That Christ May Be My Ocean

I just finished Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell. The last two lines of the book read, “My life amounts to no more than one drop in a limitless ocean. Yet what is any ocean, but a multitude of drops?” It’s a good quote.

I have a problem. I’m no good at committing to following. When I read the Gospels, I don’t closely identify with Peter or John or Matthew. Instead, I want to be Jesus. He’s the hero. After all, I think, he’s the one I’m supposed to be trying to be more like.

It’s necessary to remind myself that I’ve not been called to be Jesus, but to commit, to submit, and to follow him.

I try to imagine what it must have been like to be Peter, one of Jesus’s first disciples. I try to imagine how special that must have felt, as if Jesus was recognizing some skill in Peter that no one else had. Peter was a fisherman. No one expected him to be able to study theology, and then a rabbi comes by and says that he can. He must have felt so smart.

And then, Jesus calls Matthew, a tax collector. How frustrating it must have been for Peter to be told that a tax collector was his equal. How frustrating it must have been for Matthew to be told that a fisherman was his equal.

Last year, a mentor asked me to lead a small group bible study in a campus ministry. I felt honored. I felt important. I felt needed. I felt like Peter being called for the first time.

I built up all of these illusions of myself where my mentor and others had recognized my incredible, life-altering leadership abilities. They wanted me as a small group leader because I was so thoughtful and intelligent. Pretty soon, I was up so high that my small group started to feel like a weekly charity that I gave. I, the great mighty Spencer, for one night once a week, condescended to my peers to give them the sweet manna that poured from my mouth.

Then, things started to get difficult. Being in Christian community is hard. It wasn’t meeting all of the demands I had placed on it. I shared these feelings with my mentor. I told him I didn’t want to be a part of it anymore. In some crazy prideful way, I thought I was being like Jesus, going my own way, doing my own thing.

My mentor calmly told me that he didn’t just pick me because I was well-suited for the role. He wanted me to lead a small group because that’s where I needed to be for my own spiritual growth and health.

The realization stunned me. I realized I had been acting like a drop of water that wanted to be an ocean. I wanted to call the shots. I wanted the community to be perfect for me.

I have this urge often—to leave when things get difficult and to start my own thing that will be “perfect.”  Commitment is not something I’m good at. I desire my writing to be publishable in its first draft, and when I have to give a piece an edit, I seriously consider ditching it altogether. I desire my relationships to be comfortably and healthily intimate from the very beginning. And when I have to continue to spend time with a person who I keep failing to go deep with, I stop calling that person. But nothing that comes solely from me will ever be perfect. And everything that comes from God is.

The real issue is that when I allow my problems with commitment to creep into other parts of my life, it begins to affect my relationship with God. Because what is faith if not commitment? And so sometimes, when I am particularly bad at committing to a project, to a community, to a person, I also fail to commit my life to Christ. I get everything backwards.

If I commit to Christ, He will redeem my writing projects, my communities, my relationships.

Christ is my ocean. He has not called me to make an ocean myself. He’s just called me to exist in His.

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Spencer Smith is a senior at Ohio University. He has a heart for the mid-west, believes the world can be and should be changed, and thinks that he has more in common with Ryan Gosling than most people might first think. Right now, he is working on seeing God in all that he does. Read more of his thoughts here.

A Letter to My Brothers and Sisters

Dear Brothers and Sisters,

I need you.

I like to think I don’t, often in fact. Self-sufficiency is something the plagues me daily. I like to think I can do it all by myself, that the Christian life is individually focused instead of communal.

But I’m learning that all of this is wrong.

My freshman year of college I had a friend tell me repeatedly that I was not an island. She had to repeat it because I didn’t believe it was true. Being a self-focused young adult, I throught my decisions only effected me. I soon learned through life experience that we are never an island. We are never isolated enough to leave no impact. Every choice we make will leave a ripple for others. I am impacted by your choices and you by mine. Therefore, I am responsible to you and you to me.

Even though I realized my responsibility to you, I wanted to think I didn’t need you. I may have to answer to you, but I surely don’t need your help. But again, through trial and error this proved itself false.

I tried to run this little journey on my own, trying to accomplish something that was never set up for success. I fell. Laying there in my own pride, injured and confused, I found my self-sufficiency unable to measure up.

