I’m always surprised when I hear someone misquote a scripture, use a verse out of context, or use a supposed Bible verse that just isn’t found in the Bible. I can’t decide if I want to laugh and let it pass or try to find a gentle way to adjust the person’s error. I don’t know exactly how to correct someone without it seeming as if I’m trying to be superior and make him or her feel stupid. 

I’m not saying I always know if I’m using a scripture correctly. But I’m reasonably sure I never claim a phrase is biblical if I don’t know for sure that it’s in the Bible. Here are just a few popular phrases that may or may not actually be found in scripture.

• “Cleanliness is next to godliness.”

No. The Old Testament contains a lot of scripture teaching ritual cleanliness, but this phrase is nowhere to be found in the Bible. And I’m grateful.

• “Be in the world but not of the world.”

Nope. There are some scriptures that imply this thought (e.g., John 15:19 and John 17:14–16), but this particular phrase is not there.

• “This too shall pass.”

No one is positive where this one originated. The day after Mike Ditka was fired from the Chicago Bears, he tearfully said, “Scripture tells you that all things shall pass.” In fact, over the next couple of days, he said it a couple more times. It ain’t in there.

• “The lion shall lie down with the lamb.”

This one surprised me. I love pictures I see of a lion cuddling with a lamb. Isaiah 11:6 (MSG) says, “The wolf will romp with the lamb, the leopard sleep with the kid. Calf and lion will eat from the same trough, and a little child will tend them.” Isaiah 65:25 (MSG) almost announces it: “Wolf and lamb will graze the same meadow, lion and ox eat straw from the same trough, but snakes—they’ll get a diet of dirt!” But there is no verse saying a lion will cuddle with a lamb, unfortunately.

I’ve noticed that some people tend to use Bible verses to emphasize or prove their beliefs or opinions. And most people, because they don’t want to question someone who seems to know what he or she is talking about, accept the nonscripture at face value. 

But here’s some good news: I have the Holy Spirit living inside me. Ephesians 1:17–20 (NIV) says,

I keep asking that the God of our Lord Jesus Christ, the glorious Father, may give you the Spirit of wisdom and revelation, so that you may know him better. I pray also that the eyes of your heart may be enlightened in order that you may know the hope to which he has called you, the riches of his glorious inheritance in the saints, and his incomparably great power for us who believe. That power is like the working of his mighty strength, which he exerted in Christ when he raised him from the dead and seated him at his right hand in the heavenly realms.

When someone says something to me that doesn’t ring true, I have the freedom to know it might be the Holy Spirit nudging me and warning me of spiritual manipulation. Or it could be an innocent mistake. 

During the 2016 election season, I was discussing the pros and cons of several candidates with a friend. She is very resolved on which side of the aisle she stands. At one point during our discussion, she loudly proclaimed, “Even Jesus said, ‘Give a man a fish, and he’ll eat for a day, but …’” 

Wait! What? 

I kept waiting for her to finish the quote, but apparently, she couldn’t remember the rest. She works hard to understand the Word and takes Bible study classes regularly, so I decided not to correct her. I prayed she would go home and Google that specific alleged scripture so she could remember the next time she chose to use it and, in so doing, find that it was not a scripture at all. 

We have to be careful on two fronts. First, when we choose to use scripture to uphold our belief system, we’d better know that it is, in fact, in the Bible. Second, we need to have a basic idea of where it’s found in the Bible and know that we’re using it in the correct context. Here’s a third thought: we need to be confident we are teaching not doctrine but theology. Doctrine is a set of beliefs, usually dependent on a specific denomination. Theology focuses more on the study of God and faith rather than religion. Sometimes the differences may be foggy, and the methods may be different, but the message should always be valid. Often, we get a cosmic nudge from the Holy Spirit when something doesn’t ring of truth consistent with God’s Word. 

Recently, my friend Jan told me about a meeting she’d experienced with a mutual supervisor in a faith-based ministry in which we both volunteer. Apparently, the conversation had become heated, and the leader had told Jan, “I’m going to tear your flesh.” 

When Jan recounted the story to me, I said, “Whoa, whoa. Tear your flesh? What does that even mean?” 

My feeling was that it was some scripture the leader had used to intimidate Jan and leave her fearful. But I wasn’t sure where it was in the Bible, and the Holy Spirit was speaking to me right then, telling me this was being used not as exhortation but as punishment. 

After Jan and I finished our conversation, I began to research that phrase: “Tear your flesh.” After a couple of hours, I called Jan to tell her what I’d discovered. 

“Jan, there have been times in my life when people have, whether intentionally or unintentionally, used scripture to throw me off balance and leave me feeling unstable in the confrontation. It’s a ploy to get the upper hand. You have to learn to hear with better ears, especially when someone uses scripture to undermine you. This person used a scripture that left you feeling vulnerable. It’s a scripture that he probably heard a pastor use and thought would be a great dart to throw. Or he was the victim of someone else’s ignorance and knew he could use that phrase to his advantage. When you told me what he said, I immediately felt something wasn’t right about it. I decided to listen to the tug of the Spirit’s prompting. Here’s what I found. 

“There is a scripture that speaks of ‘tearing of the flesh.’ It’s in Micah 3:1–4 (NIV). Micah says, ‘Listen, you leaders of Jacob, you rulers of Israel. Should you not embrace justice, you who hate good and love evil; who tear the skin from my people and the flesh from their bones; who eat my people’s flesh, strip off their skin and break their bones in pieces; who chop them up like meat for the pan, like flesh for the pot? Then they will cry out to the Lord, but he will not answer them. At that time he will hide his face from them because of the evil they have done.’

“So what he’s saying to you—if he is, in fact, the flesh tearer—is that he tortures and abuses the people entrusted to him and, more importantly, hates what is good and loves what is evil. When he cries out to God, God’s not going to hear him, because of the evil he’s done. That’s what he’s saying about himself because he’s ignorant of how he’s misquoting and misusing scripture.”

Jan said, “Ooh. Should I call him out on that?” 

I chuckled. “No, probably not. He will more than likely use it again. Then remind him, according to scripture, what he’s inferring about himself.” 

There’ve been times in my life when I’ve been victimized by people who know how to use scripture or other phrases to throw me off track of the immediate issue. That way, they can feel they have the footing to bear down on me and come in for the kill. 

I was once in a meeting with several people. One of the attendees was dissatisfied and disheartened by the way the ministry was moving. He voiced his opinion, and the ministry leader said, “You don’t have permission to do my inventory for me.” We all, about ten of us, just sat there and stared at the leader. The proclamation he’d broadcast was entirely off base with the concerns being addressed. 

At some point, one of the other attendees said, “What does that have to do with what we’re talking about? No one here has any desire to do your inventory for you.” Although the leader said little for the rest of the meeting, we all felt the die had been cast. It wasn’t long before the team was dismantled. That leader destroyed a vibrant, soul-mending ministry, thanks to his own arrogance and selfish ambition. Second Timothy 2:15 (NIV) says, “Do your best to present yourself to God as one approved, a worker who does not need to be ashamed and who correctly handles the word of truth.” 

It’s a command. We’re called to correctly handle the Word of truth. That doesn’t only mean we must be sure of how we administer the Word. It also means being sensitive to the Spirit of God and listening for the elbow nudge when someone uses scripture to incorrectly uphold his or her beliefs. 

If something (or Someone) in you is telling you the statement isn’t ringing true, it’s probably not true. The best way I’ve found to get a good layout of scripture is, shockingly, by reading it. Yes, I read Bible studies, watch video series, and listen to Christian audiobooks, but the way to know and have a basic understanding of specific scripture locations is by reading. I have no agenda other than asking God to help me remember something, even one thing, I’m reading and, just as important, where it is in the Bible.

I ask him to reveal to me only what I need to know during that time. Occasionally, when someone asks where a verse is, I can at least remember the cadence or character of a specific biblical writer. It helps me discern when I feel something is being misused. 

And again, I always make sure I keep my mouth shut if I’m not sure I’m using a verse correctly. I try to remember Romans 8:11 (NIV): “And if the Spirit of Him who raised Jesus from the dead is living in you, He who raised Christ from the dead will also give life to your mortal bodies because of His Spirit who lives in you.” 

The Spirit lives in us. We can listen to his whisper when we need discernment. We can trust him to tell us when something ain’t right.

Whether it’s cleanliness and godliness or lions and lambs, I want to use scripture correctly. In fact, whenever possible, I think it’s crucial to insert my own favorite verse since I’m left-handed: “Thus sayeth the Lord, Everyone is born left-handed until they commit their first sin” (3 Timothy 7:11).

I knew I would have no trick-or-treaters since I live out in The Blair Witch Project and have seen only two monsters in the twenty-some years I’ve been out here. 

That doesn’t stop me from buying the obligatory bags of my favorite candies every year, just in case. I was halfway through both bags and one peanut butter cup away from a sugar coma, when I decided to tackle a long-overdue job: changing the dead lightbulb in my refrigerator. I couldn’t remember when it had gone out—obviously quite a while ago. 

Once the fridge’s dark recesses finally had illumination, I noticed a plastic container in the far back right corner, on the bottom shelf, just above the veggie-crisper drawer. 

I don’t know what possessed me to open it, but I did. I felt sure I’d chanced onto a possible cure for some new locker-room disease called shibola, a hybrid of shingles and Ebola. I wonder if the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention has researched the curative power of green peas from the 1980s. 

On the off chance I would not, in fact, be awarded a Nobel Prize in medicine, I immediately carried the noxious container out to the burn pile, away from the house, to keep the dogs from finding it. 

Later that night, when I took the dogs out for their evening constitutional, I couldn’t find Scout for a few minutes. We can’t figure out what kind of dog he is. He’s a fifty-pound, skinny, long-legged solid-black tornado of teeth and toenails. He usually doesn’t let me out of his sight. I eventually glanced over and saw him high atop the burn pile, perusing his kingdom, as if he’d just discovered a hidden kitty litter box. I screamed, “Scout!” He came running—the coolest kid on the playground. 

