Hitting the Mark in 2020

Hi Friends,

As I'm thinking about this new year, I'm reminded that archery is a lot like life, and the practices of hitting the mark with an arrow help with hitting the mark in life. Read on to see if you agree . . .

Loosen Your Grip

            Her grip tightened on the bow. She drew back the string. The arrow wobbled. Her knuckles whitened. 

            “Bethany, wait.”

            She didn’t wait. The arrow flew from the string, missed the target, and skittered off into the grass. 

            She strung another arrow.

            “Wait!”

            “What?”

            I strode over to her. “You’re never going to hit the target like that. First, you have to anchor the string.” I showed her how to place her thumb at the corner of her mouth so the string would be pulled back and anchored at the same place on her face every time. 

            “That feels weird. I don’t like it.”

            “It doesn’t matter if it’s weird. It’s the only way to aim properly. If you don’t, you’re not looking down the same line every time. You think you’re aiming straight, but you’re not. You can’t go by how you feel.” 

            Bethany anchored the string at the corner of her mouth.

            I nodded. “Good.” 

            “Can I let go?”

            “Not yet. Loosen your grip.” I touched her left hand that held the bow. “The arrow won’t fly straight if you’ve got a death grip on the bow. Relax, loosen your fingers, let the bow do what it’s made for.”

            She glanced at me askance, string still anchored, brows furrowed. Her fingers stayed tight around the bow.

            “You can do it.” I caught her glance, understanding that desire to grab on as tight as possible in a vain effort to force the arrow straight. Instinct screamed, “Hold tight!” but wisdom whispered to loosen her grip.

            Slowly, slowly, her knuckles turned from white to pink. Her fingers relaxed.

            I smiled. “Now you’re ready. Let go.”

            The arrow flew from the bow and thunked into the target. Not a bulls-eye, but a respectable hit all the same.

            “Whoo! This is great!” 

            I chuckled. “Try again.”

            She did.

            “Anchor the string. Loosen your grip.” As I repeated the instructions, I realized they were not only good tips for archery, but for life. 

            If we want our life-arrows to hit the target, we must anchor the string. In Ephesians 6:14 (NIV), Paul says, “Stand firm then, with the belt of truth buckled around your waist...” If we are to aim our lives well, to see the target properly, we must stand firm and be anchored in truth. Culture would have our arrows flying every which way as we believed whatever whim was popular at the moment. Culture tells us to look out for number one, that relationships are meant for our happiness, that we should be the gods of our own lives. When we live our lives that way, our arrows miss the God’s target and go skittering off into sin, discouragement, and emptiness. But anchored in God’s truth, we look down the arrow’s shaft and clearly see where we should aim.

            Next, we must relax our fingers. It’s so easy to hang on tight, white-knuckled, and think that by trying to control life we can master it, we can hit the target. Desperate prayers for a lost love one, desperate clinging to hopes and dreams, desperate desires to have life just the way we imagined it should be, desperate determination that God act the way we want. Tight fists miss the target. We must trust God enough to loosen our grip. Psalm 21:7 says, “For the king trusts in the Lord; through the unfailing love of the Most High he will not be shaken.” And again, Psalm 28:7 says, “The Lord is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in him, and he helps me.” When we trust God, our frantic fingers can relax. Only then can our arrows fly straight.

            Lately when I find my life missing the mark and shooting off into the grass, I remind myself to re-anchor my life in the truth. Then I ask God to relax my grip, calm my desperation, help me to trust him more than I trust myself, trust him enough to let go and do what I was made to do.

            When I see terrorist strikes on the news, or encounter children brought up to believe in Christ who no longer believe, or face crazy blood sugar numbers on the meter of my son who has Type 1 Diabetes ... When I lose a job, when sales aren’t what I’d hoped, when children’s grades aren’t what I’d expected, when relationships are strained... that is the time I must whisper to myself, “Relax your hand, take a deep breath, anchor the string.”  

            And then I let go.

What Kind of King is This?

