Craig's Blog

Craig's Love to the End

It's hard to believe he is gone. I just walked past his office and saw his desk, fixtures, his computer, and his books; everything pretty much as he left it weeks ago. Craig unexpectedly had to leave Colorado Springs and head to Houston because, suddenly out of nowhere, a new and aggressive cancer appeared that took him in a matter of weeks. Wow, so staggering how quickly things changed! Looking in his office, I'm expecting to find Craig walking out to give me a hug and then proceed to tease me about the way I said “howdy” with a bit of Texas drawl or prodding me that my baseball team didn't make it to the college worlds series. Then he would smile and say, "you know I'm kidding you." In those last 50 days when Craig was in the hospital in Houston, we were able to see him in the midst of his battle, as his body was being overcome by this new killer cancer. Even in the midst of all of that, he would cut up and take swipes at me with that loving tease that made me feel like a brother. He asked to see a picture of our newly born grandson and then he’d comment how fortunate my grandson was not to get my looks. He’d then be looking at me and laugh. I loved his kidding...it always made me laugh and smile even when I was the brunt of it, which often I was. It was never offensive though, as that is part of the way Craig loved you. That's what I am missing already about our beloved Craig, is just how he loved so well even in the midst of his deep suffering. Craig's incredible gift of joy and humor were something I once envied (future blog on that). He passed with such grace, peace, and dignity in the midst of excruciating suffering because he continually loved outwardly toward the doctors, professionals, his friends, and all who were exposed to his life and ministry. Within a couple of weeks to the end, I happened to be there in Houston with him in his hospital room when he told his leading doctor that he wanted to spend his remaining days loving people at home rather than fighting this battle he knew was close to its end. That is how I remember him...his desire to love people to the very end! I love that he chose love rather than bitterness when he was so close to remission, when his battle became so desperate and his life overrun by his enemy, this new and aggressive cancer. There is a similarity with his father's life ending; he died in The Korean War (when Craig was 6 months old) when his position was overrun by the charging enemy and he was killed at the end of the 14th day of a 14 day battle. I smile knowing that Craig has met his earthly father for the first time with perhaps Jesus making that introduction! My goodbye to Craig was a couple of days before he passed. I got to pray over him as I watched him smile and see his lips say, "thank you, thank you." I love his courage. I love the integrity of his life. I love you back Craig in all the ways you have loved me. I'm a better man because of you!

Craig McConnell

There's More To The Story

I stumbled upon George Bellows's painting, "Dempsey and Firpo". Considered by many to be the greatest American sports painting it captures the dramatic moment in the 1923 World Heavyweight Championship fight between Jack Dempsey (the reigning champ) and Argentinian Luis Angel Firpo, nicknamed "El Toro de las Pampas" ("The Bull of the Pampas"). 80,000 fans paid to see the fight live. The painting is straightforward – something is at stake, there is a violent battle, there is a victor and the vanquished. Something about the scene pricked my interest and, as God so often shows up in the simple affairs of our lives He was there. Next to me. Together we lingered on the painting and He whispered, “It is your story Craig”, which I loved hearing but having felt like both fighters I needed help with the interpretation. My initial read was, “I’m the victor in the ring having just connected with a swooping haymaker that launched my opponent out of the ring into a row of reporters. Yeah!” I’m still standing! I’m in the ring bruised, bleeding, battered; I’m winded and wobbly from the body blows, a little foggy on how many rounds are left but I’m good. I’m still standing!” “Frap” you cancer! Curious about the fight and the painting I found the scene was in the first round, the Champ, Dempsey, was sent into orbit out of the ring, seriously gashing his head on a typewriter in the row of ringside reporters. Whoa, the hero is getting his butt kicked? What kinda story is this? Dempsey takes a full eight count (and some would say a very, very slow eight count) to get back into the ring and staggeringly faces his opponent. Then in the second round, in a dramatic reversal it’s Dempsey that plasters Firpo, flooring him seven times and with a minute left in the round clobbers Firpo, knocking him down and out to retain the Championship. Now the picture hits deeply. I’m Dempsey flying out of the ring? Okay, that’s a twist on my original interpretation but yeah; I’ve been beaten up pretty bad, real bad. I hear a "Hold on Tiger..." The story doesn’t end with the picture. There’s more, there’s always more to the story. The rest of the story is that Dempsey and I climb back into the ring and with a fierce and holy rage overcome my/our opponent. It’s an epic battle and a glorious victory. Victory, in the end is mine. In that moment, focused on the print in a high end art store I can feel the affirming smile of God throughout my entire body and being. I wanted to yell with God as loud as we could, "Yes! Yes! The story ends gloriously! Given the setting we tempered our excitement to a conversational volume and a simple, "Cool, very cool.". Victory in the end will be mine! The physical, spiritual, relational and financial hits of a vigorous cancer can easily launch one into hopelessness and despair. Unless you’re healed or go into remission it’s an inescapable battle that lasts far longer than you’re prepared for with unimaginable ups and downs. But there have been so many transcendent moments in the presence of God where battle, pain, fear and death fade into a “peace that passes understanding” and the story moves from my suffering to my loving others. It is, for now, beyond my ability to fully describe. My Story is that God has come, I feel good, strong and in many ways “Back”. I have been places and experienced things that give credibility to the message that God is good, so worthy of our full-hearted worship and adoration; that in His presence all we bear, fear, suffer and grieve is recalibrated and grows strangely dim. In Him there is comfort, healing and the passion to pour into others a supernatural grace only available at the Cross. I worship our God with all my heart. Specifics: · I’ve been in the current stage two Clinical Trial for a year. The investigational drug ABT-199 has been great for me. My cancer, though incurable, is kept at a lower threshold without some of the horrific side effects I’ve had with my other treatments. · I now fly to Houston quarterly instead of weekly or monthly for testing and restaging. On a monthly basis my local Oncologist does blood work to early alert my Houston team on any sudden change. · I’m pretty close to the “R”” word. “Remission” would be a wonderful word to hear when I return to M.D. Anderson this June. I will be very emotional at that moment. The culmination of so many prayers over such a long season. · To be in remission I have a couple of lymph nodes that need to shrink a little bit more and some improvement in my blood. Even in remission the descriptive medial term for my prognosis is “Wait and watch”. Their prediction is the cancer will return, mine is that Jesus returns sooner. · Lori and I are trying to address the trauma and PTSD that can immobilize us with anxiety, loneliness and malaise. LiveStrong Cancer Survivor Courses, trauma yoga, breathing techniques, a lot of surrendering to God, counseling and the love and support of others is huge. Your prayers, friendships, conversations, support and love have pushed us through the gauntlet of Stage 4 Leukemia to a hair’s width from Remission. It would not have happened with out your prayers and love. Love you, thank you, Craig and Lori McConnell

