Davalynn Spencer's Blog, page 31

How’s Your Curb Appeal?

By Davalynn Spencer @davalynnspencer

In one of my upcoming novels, a character says, “Sometimes we don’t see the things we’ve grown accustomed to.”

Such an observation works for the bad as well as the good, and I recently discovered how.

This summer we revamped the front of our house by removing an old, dry cedar hedge. If we’d known its removal would make such a drastic difference, we would have done it years ago.

However, we got used to seeing it.

So we didn’t really see it.

Nor did we truly appreciate the twenty-year-old spruce trees behind the hedge. Yes, they’re taller, but the overgrown hedge drew our attention, not the magnificent evergreens.

When we got rid of the ugly hedge, we saw the regal beauty of the spruce trees.

We didn’t eliminate the thirty-foot monstrosity without help. Oh, we could have chipped away at it a piece at a time but getting qualified people with the skills and necessary equipment to do the job was worth every penny spent and every ounce of frustration saved.

Since the big change, I’ve wondered if this elimination-beautification principal could apply to my personality or spiritual life.

How’s my personal curb appeal? Are there habits in my life that block people’s view of Jesus? What ugly irritant in my disposition draws their attention away from nicer aspects? What could I do without?

Christ-follower or not, how’s your curb appeal? Is there something that could be removed so others can see the real you?

If you sense the need for an update, don’t try to do it alone. Seek encouragement and help from people with the right skills and tools. Ask God to lead you to them, then trust that He will.

They have eyes to see but do not see and ears to hear but do not hear … (Ezekiel 12:2).

~

How's your curb appeal?
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Etta did not deem herself rude or unseemly, but on occasion, she rose to the challenge. Particularly where Mr. Penneholder was concerned. If he did not take her rebuffs to heart and stop calling on her, she would serve him a strychnine-laced cup of tea the next time he darkened her door.

She paused in her bread-kneading, giving remorse opportunity to rise in her heart. It did not.  ~Mail-Order Misfire

(Pre-order now at special reduced price)

 

 

Trudy C. – You are the randomly chosen winner of last week’s book giveaway by Caryl McAdoo. Please contact me via my Contact Page with your email address. Congratulations!

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Meet Caryl McAdoo, Author of Texas Tears from Thanksgiving Books & Blessings

By Davalynn Spencer @davalynnspencer

Summer is slipping away and September will be here in two weeks. So will a new six-book collection of historical Christian romances, “Thanksgiving Books & Blessings.” I’m excited to be a part of this collection and honored today to introduce you to the veteran author behind the idea, Caryl McAdoo, who will share a little about her contribution, Texas Tears.

Welcome, Caryl, and thank you for joining me. If you could spend a week or month as a main character from Texas Tears, which character would you choose?

I would choose to be Arlene Van Zandt, best friends with Charity O’Neal—closer than sisters, actually, as they’ve grown up together since birth—their mothers are best friends. Arlene always has a smile and is so optimistic, some might say to a fault. She loves working at the Humble Trading Post and visiting with all her customers (neighbors) when they come in. The girl never meets a stranger. Plus, she loves to write and has started the daunting task of completing a novel!

As the younger by only a few months, Arlene’s always given in to Charity in the past but stands at the ready to finally buck her when Eberhart de Vecchi rides into their community and Charity claims him. Arlene’s biggest challenge has always been standing up for herself. (Umm, I don’t have that in common with Arlene in real life! I’m a firstborn; she’s a middle child. As an adult Christian lady, I’ve learned to put others first, of course, but I’m never quiet over speaking up regarding injustices.)

I understand you write with your husband , Ron, and that  Texas Tears is not only Book 1 in the Thanksgiving collection, it’s also part of your own Cross Timbers series. How important to you and your husband is the setting of this story?

My setting, a new Texas community located on the Delaware Creek, is right in the same place as Irving, my home of almost fifty years. We moved there from Dallas when I was twelve, and we moved to Red River County in 2008 when I was fifty-seven, about to have a birthday.

