When You're Redirected

Today's the day! Around 10:00 AM, this little blog will redirect to my beautiful new author website designed by the team at Moody Publishers.

What a great new verb! Redirect means to send something to a new place or in a new direction.

Have you ever in your life been redirected to an unexpected place for an unexpected purpose? Most of my life has felt like I was going in one direction, and God "reached down from on high and took hold of me" (Psalm 18:16) to redirect me. I was like a toddler constantly moving towards danger or like a mouse in a maze that went to every dead end.

But God redirects. And when He does, something extraordinary happens.

I never planned or even imagined that one day Live with Flair would become part of a larger journey of writing and speaking. I never imagined that tracking thousands of ordinary days would lead where it has.

After all this time, I'm ready for a redirect because I trust the One Who Leads Me.

Humble Pie

I've been praying about how to keep my eyes fixed on Jesus instead of myself in the midst of so many exciting things like radio interviews, book sales, and letters from readers. It's easy to think highly of myself and forget that Jesus has accomplished everything through me (Isaiah 26:2 and John 15). Whatever fruitfulness happens in my life is an overflow of the Holy Spirit and the "good works which God prepared in advance" for me to do.

But still, it feels so important to speak and teach and write and be on the radio. And I sometimes love all the attention that comes from visible roles within the church. So in church yesterday (where we are newer attendees), when I saw the women's ministry director racing towards me after the service, I imagined I knew what she was going to say. Had she read my book? Had she heard a radio interview? Was she going to invite me to speak at a women's event? To sign books maybe?

She says, breathless and excited, "Heather, I had to invite you--because we have heard about you and your. . .

amazing ability . . .

to wash dishes--

if you would join our Clean-Up Team for the Women's Ministry!"

(It's true: I'm amazing in the kitchen when it comes to scrubbing pots and pans, and months ago, I helped wash so many pie dishes and platters and crockpots after a women's event. She noticed. She saw my talent with dish soap and sponges.)

I burst out laughing because I was so ashamed of myself and so humbled. And I realized all over again that I was seated with Christ in the heavenly realms where no task that He assigns is more important than any other. Scrubbing the pots is as vital as speaking up front, and I knew it.

We've heard about you and your amazing ability to wash dishes. 

I needed this invitation yesterday. I was thrilled to accept this honored request to serve as the Scrubber of Pots for Women's Ministry. Hallelujah! She said to me, "It was just so much fun cleaning the church kitchen with you." It was. It was perfect. I loved that evening where I gabbed on and on with ladies while up to my elbows in dishwater.

And I remembered Philippians 2:7 and how I'm most like Jesus when I "consider [myself] nothing and take on the nature of a servant." I'm seated with Christ, and I complete the good works He ordains, whether large or small, displayed or hidden.

Sometimes the hidden tasks are so much more fun anyway.

These 40 Years

In Deuteronomy 2:7, we read this: "The Lord your God has blessed you in all the work of your hands. He has watched over your journey through this vast wilderness. These forty years the Lord your God has been with you, and you have not lacked anything."

It's true! It's true for me and you!

These forty years. As I turn forty on this very day, I rejoice in Jesus. I dwell in the truth of this verse; God watched over me through the vast wilderness of my whole life. He guarded me. He rescued and kept me. I never lacked anything because I had Him.

What a wonderful reality to finally know! What a refuge and fortress of strength!

(This is my next book--on this very verb "guard.")

So when I went to blow out candles and make a wish, for the first time in my life, I paused and couldn't think of what to wish for. It was all already here.

But I did want one thing that my family presented to me:

Slippers! Luxurious slippers.

Being forty and living with flair means you know exactly what you want and need, and you aren't afraid to ask for it. You know you want slippers because being cozy at home with family and friends matters more than anything. You know you want slippers because you love drinking coffee and sitting at your writing desk for hours to write books. You know you want slippers--luxurious slippers--because you're going to stay right here and settle into this life God has given you. Let's drink coffee, watch a movie, talk about life, make a meal, write, and read. I'll be in my slippers.

The One You Feed

Last night, I heard again the Native American tale of the two wolves that Billy Graham once popularized in his 1970's book on the Holy Spirit.

The most original source I could find comes from the Nanticoke Indian Association's website where they account "The Tale of the Two Wolves."