After walking in the lie that I can do this on my own, I know what is true. I need you.

I need you to lead by example, giving me something to look up to. I need you to keep me accountable, ask me questions and show me you care. I need you continue on in your journey with the Lord, reminding me that it is possible to be faithful. I need you to encourage, uplift and challenge me. I need you to remind me that you have doubted too. I need you to remind me that following Him is always worth the cost. I need you to walk beside me with honesty and authenticity, and allow me to do the same, because we were never meant to walk this alone.

So here I am, begging you to remember that we need you, and you need us. For I am only a small branch, lifeless and dead, without you. Yet together, we can be a fire, burning with life and truth. Without the context of you, I have little to offer.

As I beg this from you, I promise to do the same. For I am responsible to you and as I continue on I promise to remember that.

For I am not an island, but instead part of a body.

Sincerely,

Your sister

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 Abby Fennema is a junior attending John Brown University. Her passion for story telling and the written word is what propelled her to help create The Millstone Blog. She believes everyone has a story worth sharing and desires to enable others to speak out. Her favorite things are road trips, camping, and the Colorado mountains.

We’re Called to Make Disciples, not Decisions

I was actively involved in a campus ministry throughout college and attended several conferences that always ended the same way:

We had 364,826,384,638 decisions for Christ this weekend! (Queue epic music and reading of the Great Commission).

Ok so I may have exaggerated the number a bit, but the music was always epic. Each of the larger conferences typically ended with about 3,000 ‘decisions’ or conversions. That’s a crazy number; 3,000 new Christians! I always felt like I needed to shout or dance or do something loud and jubilant; but for some reason, I was never quite able to fully commit to the celebration. Something always bothered me, nagged at me. I wonder how many of those 3,000 are still followers a year later.

Lack of faith, that’s what I attributed it to at first. I didn’t believe enough in the power of God, in his ability to transform. And there is certainly an element of truth to that; I often choose to rely on my own strength rather than God’s, which regularly results in failure. Still, I can’t help but think something is a little wonky about the way we’re doing this. Is it better to make converts of 3,000 or disciples of 30?

“Go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I have commanded you.”

Oh the ever-popular Great Commission; I think we’ve terribly misinterpreted it. Jesus didn’t take trips to beaches to have ten-minute conversations with with the cute guy in the Yankees hat (my first convert my freshman year; seriously some of God’s best handy work). His strategy didn’t involve tracks or baby Bibles or plastic eggs with scripture in them, like Easter fortune cookies.

Jesus didn’t make disciples of 3,000, he chose twelve. He invested three years of his life in twelve men.

Where have we found precedence for this idea of vending machine conversions? We hand out a sugar-coated happy ending in whatever wrapper we think will work and expect them to find sustenance.

I have three ideas that I think are the nuts and nougat to this strategy we’ve developed.

1. J.G. Wentworth

It’s MY money and I need it NOW!!

Our culture is all about instant gratification. Find the latest high and get on it, fast. Everything is flashy and exciting, marketers are collecting and studying your personal data to figure out how to reel you in before someone else does. We’ve only got a few seconds to get someone’s attention and even less time to keep it. In result, our gospel presentation has grown short and flashy with whatever tools are trending. A video with a hipster playing acoustic guitar on the beach; abstract photographs; Easter fortune cookies. Whatever sells.

2. Hand-Me-Downs

For a lot of us, this is simply what we were taught. We don’t know any other way to present the gospel. Evangelism was somewhat of a foreign word before I got to college, I didn’t know any other way to go about it.

3. Fear

I’m not challenging this strategy because I think it’s worthless, the Spirit can give value to any discussion that introduces even the thought of God. My concern with this strategy is that we accept it as the entirety of the Great Commission. It’s another thing to check off our list: Read bible, check. Pray, check. Share Jesus with 5 people, check.

We get so wrapped up in ‘street evangelism’ that we neglect the people we interact with every day. You think you have an impact spewing a five-minute cliffnote version of the gospel; imagine the impact you could have daily investing in the lives of the people right next to you! And I don’t mean having deep conversations about the meaning of life and the identity of Jesus every day. I mean taking the time to get to know the brother or sister who God so desperately wants near him, and showing them the kind of love and grace that is only attainable through the Father.

