There is a certain grace that is required of all writers: a strength of character and a comfort with the gift that is inside us. To some it may seem like arrogance to take our thoughts and put them into writing we feel is worthy enough to be read by others. Who are we, really, to think that our words have merit and deserve to be preserved for future generations to see? Yet we remain writers, convinced of our giftedness and determined to spill our wisdom onto paper and into the virtual world.

There are many reasons people write, and perhaps I simply romanticize the process of writing too much. I know many write to sensationalize and sell a product, to tantalize and titillate our selfish senses, or to foist misguided ideas or even hatred upon itching ears willing to hear. There is a lot of empty writing in the world: writing that does nothing to raise the human spirit, but only serves to speak to the worst of who we are. But there is writing that speaks to weary souls thirsty for renewal: writing that is meant to raise us on the wings of lofty ideals and blessed hope. For those of us who have the hope of heaven within us, the difference is quite clear. But to the broken and lost of the world our words seem to be illusions created to make us feel good inside or a weapon of intolerance against those who wish to live their lives anyway they choose. Often, when we are confronted by those who have chosen to trade tradition and morality for individual rights and political correctness, we’re tempted to back down, to soften our words or to believe that they don’t deserve to have the impact they once had. How then do we continue as writers in this vast wasteland of confusion, personal preference and wrong thinking and living?

The first thing that we need to have is the courage of our conviction. We often think of courage as unwavering fearlessness in the face of danger. But courage is really determining that what is right and needed outweigh our fear and our weakness. In other words, even though we are afraid of failing or falling, we push forth and do what is right anyway. As believers in the One who pressed on to take the bloody beatings and endure the cruelty of the cross, we must look within to see the spark that God has placed within us and fan it into flame, a blazing fire of words that forge a spirit sword to cut into the hearts of the lost and the weary and perform sacred surgery to shape the new woman or the new man. It’s just too important to ignore, and we must answer the call within us to speak the words that will encourage and heal, admonish and rebuke, and renew and restore.

The second thing we need to have is the humility of our humanity. One of the greatest dangers of being a writer is thinking that our writing is something that we accomplish on our own. Indeed, some writing is of our own making; that is the kind of writing that goes forth into the soil of other lives but bears no fruit. It sows a bitter seed yielding an unsatisfying harvest that does nothing to nourish or meet any need. But the writing that comes from a deeper source, from an eternal river that flows out from our transformed hearts, is life-giving: it channels the power and presence of God into fertile hearts and brings forth the fruit of peace and patience, joy and determination, gentleness and self-controlled living. It connects the God who has spoken to us with the souls of those who are ripe for the harvest and ready for the reaping. It can accomplish this, not because of anything we bring, but only because of what God has placed within us and graced us to do for Him.

When I find I’m too tired to write, when I’ve become discouraged and disgusted with the wrong I see around me, and when I’ve begun to doubt myself as a writer, I find myself coming back to these two eternal truths time and time again. I believe in the power of my writing and ground myself in the source of that power. I take hold of the gift and then release it with all the joy and fervor of a man sold out to the certainty that God can take one such as me and speak His wonderful words through my humanity and my spirit. It’s a truly liberating and satisfying experience – devoid of arrogance, but full of humility and the assurance that being a part of the ever-flowing river of God’s eternal voice can bring.

If He is the vine and we are the branches (John 15:5), there is great comfort and great elation in being connected to the source of our life and the power of our giftedness as writers. We share in the tremendous privilege and the awesome responsibility to use our words in His name – to heal and to inspire and bring that same life-giving grace to others who are ready to receive. As you sit down today with pen in hand or keyboard at the ready, remember that you have the courage of your conviction and the humility of your humanity to serve as the fuel to stoke the fire of your spirit and pour forth into speech the words that will bring love and life to others. God bless!

There comes a time in every writer’s life when he or she begins to despair of writing, when everything that has been produced seems like a collection of empty words, and where the desire to soldier on in pursuit of publishing seems to be a wasted endeavor. I recently went through a weird little writing distemper that took a bit of a toll on my mind and heart. In the past I’ve written about writer’s block but this was much different. When I have writer’s block I still desire to write; it’s just that at that particular moment I can’t. This was much more intense. I experienced a deep sense of loss over my writing – a feeling that nothing of what I had written before had ever really mattered, at least not in an eternal sense. I felt a total lack of desire to write anything of consequence for the foreseeable future, as if the muddy well of ideas within me had gone dry. There were a number of factors that contributed to this. The first was a prolonged period of work-related sleep-deprivation where I was getting only 3-4 broken hours of sleep a day. Added to that were rejections and non-responses from publishers about work I had submitted several months before. There were family issues and a host of household chores that needed my attention and the accompanying guilt that came from knowing I was not giving either my best. To top it off, there were stresses and changes at my work that were thrown into the mix for good measure, and the whole thing just led me to a deep and dark writer’s despair.

For weeks I was too tired and overwhelmed to even approach my keyboard, nor did I even have the desire to do so. I attempted to spend time reading my bible and listening to music, focusing on an upcoming summer hike and throwing myself into exercise, but these activities did little to lift my spirits. I was stuck in a pit of despondency of my own making and was in no mood to do anything as sensible as finding my way out of it. I knew on an intellectual level that writing would help break the cycle as it always had in the past, but emotional and physically stresses won out over the truth. I spent time on one of the writer’s websites I frequent looking for a distraction, but found too many collections of “random” thoughts from authors who were in a similar state of mind. Their brief, negative expressions of angst began to tear into my overly-empathetic soul, dragging me down to the places they now were sitting, adding to the already overcrowded pity party I had been throwing for myself. I thanked God that I didn’t give into temptation and begin writing my own collection of 187 three-lined free-verse poems about how miserable I happened to be feeling at that moment. It wasn’t that the poetry I was reading was meaningless; it’s just that in my inner madness such cries for significance were not what I needed at all.

So how did I break out of my little silly, sleepless, downhearted, dejected, whiny writing funk of which I spoke? The slow and steady beginning came when I made a deliberate choice to focus outside myself, something that seemed counterintuitive to a writer’s mind. My mind, however, needed a serious reboot and remaining in a self-centered state was not what I needed at all. I began by reinstituting family devotions with my wife and children; and to my surprise, I found that they took to them with great enthusiasm. Their insightful comments and beautiful prayers lifted my spirits and gave me a sense of hope. I also forced myself to attend the men’s weekly prayer times at our church, even though I found getting up at 5:30 in the morning a little difficult. Hearing my brothers sharing their struggles and raising their voices in praise broke through to my stubborn soul that was starved for something new. After that I started writing little love notes for my wife and buying flowers and going the extra mile to honor her in all she did for our family; and her response to my efforts was beautiful and gratifying – more than I deserved. Each time I put my melancholy self aside and ventured out into the world of other people’s feelings, I found myself talking another emotional step toward recovery.

We often forget that in order to rediscover the Spirit within that moves us to write, we must visit with Him where He lives and breathes in the lives of other people. We need to recognize Him in the music that each heart sings in its own unique way. We need to hear Him in the laughter and love of our families and friends and touch Him as we reach out to the sorrows and unmet needs of hearts that struggle to fill the emptiness within. We need to soak in the splendor of this world, broken as it is, but beautiful too. We need to get away and become still so that we can listen to the whispering words of the Savior who died to draw us to Himself in love. It’s a matter of reawakening those eternal memories, planted within us by an awesome and ever-living God, so that we can rediscover the timeless truth that we are loved with a perfect love, and that the voice inside us that usually blazes like a fire, can be fanned into a full flame once more. It’s in the connection we make to the world, to our purpose as agents of inspiration, and to the plan of our Great God set forth in time from timelessness, that we find the impetus to write with power and precision once more.

I’m back, writing with a new perspective, searching my soul for new songs and stories and uplifting words to stir hearts and lead weary souls to places of rest and refreshment. I may never be the author I sometimes dream I could be. I may never inspire more than a handful of hearts here and there. If that’s the case, I’ll continue to write anyway, for it’s in writing that I come closer to the One who places those words within my heart and moves me to share them with any ear that will listen. I’ll be content to let them flow out into the ether of the Internet until they find their way to the ones who were meant to read them and find hope and healing. I hope that those of you who write and have found your way out of your own writer’s despair will allow these words to resonate within your fiery hearts, and I hope that you’ll keep on “writing the good write” and pressing on, even when the dark times come and you find the words, “I quit!” bubbling up from within. Together let us fill this broken world with words that renew and refresh as we cause a few quitters to change their minds and chose to start again! God bless!

Dream Walks

Writers find inspiration from many different places. Some are inspired by their faith, some by a person they admire. Others are moved to write by an event that happens in their lives. Whatever the case, I find that the inspiration for writing and the many ways it comes to me is a wonder and a mystery that is very…well, inspiring!

I wanted to talk about one of my chief sources for writing. It’s what I like to call a “dream walk.” Some people go on “prayer walks” and they take time to lift friends up before heaven’s throne, focus on their relationship with God, ask for forgiveness and take in the beauty of their Creator’s world. My dream walks are like that but with a bit of a twist. While some may find the way I walk my walk a bit strange and unorthodox, I find it to be a fascinating trip into the weird and wonderful world that is me, and a really great source for material to put down in words!

I’ve always been interested in dreams and their application to my life. There has been a lot of study devoted to dreams and their meaning. Some think that dreaming is nothing more than a sort of “mental housecleaning” – the mind’s way of rearranging itself electro-chemically after a long day of thinking. I accept the truth of that. After a week of 4-hours-per-day sleeping (I’ve worked overnights!) I understand all too well the need to get a good night’s sleep to reshape my moody mind. Others think dreams are symbols of archetypal longings deep within our psyche. But these explanations lack romance, spirit and life! I know there are lots of dreams and visions in the Bible and every time some biblical character has a dream it has to do with God revealing a new turn in the journey of life and salvation. Moses had his burning bush, Jacob his ladder, and Ezekiel his valley of dry bones. I don’t know if I can say I’ve experienced such a direct call from God, but I’m open to the possibilities of what all that implies.

My approach to dreams takes in the science, the art and the spirit and leads me to a place where I can find meaning in the little mind trips I take each night. When I dream, I’m working through stuff that happened that day and sometimes stuff that happened long ago. When I awake I look for signs and wonders in the dream characters and symbolic meaning in the setting and objects within the dream. I ask myself what God is trying to teach me through the dream and how I can become a better man because of it. When all is said and done, I use the dream to help me connect to that deeper part of myself that ultimately expresses itself in my art.

How this all applies to walking is simple. When I go for a walk, I pretend that I’m in a dream. I ask God to reveal Himself to me as I walk and I pray for the Spirit to give me an open mind and a heightened awareness of my surroundings. Then as I walk, I take notice of what’s around me and imagine that it’s all part of a world that belongs exclusively to me. When I see an object I ask myself what I think it would mean if it were part of a dream. Then I pray through the meaning and allow it to help shape me in my spirit. Sometimes I enjoy the beauty of God’s world and listen to the sweet messages it wants to pass onto me. Sometimes I meet a part of me I don’t like and find I need to get rid of a bad thought by confessing it and letting it go. Sometimes I become incredibly aware of how grateful I am for all the graces I’ve received and I’m swimming in joy. And sometimes I go deeply into myself and receive a spiritual makeover. All I know is that after my dream walks I find I’m in a much better place than when I started, even if I just walked in a giant five-mile circle the whole time! And when that happens, I have so much material churning away in my brain that I can’t wait to get it down in writing!

