The God Summit

Posted on May 27, 2024 by Verla Wallace

My husband and I have what we call a Marriage Summit every Monday at 2pm. We’re empty nesters now and most of the work we do—paid or volunteer—we do at home. It’s not as if we don’t see or talk to each other during the day. But, much to our surprise, even as empty nesters, our calendars are full and often take us in opposite directions. Our interactions are quick snippets of conversation off and on all day.

    • “I forgot about my dental appointment. Can you pick up the dog from the groomer? 
    • “Did you remember to buy a card for Brennan’s birthday?”
    • “The rose bush by the garage looks like it has mites? Do we still have that bug spray for roses?”
    • “Can we have leftovers for dinner? I need to work on that proposal that’s due          tomorrow.”

We realized if weren’t careful, pretty soon we would feel more like roommates than partners. We needed a protected time just to talk about us. 

Yes, we do handle some business during that time. We compare calendars. And once a month we go over the budget, to make sure we’re on track. But the main agenda for the Monday summit is our relationship. It’s an intentional “checking in,” beyond the dozens of casual interactions we have each day.

We ask each other things like:

    • How’s your heart? 
    • Where are you struggling? Where have you given up hope?
    • Do you feel heard?
    • Are there any unfinished discussions or issues we need to address?
    • Do you see any blind spots in me?
    • What do I do that annoys you?
    • What would you like me to know that you’re not sure I want to hear?
    • Where are the places in our relationship that you think need some attention? 
    • When and why is it hard to say, “I’m sorry?”      

The cell phone, radio, and TV are not on. And, unless an ambulance pulls into our driveway, no interruptions are allowed. Even Toby, our precocious fur baby, knows this is not the time to fetch a toy. Empathetic hovering is allowed, but even he seems to know serious business is taking place.

I’ve learned to love these times, even though they can be occasionally tedious and even hard. But sometimes I also learn things I never knew about my husband of 20+ years! There’s a tenderness that’s rekindled when it’s just you and your mate, intentionally making each other a priority like you did when you first met. In a way, it’s like a “quiet time” for our marriage.

You’ll hear Christians describe their “quiet time” with God. There’s nothing magical about it. It’s simply a commitment to designate a regular time, usually daily, that’s like an appointment with God. A time to focus on our relationship with him. It allows him to speak through his Word or through worship music, journaling, or maybe a strong prompting in our spirit that’s more intimate than what you might hear in a sermon or read in a book.

A  regular time with God is similar in many ways to our Marriage Summit, because God cares about:

    •  How’s your heart?
    •  Where are you struggling?
    •  Where have you given up hope?
    •  Do you feel heard?
    •  Are there any unfinished discussions or issues we need to address?
    •  Do you want to hear what I love about you? May I talk to you about a blind spot? 
    •  What would you like me to know that you’re afraid to tell me?
    •  Why is it hard to say, “I’m sorry?” I am quick to forgive.

God went to extraordinary lengths to demonstrate his desire for a relationship with him. So, it’s puzzling why we typically find it hard to carve out regular time for him. Instinctively we understand that you don’t fall in love with someone you don’t know. We make time for what matters to us. So, what’s the problem? 

Maybe it’s because…

    • We see him only as a rescue plan. We don’t turn to him until we need a Get Out of Jail Free card.
    • There’s no margin in our calendars; we’re tired and distracted.
    • Our affection has cooled. We don’t want the same things we suspect God wants. He may not be on board with our priorities and we’re definitely not on board with his.
    • We’ve drifted apart. Or, to be more accurate, the drift is ours, not his.
    • We’re embarrassed because we know we’ve got junk we need to deal with and we’re not ready.

The excuses sound like lines heard in marriage therapy, where a therapist might respond:

    • You need to decide whether you want this relationship to work.
    • Be honest about where you’re hurting.
    • Ask for what you need.
    • Own your part of whatever in the relationship isn’t working. Admit you screwed up.
    • Forgive where you’ve made judgments that are not correct.
    • Commit to change; be intentional.
    • Ask for help.
    • Remind yourself why you fell in love with that person in the first place.

The good news is that God has wanted to meet with you for a long time. He can’t wait. He’s a good listener. Nothing shocks him. He has limitless compassion and is quick to forgive. He wants the relationship to work more than you do. And the Holy Spirit is in the room to help, when you can’t find the words you want to say. 

If your relationship with God feels cold or stale or even on life support, maybe it’s time for a God Summit. He’s ready. His calendar is wide open.

Then do it again…and again. Make it a habit.  One day you’ll wake up and realize you wouldn’t miss it for the world. 

 

Posted in Christian Living, Life Purpose, Spiritual Growth, Uncategorized | Tagged , , | 4 Comments

“Comments? Anyone? Anyone?”

Posted on March 16, 2024 by Verla Wallace

When President Biden recently delivered his annual State of the Union address, the whole world was watching in real time, and analysis of his every word began before the speech was even over.

