Over the weekend, a summer storm raged. The wind blew, the rain lashed down, lightning pierced the sky. Monday morning, I went for my usual morning jog, and I saw something that made me pause.

Two birds’ nests, blown out of the trees and deposited on different parts of the driveway.

It may not have grabbed my attention so much had it just been one–but two? That struck me. Especially because they both looked the same. A typical robin’s nest, woven from dried grass. Average size. Clearly empty, as the latest eggs have hatched and the babies have flown away.

Sometimes no doubt we feel like those birds’ nests, knocked about by the winds. Lashed by the rain. Pierced by the lightning. Sometimes when we think we’re safe and secure in our cozy life, we find ourselves cast down.

But do you know what struck me most about those nests? That three days later, after being driven over a dozen times, they still looked like nests. Maybe not perfect–a little flat–but they were unmistakable. The grass hadn’t pulled apart and scattered. Those little, temporary houses, abandoned as soon as the fledglings fly away, were cast down…but they were not destroyed. Because they’d been built well. For a purpose.

My friends, we are built by Someone far more skillful than a robin. And we were built to last more than a few weeks, one season. We were woven with love and purpose.

Yes, sometimes the storms come. Sometimes we fall. Sometimes we’re cast down.

But we are not destroyed. We are not forsaken. Whatever wounds people inflict, our God is bigger. He can heal us. He can pick us up. He can mold us and shape us, broken pieces and all, into something even stronger. Ordained for His purpose.

Pride.

It’s something I’ve struggled with a lot over the years. Something I’m continually learning to keep in check. Something I’ve needed to learn to master so that it’s not master of me. Something I’ve therefore given a lot of thought to and explored in my writing from various angles.

I think often we assume that the opposite of pride is humility. This seems correct, right? Until I pause to realize that just as there are both good and bad forms of pride, there are also true and false forms of humility. And when not done right, what we say is humility can, in fact, be a form of pride.

So what is the opposite of pride?

Truth.

This is something I’d already been exploring a bit with Margot in The Number of Love, and something people have commented on a few times since its release. Just last week, someone said to me that they were a bit disturbed at the apparent pride Margot displays. She’s a Christian woman–she shouldn’t be exulting in her own abilities.

I nod along to these observations. Because, yes, of course, Christians shouldn’t exult in their own abilities.

But here’s the thing: Christians should still know their own abilities. Otherwise, we’re not glorifying God for His creation, for His gifts.

C. S. Lewis has a brilliant observation of this in The Screwtape Letters. His demonic character, Screwtape, is observing to his nephew Wormwood that they’ve really done a number on humanity, making us think that embracing humility and denying pride looks like this: A beautiful woman saying she’s ugly; a talented architect claiming he has no skill.

When put so bluntly, we can see the lie in it…though even then, on the “beautiful” question we tend to think, “Well…” But pause to really let that sink in for a moment.

What do we accomplish by denying the things we’re good at? Do we really achieve humility? Or do we simply lie about what God has done? Do we convince ourselves of it? If not, then there’s more deceit. And if we do, then we’ve effectively bought into a lie.

Because there IS good in each of us. There are God-given talents and skills and abilities. There is beauty. He made us like this so that we can glorify Him through it and with it.

As Lewis puts it, true humility is in recognizing your talent/skill/ability/gift, using it for Him, acknowledging the thing you’ve done as being good–maybe even the best–and then thinking no more of it than you would if someone else had done it. True humility is in always striving to improve while at the same recognizing where God’s already brought you.

In Margot’s case, it would be ridiculous for her not to think she’s smarter than most people around her. She simply IS. This is fact, not opinion. It would be like one of the tallest people in the world never noticing that those around him seem to be shorter than he is. Humility isn’t that tall man saying, “Oh, I’m not that tall.” Humility is in him saying, “Yes, of course, I’m tall. But it doesn’t make me better. And unless I use it for God’s purposes, does it even matter?”

This can be hard for us–it’s a balance. We can’t tip over into thinking what we have makes us more important than someone else. But we also can’t just dismiss who we are.

Humility, joy, and glorifying our Lord lies in the truth. The truth of the world. The truth of His love. The truth of us.

Because we all have strengths, and we all have weaknesses. We all excel at one thing and fail at another. It’s okay to recognize where we’re strong–and to try to fix where we’re weak. It’s okay even to recognize that you’re stronger in one thing than someone else…depending on what you do with it. Do you come alongside them and help them? Lend your strength to them? Do you use it to make their lives better? Or do you just lord over them?

