Month: August 2016

Keepsakes

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The ChefLeave a comment

I collect words. Old cartoons, quotes written on napkins, bulletins from church with a hastily scribbled phrase from the sermon, these are in my keepsake box. I have a poem shared over 30 years ago from my college friend that I pull out about every 4 or 5 years, as amazed at how it still rings true for me as I am at her so beautiful handwriting, handwriting that just means her to me. Most of my favorite recipes are on the backs of bills or a piece of newspaper, jotted quickly as my mother recited ingredients over the phone, surely indecipherable to anyone else.  I have the page from my Chef’s Daytimer where he wrote his phone number when he first asked me out. Song lyrics that have spoken to the places I try to hide, stories written by my children after vacations (my consistent homework assignment for them), those little cards that come with flowers, long dead. Letters, probably every letter I have ever received, all in my keepsake box. I collect words.

I found a rock in my mailbox. I am accustomed to seeing spiders, bills and Time magazine inside but this was a first. It was holding in place a small slip of paper, a scrap that would otherwise have blown away as I opened the box door.  Both were treasures, one a gift to my Plum, the other an encouragement to me. It was lovely and enchanting, so very sweet that a new friend made that effort. A place of usual dread, especially now that money is scarce, became delightful. This note is a keepsake.

A visit to St. Paul several months ago yielded much for our souls, in fact prepared us for this next step in our journey. There we met a family so welcoming I wanted to move to be neighbors, to worship with them. A great fit for my Chef, this man who reached out, shared, ate lunch with us.  A bond was created, Facebook allows it to continue from afar until we can travel north again. Several weeks ago I received this most achingly uplifting email from this friend, apologizing if it was inappropriate but sharing the hope of God, promises of our Lord, hearing our agony.  I read his email over and over, could not find anything wrong through my teary eyes. What I saw was someone who took the time to reach across several states and a great deal of fear to share his faith and let us own our hurt. This email is a keepsake.

When I returned from my trip to Colorado, I found a three page handwritten letter (who does that anymore?) from a young woman filled with such grace that the pages felt warm, they glowed.  I don’t care if you believe me. She is that authentic, she is so real.  Her letter lifted me to the heavens, threw me below the very soles of my feet. I wanted to write to her all last year and didn’t. I selfishly figured she was doing well at college, what would she gain from a missive from me? Why did I ignore that push from God? How grateful I am that she is braver than I, that she listened. Her letter is a keepsake.

Since I have begun blogging and sharing my broken life, my search for grace and those bits of light in the darkness around, I have been incredibly blessed to be encouraged by old friends and new. My keepsake chest is ever filling.  I have become much more aware also of the power of words, spoken written and withheld. Storing up my own treasure of words is not pleasing to God, brings Him no glory. I apologize now for all the letters I haven’t written, for the times I held back. I didn’t trust me, I should have trusted God. I hope now to be an encourager, to leave a rock or an email or write a letter that becomes a keepsake for another someday. I strive to be authentic, to be honest with my words and let God do the rest.  If my blog means something to you, maybe it will to someone you know. It is personal but not private. Please share on your pages to help me atone for all the times I was silent. I am searching for courage amongst my treasures and what I keep finding is you. All of you who have let God push you into acting. May I become that brave, today, to speak truth and kindness with lasting words, words that feel like keepsakes.

Moments of Magic

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The Chef, TravelLeave a comment

A goal was set each day, reservations already in place for our hotel, the number of miles we needed to travel predetermined. Sometimes it was 300, often only 200, many times around 500. Each morning as we packed up the bike again my brother outlined for me the places we would discover and the end city.  He joked often that we had a short day of riding which actually never panned out. Each evening after showers, after dinner, a time was agreed upon for kick stands up in the morning. All these agreements were necessary for group travel, no actual leader. Maybe it was because it was vacation, maybe because grace traveled with us, but I discovered more than amazing new vistas. I learned what patience looks like.

At the pretrip meeting when I was told how to pack, that I really needed lip balm with sunscreen, I was also told that my vote counted just as much as the other three travelers. If I wanted/needed to stop I merely had to say so. If I wanted a picture, needed to eat or use the bathroom, was just ready to stretch my legs, all ok.  I heard this but was so overcome with gratitude to be included that I didn’t want to be a burden thus determined not to ask for stops unless absolutely necessary. I think though the whole 2 weeks I only tapped my brother’s shoulder 3 times, my bladder screaming once and my pelvis another. The third time was when he asked if I was okay and I was frozen in my tank top, the temperature drop and pelting rain creating misery that I would have pushed through had he not inquired. Stop we did though, each time, and I rushed through my fixes only to find everyone else gladly taking a break. Coffee was ordered, bandanas re-wetted, tanks filled up again. Phones were checked, calls made to family back home. No one showed the slightest sign of frustration that I was slowing our progress.