They write:

One evening, an elderly Cherokee brave told his grandson about a battle that goes on inside people. He said, "My son, the battle is between two 'wolves' inside us all. One is evil. It is anger, envy, jealousy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego. The other is good. It is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith." The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, "Which wolf wins?" 

The grandfather simply replied, "The one that you feed." 

I want to feed the good wolf.

I hear the tale last night in this concise form: The two wolves of joy and despair fight inside of us each day. Which one wins?

The one I feed.

I feed joy today.

The End of an Era: The Last Boo Platter

One of my all-time favorite Live with Flair moments came on October 28, 2010 when I posted on Your Most Memorable Act.

In this post, I saw the way God combined words, writing, and motherhood in this Boo Platter that became the stuff of elementary school legend. For years, the children begged for the Boo Platter for their Halloween class party. It's not glamorous, crafty, or Pinterest-worthy, but it's all me, right down to the writing of words.

This morning, I sign in at the school office to deliver my final Boo Platter to the 5th grade classroom. Next year, my daughter will find herself in the impenetrable fortress of Middle School where parents hardly enter the building.

But not on this day. This day, I weave through the costumed children as "Ghostbusters" plays on the intercom. I compliment the princesses, the Minions, the Star Wars characters, and the Harry Potter wizards. I hold my Boo Platter high and make my way through cats and knights and Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz.

And I deliver the final Boo Platter.

Always a Little Something to Help You Live with Flair

When my husband travels, we fall apart. We do. Nobody sleeps well, and we just feel out of sorts. Even the cats rebel against his absence.

So this morning, after a sleepless night, an angry daughter, and rebelling cats, I was in no mood for flair.

And I had a headache. Woe is me!

I wanted to cancel class. I wanted to cancel everything. But I knew what to do. I stood in the shower and remembered all those years of choosing to find something beautiful and good in any situation. For thousands and thousands of days, God helped me find the wondrous thing in the most discouraging of days.

The day chugged into motion, and I knew to look for tiny, beautiful things:

My 13 year old borrowed my boots for school, and I realized she's all grown up. I smiled and snapped a picture of her. Those boots on that girl--a tiny, beautiful moment.

I glanced at the boxed mix of caramel apple cupcakes my younger daughter and I would make after school together. Such a little thing would fill the house with warm smells. She still loves to bake with me. A tiny, beautiful thing.

Then, I left the house for a meeting on campus, and when I stopped in at the Creamery, they were featuring a Coconut Cream Pie Latte. Never in my life had I heard of such a thing. You know my weakness for coconut. You know my love of coffee. This was a wonderful little treat.

And the day chugged on with flair.

With Little Effect: A New Verb for Your Notebook

The wind arrives in great, rainy gusts this morning. It sends the leaves up in tornados of burnt orange and golden yellow. It's so blustery, I think. I love the word blustery because it sounds a bit like a gust of wind rising up as you say it. It means, in fact, something blowing in great bursts. I wonder, therefore, if something can bluster.

I look up the verb, and it means to talk in a loud, aggressive, or indignant way with little effect. A rant. A howl. A thunder of words. As in, "She just blusters on but doesn't change anyone's mind."

For all this noise and display--nothing. With little effect. It's also arrogant, chaotic, and noisy.

I think of what it means to use words to great effect. Perhaps it's the opposite of bluster's definition. Perhaps quiet, peaceful, cheerful speech affects others more than when I bluster. I remember this in marriage and parenting.

And I remember the chaos of leaves that scatter and obscure my view as I drive on blustery days. I want my writing and speech to bring order, clarity, and change. I want the hush and harmony, not the boisterous bluster.

Coming Soon! New Author Website with Blog Included!

Dear Faithful Blog Readers,

I'm so excited because Moody designed a beautiful author website for me that will launch in the next few days. This website will include everything someone might need--books, free material, speaking schedule, and most importantly, a new Live with Flair location. It's the same blog, but in a new place with so many new beautiful features. You're going to love it!

I don't like change at all, but I remembered when a little boy said to me, "If nothing changes, then you don't either." He was encouraging me to think of all the possibilities when something changes. I'm nervous to learn all the new technology on the new website and how to post blogs and pictures, but living with flair means courage, learning, and tenacity. It means adapting, changing, and taking risks.

