Gift Giving.

When I was a little girl, I fell in love with giving people presents.

Don't get me wrong, I loved getting presents too. And, I loved saving up my money to buy things for myself. One of my earliest memories is going to Fred's Salvage in Laurel, Mississippi after I had worked a very hard Charlie Brown Sno Cone stand sale in my front yard.

I made three dollars.

All I wanted to buy was scotch tape, cherry chapstick, and garland.

I loved the smell of the first two and was convinced that I needed shiny red and green garland strung all over my room to have a truly magical Christmas. Plus, garland, I rationalized, would attract more customers to my business ventures. And at five years old, I was all about starting my own businesses in my bedroom.

Buying scotch tape, cherry chapstick, and garland is one of my earliest, most cherished memories.

But even more than saving money and buying things for myself, I couldn't wait to pick out the perfect gifts for other people.

I liked giving gifts so much that as I got older my parents would never give me money for my birthday because they knew that as soon as I got birthday money in November, I started Christmas shopping for the month of December! And as much as I wanted things for myself, it was just too alluring to have the money to spend on the perfect gift for someone else. And that's what I did, and still do. I habitually use my birthday money and gift cards to start buying up the perfect present for someone else.

I can't stand it. If I had a million dollars I'd blow it in an afternoon... mostly on other people.

Skye

There's a sixth grade girl who absolutely adores Annie. She babysits her from time to time while I get work done around the house and I hear them squealing and laughing together. It's really sweet.

A few months ago Skye was at a weekend event with us (her father was the speaker) and when we came back after lunch she was beaming. She spent her break buying Annie and I presents. She bought Annie a mirror because, "Annie loves looking at herself more than any baby I've ever played with!" Next door was a funky, cheap jewelry store and she picked out a bracelet for me to wear on stage. One that matched the outfit I was already wearing! She's a fashionista. Her dad was so confused... he was shocked that she wanted to go shopping for us and not for herself.

I found myself telling her, the way an older sister tells their little sis, "Skye, God has given you a tender heart. A lot of times you think about other people before you think about yourself. That's why you love to give gifts. But be prepared: not everyone will give the way you do. And sometimes when you give, you won't get anything back. And sometimes you'll spend a lot of time thinking of the perfect present for someone, and it won't even cross their mind to ever buy you a present. It can hurt your feelings and make you bitter if you're not prepared for it. But you just keep giving anyways. Whether you get something back or not. Keep thinking about other people."

After it spewed out of me, I wondered, where did that come from? Poor girl just bought us presents and I'm lecturing her on the shortcomings of inadequate gift givers. I sounded like a bitter old woman who got coal in her stocking one too many times!

Truth Is

We aren't born with an instinctive nudge to place others ahead of ourselves. In the gift giving world this means that while we might find a million things we love at Target for ourselves, it may not cross our minds to think of someone else while we are shopping. You might be guilty of this if you seem to leave a Christmas shopping trip with more things for yourself than anyone else. You might be guilty of this if you find yourself in the aisle of a department store or browsing online catalogues and seem to be at a complete and utter loss of having any idea what to even get another person (the person is often a close friend or family member at that!). You might be guilty of this if you cringe at having to spend money on someone else besides yourself... like you dread birthdays because- there goes your Galleria money down the drain!

As a mom, I'm excited to teach my daughter how to avoid these pitfalls, and instead, how to become a joyful giver. I believe the reason Skye found so much joy in buying us presents is that she has seen someone in her life exemplify what it means to joyfully think of others. To be excited for someone else. To give, just because.

Oh, if we only learned earlier what it means to cheer for someone else. To want their best. To give them a better present than we get ourselves...

the world would be sweeter

My mom taught us to be good gift givers. She was always excited to give my dad the perfect present. She was always excited to give us each and every birthday gift because she had been looking for them, thinking about them, and buying them for months. The perfect present. You could see her face about to explode she was so excited.

One year I told my mom, "You need to get something else for dad because he got you the most amazing thing in the whole world. It's huge! And I'm afraid you don't have enough for him." I think my sisters told her the same thing. We were very nervous that Dad had "overbought" for her and so she started searching for another gift. And, a few days before Christmas I remember her coming home with another gift. A leather jacket. It cost one hundred dollars, might as well been a million. We assured her that now they would be even.

Dad got mom a full sized body pillow that year.

It was the biggest thing we had ever seen.

This always makes me laugh.

Teaching our Kids to Give their Best!

I've never written a blog like this, and I have to admit, I feel rather old- or out of place- assuming that I have wisdom or advice to pass out to other parents! But I guess I' about to turn thirty, so here goes:

What my mom taught me about gift giving:

1. Listen to those you love and watch what they get excited about in stores or during TV commercials. Keep a mental note. Or an actual note! Go back to the store that day if you can and get the very thing they were mentioning. Keep it for their next big celebration. If you have kids, make a point to say, "Girls, let's remember that daddy really loved that lawn mower and start to save money so we can buy it for him." Teaching our kids to be interested in what their brothers, sisters, or friends like, sets them up for a lifetime of intentionally listening in order to give to others. Setting aside money teaches them that sometimes we give up things for ourselves in order to give someone else a special gift.

