Jennifer L. Wright's Blog, page 10

The Most Loving “No”

My son hates math.

And I totally get it. I do too.

But the weird thing is, as much he hates it, he’s actually fairly good at it. When he tries.

And therein lies the problem–most of the time, he simply doesn’t want to try. Let me give an example of a typical afternoon in our home:

After picking the kids up from school, they are allowed thirty minutes of screen time and a snack as a kind of “wind down” period before starting homework. Then, I leave my son to his homework–almost always math–while I sit down and work on reading and verse memorization with my daughter, who is younger and needs a bit more guidance. Once I finish with her, I return to my son to check in on his progress and see if he needs any help. More often than not, I discover he hasn’t even started.

“It’s just too hard,” he’ll say. “I don’t get it. I need your help.”

To which I will take a deep, “help me, Jesus” kind of breath and look over the problems, explain how to find the answer, and once again leave him to it…during which he will, inevitably, have a break down.

Because, you see, he doesn’t actually want my help doing his math homework. He wants me to do his math homework.

“But you understand it,” he’ll whine. “You know how to do it and you know the answers. I don’t get why you won’t just do it for me. You’re so mean!”

In my eleven year-old’s mind, I had the knowledge to do what he was asking. I also had the power. So the fact that I was choosing not to made me downright cruel. I believe I even achieved “the worst mom in the world” status once or twice.

Now, if you’re a parent (or even if you’re not), it’s easy to see why I’m not doing my son’s homework for him, right? Because the whole point of math is class is so he can learn math. If I were to do the work for him, he may get a passing grade, but he would not acquire any of the knowledge he was supposed to be gaining. I love my son, and I want what’s best for him, naturally. But, when it comes to math homework, loving my son means not giving him his immediate wants (i.e. finished homework); it means saying no because what I truly want for him is to learn math and be successful in life.

Makes sense, right?

But, if we can understand this on a human level, why can’t we understand this with God?

You see, God always answers our prayers. It’s just that, sometimes, that answer is “no.” And this is where faith must come in.

When God tells me no, am I going to respond like an eleven-year old? Am I going to stomp around and declare Him “the meanest God in the world?” Or, worse, give up my belief in Him simply because He didn’t give me what I wanted in the moment? Sadly, there are some people who do. And, even though I like to consider myself a little bit more mature than my kids, sometimes what I do is even worse. I may still call myself a Christian, go to church, sing the songs, and perform all the emotions but really…I’m throwing my tantrum on the inside.

I’m sulking. Pouting. Definitely not praying or seeking any kind of meaningful relationship with Him. Because I’m mad. And, because even if I don’t dare say it, I think He’s mean for not giving me what I wanted.

When I’m tempted to do this (and it happens more times than I care to admit), I think back to the story of the leper in Mark 1. Starting in verse 39 we read:

“He [Jesus] went into all of Galilee, preaching in their synagogues and driving out demons. Then a man with leprosy came to him and, on his knees, begged him: ‘If you are willing, you can make me clean.'”

There’s more to the story, of course, but I want to pause here because the leper makes such a powerful statement:

“If you are willing…”

The leper recognized that Jesus had the power to heal him. He had faith that He could do exactly what he asked. But he also understood that it was Jesus’s choice whether to answer his request or not. In those few simple words–“if you are willing”–this humble leper showed just how much he trusted Jesus; he made his plea known, yes, but he also ceded that what Jesus wanted was much more important than what he himself wanted.

When I sulk, pout, or throw a fit over a “no” answered prayer, am I displaying this same kind of humility?

Not in the slightest.

In fact, I’m displaying the exact opposite: arrogance. I’m assuming that I’m right in my wants and that God, therefore, is wrong in denying them.

Now, don’t mis-hear me here: I’m not saying that it’s wrong to want certain things. It’s never a bad thing to pray for things like healing, restoration, or revival. These are all wonderful, important things to ask our Heavenly Father for. I believe God is powerful enough to fulfill every single one of these types of petitions.

But, even for things like these, God sometimes answers no.

And we, and we alone, are responsible for how we will choose to respond to that answer.

When we are let down by the response to our prayers, we must choose to lean into what we know to be true of who God is: He is loving. He is kind. He is merciful and good, always wanting what’s best for His children. It’s only by doing this that we can be assured that any “no” answer is only because God has something even better in line for us.

There may come some disappointment first. Even some pain (just ask my son whose fight over fractions is more excruciating than a root canal, apparently). But, in the end, there is always beauty. Always grace. Always God.

Our friend the leper back in Mark 1 was blessed enough to receive exactly what he asked for.

“Moved with compassion, Jesus reached out his hand and touched him. ‘I am willing,’ he told him. ‘Be made clean.’ Immediately the leprosy left him, and he was made clean.” (Mark 1: 41-42)

Boy, do I love to hear about those moments of Jesus’s miraculous touch. I’ve experienced a few in my life, as well.

But those moments of refusal can be just as sweet if we humbly remember just to whom we are making our petition.

Jesus. The one who bled for us. Died for us. Saved us.

If He left nothing back for Himself, giving us all, can we trust that His love for us is real? And, much like we do as parents, can we accept that loving us sometimes means telling us “no”?