It means a new author website and blogging platform! It's been so many wonderful years on this Live with Flair platform. It seems like the end of an era to move to a new blogging platform, but I'm so excited!

As soon as the website launches, you'll know because you'll be redirected there when you come to this site. I'll provide all the information you need when the time comes. You might have to sign up again for the Live with Flair email delivery, but I'm not sure. I'll let you know.

Thank you for your faithful readership and support.

All at Once

The best tree in the neighborhood flares into bright gold every October. Every neighbor knows the one I mean.

It's this tree. This one tree slows down traffic and walkers as we gaze at its beauty.

But we also know this: This one tree drops all of its leaves in a single day, in what seems like a single moment. Some trees gradually fade into winter with their bony fingers rising up to the air, but this tree saddens us all at once. And we know its coming. By afternoon, we'll have a different view on the street.

So we pause and marvel. It's just like spring with the Weeping Cherry's blooms that last for a single day before the wind and warm afternoon showers take the blossoms down.

I've learned to stay with the beautiful thing that's right here. Tomorrow, we'll hardly know it was ever this glorious. (But the loss won't devastate us because we'll find the beauty in how those bare branches carry the snow and icicles.)

But today:

This is the day the Lord has made. I will rejoice and be glad in it!

When a Silly Thing You Don't Like Becomes the Thing God Uses

When I was 19 years old, I wished I had a different voice. I wanted a Southern accent like all the girls around me, but instead, I had this strange, unplaced kind of voice. And I couldn't sing to save my life. I could only talk way too much with this voice.

One summer, my camp director told me that I had the "perfect broadcasting voice." (A strange compliment for a girl who never imagined being on television or the radio.) It was accent-free; my voice was a little of this and a little of that. No one could place it. Midwest? Maybe. East Coast? Maybe. It could blend and fit in because of its belonging-nowhere kind of tone and pitch. My explanation? God's plan for my childhood involved me moving every two years in a military family. My upbringing meant Army bases in Kansas, California, Virginia, and Washington, and my college years had me spending every summer in North Carolina.

That was me: belonging nowhere right down to my voice. 

So 20 years later, when I find myself doing radio interview after radio interview to talk about my new book, people say they absolutely love my voice. This voice that made no sense to me makes perfect sense on the air. It's like God shaped this whole life for my voice to reach out to people. Isn't that funny?

And as if God wanted me to really understand this calling that He knew would come about all along--after all those moves to different regions that shaped how I sound--three different women found me yesterday to randomly announce that they loved my voice.

What kind of compliment is that? Have you ever just told someone that you love their speaking voice?

It's such a funny thing! It's so wonderful to see God use even this unusual voice in His unfolding plan.

(By the way, I've seen my voice displayed on an oscilloscope compared to other voices. It's ridiculous! It's just like an explosion of fireworks! When other voices register as calm, appropriate, and normally textured, mine explodes.)

With Your Hands

I'm watching a man signing a worship song with his hands. Watching him worship with his hands made me think about my own hands. I want to worship with my hands.

I thought of Psalm 90:17, where Moses--writing the oldest of the Psalms--cries out: "Let the favor of the Lord our God be upon us, and establish the work of our hands upon us; yes, establish the work of our hands!"

The work of my hands: the laundry stains, the dishes, the braiding of hair, the peeling of potatoes, the smoothing of sheets, the scratching of backs, the writing on the chalkboard and the typing of words. . .

Let these hands worship in all these ways! 

Everywhere You Go: A Host

My friend sends me an article where the authors ask, "What makes a teacher great?" They present the classical concept of "Philoxenia," a new Greek word to add to my list. The word technically means "love of strangers" or more broadly, "a good host with a generous spirit."

The authors suggest that such a deeply classical concept of generous hosting applies to both home and work. They ask, "What if a truly great teacher is one who nourishes her students through Philoxenia? Perhaps we ought to think of ourselves as hosts, offering a place of rest and renewal: providing a feast, a celebration, and a song."

I think the Italian Mamas would approve.

The classical concept of hosting others--in my home and classroom--inspires me so much as I think about how to generously invite others into rest and renewal wherever I go. No matter where I am or what I'm doing--and whether I'm with friends or strangers--I'm a host.

Let me help you rest and refresh. Let me offer a feast, a celebration, a song. 