We stopped for the others as well, like the time my brother forgot to pay for his gas. The pump didn’t take his credit card so he went inside to give the cashier his card, she chose not to hold it, turned on the pump for him, said, ” I trust you.” As was habit, he filled up, logged it all in his journal, we readjusted helmets and drinks and rode off.  About 15 miles down the road he realized what had happened, pulled over, explained to our companions the situation. We all returned to the station to find the cashier and manager rewinding security cameras, trying to find the biker who rode off without paying.  “You came back,” she screamed when she turned around at the sound of the bell tinkling as we entered. He apologized profusely, gave his card again. Outside, helmets were donned, drinks readjusted, then the cashier came running out.  She hugged him, said no one ever comes back. We all rode away, knowing we were behind schedule but ahead in creating memories.

We stopped because we needed more sunscreen and my bandana had flown away. My trick of eating M&M’s as we rode not so successful. The little bag I carried in my borrowed Harley pouch had long melted. I peeled the paper open and scrapped the contents along my teeth, under my helmet. I was thrilled no one could see me, certain I appeared crazy desperate and chocolate covered. Remembering the still slightly damp bandana around my neck, I carefully removed that as we flew at 60 plus miles and snuck it under my face shield, cleaned myself up. But what to do with the messy bag? I wrapped it up in the bandana and tucked it under my leg until I could clean it all up at our next stop.  Content with my ingenuity and a belly full of sugar, I went back to watching the scenery.  Back to wiggling and rearranging myself, legs up on the pegs, leaning back, forward, to the side.  Away went my forgotten treasure, my mess, my cooling towel. So we stopped at a Walgreens after our lunch, another delay. There we met Rene.

My brother went in and was greeted by this gorgeous African-American women with long braids and a huge smile. She asked if she could help and then did. He got the sunscreen, new bandana and more M&M’s for me. I waited outside in the shade, stretching my legs just a bit more. Out they both come, excited voices as she exalted over his bike. Apparently she had remarked on his attire, asked about his journey. He invited her to see the bike and she jumped at the chance.  The rest was pure magic, pure joy. He told her to jump on, to grab her phone for a picture. Her shock was quickly overcome, she got on, pictures were taken. Then she hugged him, a real hug.  One of those really tight man you are the best kind of hugs. She told me to take care of him, that he got me a surprise. Then I got a hug as well. The same kind.  Rene knows how to hug. I’m really sorry for littering but wouldn’t have wanted to miss out on that stop for anything.

I could go on forever about the people we met at our stops, those are amazing stories to me. But something I have realized is that I am a bad traveler usually. I rush my Chef. I keep a timetable, I am always ready for the next thing. How many Rene’s have I missed?  Every Sunday I holler up the stairs, “are you ready yet?’  knowing he isn’t but giving the signal it is time to go. Maybe it is easier on vacation, maybe it is easier when there are no children anxiously waiting.  My look is composed of a shower, clean mostly matching clothes and some eyeliner. My Chef takes much more time with his appearance, things match, his hair has product, he smells good. Shoes match shorts, shirts are ironed. He just takes longer. So I rush him. I have felt quite righteous in this rushing, until two weeks of travel when I never got rushed. Even when everyone else was ready and my Plum needed to FaceTime. Even when I decided at the last-minute I really did want/didn’t want my hoodie.

Rushing through to the next thing, hollering about time to leave, washing the dishes while some are still eating, never staying until the end, that’s my thing. I’ve always attributed it to my hyperness but honesty now requires a deeper truth. I avoid people. I am not so comfortable in my skin that I stick around long. That whole being in the moment thing, again. Moments can last longer than I like. The example of my traveling companions was so powerful, so telling. Those moments are where the magic happens. Those moments are where you get the hugs. Those moments lead to M&M’s. I am trying to slow down, to offer that grace now that I am back home. I am trying to remember that our end city is set, our reservations for the night made. We get to have an adventure each day if we chose.

