Jennifer L. Wright's Blog, page 4

From Cradle to Grave

I admit sometimes, during this Christmas season, I can be a Grinch.

It’s not that I don’t like Christmas. I do. But sometimes I just get overwhelmed with the sheer busyness of it all. The shopping, the get-togethers, the school performances, not to mention the church events and community outreach activities. They are all worthy things, things I want to do (well, maybe not so much ALL of the holiday get-togethers), but as the calendar fills up and the bank account dwindles, I start to feel a little…empty. A little hard-hearted.

A little…Grinch-ish.

I can do my Advent reading, go to church, sing all the wonderful holiday hymns, and somehow still feel nothing. It’s the season of Emmanuel, God With Us, and yet it can sometimes seem as if God has never been further away.

And I was in one of those particularly melancholy moods the other day when God decided to stop me right in my tracks and prove to me just how very wrong I was.

I was at home, wrapping presents, feeling stressed about getting it done and getting these packages to the post office before the looming holiday deadline, in addition to needing to bake cookies for my daughter’s upcoming Christmas party. I wasn’t feeling particularly festive and no where near in the holiday spirit so I put on some Christmas music to try and shake me out of my funk.

The song “A Hallelujah Christmas” by Cloverton came on, which I’d heard a hundred times before and always enjoyed. It’s a remake of the old Leonard Cohen song “Hallelujah,” keeping the melody but replacing the words to celebrate Jesus’s birth. You can listen to it here if you’ve never heard it (which I highly encourage–it’s wonderful!)

Anyway, I’m singing along absentmindedly, not really letting the words sink in. Until, that is, the final verse started.

And my spirit absolutely stilled.

The lyrics go as follows:

“I know you came to rescue me.

This baby boy would grow to be

a man who would one day die for me and you.

My sins would drive the nails in you.

That rugged cross was my cross, too.

Still every breath you drew was hallelujah…”

You know how, in How The Grinch Stole Christmas, the Grinch’s small heart grew three sizes in one day? Well, this overburdened mama’s heart grew three sizes in the course of one verse. For no reason–and every reason–I fell to my knees and broke into tears. Desperate, uncontrollable sobs.

Because, as wonderful and joyous as it is to think of a precious, cherubic Baby Jesus entering the world this holiday season, it’s important to remember why. It wasn’t so we could put up a tree, sip eggnog, and look at holiday lights. It wasn’t so we could exchange gifts, bake cookies, or compare ugly sweaters.

That precious little baby we celebrate this Christmas season was born to die.

Those tiny hands would one day stretch out on a cross. Those tiny feet would one day be pierced. And that tiny heart would one day cease beating.

For me. And for you.

You cannot separate Christ’s birth from His death, the manager from the cross, Christmas from Easter. The whole point of the first was the latter. The only reason we celebrate one is because of the other.

It’s a sober and sombering thought, especially in a season filled with so much happiness and light. This time of year, we often only want to think of the joy of Jesus’s birth, not the horrific way in which He died (or our own role in making it happen). But the crucifixion is precisely what makes Christmas worth celebrating.

“For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him.” John 3: 16-17

Our salvation comes through the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, a salvation that could not have occurred if He hadn’t come to to earth in the first place.

“The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned. […] For to us a child is born, to us a son is given, and the government will be on his shoulders. And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. Of the greatness of his government and peace there will be no end. He will reign on David’s throne and over his kingdom, establishing and upholding it with justice and righteousness from that time on and forever. The zeal of the Lord Almighty will accomplish this.” Isaiah 9:2, 6-7

This is why we celebrate Christmas. It’s not the lights, the presents, the food, or the get-togethers. It’s the gift God gave us in Jesus Christ, God Made Flesh, come as a baby to live–and die–for the creation He loved. We can celebrate His birth, even knowing its painful end, because of the greater purpose for which it occurred: you and me, cleansed of our sins, one day living in eternity with God.

And, sometimes, that truth is the only thing that can break through this cold, Grinch-y heart of mine.

