For everyone will be seasoned with fire, and every sacrifice will be seasoned with salt.–Mark 9:49

This is a crazy verse, friends. As I read it this morning, I had trouble wrapping my mind around the words. Consider this mental image:

You. Going about your daily life. Your creator looking on, caring, concerned. Loving you more than your human mind can ever comprehend. Taking joy in the life He molded and knowing you’ll never reach your full potential if the status quo is maintained.

Hanging from his shoulder, like a messenger bag, is a satchel. A glowing, burning satchel. His hands, still scarred with the price of your redemption, reach into the satchel and pull out tiny rocks of fire. They blaze as He releases them. Sparkling, dancing through the heavens, they land with a painful sizzle on your heart.

They hurt. So bad. You fight them at first, pushing at the offending circumstance, at the hurt before you. But, fire must do its work, and soon–maybe not soon enough–but soon, the fire dies, having consumed all there is to consume. The flammable impurities you harbored deep inside are gone. You are stronger, wiser. You may not understand the nature of the flame, but you are better for having been burned by it.

You have been seasoned with fire.

And now, another being enters. You can’t see him, of course. He’s spirit, like your creator. Only different. Very, very different. Never grasping the full potential of fire, he craves only its power to destroy. From his own satchel, burning bright like the creator’s, he pulls a handful of flaming rocks. Similar, so similar to the fiery salt of the creator. Before he can tip his hand though, before the fire makes its way to your heart, the creator stops him.

“Open it,” He says.

And the evil one does. He has to. Has no choice. As much as he craves freedom, he is still subject to the creator’s will. Finger by finger, the malevolent hand opens, and there, his own brand of seasoning sits, sparking and biting, anxious to consume. The creator sweeps away this flame and that, knowing, ever-knowing the limits of His created. From the hand of evil, your redeemer flicks pains and hurts not intended for you. He understands your purpose. Made you for a reason. This fire is to season, not to kill.

But, there in the hand of evil, He sees a pain that furthers His design for you, for His created order, so He leaves it. Allows it to stay. Were you there, you may question the decision, but it would not be yours to fight. He is the creator. You are the created. Regardless of the hand it comes from, this fire will make you strong.

And so, it falls–this pain, this hurt, this tribulation or trial–into your life, onto the ground of your heart. The evil one smiles at the ache it causes, at the blister that will scar, but your creator knows that fire can only consume the excess, the fat. It cannot harm metal most pure. The process is similar to every other seasoning and in the end, because your creator knows you best, the salt of fire has pulled you closer to perfection.

I’m sure it’s a bit different. I doubt God really carries a satchel full of flaming rocks. But, the idea that every single one of us will be seasoned with fire, that we’ll all face pain and hurt that will leave us scarred, reminds me of the flannel-graph characters I learned about in Sunday school. I’m reminded of Job, who said, “Though He slay me, yet I will trust Him.”

I’m reminded of Daniel who survived a den of lions because an angel kept their mouths shut.

I’m reminded of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego: Three men who were thrown into a furnace for refusing to bow down to the idol of a human king. Their words stir something deep inside me and today I hope they stir something in you. Resolve, maybe. Tenacity. The courage to stand when the world seems to be tearing itself apart at the seams.

To Nebuchadnezzar, they said, “If we are thrown into the blazing furnace, the God we serve is able to save us from it, and He will rescue us from your hand, O king. But even if He does not, we want you to know, O king, that we will not serve your gods or worship the image of gold you have set up.”

Even if He does not. Did you see that phrase? EVEN IF HE DOES NOT!

Now, that’s faith. Faith that God’s plan is better than our plan. That His created purpose is more important than anything I cling to. Faith that recognizes a seasoning of fire. Faith that trusts God regardless of what my eyes see. Faith to leave my life in His hands, because His purpose is more important.

I want faith like that.

The kind of faith that can survive the fire.

My second pregnancy wasn’t an easy one. The ultrasound had spawned some concerns and filled the remaining twenty-odd weeks with anxiety. But, that morning, two years ago today, my beautiful baby girl made a spectacularly normal entrance into the world and was perfection itself.

Ten fingers. Ten toes. Beautifully bright eyes that ate up the world around her. Nothing had come of the anomalies we’d seen on the ultrasound, and my husband and I were overwhelmed with relief.

