Katdish.net

I don’t talk about my family much here. Well, I do–I just tend not to get into specifics. I’m comfortable sharing myself, and obviously my family is a huge part of my life, but the last thing I want to do is share something they would rather I keep private.

However, recently I was asked if I could contribute a guest post for another blog, and this particular story about my son came to mind. I was pretty angry when I wrote it last year. Reading it again gave me some perspective. I am often guilty of assuming that raising kids has more to do with what I can teach them. More often than not, it’s more about what they teach me. They humble me on a fairly regular basis. For that I am grateful.

To read the story, please join me over at Tammy Patrick’s blog, Nurse’s Notes.

When I asked Jason Wert to write a guest post for me, he asked, “How hard core can I get with my posting?” Having read Jason’s blog, I knew immediately what the subject matter of his post would be. Jason calls himself an abolitionist. I would agree.

The problem of human trafficking is not something we talk about much during Sunday school parties. Prostitution typically isn’t the topic of conversation during pot luck dinners. But maybe it should be. The following short story may make you a bit uncomfortable, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing…

Becki kept forcing air out her nose hoping that it would eliminate the putrid smell of sex and cigarettes.

Bodily fluids dripped off her skin onto the plaid shag carpet as a trio of men sat laughing and drinking while watching Boxing After Dark on HBO. The men who tricked her into a “modeling job” that turned her into nothing more than a breathing sex toy. The men who split the money given to them by the seven other men who raped her throughout the evening for whatever price Carlos told them they had to pay after replying to an ad on Craigslist.

She couldn’t remember the name of the hotel. Every night a different room in a different place but they all seemed to look and smell the same. She couldn’t even remember how long she’d been gone from her friends and family. She didn’t even know if her family was still looking for her or if they’d just believed she ran away and given up.

She rose to her hands and knees, lifting her head so she wouldn’t throw up. Her face hurt from the last man slapping her repeatedly while he violated her. The pain in her groin felt like the time Carlos hit her with a golf club. She grabbed the edge of the bed and slowly rose to her feet. She watched Carlos as he yelled at the boxers on television for a minute then turned toward the bathroom.

“Where you going, bitch?” Carlos yelled.

“I have to go the bathroom.”

“I didn’t say you could so sit down and shut up.”

“But I have to go bad.”

Carlos slammed his beer on the table causing it to foam and overflow onto the floor and his pants. He jumped from his chair swatting at his pants to wipe off the liquid.

“See what you made me do?” He crossed the room and slapped Becki across the face. The blow almost lifted her completely off the floor. She landed on the bed and tried not to cry because she knew crying meant at least ten lashes from Carlos’ belt. He had a very bad habit of losing count when he reached seven or eight.

“You piss on that bed and you’ll be turning tricks in a gas station bathroom,” Carlos said as he returned to his chair. “But that’d be too good for a ho like you.”

Becki turned her head away from her captor, a single tear running down her cheek to mix with the blood from her lip. She prayed for someone to rescue her and hoped that maybe this time God would hear her.

I’ll be honest…what you just read was a work of fiction in that the names have been changed and they weren’t really watching Boxing After Dark. However, as you read this blog post, there are young girls and women all over the United States who are just like Becki. Women taken by boyfriends or “business managers” who promise the world but end up giving physical and emotional abuse in run down hotel rooms and apartments in cities like Nashville, Los Angeles, New York, Las Vegas…

It’s a problem in the US that goes largely unreported for a number of reasons. They range from people not wanting to admit that America…the land of the free…can be home to slaves in the year 2010 to police arresting underage girls forced to work as prostitutes as the criminals.

It’s also a problem because too many Christians won’t do anything about it.

Sex related issues are so taboo in so many churches that when something like this comes around it’s quickly shuffled to the women’s ministry if it’s addressed at all. The people who can step up and really drive change…the men who control most churches and the purse strings of those churches…don’t want to get involved in such a “controversial” subject. However, didn’t Jesus come to set the captives free?

In Luke 4, Jesus read Isaiah 61:1 and said the Word was fulfilled in the hearing:

“The Spirit of the Lord GOD is upon me, because the LORD has anointed me to bring good news to the poor; he has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to those who are bound” (ESV)

That means Jesus came to do all of those things…including proclaiming liberty to the captives. If we are to follow in Jesus’ footsteps, we need to do that as well no matter how uncomfortable we may get at the idea of strippers and prostitutes sitting in our prayer circles on Sunday morning.