Big city newspapers and the 10 o’clock network news used to be our go-to sources for commentary and analysis after such events, but it often came hours after the fact. Now, anyone can have their say, instantly, due in large part to the estimated 600 million blogs that exist in the world. https://webtribunal.net/blog/how-many-blogs)

Your hairdresser, your cousin Vinny, some guy in his pajamas who created a “newspaper” in his basement, and a social media influencer in Thailand, can all weigh in and what they write doesn’t even have to be true. 

Currently, one in three websites in the world is a blog and there are an estimated 6 million new blog posts every day. That’s a lot of talking.

Sadly, more is not necessarily better. We’re not just getting more news and information. We’re getting a lot more verbal noise. Sometimes undifferentiated and dangerous noise. 

This whole instant communication thing began innocently enough 30 years ago when a guy named Justin Hall decided to put his thoughts about life on the World Wide Web, as the Internet was called back then.  He called it a “weblog.” Then one day, to give his journal a little more pizzazz, he rearranged the letters to say “we blog” (get it?),  and “blogging” was unleashed into the lexicon.

This blog began 11 years ago out of a desire to write about life (mine and others) and what it looks like when you factor in God. Honest conversations at street level. A bit like Justin Hall’s original intention, although his blog didn’t include the God part. 

I don’t pretend these posts are Pulitzer material. I consider myself simply a “pilgrim on the loose” in the world, sharing stories, keeping it real, reminding us we need each other and it would be nice if we treated each other better, too. And definitely to give God a seat at the table.

Since this blog has been quiet for a while (even though a robust archive of previous posts is still available here), I thought my absence deserved an explanation.

Frankly, I stopped writing because the din of all the words of those 600 million blogs—many hateful and divisive—left me wondering if meaningful personal connection was even possible anymore in a blog. (https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/articles/201803/cure-disconnection). Ok, so words on a page don’t actually make a sound, but the effect is the same. Overload.

    • I don’t do this because I have nothing better to do. The smartphone in the palm of our hands offers endless entertainment 24/7 for both of us, without the need to think deeply about anything.
    • I’m not selling miracle face creams, probiotics, or exercise programs that promise the flat stomach you’ve always yearned for.
    • I’m not trying to rack up thousands of “likes.”
    • I don’t offer a trendy TikTok-style dance routine or an outlandish political conspiracy theory to liven your cocktail-hour conversations.

This blog is more of a quiet space. A place to pause, catch your breath, and give your heart and mind some “moving-around room” to think about life and what you want it to look like.

Elizabeth O’Conner in Letters to Scattered Pilgrims, her classic book written decades before the Internet came on the scene, said if we stopped and thought about what matters to us, most of us want deeper, more authentic connection with others. And if we feel disconnected, lonely, or unhappy, it may be because we don’t know each other’s stories.

Connection takes people willing to “turn their chairs” and “see” each other and listen and feel and care. It’s called community. It’s what we were made for–community with each other and with God.

Mr. Rogers used to tell children if they were lonely or afraid, they should “look for the helpers” (teachers, police, grandparents, etc.). Similarly, Elizabeth O’Conner says if we feel disconnected, we need to look for people who are authentic and willing to share their stories and who will listen to yours. Community makes a difference if you feel alone, afraid, or confused about what to do.

I realize that’s what this blog has always been about. Human stories, reflections, snapshots of real life, a bit of wisdom to chew on and maybe act on. Words sent into the world to tip the scales back in favor of hope. Connection. 

So, our front door is officially open again. Drop by anytime. 

Posted in Christian Living, Our speech, Personal Growth, Surviving in an Unkind World, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , | 3 Comments

The Gift of Staring at Your Shoes

Posted on June 19, 2019 by Verla Wallace

imagePulitzer Prize-winning American novelist Cormac McCarthy once said that insights about life spring from the subconscious and require a lot of staring at your shoes.

I don’t think he literally meant we must stare stupidly at our shoes, waiting for something magical to happen. I suspect it was his way of saying we need to stop and give our minds some breathing room and often answers will come. Our hearts, minds, and souls are capable of amazing things, given the chance to get a word in edgewise.

The world has become such an angry, inhospitable place, the idea of stepping back from the fray to reflect feels culturally unacceptable. We’re expected to respond now and do it brilliantly. But we’re not machines. Our minds don’t do their best work at the speed of the technology that surrounds us.

So what happens? With no emotional bandwidth or margin, our culture’s go-to response—whether to personal issues or to grander political or social justice issues–is a knee-jerk “take cover and reload,” mentality, where we fling ourselves back into the cultural fray and he who shouts the loudest wins.

How’s that working?

Maybe we should spend more time staring at our shoes.

I took a nasty fall about 10 days ago. It has forced me to set aside my carefully-planned agenda and spend a lot of time taking Cormac McCarthy’s advice. I was surprised at some of the insights that bubbled up:

Action does not always produce more results than standing still.

Sometimes more is just more, not better. Know when to stop.

There’s enough time to do everything God wants me to do. If I don’t feel I have enough time, maybe I’m doing things I’m not supposed to be doing.

Our “place” in this world is by God’s side in all matters. All other locations are immaterial.

Waiting is not the same as trust. Rest is not the same as laziness.

