to witness, and I was struck by such an expression of tenderness in your eyes. Your eyes looked like you were gazing on the baptism as though it were something of great beauty. I felt as though God used your expression as a mirror to reflect his love that I was feeling in my heart. The decision to be baptized remains solid, but the actual event seems like a blur. I was thinking about it this morning, and the two things that I remember most are the way the water felt and the expression in your eyes. You gave me a gift that I’m sure you are not aware of, and I wanted to thank you.

Cathie was right; I hadn’t been aware. I responded, 

Oh, Cathie, thank you. What a precious gift you’ve given me. And I promise to carry that memory with me forever. To be honest, I get very emotional every time I watch a baptism. I know that it’s the single most profound public statement that a person will make. So I watch always in amazement and wonder that the very God who hung the stars in the heavens looks down on us during that moment with even greater wonder and amazement. What love and joy and pride he, I’m certain, felt for you at that moment. When you, unafraid and unashamed, told everyone there that you belong to Jesus. My heart swells up to bursting every time I experience that. I love that over all these years of being a believer, watching someone being baptized is the one aspect of my walk with Jesus—well, that and communion—that never gets rote or trite or commonplace. Thanks for your note, Cathie. And thanks for letting me be a part of it. Just remember, God loves you right where you are right now. And I know he’s very, very proud of you. 

Cathie’s baptism and our exchange of letters afterward remind me of the gift of blessing. How many times have I strolled down a sidewalk, sat across a conference or supper table, pushed a grocery cart, waited on the phone for a tech representative to pick up, accidentally run into someone who has hurt or wronged me, and been given a sacred chance to fearlessly bless someone, often without even knowing I did it?

Matthew 5:16 says, “In the same way, let your light shine before others so that they may see your good works and give glory to you and know that you’re a good person.” 

Is that what it says? 

No! It says, “In the same way, let your light shine before others so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven” (Matthew 5:16 NIV).

One of my favorite traditions was given to me by Carol Skiba, who leads our Creative Living Sunday school class. I’ve never liked making New Year’s resolutions. In fact, I read that every year, 87 percent of adults will make New Year’s resolutions, and 50 percent of those resolution makers will fail by the end of January. So I used the idea I got from Carol, which she read from a book called One Word That Will Change Your Life by Jon Gordon. 

Simple is best. Every year, I pick one word that will be my life word for the year.

As I sat and prayed and asked the Lord to give me my word for a recent year, I wasn’t seeing a clear answer. I’d felt I would go with giving a couple of weeks before New Year’s, but sparks began to ignite in my head and heart that it should be a different word. 

A little more than a decade before that, just before Thanksgiving, I had become gravely ill. I went to several doctors, none of whom were able to pinpoint the problem. After five months of not knowing, I was scared. One Sunday morning smack dab in the middle of the not knowing, between church services, I was in the church gym. People swarmed in all directions. I ran into my friend Lisa Fischer. She smiled and yelled, “How you doing?”

Over the typical echoing din of a gym, I’m not sure why, but walking with a black rain cloud of fear and uncertainty ready to burst open at any second, I fought back tears and told her.

She listened and then said, “I’m praying right now.” 

Right there in the middle of total chaos, Lisa raised one hand to heaven and put the other on my shoulder. She blessed me with a precious petition to the Lord, asking him to ease my distress, anxiety, and fear of the unknown. She asked that he meet me in the middle of my anxiousness and that I would find supernatural peace while waiting. 

I’ll never forget that vacuum moment. The thing is, living fearlessly for the Lord is so second nature to her that Lisa has no memory of that moment. 

A few years later, I ran into a friend of mine in Walmart a week before Christmas. I knew he was having some health issues, so I asked how he was doing. He told me a recent fall had caused him to have constant headaches. There was a slight bleed on his brain, and he was in continuous pain, with migraines more often than not. I suddenly recalled the holy moment with Lisa ten years earlier, and I heard the Lord say, “Remember Lisa’s blessing.”

Right there in the food-storage-container aisle, I raised one hand to heaven, put my other hand on Andrew’s shoulder, and took him to the throne. He messaged me later and told me what a great blessing that was.