Rise up and join those of us who are modern day abolitionists. You can help by supporting some of these groups who fight trafficking in the USA:

The Home Foundation

Beauty From Ashes

Hookers for Jesus

Not for Sale

When he’s not fighting the urge to eat Swedish Fish, Jason blogs at J. C. Wert – Writer, Speaker, Abolitionish and you can follow him on Twitter @JCWert.

If you consider yourself a writer–and if you’re reading this post, chances are pretty good that you do–you’ve probably asked and (hopefully) answered this question and given yourself a satisfactory answer.

As I’m assuming you’re a writer because you’re still reading this (you are still reading this, right?), then I will also assume you have hopes of having your work published. If you’re already published, kudos to you. That’s quite an accomplishment.

Still on my assumuptions bandwagon, I’m going to assume you know that good editors are the unsung heroes of the literary world. If you haven’t read his blog already, I’d like to introduce to someone I consider one of those good editors. And I’m not just saying that, I know that he is…you’re just going to have to trust me on that one. Someday I’ll tell you I told you so, and you’ll say, “Dang! She’s always right.” (Oh, I’m kidding. Mostly.)

Where was I? Oh, yeah…

I said this post was by Stephen Parolini–sort of because it’s not actually a guest post. It was a thoughtful answer to a question I posed on his blog, The Novel Doctor which I threatened to cut and paste and call a blog post. And that’s what I’m doing. The original post was A Compelling Reason, and he posed the same question: Why do you write? Read it. It’s excellent–as are all of his posts. Did I mention he’s also a fantastic writer? To understand the entirity of his answer, I invite you to go back to the post and read it and the comments. Some excellent, writerly conversation there. But on to my question:

My comment/question was:
I know you’re right. Writers write because they want to matter. But that’s assuming they don’t already matter. And at what point do you know you matter? After your first book? Your second? Does it need to be a critical and commercial success?

To quote the late John Candy from the movie “Cool Runnings”, “If you’re not enough without it, you’re never going to be enough with it.”

…or something like that…

To which Stephen replied:
Here’s the surprise (and it’s not really a surprise): we already DO matter. Every one of us. But we don’t always feel like we do. So we write. Or we draw. Or we sing. Or we tell really bad jokes in a really loud voice in a room full of strangers. We want that validation Kristin refers to above.

But you’re asking a slightly different question: When do you know you matter as a writer? The short answer? When you’ve written.

Period.

Of course, being a culture of comparison, we want a better answer than that. We want to quantify our “mattering,” fully aware that even a huge success doesn’t really change our intrinsic value – just others’ perception of it. (And in some cases, our own perception of it – which explains why some successful authors appear to be full of themselves.)

Okay, so let’s quantify it. Let’s put aside the psychological (and spiritual, because it really is a spiritual question, too) and look for a moment at the practical.

Probably the best measure of whether or not you “matter” as a writer (ie: are someone others might consider a success), is if you sell enough copies of your current book to keep publishing houses interested in investing in the next one. According to this measure, as long as you’re getting published, your writing matters. This is true whether your books are consistently on the bestseller list or practically unheard of except to your loyal fans.

Of course, there are exceptions. Here’s one: “To Kill a Mockingbird.” Did Harper Lee’s writing matter less because she published just one novel? Do I even need to ask that question?

In summary: you already matter. You just don’t feel it. So you write. And you seek validation for what you write – because it’s validation of you. And you know you shouldn’t seek validation for yourself this way, so you try to deny the belief that “more sales” means “mattering more.” But you have a hard time denying this because you’re human and broken and you’ve been taught that success is measured in numbers, not intangibles. Is it any wonder why the writer’s life is such an emotional roller coaster?

Okay. That’s enough meandering on this topic for now. I’m sure I’ll have more thoughts five minutes from now. Maybe even contradictory thoughts. But hey, that’s just how I roll.

One last thing, though. It’s another mathematical formula, but I think it’s an important one for writers to consider, no matter how many books they sell:

A writer really only matters to readers one at a time.

To read more from Stephen Parolini, read his blog The Novel Doctor and follow him on the twitter at @noveldoctor

Today’s guest blogger is another friend I connected with on Twitter, made my way to her blog, and found yet another wonderful writer as well as a great encourager.

Cassandra Frear has homeschooled her sons through high school, led three grassroots ministries for families, taught seminars, and served as a teacher, speaker, and lay counselor. She enjoys reading, writing, hiking, and living to tell about it all. You can find her at her blog, The Moonboat Cafe.

