I love the smell of sawdust.

One whiff and I feel like a young girl standing in the barn, holding the end of a board while my Daddy cuts it with a Skilsaw. I’m transported to a safe place to talk, to spill my troubles, to ask questions, to get answers.

With each deep breath, I can remember the unique smell of my Pa’s flannel shirts – a combination of sawdust, gasoline and sweat. I’m transported to Friday evenings sitting beside him watching Knight Rider. Or riding on the back of a tractor down to the mailbox, giggling all the way.

To me, sawdust smells like hard work and childhood.

To me, sawdust smells like love.

I was thinking about this recently as I walked through our new home which, at that moment, was covered in sawdust. A new home which is clearly a part of God’s plan for my life, and which, as usual, has not unfolded in the way I expected.

God’s ways are unsearchable. He plans beyond our grasp. And sometimes, He feels so far above us, so far beyond us, as to be unknowable.

But He wants us to know Him.

As I walked down the stairs, leaving footprints in the sawdust, breathing in the delicious aroma, He spoke.

“I love the smell of sawdust, too.”

I froze on the stairs.

What?

God loves the smell of sawdust?

Really? And why would He take the time to tell me? What is He trying to reveal to me about who He is?

I’ve thought about it quite a bit over the past few weeks. Perhaps it reminds Him of long talks in a barn, holding the end of a board while Joseph made practiced cuts with a handsaw. Maybe He recalls childhood laughter with His siblings as they built towers and forts with the scraps left over from Joseph’s latest project.

Or maybe, there was a hint of sawdust in the air as He bore the cross, as the nails pierced His flesh, as He died for me.

Maybe, to Him, sawdust smells like love.

I John 4:7-10 Beloved, let us love one another, for love is from God, and whoever loves has been born of God and knows God. Anyone who does not love does not know God, because God is love. In this the love of God was made manifest among us, that God sent his only Son into the world, so that we might live through him. In this is love, not that we have loved God but that he loved us and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins. (ESV)

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This week, I’m bringing you a few thoughts on one of my favorite passages. This devotion is currently on my parent’s church website and I’m shamelessly double posting in order to save a few brain cells as I prepare for the very soon arrival of our third child.

One of the first things you learn when you begin to study the craft of writing is that every word matters.

Every word.

There are no throw away words. Successful authors look at every word in their manuscript and if it isn’t important, it’s deleted. If it isn’t conveying the proper tone, it’s edited. If it’s weak, it’s strengthened.

In the end, the author is left with 85,000 (or so) important words. 85,000 words chosen with deliberate intent to convey the message the author desires to bring.

There are over 800,000 words in the Bible.
Written by 40 or so human authors.
Inspired by the one and only true God.

Even by non-believing human standards, God is a very successful author. His book remains the bestselling book of all time. It changes hearts and lives.

And there are no throw away words in the Bible. If the words are in there, they are important, chosen to convey the exact message God wanted us to hear.

Which brings us to Ephesians 3:19-20. These verses make me smile because at first glance, they appear to break a cardinal writing rule.

What rule?

Well, I didn’t know this until recently, but adverbs are frowned upon in writing circles. Because often they indicate laziness on the part of the writer.

But not always.

Sometimes, a good splash of adverbs is the only way to describe something. Sometimes, there are no verbs strong enough to convey the scope of a particular situation.

I think God knew we would struggle to grasp the expanse of His abilities.

So he painted a word picture.

Now unto him that is able to do exceeding abundantly above all that we ask or think, according to the power that worketh in us . . .

Exceeding—abundantly—above!

What happens in your mind and heart when you read those words?

The sheer extravagance of the description speaks to me of things beyond my grasp. Beyond anything I can imagine.

Sure, God could have inspired Paul to choose different words.

But He didn’t.

Because these are the exact words necessary to blow us away and straight to our knees as we finish the prayer with Paul.

Unto him be glory in the church by Christ Jesus throughout all ages, world without end. Amen.

As I write these words, I am missing two different appointments.

I’m supposed to be at my writers group meeting. I’m also supposed to be at a baby shower.

And yes, I do see the impossibility of being in two places at once, but that’s not the point of this post.

Instead of trying to find a way around the time-space continuum, I’m sitting on my couch, in my pajamas, surrounded by my children, also in their pajamas.

I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

More than a writer or friend, I am, first and foremost, a wife and mother. And my role as wife and mother has totally and completely overshadowed all other roles lately.

As in there has been little or no time for me to be anything else.

And I’m coming to see that this temporary situation is not the end of the world. And that it doesn’t make me less of a writer, or a friend, or a volunteer, or anything else.

It just means I have my priorities in order.

I’ve been chafing about all the things I haven’t done. The agents I haven’t queried, the rejections I haven’t received because of the submissions I haven’t made.

But in the past week or so—as I’ve been fighting the automatic negative thoughts (ANTS) that tell me I’m the World’s Greatest Slacker—I keep thinking about all the heroes of the faith who knew, without a doubt, that they’d been called to do something fabulous.

And then spent the next 20 to 40 years doing something seemingly unrelated.

