Articles & Posts

#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

A Fork in the Road

I put the silverware into the dishwasher prongs down. That way, when I go to remove the clean and shiny silverware, I only touch the handles. I don’t touch the scoop of the spoon where someone will put his or her mouth. I don’t handle the tines of the fork where licking may occur. It makes sense to me. It’s the way my mother did it. So it has been, so it shall be. My way is best. It’s not the way helpful guests at my home always do it though. Yes, I am the woman who can be found late at night before turning on the dishwasher– turning the forks over. Somebody help me. This controlling tendency thing in me would be great if it remained limited to the dishwasher but it does not. I am an opinionated woman. Take toilet paper for example. I like the paper rolling over the top. Doesn’t everybody? Ummmm. No. I congratulate myself on my personal growth that I now longer “fix” the toilet paper at other people’s homes when I am well, using their facilities. It’s sad really. Ok, maybe it’s not sad. It’s merely a clue to a deeper need to control my world (read other people) in order to feel settled. Safe. Better. Enter Jesus. Oh yes, please, enter Jesus. He’s compassionate and understanding and doesn’t shame me for my oddities. But I do sometimes feel him shaking his head at me over them. “Oh, Stasi, Stasi. Let it go.” He doesn’t shame me but he does invite me to change. To see. To be willing to engage with him so that he might reveal not only my other more harmful ways that I grasp for control but to reveal what lies underneath. So I might repent. So he might heal me. So I can grow to trust him with the little and the big. With the forks. With the friends. With my family. With my hopes and my failures. With my cares. With my everything. “All to Jesus, I surrender. All to him I freely give.” Starting with the silverware, moving on to the toilet paper and then,…well, only God knows.

Stasi Eldredge

#005: (Video/Audio) Risking Love – An Interview with Bart Hansen [Podcast]

An old, wise man, Jeremiah, suggested this: Go stand at the crossroads and look around. Ask for directions to the old road, The tried-and-true road. Then take it. Discover the right route for your souls. (Jeremiah 6) There are few things in which I find more life than asking older men the hard and holy questions, helping to illuminate the tried-and-true road. Join me for a conversation with a friend and hero, Bart Hansen, and together let’s discover more of what is right for your soul and mine. (We captured this conversation as both an audio podcast and a video.) Click to Listen Podcast: Subscribe in iTunes | Play in browser | Download

Bart Hansen

005: (Video/Audio) Risking Love – An Interview with Bart Hansen [Podcast]

Bart Hansen

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

For When You Feel Like Dirt

My friend’s son is in boot camp. He doesn’t hail from a military family but he lives in a military town and he knew what to expect. Further, he’s an athlete. He’s strong and lithe and knows intimately what it means to push himself beyond all limits. In a recent letter home he said it’s harder than he ever imagined. He gets three hours of sleep a night, four if he’s lucky. He’s pushing harder than he ever has before, every waking moment, while at the same time being yelled at. One of his letters contained only two sentences: “I am dirt. Nothing but dirt.” You understand he didn’t mean he was covered with dust and in desperate need of a shower, right? This was deeper. This dirt is something we can all relate to. Have you ever felt like dirt? Lower than low? Worthless? Trudged upon? Of course you have. Maybe you feel like dirt today. Maybe someone said something or did something to you that crushed you into the ground. Maybe you said something or did something and you feel covered with filth. My friend is amazing, loves God passionately, and prays for her son ceaselessly. She wrote him back with truth we can all claim as our own. Remember the story in John, chapter 8? A woman caught in the very act of adultery was thrown onto the ground before Jesus, covered by nothing but a bed sheet and her shame. Surrounded by her outraged community armed with stones, she kept her eyes down. Jesus said, “Let him who is without sin throw the first stone.” Then he stooped down and wrote in the dirt. After he did, one by one her accusers dropped their stones and walked away. Or how about the story of the blind man in John, chapter 9? Jesus spit into the dirt, made mud with it and applied it to the man’s eyes. He then told the man to go wash it off and when he did, his blindness had been washed away as well. He could see! Dirt + Jesus = the Miraculous. What a letter to receive. Here’s the deal. We were all formed out of the dust of the ground. Hand crafted from dirt. “For you were made from dust, and to dust you will return,” Genesis 3:19 reminds us. We may be gripped with anger, ready to hurl our judgment, or we may be lying flat out in the dirt ready to receive it. We may be blinded by others' sins against us or blinded by our own. We may be anywhere, really. It doesn’t really matter where. Because, wherever we are, Jesus has come to us and is coming even now. The Master Craftsman continues to form us, and our hope does not lie in the stuff of which we are made. Our hope lies in him. Dirt + Jesus = the Miraculous.