The Original, Horrific, True Crime Documentary

We Americans love our true crime stories. There’s something fascinating about the macabre, and the media has taken notice, supplying a steady diet of books, podcasts, Netflix documentaries, and Dateline episodes. And, while the phenomenon may have exploded in recent years, it’s highly a “new” form of entertainment.

All the way back in the 1930’s, the kidnapping and murder of a young child from his crib set off a nation-wide man-hunt…and obsession that still lingers to this day.

In 1927, Charles Lindbergh became the first person to fly solo across the Atlantic Ocean without taking a single stop, guiding his single-engine plane from New York to Paris and his name into the history books. By the early 1930’s, Lindbergh was considered an American hero, admiration and renown for the aviator having spread throughout the country as a source of a national pride.

But on March 1, 1932, his name became synonymous with a different kind of fame. As Charles and his wife Anne relaxed downstairs in their Hopewell, New Jersey home, their infant son, Charles Augustus Limbergh Jr., was taken from his crib. His absence was discovered around 10 pm, when the child’s nurse went to check on him. A window next to the crib had been left open, and a crude ransom note was left on the windowsill.

Dear Sir,

Have 50,000$ redy 25000$ in 20$ bills 15000$ in 10$ bills and 10000$ in 5$ bills. After 2-4 days will inform you were to deliver the Mony.

We warn you for making anyding public or for notify the Polise the child is in gut care.

Indication for all letters are singnature and 3 holds.

Despite the note, a broken ladder, and footprints on the ground beneath the nursery window, police were unable to secure any solid leaders on the kidnapper or the infant before word spread; Hearst’s International News Service produced an unprecedented 50,000 words within the first 24 hours of the child’s abduction. Soon, hundreds of journalists and curious neighbors descended on the Lindbergh residence, effectively destroying the crime scene.

As time passed, the only leads that poured in were the ransom notes Lindbergh continued to receive from the kidnapper. Five days after the abduction, he received one upping the monetary demand to $70,000. Another one insisted Lindbergh use no intermediaries to carry out the exchange. Fearing the plot was a result of some kind of mob extortion attempt, Lindbergh ignored the demand and enlisted the help of Dr. John F. Condon to negotiate for him; Condon, therefore, took out an ad in the local newspaper, offering an extra $1,000 if the kidnapper agreed to allow him as a go-between. A fourth letter confirmed the kidnapper agreed.

“The communications soon became an exhausting wild-goose chase,” said Jordan Zakarin of Biography, “with more notes indicating where to find other notes and, at one point, the kidnapper producing a piece of young Charlie’s clothing to prove that they weren’t just opportunistic liars. Finally, after a series of in-person meetings in an upper Manhattan cemetery and letter exchanges that took them to the twelfth ransom note and brought the price down to $50,000, Condon handed over the cash and was told that the baby could be found in Martha’s Vineyard on a boat called the ‘Nellie.'”

A happy ending, however, was not to be had.

On May 12, 1932, the body of Charles Jr. was found, badly decimated, along a highway near Lindbergh’s estate.

A German immigrant named Bruno Richard Hauptmann was eventually arrested for the crime. When his trial date finally arrived in 1935, the media–and the public–had lost none of its thirst for details. A record 700 reporters rushed to Flemington, New Jersey, where the trial was to be held. Despite cameras not being allowed to film the proceedings, five newsreel companies — Fox Movietone, Hearst Metrotone, Paramount News, Pathé News and Universal Newsreel — camped out outside the courthouse with over 100 men, 50 cameras and 35 sound trucks. At each day’s conclusion, they would re-enact moments from inside the courthouse and put the news in local cinemas, where people would pack in for the latest updates.

The emotional trial lasted six weeks, with Hauptmann maintaining his innocence, and an insatiable public hung on every single word relayed from the media. Hauptmann was eventually found guilty and executed by the state of New Jersey in 1936.

Though the trial was over, the public’s appetite was far from satisfied. True crime would soon become a staple of print, radio, and screen for years to come.

Choose Joy

Mother Teresa once said that “the best way to show our gratitude to God is to accept everything with joy. Never let anything fill you with sorrow that forget the joy of Christ risen.”

This sentiment seems in direct opposition to our culture’s mantra today. Our world doesn’t believe in choosing joy; instead, it demands that we seek it.

Not happy in your job? Quit (oh, and don’t forget to blast your employer on social media while you’re at it). Not happy in your marriage? Leave your spouse and find another one. Or, better yet, remain single and “free”–that’s where happiness really lies. Not happy with your house, your car, your clothes, or your tech? Go into debt to buy new ones.

Joy is something to be found, so long as we “follow our hearts” and do whatever it is our flesh desires in the moment.

Unfortunately, what our flesh desires changes from day to day, hour to hour, minute by minute. That exciting new relationship we leave our spouse for….will soon become old and stale. That fancy new house we had to have….will soon need updates and repairs. That cool new phone we needed in order to keep up with the Jones…will soon be replaced with a newer model.

If we choose to live a life constantly seeking joy, we will forever and always be dissatisfied.

