What an Investigative Detective Would Tell You

A chill steals into my windowed corner at the coffee shop, and I hunch shoulders protectively. Snowflakes and raindrops vacillate past the windowpane, disappearing into flash ripples in the puddles. The tiny sample cup of iced coffee sits full on the corner of my square wooden table, and I can't bring myself to touch its cold plastic sides again. I cradle instead my full-size cardboard cup of coffee, soaking up the emanating warmth.

My shower-wet hair dries slowly. Dampness dissipates while jazz music plays. Espresso machines hum and hiss, strangers talk in muted tones, and business executives open briefcases, pull out laptops, and consult their phones.

I inhale my warm pain au chocolate ("chocolate croissant"), despite telling myself to slow down. Buttery flakes encase two strips of chocolate and, too soon, I'm savoring the last bite, sucking the last bits of flavor from my tongue.

In my Bible readings, I've culled the eyewitness reports and interviews that Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John compiled from their years with Jesus. They recounted, reported, verified, and narrated the events leading up to Jesus' death and resurrection. Luke, the doctor, prefaced his account thus:
       Many have undertaken to draw up an account of the things that have been fulfilled among us, just as they were handed down to us by those who from the first were eyewitnesses and servants of the word. Therefore since I myself have carefully investigated everything from the beginning, it seemed good also to me to write an orderly account for you, most excellent Theophilus, so that you may know the certainty of the things you have been taught (Luke 1:1-4).

John, the quiet powerhouse from the side calmly stated,  
         These are written that you may believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and that by believing you may have life in his name; adding, Jesus did many other things as well. If every one of them were written down, I suppose that even the whole world would not have room for the books that would be written (John 20:30-31, 21:25).

Policemen and detectives, trained in intelligence-gathering and suspect-interrogation, declare that the way these four Bible accounts are handled points to their veracity and reliability. Truthful witnesses' accounts of an event will support each other but have enough variances that illustrate their unique vantage points and memories of the event. Dishonest witnesses will have collaborated on their story, and the details will all match exactly -- unnaturally. Their arguments won't stand up to time and scrutiny.

Two thousand years later, the Bible consistently passes all tests of accuracy with unprecedented high scores, far surpassing all other historical texts. Atheists like C. S. Lewis, who set out to disprove the Bible, and investigative journalist Lee Strobel have since capitulated to its veracity and are now ardent fans.

I doff my cap to their prowess and pull the Bible closer across my coffee table. Turning to Acts chapter one, I am eager to see what happens next. Outside my window, raindrops turn to snow and fall faster.

(Photo credit: Snowshot, Creative Commons, cc license)

Walls, Writing,and What You were Made For

It's the original walls. This home, built thirteen years ago by Russian hands. This home in which we're the third owners, third occupants. (Photos above not of my home. See credits below)

Foreclosed and bank-owned when we found it, knee high in thistles and clover, we know very little about this house's past owners. Intriguing clues surface at unexpected moments: the splatter of dusty rice pellets in crevices behind the stove and a solitary chopstick (giving us instant kinship with them-- us with our curries and African sauces, and at-least-weekly rice meals); mail addressed to Vietnamese or Thai names; and rumors of Russian families with lots of young men who liked bonfires under the moated stone tree.

A year into living here now, the house feels like home; the yard is brimming with rhubarb, flowers and produce; and lawn mower patterns trace square mazes of olive green grass clippings. Several walls have original paintwork still, though--a concession to time limits and energy. Sitting in Daniel's room this evening, I stare at the walls, seeing old staples high up in the wall from holding another family's posters.

Who lived here, I wonder? What was on these walls? Where did they put their bed, their dresser? Was it a child like our Lego-tinkling boy beside me, or someone else? Relatively clean, the walls still boast the plaster I swiped on some months ago to flatten and hide chips and dents on the surface. Original paintwork looks back at me, as I stare silently at the walls, picturing the clamoring sounds, stories, relationships, and lives of the two families here before us.

It feels surreal yet intimate, and I fall quiet. Plastic Legos shuffle and clank beside me, and stories  fill my mind.

I've been reading books on writing this month, and just turned the last page on a book tonight that leaves me eager to buy my own copy so I can mark it up with pencil underlinings and notes. (Two books are making their way to me already through warehouses and book fulfillment lists.) The authors speak of hard work, and daily determination to sit down at a desk and simply write. It recharges and inspires me, so I request a turn at the family computer, brew a pot of decaf coffee, and wrestle my five year old to bed. An hour later, the keyboard is mine, the coffee is just slightly scalded, and silence descends on my dimly-lit dining room. Black computer keys clatter inside as semi trucks rev by outside, and a small boy drifts off to sleep.

I don't know about you. I don't know what passions and skills God has grown deep inside of you, but for me, words --both spoken and written-- are music to me. Others' words weave me in, pull me along, slip me away, and inspire me. And mine? They form, haltingly, awkwardly, but unceasingly and I desire to have them reflect truth, reflect Him, and be for his glory.

So, for you tonight, my friend? Be encouraged. God has placed skills, passions, and dreams inside you, on purpose. He crafted and created you. Don't doubt it. Don't give up, and DO "fan into flame" the gifts he put inside you. You were made to bring glory to him. Practice your art. Persist at and hone that skill. Then run to hang it on his huge, cosmic fridge. "Abba, Daddy, look what I made for you!" in childlike naivety and wonder.

Linking with Ann tonight whose writing and love for her Abba make me thankful too. 

What are your passions or art? How are you honing it this week? 

 Photo credit #1 and photo credit #2. "Finestre Sulla Valle" 1969 by Contini Emilio.