One day, I was struggling with my attitude toward spiritual leadership and decided to go on a dream walk. As I walked I looked up and saw the sky filled with clouds, blocking the sun. I saw in this “dreamscape” a message of how I was being blocked from the light of the Son (not sun) and allowing the clouds of anger and sadness obscure my vision of what was right. Later that same walk I found a group of nails on a strip, the kind used in a nail gun. I picked it up and meditated on the symbol within the object. What came to me was the idea that one person can build a church using all the nails, or that same person can give one nail to everyone in the church and together they can build the church into something that reflects the efforts and spirit of each member. It was at that moment that the sky began to clear and I saw the sun. I took that as a more direct sign from God that I had gotten the point.

On another day I kept seeing only red or blue cars – seriously, for over an hour, nothing but red and blue cars! I thought about what was happening inside me and I decided to pray over my own lukewarm soul, which at the time was neither hot (red car) nor cold (blue car). At that point, I saw a gray car and then soon after, a white car. I meditated on the truth that if I’m to be pure (the white car) I need to look into the gray areas of my life (gray car) and get real with where I am. I had a lot to think about and a lot of good material for writing that day as well.

It’s like that all the time. I believe that God is in the process, whether directing cars from the depths of eternity, painting cloudy days and opening the sky at just the right moment, or simply unlocking my heart so that I may question how I see the world. I’m reminded of things that have meaning to me in the life that blossoms in the trees, the joyful song of the birds praising God for taking care of them, or in the wind that can sooth my soul in the heat of the day or move me in directions I might not be willing to go. In focusing on the God who is present all around me and within me, I shut out the distractions that stifle my creativity and leave my selfish, prideful and generally confused self behind. It’s a deeply freeing experience – a bit strange as I said, but truly liberating when I open myself up to it!

How much better would we all be if we learned to look at our lives from a dream walk perspective? I think we’d learn to let the annoyances just drift by without moving our emotions, like the car that cut me off today but didn’t ruin my life. We’d come to see the connection to the people around us and stop responding with fear, anger, indifference or disgust.  We’d find joy and tears in the thousand little details that we used to pass by without noticing. And maybe – just maybe – those of us who are writers would find new ways to express the intensity and awesomeness of life within our craft. It’s at least something to think about…maybe on your next walk!

I have a confession to make. I often suffer from periods of sorrow and loneliness so profound that I feel as though one little tap in the wrong place would shatter me to pieces so small that no one would be able to put them together again. Some of this comes from the hours I keep at work and the lack of a really good night’s sleep. Some of it comes from the trials I face and my lack of fortitude to face them with true courage and faith. Still a good portion comes because, as a writer, I choose to accept these periods of pain as a part of the madness that stirs the words within me and pushes them out onto a page.

As I write this, I freely acknowledge that even now I’m using my writing skills to take a mundane part of my human condition and turn into something nobler than it is. After all, who wants to live with a melancholy writer all the time? Certainly not my wife and kids. As a Christian, I should also be seeking the delightful above the despair, the passion above the pit. But, there is something about this lonely path that is mine alone to walk that seems to give impetus and direction to the things I write. There is something powerful about taking the messy little struggles of life and using them as a mini cosmic chaos into which I speak life, call forth poetry and prose and pronounce it all good.

I suspect that I’m not alone in my loneliness either. I’m sure that this sadness is a chief characteristic of almost every artist and, as such, is a gift from God. It’s a gift because it allows us to gaze deeply within our hearts to those places most people are too afraid to look. As it beats at our hearts, it cracks the shell of our understanding and allows the beauty of God’s grace to break the spell of pain and despair, creating fertile ground upon which we may plant the seeds of our next work of writing and nurture those words into a beautiful story or poem. It allows us not only to look into the gloom with open eyes, but to see the God of heaven who is light within that darkness. It points us to the love that allowed a Son to die for our every fault, and joins us to Him who rose from the darkness of death and ascended to the heavenly places to experience the joy of redeeming the world. As writers, we take that experience and turn it into hope on the printed page. That kind of power is humbling but it’s also glorious, and makes all the trials worthwhile!

I’ve read a lot of writing of late that is dark and edgy, obtuse and disordered, and I admit that I’m often fascinated with the places to which it often takes me. But so many times, I find I need to climb out of those places because, while the words are interesting, they fall short of the real purpose of writing. Some would argue that if the writing has taken me to a dark place and forced me for a while to sit and suffer, then the purpose has been fulfilled. But having seen the heights to which writing has taken me, I find I must refuse to remain in the shadows of confusion and darker emotions and continue to soar above where the light is warm upon my face. The suffering we experience is only the thing that points us to something more, and our writing should follow the heavenly call and raise the reader out of deep despair, and the dull routine of everyday existence. That way, the beauty and purpose of the trials we endure can find fulfillment and lead us to new vistas and heavenly horizons.

God help me if I remain in the places my sorrow tries to take me. Lord, forgive me for lingering there too long when I go. I appreciate the lonely place inside my soul, and am content to embrace the darkness, so long as it leads me once more into the light where I’m joined to truth and beauty and all that is good. God bless all those writers out there who understand the lonely life and the profound joy to which each depression can lead us if we take the time to push through the darkness to see that true purpose to which our artist’s hearts have been fashioned. May you embrace the sadness only long enough to let it raise you from your corner to your keyboard, where your next great work of art is waiting to be composed! 

I love to hike and spend time in the "wilderness." I like to fancy myself some type of urban "Survivor Man" although I freely admit that I'm very careful to prepare for my trips and pack all the essentials to make sure I'm comfortable, safe and well-fed. Still, there is something truly inspiring about getting away from the civilized world and spending time outdoors in the deep woods or atop a lofty mountain. It's an adventure, a test of one's stamina, resolve and courage. It's also a time to let go of the day-to-day concerns of  life and commune with Nature and its Creator. A good hike, whether for a day or a week is a way to hit the "reset" button on my spirit. I come back from my outdoor excursions a much more rested, renewed and balanced individual.

God has a purpose for His people when He calls us to spend time in "desolate places." Whether we're in an actual wilderness or not almost doesn't matter. Often, we find ourselves in a place where we go deep into that dark and deserted place inside us where we hear the voice of the accuser whispering to our inner ears that we're a failure, full of falsehood and destined for a life of mediocrity and unworthiness. Many times that accusing voice is our own, built up by years of mistakes, sin and selfishness.  For the most part we avoid shutting down the busyness of our lives and going to that inner chamber because we're afraid of what we might hear and afraid to face what we perceive as the awful truth of who we really are.

Jesus spent 40 days and nights in the wilderness just prior to starting His earthly ministry. There He was tempted to turn stones into bread to satisfy His hunger; to throw Himself down from the temple and allow the angels to bear Him to the ground; and to claim all the earthly kingdoms in exchange for bowing His knee to the Prince of the Air. Yet, each time the tempter tried to sway the Savior with quotations from Scripture, Jesus answered with the Word of God in order to put the great deceiver in his place. (See Matthew 4:1-11)

Jesus was a man who was completely at home in the wilderness, for it was there He could meet with His Father and gain strength for the days ahead. He had no skeletons in His inner closet, no fears or failings to have to face with trembling. He knew His purpose and found Himself more in touch with that purpose when He went alone to those lonely places to pray. (Luke 5:16) 
Just because Jesus is God and we are not doesn't mean we can't explore our own internal wildernesses in order to come to terms with God's plan for our lives. Psalm 139 is a wonderful song of self-examination, one that can help us to appreciate our connection to the God who knit us together in our mother's womb. Here, the psalmist lays his life before God, acknowledging his total dependence on the One who knows him so intimately that he is overwhelmed by the power of His eternal presence. In this blessed communion, he knows that there is no place to go to get away from God, and that all his inner turmoil and darkness is not hidden from the One who is Light and Love itself! In that sweet surrender of sacred fellowship the struggles and strivings give way to a love so powerful that it casts everything outside the realm of God's presence with a holy hatred and washes over the psalmist in a flood of grace. It is so wonderful that leaves him calling for God to search out all his inner rooms to eliminate anything that will come between the Lover and the Beloved. 

That is the power of our Desert Days! Don't be afraid of getting real with God, of walking into the darkness and desolation of your self-centered soul. Let Him cleanse you and free you to continue the journey toward home! As you read Psalm 139 below, take the words to heart and make them your own. Let them be your prayer to close this devotional today!

O Lord, you have searched me and known me!
2 You know when I sit down and when I rise up;
    you discern my thoughts from afar.
3 You search out my path and my lying down
    and are acquainted with all my ways.
4 Even before a word is on my tongue,
    behold, O Lord, you know it altogether.
5 You hem me in, behind and before,
    and lay your hand upon me.
6 Such knowledge is too wonderful for me;
    it is high; I cannot attain it.
7 Where shall I go from your Spirit?
    Or where shall I flee from your presence?
8 If I ascend to heaven, you are there!
    If I make my bed in Sheol, you are there!
9 If I take the wings of the morning
    and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea,
10 even there your hand shall lead me,
    and your right hand shall hold me.
11 If I say, “Surely the darkness shall cover me,
    and the light about me be night,”
12 even the darkness is not dark to you;
    the night is bright as the day,
    for darkness is as light with you.
13 For you formed my inward parts;
    you knitted me together in my mother's womb.
14 I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
Wonderful are your works;
    my soul knows it very well.
15 My frame was not hidden from you,
when I was being made in secret,
    intricately woven in the depths of the earth.
16 Your eyes saw my unformed substance;
in your book were written, every one of them,
    the days that were formed for me,
    when as yet there was none of them.
17 How precious to me are your thoughts, O God!
    How vast is the sum of them!
18 If I would count them, they are more than the sand.
    I awake, and I am still with you.
19 Oh that you would slay the wicked, O God!
    O men of blood, depart from me!
20 They speak against you with malicious intent;
    your enemies take your name in vain.
21 Do I not hate those who hate you, O Lord?
    And do I not loathe those who rise up against you?
22 I hate them with complete hatred;
    I count them my enemies.
23 Search me, O God, and know my heart!
    Try me and know my thoughts!
24 And see if there be any grievous way in me,
    and lead me in the way everlasting! (Psalm 139 ESV)

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how God uses those with the gift of words to spread a message of hope and healing to a weary world. For my part, I find that I do that best when I write a story. There’s something mystical and magical about cooperating with the Creator in fashioning my fictional world, filling it with characters, setting the story in motion and letting it take me where it will. It leaves me contemplating the nature of the God who said, “Let there be light!” and then breathed life into the chaos of the universe to set the whole of humanity on a path toward eternity. Now, I don’t mean to compare myself with God, but I will say that the process of writing a story does help me to appreciate the perfection of God’s plan and the meticulous care that He exercises in bringing it to completion.