Will you accept His gift this Christmas season?

The Woman Who Escaped Twice

Harriet Tubman has become synonymous with the Underground Railroad, her numerous trips to guide slaves to freedom during the late 1800’s earning her the nickname “Moses.” But did you know that Tubman herself escaped from slavery, not once, but twice?

Harriet was born to enslaved parents in Maryland around the year 1822 (exact birth records are hard to come by for enslaved persons), the exact middle child of nine children: Linah, Mariah Ritty, Soph, Robert, Harriet, Ben, Rachel, Henry, and Moses. The family, unfortunately, like many of its kind, did not stay together for long. The three oldest daughters were soon sold and, soon, Harriet found herself playing the mother role to her younger siblings while her parents worked. When she was old enough, she was sent to work for her “masters,” taking jobs ranging from nursemaid to farmhand. She suffered diseases from the horrible working conditions as well as severe abuse from her overseers, even suffering a broken skull at one point which went untreated for two days, which caused her to suffer headaches and seizures for the rest of her life.

Through it all, however, Harriet remained strong in spirit, finding hope in her faith. But her frail physical health diminished her value to her owner, and he soon tried to sell her. When he died, the task fell to his wife. Fearing the further breakup of her family, Harriet and two of her brothers, Ben and Henry, successfully escaped on September 17, 1849.

It did not last long.

And not because they were caught, either.

Harriet’s brothers soon began to have second thoughts about their escape. Perhaps they feared life on the run or what would happen if they were captured. Or maybe they missed the family members they had left behind (Ben, for one, had a wife and children). Whatever the case, the trio returned to the plantation, the too-short taste of freedom bittersweet in their mouths.

Especially for Harriet.

Just a few short months later, on December 6, 1849, Harriet escaped again, this time without her brothers. Using the Underground Railroad for help, Harriet made it to Pennsylvania where, she vowed, she would not be enslaved again.

But neither could she sit back and allow others to be. After reaching Philadelphia, Harriet thought of her family. “I was a stranger in a strange land,” she said later. “[M]y father, my mother, my brothers, and sisters, and friends were [in Maryland]. But I was free, and they should be free.”

Beginning in 1850, Harriet began assisting other slaves in their search for freedom. When even the north became too dangerous, Harriet began helping ferry slaves all the way to Canada. rom 1851 to 1862, Harriet returned repeatedly to Maryland, rescuing some 70 slaves in about 13 expeditions, including her other brothers, Henry, Ben, and Robert, their wives and some of their children. In addition, she also provided specific instructions to 50 to 60 additional enslaved people who escaped.

One of her last missions into Maryland was to retrieve her aging parents. Her father purchased her mother from Eliza Brodess in 1855, but even when they were both free, the area was hostile. In 1857, Tubman received word that her father was at risk of arrest for harboring a group of eight people escaping slavery. She led her parents north to St. Catharines, Canada, where a community of formerly enslaved people, including other relatives and friends, had settled.

To this day, Harriet Tubman, the woman who escaped slavery twice–then continued to risk her freedom time and time again–remains a shining example of courage, selflessness, and hope.

Thanksgiving Break!

There will be no ‘History Friday’ post today or ‘Wellness Wednesday’ post next week in observance of Thanksgiving and to allow me time to spend with my family. I will return with a new post on December 6.

Happy Thanksgiving, friends! Be blessed!

Loosening My Grip

This might come as a surprise to some of you, but I am not a perfect person.

Shocker, right?

I love Jesus, and I am so thankful for my freedom in Him, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still struggle with sin. I can be short-tempered, and I have a penchant for over-reaction. Sometimes I have a hard time forgiving people when I’ve been hurt. I don’t always love my neighbor. And I certainly don’t always do the things the Holy Spirit tells me to do.

My biggest struggle, however, is with control.

I am a CONTROL. FREAK.

Yep, hardcore Type-A personality right here. In some ways, it’s a good thing. I am extremely organized and self-motivated, which are imperative skills for working mothers who are trying to juggle all the demands of their job and home. It’s also good for someone who works from home, without a boss always checking in on their progress. My home–my life–is, for the most part, neat and well-ordered.