Purpose is about putting things in their rightful place, knowing what’s important and not important, and letting go of what’s not your job.

Faith is acting like God is telling the truth. It means cutting off all escape routes.

Sometimes fear gets in our blood and only God can change us.

Motivation changes a person’s actions. Inspiration changes the way they think. Most people don’t change their actions until they change their mind. It takes time thinking to change your mind.

Hanging out with God is like being on oxygen. You don’t feel so panicky because you realize you can take long, deep breaths and there’s more where that came from.

If something is of no interest to God, maybe it should not be of high value to us.

Don’t obsess about being unable to “do it all” and disappointing people. You will. Get over it.

You may be thinking, “So what does do all these pithy words of wisdom do to solve the immigration crisis or the partisan politics in Washington?”

Nothing. At least not yet. But the insights are changing my heart and that’s a good place to start changing the world. If we all changed our behavior to reflect even a few of these insights and other insights you may have, it might change the environment in which we marinate each day. Then, drip by drip, other things might change, too.

When you think about it, pausing sounds so lame in a world that measures things by speed and output. How can you tell if there’s an adequate “return on investment” for the time spent staring at your shoes? World leaders apparently need no convincing. When Tony Blair was Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, he reportedly often took time to sit by a pond and think. Warren Buffet schedules time every day to sit by a window and reflect.

For me, my unexpected downtime made me realize how my heart and soul have become tainted with the despair and hopelessness of the parade of horribles that dance daily across our screens. But staring at my shoes gave me breathing room to recalibrate my heart to the eternal values I claim to espouse. It gives peace and hope room to grow. It makes it safe for new solutions to emerge.

So when I hear someone say how the world would be a better place if those people out there would just shape up, I wonder what would happen if we shaped up first. Let’s start there.

Make a commitment to spend more time staring at your shoes. God might change your perspective in unexpected ways and deploy you in a whole new direction–one with fresh ideas and solutions that will benefit all of us.

Posted in discernment, Personal Growth, Surviving in an Unkind World, Uncategorized | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

A Suggestion For Your Reading List

Posted on April 12, 2019 by Verla Wallace

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Time out for a personal note:

I’m excited to announce the publication of my new book, available now on Amazon.

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It’s the story of a 40-day unconventional road trip taken 25 years ago. Call it a mid-life re-evaluation, a mid-life crisis, an exciting journey full of unexpected twists and turns, or all of the above. Here’s a bit of backstory, to set the stage for you:

When mid-level executive Verla Wallace experienced a physical breakdown on the eve of her employers’ billion-dollar merger, her doctor warned she could face an early death if she didn’t quit her job. She quit but realized her job was not the only problem. Her whole life needed re-examination.

Her husband suggested an unorthodox strategy: Hit the road with no cell phone, laptop, GPS, or itinerary. Ask ordinary people about their lives. Listen. Wrestle with yourself and God about all those unanswered questions. Come back when you figure it out.

Wallace’s journey of self-discovery is filled with humor and drama, heartache and breakthrough. Meet Duck Man, a washed-up machinist with a brain tumor who found a new purpose for his life in the unlikeliest of places. Meet the mysterious hiker, fresh off walking The Appalachian Trail, who forces Wallace to acknowledge her own calling. Whether it involved getting lost at night in a mountain canyon or attending an elegant Hilton Head wedding, Wallace’s life-changing adventure delivers a wealth of wit and wisdom with an ending no one expected.

Come along for the ride and gain a fresh take on your own life without ever leaving home. 

It’s an entertaining read with plenty of life takeaway, too, and it’s for men and women of any age. I’m happy to report that early feedback has been wonderful! I hope you’ll check it out.  Let me know how you like it.

Posted in Adventure, Christian Living, Mid-life Evaluation, Personal Growth, Spiritual Growth, Uncategorized | Tagged , | Leave a comment

The Unexpected Lesson of Irma

Posted on September 27, 2017 by Verla Wallace

No one has on their bucket list: “To Go Through a Hurricane.” Even an adventurous teenager who has bungee-jumped off a bridge, dived from an airplane, and mastered Escape Rooms, ever says, “Aww, gee, Ma, why can’t we do a Category 5 hurricane! It’ll be fun!”

No, son, it won’t.

Living in southwest Florida, you know hurricanes are in the DNA. But none had struck our area for 12 years and our home was built to the newer rigorous building codes passed after Hurricanes Wilma struck in 2005 (a Category 5 storm) and Charley in 2004 (a Category 4 storm).

Nevertheless, we dutifully stocked the obligatory hurricane kit with non-perishable food, water, and other supplies like a battery-operated weather radio. We carefully inventoried the bulky corrugated hurricane shutters that came with our home, hoping they would never need to be installed on every window and door. We had insurance. We registered at a local shelter that takes dogs, in the event there was a mandatory evacuation.

Like most Americans who have never had to live on the run or flee with only what they could cram into a car, we felt we could handle whatever came our way. Isn’t that the American Way? “I can handle it.”

But then came the weather forecasts that changed several times a day, depending on the European forecast models vs. the conflicting American models which said Hurricane Irma was first going to one side of the state, then the other, then both sides, then right down the middle of the state, then the whole state. The. Whole. State.