A few nights later, a friend I’ve known since childhood responded to one of my posts on social media. She said that several years earlier, I’d brought her back into a relationship with the Lord. She told me that critical moment for her had indeed been a blessing. I have no memory of what I said or did to encourage her to look again toward Jesus. But in that moment, the Lord clearly gave me my word for the year: fearless.

I don’t know from day to day all the ramifications of how that one word will enhance, change, and enrich my life and my walk and relationship with Jesus, but I know it will. 

As in past years, I’ve wondered where I’ll see the opportunities to use my word. But I’ve learned it’s like buying a new car. A few weeks ago, I got my mom’s 2010 Nissan Rogue. (With nine thousand miles on it. Seriously, she was the old lady who only drove to church and the grocery store.) The thing is, I never really noticed them before. But now that I have one, I see Rogues everywhere. 

My hope is that when I get to heaven, someone will come up to me and remind me of a moment when I fearlessly showed him or her Jesus, even if I don’t remember it. My hope is that I will have more of those moments than someone walking up to me and reminding me of a time when I was angry, short, rude, or cruel. Since that won’t happen in heaven, I think I’m safe. I want fearless to become a habit.

This year is my year of fearless. What is your word? 

As I said, baptism was a matter of salvation for the denomination I was born into, and that salvation was, at best, questionable if every centimeter of flesh wasn’t covered in the cleansing flood.

When my father started preaching, he went out many nights to hold what was then called a “cottage meeting.” He would go to a home and teach the family about Jesus. If they chose to accept Jesus as Lord and Savior, they were taken immediately to the church and baptized. I loved going with Dad to the church on those special nights. 

At one of his first cottage meetings, after Dad explained what salvation looked like, the wife said she would think about it and make a decision by Sunday morning. After retelling her the stories of the rich young ruler and Acts 26, in which Agrippa is almost persuaded, and still not getting the response he wanted, Dad came home, disappointed. 

But sure enough, come Sunday morning, the lady went forward at the end of the sermon to be baptized. There was general excitement in the room, as this was to be Dad’s first baptism as a preacher.

She was a formidably built woman and tall. She and Dad walked down the blue-painted steps into the blue water of the baptistery. The lady wore the angelic, flowing white baptismal garment. Dad had on his starched white shirt with sleeves rolled up and chest-high waders. Dad placed one hand over her mouth and held his free hand in the air as he announced the usual proclamation: “I now baptize you in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit for the remission of your sins. Amen!” She pinched her nose shut with a handkerchief and leaned backward. 

Unfortunately, she held her head up, keeping it from going under the water. Dad tried again to push her down, but she held her head just short of complete immersion each time—complete, total, full, soul-saving immersion. 

Dad must have pushed her down five times. He put more and more muscle into each endeavor, possibly out of irritation. We learned later that the more he leaned, the more water trickled inside the front of his waders. 

Everyone in the audience obliviously leaned harder and farther to the right. From the back pew, the entire congregation appeared to be in the middle of the ocean, in a small dinghy caught in the waves of a sudden white squall. Many of them were okay with “buried with Christ,” but certainly, no one was comfortable with the “raised to walk in newness of life” part. 

Filled with horror, Dad suddenly realized there was a light blue painted step about two inches below the surface of the water. The step was invisible, being pretty much the same color as the water. Basically, Dad was bludgeoning that poor tall woman half to death. 

It would have been a shame for her to miss getting into heaven because her nose wasn’t submerged. Or maybe everything but her nose would make it. Who knows? Maybe that’s where grace comes in.

So what’s your word for the year?

On Mother’s Day 1995, my sister, Jacqui, and I spent the day preparing a special gift for our mom. The condo she lived in was in a great part of town. A narrow neutral area of green space separating her row of condos from the ones behind her afforded limited lawn usage.

Jacqui and I gathered up two of her kids, TJ and Tad, and we went to the local garden store.

