Re-post. This was such a great encouragement. I think “what do you want to do in the future,” is among every young adult’s most annoying opening questions.

I think I’ve had a million answers to the question, “what do you want to be when you grow up?” which is not the best place to be at my age. And then I came across this:

Don’t listen to lies grown-ups tell. Here’s one: ‘You can do anything you set your mind to.’ Sorry. You can’t. Have you watched American Idol? But you can do anything God wants you to. His script for your life is better than anything you will ever write. So talk to Him about it. Trust Him. And find that one thing you love to do. (emphasis added)

Phil Callaway

“But you can do anything God wants you to.” Just adding my little disclaimer that our sin always mucks this up, but I think what he means is that if you know God has prepared, called and placed you here for whatever vocation, go.

As a writer and aspiring screenwriter, those bolded letters remind me that in the cut throat world of entertainment, I must rely on Him and Him alone, and give thanks and glory to Him alone. Every good story and every great opportunity has been and will be from the author of life and the perfecter of our faith. I need to keep reminding myself that I don’t need to go on a quest to “live the dream” in order to live a more exciting life… I’m already in the middle of an adventure and a battle that He has laid out for me.

Spoiler alert: God wins.




Re-post. Another excerpt and story that really taught me something.

I just read one of Insight For Living Ministries Canada’s monthly mini magazine things, and there were quite a few things to think about… It was all about Christ’s return, and, some of you might have heard of it, know it, be an expert on it, or reject it, but nevertheless, it does get you thinking, and reevaluating your life…

A guest speaker at my church, Pastor Fred Tam came one day to give us a sermon on Heaven. That we should always have our eyes on that, but not getting drastic at the same time. Anyway, he shared with us this story found in Randy Alcorn’s book entitled Heaven:

Several years ago, Ruthanna Metzgar, a professional singer, was asked to sing at the wedding of a very wealthy man. According to the invitation, the reception would be held on the top two floors of Seattle’s Columbia Tower, the Northwest’s tallest skyscraper. She and her husband, Roy, were excited about attending.

At the reception, waiters in tuxedos offered luscious hors d’oeuvres and exotic beverages. The bride and groom approached a beautiful glass and grass staircase that led to the top floor followed by their guests.
At the top of the stairs, a maitre d’ with a bound book greeted the guests outside the doors. “May I have your name, please?”

“I am Ruthanna Metzgar and this is my husband, Roy.”

He searched the M’s. “I’m not finding it. Would you spell it please?”

Ruthanna spelled her name slowly. After searching the book, the maitre d’ looked up and said, “I’m sorry, but your name isn’t here.”

“There must be some mistake,” Ruthanna replied. “I’m the singer. I sang for this wedding!”

The gentleman answered, “It doesn’t matter who you are or what you did. Without your name in the book you cannot attend the banquet.”

He motioned to a waiter and said, “Show these people to the service elevator, please.”

The Metzgars followed the waiter past beautifully decorated tables laden with shrimp, whole smoked salmon, and magnificent carved ice sculptures. Adjacent to the banquet area, an orchestra was preparing to perform, the musicians all dressed in dazzling white tuxedos.

The waiter led Ruthanna and Roy to the service elevator, ushered them in, and pushed G for the parking garage.
After locating their car and driving several miles in silence, Roy reached over and put his hand on Ruthanna’s arm.

“Sweetheart, what happened?”

“When the invitation arrived, I was busy,” Ruthanna replied. “I never bothered to RSVP. Besides, I was the singer. Surely I could go to the reception without returning the RSVP!”

That time, it got me thinking, have I RSVPed God’s invitation to Heaven? Have I answered the call? Am I too proud to think that I can show up without returning the RSVP?

After a while, I forgot about the story until I read this article in IFLC’s minizine referring to Christ’s return. Here are the last few sentences that haven’t been able to escape my thoughts lately:

“Okay, swell. But what do I do in the meantime?” I can hear a lot of pragmatists asking that question. First, it’s best for you to understand what you don’t do. You don’t sit around, listening for some trumpet blast. You don’t spend each day staring up into the sky, looking for a break in the clouds. You don’t whip out a white robe and tie yourself to a huge helium-filled ballon with angles painted all over it. And for goodness sake, you don’t announce a hard and fast date because of “the signs of the times”! Please.

You do get your act together. You do live every day (as if it’s your last) for His glory. You do work diligently at your job and in your home (as if He isn’t coming for another 10 years) for His Name’s sake. You do shake salt our every opportunity you get… and you do shine the light… and for sure, you remain balanced, cheerful, winsome, and stable, anticipating His return each day. Other than that, I don’t know what to tell you.