Craig McConnell

006: Diving Deep – An Interview with Craig McConnell [Podcast]

Nearly a decade ago, I had the privilege of seeking wisdom from Craig McConnell, a man who’s seen many miles, fought many wars, and conquered death more times than I can recount. It was an even greater privilege to circle back with him on another conversation, this time recorded for the benefit of other men like you. Join us as we explore the profoundly deep implications of how we relate with others, how we embrace the decade of excavation, and how we grow in this decade of character over kingdom. In this conversation Craig references a powerful book, Addiction and Grace. I strongly recommend it as well. Here’s a link if you’re interested in going further. Craig also references his original counsel to me on the eve of this decade. Like great scotch and like my brother, uncle, and friend Craig, it has aged well over time. I include it below for your benefit, praying that the Father would have gifts for your heart in it. As many of you know, Craig has been battling for Life and against the death of cancer for the last few years. As you are encouraged and strengthened in this podcast, please stand with me in bringing God’s Kingdom on behalf of Craig. And Praying the full resurrection life of God to fill Craig’s body, soul and Spirit.

Craig McConnell

#006: Diving Deep – An Interview with Craig McConnell [Podcast]

Craig McConnell

Dancing

I came across a young college student friend’s Facebook post: Jon wishes that when he ran into a room and started dancing that other people would get up and dance. and not just sit and stare. Ya!. Someone quickly commented: Maybe he’s running into the wrong rooms. I paused, eased back into my chair, captured and wondering, “Am I dancing?” With a little reflection, I thought, “Sometimes, for some reasons, in some circles… yes and no.” Soaking in the question...I’d love to run into rooms dancing and have others get up and join me… and not just sit and stare. What rooms am I running into? Lord, am I running into the wrong rooms? (Church, small group,circle of friends, etc.) After steeping a bit on my life and its effect upon others, I hear God my Father clear his throat and in tones of strength, warm invitation, and urgency, perhaps insistence, whisper to my heart, “Don’t let anything keep you from dancing!” Don’t let anything keep you from dancing.

Craig McConnell

Sonoma

I fell in love with Labrador Retrievers long before Sonoma, our Yellow Lab, joined the family eleven years ago. Living near a beach in the Southern California I had a “go to” place to meet with God. It was an isolated clearing atop bluffs that overlooked the beach and the ocean pawing at it. God always seemed to show up, it was my lair, a holy “Thin place” for me where the “distance” between heaven and earth was closed. Often transcendent each morning was a unique blend of quiet stillness, listening or my pleading, tears in both directions, and moments of bitching eventually followed by a season of repentance. Early, before joggers and beachcombers I would catch my breath while He spoke, brought clarity and patiently fathered me. Alone on one of those mornings, under a marine layer, above the glassy surf, I was leaning against a wood rail fence lost in God; I was yearning for so much more of him, trying to put into words the deep groanings for a life more engaged, present… free and true. Then from nowhere bounces up a young black Lab playfully nudging me with perked ears, wildly wagging tail and expressive eyes with the unique-to-labs invitation that enthusiastically says, “Let’s play, gotta stick? A ball? How about the water? Come on!” My reaction? Very revealing: I’m thinking, “Hey, I’m communing with God here: I’m focused in the zone… what are you doing here, where’d you come from? Where’s your master?” Now on every single access or trail to a beach in Los Angeles County are the unavoidable signs that authoritatively state, “No Dogs Allowed on the Beach” with the county code reference posted clearly. A little agitated at the disruption and civil violation I attempted to spook her away. Labs are persistent and persuasive but I resisted and with a gentle foot prod and my best growling “scram” her interest in me was repelled allowing me to return to my uninterrupted abiding in the presence of The Merciful, Kind and Gracious God of all creation. Within five minutes I notice this young lab down on the beach frolicking in the ebb tide, splashing, nipping at the lapping waves…thoroughly enjoying herself. I was captivated watching her sprint up and down the wet sand harassing a flock of gulls and sending them to flight. Whatever God intended a Lab to be this youthful pup was. Free, alive, living as God had wired her to be she was having a ball. And me? I was in a trance like state with the oversized smile of a much younger and less cynical man. Spell bound by this lab I caught myself surprised by the spontaneous prayer and desire that surfaced, “Lord, I want to be a Lab”. Whatever you created me, Craig McConnell to be I long to be. Fully alive, free, frolicking in the waves that come my way. One of the great things about Labs is that is they cannot read signs. There was no restraining her from living out God’s beautifully woven design for her. She was innocently and beautifully criminal. (As we all should be) I can read signs and have. There’ve been a number of signs others/the enemy/the world/the religious spirit have posted to shape and mold me into something more “acceptable”. It kills your heart, and re-scripts your life and world robbing you of ever going to the “beach” and living out of your true, God given identity/nature. This Lab, this frisky intruder triggered a passion for God to work more deeply in my heart while giving me a lasting image of what God has for me. I couldn’t be a lab but I could get one and so we did. A delightful yellow lab we named Sonoma. It’s probably best to avoid the attempt to describe her, but I must: Sonoma is a Sandylands yellow Lab (female). An obsessive retriever with boundless energy. An embarrassing food hussy. Typical of Labs she’s easy going and trusting of anyone, friend or foe. Every one is to be greeted with a simultaneous wagging of head and tail. She speaks through her eyes, by positioning her ears and by tilting her head. Her bad teeth run up the aggravating dental bills but on the upside at eleven years old her breath has a distinctive old dog bouquet. A lover of water whether it be a sprinkler, hose, river, the beach or mud hole. A sweet companion never far away yet independent… not a lap dog. A family dog she’s shaped the lives of our kids and their kids. Cold nosing me out of bed she was the initiator of a thousand walks through the nearby park and woods. I’ve viewed them as me taking the dog for a walk, but more often it was God taking me for a walk. Every walk was different. On each one I’d be throwing the ball and wrestling with Sonoma as God would arrest my heart with stillness or speaking to my anxieties. He endured my bitching and made repentance inevitable. Sonoma would disappear chasing a deer and God would appear with clarity and His patient fathering heart. Sonoma has walked a lot of miles with God and me. Designed for a world far different than the one we’re living in I often forget how closely linked love and attachment are to pain and grief. The coming Kingdom will be a wholly other experience with every tear wiped from our eyes and there will no longer be any death, mourning, crying or pain. (Revelation 21:3-4). Come quickly Jesus! . After an abrupt turn in her health over the last five days I put Sonoma down last night to relieve her from a bleeding internal tumor. Argh! It was brutal. I returned home from the Vet late, emotional and a little disoriented. The tears and grief surged as well as my foe’s wily suggestion that my grief was over the top, a sign of weakness and something to hide. I poured a finger’s width of briny Talisker scotch and cranked my Worship play list to illegal levels. It was the most natural and needed thing to do in the moment. Two things were fiercely unfolding in my tears as I stood reaching for heaven; I was grieving the loss of Sonoma and I was worshipping The Merciful, Kind and Gracious God of all creation for the innumerable Thin Places he brought me through her. Today it’s more of the same; I miss her and I love how God loves me. My life is full of reasons to grieve and even more to worship.