Ron and I went to opposing Irving high schools. He was a football jock at IHS; I was Miss School Spirit at the new school in town, MacArthur, in the second graduating class of 1968. So we placed our character families at one of our favorite Irving parks, Fritz, that the Delaware Creek runs through. As my series is called the Cross Timbers Romance Family Saga, it is important the story is set there, in the Cross Timbers, but it could happen anywhere, anytime—the age-old love triangle. It’s 1845 in my story, so the families have been there almost five years and are very “settled in.”

How much effort do you put into choosing character names? Do different names fit better with specific personality traits than others?

Ron and I spend a while deciding what the names will be. Since this is book three [of Cross Timers], most the characters already had names. But not the new hero who started out as Eberhart de Priest after Joe and Edna de Priest, good friends of ours we play bridge with weekly in Clarksville.

But we decided we should change the name after the story ended, so the hero became a “de Vecchi” instead. If we decide to change a name, we never do it during the writing, but always wait until the story is complete, then change it because the name does change the character.

What is your favorite scene from Texas Tears and why are you emotionally invested in it?

Without giving away any spoilers, my favorite scene in Texas Tears is when one of the young heroines at last allows the hero to kiss her and realizes she is definitely in love with him. When he ends the kiss, she grabs his shirt and pulls him back in and kisses him! It’s a sweet, glory bump kind of scene. (I call ‘goose bumps’ ‘glory bumps’ instead.)

Why am I emotionally invested? Because I still grab my hero’s shirt, pull him in, and kiss him all the time, so it was a special scene.

What else would you like to share about Texas Tears or the Thanksgiving collection?

Besides being book three of the Cross Timbers Romance Family Saga, Texas Tears is book one in this year’s Thanksgiving Books & Blessings Collection. I adore Thanksgiving; it’s my favorite holiday because it’s a time when everyone gives thanks to God for their blessings.

I love the family gathering and turkey with dressing, and all the vegetable casseroles and yummy salads! Let’s not even mention the desserts! I always get a little sliver of each one! I love the cousins playing together and the photo opportunities to get everyone together!

It’s in the fall of the year when the terrible Texas summer heat dies down, giving way to cool breezes—even on sunshiny days—and the leaves turn so many bright and beautiful shades of yellow, magenta, red and green. Having a collection of Thanksgiving stories to read by several authors is right up my alley!

Thank you, Davalynn, for inviting me to come visit with your readers. I’d like to offer an eBook of Texas Tears to one of your commenters who answers this question to enter the giveaway:

Would you consider traveling to a new place and settling in a new land that’s giving six hundred acres away to every newcomer?

Thank you, Caryl. This has been great way to kick off the collection’s release beginning with your book, Texas Tears, on September 2. 

I look forward to hosting additional collection authors in the weeks ahead, Mary Connealy, Samantha Bayarr, Liz Tolsma, Allison Pittman, and also a peek at my own contribution, Mail-Order Misfire.

~

6-book collection - #Historical #Christian #Romance #TexasTears
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Award-winning Author Caryl McAdoo prays her story brings God glory! And her best-selling novels are blessed with a lion’s share of 5-Star ratings! With forty-four-and-counting titles, she loves writing as well as singing the new songs the Lord gives her—listen to a few at YouTube. She and husband Ron share four children and eighteen grandsugars. The McAdoos live in the woods south of Clarksville, seat of Red River County, in far Northeast Texas, waiting expectantly for God to open the next door.

Connect with Caryl via her website at http://www.CarylMcAdoo.com

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God’s Address: the end of your rope

By Davalynn Spencer @davalynnspencer

We’ve all heard the familiar saying, “When you come to the end of your rope, tie a knot in it and hang on.” Franklin D. Roosevelt, Thomas Jefferson, and perhaps others are credited with that pithy line on perseverance, but I’ll bet the barn whoever said it wasn’t a cowboy. At least not a team roper.

The small knot in the end of my husband’s team-roping rope (pictured above) simply keeps the rope from fraying. It’s not intended to hold anything, and that’s on purpose. Better the rope run on through than snag and drag whatever gets caught on the off-end.

Hondo knot

The other end has a hondo/honda knot in it through which the length of the rope slides in order to catch running livestock. (Or siblings, and you’re toast if Mom finds out.)

American philosopher and Christian author, Dallas Willard, said God’s address is the end of our rope. Willard was no cattleman, but he knew God and understood the concept of dependency upon our loving, all-sufficient Creator.

