Could it be?

Is it possible to become a bad writer overnight? As in, yesterday, I thought I was a pretty good writer. Today, everything I write is crap. Even this blog. All crap.

I knew I should have had a back-up occupation plan. Do you think I can get a job at a bookstore? Or will my crappy writing rub off on the books? Could I possibly have the power to turn good books into bad ones just by being in the same room?

Maybe McDonalds is hiring.

Good concerts, great friends, grand weekends

(I acknowledge, that's a cheezy title!)

I've been going through a concert dry spell. A drought if you will. Most of my favorite artists just don't get out to Colorado that often...maybe it's the distance, maybe it's my rotten luck of moving from a state at the exact moment said state discovers what great taste I have in music.

So imagine my delight, when I discovered that one of my favorite singer/songwriters, Andrew Peterson, was doing not one, but two concerts, but within 30 minutes of where I live. I invited two friends, one could go to the Friday show, the other to the Saturday show, so I made the sacrifice (ha) of going to both! And although the set lists were similar, the experiences were night and day!

Friday night, I met my friend Kristin for the show. She wasn't familiar with Andrew, but was excited about the show. As we drove to the show, a thick heavy snow fell, turning the lawns and fields white, and coating our eyelashes with ice.

As the show progressed, I kept sneaking glances at Kristin, and was thrilled by the wide smile that never left her face. After the show, she turned to me and said, with tears in her eyes, that the show had filled a hole-one that she didn't even know was there.

As we drove back to my car, we chatted, not about the concert, but about those deep emotions and thoughts the songs had brought to the surface. We pulled into the parking lot and kept talking, even as the snow blocked out the streetlights.

(As an aside, this was the only mistake of the evening. Because the drive home was horrible. And I thought I was going to die. And I almost called my mom and reminded her of the song I want played at my funeral...which just so happens to be an Andrew Peterson song!)

The concert Saturday was entirely different for me. Before the show, I headed to a park near the venue, and hiked for a few hours. As I wandered the trails, I did a lot of prayer and reflecting on some things God's been teaching me lately. By the time I got to the concert, I felt pretty raw, emotionally. My friend who was going to the show with me had ended up having to work, so I sat there alone before the show began, sorting through thoughts, chatting with some people I met at the show.

And when the show began, my softened heart felt the words of each song. Songs that I had heard a thousand times before had me on the edge of my chair. Words and prayers and music all rattled around inside of my head. A lump formed in my throat. Hot tears brimmed under my eyelids. Truth, inspired by God, delivered through a man, spoken from a stage, filled my heart until it was fairly bursting.

I chatted with Andrew and the Captains Courageous after the show, and it was nice to see familiar faces from the past. They were kind and gracious as usual, and as I drove home, I thanked God for the way He had gifted Andrew, Ben and Andy...and that they had each chosen to glorify God with those gifts. And that I got to be a part of it.

My deep dark secret...

I hate to exercise. There, I said it. I may now get deported from Colorado.

But I really do hate exercising. I hate running on a treadmill for an hour, and never changing my actual location. I hate that most gyms have a huge wall of mirrors. What, is that supposed to encourage me? To watch myself turn all red in the face and jiggle in all the wrong places?

Of course, exercising outside is better. But with the 8 billion feet of snow we've had, that just hasn't been possible. And when it has warmed up, I've either been sitting in my cube at work, or have had other plans that can't be broken.

But today, I had some free time. So I decided to exercise. And you know what, it was great. When I started, I could feel the muscles in hips tightening, straining with each step. My knees protested-but it was a weak protest, like children who protest against something everyone knows they will end up liking. When I stomped the heavy mud off of my shoes, the nerves in my legs tingled. It was like my body was waking up from a long hibernation, testing the waters, and deciding that, yes, I do still know how to walk.

Maybe Colorado won't deport me after-all.

Sometimes, I don't understand...

I work for a ministry that serves children in poverty all around the world. More than 800,000 children in 24 countries. It's an incredible ministry, and I love what I do.

But sometimes, it's hard. Despite all that we do, children in our program still die. Every week, all the employees are given a prayer guide. We pray for our staff overseas, and those who sponsor our children. And every week, on the back of this small brochure, is a list of children who died in the past week.

Vitoria.

Juan.

Carlos.

Jenifer.

Andrea.

Statistically, it's a small number. But they're not a number. They're children. Children shouldn't die. But they do. Every single day, 30,000 children under the age of 5 die. And each week, I see the names of a dozen or so of them. And a lump forms in my throat. And I know that for every ten I see on the list, there are hundreds of thousands who are making it--who are overcoming this poverty that tries to crush them.

But until the day when all of God's children are safe, I will mourn.

It's been a while...again!

I really have had a lot of posts bouncing around in my head for a while. And then I get busy. Or I just don't feel like writing. But tonight, I'm making myself write.

Writing hasn't been coming easily lately. My brain feels slow and sluggish. My fingers feel clumsy on the keyboard. At work, the words don't materialize. At home, it's even worse. So I'm going to post tonight. And it will be great. And people will read it, and love it, and comment, and my writer's block will end.

Prepare to witness a miracle.