I can still remember when we met Lord, on a hot August day in 1982. I was a new college graduate with a head full of knowledge and a heart that wanted to serve You, Lord. And I was scared. Especially that.
I’d left my collegiate world and instead of pursuing marriage or an MBA, I was becoming a missionary. You know I’d always pictured a missionary as a little old lady dressed in black with her hair pulled back in a bun, living in a hut with snakes and rats in a far off land.
But Nancy was greeting me at the missions’ training center in a Chicago suburb with a quick smile and sparkling eyes that held intensity and humor and a deep, deep love for You, Lord, borne through suffering. I didn’t know all she’d suffered on that day. No, on that day, I felt relieved. Nancy was a petite beauty, happily married to Dave, the effervescent Englishman who had first persuaded me to pursue missions in France when I’d met him at the Urbana ’81 missions conference eight months earlier.
Over the course of our year in training, Dave and Nancy invited us into their home, and fed us yummy meals. We listened to French comedians on tape with their two teen boys and talked of God and France. They had served as missionaries in Lyon for eight years before returning to Chicago to be on the home staff of our mission.
I was scared of this new calling of missionary. I felt it in my soul, Lord. You’d intercepted my life at that missions conference and here I was. Scared.
And Nancy was there to care and listen and pray and also whisper with that sparkle in her eyes, “What about Paul?” when I’d talk of my desires for a husband. Back then, Paul was just my teammate, and we were two of seventy-something young people on a suburban campus, all passion for the Lord with hormones thrown in.
But Nancy knew.
Fast forward a few years and Paul and I were married and back in France, serving as career missionaries. Dave and Nancy had also moved back to France, living in a different city, with their role being to care for all the European missionaries.
And how they cared! Nancy became an older and wiser mentor. I cherished their visits to our home where Nancy and I would steal an hour or two away from my boys and talk about life and dreams and heartbreak and You, Lord. Always You. Intense and no-nonsense, Nancy always brought my wandering thoughts and fears back to trust in You, in Your Word, and in Your calling.
Throughout the 38 years of my friendship with Nancy, she’d often give me wise and simple advice. “Sometimes you have to take the risk of being misunderstood,” she’d said when she and Dave visited us in Montpellier. She sympathized with my hurting heart as a young mom in a foreign land, struggling with depression. Oh, she understood. She’d been there.
Over the years, as our friendship deepened, she confided in me some of the heartaches and sufferings that had grown her into this petite and godly girl, and how You, Lord, rescued her in so many ways. We cried and prayed together.
At missions conferences, I would soak up the hour or two with Nancy as she carved out time to meet individually with each of the women under her care. So many of us found a friend and mentor and example in Nancy.
And then, Dave and Nancy moved to England and then back to the US and suddenly, Paul and I were in a similar role of pastoral care providers for the missionaries in Europe. It was a role that seemed too big, and again I was scared.
But I was also prepared. You’d prepared me, Lord, through Nancy. I only had to remember all the times she had ‘been there’ for me, the way she would turn her attention solely on me and listen with one ear to me and the other attuned to You. That was my role now with the precious women under my care.
And Nancy prayed. Real, face on the floor prayers for us. I cherished those prayers and the letters and emails she sent, always filled with Scripture.
“Be assured that my prayers will be with you both. Elizabeth, you say that the job sounds like something beyond your ability. I can understand. That’s when the Lord takes over (Ex. 3:12a)…”
“Do give Paul my love, and hang in there, dear one! ‘The One Who is in you is greater than the One Who is in the world.’ (1John 4:4) And He will finish what He has begun. My prayers are with you. Thanks so much again for sharing. We’re in this race together!”
“I am thrilled, Elizabeth, to see how you persist in growing and moving on with what the Lord has for you. It takes determination and daily sacrifice for one to do this, but I am learning more and more that the Lord is right there behind us giving us that desire and then helping us make progress. ‘For God is working in you, giving you the desire to obey Him, and the power to do what pleases Him.’ Phil. 2:13 (NLT)”
“You two have been and are faithful servants who rejoice our hearts.”
“Keep up the good work, dear one. I was reading Psalm 92 this morning, and concerning v.12 where we read about the righteous flourishing like a palm tree, F.B. Meyer comments: “There is no part of the palm that is not utilized in some way.” (Bible Commentary, p. 258) I feel the Lord is doing this with you and Paul. He is using your past experiences and gained knowledge to build up and refresh His servants who need the help and encouragement.”
Nancy struggled with health issues. When she and Dave retired to Florida, she could no longer travel, but she continued mentoring women near and far, teaching Bible studies, and praying. She’d always been known as a woman of prayer. And I knew she continued to pray for us very faithfully.
When we spent a year back in the States in 2017-18, Paul and I made a road trip to Florida, with one of the goals to see Dave and Nancy. We wanted to see them face to face. And we had a wonderfully Spirit-filled visit with the couple who truly was responsible for getting us into missions in France and helping us stay for so long.