The first thing you should know is that Katdish did not ask me to write about this topic. She’s not responsible for anything I say here. Instead, she told me to write about whatever comes to mind. And that’s where the trouble started.

This post has been brewing for some time. Now that it’s espresso strength, I’m serving it up. Consider it your first cup of the day. As in,”Wake up, people!” But I will try not to be rude. After all, I can’t break one of my Cardinal Rules for Social Media in a blog post on Twitter. I will be nice.

This all started when I was online one afternoon and several tweets about things which should not be mentioned in public passed before my eyes on my PC screen. I thought to myself, “What am I doing here? How can I justify reading this?” Past comments from friends and family came streaming into my thoughts.

“What is it with Twitter? What’s the big deal?”

“I just don’t get the Twitter thing. Why are you doing it?”

“I’m not going to chat with people through short messages. That’s not a conversation! ”

“Boy, you must have a lot of extra time on your hands!”

Then, my all-time favorite: silent laughter, guffaws, chuckles, sideways glances, and smirks. Really? Am I serious?

Ahem. Yes.

Why I Give A Hoot

Here’s why I do Twitter. I’m betting this is why you do it, too. Mostly.

1.Information: My husband, a news editor, has recently set up a Twitter account. He’s amazed at the volume of immediate and succint information coming through the Tweet pike. He has his finger on the pulse of the world. He’s organized his sources, so he can select the kind of data he wants. In minutes, he can skim and know if there is anything he should pay close attention to. It’s better, far better, than the evening news. This is just one example of what Twitter does best — it carries information rapidly and efficiently.

2.Inspiration: More than once, I’ve gotten a needed lift from a tweet on Twitter. At just the right time, there is an image or a quote which encourages me and restores my perspective. I know it seems odd that I could find this at 140 characters a pop. But it happens to me several times a week. God can use anything, even a tweet.

3.Interaction: I’ve gotten to know many writers and wonderful people on Twitter whom I would not have met otherwise. Before joining, I wondered how in the world this could happen with short tweets. But it does. I think we get to know each other better sometimes when other distractions are not in the way. We can see the soul behind the setting when all is pared back to a few words. And it’s not the words themselves — it’s the way the person reacts that tells me who they are.

I’ve prayed for people in crisis on Twitter, pointed them to helpful books, shared recipes, sent encouraging notes, and learned lessons on writing from them. It’s a virtual community. Amazing, isn’t it?

4.Innovation: I ‘ve noticed a recent trend. Some of us are beginning to use Twitter to create, to come up with new concepts, and to build a whole new vocabulary. Tweeters co-write things on Twitter, brainstorm for ideas, and solve problems together. You can tweet about your issues in North Dakota and in a few minutes hear from someone in Ireland who had the same problem and found a great solution. Twitter can be faster than a phone call to a customer service representative and ten times more effective.

As I said, it’s a community. But one without walls or time constraints. And it’s one worth belonging to.

Are you on Twitter? How has it helped you? If you’re not on yet, do you think you might be interested?

To read more from Cassandra Frear, visit her at her blog Moonboat Cafe and follow her on twitter at @CassandraFrear.

I connected with Mike on Twitter. I’m going be honest. I follow a bunch of people on there. If you want my attention, you have to actually talk to me directly. Which he did. (I think it was something sarcastic, which pretty much always gets my attention.) Anyway, I think Mike’s story about connecting to folks on Twitter is pretty cool. Here’s Mike:

Before I became a Tweep I had no idea that Twitter could be used as an evangelism tool. After I created my Twitter account in May of 2009 it didn’t take long to see that Twitter is chock full of Tweeps who will connect with you if you’ll take the time to find, watch, listen, engage and share with them. Tweeps on Twitter are waiting for Christ followers who will be real, authentic and transparent. What else? If you want success in Twitter evangelism you must be non-judgmental, loving and willing to connect with people that don’t believe, think, look or live like you. In my opinion we need to “love people to Jesus”. I am going to share stories about the people who come to bible studies, volunteer at the homeless ministry and go to church due to connections they’ve made with my friend, my pastor and me through Twitter.

Kelly’s Twitter name is @pagankelly. Her Twitter bio reads: “Wiccan, Wife, and Mother”. I connected with Kelly on Twitter and then had coffee with her and other Tweeps at weekly Tweetups in Daytona Beach, Florida. After a few Tweetups she eventually asked me a question, “Mike, my kids have been talking about going to church. What is the name of that church you belong to?” Kelly, her husband Jeff (@the chef_ on Twitter), daughter Teri and son Michael came to church. It was the first time that Kelly, Jeff and the kids came to church together as a family. Along with regular visits to church, they’ve attended Sunday school and volunteered their time during special events. After the connection on Twitter why did Kelly and her family come? “You knew who I was and you invited me. You knew I wasn’t a Christian and it didn’t matter”, Kelly said. Kelly sent this Twitter direct message to me today, “Thank you for being my friend.”