We also watched Irma waffle between a Category 4 or 5, as if it really matters once winds go above 100 mph. The forecast storm surge added to the anxiety. Predictions went from a meek 2-3 feet to 15 feet–enough to swamp a house in its path. CNN made sure we all understood the danger, as meteorologists endlessly replayed a virtual video of how fast a 15-foot surge would swallow up a house.

Repeatedly, I reminded my heart of God’s promises in perilous times: not that he would rescue us from every danger, but that he would go through it with us, show us his presence, and teach us more deeply about what it means to trust when we cannot see or understand. It helped. It helped even more when we saw actual signs of his intervention.

Like when we booked what Expedia said was the last motel room in Florida, Georgia, or Alabama (after we belatedly decided it was too risky to ride out the storm and needed to evacuate along with six million other Floridians). In our haste, we forgot to tell the booking agent we had a small dog with us. When we arrived at the motel and announced we had a dog, the clerk said they did not have a pet-friendly policy and, in fact, they had a long waiting list of people without dogs who wanted our room. “But,” the clerk said matter-of-factly, “let’s just consider your dog an emotional support dog.” Oh, yes. Let’s.

Or when we drove through tropical storm force winds and flash flooding as the storm moved north into Georgia, while we tried to travel south to get home. We arrived at another last-ditch tacky motel in a nondescript little town, only to learn the entire town had lost power in the storm’s aftermath, except for one Waffle House restaurant where we grabbed a much-needed meal. Then, when we returned to our motel, limited power returned, just in our motel.

Still, the anxiety, exhaustion, uncertainty, traffic, long gas lines, and constantly changing information took its toll. One night, sitting in another crummy motel room where nothing worked, I realized how much I missed my home.

Home. That place you can withdraw to and regroup when life has beaten you up. That place where those you love welcome you, no matter what. Where there is always water…and ice…and a warm bed…and electricity…and air conditioning… and a toilet that flushes. Where every picture on the wall has a story behind it. Where our puppy has a favorite hiding place for his toys and I have a special chair where I can quietly read while enjoying a view of the woods and birds singing exotic melodies.

In that moment I realized home was also a place that could be taken away in an instant. Just ask the people in Puerto Rico and the Caribbean.

I wondered if Jesus once had similar feelings after leaving his home to come to Earth. He didn’t give up air-conditioning and his favorite pillow for a couple of weeks. He left paradise for 33 years and gave up the privileges of deity to grow up in a hick town as the son of a carpenter. Then he suffered unrelenting abuse and misunderstanding, before ultimately dying naked and humiliated on an ugly cross–a selfless act that paid my sin debt and made a way for all of us to go home–to his home–someday, to a place that could never be taken away from us…ever.

Of all the times I’ve heard the story of Jesus leaving heaven to carry out an audacious mission–to provide redemption to those of us who thought we didn’t need God and then lived to regret our arrogance–I only focused on his assignment. A tough job. Send Jesus. Of course, send Jesus. That’s his job. To be a Savior.

But this time, I realized Jesus also left his home–his beautiful, perfect home–not to save himself, but to save me. You don’t do that because it’s your job. You do it for love.

As I write this, I am sitting once again in my favorite chair, staring into the woods with exotic birds singing their hearts out. And Jesus is back home, too, in that beautiful place he promised he was preparing for us, a place we won’t ever have to leave again.

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Posted in Disaster, Fear, Perseverance, Personal safety | Tagged , , , | 6 Comments

The Death of Discernment

Posted on February 22, 2017 by Verla Wallace

thumb_img_9860_1024I connected this week with my 22-year old niece who is in Italy on a personal 500-mile pilgrimage on the Camino de Santiago. There are many routes a pilgrim can choose to complete this spiritual journey. She spent time in Rome before launching her walk in Pied de Port, France, crossed the Pyrenees, and will eventually end up in Santiago de Compostela on the west coast of Spain.

She told me she’s taking the trip to get off alone–where she knows no one and only has to take care of herself–to realign her priorities to God’s and to recognize more clearly his voice and leadings for her life, vs. the voices and pulls of everything and everyone in our culture who demand her obedience.

In other words, she’s working hard to develop discernment.

The dictionary defines discernment as the ability to judge well. The Bible talks about spiritual discernment–an even more specific process of perceiving God’s desire or direction in a certain circumstance. Sadly, both kinds of discernment appear to be in short supply these days in our country–inside and outside the family of faith. Just take a look at the headlines.

I’ve been a news junkie my entire life and a professional journalist for half my adult life. I’ve lived through dozens of events that required mature discernment to fully understand. But history shows the default human response to those events was, typically, outrage on all sides, not discernment. (Sound familiar?)

Civil rights marches, the assassinations of Pres. John F. Kennedy and Martin Luther King, the Viet Nam war, Watergate, the AIDS crisis, recessions (including the one that rivaled the Great Depression), 9/11, and protracted wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Repeatedly in history we have been called upon to think deeply about what’s happening. Often, the natural human response has been to rant, take a position, and never budge. And our nation has the scars to prove it.

