I’ll never forget the first time Stacy, Krista and I gathered to talk about “The Intersection.” At the beginning, we didn’t even have a name for the burning desire growing within. Like expecting a first baby, we had all this excitement but very little know-how to plan for its arrival. We didn’t have a clue — really and truly. All we knew is (1) We deeply loved the Word of God, and (2) We desired to connect with other women, like us, who struggled to live it out.

Thus the birth of The Intersection.

The longer I live, the more I recognize the temporary nature of things. What is news one day becomes history the next. What we birth one day eventually graduates and moves on to college. Time always moves forward, and eventually a day comes when we have to let go of those things we once held dear.

This is where we find ourselves today with The Intersection. What a joy it’s been to walk with you! How much I’ve loved meeting you here, sharing a little bit of life and faith together! These intersections we’ve made, these moments in time when we’ve chosen to allow our separate stories to meet, will not be wasted. In fact, I believe they’ve become part of the imprint of Eternity, stories we’ll re-read and reminisce about when we’re sharing Heaven’s real estate.

Until then, don’t forget the heart of the message of the Intersection. Within the text of God’s word lies ancient paths to help us navigate today. It’s not outdated or obsolete. No matter how much time passes, God’s word is “alive and active,” able to encourage, equip, inspire, convict and lead you through the numbered day of your life.

Hang on to it as if your next breath depends on it. Who knows — it just might!

Much love for you, friends. Until we meet again …

I’m with you. And so is our Jesus, Immanuel, God with us!

~ Michele

“Not that I have already obtained all this, or have already been made perfect, but I press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me.” ~ Philippians 3:12

He’d never run more than the obligatory mile in PE class. But his friends planned to join cross country, and he wanted to hang out with his friends. Middle-schoolers can be quite persuasive. So I paid the athletic fee, completed the forms, and made an appointment for a physical.

That was the easy part. I’d been a runner for thirteen years, and I knew his greatest challenge lay in the fact that only twelve days separated his decision from the first day of cross country practice. Learning to run multiple miles at a time isn’t crash-course material. It’s a skill earned over months and years of grueling practice–not less than two weeks.

But he was determined. I told him I’d pay the fee if he promised to run with me every one of those twelve days until school started. “I’ll be your coach,” I said, and he heartily agreed.

Until Day Nine when I pushed him to run further than he’d ever run before.

It was a typical August afternoon, blazing hot without a breeze. The first 1.5 miles took us uphill, at which point we’d turn around and come home. If he could make it to the half-way point, I knew he’d survive the cross-country team without breaking a sweat.

But he started to fade at the half-mile mark. By three-quarters of a mile, his good-nature turned around and went home, leaving me with a grumpy adolescent. By one mile in, he started talking about taking up another sport and all the reasons why running is stupid.

Up ahead I saw our turnaround point. I knew if I could get him to the top of the hill, to the light pole marking our summit, he’d make it home triumphant. But never has a half-mile felt so long. That final hill was long and hot, and in spite of my cheering and prodding, my son abandoned his run to the summit in favor of a nice easy walk.

Both my son and I learned two important lessons that day:

1. Sometimes the finish appears unreachable when you’re tired. But it’s not. Better to press on than end up kicking yourself a few hours later.
2. Even if you fail, get back up and keep running.

Since that frustrating day, my son has run up to four miles without stopping. He finished his cross country season, shaving several minutes off his original time. And now, every time he runs, he runs through to the very end, touching the light pole as a symbol of running his entire race, all the way to the finish.

Whatever your race, whether it’s a difficult child, a struggling marriage, a season of confusion in your relationship with God, or simply the struggles of daily living, run your race. Your whole race. And even if you fail, leave it in the past and get back out there to run again.

“Brothers, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus.” ~ Philippians 3:13-14

Regret is a relentless warden.