Christine’s (@ChristineBlake) Twitter bio is unique: “Selling drugs out of the trunk of my car”. Before you make any judgments, Christine is a pharmaceutical sales representative. Christine is Catholic and her son attends Catholic school. Due to parent concerns, her son’s school discontinued a tradition of the kids preparing and serving lunch to the homeless. It was a disappointment to Christine. She began looking for other opportunities for her son to serve the less fortunate. Prior to this Christine and I connected through Twitter but she took notice when I tweeted about the homeless ministry at my church. Christine and her son helped serve dinner several times, donated clothing and even rounded up cots for our homeless friends to sleep on. Lately I have been tweeting about a weekly bible study at my friend Russell’s home and Christine is coming. It’s the first time she has ever been to bible study. Last night she told me, “I didn’t know Methodists had bible studies. I thought only Baptists did that!” After the Twitter connection why did Christine serve the homeless and come to the bible study? “You knew I had a church and you were cool with that. I also knew you weren’t going to Jehovah witness me,” said Christine.

Elaine (@ebmk16) and I met at one of the weekly coffee Tweetups. She was attending another church not too far from mine. Elaine watched what my friend, my pastor and I were tweeting. What I didn’t know was that she was struggling to connect and get involved in the church she was attending. Elaine began to see my tweets about getting involved in the homeless ministry. One night she came to our church to serve. She took her involvement to another level when she began knitting scarves for each of our homeless friends. Soon Elaine was attending church on a weekly basis and just recently became a member. After the Twitter connection what brought Elaine to church? “You were demonstrating God on earth. You pulled me in by making it easy to get involved and connected.”

After 13 years of being away from church Twitter, Nascar and a tweeting pastor brought Dana (@Dana88) back. It was the 4th of July. Dana was watching the Pepsi 400 on TV and watching tweets on Twitter about her favorite drivers. She noticed that someone new was following her. She checked out his bio and the website listed on his Twitter page. It was Tom Nelson ( @TomForPeace) the pastor of my church. Earlier that same day I spent several hours with Tom teaching him how to use Twitter. I showed him how to intentionally find people, begin following and connecting with them. One of those people was Dana. The next day, Sunday July 5th, Dana came to church. Since last July Dana has been attending church on a weekly basis. After the Twitter connection what brought Dana back to church? “You didn’t pressure me or use fear. You shared openly and were real, “Dana said.

When Christie moved to Daytona Beach, FL she began attending a singles group at church. It wasn’t long before she was being judged about having a TV, her work schedule and the probing questions she asked about the bible. She stopped attending church. I met Christie by connecting through Twitter. Not long after that we met in person at coffee Tweetups. At the Tweetups and on Twitter, Christie heard about the homeless ministry at my church. She traveled to thrift shops and stores to round up and then donate clothes for the homeless. Christie hasn’t been to a church service yet but she plans on doing it soon. She’s been away from church since 2001. After the Twitter connection what would make her consider coming back? Christie said, “You aren’t uptight, pushy or try to put unrealistic expectations on me. You’re friendly.”

Jane (@SeeJaneSell) stopped attending church 25 years ago. I met Jane at a coffee Tweetup and didn’t see her again until she showed up at a cold weather shelter for the homeless at the church. She had a horrible day at work and saw tweets about helping at the shelter. Instead of sulking she came to serve others. The next step for Jane was attending church. She now attends church weekly. Last Sunday Jane became a member of the church. After the Twitter connection what brought Jane back to church? She said, “I felt like something was pointing me there. You weren’t pushy. You opened up your arms to me and I felt like I belonged.”

What are you doing to intentionally find, follow, connect, engage, share and reach out to people through social media?

How do you search and find people on Twitter? Click here.

Would you like to see another post I wrote on Twitter Evangelism? Click here.

What is a Tweetup? Find out by clicking here.

Mike Ellis is a messed up Christ follower. The church he writes about in this post is First United Methodist Church in Port Orange, FL. He has been working in promotion and marketing for 31 years. He is not a social media expert but he does know enough to be dangerous. You can connect with Mike through his blog and follow him on Twitter at @MarketerMikeE.

