Radical Makeover

My new book covers! 

So what do you think? 

Woo Hoo!

Soooo exciting!

These are the new covers for my two historical novels, The Distant Shore and Billowing Sails. 

My publisher felt it was time for an update and I think they give Emma-Lee, the main character of both books, a fresh new look.

I actually resisted at first - accepting change has never been my forte. But I'm glad I relented now that I've seen what a very talented cover artist can do ... not really altering my perception of who Emma-Lee is, but enhancing the possibilities and engaging the imagination in all that she could be.

It was my desire to keep the distant storm clouds and dark edges on the horizon of The Distant Shore to symbolize the tragedy and mystery that Emma-Lee was thrust into on the island through no fault of her own. Not unlike many of the problems we face every day - problems not of our own making, but problems we must wade through nonetheless.

And the cover artist (whom I've never met or even spoken to) came up with the beautiful brightness and glorious sunbeams (if you read my books, you know how much I absolutely ADORE those symbolic fingers of our Creator reaching down to us in the form of sunbeams!) portraying Emma-Lee's emerging faith and hope in Papa God for Billowing Sails. 

The use of sunbeams is just another marvelously cool coincidence that isn't.

It's a grace note. An amazing grace note that proves to me yet again that Papa God is involved in every single detail of our lives. Even book cover radical makeovers!

P.S. If you've never read these delightful novels inspired by a true story, good news! They're on sale for $1.99 each for a limited time in e-reader version for both Kindle and Nook. And of course they're also available in print from www.Amazon.com and www.BarnesandNoble.com as well as anywhere books are sold.  

Becoming a Godly Goader

The first goaders

The memory makes me smile now, but at the time I wanted to screech like a riled bobcat.

When I was nine, my sister was two years older and light years girlier. She wore wrap-around skirts, red hair bows and shiny pink nail polish.

I lived and breathed barefoot, wore ratty cut off jeans, baseball caps, and spent my time riding bikes, climbing trees or playing baseball.

Hence my big problem.

Since there were only the two of us kids under our roof, during long summer days when I wanted to go outside and jump on the pogo stick or snag a few grounders, there was no one but Cindy to play with. And she never wanted to face the heat, dirt, and bugs of a scorching Florida afternoon.

When begging and pleading didn't work, I resorted to goading her with the big ammo: "Fatty, fatty, two by four, can't get through the bathroom door ..."  

The fact that Cindy was about as big around as a licorice stick never seemed to matter, for she was at the age that every girl thinks she's fat. And I quickly learned that the surefire way to get something I wanted was to goad her into it.

A goad, by definition, is a pointed rod used to urge animals forward. To prod. To prompt. To guide an entity from one place to another.

In Ecclesiastes 12:11, Solomon, a man gifted with wisdom directly from God, said this: "The words of the wise are like goads" (NIV).

In other words, wise words can serve to prod, prompt, or guide an entity from one place to another. As in moving people from non-belief to belief; from agnosticism to theism; from an egocentric world view to a Christ-centered perspective.

This concept has weighed heavily on me this week as I prepare a eulogy for a dear Christian friend who passed away last weekend. The heaviness is not about my friend - although I miss her dreadfully, I have no doubt of her eternal security and that at this moment she's joyfully dancing an Irish jig in heaven's dance hall.

The heaviness is about my friend's brother, an intellectual Mensa know-it-all sort who views Christianity with disdain and spent the last evening of his sister's life on earth denouncing the "blatant weaknesses" and "contradictions" of the Bible to me right there in front of her as she lay on her deathbed. Painfully taking it all in.

I know his lostness distressed her, so it doubly distressed me, although I confess that I've often dismissed such arrogant, closed-minded, argumentative types as hopeless and shook off their dust from my sandals as I turned away.

But my friend had confided in me many times that she wanted more than anything to find a way to break through her brother's darkness with the light of Jesus.

And now she's gone. And I feel the weight of her unfulfilled burden. And I know that somehow, some day, there will be a way to reach him. Papa God is, after all, in the mind-changing business.

I ask myself: Do my words goad people in a Jesus-ward direction? Does my life prompt others to want to know the source of my inner joy? Do I actively seek to move people from one spiritual place to another?

Am I a godly goader?

As author Jill Briscoe so succinctly puts it, "Do our words ... prick their consciences? Move them from meaninglessness to meaningfulness? From nothingness to something-ness? From nonsense to God-sense?"