And while that day joined my wedding day and the birth of our firstborn as one of the happiest days of my life, I’m reminded not only of the start of Jazlyn’s young life, but of everything that these past two years have brought.

In two years, our little family has grown from three, rather busy individuals, to four.

In two years, I’ve gone from a legal consulting company to full-time homemaker.

In two years, we’ve gone from spending much of our time with the church’s teenagers, to spending much of our time with the church’s young families.

Two years have brought two Disneyland trips, two beach camp-outs, two visits to the Northwest, two speeding tickets, two fix-it tickets, two cell phone tickets, one fender bender, and one new car.

These two years have seen me gain friends and lose them.

In two years, our son has grown almost six inches, graduated from both preschool and kindergarten, hit his first baseball, sported his first mo hawk, read his first chapter book, done his first flip into the swimming pool, narrated his first school play, memorized all sixty-six books of the Bible, and ridden his first roller-coaster.

In two years, our daughter has nearly mastered the art of sleeping through the night, has scaled every counter, door, and piece of furniture in the house, has become rather loquacious for such a young sprite, memorized each and every theme song to the shows on Nick Jr., and learned to kiss with her mouth closed (a feat we all thoroughly appreciate).

In two years, we’ve upgraded from a two-bedroom/one bath to a four-bedroom/two bath.

In two years, we’ve moved one kid out of diapers and another into them.

Two years ago, my nearly-four-year-old left behind the title of only child and took on the role of big brother.

And two years ago, as I cradled his restless, newborn sister to my chest, I decided that I would, at last, write a book. I walked, and rocked, and thought and thought and thought. And that night, an idea took root that refused to dry and shrivel in the desert of crazy that often surrounds me. I was consumed. Within months, the first draft of a novel was written.

In two years, I’ve written and rewritten this first novel of mine seven times (at least).

In two years, I’ve been introduced to critique groups and query letters. I’ve read more books than most, and I’ve learned something valuable from each and every one of them.

In two years, I’ve gone from an unfocused, inconsistent journaller to an everyday writer.

In two years, I’ve gone from a chic with an idea, to a chic with an agent ready to help sell that idea.

I’ve been introduced to blogging and the monster of self-promotion.

I’ve been coerced into tweeting and status updating.

The past two years have been the most challenging two years of my life, and today, I can honestly say, that they have also been the most rewarding.

I’m blessed to have a husband who supports my need to write. I am honored to have in my care two of God’s most precious gifts–incredible children who enrich my life more than they’ll ever know. And I am remarkably fortunate to live near my parents and sisters.

As summer starts to wind down and fall begins, I am very aware that the seasons are changing again for me. And, I couldn’t be more pleased. As the leaves change and drop to the ground, I’m looking forward to shedding things that have died in my life and making room for the new. I look forward to harvest and growth. I understand that this next season will be full of sweat and hard work, but I’m ready.

The past two years have tried me. The past two years have beaten and bloodied me. The past two years have secured a support system around me. They’ve brought more joy than I would have thought possible, and a strange brand of pain as well. But I know God has a plan. And, I’m ready.

So, to my baby girl who turned two-years-old today–Happy Birthday, and please, please stay in bed tonight.

And to my friends and readers–Goodnight. May you find peace in the season you find yourself in and strength for the road ahead.

God bless.

Tasha’s books–being mysteries–are ripe with deception, greed, anarchy, and murder. But really, truly, the magic of her writing lies with the delicious cast of characters and their vibrant settings.

Having never traveled abroad, I take Alexander at her word, and today have determined that the suburbs of Sacramento desperately need the café culture. The third book, “A Fatal Waltz,” takes place, primarily, in Vienna. It’s here that Lady Emily is, for the first time, introduced to “centers for culture unlike any others to which (she’d) been exposed.” She tells the reader of the artists and playwrights who’ve carved out near-residences in the cafés. Of the academics arguing there. Of the poets thinking and writing.

Coffee, hot chocolate, billiard tables, books!

Intellectual conversation.

Artistic debate.

Hot chocolate!

I deviate.

But tell me: Doesn’t the idea of being surrounded by creative souls–discussing, debating art and academia while sipping a hot beverage–sound appealing? Doesn’t it sound like something we could use more of? Having spent a handful of years in Portland, Oregon, I can honestly say this is something they are much better at. There are cafés every few blocks, jammed with an eclectic group of individuals writing, drawing, chatting. But, here, in the beautiful suburbs of Sacramento, we are seriously lacking.