Hi Friends,

As we prepare our hearts for Christmas, I'm thinking of what it might have been like for Mary, Jesus' mother, to encounter Christ the King.

I wonder if she would tell us something like this:

He was born in a barn, wrapped in rags, laid in a feeding trough.  No palace, no crib, no soft silk meant for a king.  The animals were our witnesses.  Lowly shepherds our first visitors.  

            What kind of King is this?

            I held him in my arms. He nestled, and nuzzled. So normal. So real. He let out a cry, his mouth open, searching. I smiled and guided him to eat.  He was strong, this newborn son of mine. Of God’s. This Messiah. 

I rolled the word over in my mind as I gazed down at his pink cheeks, his stock of curly black hair. His eyes were closed, his lashes dark against his skin. 

Messiah. Rescuer. Deliverer. Redeemer. King … Baby.

What kind of King is this?

            He grew up, my Messiah-Son.  And was nothing like I expected.  He didn’t conquer Rome, he didn’t rule the nations, he didn’t raise an army or free Israel . . . at least not in the way I had dreamed.

            Instead, he asked me to face my deepest fear. My darkest doubt. My nightmare.

            A young man came to me in the night. He came disheveled and out of breath. Told me they had arrested my son. Men came—soldiers, crowds, but not only them, the priests came too. The leaders of my people. They came by night to a garden with clubs and torches and swords. And they took him.

            They took him to Gabbatha, the Stone Pavement. The place of judgment.   

            I went too.  I stood there, shaking, in a courtyard with a crowd. The noonday sun beat down on us, illuminating the stones, the people, the priests, Pilate, and my son, my Jesus, wavering on the platform before me. A glance stole my breath, constricted my heart. I barely recognized him. His eye was swollen, his clothes bloody. He looked like a lamb already slaughtered.

            What kind of King is this?

            He did wear a purple robe, but it was to mock him. And on his head ... Oh, ... My soul shattered.  

            On his head was not a crown of gold, but a crown made of the thorns of the akanthos bush. Blood ran down his forehead, his cheeks. 

            Akanthos, a symbol of my people’s shame ...

            Pilate held up his hand. “Behold your king!” he shouted.

            I covered my face, peeked through my fingers.

            “Do you want me to release for you the King of the Jews?”

            For a moment, hope soared through me.

            And was crushed by a single word: “Barabbas!”

            Just days before the crowds welcomed him like David coming into his kingdom. They laid palm branches, they cried hosanna! They sang, “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord! Blessed is the king of Israel!” They threw down their coats so the colt’s hooves would not even touch the dirt. 

            And I believed he rode in to claim his kingdom at last.

            But what kind of King is this?

            A king isn’t beaten.

            A king isn’t bloody.

            A king doesn’t die a criminal’s death.

            Or does He?

            Pilate spoke again. “What shall I do with this Jesus?” he cried.

            The question drove into me like a soul-piercing sword. It drove through me, became my own. What shall I do with this Jesus? What shall I do with a King destined to die?

            What shall I do with this kind of King?  

Christmas Changes Everything

Hi Friends,

As we begin the Christmas season, celebrating the birth of Christ into our world, I thought I'd share what it might have been like for Mary to encounter an angel with an incredible promise.

Perhaps, if Mary could talk to us about Christmas, she would begin something like this:

(Adapted from Wrestling with Wonder)

Christmas changes everything.  HE changes everything.  He changed me, Mary.  He changed this ordinary girl, with her ordinary life, in an ordinary village tucked into the back corners of Galilee. But he changed all that. 

            Here’s how it started:

            It was early in the morning, and my mother had gone to gather gossip near Nazareth’s well.  I stood by the grinding stone, my fingers sunk deep in the warm dough of the day's bread. A sound rustled behind me.  I turned.  And saw him.

            A man, but not a man. Like nothing I have ever seen before.  Tall and strong. Shining. Splendid. Extraordinary.

            Terrifying.

            In the silvery silence, he approached me. Looked at me. Gently, fiercely, his gaze like fire in my soul. And he spoke.