Back in February I wrote a post for the blog carnival entitled Patiently. It was a fictional account of a victim of domestic violence. Today, I am grateful to have a guest blogger who not only knows first hand what it is to live that nightmare, but was able to escape from it.

Louise Gallagher has moved through Calgary’s corporate hallways to not-for-profit fund-raising and communications. The author of The Dandelion Spirit, A true-life fairytale of love, lies and letting-go, published in 2006, she is the producer/writer of At The Heart of Centre Stage, a one hour documentary for Global Television and numerous other video productions. In addition, Louise’s articles have been published in print and online and she has had several articles aired on CBC Radio.

Louise seeks to inspire everyone to make a difference, in their own lives and in their communities through creative expression in everything they do.

Grieving a Love Gone Wrong

When someone dies, we grieve. The process is well-documented, the steps clearly defined though seldom straight-forward. We each journey through the process at our own speed, in our own time. But, regardless of our pace, we must go through each step to come to that place where we can be at peace with only the memories of the one we loved to warm our hearts, as we learn to accept that they have gone forever as we move on.

We start with disbelief. It cannot be true. They cannot be gone. We are in denial. And then we move into anger. How could they have left us! Why me? Why them? Why now? Why? Why? Why? Anger gives way to bargaining, trying to find some way to reach peace with the inevitable truth that is edging away at the darkness, trying to bring light to the endless night we seem to have slipped into with their passing.

We’re angry they left us, angry they won’t come back. And angry there is nothing that can bring them back — though we keep searching for a way to make the pain of their going, go away. Until, finally, sadness invades our minds like fog drifting upon a river in the grey on grey world of a winter’s dawn as we wade through the pain of the truth seeping into our hearts with chilling clarity. We will never see or feel or hear them again.

As the truth settles in we learn to accept. They are not coming back. Sad, but true. But we have our memories. Those beautiful, jewel encased visions of who this person was and what they meant to our lives. And so we slip from the waters of despair into the memory banks and photo albums of their loving faces frozen in time, etching their images upon the page with our fingers lovingly caressing their smiles as we point and laugh and tell stories about them.

Remembering when. Remembering how. Remembering them. We hold their memory lovingly in our hearts and feel the breath of life return once again to our peace of mind. Knowing that whenever we need to, to have them near all we have to do is open a photo album, slip into our hearts and there they’ll be, forever and a day. And so we grieve as their memory turns into a poem of love we will cherish forevermore.

There is no poetry when grieving a psychopath

Grieving a love gone wrong hurts. Especially when the one we loved has been untrue. Has lied and deceived and manipulated to get what they want. In those memories, there is no place where it is safe to trace their image upon the pages of our mind as we carefully gather mementos in the book of love we are writing in their passing. For, no matter where we roam, the lies, the deceit, the cruelty and desperation we felt in loving them tinges our minds with the ashen silt descending from the volcano that erupted in their passing through our lives.

Where once love blossomed on every branch and flower strewn vistas of happily-ever-after cast a sweet heady aroma of bliss upon our minds, burnt out memories lie etched in stark relief upon the black and grey landscape of our dreams. We are not safe to grieve wrapped in the memories of their love and so must find a way to release the tears without falling into the river of despair as anger and hatred and revulsion invade.

And so we grieve

In anger we turn the pain of having loved a phantom onto ourselves. We search for answers to their duplicity in our own naiveté. We blame ourselves, we find solace in trying to keep alive the image of what we wanted so desperately for him or her to be. We attach ourselves to the belief we love him as reality rises with our racing hearts pounding out the truth in a mind-numbing tattoo. He is the lie. Until finally, like Vesuvius erupting, the anger boils over the top and we are free to vent our tears and pain and fears and anger.

We were betrayed. Not because of anything we did. Not because of who we were, or how we looked or behaved, but simply because the abuser was who he or she was. We were betrayed not because we deserved it, but simply because we lost track of what we truly deserve when he betrayed our truth, our faith, our hope in love. We were betrayed because he chose to betray us and we were not expecting betrayal. We were expecting the love we gave in such breathless wonder to be returned with equal honesty. We were expecting to be cherished as we cherished him. But we didn’t know that upon that first sweet hello, we were targeted for betrayal. And betrayal is hard to grieve.

I grieve for the woman who was abused

When the man who promised to love me ‘til death do us part and who took the death part way too seriously was arrested and I was set free, I wanted to mourn the relationship that was too good to be true. I wanted to grieve the man with whom I’d fallen in love. But he did not exist.