Stasi Eldredge

The Gift of Dependence

“Would you please get me some apple juice?” my husband John asked. He was standing in front of the open refrigerator longing for juice but unable to get it for himself. One broken wrist was in a cast, the other in bandages recovering from surgery to repair a major dislocation. But that is another story. John is a strong and capable man, used to being leaned upon. This needing thing was both new and uncomfortable for him. And it lasted for months. It was hard—for him. For me, it was an opportunity to love and care for him. I remember the apple juice moment because it was one of the times my heart rose up in irritation that he couldn’t just get it himself. What is extraordinary, because I am not by nature a patient woman, is how most of the time, I loved having him need me. He needed me! Clearly. Unapologetically. Indisputably. Externally and internally. The man needed me. What John learned in those months is partly detailed in his book Walking with God. What I learned is that I came alive being needed. His dependence was a great gift to me and also, in the end, to him. I’m remembering it now because I just washed my twenty-year-old son’s hair in the sink. He’s recovering from shoulder surgery and is unable to move or lift his arm for the next six weeks. He can’t drive. He can’t tie his shoes. He can’t yet wash his own hair. Call me crazy, but I was thrilled to do it. I still remember leaning over the kitchen sink as a child and having my mother wash my hair. Her fingernails gently working the lather into my scalp is a memory that is evoked every time I have the pleasure of going to the hair salon. I felt cared for. Loved. Safe. Did she love doing it for me as much as I just loved washing my child’s hair? Being needed is a gift. Yes, we value independence. To be mobile. Self-sufficient. Able to take care for ourselves. Yay. But we are a dependent people. Dependent for air, food, water. Needful of others. Needful of God. He is our Divine Helper, our Ezer, without whom we will not be able to live a life of meaning filled with what matters most. Truth. Beauty. Goodness. Love. How do we get our thirst quenched when we are unable to quench it ourselves? How do we care for ourselves when we are unable to move? How do our needs get addressed when they are too deep for us to tend? We need God. Realizing that we need him is a profound, humbling, and extraordinary gift. Because when we turn to him, we find him. When we call out to him, he answers. When we cry, he comforts. Not merely or even primarily in the tangible and immediate way we may yearn for, but more often in a deep, steadying encounter that becomes clear only as the moment has passed. We are not alone! We are not orphans left to figure out life on our own! We are dependent! Do you think that maybe God loves it when we realize it? Don’t you love it when someone you love needs you? I believe God enjoys it when we call out to him, recognize that we need him and lean into his unending grace-filled strength. Being needed is a gift. These days my son needs me in ways that are tangible, and his need of me is a gift to this mother’s heart. My availability to him is my gift to him. That’s how it works in the Kingdom of God. Win win. Gift gift.