I didn’t know how much of the offending entree he’d scarfed down, but I knew I had to keep an eye on him. 

Later on, as I was working on a lesson I was to give the next morning at the prison, I heard what sounded like a plunger in a commode and knew precisely what was happening. I raced into my bedroom and heard Scout under the bed. I kept trying to coddle him. “Come on out, little buddy.” 

But alas, it was too late. When I got the courage to look underneath, I saw total carnage. I was trying to think how I would ever be able to clean that much vomit out from under my bed without taking the whole thing apart, when Scout started up again. 

I couldn’t even try to coax him out. I just watched in horrified fascination as he projectile-vomited everything he’d eaten since he was born. 

I thought, Oh, look—more peas.

He must have felt a little better, because he crawled out from under the bed and looked at me as if he’d hurled demons into a herd of pigs. 

I took him outside for a while and watched him wander around as if he were in a daze. I was a little concerned and called him to me. He will usually run as fast as possible until he gets right to my legs and then come to a screeching halt; however, this time, he came at me, tilted his head to the right, and plowed right into my knees, causing hyperextension and considerable, unnecessary pain. 

He was stumbling and weaving. I was horrified. I carried him into the house and called Cliff Peck, one of the top-five vets in the universe. I screamed, “I’ve killed Scout!” 

When I told him what had happened, he laughed and said, “Dude, he’s drunk.” 

“What? He ate moldy—something with peas in it.” 

Cliff said, “Yep. Some molds are intoxicants. He’s just drunk. Watch him for a while. Give him Pepto-Bismol if you have any, and keep an eye on him. Don’t let him eat tomorrow.”

So I squirted some PB down Scout’s throat and made him lie down in his bed so I could continue to work on my prison sermon. 

Scout just sat there looking at me. He leaned his head away from me and glared at me from the corner of his eye. He held a paw up to me as if he were trying to figure out which one was really me. All of a sudden, he was channeling Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard. I kept waiting for him to say, “I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.” 

Suddenly, without any warning, he vomited again. I was just able to maneuver his head over the edge of the couch before he wretched all over me. I went cold when I looked down and saw red in the vomit—and peas. “Oh no! He’s bleeding internally! He’s dying! Oh, wait. Pepto-Bismol.” 

At that moment, I remembered the mess under the bed and decided I needed to go clean that up before—

Oh no. 

I grabbed paper towels and a plastic grocery bag and ran to my room. I threw myself onto my belly and looked under the bed. There was nothing.

Just as I was thinking, What in the world? Chester, my brown-and-tan beagle-Catahoula mix, who is typically fairly adroit at jumping up onto the bed, slammed into the side of it and glanced over at me with his tongue hanging out the side of his snout. With his eyes squarely focused on mine, Chester slowly slid down the edge of the bed and onto his back haunches. 

He just sat there panting and staring, desperately trying to focus on me. It reminded me of someone watching the old game Pong on a primordial computer monitor. Back and forth, side to side. 

Obviously, Chester felt it his responsibility to help Scout live up to Proverbs 26:11. 

I was getting a little nauseated at that point. Even telling the story is making me a bit woozy. I don’t want to say the word vomit again. I’m going to change it to something a tad bit more palatable. Since I had a few similar experiences as my dogs in my younger days, I’m going to use the word vermouth, a botanically induced wine.

At that point, Chester peered sideways at me, got up, and began turning in awkward circles. I knew what was coming. I grabbed his collar to pull him outside. He got away from me, jumped up onto the couch, and vermouthed—a lot. There were peas. 

At that juncture, I had two dogs vermouthing simultaneously. At the same time, I screamed at Falkor, my black Labasset, who had jumped up onto the back of the couch, ready to high-dive into the vermouth. He was perched like a vulture on a telephone wire looking down at roadkill. “Falkor, get outa here!” He was crushed. As if I’d kicked a homeless person away from a twenty-five-foot-long smorgasbord. Whatever. “Get out!” 

Finally, at about midnight, the dogs seemed to calm down. I went outside and buried what was left of the demon casserole from Dante’s third level of hell. Something straight out of a Stephen King novel. 

It seemed I hadn’t buried it deep enough. The next night, I was doing laundry, and Gawa, my little rat terrier, who is almost completely blind but apparently has a keen sense of smell, was out by the burn pile, high-stepping like a drum major. She was missing only the baton. 

Good gravy. Is there no half-life to this stuff? The only things that will survive a nuclear holocaust are cockroaches and peas that have been vermouthed.

My mom lay in a hospital bed in Searcy for almost a month. We four siblings made sure she was comfortable and knew at least one of us would always be there with her. 

With congestive heart failure, she needs medications. At that time, she had a tough time breathing. The problem was so dramatic she could barely put three words together without having to pause to catch her breath. Walking ten feet to the bathroom in her hospital room left her dizzy and exhausted. She would close her eyes and take shallow breaths until she felt a little better. 

Nutrition was a challenge. Food or drink would sometimes travel down her windpipe into her lungs. The flap in her esophagus wasn’t functioning properly. So she swallowed anything liquid mixed with a thickener. It was like drinking a soft gel. We secretly discovered that she preferred Dr. Pepper with thickener or a thickened Route 44 sweet tea.

She also suffered from atypical pneumonia, which is similar to severe bronchitis. Specialists discovered her aortic valve didn’t work correctly, so the doctors tried to make her strong enough to have heart surgery.

After much trial and error, Mom’s doctor explained that his plan hadn’t worked, and she was sent to Little Rock for surgery.

Alarmed and scared, we kids prepared for an uncertain future. Would this be Mom’s final journey before heaven?

Mom, of course, loved having us there. She bragged about us to all the nurses and doctors. Even though she struggled to breathe and get words out, the staff would, in their hurried kindness, listen and encourage her. 

One night, sitting beside her on her hospital bed, I rubbed her arm and held her hand. She smiled and then looked away for a minute. She turned back to me and, with a serious, searching look in her eyes, said, “You know, the older you get, the more you look back at your life and realize you didn’t always make the best choices for your kids. Sometimes you wish you handled things differently.” 

I smiled, brushed back her hair, and leaned down and kissed her on her forehead. I squeezed her hand. “Well, Mom, there are no perfect parents. And there are no perfect kids. All of your kids love Jesus. All of us are involved in the church. The ones who have kids have raised them the same way. None of us are drug users or alcoholics. None of us have ever gone to jail. Well, except that one time after a late-night play rehearsal in downtown Nashville, when I ran a red light and the officer sitting at the opposing green light pulled me over and discovered my tags were expired, and I already owed a ticket for that, so he hauled me in for a couple of hours. Other than that, in spite of our flaws, eccentricities, drama, and self-imposed dysfunctions, you did a pretty good job. I think you did an outstanding job.” 

Her sweet eyes glistened as she reached up, brushed my cheek with the back of her hand, and whispered, “I never regretted any of my babies.” 

The doctors worked hard to get Mom strong enough to have a procedure called transcatheter aortic valve replacement (TAVR). 

I felt intense anxiety, not knowing if that was right for her. Then Christina, the TAVR coordinator, came in and meticulously explained the strength building and tests needed to get her as prepared as possible for the procedure. She gave me several brochures to read, with pictures so I could understand better.

I devoured every page. TAVR is much less invasive than open-heart surgery. Instead of having to crack the sternum, the doctors go in with a tube through the groin, knock the old valve out of the way, and replace it with a new one. It expands outward and takes over the work of the original valve. 

During that period of waiting, I heard from several friends who had experienced the same procedure or had family members who were walking around with the little miracle device, which looks like a crown. They willingly shared how the procedure reduced recovery time and said they’d observed almost immediate and noticeable improvement in the patient’s health. 

I felt calm and reassured after reading the information and talking to other people. Peace replaced fear. I had knowledge and understanding of the procedure instead of insecurity and the mystery of not knowing, which dispelled apprehension and worry. 

We stood around her bed, all her babies and a couple of nurses, and prayed. The attending nurse wheeled Mom into the surgery room, and we waited. After two hours, Dr. Glover came and told us the procedure had been successful. We went to her room later and hugged her. Each of us told her we loved her and encouraged her to sleep. She did. 

The next morning, when I walked into her room, she would not shut up. She talked nonstop, and her cheeks were pink and pinchable. Her coherent words came in complete sentences without her stopping every few seconds to breathe. It’s incredible how good she felt when blood actually flowed through her body again. 

I said, “Mom, do you hear yourself?”

She stopped talking just long enough to smile and then said, “Yeah.” She continued her verbal torrent about the hospital’s overuse of carrots in some form or other on every food tray. 

It was a miracle. Mom returned to rehab in Searcy for a couple of weeks and then moved back to her assisted living home. All her friends waited for her to come in sipping on her unthickened sweet tea and jump into an aggressively vicious game of bingo. 

When I was a child, we didn’t talk much about heaven. One Bible verse seemed to restrict discussion about our future home. In 2 Corinthians 12, Paul says he knew a man who was caught up to Paradise and heard inexpressible things that no one was permitted to tell us. Since no one was allowed to tell us, apparently, we all assumed we weren’t supposed to talk about it. 

I was much older before I began to wonder why nothing ever brought me complete joy, happiness, or a sense of any project being perfectly finished. When my thoughts turned toward heaven, I couldn’t feel excited about being a disembodied spirit in a place that could become fairly boring after a while, even with Jesus there. 

So I began a journey to discover if there was something more I had missed. 

And guess what? There was. 

I found a book that has become like my second Bible: Heaven by Randy Alcorn. I read it and have just started rereading it. I have never looked at this life and planet the same since devouring this book. 