Mom’s God-given giftedness covers a broad spectrum. Unfortunately, green is not a color found in her palette. Knowing her proclivity to kill anything green, we looked for plants that wouldn’t take much work, plants she could occasionally water, sit back, and watch grow. We bought a hosta, which I’d admired in one of her neighbors’ gardens, and a rosebush, along with a few other perennial, self-sustaining shrubs we hoped she would like. 

We asked the garden specialists about supplies for a lasting garden. They gave us wise choices on how to proceed. We bought the right kind of ground cover to keep out weeds. After buying good soil, we put in a garden barrier to prevent erosion during lousy weather. We then spent the day not knowing exactly if we were doing the right things. We hoped we weren’t destroying Mom’s garden with good intentions. 

We carefully installed the barrier in an elongated U shape, backed by Mom’s deck. We laid out the black ground covering, cutting holes in places where we thought the plants would make the best appearance. Hostas love plenty of sunshine, so we planted ours in an area with the best potential for growth. We planted the rosebush close to the steps leading to the deck, so Mom would get a perfect view of the future flowers. We fertilized the soil and profusely watered all the plants.

We were tired, dirty, and sunburned a bit but proud of our accomplishment. Mom, of course, loved it. 

Those plants did grow. Every couple of weeks, one of us would go over to make sure they were watered and weed-free. It was a team effort that paid off. The lush, healthy green hosta grew and spread over much of the immediate area. So did the rosebush. It produced many roses over the years. Mom cut them and set them in a small vase on her supper table. 

We were proud of that garden. I was a bit concerned some fifteen years later when we moved Mom to a retirement village. You don’t leave behind something in which you’ve invested so much time and energy without wanting to know it will be taken care of. 

Mom owned the condo, so after she moved, she decided to rent it for a while. One of the renters was an older lady who loved the garden and took the time to tend to it. Several years went by, and when the garden was twenty years old, on Mother’s Day, I took Mom by the condo, and we knocked on the door. I asked the lady if she would mind if I pulled up a bit of the hosta to take home to my house in Little Rock. She readily agreed. She noted that she hadn’t planted it, but she enjoyed taking care of it.

The hosta was huge. Mom and I went out back, and I uprooted a few small pieces and brought them home to Little Rock, where I planted them in front of my house, under my big red-leafed maple tree.

They took root where I planted them, and they grew strong and healthy. 

A few years later, on Labor Day, we moved Mom to Springdale, Arkansas, to a great retirement village where she would be closer to grandkids and great-grandkids. Five days before closing on Mom’s old condo, I told Jacqui I wanted to get a few more cuttings of the hosta to plant in my yard—because one can never have too much hosta in his yard. 

So before going to Mom’s current apartment to help load her up, I went to the condo, which now sat empty. I walked to the back and froze in disbelief. The most recent occupants had moved out. They cared nothing about the little garden. They didn’t know its history. They didn’t see the work and love we’d invested or the years of care poured into the plants. To them, the garden was no more than a landfill.

Weeds filled the small garden, and the edges of the leaves of the once beautiful hosta were brown from lack of oxygen and nourishment. 

I walked around to the other side and found creepers growing out of the cracked, dry ground and crawling up the back of the deck—vines wrapped around the old rosebush, choking the life out of it. Old food wrappers and plastic water bottles had been thrown everywhere without any thought for the garden. 

My heart broke. But memories of what used to be triggered my resolve to do everything I could to make the plants healthy again. To give those precious, God-created expressions of God’s glory a chance, I would have to move them to a healthier environment. 

When I told Jacqui I was going to run by the condo to get a few more cuttings from the hosta, she said, “Just be careful to make it look like you didn’t take any.” 

“Okay.” 

I dug up every last bit of that plant. 

I found empty flowerpots filled with trash under the deck. I dumped the waste, filled them with hosta, and carried fifteen buckets to the back of the truck. I walked around to the old rosebush and dug it up as well. Would it even survive? One single branch showed any sign of life. 

I remembered when we’d planted it in good soil. I hoped those first nurturing moments filled with love and expectancy would still be alive and kicking in there somewhere, wanting to survive as much as I wanted them to.

After loading the truck, I went to Mom’s apartment. I helped my family pack up her belongings. I gave my sister-in-law a bucket of hosta. We all hugged and waved goodbye to each other as they rolled toward Springdale. 