Instead, we must determine to live a life choosing joy instead. No matter the circumstance, hardship, or situation, true, lasting choice is matter of determination. But, thankfully, it’s not a matter of determination that lies in our own strength.

“I know what it is to be in need,” Paul writes in Philippians 4: 12-13, “and I know what it is to be in plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do everything through him who gives me strength.”

People often quote verse 13 as a way to bolster their confidence in doing one thing or another and, while that’s all well and good (Scripture is meant as an encouragement!) we must read the verses preceding it to understand what Paul was truly meaning. What was the “everything” he could do through the strength of Christ? “Being content in any and every situation.”

Being content. Imbued with peace. Choosing joy. In “any and every situation.”

Because of the strength of Jesus Christ.

When we become followers of Jesus, he sends to us the indwelling of the Holy Spirit, giving to us the power to “choose joy” in all circumstances…because we know our lives–and everything in them–is temporary. Our true home is waiting for us in heaven. Therefore, we don’t have to rush around, searching for the next earthly thing to fulfill us and, hopefully, finally make us happy. Because our happiness comes from accepting the work of Christ on the cross. From know who we are…and whose we are. From having a perspective about this life that can only come from having an eternal one.

But what does “choosing joy” really look like, especially in a world as broken as ours? Because even if we learn to be content in our jobs, our marriages, our financial situations, we can’t escape the reality of evil, suffering, and hardships all around. How can we choose joy in the midst of war, school shootings, and rampant sin?

Mother Teresa had a thought about that too. And, you must remember, this wasn’t just lip service. Mother Teresa worked in the poorest, most destitute areas of Calcutta during her time on earth; she witnessed unspeakable poverty, death, and degradation daily. And yet she claimed that “being happy in Jesus means loving as he loves, helping as helps, giving as he gives, serving as he serves, rescuing as he rescues, being with him twenty-four hours, touching him in his distressing disguise.”

You see, seeking joy is all about ourselves; choosing joy is all about others. When we take the focus off ourselves and onto serving others the way Jesus serves, those fleeting things our flesh claim will make us “happy” seem to fade in the background. When we discover that, through Christ, we can meet the needs of those around us–in whatever way, big or small–we find a joy that is incomparable to any material possession. Although it sounds counter-intuitive to the “truths” of our present culture, its only when we no longer seek our own happiness that we will finally, truly find it.

Choose joy, friends. Choose Jesus.

The Hero’s–or Villain’s–Escape

In late April 1881, Sheriff Pat Garrett was called away from Lincoln to collect taxes in the nearby settlement of White Oaks.

He didn’t want the assignment. Didn’t trust it. He had a notorious outlaw in his jail at the moment, and it wouldn’t do to be out-of-town even for a minute, given this particular criminal’s reputation for violence and trickery. But, unfortunately, the life of an old west sheriff was often more mundane than dime-store novels made it out to be, and Garrett acquiesced to his duty, leaving the prisoner shackled inside the courthouse holding room, under the guard of his two best deputies, Deputy James Bell and Deputy Robert Olinger.

Surely Billy the Kid would be secure under their watch. Right?

As Pat Garrett rode away, he had no idea April 28, 1881 would go down in history and make Billy the Kid a legend among the annals of the New Mexico territory.

The story of Billy Bonney, alias Billy Antrim, alias Billy the Kid, are as wide and wild as the desert southwest itself. There are hundreds of books and websites dedicated to his tale, and every single one of them gives a different account of the events of that late spring day. However, there are a few threads that remain the same no matter who is telling the story.

Billy had been arrested in December of 1880, several years after the Lincoln County War, a skirmish that started out as a rustling battle between two rival cattlemen that elevated into bloodshed. It’s a complicated conflict, with neither side necessarily being the “white hats” in every situation, made even murkier by contradictory badges bestowed by varying authorities. Each side, then, believed themselves to be on the side of the “law” and acting within their jurisdiction at every turn. It’s widely accepted that Billy the Kid did indeed kill several men, including former Lincoln County Sheriff William Brady, though whether or not he was guilty of actual murder depends on who you talk to.

Nevertheless, by late 1880, the tides of politics had turned enough that Billy found himself firmly on the opposite side of the law, arrested, and soon imprisoned under the sentence of death inside the Lincoln County Jail. By all accounts, Deputy Bell was kind to Billy, often playing cards or gambling with him to pass the time. Olinger, on the other hand, was described as harsh and cruel, the two of them being old enemies from the Lincoln County War days; he’d been implicated in several killings before his deputy days, and even his own mother described him as “murderer from the cradle.”

Whatever the case, it was these two men assigned to guard Billy while Garrett was away and what’s known is this: Olinger took several prisoners across the street to the Wortley Hotel for a meal, leaving Bell alone with the Kid. During the ensuing time, Deputy Bell was shot. Some accounts have Billy asking Bell to take him to the outhouse behind the jail, slipping his shackles off during the return (Billy was known for having very small wrists), hitting Bell over the head with them, and then shooting him when he tried to flee down the stairs. Other accounts have Bell and Billy playing a game of monte. When Bell bent to retrieve a card Billy had intentionally knocked onto the ground, Billy used the opportunity to grab his six-shooter and, again, shoot him as he attempted to flee. Still other accounts maintain Billy had liked Bell and hadn’t meant to shoot him at all; his death was the result of a ricochet shot used to scare him into stopping his flight.