Stasi Eldredge

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

His Banner Over Me is Love

Self-judgment can feel to me, well, justified. But that hard kernel of shame does not yield a fruit of self-control or change or any other good thing in my life. Instead, it turns into a shield that affects my capacity to receive Love. It becomes the foggy, warped lens through which I view my every relationship and myself. I simply don't believe I am loved or lovable. It couldn't possibly be true. In fact, left alone, the little hard kernel of self-judgment grows like an aggressive cancer, wreaking havoc in my life. The small stone becomes a massive rock that is too large for me to move. But God (still two of my favorite words), but God is in the business of moving stones. There is no grave-sealing, heavy, love-blocking weight that he cannot overcome. And I have a part to play. God has asked me to renounce self-judgment and as valid as it feels, I am obeying. I am finding that renouncing judgment breaks up the painful claim of hatred imposed upon myself and allows Love to come in. It allows grace to come in. I give up my position of judge and give it over to the One who is the rightful Judge, Jesus Christ. The core of my being is aligning with the Truth that judging myself harshly is not my right, nor even remotely godly. It can feel justified. But it bleeds into every aspect of my heart and life. It leaks out towards others. I become prickly and defensive. It prevents me from being able to receive and offer grace. It blocks my ability to believe that I am actually loved, right now, even in this weak place. I choose again in this moment to renounce self-hatred and self-judgment, and I surrender to God. I choose to believe him and all the incredibly marvelous things he says about and feels toward me. I know I'm blowing it. But "Judged" is not the banner over my life. "Loved" is. And that banner is flying high over yours, too.

Stasi Eldredge

Experiencing the Fullness of God—Really

A number of folks I know and love are chasing hard after God these days. I think the times are demanding it. The draining nature of the pace of life combined with the spiritual battles that seem to be hitting everyone are creating in us a deeper need and hunger for more of God. Just this week a dear friend said to me, "I just need more of God." I sure need more of God. I bet you do, too. How do we find "more of God"? Where do we look? Folks seem to be looking to the latest cool conference, the new worship CD, the prophetic teacher, churches and experiences promising "encounters." Some of it delivers. But it doesn't seem to last. So you've got to find the next new conference, the next breakthrough worship CD, the next "encounter." I don't think love works like that. I don't think God plays hide and seek, bait and switch, running from this city to that speaker to this next promise of an encounter. That doesn't sound like love to me. How do we find fullness in you, Father??? I re-read Ephesians 3 this week, which climaxes in this promise: "that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God." What??!! That's it—that's it! How do we find that? For this reason I kneel before the Father, from whom his whole family in heaven and on earth derives its name. I pray that out of his glorious riches he may strengthen you with power through his Spirit in your inner being, so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith. And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the saints, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge--that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God (vs 14-19). There it is—that we might be filled to all the fullness of God! That's what we yearn for, what we are chasing, what we so desperately need! Wouldn't it be incredible to be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God???!!!! And God is showing us the way to that fullness. Pay careful attention to the progression Paul walks us through, prays us through: 1. That God our Father would strengthen us with power through his Spirit in our inmost being. That's Step 1. I think that alone would change my life. But it is only the beginning of this incredible progression. Having that, we are able to move to Step 2... 2. That Jesus might really fill and dwell in our hearts. Wonderful. Yes! If our hearts were really filled with the presence of Jesus??! From there we can move into Step 3... 3. That we might be rooted and grounded in love. Wouldn't that be incredible? Who do you even know that is rooted and grounded in love? It is the widespread weariness and unsettledness that is causing us to need more of God. We can be rooted and grounded in love?! Step 4 builds on this... 4. That we might have power to grasp the full height, depth, length, and breadth of Jesus's love. Oh yes, Father—we need this! I know it would transform our lives. But there's more... 5. Paul prays that we would KNOW this love (experience it—deep, personal "knowing"). And from this place we get to the goal, Step 6... 6. That we might be filled to all the fullness of God! Oh, friends—there is a treasure here for us. There is a rescue here for us. A path is laid out for us. I think great conferences, CDs, and "encounters" are all good and have their place. But the truth is, they don't last, and honestly, much of them don't really deliver on the promises being made. Here is a far deeper, truer, and sure-er path—one given to us by God himself. He wants us to find fullness in him. Try this—pray through this progression for yourself. Chase this. Stay in this for awhile. You don't even have to leave your house. I bet the fruit will be wonderful, just what we are looking for. There is a way to fullness in God, but it's different than what most people are chasing. Yes, yes, yes to more of God! And here is the path he has given to find it. I think this is going to be revolutionary, and an incredible relief.

