Paul & Acts 29

It began with writhing to and fro for a bit.  Then I would become aware I was having trouble, every so often, for moments at a time. In and out I'd be,  but then I was fully awake. 

Oh, I so did not want to be awake.  The twitch that surfaced as I launched my own business (ie, sleepless nights and long hours) in 2008 had returned in my right eye, and when that happens, folks: I'm exhausted.

So I thought perhaps I needed to pray because at this point, prayer seemed unreal.  It was weird to pray. I prayed.  Still I couldn't sleep.  Stubborn and tired, I wasn't going to give in easily, but at last I relented, and as I fumbled through my living room in the dark, and something told me to open the bible.


Finding the closest chair in my kitchen,  I sat down at my kitchen table in the same chair I seem to always have these kinds of moments in. My mother's bible she had given me that very day was lying on the table, and so naturally, I grabbed it.  As I sleepily gazed at it, my hand on top of its torn burgundy leather cover, a memory was given to me.  See, I don't remember much of my childhood at all really, but the tabs.  The gold tabs on the side of my mother's Thompson Chain-Reference Bible (which the nerd in me adores,btw), sent me into the memory that although they looked stiff and pokey, they were rather soft, and I would strum them, like strings of guitar.  In church.  I had forgotten that entirely.  And  then it hit me:

This is your mother's first bible.  Be careful.
Distinctly -- I swear-- I heard that. 

The weight of that was tremendous to me in general, but particularly at 2am when already I was already tired.  What did this mean?  Do not hand your own daughter your story of feeling neglected for church. For me, this bible represented a lot of hurt.  That memory wrapped in the sense of neglect was lonely at my kitchen table, tired, at 2am.

Heavy, huh?  Well, there's more.

 And that's when I opened to Romans.  The purpose in that evening, as I look back on it, was to reveal the pace at which the Lord would have me set.  It was one of the first peeks into revelation that would happen (as Matt Chandler so eloquently put it this very day as he shared my story at a conference) at the pace of a "six lane super highway."  I couldn't help but laugh, because it is so true, and I would just like to thank him here for that small affirmation that I am not, in fact, losing my mind.  That small comment really meant the world to me as a gal livin just that -- things of all sizes, shapes, even weights. By "things" I mean godwinks, philosophy, theology, gifts, fear, past, future, success, the why behind a personality I've just lived with for 32 years that all of a sudden --snap-- I understand.  Coming to see the why in all of that, all thrown at me, all at once, and none of it by my choosing.  None of it.  Ok, can you imagine in one day, being introduced to Mark Driscoll at 8am via youtube and finding yourself in a food pantry later that same day just to prepare you for the ultimate, end result of this hard to hear truth you knew you had to share, but was told not to share just yet?  But I get ahead of my story.  It is hard to handle, much less swallow --and keep your head low.  But it is, admittedly, never boring and so much fun.

I read Romans 1:8-13 and simply wept.  That was my introduction to Romans, the reveal of my literal hearts desire.  Right there, in this book, which happened to be written by a fella named Paul.  And I wondered who this Paul was, and I wondered if it had anything to do with the Paul I knew, and the Paul I --honestly--hated.

I knew it did, and in the coming months, I could catch snippets of how I would come to understand the role of both Pauls, and how they would affect my life.

It wasn't until Saturday, March 24 2012 at 2:45pm, I came to understand this better.  Honestly, I will not completely understand this story until tomorrow at 4pm when I attend this Paul I knew, this Paul I hated, this Paul's funeral.

Yes, his funeral.  At which I will speak.

Hence why I haven't written.  It has been a fast and furious week, especially in light of the Lord's timing and his reveal of several factors coming into play presently and (as usual) all at the same time, this fast paced six lane super highway Matt explained today.  For the past two days I have experienced my first Acts 29 Bootcamp. You see, Matt was speaking to a room full of church planters, potential planters, preachers, seminary students, and those simply called to be there.  In that, I find it no accident, again per Acts 17, I have been placed there, to glean from these minds, and even, as was apparently laid on Matt's heart, to water the souls of the planters there and encourage them with my story, pressing the point that God saves.  People don't.