Whatever the case, Bell soon lay dead at the bottom of the staircase, his body lying half out the open doorway into the courtyard.

Alerted by the sound of gunfire, Olinger rushed out of the Wortley while Billy moved into Pat Garrett’s office and grabbed the loaded shotgun Olinger had left behind (the one, according to some accounts, Olinger had threatened to use to kill Billy). Waiting in a northeast corner window, Billy watched Olinger cross the street and open the gate. A cook, yelling from the backyard, called out, “Bob, the Kid has killed Bell!” The most dramatic of the accounts has Olinger spying Billy in the window and replying, “Yes, and he’s killed me too,” before Billy unloaded the buckshot into Olinger’s face and chest. (But, again, as with all stories surrounding Billy’s exploits, we can’t be sure the exchange ever really happened.)

What we do know is that Olinger was indeed shot dead and Billy did manage to free himself from his shackles enough to steal a horse and ride out of town without any attempt whatsoever from the townsfolk at re-apprehension. Some say it was because Lincoln revered him; others, because they feared him. Whatever the true sentiment may have been, it remains a historical fact that Billy the Kid lived to ride another day, until he was gunned down in the dark at Fort Sumner by Pat Garrett on the night of July 14, 1881.

Or was he?

Ah, but that particular story, is a rabbit hole for another time…

I Need Help

So, I have a little problem.

Okay, it might be a big problem.

My problem is that I *hate* asking for help. (Please, can I get a few ‘amens’ from the peanut gallery here so I know I’m not alone?) My father was a typical, burly Midwestern “man’s man,” and he raised his daughters to always seek the path of self-sufficiency. “We can do it all, and we can do it alone” might as well have been our family motto. And while there’s nothing wrong with encouraging young people to take care of themselves (that is the goal of parenting, after all), as usual, my brain (and my heart) took this message to the extreme. 2 + 2 must equal 4, right? So, in my mind, if being self-sufficient was good, then that must mean that reliance on anyone else is bad.

That, unfortunately, was the message I took away from my father’s lessons. And it is a misconstrued and misunderstood sentiment that has haunted me my entire adult life.

Now, when I was a single girl, living on my own, it wasn’t that big of a deal. I had to rely on myself because myself was all I had at the time. But, once I got married, it was a different story. I had a partner now, a helpmate specifically designed by God to “do life with.” And, while I adored my husband, I refused to let him help me.

With anything.

This all came to a head one day a few years ago when I was trying to re-arrange some furniture in our home. We had just had a baby, and our old layout wasn’t exactly “baby proof” enough for a child who was getting more and more mobile by the minute. Now, moving furniture around a hard enough task for anyone, but especially for someone who had only given birth a few months prior. M husband was out for the day, but I wanted the house re-arranged now.

I didn’t need him anyway. I could do it all myself.

And I did. For the most part.

Until I got to the wine rack.

The rack itself wasn’t particularly heavy, but it was big and bulky. Much too big and bulky for this 5’3″ frame. My body was incapable of moving it simply because, physically, I was much too small. Mentally, however, I was determined to do it one way or another.

I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what happened next. Of course I tried to move it, and of course I couldn’t do it and of course the cabinet tipped and of course wine bottles shattered all over the floor, destroying several priceless bottles we’d purchased in Europe and were saving for my husband’s retirement.

It took hours to clean up all that wine. Much more time than if I’d simply waited a little longer for my husband to return home and assist me in moving the rack.

Which is, of course, exactly what he asked me when he finally did come home. Why didn’t I wait? He would have gladly helped me.

It wasn’t necessarily that I didn’t want to wait (although that was part of the problem). It was that I wanted to prove I didn’t need his help. I wanted to do it all on my own.

It took staring at my husband’s bewildered face (and the puddles of red wine still oozing into the ruined grout) to finally awaken my soul to truth: what I wasn’t doing wasn’t being self-sufficient; instead, I was merely being prideful.

You see, there is nothing wrong with self-sufficiency. Growing your own healthy food, knowing how to change your own tire, keeping your home neat and tidy–those are all hallmarks of maturity and responsibility. They are being good stewards of your time and possessions, taking care of yourself in an effort to gain the skills and knowledge necessary to bless others.

Pride, on the other hand, is different. Pride is self-sufficiency done, not for the sake of self-care, but out of a desire to elevate your own sense of self-importance at the sacrifice of others. It is not only building yourself up, but putting others down by denying their worth and value in your life.

This pride masked as self-sufficiency has been a major obstacle I’ve had to work through in my marriage. It’s also been a huge hinderance in my relationship with God.

One of the first steps towards true intimacy with our Savior comes from recognizes our need for one. There are many things in life I may be able to do on my own…but I cannot reconcile myself to God. I cannot redeem myself. And I certainly cannot save myself.

Only Jesus can do that.

And I can only have an authentic and meaningful relationship with Him when I come to full understanding of just how helpless I really am.