How could I mourn a dream? How could I grieve a figment of my imagination? Where was the substance to the chimera of his being in my life?

When first I was set free, I tried to mourn the man I thought he was and ended up grieving for the woman who was betrayed. Me.

I grieved for the woman who believed in Prince Charming and awoke to her worst nightmare raging in the night. I grieved for the woman who believed no one could willingly, knowingly, consciously create such evil and who had to awaken to the truth. Someone could and that someone was once a man I loved. A man who was untrue.

I grieved the woman whose hungry heart led her into his unholy arms. I grieved the woman who had to give up on believing in herself in order to keep believing in him. And I grieved the woman who almost lost her life because she could not believe she deserved to live. I grieved for that woman who was me who was so wounded, battered and bruised upon the road of life she thought she had no choice but to follow her magical thinking into the nightmare of his lies. She was betrayed and lost her way.

I grieved the past. I grieved the woman-child who believed she deserved to be abused.

In my prayers, I let him go

I did not grieve for him.

I prayed for him. I prayed for him a miracle, for only a miracle will set him free. And in my prayers, I let him go.

And focus on me.

When first I stumbled off that road to hell I could not feel my heart within me, could not feel the warmth of the sun upon my face. I could not feel. In grieving, I shifted my focus from memories of him to memories of me. My life, my joy, my sorrow, my pain, my elation. In grieving, I mourned what happened to me and rejoice in the wonder, the beauty, the joy of being alive today. In living, I create my poem of love that says, this is my one and only life. And I am the one and only me that I can be living it up for all I’m worth in the rapture of now.

Becoming all that I am meant to be

In letting go of him, I catch hold of me and wrap myself up in my loving arms. For I am the wondrous, incredible, miraculous being who has been given this gift of her life to live it in freedom. In freedom, I know that whatever lies I believed, from childhood through to this moment, there is only one lie that could hurt me now – to believe that I am not worthy of love.

He was my worst nightmare. But in his passing, I have been given the gift of truth that has saved my life – I am an awesome human being, worthy of love.

In love with me and my life, I accept all of me. Beauty and the beast. Joy and sorrow. Tears and laughter. Pain and ecstasy. Perfectly human in all my imperfections.

I am not less than, greater than, other than. I am me. And as me, I have the gift of embracing all that I am meant to be when I accept, without equivocation, my truth. I deserve to live my beautiful life without fear of being anyone other than who I am.

To read more from Louise Gallagher, please visit her at Recover your Joy.

If you are a victim of domestic violence, please know that this is not the life God intended for you. Please visit lovefraud.com. There is a better life for you.

I trying to remember where I first came across today’s guest blogger, Heather Sunseri. I want to say Twitter. Which, for those of you still stubbornly refusing to join, has been an incredible resource for finding some of the best writers on the internets. Just saying, Sharkbait.

Regardless, Heather’s a great writer and a great person.

Here’s her bio:

I am a Christian, wife and mother of two young children. I have worked as a CPA for the past 15 years for thoroughbred horse farms and in public accounting in Central Kentucky. I spend my free time as an inspirational writer and enjoy the little things in life from long bike rides in the country to homemade pizza and family game night.

Chickens with Purpose

I’m always pondering God’s purpose in my life. You know, the big plan. And do I have enough faith to know when I’m living it?

As a young child, I was taught to smile through most anything. God won’t send you a memo with a bullet-point to-do list on how to live out His plan. You must put one foot in front of another, get your hands dirty, put a smile on your face and get to work. Of course, all that mixed with a heavy dose of faith that God will pick you up when you fall, and you’ll feel Christ’s love as you work. I find it’s easier to do good works–you know the “works, which God prepared in advance for us to do”–with purpose if you keep the faith. Easier said than done, right?

I’ve also been a big believer that God’s big plan lies somewhere in the midst of the little jobs we do along the path of life. And I hope that’s what I teach my kids. The problem? I almost forgot recently. So, thanks, God, and thanks, Mom, for the little reminders to find joy in the little things in life.

One day toward the end of spring break, my mother called to ask me if each of my children could have a baby chick as a souvenir from their spring break with my parents.

I was working long hours, as is always the case January through April 15th for a tax accountant, when the call came. “Can your beautiful children bring home a couple of baby chicks?”

My response to my amazing, caring and generous mother? “Are you insane? Of course they can’t have a chickens.”

“Not chickens. Baby chicks. They’re so cute.”

“I’ll have to think about it.” That, of course, was my way of saying “no” to my mom, but I was too tired (cowardly) to actually say it and listen to all the reasons of why I’m unreasonable, unfair, etc.