Story writing mirrors that power in so many ways; and for that reason, I develop a deep emotional attachment to each and every story I create. My characters are a part of who I am, for I’ve fashioned them in my own image and likeness and breathed my own life into them. They reflect my personality, my past experiences, and my future hopes. But, unlike my heavenly Father, my characters also represent my faults and failings, my insecurities and instabilities, and every little longing and striving that is working itself out in my own life. Their tears have been shed by my eyes; their laughter resembles my own; and I find a deep and lasting sense of satisfaction in bringing them through their journeys and guiding them by my keyboard to the fulfillment of the purposes for which they were created.

It is not without its costs, however. While the Lord of the Universe remains the same yesterday, today and forever, I continue to grow and develop one stumbling step at a time. These characters spill out of my innermost self, and they demand unwavering honesty from me. They refuse to be written in a way contrary to who they are and who they are becoming. So, try as I might to water down their personalities or mitigate their actions, they remain true to themselves and true to the overall purpose of the story. Because of them I find myself standing in a place of complete vulnerability. If my story is to remain true to itself – and I desire that with every fiber of my being – I must expose myself through my characters and allow them be all that they are. Otherwise, the story falls short and the characters become ghosts that never truly take on permanent form.

But therein lies the most exciting part of the whole endeavor! In that vulnerability, as I open up the treasure chest of hidden hurts and joyful expectations in my heart, I invite the reader to enter into the insanity that is me: that inner madness and eternal beauty that combine to express who I am and how I see the universe. I give a life to each character in the story: a personality and a set of values and desires that set each one on a journey that works itself out as the story unfolds. Now I confess that I don’t know how this process works for every other writer. I remember going to a seminar on writing and listening while the speaker outlined the process for creating the “perfect story.” As she went over her list of dos and don’ts for novel writing, I found myself unable to check off any of her boxes. We were told to write the entire story without stopping; but I laughed, for my writing was so disjointed and random and open-hearted that to follow that path would have driven me crazy! She talked about outlining the plot before even starting, editing the story as one unit at the end and finding a professional to critique the project (one of the services she also happened to offer!). With each new step in her process I found myself feeling more and more like my writing had evolved out of some insane alternate universe and would never be acceptable to the normal humans on this planet. The fact that she told me never to publish the project into which I was currently pouring my heart and soul, while still offering to critique my writing (apparently to “save it”) didn’t help matters either.

I’ll tell you that the cast of characters from that particular novel were quite pleased that I beat a hasty retreat from her little self-centered world of conventional wisdom. Had I chosen to stay and listen to her advice, they would never have come to life over the airwaves of the radio station where I worked, and they would never have touched a single heart! Somehow, despite my failure to follow the “professional guidance” I had received, the story made its way to its exciting conclusion and the characters fulfilled their purposes and completed their journeys; and it all took place through my strangely wonderful, randomly beautiful way of writing the story from beginning to end.

I have a deep love for the characters in my stories. When I find them going in a direction that puts them in harm’s way or brings them to a sorrowful place, I mourn with them. When they triumph over adversity and discover new insights about themselves, I rejoice with them too. I’ve fallen in love with heroines, raged against enemies and encouraged major characters to continue their journeys to the end. It’s an awesome responsibility and an incredibly transforming experience for the writer to take on the task of bringing the family of characters within a story to life, shaping their inner emotional worlds, their actions and their aspirations, and weaving them into the story that they help to shape. For it is in carrying out this powerful artistic path that we are transformed as well.

Writers really need to embrace their own brand of Multiple Personality Disorder and press on boldly in whatever fashion their imaginative minds chose to drive their stories. If methodical methods are your thing, I say be as compulsively creative as you need to be! If you jump around from scene to scene, allowing your characters to correct your deviations along the path of your story, then leap with all the joy you can muster, knowing that in the end you’ll get there just the same. Make friends with the people you bring to life, love them as you would love those in the “real” world – for they represent a reality that exists on a level that is wonderful and wild and fascinating and free! If it feels like playing God – and it sure does for me – just make sure you pray over your creation with the same kind of love that our Father pours out over His. In the end, you’ll accomplish wondrous things as you draw your readers into your world and connect them to their personal stories and their own inner family as well!

It’s the most disturbing occurrence – next to a malfunctioning spell checker – that any writer will ever face. It’s the moment when all time and space compress into a chasm of darkness so deep and so horrifying as to cast doubts on one’s sanity and debunk the meaning of life. It strikes the mind and heart of the aspiring author with a sickness of soul so profound that he or she is forced to question his or her original decision to pick up pen or keyboard in the first place. Yes, we all know it as – (Queue the dramatic music, please!) – “Writer’s Block.”

You may laugh or even get angry with me over my teeny exaggeration; but for a creative writer, going through a period where there is neither the impetus nor the desire to move forward with a writing project is unsettling to say the least. I used to dread the occasional bout of Writer’s Block, not because I saw it as a precursor to some future mental degeneration, but because it gave me time to contemplate my purpose in life as it applied to my yet-unachieved fame as an author. While waiting on my apparently unmotivated muse to supply me with my next prize-winning phrase, I would start to wonder whether my writing had any real value at all and whether I was even a good writer in the first place. But that was before I learned to transform my perception of just what Writer’s Block really is and how it can serve a profound purpose in shaping our craft as writers.

Writer’s Block can indeed stem from a sense of under-appreciation and underachievement. When we’re struggling to give birth to our latest, greatest masterpiece, it’s easy for us to think about the masses of ungrateful publishers and consumers who have yet to notice our greatness and wonder where we went wrong. Our writing is also often derailed by those many “less important” distractions like our families, our jobs, or anything else that seeks to steal time away from our craft. We feel guilty for not spending more memorable moments with our kids and we’re worn out from doing all those day-to-day things we do to pay the bills and relate to the world. When we’re not writing, we feel unproductive, uninspired and unworthy. We’ll do anything to snap us out of our doldrums and reignite the spark we fear we’ve lost. But the beautiful truth is, barring a production deadline for a writing contract (and even then, this still applies), every once in a while we need to face our under-appreciated, under-achieving and totally distracted selves in order to cleanse our creative palates and discover a new idea or a fresh perspective on our writing.

Let me give you an example. Back when I was writing my second novel, I ran into a writer’s roadblock so big I thought I would never get back to my project. It was second part of a series I was finishing, one I feared would never break any Barnes & Noble selling records. In addition, I had started a new job that was demanding and distracting to say the least. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t seem to move on in the story. The scene I was working on involved my version of the antichrist standing on the brink of world domination, poised to implement a world-wide mind-altering mass illusion that would cause the entire planet to fall at his feet in worship and submission. I knew the character needed to say something more than, “Throw the switch, boys!” but I couldn’t find the right words to place in his mouth, no matter how hard I prayed, researched or sought the advice of others. After a while I gave up and put the writing aside – reluctantly, I’ll admit – and decided to be done with it until the right inspiration came to me. 

After two weeks, I was able to move from a place of desperation to one of frustrated waiting, then on to hopeful anticipation, and finally a deeper openness to what the Spirit within wanted to say through me. Then one Sunday in church I was sitting in my seat ready to take notes on the sermon the pastor was about to preach. Suddenly he broke into a talk on Ezekiel, chapter 28. My ears perked up when he got to the second part of verse 12…

‘This is what the Sovereign Lord says:

“‘You were the seal of perfection,
    full of wisdom and perfect in beauty.

 You were in Eden,
    the garden of God;
every precious stone adorned you:
    carnelian, chrysolite and emerald,
    topaz, onyx and jasper,
    lapis lazuli, turquoise and beryl.
Your settings and mountings were made of gold;
    on the day you were created they were prepared.
You were anointed as a guardian cherub,
    for so I ordained you.
You were on the holy mount of God;
    you walked among the fiery stones.
You were blameless in your ways
    from the day you were created
    till wickedness was found in you.
Through your widespread trade
    you were filled with violence,
    and you sinned.
So I drove you in disgrace from the mount of God,
    and I expelled you, guardian cherub,
    from among the fiery stones.
Your heart became proud
    on account of your beauty,
and you corrupted your wisdom
    because of your splendor.
So I threw you to the earth;
    I made a spectacle of you before kings.
By your many sins and dishonest trade
    you have desecrated your sanctuaries.
So I made a fire come out from you,
    and it consumed you,
and I reduced you to ashes on the ground
    in the sight of all who were watching.
All the nations who knew you
    are appalled at you;
you have come to a horrible end
    and will be no more.’”

                                            Ezekiel 28:12b-19

I included the words to show you how perfectly they fit into my novel. It was as if God was saying, “You wanted a bad guy speech? Well, here you go!” It was flawless: the perfect words arriving at the perfect time – the bad guy speech of all bad guy speeches – complete with a neat and tidy built-in prophecy I knew I could never have come up with on my own! God had allowed me to take the time I needed to reform my mind into a vessel ready to receive the right words, right when I needed them! While the rest of the congregation was happily recording little snippets of wisdom from the pastor, I was hastily scribbling notes about how I could adapt this little bit of prophecy to my übervillain and once more hit the gas pedal on my project and bring it to completion. When I arrived home I immediately set to writing and the words flowed like a rushing river moving swiftly until it spills into the mighty sea! I was able to shape the sinister nature of the character while throwing in a good dose of foreshadowing for his fiery finish. After that, the rest of the story practically wrote itself! Eventually I published my novels in print and in audio form for radio – all because I let myself surrender to the lessons I could learn during my time away from my story!

We spend so much time trying to force our writing based on our misperceived notions of timeliness, productivity and worthiness that we forget that the true purpose of writing is to produce a work of art that stirs the hearts that are ready and waiting to receive what we have to say. And along with that, creative writing is meant to express our inner story and shape our own journey as writers and as human beings. That’s the beauty of writing: It transforms both the reader and the writer in the cosmic connection that takes place in the sharing of the written word. I understand the need for deadlines and the debilitating power of procrastination. But the end result that comes when we learn to use our Writer’s Block to transform us is well worth the time. It’s a wonderful reality that can’t be rushed into existence or manipulated into the beautiful form it is meant to take. When the writer allows the true process of Writer’s Block to unfold as he or she crafts a gift of poetry or prose for the ones who were meant to read it, all is right with the world!

So the next time you feel yourself coming to the preverbal brick wall in your writing, don’t give in to the feeling that you’re failing! Let your block become a pregnant pause in the message your heart longs to speak to a weary world. Do something else – go for a run, have a snack, love your family, do your job – whatever comes your way to do. But let the time away from your project help to refashion your mind, and your spirit and make you more open to receiving the message in whatever form it chooses to appear. I look forward to reading all the wonderful words that your next “Writer’s Block” brings out in you!

There’s a delicate balance that any writer must deal with when once he or she decides in earnest to put words to paper, virtual or otherwise. It’s a two-fold aspect of the calling of the writer and I have found myself of late thinking more and more about what it means to my writing. I’m talking about the balance between trying to promote oneself as a writer, and losing oneself in the craft of writing and its sacred purposes. I know I need to find people willing to read, publish and pass on the words I have written, and I know how tempting it is to let that noble goal shape the kind of writing I do. The written word can have intrinsic power, but that power lies dormant if there are no readers who are moved by the words. At the same time, I must ask myself if what I’m writing truly reflects the spirit that moves me to write in the first place.