For years I lived captive inside his prison. Steel bars made up of “What if” and “If only” penned me in, interfering with my ability to live on the outside. With both hands I tried to bend my history into something more pretty and pristine, without the pain, complications and reminders of where I’d been. But Regret wouldn’t let change a history already written.

At times I wonder how Paul—once Saul—managed to live without regret. In all his writings, I don’t here him pining away about what might’ve been. I don’t read his self-loathing for years of misdirected passion. How did he forgive himself of his murderous past? And how did he forgive so many others who tried to wreck his life? He had plenty of reasons for regret, plenty of opportunities to wish for a life and legacy that looked different than what it was.

But Paul didn’t see it that way all.

“I count all things to be loss in view of the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus my lord, for whom I have suffered the loss of all things, and count them but rubbish so that I may gain Christ, and may be found in Him.” ~ Philippians 3:8-9a

Within Paul’s proclamation lies the secret to my release from Regret’s prison:

If the ugliness in my past and the failures of myself and others led me to the feet of Christ, then my legacy is a beautiful thing indeed. The history I longed to changed is the same history that brought me into a deep and enduring knowledge of the God who rescued me. In releasing the vision for what could’ve been I was finally able to see what God had done. And continues to do.

And in the letting go, God finally set me free.

Whether you’re a murderer of Christians, or a woman with a messy past, your regrets don’t have to own you.

Gain Christ, lose the rest. It really is that simple.

I thought the wars over riding shotgun–the front passenger seat–would end when my boys exited elementary school.

Unfortunately, no. My boys are now 13, 17 and 18 years old. One is old enough to vote and be tried as an adult. But still the battle over who gets to sit in the front seat of my too-old truck continue. Yes, even this morning.

Why is calling shotgun important? Why is sitting up front for a drive that won’t last more than 7 or 8 minutes matter so much? Is it really worth all the arguing and manipulation to secure the seat on my right?

It reminds me of two brothers and a mother determined to snag a throne on either side of a kingly Christ. When the other disciples weren’t looking, mama and her boys approached Jesus with a proposition: “Grant that one of these two sons of mine may sit at your right and the other at your left in your kingdom.” (Matthew 20:21)

In the face of Salvation, they worried about position.

Of course, we do the same when we invest in a friendship because of who she knows. Or when we manipulate a meeting because of the connections it might provide. Or when we dive into a ministry because of the status we’re seeking or the recognition we crave. We may not be calling shotgun in the car or asking for a throne next to a Savior, but we’re putting way too much emphasis on position and not enough on relationship.

Paul reminds us that Jesus had every right to claim a position, every right to call shotgun, but instead chose the backseat, a position of humble servanthood at the feet of God.

“Your attitude should be the same as that of Christ Jesus: Who, being in very nature[a] God, did not consider equality with God something to be grasped, but made himself nothing, taking the very nature[b] of a servant …” ~ Philippians 2:5-6

In the kingdom of God, the moment you start vying for position is the moment you lose it. Better to focus on kneeling and serving, especially if you want to capture the attention of a Savior.

“For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain …” ~ The Apostle Paul, Philippians 2:21

As a child, the thought of heaven baffled me. I’d consider the word “eternity,” that never-ending stretch of days. I couldn’t conceive enjoying something that would certainly be like one incredibly loooong church service. A perfect church service, maybe. But what, exactly, are we going to do? Forever is a very long time.

My brain still struggles to wrap itself around the expanse of eternity. In his book, Heaven, Randy Alcorn says our lack of anticipatory joy is a result of our gross misconceptions about heaven. We don’t understand the exquisite beauty, love and joy that will overtake us once we’re living in the light and presence of our God.

When I read Paul’s proclamation above, I’m envious. I think he is closer to that accurate vision of eternity than I am. Although I love God with my whole heart, though I desire to both know Him and be known by Him, I’d probably fill in the blanks of Paul’s sentence a little differently:

“For to me, to live is ______________________ and to die is _______________________.”