I hung up and did what anyone working in an office would do. I pled my case to the people in the neighboring cubicles. And of course, just as I suspected, they all sided with me.

Later that day, I gave my mom all the excuses. “We don’t live on a chicken farm. Sharon, my co-worker, says they’ll die within two days – all baby chicks do. They’re smelly. My neighborhood association won’t allow it. We don’t have anywhere to keep them. We don’t have an incubator.” (I really thought the last one was the one excuse that would do it.)

After my mom countered each one of those excuses, I was worn out so I said, “Call Mike (my husband) and ask him. I’m spent.”

Mike said, “Absolutely not!”

Instead of two baby chicks, my children came one with…

THREE BABY CHICKS, all named, and with a reminder from my mom. “Remember all the things you learned growing up on a small farm. Remember the hamsters, the cats, and breeding Labradors. Remember the baby bunnies we saved one year and the countless wounded birds. Your kids are learning to be caring to all of God’s creatures.” (That seemed like a stretch. We already have a dog, a cat, and fish.)

“But you let the kids name them. Like pets. You don’t name farm animals you have no intention of keeping.”

Alas, after two weeks with Prim, Comet, and Jenna, I admitted to my ten-year-old daughter that I was thoroughly impressed with how well she took care of the chicks. They had grown and thrived. She and my son had cleaned their makeshift cage twice daily, fed and watered them. They even took them outside on sunny days and played with them in the yard.

“I’m proud of you,” I said, trying not to sound too surprised one day while dear daughter fed the chicks water. “You have provided these three chickens amazing care. And you’ve helped your little brother to learn along the way.”

“They’re baby chicks, Mom, not chickens,” she said. “And of course I cared for them. It was my purpose.”

“Your purpose, huh?”

“You know how you’re always talking about doing God’s little jobs with a glad heart, well this was one of those jobs. If I do this job with purpose, He’ll trust me with something even bigger next time.”

“You think so, do you?”

“Yeah, and I’m hoping he’ll trust me with dolphins or a monkey someday.”

My daughter’s a dreamer like me.

But she’s right. It was her purpose at that moment. And she got me thinking. Wouldn’t it be nice if I tackled all of my jobs (toilet-cleaning, carpooling, volunteer work, my current career, writing) with the purpose and glad heart they deserved? Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we all did?

We don’t get to see the blue print God has for our lives, and sometimes we’re faced with not-so-easy of times. But through faith and love of Christ, we put one foot in front of the other, dig in and get our hands dirty, put a smile on our face, and we just might get a small taste of the big plan.

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To read more from Heather Sunseri, visit her at Balance with Purpose and follow her on the twitter at @HeatherSunseri.

Before I introduce my guest blogger today, I wanted to wish my beautiful, brave, butt-kicking friend Annie K a very Happy Birthday, and invite you to drop in on her blog and do the same. Love you, gal! (Y’all really need to stop having birthdays on Mondays and Wednesday. It messes up my schedule.)

And now back to our regularly scheduled guest post…

I usually write a short intro for the folks that guest post here, but Jeff has done such a good job explaining how our paths crossed on the internets, I’ll just let him tell you. I will go on record as saying that he is one of many chronically sarcastic pastors (my favorite kind of pastors, btw) that somehow find their way to my blog. Wonder why that is…

Here’s Jeff:

I am a youth and children’s pastor in Kalamazoo, MI. The most important thing in my world is my family. My wife’s name is Sarah, and my son’s name is Jakob. I am a nerd. I have no problem with that. I grew up Baptist, but like sheep, I have gone astray. I am non-denominational.

I, like many of you, found this blog by reading funny comments left by Kathy on Stuff Christians Like posts. If I see a comment I like or hate, I usually click on the person’s profile, check out their blog, and start liking them more or disliking them more based on what I see. My first visit here, I found her yelling at some kid for stealing her kid’s Pokemon cards. It was kind of a rant. I like ranting and the idea of being mean to children, so I decided to subscribe. I have been amused, appalled, moved, and incited to rage many times over the last year, and I have enjoyed it.

