The World of Debbie Macomber: Come Home to Color

The heartwarming novels of Debbie Macomber are known for their colorful locales, cheerful themes, and inspiring messages, and that spirit of comfort and generosity are on dazzling display throughout this one-of-a-kind collector’s item. Packed with dozens of intricate knitting images, Read more

Be a Blessing: A Journal for Cultivating Kindness, Joy, and Inspiration

Featuring thoughtful exercises and words of wisdom from #1 New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber, this beautifully designed journal makes a treasured keepsake or a perfect gift. Debbie Macomber has inspired readers for years with stories of love and Read more

Debbie Macomber’s Christmas Cookbook

We call her the “Official Storyteller of Christmas”óbut Debbie Macomber is more than that. She’s someone who loves the holiday and all its traditions. Now she shares more than one hundred of her favorite recipes to help you enjoy this Read more

One Simple Act

Fleas, Footsteps, and Checkout Lanes

The Springboard of Gratitude

Kate stepped out of her bookstore at the end of a long, tiring day, locked the door behind her, pulled her scarf up over her nose and mouth to shield her lungs from the bitter cold air, and rushed across the lot to her car. Just one quick stop at the grocery store and she’d be on the way home to cuddle up with her new book in front of a warm fire.

As she waited at the traffic light to turn into the grocery store lot she took off one glove to feel if the air blasting out of the heat vents was starting to warm. Ah, yes. What a relief. In the few minutes it had taken her to get from her bookstore to the grocery store her fingers had started to ache from the cold. “I think I was born with cold fingers,” she muttered. The light changed to green and as she turned into the lot she came alongside a narrow median strip and noticed a man holding a crudely made hand-lettered cardboard sign. homeless. need food. please help. At his feet was a small white plastic bucket. His collar was pulled high against the cold, but her eyes went to his hands holding the sign. Bare hands.

My fingers ache from five minutes in this cold car, with gloves on. How cold must his be? she wondered. Her eyes went to his face. Late twenties, probably six or seven years older than Mark. The sudden thought of her son instantly made her shoulders sag. She hadn’t seen Mark since summer. Addicted to drugs, Mark had left home several months ago after a two-year struggle—maybe war was a better word—with his parents over his drug abuse. He still called sometimes, but he’d been bunking with friends, house hopping, and he’d even slept on the streets rather than come back home. Never had she felt so helpless as she’d felt watching her son self-destruct during these past two years. Never so powerless to meet the deep needs of the son she loved. But he wasn’t ready to give up his drugs or his illusion of freedom. He remained elusive about his whereabouts and declined every offer Kate made to meet him someplace to talk. Where is he tonight? Cold and hungry like this guy? Begging on some street corner? And if a kind stranger gives him a ten-dollar bill, he’ll buy his next hit of pills before buying a warm meal. Kate’s heart sank. Are Mark’s hands cold tonight?

And then it came to her. A quiet nudge. She parked, hurried into the store to pick up bread, eggs, and some yogurt for the weekend, then hit one more aisle. Through the checkout, a dash back to her car, and back along the other side of the median strip, where she pulled alongside the young man, rolled down her window, and stopped. Her heart picked up its pace. He walked over to her car, bucket held out, but she didn’t hand any money out the window. Instead she held out a warm pair of gloves she’d just bought. He looked startled. “Your hands must be terribly cold,” she said. “I hope these help.” The young man looked confused for a moment, then accepted the gloves. “Thanks,” he said. The car behind her honked and she pulled away and moved toward the intersection. She glanced in the rearview mirror and saw him pulling on the gloves. She blinked to clear a few tears away. They were warm on her cold cheeks, but another warmth from somewhere in her core was spreading upward, and she found herself smiling. For the first time in a long time she didn’t feel powerless at the thought of Mark. Take care of my son tonight, Lord, she prayed. Show him Your love through the kindness of a stranger. And Lord, comfort the mother of that young man tonight. In that one simple act Kate had discovered the power of generosity. She’d not only warmed a troubled young man, she’d kindled a spark of hope for Mark. And she realized that God had just used her to care for the son of another worried mother. Who knows, maybe the young man on the median strip called his mother that night. Just one simple act.

A Discovery worth Sharing

You’ve read the subtitle of this book, Discovering the Power of Generosity. If you recognized my name on the cover of the book you may be asking yourself why a writer known for fiction is writing a nonfiction book on generosity. The answer is . . . well . . . if you don’t mind me quoting the title . . . simple. Have you ever discovered something so great that you just had to tell your friends?

You know, like a great little vacation spot you stumbled across while on a trip, or a new clothing store with affordable prices, great selection, and really stellar service? Maybe you’ve heard a speaker who had a huge impact on you or saw a movie that made you laugh till you cried and you knew just the friend who needed it. When we find something we love, we want to share it with others and spread the joy. Right? That is how I feel about simple acts of generosity. I have had some encounters with generosity—as the recipient, the giver, the witness—that have had a profoundly life-changing impact on me. I’ve just got to share the news. On the other hand, you may have seen the word “generosity” and thought to yourself, Oh, great. One more appeal to go digging deep into my pocket. Don’t worry! You are not in for a brand-new load of guilt, I promise! That’s precisely what this book is not about. In our age of overwork and exhaustion, tossing a few dollars here and there may be the easiest way to practice generosity. But I am talking about it in larger terms—life-changing terms. Like my friend Kate. She made a five-minute investment of time and on a whim probably spent about eight or nine dollars on that pair of gloves. But her decision had nothing to do with her wallet. It had to do with her heart. When she handed those gloves out the window she brought unexpected goodness into a bleak situation. And that goodness spilled over and gave back. It multiplied. For my friend Kate, that was just the beginning. But that is a story for another time. When you pick up a book, it’s fair to ask, “What’s in it for me?” My goal in writing this is to surprise you with the multiple benefits that come from small and large acts of generosity. I’m convinced that we cannot become all we could be until we are willing to unclench our hands and release what we’ve been clinging to, what we’ve been determined to keep for ourselves. The intriguing part is that once we release such gifts we are free to take hold of something more, something better, something that God has wanted to give us for a very long time.

Simply put, intentional acts of generosity can open our lives to the very best God has to offer. In fact, the very best that God has to offer is exactly where we need to start.

A Tradition worth Keeping

Several years ago I read of the old Quaker tradition of keeping a gratitude journal. I was inspired by the idea so I purchased a book with blank pages and titled it My Ode to Joy. Each morning I wrote a little thank-you note to God. I found it to be a way to start my day on a positive note. Little did I understand then how the discipline of writing down five things for which I am thankful every day would forever change my life.

When I first started I found it easy to hit the big things—good parents, a wonderful husband, my children (and later my grandchildren), and, of course, a writing career I love. These precious gifts still make their way on to my list over and over. Today, when I reread journals from past years I see that as the months, then years trickled by, I began to dig deeper for things to add to my list. As I matured in my understanding of how God works, it wasn’t only the good things, the pleasant, “happy” gifts for which I expressed appreciation. I began to see more clearly how God was using life’s trials in unexpected ways for my good, so I began to write down my gratitude for the seemingly negative things in my life—my troubles, pains, and losses. With that knowledge I became more confident that God would see me through everything, and my gratitude grew deeper. In fact, the greatest example of giving thanks for negative things can be found in Corrie ten Boom’s book The Hiding Place.

During World War II, Corrie and her sister, Betsie, had been arrested in Holland for trying to help Jews escape the Holocaust. They ended up in Ravensbrück, one of the most infamous Nazi concentration camps. Their barracks had been built to hold 400 prisoners, but by the time the sisters arrived at the camp, the one-room building held more than 1,400 women. Living conditions were insufferable. The women were housed like stacked cordwood on dirty, flea-infested straw strewn on wooden platforms. The fleas feasted night and day until everyone was covered in itchy, raised welts. If it hadn’t been for their Bible and the comfort the sisters were able to take from Betsie’s readings, Corrie didn’t know how they could have survived from day to day. If the guards had ventured into the room they would have discovered the forbidden Bible. Not only would it have been confiscated, but the consequences would have been brutal. Over and over, the two sisters wondered over the mystery of why the guards never inspected their barracks.

One morning Betsie read the Bible verse in 1 Thessalonians 5:18 that said, “Give thanks in all circumstances.” She insisted that they put this into practice, feeling certain that giving thanks was the answer to their suffering. As Corrie tells the story, her sister named a litany of things they needed to thank God for—from the amazing circumstance that enabled the sisters to stay together, to the Bible she held in her hands, to the other women in the camp. But when Betsie began to thank God for the suffocating room and finally for the fleas, Corrie balked. It seemed impossible to Corrie to find anything for which to thank God in the deprivation of a concentration camp .But Betsie insisted, reminding Corrie that God said, “In all circumstances.” Corrie recalled standing in that room with all the other women, thanking God for the fleas and being certain that, for once, Betsie was wrong. Yet that prayer proved to be a turning point for the women. Their circumstances hadn’t changed, but their attitude did. Betsie and Corrie began to connect with the women in a way that changed those barracks and the women imprisoned there. It wasn’t until much later that Corrie discovered the reason the dreaded inspection never happened and their beloved Bible remained undiscovered. It was the very same reason she and Betsie were never stopped from having their much-antic­ipated Bible studies. The fleas!

The guards refused to set foot into those barracks because of the out-of-control flea infestation. When Betsie took God at His word and thanked Him in all circumstances, she had no idea those fleas were actually a gift from God. It’s easy to be grateful for the sunshine, the good things, plenty of food, meeting the budget, and compliant children. But God tells us to express gratitude in all circumstances.