Ah, but then there’s risk. We risk not only being ridiculed, but having to face our ridiculer the next day, and the next, and the next. We risk being judged, losing the status we worked so hard to attain. We’re actually required to own the beliefs we speak and bear the dunce cap the world places on our heads.

Challenging the world is terrifying, but it is required. A tepid faith is no faith at all.

“I know your works: you are neither cold nor hot.  Would that you were either cold or hot!    So, because you are lukewarm, and neither hot nor cold, I will spit you out of my mouth.” (Revelation 3:15, 16 ESV)

But we have a God who promises strength!

“God gave us  a spirit not of fear but of power” (2 Timothy 1:6, 7 ESV)

We often have to stand up against what our culture tells us, what we were always taught, and what we naturally fear. How better to respond to our Savior than to boldly spread the love he so willingly gave us?

Your God wants to use you to do amazing things for his people; be strong and courageous, don’t be afraid, the Lord is with you. Go build his kingdom.

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Rachel Figley is a new resident to Nashville, TN and works for an advertising firm. She is passionate about media and the power it has to influence the world. She tends to be frustrated with organized Christianity. She longs for depth and Truth in a community of love.  All in all, she simply desires to love God, love his people and seek Truth.

Strength and Dignity

Since most of you are part of the Christian community, chances are you have, at one point or another, referenced the P31 woman. This is the pinnacle of womanhood, the ultimate wife, and not at all the point of this post. I just needed a set up.

The Proverbs 31 woman is a virtuous, hardworking woman. She is clothed with strength and dignity. And dignity is not always one of my strongest qualities.

I successfully moved out of my parents’ house, work a full-time job with a steady income, own my own car, and pay my bills. And yet, I ran in the rain like a banshee through the apartment complex parking lot a few weeks ago because I convinced myself that the creepy neighbor with the creepy eye and creepy dog was going to mug me. Two weeks ago, I walked straight in to the glass surrounding the revolving door in my office building. I tried to rope swing into a tree house this past summer, and ended up ramming into its side and falling 6 feet into a creek instead. I ate ice cream for breakfast yesterday because ran out of food, drank straight out of my faucet because I didn’t want to dirty a glass, and at one point turned to see an iHop waitress running after me in a parking lot because I left my phone at the booth.

I am twenty-three years old and can confidently tell you: I don’t have it together.

My job is consistent and I love it, but as a child I did not dream of growing up to be a receptionist. I pay my bills on time, but I’m always scrambling to remember them. I still apologize too much, complain about my weight, and get caught up in wishing I could’ve purchased a nicer jacket for my trip to Colorado.

These are just the surface things though. They are petty issues, but they are manifestations of what really weighs on me.  It’s that nagging voice in my head that’s telling me everyone else sees me as a child. It’s the visual flashbacks of failing in situations I’ve never failed before. It’s the hurt I don’t deal with. It’s my pride and selfishness and the suffering in the people I care about. It’s the value I place on others’ opinions and expectations of me and the trying too hard or the not trying at all, which usually ends in failure either way. It’s the fact that I don’t walk with my Savior well. O depravity.

And so, in a time of deep conviction, I delved into the most honest version of myself. I parked my car outside of my apartment and I told God what I thought I needed. I felt weak and crazy, and was chiding myself as I cried, but tension is persuasive and I needed to break. I laid out my fears, my shortcomings, my hopes, and even the ways I felt like He failed me, with the understanding that He would have a more accurate awareness of my need. I apologized for my inconsistency and selfishness, expressed my gratitude for His relentlessness, and cried my eyes out over the people in which I have so much faith, but tend toward destructive self-medication as of late (don’t we all though?). I am a self-proclaimed psychopath, mostly for caring about things I should have released a long time ago. For still wanting to be all things to all people, because that is, without question, not my role. In all this chaos swirling through my head I audibly blubbered, “Am I ever going to be ok?”

It is the question I can’t escape.

Because I desperately need to know that I am going to amount to something. That all of my stress and work and social interaction have some semblance of meaning. That I am not a child. That I am attractive. Creative. Endearing. That I am strong. That I have some shred of dignity, because I am trying so hard to be responsible, to improve the immaturity within me, and to correct the apathy with which I so quickly fall into flirting. I desire greatness.

When I was trying to explain this all to a close friend, her response was so simple, it seemed ridiculous that I fail to grasp it: Be still.