To live is to be with my children. To die is to miss out on their lives.
To live is to be married and enjoy my husband’s companionship. To die is to lose true love.
To live is to make provisions for our future. To die is to leave an uncertain legacy behind.
To live is to celebrate. To die is to see the party come to an end.
To live is to savor the people and things I have on earth. To die is to go to heaven and leave them behind.

There’s nothing wrong with loving family, celebrating life and being financially responsible. But have I set my eyes on eternity? Am I clinging to this life with both hands, or do I remember that the best is yet to come?

“I am torn between the two: I desire to depart and be with Christ, which is better by far; but it is more necessary for you that I remain in the body …”

Oh that we would be torn! That we would carry within a vision and longing for eternity that trumps every moment with a wave of anticipation for what is to come! How we love and live now is determined by what we believe is waiting for us then.

Take a minute to be as honest as you possible can. First, how would you fill in the blanks today? Second, if someone looked at the way you live your life, how would they fill in the blanks for you? And third, will you stop right now and ask God to give you a life-changing vision of eternity?

The longer I’m a mother and the older my children become, the more I realize how little control I actually have.

When they were toddlers, I made nearly every decision for them, including the rooms they played in, the toys they played with, the food they ate for dinner, and what time they went to bed. When elementary school came around, I still decided which friends they could play with, the activities they could participate in after school and how much television they could watch after they completed their homework. They had more freedom, choosing baseball over soccer, or Scooby Doo over Sponge Bob. But I held veto power at all times.

I now have a child that’s nearly 19. Crazy to think about, but it’s true. And although I have some control over what happens inside the walls of my home, there is little I can do when he walks out the front door. He’s an adult. And more than any time before now, I’m a mother on her knees.

As Paul wrote to his spiritual children in the Philippian church, I wonder if he felt the same kind of urgency I feel as I watch my own children pave their way through life. Just like me, Paul had taught them, encouraged them, and corrected them. He’d done everything he could to point them to the Savior and teach them how to live as God’s children. But when the time came for them to life out their faith on their own, Paul knew the first and best thing he could do for them was to pray.

“And this is my prayer…” ~ Philippians 1:9

So what did this man of God and spiritual father pray for? That they would:

* Abound in love and knowledge
* Show discernment in their decisions
* Remain pure and holy before God
* Bear righteous fruit based on their relationship with Christ
* Give glory to God through their lives

I have a single handwritten note next to Philippians 1 in my Bible, dated November 22, 2004:

“Pray this for Tyler, Ryan, Jacob and Troy.”

My three boys and husband. I’d forgotten. Now is the perfect time to remember.

Whether you’re a parent, a spouse or not, God has brought people into your life who need someone committed enough to pray this kind of prayer. It’s one thing to have great intentions, but it’s another thing to actually do it. This week I’m writing Philippians 1:9-11 on an index card and slipping it into my back pocket every morning. I’m committing to praying this verse for those I love for the next seven days.

Will you join me?

The word “elder” doesn’t always stir up a case of “warm fuzzies.” In fact, it often causes something more along the lines of “nausea.”

To begin, I grew up an elder’s daughter, meaning my dad sat on the board of elders–and often chaired it–for the majority of my childhood. This made ours a well-known family, and one very much under the microscope. I spent Sundays listening to sermons on grace, followed by Mondays through Saturdays experiencing a significant lack of it. Expectations abound toward those in church leadership, and in some cases rightly so. While I believe those who lead the church should be held to a high standard, I don’t think that standard includes prohibiting them from any semblance of humanity, and certainly not their in-progress children who didn’t choose their position but were born right into that church nursery under a blanket of expectations.

On the other side of my childhood years and as a member in multiple churches over the years, I’ve seen the best and worst of elder and deacon boards. There’s no need to get into the bloody details, but my experience with church leadership has often left me perplexed and aching for what God intended in the beginning. Because what I’ve seen certainly can not be the leadership God designed for his bride.