So I ask for your prayers this week, my friend. Please pray for Papa God to give me wise words to speak in this eulogy, meant expressly for someone who will never, ever darken the doors of a church. Not necessarily academically impressive, intellectually gifted words - for I have none. But words brimming with Jesus-joy that will break through this man's intellectual defenses to prepare the way for the Holy Spirit to penetrate the darkness in his heart with a shaft of blinding light.

Not unlike what happened to another know-it-all guy named Saul on a road to Damascus.

Yep. A personal visit from Papa God is the best goad of all.

No Short Cuts

A happy little cantaloupe before its journey 

I think it's human nature to try to find a faster, easier way to do things, don't you? Progress. Efficiency. Increased production.

But some things simply defy short cuts.

Take cantaloupes for example. I love a ripe, juicy melon as much as the next Floridian, maybe even more. But I must admit that until today I never gave much thought about how they get from the field to my table.

This morning I detoured my prayer walk to a wooded area adjacent to what is usually a large strawberry field. Apparently I haven't been observant enough to notice that the green plants aren't dotted with red berries as they've always been in the past. Nope, this time white globes peppered the fields.

And as evidenced by the workers swarming the place, today was harvest day!

I expected to see the field hands gather the cantaloupes much the same way they do strawberries - filling a flat or container of some sort that they drag along behind them along the row. But not so. The harvesting process was actually quite mesmerizing in its beauty and simplicity, and I found myself standing there watching for quite a while.

A truck straddled a newly picked row, moving forward at a snail's pace; three men stood atop the truck bed on either side of the truck catching the cantaloupes tossed up to them by three men moving parallel in the field on both sides of the truck.

The tossers were pretty incredible. In one graceful swoop, the man leaned down, picked a cantaloupe and hoisted the 5-lb fruit up and over his head. Like an NFL quarterback. He threw the thing in a perfect arc to the receiver on the truck and immediately bent back down for another. Down, up. Down, up. Down, up.

I'm not talking a single play here. He must've thrown a hundred passes on one row alone and these guys weren't all that close to the truck either.

My arms ached just watching them.

Over and over and over the heavy white balls arced through the air like fat birds in flight. The receiver who caught it then turned and rolled the melon into a crate which I presume would soon be on its way to the market. Catch, turn. Catch, turn. Catch, turn.

Everyone moved in perfect timing like a graceful, choreographed dance. It was truly inspiring to watch. Unexpected grace in an unexpected place.

I marveled that in this day of automation and machinery, cantaloupes are still harvested this way. Evidently there is no quicker, easier way. No short cuts. At least in one farmer's way of thinking.

And then I started thinking of other things in life for which there are no short cuts. Developing relationships. Healing, both emotionally and physically. Learning to do anything well. Trusting Papa God.

Sometimes we just have to go through the motions and endure the long, tedious journey. Down, up. Down, up. Down, up. Catch, turn. Catch, turn. Catch, turn. Because the repetition, the details, the hardness of it are essential to the process. The process that produces change in us. The process that makes the journey our actual destination.

So the next time you take a big ole bite of a luscious, ripe cantaloupe and the juice trickles down your chin, won't you join me in a moment of gratitude for doing some things the good old fashioned hard way?

One of Those Weenie Days

Ever have one of those days when everything possible went wrong? Sure you have. We all have. It's how we respond that separates the weenies from the warriors.

Take my friend Lana for example. Her story will make your eyebrows stand at attention.

Lana's daybreak flight from Denver to Philly was late. By the time she reached Philly, air traffic control had too many planes in the air so circling the airport repeatedly created even more of delay.

Upon deboarding, she found that she had exactly ten minutes to make her connecting flight at a terminal completely at the other end of the airport. Can you say Usain Bolt in heels?

But alas, she arrived panting and sweating only to find that her flight had been cancelled. The only other connecting flight to her speaking engagement in Baltimore would arrive too late for the event.

Lana called the event planner for advice and was talked into renting a car and driving the nearly three hour trek. So she went to baggage claim to retrieve her luggage and was told no problem - the bags would arrive within 30 minutes.

Three hours later her bags arrived and by then the Philly car rental services were fresh out of cars. Every one. How could that happen???

So she spent the next two hours on hold with the airlines trying to get a flight - any flight - including a return flight because hers was automatically canceled along with her original flight.