2. Start a present closet at the house. When you are at a store with your kids, allow them to pick out a few clearanced items for the gift closet. While you might want to let them get one small item for themselves, the point of the gift closet is to stash away really cool gifts for other people. It teaches them a great lesson to be able to say, "I know you'd love that too, but it will be more special for Julie if we just buy it for her birthday!" The gift closet is about always finding a bargain and having gifts on hand at any given moment, but more importantly, it is about teaching our kids that they can fall in love with fun gifts and be excited about giving those things to their friends instead of having them for themselves.

3. Allow gift giving to be fun. Keep your eyes open for discounted gift bags, ribbon, wrapping paper, etc. Encourage your children to put together the gift themselves. Even if we weren't with mom when she bought things for the gift closet, we always knew what was in there! For me, one of the most fun parts of the process was going into the gift closet and picking out two or three things to put together in a package. Even if it was an odd mix like: snow gloves, lip gloss, and a hello kitty t-shirt, I took great pride in putting together funky gifts and my friends never knew the difference! Giving our children freedom to be creative in the gift-giving process allows them to put their own stamp of approval on the gift and feel like it's truly their own creation.

4. Finally, it's never too late for you to become a great gift-giver. This doesn't mean you spend a lot of money or stress yourself out over finding the perfect gift. There is NOTHING more unattractive about a gift than a giver who tells you her grief over finding the gift, her annoyance, her mall induced headaches, or someone who throws in the occasional, "Well, he better like it. It cost a fortune." Yuck. It's better to give a gift card or a wad of cash than to be in a foul frenzy over buying presents. That's not what I mean!

What I mean is this, as moms and dads- as humans- it's never too late to begin to take joy in other people and what they love. So ask yourself, when is the last time I really listened to my husband and picked up on something he is enjoying and bought him a gift? When is the last time my kids came home from school and I picked up their favorite _______ just because? Go through Target. You don't even have to buy anything, but mentally make the trip about other people and not about yourself! Hard to do, I know!

It's never too late to model what it means to be excited to love on someone else and to show our children how that translates into gift giving ... whether that's a homemade card, a home cooked meal, a fun gift for a friend, or a surprise for dad/mom. Teaching our kids to take joy in bringing joy to others is a priceless gift!

On that note, I thought I'd share my latest purchases for the 'gift closet' that I hope Annie will fall in love with one day. These are ALL from Target and they are all currently 75% off... so go stock up for your gift closet and let the kids do the buying!

Bag of Balls: $5.08

Rake: .75 cents

Lion Bubble Blower: $2.24

I bought one bag of balls for Annie and one for the gift closet. Annie is in LOVE with her $10 ball pit! Summer pools are on sale for $5. Balls are $5. This is the greatest idea I've had in a long time!

The red clearance stickers that I have so grown to love at Target!

Bright Pink Sand Wagon: $2.87.

It comes with a shovel, sand pale, and a few other gadgets. Annie has been pulling it around the house, with her balls in it, all night.

(Another idea: Buy up these blue and pink wagons and use them for your next baby shower gift! Stuff them with baby diapers or teddy bears and use them as a decoration or a gift bag!)

Penwheels: .24 cents.

Party favors or fake flowers for your little girl. You can even chop these penwheels off their sticks, tie string through the middle and use a coat hanger to create your own sparkly mobile. For 24. cents there are about 24 million things you can do with these things!

Hope these ideas have helped. Happy Gift Giving.

What if They Were Angels...

Last night a friend told me that he ended up reading my blogs at the same bar in Houston every week and has, at several points, begun to cry. He worries the bartenders are going to think he is creepy. I agree Gregg- this should be a legitimate concern. He asked me if I think through what I am about to write or if it is just a word dump?

I think he meant word vomit, he was just being sweet though.

So am I calculating every twist and turn of the story in order to elicit your tears, anger, and laughter... or do I innocently sit down and write a story- start to finish- in a furry of emotion, passion, and word dumpetry?

99% of the time, it's word dumpetry. These entries are lightly censored, rarely edited, and often written faster than it takes me to fill out the paperwork at the doctor's office.

1% of it is storytelling. Or, maybe 5% of it is. OK, 10% at the most.

But usually, the honest truth is, I sit down and it flows out.

The same thing happens on stage.

If you were to follow a musician around on tour, odds are, he or she will say nearly the same thing each night. In the context of the church, this gets a little strange and can possibly derail genuine worship when a pastor or worship leader relies on the same prayer three services in a row. Or, when a band decides on a "tour message" and rarely deviates from the stories they tell or the emotions they convey each night of the tour.

