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The little boy wakes up on a spring morning, knowing that there is something he needs to remember, something very important. Sun shines through the window wells into his basement bedroom. Realizations sink in as his mind deserts his dreams: it is morning; it is Sunday; it is Easter.

The last launches him to his feet. He scrambles into sweats and a t-shirt, scurries through the door and up the stairs. His bare feet trip over themselves. His parents are drinking coffee, reading the paper at the small kitchen table. When they see him they smile.

“Can I?” he asks, looking discreetly around the room.

“First, go get your sisters,” his father says, chuckling. The boy runs back the hall and into the girls’ room, shaking them.

“Wake up!” he begs. “Wake up! It’s Easter!”

Soon three children scour the house. Their quest? Find the candy-laden baskets hidden by their father – over the years they discovered his typical hiding places: inside the oven, on top of the refrigerator, behind the television, inside the clothes hamper.

Eventually all three children find their baskets, wrapped in plastic, stuffed with fake green plastic strings that looked nothing like grass. Chocolate eggs, pixie sticks, marshmallow peeps: sugar coursed through their veins.

Easter morning: a Sunday School teacher’s worst nightmare.

* * * * *

On Fridays I work at my mom’s candy store. Her inventory includes all of my greatest weaknesses: Swedish Fish, Sour Patch Kids and grape licorice. In these weeks leading up to Easter her store looks as though someone attacked it with grenades that explode nothing but pastel colors. Candy-coated eggs and jelly beans of every flavor are stacked in containers nearly to the ceiling.

This past Friday I looked through some of her new items. There is a three-foot tall milk chocolate bunny for sale, weighing in at over 18 pounds. There are small items that look like deviled eggs, but are actually made of white chocolate. As I looked through these new items, something made me stop and kind of tilt my head to the side.

A chocolate cross.

* * * * *

The small boy sits in the large church pew beside his grandfather, who smuggles Smarties and butterscotch candies to him during the service. His grandfather wears threadbare suits and smells of KR medicine. A few years later he would die on Easter morning.

At the front of the church, mounted up on the wall, is an empty cross. I say empty, because this is a Protestant church, a charismatic evangelical church, and wherever there is a cross, Jesus is for sure no where near it. The auditorium has a stained wood ceiling. The boy often puts the bony part of his head back against the pew, stares at the ceiling, counts the wooden lines.

But on Easter morning he stares at the cross. Empty. A miracle.

* * * * *

A chocolate cross. This seemed so out of place to me, lying amongst the chocolate toys and content-looking chocolate bunnies and white-chocolate deviled eggs. A centuries-old instrument of torture and degredation that led to the death of who some claimed was God’s son and would eventually be seen, by many, as the means of humanity’s redemption…now a small treat, available in milk or dark, weighing less than a pound.

* * * * *

We want everything to be sweet, to go down easily with a glass of cold milk, but be careful.

Be careful that you do not transform the difficult truths you have learned into easy to digest chocolate trinkets. Sometimes the bitterness of death must be fully experienced in order for the full power of resurrection and redemption to occur.

This Easter, whether you are a Christian or an Atheist, a Buddhist or a Muslim, I have something for you to consider: stop denying the pain that death has caused in your life. Stop looking past the broken relationships, the unmet expectations, the abuse. See it for what it is: not a piece of candy, but the darkest valley through which you have ever passed.

And, finally, pass through it.

Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me.

We Christians sure do love control.

You can’t really fault us, though. It’s kind of in our DNA – we’ve been doing it for a few thousand years. For nearly two millenia we killed people if they refused to convert. Then, when we came to an informal consensus that killing people for disagreeing with our world view wasn’t really justified, we just kicked them out of church (that doesn’t work so well any more either, now that fewer and fewer people want to attend church).

Then, since it was no longer popular to kill people who disagreed with our religious beliefs, and throwing people out of church didn’t work, we resorted to playing the hell card, not out of any actual concern that real human beings might suffer eternal torment, but mostly just because we wanted people to do what we wanted them to do, and fear is the primary motivational force used to influence humanity (by almost everyone, not just Christians).

We ran into a problem – these days the hell card doesn’t work half as well as it used to because not everyone even believes in an afterlife, or a literal hell. And those who do just figure they’ll deal with it when it happens. We panicked. We were losing control.

That didn’t last long, though. Our pending lack of control led us to throw our hats into the political arena. And the first thing we did once we garnered enough support? We used our new, broader platform to trumpet God’s love, grace and mercy.

Yeah, right.

Actually we decided to continue trying to control people by brute force, in this case passing laws so that no one could do the things we considered sinful.

Control.

* * * * *

I have a friend who is in the midst of a huge decision. Of course, I know the right decision for her to make. We always do. We always know what’s best for other people, what the responsible choice would be. Sometimes I’m overwhelmed by a feeling of frustration that I can’t make her do what I know she should do.

In fact, if I was given the opportunity to brainwash her so that she would make the “right” decision, I would probably take it.

Where does this urge to control come from?

It’s not just a tendency of Christians. It’s a human thing. We naturally want the world to revolve around us, to cater to us, to move according to our views and value systems. We want people to do what we think is right, fair, moral or beneficial.