Craig McConnell

A Seawall

Well I didn’t expect that! My oncologist summarized my status by shaking his head and in tone, posture and understatement said, “Well, you had a shorter than average remission.” Eighteen months is short. “Short” doesn’t begin to tell the story. Way too short. The predatory cancer six months of chemotherapy had spooked into immeasurable levels has reappeared with bluster. Lori and I had hoped the enlarging lumps and bumps otherwise known as lymph nodes were merely symptomatic of a one-legged immune system fighting off common flus, viruses, everyday plagues and bacterial malevolence. We were wrong. Yes, we were surprised! I knew my Leukemia could relapse, medically speaking my docs told me it would. Hey, what do they know, right? I have hoped, believed and clung to a picture of being cancer free and living out a long sagely life dying quietly asleep in bed at 107 surrounded by my daughter, my son-in-laws, their children and their children. The walls of the room would have pictures of yet to be taken adventures with Lori to Prince Edward Island, Italy and a Five Star Resort somewhere in the Tropics. There would be shots of me in a stream, in my waders sporting a goofy hat holding an awesome Brook Trout I have yet to catch. There’s a picture of Lori and I on a mountaintop we haven’t climbed to date, or on a sailboat anchored in a Caribbean pirate cove; or holding my newborn great grandson birthed by my grand daughter whose 20 years short of having babies. I can see a collage of photos of family gatherings at holidays in suits, wearing sombreros or lederhosen, toasting, dancing, laughing and posing. Being ambushed and engaged in another alley fight with cancer isn’t in the script I’ve been drafting for my life. Hey, I’m not surrendering nor giving into anything, these are my soul’s unexposed assumptions gurgling up as I sit in the diminutive navy gray exam room while a team of doctors explain the upcoming treatment plan and the need to initiate a donor search for a possible stem cell bone marrow transplantation. Transplantation? What an oddly foreign word that’s strangely now a part of my daily vernacular. And so, I’m writing this from the “Quiet” room at M. D. Anderson Cancer Center in sultry Houston. It’s a quiet, comfortably furnished room with luring overstuffed chairs placed by windows with serene views to the outdoors; there are inspirational books, an aquarium and an inviting half-completed jig-saw puzzle of a New England landscape on the table. I’m delightfully alone except the school of fish that look a little jittery at my presence. I’m praying, reflecting and writing. This whole thing is surreal. Is this really going on? Me? Cancer relapse, another season of treatment and a potential transplant? Okay, someone wake me up, please! We have an internal world; it’s the world of emotions, fears, joys, desires, our truest convictions and beliefs about God, life and ourselves. It’s messy in there and that’s true for all of us, which explains why we’re reluctant to take a gander at it. Not all that’s humming in our interior life needs to govern us or direct us. We may not choose our emotions et cetera but we do choose where we abide, what we hold onto and whether or not we turn to God and/or love others. On one hand, at times I am frightened about a number of issues on the edges of this whole thing and how it plays out. And yet my fear feels leashed to God… restrained like a sea wall that refuses to give way to the tantrums of the ocean. I’ve never been comfortable claiming to have “Suffered”. Especially here, at a Cancer Center where I walk the halls and share the elevator with folk bearing things my heart stumbles over. Nonetheless I have felt the desperation, tension, and the angst of wanting a script for my life that God hasn’t apparently written. Yet, deeper still is the naked confession that God is good. God is good! In the night hours particularly, I’m surrounded by doors, behind each is fear, hopelessness, despair or profound alone-ness. I battle to simply stay in Christ and He in me. It’s the simplest and most difficult of feats. I hate cancer and death’s schoolyard taunts, bullying and fraudulent intimidation; however I love God more than I hate cancer. I have to say it again; I love God more than I hate cancer! Lori and I are on a path that certainly involves going deeper into God than I would have ever chose. There really isn’t any other path. I’m glad there’s a sea wall between unleashed hell and us. - Craig McConnell

Craig McConnell

In Our Twenties

Nine days, five guys in their 20s, two codgers, a single bottle of tequila, and a “We vastly underestimated this” adventure in the Utah wilderness provided every necessity for a clan of hearts inquiring and offering. We rode mountain bikes and drove the White Rim Trail. It’s a trail/road in the same sense that a tightrope is a walkway. It was like driving bumper cars on a double black diamond ski run. It was wild. Great. Over our heads and so righteous. Adventure is a sacrament for men; we partake and we’re present to God and one another, more engaged, and truer than we are otherwise. And so, sitting stream side in the terra cotta talc powder that is Canyonland’s dirt, we swapped stories and questions about everything that really matters: love, God, Eve, good cigars, identity, desire, career, fighting for one’s life, and the Big Unknowns. It was Good. Better than good. Having all the endowments of a sage in this low-bar era—stories that decades script, the requisite scars, a modest level of sanctification, a walk with God, a heart, and a subtle Scottish hyperbolic intuition—I offered the “lessons learned” from my quiver. I’ve got a few. They were received. In the in-between moments, particularly the hushed evenings, Christ took me back to my twenties, the Seventies. There was Vietnam, the Jesus Movement and my coming to Christ, a couple of oil crises, pulling the trigger on marriage, and having two daughters (oh, my… I was scouring toilets as a part-time janitor, wishfully dreaming I would be a part of a small tribe that was changing the world). It was a wearisome decade of music, being “discipled” by a wing nut; there was the Navajo White Leisure Suit, a peanut farmer, a wicked-pisser rafting expedition, losing friends, avoiding cults and jug wine, bouncing off the walls of college and seminary, a beloved pet hermit crab named Shelley, and the unarticulated angst fatherlessness spawns in a young man’s soul. I was lost, flying blind, naïve—unable to negotiate the quagmire and unpredictable tides of life. The ache and void couldn’t be articulated at the time; it was a simple matter of when, where, and how would the next shoe drop? When would I be exposed as the Incredible Shrinking Man, a.k.a. the Bearded Toddler? I lived with a throbbing subsurface anxiety over the roar I heard in the distance, wondering what in the hell it was and when it would blindside me. There was no sage, nor father, no guide. Or so it seemed. Somewhere in all of this Jesus came reminding me of Seminary and being five weeks into Bonehead Hebrew (first year Biblical Hebrew). We were approaching the first test, a mid-term exam, and the apprehension of the class was palatable; we were distracted, I was unhinged. Our knowing professor, Dr. Rigsby, took command of the class and was now, in this moment and time…a father offering from a masterly heart and decades of mentoring aspiring young pastors the words our panicked hearts needed. “If you’re completely lost, staring at the text clueless and trying to convince yourself over and over that this is a translatable language… If you feel like you’re failing and will never get it, you are exactly where you’re supposed to be; you are on your mark. You’ll be fine. You will know Hebrew in all its poetic beauty.” I remember being stunned, overcome by his words. I exhaled the foreboding that was suffocating all hope and aspiration I had for my life as I embraced a perspective only a good father could offer. And Dr. Rigsby was a good father to me. His knowing, the authority he possessed, and immense kindness silenced the shaming, frightened, untrained places Bone Head Hebrew surfaced. He assured me I would be okay, that it was early in the journey, a single semester of discovery in a decade of discovery, and I would make it. And I did make it. There were others who spoke deep validation, gave guidance and instruction through my twenties, but it wasn’t until later, later in life I saw that it was actually God fathering me through them. His words were spun from their words… His life seeded and nutured by them in me. Now as an older soul, I know better than I did in my twenties: our God is a father to the fatherless (Psalm 68:5). A father to you and to me. He’s still fathering me and fathering through me. On fathering, our twenties, God, and all life brings us, John Eldredge and his three sons have created a very cool online magazine called “And Sons.” It’s a magazine for young men and is offered at www.andsonsmagazine.com. Check it out and subscribe (free).