Think about it. That means we are called to offer thanks when the wind blows into our lives at hurricane force. We are asked to thank Him when the money runs out long before the end of the month and when the kids are pushing the boundaries and challenging us at every turn. It doesn’t make any logical sense, does it? Corrie ten Boom discovered the “sense” of giving thanks in all circumstances. She discovered the vital link between gratitude and trust. Through reading The Hiding Place and through the practice of keeping my own gratitude journal, I, too, have discovered this link. Though we may not understand the whys of our circumstances, by thanking God we grow to acknowledge that He is in control—that He can be trusted. We learn to release our iron-tight grip on our circumstances, and we experience a much-welcome reprieve from worry.

The importance of giving thanks is made clear in Philippians 4:6: “Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.” Interesting, isn’t it? The antidote for anxiety is to pray with thanksgiving.

Discovery

The act of gratitude reminds us that God is worthy of our trust.

Footsteps worth Following

I admit learning to praise God in all circumstances takes practice. I find I need to be intentional and deliberate in doing so and make it a day-by-day, even minute-by-minute exercise. My grandparents were immigrants of German-Russian extraction who settled in the Dakotas. They were dirt farmers during the Great Depression of the 1930s. My grandparents, Anna and Anton Adler, rose long before dawn, greeting each day with anticipation. My grandfather labored in his fields only to see his crops fail year after year. When all seemed lost, he didn’t give up. He looked toward the future. He heard of work picking fruit in the Yakima Valley in Washington State. Selling everything they had, my grandparents headed west with six children, leaving their two adult children behind, with their few remaining earthly possessions strapped to the back of their Model T Ford. They headed west, and without a backward glance, my grandfather left the farm behind. By all outward appearances he had failed just as the land had failed, and yet, as told in our family stories, my grandparents chose to thank God for the work ahead of them, rather than complain over what they had lost.

In the footsteps of my grandparents I, too, want to look at life with a sense of gratitude. I see my journal writing as starting my morning out on the positive note of practicing gratitude. Instead of grumbling over the drizzle outside my kitchen window, I can smile and remember that it’s the rain that makes everything so green and lush in the Pacific Northwest.

I once read that there are more verses in the Bible that praise God than anything else. I’m not a Bible scholar so I can’t say for sure if that’s true or not, but I do know that when we have a thankful heart, despite our circumstances, we lighten our load. Nothing jump-starts our gratitude like practicing the habit of praise. King David, who poured out his gratitude in verse after verse of the book of Psalms, was called a man after God’s own heart. Isn’t that what we’d like to be? Simply reading his psalms of praise is an ideal way to build gratitude into our lives.

Checkout Lane Surprise

A few months ago I was in line at the supermarket. My cart was piled high and I was anxious to be on my way. I was grateful that the young woman in front of me only had a partially filled cart. As I watched her carefully unload her groceries, I could see that she seemed anxious. As the checker finished ringing up the groceries, the young woman leaned across the check stand, whispered something to the checker, and left—without her groceries. The checker piled the bags onto the cart and set it off to the side.

I guessed the scenario. The young woman didn’t have enough money to pay for her purchase.

The clerk looked up at me and smiled, “Thanks for waiting. She had to go to the bank for more money.” I looked at the mountain of groceries in my cart, remembering my own scary days back in the early 1980s when I first decided I wanted to be a writer. My husband, Wayne, and I had four young children, and as a construction electrician, Wayne was often between jobs. I remembered well when we were feeding our young family of six on Wayne’s unemployment check of $150 a week.

I felt that inner discomfort that I sometimes get when God nudges me to do something. I call these moments “divine appoint­ments.” It wasn’t by accident that I turned up behind this young woman.

“How much were her groceries?” I asked.

The clerk looked up as if she hadn’t understood my question.

“How much was the bill?” I repeated. She pulled the tape from the bag and told me. Then she shrugged her shoulders as if she didn’t know why I’d be asking.

“Kindly add that amount to my bill,” I told her.

The clerk stopped checking my groceries. I was glad my piled-high cart had kept others from lining up behind me.

“She may not even come back,” the woman cautioned. “Some­times if a person doesn’t have enough money she says she’ll come back because she’s embarrassed. She probably won’t return, so save your money.”

“No,” I insisted, “I want to pay for her groceries.”

“She probably won’t be back,” she said in a flippant tone. “What do you want me to do with them then?”

“Give the food to someone in need,” I suggested.

I could see the clerk had never had someone offer to pay for someone else’s groceries. She appeared shocked and continued to stare at me. “Why are you doing this?” she asked.

I explained that at one time I’d been in that young woman’s situ­ation. I remembered wondering how I’d feed my family. I told her how grateful I was for all that God had given me. I tried to explain that with gratitude comes the urge to share.

She didn’t say a word, and I was left wondering if I was babbling on far too long. What I was doing didn’t make a lot of sense. The clerk was right—the woman who’d left might very well not return. Yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that God wanted me to do this. I’ve come to recognize those promptings from God and learned not to resist them.

Slowly the clerk returned to ringing up my groceries. “I want to know more about God,” she said simply.

That’s when it hit me. This nudge from God wasn’t about the young woman who left her groceries behind. God hadn’t nudged me for her sake, but for the clerk’s sake! For whatever reason, she needed to witness an act of generosity done in the Lord’s name.

I thought of Corrie ten Boom’s fleas. In this case, my own gift of generosity was having a benefit I had never imagined, just as the fleas had a benefit Corrie had never imagined. I thought I was helping the young woman needing groceries, but the Lord had set His sights on the clerk. Something my Florida pastor, James Biles, once said in a sermon came to mind. I remembered being struck so by his words that I wrote them down on the margin of my bul­letin: “We aren’t called to share the gospel. We are called to show the gospel.”

Look at it this way: had God not been tutoring me in the habit of gratitude, I might have been stewing about the delay caused by the young woman’s inability to pay. Instead I was able to listen to that still, small voice that sometimes gently urges me to act. Had I rationalized that the young woman might never come back for her groceries, I might have missed blessing the person God intended. Although I frequently shopped at that store I never saw her again, and yet I feel God planted her in my path that day for His purposes. Keep the eyes of your heart open for those God may want to help through you today.

Discovery

Practicing an attitude of gratitude spills over to acts of generosity.

The Science of Gratitude

My own discovery about the importance of gratitude was largely developed as I read the Bible. But did you know that science confirms the importance of gratitude as well?

Two researchers, R. A. Emmons of the University of California, Davis, and M. E. McCullough of the University of Miami, have been researching the dimensions and perspectives of gratitude. Their findings fascinate me and have been the basis of dozens of articles in scientific journals and bulletins. Take a look with me at what they learned.

Their experiments demonstrated that those who kept gratitude journals on a weekly basis exercised more regularly, reported fewer illness symptoms, felt better about their lives as a whole, and were more optimistic about the upcoming week compared to those who recorded troubles or neutral life events. As they continued to experiment, they found that participants who kept gratitude lists were more likely to have made progress over a two-month period toward their most important personal goals—academic, interper­sonal, and health based—compared to the subjects in their control group.2 So gratitude not only contributed to better overall health but helped people reach important goals. Think about it. Our Creator designed us to benefit when we give thanks. And that’s not all. Here’s something else the researchers discovered: a daily gratitude exercise where young adults regularly focused on specific things for which they were thankful resulted in higher reported levels of the positive states of alertness, enthusiasm, determination, attentiveness, and energy.

Remember that I said that generosity grows out of gratitude? The study also showed that participants in the daily gratitude experiment were more likely to report having helped someone with a personal problem or having offered emotional support to another. You see, when gratitude becomes a habit, then generosity seems to follow naturally.

In a sample of adults with neuromuscular disease, a twenty-one-day gratitude intervention resulted in greater amounts of energy, positive moods, a greater sense of feeling connected to others, more optimistic ratings of one’s life, and better sleep duration and quality relative to a control group.

Wow!

But there’s more. Stephen Post, PhD, professor of bioethics at Case Western Reserve University’s School of Medicine, is the author of Why Good Things Happen to Good People. In an article in Guideposts, “The Power of Gratitude,” he shares five things he discovered about gratitude:

1. Gratitude defends. Just fifteen minutes a day focusing on the things you’re grateful for will significantly increase your body’s natural antibodies.

2. Gratitude sharpens. Naturally grateful people are more focused mentally and are measurably less vulnerable to clinical depression.

3. Gratitude calms. A grateful state of mind induces a physiological state called resonance that’s associated with healthier blood pressure and heart rate.

4. Gratitude strengthens. Caring for others is draining. But grateful caregivers are healthier and more capable than less grateful ones.

5. Gratitude heals. Recipients of donated organs who have the most grateful attitudes heal faster.

Discovery

Gratitude gives back. When we practice gratitude, not only do we grow in our trust of God, but we benefit physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

Gratitude as a Prerequisite to Giving

As we acknowledge all we have, as we learn to praise God for all He has done for us, God helps us pry our fingers off our possessions, our Day-Timers, and our bank statements. This brings us full circle. Can you see why we explored gratitude before we set off on our journey to discover the power of generosity? Gratitude is the basis for giving. Grumpy, stingy people cannot live in the spirit of generosity. In order to be able to open our hands to give, we first have to give thanks for all we’ve been given. It’s just that simple!

SIMPLE ACTS OF GRATITUDE

Begin a gratitude journal. Each day write five things for which you are grateful.

Practice praise. Nothing opens our eyes to the gifts we have been given than focusing on the Giver. Find at least one new thing to praise God for each day.