I’m a writer. I’d never say I’m the best or anything like that–for one thing, it’s entirely subjective. And for another, I know I have plenty of room for improvement. But I’m a writer. I’m good at it. It’s what God has given me. It’s one of the tools He’s put in my box for doing the work He’s called me to do. I’m a writer, and a good one. That’s the truth. A truth I’ve had to learn over a lot of years to hold only as tightly as I need to in order to keep doing what He wants me to do, and no tighter. It’s a truth that could change at any moment. It’s a truth that only matters insofar as I’m using it correctly. Beyond that, it doesn’t matter at all. Because being a good writer doesn’t make me a good person, doesn’t make me a child of God.

But if I can use it for Him, then I’m honoring His gift. I’m glorifying Him with it.

The truth of me would include these things:

I’m a decent musician.

I’m intelligent.

I’m a good writer.

I’m a talented designer.

And that list is great, as long as I’m using my music to praise Him. I’m using my brain to draw closer to Him and try to understand Him and the world He’s put me in and help others do the same. I use my words to share His message of love, and I honor Him by putting a lot of work into them and making them Shine for Him. I use my designing skills to help others get their stories into the world and make a good first impression.

I could list my failings too. Those are also part of my truth, part of what I need to work on. And the working on them should be part of that continual journey in Him, trying to become the person He wants me to be.

The truth of me doesn’t lie in denial. It lies is recognition of what He’s made me and what He expects of me. Because that’s just as important as the gift, right? What we DO with it.

There’s a lie you believe today about yourself. Just as there are lies I believe. Maybe there’s a truth you’ve been told you ought to downplay or deny, and you’ve been doing that instead of using it to bring glory and praise to our Lord.

But true humility does not deceive. It elucidates. Then and only then, when humility is paired with Truth, is it really the opposite of pride.

Do you ever stop to wonder how different our lives might look if, instead of searching for the most expedient way, we looked for the most meaningful?

The word shortcut has existed in English since the 1500s…and I’m sure the idea of it has been around long before that. Because generally speaking, no matter what we might say about joy being found in the journey, we’re all about the destination. And our goal is to get there as quickly as possible.

I readily admit I do this. I’ve found the quickest path to the mailbox. I’ve experimented to find the quickest route to places I go regularly. I’ve even developed a method for the quickest way to dry off when I get out of the shower (without missing any spots, of course). In my brain, this was just reasonable–the less time I spend getting there, the more time I can spend being there. Right?

But a couple weeks ago I got a Garmin Forerunner watch, which counts my steps and sets my activity goals for the day. And suddenly, my math changed. When I stepped outside to get the mail, I had this moment of debate: if I go the quick way, I’ll get the mail faster and be back inside working in no time…but if I take the long way around, I’ll get a couple hundred more steps toward my daily goal.

That first day, I took the sort of longer way–around the garden plot rather than through the woods. But as the weeks went on, I started looking for longer and longer routes to the mailbox. Now I find myself walking all along the driveway loop rather than cutting through the yard at all. Because my metric has changed. My goal shifted. I realized that the two minutes I might save in time was worth trading for the extra movement.

The other day, as I walked that longer path and meandered by the wind chimes hanging from a tree, the melody, chaotic but beautiful, spoke something to my soul. Sometimes, it seemed to say, you just need to take the long way.

The words stayed with me. I knew I wanted to ponder it and write about it, but I wasn’t sure what I was going to say. After all, a longer route to the mailbox for the sake of fitness isn’t exactly a deep spiritual epiphany, you know? But then I started to wonder if Jesus ever gave us this example. And I think He did.

There are several times in the Gospels where Jesus sends the disciples on ahead, and He goes off by himself to pray. The earliest example is in Matthew 14, after He feeds the five thousand. The disciples all get in a boat and go directly across the water to their next destination–the quickest route. But Jesus opts for a different path. He dismisses the multitude and then goes up the mountain to pray. Talk about the long way!

I’d noticed this before, of course, and thought it really cool that Jesus took a bit of a retreat to renew himself in the Father. But I’d never really paused to consider that He did this–knew He should do this–because getting to the other side as quickly as possible was not His goal. 