I prefer Willard’s quote to the other one. I find more comfort in knowing when my strength runs out (and it will) God is there to catch me. Hold me. And heal whatever rope burns I suffered on my way down.

Who, or what, do you hope to find at the end of your rope?

~

The Lord’s hand is not shortened,

That it cannot save;

Nor His ear heavy,

That it cannot hear.

Isaiah 59:1

God's address is the end of your rope.
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Gracie smoothed her pillow and quilt, then took all her nine years of knowledge to the kitchen and made biscuits for supper, confident that the Lord heard her prayer. She’d been taught to believe such things since before she could remember. Why, just yesterday the preacher’s words had stirred through her heart, telling her to have faith, to trust God. And she believed those words.

Especially since the preacher was her papa.  ~Mail-Order Misfire 

 

(available now at a special pre-order discount)

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Calm in the Midst of the Pyrotechnics

By Davalynn Spencer @davalynnspencer

The Western Washington State Fair in Puyallup was laid out and maintained like a theme park. Disneyland and Six Flags, move over. Everything was bright, pristine, and welcoming as we pulled our rig in next to the arena and set up camp for the three-day rodeo. Trouble was, there was a lot more than just a rodeo going on.

My husband, Mike, was contracted to work his comedy acts and also man his clown barrel during the bull riding for six performances—two each day for three days. Both day and evening performances opened with sky divers landing in the arena, and each evening performance was followed by a live concert with a fireworks display to wrap things up.

And wrapped up was exactly how we felt each night after twelve hours of adrenaline followed by a couple more hours of electronically amplified music and deafening pyrotechnics.

We were in the middle of it. Literally. I have yet to find anything that rivals the surround-sound of living behind the bandstand of a live concert.

The effects were most brutal on our paint pony Rodeo Rose and our two-year-old son—anything but calming—and I hadn’t seen it coming.

“Music and fireworks,” I’d thought. “Big deal.” But it was way bigger than I anticipated.

By the time the concert wrapped up the first night and the fireworks kicked off, our little encampment was in an uproar. Keeping our toddler close beside me, I ventured out to the tethered pony that normally enjoyed being outside on mild summer evenings. She was trembling and stomping and doing her best to get away, so I loaded her inside the back of the trailer and locked the doors. Then our little human contingent went back inside our rig and lay across the double bed in the overhang where we could watch the night’s display.

Our two-year-old wasn’t very happy, and probably would have preferred the inside of the animal compartment to our ringside viewing. Offering the security of one arm stretched over his back, I began the “ooh-aah” mantra of grownup fireworks observers.

“Oh, look at that one. Isn’t it beautiful?”

Lying close together we watched from the comfort of our on-the-road-home. Soon his little body relaxed, and his tension eased as he realized he was safe.

The plan had worked. My calm transferred into him.

By the time we pulled out of Puyallup two days later, all of us were exhausted. But our little cowboy was never again traumatized by a fireworks display. Good thing, since rodeo was our life for a long time.

I learned more from that situation than my son did. I learned the importance of grabbing hold of a calm demeanor in the middle of a trying situation. By internalizing peace, I could then transfer it to someone else.

Because of my experience with fireworks and my love for our son, I could let him know he had nothing to fear. Similarly, because of Jesus’ experiences with life—even death—coupled with His great love for us, He lets us know that, with Him, we too have nothing to fear.

I’m grateful for that lesson and how it’s proven true over the years. There’s nothing our Lord can’t handle.

I sought the Lord and he answered me; he delivered me from all my fears.

Psalm 34:4 NIV

~

I could let him know he had nothing to fear.
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The clouds unfolded, banked against the opposite mountains and packed down like a feather mattress. Rain came gentle at first, errant drops, plump and singular. Lucy stood like a ship’s mast, wind whipping her skirt through her legs. Buck screwed his hat down and strode to the gate but waited, holding himself back from her private war. Gorged to its limit, the sky broke open, and within minutes water ran like a river. The meager garden floated in a dark lake that licked at Lucy’s skirts. When the hail came, her hands went slack and her shoulders slumped. She dropped to her knees.