John Eldredge

Still Learning!

I am not a morning person. Some of my favorite words to wake to are, “Your coffee is ready.” To me that means, “I love you!” Also, I have broken more than my share of carafes in the morning because, like I said, I am not a morning person. I’m actually kind of dangerous before 9:00 a.m. So this morning, with my husband out of town and a meeting to go to at 10:00, the first thing I did was make myself some coffee. When it should have been ready, I went to get some but found I had not poured the water into the machine. I had put the coffee in there, measured it and everything! So I tried again. While I waited for it to brew, I got the fifty-pound bag of dog food out of the car, pulled the container it goes into out of the pantry, and poured it in. Well, most of it went in, anyway. Let’s just say Oban was happy. Once the container was out of the closet, I couldn’t get it back in because of the disaster that happened in there. Little gnomes had been busy in our pantry behind closed doors and caused disarray. Bags everywhere. Stray potatoes, onions, mystery what-may-have-once-been-food items and, yes, dog food littered the floor. I got a bee in my bonnet. Out it all came! I swept. I picked up my too many aprons for one woman and rehung them on the hook. It fell off the wall. Not to worry! I have time! I went into the garage and found John’s drill and some screws and attacked the hangy thingy. Before coffee. In my jammies. Okay, it did not go well. But after six tries, in went the hook, up went the aprons (except for two because now seemed like the perfect time to go through and remove the ones torn up and never to see the light of day again). I still had the power drill. What else could I hang? I had another hook I had recently taken down from the wall in my son’s room, so into the wall of the closet it went! YAY! I was going to hang up all the cloth bags that every self-respecting grocery shopper uses nowadays. (And which I constantly forget to bring when I go grocery shopping.) I’m organized! I’m a woman with a drill! The bags were too wide to go onto the hook. I need to recognize my weaknesses. I’m not a morning person. I’m a "cut first, then measure" kind of gal. Case in point: I painted a room yesterday. Totally wrong color. I’m repainting a room today with the help of a couple of more careful friends, because I’ve got nothing but time. Oy. They say necessity is the mother of invention. Think crock pots, spackle, white out, and caller ID. I needed to replenish the dog food. The room needed paining. I needed to ask for help. And someone else to make me coffee. Tomorrow, I’ll have tea.

Stasi Eldredge

The Heart of the Matter

I recently had the honor and the sorrow (yes, at the same time) of being at the Memorial Service for my friend’s 24-year-old son, Jason. Let there be wailing and the gnashing of teeth. Death is wrong. I hate it. God hates it, too. The service was holy. And I do mean h.o.l.y. Grieving his passing. Celebrating his life. Thankful for the truth that there is an Act IV coming when all will be restored. No more goodbyes. Ever. I hate goodbyes. But here’s the thing. At his service, nothing was shared about how Jason did or did not pick up his room. If he made his bed. Put his toys away. Nothing about how old he was when he was finally and fully potty trained. Not a word about his grades, his degrees or his titles. Tons was shared about how people felt in his presence. There were lots of stories about his sense of humor. Words flowed about how he loved people, how he lived passionately from his heart and the joy he brought by being and offering his unique, quirky, imperfect, wonderful, on-the-road self. It was his heart that mattered. And it’s yours that matters. How are you doing today? How’s your heart? How are you treating your heart? Are you being kind? Encouraging? Loving? To yourself? Jesus wants you to be. We are commanded to love our neighbors as ourselves. The thing is – we will. We will love others as we love ourselves. So if we are merely harsh on ourselves…we will be harsh to others whether we want to be or not. It will leak out. How we treat our hearts is the way we will treat others. And it matters.

Stasi Eldredge

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