I wish I could share my pictures with you, but unfortunately no photography was permitted in the exhibition hall. Dozens of stern-looking men and women watched every move we made, lest someone whip out an iPhone and take an illicit picture of a rare artifact rather than buying a postcard from the Egyptian tchochke section of the gift shop.

To me, it’s always interesting to explore a culture different from my own.  Not everyone agrees with me, I’m sure. Take the folks who travel to foreign lands are get upset because the people there don’t speak American English. If you want to be surrounded by people just like you, why not stay home and give the more adventurous a little elbow room?

If there’s one thing I wish I had a picture of, it’s a sign that appeared near the exit of the final room of the exhibit, the room with the mummies and sarcophagi. They wisely put that room at the end of the exhibit so all the kids being forced by Mom and Dad to broaden their historical acumen had something to look forward to that kept them focused (sort of). The sign touched on a point of controversy that’s been discussed repeatedly over the years: By displaying these sarcophagi and the linen-wrapped human remains found therein, are we disturbing and/or disrespecting the dead?

I’ve found myself thinking about that question for the past several hours, long after leaving the exhibit. I’m far from an expert on the religion of ancient Egypt, but I know they believed in an afterlife.  I believe in an afterlife too, though not at all the same kind of afterlife they did. I think, however, that the ancient Egyptians wanted the same thing most of us want: to be remembered. I can think of no situation sadder than a life ending and nobody wanting to remember that life,  or mourn, or grieve their loss.

Therein is a thread that connects us all, regardless of our religious belief (or lack thereof): we want to be remembered after we die.  Any honest author will admit that they dream of writing something so powerful that it continues to speak for generations after they’re gone. Medical researchers dream of discovering the cure to some fatal disease and having that cure bear their name long after they’ve breathed their last. Even the steelworkers who erect our modern skyscrapers take pride in knowing that over which they’ve labored will outlive them.

The sign called attention to an inscription on the wall of the room where the actual remains were displayed. It was a blessing that called on their gods to bless those individuals whose mummified remains I had just viewed—a blessing that listed the name of every individual whose remains we’d seen.  I could not recite that blessing without violating my own belief that I should not pray to false gods or idols, but I respected that blessing. As long as the names of those people are spoken and respected, they have the kind of afterlife they craved, an afterlife in which they are not forgotten.

In processing all this, it’s occurred to me that just yesterday we celebrated the day when America declared its independence, a day that began the first of many wars fought to achieve and maintain the freedom most Americans take for granted. One of our most sacred freedoms is the right to choose our religious belief and affiliation. While it’s become a popular sport to look down our noses and badmouth people who don’t believe exactly the way we do, I think it’s important to remember that the same blood that was shed to protect my right to embrace Christianity with both hands and both feet protects the rights of Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, atheists, and whatever-else-ists to believe what they believe. I may respectfully disagree with what you believe, I will fight to the death to defend your right to believe it.

May we never forget the names of those whose blood has defended our right to respectfully disagree.

My remembrance is a conversation with Robert Klein, an outstanding actor who had performed in the role of Jesus for five years at the time (and is performing his twentieth season in the role this week). Working with Robert was a remarkable experience. His grasp of character and focused portrayal was so intense that, as High Priest, it was all I could do to not fall on my face and repent. Talking with him one day during rehearsal, I asked him about his experience developing the character. Preparing the character for the first time changed his life forever, because he had to focus on seeing things as Jesus would see them. After five years, he believed preparing for that role was the greatest spiritual growth exercise in his life.

Think about it. Jesus knew exactly what would happen. He knew the mission he had to accomplish. He knew that every road he traveled led to an agonizing death on a cruel Roman cross. With that knowledge, every photon that entered his eyes took on greater meaning and intensity.  Given his deeper knowledge, what did Jesus see as from his unique vantage point on the Cross?