We ended our time together with a lovely meal at a French restaurant, slow, relaxed, remembering, laughing, sighing, Nancy and I with whispered sharing. Sweetness. Just what we wanted. A time alone with them to simply say ‘thanks.’
This past Sunday, I learned through Facebook of Nancy’s sudden death, complications from a fall and surgery. Such a shock! Now Nancy is rejoicing with You, the Lord she loved so well here on earth. But many are grieving. Nancy will be missed. She lived a long and beautiful life, reaching eighty years, always joyful beside her Dave.
It was my privilege to call Nancy a dear friend, and I’m sure she is up there in heaven, cheering me on, reminding me to keep running the race, eyes fixed on You, dear Lord, amidst all of life’s ups and downs. And I will.
Nancy has shown me the way.
ELIZABETH MUSSER writes ‘entertainment with a soul’ from her writing chalet—tool shed—outside Lyon, France. Find more about Elizabeth’s novels at www.elizabethmusser.com and on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and her blog. + +
A writer’s life is never a simple trajectory. We are often juggling multiple projects at the same time. For instance, yesterday I was on St. Simons Island doing research for a new novel at the World War II Home Front Museum.
Last week, I was vacationing with my family on Hilton Head Island and snapping photos of places I mention in my novel, The Dwelling Place, the sequel to The Swan House.
And always in the back and front of my mind is the excitement that is building as we get close to release day for my novel, The Promised Land. As you may have heard, it’s the third book in The Swan House Series, and I am thrilled to offer this story of pilgrimage and redemption to you, coming November 3rd.
That may seem like a strange day to launch a book, as we’ll be in the throes of the election, but I hope you’ll find The Promised Land a lovely escape from all the craziness. And in the coming days, I’ll be sharing a special offer for all those who pre-order The Promised Land.
But in preparation for this story, I want to be sure you’ve had a chance to read the other books in the series. To be clear, you certainly don’t have to have read The Swan House and The Dwelling Place first. This novel completely stands on its own. However, many of the beloved characters from those two novels have important roles to play in The Promised Land.
With that in mind, The Swan House was on sale during the month of July, and The Dwelling Place has been on sale during August and September.
Today and tomorrow (September 29-30) are the last days when The Dwelling Place is on sale not only as an e-book but also as a paperback. When you order the paperback from me, USING THIS LINK, and choosing the seller paulmusser, you will receive an autographed copy. And if you send me an email letting me know to whom you’d like it signed, I’ll do that too!
To add one more tangent to this writer’s story, in October, I’ll be putting The Long Highway Home on sale, both as an e-book and paperback. This novel isn’t officially part of The Swan House Series, but the mystic little girl, Rasa from The Long Highway Home is now a beautiful young woman who twirls her way into The Promised Land, following my protagonists, Abbie, Bobby, and Caro.
Thank you for following along the twisting road of this author’s life. I am ever so grateful for you!
I’ll leave you with a few photos from our vacation.
One of my favorite roles as a grandmother is telling ‘Ninnie (Quinn), Nonnie (NadjaLyn), Nesse (Jesse) stories’ at night to my grandkids. Now of course, Nena (Lena) gets to take part too. And last week’s stories had adventures at the beach and in the lagoons filled with alligators and blue crabs!
Blessings to you all and please grab a copy of The Dwelling Place!
ELIZABETH MUSSER writes ‘entertainment with a soul’ from her writing chalet—tool shed—outside Lyon, France. Find more about Elizabeth’s novels at www.elizabethmusser.com and on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and her blog. +
Since I’m on vacation, I asked my amazingly talented cousin, Elise Goldsmith, to contribute to today’s blog. I think you’ll agree that her words, written five years ago, are oh, so relevant and powerful today.
Only Son
The morning news is plague in Middle East.
“Take out the garbage,” I tell my son.
“Yes, father.”
“Did you do your lessons?”
“Yes, dad.”
Exit is backed up. We’re late.
By lunch plague creeps into Europe.
“Want to give blood for plague victims?” I ask.
“Sure, dad. Whatever you want.”
My son smiles at needle and nurse.
He shares his snack.
Night falls. Plague is everywhere.
“His blood is the cure,” the doctor claims.
Relief.
“We need all of it.”
My son or the world? Oblivious, the world rejoices.
All that remains is a cross marking my son’s sacrifice.
E.M. Goldsmith
The above story was a runner up in a flash fiction contest, stories 100 words or less, in November, 2015.
My human does not do headshots. Why are humans so violent? A headshot, really? However, I am far cuter than my human so it is better there be a picture of me. The human fusses at me for taking her Liverpool blanket. As if anything of hers is not also mine.
Yesterday was Labor Day, Lord, and for the first time in many, many years, I haven’t labored on Labor Day. For most of the past twenty years I’ve been in France on the first Monday in September, and there’s no holiday over there. But for the four times in the past twenty years when I’ve been in the US over Labor Day weekend, I’ve spent that weekend hard at work and loving it.
All because of The Decatur Book Festival.