But control has a way of turning the tables. You can’t control someone else without becoming completely obsessive over them, and, before you know it, you are controlled by your desire to control. You can go crazy with anger or depression when you continually try to impose your will on someone else.

* * * * *

Paul wrote in one of his letters to the Corinthians, “So, my very dear friends, when you see people reducing God to something they can use or control, get out of their company as fast as you can.”

When we use God to try to control other people, we embarrass ourselves, make enemies of potential friends, and belittle God’s power. Paul identified this as such a serious situation that he encouraged the Corinthians not to barter or try to change these control-freaks – he said, flat out, “Get out of their company as fast as you can.”

But what happens when we live God’s way? He brings gifts into our lives, much the same way that fruit appears in an orchard – things like affection for others, exuberance about life, serenity. We develop a willingness to stick with things, a sense of compassion in the heart, and a conviction that a basic holiness permeates things and people. We find ourselves involved in loyal commitments, not needing to force our way in life, able to marshal and direct our energies wisely.

Legalism is helpless in bringing this about; it only gets in the way. (Galations 5:22,23 The Message)

Five things you should know about Bryan Allain:

– if you eat breakfast with him a lot, he will tell you all about what’s going on with him before the food comes, then question you after the food comes so that he can eat his food hot and you can’t

– he is not interested in your pyramid scheme, unless it involves TY stuffed animals or Silly Bandz

– he eats a feta and spinach omelette every morning for breakfast

– like a dog, he is allergic to chocolate

– he is starting something that will span the globe faster than Colin Cowherd.

This thing is called:

Blog Rocket

It’s a new resource put together by the blogging king himself, Bryan Allain. If you sign up now (for free) you receive The BlogRocket 29 eBook: “A 32-page digital download providing insight and advice for the Top 29 frustrations that bloggers face.”

You will also be entered into a drawing to win a $109 Amazon gift card.

Why $109? Who knows. It’s Bryan Allain, folks – do you expect it all to make sense?

I’ve read the eBook, and, from a blogger’s perspective, it’s priceless. There are all kinds of great ideas in it on how to grow your blog’s audience. You get it free – all you have to do is sign up HERE.

“What do you mean, you don’t know what’s going on?” John Dran asked Macy. The rain outside stopped for a moment, and, without the band playing in the apartment above, the world seemed eerie and still.

“What do I mean?” Macy looked around, confused. Water was still dripping off of her hair and her clothes were soaked. “The power went out in my building. Someone tried to break in. Then someone else tried to abduct me. I’ve been chased around the city all night. That’s what I mean when I say I have no idea what’s going on.”

John looked surprised, and a little nervous.

“Wow. Chill out. What are you, a convict or something?”

“No! I’m just a, a nothing. I’m nobody.”

“So you have no idea why these people are chasing you, breaking into your house?”

Macy shook her head, then reached into her pocket.

“Before I ran from the last girl she asked me if I had this.” She held out her lottery ticket. “Please, take it. I don’t want it.”

He took the ticket and looked at it. His skin paled. He walked over to the table, slid the bowl of soup to the side and picked up his own ticket.

“You can keep yours,” he said in a flat-line voice. “I’ve got my own.”

Macy looked at John’s lottery ticket

“You played the same numbers I did,” she whispered. Then she looked up at him. “So what are you going to do?”

A knock sounded at the door. Macy and John froze in place, like prey hoping they hadn’t yet been noticed. Both instinctively held their breath. Whoever was in the hallway knocked again. Then a voice shouted.

“Hey, idiot, I know you’re in there. You know who you are, always banging on the ceiling! Get your ass out here!”

Macy glanced at John, who heaved a sigh of relief and went to the door.

“Listen, Jordan, now’s not a good time.”

“Not a good time to get an old fashioned ass-kicking?”

“Listen, man, I’m sorry for banging. I just, I was on the phone with my mom, you know. I couldn’t hear myself think.”

“Open the door,” Jordan said.

“Look, I’m opening the door but I have to keep the chain on, so don’t break my door down.” John latched the chain, then eased open the door, revealing Jordan’s very red face.

“Hey, you’re the guy who changed the number on my lottery card!” Macy said, moving towards the door. A panicked look spread over Jordan’s face.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about lady.”

“No! It was you! I know it was you!”

Just as Macy began walking toward the door, the power in the building shut off. Darkness descended  like a blanket. The only light in the room came from the large windows facing the street, glazed with rainwater. Macy crawled to the window and peeked out, her face just over the sill.

She remembered being a little girl, barely able to see through her parent’s row house windows. They had lived on the outer street of the city – the wall rose tall and imposing on the other side of 90th Avenue. Macy had spent many days wondering what was outside the city walls. Who was out there. Now she had a chance to escape, to start over.

A car pulled up along the sidewalk, it’s brake lights glowing red in the darkness. A girl got out.

“Penelope!” hissed Macy.