To set up his point, he used my story as a visual aid for Romans 8:28-39, and that to me was so priceless, I weep even now thinking on it.  A wonderful teacher, Connor Bales, is going through the book of Romans, and I learned that Romans is historically the crown of the bible, and Romans 8 considered the crown jewel itself, if you will.  For this story to be placed as an example between the two verses that every Christian loves to quote but negate the middle context that glue these truths together is, for me, a gentle nudge into settling -- no yielding-- into this concept of calling and being ok with and owning what God has called me to become as I come to understand that better.  And  to have the Village church and it's leadership there to guide, nurture, and direct me, and even affirm me --I am also grateful for that.   The Lord knows what's goin on... because I certainly don't.  I would have never asked for the task that has laid at my feet.  I'm simply clay and along for this most amazing ride.


Tomorrow is Paul's funeral, and Paul was a preacher too.

Whats funny:  God is all up in that.  

December 2007, my grandparents were buried together.  Married sixty-nine and a half years, they died twenty-two hours apart.  I spoke at their funeral, a funeral that had (and not because of me, but them) everyone --even the staff- in tears.  The last thing my dying Sweet and Precious Grandmother Taylor said to me was, "I just want to know you are going home with me." 

 It was a love story that had me speak at that podium.  It was at that very moment and through their story the Lord truly began to pull on my heart strings. Tomorrow, I will be speaking for a man I hated at the same podium, in the same room I spoke in for my grandparent's funeral.

You see, the day Paul died, I was actually on my way to see him.  It was probably the first time I ever wanted to see that man.  Why?  It hit me that Christ sees him just like he sees me--spotless and blameless-- and I had to lay that at the cross.

He died ten minutes before I arrived.

My grandmother was a part of this.  Paul was a part of this.  Paul was an instrument to teach me Mercy.  And by this I intend the big picture. Like even Mary Poppins knew -- I can't see past the end of my nose.  All in his time, his plan, his design.  And how sweet it is indeed that my mouth will open in testament to a dying woman's prayer, that her gandbaby would 'come home' with her and to honor a man it was no secret I hated.

Eyebrows will be raised.  But then again, Jesus has a way of doing just that, particularly with men named Paul.

A Fart in a Skillet...What?

It has almost been like there was nothing left to say in this blog.  Finally, the point was made.  Finally we reached the point when I accepted I could no longer do this thing called life alone.  In the process, I was swallowed (slightly) by the tide, just as the Bible promises a man will be when his eyes veer off from Jesus. 

 No, no you haven't heard from me as speedily or consistently as you did, for I am still finding my footing here.  My steps certainly are ordered by the Lord, for when you try to lift your feet on your own, once you've experienced the (even sometimes painful) ease of walking with him, trying to do it on your own becomes quite heavy and hard to do. Then all of a sudden, you notice you are tired and you've done absolutely nothing, but looked like you were doing something.  Ouch.

Honestly, I can say this small wink of time - these last two weeks I'd say -- the first dose of reality set in.  By that I mean, a waywardness, a time of thirst.  For the first time I noticed I was thirsty in a very different way.  It reminds me of being in Geawh-giah (Georgia).  It was so hot there.  I remember when we stopped at a rinky dink Dairy Queen in the middle of nowhere for a pit stop being completely astounded at the fact I could feel so hot and thirsty --even the air looked parched -- yet the trees were green.  Having just left Savannah three hours earlier, there was still sand all over me, and so in the terribly unkept and rather stinky restroom I attempted to shake out the sand from places I didn't know existed while simultaneously trying to touch as little as possible and fantasizing about dousing myself in Lysol to feel clean.

While I waited for James and Amelie to order their treats I foolishly went outside, disappointed to find a locked car closed  tightly because it was packed to the brim with our valuables. Cool air.  It's all I wanted.  Not to feel icky, gross, tired or dirty. The blacktop pavement was so hot I felt it would melt the thin sole of my flimsy flip flops. But because I was always a good mom and never smoked in the car,  I had to stand there, and endure the heat in order to load up on nicotine before we hit the road again. That was the summer Dolly Parton was our soundtrack, I discovered Applejack, and I broke down and wore tank tops, not giving a whit the sun would touch my skin and give me a tan -- it was hot and in that very moment I felt like a potato wrapped in layers foil, cooking in the hawt geaw-giah suuhun.  Never before or since have I felt a heat like that.


