Let me share a few stories with you. You’ve probably heard them before. They’re stories about some of the Great Men of Faith in our recent history. First, one of my favorites about George Muller. One morning at his orphanage, he was informed by a panicked house mother that there was absolutely no food left. What were they to do? How were they to feed the children?

Well, George instructed her to have all the children sit at their places at the table, plates and cups before them–empty. And he proceeded to pray. Thanking God for the food He would provide. Thanking him for the empty plates that were an opportunity for Him to provide in an amazing way. Well, soon after he finished praying, there was a knock at the door. The baker stood there, rather grumpily, saying God had woken him up and told him to bake bread for the orphanage, so there he was with enough to feed them. Not long after he left, there was another knock at the door–the milk cart had broken down right outside the orphanage, and the milkman said they’d better take all the milk, because it would spoil before he could get back to fix the axle.

The Lord provided.

Let’s switch to a D. L. Moody story. They were trying to start the Moody Institute, and they had their plans ready…but it was an expensive undertaking, and they didn’t have the funds for it. In a meeting of the board of directors, they were praying, and one of the members cried out, “Lord, you own the cattle on a thousand hills! Can’t you sell a few to provide for us?” Well, minutes later, there was a knock on the door. A local rancher stood there, with a check in his hands. He’d felt this urging, you see, to sell off part of his herd and give the money to them.

The Lord provided.

And that’s what I’ve always focused on–that the Lord provided. That the prayers of faithful men who were staring down the barrel of NOTHING produced SOMETHING.

But there’s a crucial part of those stories and others like them that I often overlooked. The Lord provided…through other people. Someone else had to knock on the door. Someone else had to listen to the Lord. Someone else had to sacrifice for these Great Men’s Great Visions to happen.

And those Someone Elses had to do it before the men even prayed.

Generally when I read or hear those stories, I always imagine myself in the place of the one asking, right? The one with the vision. We cast ourselves in the role of the person who has the calling and who calls out to God. In fact, we’ve done that. We’ve cried out, and then waited for His answer.

But what if they don’t come? Has God failed?

Or have we? Not the we who does the asking…but the we who were supposed to do the answering. The we who were supposed to be listening. The we who should have been willing to do the work, make the sacrifice, knock on the door. The we who God meant to use to provide for that Great Thing.

I’ve been pondering this so much lately. It’s easy to be passionate about our own callings. To be willing to sacrifice or suffer for it. But how do we become so passionate about someone else’s, to the point that we’re willing to sell off our possessions, rise in the middle of night, or do the thing that seems a little crazy in order to provide for someone else’s dream?

We were talking about this in our Bible study and someone said, “Well, we have to exercise our hearts so that they’re ready.” I’ll be honest–I don’t know what this looks like. But it strikes me as true. So the question, then, is how do we do that?

Well, I have to think it means listening daily for the smaller ways He’d have us reach out and help others. Maybe that means something simple like getting up a few minutes early to have coffee ready for our spouse. Maybe it means stopping what we’re doing to make a phone call or send an email or drop a card in the mail when the Lord brings someone to our minds and hearts. Maybe it means skipping that meal out and instead sending a gift card to someone you think could use it. Maybe it means lending someone your car so they can go and do the thing you know they need to do–or even driving them to it.

Maybe it means listening, really listening when we hear about others’ dreams and callings, and earnestly asking, “Lord, what can I do to help them?” Even when it’s not our calling. Even when it’s not something we are passionate about.

This, I think, is how the church builds true community. And it’s also how we grow–as individuals, and as a body. It’s how we bind ourselves together and value the foot and the ear and the nose as much as the hand or eyes.

I tend to give a lot of thought to where God might want me to go. But now…now I’m also going to be listening to what doors he might ask me to knock on for someone else’s going.

Last week, my husband asked one of those questions of his that really get me thinking–the sort that sounds straightforward but isn’t. He said, “What’s the purpose of praise?”

Now, I already knew that things like the psalms and even our modern praise and worship songs never stir my hubby’s heart like they do other people’s. That’s just not how he’s made. Which in turn lends him an interesting perspective on it and makes him question whether the POINT is to be moved by it…or something else entirely? Why does God command us to praise? For us? For Him?

This past week I was plotting out a new biblical fiction story I’ll be writing for Guideposts’ Ordinary Women of the Bible line of novels, and the question he asked must have still been lingering in the back of my mind, because I found that emerging as the primary theme, rather unexpectedly, of my fictional retelling of Naaman’s handmaiden.

What is the purpose of praise? Is it to rouse emotions? Does it have some effect on God? We’re told that our praise is like sweet incense to Him, but does a pleasant smell have a big purpose? Are we told to praise God because HE needs us to…because WE need us to…because OTHERS need us to? This was the heart of the discussion David and I had.

I don’t personally believe the charge to praise Him, to worship Him, to thank Him for everything is for God’s benefit at all. If you have evidence otherwise, please feel free to correct me, LOL. But God isn’t, I think, bound by emotions like we are. He isn’t so easily moved one way or the other by circumstances or words.

I think that we praise Him for US. For ourselves–those doing the praising; and for others–those who hear us. So I want to take a few minutes to look at those options.