It’s not that we need just another coffee house. While there aren’t nearly as many of them here as the Northwest can claim, we have a sufficient number of corporate coffee shops. What we need are eclectic souls to fill them. Creatures who are willing to open their mouths and have discussions with others. Folks who are willing to see beyond the screens of their laptops and iPhones. We should be a community that fosters creativity and the exchange of ideas in public places.

“Why?” you ask.

Because!

Because creativity draws people together. You and I may not agree about Obama or off-shore drilling. We may not share core values or lifetime goals. But to be truly and honestly creative, our guts must come spilling out of us, and when they do, they often land on those nearby. I don’t know if you’ve tried, but it’s quite hard to hate a soul whose guts lay at your feet.

Because art brings a soulful kind of unity. Discussion and debate force us to consider the views of others. To grow. To fight back with creative measures of our own.

Because our children need parents who are thinkers, who see the world with optimistic eyes.

Because sitting across from new friends, discussing ideas and sipping hot chocolate, sounds like a fabulous way to spend a Saturday.

And, because if you’re Lady Emily, cafés can be instrumental in the business of mystery solving.

If you haven’t opened any of Tasha Alexander’s books, you simply must give them a read. Her website is my August “Site of the Month,” and this is the perfect time to delve into her world. The newest addition to the Lady Emily series, “Dangerous to Know,” comes out October 26th and I’m giddy with anticipation.

Join me, will you? Hit a café. Grab a Lady Emily mystery, some hot chocolate, and chat up the gal occupying the next table at your local Starbucks. It’s a far cry from the café culture Alexander describes, but we’ve gotta start somewhere.

Right?

To me.

He does this from time to time and I’m so very grateful.

And humbled.

Wanna know what He said?

Just four little words.

“I have a plan.”

That’s it. That’s all He said. See, God’s not into flowery talk. He knew what I needed to hear. And these four little words completed the puzzle my mind’s been grinding away at for the past couple weeks. And while I’ve been feeling a bit distant from my hopes and dreams–distant even from Him–God knew that the hitch in my spirit has been a lack of faith. Not that I didn’t believe, but that I’m so very human and I forget.

I forget that God has a plan. I forget that I’m part of the plan. That my life–my successes and failures–have a purpose. I get all caught up in logistics and the “how to” and the “what next,” that I neglect to sit at Christ’s feet and listen to Him, to His heart. To His plan.

And I’ll be honest, God having a “plan” doesn’t mean life’s going to be easy.

After all, God had a plan for Jeremiah. You remember Jeremiah? The “weeping prophet.” The guy who was called to prophecy destruction to God’s chosen nation. The guy God said this to, “Do not be terrified by them, or I will terrify you before them.” Yeah. God had a plan for Him.

God had a plan for Job. Ah, Job. We sing about Him on Sundays. “Blessed be your name on the road marked with suffering.” Job: The guy who lost absolutely everything. The guy God allowed Satan to attack. Uh huh. Say what you will, but Job’s suffering was part of God’s plan too.

Christians pray against plans like these in our prayer meetings.

And while I won’t try to convince you (or myself) that my daily life includes persecution like the kind Jeremiah suffered, or Job’s brand of unearned tragedy, my spirit, dependent upon the same God they served, learns from the courage they brandished.

There’s comfort in knowing I’m right in the thick of it. Right in the center of God’s plan and purpose for my life. It may be hard. It may not make any sense, but the minute God whispered, “I have a plan,” the pieces fell into place. The masterpiece God’s creating of me and my life is not complete, but I have this assurance: God has a plan.

You know what’s funny? My first response to his quiet reminder was to sit up and begin to scratch out my own plan. “Okay, God,” I said, “you have a plan! Woot! So, here’s what I’m gonna need you to do.”

Hmmm….

You ever try to tell God what His plan should look like?

After laughing at me (cause God likes to laugh), He brought verse after verse to remembrance.

Matthew 6 says this about our worries: Observe how the lilies of the field grow; they do not toil nor do they spin, yet I say to you that not even Solomon in all his glory clothed himself like one of these.

In all our anxiety, we must not toil or spin.