The eyes of Jesus’ body had a good view of the crowd gathered at Golgotha. A strange and unusual mix of people the diverse crowd that gathered to witness his execution wasn’t a crowd in Jesus’ eyes. Jesus saw a gathering of individuals, each with their own life experience, identity and viewpoint. Roman soldiers rolled the dice just beneath Him, dividing His clothing among them. A group of women wept, mourning the one that they had loved and followed. Jewish elders hurled insults, challenging His claim to be the Christ: “He saved others, but he cannot save himself.” Jesus’ disciples gathered, confused by their leader’s apparent surrender. His mother wept, releasing thirty-three years of motherly angst, knowing that her boy was the Son of God, knowing that this day would come. Just as in today’s church, a sea of spectators gathered around these main players, the same fickle crowd that hailed Him as King of the Jews just a week before that dark day when they called for Barabbas’ release and Jesus’ crucifixion.

The eyes of Jesus’ soul saw each person in the gathering, their needs, their hurts, their misunderstanding. As he looked at his mother, Jesus felt her heartache at watching her son die a slow, miserable death. He commissioned the disciple John to care for Mary as his own mother, a compassionate act that not only served his mother’s needs, but the needs of his disciple to love and serve his dying Lord.

The mob of bloodthirsty onlookers must have caused Jesus’ tender heart to break. They didn’t even begin to understand the redemptive scene they witnessed.  Jesus felt no anger or bitterness, as you or I might. He looked at them with eyes full of compassion, longing for them to accept the sacrifice he offered on their behalf. He prayed, “Father, forgive them, for they don’t know what they’re doing.”

Jesus’ disciples—the men with whom He had traveled and lived with for three years—had no more insight than the ignorant mob. He saw their confusion,heartache, and utter cluelessness.  Of all those gathered, only Jesus fully understood what took place that day, but he knew that in time his disciples’ mourning would turn into laughter, their tears into shouts of joy, their discouragement into vision and purpose.

The eyes of Jesus’ Spirit saw what only he could comprehend. For the first time in all eternity, Jesus experienced isolation from his Father and understood the depth of human depravity and sin. Demons danced around him with delight, celebrating their supposed victory—but with eyes not limited in time and space, Jesus also saw those demons cowering in darkened corners three days later. He saw an eternal bridge, christened with his blood, that would allow mankind the same intimate, personal relationship with God that Adam and Eve enjoyed in Eden before they sinned. When others saw only defeat, Jesus saw victory.

The dying Messiah looked beyond His momentary pain and saw 3000 people receiving His salvation on the day of Pentecost as cowardly Peter, who had denied Him three times, boldly preached under the empowerment of the Holy Spirit. Further down the timeline, Saul of Tarsus, a vicious enemy of the Gospel, accepted the free gift of grace made possible only by Jesus’ sacrifice. An Ethiopian eunuch baptized by Phillip in a roadside pool took the good news to his homeland. Countless generations of mankind passed before the Savior’s eyes, generations for whom His sacrifice made possible salvation by grace through faith. Some accepted, some refused, but all made their choice between the free gift of eternal life and the self-chosen curse of eternal death. Billions made their decisions as he watched, individuals making their personal choice between grace and condemnation, death and life. Al Capone, D.L. Moody, Adolf Hitler, Billy Graham—each made their own personal, eternal choices.

Then Jesus saw you, and He knew your name.

He could have stopped his suffering. He had the authority to call a legion of angels to set Him free. Instead, He cried out, “Father, into your hands I commit my Spirit.”

Then, He bowed His head—and He died.

Because He thought you were worth it.

If you’ve read my blog at all, you’ve already heard me wax poetisophical about Ridgecrest, and I won’t replay those previous waxings However, some cool things have happened here since my last visit in May, like the progress on the new Convention Center buildings.

Southeast corner, viewed from parking lot of The ARC

Another view from The ARC Parking lot, with Rhododendron behind the new building

This cluster of structures is enormous; one picture can’t even come close to doing it justice, so I took a boatload and selected five in an attempt to show the expanse of the new facility that spans the gap between the Rhododendron/Dogwood buildings and the Mountain Laurel Inns.