First and foremost, I think songs or words of praise are meant to remind us of a few very important things: that God is God, that God is good, that God IS above all, despite all. That no matter our circumstances, His nature doesn’t change. And so, by singing or reciting or whispering words that affirm this, we’re reminding our own changeable hearts and minds and emotions that there is a Rock on which we stand. We realign our thinking and feeling. Some of my sweetest moments of praise have been between no one but me and my Maker, my Master. They’ve been moments of awe, when I remember and reflect not just on what He’s DONE, but on Who He Is.

And this private praise is important. Whatever shape it may take–maybe you sing songs, maybe you write down your thoughts, maybe you quietly pray, maybe you simply think about Him–this praise of Him leads your heart to worship Him. But I do also believe there’s another purpose to those words, and they require them to be spoken or sung aloud, in the hearing of others.

Because those words also bear testimony to Who He Is and what He’s done. Have you ever noticed how many of the psalms are a recounting of history? The exodus, for example? Or specific events in the life of the psalmist, whether it be David or another? I will admit that as someone who grew up in church, I occasionally skimmed over the “historical” ones because they were, well, boring. (Hides face.) I already knew the story. I didn’t want to hear it again, so I’d go on to the next psalm that spoke of dejection and hope, sorrow and Joy, darkness and light.

But I was doing it wrong, LOL. Or at least not appreciating fully the purpose of those songs. Because in a day when the primary way of teaching was through recitation, these are powerful, important tools. These songs are the way the next generation is told of His might and power. These songs are the way strangers learn of who the God of Israel is and what sets Him apart from the Baalim or the gods of Egypt. These songs are testimony.

In my fictional story, I decided to make my heroine a singer, someone who has always taken great Joy is singing the hymns of praise. But when she’s captured by Syrians and finds herself serving in Naaman’s house, she doesn’t at first know if she should continue singing. But it’s who she is, and soon her songs start coming forth again. Songs of praise and witness to her God. Songs that change the household. That change Naaman. That inspire them to believe in the God of Israel instead of Rimmon. Her songs convict, teach, and inspire.

And that, I think, is the true purpose of praise. Not just to get our emotions in a frenzy or put a catchy tune in our heads that we won’t be able to knock out of it for days to come–but to put His words in our heart, so that those hearts remember always to incline to Him. And then to remind or teach those around us too.

He doesn’t tell us to praise for HIS sake–He tells us to praise for OURS. And, perhaps even more…for THEIRS.

It’s Holy Week. My favorite week of the year. Most of my friends and family are Christmas diehards, but us? My husband and I have always preferred Resurrection Day and the week leading up to it. The week when the focus isn’t on gifts but on sacrifice.

This year, everything looks so different, doesn’t it? A couple of months ago when talking about what we’d do this week, we were considering things like finding a Good Friday service at another local church, since ours doesn’t have one. My husband was joking (or dreaming, perhaps, LOL) about flying to Europe to see a live performance of Bach’s St. Matthew’s Passion in Bach’s hometown. We were planning our usual Messianic Passover Seder meal for tonight, our Sunrise Service for Sunday.

Instead, we’re all going to be home. Using online meeting technology to gather with our church family for that Seder meal tonight. Listening to the Passion in our living room tomorrow. Running any services online as we’ve been doing for the past few weeks. And I find myself wondering–how will the change in routine change my understanding?

This year, everything looks so different . . . but that can be a good thing. It’s when there’s a change, a disruption, an upheaval that we can often see things in a new light. As I listen to other families muse about what life looks like for them in the last few weeks, I admit to grinning sometimes–because suddenly everyone’s life looks a lot like my normal one. Work, school, cooking, meetings–they’re all happening from home. That’s not to say I don’t feel empathy for those who are struggling with balancing these things–I struggle with it too! But I’m also praying that everyone experiences new levels of connection with their families.

Last week, I took a day to write (as I often do) at our office (which is empty unless I or my husband go over for a day, so no fear of sharing germs with anyone!). When I got home, we had dinner, did our evening devotional, etc. It looked, I realized, like a normal day for most families, with everyone doing their own things during the day. And as I was going about my evening chores, I had this realization: on those days when I’m not home all day, I miss the connection with my husband and kids. I might be more productive, but I’m less nourished on a heart level. Which in turn led me to renew my prayers for all my friends and family and readers, that this unusual time of sheltering in place would be one not of frustration but of deepening connection. Sure, there will be moments of getting on each other’s nerves. But I pray that even more, there will be moments of hearts meeting on new levels.

And I’m praying the same thing happens as we celebrate Holy Week at home this year. That somehow, through the isolation and change in routine, new Truths about His ultimate sacrifice, His ultimate victory, His ultimate glory will flood my soul. That when forced to do things in a new way, I’ll also see things in a new way.

I pray that a quieter version of events will silence some of the noise that always creeps in and bathe my spirit with His song.

I pray that this year, Holy Week will be all about the HOLY in our house. Not about eggs or dinners or rushing to get to church on time. But about dwelling in Him. Walking the path, the via delorosa, with Him. Suffering with Him. Rising to new life with Him.