Suspended In Flight

I love falling leaves, and for several seasons now, I've tried to capture them descending with my camera. But something extraordinary happened yesterday: a leaf stalled mid-flight down, right in my yard. It was there, frozen in space, like some fantasy film scene.

Upon closer inspection, I realize it's trapped in a nearly invisible spider's web.

Trapped like this, isolated and dangling, I observe it, capture it on film, and enjoy this moment in time when something falling froze for me.

And I remember that, sometimes, things don't follow the intended or natural path at all. They stay stuck in a moment because there's something here to wonder over and delight in.

Secret Little Processes

I know it's a silly thing, but I love making dough with yeast. I love oiling the bowl and setting the round ball (in this case, pizza dough for dinner) inside as I cover it with my blue dishtowel.

I leave the for the day, and I know it's working. Something is happening. Whether I perceive it or not, whether I realize it or not, a natural process stays in place with that yeast, sugar, flour, water, and my spices for my dough (I add garlic powder, oregano, and thyme into my crust).

I return and find it is working according to plan. The joy of lifting that blue dishtowel! Such a simple, pure pleasure. Haven't these past five years been about just this: ordinary marvels, ordinary pleasures, ordinary moments that shimmer with God's love and goodness?

Well, today, it's yeast again. I don't need much in this life when I can smile with pleasure at pizza dough rising on the stove.

I realize why I love these secret little processes: Just like yeast that will do its secret work, a spiritual life in Christ--aided by the Holy Spirit, God's word, and prayer--is working within me, is happening, is growing me. It's happening. It's working. Whether I perceive it today or not, that power is doing something within me.

Someday soon I'll marvel at that growth that came in a secret little way.

"The Best Seat in the House" (A Guest Post and Chance to Win Books!)

I am honored to have written a guest post for Jennifer Dukes Lee (my writing friend from TheHighCalling.org)! My piece is about how I always wanted "the best seat in the house," and what happened when I finally realized I was already there. You can enter for a chance to win Seated with Christ: Living Freely in a Culture of Comparison on her beautiful site. Click here for my post and the entry form.

I hope you enjoy Jennifer's #TellHisStory Tuesday.

Have a wonderful afternoon!

For Just Right Now

I'm finding new strength these days. Even on my hardest days (they don't seem hard anymore), I know how to draw on some truths in scripture for this very moment. Right now, I'm guarded by God's peace (Philippians 4:7), His righteousness (Romans 3:22), His hope (Romans 5:5), His power (Ephesians 1:19), and His presence that provides everything I need (2 Peter 1:3).

For just right now, I'm stronger than ever.

I'll apply these truths again every hour if I must.

Something New: Dehydrating Fruit

My neighbor has a food dehydrator (it just sits on the kitchen counter and makes this little humming noise while it's working). I have never seen a dehydrator in my whole life, so obviously, I'm amazed at the trays of shriveled apple slices. She lifts the lid and lets me sample the most delicious, chewy, tart, dried apples. They have changed form into these strong, long-lasting things!

I'm addicted. It's all I can think about.

Over the weekend, another set of neighbors (who have had to listen to my new obsession with dehydrated fruit on the walk to school) present me with an early 40th birthday present: It's a food dehydrator!

I slice some apples, and six hours later, I have piles of apple candy. I decide to dehydrate the apple peel, and it makes apple chips that are so flavorful I can't believe it.

Oh, the after school snacks we will have in the bitter cold winter when we long for the tart apples of October! Oh, the veggies and jerky and fruit roll ups I can make!

Then I read that one can store dehydrated fruit for 30 years on the shelf, and this fruit will retain its vitamins and minerals. I have no idea if this is true, but it seems promising.

I think of how that dehydrator works: the warm air just sucks the moisture out. For someone who values hydration, this seems so counter to a good thing. It seems terrible--the dried up, shriveled work of it. But this process cultivates a certain strength and longevity, a certain sweetness and tenacity.

With these long day of work and parenting, we feel shriveled and dried up. We've changed form into wrinkled, withered things.

 But oh, how sweet.

Your Little Trace

My friend presents me with the most beautiful cobalt blue Cross fountain pen--the kind with the ink cartridges that you pop in (I love that sound!)--because she knows I'll be signing books.

First of all, I love fountain pens. Oh! When I think of writing with flair, I think of fountain pens.

