Hi guys! I’m linking here to my latest article in Christian Woman Magazine. It’s all about this wild understandjng of the Gospel Gos has been teaching me lately. I hope you’ll enjoy it.
For your Saturday reading–my newest article on Christian Woman Magazine on the simplicity of Christmas, and the One who came with nothing to give us everything.
I’m linking to my article on forgiveness on Christian Woman Magazine. Enjoy!
Linking to my new article on Christian Woman Magazine. This one is on chivalry–it’s not dead, just different today and hopefully looking more like Jesus.https://www.christianwoman.co/the-new-chivalry/
Linking to my article published today on My Christian Daily. This Passion Week, reflect on the difference Easter should have not just on your Sunday schedule, but on your life.
I’m linking to my article on Christian Woman Magazine about God’s deliverance in wilderness seasons. Hope you enjoy!
I can almost hear the eyes rolling in your heads right now. That title couldn’t be cheesier right? Is this some article by an obsessive fan who thinks that she has some cosmic connection to Justin Timberlake? No, not really. I promise that I have a point and it will make sense if you can just hang with me for a little while. Let me explain…
I wouldn’t call myself a huge JT fan, more of a nominal one. I was at the perfect age to become a boy-band-crushing-teenager when NSYNC formed in 1995, a year before I graduated high-school, but I was always more of a 98 Degrees kind of girl. And years later when all those 90s boy bands started breaking up, I really didn’t foresee a solo future for any of those guys. But low and behold, Justin Timberlake surprised us all with his knowledge about the industry, musicianship, his vocal range and connections to all the right people.
Even as his career took off and matured, I was still a moderate fan. I’d listen to his music from time to time, and took a break from it for a while when it was on the raunchier side. Recently though it seems that Justin and I have regained some common ground–we’re only 3 years apart; we’re both parents; both married; both getting pretty reflective about our pasts and carefully considering the trajectory of our futures.
I’ve found more interest in his most recent album as I feel that it talks about “real” life (as “real” as your life can be when you’re insanely talented, an international superstar and a gazillionaire). Knowing the life-cycle that rock-stars usually have, I also sensed that his career may be peaking, and with a slew of hits under his belt I thought if there was one JT concert tour that I should see, it would be this one. So when I found out that he was coming to Raleigh, NC, I spent a little more money than I usually do to get General Admission tickets for my husband and me, so that we could be close to the stage for what I thought may be one of Justin’s best, last concerts.
But my mind went to places that I didn’t expect as I watched the show. Justin was handsome, yes. His feet moved quickly and his body was all fluid, precise, smooth motion. He smiled for cameras, fist-bumped fans, flirted with his back-up dancers, told us that we were the best crowd he’d seen (which of course was a lie), and all I could think was, yeah this is awesome, but then what?
You see, my husband and I were the minority of those crushed close to the stage. We were surrounded by Superfans–those who buy their babies JT onesies; who follow him from concert to concert; who cry if he comes within four feet of them. And yes I was woo-hooing with them all, but I walked away from the concert not marveling about Justin Timberlake, but rather about the awe he produced in about 20,000 people in one night, and realizing that he does this night after night with people around the world.
And it made me think about whether my/our awe has been misplaced? What if I, what if we, directed even half of that awe, half of that amazement, toward the One who created Justin Timberlake, the One who gave him his talent? As fans, we cluster to have an encounter with someone we pay to give us two hours of their time. (And sometimes we pay a silly amount–especially if you’re sitting in the VIP section). We might get a fist-bump or a high-five, but does that personal encounter really change us? Does it take away our troubles, give us a sense of peace, a new identity? Does Justin Timberlake really know any of the people he touched last night? Will they ever really know him?
Of course, the answer to all of these questions is no. Nothing about the concert last night has changed my reality this morning, and it certainly hasn’t changed his. I’m the same person, living the same life with the same ups and downs, joys, sorrows, and okays. I’m not richer or poorer, and Justin has continued on with his life, climbing into his tour bus bound for another city and another concert in front of another crowd of thousands.
