Saturday, May 21, 2011

Our last week in this house. We're moving.

I'm ready. To go. Make the change from this house to our next. Hubs and I are investing time in painting the new place. Paying for new carpet and blinds. We're giving our time and money to something we believe in.

There's a value in that, you know. King David said, "I won't offer a sacrifice to the Lord that cost me nothing."

Every investment we make in our homes, our friends and family, in each other, our churches and community increases who we are, enlarges our hearts.

So, though painting is back breaking, I love the opportunity to roll paint on my own walls.

The house we're leaving has our investment too. We've fixed things up. Added those bling touches. We have a lot of memories in this house.

I'll never forget the first day I came home from work after the painting had been done, the carpet installed and the new furniture arrived. It was unbelievable. The house was gorgeous. I never wanted to leave. For thirteen years, there has not been a day I didn't love coming home to this house. Well, I work here now, but you know what I mean.

It was becoming a bit of a blurry line between where I work and where I live. When they are the same, one begins to overshadow the other. I have to work hard to maintain the balance. It will be so nice to have an office space where I'll actually leave the house, cross the garage, and go through another door into my turret tower and upstairs to my office. Living and working will be separated a bit.

In this house, we had a ton of youth meetings. When we started Fire Dweller, a multi-church prayer meeting, nine years ago, it was in this living room. Great men and woman in God have visited us and stayed here.

My dad used to drive down to south Florida when he was working for the state architectural department and spend the night here.

We've laughed here. Cried here. I wrote my first Thomas Nelson book here.

It's home.

But God is moving our boundaries. And we are willing. "We say Yes to You, Jesus."

See, our friends who sold us the house lived a debt free life. Not only with money, but with things. They were able to say "Yes" to the Lord and offer us an amazing deal on the home. Even sweeten the deal with a beautiful petite grand piano. Who does that? People who are "debt free."

It's a challenge to me as I pack and move to let go of things I don't want or need anymore.

It's a challenge to me as we move into a house that is an extravagant gift to us, to live simply, holding loosely to things.

Paul wrote, "Owe nothing to no one except the debt of love." Hard words to live by, but worth words to make our life motto. A goal worth striving for.

Except for the house, we are debt free. We were even able to forgive a debt owed to us. Extravagance breeds extravagance.

So, I'm off to paint. Looking forward to what God has for us. Hoping I will write more books in my new office. We'll see.

Live for and believe in our extravagant God!

Thursday, May 05, 2011

Beginning of Sorrows -- A word from my Hubby

You Are Here...

I was pondering three passages that describe the last days or beginning of sorrows.

Understand that this isn’t the time of great tribulation spoken of in Revelation, but what immediately precedes that time, so even if you’re pre-trib, no one escapes these events.

You can read them for yourself (Mt 14:4-12, 2 Tim 3:1-5, 2 Pe 3:3), but I’ll give you a short list of what to expect; deception, wars, famine, earthquakes, tribulation, martyrdom, hatred, offense, lawlessness, cold love, scoffers, lustful, self love, proud, disobedient, no self control, brutal, haughty, lovers of pleasure, haters of good, having a form of godliness but without power.

Sounds pretty bad, doesn’t it? And that’s what I was thinking about, how bad it’s going to get, when God pulled me up short with one statement. He said, “You’re already in the beginning of sorrows now.”

My first thought was, “this isn’t as bad as I thought it would be." So my immediate second thought was, “how desensitized to sin have I become that I’m living in the last days, don’t even recognize it, or think it’s that bad?”

What's our response? Jesus said in Luke 21 to be "on guard" and to "pray!"

Monday, May 02, 2011

The Fine Art of Insincerity by Angela Hunt

Please welcome friend and author fabulous, Angela Hunt. I love the title and premise of this book. And knowing, Angie, it will be a great read. Take a peek at the blurb and first chapter!