Matthew 6 also says this: Seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness and all these things will be added unto you.

God and His kingdom come first. That’s a BIG part of the plan. No wonder suffering has a place. No wonder pain and endurance have value. The plan isn’t all about me.

And, one of my favorite verses, Philippians 4 says, “Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all comprehension, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”

Take your requests to God with a thankful heart. Prayer! What a novel thought!

So, if you’re like me, and you often forget that God has a plan, I’m here to remind you, just as the Holy Spirit reminded me: God has a plan. And if you’re seeking God, if you’re aiming for Him, you’re not going to miss it. Don’t buy into that kind of lie. We serve a big, sovereign God. A God who thinks His plan is awfully important. So, stop worrying! Be of good cheer!

God has a plan.

And you are a part of it!

When making a decision, I want options and I’d like to know just what they are.

Quickly.

In an age where computers are assumed vital, this is easily accomplished. Each morning, I fire up the thinking machine on my desk and within seconds, Fox News is dumping information into my lap. More information than a soul could possibly need. I scan the headlines while a cup of caffeinated-something-or-other keeps me chugging along just like the hard drive whirring within the plastic box at my side. The tower, it’s called. Just one of the many stops the daily news makes on its way to the nesting place between my ears.

But, Fox News isn’t my only source of info (some of you just heaved a huge sigh of relief).

I read ten or fifteen blogs a week; Google and I are fast-friends; there are RSS feeds that slide right into my email inbox; and Wikipedia is a frequent stop of mine. I don’t even (much) mind the oft-biased opinions threaded into the commentary spewed at me from the world at large. I’m smart enough to weed out the opinions. I’m well read. I know what I believe.

And yet, my moderately intelligent, sponge of a brain has a limit.

Like that line on the Bisquick Shake ‘N’ Pour container: You can keep adding water, surpass the recommended measurement. Fill it right up to the lid, in fact, and be darn proud of yourself for squeezing so much in. But, I’m not quite sure you’ll get what you’re looking for. For starters, I think you’ll have an awfully hard time getting the pancake mix and the water to successfully meld. To get full value out of your “shake,” the water and mix need a little elbow room. They need a place to dance around in. Without some empty space, you may just end up with a bloated tub of water and powder.

But, let’s say you’ve got the Paula Dean anointing and do get that itty-bitty handful of mix to blend with the oodles of water you’ve added. My guess is you’re going to have nothing but a slew of sad, thin, little pancakes. No substance. No yum-factor. Nothing for the chocolate chips to melt into. Just wafer thin, useless carb carriers. No one’s gonna want to eat ‘em and all your effort will have been for naught.

Often, when I’ve been on an information binge, I’m just like that pathetic Shake ‘N’ Pour container. I somehow exceed the recommended dose of global, situational, and social advisement, and there I sit: a bloated, good for nothing info-hog unable to successfully process the junk crammed into my head. These days are anxious days. Impatient ones. The cogs are hard at work trying to force too much info into the saturated sponge that has become my mind.

At times like these, when I’ve thoroughly gorged myself, it becomes necessary to unwind a bit–make room for the new facts and opinions to dance with the old ones. But, even this is only moderately successful, and it can take days for me to return to a sane place where thinking things of substance trumps regurgitating good-for-nothing bylines.

Advice from here. Advice from there. Tips on how to be successful. Testimonials from those who’ve failed. Tragic news stories from across the globe. Sports scores and The Fashion Police. “How-to” books and the like. While information technology can be a very liberating tool, I am finding that it can also handicap me. Too much, too quickly and I’m toast. I’m a walking sound bite–a billboard for the latest news I’ve ingested.

And that can’t be the way God intended it.

Perhaps it’s the difference between moderation and excess. Maybe it’s understanding the difference between the information I need and the information I want. Or it could be that while I’m craving knowledge, I should really be seeking wisdom.

James, the brother of Christ, talks a lot about wisdom. He says this, “But the wisdom from above is first pure, then peaceable, gentle, reasonable, full of mercy and good fruits, unwavering, without hypocrisy. And the seed whose fruit is righteousness is sown in peace by those who make peace.”

Maybe before sidling into the computer chair, I should open my Bible. Maybe filling my mind with a morning foundation of God stuff–pure, peaceable, gentle, reasonable wisdom from above–will remind me that collecting information will not make me wise.