Craig McConnell

New Normals

About a year ago at a post-chemo appointment I raised the issue of a few aggravating side effects I was experiencing. The aftermath of my treatment had left me with a couple of ongoing physical issues and the odious “Chemo Brain”—a processing problem that diminishes one’s short-term memory, focus, and multi-tasking abilities. The “Chemo Brain” plays out with me in mid-conversation as I rifle through my mental files trying to remember the name that goes with the face I’m melting down before… the name I’ve asked for seven times in the first five sentences of our interaction. I can lose the topic of conversation, the story line of a movie, a measurement cutting 2x4s, why I’m in the produce department, what I’m searching for on the internet…the other day I forgot the continent I’m on! My condition goes beyond the affable amnesia age brings on and way beyond the delayed impact of a misspent fascination with hallucinogenics in the late '60s. I try to “work around it” by making lists, only to lose the list! The crazy-maker is that I eventually find all prodigal lists and then bog down determining whether it’s a current actionable list or a relic of a past time. The “helpful” suggestion to simply place your keys, wallet, list, and phone in the bowl by the back door doesn’t work, nor does the memo on fridge to “Put Keys, Wallet, and Phone in the Bowl by the Back Door.” I loaded up a project-organizing app thinking, This is the answer, and forgot the link (it took me a week to remember I had the app and another week to find it). And so, my oncologist says, “The struggles you’re experiencing are common and may disappear or decrease…for some it becomes their New Normal. Let’s give it a year and we’ll see.” “New Normal?!” I hadn’t heard the term before, and my immediate response was that it was an oxymoron...like “Jumbo Shrimp,” “Hot Water Heater,” or “Political Leadership.” “New” “Normal”? I want a normal normal. My normal normal. He never said it, but what I heard was, “It WILL disappear.” Of course it’ll all work out without repercussions; it always does, right? Bad things don’t last, right? Over and over I’ve consoled myself… It’s no more than a bad cold that vanishes within ten to fourteen days. We are all capable of suffering well knowing it’ll only be short term. It’s been a long year of monitoring chemo’s slag. I thought I could beat cancer and life would go on without consequence. I did, it didn’t. I’m not the person I was when I began my six months of chemo. And so the year passes, and the only change is the volume of my concealed barking at God over my new normal. And then God came. He came to me with a few questions. First, like a father who’s decided it’s time to have a loving face-to-face “Come to Jesus” conversation with his son, he says, “You’ve made if clear how you feel about the story you’re living in. How do you feel about the author?" All I could do was gulp. It was deeper than the gulp I had in 1970 when the Texas sheriff told me he was going to tear apart my van until he found the contraband he strongly (correctly) suspected I was carrying. How do I feel about the author? The elephant in my heart had been flushed: my problem wasn’t with the story, it was with the author. I’m living someone else’s story, he’s got it all wrong, it’s a crappy plot with dated themes, gratuitous pain, and an uninspiring direction…it’s a two-bit novel penned by a misguided author. I sat in all of that blasphemous laver for a while, trying to sort out whether or not I was the humbled prodigal (an un-fathered son yet to know the depths of God’s true heart for me), under the spell of the Liar and Thief, or just a garden-variety scumbag sinner. I was silent. Owning my sin and repenting, I broke all agreements regarding the character of God, groaned with longing to know God more deeply, and wept. In no rush, and with warmth and kindness, God the Father, though knowing, still asked, “What is it about this story you so dislike?" My mind was instant in response: Are all my unrealized hopes and dreams lost? Does “the restoration of all things” really include ALL the missed, cut short, and cherished moments and longings of my heart? Must a noble, true life be so very hard? I doubt my ability to suffer, to endure, and live well in my circumstances. I’m not sure I have the will to survive that seems so necessary…so godly. I’m terrified of “finishing” poorly. I don’t want to end with a whimper, an embarrassment, less independent, more dependent upon others…like some I know. (I’ve assumed a more triumphant on-top-of-my-game finish with most of the unreached world having been nudged toward God because of my life. :-)) Rather quickly Christ asked with a curious drawl, “And...you’re the only one who’s faced such struggles?” Shit! A deeper cut, exposed yet again. I was suddenly the Spoiled Brat, the Trust Fund Kid…"that guy" who assumes he is the center of the universe. Of course, I knew—or more accurately, remembered—I was neither the first nor the only man whose life has been uncomfortably disrupted. The themes of the story I battle with are the themes of every man’s story at some point. New normals are normal. Everyone gets New Normals; some are wonderful, others not so. No one escapes change, disruption, the twists and turns of circumstances, the altering tides of relationships, and the turbulence of soul. No one. The issue is, who’s writing the story, and do you trust him with how it will unfold? My circumstances haven’t changed; I’ve got some physical issues, legit losses, I forget stuff, I can’t find the Manhattan I was sipping on when I started this blog. How do people tolerate my being so easily distracted? What meetings, emails, and deadlines did I miss today? AND I’m finding a peace with my story. It’s the tale of a man finding himself in a much larger story, a sacred romance where his grief and laughter are all embraced, known and cherished by a Father who has nothing but unimaginably wonderful surprises up his sleeve. “New normals” are a grace. - Craig McConnell