Except, maybe, if you’re not absolutely sure you’re ready to fly, you get your ticket fast. As long as they are available, they’re free. But don’t wait. About the time you finally make up your mind, the whole thing could have happened, leaving you looking back instead of up. What good is a ticket if the event is over?

Do you have your invitation? Did you RSVP? Did you plan for the event? Are YOU ready?


The Villagers of Stiltsville

Re-post. Pride, like many other “satisfactions” offered by the world, is a temporary fix. It does more harm than good in the end. Here’s an excerpt from Max Lucado’s book, Fearless.

For those who exalt themselves will be humbled and those who humble themselves will be exalted.

Luke 14:11 (NLT)

Perhaps you don’t know,
then maybe you do,
about Stiltsville, the village,
(so strange, but so true)

where people like we,
some tiny, some tall
with jobs and kids
and clocks on the wall

keep an eye on the time.
For each evening at six,
they meet in the square
for the pupose of sticks,

tall stilts upon which
Stiltvilllians can strut
and be lifted above
those down in the rut;

the less and the least,
the Tribe of Too Smalls,
the not cools and have-nots
who want to be tall

but can’t because
in the giving of sticks,
their name was not called.
They didn’t get picked.

Yet still they come
when villagers gather;
they press to the front
to see if they matter

to the clique of the cool,
the court of high clout
that decides who is special
and declares with a shout,

“You’re classy!” “Your’re pretty!”
“You’re clever!” or “Funny!”
And bequeath a prize,
not of medal or money,

not a freshly baked pie
or a house someone built,
but the oddest of gifts,
the gift of some stilts.

Moving up is their mission,
going higher their aim.
“Elevate your position,”
is the name of their game.

The higher-ups of Stiltsville
(you know if you’ve been there)
make the biggest to-do
of the sweetness of thin air.

They relish the chance
on their high apparatus
to strut on their stilts,
the ultimate status.

For isn’t life best
when viewed from the top?
Unless you stumble
and suddenly are not

So sure of your footing.
You tilt and then sway.
“Look out bel-o-o-o-w!”
and you fall straightaway

into the Too Smalls,
hoi polloi of the earth.
You land on your pride,
oh boy, how it hurts

When the chic police
in the jilt of all jilts
don’t offer to help
but instead take your stilts.

“Who made you king?”
you start to complain
but then notice the hour
and forget your refrain

It’s almost six!
Not time for chatter
It’s back to the crowd
to see if you matter.

Stiltvillians still cluster
and crowds still clamour,
but more stay away
They seem less enamoured

Since the Carpenter came
and refused to be stilted.
He chose low over high
left the system tip-tilted.

“You matter already,”
he explained to the town.
“Trust me on this one.
Keep your feet on the ground.”


Tandem Bikes

Re-post. Here’s another excerpt that has stuck with me since I heard it.

We live in a society that goes by at such a fast pace, most of the time, all we do is worry about the future. “What will happen next?” Sometimes we forget to just relax and enjoy the present that is life. Here’s an excerpt from one of Chuck Swindoll of Insight for Living’s podcast: Getting Through the Tough Stuff of Anxiety. It was a piece given to him anonymously and it’s quite the analogy.


At first I saw God as my observer, my judge; keeping track of the things I did wrong, so as to know whether I merited Heaven or Hell when I die. He was out there sort of like the President. I recognized his picture when I saw it, but I really didn’t know him. But later on when I met Christ, it seemed as though life were rather like a bike ride. But it was a tandem bike, and I noticed that Christ was in the back, helping me pedal. I don’t know what just what it was, that he suggested that we change places. But life has not been the same since. ​

When I had control, I knew the way. It was rather boring, but it was predictable. It was the shortest distance between two points. But when He took the lead, He knew delightful long-cuts. Up mountains, and through rocky places at break-neck speeds, it was all I could do to hang on! Even though it looked like madness, he said, “pedal, pedal!” I worried, I was anxious. And I asked, “W-Where are you taking me?” He laughed and didn’t answer. And I started to learn to trust.

I forgot my boring life, and entered into His adventure. And when I’d say, “I’m scared!” He’d lean back and touch my hand. He took me to people with gifts that I needed, gifts of healing, and acceptance and joy. They gave me gifts to take on my journey, my Lord’s and mine. We were off again, and he’d say, “Give those gifts away now. They’re extra baggage, too much weight.” So I did, to the people we met, and I found that in giving, I received. And still our burden was light.