I’ll say it again: Collecting information will not make me wise.

It will not make you wise.

The only way to redeem knowledge for wisdom is to apply the lessons of the Word to our busy, info-inundated lives. And to apply the Word, we must know the Word. And we will never, ever know the Word if we are spending our day searching computers, newspapers, or televisions for more information.

While extricating ourselves from a routine of intelligence gathering may be painful, I’m betting it pays off in dividends. I’m betting we’ll be more productive and more reasonable. We’ll be less anxious and less busy. If we swap out half the time we spend searching for meaningless information, trading it instead for time digging through the Word, I’m guessing our daily satchel of cares will be a little lighter and our heart a lot happier.

We may know a tad less, but we’ll have a direct line to that wisdom from above.

And that sounds like the kind of junkie I’d like to be.

Oh, you knew that.

Right.

Well, I betcha didn’t know this: My new “Site of the Month” is up!

Please help me honor Julie Williams and her debut novel, “Where Freedom Lies.”

Julie is a fellow member of Inspire Christian Writers and a gal I’ve had the privilege to get to know over the past several months. Her highly skilled red pen has proved valuable on my own writing journey, and she has taught me that it takes the eyes and ears of many others to fine-tune a manuscript. As she continues on the road to publication, I hope you will take a minute to visit her site. I assure you, it will be time well spent.

“Where Freedom Lies” is a Christian novel of historical fiction that has been meticulously researched and delightfully written. Julie’s characters live and breathe on the page, pulling the reader into a time long past–a time that should be both remembered and celebrated. While the Revolutionary War is simply a history lesson for most of us, Julie’s heroine, Hannah, is living it. Through her eyes we watch as truth and fiction collide, birthing a story full of charm and wit while posing some heart-searching questions.

As we honor the birth of our great nation, take this opportunity to glimpse into Hannah’s world. Put yourself in her shoes, not far from Lexington Common where her father and twin brother head into battle. Watch as Drew, a British soldier, marches toward Lexington–toward Hannah–changing both the war and Hannah’s life in ways she could have never imagined.

I’m telling you, friends, it’s a great read.

Check out Julie’s website for the first two chapters of “Where Freedom Lies,” and enjoy America’s 234th birthday! May America continue to be the land of the free and the home of the brave.

God bless!

My first job–if you don’t count folding the church bulletin–was at a lazer tag facility. Birthday parties, tournaments, video games, all-nighters. One of these days, I’ll do a post on the life-altering days of marshaling lazer tag games full of sweaty grown men, shooting their hearts out while the likes of Aqua’s “Barbie Girl” fills the black light arena with techno craziness. Fun stuff.

My second job–if you don’t count the short stint I had at a law firm during college–was at Hollywood Video where I worked my way from customer service, to management, to a Senior VP’s Executive Assistant. It was, by far, one of the best learning experiences of my life. And, I learned way more than I ever wanted to know about the management, perception, and marketing of entertainment.

During both of these jobs, I acted, performing in such shows as “Our Town” and “The Crucible.”

Like I said, I like to be entertained. And, apparently, I like to entertain.

Nowadays, I write. It’s my outlet. My expression, if you will, of the creativity screaming inside me. And I maintain that imaginative characters had better find a way to puncture their soul and let ingenuity run free. Because creativity hates to be trapped. Really, it’s a monster. A viscous, life-sucking beast that will claw up your insides if you don’t find a way to let it out and play.

My guess is that you’ve got a raging creativity monster inside of you as well. Some are smaller than others. Some are fluffy pink things who are satisfied with dissecting the intricacies of handbag construction, and some are slimy reptilian creatures sitting heavily in your gut, refusing to leave you in peace until you hand them a brush and canvas.

I’m a fan of creativity. I’m a fan of entertainment. I’m a fan of using the gifts we’ve been given to enrich the world around us. I like amusement parks and movie theatres. I crave bookshelves and well-written stories. I enjoy fireworks displays and art shows. I’m a sucker for galleries and community playhouses.

Yes, I’ll admit it.

I like eye candy.

Now, go ahead and say it.

Come on…

Let’s all be real.

You like eye candy, too.

It’s okay. I understand. Entirely.

Disclaimer: Candy consumed in mass quantity is a bad thing. And some candy will kill both you and your creative soul. You should stop consuming that kind immediately.