Craig McConnell

Joy

Sometimes it’s hard to put words to the deepest longings of our soul—this picture captures one of mine. I see intimacy, ecstasy...the absolute, total joy of my grandson, Jameson, surfing with his father, Jared. For Jameson there is no sin, no brokenness, no settling, or portioning, no holding back or muting of his desire. He is with his father, experiencing his father's love, sharing in his adventure, safe, alive, free and knowing the fullness of everything a two-year-old young boy can possibly experience. Jameson is in the presence of his father and his God. I so long for the same! You? “Joy is the infallible sign of the presence of God.” — Pierre Tielhard de Chardin

Craig McConnell

Overdue

I’m overwhelmed looking at a very full email inbox. I get the same feeling looking at a stack of unpaid bills. Overdue bills. How does so much time pass between my good intentions, responding promptly, and my actual follow through? It’s embarrassing. Worse yet, I really don’t want to lose touch with those God has circled around me. I’m exposed as someone I wish I weren’t. I get that technology is a squawking hole luring me into the godless pursuit of being present/connected to everyone, anyone. I feel no guilt on that front! However, there are characters that move in and out of our story as the chapters roll by… characters you love, bleed with; men and women who’ve found a place in our heart. Staying engaged, present, connected with these soul mates isn’t a courtesy. It's life. We can’t do this alone. I can’t anyway. The Author of the story that is mine has put warriors, lovers, a Methodist, poets, a couple of doctors, Oregon wine lovers/intercessors, more than enough prophets, a retired trial attorney, several Swiss, artists, and salt of the earth folk in my life. I love them… may they know it. Lord, I long to be like you, to love like you, offering yourself, present, strong… engaged. - Craig McConnell

Craig McConnell

A Park Bench—The Presence of God

Over the last several months I hit a bottom, probably not The Bottom, but a true and new bottom for me… an immobilizing of my heart, passion, soul, relationships, and spirit. I feared my state. I could share the back story but that’s not the story. This is the story… I’m at my desk staring at the computer waiting for either the inspiration, energy, or focus to accomplish a little something that might affirm my being an image-bearer of the Most High Eternal Triune God of Creation, when a Staff Member steps in to say something about something and disrupts my glazed stare. I think she was sent by God to pierce the fog of my life and leave behind some sort of a “grace-bomb” with a fuse set to go off two minutes after she exited. She exited and before I could re-enter my striving to be fruitful, I had an unsolicited and seemingly random vision or picture from God. Here it is… I’m sitting on a park bench stretched out like a warped board slouched with my legs extended out in front of me and my head resting on the bench’s back railing. It’s a beautiful park with large grassy areas separated by a walkway slaloming between huge mature shade trees. I’m checked out, not really present staring off straight ahead over the horizon at nothing. Though I’m cognizant of my surroundings there is no conscious thought. I was in that state in which you don’t ever wink or swallow, there’s no measurable brain activity and barely a pulse… you are alive but not present. That’s me! Somehow this old bench is bearing all my weight and the shit-load of all that’s weighing on me. I am certifiably detached from life. It’s mid-day and there’s a warm breeze blowing just enough to rustle the leaves of the Cottonwood that’s shading me. The scene cries summer with the air full of pollen, gnat tornadoes and the musty scent of fresh cut grass. In the background is the sound of sprinklers machine gunning water over a flower bed… chit-chit-chit-chit-chitachitachitchit. Straight ahead, a little to the left, is an old park table with four young women enjoying their Grande coffees and the reunion they’re having. To the right is a young brother and sister on their bikes playing some form of follow the leader where the leader tries to lose the follower. Almost 90 degrees to my left a bunch of pigeons are trying to enforce a clear pecking order while scrambling to eat a handful of feed someone threw out for them. I’m taking this all in but unmoved by any of it. It’s clinical; I’m an observer of life but not a participant in it. As my vision pans right, back from the birds to resume my vigilant dazed and confused gape I notice or sense something peripherally… right next to me. It’s a person. I can’t hide my being startled by this out-of-no-where stranger who’s suddenly sitting eight inches from me on our shared little bench. It’s a man, an older man with weathered but not leathered skin. Actually it’s God. Oh my God, it is God! I don’t know how I knew, but I knew (it’s kinda like living in Los Angeles and passing one of a gazillion Mexican restaurants… you intuitively know that this one serves a great combination plate though you’ve never seen it, been in it or heard of it. You just know!). Now this whole picture/vision seemed to be unfolding in a millisecond and in the next millisecond I notice my bench friend, The One True and Eternal, Just and Holy, Powerful and All Knowing God hasn’t yet said a word or even made eye contact with me. Furthermore, like me, he is slouched and staring straight ahead. And then I notice there’s a tear forming and then falls from the corner of his eye. Huh… he’s very human, common… real. Fully God, truly man. One of the things that struck me as odd throughout this picture or vision is that my posture doesn’t change, I don’t sit up straight on the bench or fall on my face… my demeanor and countenance remain the same. Though God is stretched out eight inches from me, I am outwardly unfazed! Equally unexpected is that he’s unanimated, silently slouched on a park bench, apparently killing time. If you were to have walked by us and seen us you may have muttered under your breath the commentary, “Get a life!” There we were, the two of us sharing a bench for what felt like hours with nothing said, no eye contact… just sitting and staring off into nowhere. The most stunning part of the picture was the silence. And the tears. He was silent and that was okay. That he said nothing said so much. He was just there, next to me… with me... and I was in his presence and... he’s crying. He was silent, but his tears said everything. I knew that He knows all that I’m facing: the losses and pain; the struggles and terrors; my failures and ache to live and love well. I could tell He knew, and knowing that he knew everything about me, my life and this season… brought a tear to his eye. He’s crying with me, for me, over me. The tear is everything! He didn’t offer affirmation with deeply validating words, “Craig, you have lived so well in this difficult season. Well done, my son… you’re so on the right track… I love you! Keep it up”. That he didn’t offer that seemed to say I didn’t need it. Wow! He didn’t call me out, either. There was no exposing of another deeply rooted, profoundly governing, historic and systemic sin that explains my struggle to live and love well from a heart of true adoration and worship of God. That he didn’t go there seemed to say so much. So, so very much. Apparently there was something more important than going over all of that. I cannot explain all this picture/vision of God and me sharing a park bench meant and had for me, but a mere moment in the presence of God felt as if time stood still…. It was as if I was in his presence for hours and hours. And in those moments everything lifted. In his presence, I was in a zero-gravity-of-the-soul state. The poundage, burden, pressure… the crushing of heart, soul, spirit, and desire was lifted. There was no sin; no idolatry or fear; no loss or tears: every desire we have in life-this-side-of-heaven was gone… the longings and groaning for life and all we were created to have were, in his presence satisfied. Nothing lacking, nothing missing, nothing wanted… nothing but pure, full, expansive and deep satisfaction, joy… life itself is what I had in his presence. The whole “My burden is light” thing made sense for the first time ever. With the weight I carry—that you carry—lifted we can breathe, live, laugh, worship, dance, love…. In his presence is life; everything changes because you are in His presence. Well, as it always does in the here-and-now, the picture, the vision, these moments with God transitioned... it ended and I was sitting alone in my broken desk chair like any man whom God has visited. Stunned, surprised, wanting to fall on my face in worship. I spent the next hour and then hours over the next week unpacking the beauty, power, affirmation, hope, and life of these moments. Almost immediately I was aware that while nothing had changed with my life, everything had changed with life. My cancer hasn’t disappeared, nor the anger a couple dozen people have so powerfully expressed toward me; my pesky neighbor hasn’t moved, the financial issues remain, my internal battle of withdrawing continues, an old friend still prefers being an ex-friend, and my freaking car is now acting up. Nothing has changed with difficult circumstances and challenging relationships of my life. But having been on that bench and experiencing all that comes in being in his presence, I have been introduced to something very new, though I’ve probably taught it eloquently for years: Being in the presence of God changes everything. Everything! You do not see life the same, in his presence. The very, very real troubles of life look very, very different in his presence. Somehow, in his presence, worry, fear, hatred, weakness, and pain cannot exist. You see yourself most clearly in his presence. Everything I yearn for in a world that is so violent, parched, deceptive, and unforgiving is found in the presence of God. (I have often sought God’s words, voice, counsel, understanding, guidance, and validation. Each of those are valid and necessary pursuits to go to God with. What’s new for me, in this season, is to simply pursue him and all the other things will be taken care of.) I can't tell you where I spend most of my time, but it isn't in the presence of God.... I can tell you that one moment on a park bench with him is better than a thousand elsewhere. Oh, God, extend the times we're together. - Craig McConnell