Overhead View (From Mountain Laurel 3rd floor)

Initial Framework of the Connection to Mountain Laurel

As I understand it, when the facility is complete it will be possible to have a sizable convention or other gathering (such as the Blue Ridge Mountains Christian Writers Conference in May) and never have to step outdoors. I’ll miss the “umbrella or no umbrella” challenge, but not much.

View from back corner of Dogwood, with Mountain Laurel in the distance, behind the new complex

I can hardly wait to see what great things God does with this new facility. We could get a lot of writers in all that space!

Winning—or for that matter, just making the final five—can open doors in the tough-to-crack glass wall that separates the published from the unpublished. Many Genesis winners and finalists have landed publishing contracts after their victories; on the other hand, there are some who win and still grope that glass wall like a blind mime, looking for a point of entry. In other words, if I take first place in my Genesis category I’ll get a nice plaque that, when accompanied by a five dollar bill, will get me a latte at Starbucks. The bragging rights might open doors a crack, but if my writing isn’t strong enough to push them the rest of the way they’ll snap shut faster than Scrooge’s wallet.

All that makes for some wonderful opportunities to drown in one’s own self-doubt. We whose passions demand we write stories and share them with the world are lectured repeatedly on the importance of the perfect “Elevator Pitch,” so named because we may find ourselves in an elevator with the editor or agent of our dreams, with thirty seconds to convince them they can’t continue to do business without us. Every syllable must be fine tuned and ready to dazzle on demand. We prepare our one-sheets and  business cards while gnawing our fingernails to the knuckle, stressing over those fifteen-minute speed-dates with agents and editors. For some, the fear that we’re going to blow our only chance to make a first impression (or to atone for a less-than-stellar first impression left behind last year) can be overwhelming.

That’s exactly where I was a couple of weeks ago, when my obsessive preparations were interrupted by a couple or three days of non-stop rain (much of it perfectly horizontal) from the remains of Hurricane Gustav. Driving on a suburban street during a torrential downpour, water rushing like river rapids along the curbs, I saw a house with a semi-flooded front yard. No big surprise there; lots of yards were flooded in that neighborhood. The funny thing is that in the midst of that build-an-ark scenario, the automatic lawn sprinklers dutifully watered the lawn, sending their perfectly distributed spray exactly as designed and right on schedule, no matter how stupid, useless, or unnecessary.

As I roared in the rain, I saw myself with uncomfortable clarity. The sprinklers were doing all the right things  right on schedule, but wasting their time. I was doing all the right things right on schedule, too. Practiced pitches. Stellar one-sheets. Well-honed prose. Was I wasting my time?

In the end, if all I’ve got is my pitches and partials and one-sheets (oh, my! ) and I’m putting it all on the line powered by my own strength, ability and ambition, I’m just watering a flooded yard. Without the empowerment of God’s calling on my writing life, I can do nothing.

Does that mean that if I’m called to write I can spew forth marginal manuscripts and God will mystically morph them into monumental masterpieces? Absolutely not. I’m reminded of a favorite quote from a the late Dr. J. Vernon McGee:

“Friends, when a man prays to God for a good corn crop, God expects him to say ‘Amen’ with a hoe.”

We can hoe until our hands fall off, but we can’t make a seed grow. That’s God’s job. Can you imagine a farmer standing in his field trying to make a seed germinate? He can’t do it. All he can do is plant, water, and hoe. It’s God who makes those efforts bring forth new growth.

It’s the same way for those of us compelled to write. We have to do our part. We study the craft, we learn how to use the gifts God gave us, but it’s God who makes those words come to life, not us. Just as only He can make a seed germinate, only He can make a spark of inspiration grow into an idea that grows into a story that grows into a novel.