But, I deviate.

My point is this: Creativity, and the appreciation of it, is not a bad thing, but we do not exist to be entertained.

Can I get an “Amen”?

The Christian community is full of creative souls, and I am incredibly grateful. There is nothing more precious than our creativity being used to worship the ultimate king of creativity, the creator Himself. We don’t exist to be entertained by Him. We exist to know Him. To worship Him. To spread His good news–that we were all wretched in our sin and that even in our spiritual deadness, Christ came and was crucified. He died taking the penalty of sin with Him and then three days later, He rose from the dead, conquering death and its hold on humanity forever. That’s why we exist. That’s it. Him.

But oftentimes, this “entertain me” mentality rides the laces of our shoes and lands on the floor of the church. It worms its way up the legs of church-goers until what we have are pews and pews of dissident souls waiting to be entertained. And this, my friends, disturbs me.

I like a rockin’ worship service. Skits while they pass the offering bucket are welcome. And, funny preachers can be endearing. But let me say this: Worshiping God does not require a single instrument. It doesn’t require a cool worship leader or a tattooed drummer (love you Jordan!). It doesn’t require candles in the corner, or prayer stones. To worship God the Father, you don’t need a witty preacher or a Starbucks kiosk in the foyer.

“Then what does worship look like?” you ask.

I give you Romans 12:1: Therefore, I urge you, brothers, in view of God’s mercy, to offer your bodies as living sacrifices, holy and pleasing to God—this is your spiritual act of worship.

My body. A sacrifice. Holy. Pleasing to God.

Twiddling my thumbs, waiting for the preacher to convince me to come back next week is not a sacrifice. It does not make me holy. And it does not please God. Offering ourselves up to God to be used for His purposes–that’s worship. Doing our darndest to keep ourselves pure and holy before the Lord–that’s worship.

And the mind-boggling part is that when we’re genuinely seeking to be used by God, for His glory and not for our own… When we’re striving for a lifestyle of holiness, God often challenges us to use our creative gifts and abilities to bring honor to Him. To enrich the body. To draw others to His kingdom.

When we choose worship over entertainment, God cracks us open and the giftings He’s placed near to our heart pour out onto others. Our creativity has an outlet. Our God is lifted high.

When entertainment is our goal, we’re often let down. When worship is our goal, we choose humility and allow Christ to lift us up.

It’s almost like He created it that way…

Your creativity in the hands of the creator.

What an amazing thing.

Justus, my five-year-old, is incredibly nostalgic for such a young soul. We had an illuminating conversation on the way to school this morning.

“Can you believe it, Justus?”

“What?”

“You made it! You’re done with kindergarten now!”

A grin spreads like taffy across his gorgeous face. “I remember my first day.”

“Me too,” I say, thinking back. So many new kids to befriend. New teachers. New rules. Name-tags and desks. An alphabet that snaked around the room. A carpet covered with letters and numbers. “You know, God was with you then. And He’s with you now, on your last day. How cool is that?”

“I’m blessed,” he says, wisely.

Tears blur my eyes. “Yes, baby. Yes, you are.”

“Know what it reminds me of?”

“What?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, my little man begins a song, his blue eyes sparkling in the sunlight.

“Thy Word is a lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path,” he sings.

I join in. Jaz, my one-year-old, even tries to help.

“When I feel afraid and think I’ve lost my way.
Still, You’re there right beside me.
Nothing will I fear as long as You are near;
Please be near me to the end.

I will not forget Your love for me and yet,
My heart forever is wandering.
Jesus be my guide and hold me to Your side,
And I will love you to the end.”

We sang this old Amy Grant song (which he believes originated with Jr. Asparagus) until his sneakers hit the school-yard pavement. Then, he threw his backpack on, blew me a kiss, and ran to the playground.

And me? I prayed.

Thank You, Jesus, for my little man. Thank You for blessing me with him. For keeping him safe. For being right beside him when I couldn’t be. Thank you for the friends he’s made this year. For the lessons he’s learned. For a wonderful teacher. Thank You for holding him and guiding him. Thank You for his child-like faith and the relationship You’ve begun with him. And for my baby girl, I also pray. That my children will always know the safety of Your guiding hand. Every day, for the rest of their lives. That when things are hard, when they travel through valleys and dry places, I pray they would know Your ever-sustaining grace. And when they walk roads they don’t understand, let them remember this song. Let them seek You in both the darkness and the light. For your Word promises that You will be found if they seek You with their whole hearts. And, I pray, dear, sweet Jesus, that my children will love you–truly love you–to the end.

