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"What is your name?" the man asked.A simple question ... but not for this man named Jacob. Jacob has wrestled with God. All night, he has fought a battle that will leave a permanent mark ... Jacob will limp the rest of his life. And then: "What is your name?" "Ya'kov," he answered. Jacob. A name which means "heel," and given to him, perhaps, because he came into the world holding on to the heel of his brother, Esau. The twin he would betray. Trick and deceive.The same name--Ya'kov--is found, notably recorded by Thutmose III as Ya'qob'el, which means "God will protect." And so God would ... and did."What is your name?" the Man of God asked on that night by the shore of the Jabbok, repeating the same question Jacob had heard his father Isaac ask him so many years before ... and then he deceived his father by answering, "I am your son, Esau."But now Jacob must be honest. He has no choice. He is not lying to a blind patriarch. He is answering the God who knows his every thought. His rising up and his lying down. After years of running ... and cunning ... and being conned ... and being blessed ... it's all come down to this one question: what is your name?"Heel," Jacob answered. "No more," the Man of God said. "Your name is now Israel, because you have struggled with God and with humans and have overcome.""Israel ..." Yisra'el. Wrestled and struggled.With God. With humans. With. God."Tell me your name," this new man Israel said to the Man of God. "Why do you ask my name?"One gets the sense that "El" expected Israel to know. Who do you think you just struggled with, Israel? Didn't I tell you? Are you so far from me that you don't recognize me, even after I pop your hip out of its joint? So Jacob called the place "Peni'el," because he saw God face to face and lived to tell about it. Peni'el--The face of God.Do you wrestle with God? Do you struggle with Him about anything at all right now?Do you hear him asking, "What is your name?" And how will you answer? Will you fall back on the lie ... or will you, like Jacob, realize you cannot lie to God. What is your name?(Story taken from Genesis 32.)

In 1974, when the movie The Towering Inferno released, my father stated flat out that he would not go see it. My mother explained to me that, what with Daddy having lost a home to fire, he simply couldn't watch "things like that."My whole life--by '74 I was 16--I'd heard of "the fire." An old 1942 Philco stood like a silent soldier in my grandparents' home as the only thing that survived. Other than the children and my grandparents, of course. But Daddy never really talked about it. That is, until many years later when he took me to where the house had once stood. Until the moment he pointed to an old tree across the road and said, "See the charring on that tree?" I said that I did. "That was from the heat of the fire."I had to have been around 46 at the time, so 30 years had passed since the release of the movie. Many more since the fire. Unbeknownst to either of us at the time, Daddy and I only had 3 years left before he would leave us for streets of gold--the cancer within taking its toll--but even not knowing, I treasured every moment I had with him. I'd gotten interested in our family history so Daddy and I met up in his hometown of Glennville, Georgia. We drove into a community called "Gooseneck," so named because (as Daddy once told me) "from the air, it looks like a goose's neck." Gooseneck is where Daddy grew up. Where so many of our family gravestones rise up like granite greetings, glittering in the afternoon sunshine. "Over here," they call. "I'm over here." I had my camera with me to photograph the evidence of lives gone by. If I had been really smart, I would have brought a video camera with me to record the sound of my father's voice telling me the stories about Granny Belle and working the farm as a sharecropper's son ... of the old mule who took his daddy "to town" every Friday night and--by instinct--brought him back home after a "night of it." I would have recorded him talking about the tree. And the fire that charred it. But something painful lingered in his words. In his voice. Something I dared not penetrate. I didn't even ask to photograph the tree ... that's how it was.By this point, however, I'd video-recorded my grandmother's recollection of that night. "Pure fat-lighter wood," she said when describing the house they lived in. She spoke of helping to get her youngest (my Aunt Audrey) out of the house as she (Audrey) clutched the photo of a boy she kept by her bed. Of how my grandfather "and the boys" rocked an old gas stove away from its place and then rolled it as far away from the house as they could, in case it exploded and caused more damage (although I cannot imagine how). She spoke of getting in the car and leaning on the horn, hoping to wake the neighbors in their little farming community ... as everything they owned went up in the blaze. No clothes. No shoes. No mementos. Only the '42 Philco. She told me later that, at one point, my father ran up to her, feet bare and reddened, and said, "Mama, everyone got out." My mother told me that Daddy had told her his mother had passed out at that point, mostly because she realized his feet were bare ... and there were no shoes ... and not a lot of money to buy all they'd need to start over. But I don't know how true that is.Like so many others, for me, Sunday February 4 was not about the Super Bowl ... but about the episode that would finally tell us how Jack