It's a hard call. You want excellence in programming; you want the flow and connectivity between songs or messages to fit; you want the words on the screen to match with the words you are speaking; you need some sort of concrete direction. It can't just be a free for all. But, it's way too easy, in protecting the perfection of programming and services that must flow like clock-work in order to herd people in and out of the doors before the next cattle call; to lose a free flowing, genuine spirit that comes new into God's presence. I guess I've always been afraid that I would fear the clock, the schedule, and the pre-set direction so much that I would become it's slave.

So, I decided a long time ago, to err on the side of letting things flow freely and naturally.

Get to the Point

I am pretty sure my dad let Ryan in on a secret before we were married. The conversation went something like:

"Now Jenny talks a lot."

"Lord, don't I know."

"So you just got to tell her: get to the point Jenny. For the love of all that's holy, get to the friggin point of your story."

"OK, sir."

"And that's all we ask. Debbie and I give you our blessing. Just don't let her beat around the bush. Look, you let her do it once, she'll do it a million times. Trust me. I'm married to her mother. You understand?"

"Yes sir."

"She'll start telling you one story and before you know it, mark my words, she will have you back in kindergarten with her and then talking about some man she met at a gas station and then talking to you about the gas station her and her sister crashed the car into and then she'll be talking about her sister... and then... and I'm telling you Ryan it won't end. And you can't act like you like hearing these stories cause your young and stupid and in love. Don't let her get a foot hold or you'll never hear the end of her... you gotta promise... nip it in the butt. Make her get to the point."

"Yes sir."

I am pretty sure that conversation happened. A sort of man support group for any man who married me or my sisters.

The point of my story is this:

Sometimes I open my mouth on stage and I have no idea what has just come out. I didn't plan it. I didn't rehearse it. It may not have even crossed my mind that day. But there I am, mouth open, telling some random story and there is a little voice in my head forcefully protesting, "What the heck are you talking about? Why are you even talking? You are being paid to sing. Not talk. " I try not to get nervous in that moment when the mean voices of criticism come out in my head. I try not to listen to the demons. I try not to think. I try to avoid being logical, structured, or afraid. I try to just keep my mouth open and keep going. No thinking. No stopping. No analyzing. No reality. Just keep letting it flow Jenny. Just let it flow.

And this week, I just wanted you to know, it paid off.

My mouth is open and I am telling 1300 students and adults the story about the little boy in the restaurant who threw his rock and made the whole restaurant stop and gasp. At a pivotal point in the worship service, I have stopped to tell this story, about a dad who picks up his little boy and holds him and kisses him and whispers in his ear and how this little boy fights against it, but the dad keeps hugging, keeps whispering, keeps kissing. And before I know it, the room is silent, and people are crying in every corner of the room. It's one of those moments where I feel like God has actually used me.

There are a lot of tough kids at this camp. I know. I have spent my week talking to them. They are here, at a church camp, because somebody paid for them to come and that meant their parents, for those whose parents hadn't kicked them out already, had a week off. They knew it. They were only there so their parents didn't have to deal with them. Thanks mom. Thanks dad. There were a lot of tough kids at camp this past week.

I've met kids with stories this week that would rip your heart out. They did mine. One night right before worship I talked to a girl who was raped by her student pastor. For two years. She has not gone to the police. He has since divorced and will re-marry a girl who has no idea what happened. And the response of her church, parents, and community? They call her a whore. Her dad calls her a bitch. Her mom won't talk to her because of the "affair" she had with her student pastor. No adult has stepped in to be an adult. No one has told her that she was seduced by a predator, that she was a victim. No one has wanted to put this guy in jail. No one has given her a chance to start over again. Instead, at a recent concert, she ran into a group of students from her old church and they spit on her.

I talked to this girl all week. Now, I am making plans to drive to her hometown to go to the police station with her because no one else will. She's just one of many, many tough kids I met this week. She can tell the story, show me the emails, the text messages that she saved as evidence... she can do it all without crying. Her eyes are glazed over. My heart breaks for her.

Imagine a room full of students with similar stories. Two girls this week had been kicked out of their homes. They are bisexual and living together in an abandoned motor home. Their churches want to talk about fixing their sexual preferences. That's it... forget the fact that they have both been sexually abused, abandoned, and have no understanding of Jesus Christ, those issues aren't on the table. Just fixing their sexual preference... My heart breaks for them.

I meet a girl whose dad has been trafficking her. I mean, I'm still stunned this even happens. A beautiful, young girl... Tia. You would never know by looking at her that her own daddy sells her body out. I told her about a girl I met in another state, Charissa, and without Charissa even knowing, her story of healing changes Tia's life.

Still... how crazy is it that I have now met two girls in the last six months, in the context of a church setting, who have spent half of their lives being used as prostitutes by their own dad's? My heart breaks for them.