Even as a young child, I remember asking an aunt what the McCarthy Hearings were all about, because the adults around me were so up in arms about it. The specifics of that sad bit of American history are largely unknown to today’s generation. But “McCarthyism” remains in our lexicon as shorthand for the practice of making unfair allegations in order to restrict dissent or political criticism. I didn’t know what to call it then, but it was an experience where discernment was called for by adults but was not present.

Today, discernment is needed more than ever. “Fake news” is the newest addition to our lexicon, even though its original meaning has faded. Ask any three people if they know where the term “fake news” got its name. I did. No one knew it involved 14-year-old boys in Macedonia who figured out the Internet was hungry for content and that many sites  would buy their sensational but fake stories because these upstart outlets had no rigid protocols for fact-checking. The sites just wanted to draw traffic. The sensational “fake” stories went viral on social media and raced around the world before someone figured out what was happening.

The boys spawned a whole cottage industry, because they recognized that readers had become lazy when it came to the truth. People weren’t reading the newspapers that had long histories of Pulitzer prizes for reporting real stories that required exhaustive research and rigorous fact checking. Readers were getting their news from their hairdresser and Facebook and their crazy Uncle who hated anyone with a college education. They had abandoned discernment and critical thinking in favor of the next delicious sound bite. Truth be damned.

In only a matter of months, that original definition of “fake news” (complete fabrication) has morphed into something totally different. Now, the President of the United States has appropriated the term to mean any unfavorable news coverage that challenges (and often proves false) what he says. Fifteen times this month the President talked about the “fake news media,” (implying that what they report is a complete fabrication), calling the media “the enemy of the American people.” It turns the original definition of fake news on its head.

Prof. George Lakoff, a linguist at the Univ. of California, has studied this “fake news” phenomena in exhaustive detail and finds the President’s use of “fake news” troubling. “Calling real news fake,” Layoff says, “is an attempt to hide the truth and undermine the function of the truth in a democracy.”

The Bible has a stronger word for it: It’s lying  And lying, for any reason–especially if spoken by someone who claims to follow God–never wins God’s vote, In fact, Proverbs 6:16-19 calls lying one of the Seven Deadly Sins:

“There are six things the Lord hates, seven that are detestable to him: haughty eyes, a lying tongue, hands that shed innocent blood, a heart that devises wicked schemes, feet that are quick to rush into evil, a false witness who pours out lies, and a man who stirs up dissension among brothers.”

This has nothing to do with whether you’re a conservative or liberal, a Republican or Democrat. It’s about developing  the discernment to recognize what’s true. It’s about learning what aligns with God’s definition of truth, not what a politician or your Facebook friends or your hairdresser insist are true.

It means we must take personal responsibility for developing discernment and learn how to become critical thinkers.

The website SkillsYouNeed.com says, “Critical thinkers rigorously question ideas and assumptions, rather than accepting them at face value. They will always seek to determine whether the ideas, arguments and findings represent the entire picture and are open to finding that they do not.”

It means, when you listen or read the news, you ask questions like, “What facts or independent sources support their statements? In what setting did they say this? What was their agenda? Why did they say it now? Is this person trustworthy?  What is the fruit of their words?  Are they accountable? Do their plans bring people together?”

Discernment is not about asking questions like, “Do you agree with my position? Do you agree with my leader/cause/party? Do you agree with the outcome I want to see happen? If not, I can’t trust anything you say.”

The 17th Century philosopher Blaise Pascal said, “People almost invariably arrive at their beliefs not on the basis of proof, but on the basis of what they find attractive.” However, if we are to develop discernment, our loyalties must be based on evidence, not emotions and self-interest. That’s hard. It goes against the grain of our sinful nature.

Bottom line? We must do our homework, develop discernment, and give the Holy Spirit permission to soften our rage, redirect our harsh judgments, and refine our stances that are cemented to political affiliations rather than the things that matter to God. And we must remember that God is not a one-issue God. He has a lot to say about money, the poor, the outcast, those without a voice, the earth he gave us to care for, and how love, honesty, humility, and unity are to undergird everything we do.

It’s hard work. But it’s holy work. Almost as hard as walking 500 miles across the Pyrenees.

Posted in discernment, Fake news, Discernment, Our speech, Politics, social justice | Tagged , , , , | 1 Comment

A Different Kind of Radical

Posted on July 13, 2016 by Verla Wallace

IMG_5844 (2)Mass shootings have topped the news 11 times in the past few weeks, racking up a stunning list of casualties. Cops, gays, African-Americans and people who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. So many, I can’t keep the details straight.

As a former journalist, I spent years keeping the details straight and practicing how to remain calm in the midst of tragic news events. Assemble the what, when, where, how and why of a story. Get it right. Get it fast. Move on. Observe, report, explain. Then do it again.

I remember sitting through six weeks of gruesome testimony during the trial of mass murderer John Wayne Gacy, the contractor and political precinct captain in Chicago who murdered 33 young men and buried most of them in the crawl space under his home. Several times a day I’d slip out of the courtroom, call the newsroom, pull together the latest what, when, where, how and why of the moment, then go back into the courtroom to do it again. Until the day I couldn’t.