All this leads me to wonder if our leadership lacking and the secret for its remedy sits in that first verse Paul penned in his letter to the Philippine Church:

“Paul and Timothy, servants of Christ Jesus. To all the saints in Christ Jesus at Philippi, together with the overseers and deacons…”

Paul writes to the church and her leaders, but as the leader over both groups he sets the standard with four simple but strong words: servants of Christ Jesus.

Servants. Not masters, or dictators, or indifferent followers, or naysayers, or heavy-handed rebukers. SERVANTS. Servants of Christ, with him as the authority, the source of love, grace, mercy, wisdom and correction.

Regardless of whether you’re an elder, deacon, women’s ministry leader, Bible study facilitator, or mentor, your first step in leading is by serving, and by remembering Who you serve. Tension will still raise his ugly head from time to time, as long as humans lead humans. But serving is the knife that cuts through the tension and allows grace–the grace of Jesus–to abound.

“So many others have tried their hand at putting together a story of the wonderful harvest of Scripture and history that took place among us, using reports handed down by the original eyewitnesses who served this Word with their very lives. Since I have investigated all the reports in close detail, starting from the story’s beginning, I decided to write it all out for you, most honorable Theophilus, so you can know beyond the shadow of a doubt the reliability of what you were taught …” ~ Luke, follower of Jesus and teller of his story (Luke 1:1-4, The Message)

For six months now we’ve read the story of one man whose set out to research, evaluate, and wrestle with all the evidence about the man named Jesus. Overwhelmed by both this evidence and his personal experiences, Luke came to believe the man from Nazareth was so much more than just a man–Jesus was and is the Son of God. He then recorded his conclusion in a letter to “Theophilus” and to us, to make sure the truth of what he discovered continued to find voice.

But what about you? Have you carefully investigated what it is that you believe? Have you wrestled with the truth, examined all the facts, considered the implications for yourself and others? And have you made a determination on the man named Jesus? Is He simply a good man to you, or is He the Son of God?

Your answer to the above determines what you do next. If you’ve examined the evidence and found it lacking, there is nothing left to do but discard it and take your quest for truth elsewhere.

If, however, you’ve scoured Luke’s story, searched the stories of others, examined the evidence in your own life and have discovered Jesus of Nazareth to be everything we’ve ever hoped for and everything God ever promised for the redemption of humanity, then it’s your turn. Your turn to write your own story. Your turn to make your life into a letter on which the redemption of God is written and read by those you meet.

It’s your turn.

“And Jesus sent Peter and John saying, ‘Go and prepare the Passover for us, so that we may eat it.’” (Luke 22:8)

Twelve disciples made up the posse that surrounded Jesus. Ten of those twelve got to party with Him on the Passover, but two were sent away. Singled out for kitchen duty.

I doubt Peter and John high-fived at their banishment to the kitchen. It’s like me asking one of my boys to empty the dishwasher or start a load of whites. “Why do I have to do it? Why not him?” It was a week of celebration and remembrance. Rumor had it Jesus would make himself king soon. I doubt Peter and John wanted to be away from His side for even a minute. But their Savior spoke. A chore needed to be done, and Peter and John complied. My guess, reluctantly.

Years later, after the horror of Jesus’ death, the shock at His resurrection, and the wonder of His ascension, only Peter and John would say these words:

“For you know that it was no with perishable things such as silver or gold that you were redeemed from the empty way of life handed down to you from your forefathers, but with the precious blood of Christ, a lamb without blemish or defect.” ~ 1 Peter 1:18-19

“Worthy is the Lamb, who was slain, to receive power and wealth and wisdom and strength and honor and glory and praise!” ~ Revelation 5:12

Over the past year I’ve endured experiences that I would have rather avoided. Some were simply irritating chores, exercises I could’ve lived without. Others were painful intersections in my life, ones I would’ve done anything to avoid. Honestly, at times it seems God is singling me out, giving me an unfair allotment of circumstances. I’m relegated to kitchen duty while others get to party with the Master. I want to cry and whine and point my finger: “Unfair! Why not her?”