The stories go on and on. From simple stories to horrific stories... and this week I found my self a bit stunned. I wish this were storytelling 101. I wish this were some sort of sick imagination. I wish these stories were not real. But they are real. And with each knew story I hear, the more sick to my stomach I feel. I don't even know what to say. I just cry and hug and listen. And I feel like the air has been knocked out of me.

These are tough kids. My stomach churns before worship.

Welcome! Worship with me for all the good things the Lord has done! Easier said for me than for the girl whose dad has sold her soul for fifty bucks...

It's in these moments that I am so grateful there is no set plan. No certain prayer or replicated story. I am quite sure those pre-prepared words would sound phony and stilted in light of the reality of the stories in the room. I am grateful there is no agenda on my end and grateful there isn't a certain scripture I have to read like, "rejoice in the Lord!" But, while I am grateful for the freedom of the moment, I am also terrified. "Lord, I have no idea what to say. I have no idea what to do next. No. Clue. What do I say? How do I lead worship?"

I feel desperate for help. For direction. I feel like the scrawny kid on the playground trying to lead the bullies in red rover. I am in over my head. I have no idea what their lives are like. I cannot even begin to relate. And, what's worse, I can't make it better. I cannot fix.

I open my mouth, songs flow out, and stories take shape.

It's in these moments I am grateful for word vomit.

Word Vomit

This week the word vomit came in the form of the blog entry I had previously written, A Human Touch. I tell 1300 students from stage that the mom is frustrated and the poor kid is ADD and how it sounds like a machine gun is going off in the restaurant and I get a few good laughs. I get to the part about the dad holding the boy. And- what I believe to be the Spirit of God- takes over. I tell them that the Lord holds them the same way that dad scooped up and held his little boy. The tough kids who have been beat down by this world. Who have been hurt. Abused. Spit upon. The ones who are full of rage and anger. Who have shut down. That tonight they need to be reminded that no matter what they do or how hard they try and escape... a true dad holds you while you are kicking and screaming and kisses your cheek, whispers your name, tells you that he loves you.

The self doubt begins to settle in. Where did this story come from? Why am I telling it at the end of a worship service? And even more frightening, I'm getting emotional. I have a strict policy about intertwining emotion with worship... especially when vulnerable students are involved. I refuse to manipulate on behalf of God. He does not need me to twist anyone's arm. He does not need tears and lame promises to make Himself known. He is God. To emotionally intimidate people into knowing Him is a terrible offense. It's an insult and I want nothing to do with it. But here I am, almost in a whisper telling these kids that the God of the Bible promises to be like this dad in the story. That Psalms 139 says that God does not let go of us. Ever. Whether we are in dark or light. He just holds on. He just keeps loving. He remains constant. Good. Untouched by the pain of this world. Whispering in our ear...

A lady came up to me before leaving camp to tell me about R. R is an orphan from the Czech Republic. She has been suicidal and has felt utterly alone. Her adoptive parents got her as a third round pick. And she knew it. She was a mistake. She couldn't believe anything good about herself. "But that story," the lady said through tears, "That story saved her life. It did. I watched her as she realized she was being held by something bigger than herself. As she realized God was holding her. You could feel it. We all could. She fell to her knees and wept and said that it was the first time she had felt love..."

An 18 year old guy came and said the same thing. "That story saved my life, thank you."

Another guy came up, he was 16. Then Tia... this story pushed her over the edge. She finally decided to believe in God's love for her. And they kept coming, kept telling me what that story had done for them. Who knows how many people felt God's love for the first time. I have no idea. I just know that this week I was reminded that sometimes our word vomit ends up not even being our own words. Sometimes it's just Holy Spirit vomit. We open our mouths and it comes out. Flows out. Pours out. Gushes out. Pukes out. Whatever you want to call it.

God is faithful. When we are willing. When we are available. When we say no to the clock, the schedule, the boundaries, the etiquette, the fear of free-falling... when we put our logic, pride, confidence, and security aside for something that ebbs and flows with a reckless inability to control what happens next... sometimes the Holy Spirit shows up and does something amazing. Sometimes the Holy Spirit uses us.

The lady who came up in tears said something peculiar, "We've been praying for this girl for over a year. She's been suicidal and has tried several times to take her life. Nothing has gotten through to her. Nothing. But this story... I've just been thinking, maybe that family in the restaurant, maybe they were angels."

I shivered.

Angels? Do I even believe in angels roaming the earth? Coming to restaurants? Sitting by hospital beds? Her comment totally took me off guard.

"Maybe you saw angels. Maybe God sent them so you could see what it looks like for God to scoop us up and hold us in his lap. So you could tell us that today. These kids Jenny. Today they needed to be held. That family, what if they were angels? Just so you could tell people what you saw? I think you saw angels. "

Practically Speaking...

Be impractical.

Structure stifles spirit. Caution curbs creativity. Fear fosters faithlessness.