Again, it’s about knowledge. Not knowing or believing I had a right to search out information about heaven left me unnerved. What could I reasonably expect about my forever home? 

Knowledge has made all the difference. We will not be strumming harps all day. The extraordinary, magnificent reason no earthly experience has ever felt ultimately fulfilling to me is because God has put eternity in my heart. 

The knowledge of heaven has changed how I live. Our future home is vibrant and bright with color—colors we can’t even imagine. We’ll have real bodies and real jobs that were originally created for us to do. 

Heaven is rich and full with the presence of God, the star-breathing Creator of the universe. We enjoy perfect relationships with each other and close face-to-face, lying-in-the-grass, looking-at-stars conversations with Jesus. 

We’ll eat, drink, work, play, travel, worship, and discover a New Earth as God always meant it to be. 

We will see God and fully realize he is the one we have longed for all along. In his presence, all the dreams that seemed to continually diminish here on Earth will forever expand. 

I love how Randy Alcorn paints a portrait of heaven:

We, on this dying Earth can relax and rejoice for our loved ones who are in the presence of Christ. As the apostle Paul tells us, though we naturally grieve at losing loved ones, we are not “to grieve like the rest of men, who have no hope” (1 Thessalonians 4:13). Our parting is not the end of our relationships, only an interruption. We have not “lost” them, because we know where they are. They are experiencing the joy of Christ’s presence in a place so wonderful that Christ called it Paradise. And one day, we’re told, in a magnificent reunion, they and we “will be with the Lord forever.” “Therefore, encourage each other with these words.” Picture it. Think of friends or family members who loved Jesus and are with him now. Picture them with you, walking together in this place. All of you have powerful bodies, stronger than those of an Olympic decathlete. You are laughing, playing, talking, and reminiscing. You reach up to a tree to pick an apple or orange. You take a bite. It’s so sweet that it’s startling. You’ve never tasted anything so good. Now you see someone coming toward you. It’s Jesus, with a big smile on his face. You fall to your knees in worship. Then He pulls you up and gives you the biggest bear hug in all of history. Every kingdom work, whether publicly performed or privately endeavored, partakes of the kingdom’s imperishable character. Every honest intention, every stumbling word of witness, every resistance of temptation, every motion of repentance, every gesture of concern, every routine engagement, every act of worship, every struggle towards obedience, every mumbled prayer, everything, literally, that flows out of our faith-relationship with the Ever-Living One, will find its place in the ever living heavenly order which will dawn at His coming. 

One dazzling, sun-drenched morning, I hear distinct laughter, familiar, as it echoes through pure, fragrant breezes. My perfect attention, drawn across a verdant, impossibly lush valley, spies a picnic table overflowing with exquisite fruits, cheeses, wine, and joy. The table, by design, is shaded under a towering, ancient tree so laden with fruit that its bowed branches bring to mind the wings of an eagle. And there’s my mom, surrounded by family and friends, sipping her unthickened sweet tea while playing an aggressive, vicious game of bingo. I hear laughter. It is coming from Jesus, who is calling out the numbers. 

Key fob is a word used to describe a key chain and several other similar items and devices. The word fob is believed to have originated from watch fobs, which existed as early as 1888. The fob refers to an ornament attached to a pocket-watch chain. Key chains, remote car starters, garage door openers, and keyless entry devices on hotel room doors are also called fobs, or key fobs.

—Webpedia

Driving home from a TobyMac concert (row 6, seat 14) late one night, I was about a mile from home on Congo Ferndale Road, which is way out—I mean way out, the Deliverance part of Ferndale, with nothing but woods for miles—when I saw a huge something on the road ahead. As I got closer, I realized it was a deer someone had hit and killed. 

Naturally, my first thought was to ask God to let it run free and happy on my property in heaven, where I would gladly take care of it when I got home. My next thoughts were not as kind. I wondered what horrible human being would just leave it in the middle of the road. Didn’t they consider that another driver might run into the carcass? It could wreck a vehicle or maybe even send it careening into a ditch while the driver tried to swerve. 

I turned around and went back. I stopped, angling my car to the left so the headlights would shine on the deer lying in the opposite lane. My plan was to drag the poor creature off the road. 

I climbed out and carefully set the door against my still-running car—just enough to let it click but not close. I walked toward the deer and noticed a truck coming from the other direction. Applying more than a little effort, I grabbed a hoof and lugged the poor creature into the ditch, waved and smiled at the truck, and walked back to my car.

Feeling good about my selfless deed, I reached down and pulled on the door handle. It was locked. My headlights were still shining brightly. The inside lights were still on. My cell phone was snugly secure in the passenger seat. The car was idling smoothly. But somehow, my driver’s door had locked itself behind me. All the doors were locked.

I went into mild shock.

I tried both driver’s-side doors. Locked. 

The truck pulled up, and the lady inside rolled down her window. I said, “The doors locked.” She just looked at me. I repeated, trying in vain to hide the terror in my voice, “The doors locked all by themselves. I live just on the other side of Colonel Glenn. If you could just drive me to my house, I have an extra fob there, and I can get it unlocked.” 

She just said, “Oh, uh …” 

I don’t know why she seemed hesitant—we were just out there by ourselves shortly after midnight in The Blair Witch Project. 

I said, “Look, I just left a TobyMac concert—row 6, seat 14, by the way. I’m a Christian. I love the Lord. I would never hurt you.”

I guess she felt bad and had, in fact, watched the whole dragging-the-dead-deer thing transpire. Although it was after midnight and no one was on the road, I don’t think I looked all that menacing. I had all my teeth. So she let me get in her truck. 

She said, “Well, do you live with someone?”

I realized at that point she did not intend to drive me back to my car. I told her I would wake up my neighbor and have him drive me to my car. 

As she turned her truck onto my drive, I glanced to the right and saw Jeremiah, my neighbor, working in his garage. While rummaging in his tool chest, he glanced up to see the unknown truck pulling into my driveway. Probably he wondered who would have been arriving at that hour. He might’ve even felt a moment of alarm for the safety of his family and his parents. Both his parents’ house and mine were at the end of the long drive, a length of two acres away from the road, way back in the woods.

As we got to my house, I thanked the lady and jumped out of her truck. She turned the truck around and sped away. I ran to the house, which, like my car, was also locked. But I remembered the sliding glass door by the front door was never locked. It was nearly impossible to slide open. I managed to maneuver it enough to wedge myself through; push away all the dogs, who were scrambling to get outside since they had been locked in the house for the past seven hours; grab the extra fob; and run back across the two acres of dirt driveway to Jeremiah’s house. He was still standing by the garage window. 

I feel certain Jeremiah was a little startled when he saw a human standing at his window at midnight, waving at him. He opened the garage door, and I told him what had happened.

“My car is sitting in the middle of the road, locked, with the inside lights on, headlights on bright. My phone is on the front seat. And the car is running.” 

He said, “What were you doing out of your car at midnight and locking the door?” 

I was beginning to sweat. “We need to hurry! Just drive me up there. I’ll tell you on the way.” 

He was unimpressed with my emotional collapse and said, “Okay. But come look at what I’m doing.”

With more than a little angst, I toured the man cave he was building with a new deck. I said, “That’s so cool. But if anyone drives up Congo Ferndale right now at midnight and sees a car sitting there locked, running, with the inside lights on, the headlights on bright, and a cell phone on the front seat, idling out in the middle of Sasquatchville, they’re going to break a window and steal it or at the very least assume foul play has recently transpired and call the cops. We gotta go.” 

So we jumped into his truck with his dog, Pearl, and headed to the car. When we got there, Jeremiah turned his lights on bright to survey the situation better and said, “The lights are on. It’s still running.” 

“Yes,” I said. “I’m fully aware of that. Wait here so I can make sure the battery in this fob isn’t dead.” 

The battery in the fob was dead. 

I went to the car and pressed the unlock button several times, but to no avail. I frantically shook the fob up and down like an old-time mercury-filled thermometer, hoping I could squeeze one last drop of energy back into the ancient battery, which was as dead as the animal I’d pulled into the ditch earlier. 

At least internally, and quite possibly externally, I panicked. “This is not happening. This cannot be happening. No, no, no, no!” 

I looked back toward Jeremiah in his truck with his dog, Pearl. I couldn’t see him, because I was looking directly into his headlights. I’m reasonably sure I mouthed something toward those headlights that I’m not particularly proud of right now. 

He jumped out of the truck and came up to my car. I said, “The fob is dead. It’s really dead. I’m not sure what to do now. I may have to use your phone to call my insurance agent, who will call a locksmith. You don’t have to wait around. It’ll probably take them a while to get here, so I’ll just wait here by the car. Although I fully expect to hear a banjo start playing somewhere in the woods as soon as you drive off.” 

Years earlier, when I’d worked as a server at a Nashville restaurant, people would ask for something weird, and there was no way I could respond without making them look like a total moron in front of their friends. For example, occasionally, someone would ask for a Caesar salad with Thousand Island dressing. This was one of those moments. There was no way Jeremiah could respond to the situation without me looking like a complete bonehead. He pointed to a small hole just under the car door handle and said, “Um, well, you do know that fob has an actual key attached to the end of it, right?”

“Oh.”

A friend of mine recently posted a picture on social media that conveyed my life in an extraordinarily powerful way. It was a black-and-white sketch of a scruffily bearded young man’s profile. He wore a wide, toothy, squinty, wrinkle-eyed, joyous grin. Whatever the reason, he was wearing on his face what he wanted others to see and believe.

There was also a gut-wrenching cutaway of the side of his head, showing what was going on internally, the real him: a little boy crouched down against a wall barefoot with his knees protectively pulled up to his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around them, and his head lowered into his arms, hiding, buried in his aloneness. On the floor beside him, leaning against him as if clinging for dear life, was his teddy bear. 