Just the way I like it.

The problem is that I don’t live my life in a bubble. And no matter how hard I work to keep my life running smoothly, I will inevitably “bump up” against others who have different goals, ambitions, and ways of living than I do. And, try as I might, I cannot control other people.

Therein lies the issue.

So much of the anxiety and fear that I experience in my life comes from this impotence I have at not being able to control other people and/or every situation. And while anxiety and fear are not sins in themselves, the ROOT of them in this case is. Because, when it comes down to it, they are arising out of my lack of trust in God.

You see, my attempts at trying to control things around me come about because, deep down, I don’t trust anyone else to do it for me–not even God. I don’t trust that anyone else will put my interests first. Though I may never say it out loud, I believe I have to control the things around me because I want my way, and I know better than anyone, including God. I know best.

It’s a shameful thing to admit that level of pride. But it’s true.

And I believe I’m not alone in my struggle with this. Not today….and not thousands of years ago, either.

All the way back in Genesis, we see God’s call on Abram (later to be called Abraham): “…Go out from your land, your relatives, and your father’s house to the land that I will show you. I will make you into a great nation, I will bless you, I will make your name great, and you will be a blessing. I will bless those who bless you, I will curse anyone who treats you with contempt, and all the peoples on earth will be blessed through you” (Genesis 12: 1-3).

The interesting thing about these verses is that God doesn’t tell Abram, “Hey, go here” and then give exact GPS coordinates (because, well, there wasn’t any GPS!) No, He says, go “to the land I will show you.” This required tremendous trust on Abram’s part, to begin a journey without knowing the destination. I’m sure I’m projecting here, but I can’t help but wonder if Abram suffered from control issues too, and this was God’s way of walking him through it. Because, not only did Abram have God’s promises of blessing, he also had something else–the promise of God’s presence. If God was going to show him the way, then God was going to have to come along with him, right?

And that’s one of the things God has been trying to teach me as I wrestle with this sin of control: our God is way more interested in the journey than He is the destination.

We may not be on a physical expedition like Abram was, but all of us are on a trip through this life without any real sense of what each day will bring. If we trust in Jesus, we have assurance of our final destination, yes, but we don’t know exactly what this journey will look like. This can cause a lot of fear and anxiety….or it can be a lesson in trust. I can spend every moment trying to control the people and circumstances around me OR I can use it as an opportunity to surrender to the God who is walking right alongside me.

Just as God led Abram to where he was supposed to go, God is with each one of us, using the events of our lives to grow our faith and closeness to Him. If we knew where we were going and could control every single aspect of that path, what reason would we need for faith? What would be the point of faith?

Our God is a God of the journey. It’s where He patiently and lovingly walks beside us, teaching us. Growing us. Shaping us into His image. So long as we cede the illusion of control and allow Him.

I still struggle with control issues. There are times I can still feel myself clinging to my pride. But I also feel the gentle touch of my Heavenly Father loosening my grip on myself…and directing it onto Him.

He is so good, friends. So very, very good.

Beware the 8th of November

Beware the 8th of November might have been a sentiment to be heeded by one of history’s most evil men. As it turns out, the date was one of particular bad luck–or perhaps good–for none other than Adolph Hitler.

By November 1923, the Nazi Party, fueled by German unrest heightened by post World War-I reparations, had already begun making in-roads to power across the country. But for Adolph Hitler, the party’s ambitious leader, it wasn’t moving fast enough.

On November 8, 1923, inspired by Benito Mussolini’s successful March on Rome, Hitler attempted a coup (or putsch, in German), seeking to oust the weak, democratically elected government of the Weimar Republic and put himself and his fellow Nazis in charge. Using a small detachment of his SA troops, Hitler stormed into a Munich beer hall, the Bürgerbräukeller, where Gustav Ritter von Kahr, Staatskomissar (“state commissioner”) of the Republic, was making a speech in front of 3,000 people. He fired a shot into the ceiling and announced the national revolution had begun.