            In my quest to understand the process of getting published I’ve found that I can write the most wonderful words that express the loftiest of ideas, but there may not be a market for it. I’ve seen writing on websites that appears to me to be trivialities sensationalized or pain promoted for the sake of getting reads, likes and votes. I’ve even seen essays written on how to use certain techniques to increase the number of points on the scoreboard of a particular social media site: Write it a certain length but no more, update often, focus on these trendy topics, and write for this particular audience. People will brag about how their clever tactics have increased their visibility and brought them their fifteen minutes of fame. I’ve had to ask myself if this is truly what the writing game is all about.

            But then in my searching I come across something written in obscurity, written for love alone, written to share truth or artistry or deep emotions and ideas along a life path headed toward a discernable goal. Though I find myself captivated by such works, I also often find that they go relatively unnoticed. In corresponding with those particular authors, I’m lifted further still by the depth of their hearts and the intricacies of their minds. I then fall more in love with their stories and am the better man for it.

            So, is it to be one or the other? Am I destined to dive into the lower realms of sensationalism and pen titillating vignettes in order to make a name for myself; or must I hover in the place of anonymity while remaining true to the character of writing that reaches for lofty heights where hearts are moved and lives changed. And are these questions themselves an exercise in my own puffed up perception of myself? What is the answer for the author who wishes to see his or her work before the eyes of those who will truly appreciate it and cry out for more? I think it lies in detours.

            In my searching, the answer came to me in the form of voices struggling to express their anguish and their dreams in their writing. I went to a writing website and registered a persona, typed in all my information, pointed my future readers to my website and began posting material for consumption. I then began exploring the website and reading stories and poems from aspiring writers from all around the world. As I commented on their writings and sent notes of encouragement and appreciation, I began to build a following. As I continued to get to know these wonderful writers, I found myself bonding with them and sharing in the strength of their character and the struggles of their hearts. After a short while, my goal of reads, likes and votes seemed so inconsequential in comparison to growing in my relationship with these kindred spirits. That first “detour” along this new journey led me to consider what I was putting out on my own page.

            In response to the pain and depth of character I encountered, I began to write poetry that spoke to the particular needs I had found within the words others had written. However, rather than mimicking their angst-driven writing, I allowed their words of pain to transform my writing into something that could speak to both them and to me. I demonstrated my understanding of their struggles – for indeed, they had been struggles I too had endured – but I provided a hope that had grown out of my faith and transformed life experience. As I wrote, I found myself growing more connected to those whose writing I had come to admire so much, and growing more deeply in love with the craft of writing itself. Rather than writing to impress, shock, entice, or scratch ears itching for popular points of view, I wrote to share myself and my perspective.

            I don’t profess to have all the wisdom and insight; indeed, as a writer, I suffer from the same kind of inner madness that all serious writers possess. But I know that in writing from the heart in response to the need, in using words to fill a void or point the way while offering to walk that way as well, there comes a depth that is truly inspired by a muse more powerful than publicity and fame. In choosing to be who I am, a man of words, a wounded healing writer and a humble playwright on the stage of life, I find a profound peace and a sense of satisfaction that goes beyond the words themselves. I connect in the truest sense to the real purpose of writing: to inspire, to heal and to connect with weary travelers on the road we all must travel toward our ultimate home.

            The most amusing result of letting go and allowing the writing to take me where it – rather than I – wanted to go is I received more of those things I was searching for in the first place; only now they were put in their proper perspective. They became a means to meet even more fellow authors and to share more deeply in the joy of writing and its deeper, more eternal purposes!

            As I think about all this, I chuckle because I suppose I haven’t really given an answer to those who might have been seeking some insight into furthering one’s writing career. I suppose I detoured in another direction, and for that I don’t apologize, but simply offer it for what it is. I’ve found that my exceptional writing, the kind that touches people in a deeper part of their spirits, has always come when I allow the detours to come freely. Instead of achieving the goals I set up for myself, I’ve found that those goals are transformed as they are exposed to whatever comes up ahead on the road the detour has taken me. There is joy and freedom in that. Whether it will ultimately lead to more writing contracts and publication is yet to be seen. I do know for sure that my first book came as a result of a detour in the original goal. I had first written my first book as a means to further my career as a youth director, but its rejection led me to consider publishing houses, one of which was willing to invest in my writing and produce a modest little youth training book. My 8 years of radio writing came after I decided on a whim to apply for a full-time radio position and then settled for a small part-time spot on the airwaves better suited for opportunities to produce material and get it out for others to enjoy.

            As you seek to better yourself, don’t stop trying to find those who will read and comment and like and vote on your work. But don’t let it be the end in itself, but rather an avenue for making connections to your readers. Their stories and their hearts will lead you to places you may never have dreamed of going and direct you in ways you never thought possible. I’d love to hear your stories of how the little detours in your life and the balance you found between promotion and inspiration has led to wonderful new paths along the writing road!

Of all the holidays, Christmas is my favorite. I love the beauty, the joy, the peace and the good will that seem to shine just a little brighter at this time of year. I know I should be more cynical about the wrong in the world – the commercialism, the evil, the selfishness – but I find that Christmas helps to take all that away. Despite the struggles and the striving of life, Christmas brings with it a wonderful power to transform who we are and how we see the world.

I know for many people, Christmas can be a lonely time – a reminder of the losses and unfulfilled dreams that scream silently into the world that is filled with the hustle and bustle of gift shopping, holiday parties, family reunions and a whole host of traditions that carry on around them. They may feel the world is oblivious to their suffering, too caught up in commercialism to stop and care. I’ve done my share of silent screaming. I’ve had my fill of sad Christmases: the time my father was out of work and we had no money for presents, the year my mother died a couple weeks before Christmas just days after holding my newborn son, and the lonely evenings when I looked back on my life thus far and mourned the successes that never were.

The story, however, doesn’t have to end there. I’ve learned a secret that is so magical, so potent and powerful, that it has caused me to see those failings and follies and sad goodbyes with new eyes. It speaks to me in the music of Christmas, in the sparkle of the ornaments on the tree, in the warmth of family and friends at holiday celebrations. That secret is in what Linus said to Charlie Brown at the very end of that famous cartoon, in what Kris Kringle shared with all those who came to visit him on 34th Street, and in what moved a young boy to pursue with all the fervor in his being the goal of getting“an official Red Ryder Carbine-Action 200-shot Range Model Air Rifle” for a Christmas present. That wide-eyed childlike excitement is what this season is all about. And it’s all possible because of one thing. Christmas is a time when we remember – dare I even say – relive the birth of the little baby in Bethlehem, when we come face to face with the awesome reality that the God of the whole universe chose to descend into this broken world and become one of us while remaining ever who He is! His coming was and is pure hope for a weary world, a light in the darkness that cannot be extinguished. And I’ve come to see that power and light in everything that I hold dear, especially those beautiful little treasures I pull out at Christmas time.

When I look at the tree, I don’t just see tinsel and lights and shiny ornaments. I see lives lived to the fullest, days of triumph and tragedy, moments of growth and gratitude. Each ornament carries with it a special meaning, a memory from the time it was received and placed on the tree. There is love in each Popsicle stick and pipe cleaner, laughter in every keepsake from family vacations. And there is great joy each time we place them on the tree; for how can I not rejoice in holding a precious memory in the palm of my hand and then placing it in a prominent place for the all who see it to wonder and reflect. When I sit by the fire, looking at the tree shining in the corner of a dimly-lit room, those memories and their magic come flooding once more into my mind, telling me that, in good times and bad, it has all been about a journey that is uniquely mine and my family’s. There is great wonder in that.

Each year, I watch my favorite old Christmas movies – considered nostalgic and overly sentimental by today’s standards. I suppose they’re a glimpse into the “good old days” that never actually were, except in the world of cinema. But there is a universal certainty in those stories – a timeless truth that speaks to my heart in that immovable and eternal place that only God can touch. It is summed up in the words of Kris Kringle in Miracle on 34th Street: “Christmas isn’t just a day…Christmas is a frame of mind!” I would qualify that a bit. Christmas is a “frame of spirit” – something that is intimately and ultimately a part of what it means to be a believer in Jesus. What those movies do is to tap into that spirit and bring us into a deeper awareness of what the coming of Jesus on Christmas is all about.

Most Christian preachers focus on Easter, the resurrection, salvation, and redemption – and all that this means for us. But I love Christmas. Christmas is incarnation: God putting on skin and living, breathing, working, loving and dying for us! Christmas is sign! Christmas is Sacrament! I know that can sound like a strange word to some Christians, but to me, everything about Christianity is incarnational and sacramental – a holy, living sign, something you can taste and see, hold and believe! The idea that God came as a helpless baby to be born of a woman, born under the law, to deliver us from the law is astounding. I sometimes wonder if there are Christians who would be happier if the whole incarnation thing didn’t really happen – if we just had Jesus appearing and dying for our sins and that’s it. I like the thought of my God sweating in the desert when He was tempted and sweating blood for my sins in the garden before He died. To imagine Him touching a leper or a dead young child and bringing them new life, to reflect on His making water into wine as a sign of His becoming broken bread and poured out wine for us, or to see Him casting out the hosts of hell and calming a storm to a whisper – those are the things that stir my soul and take me to a holy and happy place where the eternal love of God lives and breathes in me!

I have some beautiful and sad Christmas music that I listen to every year when I sit by the fire to watch the tree with my cup of Earl Grey Tea and my plate of bread and cheese. I like being a little sad at this time because it causes me to take stock of my life: the things I’ve lost and the things I’ve gained, those terrible faults in my character that Christ continues to transform, the family that is growing up all too quickly around me, and the wife who for some wonderful reason loves me still. That feeling is really bittersweet, for the sadness of past remembrances is made new in the joy of each moment that is carrying me forward to wonderful days ahead. In that dreamy joyful melancholy, I come to touch what the human condition is all about: a fragile, vaporous thing, something that must give way to the One who turns all our tomorrows into a single moment of timeless wonder in His everlasting presence.

This Christmas, as you take out the old and consider the new, take time to remember that the season means so much more than we can every really take hold of in this life. Celebrate the glimpses of grace that the Savior will share with you as you slow down and reflect on the awesome reality of God becoming man, all for the joy of loving you into heaven and your true home! God bless!

As we approach Christmas Day, I am reminded of what the celebration of Advent means. For four weeks before Christmas, we light a candle and take time to read the stories that relate to the incarnation and the coming of Christ. I thought that for this blog post, I feature some poetry/songs I've written that carry that theme of remembering the story and celebrating the wondrous fact that Jesus is the fulfillment of prophecy and the fulfillment of all our hopes and dreams. I hope you enjoy them!

The Glory Comes Into the World

Come, come rejoice at the sight,
Of the Glory of heaven, the true guiding light.
For the people in darkness on this Holy night,
The Glory comes into the world.