I’ve posted a lot of stuff I’ve written on social media, and occasionally, people find those posts funny enough or worthy enough to share. This picture, promoting mental health awareness, got an exceptional response. It received a bunch of likes. What surprised me even more was that 180 people felt the message was important enough to share. That’s pretty dramatic. I don’t know how many of those 180 have family or friends who struggle with depression or if they themselves combat that insidious disorder.

Whatever the reason, I believe there is a different story for every person who struggles. Every single one of those people is essential and significant. For that reason, I feel compelled to open up about my own personal albatross.

In 1798, Samuel Taylor Coleridge published his longest poem, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. In the story, an albatross leads an icebound ship out of a dangerous, deadly area. The storyteller, for some idiotic reason, kills the bird with a bow. The crew become angry, and they force him to wear the dead bird around his neck. 

Thus began the legend that albatrosses are, metaphorically, a psychological burden that feels like a curse. 

However, these creatures are, in fact, majestic birds with wingspans up to ten feet and lifespans as long as fifty years. They are incredibly social and have strong communities, thus making the albatross my second-favorite bird. As I’ve said, my favorite are hummingbirds, which are substantially smaller and don’t live nearly as long. But I digress. The point is that in the story, the punishment for killing the bird becomes synonymous with a burden to be carried.

I don’t remember a time when depression hasn’t been a massive part of my life. My battle. My thorn. My mountain. In this one area of my life, God has been merciful but quiet. 

My days are pretty much a regular routine for me. I work, I go to church, and the rest of the time, I sleep. I sleep a lot. 

Every night, when I get home from work, I plan for tomorrow. I will wake up. I will clean the house and do laundry. I will spend time writing. I will take my vitamins. And every morning, I wake up with a heaviness in my chest and a dark black cloud just below ceiling level. I am filled with anxiety, depression, and fear that the cloud will burst at any second. So I go back to sleep. 

My dreams are always stress- and anxiety-driven. I force myself to get out of bed every morning, take the dogs for their morning constitutional, feed them, maybe eat a little breakfast, and then crawl back into bed and sleep until I’ll be late for work if I don’t take a shower and go. 

It’s not laziness. It’s not a lack of desire to be motivated. It’s not a lack of positive thinking. It’s not wishing my house were clean enough to have friends over for supper. It’s not even a lack of spiritual health. I spend time with the Lord every single day. I love being with him, my Rock, who I know understands. I often pray Psalm 61:1–2 (MSG): “God, listen to me shout, bend an ear to my prayer. When I’m far from anywhere, down to my last gasp, I call out, ‘Guide me up High Rock Mountain!’”

I don’t talk about it much. I don’t want people to think I’m attempting to elicit pity or sympathy. In fact, I can’t stand that thought. I’d rather carry it alone than burden anyone else with it. 

And why is that? I want people to know me as a lighthearted, laughing, joyful, loving guy devoted to friends and Jesus. After all, that’s who I am at heart. That’s the true me. And I have to remind myself that the knowledge of my disorder is what keeps me grounded. If I depend on my emotions, this disorder will overtake me. 

But depression isn’t the real me. I have to remember and accept that my absolute best day will probably never quite reach most people’s normal day. I don’t experience fewer reasons for joy or sadness, anger or fear, disgust or happiness, or wonder or surprise. I have no more substantial or smaller life choices or problems than anyone else. 

But there is always the cloud. A heavy chest. Chronic fatigue. The wish that it would be more comfortable. The prayer. 

I have a few close friends who I know pray for me. Those are the ones I run to when I have the slightest energy. I look for them at church, the grocery, or anywhere else. They’re the important ones, because they bring me moments of escape into joy. If I can make them smile or laugh, mission accomplished. They know who they are. 

Many other friends of mine have themselves been touched by depression in a personal way. Many have spouses, friends, or family who struggle with depression. Many fight it themselves. Many have spouses, friends, or family members who have lost their battle with depression or mental illness. 

And by the way, depression is an illness. 

For several years, I tried antidepressant after antidepressant with no measurable positive result. One doctor, after testing, gave me a prescription for a generic medicine for ADHD. Although I did feel somewhat better for a time, I suddenly found myself strongly considering taking my life. If I’d owned a gun back then, I would not be typing this right now. It was that serious. 

I began to research the meds and found that one of the possible side effects was suicidal thoughts. I remembered the psychologist asking me several times before he prescribed the medicine if I’d ever thought about suicide.

I never had considered taking my own life before. When I read the side effects, I stopped taking the drug. Almost immediately, thoughts of taking my life went away, never to return. 

Depression is so pervasive and overwhelming that I have taken the word suicide out of my lexicon. Instead, I choose other words: “My friend died of depression,” “She struggled with anxiety and fear,” or “He just wanted the pain to stop.” 

For the record, I’m confident that believers who have desperately struggled with addiction, depression, or mental health problems will be in heaven. On this side of the veil, they couldn’t handle the pain of life any longer and chose to go to the One who truly understands. 

A friend told me once that taking one’s own life is like showing up to a party where we weren’t yet invited. 

It’s called grace. 

When I was a senior in high school, we read a poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson called “Richard Cory.” Until recently, I never understood why it resonated, even then, so profoundly with me and why I remembered it so well for nearly forty-five years. Now I know.

Richard Cory

Edwin Arlington Robinson

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,

We people on the pavement looked at him:

He was a gentleman from sole to crown,

Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,

And he was always human when he talked;

But still he fluttered pulses when he said,

“Good-morning,” and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich—yes, richer than a king—

And admirably schooled in every grace:

In fine, we thought that he was everything

To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,

And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;

And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,

Went home and put a bullet through his head.

I was diagnosed twelve years ago with a disorder called transverse myelitis (TM). It’s sort of a first cousin to multiple sclerosis (MS). The symptoms of both are the same; TM just doesn’t progress as MS does. 

In my research, I discovered that TM and MS are the two strongest disorders causing depression and one of the major contributors to people considering or succeeding in taking their own lives. Although, rest assured, ending my life is not in my thoughts, I understand how others can feel so alone and isolated that dying is more comforting. It’s called an invisible disability for a reason.

I choose to live as an emotional, empathetic, compassionate humanoid. That’s how my precious Jesus, my best Bud, created me. On the other side of that same coin (sobriety chip), I recognize that constant knowledge of this disorder and the possible contributing factors are critical to my survival. Knowing it’s there keeps me away from the shadows. I finally realized that if there’s a shadow, there has to be light somewhere.

There are specific things I will do and things I will not do. 

I will continue the fight, even when I’m so tired I can’t see past the next hour. 

I will seek the Lord in all things. I will fight this fight with him. He carries the sword in front of me.

I will not listen to or respond in anger (hopefully, prayerfully) when someone says, “If you just prayed more,” “If you found the right meds,” “You can be delivered from this,” “The Lord told me …,” or “It’s a sign of weakness or sin.” 

I’ve sincerely, with everything in me, tried countless times all of those things, and here I am, still struggling. Those types of responses, usually said out of ignorance or self-protection, are a strong sign of lack of research. 

Many Christians throw doubt and lack of faith together as an excuse for depression, but it’s neither. It’s real. It’s pervasive in our culture and our churches. We need to display mercy and compassion. We must be aware of those around us. We must love them and move to keep them from isolating. We must be vigilant to be accountable to them and hold them accountable. 

It’s not a choice to isolate. It’s a condition. It’s not a choice to feel afraid, tired, and anxious. It’s a disorder. It’s horrible, it’s awful, and it’s debilitating. 

I don’t know if it’s a lifelong part of my journey. But I can tell you this: I know it’s not eternal. On the really hard days, I think of my future home, as portrayed in Isaiah 25:6–8 (MSG):

But here on this mountain, God-of-the-Angel-Armies will throw a feast for all the people of the world, A feast of the finest foods, a feast with vintage wines, a feast of seven courses, a feast lavish with gourmet desserts. And here on this mountain, God will banish the pall of doom hanging over all peoples, The shadow of doom darkening all nations. Yes, he’ll banish death forever. And God will wipe the tears from every face. He’ll remove every sign of disgrace from his people, wherever they are. Yes! God says so!

My heart is set on things above. When the Lord calls me home, it will be a great day. The best day. The heaviness I have always felt will finally fall away, and the dark cloud will disperse as the veil is lifted. I will see the Love I’ve waited to see all my life, the One I’ve leaned on for protection, hope, truth, answers, and salvation. I will finally see my precious Jesus face-to-face. 

I used to hear and believe that we die alone. That is absolutely not true. I’ve never been alone, and I will never be alone. The moment I close my earthly eyes, I’ll see the One I’ve longed for all my life: Jesus. 

I will see all my friends and family who have gone home before me waiting at the gate. The joy I’ve longed for will be mine because I am in the presence of pure Love. The trivial, normal things that seemed monumental here because of this disorder will no longer matter. All the dreams that seemed impossible to accomplish here because of constant sadness and fatigue will finally be fulfilled. 

I’ll lift my head and breathe in the crisp, clean air of knowing what it means to be free of pain and sorrow. I know these feelings are no different, in kind, from the feelings of all others who have given their hearts to Jesus. We will be there together, laughing, praising, worshipping, working, and living out the truest of dreams—truly, finally living. It will have been worth it all.

And I will fly!

Back in the summer of 1975, I joined a group of college students on a mission trip to East Brunswick, New Jersey, where we held Vacation Bible School for local children. Eight of us spent the entire summer living in the preacher’s home, where the garage doubled as the church auditorium. 

Close to the end of our stay, the team leader gave us a surprise exercise during one of our group devotionals. He wanted us to make lists of all the good qualities we perceived in each team member’s character or what we saw as God-given strengths and gifts in each other. 