Lucy Powell didn’t want to be coddled, but he’d not stand by and watch her drown in defeat. Splashing into the running current, he scooped her into his arms and offered his back to the stinging fury. Ice the size of checker pieces pelted into every living plant, beating them into the muddy water.  ~ The Columbine Bride (free for newsletter subscribers)

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Speak to the Earth and It Will Teach You

By Davalynn Spencer @davalynnspencer

At first, you might not notice much difference between these two unretouched photographs other than one has no direct sunlight and one does.

I took these two images about an hour apart – before sunrise and after. No filters. No corrections. Just raw pictures I captured with my cell phone’s camera.

Most people know that sunflowers follow the sun, turning with it as it arcs across the sky, earning their obvious name. But the morning I captured these photos I noticed the posture of the plant.

I thought the first photo was lovely enough, capturing the growth of this giant sunflower I planted from a seed. But when I saw it after sunrise, I noticed the way it seemed to reach toward the sun, almost yearning for it. As if it sensed its life came from the golden light.

Look at the leaves, a subtle difference between the photographs. In the image on the right, they’ve lifted. As if they are stretching to their limit.

Scripture tells us that creation reflects the Creator, and that through it, we can see the nature of God’s invisible qualities – His power and goodness and life-giving strength (Romans 1:20).

A wise man named Job discussed this concept with his friends and told them, “Speak to the earth and it will teach you” (Job 12:8 NIV).

Yes, the story of the sunflower is an over-worked illustration, but it feels fresh every morning I walk outside and see all the “faces” turned toward the light. Are they trying to teach me something?

I must ask myself, what messages am I listening to? Am I straining toward the Son as this flower does the sun?

What would happen if we turned off our phones, computers, radios, and televisions for a while and just listened?

What would we hear?

~

What messages am I listening to?
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Etta marveled at the turn of color, how the countryside grew increasingly green. Thunderstorms rolled off the mountains each evening and lighting lashed the sky, loosing sudden torrents that, when spent, subsided as quickly as they had begun. The untamable spirit of Colorado seemed to empower the storms, leaving her breathless yet secure in the protective shelter of the Stidham house.

Until she had to wade to the cellar.   ~Mail-Order Misfire

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Sometimes Life’s a “Mud-eo”

By Davalynn Spencer @davalynnspencer

In the sport of rodeo, the game is never called on account of rain. Well, almost never. The only place I saw a performance canceled due to weather was Drummond, Montana, where standing water mirrored the bucking chutes (above).

But there was no cancellation in Cottage Grove, Oregon, the July day one of the judges walked across the arena and ankle-deep mud sucked his boot off his foot. I knew we were in for a wild one.

The stock didn’t like it any more than the contestants, and by the time the bull riding came around, the arena was a mucky mess.

My bullfighter-husband, Mike, was in position when the chute gate cracked open and a yellow bull hopped out and slow-jumped in a tight circle. It didn’t want to slog through the mire any more than anyone else.

From the announcer’s booth, a whistle blew signaling the end of the required eight seconds, but the young bull rider wouldn’t jump off. Fear clamped his fingers tightly around the rope that held him to the animal’s back—and then the bull stopped.

Not a good thing.

There’s no getting off a standing bull. It can zero in on the rider and do its worst.

Mike ran in close and slapped the bull’s broad head to draw it after him and get it spinning.

Eventually, the bull whipped around close to the bucking chutes, and Mike—mud-heavy cleats weighing him down more and more—yelled, “Let go!”

The cowboy opened his hand and fell free just before the bull’s horn caught Mike under the brow bone.

As the cowboy crawled away through the muck, the bull lifted Mike off the ground and slammed him into the chute gate.

Watching through the arena slats and squeezing our two-year-old son’s hand, I prayed an impossible prayer: “Thank you, Jesus, that your angel stands between Mike and that bull.”

Somehow, I knew that a panicky oh-God-no! prayer would only swing my heart’s gate open to fear. I’d read countless times that God gave his angels charge over us. What better time to believe it than while watching an 1,800-pound bovine crush my husband into the chute gate?

And since when did faith have anything to do with my vision?

A couple of hours and several ice packs later, Mike sported a black-and-blue boxer’s eye and a neat line of stitches just below his left eyebrow, courtesy of the good doctor on duty at the Cottage Grove Hospital ER.