We prepare, we learn, we apply those lessons, and we trust God to bring our ideas to life. Part of that process is trusting Him to make it happen at the right time, even if we disagree on that timing. We have to trust Him to inspire us with the right ideas, introduce us to the right people, and give us the right words. I’ve been to several Christian writers conferences over the past few years, and the very best connections and contacts I’ve made at those events weren’t the scheduled meetings and planned pitches. They were the surprise blessings, delightful divine appointments with people I never even considered during my highly focused preparation time.

So, I’m off to Minneapolis with preparations made, but with an agenda that’s flexible enough to accommodate God’s plan for the rest of my week. My agenda is to synchronize with God’s agenda, and let him cause whatever growth He desires.

In the meantime, I’ll try to stay out of His way, stay available, and stay faithful—and keep my hands on that hoe.

As I doctored my coffee, Wookie asked for–in her usual demanding tone–a taste of half-and-half.

Well so what? Your cat asked for cream. Big deal!

Yes, it was a big deal. Wookie hasn’t asked for a drop in nine days. I gave her a little one morning a few days ago, and she didn’t waste it (she’s never met a dairy product that she doesn’t like), but she was rather half-hearted, as though drinking her cream out of obligation rather than desire. This morning’s demanding tone warmed my heart the way the bell on an ice cream truck warms the heart of a child.

You see, nine days ago, we lost a dear friend and family member. Blondie, one of Wookie’s feline cohabitants, was sick and went to the kitty doctor for help… and she didn’t come home. Reading what I’ve just written, it strikes me how we humans tend to soften the reality of death with quaint little phrases like “passed away” or “at rest” or the ever-spiritual “gone home to be with Jesus.” But this is one of the ways in which cats are smarter than humans: Wookie knew, the minute I walked in the door (if not before), that her sister Blondie was dead. So did Tingy and Marconi.

Just like the affected humans, each of our three remaining felines grieved in their own way. Tingy paced around the spare room, where Blondie was hiding out when I went to take her to the vet. Marconi, strong man that he is, withdrew to his office (under the bed) and mourned in solitude. Wookie lost her taste for cream. I came home and quietly put the empty cat carrier away, sat in my favorite recliner (where Blondie was fond of joining me for lap-time), and wept in temporary solitude. It wasn’t long before Wookie and Tingy joined me, Wookie in my lap and Tingy on my chest, nose-to-nose.

Blondie was a gentle soul. She was rescued as a kitten by Helping Hands for Little Paws, our favorite animal rescue organization. She was one of only two who survived from a diseased colony of feral cats. She was a beautiful and elegant feline, one that I couldn’t even begin to imagine in the wild, though her instincts were strong. Her personality was quiet; she would sit with us in the same room for hours and could come and go undetected. Every now and then she would crave a little lap time, and climb whatever obstacle stood in her way to have her place in my lap. And then, when she was finished, she was finished, and she moved on.

Blondie spoke infrequently, and of course only when it served her purpose. Most mornings, she would appear in the kitchen as I prepared our morning coffee, and request her morning portion of cream in a gentle and unassuming voice. Being who I am, the only reason she ever had to ask twice was her own impatience. But she was a generous and giving soul, as well. You see, there are times when we don’t give Wookie cream because she… well, let’s just say she seems to have her moments of lactose intolerance. If we set a bowl of cream out for Blondie and not for Wookie, Blondie would have just a taste and leave the rest for her elder sister. I’ve seen days when Blondie didn’t even sniff at the bowl–she just gave Wookie the high sign and walked away.

I miss Blondie tremendously. It took me these nine days to come to the place where I could write this. But when Wookie came to me this morning and asked for cream, I knew this would be the day. Just as Wookie is finding healing from her broken heart, I am finding healing for mine. And yes, writing critics, I used passive voice there on purpose–we are finding, not have found. Because healing isn’t an event, it’s a journey.

Golly. Who woulda thunk it.

But the real question is this: Is this movie any good?

My answer is a resounding “Oh, yeah!” It’s a clean family film with a great message and a great storyline. It’s well-produced, well-thought out, and well-written.