Hark, hark as angels descend,
To the city of David, they call and they send,
Hear the voices that echo from World Without End,
The Glory revealed to the world.

See the child sleeping, in stable so lowly,
In small earthen manger upon the sweet hay.
Sing, sing out with heavenly chorus,
The Savior is born now this day,
The Savior is born now this day.

Smile, smile at mother and child,
At such tenderness cradling love undefiled,
For in meekness and virtue and purity mild,
The Glory is born in this world.

Hear, hear the Shepherds draw near,
With a heavenly calling, no more do they fear,
At the sight of this baby, the message is clear,
The Glory shines forth in the world.

Chorus…

Watch, watch as Wiseman and king,
Follow starlight’s true rising, as new anthems ring.
Bowing low as they offer the treasures they bring,
(To) The Glory who walks in this world.

Look, look as future is told
Of cross and of Calvary of new made from old,
Rising up from the grave the refiner of gold,
The Glory who reigns in this world.

Chorus…

Oh…sing, sing now rejoice at the meeting
Of heaven and human, of Godhead and man,
Praise, praise for the coming of Jesus,
The fullness of God's holy plan!

Chosen Mother

Quiet morning, breath of heaven, lights so soft upon the door,
Lowly maiden, terror rising, swoons and lowers to the floor.
Mighty angel, now appearing, speaking words of purest praise,
Of the coming King Messiah, and of distant future days…

“Greetings highly favored daughter, may the Lord now be with you,
Cease your trembling, calm your worries, for the words I speak are true.
Do not fear for you are blessed and will soon be wide with child,
You shall name the baby Jesus, He is God’s Son undefiled…”

Chosen Mother of the Savior, was it fear or was it joy,
Causing you to kneel at heaven’s mighty plan?
Did you wonder, did you ponder, that this sweet young baby boy,
Would grow up to be the Chosen Son of Man?

She a virgin, was bewildered, longing now to know the pow’r,
That would cause her, not yet wedded, to conceive this very hour,
“Heaven’s light, celestial shadow, Holy Spirit, will embrace,
So the child shall be called Holy, and restore the human race.”

Mary answered, “I am ready, here the handmaid of the Lord,
There is naught beyond His sovereign will, whom David so adored.
As you did for barren women, for my cousin, once was she,
So now grant what you have spoken will now here unfold for me.”

Chorus...

Lonely journey through the country to the home of dearest kin,
She expectant, though once barren, takes the sweet young woman in,
Marvels that her Savior’s mother should now walk upon her ground,
Baby leaps within her womb for joy at mother’s greeting sound.

“How my soul exalts my Savior, who has looked on me with love,
I am blessed by Mighty Father, Holy Helper from above.
For His mercy and His power is extended age to age,
Now His promised plan unfolds upon this humble earthly stage.”  

Bridge…

Great will be His honor, Son of God Most High
Born to sit on David’s Royal throne,
Ruling Jacob’s kingdom, heaven drawing nigh,
His the glory and the pow’r alone.

Virgin mother, waits and wonders, ponders all within her heart,
Yields her will to heaven’s myst'ry, takes her place and does her part.
Though she knows not what will happen as the future now unfolds,
She her will has now surrendered to the One her womb now holds.

Chorus (Repeat)

Long Ago in Bethlehem

Once upon a lonely night on silent city street,
Walked a man with wife, her days with child now complete,
Searching for a sheltered room, for the child within her womb,
His appearing once foretold, prophecy to now unfold,
Long ago in sleeping Bethlehem.

No room in the place where travelers gather for the night,
Led to lowly stable dimly lit by shepherd’s light,
Child is born at break of day, in the manger he will lay,
Born to save the human race, purest look upon his face,
Long ago in waking Bethlehem.

Out beyond the hills where lowly shepherds watch their sheep,
Lonely outcasts solemnly their faithful vigil keep, 
Hear the news of coming King, child for whom the angels sing,
Rush to witness his repose, wrapped in humble swaddling clothes,
Long ago in breathless Bethlehem.

High above a blazing star burns brightly in the sky,
Glory of the Mighty God shines forth as love draws nigh,
Follows to the baby’s birth, here to show his matchless worth,
Pausing at the precious sight, heaven’s awesome holy light,
Long ago in shining Bethlehem. 

Least among the princes, unregarded, so obscure,
Heaven opened, glory emptied, undefiled and pure,
Chosen to receive the King, star now shines and angels sing,
Ruler of the nations cries, Shepherds pause and mother sighs
Bethlehem, O Bethlehem, long ago in Bethlehem,
In the chosen town of Bethlehem. 

Magi come from far away to greet the new young king,
Bowing low with royal gifts, their treasures now they bring,
Frankincense and myrrh and gold, for Messiah’s hands to hold,
Sacred signs of glory, fame, man’s rejection, sorrow, shame,
Long ago in wondrous Bethlehem.

Jealous king inquires of men the birthplace of the child,
Rages now against the One who entered life so mild,
Searches through the ancient text, so disturbed and much perplexed,
Issues now a cruel decree, man and wife and child flee,
Long ago in weeping Bethlehem.

Chorus...

Sleeping child now resting silent at young mother’s breast,
Came in pure obscurity to bring to us our rest,
Born to die for sinful man, living out the Father’s plan,
Soon to face the cruel cross, we to gain from heaven’s loss,
Long ago in chosen Bethlehem. 

Bethlehem, O Bethlehem, long ago in Bethlehem,
In the chosen town of Bethlehem.

Lullaby for a Savior

A great light breaks forth in the new dawning sky,
A small flame flickers in a warm stable stall,
As angels chorus to a newborn King’s cry,
And shepherds marvel at a wonder so small…

Sleep now little Savior, rest and be warm,
Your tender voice will rebuke every storm.
Your gentle hands will bring healing and grace, 
Your perfect life will redeem Adam’s race.

Oh…sleep Savior sleep,
Treasure the joy of communion so deep.
Oh…seek now within,
Dreaming the dream of our rescue from sin.
When you awake may you drink deep of love,
Touching the grace of your Father above,
But for now…Oh…sleep Savior sleep.

The Godhead is draped in humanity’s vein,
A tiny form wrapped up in swaddling clothes.
Cries out for comfort, in hunger or pain,
And weeps too for sorrows that nobody knows.

Hush now little Savior, mother is here,
She your disciple when the hour draws near,
Joseph your guide and protector will be,
(But) your Father’s plan is for Calvary’s tree.

Chorus…

Oh, how can it be that the Father’s dear child,
Should lay down the glory of His kingly pow’r.
To come to the earth as an infant so mild,
And travel the path to the cross and the hour.

Rest now little Savior, for this hour is mine,
Now but a child, but in manhood a sign,
Time soon for teaching and mission and plan,
Time soon to live as the Great Son of Man.

Final Chorus…

Oh…sleep Savior sleep,
How can I measure that tears that you weep
Oh…dream child dream,
One day the lost you will seek and redeem.
When you arise I will watch as you grow,
Loving with joy only mothers can know
But for now…Oh…sleep Savior sleep.

Hymn for the Holy Child

In the fullness of the ages,
Word of God in flesh was born,
God from God, the light of Heaven,
Came to earth on Christmas morn.

Hope for man, our sinless Savior,
Infant child at mother's breast,
Sleeping still in straw-filled manger,
Holy Lord and Sabbath's rest.

Shepherds in the wasteland watching,
First to hear the angel's call,
Hasten now to lowly stable,
To their knees in reverence fall.

Host of Heaven now united,
Mighty chorus, hymn of praise,
Yahweh’s presence shining brightly,
Blessings ‘till the End of Days.

Star shines brightly, Sacred Godhead,
Fills the sky with radiant light,
Perfect peace and Holy Power,
Bringing day to darkest night.

Wisemen seeking, search the heavens,
Follow star to House of Bread,
Bowing low to new King rising,
At his feet their gifts they spread.

Men rejoice for your salvation,
As our God breaks into time,
Fall before the child in worship,
Pure transcendent truth sublime.

Sing with joyful hearts surrendered,
Praise the babe on manger throne,
All creation in submission,
He is God and God alone!

When You Came Down (on that First Christmas Day)

Sweet quiet evening, pure blessed hour,
Night steeped in wonder, birth dressed in power,
Word now descends from the Heavens to earth,
Veiled in the child but revealed by His birth.

Leaving your throne and the praise of the host,
Humbled yourself so that no man could boast,
Taking on flesh to face tempting and trial,
Wearing the garment of man’s sin denial.

You are the Savior, born as a child,
Helpless and holy, lowly and mild,
Bethlehem's treasure, Heaven's sweet prize,
Glory of Godhead shines through your eyes.
Why did you favor your children with grace,
Leaving your throne and your true righteous place,
I'll never know all that you had to pay,
When you came down on that first Christmas day.

Son of Man weakened yet still Son of God,
Great Shepherd King, gentle staff, mighty rod,
There is no measure to value your worth,
Or your great grift of our new second birth.

Still little baby at young mother's breast,
Godhead in form yet in slavery dressed,
Singer of stories with your infant sighs,
Speaking your truth into man’s empty lies.

Chorus...

Prophecy spoken, this child to fulfill,
Following fully in your Father’s will,
Earth’s sinless Savior, so Holy and free,
Loving the lost one and still loving me.

Jesus my Savior, my brother and Lord,
One who by Heaven and earth is adored,
Rest by your mother, for morning is near,
Now by your Advent no more do we fear.

Chorus…

Unto Us

Unto Us a Son is given,
To our Race a Child is born,
In Him all our sins forgiven,
Love fulfilled on Christmas morn.

Bethlehem of Judah’s numbers
Not among the least you be,
In you now your ruler slumbers,
Israel’s Shepherd God is He. 

In the wilderness preparing,
Way made straight and hill brought low,
Broken reed His life repairing,
Seed now planted, soon to grow…
Our Messiah, King and brother,
Sinless Savior, One so mild,
Holy God alone, no other,
Born to us as lowly child.

Days are coming, branch increasing,
King from David’s royal line.
Righteous Judgment, never ceasing,
Sacred ever-living sign. 

Holy Scepter rightly reigning,
Kingdom rule without an end.
Promised Land forever gaining,
Broken staff His law will mend.
.
Chorus…

Lo the Virgin hour nearing,
Calls His name Emmanuel,
King of kings in flesh appearing,
Saves us from the pow’r of hell.

Chorus…

Unto Us a Son is given,
To our Race a Child is born,
In Him all our sins forgiven,
Love fulfilled on Christmas morn.

The Reason Why He Came

Firelight and candle glow, festive greens and Christmas snow, 
Carolers who stroll along, lifting up the season's song,
All remind me Christmastime is here.

For there is a light that came, to a world of sin and shame,
Shone as angel voices praised, and as shepherds stood amazed.
For the Savior of our race drew near. 

Sentimental Manger scene, what can this great myst'ry mean,
Baby wrapped in swaddling clothes, mother poised in calm repose,
On a sweet and silent, holy night.

As the infant Jesus cried, God with us did now reside,
Came to earth to suffer loss, to be raised upon the cross,
All our wrongs the Savior would make right. 