died. Not since "Who Shot JR" has America been so fascinated with the death or near death of a TV character. Not that I can remember, anyway. I cried as I watched the flames lick away the lives of the fictitious Pearson family ... not because a TV set cannot be rebuilt, but for the memories of a house fire and a charred tree that haunted my father nearly his whole life. "Do you see that tree?" became words that echo in my heart every so often ... reminding me of the charred and scarred places in my own life. Because, you see ... the point it ... the tree remained. The tree didn't die. The tree--as hot as it became and as soot-covered--continues to stand as a reminder of the things we all suffer through ... and survive. "God will not take you to what He can't get you through," I heard Charles Stanley say via a radio show on the night my mother took her last breath. He wasn't kidding. Every single thing in my life I thought I could never survive, I have.To my knowledge, Daddy never saw the movie. He was a very young man when he saved an old Philco--one that stands in my house today, adorned with Daddy's memory candle--from a burning fat-lighter sharecropper's house. He was an older, dying man when he took me to see the tree. And he was, always, a source of strength I never fully recognized until he was gone.So, here's my question for you today: Where is your tree?

Anyone who knows me, knows about my fear of reptiles. Shoot, thanks to social media, even those who do not know me personally know of my fear of "baby dragons" and snakes. I'm not overly thrilled with alligators either. Fear is a terrible thing. It creates boogie men where there are none. It puts a demon behind every tree and around every corner. It keeps us from enjoying life. And it is NOT of the Lord. For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind, James wrote. (1:7). Fortunately for me, I am not alone. Even those who walked with the Lord 24/7 found themselves afraid. (Call me #13.)Here's the situation: Jesus had had a long day of preaching ... healing ... arguing with the religiously pious ... and, I suppose, He was pooped. So He ordered "The Boys" to get in the boat and cross to the other side of the Sea of Galilee. And so they did. They got a boat, they got in, and the pushed out into the "sea."One thing many fail to realize is that other "little boats" were out in that massive lake with them. So, even though Jesus had made an attempt to "get away from it/them all," it/they followed Him. But He, exhausted, paid no mind to the attention. Instead, He fell asleep in the stern of the boat ... He even had a pillow, which I find to be pretty cute, I have to tell you. Jesus slept on a pillow ... Instead of a "My Pillow," which is what I sleep on, Jesus slept on a "His Pillow." And then it happened. A storm came up--something not untypical for the Sea of Galilee because of the way it more or less sits in a "bowl," with the Galilean hills surrounding it. The wind comes in, gets caught between the land and the water, begins to swirl, and whoosh! We have ourselves a massive storm. In fact, the Greek word is anemos, which means "a violent stream of air, tempestuous." These were not just a few waves lapping at the side of the vessel; this was water slapping itself up and over and into the boat.The men became afraid ... and I can imagine those in the "little boats" were pretty hysterical too.Someone finally woke Jesus, who calmly wiped the sleep from his eyes, tucked His pillow under his arm, and said, "Siōpaō." Or, in our language, "Hush."(Which leaves me to wonder who, exactly, He said this to. Was He speaking to the disciples and the wind and waves had to obey, too? Or to the wind and waves and the disciples followed suit?)Then He said, "Kopazō" or: "Be still." (Both of the words you just read were the Greek interpretation of His words, most likely spoken in Aramaic.) Then came the questions Jesus asked of the disciples ... and Jesus asks of me: "Why were you so afraid? How is it that you have no faith?"All kidding aside on the whole lizard/snake thing ... I have fears that are deep-seated. Things from my past often rise up to haunt me, things I thought I'd long put to rest (such as a fear of the dark). In my ministry, I have spoken with women (and sometimes men, but not on a ministerial level) whose phobias range from a fear of losing a loved one to a fear of falling back into old sinful patterns. Sometimes I hear of a fear of having to make a life-changing decision--so much so, that instead of doing something positive, they stay with the old rather than taking a chance on the new. There are, of course, countless phobias (fear of the outside, fear of people, fear of not being able to get out of a building, fear of water, fear of heights, etc.), including fear of reptiles. But what I think Jesus is asking here is not about such things. He is getting to the depth of what makes us tick ... and sick. "How can you be so afraid when you have the Creator of all right here in the boat?"The men thought they were perishing! But no! They were only getting a little (okay, a lot) wet. That's all. They looked outside of the boat where the wind and waves grew, rather than inside the boat where the One who created the wind and waves slept without concern ... and on a pillow.So, here is His question for you: What are you afraid of? How is it you still have no faith?" (Ref: Mark 4:40) You don't have to answer here (you can, but you don't have to), but I do hope you will explore this with God. Journal. Ponder. Pray.