Be still? I don’t know what that means. I don’t know what that looks like. I don’t know how to resign myself to God, because I feel like I’m just whining & complaining & expecting Him to fix everything. Is that how it works? My striving is fruitless… I cannot rid myself of guilt or cynicism or internal tension. It is audacious to think otherwise and is a sign that I think I don’t need God. He changes, He revives, He stirs, He inspires, He says yes, He says no, He remains silent. My striving is indicative of misplaced trust, unnecessary fear, and more preoccupation with myself than dedication to Him. He is the potter, I am the clay.

So am I ever going to be ok? Well, yes, of course and probably not. I will more than likely continue life in my forgetfulness, misplaced priorities, and perfectionism, but if the birds and lilies are not in want, then who am I to worry? My mistakes and inhibitions are beautifully painful reminders of my depravity, God’s sovereignty and grace, and how necessary dependency is. I don’t know how the Lord will teach me stillness, or how to walk with Him, or how to love Him. I don’t know when that will come, and I have my doubts that dignity ever will, but I rest in the fact that He is my strength. He is my song, my hope and my purpose. My life is not my chance to prove myself, but rather an opportunity to manifest to others the love and grace our triune God has lavishly breathed into us.

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Lauren Kirkpatrick is a recent college grad living in Dallas. A few things to understand: She loves stories, lightning storms, and etymology. She writes music and speaks Spanish because it’s beautiful and language fascinates her. She wrestles constantly with God and truth and she has no idea what she’s doing with her life, but thinks that is perfect place to be.

Lent: A Rejoicing

“The grinding power of the plain words of the Gospel story is like the power of millstones; and those who can read them simply enough will feel as if rocks had been rolled upon them.” G.K. Chesterton

I woke up this morning, unsure of what to anticipate. It was finished. That sentence held a double meaning this year. I was used to celebrating that my sins had been paid for and that blood had been shed, but I had never approached the season with such great anticipation. My fast. My lenten experience. My self-denial and embrace of death. It was all finished.

Easter was always a holiday that creeped up on me. Falling on the calendar after spring break, it always seemed like impromptu party with feasting, chocolate and lots of celebration. I’m never opposed to a good party with Grandma’s home cooking, so there was no protesting on my end. Yet, the holiday always seemed shallow in my own heart. It came so quickly and passed just as fast.

Not this year. The awaited day approached like a snail, slimy and sluggish, not promising to ever cross the finish line. My awareness for the celebration was almost tangible. I began to count down, ready to leave this season of death and enter in the festival of new life.

The Sunday arrived like it always had. I expected to arise that morning profoundly different. The alarm rang louder and earlier than usual. I rolled over grumpy, just as I had the morning before. I stumbled downstairs to participate in the annual Easter egg hunt. 40 days of fasting and I could not find change even in the most mundane of moments.

I stood in the pew, letting the age old words wash over me through song, when it hit me. There are no words for what happened in that pew. Tears streamed uncontrollably down my cheeks. The story, the theology, the words that had been repeated to me over and over as a child came alive in that moment. They danced around me, embraced me and brought me to a depth of gratitude I had never experienced.

“What can wash away my sin? Nothing but the blood of Jesus” echoed in the room. Lent had reintroduced me to my human nature, an old friend I had too easily ignored. 40 days had reminded me of my own weakness, something often underestimated. I knew my limitations, I knew my own selfishness, I knew the desperation of my own heart. Lent had caused me to stare it in the face, never allowing eye contact to be broken. This sentence was more true that it had ever been. It was as though reality had been paired with age old words and the two had birthed a profound understanding.

My only response was to weep in deep gratitude. So I did.

Too often we sprint towards Easter, eager to celebrate the resurrection. Yet we take the short path, substituting the journey for an elevator. We bring ourselves to the empty tomb and fill our stomachs to rejoice instead of sitting at the cross and denying our bellies to remember the death.

Lent is profound for many reasons, but it’s greatest strength is the longevity it provides. Lent drags it companion, face down in the dirt all the way to the cross. Humble and dirty, it leaves it participants at the most repulsive yet redemptive site.

All my life experience points to one consistent truth, life and death are intricately intertwined. Yet we Christians love to celebrate the life, with little acknowledgement of the death. Easter is nothing but a shallow excuse for full bellies without a death. With a death preluding the story, Easter becomes the most profound celebration for humanity.