Craig McConnell

Bowl of Chili

It’s Tuesday evening and I’m spent, dizzy from a full day chasing my tail, accomplishing nothing. Yep, I’m living life large on 3 cylinders futzing around the house; reorganizing my junk drawer; opening bills and clipping them smartly to their envelopes while stacking them alphabetically; updating my shopping list to include AAA batteries; straightening up the bathroom sink…updating my Facebook status and feeding the dog. All of this activity staving off the accusation that I’m a lazy slouch, none of this activity touching the ache of my soul to offer my gloriously unique gifting for the furtherance of the Kingdom today. These stop-and-go, haphazard, fretfully distracted days filled with small things that sap energy, soul and spirit are all too frequent! Mercifully Lori calls me to dinner and I sit down to a hefty bowl of comfort food, i.e. chili topped with jack cheese, red onion, cilantro and sour cream. I’m taking my first bite as she updates me on my daughter’s weekend relational conflict with a friend saying, “You ought to read the follow-up letter she wrote to Audrey” (her out-of-sorts friend). So, I pull up my email and begin to read her letter. I didn’t/couldn’t take another bite of chili for 30 minutes. The tears were familiar. Pouring down a historic route over my cheeks and off my chin. The tears weren’t light, they came up from somewhere deep, similar to those I shed welcoming my daughters into this world, akin to those saying “goodbye” when they each left for school in Europe or those as we danced, held their newborn child for the first time. They were very familiar… and very new. And, God shows up. Surprised He enters the scene touching, speaking, moving, stirring up emotions, memories, longings and hopes… bringing comfort, healing… hope. I was overwhelmed the waterworks of a happy man… of a blessed man, a man who could have died and gone to heaven that very moment. Meagan’s letter in word, spirit, texture and affect blew me away. Her handling of, and speaking to her friend’s heart and soul was kind, forgiving, full of understanding, courageous, strong, inviting and authentic. Her worldview, love of God, maturity and pursuit of her friend jumped out to me. She is the person I hope to be someday. Is there a day a father doesn’t bear some weight, a burden we’ve grown so accustomed to we hardly notice it… a question about our children’s journey and who they’re becoming and how they’ll “turn out”? It lies just beneath the waterline of consciousness surfacing from time to time. Added to this acclimatized strain we carry is another question inseparable from the former… it’s a notch deeper perhaps and it’s all about us. “How am I doing as a father? Am I screwing her up… do I have what it takes… is all this effort ‘working’… will she be everything I have hoped and prayed… is God at work?” We are often and deeply afraid of what we’ve done, are doing and will do as a parent… and the consequences! She’s too young to get her ears pierced… right? Is Barbie a corrupting model of femininity/beauty? What do I do about the influence her “friends” are having on her? Why am I so easily infuriated? What about the music she loves, movies she watches, clothes she wears… egads! Did the time I let her cry in her crib when everything in me said to go in and comfort her wound her… or was it that fit of anger when she came home late… yikes! How about the church youth group… it’s dead! Will she know and love God intimately or be merely compliantly religious. I think I blew it with the Beverly Hills 9012487 parties… and the NKOTB concert. Was my discipline too strict or lenient? I should have emphasized school more… the guy she’s dating is a flake!#$@? Oh God… dear God come for her… come for me! I have worried and wondered… paced the floor, pounded the ground, cried out to God, beat myself up as as a father and doubted God’s clear-strong-whispered words over the years… “Craig, your daughters… they’re mine, I’ve got them, we’re tight, we’re good. Don’t worry. Don’t be afraid, don’t panic… trust me… love Me, love them… live trusting.” And until this letter I doubted God and his words to me. No longer. Seeing my daughter through her letter made it all very clear. My every concern about how she might “turn out” was dismissed, every worry stilled, the questions settled. God spoke into my heart, “Craig, you are a good father… look at your girls”. I was happily sobered and embarrassed that I had ever doubted him and his work in her and through me. I could not nor is it possible to be prouder of my girls at this stage of their lives. They quite simply are beautiful in every way. Every way! As for me as a dad… God could not, nor is it possible for him to be prouder of me. I’m his, he’s mine, we’re tight, and we’re good. What a bowl of chili! – Craig McConnell (from the archives)