            “Rejoice!” A common word. An uncommon greeting. “Rejoice, favored one, the Lord is with you.”

            What kind of greeting was this? 

            He said it again. “Do not be afraid. You have found favor with God.”

            Then, he whispered a single word: “Behold ...” It is the word for see. But what he wanted me to see was impossible. 

            He said, “Behold, you will conceive in the womb and will bear a son and you will call his name Jesus. He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High and the Lord God will give him the throne of his father, David.  And he will rule over the house of Jacob into the ages and of his kingdom there will be no end!”

            What?! I grasped at the first impossibility.  “How will this be? I’m a virgin.” 

            And then came the wildest part of all. He didn’t speak of men or of marriage.  He spoke of miracles. He told me the Holy Spirit himself would come upon me and God’s power would overshadow me. And this child, this tiny little baby boy would be called holy, the very Son of God.

            An incredible plan. An astounding promise.  But more than a promise. A call. A question. Would I leave all my plans, all my hopes, behind me?  Would I lay aside my ordinary life to embrace this vision of something new, something impossible, beyond anything I ever imagined?

            His next words danced through me: “Nothing is impossible with God.”

            Nothing.

            “No word from God will ever fail."

            Did I dare believe it? Did I dare say yes? I knew what it meant. Nothing would be the same again. No one would understand. Could I bear that kind of shame? Could I bear their disbelief? And more, could I bear that kind of beauty? Could I bear the wonder?

            And in that ordinary moment, on an ordinary day, in an ordinary life, the heavens waited, breathless.

            “I am the Lord’s servant.” I exhaled the words. “May it be done to me according to what you’ve said.”  

            My angel smiled.

            I trembled.

            Then, he was gone.

            And all I could think of was the babe, all I could hear was the whispered cry of my soul:  Messiah, Savior, Son, be born in me . . .

Interview with NFR Reads

Hey Friends,

Check out my latest author interview - it's at NFR reads. Here's the link: https://www.nfreads.com/interview-with-author-marlo-schalesky/ 

Exposing the Stinky Things in Life

Hi Friends,

This week I've been thinking about how God's light in our lives exposes and drives away the things of darkness - the things that want to stay hidden - the stinky things, and I was reminded of this story of skunks in the dark when were camping ...

Skunks in the Dark

byMarlo Schalesky

The night shone clear and cool in the Santa Cruz mountains as I stepped from the camper. A cheery fire danced in the firepit. I grabbed a blanket, settled in a fold-out chair near the flames, and waited.

My daughter and a few of her friends took chairs on the other side of the fire. We roasted a few marshmallows, made a few s’mores, cooked a few hot dogs. The fire grew dimmer. The night grew darker.

Dimmer. Darker. Until there were only the glow of coals in the pit and the shine of stars in the sky.

Very dim. Very dark.

Then came the sounds of shuffling in the trees. Tiny feet, tiny snuffles, crackling leaves. 

“What is it?” My daughter whispered.

“I don’t know,” her friend answered.

We waited. The night grew silent. Our eyes grew heavy. 

Soon, I drifted into a light sleep. The sounds of snuffling mixed with strange dreams.

Then someone gasped. That wasn’t part of my dream. My eyes flew open.

“Mom, don’t move.” 

I held still. A moment later, the beam from a flashlight moved toward the now-dark fire. And there, illuminated in the beam, ten inches from me, waddled two fat, black and white skunks. 

I held my breath. So did everyone else.

The skunks moved away from the light. The light followed them. Again, they moved toward the darkness. Light, movement, darkness. Light, movement, darkness. 

I let out my breath, quietly. 

The skunks made their way under the picnic table. The light followed them. They puttered out from the other side. The light shone again. And then, finally, they scuttled back into the woods.

We all started breathing normally again.

“That was a close call.”

“Whew. That was scary.”

“Do you think they’ll come back?”

“We need more light.”

We turned on the lights outside the camper and stoked the fire. No more skunks came to visit that night. All we needed was more light.