My prayer is this: may we stop running, afraid of seeing the darkness of Good Friday and of our own hearts, for Easter means nothing if we are not drug there.

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 Abby Fennema is a junior attending John Brown University. Her passion for story telling and the written word is what propelled her to help create The Millstone Blog. She believes everyone has a story worth sharing and desires to enable others to speak out. Her favorite things are road trips, camping, and the Colorado mountains.

Lent:Prayer

 

The last week of Lent I spent in intentional prayer for my neighbor. Catch up on the conversation and the past five weeks dealing with resources,money, clothing, food and my bed.

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We’ve been taught to fast, to take away, to abstain. We assumed that is what the Lord asks of us. So we cut and trim all the areas of our lives that do not seem pleasing. But bad habits are never broken, they are replaced.

During my time of Lent, a friend asked me the question, “What is the Lord calling you to add to your life?” This is a question that is not asked nearly enough. The Church focuses on “giving up” things for Christ, but the act of being redeemed should call us to add more than give up.

This week I added. After five weeks of abstaining, this was a perfect ending to a very long season. Instead of taking away, I included intentional prayer for my neighbor into my daily life.

It’s easy to fall into the belief that saving the world rests upon our shoulders. As I look around and am reminded how messed up everything has become, from systems to even my own heart, I often respond with the fixing mentality. I try make a ten year plan to eliminate poverty across America. I try to figure out how I can systematically feed all those who are hungry. I try to manipulate others into caring as much as I have learned to care. As you can imagine, none of these work.

This is what I’ve come to love about Jesus, he does not expect us to fix everything. He knows we can’t. He remembers we are frail and insignificant human beings, who often make more of a mess than help.

So why would he show me all this brokenness, without a way to heal it?

I’ve asked myself this question many a times the past five weeks. As I’ve stared my own sin in the face and watched deep compassion rise up for my neighbor, I’ve wondered what the point is. No matter the amount of compassion I have in my heart or how many times I sleep on the floor or eat simple foods, there are still homeless that are freezing to death outside or brothers and sisters that cannot sleep because of hunger pains.

Jesus does not ask me to fix anything, because he knows I can’t. Yet when I finally come to this realization, I’m faced with one hope. The only one who can fix all that is broken is Jesus himself. And that is what this Easter season is all about. It is about the Son of God who came into a situation that was so broken, so messed up and left with no hope and did the most backwards thing anyone could have hoped for to begin to set all things right.

Just like he was 2,000 years ago, Jesus continues to be the only one who can heal things that are broken.

My part is only to follow. I know nothing about fixing all that is broken, but Christ does. While I might not have a ten year plan for loving my neighbor, I do have something far more powerful: The Holy Spirit. I am not called to save, but rather to listen to the Spirit, who is our guidance, and obey.

So what do I do now?

I pray for my neighbors. I pray that God would send people to feed them, love them, treat them with dignity, and share about his redemptive work through words and action. And I trust that prayer does truly make change in this world.

When I see my neighbor in need I respond. When I see a man on the street, I need to stop. It’s easy to throw a cheep hamburger their way, but I’ve learned that love requires more. Some practical action I’ve taken away is first to talk to them. I ask them what they need, hear about who they are, ask them questions and share my time with them. Also, I try to feed them nutritious food, trying to provide them with the nutrients they need. I understand there are times where stopping for an hour long conversation is not an option, in this case friends and I have attempted to keep some protein bars and water bottles with us at all times to hand out to the people we pass.

I advocate. Too often those who are impoverished or homeless come with a stigma. We’ve already written their stories in our heads, using the words: lazy, bad choices, and deserving. Those who I have talked to all have stories much more complicated than that, leaving me to realize how easy it would be for me to find myself in their position. I share these stories, these experiences and these friends I’ve made with people who may have no connection to this community in hopes that their sigmas will fall away and compassion will begin to grow.

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Abby Fennema is a junior attending John Brown University. Her passion for story telling and the written word is what propelled her to help create The Millstone Blog. She believes everyone has a story worth sharing and desires to enable others to speak out. Her favorite things are road trips, camping, and the Colorado mountains.

The Cost

The Pain consuming her body so frail

Her inner struggle bringing more than a sigh

Her mind is convincing her simply to bail

Trying to deceive her it would be easier to die.