I called the newsroom, began to read from my notes…and threw up.

Around that same time, former Chicago Tribune columnist Bob Greene wrote, “How many people have to die before our numbed-out sensibilities find it too much to bear?” That day, for me, 33 people was too many.

I’m still a news junkie. Instinctively, as I’ve watched dizzying events unfold lately on my TV screen, I note the what, when, where, how and why. But it no longer takes 33 deaths to make me want to throw up.

I am sick of trying to make sense of the latest tragedy before I’ve fully processed the last tragedy and before the news cycle has moved on to the next tragedy. Now, thanks to smartphones, horror sometimes even comes to us in real time and then gets replayed again and again, until the images stay in our brain long after the TV is turned off.

Don’t you wish we could declare a moratorium on senseless acts of violence? Don’t you wish we could say, “I’m sorry, the quota for evil has been used up for this month. However, we are taking applications for extravagant acts of kindness and excessive demonstrations of unity and mutual respect. Kindly submit your examples at your earliest opportunity, as our supply of hope is dangerously low and widespread despair is palpable.”

In times of crisis, when blood supplies are low, the call goes out and people line up to donate. And, except for those with medical conditions that prohibit their participation, it’s something we all can do. All human beings have blood. We don’t need a law passed, a politician to agree, or a lobbyist to apply pressure, to make it happen. We decide to act and people’s lives are saved.

Today, as Christians, we need to issue a different rallying cry. Let the call go out: We need  to see more extraordinary examples of grace extended to people who don’t deserve it. We need to flood our relationships with more forgiveness and mercy–the kind of mercy that holds no grudges and holds its tongue.

We need soccer moms and electricians and teachers and realtors and mechanics and geeks and sales clerks and kids on a playground to produce repeated “live shots” of racial harmony and ethnic diversity. We need to mount a massive counter-offensive against evil in the world.

Do you know anyone who’s hungry? Feed them. Know anyone who’s lonely? Don’t make them a project. Take them out for coffee or take them with you to the mall. Know anyone whose faith is different from yours…or any outsiders who aren’t your “type?” Surprise yourself. Strike up a conversation, listen, learn something.

Wherever you are, whoever you are, unleash a full-on assault of goodness in your corner of the world. Inch by inch, day after day. Refuse to cede any more territory to despair, hate and fear.

Will all these baby steps make any difference in the grand scheme of things? Well, the most famous Person who ever lived that way ended up on a cross. But, 2,000 years later, millions of people still follow him. He changed the world.

Maybe if we act more like Jesus, we can change the world, too. That’s why God left us here–to offer an alternative narrative to the world’s madness, before Christ returns to put a stop to it once and for all.

It’s what he’s been waiting for.

Posted in Christian Living, Courage, Living in a Violent World, Surviving in an Unkind World | Tagged , , , | 3 Comments

“Are We Safe Yet?”

Posted on June 20, 2016 by Verla Wallace

IMG_5844 (2)I sat down near the play area in a local mall a couple of days ago, waiting for a friend, and watched as two young boys fooled around on the jungle gym. Their grandmother kept a semi-watchful eye nearby, engrossed in her supermarket tabloid.

“Do you think we’ll die today,” one boy asked his friend.

“Die! I hope not,” the other boy said. “We’re supposed to go out for pizza tonight. That’s stupid! I’m not old enough to die. You have to have wrinkles first and walk funny, like Grandma.”

“Well, that kid died at Disney World. An alligator got him. And then there were all those people who died celebrating a rainbow or something. I didn’t get it. My mom says nowhere’s safe anymore. Maybe we’ll die right here in front of J.C.Penny’s!”

I stared at the boys in stunned silence. I don’t remember my child, at age seven or eight, ever wondering if she would die on a jungle gym in a shopping mall.

Living in America used to imply we were safer than 98% of the rest of the world. That was before  9/11 and mass shootings that are now so numerous we refer to them in a verbal shorthand–Columbine, Ft. Hood, Sandy Hook, San Bernardino, Orlando.

In the late ’80s I traveled with a small ministry team to South Africa to participate in a church-sponsored reconciliation conference. Apartheid had not ended. Nelson Mandela was still in prison. South Africa was a troubled place.

I got sick on the long transatlantic flight, so when we arrived at our modest hotel in the outskirts of Johannesburg, I went to bed, hoping to join the team a few hours later. They urged me to spend the day resting instead. They would pick me up that evening for dinner.

A few hours later, I felt markedly better and decided to walk to the conference location, which was supposed to be a short distance away. It wasn’t. The walk took me through a strange neighborhood of expensive homes with manicured yards and flowering Jacaranda trees. But each home had a brick-walled perimeter and rolled barbed wire across the top of the walls, like you see outside prisons.

Several minutes into my walk, a late-model Mercedes sedan pulled up alongside me and a well-dressed, middle-aged man rolled down the passenger-side window.

“Madam, what are you doing, walking alone along this road? It’s not safe! Are you a visitor?” He flung open the passenger door. “Where are you staying? Get in and I’ll drop you there.”