It was a night marked by chaos and confusion, as people struggled to figure out who was in charge and where their loyalties should lie. Clashes broke out throughout the city, leading to the deaths of both government and Nazi party adherents. Eventually, Hitler conceded defeat and fled the city. He was arrested only two days later and charged with high treason, a sentence that could have carried death. Several attending judges, however, were fiercely pro-Nazi, and Hitler escaped with a five -year sentence, of which he ultimately ended up serving only eight months.

Fast foward to 1939. Hitler is out of jail and now Chancellor of Germany, the Nazis are firmly in power, and the world is well on its way to becoming embroiled in a war, with Poland having been invaded in September of that year. The failed putsch of 1923 was not forgotten but was, instead, now an anniversary of somber commemoration to those fallen heroes who had sought, from the beginning, to materialize Hitler’s vision of a new Germany. As he did every year, Hitler marked the occasion with a speech to his followers. On this particular anniversary, Hitler was at the Bürgerbräukeller in Munich, once again regaling his most ardent supporters with his vision of the Fatherland.

What he didn’t know, however, was that not all were loyal to his cause.

Thirty-six year-old George Elser was a German carpenter who had become increasingly alarmed over the reckless violence propagated by Hitler and the Nazis. As early as 1938, he had begun plans to kill, not only Hitler, but also other leading members of the National Socialists, including Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring and Reich Minister of Propaganda Joseph Goebbels. He hoped this act would prevent the impending war and save countless lives. Remembering Hitler’s yearly trek to Munich to give a speech at the site of the failed putsch, he realized November 8 would be an opportune time to put his plan into action.

Finding the beer hall unguarded, Elser spent most of 1939 constructing an explosive device and detonator, as well as preparing a supporting pillar in the hall to conceal it. The mechanism was flawless. The timing was spot on.

But Hitler was unpredictable.

Just minutes before the bomb was to explode, the Chancellor, along with the party leaders who had accompanied him, unexpectedly left the beer hall. Seven people were killed and 63 were wounded when the bomb went off.

But none of them were Adolf Hitler.

The next day, the Nazi Party official paper, the Voelkischer Beobachter, placed the blame squarely on British secret agents, even implicating Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain himself. This work of propaganda was an attempt to stir up hatred for the British and whip the German people into a frenzy for war.

The only problem? Customs officers had already arrested Elser for carrying suspicious items as he was attempting to escape to Switzerland. After several days of interrogations in Munich, Elser confessed. He had done it, he said, on his own, without any assistance from any foreign government.

This was bad news for the Nazis. Here at the start of an attempted world takeover, it was absolutely imperative that they tamp down on any whiff of unrest or subterfuge within their own country. Therefore, the Nazis began propagating that Elser was a tool of British intelligence and planted the bomb on their behalf.

After years in solitary confinement, Georg Elser was murdered in Dachau concentration camp on April 9, 1945, only weeks before the end of the war. Even in defeat, the Nazis wanted to make sure the man’s true story would never be told.

Adolf Hitler ended up surviving six separate assassination attempts, ultimately taking his own life as the Allies approached Berlin.

I Have A Secret…

Halloween can be a tricky subject in Christian circles.

For every Christian who enjoys all things spooky this time of year, there are four more who tsk-tsk the celebration of the “devil’s day.”

Now, before we go any further, I want to clarify: it is completely fine if you and/or your family choose not to celebrate Halloween. I believe we all must listen to the prompting of the Holy Spirit in our lives and, using His guidance, make choices about what we will watch, eat, drink, or partake in. So please, please do not misunderstand me. If Halloween is just not something you “do”, that’s okay.

But I’m going to let you in on a little secret: Halloween is my favorite holiday.

There, I said. The cat is out of the bag.

I love Halloween.