Her wrists are bleeding from this self inflicting pain

The dripping of red, reassurance she’s still alive

Stripped of it all with nothing left to gain

Everyone around her, all seeming to thrive.

Feeling dead to the world she gets a pen and a paper

Tears filling her eyes she puts the pen to the page

She writes of why the world would be better off without her

The events beginning to unfold as if she were on a stage.

She’s about to give up, and all hope seems to be lost

Christ sends her a loving reminder, He’s already paid the cost.

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Laura is a woman held in the hands of her Creator. She is a nanny, childcare worker, wedding photographer, and business woman. She lives in compassion to children without a family and a longing to point all she encounters to her King. She is transformed by the Gospel and attempts to live everyday as a response. Reading, writing, and photographing are her outlets of expression. She lives and loves and desires to pursue Truth. Find her on twitter, facebook, or email her.

Disciplined Disciples

A Tale of Two Brothers

When I was a freshman or sophomore in high school, I decided that I wanted to learn how to play electric guitar. Being the good big brother I am, I also persuaded my little brother that he should learn to play bass so that we could start a band at some point in the future. He wasn’t terribly excited about the idea at first, but we both ended up asking Santa for our respective instruments that Christmas.

Fortunately, Santa followed through. Chris and I began taking lessons over the next few months.  During that time, our youth pastor told Chris that if he could learn to play bass, he could play in the youth band on Wednesday nights (unfortunately for me, he played acoustic guitar and already had an electric guitar player). It soon became apparent that Chris was learning his instrument better than I was. Beyond his seemingly natural musical talent, Chris was also more dedicated to practicing on a normal basis. He had something to discipline himself for: playing in the youth band. As a result, he is now the bass player for the Red Steps (a worship band made up of JBU students) and also plays on Sunday mornings and Wednesday nights at our local church in Siloam. Ironically, the one who was most excited about learning to play an instrument (me) has now adopted the iPod as his instrument of choice.

Spiritual Disciplines

All Christians have been called by Jesus to be and make disciples. If you think about it, this is a scary calling.  It is something that must be taken seriously and must be understood in the context of what the meaning of the word disciple is: discipline.

 Take a look Jesus calling some of the original disciples in Matthew 4:18-22. Jesus comes up to them and says, “Follow me!” How do they respond? They immediately leave everything and follow him. Too many people think they can claim Christianity without the discipline it requires. To be a disciple is to be disciplined. However, discipline without direction is drudgery (1 Corinthians 9:24-27). When it comes to practicing spiritual disciplines, many believers view it as drudgery because they don’t see the direction they are going. The value and purpose of the disciplines have been separated from them, making them seem pointless. One of the contributing factors to my lack of enthusiasm for practicing guitar was that I didn’t have much direction on why I wanted to learn guitar. Chris did.

In order to give direction to our daily spiritual disciplines, we must understand what God promises to do when we practice them. Romans 8:29 tells us that God plans to conform us into the image of His Son. How does that happen? By practicing spiritual disciplines! We aren’t redeemed so we can wait for holiness. We’re redeemed so we can pursue holiness. Holiness is what we “toil and strive” for (1 Timothy 4:10). The only road to holiness passes through the practice of spiritual disciplines. The pursuit of holiness isn’t an option for Christians; it’s a command (1 Peter 1:15-16). This means that practicing spiritual disciplines isn’t an option either.

Spiritual disciplines are those personal and corporate activities that promote spiritual growth. Some specific disciplines are Bible intake, prayer, worship, evangelism, service, stewardship, fasting, silence and solitude, journaling, and learning (for more on each of these spiritual disciplines, check out the book Spiritual Disciplines for the Christian Life by Donald Whitney).

Spiritual disciplines are like spiritual exercises. They are ways to place ourselves in the path of God’s grace so that, over time, He can transform us “from one degree of glory to another” (2 Corinthians 3:18). The big difference between physical and spiritual disciplines is that “bodily training is of some value, [but] godliness is of value in every way, as it holds promise for the present life and also for the life to come” (1 Timothy 4:8). When we practice spiritual disciplines, it is evident not only to us and God, but also to those around us (1 Timothy 4:15-16).