Over the years, I have processed that experience, and I have never forgotten the impact it made on me. I don’t remember the comments I made about the other members of the team or even the comments made about me. However, I do remember fearing that when the group leader called my name, there would be dead silence from the others. I was horrified that everyone would surreptitiously glance around, praying someone would conjure a positive character trait to pin on me, or that, in trying to be benevolent, they would utilize trite, obviously impossible attributes, such as “I fully believe you will be president of the United States one day” or “I will be shocked if you don’t win hundreds of Academy Awards in your lifetime.” Then everyone else would nod a little too briskly and affirm a little too loudly the fake sentiment behind the statement. Or, unable to find any good qualities, they would take the opportunity to point out all my idiosyncrasies and character defects and give me pointers on how I might fare better the next time I was a participant in a similar exercise.

But none of that happened. As I look back, I remember every person’s expression as we went around the room and validated and verbally appreciated one another. I remember expressions on people’s faces. Most of them, I’m sure, reflected the same fears and apprehension I’d experienced just before my name was called. 

As the exercise continued, a completely different spirit filled the space. Tears fell from every eye as humble holiness enveloped that small living room. Every person there received a cherished gift, as though we were pinning a value tag on each heart that read, “Priceless.” 

James 3:17–18 (MSG) says,

Real wisdom, God’s wisdom, begins with a holy life and is characterized by getting along with others. It is gentle and reasonable, overflowing with mercy and blessings, not hot one day and cold the next, not two-faced. You can develop a healthy, robust community that lives right with God and enjoy its results only if you do the hard work of getting along with each other, treating each other with dignity and honor.

It wasn’t uncommon for God to be a name-caller. He changed Saul’s name to Paul, which means “Humble.” Peter, of course, became the “Stone” on which the Lord built his church. Moses means “Drew out.” 

One of my favorite characters experienced a name change from Mirab-Baal to Mephibosheth, which means “Exterminator of shame.” The name Eunice, which belonged to Timothy’s mother in the Bible and to my own mother, means “Good victory.” Obviously, what these people were called, even their given names, represented something. The name often described to outsiders what the person’s character was like or was at least meant to be when he or she was first named by his or her parents. Names helped define people for those just meeting them. Often, their names changed later on to fit their new identities. 

One day we will all be given new names. Revelation 2:17 (MSG) says, “Are your ears awake? Listen. Listen to the Wind Words, the Spirit blowing through the churches. I’ll give the sacred manna to every conqueror; I’ll also give a clear, smooth stone inscribed with your new name, your secret new name.”

I remember names I was called when I was growing up that weren’t particularly good. In fact, I remember more of those names than the ones I should have been called. But even back then, there was a stone already hewn, hidden in the heart of God, inscribed with my real name, the name he has specially designed for me. And it describes me perfectly. One day, when I see it, when he hands it to me, I will finally realize all he planned for me to do and be, and I will exclaim, “Of course that was my name!” 

It wasn’t a typo in James 3 when he instructed early Christians to do the hard work of getting along. It isn’t easy all the time to find the best in another fallen, sinful human being. But amazingly, it’s there, and we are called to honor each other with the dignity only we can give. 

I remember the honor I felt that night in 1975, not only in receiving words of affirmation from my friends, people I respected, but also in the tears that fell as my heart swelled with the knowledge that I was speaking streams of life into other tender hearts. 

There was a distinct reverence in the confidence that some, like me, were hearing, maybe for the first time. Those friends were valued for their gifts. What they offered was crucial and far-reaching for the kingdom of God. They were essential. It was just as much a gift for the giver of the consequential words as it was for the recipient. 

I have been involved in many step-studies with Celebrate Recovery over the past couple of decades. Two exercises in the participant guide always amaze me. They amaze me because, to a study, the results are almost exactly the same. One exercise says, “Name some of the negative things you’ve done in your life.” The other says, “Name some of the positive things you’ve done in your life.” It’s no longer surprising to me that the answers to the first could fill a book—every participant’s response. On the other hand, for the second exercise about positive things, the responses are surprisingly short. Some participants even leave the space blank. 

What are we listening to about ourselves? Do we hear the names we heard as children so often that we believe them to be true? Do we still call ourselves those names today? Do we hear the name Failure, Worthless, Ugly, or Stupid in our hearts when we turn out the lights to sleep? Do we run through all the wrong, embarrassing, irresponsible things we did that day? Is our life inventory filled with only the negative things we did in the last twenty-four hours? Do we dwell on the names we were called, even the ones we gave ourselves? 

If we are honest, do we truly believe those names are the ones the Creator of the universe, the One who uniquely made us, wants us to hear and believe? 

Or do we hear the names God has given us? I think we all intellectually know that real truth is found only in God’s Word. I defy anyone to show me a verse in which God says we are a mistake. So why is it so easy to believe the negative things about ourselves, the things our culture believes are so important, over the truth revealed to us from the very heart of God? 

I’m guessing it’s because we are so inundated with what’s expected of us. We have allowed media and what we’re taught is valuable by the world to extinguish the truth—so much so that we begin to believe the lie of the Enemy that we have no value. 

I choose to begin my day with his truth about me. The truth that says I am fearfully and wonderfully made. That I am his treasured possession. That I am the apple of his eye. 

He has called us names all right! Chosen. Blessed sons and daughters. Saint. His. Heirs. Not condemned but accepted. Victorious. A new creature. Set free. Redeemed and forgiven and given access to the very throne room of God. We are light in the Lord. We are citizens of heaven. We are complete in Christ, hidden with Christ in God. We will be revealed with him in glory. He has supplied all our needs. We have been chosen by God, and he has made us holy and beloved. 

We’re usually called something after we’ve lived out a dream or accomplished something big. But God calls us before we do it, just as he did with men and women of the Bible. The world might see us as creative or smart or annoying. But God sees us as world changers, radical leaders, and peacemakers. 

Listen carefully. Tonight, as you go through the events of your day, take responsibility for what you need to take responsibility for, and let go of things you were not responsible for. As you begin to drift to sleep, if you hear any voice other than You are mine, and you are breathtaking, you aren’t listening to Jesus and what he says about you. You’re not listening to the One who holds together all of creation and is intimately interested in the next breath you take. The Lord may give you a name himself. In fact, I know he has. But he may also ask you to be the life-giver of a name for someone else. It’s hard work. But it just might change the course of someone else’s life, including your own. 

It might be difficult for you to believe, but I have not always been the serious, poker-faced, brooding person who stands before you today. In fact, there were a few decades of my life when this deadpan and humorless shell of a man didn’t exist.

When I lived in Nashville, Tennessee, from 1980 to 1990, rarely a stretch of days passed when I wasn’t actively involved in some sort of practical joke, some form of tomfoolery that kept me almost always on the precipice of trouble—trouble that, to me, was merely a minor, pesky nuisance and certainly not a deterrent to the fun I was having. I figure God has a sense of humor. Genesis says we were created in his image, and if we humans have the ability to see and express humor, then so does God. 

I drove everyone crazy. I never made jokes or performed pranks that would hurt or humiliate people. In fact, even as a child and later in college, I let my friends come up with the ideas. They always said, “Go get Holder. He’ll do it.” And they were correct. I’m assuming it was my weird way of feeling accepted. 

Over the years, I’ve finally come to grips with the reality that I enjoy engaging in crazy capers. Somehow, I knew my practical jokes would eventually become great stories for future generations. 

Early on, I landed a job at WWGM radio station as a disc jockey. I would put the vinyl on the turntable, set the needle on the record, and pull the stop-latch until it was time to release it and let the tune travel through the airwaves. 

As a gospel station, WWGM only occasionally played music. I worked nights and weekends. I spent most of my time occupied with threading reel-to-reel tapes of fifteen-minute to hour-long sermons by famous pastors of the era. Though wonderful people, the owners and managers of the station were not necessarily cool people hip to the new contemporary Christian music scene coming out of Nashville studios. 

While more progressive stations were playing Farrell and Farrell, Amy Grant, and Russ Taff, WWGM hung on to tried-and-true gospel favorites, such as Yolanda Adams, the Kingsmen, the Gaithers, and the Happy Goodman Family. 

I attempted to move the station forward by introducing the manager, Lorna Harrison, to Amy Grant, Michael W. Smith, and DeGarmo and Key but with little success. So as revenge, I would regularly find ways to make Lorna laugh while she was on air. Lorna, a beautiful, Jesus-loving, sweet mahogany-skinned lady, always came into the office impeccably fashioned and accessorized. She was gifted with a radio voice that melted butter, and I’d stop whatever I was doing to listen to her deliver the news. I would have been just as intoxicated if she had been reading a stock market report from the newspaper. 

WWGM occupied an older building in an older section of a Nashville subdivision. A huge, ancient oak tree protected the two-story white clapboard home better suited to somebody’s grandparents. The second story housed the owner’s office. Small, cozy bedrooms on the first floor had been converted for administration and recording. 

When you walked up the concrete steps on the right side of the house and through the front door, you found yourself in a large reception area, which I assume was formerly a living room. The receptionist’s desk ran down the right side of the room, giving her a perfect view of anyone approaching through the front door to her left. The control room was to the receptionist’s right. Separating the reception area and the control room was a huge pane of glass beginning about three feet off the ground and climbing to the ceiling, looking directly into the control room. From the reception area, you could clearly make out the back of a counter crowded with control panels. The disc jockey or newscaster, on the opposite side the control panels, faced the picture window and, therefore, anyone coming in the front door or loitering in the reception area. 

Curtains in the control room could be pulled shut if the DJ didn’t feel like being sociable. It was weird. I suppose the arrangement was so the disc jockey could see any artist coming for an interview enter the station and could wave excitedly, setting the celebrity at ease. The curtains were usually open, allowing everyone some sort of contact.

I usually worked from around four o’clock in the afternoon till midnight, and frequently, I was the only one there.