A few weeks ago, Katdish – I really believe that is her real name, even if her mom calls her something else – pointed out that I had not offered to write a guest post for her blog yet. I was simultaneously flattered and confused. I was flattered, because I am not really a writer’s writer. I don’t think my blog even has a theme. So for someone to ask me to write for their blog is a novel and flattering concept. I was confused, because I don’t know how this guest blogging thing works. I had no idea that you are supposed to offer to guest post on someone else’s blog. I thought they were supposed to ask you. Is offering to write for someone else’s blog not like inviting yourself over to someone else’s house? I think it is exactly the same, and I was never allowed to invite myself over to anyone’s house when I was younger. That explains why I’ve never offered my services to anyone, and probably never will, unless I become really famous, because I’d probably be really arrogant about the whole thing, and I would assume that everyone would want me to write for them. But since she has asked, I will write, and I will tell you about when I met my son.

My wife, Sarah, is Korean, but she has a very light, fair complexion. I am a real whitey, of Jewish and German descent. It doesn’t get much whiter than this. I always looked forward to whenever we would have a child, because I really do think Asian kids are the cutest. My one hangup was that I was disappointed that if we had a child, he would probably not look anything like me.

In January of last year, we learned that Sarah was pregnant. We were so excited. We couldn’t wait to find out the gender. Once we found out that she was having a boy, we started imagining what he would look like. Of course, he would have brown eyes, pin straight brown hair, almond shaped eyes, and a flat nose. He had to, because he was half Korean. Most half-Asian kids I’d seen looked predominately Asian. So we also figured he’d have a little bit darker complexion than me. We were hoping that maybe he could at least have my smile or ears or something.

Sarah had a scheduled c-section. The morning was hectic. They decided that due to previous back injuries that Sarah had sustained, they didn’t want to do an epidural. They just knocked her out. So they escort me to the hall for “just a moment.” A few minutes later, one doctor came out and told me that I had to stay out in the hall. I was pretty upset, because I didn’t even tell Sarah that I loved her or give her a kiss goodbye, which I would have done if I had known. So they station me outside the operating room. I took out my camera, because I wanted to at least video the procedure for Sarah, since she was going to sleep through the whole thing. Not happening. A scrubbed up doctor walked to window, pointed at the camera, and told me to put it away. I couldn’t video. So I took out my other camera to take pictures. Truth be told, I did take a little video with my digital camera, just to spite them. They don’t know, but I feel better about it.

There was a lot of commotion and jerky movements in the delivery room. It looked like the doctors were trying to wretch Jakob free from Sarah’s incision. I was a little nervous, because that’s how I roll. But I kept my eyes trained on the doctor that would no doubt be holding my son up for me to see. After about fifteen minutes, a nurse came up behind me and told me to come with her. I refused. I told her that I had a good view of what was going down, and I wanted to get a picture. She insisted that I come into the next room with her. After a little back-and-forth, I agreed to come.

Inside the room, there was a screaming baby boy. I looked at him for a moment. It meant very little to me. I was too excited to meet my son. I started to walk right past him. There were two delivery rooms over there designated for c-section babies, so I assumed that he had just come from the room behind me. After a few seconds, I noticed that there were tags laying next to this screaming baby – who I found to be very distracting – were little hospital bracelets waiting to be placed on his ankles. They read, “Baby Boy Selph.”

I had no emotional reaction at that moment. The very first thought that popped into my head was, “But he’s white. He should be yellow.” After analyzing his color for a moment, I got excited. I couldn’t believe it. Through the screaming, i could see a few things about him: he had my mouth, his nose wasn’t too flat, he had my hairline, and he was screaming uncontrollably. He actually looked a little like me. It was amazing.

I’m proud to be his dad. He’s beautiful. I know, he’s a boy, and I should say that he’s handsome. He’s that, too. Every time he starts doing something new, I get so excited. I anticipate that even when he aggravates me, I will always think the best of him. He’s my son. And if he ever asks me what I thought the first time I saw him, I will tell him the truth: “But he’s white. He should be yellow.”

Shalom,

Jeff Selph

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To read more from Jeff Selph, visit him at Selph Inflicted and follow him on the twitter at @jewda4.

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To read more from Becky Miller, visit her at How-To Hospitality and follow her on the twitter at @miller_schloss.

I was walking across a bridge one day, and I saw a man standing on the edge about to jump off. So I ran over and said, “Stop! Don’t do it! There’s so much to live for!”

He said, “Like what?”

I said, “Well, are you religious or atheist?”

“Religious”

I said, “Me too! Are you Christian or Buddhist?”

“Christian”

I said, “Me too! Are you Catholic or Protestant?”

“Protestant”

I said, “Me too! Are you Episcopalian or Baptist?”

“Baptist”

To read the rest of this joke (and the post that goes with it) follow me over to Kevin Martineau’s blog Shooting the Breeze where I’m guest blogging today.