Sacred Offering

On By LisaIn Faith, TravelLeave a comment

I’m going to tell you a secret. I cried as we drove through the mountains. No one saw, my face was obscured by the helmet, my eyes covered by sunglasses.  Tears flowed  over my sunburnt cheeks as we cruised carefully by each bend to find a trickle working its way down from the snow caps above. Just God and I knew. I cried because I was small and the mountains were big. I cried because the Aspens rose up to touch the sky, the clouds were within reach. I cried because the beauty overwhelmed me and I was within it.

The road around the mountain curved, rose, twisted. No guard rails blocked the view of the valley far below. Wildflowers persisted among the rocks. The rocks of such magnificent size, shape, color, broken rocks filling my soul with wonder. I cried because I could see what God does with brokenness. I fit into that glorious landscape.

I looked at the valleys, I knew those valleys. Richness could be found there, a pooling of all the resources from on high. The valleys where most choose to live, it is too rugged to stay up high with God. I’ve spent much time in those valleys, missing the beauty, my beauty, forgetting to look up, forgetting that by design, valleys must be rimmed with something higher. The roads are safer, straighter, colors more expected. It is easier to hide ourselves in the valleys, to pretend we are more than, stronger than, that we are whole. It is a mistake to stay too long there.

I turned my eyes back up, around me. My broken life, full of shattered pieces and determined new growth, no longer felt ugly. I too am one of God’s incredible works, the fallen rocks shattered to show new colors, spaces made for new streams. I am small, as tiny as the orange flowers that sneak through patches of grass, planted as surely as I am alive only by God. I am broken, broken like the boulders fallen from salt and sand created monuments to our Creator, boulders that fall to leave a glorious arch that spans a lifetime. Shattered sienna, burnt sienna, turquoise, white bring us to our knees. I am home. My broken life is a thing of beauty. My tears were my sacred offering. I let them fall.

What I Know

On By LisaIn FaithLeave a comment

I awoke thinking about all the things I don’t know. The list is really long even when I disregard physics and how to paint a room without making a mess. I am more focused on why people are mean, unforgiving, scared. Why do Christians lash out in such hurtful ways? Why would anyone hit that post button that shreds another’s dignity? How have we allowed bullying to become acceptable? I don’t know these things. I do believe as surely as I know my God created you and me that it just has to stop. I have to help it stop.

Psalm 4:4-5 says Be angry and do not sin. Meditate within your heart on your bed and be still. Offer the sacrifices of righteousness and put your trust in the Lord.  I love this passage. It doesn’t say don’t get angry. Anger is healthy, necessary even, I believe. The problem is what we do with it. The example of Jesus Christ is a great place to start. He got angry, he hurt no one. Conflict resolution seems a lost art. Listening, hearing, forgiving rather than shouting, blaming, labeling.  I love that the Psalmist tells me to just stay in bed and mediate within my heart, to be still. To allow time for those whispers from God to calm my soul and lead me away from my humanity and into His light. To offer up the sacrifice of my righteous, sheer beauty! To give to my Creator all of my “But he started it” s and “But you know, you KNOW I am right”s is about the most courageous thing I can do. Accepting humility, accepting that I just have to let God be the scorekeeper actually frees me of the anger, slowly sometimes, but still, frees me.

I want this election cycle to be over even though the name calling and hate culture may last. I want to remind my friends and strangers that we are better than this. I want to be better than this. I don’t know how we got here but lets join together and move to a new place, our beds, where we will meditate and be still. A timeout for all of us until we can be nice. Until we can worry less about being right and more about being kind. If you don’t see me early in the morning, I am not sleeping in, just taking a little extra time to start my day, giving up some righteousness. I have to start somewhere. That is what I do know.

 

Small Meals

On By LisaIn Faith, TravelLeave a comment

I met a cat in Colorado. That’s not biker talk, it was a real cat, a kitten really. After a particularly long day riding through multiple temperature changes we finally arrived at our lodging for the night much later than the usual stopping time. I was too tired to go back out for dinner, instead just sat at the picnic table bordering the parking lot after grabbing a quick shower in the smoky room. As I watched the sky change colors I heard a mewing, an insistent call but couldn’t find the source. This roadside motel mostly filled with other bikers and the staff who cleaned the rooms didn’t seem like a place for pets. I trudged back up the steps and dug out the muffin I had saved from the breakfast buffet hours before and began crumbling pieces for the clearly hungry but still unseen cat.