But on one particular night, Lorna was hanging out to do some catch-up projects and needed to be in the control room. She said she would just do the DJ stuff until she finished with her other work. 

So I waited my turn, watching TV in the reception area. I heard Lorna say on air that she would be right back with the news after a commercial break. 

Unfortunately, at that moment, my ADHD kicked into overdrive. I glanced at the receptionist’s desk. My eyes landed on an extensive array of pencils and pens methodically organized by color and length. 

I have no idea what came over me, but the next thing I knew, I was crouched down outside the picture window with a pencil stuck into every possible facial orifice I could find. I waited until Lorna was about a minute into the newscast before I slowly raised my head into view. I looked something like this:

I don’t know. Maybe slightly reminiscent of a character in Hellraiser. At any rate, the ultimate reaction far outdid my initial hopes. 

Lorna, the quintessential professional, never wavered in her ability to keep her composure on air. She kept reading the news as though she were a nightly news anchor—for about a minute. Then there was an arduously, painstakingly long pause that ended with a button click going straight into a commercial for Joyce Landorf’s newest book, ironically titled Your Irregular Person.

Lorna flew out of the control room, alternating every fifteen seconds between howling laughter and attempts at professional anger. Howling laughter won out in the end. It always does. I think she gave up trying to do any work, and we just sat around and talked for another hour between taped sermons and commercials. Bonding comes in a lot of forms. It was a good night. 

I’m usually a bit anxious in the moments before I actually go in for the kill with my practical rascality. I guess I hope it ends up as a good story rather than with me in jail or sporting a black eye. 

WWGM was one of the first stations to connect to cable. The format changed so that we went off the air nightly at 7:00 p.m. and switched over to cable. I was a little miffed about that. I was the night person. In order to hear the station at night, you were required to have a cable hookup at your house, and you paid for the cable service. As much as the gospel artists were loved, who in his or her right mind was willing to pay for a cable hookup to listen to a gospel AM radio station? Realistically, at that time, the prelude to the techno era, no one did.

One night—I don’t know what came over me—I cued up an hour-long reel-to-reel tape of a popular pastor who sounded remarkably like Linus’s school teacher, Miss Othmar. I wasn’t listening. I went to the reception area and started watching a documentary called The Secrets of the Baobab Tree. 

I was frustrated. I saw the evening as a waste of time. When the reel-to-reel had almost finished, I went in and, out of spite, cued up “Stubborn Love” by Kathy Troccoli.

I’d been strictly forbidden to play that particular song, even though it was off Kathy’s first album. Apparently, the song didn’t actually say the word God anywhere in it, so it didn’t meet station’s standards. 

Anyway, I cued it up. As soon as the pastor said, “Good night,” I came on with a couple of commercials. Then I said—and it was like an out-of-body experience—“When we come back from the commercial break, we are going to have a huge contest, so stay tuned.” 

My mind raced as I thought of the possible ramifications of what I was about to do. But somehow, I felt the punishments would be worth it and would be wholly justified. 

After the break, I went on air and set up the colossal event. “Okay. Let’s do an instant contest. When you hear the brand-new hit single by Kathy Troccoli called ‘Stubborn Love,’ be the first person to call into the station, and you’re going to win a huge prize! You’re going to completely own WWGM radio! Yes, it’s true. If you’re the first person to call in, this station is yours! Just come into the station Monday morning. We will have all the contracts ready, and you just put your John Hancock next to the space marked with an x, and you’ll own your very own gospel radio station.”

Then I went to some commercials and a couple of songs. My palms were sweating as I waited to release the play button. I took a deep breath, and I don’t think I inhaled for the next four minutes and thirty-seven seconds. 

I released the stop-latch button. 

“Stubborn Love” started. 

I sat there with my eyes glued to the push-button phone, with all five yellow buttons for outside lines blankly staring back at me. 

It seemed like forever. Obviously, no one was going to call after the first two minutes of the song. I let my breath out with a long whoosh. I got up and threaded the next fifteen-minute pastor reel-to-reel on the spindles. 

As the song slowly began its last chorus, I looked at my watch and knew there were only about thirty seconds left. No one, of course, was listening. Point made. 

Then, at four minutes and twenty-seven seconds, the first line lit up. There was no sound from the phone in the control booth, in case someone called while we were on the air. But it was there. The unmistakable steady blink of the silent yellow light was deafeningly loud to my psyche. 

I felt every pump of blood as it drained out of my head, into my face, and down into my chest cavity, rendering me incapable of any rational thought. My brain no longer functioned as it swirled somewhere around the center of Dante’s third level of hell. You know what they say happens just before someone dies. I saw my third-grade class. 

My mouth went completely dry as I picked up the receiver and choked out, “Hello. This is WWGM radio. How may I help you?” 

After a slight pause, the guy on the other end of the line said, “Uh, isn’t this Pizza Hut?” 

My body, which moments before had been a two-by-four plank of fear, slowly became a massive pile of poured-out, gelatinous flesh. I sank into and became one with the cushioned seat of my swivel chair. I choked out, “No, this is a radio station. And by the way, it’s eleven o’clock. Pizza Hut closes at ten.” The phone went dead. 

I must have sat there for a good fifteen minutes in the silence before I realized it was, in fact, silent. I’d never pushed the button to start the next reel-to-reel pastor. 

But then again, who cared? Nobody was listening. No one!

I love the -ber months from September through December. My favorite season is October. In my memories, all things autumn are encapsulated in that one month, October.

One crystal, sunlit morning, I left my house for work. As I walked to my car, I noticed the front left tire was perilously low. Great. Just great. Come on, God. I need to just get to the bottom of the hill. The local convenience store, complete with air pump, sat conveniently three miles down the road.

At the bottom of the hill, I heard the all-too-familiar rattle of a tire going flat. I knew it was too far for me to try to make it to Bear Creek Country Store, where I could have shoved down my stress with a bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit. God, come on!

The next-closest safe zone, as there is no shoulder on Ferndale Cutoff, is the 4-H center. I pulled into their parking lot and climbed out. The tire was a tragedy. I walked to the back of the car and lifted the hatch. A distinct tightness snaked into my shoulders, and I felt a distressing, foreboding, nameless dread, almost nausea. As I lifted the panel in the back of the car, I remembered: no spare tire. Even worse, I’d taken the jack out while cleaning the car a few months earlier, and it was sitting in my sunroom. Don’t judge me!

I walked back to the driver’s seat and sat there swigging a bottle of A&W root beer from a brown paper bag. I was close enough to the veterinary clinic where I worked that I decided to walk there. I figured I could make some calls and find a tire place who could send someone to come take the tire off, run the shredded tread to their store, put a new tire on the rim, and bring it back. Easy enough.

Half an hour later, I walked into the clinic, told the staff what was going on, and made the calls. Come to find out, no one offered the service I needed. A person had to physically take the tire in, which made no sense to me. How can you take the tire in if it’s flat? They acted as though everyone had a spare tire and a jack in the back of their car. 

The only thing I could think to do was walk toward home—three miles away—to grab the jack, come back, take the tire off, and figure out what to do from there.

I began my walk. 

Almost immediately, old patterns began to seep into the vulnerable corners of my mind. All-but-forgotten tapes began to play. You are so stupid. Why did you leave the jack out of the car? Why haven’t you figured out a way to get a spare tire? You are completely irresponsible. Worthless.

Before I let it go too far, I determined that I would not allow the Enemy to turn the experience into a martyr or bonehead attitude of despair. I asked the Lord to walk with me and help me see his specific plan in that situation. 

I told him I would sing. I told him I would sing and smile the whole way, even if part of the way it was a forced grin, which may or may not, in retrospect, have looked creepy to cars passing by. I thanked him that instead of four wheels that went flat, I was walking on two legs with a motor that had lasted almost ten times longer than the one in the car. I needed the exercise anyway. I thanked him that my paycheck had been direct-deposited the night before, so I could pay for a tire. I began to sing one of my favorite songs by Plumb, “Exhale”: “It’s okay to not be okay. This is a safe place. This is a safe place. Don’t be afraid. Don’t be ashamed. There’s still hope here. There’s still hope here.”

Suddenly startled, I felt something brush against my neck. Out of the corner of my eye, I examined a lonely red leaf as it floated past my shoulder and silently landed on the warm pavement at my feet. I glanced up to study the towering oaks and prickly pine trees that spread their canopy of branches over the cutoff. I watched the sparkle of sunlight as it danced and reflected on the asphalt around me and marveled at a Creator who, season after season, placed every leaf individually on every tree on the planet. 

I stopped, pulled out my phone, and took a couple of pictures.

I used to think he made all this beauty just so I could enjoy it. But the truth is, if I sat on my deck at home and spent all summer counting the leaves on just one of the trees in my yard, I’d never be able to finish the job. It would be impossible. And that’s just one tree. Yet every spring, God faithfully replaces every leaf on every tree—not for me to enjoy, since I too often take the leaves for granted, but to show his glory. 

I listened to the rustling of the leaves as the wind passed through them, applauding the One who strategically placed each one of them. I thanked him for decent enough eyesight to see his glory all around me. I even clapped a little myself. Hey, God!

You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace; the mountains and hills will burst into song before you, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands

—Isaiah 55:12 NIV

I couldn’t help but think, as I watched a few more leaves fall in front of me, of a scene from one of my favorite theatrical productions, Cyrano de Bergerac. 

Cyrano has received a mortal wound on his head from an enemy. He has made his way to an abbey to see the lady he’s secretly been in love with for many years. Roxane has never known of Cyrano’s love for her. She’s also unaware of Cyrano’s wound. They are talking, mostly of trivial things, when the autumn leaves begin to fall. Roxane notices them in the failing light and says, “They are Venetian yellow. Watch them fall.” Cyrano replies, “How well they fall. In this short journey from the branch to the earth, they succeed in showing a final beauty, and in spite of their fear of rotting on the ground, desire this fall to assume the grace of flight.”