Such great detail of this setting is so important, because a few days later, I met James' grandmother. That was a day I experienced a moment that will forever be burned in my brain.  What she said  that day has become quite a popular phrase,even among those who never even met the woman.  She is a typical southern belle, with a heavy - I mean heavy southern drawl.  She is an old woman, set in her ways.  She had a small, yet quaint home, complete with the scent of settled dust.  We came in the back, through the small kitchen, and I was led past her round breakfast table from the sixties with a vinyl tablecloth, while  her husband sat there, talking about fishing with another fella in the family.  James led me on a rather brief tour of her sitting room, perfected with a baby blue couch covered in plastic she never used and drapes to match and  that probably hadn't been opened to shed light upon a room full of trinkets in at least thirty years.  As any propah Southern Wohman should, she has a flay-ah for the dramatic.

James pointed out later she really mucked up her southern accent in honor of meeting me, apparently.  Just as clear as if it was yesterday, I remember, just shortly after this picture was taken, she said these words to her husband (imagine in the most profound of southern accents, complete with extra syllables), "Dayh-ddy?  Da-ahddy!  Get me my wahdawh!  Im dry! (pause) I'm so very, very dry!"

  I would have never thought a reference to James' grandmother would ever enter the abysmal electronic record of the internet.  But it is a simple memory, a very plain, and dramatic statement from an old southern woman that stuck with me -- and randomly identified the reason, several years later, why my focus was lacking and quite respectfully reminded me as I recalled her sitting room she doesn't sit in -- appearances don't count, it's the heart that matters.

A dear friend recently told me I was like a 'fart in a skillet.'  What?  Never hearing the phrase before, I nearly dropped the phone.  I mean-- how?  How prey tell --is a phrase like that even made up?!?!  Only in Texas is all I can say.  Although the phrase is loud and albeit highly descriptive (can  you imagine?), it illuminates a discipline that just works, no matter your belief: Keep It Simple, Stupid.  KISS.   It was her way of calling me out, drawing my attention to the fact that at times, my attentions and desires are all over the map, dabbling in all, rather than maintaining consistency by developing well. I was making things more complicated.  I was putting too many I's in my story. I, I, I, I, I, even as I went about my days, around my left wrist, sits a rubber band to remind me I am Second.  Most importantly, I was not trusting God.  In my routine, I began to lose sight of the point. And this friend noticed, she noticed I was being distracted, and because she loves me, in her charming Texan way, called me a fart in a skillet.  How can you beat that?  Here's the best part about that, you ready?  The best iron skillets are well used, durable --seasoned.  So valuable, in fact, included in the wills of many, passed from generation to generation.  I'll take the skillet without the gas.



And I realized, she was right.  For the first time I recognized  I was out of step. A fart in a skillet, a fish out of water. My tail was just flippin, wiggling, my mouth open, gasping -- the water I'd been drinking was muddy, and only I knew it.  I was thinking way too much of myself, going through the motions of loving the Lord, hence why nothing was coming out of me, and I felt dry!  So very, very dry.

 The water was there, I could see it -- going through the actions to get it, but it simply didn't taste the same.  It's the living water, yes....that cool and refreshing living water I sang and sang about while the Lord patiently pursued my very soul --without my ever knowing it.  Yes, that water is crisp, and much like the Lord's conviction -- it's clean.




You simply can't rely on what you've done -- or where  your skillet's been or who it belonged to.  Tradition. Routine.  Not enough.  When my daughter asks why my food always tastes so good, I have a simple answer.  The secret ingredient is love (and lots of garlic). I love to cook.  My heart's in it.  It's that simple.  And when I'm just trying to get a weeknight meal on the table in a hurry -- we can tell.  It's not as good.  Sometimes, it's bleh-- just like the last two weeks have been.  Bleh.

 And today, the tap was turned back on when I began my day, fully present, in the Word, seeing just how much he is at work, orchestrating future events at this very moment that will redeem my past, not because of me, but rather, to make much of him.  When Jesus is on tap, the pour is always good.

It happens to be the first day in about two weeks I've actually finished my coffee.

So to write this post, I turned to the next segment of my journey, and that was my first time at the Village Church.  Again, conviction.  Oh boy.  Plainly simple and purposefully clean.

My first visit to a church -- a mega church no less -- in a former grocery store -- opened with an announcement of a staff member who committed suicide that weekend.


If you haven't caught the term yet -- that is a Godwink, and I can't believe I just got it.  No one thought I'd live to thirteen, and when I did, they wondered if I'd make it to sixteen.  Talk of suicide --the struggle of being suicidal-- something I knew first hand is what this preacher opens with?  That is the difference between the structured planning you do as a human and the loving orchestration of an all seeing God that knows infinitely more than you will ever know.  That is the difference, and my friends, it doesn't stop there -- it gets even better.