We all have a longing for God, whether we recognize it or not, and a desire for a place not of this world. But, since the Garden of Eden, we have sought to “do it ourselves.” Our forefathers ate the forbidden fruit in an attempt to be like God. Because, if we were like God, we wouldn’t need God, right? Centuries later, men attempted to build a tower that would take them heaven–without the assistance of God–before God confused their language and scattered them around the earth. Even when God finally gave us the Law, showing us pathways to live a holy life, we couldn’t do it. Men tried. They pretended. They even added other things to the law, thinking more rituals and rules would bring us closer to heaven.

And still, we just couldn’t do it.

So God did it Himself.

The beauty of God’s gift was that most of us never even asked for a Savior. Knowing the pride and depravity in our human hearts, God sacrificed His one and only Son for us without us ever even asking for help. Because He knew what we needed, even if we didn’t. He understood our helplessness even when we were too prideful to admit it.

And, to me, I believe that’s the most awe-inspiring aspect of salvation. Salvation comes, not because of anything we do, but because of what Jesus has already one. We receive salvation through His actions when we bow our heads in reverence and pray for His presence in our hearts in lives, accepting His gift and His Lordship. When we have faith that what He’s done is enough; we can’t add anything to it. And that simple faithful prayer is the most powerful act we can ever do.

It is an act of surrender. More than that, it is an act of pure and simply helplessness.

When we finally stop trying to “do it all ourselves” in our relationship with God, we open the door to His amazing power. When we admit we need help, it frees us from the bondage of pride and shows us just how glorious true humility can be.

Yes, I can admit now that I need help. But Jesus doesn’t. He needs only access to our hearts.

The Untold Story of Lincoln’s…Kidnapping?

We all know the story:

On April 14, 1865, less than five days after General Robert E. Lee surrendered at Appomattox effectively ending the Civil War, John Wilkes Booth, a stalwart Confederate, shot President Abraham Lincoln as he and his guests watched a performance of Our American Cousin inside Ford’s Theater. The president died the next day; Booth, after twelve days on the run, was also eventually shot and killed. The event plunged the nation into despair and threatened to unravel the delicate peace needed by the country to rebuild and restore.

It’s one of the most basic, and horrific, stories from American history, forever altering this country’s landscape.

But, did you know, for all the pictures painting Booth as a nefarious, evil villain (and not all unjustly), assassinating Lincoln was not his original plan?

In 1864, General Ulysses S. Grant had stopped all prisoner exchange between the Union and the Confederacy in an attempt to decrease the Confederacy’s military capability. The Confederacy did not have as much man-power as the Union, and withholding prisoners further hindered that number, hurting their cause substantially. Booth, a die-hard Confederate loyalist, found the situation abhorrent. And he had a plan to do something about it.

“We cannot spare one man,” he wrote in a letter to fellow sympathizer John Surratt, “whereas the United States government is willing to let their own soldiers remain in our prisons because she has no need of the men. I have a proposition to submit to you, which I think if we can carry out will bring about the desired exchange.”

His plan? Kidnap President Lincoln and use him as the catalyst for exchange of Confederate prisoners.

He and a group of six other men (Surratt, Samuel Arnold, George A. Atzerodt, Michael O’Laughlin, David E. Herold and Lewis Powell (Payne)) began to devise ways in order to carry out their idea. One notion was to capture Lincoln while he was watching a play in Ford’s Theater. They would kidnap the President in his box, lower him onto the stage, and carry him out of the theater. Another was to capture the President while he was traveling to the Soldiers’ Home, Lincoln’s main residence during the hot summer months, to get to which he had to travel through several miles of rural areas with little to no protection.

But as the men were planning, a new opportunity presented itself: on March 17, 1865, the President would be going to the Campbell Military Hospital to see a play.

Seeing this as their chance, the men quickly met at a nearby restaurant to iron out the details. They would stop the carriage as Lincoln returned home after the play, overpowering the President and his driver. Both men would be handcuffed and taken across the Potomac River through Southern Maryland, where they would be held until the agreed upon prisoner exchange could be achieved. Booth, they decided, would head the hospital beforehand, just to make sure everything was on schedule for the heist.

After the meeting, the men scattered, each to their assigned positions. Booth, as planned, went on ahead to the hospital. To his frustration, he discovered Lincoln was not there.

The President, as it turned out, had changed plans. He was attending a ceremony at the National Hotel instead.

The failed escapade was the proverbial nail in the coffin for the group of conspirators. Convinced they could not continue to meet for much longer without being discovered by the authorities, the men disbanded. The plot to kidnap Lincoln–and save their beloved Confederacy–was a lost cause.

To all of them but John Wilkes Booth.

Rather than feeling defeated, the group’s lack of success only fueled Booth’s rage. His hatred was further intensified by the South’s surrender in early April. The fighting stopped. A kidnapping would solve nothing. There would be no more need of a prisoner exchange.

The war had ended.

But that didn’t mean it was over.

“My love (as things stand to-day) is for the South alone,” Booth wrote in a letter to his brother. And for that love, Lincoln, a “man to whom she owes so much misery” had to pay.

Permanently.

Happy Easter!

There is no #historyfriday post this week to allow me to spend this Holy weekend with my family. Regularly scheduled posts will return next week.

Happy Easter, friends! It may be Friday…but Sunday is coming!