Don't be afraid of word vomit. It won't always be life-changing. And most of the times you might mess up or say something pretty simple or mundane. But sometimes, every once in a while, when we leave enough space...

our words are not our own.

sometimes there are moments of brilliance

sometimes there are angels

and sometimes the Holy Spirit says something we would never think to say...

sometimes He says something perfect through us.

Today, I am grateful for that. That God knows what to say when I don't.

I know dad, I should've skipped the story and just said that :)

Dear Dadsky...

I already feel like a nine year old on the playground with this blog.

"Noooo, my daddy is better."

I mean, how do you write about someone you love on a lame, commercially lucrative holiday? For that matter, how do you buy them an appropriate gift?

"I love you dad" and "power-saw" don't really compute in my mind. Even a Starbucks gift card so my dad can devour his venti non-fat, extra hot, White Chocolate Mocha's don't really seem to do the trick. And don't get me started on Hallmark cards. I don't come from a card giving family. In my mind, if you need to write someone a card, you make it yourself. Some signature artwork on the front, markers, a glue stick, some old family pictures or magazine clippings, and a heartfelt letter inside, voila! Hallmark has nothing on that business!

Still, here I am wide-awake and keenly aware that I'm not with my dad on Father's Day and I didn't even make him a homemade card this year. And even though I know that he and I both know that a shirt from Sear's or a gadget from Home Depot would not really mean all that much to him, I want to give him something... and all I can come up with are words.

My dad's the best dad in the world.

He wasn't always. And he'd be the first to tell you how far he's come. He'd be the first to tell you his flaws and shortcomings; his regrets from when my sisters and I were little girls. Unfortunately, some days we'd be in line to add to that list.

But mostly, the boy who raised us as little girls is not the man we have now as our father.

We have grown up in his arms and he has grown up in ours.

So if you ask my sisters and I to tell you about our dad, we will tell you about a man who loves us fiercely. We will tell you about a man who cries with us. Who hugs us. Who writes us emails of encouragement. And stands by our side while we defy him, logic, and other guiding lights and make tragic mistakes... still, he stands right beside us. We will tell you about a dad who uprooted his family to follow a dream, only, that dream led to unemployment. For years on end. We will tell you about how that man went and worked at demeaning jobs to pay the bills but never grew so bitter that he quit. In fact, he just seemed to trust God's prompting in his life; he just seemed to get wiser and more kind. Grace. That's it. We'd tell you about a man who has learned a lot about grace. And patience.

But mostly, we'd just tell you about our dad who woke us up by blaring music through the house and singing at the top of his lungs. A man who bought a tiny gun, the size of a toy car, that lit up and made police siren noises, just so he could stick it in our ears to wake us up in the most torturous way possible as teenagers. A man who then got his feelings legitimately hurt when we yelled at him for doing such. The guy who found me in the living room and rocked me the night before I left for college and then, held me again after my first college boyfriend, who I was sure I would spend my whole life with, broke up with me in the car outside of the house. The man who made us all sit on the living room couch and talk through our fights before we could leave the house for the day. Who always sang songs in an atrocious country accent and made jokes that were not funny at all, but made us laugh all the time.

A lot of people don't have good dads and they turn out just fine. A lot of people have amazing dads and they end up mean and crazy anyways. So I get it, a dad or mom or home life doesn't necessarily make or break you. Still, I attribute what I do with my life to my dad (and mom)... who loved me so well that I had the courage to do it in the first place.

I have a treasure trove of beautiful letters from my dad. My mom. My sisters. My friends. I pull them out on days that I am sad and don't want to get out of bed. On days where I am weary and wondering if I am crazy for leading this abnormal, sometimes road weary, homesick life. I pull them out when I need to be reminded that I am not alone. That I am loved. And most of me wants to keep them all private, tucked away just for me.

But the thing about my dad is, he would want you to feel those things to. He would want you to know the love of a father. And while he wouldn't voluntarily share his words with the world, he would understand that when I do it, I give a little bit of him a way. The part of him that every little girl and boy needs. An advocate. A cheerleader. A fan. A coach. A friend. A safe house. A daddy.

With that, here are a few words from a dad who has always loved me well:

"My favorite author, M. Craig Barnes, says that the Christian life is a process of giving up the dreams we have for ourselves in order to receive the dreams God has for us. I pray that God's dreams for you will bring you more joy than you could have ever imagined. I LOVE YOU, MORE THAN YOU WILL EVER KNOW, AND I COULDN'T BE MORE PROUD OF YOU....not because of what you do but because of who you are. Love ya, me"

"Jenny, your honesty and transparency, while sometimes raising people's ire, is what sets you apart from so many others. This is a ministry that only a few are willing to embrace. You know, I am your biggest fan, but only because you like what you're doing, not because I need you to be a rock star or a great minister. I just need you to be happy and safe in the arms of a loving God....everything else is just life. Love ya, me"

"J, hey, have I mentioned lately how much I love you and how happy I am that you're getting to do your music?"