As I littered the area with what was supposed to be my dinner, I caught glimpses of a little black kitten. His skittishness warred with his hunger, I gave him room to eat and feel safe while I yearned to pick him up and cuddle. He ate the whole muffin so I moved on to water, finding a bowl in the office.  I discovered his hiding spot under a shed in the back and placed the bowl close by then went to bed.

The night brought rain, a rainbow greeted my morning along with the kitten. I found pizza crust left over from my brother’s dinner and began the crumbling again. The kitten came closer, closer still. I tried to catch up on emails and texts before it was time to begin traveling again, the kitten wanted to play. Grass, sticks, my fingers, anything that moved through the little fence were fair game. Still, I never held him, never cuddled.  I left him with water and a bit more pizza.

The thing is, I haven’t stopped thinking about that kitten. For just a few hours our lives crossed, we took care of each other. I couldn’t take the kitten with me, no one there wanted to become responsible for a mostly feral cat. While I was there, though, I couldn’t ignore the need and received the reward of a kitten able to play, for that morning at least.

I met a great many people during my travels, people who will never know that their smiles and kind words fed me. They may never remember the woman on the motorcycle but I won’t soon forget. Making the time to connect, feeding pizza crusts to the hungry, these little moments are the ones that are the sweetest. Not one huge feast, many small meals that fed us all. Grace. Light. Faith in Action.  I am still not hungry.

 

My Brother is Grace

On By LisaIn Faith, The Chef, TravelLeave a comment

In high school my little brother saved his money to take us on a skiing trip for my birthday. He and I drove to Michigan, skied for the day and then came out to find we had car trouble and had to stay the night. Our trip was extended, we were elated. Dinner at Denny’s by the hotel, a great night’s sleep and then we hit the road. That was almost 35 years ago. We traveled together several years ago to Florida, just he and I to attend a family funeral. Until this trip though, we haven’t spent so much time together since I left for college. Our original family of five has shrunk to just us, my baby brother who truth be told was always my favorite anyway. During this extended time I got to see the man he has become, not just in snippets over dinners or phone calls. The sweet boy who hollered from his bedroom  every night, “Goodnight, sis, I love you” is now a sweet 50 year old who I wish everyone could know.

He towers over me but never blocks my view. He leads without controlling where I go. He opens doors never assuming I can’t do so myself. He is generous with his heart, his manners, his time and his funds. He talks to strangers, calls them friends. He thanked every worker we saw, the guy cleaning the rooms, the woman working the late night desk. He finds value in everyone he meets then makes them aware of his discovery. It feels good to be around him. He is grace.

He sent me a text a few months ago asking if I would ride on the back of a motorcycle through Colorado if it was free. I said I would definitely ride and would start saving up. The planning began. Texts exchanged about what to wear, special events, maps of the route increased in frequency as the departure date neared. Then he had a routine surgery that wasn’t routine and we lost our income. The trip wasn’t so sure. I wondered at the wisdom of leaving my husband for two weeks at such a delicate time, at spending money we didn’t have. Yet the timing just felt right, necessary. I trusted that God had something to show me, that He had work for my Chef at home. We agreed to go on with the trip. I wasn’t sure if it was a leap of faith or just a selfish act but I felt so pulled to go, a compelling so strong to do this unknown thing with my little brother, I couldn’t stay home.

The night before I left, Chef and I had a big argument about nothing and everything, his anger erupting at me, blindsiding me. I knew it was fear, anxiety at my leaving so I took it for a bit and then decided I wanted no more. I left with a heart full of aching prayers for God to restore to me the Chef I married. I begged for God to help him find his way outside of me, for the rains to dissolve his anger while I was gone. I pleaded with every mile I traveled away from him that God might bring us closer, knowing that could only happen when my Chef found his brothers, those who set examples of grace and humility, who led without controlling, who listened without agenda, who didn’t block his sun.  We couldn’t help each other but God could help us both apart, separately. He listened to my prayers.

Many miles into the trip my hurt and frustration dissolved, clarity returned. I saw the big scenes before me, the smallest details. I saw God in every blink and found the words to show compassion to my Chef, to support his journey also. I found that my trip took days to get where we were going, there was no rushing even through the rain and the cold. We had to endure to hit our destination. I realized I couldn’t rush my Chef either. All around us, we each found grace. My Chef went to lunch, went golfing, made plans for a men’s retreat. He rediscovered the more outside of work I knew waited for him. I watched my brother and his friend Mark practice patience when I needed an unscheduled stop or a waitress took too long to bring our waters. These two men just didn’t get angry. Not once. Not when I broke the cable that connected the trunk lid, not when cars cut us off, not when we had to stop to put on rain suits, again. We each were being loved, healed.