Is It Worth It?

Following Jesus is hard.

Even as an adult Christian, I find a life of obedience extremely difficult at times, especially considering our present culture. There are times I just want to fit in, to do the things everyone else is doing without having to wrestle with a moral dilemma. I’m in my forties; you’d think I’d have moved past the whole “popularity contest,” but I have to be honest: sometimes I just want everyone to like me. And choosing God’s ways over the ways of the world isn’t exactly a sure fire way to make that happen.

If it’s that hard for me, with all my age and maturity and wisdom (I hope you’re catching the sarcasm here), imagine how hard it is our for children.

I got a first-hand glimpse of it a few weeks ago. My son is in the pre-teen stage. He’s past the age of cute Bible stories and fun Jesus songs. He’s starting to ask questions, to grapple with this whole “faith” thing on his own, rather than just taking our word for it. And that’s a good thing–we encourage questions and discussion, as both my husband and I believe the Bible can stand up to scrutiny. But it isn’t just the intellectual side of faith with which he’s grappling; it’s also the practical side.

For the most part, we’ve kept our children off social media but it’s inevitable, in this day and age, that they are going to be exposed to it in one way or another. And, as always, there is a particular internet challenge floating around that my son was told about at school. It isn’t terrible, as far as internet challenges go, but it isn’t exactly something someone who calls himself a Christian should participate in, either. And, though he normally ignores these types of things, this was the first one he felt pressured to participate in. Not by his peers, but by himself.

Everyone else was doing it, and it looked like fun. He wanted to fit in. He wanted to be included. He wanted to enjoyed himself.

The only thing holding him back, it seemed, was Jesus.

And, for the first time ever, my son began to worry if it was really worth it. Was being a Christian–following Jesus–really worth it? Was it worth feeling unliked and left-out? Was it worth missing out on the fun?

These may have been the questions pestering my eleven year-old, but I can bet (if you’re anything like me), you’ve wondered them at times too. After all, we live in the time of YOLO and FOMO; we have to live for the present moment, constantly seeking instant happiness and fulfillment, because the world tells us that’s the most important thing. No, not only the world–it’s what our flesh tells us is the most important thing.

And what Jesus tells us…is the exact opposite.

In Mark 8:34, Jesus “called the crowd to him along with his disciples and said: ‘If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross and follow me.”

Denying ourselves is in direct opposition to what the world tells us to do– in direct opposition to what we want to. I want to do what I want to do. “The heart wants what the hearts wants,” as our culture is so fond of saying. (Side note: if you really want to know just how depraved this sentiment is, google where it came from. Go ahead. I’ll wait.) Jesus tells us to deny ourselves because “the heart is deceitful above all things” (Jeremiah 17:9); our emotions and desires don’t always equal what’s best for us. Following Jesus does. And following Jesus sometimes means we have to deny all those other things to do it.

It’s a big command. One that requires daily, if not hourly, sacrifice, on our parts.

But is it even worth it?

The next verse gives us insight:

“For whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for me and for the gospel will save it.” (Mark 8: 35)

You see, no matter what we do in this life, the simple and painful truth is that all of us will eventually die. No matter how many trips you take, experiences you have, partners you keep, parties you throw–we will all end up in the grave. Period. You can spend every single day of this earth living out your YOLO or trying to quell your FOMO…but you are still eventually going to die. All of those things you have to “give up” in order to follow Jesus will eventually come to nothing. Because it. all. ends.

On the other hand, if you choose to live a life of denial, picking up your cross and laying down your wants, dreams, and desires as a sacrifice to Jesus, you will, in fact, end up saving your life. As a wonderful pastor of mine put it: “Salvation is free…but following Jesus will inevitably end up costing you something.” You may lose out on world experiences, momentary popularity, fleeting acceptance (all the hallmarks of a life well-lived, according to our flesh) but you will save your soul.

“…what can a man give in exchange for his soul? If anyone is ashamed of me and my words in this adulterous and wicked generation, the Son of Man will be ashamed of him when he comes in his Father’s glory with the holy angels.” (Mark 8:37-38).

So when it comes to the question of whether following Jesus is worth it, it all comes down to perspective: what do you value more?

Temporary fun…or eternal life?

Fleeting fame…or never-ending love?

Worldly acceptance…or a heavenly one?

Desires of the flesh…or peace in your soul?

We were made for another world, and our daily battles will never cease until we are at home with our Father where we belong. But as we struggle against culture, against the enemy, and even against ourselves, I pray truth will always win out.

And the truth is….that it will always and forever be worth it in the end.

You Can’t Escape the Grave

On March 24, 1874, a baby boy named Erik Weisz was born in Budapest, Hungary to Jewish rabbi Mayer Sámuel Weisz and Mayer Sámuel Weisz, the fourth child of what would eventually come to be a family of seven children. Seeking a better life, the family immigrated to America, arriving in New York on July 3, 1879 aboard the Fresia and later moving to Appleton, Wisconsin, where they eventually settled. In an attempt to “Americanize,” Rabbi Weisz changed the family name to Weiss and his son’s name to Erich. Life in America, however, wasn’t as the family had hoped. They struggled to make ends meet and moved from Appleton to Milwaukee and eventually back to New York City. In an attempt to help his family, Erich took on several jobs, including selling newspaper and shining shoes. At age nine, he began performing in vaudeville shows and even joined a local circus as a trapeze artist, billing himself as “Erich, the Prince of the Air.”