And I know what I'm talking about: I worked at Staples from 9th grade all the way through my 3rd year of college. I was the Fountain Pen Expert and stood behind the Service Desk and showcased the most extraordinary fountain pens to customers. I loved unpacking the shipments of pens boxed in velvet. I displayed Waterman, Mont Blanc, Pelican, Parker, Sheaffer, and of course, Cross. I knew ink filling mechanisms, inlays, nibs, and barrel composition. I kept them under lock and key because some pens sold for thousands of dollars.

I pop in the cartridge and use that nib for the first time. I pause and consider how smoothly it writes, how uniquely to my own hand, and how the words seem so connected to me as I write them. Nobody will use this pen but me; every fountain pen owner knows the nib conforms to only one hand.

I think about the journey of my own handwriting: the lessons in grade school from a precise military father; the i's dotted with hearts in middle school; the backward slant of rebellion in high school; the tiny clipped letters of debate and college lecture notes. I realize that there's something in the conversation about what it means to be human (and to know oneself) that involves our handwriting.

I consider the number of people who hand me my own book and ask for my signature. They want the trace from my hand--my unique script--because somehow the words I wrote and were typeset in that gorgeous font weren't enough. They wanted me, my own signature, because they know that it's a human trace of something authentic.

They want my signature self, so I write it gladly.

Sisters Who Drive Long Distances To See You

I tell my daughters that, although they can't stand each other now, one day, they'll be the best of friends. I hear them bickering upstairs as I fix the guest room for my sister who is on her way through sleet and cold to see me.

I remind them that sisters are one of God's greatest gifts.

It's like this:

One day, your sister will pick you up from high school, take you to ice-cream, go shopping with you, and find a fun restaurant for dinner because you just need a break from everything and everyone. You fight now, but one day, you'll want to be with her more than anyone in the world because she's your sister and she just knows you. 

One day, your sister will drive hours to visit you at college and take you to coffee shops and listen to all your boyfriend drama. She will nod her head, refill your mug, and hold your hand. She will send you handwritten notes with Bible verses on them to encourage you to return to Jesus when you have wondered so far away that you do not know yourself.

One day, she'll send you flowers on the day you don't get the sorority bid. The card will say, "From your real big sister."

One day, she'll drive to find you when you're depressed and losing your mind. She'll tell you that you are just "stuck in a moment" and you'll find your way out.

One day, your sister will drive even more hours for a wedding, new babies, and birthday parties. You'll drive the same distance for her. It won't matter if it's snowing or nobody has the kind of money to spend on travel. You just do it because you're sisters.

You'll immensely love each other and immensely fight and then immensely apologize and start all over again.

One day, your sister will drive six hours one way to spend one night with you because you're about to turn 40 years old. And she'll spoil you rotten because you're both professionals now and can splurge.

You can't stand her now, girls, but one day, one day, you'll love her so much you'll cry just thinking about her.

"God Was With Me."

My youngest daughter (who gives permission for me to share this story) has been battling severe test taking anxiety. She can make herself sick with nerves about taking tests, especially math tests. We've spent so many days looking into therapeutic solutions, creating strategies, and talking through positive self-talk before going into the tests. In her mind, so much is at stake, and she is just afraid. 

Today, she had another math test, and last night, we all prayed for God's guarding peace as promised in Philippians 4:6. You know the famous verse: "Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all comprehension, will guard your heart and mind in Christ Jesus."

We ask God to guard her with His peace, and we thank Him for allowing her to simply show what she has learned on this test.

(That's all a test is: showing what you have learned. It's OK to fail a test; this just means you have more to learn for next time.)

I drop her off, kiss that little forehead, and say, "I don't know what else to tell you about all this test stress. I just know that God is with you. No matter what happens, Jesus is right there with you."

At pick up time, she emerges from the school doors so full of joy. She reports, "It was easy! I finished the test first! I didn't have any problem!"

I ask her: What made the difference? Was it the self-talk, the deep-breathing, the strategies (all good things)? What made the difference, and what could I tell others about what worked for you?

She says firmly and clearly: "God was with me. That's it."

Oh, what we can do when we know God is with us! It changes everything.

We will remember this day when she knew God was with her. Today it was a math test. Tomorrow it might be something else. I want her (and me) to store up a lifetime of days when we accomplished something we didn't think we could do because God was with us, guarding us with His peace.