Of course, it’s also worth noting that the disciples didn’t get there ahead of him. They ended up storm-tossed, and He caught up with them, walking on the water. Another great example of how life often works, isn’t it? We think we’re on the quickest path…but then the storms arise. All our carefully laid plans get washed away, and there we are, out on the sea with the tempest roaring around us. Maybe we’re tempted to think, “Why, God? Why didn’t You warn me? Why didn’t You tell me to take the other way?” And maybe sometimes He says in reply, “You never listen if I tell you to take the long way. So sometimes, I just have to slow you down like this.”

Because I think it’s on that longer path that we often find Him. That we can hear His voice in the music of a wind chime. That we can feel the brush of His fingers in the touch of the wind. It’s when we slow down and shift our focus that we learn the lessons He’s been trying to whisper into our ear.

How often did Jesus answer a direct question with a long, wandering answer in the form a parable? More often than not, right? Even there, He took the long way around. He could have just answered directly–but there was a reason He didn’t. He knew, even in conversation, that directness may have been what we think we want, but it isn’t what we need. When we really need to dwell deeply on a topic, He forces us to do so by taking us on a little journey to the answer.

Ezra (5) and his brother, Judah (6) You can find more about Ezra’s story HERE

Last week in my first tea party book club, my VA Rachel caught my attention when she used this same phrase. She’d been talking about her son Ezra and the trial they went through when he was a baby, born without an immune system. She said, “We wanted God to heal him right now, with a big miracle. But God made us take the long way.” Today, Ezra has a fully functional immune system and is a healthy, happy boy. As a mama, I know Rachel would have preferred he get there all at once–and we tend to think, “Just think of the testimony we’d have if you gave us a miracle, God!”

But sometimes God says, “And think of the glory you get to give me every day through this when I take you on the long way. Think of all the opportunities you have to praise and trust Me when every day you have a reminder of how dependent on Me you are. Think of how much more miraculous it is that I protect you every day from the worst.”

We see things through linear, chronological, twenty-four-seven eyes. But God sees things through the lens of eternity. To Him, I don’t think “the long way” is any less expedient than “right now.” We may see it as having to wait, as languishing in misery or pain, as waiting for a healing, for a miracle, for God to move.

But He sees it, I think, as prepping the soil for the life that will grow there. As showing us something we need to learn first. As being made ready for what He’s going to do.

When the man blind from birth was healed, Jesus says his blindness wasn’t because of any sin, but for the glory of God. Still, he was a grown man–how long was he out on the streets, begging, before Jesus came along? He could have come sooner, you know. He could have sought this man out before. But He didn’t. He waited for the perfect time in His grand plan. And you’ll notice that this man doesn’t say, “Why did you take the long way, Jesus? Why didn’t you find me years ago?”

No. He says, “I know this: I once was blind, but now I see.” A vision he wouldn’t have appreciated without those years of darkness first.

So maybe it isn’t even that it should be more about the journey than the destination…maybe the truth is, we can’t always even appreciate arriving at the destination if we don’t live through a few detours first. And maybe it’s because when we can’t shift our focus off of our goals, we miss what His are for us.

Maybe we need to make it a point sometimes to take the long way…and see what music He sends our spirits when we do.

Last week I talked a bit about how God often speaks to me through what I call “themes”–ideas that keep coming at me over and over, from different directions. The one I focused on last week was “Being Complete.” But another topic has been popping up all around me too.

Community

It’s a word that can reach near or far, mean “close to home” or extend all around the world, right? Maybe we mean our physical neighbors–the community in which we live. But we could also mean like-minded people, wherever they are. 

There are certainly plenty of negatives with technology and media–but one thing I love about it is that it allows us to build communities with people we might never meet in person. For me, that means other writers, readers, knitters, and Christ-followers. Maybe for you, it’s gardeners, or genealogists, or tea-lovers.

Regardless of the “what”, these things we love are part of us. They’re part of who we are and what makes us tick, what drives us through each day. They’re part of our identity. And when we connect with other people who share that love, that can be powerful stuff. 

We build friendships.

We learn.

We share.

We invest part of ourselves.

We grow.

We edify others.

And sometimes this takes on a life of its own, doesn’t it? I’m occasionally shocked at the tight-knit communities that spring up around something like a TV show or comic book. These are people who are truly passionate about it–who go to conventions, buy or create costumes, post on forums, speculate, argue, cry and laugh over the latest installment. Why? Because it matters to them. And because they love communicating with other people who feel the same way.