Finally something went right, or at least it seemed that way at the moment. She was able to get a new boarding pass and needed to recheck the behemoth bags she'd been lugging around into the Philly TSA. But as she stepped into an elevator to head back to security, the elevator got stuck between floors. After much panic and not a little screaming, the elevator gasped for life and chugged slowly to the nearest floor, where Lana rapidly exited. She reported to a TSA agent what had happened. Despite Lana's reluctance, the agent insisted that Lana get back on the elevator to ride along with her to prove it was a fluke and would never happen again.

It happened again.

When the agent tried to pry the elevator door open, she only succeeded in jamming it, which prevented the door from closing, which prevented them from going anywhere.

Before Lana could follow through with her frustration by kickboxing the elevator door, the ultra-professional, petite agent surprised her by punching the door with her fist. Would you believe it - the punch did the trick and the door closed just enough to get them up to the next floor.

There's something to be said for watching Rocky I- XV. (Incidentally, by Rocky XV I believe he was duking it out in the ring with Hilary Clinton.)

When Lana finally got to the appropriate gate, she found that high winds had prevented the plane she was supposed to take from coming into Philly from Pittsburgh. The next flight didn't leave until the following morning, which means Lana would entirely miss her speech scheduled for that night.

That was when she texted every friend she knew to start praying. Now. She was NOT going to cave and let Satan win this one. She'd had enough. Time to fight fire with fire.

Within twenty minutes, the wind died down. The plane came in. Lana was able to board on time (although they changed the gate and she didn't realize it until the last minute) and she arrived in Baltimore late that night. Her speech was rescheduled to the next day.

Like most of us facing terrible, rotten, ridiculous circumstances, Lana first panicked and nearly fell to pieces. But she didn't stay that way. Her faith kicked in (better faith than an elevator door, right?). She might have started out as a weenie but she ended strong. As a warrior.

"God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble." (Psalm 46:1, NASB)

Yep. There's power in prayer. Weenies morph into warriors. The underdog can become a champion. Even against Hilary's left upper cut.






 

Don't Miss the Music

Where I go to hear the music

My frantic life has screeched to a halt this past week.

It began with a hurried, worried, late night drive to the ER with Spouse in severe abdominal pain and ended ... Well, it hasn't ended yet.

But it hasn't been all bad.

During countless tests, then surgery, then waiting for the MD to arrive, a gigantic railroad track scar, and now recovery, I've been forced to set aside busy life as I know it and sit. Just sit.

Sit and read. Sit and listen. Sit and reflect.

And that's been good for me. Because I can hear the music again.

"What music?" you must be wondering.

It's the same music I heard up on a trail just a few weeks ago above our Smoky Mt. cabin. I was walking along the secluded woodsy path (I love it in the spring on our mountain because none of the other Florida transients are up there yet so it's just us, the birds, and the bears) when I felt the need to stop and rest a bit. So I parked my tush on a boulder to catch my breath.

That's when I heard the music.

It was gentle and humble and unpretentious - pretty hard to tune into at first. But the longer I sat there, the melody grew and filled my insides with its glory. The buzz of bees, the trickle of a hidden waterfall, the rumble of distant thunder, tree branches rustling in the breeze, the epitome of sweetness in life all combined to create music for my soul.

It was truly beautiful and so very satisfying. Peace. It sounded like peace.

And then it occurred to me. If you walk by too fast, you'll miss the music.

So I vowed to not walk so fast all the time. To slow down and listen. But as soon as we returned home, I hit the road running and it took an emergency room run to put on the breaks. To stop. And hear the beautiful music of Papa God playing in my soul.

So I urge you, friend, to do what I didn't on my own initiative. Take a few moments this week to stop, sit down, and catch your breath. And listen for Papa's gentle melody in your heart.

Contest Winners!!!

Woohoo!

A BIG hug to everyone who entered; thank you for sharing your favorite promises from Papa God with me - I was truly blessed. I wish I could send each and every one of you a book. But since I can't ...