Stay alert for those “God nudges” and be grateful when you sense them. When you feel like you should be doing something for someone, act on it. Keep track of those nudges. Write them down, noting how you responded and the outcome. When we practice listening for that still small voice we become better at hearing it.

Thank God in all circumstances. This means that sometimes you’ll thank Him for the “fleas” in your life. Read more

Debbie Macomber’s Cedar Cove Cookbook

Now, from Debbie Macomber’s Cedar Cove Cookbook, you can relish in your own home the same superb meals found in Cedar Cove’s households. Charlotte Rhodes, one of the series’ most beloved characters, invites all fans of Cedar Cove, as well Read more

Once Upon a Time: Discovering Our Forever After Story

Let the redeemed of the Lord tell their story.
—PSALM 107:2

Once upon a time, in a land not far away, I grew up dreaming of castles, handsome knights, and princes on fiery steeds, like many young girls. My family was an ordinary one, with a mother and a father and one wicked brother who sold copies of my diary to all the boys in my junior high class.

Every fortnight of my childhood I would journey to the library, seeking more tales of valor and knights. As I opened the heavy library door, juggling a stack of books, the hush of the cavernous room felt like a medieval priory. The smell of books and ink, leather and floor wax, brought a smile of eager anticipation. Usually I had finished my last book the night before and couldn’t wait to begin a new adventure, hopefully one with knights willing to carry me off to the land of enchantment.

Because I am a slow reader, it took me a long time to read each story. Consequently I relished every scene, each fair maiden and fearsome dragon. I never understood why other kids were able to read so quickly. Not me. I had to read each sentence slowly and thoughtfully, but word by word, the story emerged. Like magic. I’d venture to faraway places, reading about princes and castles, but I also read about girls who lived in small towns just like Yakima, Washington.

After returning my stack of books to the counter, I would head for my favorite corner of the library to begin the deliciously difficult job of choosing a new stack of books. As I slid a book off the shelf and fingered the adhesive label on the spine, I anticipated the adventure I knew was tucked between the covers.

Someday . . . perhaps I could write these kinds of stories. Already the ideas whirled around inside my head. I never could read a book without making up a story of my own.

That dream never changed. I knew I wanted to write stories someday. Stories that would sit on library shelves just like these. Stories just waiting for someone to open the cover and join in the adventure.

Most people smiled indulgently when I shared my dream. Once, when I told a teacher that I planned to be a writer and one day I would write a book, she smiled and patted my hand. “You can’t write, Debbie,” she said. “why, you can’t even spell.”

But the dream refused to go away.

Then one day, when I was only nineteen, a handsome electrician drove up in a shiny black convertible. It wasn’t a steed, but I knew a prince when I saw one, and before long we were married. Soon we were living in a two-bedroom cottage with a white picket fence.

As often happens when a fair damsel meets her Prince Charming, children followed, and soon the two-bedroom cottage became a four-bedroom castle. The kingdom flourished and prospered, and between soccer games and car pools, ballet classes and clarinet lessons, I dreamed about love and enchantment and the magic of romance. Money was scarce in those days, but there was never a shortage of books. Our four children knew their mommy loved to tell stories. That was a good thing, since they loved to listen to them. As I fixed frugal feasts that could stretch a pound of hamburger six ways to Sunday, I still dreamed of writing books and telling stories.

A dream that never dies eventually demands attention. Despite a budget that allowed nothing frivolous, I took that leap of faith and answered the call to write. We rented a typewriter for twenty-five dollars a month. Twenty-five whole dollars! That was a big chunk out of the castle coffers in those days.

But I faithfully wrote on that typewriter every day. I spun stories, wrote articles, and kept at it faithfully, despite receiving rejection after rejection. After a number of years, my patient prince came to me with a handful of bills. “Darling,” he said as he put his arm around me, “I’m going to have to ask you to get a job. Something that pays money.”

I looked at my typewriter, sitting on the kitchen table beside a mountain of typed pages tied into book-sized bundles with twine.

“We’re just not making it,” he said, “and I don’t know what else to do.”

I knew he was right. Maybe the fairy tale was ending. I knew that I couldn’t work, care for the kids, and still follow my dream. Maybe some dreams were just not meant to come true. I packed away the manuscripts and cleaned up the typewriter in preparation for returning it.

That night I didn’t sleep. I kept thinking about my dream.

In the wee hours, the prince stirred and saw me awake. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I think I could have made it,” I whispered. “I don’t know why, but I think I could have made it as a writer.”

My prince was quiet for a very long time before he took my hand. “If it means that much to you, then go for it.” He squeezed my hand. “We’ll figure something out. We’ll do whatever we have to do so you can write.”

And somehow we got by. Every day the two older children came home from school to the sound of typewriter keys clacking away. My big break didn’t happen the next year. Or the next. In fact, it didn’t happen for five long years. Then one day I received that magical telephone call. A publisher offered to buy my book.

That special story was the first of a whole bookcase full of books I would eventually write. I wrote book after book, and, I am grateful to say, readers bought those books. Some even went to the very library I used to haunt as a child. With confidence, they slid my books off the shelf, knowing they would find satisfying stories tucked between the covers.

To this day I walk up the staircase into my writing turret and continue to tell stories. Even though my publishers have sold more than one hundred million of my books, I am not finished telling stories.

I plan to write happily ever after.

I was born to be a storyteller. I’ve read stories, collected stories, written stories, and loved stories my entire life. There are no words that stir my soul more than “once upon a time.”

I relish every aspect of being a writer, but through the years I’ve had an insight about myself as an author: I’m happiest when I’m writing. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy meeting my readers, doing interviews, and everything else that is involved in my career, but in the end—and the beginning—I am a writer, and telling a story is what’s most important to me.

The very first time I visited that library in my hometown, I was only four years old. When Miss Bunn, the librarian, handed me that very first book—a Little Golden Book—my mother said I took it with both hands, looked at it for the longest time, and then pressed it against my heart. My mother could not pry the book away from me. My love of books never waned. I struggled with reading until I was ten years old, but once the concept of sounding out words took hold in my mind, those books I carried home from the library never gathered dust. I read them under the covers long after the lights should have been out. I knew I needed to sleep, but the story kept moving forward, and I was caught up in the magic and wonder of it all. This was the same magic and wonder I longed to create someday myself. When I finally closed the book, sleep still eluded me. I would often lie awake into the wee hours of the morning, reliving the plot and the beauty of the story . . . and dreaming of one day creating my own.

I began to fantasize about writing my own stories not long after those library days. It didn’t matter that I suffered from what I came to understand was dyslexia or that I was a creative speller. (I still am!) I knew I wanted to tell stories. A fellow writer, Katherine Anne Porter, said it best: “A story is like something you wind out of yourself. Like a spider, it is a web you weave, and you love your story like a child.”

What I didn’t know at that time was that not only would all my writing wishes come true (above and beyond anything I could have ever dreamed or imagined), but I would come to see my own life as one grand story.

That’s what this book is about. Not the stories I write, nor the story of my life, though both will be part of the telling. I wanted to write this book to talk about Story. Story with a capital S. I want to help you view your own life as one continuous story. One never-ending story. And when you do, I hope you will recognize how God has held you in the palm of His hand the same way He has me.

Madeleine L’Engle, in her book The Rock That Is Higher: Story as Truth, wrote:

Story makes us more alive, more human, more courageous, more loving. Why does anybody tell a story? It does indeed have something to do with faith, faith that the universe has meaning, that our little human lives are not irrelevant, that what we choose or say or do matters, matters cosmically. It is we humans who either help bring about, or hinder the coming of the kingdom . . . . Our truest response to the irrationality of the world is to paint or sing or write, for only in such response do we find truth.1

We are the stories other people read. Those stories have power—power to heal and power to change, power to direct and encourage. Story enriches our life and the lives of those around us.

As I travel around the country and talk to people, I see stories. One of my joys when meeting readers is hearing their stories. Often they touch and inspire me, and again I am reminded that God has been able to use even me, through the power of story.
WHAT IS STORY?

People have told stories as far back as we can trace. I recently listened to a recording of my friend Liz Curtis Higgs speaking about the story of Ruth from the Bible. Ruth lived about 3,200 years ago, but the book of Ruth wasn’t committed to writing until the ninth century BC. That means that the story was preserved in oral tradition from generation to generation. Those who don’t understand the sacred trust of an ancient storyteller might wonder how faithful the story eventually recorded was to the actual event. No worry. There’s little chance of change. Generations heard these stories over and over and the tiniest deviation would be cause for the storyteller to be run out of the village ahead of an angry mob. People take their stories seriously.
Each culture has had its storytellers, from the Scottish bards to the African griots. Storytelling has been a noble profession from earliest memory. Eventually stories moved from oral tradition, the spoken word, to the written word. With the advent of the printing press, these marvelous tales of old migrated to books. In modern times, our stories are also told on screens both large and small.

E. M. Forster, in his classic book Aspects of the Novel, likens story to a tapeworm, its beginning and end completely arbitrary. He illustrates his point with the storytelling of Scheherazade, the legendary Persian queen and narrator of One Thousand and One Nights, summing up the fact that the story is about, in three simple words, what happens next. Here’s what Forster wrote:

Scheherazade avoided her fate because she knew how to wield the weapon of suspense—the only literary tool that has any effect upon tyrants and savages. Great novelist though she was—exquisite in her descriptions, tolerant in her judgments, ingenious in her incidents, advanced in her morality, vivid in her delineations of character, expert in her knowledge of three Oriental capitals—it was yet on none of these gifts that she relied when trying to save her life from her intolerable husband. They were but incidental. She only survived because she managed to keep the king wondering what would happen next. Each time she saw the sun rising she stopped in the middle of a sentence, and left him gaping. “At this moment Scheherazade saw the morning appearing and, discreet, was silent.” This uninteresting little phrase is the backbone of the One Thousand and One Nights, the tapeworm by which they are tied together and the life of a most accomplished princess was preserved.2

Aren’t we just like Scheherazade’s husband, in that we want to know what happens next?
WHY TELL STORIES?