   I think people look at the world and themselves, and through our cultural lens, they assume that God’s mission is about us. “The reason everything exists is so that God might save me, might rescue me and might ultimately have children like we have children where we want to see them mature, safe and well put together. That’s kind of like the mission of God.” And they will point to the fact that God created us. They will point to all the verses in the Bible where God loves us, provides for us, cares for us, shields us and protects us. They’ll point to that and go, “See? Isn’t it obvious? We’re the point. We’re what God is after.” 

Now, God is for you, God does love you, God does provide for you, He is a shield about you and He is the lifter of your head, but there is a motivation behind all that lifting, protecting, guiding and love that goes well beyond you.

I’m going to take you to one of the most famous verses in the Bible to show you this. If you are from Texas, you have been given this passage on a bookmark, a coffee cup or something. You will know this text even if you have no church background. So let’s look at it. Psalm 23, starting in verse 1, “The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures... - Matt Chandler, The Mission of God.

At this point folks, every single piece of me welled up into a ball that just wanted to flood the stadium seating I sat in -- and I could've done that, because I was sitting in the very back.  Ok, not completely.  Two rows from the back.  It was my first time there -- don't judge.  In college I was (and am) a front row kinda gal, but I was at church.  A mega church (that to this day still does not feel like one to me, btw). Why, you ask?  Why was a deluge welling up inside of me?  This Psalm wasn't given to me on a coffee cup -- it was handed to me in a punishment.

One day as a child, I was made to stay in my room until I memorized Psalm 23 -- that was the day I tore up three Bibles and thus began my hatred of all things Christian.  It was the first day I swore I would never ever be like the person who, from my childlike perspective, locked me in my room until I memorized this chapter, this particular Psalm.  Out of the entire Bible, or even all the Psalms, this is what Chandler gives a rather thorough exegetical comb over of-- my first time in church -- willingly?

It was the orchestration of events, lovingly and delicately woven together.  That day happened as a child, just like Daddy falling over dead on January, 6 1986 happened...  Yes it did.  It set me on a path in direct opposition to everything my mother stood for. But in that moment, that very moment, the overpowering yet weight lifting redemptive power of God's grace, was just, Idon't know how to say it -- just washed over me.  It let me forgive my mother.  It began to loosen the archetypes that enslaved me, and enabled the removal of the muck in my the past to simply remind me --yet again--how much he loves me, and how much he cared for me then, how much he cares for me now, and how much he cares for my future.

And my future is bright.  I think I'm gonna need shades.  Already he is providing glimpses to what my future holds, and let me tell you -- there is meaning behind the term "heart's desire."  And the brevity of knowing that is simply mind blowing.

Just today I read, "A clear vision makes it easy to weed out of your life those things that stand in  the way of achieving what matters most.  Vision empowers you to to move purposefully in a predetermined direction.  Once you have clarified your vision, many decisions are already made.  Without vision, good things will hinder you from achieving the best things." Andy Stanley

These are perfect words for a ransomed girl, learning who her Dad really is, and how to receive that love to simply make much of him...because it really has nothing at all to do with me.

The One Thing I Never Tried

The morning after this jaw dropping phone call, I went to my local Starbucks, sat outside and immediately lit up a cigarette.  Pulling out my Artist Way book, dutifully I attempted my reading, but was unable to focus because I had some pressing things that literally felt as if they were sitting on my heart and I began to think on them, sitting in that chair, on the patio of my Starbucks around 8:30 am.

The past spring was an extremely weird season for me.  For starters, I noticed my business as a makeup artist was going south. Not that it was ever great, but it was just a big as I ever wanted it to be, really, in light of my general lack of an administrative gift and let's be honest -- my fear of success.  So it was rather odd to me that all of a sudden, something told me in my gut to make a new website.  Folks, I'm computer illiterate.  As an Art History major, who wrote papers all the time, I didn't figure out there even was such a thing as cut and paste until 2005 -- my senior year. Yeah.

It was the feeling in my gut that literally forced me to obey this odd command.  It was so strong it literally reminded me of Field of Dreams and the 'build it and they will come" statement, but for me, the verbage was "seen."  I knew, somehow, I would be seen. Known, if you will. Not famous, just known.  It was the first time I just knew something without explanation. So I made a new web site.  Check it out.  