Perhaps, however, there is more going on here than simply kitchen duty. Maybe hidden within some of my distasteful experiences lays a message of extraordinary measure. The eternal often hides in the midst of the mundane.

God is not random or wasteful. Look for his activity in even the most unlikely places. There may be a truth of great significance lurking in the middle of the kitchen.

“Zacchaeus” is a one word time machine transporting me back to felt boards, animal crackers and Sunday school songs. Tell me you’re not singing the wee-little-man song. It’ll be stuck in my head the rest of the day. Zacchaeus. The mini-tax collector who collected more enemies than coins. And yet with a short adventure up a tree, the passing of a Savior and an invitation to dinner, the despised became the chosen. And a more profound tree transformation happened than even a fall’s changing leaves.

Zacchaeus was not in the “in” crowd. The religious believed he was heaped in sin. Even the irreligious hated him for who he represented: the oppressive Roman government. Their hate was well founded. After all, Zacchaeus built a career on business practices like swindling and coercion.

But in an instant, he became a new man altogether. How could a lying cheat heaped in sin change so fast? And so completely? By verse 8 Zacchaeus pronounces, “Look, Lord! Here and now I give half of my possessions to the poor, and if I have cheated anybody out of anything, I will pay back four times the amount.”

I have a single note in my Bible next to Luke 19:1-10, written in blue ink and the familiar curve of my handwriting:

“Instant change because of the love of Jesus.”

A lying cheat became a loving philanthropist for one reason: the love of the Christ.

I may not be a crooked tax collector, but I’m heaped in sin just the same. Prison cells like unforgiveness and stubborn pride, spiritual practices like unbelief and worry. The key to my transformation is the love of Jesus, a Savior who said he wanted to be with me. At my house. Today.

And as for other tree-climbing Zacchaeus’ in my life, why would I think anything but the love of Jesus would change them?

“When the Pharisees, a money-obsessed bunch, heard him say these things, they rolled their eyes, dismissing him as hopelessly out of touch. So Jesus spoke to them: ‘You are masters at making yourselves look good in front of others, but God knows what’s behind the appearance.’” ~ Luke 16:14-15

Nobody likes a preacher who talks about money. It’s too close to home, too personal. And, frankly, it’s nobody’s business, certainly not a preacher’s. Jesus didn’t care that his words ruffled their fine feathers. He talked about money anyway, saying things like …

“Whoever can be trusted with very little can also be trusted with much, and whoever is dishonest with very little will also be dishonest with much.”

And …

“No servant can serve two masters. Either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve both God and Money.”

What does he know? the Pharisees scoffed with a roll of their self-righteous eyes. He’s out of touch, outdated, clearly uneducated on what life requires. God wants me to be happy.

It’s easy for me to look at Pharisees from a removed point of view. I’m not like them. I don’t mock the Christ the way they did. I don’t walk with religious airs. I don’t judge lesser Christians like they did. I’m different. I give a tithe. I donate garbage bags full of clothes and toys. I’m not a Pharisee at all. Look how generous I am.

But then I think about the hold money has on my life. The way I’m always worry about bills and my stuff. My compulsiveness to stockpile and hoard, afraid it will never be enough. The ease with which I buy multiple cups of coffee, and yet have difficulty releasing cash for various needs outside my home. My desire to buy a new car, even though the one I have works just fine. I think about the sleep I lose when my own finances seem insecure, and yet how easily I sleep when a friend is struggling financially. And the way I give only within the bounds of my comfort, but never to the point it’s a true sacrifice.

I’m a Pharisee trying to serve two masters. And one of those masters–the greater of the two–is saying, “You’re a master at keeping up a good appearance, but God knows how much you love money, how much you’re depending on it. He sees, and He wants to set you free.”