Just a man.

Brown hair, soft like ribbons. Large eyes, black like coal. And two thin lips, invisible except when the man smiled. But when he smiled, his lips became the grinning fault-line splitting his rounded peninsula of a chin. And behind those lips he had perfectly square, perfectly white teeth.

The man was kind.

I knew it when he scooped me from the pile, moving aside shinier pieces. I felt gentleness in his hands that day, though his calloused fingers prodded my strength, thumped me, and checked for cracks. Finally, he held me to the light and his black eyes scrutinized my angles, my color. His jutting chin split in two, and those white squares sparkled back at me.

“Perfect,” he said. “You’ll be perfect.”

He closed his fist and I warmed there, just a grimy piece of glass. Strong, able. But not the best of the bunch. This I knew, but I did not care. The man, the kind man, had use for me. I nestled back and forth, feeling the crevices of his palm, feeling the bend of his knuckles. I had never been so happy.

And then, he opened his hand and the harsh light of the hardware store struck me again.

“So dirty,” I said, looking up at the man. “I’m sorry I’m so dirty.”

Black eyes twinkled down at me as he placed me on the cold, metal counter.

“I’ll take this one,” he said, to the shop owner.

“Really? This one.”

“Yes, this one.”

“I have cleaner ones, Sir. Just let me show you.”

“No, thank you. This is just the one I need.”

The shop owner shrugged, and money changed hands.

“She’s all yours,” the shop owner said.

Yes, I am. Yes. I am.

The man, the kind one, opened a toolbox. Silver. Tin, maybe. He opened it up and put me inside, carefully, cautiously. It was colder there. I’d much rather have been in his hand, but no matter. He’d chosen me. The kind man needed me. The two sides of the lid closed and as darkness consumed the box, the man’s face lingered above me, smiling. Always smiling. And then a latch was heard and things became very complicated.

It didn’t take my eyes long to adjust to the shadowy toolbox, and eventually I found my place. Nestled in the corner, behind a suffocating rag, I made friends with a buck-toothed hammer, a sharp little chisel, and a clingy bottle of glue. We spoke of the man. Of his soft hair and black eyes. We traded stories. Of the days when each of us were chosen. How special we felt. How excited. How hopeful. And we dreamed together. Soon, very soon, the kind man would put us to use.

After much jostling and clanging, the latch snapped open and our silver walls parted. The man’s face came into view. Kind, still kind, but absorbed in thought. He stared down at us, his fingers twitching. Oh, how I wanted to jump into them! Oh, how I desired to be useful.

“Pick me! Pick me!” I cried, wiggling from beneath the rag.

But, the man did not choose me. His fingers fell on the hammer. As he pulled the tool up and out of the box, my friend, the hammer, waved.

“You’ll be next!” he said, his buckteeth whistling. “I just know it!”

I listened to the hammer do his job, singing away in the man’s capable hands. And I waited, expectantly. But I was not next.

A wrench was chosen. Then my pal, the glue, was torn from me. The witty chisel. A family of nails. The small can of paint. Even the rag–the rag was pulled from my side with a soft sigh of relief. Tool after tool was taken and used. Some returned after their job was completed, and some did not. I heard stories of their exploits, of the jobs they’d been given.

What was the man building, I wondered? But, not a single tool could tell me.

“I just did my job,” the hammer said. “I didn’t ask questions.”

“Same here,” said the glue. “The man squeezed and I produced.”

They tried to be gentle with me, but I could tell. They had enjoyed their time with the man. They had enjoyed being useful. And why shouldn’t they? It’s what they were created for. They were tools. Purchased for the man’s use. But, me? What was I? Nothing but a grimy piece of glass. Why had the man, the kind man, even chosen me?

Perhaps, it had been a mistake.

I watched my friends come and go. I tried to be happy when they shared their success, but I was disheartened. Though, once I had been selected out of many, I now sat useless, oftentimes alone. The toolbox opened and closed. I was jostled and clanged, day after day. But, I was not chosen. I was not used.