I'm hereby announcing the drawing winners of a free copy of my brand new Too Blessed to be Stressed Promise Book - you're gonna love the tremendous wealth of scriptures related to subjects from my book, Too Blessed to be Stressed, like:

Coping with Loss
Courage
Dealing with Difficult People
Finding Everyday Balance
Worry
Developing Greater Trust
Living Gratefully
Finding Peace

So without further ado, I present the seven winners (I know I originally said six, but seven seemed like a more biblical number) and their favorite promises from the Bible (some of the translations might be different):

• Phyllis - Hebrews 4:9: "There remains therefore a rest for the people of God."
• Marian - Philippians 4:13: "I can do everything through Him who gives me strength."
• Kerry - Joshua 1:5: "I will never leave you nor forsake you."
• Jan - Zephaniah 3: 17: "The Lord you God is with you, he is mighty to save. He will take great delight in you, he will quiet you with his love, he will rejoice over you with singing."
•  Pamela - Jeremiah 29:11: "'For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the Lord, 'plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.'" 
• Veronica - John 3:16: " For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life." 
• Donna - John 14:1-4: "Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God; trust also in me. In my Father's house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am."

Congrats to each of you!

If you see your name and scripture on the list above, please e-mail me your mailing address privately at gracenotes@deboracoty.com and I'll get your autographed book in the mail. For those who didn't win this time, please keep trying in the next contest (scroll below to see which Blessed baby will come out next), and in the meantime, order yourself and that special woman in your life a Promise Book from Amazon.com.

Coming Attractions: The next Too Blessed to be Stressed offspring will be:

Too Blessed to be Stressed 2015 Planner (due in July)
Too Blessed to be Stressed Journal (due in September)

Stay tuned for more chances to win free books (and planners and journals)!

The Night That The Lights Went Out in Barcelona

View of Barcelona from the top of the arena

It was the first night of our Mediterranean cruise. Well, actually the cruise wouldn't start until the following day; we'd arrived in Barcelona a day early with our friends Bob and Sandi, who were, like us, celebrating their 35th wedding anniversary. (We've been friends since college and intentionally scheduled our weddings two weeks apart so we could attend each of them.)

It had been a long but glorious day traipsing the streets of the old-made-over-as-new-as-possible bustling port city after checking into our modern high rise hotel in the heart of the place.

Deb in Barcelona

Building architecture varied wildly, from ancient to modern, often times standing side by side. One of my favorites was the Hemingway-esque bull fighting arena remodeled into a unique shopping mall. It was pretty incredible. Once a place celebrating death for sport, it now is the epitome of urban 21st century life, filled with trendy restaurants, upscale boutiques, a movie theater, and quaint little ice cream shoppes.

Although the arena retained its original round shape and traditional red brick edifice, the inside had been completely transformed into six stories of ultra modern shiny chrome and glass for your shopping pleasure. One tremendously long escalator transported you from the bottom seemingly into the sky, depositing you on the roof of the arena to enjoy the gorgeous panoramic view above.   

Bull fighting arena turned shopping mall

Poor Chuck, never a shopping enthusiast, in the spirit of tourista conceded to dutifully follow me from floor to floor as I explored every nook and cranny. I bought a pair of earrings with a Spanish flair to remind me of our wonderful day.

After meeting up with Bob and Sandi to dine in an outdoor cafe Paris-style, we returned to our hotel and retired around 8 p.m.to try and remedy a little of the jet lag that was now nipping at our heels.

Bob and Sandi's room was next to ours on the 16th floor so Chuck and I bid them good-night and began unpacking. I settled down to a book in bed while Chuck fiddled with his computer at the desk as an hour passed uneventfully.

Suddenly, accompanied by a sound like a trunk falling on concrete, the lights went out. Not just in our room, but across the entire floor of the hotel. It was black dark, and soundless, at least at first. Like we'd fallen into a hole into the center of the earth. Totally eerie, let me tell you.

Then in the silent tarry darkness of the room, I hear a faint "Uh oh" from my fella. It had a guilty ring to it.

"Chuck, what exactly do you mean by 'uh oh'?"
"Um ... I think maybe I did that."
"You did what?"
Pregnant silent pause here. 
"Blew the electricity when I plugged in a charger that didn't want to fit."

Yikes. We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto. American electrical gizmos are apparently not compatible with Spanish electrical sockets.

By that time we could hear people stirring outside our room, roaming the dark halls in various stages of undress, bumping into handrails and each other, some speaking anxiously in foreign languages, others in heavily accented English, asking, "What happened?" "Is your power off?" "What kind of hotel is this?"

With friends like these ...

Within minutes, Bob and Sandi knocked on our door, confused and discombobulated as the rest of them. Chuck quickly ushered them in and secured the door behind them like he was James Bond hiding allies from Russian spies. Sandi had been sitting on the bathroom counter soaking her aching feet in the sink when darkness abruptly descended so she was still barefoot in her nightgown.