When I got back to Little Rock, I stopped at the Good Earth Garden Center and asked for wise counsel on how to best revive and take care of my plants. 

One of the guys walked to the truck with me and looked at all the hosta containers. He told me if I wanted to save them, I would need to cut them all down four to six inches from the root. I needed to plant them just deep enough for the soil to cover the root. Winter was coming, and the plants were tender and would need added protection. 

He said the soil would be critical right now. I needed supersoil—equal parts organic compost or new soil added to older soil and some Jump Start. 

Then he looked at the old, gnarled rosebush. I could tell by his resigned expression he would say there was no hope for it. Years of neglect had strangled its delicate beauty. 

And he almost did say that, but he wisely recognized the bush carried sentimental history. He advised me to cut away all the dried-up branches and leave only the one that still struggled to survive. “Cut away the dead ends of the root, exposing the meat inside, and hope for the best.” 

I took new knowledge and wisdom and went home. Of course, as much as we try to take care of plants, we don’t ultimately know what the final result will be. We keep feeding them, watering them, and watching for signs of growth.

I cut the hostas, tore them apart, and planted them, buried in new soil, close to the other ones I’d planted a few years back. Within a week, they were all sprouting fresh leaves. Yes, they would lose them when winter approached, but those strong roots would flourish, and new leaves would sprout again in the spring.

I was worried about the old rose, though. After cutting off the old branches that were no longer useful, I trimmed the root system so new growth could occur. I planted the bush near the steps leading up to my front door. I watched and anxiously waited, remembering the joy of the family planting it together and how Momma had loved it. 

But nothing happened. 

Then, one morning several weeks later, I walked outside to check on all my new plants, and here is what I found:

Somewhere in that old branch was the memory of what sustained it as a small plant. It knew where it came from and couldn’t deny what God planned for it to be. Maybe the Lord wanted me to be a small part in displaying his creation for his glory. He is the God of resurrection, after all. 

Something I’d cared about in its infancy, which had been neglected by others out of my control, revived because I chose to make the first investment and then the second investment, not giving up and even praying. 

I hated waiting and not knowing what the results would eventually be. But knowing there was even a 1 percent chance that investing time and getting my hands dirty might make a difference made the anticipation worth it. 

I didn’t know what would happen throughout the winter. But I knew I could trust God with the outcome. I’d invested my time and energy—twice. I had done the work of pruning and eliminating the dead and dying branches that would do more harm than good. I’d planted and nurtured rosebush well, and I would continue to pour fresh water and nutrients into its roots. 

I am confident anyone reading this will understand the lesson. My sister said, “It’s just like us. God has to prune away all the dead leaves before real growth and life can take place.” 

Take time to invest in the plants the Lord places in your life. Invest as many times as it takes. Even when we’re not sure of the outcome, it’s our job only to plant and water. It’s God’s purpose to make things grow. It’s a team effort: us, wise counsel, and God. 

First Corinthians 3:6–8 (NIV) says, “I planted the seed, Apollos watered it, but God has been making it grow. So neither the one who plants nor the one who waters is anything, but only God, who makes things grow. The one who plants and the one who waters have one purpose, and they will each be rewarded according to their own labor.” 

I’ll continue to plant, water, and anticipate and expect God to make that old rosebush grow as he desires. I’ll continue to invest. 

One sun-drenched spring morning, I leaned against the deck railing outside my front door and breathed in the musky aroma of freshly mowed grass. I glanced at a small area of my flower garden, where I recognized small shoots of emerald-green hosta waking up, peeking out from rich, rain-soaked soil. I ambled down the steps to get a closer look and found, just at the foot of my front steps, this: 

“Don’t be afraid, you who are highly esteemed by God.” This verse reads a bit differently, depending on the translation. Some say “greatly respected” or “greatly desired.” Two of my favorites are from the New Living Translation, which reads, “‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said, ‘for you are very precious to God,’” and the English Standard Version, which says, “Oh man, greatly loved, fear not.” But my very favorite is from the Holman Christian Standard Bible. It reads, “Oh man, you who are treasured by God, peace to you. Be strong.” But no matter which translation of Daniel 10 you read, one statement remains distinctly consistent. Every translation says, “Don’t be afraid.” 