Jesus was/is far more in touch than anyone gave him credit for. Like my religious predecessors, I’m a person who gives away just enough to make myself look “Christian,” but who secretly finds her safety in the house and car and pile of paper security in the bank.

I need a different master, a less fickle one. And I need to become a better master at stocking up all my future security in an eternal place.

After a long, hot two-mile climb up the mountain, we stood at the top to catch our breath. Behind us stood the TiBoukan school. In front of us spread Haiti’s Leogane Plain. No less than fifty men, women and children gathered around. Soon we’d go house to house delivering supplies. But for the moment we allowed ourselves a short rest and long drink from our water bottles.

Knowing we’d be gone most of the day, a few people had packed snacks, things like granola bars or dried fruit. One girl pulled out a container of applesauce, peeled back the cover and slurped it out of the cup.

A stray dog approached looking for a scrap. Seeing the dog, the girl bent over and gave her applesauce to the dog. He lapped up every last dribble of the sauce while the villagers looked on. In an instant I became painfully aware of the dozens of hungry children and mothers and fathers surrounding our group. And how insulting her gesture must feel to them. Many of them looked just as gaunt as the stray dog, ribs outlined through their skin and skin and hair showing evidence of malnutrition.

The girl didn’t realize what she’d done. An innocent mistake. She’s just a child after all. But isn’t this the epitome of our American mentality? We’re more generous with our animals than we are with our neighbors.

I wonder if that’s what Jesus wanted us to understand when he healed the woman on the Sabbath (Luke 13:10-17). She’d been a part of their “church” for a while. Each sabbath she arrived sick, crippled, in need of mercy. Each time, she went home without it. Looking to excuse themselves from serving, the religious people hid behind the Sabbath’s “no-work” rule, even though they returned home to care for their animals. Jesus called them out on it. And I believe He’s calling US out on it.

I’m an animal lover. But I need to be a people lover even more.

“But he wanted to justify himself, so he asked Jesus, ‘And who is my neighbor?’” ~ Luke 10:29

Mark Twain once said “Familiarity breeds contempt — and children.” Funny and sobering at the same time. When I think about Jesus’ parable of the good Samaritan, I can’t help but agree with Twain. How many times have I read this story? How many times have I heard a preacher preach it or a Sunday School teacher teach it? Does the heart of this story spark anything in me anymore?

I admit the story’s familiarity tapers its profundity. And it’s a shame.

When Jesus told the story of the neighborly Samaritan, I doubt anyone within its hearing displayed a ho-hum response. Both the story’s characters and plot shocked the ho-hums right out of everyone. A Samaritan coming to the rescue of a near-dead Jew?!?! Unthinkable. The Samaritan counted for less than the road dust on the traveler’s sandal. He’d be the least likely person to come to the dying man’s aid. And yet when two religious types walked right on by, only the Samaritan offered a hand.

I keep thinking about which character I am in the story. Sure, at times I’ve been the bleeding person on the road. Often it was the person I least expected who came to my rescue. More often, however, I’m one of the travelers. I’m someone who either stops or walks. But which am I? Which character do I play more often than the other?

Faces come to mind. The filthy woman leaning up against the wall of a gas station. The college girls flaunting their stuff at the mall. The difficult teenager who continues to make bad choices. The person who doesn’t like me, though we’ve seldom shared a conversation. The acquaintance who opposes my morals, faith and politics in every way. The woman whose words have left a deep wound.

They’re all bleeding and broken, scattered along my road.

Do I stop or walk?

What do you do?

Luke 7 paints four different portraits, real people in real life dilemmas:

1. The Humble Outsider: A Roman Centurian pursues Jesus as his only hope for a dear and dying servant. He is the least likely person to understand Jesus’ power to save, and yet he is the one who truly believes in Jesus’ Godness. Even more than those who sit in church reading their Bible every single Sunday. This kind of bold faith is what saves his servant. And himself

2. The Broken Mourner: A widow loses her only son, and her grief reaches the heart of The Christ. He simply says two words: “Don’t cry.” So much compassion! Such understanding! Her grief runs deep, and she cannot say a word. Jesus doesn’t need her words, he needs her heart. And he sees a woman with an open, bleeding heart in need of comfort. He gives her that, and so much more.