Not bad for a gal who complained since 2008 she didn't like her website and couldn't fix it because she didn't know how.  Not bad at all.



That Spring I also got an itch to -- get this--garden.  I don't go outside. I hate bugs.  Don't know a thing about gardening whatsoever, but here I was, using muscles I didn't know I had, shoveling dirt, planting everything from chocolate bell peppers (who knew there even was such a thing), San Marzano tomatoes (which had me super excited for sauce making), corn, squash, green beans, cayenne pepper, basil, purple basil, strawberries, watermelon --you name it I had it.


Willingly and happily I went out to water my plants daily, shared the experience with my daughter, cared for these plants, did all the hard work -- knowing full well -- we were about to have the hottest summer in twenty years.  For me to create an opportunity for me to be outside in regular -- not to mention -- excessive Texas heat is nothing I would ever choose to do.

To prepare this garden, I called someone whom I knew could walk me through it. Diane.  She's the only person I knew that gardened, every year.  She was seasoned.  She was wise. 

The reason I shared these stories with you is quite simple.  Like it or not, He goes before you and paves the way -- just like I told James, and just like I was recalling in my journal this day. Listening to the pull that told me to make a website -- the feeling in my gut -- some call that intuition, but I can call that God with utmost certainty, because God gave us intuition, and it was His way of introducing me to His call.  It is also explicative of His ability to be your strength, folks.  I don't know code.  I didn't know cut and paste.  Still, I can barely use Publisher, which is a drag n drop situation, yet I made this website. 

And oh, the garden.  There is so much in that.  My mother, for example.  She tilled the tough soil of my heart for years, many before and around her planted seeds, and here I was, acting totally out of character and in blind faith gardening in February, preparing and digging through very tough, clay based, Texas soil.


Then came the morning at Starbucks. I put pen to paper to work out my thoughts in my journal.  My thoughts.  I had control here. Up until the very last moment, I fought this conformity, this molding that was about to take place.


When I wrote that very first sentence, "Today, I think I need to talk about God," I was shaken.  The air was crisp, even slightly chilly when the wind blew.  My back was turned to the parking lot and I could see my reflection in the dirty store windows.  As the speed to my writing increased, so did the speed at which I smoked my cigarettes.  The many strings of my life that had been unravelling before my eyes became visible to me,  my relationship with James and my business in particular.  My increased usage of self help books came to mind, as did the fact that seemed to get me nowhere--something James lovingly pointed out to me I refused to hear.

Then came the capital letters as I wrote about the previous day, a day "I actually, I think, saw God at work." Regular script would no longer suffice here, I had to use caps.  Shortly, caps wouldn't do it for me, either.


It came to a point I admitted I was afraid. Two cigarettes later, I was still afraid.

I knew I needed to call Diane.

I explained to her all of my rants, what was going on, and literally I could hear her stunned silence when I told her the events of the phone call,particularly when I told her it was like God himself marched into my living room, what that looked like to me, that "I can SEE whats happening with my own eyes," how scary it was, and my pleading with her to explain it to me, without saying what I knew she would.

I was at a crossroads.

And it looked like this: as I lifted my tear stained and frustrated face out of the hands that were hiding it, I could see myself in the windows of the store, terrified someone I knew would see me so fragile, so weak. When I realized what she would say to me, it was if I was in a vacuum. Everything stopped, and my smartphone was a tin can, with a very, very long line, made of old twine, possibly gnawed in some places and eaten by moths, yet I heard her say as if I was the only person in the world and she hundreds of miles away,  "Hollie, it sounds to me like you're ready to talk about God."

When she finally arrived at the house, I'm sure James was confused -- I was so fragile, I couldn't even tell him what was about to happen.  All I could do was chain smoke and tap my foot outside.  You see, I couldn't have the conversation that was about to happen over the phone.  James had just agreed to take a risk, to go to the Center, despite being scared, to make a change for the better, you see, and to this day I will say that was God's way of putting us on the same level. In the very least I could share in his vulnerability, right?  Set the example?  Faith in something other than myself was the one thing I had never tried, and at that point, I knew I had nothing to lose.  I needed to share this with him, as so many in relationships feel they need to do.  You cannot be someone Else's Holy Spirit, is what I've learned form that.  Just cant.  It's all in His timing, His hands, not yours.