But something greater was calling.

Around this time, Erich and his brother Theo began studying magic. Performing mainly in dime theaters next to snake charmers and fire eaters, Erich began perfecting his craft and attempting to carve a niche in the entertainment world. The first thing he needed, he realized, was a stage name. Having just read an autobiography on French magician Jean-Eugene Robert-Houdin, Erich settled on the last name “Houdini,” erroneously believing that placing an “I” at the end of word meant “like” in French. For his first name, he settled on Harry, an adaption of “Ehri,” which was his family’s nickname for him.

Harry Houdini, then, was born.

What set Houdini apart from other magicians of the time was his uncanny and almost unnatural ability to escape any lock or enclosure. He could free himself from shackles, ropes, or handcuffs and extricate himself from everything from milk cans to coffins to prison cells. He and his wife Bess traveled from town to town, where he would challenge both police and spectators to bring their handcuffs and lock him up; he would, invariably and the astonishment of the crowd, be able to break free. Later, he even added straight-jackets to his routines, those seemingly escape-proof garments worn by mental patients in an effort to minimize self-harm.

After amazing crowds in America, Houdini and his wife traveled to Europe, where spectators in London and on the continent were equally as thrilled to watch his daring escapes. In fact, within a year, Houdini’s act was the most popular in Europe, selling out shows everywhere from Paris to Berlin. His time away, however, did nothing to lessen his appeal stateside. In order to continue to wow, he upped his antics, debuting tricks such as During this time, Houdini introduced his escape from a padlocked water can at the Columbia Theatre in St. Louis in January 1908, now known as the “Chinese Water Torture Cell” trick, where he was suspended from his ankles and submerged in water, and the “Vanishing Elephant,” where he seemingly made one of the massive animals disappear on stage at the New York Hippodrome. His tricks were becoming showier and riskier; though Harry’s impeccable skill and impressive strength made for great entertainment, his boldness–including a student in 1915 in which Houdini nearly suffocated after being shackled and buried under six feet of dirt–made many wonder just how many times the magician would be able to cheat death.

Which is perhaps why, when death finally did come for Harry Houdini, many found it so unbelievable.

On October 24, 1926, Houdini performed for a packed house at Detroit’s Garrick Theater. Witnessed reported the magician was feverish and groggy. He had to rely on his assistants to step in on several occasions. Even audience members noticed the showman seemed in a daze, missing several cues and seeming in a hurry to finish the performance. By the middle of the third act, Houdini accepted defeat, asking his assistant to lower to curtain, as he could no longer continue to show. At this point, it is reported, Houdini collapsed and had to be carried to his room. He was taken to the hospital, where doctors discovered a ruptured appendix. Despite emergency surgery, Harry passed away on October 31, with friends and family by his side.

The world’s strongest, quickest, and trickiest man brought down by….his appendix?

Fans and colleagues were shocked. But, it turns out, in his death, as in his life, there was more at play than what it originally seemed.

Houdini’s path to death actually started 20 days BEFORE his passing, on October 11, 1926. That night, during a performance of his famous “Chinese Water Torture Cell” trick in Albany, New York, Harry was struck on the leg by a piece of faulty equipment. Ever the showman, he hobbled his way through the rest of the show, but was later found to have sustained a fractured left ankle. Ignoring doctor’s orders for rest, Harry traveled to Montreal, where he gave a lecture at McGill University and, later, invited several McGill students to visit him in his dressing room before a show at the Princess Theater on October 22. The magician’s sore ankle was still bothering him, so he plopped down on a couch while the group chatted. At some point, a student named Jocelyn Gordon Whitehead asked Houdini if it was true that he could resist hard punches to his abdomen—a claim the magician had made often and publicly. According to witness Sam Smilovitz, when Houdini, while looking nonchalantly through his mail, said the rumors were true, Whitehead proceeded to deliver “four or five terribly forcible, deliberate, well-directed blows” (Smilovitz also described the hits as “hammer-like”) to his stomach. Another witness, student Jacques Price, said that Houdini winced after every hit and began gesturing to Whitehead to stop. Although Houdini had, in fact, been able to sustain serious blows to the stomach, in this particular instance, he remained reclined and had been unable to prepare himself for impact.

Although Harry continued with the performance that evening, he was in great pain. He was able to sleep and spiked a fever. Two days later, when he finally consented to see a doctor, it was discovered he was suffering from acute appendicitis. Again refusing doctor’s orders, Houdini continued with his planned performance; by the time he collapsed on stage, his appendix had already ruptured and poisoned his insides. There was no saving him. The official cause of death was listed as peritonitis caused by a ruptured appendix, which doctors firmly believed was the result of the punches from Whitehead.

But can an appendix really be ruptured from a blow to the stomach? Yes, but it’s exceedingly rare. More than exceedingly; in fact, extraordinarily. Doctors studying the phenomenon discovered less than a handful of cases in a twenty year period. But still, it does happen.