Craig McConnell

Love DJ

I'm preparing to speak to 400 women at our women’s Captivating Retreat this Saturday on "Loving A Man". I'm pretty excited about sharing my sagely heart, what an honor! (My next thought is, ?!%$@! What a weight… 350 husbands depending on me to step up and into the gap advocating for them!) It’s been a sweet time allowing the desires of my masculine heart regarding a woman’s love surface. Memories, moments, disappointments and the lingering joys of 38 years of my marriage to Lori rise. I’m in a good place, God is present, I’m smiling, reflecting and writing. Then I think, "Hey, what do some of the great love songs have to say about love from a man's perspective?" So... two hours have passed and I'm stuck in my big easy chair, alone, spinning Love Songs like a late Saturday night DJ, a little weepy and hoping I can make a shift to Outlaw Country real soon. - Craig McConnell

Craig McConnell

Brothel Doors

“Every time a man knocks on a brothel door, he is really knocking for God” - G.K. Chesterton I pick up the phone and as the unexplained sobs abate I hear the story of a man’s life, marriage and family being shattered by his secret, sexual, sin exploding to the surface. Too many times, too many very good men, blindsided women, and innocent familes butchered. In every case, it’s what Chesterton is hitting on, beneath all sexual sin is the quest for something totally non-sexual. Ultimately it’s a search for the exhilaration that we were designed for, crave deeply and only find in God. Beneath all sexual sin is the quest for something totally non-sexual. “We need an approach to struggles with lust, porn, and sexual addiction which honor the brokenness in our lives, yet point us toward wholeness in Christ. We need an approach which reminds us of our heart’s deepest desire–something more fulfilling than sexual gratification.” – Michael Cusick I, we couldn’t agree more with Michael on the approach to freedom from sexual sin that deals with the deeper questions and issues of a man’s heart and the gratification we’re most deeply pursuing. Another excerpt from Michael Cusick: “… A man’s sexual appetite is a barometer for what’s going on inside his heart. Your sex drive consists of more than testosterone and the buildup of seminal fluid pressing for biological release, more than being visually stimulated and feeling aroused. Sexual arousal is an accumulation of your experiences, deep needs, and unconscious beliefs. Your heart shares a deep connection to your body parts. The way you are sexually aroused reflects what’s happening deep in your soul, beyond your sexual organs. Indeed, sex is as much spiritual mystery as it is physical fact. The reality is that your heart needs something, and porn promises to meet that need." (“Surfing For God: Discovering the Divine Desire Beneath Sexual Struggle”, pg. 15-16) Michael, a good friend and Wild at Heart ally just released a book titled, “Surfing For God: Discovering the Divine Desire Beneath Sexual Struggle.” I just read it and want to recommend it to every man and the women in a man’s life. I couldn’t give it higher praise. “ ‘What makes pornography so addictive,’ wrote John Eldredge, ‘is that more than anything else in a man’s life, it makes him feel like a man without ever requiring a thing of him.’ The allure of porn is that— contrary to a woman in real life—it makes us feel like men, and it never rolls its eyes at us or rolls over in bed. Porn never reminds us of our failures, flaws, or shortcomings. It doesn’t evaluate our appearances or performances, our net worths or credentials. Porn doesn’t tell us to clip our toenails or put the toilet seat down. Porn doesn’t care if we are sullen, irritable, overweight, selfish—even undesirable. Porn’s only requirement of a man is a pulse—and maybe the click of a mouse. Struggles with porn confirm our suspicions that we do not have what it takes to be a man. Somewhere deep inside we believe that we lack the strength to relate to a real woman… Pornography knows men’s weakness. It speaks to that weakness, softly . . .. But for most men, it starts with the soft voice that speaks to our deepest fear: That we aren’t man enough.” So in the absence of felt strength, we turn to porn as if it were steroids for our soul. In our minds, porn makes us bigger, stronger, and more desirable. We get our fix and affirm our manhood. The seductive images reliably tell us that we are the man. But as we do with real steroids, we risk porn’s damaging side effects and possible public disgrace. Without this drug, we become just another guy and wonder if we make the cut. C. S. Lewis understood this when he wrote that every time a man masturbates, he chips away at his manhood. Porn gives us permission to avoid asking the hard questions about our masculine souls. Why do I feel weak in the presence of a particular woman? Why is so much at stake when I relate to her? Why do I feel I have so little to offer? But when we scrape together the courage to face these questions, we discover life-changing truths about ourselves that can set us free. Truths that will lead us to something better than porn." (“Surfing For God: Discovering the Divine Desire Beneath Sexual Struggle”, pg. 18,19) I’ve walked with men and their families back into freedom, hope, clarity, healing and redemption. It isn’t easy, but it is available. Michael’s book, “Surfing For God: Discovering the Divine Desire Beneath Sexual Struggle” will pave the way. Additionally, there are a limited number of free copies available at this link. http://Nelsonfree.com/SurfingForGod - Craig McConnell

Craig McConnell

Disappearing Before My Eyes

She’s disappeared. Several years ago my mom was diagnosed with Lewy Body Dementia. If it’s true that the window of the soul is the eye, my mom’s windows are smudged and opaque, silver, muted in color and passion. Glazed, lost, disoriented… confused. To think of life without my mom seems unthinkable. No more mom, who with knowing eyes can speak mercy, love and kindness into my life. Gone are the life affirming hugs. Her embrace is now a grasp… a searching for the strength and hope that there is indeed a future… a heaven, another land, a river to cross… life again. She’s embracing me in her last days as I did her in my first. Her memory, our names... life is disappearing, eroding... it feels like a cruel finish. It isn't for the simple reason it isn't the end. My prayer is for the full comfort and peace of Christ and a grand, imminent entry into the eternal kingdom of our Lord. Then, in the hours following I will drink the finest wine to celebrate her victory over death; my tears will be joy; my worship of the One who holds the keys to life and death beyond passion. Life wins in the end. When I saw him, I fell at his feet as though dead. Then he placed his right hand on me and said: “Do not be afraid. I am the First and the Last. I am the Living One; I was dead, and now look, I am alive forever and ever! And I hold the keys of death and Hades. - Revelation 20 - Craig McConnell