I sang, “Oh God, we breathe in your grace. We breathe in your grace and exhale. Oh God, we do not exist for us but to share your grace and love and exhale.”

A buzzing from the side of the road interrupted the moment. It didn’t quite fit the reflective posture I was creating and the peace I was beginning to experience. I searched the brush to find the source of the unwelcome intrusion. 

Across the ditch, I saw a hummingbird—my favorite bird. They’re fascinating little critters. Their wings can beat seventy times per second, in the shape of a sideways 8, like an infinity symbol. They are able to fly forward or backward, and they can hover like living helicopters, which was what I thought that little feller was doing. I love to watch them. I stood and marveled at how the delicate creature could stay so still in midair. 

But something wasn’t right. It took me a few seconds to finally realize he wasn’t hovering at all. In fact, he was writhing, frantically struggling to free himself from a spiderweb. 

Not sure where the spider was, I moved quickly. As I got closer, I could see he was becoming more and more frightened. I walked closer to figure out the best way to release him. 

Finally, I put an index finger on each side of the web and pulled the sticky threads back. Although that action ultimately freed him, it acted more like a slingshot, catapulting him through the air, until he found his equilibrium again a few yards away. He stopped and hovered. He turned, and we considered each other for a few precious moments before he pivoted in midair and disappeared.

I thought, Well, Lord, I know you regard your creation. You watch and care deeply over every single creature. You said, “But ask the animals what they think—let them teach you; let the birds tell you what’s going on. Put your ear to the earth—learn the basics. Listen—the fish in the ocean will tell you their stories. Isn’t it clear that they all know and agree that God is sovereign, that he holds all things in his hand—Every living soul, yes, every breathing creature?” (Job 12:7–10 MSG). So if my having a flat tire is part of your plan to save this smallest of your mighty hand, then I gladly find your glory there. Thank you for letting me be here at just the right moment.

I sang, “Just let go. Let his love wrap around you and hold you close. Get lost in the surrender. Breathe it in until your heart breaks; then exhale.”

I continued on my adventure for no more than five steps. I was still pretty much wrecked from the hummingbird moment, and tears were flowing, when my phone rang. It was Cliff Peck, my buddy the veterinarian. He said, “What are you doing?”

I said between sobs, “I just got to save a hummingbird.”

“What? Where are you?”

Gathering myself together as best as I could, I said, “I’m just taking a walk.”

“Well, where are you walking? The girls said you have a flat tire.”

“I’m about halfway up the hill.”

“Up your hill? Where’s your car?”

“Look. Dude, you have to work. I’m a big boy. I can handle this.”

“Is the flat fixed? Where’s the car?”

“It’s back at the 4-H center. Seriously, go to work.”

“Well, where are you going?”

“I’m going home to get my jack.”

“Your jack is at your house? And you’re going to carry it back down the hill all the way to the 4-H center? And then what?”

“Well, I’m going to figure it out from there. Go to work.”

“Okay. Well, head back to the 4-H center. I’ll meet you there.” He hung up. 

He drove up the hill and picked me up.

Cliff, never shying away from finding ways to help others, said, “I’m off today. We’re going to Texas, and Deane has some work to do on a podcast before we go. She’s busy. So I’m good.”

I said, “I’m sure you have more important stuff you need to be doing to get ready to go.” 

He looked over at me, feigning exasperation, as if I should have known better. “Tim, this is what friends do.”

The good doctor turned around and took me back to my car. He had his jack with him. Weird, I know. He got down on his knees, and while he took the tire off, we remembered a specific flat-tire scene from A Christmas Story.

Cliff took the tire off, threw it into the back of his truck, drove me to Sam’s, ran some errands, picked me and my tire up, drove back to the car, got back down on his hands and knees, and put the tire back on. Then he climbed into his truck and turned it around to leave. As he drove off, he rolled down his window and yelled, “Put your jack back in your car!”

A few minutes later, on my way to work with a brand-new tire, I thought about Cliff and the hallowed ground I stand on in the presence of such a godly servant’s heart. I thought about the God whose bountiful, inexhaustible generosity is clearly evident in the forever family he has mercifully lavished on me. I thought about the brilliant creativity of the great Star-Breather on display in the expert uniqueness of a single leaf that brushed against my shoulder. I thought about the aerodynamically impossible design and strength of the fragile, delicate hummingbird flying with purpose from flower to flower, remembering every single dew-holder he has gathered nectar from. I knew he would drink as much sweet dew as his slight frame could hold, preparing for his long, lonesome, arduous twenty-hour flight across the Gulf of Mexico to vacation for the winter in warmer climes. I thought, Not even Solomon, in all his splendor, is clothed as richly as I am.

I breathed in, and I exhaled.

I think everyone has moments, points of reference, in their lives they wish never happened. But alas, too many people know about the distressingly awkward incident to show grace enough to ever allow you to live it down. 

One typical, uneventful Sunday morning, I stood in the choir room at 8:20, getting ready to go onstage to worship. All the choir members usually gather upstairs by eight fifteen to run through the choir song and then just hang until we single-file it downstairs and onto the platform. 

Coffee decided to set in. 

I knew I had about ten minutes to spare, so I dashed to the men’s room. It would have to be a quick trip—no reading the newspaper. I raced into the stall. Dropping my pants, with my bechunkis hovering over the throne (yes, when all is said and done, you may feel the need to slaughter a pig to get this visual out of your head), I noticed clean toilet paper in the bowl, so I reached behind me, grabbed the handle, and flushed. 

For some unexplainable, unforeseeable reason, the commode exploded. Water went everywhere in a nanosecond. I was apparently in shock; I just stood there waiting for the tide to ebb back out to sea. Or maybe I was waiting for Moaning Myrtle to come screaming from the depths of the Chamber of Secrets. Nonetheless, a few seconds passed before I realized water was all over the floor, swirling around my dropped khakis and out the stall door. 

When I finally became conscious, I grabbed my pants up. I grabbed them up so fast, in fact, my wallet and iPhone, nestled snugly in my back pockets, popped out and into the small creek forming around me in the stall. I wasn’t sure what to grab first: my pants or my wallet-and-phone combo. I was in The Matrix. The blue pill or the red pill? I grabbed the combo. They were both soaked. I laid them on top of the double toilet paper dispenser and then grabbed my pants up. They too were drowned. But just the back of them was soaked. The front rested comfortably on my wet shoes. 

I knew it was only a couple of minutes before my presence needed to be onstage. I couldn’t see how bad the wetness was since most of it was on the back of my pants. I ran into the now empty choir room, threw the wallet-and-phone combo into my music locker, raced down the stairs and onto the risers, and deliberately stood in the back row so no one could see me from behind. I sang with all the gusto I could muster as toilet water ran down the back of my legs and pooled onto the riser at my feet for approximately twenty to twenty-five minutes. 

Of course, worship time would soon come to an end, and the choir would climb back up the stairs to the choir room. Being in the back row, I would climb the stairs in front of everyone else. You have no idea how difficult it was to climb up fourteen steps backward with forty people watching me make a complete dipstick of myself. Or remove all doubt from their previously undecided minds. 

Anissa Hodges, climbing the stairs right behind me—or in front of me, depending on your point of view—furrowed her confused brow as I ascended backward up the stairs. Before she could comment, I tried to answer her baffled expression. “The commode exploded—not my debris—and my pants were on the floor. They’re soaked in the back.”

By that time, we were in the choir room, so I turned and continued my journey. Then Anissa said, “Oh, that’s why there’s toilet paper on the back of your pants.”

I just knew she was joking. “Stop it! That’s not even close to funny.” 

I could feel the red rising from my forehead to the back of my neck as she said, “Well, not exactly toilet paper. More like toilet-paper beadlets.” 

“You have got to be kidding me.” 

A concerned bass was right behind her and said, “Um, there really is. Come on.” He ushered me immediately into the bathroom, grabbed paper towels, and courageously and dauntlessly proved what a true friend looks like. He began swatting the back of my pants with paper towels. 

Suddenly, a tenor walked into the bathroom and froze midstride, just staring. The bass, not missing a beat, said, “Somebody had to do it.” 

When he’d removed all the offensive beadlets, we went back into the choir room. I grabbed the wallet-and-phone combo out of my music locker and began wiping them down. I tried unsuccessfully to get the cover off the phone, when Anissa said, “Did your phone get wet?” I nodded. 

She grabbed it out of my hand since I was obviously a total dolt at getting the OtterBox off it. Before I could even get “You know how to get that thing apart?” out of my mouth, Anissa had wholly disassembled the phone. Totally. In less than five seconds. Impressive. 

I took it back, wondering what to do next, when Anissa punched my arm and said, “Don’t put it back together!” I was attempting to do that very thing. She made sure I understood I was to take the disassembled phone home and not try to use it till I’d buried it in rice overnight. I nodded in obedience to her command.

At that point, I went back to the throne room to see if I needed to mop up any water that might have missed the drain in the floor. The grate, not draining, apparently needed as much repair as the offending depository. 

With my normal good fortune in place, I walked in to find Pastor David Richards, our beloved choir director, grabbing paper towels out of the dispenser by the handful and throwing them into pools of water. He briefly glanced at me and continued his exercise as he said, “I’m afraid someone will slip and break something.” 

I lowered my head in shame and not a little mental discomfort and whispered, “I think—well, actually, I’m pretty positive—I caused this.” 

He paused and shot his eyes in my direction for the slightest moment, just long enough to mutter, “Why am I not surprised?” 

I’m sure, if we’re honest, we’ve all experienced a few of our own epic failures, whether they are from mistakes of our own choosing or from bad choices by others and whether they are remembered with heartache or grief or even laughter through embarrassment. We all have and will experience them. 