Storytelling is a natural, time-honored way of making sense of seemingly random events. When I am writing my books I’ll often begin by telling several different stories that seem unconnected until, little by little, I bring the stories and the characters together and start to intertwine them. By the time the reader reaches the end of the book, hopefully the plot has magically come together. I explain, when people ask, that this form of storytelling is like braiding hair. Each thick strand is turned over the others, building, one upon another, until the braid is complete.
Culminating all the elements of the plot is important. We work to make sense of the world around us. We want to make sense of the people we know and of what is happening to us. The writer Joan Didion said, “Had I been blessed with even limited access to my own mind, there would have been no reason to write. I write entirely to find out what I am thinking, what I am looking at, what it means.”
THE GOD WHO TOLD STORIES

From the time I was that little girl with a dream, I also had a hunger for God. I didn’t really come to know Him in the same close relationship I enjoy now until after I was married and had two of my children. Still, for as long as I can remember I had an unquenchable longing for Him. From the moment I intentionally made Him the centerpiece of my life in 1972, I’ve taken the book He wrote and read it faithfully cover to cover each and every year. And you know what I realized? The Bible, from the first pages of Genesis, has plenty of lessons and ideas, proverbs and poems. However, when Jesus came along, He was the God who told stories. Moses may have delivered the tablets that began with “Thou shalt not . . .” but Jesus sat down with an expectant crowd gathered around Him and began, “A farmer went out to sow his seed . . .”
So we will look at story through the pages of this book. You’ll notice that I’ve pulled familiar phrases from classic stories and folktales for the chapter titles. For me, just hearing the words “a long, long time ago,” or “in a faraway land,” or “happily ever after,” offers a sense of anticipation, of excitement and expectation. A story is about to unfold, and those key words tell all we need to know about the kind of story it will be.

Liz Curtis Higgs, in talking about the story of Ruth, tells us that the Hebrew word that opens the story, wayehi, which is translated as “In the days,” or “And it came to pass,” actually embodied so much more to those Hebrew listeners. When they heard wayehi, they leaned in eagerly so as not to miss a word, because it literally meant, “Trouble is on the horizon but redemption is coming.”

Don’t you love that? With a single word, the author of Ruth managed to capture the attention of the audience. Now that’s the power of a good storyteller.
YOUR OWN GRAND STORY

I’ve come to realize that God wants us to see our lives in terms of story—from an eternal perspective. Trouble is on the horizon—it’s always there in one form or another—but we have nothing to fear because redemption is on the way. Or, as you’ve seen written on T-shirts, “Please be patient, God is not finished with me yet.”
As we explore ways to see our lives as one grand story, we’re going to realize that all the parts—the good parts and the bad, the trouble and the heartache, the disappointments and the discouragements we face—are important to the story, and, as we already know, redemption is coming!
GATHERING THE STORY TOGETHER

Remember the scene in the movie Out of Africa where Karen Blixen’s native majordomo, Kamante, inquires about the stack of manuscript pages she has on her worktable? She tells him it is her book. He points to the manuscript. “This is not a book.” Kamante goes to the bookshelf and takes out a book. “This is a book,” he says patiently. He turns the book upside down. “See, this pages don’t fall out.” He puts his hand on the stack of loose pages and asks how she will make “this pages” into a book.
He is asking an age-old question, really. What do we do with our story, with all these stories we are gathering? I’ll have to admit, I’m a little uncomfortable bringing up the subject of journals. Someone pointed out once that I have talked about journals and journaling in every single one of the nonfiction books I’ve written. I can’t help myself. I’m a writer. A storyteller. If we are going to collect stories, we need to have some way to keep them and to pass them on. We can’t rely on our memories. Those are too fleeting. I am so grateful for the journals I’ve written through the years. They are my legacy to my children, my day-to-day ramblings about my life, my dreams, my hopes, and my happenings.

If we are going to live intentionally—if we are going to pay attention—we need to capture ideas and stories in some way. The easiest way is, of course, journals. Just get a blank book or even a writing tablet. Aside from the diary I kept as a child, my earliest journal, when our family was young, was a spiral-bound notebook. It was all we could afford. Your own need not be fancy. What’s important is that you begin to write down everything you remember and collect. For the last few years I’ve used my journal sort of like a collection tool—a scrapbook—for letters or special birthday cards, announcements, or newspaper articles. You can organize your journal any way you like. Develop your own system, but, in the meantime, just begin to capture the everyday details of your life and write them down.

I have the journal my mother kept during World War II while my father was overseas. It was one of those five-year ones, with only a few lines for each day. It amazes me how much my mother was able to say with a few short sentences. Mom and Dad were married just before my father shipped overseas. Two days after the wedding ceremony my father was on a troop carrier taking him to England. One of my favorite entries is from the day Dad had roses delivered to Mom for their anniversary. I’m certain he involved his youngest sister, my aunt Gerty, in this. The entry in Mom’s diary says: Roses from Ted. Oh, my heart.

Six simple words that say so much.

Madeleine L’Engle called her journal a “commonplace book.” It was a big brown Mexican leather notebook. She copied words that caught her fancy, passages from books, quotes, and sayings. She said, “All I’m looking for in it is meaning, meaning which will help me live life lovingly.”3

You might not be a paper-and-ink sort of person. You may be more comfortable creating a journal on your computer. There are many apps and software programs available for this very purpose.

Like Madeleine L’Engle, I also write down quotes and sayings that attract my attention. I keep those in my Gratitude Journal. (Yes, I keep more than one journal. What can I say? It’s the writer in me.)

Something else from Madeleine L’Engle—she said, “When I have a profound personal experience, I write it down in my journal and that way I am working through it. To some extent, I am objectifying it. It is no longer just subjective. But I’m also setting it in my memory. If you want to put it in a novel or a book, it does have to wait. It’s very important to set down what you’re feeling while it’s happening.”4

The important thing is to write it down. Don’t worry about “doing it right” or about grammar or about writing a memoir that will hit the New York Times best-seller list. Just get the descriptions and stories down in your own words.

Trust your voice.

Trust your stories.
HOW TO USE THIS BOOK

In writing this book, I’m not suggesting everyone needs to pen his or her own memoir or record his or her story for posterity. This is more about developing an awareness—a commitment to remembering. That’s not to say I’m not going to encourage you to record your story in some way for your family or begin a journal or two. But I am going to look at the elements that make up a good story and ask you to think about the story God is writing with your life. One of my favorite quotes is from Socrates: “The unexamined life is not worth living.” Look at your own life and my guess is that as you do, you will see God’s fingerprints, His loving, guiding hand upon you.
So let’s dig in and start figuring out ways to examine our lives and tell our stories. Here are some ways you may want to explore your own story:

• Telling your story in a group setting. After you read through this book, you may want to gather a group of friends or a women’s group at church or your reading club and go through the book together. I offer what I call storytelling prompts at the end of each chapter to help tickle your memories and offer something to chew on. These prompts make great conversation starters if you use this book in a group setting. (After all, there is nothing better for getting to know people than sharing stories.)

• Telling your story through journaling. You might want to take a journal and use the storytelling prompts to begin to explore your own “once upon a time.” But don’t stop there. As I talk about story, apply my story and the stories of others in the book to your own life. What was your beginning? Who are the characters in your story? What unique challenges have you had to face? If you allow yourself to write freely, you’ll be surprised at the things you remember.

• Telling your story through the arts. Some readers are not writers. Writing in a journal sounds like a school assignment to them. That’s okay. You might want to tell your story through the pages of a photo album or scrapbook. If so, get out your scissors and glue and begin to piece your own story together. If you are a quilter, there is a great tradition of storytelling quilts, like album quilts. We can be creative in how we tell our stories.

• Telling your story out loud. Folktales and fairy stories all started out in the oral tradition—told around a fire. You may want to revive this storytelling tradition in your family. When we tell stories about ourselves to our families we forge the strongest link possible—shared history. I think it would be great fun to use the storytelling prompts at the end of each chapter as dinnertime conversation starters. If a child is allowed to tell his own story at the table, he will begin to see his life from a broader perspective. And, of course, it is important to let each story be told without correction or interruption. (We’ll talk more about quieting the critics later in the book.) Just think of the richness that awaits us if the table or the gathering holds many generations that can share stories together. Don’t forget, we pass along our values, generation to generation, through storytelling.

• Telling your story through memoir. If you are interested in writing your own memoir, go for it! You’ll be leaving a treasure for your family.

Shall we start?

Once upon a time . . .

Storytelling Prompt

What is your “In the beginning” story as told to you by family? What is your own earliest memory?

The Importance of Remembering

Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, better known as the author who wrote Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland under the pen name Lewis Carroll, knew the importance of remembering. He was a pioneer photographer who spent hours staging artful images of the people in his life. He kept journals and wrote books—both math books and his delightful Alice stories for children. But one of the ways he marked his life was to designate never-to-be-forgotten days as “white stone days.” In his journals, he told about a particularly meaningful outing and then wrote, “Mark this day with a white stone.” To him this meant that he knew he would pass that way only once and he wanted to remember.