I do not remember the opening of the conversation.  I just remember when it got down to it, there couldn't have been any blood in poor James' hand I held it so tightly. I was terrified. 

Before I prayed, with one eye open wide and the other clenched tightly shut, I asked Diane, "Is this gonna hurt?"  I can happily report that is the second most stupid question I've ever asked.  The first was in the recovery room at the hospital after my Cesarean.  I looked at my mom when Amelie was brought to me, and I said, "Now what do I do?" She replied, "well, you just love on her as best as you can." To that, in my drugged state asked, "If I drop her, will she bounce like a jar of peanut butter?" 


Let me stop there.  I  prayed. Diane walked me through it, but I prayed.  I never prayed.  Ok,  I prayed "I will such and such if you will such and such" many times throughout my life when whatever circumstance didn't suit my fancy or just go the way I wanted.  Jeez, I remember doing that over a boy in middle school, "Oh, just let him like me."  No. No. No.  This was different.  This was scary, it was a gritty reality as I literally (and this is gonna sound crazy but here I go) spat the darkness out of me. Me! A stubborn, selfish, very, very strong Taurus was about to admit I was wrong I couldn't do it alone, I needed help.  I  needed J...JJ...JJJeesus.




And then I cried like I don't think I ever cried before, and she gave me a verse.  Diane got on her knees, came to me, hugged me, and simply let me cry.  I remember her pretty blue eyes twinkled at me as we parted and she said, "You are changed."  That kinda freaked me out, even though she was right.  It has been the one thing people who saw me the day before or I haven't seen in years have noticed -- I look different.  I remember I held my hands to my chest when she said this.  It scared me.  I'd spent many years crafting my image,  and felt she was going a little charismaniac on me, but I knew she wasn't that way.  When it comes to Diane, there is a trust there, even when it's scary or it stings.  But that is growth. On this day, I was certainly being stretched.

But so was Diane.

 Diane said it was unlike anything she'd ever seen, and she'd grown up in the church, led many to the Lord, but this she said, was different.  Her story is one of freedom from religion when she witnessed the power of the Holy Spirit work through her husband upon the birth of their firstborn.  She decided it was time she knew Him instead would be better than knowing of Him, so how perfect the Lord sent her my way.  It was different for her because on her way to my house, she didn't feel equipped.  She was scared.  That little voice --we all know (believer or not) said, "Who do you think you are?  You can't help her.  You don't know anything."  She turned to the most powerful weapon she has and that is prayer.  She even called some folks to pray with her, along side her..and for me, a gal anxiously pacing, awaiting her arrival, afraid of what was going to happen..

Later, when she admitted she was afraid, it surprised me that the most Godly woman I know, felt ill equipped to walk me to truth that will never ever let me down. Of all people, she should know God uses ordinary people all the time.  The Bible is littered with small people with big stories.  Just look a David.  A shepherd boy against a giant.  Easy peezy, yes? For a housewife in Texas?  Surely. 

my baptism gift from Diane.

To all the Diane's in this world, I would like to use the words of Paul David Tripp, "Your life is bigger than you ever imagined.  You live in one moment in time, yet you stand hand-in-hand with Enoch, Noah, Joseph, Moses, Joseph, Abraham, Isaac, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, Matthew, Peter, Paul, Augustine, Calvin, Luther, and generations of unknown believers who understood their place in the kingdom and did their part in its work.  Only as you keep this huge world in view will you be able to live and serve effectively in the small world where God has placed you." 

Because she loved me enough to make herself uncomfortable, my life has been changed forever.  Did you read that?  She modeled Christ, and because of her willingness to be used, and  through no act of my own besides sitting on my couch, I finally relented. I answered a call that I allowed to ring for years and years --a decade at least, if not longer.  Answering that call, allowing Christ to pick up this Girl Interrupted, to hold me, love me, and mold me into who He already knew I would be. There is finally a peace, a stillness even amidst some chaos, because the infernal ringing I always tried to quiet with my own understanding, my own distractions,  has ceased.  July 14, 2011 is the day I died, so that I may learn to truly live.

  For years I've wanted to experience the Gospel, in a Gospel church, with a Gospel choir, and this video is the closest I've ever come.

If you are in a drought, this Gospel -- it will water you, like a monsoon, it will water you. 