Go, Be, Make

All Christians have been called by Jesus to be and make disciples. If any person chooses to follow Christ, they must be ready to seek him through spiritual disciplines like prayer and Bible study. We’re redeemed so we can pursue holiness.

Let’s be disciplined disciples.

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Lawson is an entrepreneur, ministry leader, and outdoors enthusiast who also enjoys blogging about business, ideas, and theology.

You can connect with Lawson on Twitter (@LawsonHembree) or on his blog.

Lent: My Bed

This week’s fast was from my bed. I spent the past week and a half sleeping on the ground. Catch up on the conversation and the past four weeks dealing with resources, money, clothing and food.

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Each week I anticipate what I will learn. I begin to expect what life lessons I will walk away from. I begin to assume what will push on my own will and what parts will come more naturally though the week. Each week I’m surprised in different ways.

I anticipated back pain and saggy eye lids as a result from the hard floor. I expected pity and sympathy for all those who find their bed in a sleeping bag on the concrete.

That is not the lessons I found welling up in my soul.

In this strange way, I did not mind the floor. Sure, college dorm carpet is probably too thin to even call carpet but my back got over it. The ripping away of typical comforts did not bother me, part of this might have been due to the fact that half of this fast was spent camping, so floor sleeping appeared normal.

I was surprised by the aspects of this fast that hit deep. Three of the nights I spent camping in a small tent on a remote beach a half a mile away from any sort of civilization. Any other humans were too far to contact. The only protection I had between myself and outdoors was a thin sheet of nylon that was overpriced at REI.

As we extinguished the fire and dusted the sand off our dirty feet, storm clouds began to roll in, covering the little natural lighting the sky provided. I snuggled myself into a sleeping bag and assumed fetal position. My eyes began to close when a sudden “tap, tap, tap” sounded against the nylon.

“Was that you?” I asked my friend with a panic in my voice.

“No….was that you?” she replied.

“No.” I whispered. We discussed our best plan of action was to close our eyes and pretend it did not happen. Fear tingled through my body. In that moment I realized how easily I could be taken out. One crack of lightning, one big wave, one crazy wondering around late on the beach with bad intentions and I’m done for.

We chose the route of logic and deduced it must be the wind tapping against our thin exterior. Yet I still felt fear, a fear I don’t often stumble upon in the comfort of my own bed. For some reason, a brick wall brings safety in a way a nylon tent never could. Sure, some would argue one might be slightly thicker than the other, and I would affirm their statement wholeheartedly but in all reality we are never safe. Locks have broken, doors have not kept others out, and brick walls can never truly promise safety. I try to make them promise just that. I double lock all my doors at night and slide into the comfort of my bed located on the second story of the house, promising myself that no one could climb that high to crack the window, but they could and people have.

The dark has always brought me a little tinge of fear, even as a child. The thought of boogie monsters and strange creatures hiding under my bed made me cringe. No matter my age my response has always the same: hide under the covers. For some strange reason, thin sheets seem like adequate armor from everything that could bring harm. Logically, I knew my thin sheets stood no chance, but I hid anyway hoping the cotton would somehow save me from the darkness.   This is what I continue to do. I hope that somehow my metal locks, my brick walls and my high windows will save me from any adversity that comes my way.

My Dad used to always tell me we are all given a load of wood in our life. Some people use their wood to build fences, keeping out others and creating the safety they desire. He exclaimed he wanted to use his wood to build a fire, using all that he was given to invite people in.

I’ve built a lot of fences in my life.

I’ve clung to safety and made it my god. I’ve asked my locks, my doors and my walls to promise me something they never can. The deeper in I’ve gotten in this fast the more I realize the Lord never promises us safety. For so long I assumed this meant emotional and relational safety, never physical safety. But then I read about the martyrs and I remembered the story of Daniel and the lions den and all the sudden I realized physical safety is not part of God’s pact with me.

Loving my neighbor has been scary as a twenty year old white girl.

I see a homeless man on the side of the street and I want to give him a ride, take him to lunch and even at times invite him to live in my dorm room.Then I realize those actions aren’t safe and I do not know if they are trustworthy, so I drive back to my house and lock my door. Never stopping, never engaging and instead choosing safety.

I understand there is wisdom and discernment when it comes to engaging with our neighbor, and there are ways to approach situations that are safer than others, but I have got to stop waiting for a perfectly safe situation. There will always be risk, no matter if I am in my locked up house or in a nylon tent.