But every day I can spend as much time as I want with the God of the universe, who stepped down out of heaven to, get this, PAY for an encounter with ME. He gave up everything to be with me, and He offers to make me His for life through His Son. He’ won’t just entertain me–He’ll hold me. He won’t flatter me with savvy lyrics that speak to my vanity–He’ll speak the truth that gives life and nourishes my soul. He won’t ever pack up and leave town–He’ll be my Immanuel, “God With Us.” When He touched people, they were healed. When He spoke, mountains rose up out of the sea and people fell flat on their faces in true awe. When He sees you, you know that you are safe, yet you aren’t ever the same.
Isaiah 43:1, “…this is what the Lord says–he who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel: ‘Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name; you are mine.”
Matthew 28:20, “And be sure of this: I am with you always, even to the end of the age.”
John 10: 14-15, “I am the good shepherd. I know my own and my own know me, just as the Father knows me and I know the Father; and I lay down my life for the sheep.”
I’m not saying that there’s anything wrong with spending money to see your favorite singer for a couple of hours. I think music, dance and fun are gifts from a Good Father who loves to see His kids enjoy life. I also disagree with those who say that there’s nothing beneficial or edifying that comes from the secular world of entertainment. Simply because, God can do exceedingly more than we can ask or imagine (Ephesians 3:20), and I believe that if we are walking closely with the Maker and Sustainer of all things, that He can use most any setting, environment, crowd and subject to remind us of His presence and His glory. I don’t think it’s a stretch to suppose that one other person could have experienced an awakening by the Living God last night during the Justin Timberlake concert, because God really is in the business of taking our wisdom and ideas of what we think we know to be true, and flipping all of it upside down to reveal HIS truth. And if just one person entered into relationship with Jesus last night, then Heaven is certainly rejoicing just as loudly as it would after an Elevation or Lauren Daigle concert, and that makes it all worthwhile.
I not only reflected on Jesus last night at moments during the concert, but I also looked to my left at the handsome man that I call “Husband,” and remembered for about the 10,000th time why I’m so blessed to have him. Bryan doesn’t really care for JT. He only knows a song or two and we got into a pretty heated argument right before we left the house yesterday, but instead of refusing to accompany me and making me go alone, he got in the car. That was humility. He sat with me cheerfully and kept me company during the three-hour wait outside. That was kindness. He walked to a nearby restaurant and got us food and drinks so that we wouldn’t be starving after the show. That was graciousness. He stood beside me the whole time even though his calf muscles were knotted up and painful after a long run yesterday. He even danced with me a little. That was sacrificial.
I told Bryan before the concert began that even though I might scream and yell at Justin as he danced down the stage, I still think he’s hotter. He replied, “yeah right.” But as the concert ended, I knew I meant every word. Because although Justin is certainly cute, charming and coordinated, he’s a stranger. Yet Bryan, like Jesus, has demonstrated over and over again that he truly loves me. He knows me. He takes care of me. He does all of this so well that he’d even stand beside his wife as she snaps photos and videos of another man. And he went home with me and was still there when I woke up this morning. That’s a gift of faithfulness that God and Bryan have both given me, that is far more valuable than any concert ticket. They make me feel like a VIP.
So Justin, if you read this, (doubtful, but a girl can dream) I want to say thanks for being a vessel for yet another Jesus-takeaway. I’m sure that’s not what you expected, but I suspect you’d be amused. Hope you have a great rest of your tour, and hurry home, I’m sure your wife wants you beside her too.
Flomaton is an easily overlooked town in South Alabama. It’s the type of place where there’s only one church to notice, and its steeple rises high above the modest ranch homes and one-story mom-and-pop storefronts. It’s the type of place where you use landmarks instead of street signs to mark directions for newcomers (although there are rarely any of those), because there is only one chicken place, one supermarket, and one Subway sandwich shop in the whole town.
But it’s also where people live their whole lives as neighbors. Where they remember the day you were born, the tree you were hiding in when you shot fireworks at passing cars, the day you met your husband or wife, and where your relatives are buried. It’s the town where my grandparents proudly made their home and raised their four boys. It’s where this story begins.