For three weeks, Daniel had been mourning over Israel, eating really lousy food (no meat or wine), and neglecting to use lotions or oils on himself. So apparently, he experienced brutal gas and didn’t smell great either. 

Then an angel appeared and touched Daniel. I’m assuming he touched Daniel on the back of his head since Daniel was lying prone on the ground at that point. Gabriel’s words of affirmation and his touch gave Daniel just enough strength to rise. 

Even though he was still fearful and trembling, Daniel heard the words that we all long to hear: “You are loved. You are treasured. You are precious.” Daniel must have realized at that moment how important he was to God. Gabriel began the story by making Daniel feel worthy, and Daniel was able to hear the vision that was about to be poured out to him. 

A while back, Becca was involved in an intense dialogue with someone involving a ministry she’d been working with for more than twenty years. Becca used material created by the program consistently, as national leaders of the ministry had perfected the resources from year to year. She used the national team’s material to write an orientation document outlining expectations for the group, the program, the participants, and the leaders. 

After he opened the discussion with a prayer for unity and restoration, the first words out of the ministry leader’s mouth were “I have to apologize. You have been involved in this ministry so long I thought you knew what you were doing. It was wrong of me to assume that.” 

Processing through the encounter, Becca recognized what a significant growth opportunity it would turn out to be for her. It wasn’t pleasant in the moment, not by the wildest stretch of her imagination. I’ve learned it doesn’t matter how much recovery and healing we have under our belts; it’s far too easy for one statement to propel us backward emotionally. 

Becca has worked hard over the years to be a woman of integrity and worthy of earned respect, but she heard one false statement about herself, and she was immediately reduced to that unworthy, unlovable person with few, if any, redeeming qualities. She told me she became defensive, angry, and scared, a cornered rat. 

It was not a pleasant exchange. After almost walking out of the conversation, she calmed down, and so did he. They finished the dialogue in a somewhat decent compromise. 

But even after the dust settled and an agreeable compromise was reached, he bookended the conversation by saying the same thing: “Again, I’m sorry I assumed you knew what you were doing.” 

Wisely, this time, Becca chose to keep silent and not react. But the fact remained that she felt shame and embarrassment. She felt all the work she had done for many years was worthless. However, instinctively, because of the intense work she’d done over the years, she knew there was no reason for her to feel those emotions. Becca knew she didn’t deserve to own them.

On the drive home from the meeting, Becca decided she needed to seek wise counsel. One of the strong points of her recovery has been deliberately positioning herself with wisdom from people she trusts. It’s the healthiest thing we can do. I know I seek wisdom from these people on everything now, almost down to which flavor of ice cream I should get. Or sprinkles. Should I get sprinkles?

She called three friends who are all well established in the same ministry. She asked them if she could send them the document and allow them to tell her if it contradicted in any way the standards set by the national program or if it provided, as she intended, guidelines and expectations founded in the resources and best practices of the national program. 

One said there was nothing that went against the DNA of the program. One sent her a written response outlining the major points of Becca’s document and how it coincided with the national procedures and policies. The third rep wouldn’t even let her send it, stating, “You gave me that document several years ago. I still have it. I adapted it and have used it in my groups.” 

That was all the ammo Becca thought she needed. 

But suddenly, that somehow didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel healthy. Becca called her sponsor, and her sponsor said, “What’s your goal here? What’s your endgame? To prove the guy wrong? To make him feel as worthless as he made you feel? To feel better than him? To show him that you do know what you’re doing?”

None of those sounded healthy or ultimately fulfilling. The crux of the issue wasn’t really even about the other person. While recounting the experience, Becca repeatedly affirmed the leader isn’t a bad guy. He’s actually a really great guy. The problem was that Becca had let her guard down. It was her, not him. Yes, what he said and did wasn’t healthy, but the truth of the matter is that what someone uses in an attempt to gaslight us can’t fly across the table and into us unless we let it. She forgot one of the basic tenets of Celebrate Recovery for those of us who have been at it for a while. She’d read this verse during every step-study she’d ever done: “Don’t be so naive and self-confident. You’re not exempt. You could fall flat on your face as easily as anyone else. Forget about self-confidence; it’s useless. Cultivate God-confidence” (1 Corinthians 10:12 MSG).