I need to stop when I see my neighbor. I need to roll down my window, even when I’m my car alone. I need to bring them food even if I’m scared. I need to stop worshiping safety and start worshiping God.

It’s time to start inviting people in, even if it is uncomfortable and not necessarily safe. It’s time to start loving my neighbor well, even if it calls for some risk and courage. It’s time to start being like my dad, always building fires and never fences.

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Abby Fennema is a junior attending John Brown University. Her passion for story telling and the written word is what propelled her to help create The Millstone Blog. She believes everyone has a story worth sharing and desires to enable others to speak out. Her favorite things are road trips, camping, and the Colorado mountains.

Company to the Lonely

The past month has been a reoccurring lesson.

A lesson reminding me over and over again that there is no mathematics to love, and loss. The loss part is where the lesson began for me, and the love part is where it leaves off.

A few days ago I went on a drive with a friend of mine. We drove to an old church and sat in the parking lot for a long time drinking soda and listening to music and feeling the light wind on our skin, windows down and doors open. Eventually we decided to explore the desert next to the church, one of our favorite things to do together. We were in search for anything worth taking home, and obviously worth our while. Naturally we came across a wheel from an office chair and plenty of cactus that we affectingly took home stuck in our jeans. During our time exploring the desert together, my friend said something so unexpected and simple, yet something of tremendous weight and significance.

Not knowing my grandpa had just passed, my friend made this statement: “maybe this Christianity thing is really about loving someone’s soul in the most intimate way, and maybe that means being company to the lonely, and living life along someone—no matter what.”

These wise words didn’t seems fitting for a lazy day spent in the desert, but somehow the simplicity of what where we were and what he said made it that much more beautiful.

The next day I went to visit my grandma. What would be considered a normal visit to her house, I soon found would be an immediate call to obedience, a call to be company to the lonely, a call to love in the most  pure and simple fashion.

My grandma just lost the love of her life. Her sweetheart. Her best friend. Her Donald. We all lost him. It came on a sunny Tuesday afternoon. It was a day that somehow gleamed of hope, outside of a seemingly hopeless hospital room. It was so unexpected, so sudden, so soon.

After his passing, we had all be taking as much time as we could to visit my grandma, sleep over at her house, bring her dinner, and do anything that may be of any comfort. That time usually consisted of plenty of Home and Gardens, cups of Oval Teen, and saying little. At first, I wanted to fill the silence with anything other than another episode of House Hunters. I wanted to try and fix the evident emptiness. I felt antsy, as if just sitting there wasn’t enough—until I remembered what my friend had said. “…to love is to be company to the lonely…”

As I got up to get my grandma a glass of water, her neighbor’s dog started howling. My grandma said to me after awhile, “ever since they moved here, that dog cries and barks all day. I know he’s lonely since his owners are at work until late.” After she said that there was a long, long pause. I stood with my back facing her, yet I knew her face was downcast. Finally she spoke and said,

“The loneliness never does go away I suppose, you just have to get used to the silence.”

Her and I both knew full well that she was no longer talking about the dog.

Tears began to overwhelm my eyes. I put the cup of water down and walked into her room, still completely reminiscent of my grandpa, and cried. I had gotten a glimpse of that it looks like to love, in the form of being company to the lonely, independent of any lofty words said or extravagant actions. I began to see that to just sit with her helped to lessen the sting of complete and utter heartbreak—heartbreak in its most raw and aching form. To just be in her company and share her heartbreak is perhaps the true call to love. Maybe it is a call to share in the sadness and loneliness of loss, which will reap the beauty of love and repair. Maybe it is that this Christian life is about the times of tears and brokenness, and sharing in Christ’s sufferings, whether that be our own sufferings, or carrying the burden of someone else’s. I think the times we experience truly living, living to the full, is when we have those opportunities, whether be with a friend on a long drive, or visiting someone on the hospital, or making a long distance call, where we are not afraid of the hurt and pain and tears, but rather we embrace them with open hands…just as Christ did.

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Chelsea Andrews is high school junior with a lot of passion. She loves writing, reading, fashion, people and most of all camp. When she is not at school, she spends her time working with wyldlife. She finds her heart in Colorado but her home in Arizona, at least for now.