Think David.

Think Joseph.

Even – ready for it – Jesus.

Imagine. He spent thirty years just being human. Thirty years of reining in His power. Thirty years that we know almost nothing about.

But they were important. He didn’t experience everything we think and feel in the three years of His public ministry. He spent thirty years experiencing infancy, puberty and adulthood. He made friends, interacted with His siblings and worked in His earthly father’s shop. He watched as those He knew before the world began laughed, cried, lived, died.

And all of it—every moment—mattered.

I don’t know where you find yourself today, but He does.

He’s been there.

The three years of public ministry are the ones we know the most about. But the thirty years of preparation are what made these words possible…
 
Heb. 4:14-16 Since then we have a great high priest who has passed through the heavens, Jesus, the Son of God, let us hold fast our confession. For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin. Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need. (ESV)

It may be ten, twenty or thirty years before I have the wisdom to look back on this time and see how God was using these days to mold me into the person He has called me to be.

But I am confident that He is up to something big, even on a pajama day!

What about you? Do you have a time of waiting you’ve already come to see for the time of preparation it really was? Please share it in the comments!

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I’m guest blogging today over at The Write Conversation. I’ve posted a review of Scrivener for PC. I’d love for you to come say hi!

Is it just me?

It seems when I’m in the dumps, feeling defeated or am thinking about throwing in the towel, everyone around me is on a spiritual upswing.

Does this happen to you?

I want to whine. They encourage.
I want to wallow. They point out all the great things going on in my life.
I want to wail. They make me laugh.

Recently, I had a bad day. Well, not really a bad day. A bad couple of hours. Which, when you look at it in black and white, seems ridiculous to complain about. But I’m pregnant and hormonal and I had worked myself into a crying puddle of misery.

It’s embarrassing how often this happens.

I let my husband know about a disappointment I had just suffered. I was trying to be tough, and not let on how much it hurt. I didn’t fool him and after a few minutes of him sending me encouraging texts and me replying with whiny texts, he sent this:

I think ur exactly where God wants u 2b . . . which may differ from where u’d like 2b.

Profound isn’t it.

Profoundly annoying—that’s what it is.

Especially when I can’t dispute the truth of the words.

So often, where I’d like to be is clearly not where He wants me to be. Who knows why? Maybe I’m not ready to be there. Or, taking the focus off me (I know, novel concept), maybe there are others who aren’t ready for me to be there yet. God’s timing is perfect. And not just for me. But for those I love. My husband, children, friends and family.

Taking it further—what if there are people I have yet to meet, people who God intends for me to minister to in some way—who I’d miss if I jumped ahead to where I’d like to be?

Taking it even further—what if I never get “there”? What if the journey I’m on doesn’t take me “there” but “elsewhere”?

Gulp.

If you’re waiting on a brilliant answer to these questions, I can’t help you. I don’t have one!

I’m just hanging out here.

Exactly where I’m supposed to be.

And learning to live in daily surrender to the One who knows where I’m headed.

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A few months ago I had the opportunity to spend the day in bed.

By “opportunity” I mean the nurse told me to stay in bed. All day.

I was not pleased.

Neither were my children.

My two-year old, in particular, did not appreciate that Mommy was not at his beck and call. Daddy was, and he was doing a fine job, but my son has grown quite accustomed to my immediate response to his cries for help.

As the day wore on, I heard my son in the other room.

“Mommy!”

“Mommy!

“Mommy!”

Every part of my being yearned to run to him and fix whatever was causing him to cry out to me. It didn’t matter what he needed—a hug, a smile, a toy just out of reach—the need didn’t matter.

My child had my attention.

He just didn’t know it.

My Abba took that moment to remind me that He feels the same way about me. With one big difference. He always knows what I need. He knows exactly how best to meet the need. And He is always able to meet my need.

When I cry out to Him and He doesn’t answer immediately—or the way I want—I tend to assume He isn’t listening.

But I always have His attention.

And He wants me to know it.

Psalm 145: 18-19—The LORD is nigh unto all them that call upon Him, to all that call upon Him in truth. He will fulfill the desire of them that fear him: He also will hear their cry, and will save them. (KJV)

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I’m not a big fan of New Year’s Resolutions.

Probably because I’ve never seen one through to the end of the year.

But there is something about January that makes me reflective. Something that makes me want to evaluate where I am and where I’m going. And something about it always makes me feel unsettled.

Probably because I’m never happy with the reflection.

  • I’m not the child of God I want to be.
  • I’m not the wife I want to be.
  • I’m not the mother I want to be.
  • I’m not the daughter, sister or friend I want to be.
  • I am most definitely not the writer I want to be.

And there is a part of me that wants to quit.

Not because I don’t love writing. Not that quitting would mean quitting writing.

But it would mean pulling away from the writing community, not trying to get anything published and not being on any sort of deadline. It would mean writing what I felt like, when I felt like it.

It would be so much easier.

And for those of you who know me personally and know the level of chaos that is the current definition of my life, that might not seem like a bad idea.