Mark Batterson, the pastor of National Community Church in Washington DC, says in his book Soulprint, “Without memory, we’d have to relearn everything every day. Without memory, we’d forget who we are and where we’ve been. Without memory, we’d lose faith because we’d forget the faithfulness of God.”5

Later in the book he says, “If you’re willing to do some personal archaeology, you’ll dig up some invaluable artifacts.” And he goes on to say, “Digging into your past can be emotionally exhausting, but remember, your destiny is hidden there. Pray for a spirit of revelation. Make sure you have a journal to record your thoughts. Start looking for those mysterious symbols that can be turned into lifesymbols.”6

Deuteronomy 4:9 says, “Only be careful, and watch yourselves closely so that you do not forget the things your eyes have seen or let them fade from your heart as long as you live. Teach them to your children and to their children after them.” Read more

Knit Together: Discover God’s Pattern for Your Life

Chapter One
Created for Purpose

Many people have a wrong idea of what constitutes true happiness. It is not attained through self-gratification, but through fidelity to a worthy purpose. Helen Keller
Before you were born, before you knew the world and the world knew you, there was only One, the Creator, who knew you in your most basic form. Even then, He had a relationship with you. Growing within the quiet shadows of your mother’s womb, blocked from even her eyes, God watched you, marveling as your fingernails formed, and your eyelashes fluttered, and the tiny corners of your mouth turned up in pleasure as you discovered your miniature thumb for the very first time. You were His design, His pattern, and you were beautiful to Him.

From the moment each of us is created, God has a purpose for us. We don’t necessarily know what it looks like at first, but we can be sure it’s there, somewhere inside us. For a long time, I wondered what my purpose was. I knew I loved being a mother, and I knew I loved writing’ but a writing career seemed to be something achievable only in my dreams, certainly not in real life for a twenty-nine-year-old housewife and mother of four.

When I think about what it means to be created by God for a purpose, my thoughts turn to Psalm 139. It is one of my favorite passages of the Bible because it combines two of my favorite things’ knitting and the understanding of God’s call on my life. We were knit together in our mothers’ wombs (Psalm 139:13). We have been searched and known by the greatest designer in the universe (Psalm 139:1). We were designed for something special. I believe that something special is reflected in the strong desires God puts in our hearts through our dreams, through our passions, and through the things that bring us joy. It’s through those things that we can discover what our purpose is, when we see for ourselves the pattern He’s made for us and the dreams He’s knitted together for us to live out.

I hope you’ll go on an amazing adventure with me as we examine Psalm 139 in depth and discover the pattern God has for each of us when it comes to our purpose, our achievements, and so many other pieces that make up this fitted and well-worn garment we call life.

Finding Purpose in Humble Beginnings

Twenty-five years ago, I could not have imagined myself writing a book about realizing your dreams. I’m sure no one else could have imagined my writing one, either! I come from humble beginnings. I’m incredibly proud of my heritage and consider myself blessed in a number of ways because of my family. All four of my grandparents were German-speaking Russian immigrants. My father didn’t graduate from high school and while my mother did, she had to move off the farm into town and work in order to obtain her education. Both of my grandfathers pushed a plow. There’s absolutely nothing in my background that qualifies me to be a writer.

I got married out of high school to Wayne Macomber, and between 1970 and 1975 we had four children. I remember what my mother told me shortly after Dale, our youngest, was born. I hadn’t slept an entire night in months; I was physically and mentally worn to a frazzle. A look of such joy came over my mother as she watched me with our newborn son. She smiled and said, ‘Debbie, these will be the happiest days of your life.’ I stared back at her in utter horror. ‘Mom, you mean to tell me it gets worse’. She laughed, promising me that one day I would treasure these days with my little ones. And she was right.

So I was the mom of four youngsters living on a limited income with nothing more than a high school degree, and on top of that, I’m dyslexic. School was always difficult for me, and I never managed to achieve anything higher than average grades. A scholarship or the possibility of college was never an option. At the time I didn’t know I was dyslexic. The teachers didn’t have a word for it then. I didn’t know my troubles in school stemmed from a learning disability until my own children were diagnosed with dyslexia many years later. Dyslexia doesn’t go away, so to this very day I’m a slow, thoughtful reader and a creative speller.

As a child of the fifties growing up in Yakima, Washington, words were both my passion and my torment. My mom said that from the time I was four years old, I went to sleep every night with a book in my hands. I loved visiting the local library where Beverly Bunn, the children’s librarian, would read to us for story hour. She later married and went on to write novels, too. You may have read her work. Her married name is Beverly Cleary. I didn’t know it at the time, but she had problems reading as a kid, too.

Despite my love for stories and for reading, I struggled in school. I was the only girl in my first-grade class to be in the Robin Reading Group, the lowest level there was. I can still remember sitting with my mother for a parent-teacher conference with my third-grade teacher. ‘Debbie is such a nice little girl, but she’ll never do well in school,’ my mother was told. Whether it was a self-fulfilling prophecy, I don’t know, but the teacher was right’ I never did achieve high grades and remained an average student, so average, in fact, that academically I ranked fortieth in my graduating class of eighty girls.

The biggest complaint teachers had about me growing up was that I daydreamed. It was true. As early as I can remember, I liked creating stories, often when I was supposed to be paying attention in class. Storytelling actually became my niche when I was twelve or thirteen. I used to make up stories about the kids I babysat, entertaining them with silly names like Snickelfritz and Stinkyfoot, and they loved it’ so much that their parents would pay me a dollar an hour when the going rate was just a quarter. A friend of mine likes to joke that even then, I was set on being successful! Maybe I was, but I certainly didn’t know it.

Though reading was difficult, I persisted with it, and by the time I was in fifth grade, I had caught up with my classmates. I was ten when I started thinking about what it would be like to be a writer, and I wrote my first book the following year. I still remember the characters’ the story was about triplets named Faith, Hope, and Charity, a precursor I’m sure to what have become my three angels’ Shirley, Goodness, and Mercy’ favorite characters of several Christmas books I’ve written over the years. I never told my teachers or friends I wanted to write because I was afraid they would tell me all the reasons it was impossible for me to be a writer. I didn’t get good grades in English (or anything else), and my spelling was atrocious. I couldn’t bear to have such a fragile dream trampled upon.

Finding Your Purpose

I am absolutely convinced that each of us is created with a God-given purpose. It’s what I like to call the focus of our lives’ the ‘what’ that my life, and yours, is all about. Some people seem to know what their purpose is early on; they get up every morning with this innate passion for something; they walk around with fire in their bellies’ a desire that doesn’t go away. They have vision and determination, and they are ready to see all their dreams come true! For others, though, their purpose, their life’s focus, seems much dimmer, harder to see. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t there.

If you’ve picked up this book, chances are you’re trying to figure out what your purpose is or how to achieve that seemingly unreachable dream. Maybe you thought you knew what you wanted to do, but life’s circumstances have left you wondering. Maybe you’ve never known. Or perhaps you do know, but, as I was, you’re afraid. You’re scared of what other people will think, or you fear that you’ll fail. So you stick your purpose up on a shelf, thinking that maybe someday you’ll get to it.

In the late seventies, my purpose, my focus to be a writer, was way, way out of reach and coated with a thick layer of dusty childhood doubts and the busyness of being a mother to four very active children. But every once in a while, in my mind, I’d take my purpose down and look at it, turn it around and wistfully think, Maybe after the kids are grown. Then, back on the shelf it went. Out of sight, out of mind. Almost. Until David got sick.

My cousin David Adler and I grew up together. We attended the same schools, lived in the same neighborhood, and worshipped at the same church. The only dates I got in high school were due to David. In fact, it was David, another cousin, Doug, and my brother Terry who made copies of my eighth-grade diary and sold them to the boys in my class. At the time, I was mortified, but the years have a way of changing one’s perspective. These days, what I remember most is how many copies were bought!

As a young adult, David was diagnosed with leukemia. When he was admitted to Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Center in Seattle, my husband, Wayne, and I were the closest family to the hospital, living just a few miles south of town. Although I didn’t venture into the big city very often, I was determined to be with David, his wife, Rachel, and their daughter. From the day he arrived in Seattle from Yakima, I spent part of every day with my cousin. I was certain God would perform a miracle. I was convinced that God would heal him.

At the time, I hadn’t been a Christian long. I was raised Catholic and attended the local parochial school for all twelve grades. In my parents’ house there had always been a coffee-table Bible, but I never saw it open. Every Sunday when I went to Mass, I heard the four Gospels and the Epistles, but they never connected. Maybe I was too young to really care back then. I knew about God, but the God I grew up with was stern and vengeful. I didn’t have a relationship with Him. I didn’t know Him. I didn’t realize Christ was my personal Savior; I knew only that my sins had nailed Him to the cross.

But at the age of twenty-two, after Wayne and I had married and I was a mother twice over, we moved to Seahurst, near Seattle. With two small babies born a year apart on my hips, I was invited to Bible Study Fellowship (BSF) by my neighbor Marilyn Kimmel. Until that point I’d never set foot inside a Protestant church, but I was hungry for friendship and so I went. I had the most uncomfortable feeling as soon as I got there. I was afraid if my parents ever found out what I was doing, they’d be upset. Then the teaching leader, Denise Adler, introduced herself. Adler is my maiden name, and it was as if God was saying to me that it was fine for me to be in these unfamiliar surroundings; I was home and this was family.

