Why we are Here

Yesterday we drove 45 minutes to go to a church in a village called Chinon, where David gave a message on Church Planting. There are 5 churches of our denomination in our region, and together they decided to dedicate a Sunday to Church Planting. Since the church in our village has a church planting training center, leaders from Loches went to each of the other churches to  1.) Explain the NEED for more churches in France, 2.) Share what is already being done, and 3.) Invite people to participate in the work.

I was impacted on so many levels! First, most of you know that our goal is to have 1 church for every 10,000 people in France. Today there is one church for every 30,000 people, so we have a long way to go.

But even then...consider this: The church in Chinon, which has been around for several years, has about 30 members. It is the only evangelical church in that town, which has a population of 8000. That means there are just thirty  people to do all the work of running a church. Thirty people to reach their own community. And those thirty people, with so much on their own plates, STILL caught the vision for church planting. They were engaged, asking questions, moved to participate in some way!

Then this morning I drove to the house of a friend from church. I had never been there before, so I did not realize that it was 30 minutes away. She and her family drive 30 minutes to get to church every Sunday, and they do not pass a single other church on their way. They are not being picky, they are going to the nearest possible church! In fact, three years ago, before this church was planted in Loches, they drove an hour and fifteen minutes in the opposite direction to get to church.

Over these past two days, I was reminded of the value and the importance of this church planting work in France. My passion to reach this country for Christ was once again inflamed. I felt the heartbeat of the Father, who desires for ALL to come to faith. And I felt His pleasure in our participation.

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The Rhythm of His Rest

The more I engage in the work of God's kingdom, the more I am learning to abandon my agenda and embrace the rhythm of His rest.

MY agenda is focused on goals, benchmarks, and achievements. I don't like wasted time! I want to see progress!  I plan, I work, I strive. Tasks reign supreme.

HIS rhythm is focused on relationships, daily disciplines, and small private victories. He redeems time. He transforms people. He engages, He empowers, He inspires. He reigns supreme.

MY agenda leads to busy-ness and fatigue; HIS rhythm leads to redemption and peace.

MY agenda seeks accomplishments; HIS rhythm brings satisfaction.

MY agenda is performance-based and glorifies self; HIS rhythm is grace-based and glorifies the Father.

My agenda screams and clamors for attention; His rhythm remains steady and sure, like a heartbeat. And when I abandon my agenda, I find the rhythm of His rest.

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Click on over...

Today I am the guest blogger at The Lord's Lass, where my niece, Sarah (the author) is celebrating the second anniversary of her blog. Won't you click on over and join the fun? The theme for the week is "Blessing" and I'm sure you'll be blessed to discover the blog of this delightful young woman who is the oldest of 10 children, an accomplished violinist and pianist, an avid reader, and best of all, a devoted disciple.

Hope to see you there!

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Don't Forget my Feet--a mother's plea

As we sat around the lunch table, the conversation turned to toenails.

I don't tend to worry much about the future, but lately I have one nagging concern that eats at me in the wee hours of the morning when my body refuses to submit to the solace of sleep: When I am old, senile, and decrepit, who will clip my toenails?

I know my adoring husband would do it, but chances are he'll be dead by then!

Since the dilemma weighs heavily on my mind, I broach the subject with my children. We are having a nice lunch when I ever so subtly bring up the topic of toenails.

My older son, completely disgusted, shakes his head in disbelief. Knowing he really is not suited for care-taking, I suggest he look for a wife who might be up to the task. I imagine a courtship questionnaire that we could use for screening purposes: "Question 6: How do you feel about foot care?"

Before I can compose follow-up questions, he says in no uncertain terms, "I am NOT going to ask my wife to clip your toenails." Emotions mingle as I reply, "You're right, that might be asking too much." I feel sort of proud that he is already protective of this girl, though he knows not who she is.

Older son offers a different solution: he nominates younger son for the job.

"You don't actually have to do it yourself, just hire someone to give her a pedicure."

Younger son assents. He's used to being exploited. Older son promises to oversee younger son in this endeavor. Big brothers are good at oversight.

I just might sleep better tonight.

