Wearied by Brokenness? You're Not Alone!

Hi Friends,

I'm preparing to travel too Michigan next week to record the audio version of my upcoming book, Women of the Bible Speak Out. I've never done my own audio for a book before, so this will be quite an experience!

So, as I prepare, I thought I'd share a bit that I cut from the first chapter of the new book (the chapter that looks at Eve). This includes some of the women that are covered in the various chapters of Women of the Bible Speak Out.

So, now for a bit of a preview, and a bit of hope for anyone weary of living in a broken world ... God is with you. Don't give up!

SECTION CUT:

God tells us that sin is not the end of the story. He tells us he has been working to redeem every tear, every injustice, every hurt that results from sin. We know because Eve isn’t the end of the story either. Many women come after her.

            --Sarai, who was betrayed by her husband not once but twice, and put in sexually compromising positions. She was co-holder of the covenant of redemption between God and mankind, that all nations would be blessed through her offspring.

            --Hagar, given like property to a foreign man to bear a son who was not intended to be her own. She became the mother of great nations.

            --Lot’s daughters who were offered up for the worst kind of abuse. Yet God saw them and saved them.

            --Tamar, who was cast aside when her husband died and offered no justice. She made her own justice and was blessed.

            --Hannah, who was devalued for her infertility and driven to despair. She became the mother of Samuel who would speak for God to kings and the nation of Israel.

            --Abigail, whose husband’s foolishness nearly resulted in her death. But God gave her wisdom and a future.

            --Bathesheba, who lost both a husband and a son to the arrogance of one man, who was chosen for the line of Christ himself.

            --Esther, who was dominated by a foreign rule and a foreign king, who rose to save her people.

            --Mary, who was oppressed not by man but by another woman, and was defended by Jesus himself.

            --A Samaritan woman who was so ashamed of her #MeToo past that she went to the well in the heat of the day, and encountered a savior who set her free.

            --A sinful woman, scorned by the male leaders of her people, praised by Christ with a promise of remembrance.

            --A woman caught in adultery, dragged before courts, threatened with stoning while her partner got off scot-free. Forgiven and given a new start.

            --Women at the tomb of Jesus, doubted and disbelieved, the first witnesses to the most wondrous event of all time. The first witnesses to the resurrection that redeemed us all. 

            And the list goes on. These women lived in the broken world created by Adam and Eve, and yet discovered a God of redemption and hope. They did not give up. They did not give in to hate or despair. And they stand as witnesses to us all that we need not be beaten. God stands with us. He will always stand with us.

Living in the Messy Parts of Life

Hi Friends,

Here's what I'm thinking about lately as the Ranch here turns into a muddy mess . . .

Winter Wonderland?

by 

Marlo Schalesky

In winter, we don’t get snow. We get rain. A lot of it. It falls from the sky in tiny sprinkles, in waving sheets, in giant bucket-dumping sloshes until driveways glisten and puddles form enticing pools for kids to jump in with their new canvas tennis shoes. It rains until potholes become craters and horse pens become mud baths. 

Until there’s nothing but mud and muck and mess.

I’m a much bigger fan of spring. At least, I used to be.

After all, the winter slog is the same every year. I slip on oversized rubber boots, tramp through swamp-like terrain to clean horse stalls, scoop out puddle-filled pig pens, and scrap gunk off equines who have all become the same dark brown color of soggy dirt. Palominos, greys, whites, chestnuts, and duns … all the color of wet earth. Then I trudge back home. I wipe doggie feet. I wash shoes. I clean too many floors. I do it all over again the next day. 

And I thank God for the rain because I live in California where there have been too many years of drought.

But mud is no fun. Muck can be discouraging. And nobody likes a mess.

We like life to be tidy. We like it to go according to plan, our ducks in a row, our horses all their natural colors. Just as it should be.

We like the spring. Winter is too messy.

Yet, as I pull on the big rubber boots one more time, grab a shovel, and head to the barn, I notice something. The patches of clover that died in the fall have started to come to life again. A few bright yellow flowers dot a landscape that had turned to dust. And the little sprigs I planted months ago, the ones that refused to grow in the autumn heat, have perked up their heads and have just begun to look more like plants than dried weeds. 

Maybe the mess and muck and mud aren’t so bad after all. Maybe it’s precisely in the mess that new life can take root … on the path to the barn and in life.

 After all, it was through the mud of the parted Red Sea that God led his people out of slavery and to a new life of freedom (Exodus 14). It was in the muck of a stable that the Savior and Messiah was born and God became human is the mess of childbirth (Luke 2). And it was through the mire and horror of beatings and a bloody death on a Roman cross that redemption and reconciliation were won for us all. 

Perhaps God does his best work in the mud and messes of life.

And so, maybe, it is time to be a fan of winter. Because winter reminds us that it is often in the yuck of life that God works most powerfully to bring new life, new hope, and amazing redemption. It’s in the messy places that we find new ways to bloom through his grace. Those places in life where rain has come instead of snow and it’s made a mess of things, those times when we have to put on the big boots and muddle through as best we can, those areas of life that aren’t neat and tidy as we hoped and planned … those are the very places in which God is most deeply at work to bring new growth and new life.  It’s in the messiest parts of life that we most fully encounter God’s wonder.

So as I’m slogging through the mud of winter, wiping away grimy paw prints yet again, scrubbing shoes that were once clean, and dreaming of the picture-perfect scenes of spring, I remind myself that it’s here, in the mess, that I encounter the beauty of an active and loving God. It’s here that I find him with sleeves rolled up, working to bring me out of slavery, to come into my world and give me good news of great joy, and to redeem all the mud and muck for his glory. 

It is here that I encounter God’s winter wonderland. And today, I am glad that it’s winter.

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.