That week the class was studying the first four chapters of Nehemiah. I remember Marilyn telling me somewhat apologetically that this was the year BSF was studying the Minor Prophets. I told myself that was okay since I didn’t know what a major one was. Surrounded by those dear ladies, as I got into the Word, it latched onto my heart. It wasn’t long before I felt God tugging at me. I wanted the same relationship with Christ that my friends had. As I studied His Word, I surrendered my life to Jesus Christ and have never regretted that decision.

Knit Together for Purpose

‘Whether I am knitting for myself or someone else, my passion for knitting enables me to express my creativity and produces a feeling of accomplishment.’ ‘Rita E. Greenfeder, Editor, Knit ‘N Style

If you’ve ever read any of my books, you probably already know that I’m a big knitter. I started knitting as a twelve-year-old girl. My mother wasn’t a knitter, and in fact, I didn’t know a single person who knew how to knit. I pestered her until she took me to the local yarn store. The wonderful ladies there took me under their wing and taught me, and I’ve never been the same since. I knitted all through my school years until Wayne and I married, and then again periodically while the kids were growing up. But it was when I became a grandmother for the first time that the bug really took hold. I love to knit! I also love collecting yarn. In fact, I need an entire room to hold my yarn stash. It’s difficult for me to resist stopping in a yarn store, no matter how many projects are already waiting for me at home. But knitting can often be a slow process. From start to finish, it takes time to complete. Knitting certainly requires patience and persistence. I find it’s the same with finding your purpose.

That’s why, seven years later, because of that wonderful relationship I had with Jesus, I was absolutely convinced that God would heal my cousin David. After all, I knew my life had changed for the better, and I knew God could make a difference in David’s life. And this was no mustard-seed faith; the faith I carried around was the size of avocados! I told David, ‘God is going to heal you. Through the love of Jesus Christ, you’re going to be healed.’

But despite all my prayers and absolute certainty, David passed away on September 23, 1978. And suddenly, I didn’t know what to believe. I was in a crisis of faith. I couldn’t sleep; I couldn’t pray. I couldn’t read my Bible. I felt that God had let me down.

My questions ended one morning, though, when I tried to have devotions with the children. My son Ted was particularly antsy that day, and, exasperated, I tried again to get him to pay attention.

‘Ted,’ I asked, for the twentieth time, ‘what do you have to do to get to heaven.’

He looked at me as if I had just asked what he’d had for breakfast.

‘Die,’ he said.

His answer took a moment to sink in. But I realized he was right. David had died, but before his death he had come to know the same Jesus I did. Because he had accepted Christ, I had the assurance that David was in heaven. Furthermore, by the grace of God, David really had been healed.

That revelation was quickly followed by another: I could no longer afford to dream of being a writer someday. I could no longer stuff my dreams into the future with a long list of justifications. Life holds no guarantees. I realized then that it was time for me to move my life purpose forward. It was time to go after my dream.

Since we didn’t have the money to buy a typewriter, we rented one. I placed that typewriter on the kitchen table and moved it at mealtimes. Every morning when the kids left for school, I moved the typewriter back to the table and wrote until they came home. I didn’t have a lot of life experience at that point, but I knew I could write something with a happy ending. And after four kids, I needed one.

The Passion in Your Purpose

I imagine that you’re asking how I knew my purpose was to be a writer. Well, I didn’t at first, not completely. But as I said earlier, I believe that God puts desires in our hearts through our dreams, through our passions, and through what brings us joy. When we can look through all of those things, we can find our purpose as we discover the customized blueprint, the pattern, God’s made for each of us.

So, let’s take a look at the passion in our purpose. Ask yourself these questions: What is it that gets me excited’ What do I love to do’

I believe that what you enjoyed as a child often provides hints of what you should be doing as an adult. When I was young, I loved to read and tell stories. Maybe you loved to dress up your dolls, creating elaborate new fashions. Maybe you liked drawing. Or maybe you thrived on helping other people, or taking care of the neighbor’s dog. Perhaps you enjoyed playing school or house, or caring for sick stuffed animals. Whatever you enjoyed most can give you clues to the purpose God has for you. As Rick Warren puts it so directly on the first page of The Purpose-Driven Life, ‘It’s not about you.’

God has a plan for your life and a purpose that fits into His master plan. But He doesn’t want you to float through life waiting for a giant bolt of lightning to fall from heaven and point out what you’re supposed to be doing. He gave each of us a brain as well as a heart. We have to listen to both to truly discover the pattern God has for our lives. Read more

God’s Guest List

One

PRESENTS, PEOPLE, AND ONE MORE LIST

An Unfinished Guest List

THERE’S A STORY that goes something like this:

A woman arrived at the gates of heaven to be met by St. Peter.

“You may first want to join the others at the throne,” he said to her, “and then greet those you loved on earth. But when you are ready, I’ll take you on a tour of heaven.”

When the time came for her tour, she could hardly take it all in. It reminded her a little of her earthly home, but she could see that earth had only been a pale shadow of what she was seeing now. They explored every nook and cranny of heaven—waterfalls, fields of flowers, exquisite buildings, and streets of gold.

As the tour drew to an end, she noticed one massive door they had not yet explored. A gold padlock secured it. “What’s in that room?” she asked.

“You don’t want to see that room,” St. Peter said, steering her away from it. “It’s only a storeroom.”

“But I do. May I see inside? I want to see every bit of heaven.”

St. Peter didn’t answer. Instead he took a large key out of his pocket, put it in the lock, and turned it. The tumblers clicked and the padlock opened. He took the lock off and opened the door. The woman had to blink several times to take it all in. Inside the cavernous room were stacks and stacks of gifts, wrapped in all the colors of the rainbow and tied with all the colors of heaven.

She clapped her hands with delight. “Is this where you store presents for everyone in heaven?”

“No. These gifts are not for heaven, they were meant for earth.”

“What do you mean ‘were’?” She walked through the stacks and came to a pile marked with her name. “Look, these gifts are for me.” She fingered the paper and ribbons. “May I open them?”

“No. You don’t need them now.” St. Peter put a hand on her shoulder, guiding her toward the door.

“But if I don’t need them now, does that mean I needed them on earth?” She couldn’t take her eyes off the pile. To think she would never get to enjoy all those beautifully wrapped gifts.

He nodded his head. “Yes, you needed them on earth.”

She looked around the room, realizing that there must have been millions of gifts. Maybe more, since she couldn’t see an end to the room. “Why weren’t my gifts sent to me on earth?” As she looked closer, she could read names on all the gifts. “Not just my gifts; why haven’t any of these gifts been sent?”

St. Peter sighed. “You don’t understand. Every one of them was sent.” Moving his arm in an arc that encompassed the whole room, he said, “All of these and more. These are the ones that were returned unopened.” He moved her toward the door. “Many people on earth don’t recognize God’s gifts and fail to open them.”

I love gifts—both giving and receiving. When I first heard this story, I wondered if there was any truth to the parable. Had God sent gifts to me that I hadn’t opened? When I get to heaven, I don’t want to discover that I failed to recognize the gifts God sent into my life. I don’t want to miss a single one.

Unfortunately, in real life God’s presents don’t always come gaily gift-wrapped, and they are not always easily recognized. Some even initially come looking like challenges. And often these gifts are people shaped.

THE SECOND LIST

If you’ve read any of my nonfiction books, you know I’m a list maker. Goals, objectives, tasks. They all go on lists. Socrates said, “The unexamined life is not worth living.” I’ve taken his advice to heart and take a careful look at my life day by day in order to make the most of my time and efforts.

Many years ago I read The Aladdin Factor by Jack Canfield, who coauthored the Chicken Soup series. This was before that series was as well known as it is now. The one thing I remember most about that book was something Jack Canfield wrote. He made a list of thirty people he wanted to meet in his life. Entertainers, authors, musicians—people whose work he deeply admired and whom he wanted to thank.

What an idea!

It inspired me, and I set about making a list of my own—thirty people I wanted to meet. I started out with Pat Conroy—one of the most gifted writers of our time. The list was filled with people I’d admired throughout my life—writers, musicians, speakers, and others. At the time, the possibility of meeting those on my list seemed impossible, but one by one God brought them into my life, and I gratefully checked them off my list, one by one.

A few years ago I attended a writers’ conference. An author from my list whom I’d long admired was to be the keynote speaker. I wanted to tell him the story of how I came to find him and how his writing had inspired me, so it was arranged for us to meet and talk. We sat in a quiet corner of the hotel lobby and I began to tell him what his work has meant to me. Halfway through the story, he stopped me. “Just a minute. You have to stop, because I need to bask.” That’s B-A-S-K—bask. I didn’t know what he meant until he closed his eyes and began to breathe deeply through his nose. He waved his hands as if to fan my words toward him and got a weird look on his face as he appeared to soak in my words of encouragement.

It was all I could do to keep from bursting out laughing. That someone would need to bask in the glory of a simple compliment flabbergasted me. Long after that conference was over, I continued to think about that incident. It was so odd. The more I thought about it, the more disappointed I became in this person. I had held him in such high regard. How could I have been so wrong? Instead of reflecting any glory back to God, this author chose to absorb it for himself. To bask in my praise.

The sad thing is that he wasn’t the only one from my list who turned out to be a disappointment. I had listed a well-known, much-loved singer with a career history that spans forty years. The lyrics he sings are so beautiful and touch me deeply, but I came to find out they’re lyrics written by other people. It soon became obvious that he was so plastic, so saccharine, that if I had met him in any other circumstance, I confess I would have automatically avoided him. His world revolved around him. Because people had kowtowed to him for so long, he had no patience. His frustration threshold was dangerously low. I watched as he snapped his fingers at people, signaling them to bring him things. It was cringe-worthy. Even more telling, his annoyance and rudeness turned to smiles the moment someone lifted a camera in his direction. Sad.