The days they come, the days they go, it's Christmas once again,
The treasures and traditions stay the same. 
And yet the story's ever new as once more I'm reborn, 
Salvation is the reason why He came. 

And in each gift and blessing shared, my spirit sings with joy,
The child in me comes once more shining through, 
For Christmas brings alive again, the hope of life redeemed,
The love He shared that lives in me and you.

 
Ornaments upon the tree, signs of love and family,
Secrets shared and Memories made, never from our hearts to fade,
Warmth and welcome, precious times to hold.

Every sacred living sign from eternity is mine,
Linking past with future hope, climbing Zion's joyful slope,
This our journey in the stories told.

Chorus... 

So I seek the creche and cross, my life broken, heaven's loss
For they lead to empty tomb, resurrection, heaven's womb,
Christmas links my life to heaven's peace.

All I celebrate with grace, now creates a sacred space,
Where in awe I grasp the love, that descended from above.
Christmas joy within will never cease. 

Chorus...

I’ve always been fascinated with detective shows. I used to watch “Columbo” whenever it was on. the other day I was reminded of another of my favorite detective shows: “Monk.” For those who might be unfamiliar with the show, Adrian Monk is a former police officer with an Obsessive/Compulsive disorder who solves high profile murder cases. Monk’s wife, Trudy, was killed by a car bomb that was meant for him. The incident destroyed him emotionally caused his disorder to take on an extreme form. And although Monk is no longer able to function as a police officer, he now consults for the police, where his compulsive attention to detail actually helps him to notice things the police miss and in the end, to catch the killer every time.

Now what does this television character have to do with being a writer? It’s all about the reasons why I became so caught up in the show. Monk’s constant hand sanitizing and picture straightening and sidewalk crack sidestepping, make for some good laughs, but, to be honest, when I started watching, I made a decision not to look at the show from a comedic standpoint. I truly enjoy the show’s more serious side, which many people may miss.

Monk is a man who, in many ways, is trapped by who he is. The death of his wife has left him so fearful of life, so filled with self-doubt and so focused on his pain, that he can’t function in “normal” society. It seems as though he blames himself for his wife’s death and has become so obsessed with having every detail of his life perfect in order to either avoid facing that reality or simply to hold onto his sanity. And yet, he is able to use that struggle to his advantage when solving crimes. He can see what the others miss and hold details in a sort of mental storage bank until that part of his mind, always churning away in the background, is able to put all the pieces of the puzzle together and solve the case.

I believe many writers find themselves living a “Monk” kind of existence. They have the ability to notice details that others miss and to view those details from a unique frame of mind. They are wired in such a way that everything they notice has a deeper meaning in connection to their own paths. They are able to store the little insights that present themselves each day and to work out their story unconsciously in the background in order to give life meaning and order. It can be a very lonely existence, one that many will not understand, and one that the writers themselves may not fully grasp.

As a Christian writer, I’ve often found myself doubting my call. After all, not too many people have the same passion or appreciate what they see in me. I’ve also found myself a bit out of place when it comes to working in the “real world” – the world of the “real paying job.” There have been times when I’ve been talking to other people who expect me to respond to their questions a certain way (much like Monk at his police review board hearings) and yet, I sit there thinking about the little details of thoughts or feelings or little writing projects floating around in my mind and long intently to share my deeper sense of what is going on in my head and heart. But, alas, I have often been misunderstood, even by family or friends or people at church.

One of the elements of the “Monk” show that many people miss is the fact that the other main characters (Captain Stottlemeyer, Lieutenant Disher, and Monk’s assistants (He had two at different times…) Sharona and Natilie. In a very curious way, they were are very much like Monk in one certain way. They each have their own obsessions: Stottlemeyer wants to look good, Disher wants his boss and Sharona to notice him, and Sharona and Natalie want to be perceived as more than just assistants. At times, the show makes them appear almost as neurotic as Monk himself. However, Monk and all his friends have one thing in common: they shine when they are doing the thing that they have been gifted to do, whether it is doing police work, taking care of Monk’s needs or solving unsolvable crimes. When these people are “right on” – doing what they do best – there is no comedy, no shakiness, and no faltering whatsoever. And Monk is the one who shines the brightest! It’s actually a pleasure to watch those times when Monk confronts and exposes the killer’s motive and actions. It is heroism at its best – to see someone who, though struggling with deep pain and dysfunction, is able to turn that pain to the good when it counts.

That is what keeps me going as a writer: the knowledge that my own struggles and that inner madness unique to me (Monk refers to his own uniqueness as a gift and a curse) is something God can turn to the good in order that I may take on the world and share the message that burns in my heart until I let it out. All the strange perceptions that I let percolate on the back burner of my brain do have meaning and there are times when I truly have that sense of being “right on” and in tune with God’s will. That’s when I’m able to pull it all together and produce something of worth, something I know comes from God’s Grace within me.

This is my encouragement to you, my fellow writers: the quirky, misunderstood, struggling writers who want so desperately to find their niche in this world and let loose the precious story within that only they can tell. Remember the example of Mr. Adrian Monk and keep that hope that all things will indeed work out to the good! Take care!

There is nothing so invigorating as a good bike ride. Recently, I’ve gotten much more serious about it, going four to six times a week from late spring to early fall for an 18-23 mile trek through our town. I was always a biking enthusiast; however, my problem is that no one remembered to tell my aging body this important news. Actually, I started riding again because I love the wind in my hair and the exhilaration of my heart pumping as I race along. Let me assure you; the fact that I had gained a few pounds had absolutely nothing to do with it. But, the more I got back into it, the longer I found I was riding. More riding meant more time to think and so I decided I’d pen a few of the more sober and spiritual thoughts that have occurred to me during these rides.

I was thinking about something a young girl once asked me. She wanted to know how I speak to God, or more precisely, how I listen to what God wants to tell me. I kept thinking about it for some time after that and so, each day when I took my ride, I decided to stay open to whatever God might want to tell me during that particular ride. And as I asked, so did I receive. These daily excursions taught me a lot about what journeying with God is all about.

I began my reintroduction to biking by traveling on the streets I knew. We often do that – start off on the journey by keeping to the familiar paths. Our fear of unknown – which really amounts to a fear of failure and fear of pain – tends to keep us on the path that feels safe. But, as I ventured onto new streets, it reminded me that being Christian means talking the risk to go to new places where God is leading us. We can’t really be effective in our walk until we get beyond the feeling that our journey is supposed to be a safe one.

I remember one morning, probably the second day I resumed riding, when I came to a steep hill. Rather than braving it in the lowest gear possible or getting off and walking the bike up the incline – which no real “biking enthusiast” would ever do – I decided to turn down a street just before the hill began to climb. I admit I felt a bit guilty for being so out of shape, and I was left wondering whether I would have made it had I tried. There have been times in my life when I was afraid to take on the steep challenges that were before me. Sometimes it was because I simply wasn’t ready and God wanted me to go a different route to reach the same destination; other times I think I was just too full of pride to slow down and go back to walking. These experiences taught me the importance of spiritual preparation and daily training in the faith as an essential part of going the distance. It was a hard lesson to learn, but the sad reality is this – any time I gave in to the easy way, I knew I had to surrender to a challenge that was never met.

As I chose to go down new streets, there were times when I would approach a dead end road. Often I would see the signs from far off but still feel compelled to continue on the road. Sometimes there would be another road that would allow me to continue my journey before I reached the dead end and other times I was forced to turn around. You know, I never felt awkward about taking a wrong turn; I knew there was always a way out and a new direction to go. It brought to mind the times I had wandered into sin or followed a direction that would lead me to a dead end in my walk of faith. And each time I saw the same loving God right there beside me, never condemning me for my mistakes, but always, always offering a new way to take me out of my dead end choices.

Now an interesting thing happened one day. I was riding along and peddled past a yard with a lawn sprinkler moving lazily back and forth between the house and the road. As I went past it, the water was shooting out onto the street. Even though I was hot, I swerved around the water and kept on going. Immediately I thought about how God often provides cool refreshment in the midst of life’s scorching desert days, and how we often miss His refreshment because we are focused on the road ahead or too proud to accept His kindnesses. I can assure you that after that experience, I made sure to zip through any cool spots that came up in the road ahead as a refreshing reminder of that incredible truth.

As I rode around each day, I would inevitably come to a place where I had to make a decision to turn left or right. One day, I looked up at the road sign on my right, which read, “Mountain Road.” Hmm. Not good, I thought. Still, I decided this time to take the challenge and went up the hill to the right. Surprisingly enough, the road turned out to be more of a slight incline than anything else. At one point I was even able to turn down a street on my left and coast for a while. Now coasting is always fun, because gravity does all the work and I get the thrill of a little speed instead of a slow steady ride. The twists and turns of life, the uphill battles, the times we can coast – it is all a matter of making a decision and then riding out the road wherever it takes us.

Sometimes I have no idea if I should choose one direction for my life over another. I worry that I’ll make the wrong choice and miss an opportunity that God has to offer me. It can be paralyzing to think that making a wrong choice might lead to dire consequences. But that isn’t how our Lord works. Just as I find a new adventure and a new insight no matter which direction I choose on my ride, so too will God work all things out to the good for the ones who have chosen Him. In the end, I know that ultimately God is in control and will take care of me on my journey. I take comfort in the fact that if I’ve spent time in preparation, by staying in His Word, praying with an open spirit and listening to Him speak all around me, I know I’ll have all the wisdom I need to make the right choice and to courage to take the steps to get from here to there.

Now another time on my ride, I came to a main road and wanted to cross over it to the other side, but found that the traffic was too heavy. Just when it would clear up on the left side, there would be cars zooming up on the right. At first, I was upset at having to wait for such a long time, but then I realized that waiting gave me a chance to get a drink and to rest my leg muscles. And when there was a break in the traffic, I had the energy to take off and get right back into the journey. So many times I’ve seen the obstacles of my life as hindrances to progress, when all the while, God was slowing me down and giving me time to rest, refresh and consider my next steps. It was only at the end of each time of resting, when the obstacles were removed – or I found a new way to deal with them – that I was able to see the reasons for God allowing them in the first place.

There did end up being a killer hill – one that left me no choice but to get off the bike and walk up in total humiliation and shame. Three quarters of the way up the hill, I saw a sign for “Brookview Road.” I decided that a ride alongside a brook might be nice and made a right turn. Well, there was no brook in sight and all this road did was to lead me down some more streets that seemed to take me nowhere. While I thought I was going to have an enjoyable experience, I simply rode in a huge circle and ended up just a little further down the road from where I would have been had I not turned. It did, however, keep me from having to cross over a busier intersection where cars turn onto and off of the highway. And since the purpose of the bike ride was for exercise…excuse me – to feel the wind in my hair – it didn’t really matter that I had to go the long way around. It helped to reinforce the idea that God is consistent and sovereign and knows how to take our self-centered choices and redirect them for his purpose and direction, often sparing us from dangers we might not even have comprehended along the way.