3. The Insecure Prophet: From his birth, he knew his sole purpose: To prepare the way for the Messiah. He did that, faithfully, year after year. He lived in poverty, absorbed the ridicule of naysayers, proclaimed God’s words fearlessly. And then The One he’d been speaking of came. Jesus. But suddenly John the Baptist finds himself imprisoned, an unusual reward for a lifetime of faithful service. Hardship has a way of making us doubt our purpose, question what we believe. And so he asks Jesus, “Are you the one, or should I look for someone else?” Jesus understood his insecurity, how his imprisonment was wearing on his resolve. And simply responded by saying, “The rightness of your purpose isn’t defined by your circumstances. You’ve done well. I’m the one.”

4. The Penitent Sinner: She had no business being in a righteous man’s house. But her need for a Savior trumped her certain humiliation in showing her sinful self. Without a word, she finds Jesus reclining at Simon’s table. She can do nothing but cry, and wash the feet of the man she hopes will forgive her. He does, even as the more “perfect” onlookers whisper and mock. So he teaches the host and his guests a lesson at the same time: It isn’t your righteousness that saves you; it’s your ability to kneel at the feet of The Righteous One.

Which one are you? Are you an outsider whose new faith makes you feel less significant? Or are you grieving and wondering if Heaven hears? Maybe you’re a long-time Christian, with a resume full of faithful service. But lately one thing after another has made you question whether or not you’ve been on the right track. Or perhaps your steeped in sin–or even steeped in your own sense of righteousness–and you need to fall at the feet of the Savior.

Regardless of the portrait most resembling your own, the same Jesus stands ready to save.

May 27, 2002, Boulder, Colorado. The day of my first 10K running race. Sixty-two minutes later, as I crossed the finish line in front of 40,000 fans, I looked only for the faces of my husband and three little boys in the crowd, cheering me to the very end. They’d driven over an hour and waited for another two just for those few seconds of reassuring affirmation at the finish line.

April 21, 2007, Highlands Ranch, Colorado. Another day, another 10K race, but this time in my home town. Without a single familiar face in the crowd, I ran every agonizing step, climbed hills and covered rocky terrain, with the thought of quitting never far from my mind … and received my worst race time in five years of running. Due to other responsibilities, my cheering section couldn’t make it. How I needed them that day!

When Jesus returned to his hometown in Luke 4, it was as if he stood at the starting line of the launch of his ministry. I wonder if he hoped for a send-off, a crowd of familiar friends and family cheering him on as He embarked to finish the race the Father called him to run. It wasn’t to be, however. Instead of support and encouragement, those who once cheered from front row seats now hurled accusations and rage.

It’s hard to run a race alone. I have to be honest with you: When it comes to rejection, I’m a quitter. All it takes is the evaporation of my fan base and I hardly have the strength to keep going on. I need the support of those closest to me like I need air. But I’m not sure that’s a good thing. There’s nothing wrong with having people who encourage you, but absolute dependence on it? Well, that’s a fickle foundation if I’ve ever heard of one.

As Jesus left his hometown behind, I think He knew He was on His own. With a God who loved Him, yes. But without those people who should have understood him, believed in him, and cheered for him. He would face more opposition than praise, more rejection than acceptance. And still He ran determined and face-forward anyway. Because the God who called Him was worth it.

Father God, strengthen me to do the same!

“I gave my back to those who strike me,
And my cheeks to those who pluck out the beard;
I did not cover my face from humiliation and spitting.
For the Lord GOD helps me,
Therefore, I am not disgraced;
Therefore, I have set my face like flint,
And I know that I will not be ashamed.”
~ Isaiah 50:6-7