The Fine Art of Insincerity

Three Southern sisters with nine marriages between them — and more looming on the horizon – travel to St. Simons Island to empty their late grandmother’s house. Ginger, the eldest, wonders if she’s the only one who hasn’t inherited what their family calls “the Grandma Gene”— the tendency to enjoy the casualness of courtship more than the intimacy of marriage. Could it be that her sisters are fated to serially marry, just like their seven-times wed grandmother, Lillian Irene Harper Winslow Goldstein Carey James Bobrinski Gordon George? It takes a “girls only” weekend, closing up Grandma’s memory-filled beach cottage for the last time, for the sisters to unpack their family baggage, examine their relationship DNA, and discover the true legacy their much-marrying grandmother left behind.

The Fine Art of Insincerity is a stunning masterpiece. I was pulled into the lives of Ginger, Pennyroyal and Rosemary--sisters touched by tragedy, coping in their own ways. So real, so powerful. Pull out the tissues! This one will make you cry, laugh, and smile. I recommend it highly. --Traci DePree, author of The Lake Emily series

“Only Angela Hunt could write a relationship novel that’s a page-turner! As one of three sisters, I can promise you this: Ginger, Penny, and Rose Lawrence ring very true indeed. Their flaws and strengths make them different, yet their shared experiences and tender feelings make them family. From one crisis to the next, the Lawrence sisters are pulled apart, then knit back together, taking me right along with them. I worried about Ginger one moment, then Penny, and always Rose—a sure sign of a good novel, engaging both mind and heart. Come spend the weekend in coastal Georgia with three women who clean house in more ways than one!”

Liz Curtis Higgs, best-selling author of Here Burns My Candle





“You can’t tell your sisters,” my grandmother once told me, “what I’m about to tell you.”

I listened, eyes big, heart open wide.

“Of all my grandchildren—” her hands spread as if to encompass a crowd infinitely larger than myself and my two siblings—“you’re my favorite.”

Then her arms enfolded me and I breathed in the scents of Shalimar and talcum powder as my face pressed the crepey softness of her cheek.

My grandmother married seven times, but not until I hit age ten or eleven did I realize that her accomplishment wasn’t necessarily praiseworthy. When Grandmother’s last husband died on her eighty-third birthday, she mentioned the possibility of marrying again, but I put my foot down and told her no more weddings. I suspect my edict suited her fine, because Grandmom always liked flirting better than marrying.

Later, one of the nurses at the home mentioned that my grandmother exhibited a charming personality quirk—“Perpetual Childhood Disorder,” she called it. PCD, all too common among elderly patients with dementia.

But Grandmother didn’t have dementia, and she had exhibited symptoms of PCD all her life. Though I didn’t know how to describe it in my younger years, I used to consider it a really fine quality.

During the summers when Daddy shipped me and my sisters off to Grandmom’s house, she used to wait until Rose and Penny were absorbed in their games, then she would call me into the blue bedroom upstairs. Sometimes she’d let me sort through the glass beaded “earbobs” in her jewelry box. Sometimes she’d sing to me. Sometimes she’d pull her lace-trimmed hanky from her pocketbook, fold it in half twice, and tell me the story of the well-dressed woman who sat on a bench and fell over backward. Then she’d flip her folded hankie and gleefully lift the woman’s skirt and petticoat, exposing two beribboned legs.

No matter how large her audience, the woman knew how to entertain.

I perched on the edge of the big iron bed and listened to her songs and stories, her earbobs clipped to the tender lobes of my ears, enduring the painful pinch because Grandmother said a woman had to suffer before she could be beautiful. Before I pulled off the torturous earbobs and left the room, she would draw me close and swear that out of all the girls in the world, I was the one she loved most.

Not until years later did I learn that she drew my sisters aside in the same way. I suppose she wanted to make sure we motherless girls knew we were treasured. But in those moments, I always felt truly special.

And for far too long, I believed her.

© 2012 by Angela Hunt, used by permission. Do not reprint without permission. For more information, visit

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