"Where did you come from ... and where are you going?"In the 16th chapter of Genesis, we find the first mention of the Egyptian slave of Abram and Sarai, Hagar--a woman about to meet her destiny. A woman about to change the history of mankind, past and future.Sarai could not have children and, biologically, she believed time had run out. Abram was old, but still able to father a child ... and fathering children was something God had promised him. "Look up at the sky and count the stars--if indeed you can count them," God told Abram. "So shall your offspring be." Abram believed. Sarai had her doubts.But she was not without resources. Ancient customs allowed for such things as handmaids giving birth for barren wives of virile husbands. "Check out my slave Hagar," she told her husband. And he agreed. He "checked her out."When Hagar found herself pregnant, the Scriptures tell us, she began to "despise her mistress." When I read the verses that follow--Sarai running to Abram to complain--I get the sense that, at one time, the two women got along okay. Perhaps they were friendly. Knitted together. Baked bread over the same fire pit. Not so much now ... Complain as hard as she may, Abram was having nothing to do with Sarai's delimma. "You deal with it," he told her. And so Sarai began to mistreat Hagar. What a sad turn of events for all concerned. Hagar fled (as would any woman in her position). Seemingly, running back to Egypt, because when the angel of the Lord found her, she was near a spring in the desert, one found specifically beside the road to Shur. According to , Shur is "a part, probably, of the Arabian desert, on the north-eastern border of Egypt." In other words, she was heading back home. Back to the beginning of her story. But would she have been any safer there? And would God's story play out as it should if she made it back?And so the angel of the Lord found her by the water. "Where did you come from?" he asked her. "And where are you going?"~~~~As I continue to explore my life in questions, I ask myself the same questions. Before I can clearly answer the second, however, I must answer the first. Where did I come from?This isn't just a question of geography, because if it were, the answer would come too easy. "I am from Sylvania, Georgia." Bam. Done.But, no. The question goes deeper. It goes deeper for me ... and it goes deeper for you. Where do you come from? This is a question of family life. This is a question of era born and reared. This is a question of location, yes, but not solely. This is a question of your hopes and dreams and what you may have done to accomplish them ... or what stood in the way. So, here's your question of the week. I'd love for you to comment after you answer quietly ... in your journal or in your heart. Don't feel you have to share your answer, but--if you'd like--share what it revealed to you about yourself.

I believe we learn a lot about ourselves by the questions we ask. This past year (2017), I filled my journal with questions I believed God asked of me. The answers came almost painfully. Sometimes a single question took a week to answer ... every day, penning a little more of the inward search for answers.Three years ago I purchased a book of questions. Each day offers up a new question, but the owner (in this case, me) has five years to answer. So, for five years if one is able to keep up with this hand-sized book, one keeps a diary of questions and answers.A few days ago the question at the top of the page reserved for December 27 read: When was the last time you felt at peace?I immediately reflected on the 2016 Christmas Eve service I enjoyed in my home church in Sylvania, Georgia. My brother and I sat in the balcony of the First United Methodist Church, which guards the north end of our small, Mayberry-esque town. We climbed the near-dozen brick steps leading to the wide double doors, both sporting holiday wreaths, both wrapped in thick evergeen garland. We entered the red-carpeted vestibule, received our programs, then stole away to the winder stairs leading to the balcony where my brother (the unofficial/official church photographer) would preserve memories with the lens of his Canon.There is something about being home. Or, back home, as it is in my case. Something about sitting in the glow of your youth, listening to the choral rendition of Christmas favorites sung by those I have known a lifetime, partaking holy communion in the same sanctuary where I first understood it, watching the candles being lit---one by one---then seeing them light a room darkened by the flip of a switch. But, oh that light. Somehow, Dickens' England comes to Sylvania, Georgia and ... within that moment ... there it is ... the peace. Nothing else is happening in the world. No war. No hunger. No endless political whining and wailing and pounding of fists. No real news or fake news. No children striving for one more breath or older folk hoping the next one will be in the presence of the Christ we have come to celebrate. Just ... for this moment ... peace.And so now my question for you remains: when was the last time you felt peace?