There was no damage to his eye or his skull. No broken bones. Just a story-spawning shiner that stayed with him for weeks and the scar of his intervention that remains to this day. Such was the evidence that he’d been where he needed to be when he needed to be there.

The young cowboy walked away from his ride a lot dirtier, a bit wiser about when to get off a bull, and more prepared for the next ride. And the other bull riders knew they could trust their bullfighter to be there for them. They could trust him with their lives – even if it meant he endangered his own.

Jesus bears the scars of His intervention for our eternity. On our behalf, He offered Himself and took the hit of death. Because of His unwavering faithfulness, we can trust Him with our daily lives as well.

~

Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends. John 15:13

Since when did faith have anything to do with my vision?
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Late Again … Thank God

By Davalynn Spencer @davalynnspencer

Last Monday I had a 2 p.m. appointment and just enough time to get there.

Then the phone rang with a long-distance call.

And the dog wouldn’t go back in the yard because he was freaked out by an approaching storm. How does a deaf dog know thunder is rolling over the mountain?

Fifteen minutes later as I drove to my meeting (late), I thought back to another time when time made all the difference …

After a long haul from our last rodeo in Turlock, California, we stopped in Lovelock, Nevada, on our way to a rodeo in Charlotte, Iowa – which, according to the map, was on the other side of the planet.

Not really, it just looked that far away.

Mike, my rodeo bullfighter/barrel-man husband was hurting after the Turlock performance because the charge on one of his comedy acts had blown up in his hands. Blistered all the skin on both palms.

But with a bottle of pure aloe vera gel and cotton gloves, he’d driven all the way from Turlock to Lovelock anyway. (Ever try to tell a cowboy he can’t do something?)

The motel was a treat. Our two children swam in the pool, we rested up, then headed out late the next evening because driving across country in the summer was easier on the animals and the kids if we covered most of the distance at night. And Charlotte, Iowa, was still more than halfway across the country.

I took the first shift as the sun set in my side mirrors. I loved driving across the desert at night. Did you know that you can see stars all the way down to the horizon?

The kids were in the sleeper attached to our 2.5-ton International Harvester diesel truck, and Mike reclined in the passenger seat, working on a nap.

Our big truck had five gears and a two-speed rear end which meant a ten-gear routine coming off any and all stop signs. We pulled a 45-foot furniture van we’d converted into living quarters, tack room, and animal compartment, and everything of any value that we had in the world was in that rig.

I settled into my usual speed of 55 mph, the most economical for us in those days. But twenty miles out of Lovelock, I sensed the Lord urging me to ease back to 53.

Not a big difference, so why the big deal? However, I knew that tug on my insides, so I slowed.

About thirty minutes later, an aurora-like glow burst over a rise up ahead. Reflexively, I lifted my foot from the accelerator, and Mike woke up. Just this side of the crest, we came up on a semi and a car pulled off on the side of the road. We did the same.

“Stay here,” Mike said as he jumped out and ran ahead.

When he returned, he wasn’t wearing his shirt. “I’m taking our big towels, the beach towels.”

What?

Again, “Stay here.”

We were the fourth vehicle to come up on an old station wagon that had stalled just over the rise. The first vehicle was a semi that plowed into that family car full of children.

What I’d seen in the sky a few minutes earlier was the explosion.

Mike worked with the truck driver whose synthetic T-shirt had melted into his skin. It was a while before EMTs arrived, and the highway was closed for hours. The ground trembled from idling semis backed up for miles behind us.

To this day, I weep when I think of those children. And I still wonder if two miles per hour made a difference that night. If it kept us from being the rig that came over the hill unable to stop in time.

When I’m late, when things happen that throw me off my intended schedule, I have to consider if it’s simply coincidence or if it’s God.

We ask Him to direct our steps, so why don’t we trust that He does? I don’t always understand His timing, but I’m learning that He sees the bigger picture and may want me to be late again … thank God.

How about you? Are you aware of a time in your life when a few minutes made all the difference?

A man’s heart plans his way,

but the Lord directs his steps.