Now, I realize that I may have just lost half of my Christian audience. But please, hear me out. Does Halloween have some pagan roots that do not line up with the Bible? Yep. And I agree that there are some practices and traditions this time of year that are downright demonic. But, when I talk about loving Halloween, I’m not talking about pulling out Ouija boards or dabbling in the occult. I’m talking about dressing up in costumes, carving pumpkins, and stealing the Reese’s out of my kids’ trick-or-treat bags.

Most of all, though, I’m talking about spending time with my neighbors.

I live in a military town and so the people around me are always in a state of flux. There is constant movement in and out of our neighborhood. Some people are here for 6 years, others only 6 months. It can be very hard to get to know people in such a short, always in motion time-frame.

Which is why Halloween is so wonderful.

Because we live in southern New Mexico, the weather usually hits peak perfection around the end of October. Therefore, most of the people in my neighborhood camp out in their driveways and pass out candy from large, pumpkin-shaped buckets. We live in cul-de-sac so we take it a step further–we drag a communal fire pit into the center of the cul-de-sac, pull out some lawn chairs and a bluetooth speaker, pool our candy stash, and make our circle a one-stop-shop for all the costumed kiddos that come for a visit. It’s a fantastic time to chat with old neighbors, meet new ones, and bond after a long hot summer where most of the neighborhood remains huddled inside their air-conditioned homes.

If I chose to retreat inside my home, close the blinds, and not participate in this yearly tradition, can you imagine the “God” opportunities I might be missing?

I could invite a new family who has just moved in to church. I could recommend some Christian books to a neighbor who brings up her TBR list. I could offer words of encouragement to that neighbor who mentions a struggle he/she is having. I could also–and this is my FAVORITE thing to do–put notes of truth inside every candy bag I pass out so I know that, if nothing else, each and every child comes away from my house with a note letting them know how much Jesus loves them (and candy of course…I never forget the candy!)

We all lead us busy, transient lives in my neighborhood, but Halloween is the one chance we have to come together as a community. And, for me, it’s the one chance I have at building relationships with people who might never have met (or wanted to meet) a Christian in real life. And, while I absolutely believe Jesus can do amazing things in people’s hearts without my intervention, I also know that I have the honor, privilege, and responsibility of partnering with Him to bring His kingdom to earth.

But it all has to start with connection. People may reject the Christianity they see online or hear about through gossip chains. But it’s a whole lot harder to reject it in the friend you made while roasting s’mores over a neighborhood fire pit.

And that’s why I love Halloween so much. The darkest night of the year is the perfect time to shine the light of Jesus.

It is right for Christians to be wise about what we participate in. In fact, the Bible calls us to use discernment regarding all of our choices. But we must remember that our God is a God who redeems. If He can bring the dead back to life, surely He can use a holiday with unsavory roots to bring people to Him (through us!). We don’t have to cower in fear, and we don’t have to be the neighborhood party poopers who turn away children simply looking for some candy. When someone tells me that Halloween is “devil’s day,” I am quick to respond: “The devil doesn’t get a day. They all belong to Jesus.”

And that includes Halloween.

So, if the Holy Spirit prompts you, get out there and be the light. Connect with your neighbors. Pass out full-size candy bars. Dress in your goofiest costume. Have fun. Spread joy.

Spread Jesus.

Just make sure you send all the Reese’s cups to me.

The Gothic Prison and Cries No Human Ear Can Hear

In 1822, construction began on a new structure outside of Philadelphia, on ten acres of elevated farmland known as Cherry Hill. Made of massive stone blocks, it would be, for a time, the largest and most expensive building in the United States. Architect John Haviland designed the building to resemble a gothic castle, saying he wanted it to “strike fear into…hearts”

Why?

Because Haviland was constructing a prison. And, not just any prison. It was the first of its kind specifically designed to incorporate an evolutionary system of incarceration, dubbed the “Pennsylvania system”, which encouraged “separate confinement” as a form of rehabilitation. By the time it opened on October 25, 1829, this new prison–dubbed “Eastern State”–consisted of 500 cells lining seven corridors, all of them designed to hold every single inmate in complete isolation.