"J, how cool is it that you had a chance to meet astronauts, and especially one that just came back last week! I think it is wonderful, and, looking at your other email, I think its great that you allowed God to use you to touch another soul. I know you at times don't like to think about it, but Jenny, you are a gifted minister....not a minister like church staff work, but you are someone who can connect people with God, and that is a rare person indeed.

And the Funny Stuff:

A letter I wrote to my dad after he spent too much money on me:

We, jenny's beloved parents do hereby promise to celebrate her 28th birthday with her at her home on the evening of November 18th. We formally by law agree to her terms mentioned hereafter. No presents. No gift cards. No money. No large items. And no shopping trips. Only small strange items that have already been purchased by strange mother will be allowed (and trust me you know she’s already picked them out). Nothing else will be given. We agree to this joyfully since we have already spent several hundred dollars in cute pregnancy outfits on our daughter since September. We have already paid a thousand dollars for her unborn child. And we plan on giving her a car (which is still under consideration). We just sent her to get an amazing full body massage. And have fed her Mexican food frequently over the past two years. We agree that in light of these expressions of love and abundance we will simply celebrate her birthday by providing a dessert and letting her cook dinner for us. And nothing else! Just our love and company. Here ye, here ye,amen, allalujah. AGREED????

My Dad’s Response:

Oh thouest of jennyith, verily I sayeth unto theeth, we must humbly beseath the divine intervention and guidance of the great god of gifts, for verily I sayeth unto theeit that what thou has proposed goeth against all precepts of parenthood and birthday celebrations both past and present, and yea verily furturieth I dare say.

So lettuce all most humbly implore the lord of gifts, known by the code name of pappy, to see if such a thing has ever been done without the heavens becoming unaligned. Then we'll have our people get wit your people....

My dad has constantly spoken words over me that have given me love, safety, courage, and bravery. Obviously he thinks more highly of me than he should. He loves me more than he should. He dotes on me way more than he should. But isn't that what grace is? Undeserved love that gushes and gushes and gushes? That's what he has given me. A love I have never earned or deserved. One day I want to buy him a boat and a big house and a new car. I want to give him every single thing he has ever wanted! But those are just far off dreams. In reality, I can only give him my adoration. For showing me the love of God by truly being, in my humble opinion, the best dad any girl could ever ask for.

Happy Father's Day... I love you.

Sherelle

The Dirty Parking Lot

I was sitting outside a cheap airport hotel in Nashville when she walked by me. No more than 90 pounds, this little African American girl had an afro full of curly bouncy hair , and I was quite sure that that beautiful head full of hair was the only thing keeping her feet on the ground. She was so little she could’ve blown away at the slightest breeze of wind.

She wore little tiny hot shorts, the kind that high school volleyball players wear. The kind that make you look away because they make you blush. The kind that need just a few more inches in order for you to look up and look into the person’s eyes.

She had tall wedge shoes on, without which, she could have passed as a seventh grader. The shoes gave her some age though. Perhaps legal. But more likely just seventeen. Yeah, she looked about seventeen. With a tiny spaghetti strap top, big chunky belt, and hoop earrings, she could’ve been in Seventeen Magazine. Elle. Glamour. Lucky. But there she was.

I was reading USA today. Slightly concerned about the sketchy neighborhood but more concerned about reading in peace and quiet. The lobby was too loud and it was worth the risk to sit outside and enjoy reading the paper. I just wanted peace and quiet...

But there she was. This little fire-cracker of a girl walking about the parking lot, with confidence, with humility, almost like she was looking around for a friend, but half-way expecting to be beat up. She was both fearless and terribly afraid. I found myself watching her, but I was afraid too. I wanted to watch her but I didn’t want to look into her eyes too deeply.

She disappeared into the lobby and came back. Walked past me a third time. Walked straight to a van and took a wheelchair out of the trunk. Opened the front door and awkwardly helped a disabled man out of the drivers seat and into his chair. She turned around and began walking towards me. He lingered by the van adjusting his shirt, getting himself ready. She walked towards the front door.

I’m a kid who doesn’t see the nitty gritty of this world. I don’t see war. I don’t see drugs. I don’t see abuse or poverty. And I can’t say that I’ve ever seen a prostitute in the middle of a transaction but last night...there she was.

I felt sick to my stomach. I thought I would throw up. I felt sweat beading up on my neck and my heart racing. There it was with skin on it. Sexual exploitation. Sex slavery. Prostitution. Destitution. Hopelessness. Whatever you want to label it... there she was. When my world stopped spinning I found my heart in a huddled mass at my feet, below my newspaper. “Lord. Why? Why do I have to see this? What do I do for her? I don’t even know what to do.”