The last night in a hotel, my brother and I stayed up too late talking, remembering our mother together, sharing stories. I learned more about him, perspectives I thought were true maybe not so much.  He told me about myself. He said I am the strongest person he knows. His words still rumble through my mind like the roar of the bike. I trust him but am trying to make sense of that. What I am sure of is that my baby brother is a man of God, a man who rides a Harley and sheds grace on all who are lucky enough to meet him. He gives God the glory for everything, he brings glory to God with his character. I trusted him to drive me to Colorado, a two week trip of letting go and shuffling pieces. God brought us safely home, back to my Chef and my Plum, tired and radiating light and hope. I now have grace to share with my Chef, my soul is restored.

My brother took me on a trip again. A gift greater than two teenagers traveling alone, freedom feeling like the rush of the wind as we flew down the slopes. This trip was to the mountains and the canyons, as 50somethings, who found freedom was trusting our lives to our Creator. My baby brother showed me God again, who looks an awful lot like the guy  driving our bike. Someday I hope to bless him as much.

 

My Voice at Home

On By LisaIn Faith, TravelLeave a comment

I’m back home but I don’t quite fit here. I left for two weeks riding on the back of my brother’s Harley, an adventure that I said yes to without really knowing what was involved. Mountains in Colorado, precious time with my brother, maybe a sore butt, this I anticipated. I wasn’t disappointed. But more, so much more came to me as well.  On the bike, I found hours of alone time, hours of watching the land our God created and we are inhabiting pass by. I looked at gloriously golden fields of hay, at round bales waiting to be plucked up. I saw cows, thousands of cows, who saw me too, their hides glistening in the sun, huge eyes observing while they roamed the pastures that never seemed to end. Streams that became lakes, rivers that flowed up, waterfalls that gushed over rocks hidden between Aspen trees, glory showed up with each blink. I found even more though, I found me.

Across the country, I discovered a need for contact. I didn’t know this about myself. We never ever stopped without people coming up to us and asking where we are from, where we are headed, telling us about their travels. They told us about coming storms. Everyone wished us a safe trip.  I have not one time said that to someone at a gas station . I expected to be judged as bikers, but I was guilty of the judging. I was shocked by the absolute friendliness we encountered, the graciousness of people of every color, gender, age, socioeconomic strata. People have stories, people want to hear stories. A sacredness existed with each stop, a new friend made, a human connection. It was beautiful. At first I just listened as my brother and his friend did the talking. As the miles racked up on the odometer though, I realized I was part of the story. I had a voice, I was worthy of not just listening but speaking as well.

So many years of hiding, trying to be invisible, to be quiet and just watch, meant my voice was a little hesitant, a bit rusty. My manners were off, I wasn’t as quick with the answers as someone so comfortable in their skin like my traveling companions. With each successful encounter my voice was stronger, I grew back into me. On the last morning, an older man pulled his car up to me as I was packing up the bike and asked for directions to a local tire place.  Asked me for directions! The old me would have told him I wasn’t from around there, sorry. Instead, I pulled out my phone and found the shop, handed him the map and gave him the overview. My new friend was on his way with a wave and a honk.  It seems so silly but I was seen, I didn’t pass him off to someone more capable.

I’m back home where my voice hasn’t always been heard or counted. I am back where I have to push a bit harder to remind those around me that I was talking, that I am here. I am new, I am different. Traveling does that. My next challenge is bringing the glory home, being visible in the everyday. I’m starting by waving at passersby and talking to folks at the gas station.  We all have stories to tell, we all deserve to be listened to. Safe travels friends, I heard we might get some weather.

Swaying Freely

On By LisaIn Faith, PlumLeave a comment

I went to the mountains seeking majesty. I found humility instead. Surrounded by the greatness of God I saw how small and I insignificant I am. Gazing down the canyons at cars that look like my Plum’s toys, I lost my sense of importance. My troubles evaporated with the morning fog. I found majesty and myself.