This year, everything looks so different . . . but the most important things haven’t changed. He still loves us so much that He gave His life for us. He still rose from the grave. He’s still sitting at the right hand of the Father. And His Spirit is still with us, dwelling in us, leading us and guiding us. Even when our feet are keeping us in one place.

What are you doing this year to compensate for the quarantine? In place of family dinners, Easter egg hunts, or services at your church, are you doing anything new and special? I’d love to hear about it!

Holy Week will soon be upon us ~ my favorite week of the year. Better, in my opinion, than Christmas, where it’s so easy to focus on the physical traditions instead of the miracle. Because this week is all about the miracle. The miracle that rewrote history, restored us to God, brought eternity to us all.

Holy Week will soon be upon us, and so I’m starting to think about what that means. Especially this year, when normal traditions have been, er, interrupted. Last weekend, one of the verses my dad read was from Luke 9:23-24.

23 Then He said to them all, “If anyone desires to come after Me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross daily, and follow Me. 24 For whoever desires to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for My sake will save it. (NKJV)

There are four occasions recorded in the New Testament where Jesus gives this instruction: Matthew 16:24, Mark 8:34, Mark 10:21, and this one in Luke. Three of those four are the same conversation, delivered to the disciples very near His telling them about His own death and resurrection. The one in Mark 10 is in the conversation with the rich young ruler. 

I remember being very struck by this upon doing a study of the cross years ago–because while obviously Jesus could well know the very means by which He would die, it’s still rather striking that He would talk about it so particularly before it happens, right? That He would use as an illustration the very thing that would take on such significance for Christians throughout history. And more, that He would talk about it as something those who follow Him must do.

But that’s exactly what He says. For those who wish to follow Him, we must do a few things. Deny ourselves. Take up our cross. Follow. Put Him above our own lives, our own families, our own dreams. Be willing, day by day and month by month, to move toward our own destruction if it means building His kingdom.

The passage I quoted above in Luke is the only one that adds “daily,” but I found it an interesting addition. Because it hammered home that following Him is not a one-time decision. Giving up everything isn’t a burden we accept once. Sacrificing our will to His isn’t a quick, easily-endured discomfort.

It’s something we have to make the conscious effort to do EVERY DAY.

And it’s supposed to HURT.

We don’t like that, do we? We love the verse that says, “my yoke is easy and my burden light.” These ones that talk about torture and martyrdom and death and pain and war in our own families…yeah, not so much fun. Why in the world would anyone sign up for THAT?

And Jesus makes it even harder. You want to follow? Then you commit fully. You let the dead bury their own dead. You don’t even say goodbye to your family and friends. You just go, because He is right there, but He won’t stay in one place for long. He’s set His face toward Jerusalem, toward His OWN sacrifice, and if you want to be there to witness it, there is no time for farewells.

I don’t think I realized until just that moment that the surrounding verses in Luke, in which Jesus replies to various people who say they want to follow, just not yet, are set just days before the beginning of Holy Week with the triumphal entry. In the other Gospels, the same conversations are put in different places chronologically. So maybe I shouldn’t focus too much on that. But I’m going to let it percolate anyway.

Because those people who chose to stay with father and mother and children and home and land and responsibilities and security…those people who shied away from the unfamiliar and the uncomfortable and the unknowable–they missed something miraculous. They missed witnessing the ultimate Passover Sacrifice. They missed being there for the ultimate triumph of His resurrection.

When He calls us–to whatever He calls us–what do we miss if we hem and haw and look behind us instead of forward, toward Him? What miracles do we not get to participate in?

And then back to my main point. What crosses do we have that we pick up daily? What sacrifices do we make day after day? What decisions do we make to put His above Ours?

It’s not meant to be easy. It’s guaranteed to hurt. So why would we sign up for that? Because the best things in life are only gained through the hard stuff. And unlike the other gods throughout history that demanded a sacrifice for their own pleasure, our Lord takes no Joy from the pain–no, He instead took the pain, lived the pain, embraced the pain for us, in a way we can never do, to show us what perfect love looks like. He doesn’t demand we suffer just so He can laugh at us. No, He instead demands that we remove whatever lies between us and Him. It’s our own fault if we’re holding so tightly to it that the removal hurts. It isn’t the pain of the surgery He wants from us–it’s the result.

Why does He ask us to take up our cross every day? Because putting on the burden of His message reminds us daily of what our true work is. Hard to ignore the cross on your shoulder, right? It’s heavy. But carrying it will make us strong–for Him. And it will show the world that we’re prepared to accept the consequences of our faith. 

Because there was only one reason to carry a cross around–no one did it for fun. It led to one place. One place only. Death.

Life. 

And that’s the beauty. By that cross, He defeated the very thing it signified. And so, when we’re bearing that burden, we’re also carrying that message. In this life, in this Way, there is pain and suffering and isolation and yes, even death. But there’s more than that–there’s more life than we could ever know without it. Joy beyond all happiness. Peace that transcends the wars.

Take up your cross. Not once. Daily. So we don’t miss out on being part of whatever miracles He means to do next.