As a mom, wife, sister, co-worker, and friend who thrives off of coming up with answers and quick fixes, it was debilitating to see this girl that I could not help. I felt frozen. Afraid. Helpless. How can I be God’s hope and love between here and the bedroom door? What do I say to a girl who has already been bought? What do I say to a man that looks no one in the eyes and sneaks away to a dark room to do a dark thing? Prayers welled up in my soul as she got closer and closer to me. Do I look at her? Do I say hi? Lord, ARE YOU HERE? Really? Because I don’t see you anywhere in this dirty parking lot.

I feel angry, like I’m watching my own sister take each and every step.

“Girl... what you doing out here all by yourself,” her sweet voice barged into my soul’s tailspin.

She stopped to talk to me. Oh my gosh, she stopped to talk to me. It was like a Christmas present. She stepped into my scared world. Her questions continued. Was I from Nashville? Why was the lobby too loud? Wasn’t it a beautiful night? I got the feeling she genuinely wanted to talk to another girl. I got the feeling that by talking to me she was able to redeem herself, redeem her moment, redeem her dignity. I got the feeling that by coming to me on her own terms she was able to say to herself and to me, “I am still human.”

“My name’s Sherelle.”

“My name is Jenny. Your hair is awesome. You are beautiful by the way. You are so beautiful sweet girl.”

I looked as deeply, intimately, lovingly, and compassionately into her eyes as I could. For a moment I felt like it wasn’t even me looking into her eyes. Like maybe Jesus was looking at her through me. She looked back. Sad. Tired. Resolved. I wanted to hug her. I wanted to buy her back. Pay double. I wanted to call the cops. I wanted to follow my heart to the ground and lay on my face and cry out to God in that run down parking lot.

She walked through the front door and I am quite sure I will never see her again.

My friend, Kim Jones, has started a weekly email to encourage and challenge those of us at Irving Bible Church who are interested in reaching and loving on people who are sexually exploited. She asked us to pray for a holy awareness so that we might see the ugly reality around us. So I prayed for it. But last night I wished that I hadn’t.

I didn’t know holy awareness would mean little, 90 pound, bubbly Sherelle in the Nashville hotel parking lot.

Holy Awareness Hurts

As I laid in bed and prayed my heart out, I told my husband what happened. There was this girl in the lobby tonight...”Oh yeah,” he cut in, “The prostitute?”

“NO, Sherelle. Her name is Sherelle, she’s from Chicago.”

I felt the tears run down my cheeks.

Sherelle.

This is the face of sexual exploitation. Not a monster. Not a whore. Not a druggy. But a young girl who could be a model in a magazine. A young girl who should be going to Sonic with her friends and hanging by the pool. A young girl who moved here from Chicago to be near her family. A young girl who should be young. But here she is...

a young girl who because of poverty, hopelessness, or imprisonment, has become the face of our culture’s sexual perverseness. She is the face of the broken.

Will you pray for her with me? All week long, remember Sherelle. I have no answers and I feel utterly helpless but I am trusting that God will take that one moment I had with her and he will multiply it. I pray that she will know the prayers of God’s people and she will know his love.That somehow, someway, God will do what only He can do: save. I pray that each and every one of us will open our eyes and pray for a Holy Awareness. It is not easy and not even desirable... I was afraid. Then sad. Then angry that God didn’t come and save her. I prayed the hotel would burn down. The fire alarms would go off. Or the man who bought her would have a heart attack. Then I cried some more. And then, I was afraid again.

How many Sherelle’s are there Lord? I fell asleep in prayer.

It’s easy to ignore what we cannot fix. What is harder is to pray for Holy Awareness, knowing that we may not have an answer or a quick fix, but knowing that the more brokenness we see, the more we are drawn to the heart of God. Praying on behalf of our brothers and sisters, we desperately seek restoration and God’s redemption for those who are sexually exploited.

Do Something!

Educate yourself and start to pray over this epidemic. To join my friend’s email list regarding the sex industry, simply send a blank email to the following address and we will add you to the weekly email:

[email protected]

Check out what other Christians are doing about it. Hope House. This one of a kind Christian ministry in Asheville, North Carolina is committed to rescuing teens from human trafficking and they are the first and ONLY faith based safe house shelter for sexually exploited teenagers in the country.

Donate. If you just feel better by giving money :) (who doesn't!) there is an amazing organization in the Dallas area helping women each and every day to come out of the sex industry. My dear friend Lauri Lanier works as an advocate for these women and could spend hours telling you the redemptive life stories that happen every day at New Friends New Life. Their building was just broken into last month and they are in the process of re-building computer systems and other things that were stolen. Your financial donations would greatly help as they continue to walk alongside women who are starting their lives over again. You can make a MUCH NEEDED financial donation and read more about the amazing, life-changing love that happens at New Friends, New Life by clicking here.

And remember, pray for Sherelle.

5,000 Feet Above Dallas

Ever heard of Prescott, Arizona?

Yea, me neither.

