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 :)

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.

A Human Touch

A mom, dad, and two little boys sit down at the table next to me.

The dad is kind of serious looking. Dark hair, tall, broad shoulders, scanning the room with an empty stare, completely unaware of the breakfast discussion that is happening right next to him.

Mom is feisty. She has the rough and tough mannerisms of a mom who is raising two boys and has been away from the female race long enough to lose joy in picking out the perfect muffin. "Whadya want to eat? Come on? It's not that hard... just pick something." She points to something in the pastry case for herself and orders without truly looking.

The little boys, probably eleven and nine, are dirty and sweaty, fidgety and totally bored. It's Saturday morning and although they aren't sporting a baseball uniform, I'm quite sure she has just scraped them up from some park and put them in the car against their will. I think she's put the husband in the car against his will for that matter too. And there they sit, distracted and totally uninterested in pastries, muffins, and one another. Their faces say, "Saturday is for sports, for hobbies, for guy stuff... not these stupid muffins and family talk time."

Three men. Three islands.

Any minute I expect her to stand up, slam her hands on the table, grab the attention of the men in her life and say (with a fiercely threatening voice that makes you think she might not cook ever again or that she might pull her girl card and cry right there in front of God and everyone), "WE will enjoy this *&*$%^* breakfast as a FAMILY whether you want to or not!"

But she weathers the silence with grace and patience and somehow she draws everyone in with a series of questions and jokes.

Suddenly they are talking. The three islands are talking. This woman is amazing.

I think to myself... if I had been her I would've spewed my venom at them for their lack of interest and for making me do all the emotional, conversational work. I might have clamped my lips shut in a passive aggressive protest of their little care and concern for me and my family breakfast plans.

"Poor me. My boys won't talk to me. I'll show them." And then, as only a woman can do, I would make them endure my brutal silence as punishment for not loving me well. But she didn't do any of those things. She didn't get her feelings hurt. She didn't retreat. She didn't punish them with her silence. She fought for her children's words. She won a small victory.

an aside:

This mom showed me that no matter what your child is: boy/girl, shy/personable, angry/happy, interested/uninterested; a diligent effort to emotionally engage your children, will, more than likely, pay off.

Now, the conversation is marked by the laughter of these two little boys and the dad's full attention.

And me?

Well, I am the creep sitting at the next table watching them... but in my defense I am a very happy creep who just witnessed a mom being a really good mom. And I am relishing in the moment of this ladies victory.

Of Course...

This is all ruined when the nine year old kid, who, by the looks of his wild impulsive eyes suffers from some form of attention deficit, grabs a rock from the fountain behind him and throws it.

I'm not sure what it hit, but it ricocheted, it's path of destruction eternally long and it was loud enough that the entire restaurant stopped and took a collective breathe.

The morning was, yet again, ruined.

The dad instinctively grabbed the son by the leg in anger. The mom shot straight in, "What are you doing? What are you doing? Why would you do that?" People's eyes bore into them. All four of them. The dad's grip tightened. His stern look was debilitating even for me.

It stemmed from embarrassment of course. That's what I'm learning. A lot of times we parents are reactionary. What deserves a normal- don't do that- turns into a swift and militant response when the kid is 'doing that' in front of lots of people and we find ourselves cringing.

Inevitably this response, though, leaves the child embarrassed. And this nine year old followed protocol.

He looked down at his legs and his eyes burned with tears that he kept sucking back. I watched his whole body sink and deflate as his little brother stared at him. In his mind, I guess the whole world was staring at him. He kept his head down like a dog who had been scolded and wouldn't make eye contact with anyone. He went to his own universe. And they to theirs.

Mom acted like nothing happened, but the tension came all the way over to the creepy girl's table and I was as stressed as she was.

The mom did as many moms do. She tried to make it better. Tried to talk to the little boy and ask him questions from across the table. But he wasn't buying, he wouldn't raise his eyes above table level. Dad tried to smooth things over by talking to mom, laughing about something terribly not-funny; he was keeping the pep in the deflated family breakfast trip, but he was failing miserably too.

I had written the rest of the story in my mind. They will leave. Mom frustrated- which always leads to tears. Dad frustrated- which sometimes leads to throwing the towel in and making the rest of the day a "personal day" as Ryan calls it. Big brother either smugly satisfied that the blame could all lie on his counterpart or angry that that his counterpart ruined the morning. And little guy... hurt and angry, embarrassed, would spend his Saturday sulking.

I was all torn up. It was like watching my own reality show except no one won any money and they all ended up going back home empty handed. I freaking hate reality shows. I scolded myself. Why do I watch them? They came so close. I stopped watching and went back to writing my book.

The Touch

And then it happened. A human touch.

Something came over the father's face. His countenance changed.

He turned his body towards his son who was sitting one bench over. He put one arm around his shoulder, another under his knees, and with one big swoop he lifted the little boy up, put him directly on his lap, wrapped his arms around his chest, and bear hugged him. He whispered into his ear and kissed his cheek. He held him there. Not letting go. And there they sat. In the middle of a busy restaurant. A shamed nine year old boy. In his dad's lap. A grown man. Putting himself aside. A human touch.

It was one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen a dad do. Ever.

And, in one moment, that human touch redeemed the entire morning.

The boy, of course, fought it in the beginning. Still sulking. Head down. A little scowl. But the longer the dad held on. The longer he hugged. The more this big, strong, grown man whispered into his little boys ear... you could visibly see it, the wall of shame and defense began to crumble. The embarrassment was left on the other bench. The little boy let go of the anger, came out of hiding, and felt safe again. Loved. Liked, even.

I no longer felt creepy. I felt honored. I found myself with tears burning my eyes as I watched what grace looks like. Grace with skin on it. And I found myself, in that busy restaurant, sitting in my own father's lap as he hugged me, told me I was beautiful, told me to forget about what happened, told me he loved me. I fought it, of course. I wasn't even sure that I had done anything to make me feel like I needed to be lovingly taken back into the family (like throwing a rock that made a whole restaurant stop and gape) ... still, I had an overwhelming sense that I needed it. Right then. Right there.

I squirmed a bit and felt way too grown up for what was happening. I suppose I'd much rather be left alone to sulk. I tried to get my shoulders free. But that whisper. Leave me alone, I'm the one who screwed up and everybody knows it. But that kiss. A feeling of annoyance. Please just stop. But that gentle squeeze. A denial. But that acceptance. A rejection. But that hug... the one I didn't want... right there in the middle of the restaurant...

intimately, strongly, lovingly I was swooped up unto my father's lap

before I knew it, I was smiling

I am loved.

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. :)