Entrances to each cell consisted of a metal door layered with a heavy wooden door that filtered out the sights and sounds of other inmates. A single peephole allowed guards to see into the cells without being seen. The doors were so small, prisoners had to lean over to enter and exit. When they did leave (which was rare), their heads were wrapped with a hood to prevent any interaction. Although each cell was connected to an outside, individual area for exercise, it enclosed by high walls so prisoners could not communicate. Not that it really mattered; exercise time for each prisoner was synchronized so no two prisoners next to each other would be out at the same time. The warden was legally required to visit every inmate every day, and the overseers were mandated to see each inmate three times a day. As visits from friends and/or family were not permitted, these were the only instances of human contact most of the prisoners ever had.

Unless, of course, they were assigned to Cell Block 15. This area, reserved for the worst offenders, did not even see their guards.

When Charles Dickens toured the United States in 1842, he witnessed conditions here and wrote about it in his travelogue, “American Notes for General Circulation:”

“Looking down these dreary passages, the dull repose and quiet that prevails, is awful. Occasionally, there is a drowsy sound from some lone weaver’s shuttle, or shoemaker’s last, but it is stifled by the thick walls and heavy dungeon-door, and only serves to make the general stillness more profound. Over the head and face of every prisoner who comes into this melancholy house, a black hood is drawn; and in this dark shroud, an emblem of the curtain dropped between him and the living world, he is led to the cell from which he never again comes forth, until his whole term of imprisonment has expired….He is a man buried alive; to be dug out in the slow round of years….

And though he lives to be in the same cell ten weary years, he has no means of knowing, down to the very last hour, in what part of the building it is situated; what kind of men there are about him; whether in the long winter night there are living people near, or he is in some lonely corner of the great jail, with walls, and passages, and iron doors between him and the nearest sharer in its solitary horrors.”

It was believed this form of punishment would “move the criminal toward spiritual reflection and change.” It was thought that the criminals, “exposed, in silence, to thoughts of their behavior and the ugliness of their crimes, would become genuinely penitent.” In fact, Eastern State is the world’s first true “penitentiary” in that its entire goal was to inspire “penitence” in its inmates. Haviland leaned into this belief with the building’s design, incorporating arched doorways and curved ceilings, hoping to make the inside of the structure feel more like a cathedral. He also designed the cells with a single glass skylight, representing the “Eye of God”, suggesting to the prisoners that God was always watching them.

In reality, though, the guards and councilors of the facility designed a variety of physical and psychological torture regimens for various infractions, including dousing prisoners in freezing water outside during winter months, chaining their tongues to their wrists, and strapping prisoners into chairs with tight leather restraints for days on end. The worst punishment, however, was a pit called “The Hole”, an underground cellblock dug under cellblock 14 where they would have no light, no human contact, and little food for as long as two weeks.

This was on top of the serious mental health effects, not yet understood in the late 19th/early 20th century, that prolonged isolation has on a person. Dickens had an inkling, though, and wrote about it after his visit:

“I believe that very few men are capable of estimating the immense amount of torture and agony which this dreadful punishment, prolonged for years, inflicts upon the sufferers; and in guessing at it myself, and in reasoning from what I have seen written upon their faces, and what to my certain knowledge they feel within, I am only the more convinced that there is a depth of terrible endurance in which none but the sufferers themselves can fathom, and which no man has a right to inflict upon his fellow creature. I hold this slow and daily tampering with the mysteries of the brain to be immeasurably worse than any torture of the body; and because its ghastly signs and tokens are not so palpable to the eye and sense of touch as scars upon the flesh; because its wounds are not upon the surface, and it extorts few cries that human ears can hear; therefore the more I denounce it, as a secret punishment which slumbering humanity is not roused up to stay.”

With the harsh conditions and rapidly escalating population, riots, escapes, and murders were common. The prison was in operation until 1971, when it closed its doors for good. It was opened as a historical site in 1994.

But, is it any wonder, with such a brutal history, that stories and legends about the place live on?

