“My life is so dry right now. I just feel like I’m wandering around in the desert.”

These words could have been uttered by Abraham. Isaac. Jacob. Joseph. Moses. The nation of Israel. Elijah. Nehemiah. John the Baptist. Jesus. Paul. And maybe you.

Friend, the path into (and out of) the desert is well-traveled—God seems to find it one of His most effective settings for transformation. Whether your dry season has lasted 40 days like Jesus or 40 years like the Israelites, the desert is meant to help you encounter God in a very real way.

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King David was a drama queen.

You’ve probably not been taught so in Sunday school, but it’s true. This giant of the faith didn’t seem to worry much about controlling his emotions with God. (Does anybody else break out in soul hives at that thought?) He bawled and screamed and begged and stomped and pointed that finger upwards accusingly, right in God’s face.

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Back in my high school days, I wasn’t known for having the keenest sense of direction. (Fine. I’m still not known for having the keenest sense of direction.) Without a navigational system constantly chirping instructions at me, I’d be more lost than a goose in a snowstorm. But when my GPS is whirring away, I can sit back and enjoy the ride.

Until the signal cuts out or I make a wrong turn at a tricky intersection. Then my pulse starts to race, my thoughts spiral, and I just know the world is about to end. (This might sound the slightest bit melodramatic to you. It does to me, too.) At that point, my best option is to pull over and reorient myself. Punch a few buttons, and bam! That beautiful word—”recalculating.” I can hop back on the road and reach my destination with the thrill of adventure rather than lingering dread.

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(This post was originally published on the Baptist Convention of New England’s blog on July 13, 2019. You can find it here.)

It’s startling how quickly anointing can become annoyance in ministry life.

The king groaned and closed his window to shut out the jubilant roars. Responsibility weighed heavy on his shoulders, and now heaps of ingratitude from those people—God’s people!—nearly drove him to his knees. Nearly. Here he had been faithfully serving (for the most part) a nation of unruly souls with no one to lean on but the God who seemed bent on taking away his crown.

Stupid David, he thought.

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The story of Horatio Spafford reads much like that of Job in the Bible, compounding calamity upon calamity at what seems to the average onlooker a bizarre rate. A crushed career. His city ablaze. Financial ruin. Four daughters drowned at sea. A son—his namesake—taken by scarlet fever. And from the depths of this man on the proverbial ash heap, a string of words too heavy for even the hardiest of Pollyannas is penned: “It is well with my soul.”

When peace like a river attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

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Repentance: (n) to reorient away from sin and toward God; effective for kingdom entrance and daily maintenance of spiritual vitality

Last January, God began working on me in the area of repentance. He gently pointed out that I had no idea what it was meant to be, how I was dismissing one of the greatest gifts of the gospel. I’m pleased to announce to you all that, after a year of hard work, I have now arrived. I’m awesome at repentance and have no more need of it.

Pfft. Right.

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(This post was originally published on the Baptist Convention of New England’s blog on March 4, 2019. You can find it here.)

“To be, or not to be?” “What’s love got to do, got to do, with it?” “Aren’t you a little short for a Stormtrooper?”

Questions have always held a deep fascination for me, but pretty early on I learned to stick to what’s known and acceptable. I’d be doing just fine, marching along to everybody else’s drum, when that dang inquisitive streak—the one that made Sunday school teachers constantly run for cover—would raise its hand. Little me figured out that periods bring relief, while question marks bring consternation.

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We had a bit of a family health scare this fall when my father-in-law was rushed to the hospital. (This is no measly man, either, people—he’s a big-boned firefighter with a fondness for Harleys and construction work.) The culprit? Dehydration. No matter how strong or fit we may be, our bodies need water to survive, and so do our souls.

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