While I feel grateful to know that the future of my feet is in very capable hands, I wonder if I need to get their assurances in writing. It's easy to forget your mother's feet.

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Home: A Confusing Concept

When we arrived in the States last month, our friends said, "Welcome Home!"

And I did feel "at home" in the States.

But when we returned to France, our friends here said, "Welcome Home!"

And I do feel "at home" in France.

So what is "Home"? For me it is a confusing concept.

Often, when I am shopping in our village, a shopkeeper (upon hearing my accent) will ask, "Where are you from?"

I hate that question. I hate it because I do not know the answer. I hate it because the answer is, well, complicated.

My first thought is always, "I am from Loches! I live right up the street!" But I know that is not the answer that they seek because it does not explain my floundering French. However, if I respond, "I am from the United States," I have not accurately represented my current living situation.

I have settled on a two-part response, which goes something like this: "We are Americans, but we live in Loches."

Citizens of the United States. Residents of France. Home in two places.

Truth be told, while I hate the "Where are you from?" question, I love the reality of my response; because Jesus lived the same way. He was a citizen of Heaven who became a resident of earth. Home in two places.

And the more I settle into the craziness of cross-cultural living, the more I marvel at what Jesus did when he left one home for another. He went from fame to obscurity. He went from speaking the universe into existence to barely being able to babble. He went from a place of authority to a place of servitude. I think He can understand how I feel. Which is why, no matter where my address is, my home is with Him.

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Are you buying it?

As we waited in various airports over the past few weeks, I spent a lot of time perusing book tables. Despite my seeming addiction to literature, I was feeling rather illiterate. Years ago, I would have been familiar with just about any title available at the airport. Surprisingly, I was hard pressed to find anything I recognized, save the names of a few select authors.

I particularly noted the number of memoirs that were displayed. Over the past two years I have been reading a great number of memoirs, but I thought this was a personal preference thing; I did not realize that it was a new trend. The memoirs that I read are (most often) written by Christians, and they are steeped with the redemptive power of Jesus. The memoirs that I picked up in the airport bookstores were starkly different.

While the endorsements proclaimed certain works to be "bravely self-revealing," I found the parts that I skimmed to be tragically disturbing. What good is authenticity if it fails to point us to our desperate need for a Savior? How can people come to terms with their own depravity and be satisfied? Or worse, pleased? And why would any reader wish to read disgusting self-disclosures when redemption never comes?

I suppose this is reality-television for the avid reader, but I am as turned-off by it as I am by shows like The Bachelor. The sad thing is, these works would not be so prevalent if they were not popular. People are buying this stuff. Reading it. Watching it. Giving it room in their lives and access to their souls. I am shocked, not so much by the sin that is exposed; but rather, by the fascination that we, as a culture, have with it. At the glorification that we give to it. At the prominence that we accord it.

Oh Jesus, I thank you for dying on the cross for all that is wretched and unholy! I thank you because your grace makes salvation possible. I thank you because you can redeem anything. Won't you free us from a morbid obsession with our own depravity and make us hungry for your holiness?

p.s. If you are looking for a good memoir, may I suggest Surprised by Oxford, by Carolyn Weber; Digging Ditches, by Helen Roseveare; or The Holocaust Diaries, by Nonna Bannister? In these rich stories, fallen people are called out of darkness and discover what it means to live in the light.

Have you read a good memoir? Tell me about it!

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David

David is teaching a guitar lesson in the next room, and I am swooning. There is just something undeniably attractive about that man when he wields his Takemine. I'm a sucker for his strumming, and I always have been.

But as much as I adore his musical moxie, it is nothing compared to his faithful friendship, his servant leadership, and his quick wit. I'd be lost without that man!

Over the years I have only grown in my appreciation of who David is--the more I know of him, the more I am amazed by him. He is totally capable, yet he never insists on his way. He is crazy smart, yet he always listens to what others have to say. He could do anything he wants, yet his greatest joy is seeing others succeed. 

Perhaps that is why my mama always says, "Jennifer, you be good to David!" Because everyone can clearly see how good he is to me. Every. Single. Day.

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