Becca realized her endgame needed to be stronger and lead toward the eternal. She remembered Micah 6:8 (NIV): “He has shown you, O mortal, what is good. And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.” 

She needed to use the moment to figure out how to walk with God more wholly and surely. She realized she now possessed the truth she needed. Becca did, in fact, know what she was doing. If she felt the need to prove that, then she was working out of a place of pride and a need for approval. She knew where her support ultimately came from.

She sought wise counsel and got it. That was all she needed. She decided to keep leading the program the way she’d always led. She knows it’s right.

Keep your eyes open, hold tight to your convictions, give it all you’ve got, be resolute, and love without stopping.

—1 Corinthians 16:13 MSG

I’ve learned that if bookends are essential in a conversation, I want them to leave the ones who receive my words feeling and believing they are valid and loved. They should feel highly esteemed and precious. I want them to know they matter; they are significant; and, most importantly, the star-breathing Creator of the universe treasures them. 

Daniel was able to stand before the angel, even when he was horrified, trembling, and feeling unworthy. When Gabriel bookended the beginning of his time with Daniel by saying, “Don’t be afraid, you are treasured by God,” and ending that time by saying the same thing, “Don’t be afraid, you are treasured by God,” he was making sure Daniel understood that he was worthy and ready to receive the prophecy of what was going to unfold in the future. 

A bookend in writing sets up a scene so it can be satisfactorily repeated at the end of a larger scene. In life, it shows the character of the person who places the bookends in their respective positions. The narrative of any discussion should always lead to an eternal conclusion. Either we leave someone closer to God, or we don’t. 

Our bookends matter a great deal. Daniel stood after hearing, “Hey, you’re important, and God is crazy in love with you.” Gabriel’s similar phrases at the beginning and the end of his time with Daniel gave the man the courage to hear what Gabriel was about to lay on him. 

Here’s the kicker for me. How treasured was Daniel? How precious, loved, worthy, esteemed, and desired? Gabriel was saying, “Daniel, don’t be afraid. Let me affirm to you how important you are. From the moment you set your heart to gain understanding and to know your God, your words were heard. And I have come in response to them.” 

Gabriel was saying, “Hey, God knew about you before he spun the world into orbit. He knew you would be mourning and would be grieving for Israel. From the very beginning, he knew your heart would be turned toward him and this moment would come. Guess what? He heard you. And here I am.”

Today you and I can know this. I’m here to tell you. God treasures you. He adores you. You are precious to him. You have worth, and he has a plan for you. From the moment you set your heart to gain understanding and to know your God, your words were heard. Before the world was established, he heard you.

Angels are on their way. 

A recent study has shown that demanding jobs offering employees little control, such as serving weekend brunch at restaurants, are the most detrimental to mental and physical health. In fact, one study showed it’s more stressful to be a server than a neurosurgeon. 

It’s easy to forget that even though we are paying customers, the human beings serving us work unsociable hours with almost no actual pay, not to mention exhausted feet and, in many cases, unwanted advances from drunk patrons. 

I was a server for many years. I kid you not, the most dreaded shift to work was Sunday brunch. I don’t know what happened between the altar call and the seating hostess, but it was as if the incoming patrons forgot that once you’ve swept your house clean, you have to put it in order, or seven other wicked spirits move in—to any given booth at any given restaurant. 

There were some weeks when I deliberately took a Sunday brunch shift just so my nonchurchgoing friends didn’t have to endure the onslaught of “goodwill” from obstinately tenacious laypeople. 

However, I was occasionally able to come up with a subtle remark or two that went virtually unnoticed by the guests but made me feel snarky.