Now, if you’re on the far right extreme of Christianity, you might not like this film. After all, it’s not completely true to the scriptures. Noah wasn’t a guy from Buffalo. There is, at one (and only one) point, what might be considered a mildly offensive word (“…I’m gonna be pissed.”) And there’s dancing. If those things produce major offense for you, you probably won’t be going to a theater to watch a movie anyway. For that matter, you won’t be reading my blog, either.

If, like me, all the buzz has you wondering about this film, let me make it easy for you.

Quit wondering.

Go see Evan Almighty tomorrow. You’ll be glad you did.

17 years later, after filing a Schedule C with my 2006 taxes showing thousands of dollars in writing-related business expenses and zero income, I can finally look the IRS in the eye and say, “Yes, writing IS a business for me.” Even though I’m still quite solidly in the net loss category, I finally have a PAID writing credit in this millennium. I even made the cover.

If you subscribe to Marriage Partnership magazine, pick up your Summer 2007 copy and look on page 30 for my article Ghosts of Marriages Past. If you don’t subscribe, go buy a copy or twelve.

Now, if I can just sell this novel, maybe I can come a little closer to break-even.

But the downside of my early arrival is that my room won’t be ready for a couple or three hours . . . so I’ve got to hang out here on Rocking Chair Ridge and endure the sunny, 71 degree weather and the feel the gentle breeze on the back of my head. Darn! What a hardship!

Ridgecrest is one of two big conference centers owned by Lifeway (The Southern Baptist Convention). This is the second time in my life that I’ve been to Ridgecrest. The first was last year at about this same time, and it was a much different experience. For 17 years I’d been listening to my SBC brethren speak about Ridgecrest in the same hushed tones that Catholics use to when they speak about the Vatican. I didn’t understand why they had such a special affection for the place. After all, it’s just a conference center. I’ve been to lots of conference centers. No big deal. But last year, as I drove through the gate, I could feel it. It felt different inside than it did out there. I felt as though I had passed through a filter and a lot of the “stuff” I had rattling around in my heart stayed outside. All the apprehension, all my carefully crafted strategies and slick, well, prepared pitches and other “me-focused” stuff stayed outside.

I registered, checked in to my room, settled into the chair and opened my conference folder. Then, I read the theme scripture and cried for about half an hour. When I got up from that special moment at Jesus’ feet, my whole perspective on the conference and in my writing in general was different. I had no idea what was next for me, only that whatever it was, if I was going to continue writing I was either going to do it God’s way or not at all.

It was a wonderful conference last year. I left with new opportunities, new ways of thinking, and a totally new level of commitment to what I was doing as a Christian writer. And, to my surprise, that junk that refused to follow me through the gate wasn’t out there waiting for me when I drove back out to head home. I guess that without me feeding it, it died of malnutrition while I was inside.

It’s different for me this year. I knew what to expect, and I didn’t bother packing stuff that wouldn’t make it through the gate. There was a point last week when I wasn’t sure I was going to make it here, but it seems that God wants me here this week, and he made a way. Some day I’ll realize that He’s bigger than me and my problems.

So, here I am on Rocking Chair Ridge. My room’s probably ready now, but I’m in no hurry. I’ll just sit here and rock a while, and listen for the still, small voice in the breeze as it welcomes me back to Ridgecrest. It’s funny . . . the other day I was telling someone about Ridgecrest and they said, “You talk about the place in the same hushed, reverent voice that Catholics use when they talk about the Vatican.”

And they were right.

I’ve known Christopher for around five years now. Ours has been a wonderfully indefinable relationship; we bonded almost immediately, and even when separated by great distance he’s been close to my heart since the day we met at Parkway Place Baptist Church.

Christopher loved a good debate, and at times, we were nearly polar opposites on the issue of the moment. But, we had the sort of rare and delightful brotherhood where we could disagree in love without harming our friendship. We saw the world through the filter of our own life experience, and the paths that our lives took prior to our meeting were much different. Yet there was always a sense of unity in our diversity. We shared a common passion—the “wonderful grace of Jesus, greater than all our sin,” to quote the old hymn.