And it was not long before I stopped trying to get the man’s attention.

The lid would open and I’d squirm away from the light. I’d crawl out of sight. If he wasn’t going to use me, I should stop hoping. Hope hurts too much. Hours passed, and days, and even the tools seemed to forget my existence.

And then, one day, everything changed.

The kind man’s fingers descended into the box. I didn’t move. I didn’t expect. I just watched. As he moved the hammer aside, and the glue, as he scooched away the rag. I told myself not to hope. But, when his toothpick fingers fell upon me, I squealed with delight. This was my moment. My time. The man had use of me!

Would I sing away like the hammer? Would I produce like the glue?

No, I would not. The man, it seemed, had other plans for me. And they hurt. He sprayed me and scrubbed me. He used that filthy rag to clean me. He even chiseled a bit, though I cried out in pain. Surely, this man would break me. But, he did not. His brow creased with effort, his hands worked tirelessly, and though I sometimes craved the empty safety of the toolbox, the warmth of his hand comforted me.

Had each of my friends gone through their own turmoil? Did they hurt like me? Did every tool, every piece of material, suffer for the man? For his purposes?

The earth of the man’s face split and his smile surfaced. “It is time,” he said.

He lifted me high above his head, and wedged my shiny yellow self tightly into a crevice. A glance around showed I was nestled next to others of my kind. Glass shapes of blue and red shone next to me. Squares and circles of white and purple, brown and orange. Where had they all come from?

“She’s here! She’s here!” I heard them cry. “Finally!”

The man, his ribbon hair waffling, used my pal, the glue, to secure me in place.

“Look!” said the glue. “Look what the man has made!”

And as the man pulled his hands away, the sun struck my back and poured through my yellow skin. I looked around at my brightly lit counterparts, each beaming, each happy to have me.

“We’ve been waiting,” they said. “We wouldn’t have been complete without you!”

I looked down at the hardwood floor. The floor the man had made. I looked at the rows and rows of cushioned seats. Seats the man had fashioned. I saw a stage, an altar. I saw doors and windows. I saw walls and instruments. And then I saw our colors, carried on the rays of the sun, laying like a painting across the floor. There I stood, at the top of a stained glass window. Just one small piece of glass, just one small role. But, what a view! From my rightful place, I could see. From my appointed place, I could understand.

The man had built a church. A beautiful church. Each piece, each tool had been selected carefully. Why I’d been separated from the rest of the glass pieces, I may never know, but being in the toolbox had taught me something: Work had gone into the construction of this place. The tools, the instruments, the materials had all played a part. But, it was the kind man who had accomplished so much. He had used each of us in his own time. When he was ready. And though I questioned his choices throughout the process, no one could argue with the result.

His completed church was a masterpiece.

And I, a grimy faithless sliver, had use.

Ahhhhh… I get goosebumps just thinking about ‘em.

So, when I was provided with Linore Rose Burkard’s third Regency Fiction novel to read and review, I was notably giddy. I ordered the first two novels from Amazon so that I’d be all caught up when the third arrived.

I am happy to tell you that I fell in love with her stories.

With a Bachelor of Arts in English Literature, Linore has put in the elbow grease and her novels show it. With a breathtaking sweep of England in the early 1800′s, her detailed writing pulls you into the story. From gown designs to architecture, Burkard has detailed settings deliciously idyllic, and in some cases appropriately forlorn. And she has done so with an expert hand. She then leaves a stage of quirky characters to keep you entertained and they do so with enchanting results.

The three books have similarities–their cast for example, as well as overlapping story-lines and settings–but each has it own flavor. It’s own mystery. Each story has its own delightful twist. And, I turned every page with glee. I hope you will too.

Her books have been marketed as “Inspirational Fiction for the Jane Austen Soul” and the tag-line fits perfectly. If you fell in love with Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy, you’re sure to love Ariana Forsythe and Phillip Mornay. I’ve reviewed all three books and will include the link to the first book below. So, that I do not spoil your read, I won’t post the link to my reviews of her second and third books. If you’re desperate to read the reviews, I’m sure you’re savvy enough to find them.

You can find a ton of information about Linore and her books on her website, which happens to be my June Site of the Month. Check it out and be blessed.

Click here to read my review of her first novel, Before the Season Ends.