I'm often asked what I do all day, as if as a writer I couldn't possibly fill enough hours to call a five-day span a "work week." Of course, then, in the next breath, I hear "How do you do everything you do?" Sometimes I wish the two rules of thumb about my work life would join forces and give me a little credit/take away a little credit. Do I work a lot? Yes. And I love it. (Most of the time.)Do I get to make my own hours? Yes. (Both a blessing and a curse. Sometimes I don't know when to quit.) This past week I started keeping up with a few of my tasks--and the hats I wear while doing them. So if you really want to know ...#1: The writer hat. I'm working on a Christmas novella right now, my first after . It's not under contract, but I'm hoping it will be soon. And I'm terribly, terribly excited about it. I'm writing in a somewhat different way; I'm telling the story of a marriage from various points in the marriage, taking the reader from the present, to the past, forward again, back again ... an editor friend said it reminds her of This Is Us. (YES!) I'm not sure how many words I wrote this week, but, for sure, several thousand. I'm also working on the final draft edits for , which is the story of Eric Liddell. I am the "with" author (along with Eric Eichinger, the author). As I worked on the edits from Tyndale editor, Jonathan Schindler, Eric E. and I had a few conversations, I had to do a little more research, etc. All in all, this book is going to be amazing!#2. Private Writing Coach Hat. I'm only working with one coaching client right now (the way I prefer it). She's an amazing writer! I spent time working with her this week, including our time on Google Hangouts where we talked about tightening some of the work, expanding some of the work, and how happy I was with what she'd done with Chapter Three since last week. That was due, in part, to my having suggested she meet with who is a LMHT and who could give her insight into a character's response to PTSD after abuse.#3: Freelance Editor Hat. Speaking of Tina ... I'm working on a work of nonfiction by this amazing writer. She's worried that it runs down a rabbit trail or two ... and it may from time to time, but that's one amazing rabbit. Sometimes while editing her work, I bring my hand to my chest and remind myself to breathe. Her work is that poignant. On that note, I received several requests this week asking me how much I charge to "edit my book." That's too vague a question for me to answer. I charge by the hour; the more work you do in the self-editing portion of your book, the easier my work. Thus, the less time it takes. #4: Managing Editor for Hat: I have a nice, sweet stack of "to be reads" in my file. These are the proposals sent to me after conferences. I have to be in the right frame of mind when I read them, otherwise I'd either say "yes" to them all (which would be a disaster) or "no" to them all (which would be a disaster. I have to totally trust God in this endeavor. I have to be quiet enough to listen to His whisper-soft voice telling me whether we are the right house for this author or if He has something else in mind. That's not always easy.#5: Contest Judge and Judge Overseer Hat: The Georgia Peach Awards will be handed out at a Word Weavers event next month and I am one-part judge and two-parts overseer of the judges. If I've learned anything from judging and overseeing it's this: some authors are ready for contests, some are not, and some are ready with their work but not ready when it comes to how to send it. For example, why would you include Track Changes from a previous edit or from an accountability partner? Why would you not make sure all your words are spelled correctly? I can overlook the occasional typo, but when a work is filled with them, I find that my mind has left the work and is now focused on the mistakes. #6: Word Weavers President Hat: As president of , I spend the first of every month going over the month's new members, those who have lapsed in membership, entering membership dues, writing checks, following up on emails, etc. One of the most important things I do, I believe, is my constant search for educational tools for our members, which has reached nearly 600. I also had some tax questions that needed answering this week, so I notified our CPA and also talked with Mark Hancock, our vice president. #7: Student Hat. Yes, I'm still in school. Nearly done with another degree ... hanging in there. I'm currently taking a class on the book of Hebrews.  #8: Reading Hat: I'm currently reading "" by Francis Chan ... and loving it. He has a that go with the chapters; I'm enjoying those as well. For fiction, I'm enjoying 's "." Wonderful retelling of the story of Ruth and Boaz. #9: Private Life Hat: Huggy Hubby and I watched this week (mostly on Friday). I cannot say enough about this movie. There you have it. A portion of my week. So ... what do you all week?