It’s not so different from how stinky things come out in the other areas of our lives where we allow darkness to creep in. Pride, lust, disdain, despair … sin. They all start snuffling around when we let the light in our lives go out. In the darkness they flourish; they become bold and audacious. And if they catch us napping, they’ll spray us with a horrible stench.

John 3:20-21 (NIV) says, “Everyone who does evil hates the light, and will not come into the light for fear that their deeds will be exposed. But whoever lives by the truth comes into the light, so that it may be seen plainly that what they have done has been done in the sight of God.”

In God’s sight, there is more than enough light to expose and chase away the skunks. Ephesians 5:13-14(NIV) tells us that it is Christ who shines to illumine our places of darkness. It says, “But everything exposed by the light becomes visible—and everything that is illuminated becomes a light. This is why it is said: ‘Wake up, sleeper,rise from the dead,and Christ will shine on you.’”

So, we rise from our sleeping spots near the dead fire. We trust God to renew the flames and reveal what is hidden in our darkness, because, “he will bring to light what is hidden in darkness and will expose the motives of the heart.”(1 Corinthians 4:5 (NIV))

When we hear the snuffling and shuffling of sin in the dark, it’s time to wake up, turn on the light, stoke the fire, and allow the light of Christ to shine on our dark places. That light is the only thing that will drive the skunks away. When our fire dims and the life becomes dark, we must recognize those shadowed places in our lives and shine light on them before us and everyone around us gets sprayed by the stink.

            All of us have skunks wandering in the woods around us. Night comes in all our lives. And sometimes the fire within dims for us all. But God provides flashlights. He provides more wood for the fire and camper lights that illuminate from afar. He provides the means by which what is stinky can be exposed and chased away. He freely gives of his light.

And that means we don’t need to have to be afraid of skunks in the darkness anymore.

Why I Don't Ignore Halloween

Hi Friends,

Some thoughts on Halloween and what we do at Wonder Wood Ranch (usually - this year I lost a bunch of my decorations in our shed fire, so we had to skip a year ... we'll be back with the Haunted Trail next year!)

Consider this for a different-from-usual perspective on this day ...

Transforming Halloween

Unlike some, we don’t choose to ignore Halloween. We don’t choose to scorn it. We want to transform it. We want it to point to the wonder of what Christ has done for us. So every year at Wonder Wood Ranch, our charity ranch for disadvantaged kids, we do a haunted trail event the weekend before Halloween. The kids, of course, love it.

But I love it more.

We pile kids on the backs of horses and begin the trail just as darkness falls. Blacklight flashlights illuminate the path and the decorations. Horses climb a short hill and encounter a glowing sign. “The thing that I fear comes upon me,” it reads, from Job 3:25 (ESV). Kids-on-horses then continue along a trail through the dark woods that’s decorated with skeletons, white bed-sheet ghosts, and green and orange florescent eyes peering from under bushes and between trees. Warnings and cobwebs line the trail. A headless horseman greets the guests and leads them to a graveyard (with funny tombstones) which sits near the end of the path. Then finally, the horses climb another small hilland encounter one more sign. “Who will rescue me from this … death?” the sign asks. And it points to a huge wooden cross, lit with solar lights. 

I love the experience of the haunted trail at night because in our lives, and in the lives of our guests (often kids dealing with gang or domestic violence), there are many things to fear. Too often, life is like a haunted trail. The things we fear come upon us. Death comes, cobwebs invade, evil scratches at the corners of our lives trying to defeat us. 

Sometimes we have a child flirting with death and nothing we do helps. Sometimes we have a financial, health, relational, marital, spiritual crisis and all we can see are bones and scary glowing eyes along the path of our lives. Sometimes we tremble.  Sometimes we fear. Sometimes we don’t know how we can go forward anymore. And that’s the trail we walk. 