I didn’t trust Him at first. In control of my life, I thought He’d wreck it! But He knows bike secrets. He knows how to make it bend to take sharp corners; He knows how to make it jump to clear high rocks. He even knows how to fly, to shorten scary passages. And I’m learning to shut up, and pedal. In the strangest places, and I’m beginning to enjoy the view and the cool breeze on my face, and my delightful constant companion, Jesus Christ. And when I’m sure I just can’t do anymore, He just smiles and says, “Pedal! Pedal!”


The Room

Re-post. One of my favourites that my friend shared with me.

By Joshua Harris. Orginally published in New Attitude Magazine. Copyright New Attitude, 1995. You have permission to reprint this in any form. We only ask that you include the appropriate copyright byline and do not alter the content.

In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room. There were no distinguishing features save for the one wall covered with small index-card files. They were like the ones in libraries that list titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. But these files, which stretched from floor to ceiling and seemingly endlessly in either direction, had very different headings. As I drew near the wall of files, the first to catch my attention was one that read “Girls I Have Liked.” I opened it and began flipping through the cards. I quickly shut it, shocked to realize that I recognized the names written on each one.

And then without being told, I knew exactly where I was. This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalog system for my life. Here were written the actions of my every moment, big and small, in a detail my memory couldn’t match.

A sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me as I began randomly opening files and exploring their content. Some brought joy and sweet memories; others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching. A file named “Friends” was next to one marked “Friends I Have Betrayed.”

The titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird. “Books I Have Read,” “Lies I Have Told,” “Comfort I Have Given,” “Jokes I Have Laughed At.” Some were almost hilarious in their exactness: “Things I’ve Yelled at My Brothers.” Others I couldn’t laugh at: “Things I Have Done in My Anger,” “Things I Have Muttered Under My Breath at My Parents.” I never ceased to be surprised by the contents. Often there were many more cards than I expected. Sometimes fewer than I hoped.

I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had lived. Could it be possible that I had the time in my 20 years to write each of these thousands or even millions of cards? But each card confirmed this truth. Each was written in my own handwriting. Each signed with my signature.

When I pulled out the file marked “Songs I Have Listened To,” I realized the files grew to contain their contents. The cards were packed tightly, and yet after two or three yards, I hadn’t found the end of the file. I shut it, shamed, not so much by the quality of music, but more by the vast amount of time I knew that file represented.

When I came to a file marked “Lustful Thoughts,” I felt a chill run through my body. I pulled the file out only an inch, not willing to test its size, and drew out a card. I shuddered at its detailed content. I felt sick to think that such a moment had been recorded.

An almost animal rage broke on me. One thought dominated my mind: “No one must ever see these cards! No one must ever see this room! I have to destroy them!” In an insane frenzy I yanked the file out. Its size didn’t matter now. I had to empty it and burn the cards. But as I took it at one end and began pounding it on the floor, I could not dislodge a single card. I became desperate and pulled out a card, only to find it as strong as steel when I tried to tear it

Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to its slot. Leaning my forehead against the wall, I let out a long, self-pitying sigh. And then I saw it. The title bore “People I Have Shared the Gospel With.” The handle was brighter than those around it, newer, almost unused. I pulled on its handle and a small box not more than three inches long fell into my hands. I could count the cards it contained on one hand.

And then the tears came. I began to weep. Sobs so deep that they hurt started in my stomach and shook through me. I fell on my knees and cried. I cried out of shame, from the overwhelming shame of it all. The rows of file shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No one must ever, ever know of this room. I must lock it up and hide the key.

But then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Him. No, please not Him. Not here. Oh, anyone but Jesus.

I watched helplessly as He began to open the files and read the cards. I couldn’t bear to watch His response. And in the moments I could bring myself to look at His face, I saw a sorrow deeper than my own. He seemed to intuitively go to the worst boxes. Why did He have to read every one?

Finally He turned and looked at me from across the room. He looked at me with pity in His eyes. But this was a pity that didn’t anger me. I dropped my head, covered my face with my hands and began to cry again. He walked over and put His arm around me. He could have said so many things. But He didn’t say a word. He just cried with me.

Then He got up and walked back to the wall of files. Starting at one end of the room, He took out a file and, one by one, began to sign His name over mine on each card.

“No!” I shouted rushing to Him. All I could find to say was “No, no,” as I pulled the card from Him. His name shouldn’t be on these cards. But there it was, written in red so rich, so dark, so alive. The name of Jesus covered mine. It was written with His blood.

He gently took the card back. He smiled a sad smile and began to sign the cards. I don’t think I’ll ever understand how He did it so quickly, but the next instant it seemed I heard Him close the last file and walk back to my side. He placed His hand on my shoulder and said, “It is finished.”

I stood up, and He led me out of the room. There was no lock on its door. There were still cards to be written.