One Sunday, eight ladies came straight from a Sunday school class to have brunch together at our popular restaurant in Nashville. I was to be their ever-joyful, long-suffering, imperturbable server. They all but told me I was personally responsible for not carrying Earl Grey tea. I received a couple of raised eyebrows for not having crackers as a substitute for rolls in the breadbasket. I dealt with the lemon-or-no-lemon-in-the-glass-of-ice-water debacle. Then, in vain, I attempted to explain why a Caesar salad with Thousand Island dressing was no longer a Caesar salad. One lady placed her order for a Cobb salad. The lady who had previously ordered a club salad liked what the Cobb lady was getting better and changed her order to a Cobb salad, except with no bacon and adding extra broccoli. The second lady thought that variation sounded better, changed her order to match the first lady’s, and had a myriad of other problems inherent with the menu.

I finally got all the orders, all with special instructions taken, and turned them in. The cooks glared at me through the kitchen window for the next fifteen minutes while I bit my nails to the quick, horrified that something would come out wrong. When everything got to the expediter station, I personally went and oversaw each dish to make sure every plate went to the table exactly as it had been ordered, down to the placement of every sprig of parsley. I dragged a couple of other servers over against their will and better judgment to help deliver the food to the table. 

Once everything was set down, they all viciously examined the plates for any sign of missing or misplaced items. After approximately nine and a half seconds of total silence, I said, “Well, there ya go, ladies. Is anything okay?” 

Another time, I could not get a single thing correct for a guy—even though I got him exactly what he asked for. His steak medallions were overcooked every time, even though I kept telling him they were thinly sliced cuts of beef and could not be cooked so they were pink in the middle, unless I served them raw. His beer wasn’t cold enough, and there was, ironically, too much ice in his water glass. Finally, when I brought back his credit card and slip, I made the obligatory cordial statement that I was glad they had come in, hoped they had a great night, and hoped they would come back soon. He didn’t even look up as he signed the receipt and said, “Well, I will have a good night. But I won’t be coming back here. I’m tired of not getting what I ask for.” 

I responded in the most ingratiatingly pleasant tone possible, “Well, we here at Dalt’s like to keep our customers happy and satisfied. So if it would make you happy to never come back here again, it would certainly make us happy.”

His wife, who had been ominously quiet throughout the entire meal, laughed so hard she almost choked on her final sip of water.

The first thought that went through my head was I’m about to get fired.

But the lady just looked at him and said, “You totally asked for that.”

I felt just a bit vindicated. 

A couple of friends from my church in Nashville, Mike Nolan and Eve Sarrett, wrote a crazy book called You Can’t Curl Your Hair with Holy Rollers: An Insider’s Guide to Church Life. They sat down with me and asked what things drove me crazy about waiting tables on Sundays. They named that section in the book “How to Witness While Dining Out.” 

Come directly to the restaurant from a church gathering with a large number of people—preferably too many to sit at one table. Bring as many children with you as possible, especially whiny babies and strong-willed toddlers who have been forced to be quiet for the past two hours and will need to be loudly corrected. Ask to be seated together, saying, “We don’t mind scrunching a little.” Remember to complain later about how crowded you were at the table they gave you. When you arrive at your table, someone should inadvertently bring a Bible with him, which will take up much-needed table space. When the hostess asks if you are okay with sitting close to the bar, look appalled, and cite how drinking defiles the temple of God. Act as confused as possible about who sits where. Several people should swap seats a few times, especially after orders have been placed. When the server arrives, request as many separate checks as possible, or use zigzag patterns to indicate who should be included on a single check. At least one person should request only water and say to the server, “I’m just here for the fellowship.” This person must consume as much water as possible, requiring multiple refills, and should scarf food from the plates of those who order the all-you-can-eat salad bar. When the food comes, reel off a long, confusing list of orders that are wrong and items that have been forgotten. The meals in place, join others in nervously looking around the table until someone asks what everyone is thinking, “Are we going to pray?” Wait the long, tenuous moment until someone surrenders and responds, “I’ll do it.” Fumble with the hold-hands/don’t-hold-hands decision and bow your heads just as the server arrives with a heavy tray of additional stuff. Have a long prayer, including in it a brief summation of the sermon and a spirited call to action. Keep praying until the server’s arms start to spasm. Young children should crush as many crackers as possible. When a toddler stands in his chair and refuses to sit down, the parent should say, “Santa Claus won’t come to see you if you keep this up” or, “When you act this way, you make God cry.” Eventually, the parent should drag the kicking and screaming child to the bathroom while reciting to the young reprobate Ephesians 6:1. “Children, obey your parents in the Lord, for this is right.” When the checks are distributed, several people should find errors and complain loudly. Those who have not been charged for items they received should offer a silent prayer to God for His abundant provision. Each person should tip 5 percent or however many coins they have in their pockets—whichever is less. Someone should remember that change is needed to buy a newspaper and take the appropriate amount. Place coins under plates, believing that all giving—not just tithing—should be done in secret. Finally, someone should leave a card with the tip quoting Luke 9:25, “What does it profit a man if he gains the whole world yet lose his own soul?” Or Joshua 24:15, “Choose ye this day whom you will serve.” 