Rumors of ghosts and hauntings have been so persistent, Eastern State has leaned in, offering its spooky locale up to paranormal investigative shows like Ghost Hunters and Ghost Adventures. It also hosts Halloween Nights during the month of October when it offers five different haunted houses, historic tours, themed bars and lounges, and live performances all within the prison’s walls.

So if you happen to be in Philadelphia this month and want to experience a little bit of dark history, why don’t you head on over to Eastern State and give it a look?

As for me, I’m good right where I am.

Work Smarter Not Harder

I don’t like being told I’m wrong.

No, let me rephrase that: I really don’t like it.

And, unfortunately, it’s a trait I seem to have passed down to my children.

Case in point: the other day, my son was in our backyard doing some chores.Keep in mind, he was already in a bad mood. It was a Saturday morning, and he would have rather have been ANYWHERE besides helping my husband and I with yard work (namely, playing video games with his friends). BUT, foul attitude or not, he was still tasked with clearing leaves from the area around our garden.

I happened to notice that, instead of gathering the leaves into piles, putting the lawn debris bag next to it, and then throwing the leaves easily into the bag, he was leaving the bag in one spot, then picking up handfuls of leaves, walking them over to the bag, and putting them in. When I offered up a way to make his task easier, did he thank me or take up the advice?

Of course not. He’s a teenage boy.

He snapped at me and continued doing it his own way.

My daughter, on the other hand, charged with the same task on the opposite side of the yard, took my advice….and was finished in half the time.

Which only made my son angrier.

But, rather than changing tactics, he still stuck to his guns. By the time he was finished, he had wasted half the day with a chore that should have taken him no more than an hour.

All because he would not accept my advice.

I tell this story not to shame my son. Not even to give a little nudge-nudge, wink-wink to all the parents out there going through a similar stage of life (okay, maybe a little bit of that one). Rather, I tell it because it speaks volumes about the nature of sin–not just in my son’s heart but in my own.

And I’m guessing in yours, too.

Proverbs 9:6 says, “Don’t rebuke a mocker, or he will hate you; rebuke the wise, and he will love you.”

You see, true wisdom–the wisdom that comes from God–has much more to do with attitude than it does with intelligence. A wise person is open to correction and advice, while a fool responds in rejection and anger to anyone who tries to offer him some.

That’s not to say you should accept and implement every piece of advice given to you. Discernment–especially that gifted by the Holy Spirit–plays an important role in determining whether or not the council you are receiving is sound. But part of wisdom is allowing room in your life FOR discernment; hardening your heart against any kind of correction or guidance is not only the hallmark of a fool—it’s a sure sign of sinful pride.

“The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom; fools despise wisdom and discipline” (Proverbs 1:7).

If the council we are receiving is Godly–meaning it comes from a place of love and a place of truth–and we reject it outright without using our skills of discernment, we are, in a sense, saying that we know better than God. We are not living our lives in a place of “fear” of him. (And no, that doesn’t mean cowering–it means living in awed reverence, recognizing who He is…and who we are in relation to Him). Rather, we are living our lives trying to replace Him.

Trying to be Him.

And, the Bible plainly states, that makes us fools.

So, while correction, discipline, and council aren’t always fun–in fact, they can be downright painful or embarrassing–may our hearts never be so closed off to miss the wisdom of the Lord when it comes our way. Instead, let’s be actively searching for it, listening for it, and–if it is God’s will–giving it in obedience.

Attitude matters more than intelligence.

May yours–and mine–always be humble.

What TIME is it?!

Over 150 years ago, every community in the United States set its clocks to noon based on when the sun reached its highest position in the sky; as a result, when it was noon in Washington, D.C., it was closer to 12:30 in New York, only 11 in Philadelphia. Before 1883, there were 144 local time zones on record throughout the United States.

Though it seems crazy now, back then, it really wasn’t a big deal. Travel between geographically separated cities wasn’t commonplace, nor was it carried out by means of mass public transport. And, anyways, the small time differences between adjacent towns and cities were not critical when it took days to travel from place to place. In short, the only time that really mattered was the time it was where you were located.