Proverbs 16:9

~

Late again ... thank God.
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Feeling foolish, Eli pushed his cap off and rubbed his head, recalling long cold nights in foreign mountains. A man’s mind could play tricks on him, make him think someone was out there, when in truth, there were many someones out there.

If any man is in Me, he is a new creation.

This time the words settled inside him, pulsating like some living thing.

And the voice. He hadn’t listened to it in a while.

The promise was more than a well-delivered sermon from a Sunday pulpit. It belonged to the God Eli had known before Laura moved away. Before the IED blew up the Humvee. Before Pop died.

“I really do want a fresh start.” Confession clawed its way up his throat. Saying it out loud made it real. Tangible. His stomach clenched, his hands fisted around nothing. He desperately wanted to slough off the old and start over.

“But I need a hand here.”

Lightning split the darkness, and pain slashed the right side of his face. He curled in on himself, clutching his head. The left foot he no longer had shattered and throbbed with every life-spilling pump of his heart. Thunder tore through him with an agonizing cry.

And then it was over.

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Life, Liberty, and a Little Help from Our Friends

By Davalynn Spencer @davalynnspencer

For my family, equating the Fourth of July with rodeo is a long-standing habit. Yes, we’ve barbecued and sometimes watched fireworks, but when our kids were growing up, we never celebrated at the house. We didn’t have a house.

Mike Spencer and son Jake “milk the pony.”

We had a 16-wheel rig that we parked behind the bucking chutes and lived out of before, during, and after the rodeo. It was our 45-foot home/tack-room/barn on wheels.

Tiny-House has nothing on us. Been there, as they say.

After a performance, we’d hang out at the rodeo grounds, eating the world’s best beef steak at the Red Lodge, Montana, Rodeo of Champions (courtesy of the rodeo committee every year). Or we’d pool our fixin’s with the Linger Rodeo Company family into a big potluck that Bess Linger called “Fall Out.”

“Open your fridge, and bring whatever falls out,” she’d say.

Mike Spencer and son Chad in eastern Colorado, about to work the Chicken Act.

Sankey Rodeo Company was another family-run outfit we worked for, as well as Flying U Rodeo with Cotton Rosser out of California, and others. Wherever we were, we were always with family.

A lot of rodeo folk call this time of year Cowboy Christmas, because there are more rodeos going on in this two-week period than any other time of year. For competitors who can travel cheap and fast, there is money to be made.

But regardless of the time of year, there’s always a lot of red, white, and blue at a rodeo. Patriotic people, those cowboys and cowgirls. However, independence isn’t always what they’re looking for.

Independence is great when it comes to governments, kings, and countries. But you won’t find an independent-minded bull rider at a rodeo. Each rider depends on the bullfighter to get him out of a jackpot (trouble), or to be close by in case of a hang-up (literally hanging up by one hand in the bull rope.)

Bullfighter Jake Spencer distracting the bull from a fallen rider.

Aren’t we the same? Not quite as self-sufficient as we’d like to think?

I’m grateful for my independence—for liberty, for freedom. But I’m also grateful that I can depend upon my Lord, family, and friends. I’m thankful I can depend on law enforcement and first responders if I get in a storm.

But above all, I’m dependent upon God for His faithfulness, mercy, and blessings.

Jesus said there would be a few hang-ups in life. But He encouraged us to not lose heart because He has overcome everything there is to overcome. He also said the truth would set us free. I’m dependent upon Him for that truth.

Amanda kissing the clown (Dad) after the rodeo.

We have much to be thankful for in this nation, including life, liberty, and a little help from our friends. Let’s be sure to thank our God and the men and women around us upon whom we depend to keep our country, our homes, and ourselves safe and free.

What are you grateful for as we celebrate freedom this year?

~

A little help from our friends.
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Now that you know what Cowboy Christmas is, maybe you’d like a little more Christmas in July. If so, grab your free copy of my Christmas novella, Snow Angel, all this week at Amazon!

 

 

 

 

 

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Time Is a Runaway Horse

By Davalynn Spencer @davalynnspencer

The bad news is, six months from today is Christmas Eve.

The good news is, six months from today is Christmas Eve.

I guess it all depends on how you look at it. Remember when you were a kid and Christmas couldn’t come quickly enough?