One of the most interesting things I did on my ride was to pick up objects discarded along the road. I was asked to substitute for the pastor of my church and wanted to prepare a sermon illustration. I decided to stop whenever the Spirit moved me to pick up a certain object. I picked up an old pair of broken glasses, some rubber tubing, a crushed soda can, and many other “useless” items. When I got home, I took those pieces of trash and turned them into a sculpture. I admit it wasn’t anything that would allow me to retire in comfort, but when it was finished, my creation was a perfect illustration of what God does for all of us. Each of us who believe has been like a discarded piece of garbage that was found by a loving God who has been able to shape us into something brand new! While the world may look at each of us as useless or unworthy, God sees just exactly how we fit into His vast eternal plan!

Day after day, in order to keep biking trips interesting, I would seek out a new way to go: through the center of town one day, out to the airport the next; sometimes just taking a leisurely ride along the nearby bike path on those lazy days. I figured that after a couple weeks, I would run out of places to go and start to get bored, but I was wrong. When I went out boldly, seeking to go wherever a new path took me, I found that the little town I live in had an awful lot of journeys packed into it. No matter how many days I went out, the journey was always new and interesting. It left me wanting to take that approach to my daily walk with the Lord – seeing each new day as another small journey, full of opportunities for excitement and learning, with no day like any other and none ever worth throwing away.

A truly blessed part of these rides was when things finally started to look familiar again and I found I had completed the bulk of the journey. It always felt good to be heading home. It wasn’t without its temptations, however, as many times I passed a local diner serving a sausage and egg breakfast sandwich or the ice cream place near the airport where I swear I could hear a double-dip chocolate peanut butter cone calling my name. Now I know that to stop and indulge myself would defeat the purpose of going on a bike ride in the first place – but OH – was it so tempting! I’m proud to say that I pressed on and soon found I had made it past the place of forbidden food and was on my way back on the road to my destination, my goal – my home! I knew I had a prize waiting for me there – my beautiful wife and my beautiful children, and their smiles were food enough for me! Okay, I admit it – I would end up having a big bowl of fiber or something equally healthy to take care of the other hunger inside me, but I saw it as temptation properly redirected and satisfied.

Like physical hunger, there are also spiritual temptations along the road of life. Satan tries his best to get us to stray from the path by offering us things that appeal to our senses and our needs, but ultimately they don’t satisfy. Only one thing truly does – living out our lives in the love of the God and pressing ever onward to win the prize that He has in store for all His children. And though it often seems that we can only see the worth of our journeys when we reach the end of them, it has been a joy to come to know the pleasure in the journey itself as well.

These days, my schedule has changed somewhat, but I still try to keep up with my riding when the weather is nice. I admit the discipline is good for my body and my soul, even though the sight of me afterwards is not always so good for my family. But there is so much God has to say to me in those quiet times out on the open road. I’m so grateful for that simple question from that young girl. I don’t know if I would have been so focused had she not given me something to think about.

There are just too many things we take for granted on our life journeys and once the journey is past, we can never go back and claim what was lost. I’ve learned that every moment of our existence has been ordained and blessed by our heavenly Father. While events in our lives may seem random and without purpose, we need to realize that it’s all in the Father’s hands, and in the end, we’ll understand what the journey has been all about. I pray that your journeys and mine will be full of joy and purpose, and that we will press ever onward to the end of all our journeys in eternity!

When I was young I always looked forward to the autumn. Autumn was a time when the cycle of life began to start all over again. Now I know people usually like to think of spring as the season of beginnings, but for me, it was autumn. Maybe it was because in the autumn, the leaves began to turn all sorts of brilliant colors, fall from the trees and crunch under my feet as I walked along. It was like a signal to a magical time of year. Or maybe it was because it was the start of another school year, and another chance to start over making friends and finding my place in my world. But I think the most likely reason of all was that fall was a bittersweet reminder that death is the beginning of birth; that sorrow gives way to serenity, that the grave yields ultimately to new life.

Autumn had always meant saying good-bye: good-bye to the long warm days of summer, good-bye to another year of life, and good-bye to things that might have been. The sadness of autumn was something that seemed to hold me in a cold and lonely embrace, calling me to release the past and let it drift away like a fallen leaf on the wind. It pointed to the cold and dark days of winter that lay ahead and the depth of contemplation that came out of time spent inside a warm home. In some strange way it meant safety, even though it meant change. And I spent each sad autumn quietly waiting, quietly anticipating the chilling sleep of winter and the newness of spring days to come.

Jesus said in John 12:24 (NIV), “Unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds.” As I look back on the autumns of my life, I see that each small death was really a part of the ongoing mystery of growing in my relationship with my Savior. Each experience was a surrender of a part of myself in death – whether it was death to an old stuffed toy I could no longer carry around, death to the hope that my father would ever be around more than once a month because of his job changes, or death to a place to which I had grown accustomed but from which I was moving away. In all this Christ was preparing me to face the deeper death to self that was to take place in the intimacy of His entering more deeply into my life. I often wondered if each death I endured here on earth brought a tear or a smile from my Savior, or maybe even a solemn pause from the angels. With every death, more of my innocence was lost as it made way for the greater knowledge of life’s ultimate Truth.

When the time comes for us to experience that deeper death to self, it’s the day-to-day deaths we’ve experienced that enable us to bear the sorrow and the loss and allow Grace to give way to the peace of that passes understanding. You see, God has a plan for each of us: to plant us in the world of sorrow and sin and allow the pressure and pain of the soil of human living to crack open the shell of who we are so that a new birth can take place within us. Once we are broken in the soil of our struggles, we are able to reach upward toward the light of His grace and extend the branches of our souls to receive it with joy. As I look at what my life has been producing, I see the seeds of new life and hope growing within me, ready to be planted in the fertile soil of other souls tilled by the Sower of seeds.

Change is never easy. The endings that changes bring can tear at the deepest parts of who we are. They often leave us choking in the pressures of life around us, huddling in the dark of confusion and lingering in broken isolation. In our lives and our relationships we experience many transitions and transformations. Children, family and friends grow older and some move on. We put away old ways of doing things and explore new ideas as we learn what living is all about. Sometimes there is pain before joy, but when that joy comes, oh how we drink it in like the seed in the soil.

In our faith community too, we see many changes, many deaths. We say good-bye to old friends and watch as pastors and programs come and go. Through it all we experience growth. We face many autumns, which give way to springs of renewal. But if we’re faithful to the message of the grain of wheat, we come to see that death produces in our church body an abundant harvest of souls for the Sower. As the church continues to become what Christ intended it to be, we’ll experience this seed-death over and over again. We’ll see God tearing up the soil of traditions and history to make the ground fertile, and watch as He plants the seeds of change in that soil so that we may yield a harvest – thirty, sixty, or a hundred times what has been sown.

I would like to leave you with one thought. As you look back on your life and think about all the autumns you’ve experienced – whether that is today or sixty years from now – remember this. The surrender of autumn gives way to the sleep of winter and winter, to the rebirth of spring. Know always that there is ultimately one great death to which we are being called, and that is the death to sin and self. One day, we who believe will surrender to that final death and yield to the sorrowful passing through fear and pain to break through to a new beginning in eternity! May God bless you and keep you through the autumns of your lives.

There’s something about the sea that speaks to the soul and awakens the heart to new horizons and new points of view. Now I won’t pretend that I’m a man of the sea or that I fully understand that majestic voice that calls men to venture out onto the waves; nor can I mirror the character of those who choose to make their home by the shore. Still, I feel drawn to the changing tides and the ebb and flow of the ocean, and when I’m there, I’m a different man.

Recently, my wife and I embarked on a little seaside adventure to the Northeastern coast as we took our 25th anniversary vacation in the little harbor town of Eastport, Maine. We chose the location on a whim; we wanted to find a place that was peaceful and undisturbed, a haven apart from the crowds and confusion of our everyday lives. We had no idea what we would find there or even how we would fill our time in this quaint little fishing village, but nevertheless we made our plans and off we went. Maybe we were looking for renewal; maybe we just wanted to catch our breath and forget the troubles and turbulence we had left behind.

When we arrived at The Milliken House, our bed & breakfast, we came as strangers to Mary, our host, but soon found ourselves caught up in her simple charm, her motherly care and her gracious hospitality. The old home seemed to welcome us as well, carrying us back to a simpler time and bidding us to surrender to the slower pace of life. We were struck by the quiet and the calm, as if this monument to better days with its large rooms and period furnishings was whispering to us its silent secrets and assuring us that we were safe and secure within its walls. Our room was spacious and appealing, a harbor of comfort for the end of each day; our breakfasts were bountiful and beautiful, served to us on elegant china plates at the large linen-draped dining room table. There was always tea for us when we came home from our adventures and Mary was always ready to greet us with tales of the history of Eastport and stories of colorful local characters she had come to call friends. Like a port in a storm, we soon came to see that this house was our refuge from the weary world that had battered and buffeted us for far too long.

Our first day was spent exploring the town, and we wondered what attractions might be available. There were none of the typical touristy variety, no high-tech, slick-looking shops with crass commercial trinkets for sale, but still, there were treasures everywhere. Here was a close-knit community of like-minded souls, a family of people who loved their town and sought to bring out the best in one another. Every shopkeeper and waitress was more than happy to point us in the direction of another business or restaurant. Instead of chain stores there were cooperatives where local artisans sold their wares, antique stores offering the old, and shops selling custom items innovative and new. My wife was especially enamored with the local Moose Island Bakery where they sold the most delicious creampuffs she had ever tasted, and I have to admit that I wasn’t disappointed with the local lobster roll at the Happy Crab.

Perhaps the thing that struck us the most was that Eastport, though it had seen so many changes over the years, was still a place with a unique character that spoke its timeless story and wonderful wisdom to every heart that took the time to listen. I remember one evening, listening to our server share stories of the long history of The Landmark Restaurant where we were enjoying a wonderful dinner. She told us how this old edifice had undergone a number of transformations over the years, each unique and some even unusual. As I looked around at the old brick walls, the careworn original floors and the majestic columns and archways decorated in an eclectic style for this its latest incarnation, I could almost sense that this venerable building was somehow grateful and quietly content to be useful still, and even proud of its long heritage of service to the town and the people who had built and maintained it all these years.

On another day, we ventured out from Eastport, across the border into Canada to Campobello Island. We marveled at the well-maintained summer cottage that was once home to the Roosevelts. We had to laugh to ourselves at how this and the other lovely “cottages” in the area were so much larger than our own home. We took time for lunch at The Fireside, one of the wonderful restaurants on the island, and traveled to The Quoddy Head Lighthouse to wait for low tide so that we could make our way across the rocks for a visit. We capped off our visit with a hike along the seaside trails near the Roosevelt Cottage and a stop at Herring Cove Beach to walk along the shore and sit in silence before the soothing sea. In all we saw, the thing that we found the most captivating were the breathtaking views of the ocean, whether from the shoreline behind the Roosevelt Cottage, the deck of the Fireside, the hills upon which the old lighthouse stood or that deserted beach where we were all but alone with the waves and the soft gray sand. The sound of the water making its way to the shore, the occasional soaring of a seagull, and the fog moving in like misty spirits answering the mystical call of the ocean spoke to our spirits and calmed the clutter in our minds as we were taken into the embrace of the moment. Slowly and quietly we began to forget ourselves – or rather, we remembered ourselves as we had been and were truly meant to be. It drained the tension from our bodies and drowned out the noise of our busy lives, and we rediscovered that deep hidden spark of youthful romantic love that had drawn the two of us together so many years ago.