During my morning prayer time, shortly after my visit with the author at the writers’ conference, I found myself telling God how disillusioned I was with so many of the people on my list. It didn’t take too many disappointments to conclude that unless the person stayed God-centered, fame and talent seemed to ruin the person in some way. Basking in their own accomplishments led to self-absorption and self-obsession. Many of them didn’t even seem to see other people. So that morning I complained to God how disappointed I was in several of the people on my list. Then it hit me. My disappointment stemmed not from the fact that these people were flawed. We are all flawed. The true source of my disappointment was that I had misplaced my admiration.

As I prayed, I sensed that God was saying, There is a reason I had that happen, Debbie. It’s because I want you to make another list. You asked Me to send those thirty people into your life. You’re My daughter. I love you, and as your Father, I want to give you the things that you ask for, but I also wanted you to see people through My eyes. Now make another list and put down thirty more spaces, but leave them open for the people I want to send into your life.

God would send people into my life? An open list. A guest list. It was as if He had issued invitations to my life and asked me to watch for the people He would be sending.

What a concept!

Knowing that God had already compiled a guest list filled me with anticipation—a sense of discovery. From that point on I’ve looked deeply into each face I meet. Could this be one of the guests God invited into my life? Little by little, I’ve been filling in those spaces on that list. And you know what? I have yet to be disappointed with God’s guest list for my life.

This list has become one of the most important lists in my life. I call it God’s guest list. Though I arbitrarily started with thirty blanks, a finite number unnecessarily limits this list. God’s guest list for my life is meant to be lived out as an open invitation, welcoming those whom God sends our way.

I know that God is sovereign. He sends every person we meet into our lives, but I’m talking about a list of special guests—the ones who have changed us, or who will change us, in some significant way. They don’t necessarily have to be our closest friends. Sometimes you’ll read something by someone that affects you deeply. You may never even meet that person, but you discover that God sent him or her into your life.

One of my friends has been deeply affected by the writings of C. S. Lewis. He died when she was only a child, but the things she learned from Lewis have forever changed her. If she were making her list, Lewis would certainly be on it even though she will never meet him this side of heaven.

Recognizing those who will influence us is no easy task. Sometimes we meet someone and are immediately drawn to that person, confident that he or she may very well be an important part of our life. We might even seek someone out. And at times we may even feel like our life has been invaded by someone we’d rather have avoided, only to discover that God sent that person, wrote that person on our list, for His own surprising purposes.

LIVING WITH OUR EYES WIDE OPEN

Filling out our lists will take a lifetime. It’s not something that can be ticked off a task list in an afternoon. But if we commit to discovering God’s guest list for our lives, we will move through life with our eyes wide open. Here’s a promise from the Lord: “Therefore I am sending you prophets and wise men and teachers” (Matthew 23:34). It’s up to us to recognize them. When we start searching, we’ll begin to look deeply into every person we meet to see if we can find God’s fingerprints on that person. We don’t want to send a single gift back unopened.

I’ve begun to practice this with people I meet as well. Whether at the grocery store, in my family, among friends, at church, in my industry, or in the line at a book signing, when I’m on the lookout for those who may be on God’s guest list, I’ve come to appreciate people in a whole new way. Even those who are just passing through become reminders of God’s gifts to me. That sense of anticipation and awareness heightens the fun of meeting people.

As writer Ashleigh Brilliant quips, “My life has a superb cast, but I can’t figure out the plot.”1

In the pages of this book, I’ll share what I’ve discovered from my own guest list. As I tell you stories about these people, you’ll see how they’ve changed me. And hopefully you’ll see God’s hand in my life. Be assured, however, this book isn’t about me. I want to tell you these stories so you can see how God works and begin to look for His fingerprints on your own life. It’s a quest that could very well change your outlook and your attitude toward others the way it changed my own.

Each guest that God brings into our lives leaves us with a unique gift. Once I fully understood this truth, I began to intentionally look for and recognize these gifts. To help you compile your own Gift List, look for this Gifts from Our Guests feature throughout the book.

Gifts from Our Guests: The gift of seeing God at work through life’s guests gives us new eyes to see and appreciate God like never before.

THE LIST

Why do we create a physical list? Isn’t it enough to simply look at all people as the potential VIPs of our lives?

It is important because the list itself is part of the discipline. Remember Socrates’ unexamined life? He said such a life is not worth living. If we want to live a fulfilling life, we need to examine it. The key to accomplishing any discipline in life, whether it is setting goals, losing weight, changing behavior, or discovering God’s guest list, is to be intentional, to be aware, and to be able to chart our findings. Discovering God’s guest list is the same. We write it down because it becomes a chronicle of our journey.

You could keep God’s guest list in your daily journal, your prayer journal, or your gratitude journal if you use those. You may want to buy a special journal to log your discoveries and annotate the names you add. Or you could keep your list right here. I’ve given you thirty slots but I hope you fill up all the slots and run out of room for all the people God sends.

The letters RSVP stand for the French expression répondez s’il vous plaît, meaning “please respond.” The purpose of this book is to help us identify and welcome those special people God sends into our lives, but if we believe that God has a hand-picked guest list for our lives, it stands to reason that He’ll have us on the guest lists for others’ lives. Throughout the book, when you see the words RSVP, we’ll be turning the tables and examining our own potential influence in the lives of others.

I’m challenging you, as you begin to discover the guest list for your own life, to also be intentional about your influence in the lives around you.

Wisdom is enshrined in an understanding heart.

—PROVERBS 14:33 (NLT) Read more

One Perfect Word

One

UPON MY WORD

Word (wûrd)

–noun A sound or a combination of sounds, or its representation in writing or printing, that symbolizes and communicates a meaning.1

I am often reminded of the power of words. In my office I have a number of author autographs lining the wall of my stairwell. Mark Twain. Harper Lee. Charles Dickens. Ernest Hemingway. Harriet Beecher Stowe. These writers are my mentors. As a young woman I read and cherished their stories. They remind me of my responsibility as a writer of fiction and most recently in my venture into the world of nonfiction. Indeed there is tremendous power in words.

Pearl S. Buck’s novel The Good Earth actually changed foreign policy between the United States and China. When President Lincoln met Harriet Beecher Stowe, the author of Uncle Tom’s Cabin, he is reported to have said, “So you’re the little woman who caused the great war.”

The definition I’ve given takes one of the most potent elements of communication—the word—and makes it sound almost innocuous. Yes, words have tremendous power. So much meaning can be packed into a word.

In the book Simple Little Words: What You Say Can Change a Life, Dr. Dennis Hensley tells the story of how one perfect word changed a life.

In my capacity as a professor of English at Taylor University Fort Wayne, I teach a survey course in world literature that students of all majors are assigned to take as part of their liberal-arts requirements.

A few years ago, I met Sean, a junior and wrestling-squad member who was majoring in elementary education. Sean had a shaved bullet head, legs like fire hydrants, a back that could put Atlas to shame, and biceps that looked like the drawing on boxes of Arm & Hammer Baking Soda. This guy was tough.

Sean enjoyed sports, and he excelled at weightlifting and track-and-field events such as discus and hammer throwing. However, he wasn’t overly keen on literature. I knew quickly I’d have my work cut out in making him an admirer of Keats, Shakespeare, Dante, and Melville.

I modified Sean’s reading list for that semester to include high-seas adventures by Jack London, mysteries by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and military works by Rudyard Kipling. We met in my office once each week to discuss the books and short stories, and I constantly praised Sean’s ability to recognize symbolism, foreshadowing, flashbacks, and other elements of literary expressions that I had lectured about in class.

As the semester advanced, so did Sean’s grades. He had started as a C student, then rose to the B level. As I showed the class how the applications of literary analysis could help them better appreciate plays and movies, they all became more and more eager to get to class each day. Sean started sitting in the front row, taking copious notes, and I continued to compliment him on his diligence and studiousness.

Then, one day, as I was grading papers, I was delighted to be able to give a perfect A to Sean on one of his quizzes over a new short story I’d had the students read for that week. At the end of the quiz I wrote, “This is superb work, son. I congratulate you. You’ve been working hard, and this is the payoff. Well done!”

I passed the papers back, and I watched as Sean’s face lit up in a grin when he saw the huge red A atop his quiz. However, when he turned the page over and read my personal note to him, his countenance changed entirely. He lowered his face, avoided eye contact with me the entire rest of the class, and left just as soon as the bell rang. I was thoroughly confused by such behavior until two days later.

During office hours, I glanced up to Sean’s hulking frame taking up my entire doorway. “Can I come in for a moment, Dr. Hensley?” he asked me. I motioned him toward a chair, and he closed the door behind him. I could see that he had his quiz in his hand.

“Sir,” he began, but then stopped. He lowered his head, and suddenly I realized that this giant of a man was actually weeping. I was stunned. I gave him a moment to collect himself. “Sir, you don’t know my background.”

I said nothing as Sean fished a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his eyes.

“My dad left my mom and me when I was only seven,” Sean said in a low voice. “I somehow felt it was my fault that he left. I got it into my head that if I could just be a better son, my dad would come back and live with us again. We’d all be happy then.”

He paused, then added, “So, I played every sport at my schools and all the summer sports I could sign up for. I thought that if I could just hit enough home runs or score enough touchdowns or shoot enough baskets, my dad would be proud of me and would come back.”

“Did it work?” I asked gently.