As soon as they heard what happened, Bob burst into uncontrollable belly laughter and Sandi burst into song - a tweaked rendition of a popular song from our youth, "That's the night that the lights went out in Georgia; that's the night that they hung an innocent man ..."

Well, Chuck did fess up to his crime when the authorities showed up to try and restore order. And power. He received a polite but firm rebuke from the electrician who kindly brought him the proper adapter so that it wouldn't happen again.

And for the rest of the trip we got serenaded with that infernal song by our friends who will never let us forget.


   

Sitting Geese

While traveling to a wedding in Alabama last weekend, Chuck and I stayed at a motel in a newly developed area on the fading border between urban and rural.

Next to our motel was a gigantic big box-like store that I'd never seen before: Gander Mtn, known as your firearms superstore.

Gulp.

Now I am not a hunter; I'm a weeping heart who would rather not think about where my steak comes from. Illogical as it may be, I refuse to acknowledge that my bacon once had legs. I cannot fathom raising my own fried chickens (although my granny in north Georgia certainly did and used to entertain us grandkids with stories of wringing the necks of her hens she'd raised from egghood when meat was sparse in winter and Sunday dinner rolled around with a mess of hungry mouths to feed).

When we pulled in to the motel, I was a bit nauseated by the huge guns-r-us store with its goose-in-midflight logo. Poor little wild geese, I thought. At least they can fly away - gives them a fighting chance.

Then to my horror, I saw them. Two pairs of long necked geese hanging out right there at the very place intended to be their demise. A newly equipped hunter would practically trip over them as he exited the doors loaded down with his brand new ammo.

Sitting ducks. Er, geese.

What's wrong with you? Get away from here. Far, far away! There're ponds everywhere safer than this. Here is where you die.  

But not only did they hang out in the field by the store all day, the next morning as I took my 6 a.m. prayer walk, they casually strolled right into the get-your-killer-gear-here parking lot like they were greeting customers or something.

I couldn't believe it. What was wrong with these dense birds? They have everywhere in the world to choose from and they park themselves smack dab in the middle of harm's way.

So like the fix-it gal that I am, I ran at them, arms flailing, yelling, "Shoo! Leave while you can! You don't know it, but staying here will be the end of you!"

Did they listen to reason? No. Like a synchronized swim team, they stretched their wings wide and raised their long necks tall and honked and squawked at me like I was the one out to harm them. They were ready to defend their poor choice to the death. One of the riled up ganders rushed back at me and chased me halfway back to the motel. (Angry geese are a scary thing, let me tell you!)

I even dreamed about those dadgum geese last night. In my dream, I tried and tried to make them see the folly of their choice and fly away. But I never could. All they did was attack me and entrench themselves deeper into defending their territory, which wasn't really theirs at all.

It was their enemy's territory. They just couldn't see it.

And when I awoke, fitful and frustrated, I knew Papa God was making a statement through my dream. I've spent the morning considering which areas of my life I'm a sitting goose. I've identified several and I'm still counting.

How about you? Are there any sitting goose places in your life?

Places you don't perceive as dangerous so you stake claim in enemy territory. You park yourself smack dab in the middle of harm's way as Satan raises his shotgun and takes aim at your heart.

And when people who see the bigger picture try to shoo you away, to warn you that staying there will be the end of you, you're ready to defend your poor choice to the death. You ruffle up your feathers and honk and attack right back at them until they leave you alone.

Alone to slide back down the slippery slope of that customized sin you thought you were strong enough to withstand. Alone to face the consequences of your poor choices. Alone in your regret.

Okay, so we're all sitting geese at one time or another. Such is sinful human nature. That's the bad news. The good news is that we can fly away to a better, safer place. We just have to choose to do so. And Papa God's got the perfect pond in mind for each of us.

C'mon. Spread 'em. Flap 'em. Let's go. 



   


   

Taking a Swig from the Dipper

A Dipper Full of Blessings

I was awakened by a nightmare shortly before 4 o'clock this morning.

With heart racing and sweat gluing me to my sheets, I tried for nearly an hour to dissipate the dark cloud of fear that enveloped my mind and spirit.

The nightmare wasn't real, I told myself. Get over it. Think about daisies and bunnies and summer mountain meadows. Okay, no problem. For about two minutes. And then back into the pit of anxiety I'd slide. I just couldn't shake it.