But in Christ, the path doesn’t end with a graveyard. It doesn’t end with a skeletal horse and rider. It doesn’t end with death and defeat. It ends with the cross. It ends with hope and life and victory. And sometimes, you just have to keep walking in the dark. You just have to dare to hope again, believe again. You have to hold to the wisps of faith you have and be honest about the faith you lack, be honest about your failings and fear. You have to keep going, knowing that Christ himself defeated death for us all.

That’s the power of the haunted trail. 

It reminds me that no matter what is happening in my life, whether I can see only a foot in front of me or not at all, no matter the spooky ghosts or scary places where death seems threatens, God is leading me through and speaking to me the words of Isaiah 41:10-16 (NIV): “So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand … For I am the Lord your God who takes hold of your right hand and says to you, Do not fear; I will help you. Do not be afraid …you will rejoice in the Lord and glory in the Holy One of Israel.”

In the face of what frightens us most, when we encounter darkness and there doesn’t seem to be enough light, we need only to keep walking with God and know that he will not only save us from this death but he will also cause us to rejoice and to glory in him. 

The path won’t always be dark. It won’t always to scary. Light is coming. And it shines on the cross of Christ. 

Beauty in Brokenness

Hi Friends,

This week I had a lovely anniversary celebration with my husband of 31 years. The picture is of the flowers he brought me. They are gorgeous and smell heavenly. He also bought me a funny card.

But even though anniversaries are times of celebration, I can't say that every moment of marriage has been filled with wonder and joy. There have been hard times, hurts, disappointments, difficulties, and darkness.

And yet, here we are, 31 years later, happy to be married to each other despite all the ups and downs.

When I ponder that reality, I'm reminded of a story of surf pounding on rocks. No matter if Bryan and I have been in an easy phase of marriage or a difficult one, we have always thrown ourselves on the mercy and goodness of God.

And so, it has become something like this ...

Surf on the Rocks

by 

Marlo Schalesky

            

            I sat on a large boulder at the beach and watched the waves crash against the rocky shore.  Beyond, the sun shone on the black water.  It glinted, then drowned in the dark expanse of water.  I turned back to the surf as it pounded against the rocks, splashed over them, glittered with myriad colors.  

            A huge outcropping of rock towered over the waves.  Again and again the surf beat against it, throwing itself against the craggy surface, withdrawing, only to do it again.  And again. And again.

            With relentless persistence, the water broke against the rock.  And still the rock didn’t move.  Only the water changed.  Shattered. Molded to the shape of the stone.

            I wrapped my arms around my knees and drew my legs close to my chest.  My gaze fell on the surf again.  On the strange color of greenish black. 

            Until it crashed against the rock.

            I sat back and watched the water splash up in an arc of pure, clean white.  Then, it changed, reflecting a rainbow of color from the sunlight.  And for that moment, it wasn’t dark.  It wasn’t murky.  It was stunningly beautiful.  But only when it was broken on the rocks.

            Paul quotes Isaiah 8:14 in Romans 9:33 (NIV), saying, “As it is written: ‘See, I lay in Zion a stone that causes men to stumble and a rock that makes them fall, and the one who trusts in him will never be put to shame.’"

            Jesus is my Rock.  He is One I fall on, cast myself upon, just like the water throws itself against the rock.  And I wondered, was I like the surf?  Is it only when I am broken on Jesus that I reflect the light, shine with a rainbow of colors?  Perhaps it is then that I am able to be molded in his shape, just like the water molds to the shape of the stone when falls back to the rock.  Then, the darkness is cleansed, the ugliness transformed, the water beautiful to behold.

            Only God can do that.

            Too many times I’ve heard people say to “just have faith.”  To them, I think it means to never doubt, never struggle, never be broken.              

            But as I sat there at the water’s edge, I began to see that real faith, true faith, is the kind that casts itself against the rock. 

            In being broken, we become beautiful. 

            Because faith - true faith - keeps coming back, despite the darkness, despite the hurt.  Faith arcs up from brokenness.  It clings to the rock.  It surrenders to the will of the immovable stone.  And so it is transformed into a thing of wonder and beauty.  Only in brokenness can it be filled with color and light.