Craig McConnell

Father of the Bride

I’d forgotten how sentimental the movie “Father of The Bride” is. Together, our staff took a long lunch to watch the film and encourage our colleague Brad Beck, who will be “giving away” his daughter Brianne this weekend. Somewhere near the middle of the movie a transition took place; I was no longer watching a comedy starring Steve Martin, I was caught up in the memories, remembering, reliving and savoring the season, ceremony and celebration of my two daughter’s weddings. The movie ended and I swam home to linger in my journals, giving my heart permission to enjoy the life I live and the family encircling me. I'd like to share a few of my journal entries from the past over the next week on "Daughters, Fathering, Weddings, Grandchildren and Such". A journal entry from August 12, 2007 It began in tears… of joy. It ended in tears of grief. Within three hours of landing in Los Angeles I was sitting in an upscale lounge in the Mon Amie Bridal Salon. Meagan, in another room, was putting on the wedding dress she chose for her wedding and hoped I would love at my first viewing. It was interesting, a bit odd and the perfect set up - I’m in a waiting room while, in a separate room, privately, the bride-to-be is dressed while standing on a platform in a room of mirrors, complementary lighting, soft background music and a Mon Amie seamstress/associate present to assist (and insure that absolutely no photos are taken… until you have bought the dress). Readied the associate invites Lori and me into the “viewing” room to see our daughter in The Dress. All that unfolded is a little foggy. What I do know is that I lost my breath seeing Megs. I could not speak... not a word. I circled her wearing a smile and my heart on my sleeve. She asked me 2-3 times, “Dad, do you like it… what do you think?” She knew the answer but had to ask. Initially I could only look her in the eyes and nod approvingly… I felt like I was snorkeling… sucking air and viewing the world through a veil of water, or tears in my case. In a moment the words came, “Honey, you are the most beautiful woman in the world and the dress has nothing to do with it”. And it didn’t. The dress was merely an extension of all the speechless qualities I love about my daughter: alive, passionate, beautiful, feminine and funky, stunning and simple, trendy-unique-different, warm and unpretentious. I want the aisle I walk her down to be so very, very long. - Craig McConnell

Craig McConnell

The Issue Isn't Our Desire, It's Our Timing.

We were created for unimaginable levels of pleasure… isn’t that what Eden held? Therefore, of course we legitimately long for all the pleasure we can squeeze out of life… that’s part of being, at the core, an Image Bearer. And there is no condemnation or shame in wanting our lives to be free of the hassles, discomfort and suffering that commonly jumps out and upon us in this life. The issue isn’t our desire, it is our timing. How much of what will fully be ours in heaven is available now? Yes we were made for Eden and it will be ours again… fully in the future! Until then we mustn’t be naïve to the realities of the world and fall victim to a spirit that demands all the pleasures of heaven we were designed for, now. - Craig McConnell (John and I have a conversation on this theme in this week’s podcast, “Worldview 4 Part 4) http://itunes.apple.com/podcast/john-eldredge-ransomed-heart/id260843816?mt=2

Craig McConnell

Hitting The Wall

I remember Bill Sayers and I running the Redondo Beach Village Runner Fourth of July 5K. It’s a route set on the bluffs above the ocean run by a festive mob of Los Angelinos. The holiday enthusiasm of the crowd causes most to underestimate the deceptively steep and daunting final 2.5 kilometers. Bill and I ran with youthful vigor, thinking, as most do, “it’s only a 5K… we can trot this backwards with both arms tied behind our back, wearing Elvis suits while balancing seven plates on our heads.” How often we underestimate what we’re facing. We were fine until we hit the infamous “I” Avenue “Wall” and were passed by a coterie of pregnant women pushing strollers. Wounded masculine pride is an untapped energy source. With a glance Bill and I knew we had to ‘KICK’ the last 150 yards to pass the fleet-footed stroller team and re-establish our high finish in the Over 55-heavyweight-happy-go-lucky-good-guys–who-love-God-and-have-two-kids-and-hot-wives Division. So we kicked like mules with a bad rash; like war horses snorting under the strain of battle we went deep into overdrive and sprinted a solid 100 yards… 50 yards short of the finish. There was no glide time, drafting or coasting. We were blowing oil, throwing rods, overheating… We came up short and limped across the finish line sucking air, totally spent like a couple of vanquished weekend warriors. This cancer season has some similarities to that story. I’m running a race but keep misjudging where the finish line is. I thought the finish line was my last infusion of chemo. Nope. How often we underestimate what we’re facing. I sprinted and came up short. Apparently there’s a season of recovery, healing and finding a new normal I wasn't aware of. It’s pretty gruesome to realize how hard we can be upon ourselves with our demands for recovery, healing, performance and normalcy following the traumas, wounds and battles we endure. I’m pretty certain we can expect more from ourselves than Christ does. I thought I was running a standard 5K but I’ve already covered 10K’s and am still moving forward. This is a race I’ll finish and by the grace and strength of God I’ll hoist a tall cold one and echo Timothy’s words, “I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith." What mile-marker are you at? - Craig McConnell

Craig McConnell

Limitations

Today is "Cycle Six, Day Ten" which in Chemotherapy parlance means that the first day of my sixth and final cycle of Chemo was ten days ago. Internally some demonstrative part of me is screaming, “Are you Florence Kling DeWolf-Harding me? I’ve peaked and valley-ed a thousand times, at least forty days have passed?!!?” This cycle involved a notch or two increase in my experience of "Chemo Brain" (crippled short term memory, seemingly no ability to focus or multi-task, general foggy thinking/feeling). So, having finished the blessed poison I was anxious and a bit premature in my efforts to read through the last eight months of journal entries to draw out all the redemptive lessons, experiences, ups & downs and draft a "Shit Howdy" personal story. It would be something to point to as a tangible "it was all worth it" trophy that helps make a little more sense of the hell I just went through. Evidence that "I'm back… a contributor, a participant, a value or needed/appreciated "producer". It would’ve been an honest and vulnerable inspiration, a vehicle for God to call His people to fuller consecration and deeper worship. I can’t do it. It can’t be done. I’m fried. It is hard being weak, limited… on the bench… non-productive, beached (or is it “Shipwrecked”?). So, this morning Lori reads out of one of her favorite Devotionals: “Thank Me for the conditions that are requiring you to be still. Do not spoil these quiet hours by wishing them away, waiting impatiently to be active again. Some of the greatest works in My kingdom have been done from sick beds and… Instead of resenting the limitations of a weakened body, search for My way in the midst of these very circumstances. Limitations can be liberating when your strongest desire is living close to Me. Quietness and trust enhance your awareness of My Presence with you. Do not despise these simple ways of serving Me. Although you feel cut off from the activity of the world, your quiet trust makes a powerful statement in spiritual realms. My Strength and Power show themselves most effective in weakness.”* I HAVE tasted a bit of this, yet still resist the thought that His grace and Power are best seen in/through my weaknesses (2 Corinthians 9). - Craig McConnell * Lori’s devotional is “Jesus Calling: Enjoying Peace in His Presence”, by Sarah Young).

Craig McConnell