Sean shook his head. “My dad only showed up at three of my games during ten years that I was involved in sports. It was no big deal to him. I tried my best to impress him, but I always felt that I’d failed. I haven’t heard from my dad for the past two years, and I probably never will. I thought I had gotten past caring, until . . .”

I leaned forward a little.

“Until what, Sean?”

“Until I got my quiz back from you day before yesterday,” he said, looking directly at me. “You praised me . . . and you called me son. You might have meant it just as a passing catchphrase from an older man to a younger fellow, but it hit me like a freight train. I realized at that moment, that all my life I’ve wanted to have a man whom I looked up to, to tell me he was proud of me and to call me son. You have no idea what this note on this paper means to me. I plan to keep this for the rest of my life.”

Sean wiped another sudden rush of tears from his eyes.

“I came here to tell you something, Dr. Hensley. I want you to know that I’m going to conduct my life from here on out—in everything I do—so that you will always be proud enough to call me son. I won’t ever let you down. I promise you that. You’ve given me something that I’ve been yearning for my entire life, and I want to protect it.”

He rose, and so did I. I shook his hand and gave him a manly hug, concluding with a slap on the shoulder. “You’re a fine man, Sean,” I assured him. “I have no doubt you’ll make me proud of you in whatever you do in life.”

A year later, Sean graduated with his degree in elementary education. He passed the licensing examination for Indiana and took a job in one of the worst elementary schools in inner-city Indianapolis. Most of the students there were from single-parent families, and all were desperately poor. Sean became a surrogate father to many of them. He would take his old van into the projects and ghettos and pick up dozens of children and take them to sporting events, Saturday movies, or vacation Bible school. He called the boys “son” and the girls “daughter,” and they loved it.

In calling Sean “son,” I not only changed his life, I gave him a focus on the ministry he wanted for his lifetime calling. He’s now changing the lives of hundreds of other fatherless children.

Yes, indeed, one word of encouragement can change the world.*

BREAKING IT DOWN
That’s power. One perfect word. Yet in this information age words swirl around us every day. Tens of thousands of words— maybe a hundred thousand words on a crazy, busy day. We read newspapers, we check out blogs, we may follow Facebook and even Twitter. We respond to e-mail and we listen to real people talking …and talking…and talking. We drive with the radio on. We try to squeeze in time to read books and magazines. We may turn on the television at night. Words come at us incessantly.

But God says in Ecclesiastes 6:11, “The more the words, the less the meaning, and how does that profit anyone?”

Hmmm. Maybe we need to go on a word diet. My children loved Dr. Seuss’s books, especially Green Eggs and Ham. Did you know that book grew out of a challenge? After Theodor Seuss Geisel, better known as Dr. Seuss, had written several books, his editor Bennett Cerf challenged him to write a story using no more than fifty different words. Green Eggs and Ham was the result. What a delightfully madcap story to be penned out of a strict word budget.2

So, what if, instead of tens of thousands of words every day, we meditated on just one book for a lifetime? That narrows it down. My NIV Bible weighs in at 727,969 words, according to the New International Version Exhaustive Concordance. Each year has a little more than 525,900 minutes in it. If we live to be eighty years old, that’s about 42,000,000 minutes. If you subtract time for working, sleeping, and play, that still leaves a few million minutes. Meditating on one book is definitely doable in a lifetime, right?

But what if we focused on only one passage? I started memorizing Scripture years ago when I first moved to Port Orchard, Washington. Those were some troubling times for me. I didn’t recognize it at the time, but I was going through a deep spiritual battle. In retrospect I look back on that battle and see it as a major milestone in my spiritual life because it was then I started memorizing the Bible. One verse at a time, I made God’s Word a living, breathing part of who I am. I can’t even imagine who I’d be today if I had not taken that step.

In 1999, I memorized the third chapter of Ephesians. In my prayer journal toward the end of that year I wrote,

Help me to know You more and more. Plant Your words in my heart so that all I need do is recall a verse and instantly feel its power, instantly feel the immeasurable sense of Your love engulf me. This year has been an incredible experience. Each day as I recite the passage I’m touched again by the sheer wonder and depth of emotion I feel in Paul’s prayer.

I closed my written prayer with a request: “May my own words touch lives for You.” That one book, the Bible, has changed my life.

But forget whole passages for now. Let’s break it down even further. What if I had one word—just one word—to meditate on for a whole day? How rich would that day be? Being a word person, I can’t think of anything quite as fun as to luxuriate in one single word for the whole day, turning it around and looking at it from every angle.

And it doesn’t have to be a complicated word. In his book Orthodoxy, G. K. Chesterton says, “Long words go rattling by us like long railway trains. We know they are carrying thousands who are too tired or too indolent to walk and think for themselves. It is good exercise to try for once in a way to express any opinion one holds in words of one syllable.”3

God continues to tell us, “Be still . . .” In this barrage of wordiness, what does stillness look like? Maybe it means we take it one step farther and explore just one word for a whole year.
NE PERFECT WORD
For almost twenty years I’ve been meeting with a group of women entrepreneurs for breakfast once a week. Many years back, my breakfast-club ladies and I decided to do just that: every January we’ve each selected a word to serve as a personal focus for the year. Over time the words I’ve chosen have had a powerful impact on my life.

But the title of this book is One Perfect Word. Perfect. Talk about pressure. If I was the one doing the word choice for each year I’d never be so bold as to call that choice perfect. The surprising thing is that when we decide we want to focus on one word for the year, God takes part in the choosing. That’s why the word is perfect for us. We may not see it at the time, but as we look back we see that it all worked together—our word, our life, our journey.

When I find my word and begin to explore it, God takes me deep into that one word. Because I’ve kept journals nearly my entire life, I have been able to look back at them in the light of my word of the year and see how my life experiences dovetailed with my exploration of that year’s word. Preparing to write this book has been an eye-opening journey.

In John 15:7, the Lord says, “If you remain in me and my words remain in you, ask whatever you wish, and it will be done for you.” That could be the story of my life. As I’ve tried to remain in Him and tuck His words deep in my soul, I’ve asked, I’ve imagined, and I’ve dreamed. The second part of that verse says, “Ask whatever you wish, and it will be done for you.” I have to confess, God’s blessed me far beyond that for which I have asked. Why should that be such a big surprise? That verse carries a promise. And God always keeps His promises.

When we choose one single word from His Word and spend a year with it, I’ve found that the Lord takes us by the hand and walks us through the year, teaching us about that word, about ourselves, and even more, about God Himself.

There are two things I hope to accomplish in the pages of this book. First, I want to encourage you to begin the practice of focusing on one perfect word each year. We’ll talk about how to find the word, how to explore it, and how to recognize the life lessons that grow out of that exploration.

Second, I’ve chosen fourteen of my own words of the year to share with you. By telling stories that illustrate each particular word—some from my life and some from others’ lives—and showing some of what I’ve learned about the word, I’m hoping you’ll see God’s fingerprints all over the exercise.

Sometimes my entries in my prayer journal over the years—my written prayers—express my one perfect word in the moment of discovery. In that case, you’ll see the prayer set alongside the text.

Once in a while, I’ll have a practical tip as to how to make a word come alive in a different medium. Some of us are more visual or tactile. I will share hints I’ve gleaned on making the word of the year tangible. You’ll find those tips labeled “Wordplay” and set apart in a box.
CHOOSING THE WORD
In preparing for the start of a new year, I always go over my goals for the previous year, doing an intensive postmortem, so to speak. Which goals did I reach? Which did I exceed? Which do I need to rethink or restrategize? I usually read over my journals to get an overview of the year past. Often my word becomes clear during this time of introspection.

Sometimes, though, I don’t get the word until a couple of weeks into the new year.

I’m not one for New Year’s resolutions because they usually don’t lend themselves to developing the strategy needed to carry them out. I am a goal-oriented person. I set goals and then go about devising ways to reach my yearly objectives.

Your word for the year is different from goals and resolutions. You don’t necessarily choose a goal word like, say, advancement. The word is likely to be a complex concept that you will use throughout the year to explore a new aspect of your relationship with God and others. It needs to be something you will be happy to chew on for fifty-two weeks.
LISTENING FOR THE WORD
My friend, fellow writer, and plotting partner Rachel Hauck also chooses a word each year. Sometimes it takes a good bit of prayer for her to discover her word. This year, however, the word chose her. She told me,

Throughout fall, the word and emotion of joy has been prevalent in my life. I had these waves of joy on Thanksgiving and the day before. The holiday saying on the McDonald’s cup was “Joy.” My November book release was Dining with Joy. A worship CD came out about the same time entitled Joy. I went to visit friends in Nashville in December. Our hostess friend gave me an ornament with the word Joy stenciled on it. Earlier in the year, I gained a greater understanding of “the joy of the Lord is your strength” (Nehemiah 8:10). God’s joy is my strength. He gives me His joy so I can be strong. A few weeks after that a friend gave me a mug that read, “The Joy of the Lord is my strength.” She had no idea that had been a key verse for me in the spring. Second, Peter 1 talks about how we can actually partake of God’s divine nature. So that’s my focus this New Year, to partake of His divine nature in the realm of joy!

Needless to say, Rachel had her word. And she didn’t even have to listen that hard.

By just picking one word, we start out with a simple “I can do that,” and we end up with richness far beyond anything we’ve ever imagined. So come along with me and let’s explore one perfect word together.

From My Prayer Journal

Dearest Lord, my prayer is that I might walk the walk with You in all things. May every area of my life be open and exposed to Your light. Every crevice illuminated by Your love. I want to hide nothing. To leave nothing concealed so that those who look at me might see a reflection of You and Your love. Amen. Read more

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