This isn’t the first time I’ve thought about it. But it is the first time I’ve looked down the road and examined each path. One way is fairly smooth. The other. Well, I can’t see more than a few feet down the other, so I have no idea what happens if I go that way.

There’s really no question about which way I’ll go, or even which way is the right way. But it’s tempting to hang out in the middle for a while. Not moving forward in either direction. Stagnant. Stuck.

Which is where I’ve been for several weeks.

I’m tired. My life is insane.

I would like to quit.

But on a small board near my desk are two quotes, one from Beth Moore’s study of Esther and one from the Apostle Paul.

  • I am not called to an easy life. I am called to a purposeful life.
  • Rom. 11:29 – For the gifts and the calling of God are irrevocable. (ESV)

I’ve been stuck in the middle far too long. It’s time to get back in the game.

What about you?

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I received an Advanced Reader Copy (ARC) of The Brotherhood by Jerry B. Jenkins several weeks ago. I’ve never snagged an ARC before and I was thrilled to get this one. The only requirement?

Review the book.

The problem? Who am I to review Jerry B. Jenkins? I mean, honestly. He’s written more than 175 books and sold over 70 million. He writes great stories and he’s passionate about training the next generation of Christian writers, including me.

But I said I would review it and my plan was to approach the book as a textbook, look for the things he does well and learn from them.

If I’m going to do that, I’ll have to read it again.

Because somewhere around page 50, as tears streamed and my heart ached for the main character, Boone Drake (love the name) suffering through unimaginable loss, I lost my focus. I forgot to pay attention to writing technique. I didn’t care that I was supposed to review the book.

I cared about Boone. And Jack. And Pastor Sosa. And Haeley.

Now, I don’t want my tears to throw you off. The Brotherhood isn’t chick-lit. The Brotherhood is a police thriller, complete with gangs, organized crime, guns, drugs and the cops who put their lives on the line every day.

It’s also a book that doesn’t shy away from a true-to-life crisis of faith. Jenkins explores the hard questions that we all wrestle with to some degree. The kinds of questions we all should wrestle with at some point in our lives but try to avoid. Why does God allow tragedy? How much control do we have over our lives? Why aren’t good people rewarded for doing good while bad people seem to be rewarded for evil? Can God forgive those who have committed the most heinous crimes? And why would He bother?

I appreciated the way Jenkins answers these tough questions. They aren’t answered with neat, tidy platitudes. They are wrestled with by characters grasping at faith when life has thrown them to the ground. For me, that’s important. I know this is fiction, but I want my fiction to feel real, and these characters—and their faith or lack thereof—are real. Sometimes painfully so.

The Brotherhood is scheduled for release in February and is the first book in a planned three-part series.

I wonder if there’s any chance I can get an ARC for the next book? I hate waiting and I can’t wait to find out what happens next!

I’m guest blogging today over at The Write Conversation. Please visit me there!

As a side note, I took the assessment at the back of the book to determine what my love language is.

Turns out I’m even weirder than originally anticipated.

Most people have 1.

Some people have 2.

In true over-achieving form . . . I have 3.

The other two, apparently, barely register with me. It was a very interesting exercise and if you haven’t read the book and don’t know what your love language is, I highly recommend it!

I have a confession.

Sometimes, I read a book so fast the first time through, that as soon as I’m done, I need to re-read it.

Why?

Because I have the patience of a gnat? Possibly.

Mainly because I am so engrossed in the story, so engaged by the characters, so entranced by the plot . . . that I HAVE to know how it ends. As soon as possible.

I have never read the last page first. That’s cheating.

But speed-reading is perfectly acceptable.

And I can read fast. Very fast.

So I zip through the book, heart racing, chewing off one nail at a time, barely stopping for food, until, at last, I reach the end and all my questions have been answered.

Or have they?

Because often, in my rush, I miss stuff.

Which is why I have to go back and re-read at a slower pace. I savor each word and examine each plotline and I enjoy the journey.

Because I know how it ends.

I think sometimes I live my life this way. I can’t enjoy the moment because I’m trying to figure out how it’s all going to work out. How it’s going to end.

I can’t relax into motherhood because I’m thinking five, ten, twenty years ahead. I can’t enjoy the writing process because I’m wondering about publication. I can’t enjoy the Season because I have so much to do by Saturday!

All that, combined with my own pregnancy, has had me thinking a lot about Mary.

She knew, far better than we, the consequences of accepting God’s will for her life. When the angel said “You’ll conceive and bear a son” she knew the gossip, the looks, the potential stoning, that would follow.

But beyond that, she didn’t have a clue. She didn’t know she’d watch Him grow and then someday watch Him die.

Her response to the angel?

Be it unto me, according to thy word.

My guess is that this response is the reason Mary was chosen.

And it does make me wonder.

How many things do I miss out on because I don’t respond the same way?

I analyze . . . ok . . . over-analyze. I think . . . ok . . . over-think.

But how often do I accept?

Not often enough.

My Christmas prayer this year?

That I can say “Be it unto me, according to Thy word.”

And mean it.

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