I remember a few moments when respect and thankfulness were shown in ways I’ll never forget. An older gentleman and his wife came in almost every Sunday and sat in the same place, booth number sixty-three, just next to a window overlooking White Bridge Road. The dear couple were obviously sweethearts. It was a pleasure to have that section of tables and an honor to wait on them. 

They didn’t come in for a few weeks, and we worried about them. Then, one Sunday, she came in alone and told us her sweet husband had passed away a few weeks earlier, and she was finding it difficult to visit places they’d loved going together. 

She became our grandmother. Every Sunday, she came back, knowing we saved booth number sixty-three for her, even when we were on a waitlist. She sat alone, and she ate alone, most Sundays fighting back tears. We fiercely protected her time with us and were devoted to looking after her. 

Because she was so kind and gentle and made us feel our service was important and needed, we worked to make her feel like family. One of the other servers, Amy Strobel, and I found out where she lived and snuck over to her house and left gifts at her front door one Christmas morning. The next Sunday, she came in smiling, proudly sporting the antique brooch we had given her for Christmas. It was an honor to be her friend. I never felt like her server. 

Those moments forged a system of checks and balances that has stayed with me my whole life. 

When I go to supper with friends, I make it a specific priority that no matter where we go, our servers will be part of the group. If they’re hungry, we offer some of our appetizer for them to sneak back to the kitchen and eat. We ask about their family. We get to know them. We don’t think of them as servers; we treat them as valued friends. 

There is no question as to whether or not we will pray for our meal. We pray and thank the Lord for our food. 

One Friday night, our server was Marta. Before we got our food, we found out she was a single mom. Her kids were seven and four years old. She had just returned from helping train servers at a new restaurant in Kansas. She had to work doubles to pay rent. She hadn’t seen much of her kids in more than three weeks. Her brother had been her babysitter, but he’d gotten a new job, so she had to find someone new to take care of her kids.

I told Marta we believed in the power of prayer and asked her what we could specifically pray for her. She looked at me as if I were surely kidding. She said, “No one has ever asked me that before.” She asked that we pray for her to have peace and that her schedule would lighten up. I told her we would pray for those things. I told her we would also pray for her kids and that her job schedule would be easier for her so she could spend time with her babies. 

Often, if our servers are there when we get ready to eat, we ask what we can specifically pray for them. They are always shocked and surprised. But many times, they give us real problems and real needs that our Father will surely hear. 

What if that’s the only time that day someone makes them feel important? What if I’m the only chance they have? For many, it probably will be the only time. What if it’s the only time that day they will see Jesus? 

Marta was, for an hour or so, part of our family. Before we left, we made sure she knew that we were there for her and that she mattered. As we left, I told her, “You can know for sure you will be prayed for this week. And thanks for working so hard to make our meal so great. You deserve every bit of that eight percent tip we left.”

The expression on her face was priceless, a cross between “I’m sure he was kidding” and “Or was he?” I can assure you she was pleasantly surprised when she realized I was only kidding. 

First John 3:18 (ESV) says, “Little children, let us not love in word or talk, but in deed and in truth.” 

Philippians 2:4 (ESV) says, “Let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others.” 

Everyone has a story. We don’t meet others by accident.