My Plum is an avid rock collector, his window sill is lined with specimens from his travels. He has more stored under his bed, where the real treasures are. How he determines which to take is beyond me, yet we never go anywhere without a new one sliding into my purse ready to join his collection at home. Along this trip, I have watched for rocks that might delight my boy, special sizes, shapes, indications of where I have been. Being on the motorcycle I have to be choosy.

I found some pieces of the mountain that show all the colors, determined to bring back exactly what I was seeing. As I look at the vastness of these rocks raising up to the heavens, it is easy to see one big rock. The tiny slivers I have stored away remind me that God made those mountains out of billions of slivers, billions of colors joined together to create the majestic scene before me.  The red canyon isn’t really just red, but made up of glory in the shape of wildflowers, sage brush, multicolored rock. I am humbled and yet encouraged that my place in this world is necessary to fill out the palette. What if all the tiny greens were removed? The richness would be gone.

I am no more significant than the tiny flower growing on the hillside but God planted that flower. God planted me as well. I hope to embrace my color, to shed my fear of standing up and swaying in the breeze. I found my majesty. I am humbled. I am emboldened.

If You Tell Me

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If you tell me you have too much pain, I will hear you. I will listen to your story. Then I will tell you about the ragged edges of the mountain rocks breaking through the sky. I will describe for you the same rocks that have fallen to the waters below, now smooth as the river runs by.

If you tell me the world is full of anger and hate, I will listen to you. I will hear your story and then tell you about hundreds of miles lined with sunflowers, planted by God, turning their faces to bless the travelers passing by.

If you tell me you don’t believe in God, I will listen to you. I will hear your story  Then I will show you the sunflowers, the mountains, the flowing waters and the rocks. Maybe you will remember God the Creator of all and begin to tell a new story. I will listen.

 

 

 

 

 

Jesus at the Bar

On By LisaIn Faith3 Comments

After another long hot day on the bike, temps around 98 with no cloud coverage, when we hit the hotel I just wanted a shower. The road dirt and sunscreen mixed with miles and miles of sweat might have earned me real biker status but I was ready to shed the chaps and begin our evening of exploration. I am finding that such long periods of forced solitude bring a richness to each stop, conversations are a bit deeper, more meaningful. We share our observations from the last 100 miles, we tell stories. Cell phones mostly stay idle except to check in with those following us at home. I was ready for our evening talks, wondering where those would take us as, knowing my mind would be challenged, my soul inspired. It was sharing time.

Because I cleaned up first, I left the room in search of the hotel bar, a refreshing glass of wine. There I met a young man willing to share his story, open to hearing some Jesus. He poured my wine, the bar was empty, I stepped out of my comfort zone, I needed to hear voices. I asked him about himself. What ensured was God, in the timing, in the nudges, in the light flowing into that little bar. His name is Bryce, he wants to be an actor. He feels a calling but hears all the reasons why it won’t work. He pours drinks for wealthy business people who tell him to finish his education, to find stable employment. But something inside is screaming to follow his art. I said ,”Do it.”  He was surprised. I found myself quoting Steve Wiens from his book “Beginnings.” Bryce looked at me, stopped cleaning glasses, said he needed to hear that. We dug deeper. I worried about telling him my friend Steve is a pastor, I am not one for evangelizing. Maybe it was the elevation, maybe the dehydration, I took the leap. Sharing how this book, this man’s writing had opened up a world of choices for many friends, for me, I told him about Steve’s church. He didn’t walk away. Tony Compolo and Red Letter Christianity worked into my story, opening up a place of grace for this young man who walked a way from church several years ago, couldn’t find his way back. Church that excludes, that judges, that seems to hate instead of love. He was seeking Jesus, we found Him at the bar.

Other patrons made their way to our bar, Bryce got back to work. While he was pouring and listening to more stories, I asked for his address. He didn’t hesitate, found a scrap of paper to share his life with a stranger. I rejoined my friends, we laughed amidst an hour of camaraderie on the hotel porch. As we made our exit for dinner, Bryce put down his towel, stopped washing dishes and came to our side of the dividing bar. He gave me a hug, again thanked me. After dinner, back in our room, I  ordered Steve’s book from Amazon.  It is on the way, full of new beginnings and wise words for this young man. Whether he ever shows up on the big screen in our theaters, he is already a star to God. I am excited for his new beginning, a new relationship with a God who is pursuing him. This God who washed me of my road dirt and sent me to the bar, eager to talk and listen. A beginning for me as well.