And yet, the mundane nature of death for such an exceptional showman was nothing if not a catalyst for conspiracies.

Many of the theories tend to focus on the magician’s contentious relationship with Spiritualism, a pseudo-religion whose adherents once claimed it was possible to communicate with the dead through séances and mediums. Houdini’s skepticism of the movement stemmed from his early days in magic. Not making enough to help make ends meet, Harry took a job with a traveling medicine show where he pretended to go into a trance and pass on messages from the dead. It was easy, he realized, to manipulate the grieving. In his later years, however, Harry felt so guilty about his participation in such scams that he decided to dedicate his time and energy to debunking false mediums and psychics. He attended seances in disguise, accompanied by reporters and police officers, intent on catching charlatans in the act, wrote a book about the exploits, A Magician Among Spirits, and even testified before Congress in support of a bill to outlaw fortune telling in Washington, D.C. The crusade earned him several million dollars’ worth of lawsuits–and more than a few enemies (including Sir Arthur Conan Doyle of Sherlock Holmes fame).

In their 2006 book, The Secret Life of Houdini, authors William Kalush and Larry Sloman contend that the magician’s death may have been a carefully planned assassination by members of the Spiritualist community. “If one were to suspect Houdini a victim of foul play,” they write, “then the section of organized crime that was composed of fraudulent spirit mediums must be considered likely suspects.” According to Kalush and Sloman, Spiritualists had a history of poisoning their enemies, and they note that no autopsy was ever performed to confirm that Houdini’s death was actually caused by appendicitis. Another book, 2005’s The Man Who Killed Houdini by Don Bell, put forth a theory that Whitehead, who delivered the supposed deadly blows, may have even been in league with the Spiritualists, acting as their “hit man” in the war against the magician.

So was Houdini, born this day in 1874, killed by his enemies or his own stubbornness? We may never know. But for a man who lived his life shrouded in illusion, perhaps it’s only fitting that his death remains that way, too.

When Prayer is Scary

Philip Yancey, the noted American author, writes in his book Prayer: Does It Make Any Difference that he considers prayer a “risky enterprise.”

It’s a jarring statement but one we should thoughtfully consider. As Christians, we have the luxury of “having God’s ear.” We have reassurances from Jesus Himself that, not only does God hear us, but He answers (see 1 John 5: 14-15). We’re told to pray steadfastly (Colossians 4:2), whether we are anxious (Philippians 4:6), too weak for words (Romans 8:26), or filled with thanksgiving (1 Thessalonians 5: 16-18). We are called to pray for our leaders (1 Timothy 2:1-4), our fellow believers (James 5:13-18), and even our enemies (Luke 6: 27-28). As we come to know God more and more through the act of prayer, we become more firmly rooted and assured of His goodness and mercy, His grace and love.

So what’s so risky about that?

Yancey wrote that as he prayed for others, he would often be convicted to do something about their needs. Sometimes, he said, we ask God for things we should be doing ourselves. Sometimes, we have to move from saying to doing.

And therein lies the risk.

I don’t take praying for others lightly. I firmly believe in the power of prayer and its importance in our faith life. However, let’s be honest–isn’t it a bit easy? We hear of someone’s struggle or see a heart-breaking story on the news, and it’s the easiest thing in the world for me to stop for a few minutes and lift the person and the situation up to God. Whether it be healing or restoration or peace, I murmur a few words to God–usually five to ten minutes max–and move on with my day. Don’t get me wrong; my prayers are authentic. My care is genuine. But my sacrifice?

Not so great.

Often times in prayer, we experience the tension between our words and our action. We know our physical, financial, social, emotional, and mental limitations; we understand we cannot meet every need, while our God certainly can. That’s why prayer is so wonderful. However, there are times when I’m praying for a particular person or situation, the Holy Spirit makes it abundantly clear to me that there is something I can do.

It’s a blessing to pray for that family who just welcomed a fourth new baby to their family. But I could also make them a meal or offer to baby-sit the other youngsters so mom and dad could have a much-needed rest.

It’s a honor to be able to pray for that woman whose marriage is crumbling. But I could also invite her over for coffee, join her on a hike, or take a class with her to lift her spirits and help her realize she’s not alone.

It’s a privilege to pray for a friend who just lost their job. But I could also use my connections to find out about available job openings in his field of expertise and maybe even set him up with an interview.

Sometimes, when we pray, the Holy Spirit reveals that we are the answer to that prayer.

And that’s scary. It’s scary to get involved. It’s risky to willingly wade into someone else’s mess. I don’t know about you, but I was always taught to “stay in my lane.” Don’t meddle, step on toes, or in any other way assert yourself into someone else’s business. It isn’t polite.

But it is, at times, necessary. Especially when God Himself is the one nudging you to act.

It might be uncomfortable, and it will most certainly take more than 5 or 10 minutes out of your day. It will mean stepping out of your strength and into the Holy Spirit’s. It will involve sacrifice. Time, money, resources, even simply emotional energy–there will always be a cost involved. But, for our prayers to be most effective, we must be open, not only to our petitions, but to God’s answers.

And sometimes that answer is you.

Or me.