"The rain that soaks the parched land always has an effect.  It bathes soil, which feeds roots, which nourish plants, which produce flowers.  So it is with the Word of God.  It changes what it touches, producing beauty and fruitfulness in people's lives."   Paul David Tripp


And I would just like to say, one of the first things I asked God to help me with was smoking.  Nineteen years of a pack a day went bye bye, nearly overnight one day in August 2011, and it had nothing to do with me.  He is bigger than any formula, prescription, addiction or plan.  He trumps it all, folks, quite simply because He paid it all, and it's all to Him I owe.

One Jaw Dropping Phone Call

Apparently I have been groomed to love the lost, after being lost for so long.  So meeting James in a bar, and telling him -- knowing he was a "Christian" -- he would be the one to save me makes sense.  That is a Godwink.  Here I was, an agnostic gal, dating a "Christian" guy, and I looked at him, straight in the eye, after knowing him only a month or so, and said, "You will be the one to save me."  How could I have possibly known that?  I tell you what -- I forgot about it entirely until it happened.  Well, he was  the instrument God used, and as we will see, in more ways than one.  In the very least, I know our paths crossed, so that this day on July 13, 2011 could take place.



1992-1994: some of the suicidal years



After our return from what should have been a restful family vacation to North Carolina, it became perfectly clear our relationship could not go anywhere but over unless he got some help.  James is not a bad person -- no -- not in the least.  He was simply hurt, and although we had tried several means to address that hurt -- it literally crippled him and kept him from truly living.   It wasn't enough.  I mean, no one had ever acknowledged his hurt -- not even him. He is not alone in this.  How many of you reading this know exactly what I'm describing, this "living" in the shadows? Having lived in a dank pit like this, I thought I had an answer.  I loved him.  I wanted to help.



At least I had years of therapy, and I knew what therapy could do, so I began to tinker with the idea he 'get help' to a degree he had never experienced, and I found the Center in Seattle.  It was perfect:  they focus on whole person care -- they are even Christian, which was perfect because he was a Christian too!  I suggested it. He mulled over it. We talked about it.  Either way you looked at it, this was good.  Even his therapist agreed the benefit outweighed the risk. Two days later, that woman from the Center called to talk to him.

That was the day God himself walked into my living room.



James was on the phone with that woman for two hours.  Eavesdropping and perched on the vintage cream and gold damask couch in the living room, I perked my ears as best I could to hear all that was said in the office while my jaw just dropped to the floor.  This was huge.

When he finished the conversation, he even declared he couldn't believe he told that woman those things.  Even then you could see the relief on his face, that sweet relief.  You could tell it felt good -- not in a huge way, but rather like a big sip of iced tea from a sweaty mason jar. Then the satisfaction that comes from its coating your throat after telling a friend a long story while sitting on the front porch in the heat of the day.  That kind of nice.

And for a southern boy, it seemed to sure fit the bill, and the hope -- the hope and excitement that filled the room was amazing. 

 At the time I thought I had just set myself free from my prison by letting go of Italy, by writing that letter.  We were about to be on the same page to freedom, yes? We could marry.  So the million dollar question was if  James would stay or go. This was also decision day.

 He said no. He said, "Even if it means I lose you, I just can't."

Boy did I get angry.  All I could see was my anger. Why didn't he understand? I believed in him since the day I met him.  I loved him well.  I was right.  I made him a book to lift him up in the desires of his heart and the pursuit of his PhD.  Why didn't he want to get better?  Be happy?  Be happy with me? Why, why, why!  Between my stomps and guttural rage and disappointment I screamed into my down pillow, a very quiet, yet clear voice simply said, "Fear."

Like that -- snap!  The rage, the anger -- it was gone.  Just gone.  Calmly I stood up, I walked into my living room and what lovingly flew out of my mouth --I still ascertain to this very day -- was not me.  These are the words as I said them -- verbatim -- and I remember them only because they were so foreign to me.

"James, the Lord goes before you and paves the way!  He's talking to you and He's talking to me too for that matter and I'm not sure how I feel about it." 