All of that changed with the rise of railroads.

Traveling significant distances became easier and faster than ever before, a multitude of local times, particularly in large countries such as the United States, made things confusing when it came to train schedules. Travelers could sometimes arrive at an earlier local time than the one they had left. More urgently, however, due to this lack of time standardization, schedules on the same tracks often could not be coordinated, which often led to collisions such as the one that occurred in New England in August 1853 when two trains heading towards each other on the same track crashed because the train guards had different times set on their watches. Fourteen people were killed as a result.

Something had to change.

On October 11, 1883, 141 years ago today, railroad executives met in Chicago at the General Time Convention in an attempt to fix the problem.

Charles F. Dowd proposed A System of National Times for Railroads, which involved a single time for railways but the keeping of local times for towns. It was quickly shot down as too confusing. Another man, William Frederick Allen, proposed a much simpler solution of replacing the 50 different railway times with five time zones instead. Although there was opposition (an Indianapolis newspaper protested that people would have to “eat sleep work … and marry by railroad time”), the idea quickly gained the support of nearly all railway companies, most cities, and influential observatories such as Yale and Harvard. As such, “standard railway time” was introduced at noon on November 18, 1883 and was adopted across most of the country. It was incorporated into law in 1918.

Now, I grew up in west central Indiana, and it always confused me that I could drive 30 minutes and suddenly be in a different time zone (Illinois is on central time, Indiana eastern). While I understood that time zones were necessary, the borders seemed arbitrary. And, it turns out, that is because they kind of are.

In principle, according to the U.S. Department of Transportation, which took over time regulation once it was adopted into law, every time zone should be exactly 15 degrees of longitude wide. However, individual states and sometimes even counties have the power to decide what time that state, or parts of it, will observe. For example, the line between Eastern and Central time cuts through Kentucky and Tennessee so that it will neatly go between Alabama and Georgia. If it went around the western ends of Kentucky and Tennessee, the sun would be a long way from properly overhead when the time said it was noon. So the result is the odd, seemingly random lines that sometimes split states in two.

So, yes, while time zones have made traveling safer, I wouldn’t exactly say they’ve made things easier, especially if you live in one of these border states.

Take it from someone who is constantly asking, “What TIME is it?!”

Cover Reveal!

Hello, friends!

It’s finally time to reveal the cover for my newest novel, ‘Last Light Over Galveston,’ releasing August 12, 2025 from Tyndale House!

I know August 2025 seems like a long way away, so here’s a summary to tide you over:

Amid the 1900 Galveston hurricane, one woman’s perseverance is tested in this captivating story from the author whose work has been called “intelligent and arresting” (Foreword Reviews) and “historical fiction as it is meant to be told” (Library Journal).

I walked until I could go no farther, until open water was all I could see.

Galveston, Texas. September 1900. Only months ago, Katherine McDaniel returned from finishing school in Switzerland to her family home in New York’s Hudson Valley with a future of promise and privilege set before her. But one horrific event shattered her picturesque life. Now she has fled as far as the train line and a pocketful of money would take her, finding refuge at the St. Mary’s Orphan Asylum on Galveston Island, where she helps the nuns care for their young charges and prays her past will not find her. Despite her tenuous standing at the orphanage—and the grief and betrayal that drove her from home—Katherine slowly begins to make friends. There is Emily, the novice nun she rooms with; Maggie, the tempestuous young girl who only bonds with Katherine; and Matthew, a kind, handsome man recently employed by Isaac Cline at Galveston’s office of the US Weather Bureau.

Then in one fateful day, Katherine’s fragile new life begins to crack as it becomes clear that she can’t run far enough to escape the reach of her former life. Meanwhile, as troubling news about a storm crossing the Gulf from Cuba swirls in the Weather Bureau offices, Matthew holds fast to Cline’s belief that no hurricane can touch Galveston. But as darkness falls on the island, Katherine must gather her courage and reach for a strength beyond her own if she—and those she loves—are to survive.

What do you all think?! Who’s excited?!

Preorder details coming soon!