It sits two hours outside of Phoenix, nestled in the mountains, 5,000 feet above Dallas.

And from what I can tell, I'm sorry Chicago, but it is the windy city. I've never seen wind so fierce or birds so brave. Every time one takes off, the mother in me hurts for the poor stupid bird. They don't make it very long, but they sure do try. I guess even animals have to test their boundaries.

Back to Prescott... it is beautiful here and the people are particularly kind and hard working. The rugged west is growing on me.

Last weekend at the SeaWorld San Antonio show I met a group of guys (and one gal) who just finished basic training at Lackland Air Force Base. They stood up front through the whole show and made me nervous. Are they here because they like the music? Or will they, at any minute, die laughing? Nine years in and I still battle the voices of insecurity. But they just looked so stinkin' intimidating with their crew cuts and reserved, respectful mannerisms that I wasn't sure what to make of them. They stayed for the entire show. And when we ended with the song Hope Now, they linked arms and sang it together. One guy had tears running down his face.

They waited in line forever, and of course I have a special love for military people, so I gave them as many hugs as I could :)

As I started talking to some of them they told me about boot camp and how they'd go back to their barracks each night and listen to Hope Now. They told me about their families and where they were going to be stationed. And as they started to walk off the last guy came up and asked if I would sign his program for his mom. He had been waiting patiently, quietly, for everyone else to go. He told me his mom was a huge fan of our music and had always wanted to see us in concert. I asked if she was at the show and he told me she didn't live around here, but that this would make her day. He said he hoped one day she'd be able to see a concert because it would mean a lot to her.

"Where does she live?" I asked him.

"Arizona."

"We just played a show there last weekend outside of Phoenix! Bummer. I think we are playing there again soon, but I'm not sure where."

"Well most shows are in Phoenix, but she lives in Prescott."

Prescott. I've seen that name. I know I have.

"Hold on."

I went and found Richard (our new drummer) at the merchandise table and he looked up the show for the coming weekend.

Prescott, Arizona. Sold out.

I was so excited I almost fell over. My little heart was overflowing for happiness. Not because I was sooo happy that this person would get to come and see us in concert, as if I were blessing her with the gift of seeing Bono or The Beatles, but I was so happy that I could give Jeff something to give his mom. Because any guy who waits around for an hour to have you sign a CD for his mom living thousands of miles away, means he really loves his mom and longs to do something special for her.

I ran back to the table and told him. "You're not going to believe this. Of all the places in the world we could be playing next weekend, we are playing in Prescott, Arizona. And your mom will be on my private guest list."

Two hours outside of Phoenix, nestled in the mountains, 5,000 feet above Dallas and San Antonio.

His mom wrote me that evening. I've highlighted the parts that made my heart soar:

"Hi, I am Myra H., mother to a very excited Airman Jeff H., stationed at Lackland AFB in San Antonio. He told us you were in concert at Sea World San Antonio today and that something very special happened when he talked to you. What a huge blessing and answer to my prayers of the last few days. Jeff did not know of my prayers to be able to go see your concert at the Heights Church in Prescott .

To tell you the truth, I was planning to bug the snot out of KGCB’s morning crew Steve and Dave when they have the contest starting Monday morning for the tickets to the concert. I am on leave of absence from work due to a recent surgery, so money is a bit tight right now. I have been praying, asking PAPA GOD if the contest was the way for my husband and myself to go to the concert that He would make a way. And then we get the call from Jeff this afternoon. WOW is all I can say."

This story reminds me that the Holy Spirit is real.

To me, that was not just a lucky, random conversation. I was tired. It had been a long day. The military guys were at the end of the line... the line that I assumed had been cut off already. I was slightly annoyed that there were still more people... I was so tired. I was ready to go and take care of Annie. But something moved inside of me and I felt such love for this group of guys who had been singing their hearts out. And something about this one guy pulled me in. I felt the urge to talk to him.

That urge, I believe, is what the Christian church calls the Holy Spirit. The part of God that is alive and active and moving inside of our hearts and our lives. Calling out to us in that still small whisper. Speaking to us. Moving us. Prodding us. Convicting us. And moving our spirits to take care of and love those around us.

Looking back, I didn't know it was God. I just felt the desire to talk to this guy. If it were me, I would've gone backstage. But in that moment, it wasn't me. It was God putting a different thought into my heart.

I truly believe the Holy Spirit put this desire in my heart to have a conversation with Jeff. I believe it with everything inside of me. Not fate. Not chance. Not a random coincidence. But God himself who loves his children and longs to give us the desires of our hearts. There was a reason.

And that reason was to answer the prayers of Myra; a mom recovering from surgery, tight on money, touched by our music, and praying quietly to her God that he would help her win a contest so she could spend a night listening to music that uplifts her soul.

And God answered.

Myra and David will be our special guests tonight at the Tenth Ave. North, Addison Road concert. We bought her flowers. :)