After serving in the Second World War my grandfather, John Folsom, took a job as a high-school principal at Flomaton High School. He was known for his strict but fair leadership and disciplinary styles and was even known to dole out spankings to his students with a paddle, back when spankings were still acceptable in school. This was back when girls’ skirts were very long, and boys’ hair was very short. My dad tells a story of when he was sent to the principal’s office (or dad’s office) for sticking lizards on his ears to frighten his teacher and claimed that it was the only time he saw his dad crack a smile while disciplining a student.
John Folsom may have been tough on the job, but he was also caring. He wanted to see kids succeed and do their best and expecting a lot out of them instead of viewing them as teenage disappointments earned him their respect. He was generous—creating jobs for people who needed extra money and serving tirelessly at church and on various mission trips. He was moral—practicing a high work ethic that stemmed from his upbringing and faith in God. He was enthusiastic—boisterously singing hymns from the church pews or the Flomaton Hurricane fight song from the bleachers at football games.
About two years ago my grandparents, whom I affectionately call Paw-Paw and Mamadene, moved from their beloved home in Flomaton to an assisted living facility close to one of their sons, in Malbis, Alabama. The move was emotional and a difficult step to take, but it was necessary at their life stage. At 90-years-old, Paw-Paw was the last surviving member of his family of origin, the baby of 10 children in a typical Depression Era family.
Paw-Paw settled in well at his new home, happy as ever to just have people around him. To him it didn’t much matter that he and Mamadene were confined to one room, if he still had his recliner and her in bed beside him at night. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t remember his kids and grand-kids when they stopped by to visit him or take him to church, as long as he had people to talk to, although from time to time you could see a glimmer of recognition in his eye. Even if he didn’t know your name, his mind seemed to recognize that you were his family.
This is what I saw in his eyes when I visited him in the hospital in Fairhope, Alabama last week. It had been two years since I’d seen my Paw-Paw, on his 90th birthday and shortly before he and Mamadene relocated to The Blake. Fortunately for Facebook, I’d seen pieces of his life down South—enough to know that he was enjoying being fed rich Southern cuisine and singing his favorite songs with his visitors. But all of us knew that the day was coming when we’d get “that” call—the one that we didn’t want, that told us that Paw-Paw was no longer doing so well.
So, when my parents, who live near me and my family in North Carolina, called and told me that they felt it was important to get down to Alabama as soon as possible, I immediately felt an urge to go along. I looked at my husband with pleading eyes and he insisted that I join my mom and dad on the 10-hour drive, practically shoving me in their car when they arrived at our house. I thought about my Paw-Paw’s legacy the whole drive down–remembering the joy in his hearty laugh; the passion in his voice when he talked about the way things should be; his tradition of passing Certs down the pew, mid-service, to all the grandchildren in church; the way he pushed Heavenly Hash ice cream on me when I was a teenager. I felt sad again, and somewhat cheated, that I didn’t get more time with my grandfather as a child because I was raised in an Air Force family, so I replayed the blocks of memories stored away in my mind from my brief visits with my grandparents and tried to refresh them. I don’t know if I was using these memories as support for the potential pain that awaited me at the hospital, or if thinking of Paw-Paw that way was a connection to something deeper, to my roots and the people whose stories had contributed to my own.
Either way, I was not prepared for the emotion that rolled over me when I walked into his hospital room the next day. I’d gotten three hours of sleep, and at 6:30am my mom and I received an ominous phone call from my dad, who’d gone straight to the hospital to sit with Paw-Paw during the early morning hours. I choked back tears as I surveyed the scene. In his bed, Paw-Paw’s head was practically falling off the pillow. His breathing was ragged and weak and he couldn’t stop coughing. He was talking nonsense and not comprehending anyone’s questions or demands; he didn’t even know there were people in the room with him. He was listless and drawn.
I was convinced that he would be gone that morning. I started talking to my mom about plans for a service. I wondered aloud where all the family members would stay in the tiny town of Flomaton. I cried quietly as I considered that Paw-Paw’s death would mean the end of a family. I listened to the hymns that my cousins and uncles and aunts sang around him with a feeling of finality. When I placed my hand on his shoulder and sang “Great Is Thy Faithfulness,” it was not with a heart of hope, but with the intention of saying goodbye in a way that would somehow speak comfort to Paw-Paw’s retiring mind, because I knew that he always loved music.