When I couldn't reason myself out of dismality (if that's not a real word, it should be), I finally slugged out of bed, hooked the leash to the poor dog who was listing to the starboard in a sleepy stupor, and went for a walk. You know - change of scenery, change of mood. 

I actually like walking at 5 a.m. My neighborhood is deafeningly quiet. Even the birds aren't up yet. The only humanity I encounter is the newspaper lady zipping by on her route. Some might think the stillness eery but I find it sublimely serene. The kind of deep serenity you can't find the rest of the day.

So there I was walking along dragging the catatonic dog through all this soundless, motionless, nothingness, still encased in my portable tomb of post-nightmare gloom, when I happened to look up. There, in the inky blackness of the sky, was the Big Dipper, standing out from its peers like the Pentatonix in the 2013 Sing-Off. No comparison. A class by itself. A star is born (pun intended).

Now, I've seen plenty of Big Dippers in my day, but this one was different. It was not only brighter than usual, it was tilted so that the dipper appeared to be pouring out its contents. And guess what was located just below the flow. 

None other than my humble home.

Seriously. From my angle, you could draw a straight line directly down to my roof. 

Hmm. I think Papa God is trying to tell me something. My wisdom is a little slow kicking in before daybreak. 

The words of a precious old hymn we used to sing in church when I was a child wormed its way into my consciousness.

When upon life's billows you are tempest tossed,
When you are discouraged, thinking all is lost,
Count your many blessings, name them one by one,
And it will surprise you what the Lord hath done.

Count your blessings, name them one by one.
Count your blessings, see what God hath done.
("Count Your Blessings" by Johnson Oatman, Jr and Edwin O. Excell)

Then I knew. Those were blessings Papa God was pouring out on my home. Sure enough. Blessings, lots of them.  Spouse and I are well. We have jobs. We have enough food to eat. We have a beautiful grandbuddy we get to see every day. We have a dog (for whom I was frantically digging a plastic baggie out of my pocket for the surprise package he was now leaving on the neighbor's lawn).

And just like that, the gloom lifted. I really did feel blessed. Too blessed to be stressed (hey, someone should make that a book title!).

Now I'll be singing that song worm all day, but it's a wonderfully blessed worm that's really a caterpillar already beginning to morph into a butterfly of joy.

"He awakens me morning by morning. He awakens my ear to hear as a disciple" (Isaiah 50:4-5, NASB). 

Generating Mercy

Last week in tennis, I was paired as a doubles partner in a USTA match with a gal who was playing for the first time in four months because of a neck injury. She could barely turn her head, so you can imagine how impaired her court movement was, not to mention how much her timing was off from not playing for so long.

I wasn't surprised that we lost, but how we lost was an eye-opener.

Once our opponents realized that my partner wasn't up to par, they intentionally picked on her, relentlessly pounding the ball just out of her reach so that she was forced to repeatedly dive to her bad side, putting herself at risk of re-injury.

Now I know this level of competition is fierce and many women are out for blood ... to win at all costs. But I was taken aback at this blatant display of what all of life would be like without compassion.

Without mercy.

In contrast, the next day I watched my 2-year-old grandbuddy Blaine wrestling on the floor with his 200-lb daddy. When Blaine was gently manipulated into a pinned position he couldn't break with his own limited strength, he cried, "Mercy! Mercy!" and his daddy released all pressure and helped him up. The two laughed together and then had at it all over again. 

Blaine willingly entered into the struggle knowing that if he got into trouble and asked for mercy, he would receive it. Because love was present.

What a difference it makes in our behavior ... our relationships ... our courage ... when love is present. 

According to Webster, mercy is, "Compassion shown to an offender." In other words, not giving someone what they deserve. And why would anyone not pay back what is due to a guilty person? To someone who has hurt you? Tread over you? Disrespected you? Humiliated you?

Only one thing comes to mind: love. The underlying reason why all Christ-followers should treat others with respect, courtesy, and yes, mercy. We receive love from Papa God. We, in turn, must choose to extend it to others.

To everyone, yes, but especially the guilty. The ones who don't deserve it.

So this is my weekly lesson from Papa God. I am determined to do better. To be more merciful to my offenders - the lady who threw the barely veiled insult at me, that perpetually cranky neighbor who gets under my skin, the man who ignored the stop sign and came within an inch of crunching my car.

Because even if they're not yelling "Mercy! Mercy!"on the outside, if I listen hard enough with my spiritual ears, I can hear the cry from a deeper place when Papa God's love is present.