As my husband and I work on all our different endeavors–writing and publishing, editing and designing, blogging and filming and building our companies–we realized that what we want to do isn’t just to find an audience. We want to build a community. A group of people who all partake of that common thing they love (where the word comes from). A group of people who believe in standing up and doing. Who know that stories change the world. Who want to be–and are–the hands and feet of Christ. Who want to build something for Him.

But how do we do that? Sometimes it’s pretty simple–you walk across the street with a plate of cookies or you join a group on Facebook. But sometimes it’s hard–because it doesn’t just mean speaking up, it means reaching out. A community isn’t just a bunch of people all shouting their opinions, right? It’s a group of people doing something together.

As an introvert, it’s hard for me to get outside myself sometimes. Hard for me to really feel like I’m a part of things. So these thoughts of community can be stretching. And yet, once I am a part of something, I will cling to it with loyalty and love, fighting to preserve it and build it up. Which is, I think, what the members of a community should do.

But sometimes we also have to pause and ask ourselves: which communities deserve our time? Our energy? Our money? Our attention?

I’m truly blessed to be part of some amazing communities. Readers. Writers. Believers. And I pray that, even though we’re a community spread all around the world, we can be one that builds each other up. That edifies. That teaches. That shares. That serves. Each other, but also the world around each of us.

EBook Sales

God speaks to us in a lot of ways. For me, He often speaks in what I call themes. Ideas that keep popping up over and over, in a variety of places, coming from all sorts of people. When I notice these recurring themes, I know it’s time to pay attention–and to dig a little deeper.

One of the themes that has come at me from all side lately is completeness.

It started with studying Philippians in our Bible study. In Phil 1:6 we see this:

“…being confident of this very thing, that He who has begun a good work in you will complete it until the day of Jesus Christ;”

I’ve read this verse countless times. But I think I’d always read it as “will complete it in the day of Christ.” As in, when we’re finally with Him, we’ll finally be complete. Perfect. Whole.

But that’s not what it says. It says until that day. Until that day, He will complete the work in us. Why? Because the work, the completeness, the fullness, the perfection is in regards to doing His work here on earth. It’s not about achieving heavenly perfection someday. It’s about going out EVERY day and serving in His name. This is completeness in Him. This is wholeness. This is perfection–another translation of the Greek telos used in this verse.

It’s a concept we have a hard time wrapping our hearts around, because we are always keenly aware of what we’re lacking. We’re not smart enough or strong enough or energetic enough or nice enough or wise enough or…

But He is. All we have to be is willing enough. Willing enough to step outside ourselves, outside our comfort zones, and say, “Change me, O Lord. And use me to change the world for You.”

As we were discussing this verse in Philippians, I was reminded of Paul’s benediction to the Corinthian church in his second letter to them (II Cor 13:11):

11 Finally, brethren, farewell. Become complete. Be of good comfort, be of one mind, live in peace; and the God of love and peace will be with you.

Become complete. The more literal translation would be, be restored or be made whole. Paul’s prayer that he leaves people with often has something like this in it–he bids them all to be WHOLE in Christ. Individually…and as a community, as a church. This wholeness, this restoration is tied to unity and living in peace with one another. What more pointed call could we receive to #BeBetter and treat each other with the same love He extends?

I’d already been pondering these things, pondering community and self and Church and the work of God in all of these, when a friend read this verse over me and my husband, from Hebrews 13:20-21 (another benediction):

20 Now may the God of peace who brought up our Lord Jesus from the dead, that great Shepherd of the sheep, through the blood of the everlasting covenant, 21 make you complete in every good work to do His will, working in you what is well pleasing in His sight, through Jesus Christ, to whom be glory forever and ever. Amen.

These verses sum up all I’d been piecing together. And here’s the really goose-bumpy part. As I was listening to her message, as soon as she said, “I have a verse for you guys,” I got that feeling. You know the one–that one that says, “Pay attention.” And I thought, “This is going to have something to do with completeness.” Then she read those words, and I just got a chill all over me.

Because YES. This is exactly what I’d been thinking. This completeness, this wholeness, this perfection isn’t MY completeness, wholeness, or perfection. It is God working IN ME so that I can work FOR HIM. 

He will equip us. He will enable us. He will fill in all our gaps and holes, polish out all our flaws. Not to make us prettier or even sturdier–to make us able to do what He needs us to do.

And He will do this NOW, and every day, until we’re with Him. Toss aside that old saying “God isn’t finished with me yet” and replace it with a new saying: 

“God completes me each day.”