I kept expecting the worst, because to me, he was now 92 and it would kind of make sense if this was his time to go. He’d lived a wonderful life—he’d traveled the world, even flew to Nicaragua in his late 80’s to see his oldest grandson get married. He’d been a role model to young men in his community, a loyal husband, a cheerful giver. It never occurred to me that first day, watching my bed-ridden grandfather, that he might have more life to live.
More family poured into the room. More hymns were sung. On Facebook people were asking for prayer for John Folsom. People were already telling stories about what he’d meant to them, and as I read them or heard them read aloud to Paw-Paw, I saw them all as eulogies memorializing a great man, not an encouragement to boost his spirits. But I was so wrong.
24 hours later Paw-Paw was more responsive. He noticed us when we stood by the bed, although he still didn’t recognize us. His eyes were clearer, and he expressed a desire to write notes, he said he was hungry, he laughed when something was funny.
And he sang. Oh, did he sing. What I realized sitting in that hospital room was that even though Paw-Paw couldn’t remember people, he could remember lyrics, and it seemed that he used lyrics of songs to communicate his feelings, and to me it was as though God was using these songs from Paw-Paw’s life to communicate to us that Paw-Paw still had hope, that his faith was alive, and that God was watching. When we asked him what his favorite song was, his eyes lit up like a child’s and he launched into the Flomaton high-school fight song:
“Fight, fight for Flomaton High,
Always say fight, never say die.
We can win if we will try
So, fight on for Flomaton High.”
And over the next few days I started believing that the lyrics to that song had a deeper meaning to Paw-Paw than just being the fight song for the school where he’d been a leader for 30 years. They seemed to be the very words of his soul, a sort of rallying cry—urging him to fight, to get better, to show God’s healing power in his aged body.
And I was proven wrong over and over in those few days. I didn’t believe that the wheezing in his breath would go away, but it did. I didn’t think that he would start eating again, but he did. I didn’t think he’d be strong enough to stand up, but he did. And before any of us knew it, the hospice evaluators were telling us that he no longer qualified for their care, and the doctor directly referred to Paw-Paw as “the miracle man.”
At some point in all the sitting around at the hospital, someone mentioned that Flomaton High School’s football team was in the state championship playoffs that very week. In the school’s history, since it opened in 1925, it had never gone farther than the quarter finals. My uncle and cousin promised to get the game on TV so that Paw-Paw could watch, although when they first brought it up, several of us were skeptical that he’d still be alive to see it, or conscious enough to know it was even playing.
Paw-Paw was transferred to a local rehabilitation facility on Wednesday, December 5, and on Thursday, December 6, my mom and I walked into the Westminster Skilled Care center in Spanish Fort, Alabama and saw my Paw-Paw sitting up in a chair for the first time in a week, eating some mashed potatoes and macaroni and cheese, and watching the Flomaton Hurricanes play their hearts out. As I listened to the drawl of the local announcers and watched each play inch the Hurricanes closer to a state championship, I allowed myself to marvel over the miraculous events that were too perfectly arranged to be called coincidence. I felt ashamed that I’d been so doubtful, so ready to assume that my grandfather’s life was over, when God clearly had other plans and others around me had demonstrated more hope than I. I was also relieved and touched, that the Lord would be so good to give my Paw-Paw even a day longer than we had imagined, that He’d been good enough to include me as a witness to His work so that my faith would increase. And as the Hurricanes caught a victory-clinching interception, I smiled that He loved my Paw-Paw so much that He would strengthen his body enough to sit up and watch his hometown’s football team win their first ever football championship.
We sang the fight song, together, for the camera. And my Paw-Paw finished it with a smile and a hip-hip-hooray. And a swig of sweet tea.
Linking to my article on how the #MeToo movement highlighted the divide in traditional and modern feminists, and the place, if any, that conservative women have in this debate.
Linking to my article about crippling worry published on Christian Woman Magazine today.