I laughed to myself. Oh sure…like I’m going to get into a car with a stranger in South Africa. Uh….no.

“Thanks for the offer,” I said politely, “But I don’t get into cars with people I don’t know. I hope you understand.” I smiled and kept walking.

“Oh, dear, you must be an American,” he said in frustration. He reached for his wallet. “Look. Here’s my photo I.D.. Here’s my business card. For God’s sake, please get in the car. I’m trying to help you.” I looked at him and his I.D., prayed a quick prayer, and climbed in. All those years of Stranger Danger training…out the window.

He returned me to my hotel and, as I turned to apologize for misjudging him, he chuckled and said patiently, “Well, in South Africa you learn that safety isn’t a place or a time of day or the way a certain person looks. It’s complicated. And we’re not doing a good job with safety at the moment. Have a nice day.” And off he went.

My long-ago memory was interrupted when the grandmother at the mall called to the two young boys, to say they were going for ice cream.  I sat in the play area, listening to the boring background music punctuated with the smell of caramel corn, and thought, America is a troubled country right now, too.

American is learning South Africa’s lesson–that a place or time of day or particular person cannot make us safe. Guns, people in uniform, and politicians also cannot make us safe.

Maybe “Are we safe?” isn’t the right question anymore. A better question might be, “Are we His?” The world is loud and shouts fear at every turn. Do we have a deep, thriving, intimate relationship with Christ, to siphon off the panic we breathe in every day?

Jesus doesn’t shout louder than the chaos, like a competing bully. Rather, he invites us into the quiet of his presence, away from the panic. He invites us to sit with him until the anxiety subsides. He gives us promises to hold in our hearts, when the world around us makes no sense. Words like:

“Have no fear of sudden disaster or of the ruin that overtakes the wicked, for the Lord will be your confidence.”  (Prov. 3:25)

“He is a shield for all who take refuge in him.” (Psalm 18:30)

“Can a mother forget her nursing child? Can she feel no love for the child she has borne? But even if that were possible, I would not forget you!” (Isaiah 49:15 NLT)

He’s never off duty. He never gives up. He’s not afraid. In the end–regardless of what happens in between–he wins. And he settles all scores justly.

Are you his child? Then you’re safe.

 

 

 

 

 

Posted in Courage, Fear, Personal safety | Tagged , | 2 Comments

The Most Important Feature in My Home

Posted on March 7, 2016 by Verla Wallace

Verla--head onI had lunch today with a good friend who shared her disappointment about losing a house she and her husband tried to buy. The home–priced right, in a good neighborhood–ended up in a bidding war, with multiple buyers offering crazy money to buy it. My friend and her husband lost out. Been there. It breaks your heart.

As she shared all the reasons the house would have been perfect, my mind ticked through the things that I have looked for in a home whenever we’ve moved. Of course, location, location, location. Lots of light, a floor plan that would fit our lifestyle, updated appliances, great kitchen, well-maintained yard.

However, there has always been one thing at the top of my list that doesn’t show up on most people’s list of “must haves.” A tree.

Not just any tree. A healthy, thriving tree, outside a good-sized window in whatever room will be my work space.

Some people need an ergonomic chair, a Keurig coffeemaker, or the perfect lamp to illuminate their work. I need a tree.

Trees have always been symbolic in my life. They tell me life will go on. That it’ll be alright. That whatever I’m facing will pass, but some things will always remain. Those things were here before my problems showed up and they’ll be here after the problems disappear or are replaced by others. They’re here because God put them here as part of his master plan. And I’m here for the same reason. So we’ll both be here until God says otherwise. It’s his story. He gets to decide.

When I turned 50, I took a 40-day trip alone on America’s back roads. Burned out from a corporate job, I took a sabbatical to re-evaluate at midlife.

When traveling through Tennessee, I decided to try to find the house where my family lived outside of Nashville. Unpleasant things happened in that house. I was only five, but I remembered. I guess I wanted to see the place and stare down the memories one last time, to be done with them.

One happy memory of the place was a small tree my dad planted in the front yard. Somewhere in a box of family photos, there’s a picture of me, with my Buster Brown haircut and Mary Jane shoes, watering the small new tree with a sprinkling can. I looked so earnest and the tree looked so small. I wondered if the tree had survived.

I rounded the corner onto Marengo Lane and there it was–a majestic, towering magnolia tree about 30 feet tall, exploding with fragrant blossoms. It was spectacular! I pulled over to the side of the road and just stared. Remarkable. We both had survived.

I thought of all that had happened in my life in the intervening decades and wondered what the tree must have witnessed and lived through in it’s long life.

No doubt there were years of drought, neglect, and rough pruning…but also years when the sun was plentiful and the earth rich, and someone tended to the tree’s needs, so it would thrive and offer its fragrance and beauty to new generations.

Sort of like our own lives. Whether our beginnings were treasured or traumatic, the odds are that in the intervening years, there have been both sunny days and dark ones, dry seasons and times of exhilarating growth, neglect and nurture. And yet we survive.

We survive because we’re all part of God’s story and his story isn’t over yet.