For me, time seems to be spinning faster than it used to. Maybe that’s because the longer I live, the closer I get to the end of it.

Time is funny like that. We measure it and mark it. Divide it, spend it, and save it. But we can’t harness it, hold it, or slow it. And only novelists and Hollywood can make it go in reverse.

I’ve learned that regardless of my reaction to time – fear, hurry, or, enjoyment – I can’t change its course.

It’s a runaway horse with a mind of its own.

Thank God, I’m not in charge of the big animal. Oh, I can manage my own personal share of time. In fact, I’m required to do so. But I’ve learned that worrying about it has absolutely no positive effect upon it, yet myriad negative effects on me.

God seems to have it under control. I think I’ll leave it in His capable hands.

“With the Lord a day is like a thousand years,

and a thousand years are like a day.”

2 Peter 3:8-9

~

Time is a runaway horse.
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Christmas in July!

If you “need a little Christmas – right this very minute,” my Christmas novella Snow Angel is available for $1.99. But if you wait a week, it will be FREE from July 1 – 5!

 

 

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Evangelism for Introverts: Have Some Tea

Today I’m pleased to introduce you to author and blogger Patrice Lewis, who has a refreshing idea about evangelism. Grab a cup of tea, sit back, and enjoy the freedom of her perspective (as well as her great photos).

By Patrice Lewis

If there’s one group of people I’ve always admired, it’s the graceful evangelists – those blessed souls who take the Great Commission seriously but with humor. They never go around bashing people over the head with their Bibles, but win souls by gentle persuasion and honest truth.

I am not one of those graceful evangelists.

In fact, because I’m an introvert, I find it difficult to evangelize at all. This topic arose a few weeks ago during a relaxed late-night discussion with some new friends.  The group consisted of scattered small independent-minded homesteaders gathered together in the city to attend a conference.

“I know we’re supposed to adhere to the Great Commission,” I confessed. “But I’m such an introvert, I find it hard to evangelize at all. I prefer to stay holed up on our little farm, weeding the garden and milking the cow, writing articles and working on my blog. Somehow I feel I should be preaching on street corners and working in homeless shelters, and it all makes me feel very guilty for not doing more.”

“There’s a Bible verse I can’t quite remember,” mused another woman. “Something about how we should live a life pleasing to God by leading a quiet life.”

I couldn’t believe my ears because I knew exactly the verse she meant. In fact, I had adopted it as my personal motto.  I jumped up, retrieved my Bible, and turned to 1 Thessalonians 4:11-12: “Make it your ambition to lead a quiet life: You should mind your own business and work with your hands, just as we told you, so that your daily life may win the respect of outsiders and so that you will not be dependent on anybody.”

“That’s it!” exclaimed the other woman.

This verse, we decided, may explain evangelism for introverts.  Not everyone is called to proclaim from street corners. Nor is everyone called to move to urban areas and minister to those in need.  Some, it seems, are called to live modestly on remote homesteads, striving toward self-sufficiency and independence, and evangelizing by example.

This recalled another discussion with a godly (and introverted) neighbor many years ago in which this same subject of evangelism arose. This rural woman was legendary for her deep faith, her gracious and stately hospitality, her warm family life, her enviable wisdom … and her tea. In fact, tea was her weapon of choice in the fight for the Gospel.

How? Because she used what she called the “straight stick” method of evangelism, inviting friends and strangers alike to share a steaming cup of English Breakfast over cozy conversation.  During these visits, she quietly invited unbelievers to lay the “crooked sticks” of their lives next to her family’s “straight sticks” and compare the two. She never used this method to taunt or mock, but merely to invite. It was awesomely – awesomely – effective.

“Preach the Gospel at all times,” Saint Francis of Assisi is purported to have said, “and when necessary, use words.”

God made introverts as well as extroverts. Not all evangelism requires words. Perhaps tea can be just as powerful a weapon in the Great Commission as preaching on street corners.

I hope so.

~

 

You can learn more about Patrice via her Writing website or follow her remarkable blog, Rural Revolution. Stop by. I think you’ll enjoy it!

 

 

Not all evangelism requires words.
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(c) 2019 Davalynn Spencer, all rights reserved.

#WesternRomance #ChristianFiction 

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