And now, my friend Christopher, the dearest and best friend I have, is gone. The hole in my heart is so great that it defies description, and if you know me, you understand how very significant it must be to render me speechless.

The mourning of my heart today is overwhelming. Tears come easily, but my tears are not shed for Christopher. They are shed for nine year old David, who has lost his grandfather, his male role model, and his best buddy all at the same time. They are shed for Margaret, who has lost her husband, and for Manju, Sekhar (aka Bobby), and Jen, who have lost a father. Any my tears today are, selfishly, for me, and for all the rest of us who have no choice but to go on living in this world without Christopher Kota.

But I will not weep for Christopher Kota. Today, as we are learning to cope without him, he is dancing and rejoicing before God’s throne, free from all of the limitations of his earthly body, celebrating the one who gave him life, who sustained that life for 66 years, and who brought him safely home to live eternally in the presence of his Lord. How could I begrudge him that wondrous joy?

Proverbs 10:7 says that “The memory of the righteous will be a blessing,” and Christopher’s memory will certainly be a blessing to me. Even from the grave, his passion for the things of God challenges me to grow deeper in my spiritual walk. I will warmly remember his smile and his hearty laugh. But the most precious memory will be the delight of his hugs and his greeting whenever we would see each other. He would wrap his big arms around me in a warm embrace and say, “Oh, my God!” to thank God for our friendship. I will live the rest of my life in anticipation of the day when I will once again feel Christopher’s loving embrace, and hear him speak those words over my shoulder, “Oh, my God.” But on that day, Christopher Kota will be looking over my shoulder and speaking his thanks directly toward God’s throne.

I will not say goodbye, Christopher—I’ll see you later.

 BTW, Christopher’s family has set up a website so that his family and friends both here in the US and in his native land of India can share their thoughts and remembrances. Check it out at http://www.christopherkota.com/ .

I don’t agree with or approve of Don Imus’ put-downs, either of the Rutgers team, or fat people, or any of his other targets. His radio show isn’t (make that wasn’t) on in my market, and if it were, I wouldn’t listen to it unless it was on one of my stations and I was working out a problem that required me to listen.  After thirty-five years in the radio business, I know that’s the most effective way to deal with offensive radio hosts–don’t listen.  When people don’t listen, radio programming changes. It’s one of the laws of the broadcasting universe.

Should Imus be fired? I don’t think so, at least not for this particular infraction. It was fairly mild compared to some of his shtick.

But, now that Imus has been fired for racially insensitive remarks, does this mean that other radio hosts who make racially insensitive remarks are on the chopping block? For example, the well-known, nationally syndicated black guys whose programs routinely contain insensitive racial slurs toward white folks? Probably not. It seems that we live in a land that openly supports racial double standards. It’s okay for a black radio host to make fun of white folks. If white hosts make fun of black folks, that’s different. If a white person complains about the racial slurs made against them, we’re told that our complaint is racially insensitive, and we are called racists. I speak from experience.

The other day I heard Harry Smith of the CBS Early Show interviewing a representative of the National Association of Black Journalists. He asked a fair question–the term “ho” is common in Hip-Hop culture, so how do we define who is permitted to say that and who is not? The NABJ representative non-answered the question–twice. Why? It was a legitimate question, and as a journalist the interviewee should have been prepared with an answer.  My question is even deeper:

Why do we even have a “National Association of Black Journalists” in the first place?

It is by definition a racially discriminatory organization. If someone formed a “National Association of White Journalists,” it would be branded as a racist organization before the ink was dry on their charter. Why is it that the “National Association of Black Journalists” isn’t considered a racist organization? It’s simple, really: it’s a racial double standard. Apparently, some people are allowed to be racists in America.

Jesus had simple, straightforward attitude about racial discrimination: He would not tolerate it in his disciples–period. Racism in any form is wrong. What Don Imus said was wrong. Treating any person in a different manner than someone else because of their race is wrong.

Racism in any form is wrong.

Period.

In any direction.