* * * * *

What happens next? Vote for one of the following in the comments section below:

1) Penelope comes into the building and starts calling for Macy to come out

2) Penelope runs down the alley looking for Macy

3) Jordan runs off. John and Macy call the lottery organization and say they have won.

4) John and Macy escape into the city

To read the story in its entirety, go HERE

Today’s guest post is brought to you by David Nilsen, someone who’s blog I recently discovered and have come to enjoy quite a bit (although I don’t agree with his certainty that he will “never be a famous author”).

Today he writes about writing, and being known.

* * * * *

I’m about to type something no self-respecting artsy-fartsy writer is ever supposed to say:

I don’t write because I need to.

There, I said it.

Now that all the English majors who think they’re destined to reinvent poetry as we know it have stopped reading, allow me to spend some time qualifying that very un-writerly statement.

In Letters to a Young Poet, Rainer Maria Rilke says this to his young pupil:

“Go into yourself. Search for the reason that bids you write; find out whether it is spreading out its roots in the deepest places of your heart, acknowledge to yourself whether you would have to die if it were denied you to write. This above all–ask yourself in the stillest hour of your night: must I write? Delve into yourself for a deep answer. And if this should be affirmative, if you may meet this earnest question with a strong and and simple “I must,” then build your life according to this necessity; your life even into its most indifferent and slightest hour must be a sign of this urge and a testimony to it.”

Well, I don’t have to write. And neither do you.

Now, hear me on this, because writing is central to my life, and yes, there are certainly ways in which I would no longer be me if I were forbidden to write. I have read Rilke’s words many times and affirm them for what they are. What I am getting at today is not that the motivations for writing are unnecessary to me or you, but that our medium of words is just one possible outlet for a deeper, more central need.

When we write we capture in words something that existed only in feeling before that moment, to form sentience from sentiment. Art, ultimately, is communication dressed up and modeled. When we read a writer who has done her job in sharing herself we close our eyes and whisper I know, me too.  The writer who shares nothing, trapping beauty in a locked journal, is just talking to herself. At some point what we have written must be shared if both the reader and the writer are to gain from it.

And so I do not write because I need to write per se. I write because I need to express myself to witnesses, because as a human being I was created to be known, to communicate and be understood, and writing happens to be the way I’ve been given to do that. It was the tool that felt right in my hand when my personality was taking shape in my teen years. It could as easily have been music, or public speaking, or painting. But I am grateful it was writing.

We have a deep and abiding need to know and be known. We require witnesses to our existence, communion in our solitude, love to break the darkness that can overwhelm us. These things are not optional.

I don’t have to write, but I do have to know and be known. And I’ve found no better way for me to attain that than writing. Language is how I best love and best know love.

So I guess this is all a way of saying that yeah, I need to write, but there’s a sense in which it’s just the rope ladder that gets me into the tree house, to find communion, to know and be known. There are others. Yours might be another art medium, or you might just be better at making friends than I am and your favorite thing is football. Either way, we’re after the same thing.

I love beauty, to be sure. And writing satisfies that need too. But at the deepest level, writing is communication, and communication is relationship. Have you read me? Then in a way, you know me. We’ve talked; we’ve met. And if there’s a time when I cannot write, I’ll still know I’ve been understood.

And that, friends, is something I do need.

* * * * *

The winner of last month’s contest to guess the first warm day here in Paradise is Brandon Smucker. If the last name sounds familiar, it’s because he’s my cousin. He’s pretty smart – it runs in the family.

Tune in tomorrow for the next installment of the “choose your own adventure” story I’ve been writing, where you get to decide the direction of the story each week. You can catch up on the story HERE.



If something only seems to be working, maybe it’s time to take it apart.

If a project you’re working on is plodding along, maybe it’s time to put it out of its current misery and rework it.

We can get stuck in the status quo to the point where we are blinded to the possibilities. Maybe you’re writing a book and it’s time to turn it on its head, rewrite it from scratch, or break it in half and tell the story in a fresh way. Maybe you’ve been mulling a business idea for years but there are a few key things stopping you from moving forward – it’s probably time to smash that model and start doing something you can do, right now.

* * * * *

You know how you go into a store and some of them have signs, “You break it, you bought it”? There is an important truth hidden here: if you break something, it becomes yours. If you tear an idea apart, you now own the pieces.

* * * * *

Stephen Furtick, in a recent video, called for an end to hating and challenged people to take on a mindset of honor. “Stop criticizing and start creating,” he implored.

Stop critiquing your own ideas ad infinitum; start breaking them open and re-creating them.

Jesus had a habit of saying things like, “Listen! The old saying was this, but the new saying is better.” I’m no Jesus, but that’s a good formula for bringing about change, so today I’m challenging you:

“The old saying was, ‘If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.’ The new saying is, ‘If it ain’t broke, break it.'”

Now go break something.

* * * * *

Is there anything you’ve worked on in the past that had to be broken before you could move forward? Anything you’re working on now that you have a feeling needs to be taken apart?

I saw this saying on someone’s Facebook page. When I googled it, I learned that it’s the title to both a business book and a Meatloaf song. It just goes to show you…well, I’m not sure what that shows you, but I’m sure it shows you something.