A few months after the toilet-paper debacle, I began my thirty-first Celebrate Recovery step-study at a men’s correctional unit. Twenty men sat around me as I explained the program and the guidelines and how the meetings would take place every week. Close to the end of the session, just before we stood shoulder to shoulder and said the Lord’s Prayer together, one of the guys said, “What a refreshing change to get to come to a place and not be afraid to just be me.” 

I feel the same way. At the beginning of every study, I say pretty much the same thing to the guys. Before I begin, I silently ask the Holy Spirit to stand guard around that room, and every time, I feel a sense of protection, a vacuum. It’s a wall that’s impenetrable. The Enemy can’t get through. 

“Guys, this space every Monday night will be a safe place. We’ll make it safe. I know where you are as much as you do. And I know that you’ve been put in a position that screams ‘Failure!’ But I’m here to tell you it doesn’t matter why. You’re here. It doesn’t matter what you’ve done in the past. The Creator of the universe, the one true God, has a plan for you. He’s prepared you for extraordinary things. You’ve made mistakes, sure. But we all have. 

“Look at Peter. He walked with Jesus. He watched Jesus turn water to wine, heal blind people, raise cripples to walk, and forgive the unforgivable. He heard words and saw actions proclaiming forgiveness. And then, with just four words, Peter committed possibly the most epic failure of all time: ‘I don’t know him.’ 

“But here’s the miracle of the story. Jesus—while fully aware Peter would soon deny him, turn his back on him, and walk away—reminded him his name was Peter, and on that rock Jesus would build his church. And the gates of hell would never conquer it. God’s plan for Peter never failed or changed. It stayed constant and sure and true. Just like God. And you are no different. Proverbs 23:18 (ESV) says, ‘Surely, there is a future, and your hope will not be cut off.’

“Here’s the truth of you. And here’s what I know the Lord wants you to know. You are God’s masterpiece. He created you anew in Jesus Christ, so you can do good things he planned for you to do long ago, even before the world was put into orbit around the sun. His plan for you was in his heart before you were born, and he even wrote about those plans in his book before you were conceived. If you’re worried about what he thinks of you sitting here all in white, feeling like a failure, remember Peter. Your failure is nothing compared to his. 

“God’s plan for you has never changed. He will see it revealed and completed if you choose to do the hard work and, like Peter, find the trust and courage to say, ‘Yes, Lord, you know I love you.’

“We’ve all failed in one way or another. We’ve all messed up the plan in one way or another. You’ve listened to voices all your lives that have told you you’re not good, you’ll never amount to anything, you’re stupid, or you’re destined to fail. And you’ve believed those lies, and you’ve lived those lies. They haunt you, and you hear them in your waking and sleeping. It’s what you’ve been taught. It’s all you know.

“Now it’s time for you to work. God wants to renew the plan for you that he laid out so long ago. If you let him, he will equip you with everything good to fulfill that plan that will be pleasing to him. His heart is to use you to bring glory to him and his Son, Jesus. And you can rest, knowing that the ripples from his plan for you will reverberate against the shores of heaven forever and ever.” 

The room is always filled with supernatural activity. I make it a conscious choice to lock on the eyes of every guy there at some point while I’m talking. They are transfixed by the words, which, trust me, come not from me but from a Father who loves them dearly. I often read hope in their eyes and a renewed resolve to trust the work and the process—some for the first time in their lives. 

My final words to them are always “Encourage each other this week. If you’re out on the yard or walking to chow and see one of your classmates, just say, ‘You are God’s masterpiece.’

“I know some of you think that it isn’t true for you. You’ve failed too much. God couldn’t possibly love you. Let me tell you what’s true about those beliefs. You cheapen and devalue a unique and rare gem the Lord has created. That, my friends, gets to be your last failure. His plan for you is real and has never changed. 

“There’s a phrase in the Bible that I love but never really understood until recently: you are the apple of his eye. In ancient times, the pupil in the eye was believed to be a round, solid object, like an apple. And since the pupil is essential for vision, calling someone the apple of your eye meant you cherished them. 

“The Bible says you are the apple of his eye. Why would he say that? Because when he looks in your eyes, he sees the reflection of his Son. It means you are treasured. It’s okay if you are afraid to believe because of the hurt, pain, guilt, and shame you’ve experienced in your past. It’s okay not to believe that right now. Just because you don’t believe it doesn’t make it any less true.”

Then we stand arm in arm, shoulder to shoulder, a band of brothers and begin: “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name …”

My friend Lisa Fischer’s mom, Sherry Gibson, died on July 13. Soon after the memorial service, Lisa and I were talking. Lisa said, “Let me tell you how the Lord walked me through the experience of my mom’s death. Our family felt sure her memory problems stemmed from dementia. At the same time, Dad dealt with the effects of a stroke. They both worried about the other. Mom worried about what would happen to Dad if she died first. Dad worried who would take care of her if he died first.”

Lisa struggled with how the situation should be handled. When she began to feel fearful, unsure of her next move, or anxious, she pleaded with God. Her eyes glistened as she told me, “And then I heard the Lord say, ‘Lisa, I have this. Stop being afraid.’”

The family finally received a diagnosis of dementia and began plans to identify the right medications that would benefit Sherry. Sadly, two days after everyone learned the news of her dementia, Sherry passed away. Lisa told me she remembered how many times the Lord comforted her spirit with the knowledge that everything was okay. He was taking care of her mother. In true Lisa Fischer style, she smiled as she remembered, “He told me to hush up and sit down.”

Lisa listened as God whispered to her heart. She went to him and asked for his mercy. The Lord’s desire was that Lisa allow him and give him the privilege to be an active part of her story.

During our conversation, I shared with Lisa the story of my buddies David and Micah Rice and the birth of their daughter Aila Sage. David and Micah are my granola friends. They do pretty much everything naturally. When it came time for Aila Sage to enter the world, Micah made herself as comfortable as possible in their bathtub, surrounded by a midwife; her mom, Connie; and David sitting close by. The delivery went smoothly, and Aila Sage was born.

She wasn’t breathing.

The midwife immediately exercised every procedure necessary to support Aila Sage. Nothing worked. David sat helplessly next to them and prayed, asking the Lord to help his child survive. He heard the Lord say, “Let me in.”
David kept praying, “I am. Please, Lord, help my baby breathe.”

Horrified, everyone struggled with the heart-wrenching possibility that Aila Sage might not live.

The midwife and Connie performed CPR, with Connie doing compressions and the midwife breathing for Aila Sage.

Still nothing.

David quietly cried out and begged the Lord for help. He distinctly remembers hearing the Lord say, “David, let me into this.”

David kept quietly praying, “Lord, I am letting you in. Please help.”

They were now at the five-minute mark, and still no breath. The midwife urgently implored someone to call 911.

Again, David heard the Lord say his name. “David, let me into this.”

David, desperate for the life of his newborn daughter, jumped to his feet and cried out, “In the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, let my baby breathe!”

Aila Sage breathed.

Later that night, their older daughter, Prairie, came to David and told him she had prayed when her sister wasn’t breathing. As soon as she asked Jesus to let Aila Sage breathe, Aila Sage breathed.

When Micah told me this story, she informed me that Aila Sage’s name, in Scottish Gaelic, means “From the strong place.” I asked her if she learned any big lessons from the birth. She said her takeaway was that Jesus wants us to invite him into our experience. That thought stuck with me. When I shared it with Lisa, she said it reminded her of Jesus saying, “I stand at the door and knock.”

I know the verse and the accompanying image. I’ve always thought it was a great picture of evangelizing the world. I’m sure I’ve used that verse at some point when encouraging an unbeliever to accept the Lord. I decided to find out exactly what Jesus meant when he said it.

The letter, in Revelation 3, is a message to the church in Laodicea. It is the last of the letters to the seven churches and arguably the most scathing.

Among other hindrances to the Laodiceans’ faith, their lives reflected neither hot nor cold. That made them disgusting to God.

I learned, when I read the letter to Laodicea, that it convicted the church. It didn’t entice nonbelievers. When Jesus declared, “I stand at the door and knock,” he was telling those of us who already know him to let him in. In essence, he said, “Hey, I’m standing right here. You know who I am. You’ve accepted me into your heart. Invite me in.”

Too many Christians cry out to Jesus when they are in desperate need of help. Most certainly, he hears their hearts and answers accordingly. But they fail at asking him to be an active part of their ordeal. It’s as though they want to sit back and let Jesus perform a miracle while they watch. They pray for help and guidance but keep him at arm’s length.

Jesus keeps knocking and saying, “Open the door, and let me in. I’m right here. I’ll come in and eat supper with you. I’ll stay with you.”

In biblical times, sharing supper together signified friendship or affection. It meant intimacy. When Jesus said, “You’re neither hot nor cold, but lukewarm,” he was saying, “You can’t be noncommittal with me. You’ve accepted me into your heart, but have you invited me into your experience?”

What if we’re missing out on one of the most beautiful parts of our journey with Jesus by knowing who he is but never really allowing him to be an active player in our story? How much are we missing out by feeling comfortable with him sitting in the stadium but never asking him to join the game? What would it feel like if he were sitting at the supper table with us on a regular basis, even when we didn’t need help?

Jesus gave them the answer. He needed them to wake up to what they elected to miss. He was saying, “Here’s what you will receive if you open the door and let me in. I conquered death and took the place of honor right by my Father on his throne. Open the door. Invite me in. And when the time comes, you will be a conqueror just like me, and you will sit right next to me on my throne. You will have experienced complete victory.”

There is a difference between committing to the Lord and asking him to be an active participant in our ongoing adventure. His love and affection for us are so powerful, sure, and complete that he won’t settle for less than a determined, deliberate relationship through every undertaking, every trial, every pursuit, every failure, and every dream. He’ll just keep on knocking.

Of course, it’s not easy, but I’m going to do my best to always leave the door wide open.