 Those were the introductory words that astounded even me because I had no idea where they came from.  I was no Christian! Turning my head, side to side, I looked for someone around me who could have said those things. Not me, anyone but me! It couldn't have been me. In a literal flash, I thought to myself,  "What the hell?  I sound like my mother." That, my friends,  scared the crap outta me.  Yet, as a non Christian -- my mouth opened and I continued:

"He goes before you and paves the way.  He has opened your mind to the possibility to receive help.  He had you meet me.  I made you at thirty seven get your first physical, and due to the many concerns that for years went ignored, you got health insurance and you've been paying on it long enough they will cover eighty percent of this very large tab.  He went before you and gave you a mother who loves you, wants to help you, and has the means to gift you the balance.  He even went before you and timed this so perfectly, you will be in Seattle not missing one day of work since you are a college professor on summer break and will return with one day to spare before the semester begins and you want to tell me you just can't?"

This is the day I can say one thing with utmost certainty:  God was preparing us both for a mighty, mighty work, that for a time, require us to go down separate paths.  However long that time is, I haven't a clue.  That is not for me to know. 

There is no regret in this for me.   However, in His marvelous way, God used our idols and addictions to protect us  in our relationship in many ways.   He is still doing this work in us both, as He continually shapes us all, whether we choose to hear Him or not.

Before I go any further, I will say I love James.  I love him like my brother, my friend -- just like I love you who read this. Old Hollie loved James and James loved Hollie -- each without a servants heart.  Without that heart, any love you have --even love for your own children -- will fail, because you place expectations on that person they were not made to carry.  To love with one's own strength is to love no one well.

Because I love James and other people in general,  my heart aches.  It aches to a degree that causes me to lament (who does that anyway, and more to the point, uses that word?), quite simply because I know something they don't.  I am just learning to admit my selfishness, to see it, how it's based in pride -- and listen -- even and especially in the context of this relationship I thought I stewarded so well.  That being said,  I cannot even rationalize this overwhelming knowing that has caused this selfish woman to weep heavy and burdened tears, tinged with both sorrow and joy for complete and total strangers. This is an example of how I am being taught to love people where they're at, just like Jesus.

Writing this, I am also reminded of a stanza in a poem James wrote for me:

It is that you are to me like a gift, 

that I have barely touched or opened wide 

a gift that’s wrapped with gifts with gifts inside 

and even now I feel a part inside me shift. 

And that just goes to show what neither of us understood: 

 Salvation is the gift, and neither one of us is a Savior.  

We are but flesh and bone. 

There will come a day James will remember that phone call, see the gift in it, and his sense of self-sufficiency will be completely and most beautifully obliterated.  In that, the anxiety that drives "the shift" will be replaced by peace, a peace that comes only when you let go.  It will be a sweet time for him in his life -- just as it has been for me.  

And that reminds me of a Depeche Mode song.  There's God's sense of humor, yet again. 

Violator has historically been my least favorite Depeche Mode CD simply because it is the most popular.  Sweetest Perfection was my favorite song from that album.  Violator came out in 1990, the year the cutting began.  The Sweetest Perfection to me then was my death.  I would cut myself and envision and desire my death to that song over and over and over again. I would  linger in Martin Gore's voice, and slowly cut, dwelling on  "the sweetest perfection to call my own... because nothing can stop me," as the blood dripped out of me.  Sometimes,  I would even draw pictures and write poetry in my own blood with a quill pen.



On this album, the song  right after Sweetest Perfection happens to be Personal Jesus -- my least favorite song of all Depeche Mode (and that's saying something, because there's a lot).  Often I would skip it.

 As I bring this blog post to a close, I am simply flabberghasted at how He reconciles all things to Himself.  All things. It is simply amazing. Even when my dear DJ Joe Virus at the Church Dallas would slip Personal Jesus into my faithfully requested (and faithfully played) montage of my favorite DM songs, I would feel disappointment.  I'd try to dance to it, but generally didn't like it so much I would simply walk off the dance floor for a "breather."   Dancing for me was serious business.  It was my "therapy."  Even James would get mad at me when I would drag him to the Church, because I took it so seriously.  Leave me alone, do not approach me unless I approach you was my mantra.  Being on the dance floor was private. It was personal.  It was...  prayer.  And now all I can do is simply fall down in worship, praise Him, press into Him, and let Him love me -- and I don't need a dance floor to do it.

Feelings unknown and you're all alone

Flesh and bone by the telephone

lift up the receiver, I'll make you a believer.

Take second best

Put me to the test

Things on your chest

you need to confess

I will deliver

You know I'm a forgiver

Reach out and touch faith.

This day James picked up the phone.  And the next day, I would make a call.

wow.  That's neat-o.