Posted in Christian Living, Perseverance, Suffering, Surviving in an Unkind World | Tagged , , | 2 Comments

The Story Behind “The Forgottens”

Posted on October 11, 2014 by Verla Wallace

Verla--head onI’ve just completed a series of sculptures I call “The Forgottens.” I had never sculpted, despite a lifetime of creative interests. No time or money for it. But a birthday check a year ago sent me to an art center near my home. I signed up for sculpting because the painting classes were filled.

I didn’t realize I was supposed to come to class with a picture of a face I wanted to recreate. I hastily looked through some art books at the Center to pick a face I felt had a story to tell, even if I had to imagine the story.

I’ve always believed there would be a lot more love in the world if we knew each other’s story. Few people are who they seem to be at first glance. If you dig a little deeper, there’s always a more interesting backstory that helps compassion well up. Wisdom can show up, too, and help tame our harsh judgments.

I selected a picture of a middle-aged African woman. Just a picture in a book. No name, no story, but her eyes told me everything. Every day as I worked on her face, her eyes pierced my heart. They seemed to say, “Will you really do me justice? Will others care about my story?”

I named her “Ananda,” a Swahili name which means “worthy to be loved.” I knew the traditional head wrap was important. Though originally imposed by overlords as badge of enslavement, I’m told that today the head wraps are worn as a proud symbol of communal identity, of surviving a terrible history which, sadly, still lives on for women like Ananda.

"Ananda"A little research told me that life today for a woman in the Third World often means hunger, death in childbirth due to lack of access to healthcare, rape in civil wars, genital mutilation, and little opportunity for education. It wrecked me. I wasn’t expecting it.

It was just supposed to be an art project. I felt so lame, trying to tell her story in clay, with clumsy hands that didn’t know how to make eyes or lips or cheekbones. I just knew Ananda deserved to be loved and not forgotten.

And so “The Forgottens” was born as an idea, a way of getting past the heart-crushing statistics that make us turn away, overwhelmed. Her face became a way to simply look into another person’s eyes and feel her pain and maybe dare to ask, “Can I do something about this? What might be possible, if I was willing?”

"Gus"Then came “Gus”–another picture from a book, no name, no backstory until I named him “Gus,” and decided his gaunt face, vacant eyes, and severe demeanor suggested he might be homeless, hardened and bitter. His life wasn’t supposed to turn out like this. He worked hard, had a job and family. That was before his plant closed during the recession, depression drove him to too much alcohol, he lost his family, and didn’t know how to find his way home. I looked into his eyes and asked God to teach me how he must feel to be  homeless.

Again, the available statistics were wrenching. Not enough shelters, homelessness on the increase by 60% in some urban areas, due to lack of affordable housing and other factors. More families living in cars and woods and abandoned buildings. No wonder Gus is angry and depressed. It isn’t fair.

"Emil"Wars in the Middle East and Africa in the last year filled the news with pictures of displaced people. I saw a picture of a teen boy running for his life. He would become “Emil,” one of the more than 50 million refugees in the world now–half of whom are children, often traveling alone or in small packs to ward off the human traffickers who prey on them.

It’s not the childhood any mother wishes on her son. He didn’t choose this battle. It chose him.

As time passed, I kept trying to keep my distance. “It’s just a clay bust,” I told myself. “You don’t need to go postal over this. You’ve got a lot on our plate. Who’s going to see this thing anyway? And care? People have their own problems. Leave it alone.”

I couldn’t.

"Agnes"Finally, there was “Agnes,” whose nameless face appeared in a book on how to draw facial features of an older person. The sketchy picture reminded me of a woman I had just met in the nursing home where my mother briefly lived last spring before her death.

Agnes was probably beautiful in her prime. But now, past 90 and frail, she–like too many her age–was struggling with physical and mobility limitations, living alone and in dire financial circumstances. No, she was not an anomaly. Statistics suggest her age group will quadruple by 2050 and it’s more the norm than generally realized. It could be us someday.

And then the series was done.

“Now, what?,” I thought. Would I walk away and say, “Thanks, God, for sensitizing me about these issues. I needed that. Thanks for helping me bring the project across the finish line and teaching me how much I still need to learn to call myself a real sculptor. Can I go now?”

No, I can’t. The faces won’t let me. They are my family now.

More importantly, they are part of God’s family–the poor, the homeless, the orphaned, the outcasts, the aliens and refugees. He talked about them all the  time in scripture. Remember?  Why have I dismissed all those words so easily, assuming it was mostly his problem–with me throwing in an occasional magnanimous food pantry contribution or nursing home visit? Really? With more than 2,300 scriptures instructing believers how to care about these people, is that enough?

I don’t know what comes next. It was just supposed to be an art project. The busts have been selected to appear in an art exhibition at the Storyteller Creative Arts Conference  in Naples next month. Beyond that, who knows?

Funny, though, how God does that to you. Slips past your rational arguments and defenses, grabs you by the lapels, and says, “I’m not finished with you yet.”

Posted in Compassion, Judging Others, social justice, Suffering | Tagged , , , , | 6 Comments