I have always believed in the Truth–the kind with a capital T. I reject the idea that it’s relative, that there is no Right and Wrong, just “right for me” and “right for you.”

I believe that this ultimate Truth is part of God. He’s the one who determines it, who created it, who presents it to us. What God says is Truth. More, what God IS is Truth.

Which is where the difficulty comes in sometimes, right? Because God is so much bigger than us, so hard for us to comprehend. And Truth is too. We get bits and pieces of it. We have vague understandings. He’s given us guidelines to help us reach for it. But that doesn’t mean it’s always easy.

The ancient Greek philosophers talk a lot about the form of a thing. An example they gave was something silly, like a table. There are a lot of tables in the world–and they all have imperfections. But we can still recognize them as a table because they partake of the TRUE table, the “eidos” or form of a perfect table. They use that simple example so we have a solid example to refer to when we’re talking about harder things, like virtue and justice and truth and the good. They claim that we can recognize the imperfect versions of these on earth because they partake of–imitate–a heavenly or divine version of the same.

There’s a reason we still read these philosophers–Plato and Aristotle. It’s because the early church preserved their writings because of how well they get at Christian understanding too. Those very philosophies strove to understand the Truth, even while recognizing that their understanding was imperfect. We on earth are never going to fully understand God and all He is–but we can recognize His fingerprints around us, right? We can see the shadows of His divine touch. We can understand truth–with a lower case T–in our lives because we recognize that it’s got something in common with His Truth.

But because it’s just an imitation, ultimately, we always run into problems. Because your interpretation of it might not agree with mine. Maybe you focus on this detail–the legs of the table, perhaps–while I’m focusing on this other one–the kind of wood used, maybe. If someone were to ask each of us about what a table is, you would wax poetic about how it needs four legs of the exact same height, and I’d be very specific about what it should be made of to achieve x, y, or z. We’re both trying to get at the Truth. But we’re telling different stories to get there.

As a storyteller, this is something I’m always very aware of, and something we authors talk about and think about a lot. We write fiction–it’s not, by definition, true. But it can still be True. Why? Because we choose stories that set out to show that “eidos.” That form. To reveal something we’ve learned about God or faith or family or healing or grief or laughter or love through the feeble words we have at our disposal.

But in order to share that Truth, we have to make choices. Sometimes it means leaving things out. Sometimes it means adding things. Sometimes it means changing a fact that distracts from the focus. This can seem dishonest–after all, if we’re changing a fact, then we’re wrong, and we’re not truthful. Right? Certainly, when we’re teaching our kids to tell the truth, we emphasize that it means “the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.” Important in a court of law. But not always so important in a story. Because in reality, we can only view the world through our own eyes. And sometimes we don’t see things clearly. The same is true in fiction–we’re looking at a story through a limited lens. So we have to focus it only on the things that are relevant.

Another great example is in visual art and photography. Have you ever taken a picture of yourself and looked at it and wrinkled your nose and thought, “Do I really look like that?” And has someone else ever said, “No, you don’t.”? Well, on the one hand, that doesn’t make sense, right? Because obviously, the camera caught the truth. And yet, it doesn’t, always. It captures one very isolated moment when the light was just so and you were standing at a particular angle and the background was in a certain perspective.

But in life, we’re not still. We’re always moving, as is the world around us. No one ever gets just a single, split-second view of you. They get a dynamic one. For instance, when my husband smiles, you know what we all notice first? His dimples. But in a photo I took of him, the way the light hit his face, you know what I saw first? The shape of his eye tooth. That’s where the photo drew the eye–but it’s not where your eye would ever go in person. So I changed the shape of the tooth in the photo. It’s now not an exact replica of him…but yet it gives a truer picture because now it directs your eye to where it would really go.

This is the dilemma artists of all kinds have faced since the beginning of time–we can tell the “true” story, sticking only to exact facts, or we can tell the True story, that directs the attention where it needs to go to get to the heart of the matter. We delete the distractions. We focus on the main parts.

There are those who disapprove of fiction for this very reason. But me? I say that’s pretty silly–because it isn’t something only fiction does. We all do it, in every part of our lives. We pick, we choose, we decide what to remember and what to forget. What’s worth telling and what would just clutter up the story. But I think maybe we’d understand those tendencies a little better if we pause to realize that it isn’t just about the little details on which we focus–those little truths that populate our days. 

It’s about the ultimate Truth. And how we can best tell the stories that help us understand it.