There was excitement as well, an adventure that came in the form of a whale watch with Wind Jammers Whale Watching Tours in Eastport. Our host, Butch, took our group out in his lobster boat to view the beautiful minke fin whales that had finally made their way back home to these northern waters for the summer. It was exciting to watch these majestic mammals rise up out of the water for a breath of air, arch their backs and then dive into the depths to explore their ocean home. It was equally amazing to view over 50 harbor seals sunning themselves on the rocks near the shore and to see bald eagles perched atop tall trees surveying their lofty domains. It was both a spectacular event and a simple pleasure, something extraordinary and yet so much a part of the everyday life of this faraway place at the edge of the world.

It was really the little things that mattered the most: a pot of tea and a game of Scrabble before retiring for the evening, a walk along a quiet sandy beach to search for sand dollars and sea glass, or a stop along the road to capture photographs of a sunset too beautiful for words. It brought out such a child-like excitement within our hearts, and one might have thought it silly to see two adults holding bits of sand-smoothed glass in their hands as if they were diamonds or standing in awe of the flight of cormorants or the pinks and purples of the setting sun after an ordinary summer day. But these events and objects, sights and sounds were truly treasures to hearts being reawakened to what is most important in life: the power of a moment, the making of a memory, and the rekindling of the spirit of eternal youth.

 We’ve since returned to our everyday life, but we’ve brought with us a little bit of that seaside town, the soul of its population, and the shining shores of Maine. And because of that, it’s hard to imagine how we’ll ever be the same again. What began as an uncertain journey has become a part of who we are. What was meant to be a “getting away from it all” has turned out to be a true coming home. Like the tide that washes onto the shore, only to slip back into the vastness of the ocean, we’ve come to see how our lives are really about returning to the place inside us that is as deep and mysterious as the sea and as timeless and unchanging as the rocky shoreline of a faraway place, that for a short time, we came to call home.

• December 2015
• November 2015
• October 2015

Recently, I made a decision to do something I’ve wanted to do for a while now. I took a two-day hike on the Connecticut section of the Appalachian Trail. It wasn’t on my bucket list or anything, although there were a few times I felt like I was going to “kick the bucket” along the way. It was just one of those things I wanted to try a) to find out what all the excitement was about and b) to see if I could actually make it. Well, I did make it – just barely – and ended up with a few blisters, some sore muscles and a better appreciation for those who actually travel the entire grueling sixth-month journey from Georgia to Maine. In many ways I feel that I failed at the challenge I’d set for myself. While I expected to make a few mistakes along the way, I thought I would have fared better overall. I decided then that I needed to find the meaning within my not-so-successful adventure; otherwise, I’d just be adding insult to injury – literally – to my otherwise mediocre mid-life crisis. What follows are the life lessons – the growth and insights – that have come from my “failure” on the Appalachian Trail.

I was certainly prepared for the rigors of the hike. I was biking 15-20 miles, 5 times a week, to build up my legs and my stamina. I took a few short practice hikes with a smaller pack in order to get used to the pace of hiking. I did all the research on proper trail camping techniques from bear bagging to water treatment. I found a nifty free GPS app for my phone to keep me from getting lost and I bought some new hiking gear – not the best, but enough to get the job done. And so, after planning a reasonable route and filling my pack, I decided finally to just go ahead and do it. But, as with any good adventure, no matter how much I might prepare for every contingency, I knew there would be challenges to face along the way.

I was a little overweight for the hike – and by that, I mean my gear. I like to sleep comfortably and bug-free, so I brought along a tent, a sleeping bag and a pad. My “sleep system” alone weighed about 8 pounds, the result of purchasing less expensive, more multi-use equipment. With my food, clothing and other gear, I was sporting about 27 pounds of weight on my back, awkwardly arranged and bungeed together as best I could. My one really poor choice was not investing in a new pair of hiking shoes. I went instead with the trusty 20-year-old clunky, indestructible hiking boots I had acquired when I was first married. While my ankles felt loved and supported, my feet definitely did not.  

I arrived at my starting point in the early afternoon – the time my ride was available to take me – and began the hike. My chauffer, my lovely bride, was not entirely happy to see me go. She had visions of her husband being eaten by ravenous bear or falling down into a bottomless ravine with no one around to help. Though her lack of confidence in my hiking abilities should have diminished my enthusiasm, I reminded myself that her anxiety came from her love. Knowing that she cared gave me inner strength to see the journey through. With that love to carry me – I had to carry everything else – I began my solo trek on the road toward the trail. At first, the way was smooth and level. This was easy enough, I thought. In no time at all, I arrived at my first shelter, took some time to explore it and then decided that it was way too early in the day to stay there. I set my sights on the next shelter on the trail, a “mere” 10 miles away (It looked so much closer on the map!), and moved on.

Okay, I’ll admit that was poor choice number 2! My lively, 2-3 mile-per-hour sprint began quickly to slow to more of a careful stroll as the trail took a turn upward in elevation over more rocky terrain. It was there I met my first experienced thru-hiker, a man who knew how to pace himself and who was kind enough not to laugh at the arrangement of my gear. He shared some tips and tales from his hike along the trail. He was wise enough to stop at a campsite along the way; I kept on going, determined to make it to the next “official” shelter. However, at 8:30 in the evening, I finally resigned myself to the fact that my goal was unattainable, found a flat spot on the trail and set up my tent for the night. I admit, while it was exciting (It was as close to meeting Bear Grylls as I’ll ever come!), it was still a little unnerving to be out in the middle of the woods all alone at night. On several occasions, I felt I needed to make some noise to scare away whatever real or imagined creatures were scurrying around my thin taffeta sanctuary. I made it through the night, laughing at my pride-induced predicament while convincing myself that my solar phone charger was in no way the equivalent of a night light. Then at 5:00 am, I packed up and began once more to make my way north toward that elusive shelter. Which way was north again? Thank God for that trusty GPS app!

This time when I arrived at the shelter, even though again it was somewhat early, I decided that my blistered feet had had enough and decided to stay put. I set up my tent on the only 7 feet of non-rocky soil I could find, replenished my water supply and prepared a reconstituted meal in my stainless steel cooking pot. My hiking companion from the previous day showed up a little later and graciously refrained from commenting on my lack of stamina and common sense. He ate a meal and moved on. I met a few other hikers who came to the shelter and listened to their stories while sharing my “trapped in the wilderness with blistered feet” story with as much manliness as I could manage. Afterward, I retied to my tent for the night. This time, after some tossing and turning, I got a little bit better sleep.

When morning came the next day, my feet decided they had had enough. I bandaged my blisters, which by now were quite painful, phoned my wife, and arranged for an alternate pickup time and location. I packed up quietly and again set off on the trail, walking briskly once more; well, at least I thought so until a professional hiking tour guide came zipping along. He slowed down to engage in polite hiker conversation, looking back every once in a while, apparently to make sure I was still within range to hear him. Right when I was about to suggest that I might be slowing him down, he decided to move on, bid me farewell, and within a minute was out of site, allowing me to concentrate once again on the pain in my feet and my desire to finish the hike. I knew I needed to get to the meeting place soon (I had already told my wife to leave, thinking I would beat her there – when would I learn my lesson?) and so I pressed on with determination and hope.

The next person to pass me on the trail could have been mistaken for a young, male, shirtless Abercrombie & Fitch model, on his way to his next photo shoot. He smiled as he flew by and I was happy he had no time to stop and snicker at this sweaty, blister-footed man with clunky shoes hobbling along and considering the surprising lack of automated defibrillators out on the Appalachian Trail. It was then I began to hear voices – strange, melodious, echoey voices – in the distance. At first, I feared it was the voice of God telling me my time had come; but to my relief I realized it was an announcer over a loudspeaker at an auto racetrack somewhere nearby. As I walked on, I met a man a little closer to my age who had stopped to take some pictures of the area overlooking that racetrack. He was out for a little exercise and was wisely pacing himself, so I was able to pass him off. I was annoyed at the noise from the racetrack, though now I see it as a good thing because it drowned out my grunts and groans as I pushed myself forward to my final destination.

I continued along the trail, thinking about those fast hikers, that loud racetrack and the other man I had met at the overlook. I realized that on the journey of life, it’s good to have goals and to pursue them with all our strength and determination; but it’s also good to take time to stop and notice the little miracles along the way. I marveled at how quickly the fog rose and dissipated over the land by that overlook, delighted in the display of color and diversity within the woods, and contemplated the wonder of life in everything from the moss growing on the rocks by a dried up stream to a bright orange newt warming itself on a log in the morning sun. I came to see that it’s a blessing to accept who we are and where we are on the journey, even when it seems that the world may be passing us by. I also remembered that although pain and struggle can take its toll, it can also push us to test the limits of our abilities and to reach for more.

After another hour or so of hiking, I saw on my map that I was in the home stretch. It was then that I began to experience my greatest pain, as each jagged rock and twisted root dug mercilessly into those blisters. I stubbed my toes more times than I care to count (Curse you natural leafy ground cover!) and experienced new levels of discomfort in my back and knees. As I came to what I thought was the last descent, suddenly ahead of me was one last hill. At that point, my strength began to falter and my discouragement mounted. But I knew my wife was waiting and decided to summon that last once of energy and press on until at last I saw the road near the place we were to meet. With a phone call or two and some quick coordination, we finally found each other

At last the journey had come to an end. We packed up my gear and headed for home. As we were driving, I came to see how much of a sacrifice this short trip had been for my wife – not only in the driving she had done, but in the worry as well. I’m sure she had wondered if the whole thing had been worth it; I know I had certainly pondered that myself. But, in the end, I was glad I’d gone and learned from my mistakes, and pleased that this intense little undertaking had led me to a new appreciation of my own frailty and a new awareness that it really is okay to be human. No matter what blunders I’d made along the way, I know that I’d grown because of them.

As we pulled into our driveway, I was happy to be home, happier to see my children and perhaps happiest to be able to take a shower! Later, I soaked my aching feet, finished off some leftover trail mix and collapsed on the family room couch. By this point I was just too tired to try to come up with a convincing story as to why I had ended my expedition a little earlier than expected. I also knew that any sense of failure I was feeling was giving way to a new determination to accept my limitations with humor and to celebrate my strengths with joy. No matter what I went through, I could now say that I had traveled on the Appalachian Trail and was all the better for it. I knew that my next trip would be a much more rewarding experience, simply because I’d make the changes necessary to have it turn out that way (Sorry, old hiking boots – you’re out!).

Life is about growing, and the truth is, sometimes we need to fail in order to grow. Failure is transformed into grace when we understand how we can use it to become better people, people who learn from mistakes and people who can see ourselves as we really are: struggling but strong, dependent yet determined, curious and courageous! I hope these few simple life lessons will inspire you to strike out on some new unknown trail to find out just what you can do, who you need to rely on and where in your life you’re heading – and I hope you can do it all with a humorous and happy heart!