About fourteen months ago, I announced that I had a little more than a year before my 60th birthday. I declared I'd be SENSATIONAL BY SIXTY. I also stated that I had certain accomplishments I hoped to achieve. One of the first things I did was begin walking a designed program. To walk sixty miles a month (on average), I figured, I would need to walk about 2.5 miles most days of the week. I knew better than to start out there. I'd been an inside walker for years (the treadmill ... ) but hadn't done a serious outside walking program for the longest of times. Now, with my new plan, I knew I needed accountability. That's when I noticed my new neighbor (we'd recently moved) walked every day. So, one afternoon after spotting her outside, I asked if she walked daily and if she'd like a walking buddy."Sure," Joan said. "But I can't walk far.""Not far" meant that she walked about a mile.Understand, this was June of last year and most evenings the temperature managed to dip down to a chilling 90 degrees. A mile in that kind of weather was about all I thought I could handle. And so we started out ... one mile a day except two evenings a week. During one of those evenings I lead a Bible study and during the other Joan has a commitment. (On her "commitment" night I walk with another neighbor, a wonderful woman named Donna.)Little by little, our one mile became a mile and a half, then two and then two and a half. We left our cul de sac at about 7:00 (during the summer, 5:00 during the winter) and returned 45 minutes later, two wrung out puddles. My Irish skin didn't lose it's red glow for an hour, and that was even after a cold shower!By December I had a problem. I knew in my head that I was 59.5, but in my heart I was still a young girl who didn't need to stretch properly before walking. So ... I developed a heel spur. A big one. A painful one. One that eventually required a shot in the heel and about a week of rest. Now Joan and I walk two miles a day (except Bible study night and her commitment night when I walk with Donna...)I've lost about ten pounds, went down one size, but otherwise I've leveled out when it comes to weight loss. Not that weight loss was the point. Part of being sensational by sixty is becoming healthy, both physically and mentally. And so I have. Sixty, here I come! 

I found myself bothered. Not only by the actions of others, but by the thoughts from my own mind. All the while, this verse from the psalmist kept ruminating through my heart, calling me to attention. Then I thought about the verse of Scripture that tells us of the night Jesus was betrayed, Peter's mouth, it says, got the better of him. "He called down curses," the Word declares. I don't know the man!Matthew's version of the events do not give us the exact words of Peter's tirade. There is no need. Why put that kind of language into the hearts and minds of the reader? Why say, "This is okay to write, just don't say it." Or, "This is okay to say, just don't write it."Either way, I'm struggling with lack of conviction. Not only in others, but also in whatever areas of my life need a little fine-tuning. So today I have allowed what I consider to be the unnecessary shortcomings of one to shine a spotlight on the "less than stellar" areas in my own life. Let the words of my mouth AND the meditation of my heart ... wrote David."Out of the mouth the heart speaks ..." the Master Teacher said. In other words, whatever you allow to stir in the pot of your heart (and mind) will eventually come out of your mouth. Father, help me ... help me to keep my thoughts (my heart) in the right place. Help me to meditate on Your Word, Your truth, Your way. Keep me ever mindful that while men can hear the words of my mouth, You hear the thoughts of my heart. Amen. 

I snapped this photo a few years back while in my hometown during another holiday, Christmas. Notice the two Napoleon 12-pounder cannons from the Civil War days surrounding our flag. Screven County has kept them in excellent shape, and as a tribute--I suppose--to the sadness of war. (And yes, Sherman marched through, but no, he didn't burn the town to the ground.)War is that thing we fight when we stand on opposing sides. When we desire to be heard above all the other voices shouting into the fray. When we request our freedom and are denied. I cannot help but wonder how many Americans really understand the price paid for the freedoms we now experience. Or why it was so important in the first place. We take the day off from work, we roast our hot dogs and grill our burgers, we drink our sodas and beer, we cruise lazily up and down the river, and watch fireworks displayed in the blue-black sky after 9:00. But do we really understand the price? Do we have so much as a clue?I'd rather think not ...So take a moment this holiday and read a little about the war that led to this day. Read articles, about Washington's daring last move. Or watch a documentary on the Revolutionary War. Yes, yes. Enjoy your day off and your fireworks, but stop long enough to thank the men (and women) who paid the ultimate price for your right to do so.