The first time I attended what has become the largest independent book festival in America was back in 2008. Bethany House, my publisher, graciously reserved me an Exhibitors booth where I spent all of Saturday and Sunday of Labor Day weekend, tucked inside a tent with my novels, sharing with many, many people who stopped by the booth to browse, ask questions, or share that they knew of my novels. And many of those people bought a copy of one of my books. Hauling the books to the festival and being ‘on call’ for two days straight in the hot Georgia weather was a lot of work, but also a delight.
I had THE BEST TIME being surrounded by all of my Atlanta family as they went above and beyond to help me publicize my books at the festival.
And of course what a treat to meet so many of my readers! I even had a whole book club stop by to encourage me.
In 2010, I couldn’t wait to be back in Atlanta for another wonderful weekend at the Decatur Book Festival. This time, my nephews wore sandwich boards to publicize my books.
My sweet father even got in on the sandwich board fun as he and my mom strolled the streets of downtown Decatur along with about 10,000 other book enthusiasts!
And my brand-new daughter-in-law, Lacy, joined in with husband, Andrew, my parents, and two bridesmaids for the weekend’s adventures.
At the festival in 2012, I had the joy of having all three of the novels in The Secrets of the Cross trilogy for sale, including the third in the series, Two Destinies. I’d written the trilogy in 1996, 1997, and 1998, but Two Destinies remained unpublished until 2012.
The extra special blessing was to be able to celebrate the release of Two Destinies with my mother, as the novel was dedicated to her.
My last visit to the Decatur Book Festival was in 2016. It was a bittersweet festival because Mom had passed away quite unexpectedly only 5 months earlier. She had always been one of my biggest cheerleaders and loved attending my book events almost as much as I did. Although I was celebrating the release of The Long Highway Home, after a hiatus of several years with no new book contracts in the US, it felt strange not to have Mom there with us.
Still, Paul, son Chris, and many other family members, including grandson, Jesse, came out for the weekend fun and made Mom’s absence a little less painful.
I was so looking forward to being at the festival this year and getting to interact face-to-face with wonderful readers from across the city and country. The Decatur Book Festival has become a highlight for me as an author. So when the actual festival was cancelled because of Covid-19, I was disappointed.
A change of plans.
So many of our plans have been changed because of this pandemic.
Instead of working very hard for 48 hours at a fun festival, Paul and I had a different type of Labor Day. Our son Chris and his precious girlfriend Ashlee came up from Atlanta to spend the weekend with us in Flintstone, Georgia. We had a magical time hanging out together, hiking on Lookout Mountain, and enjoying a truly labor-less weekend of love.
How did you spend Labor Day weekend and did any of your plans have to be changed because of Covid?
ELIZABETH MUSSER writes ‘entertainment with a soul’ from her writing chalet—tool shed—outside Lyon, France. Find more about Elizabeth’s novels at www.elizabethmusser.com and on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and her blog. +
This past week has been filled with celebrations. First we flew to the USA and made it here without any major misdemeanors and many masks:
Then we got to meet our precious new granddaughter Lena!
Of course, there was much to celebrate at being reunited with the rest of our family, too.
And before quarantining with our ‘bubble’ here in the Chattanooga area, we did get to give masked, socially distanced greetings to my father and Ashlee and Chris.
Then yesterday, a group of 15 other Christian writers and I launched a brand new Facebook Page called Her Novel Collective. We are a group of 16 award-winning, best-selling authors from around the world who are passionate about the written word. We represent a variety of keep-you-up-reading genres and have lots of fun planned for this Facebook page, starting with the next two weeks! We’ll be posting daily videos where our authors will introduce themselves to you, offering you a chance each day to WIN BOOKS! Our authors are:
I hope you’ll join this group and take part in the fun and the many giveaways. Today, in fact, I’m doing a brief video chat with two of the other gifted authors, Melissa Ferguson and Lindsey Brackett, and if you comment on the video, you’ll be entered to win a copy of one of our novels.
Finally, yesterday Paul and I celebrated our 35th wedding anniversary. I cannot adequately express my gratitude and delight at this gift from God, my Paul.
I’ve had many big things to celebrate this past week in the midst of all the upheaval in our world. But my prayer is that you and I can find many other things to celebrate daily: the love of family and friends, the ability to speak kindness and calm to those with whom we communicate, the hope of the Gospel, the extravagant love of our God who is never taken by surprise.
Blessings on you all!
ELIZABETH MUSSER writes ‘entertainment with a soul’ from her writing chalet—tool shed—outside Lyon, France. Find more about Elizabeth’s novels at www.elizabethmusser.com and on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and her blog.
Lord, I’m reading in Job and Ezekiel right now, and honestly, it’s pretty dark. But in a way, this feels like where I need to be reading because the times in which we are living are very dark, too.
In Job, he’s endured the worst possible tragedies a human can endure. He’s lost everything. But not because of his sinfulness. Because of a bet made in heaven, or hell, between God and Satan.
In Ezekiel, the prophet keeps warning of more impending disaster because of the sins of Israel, as again and again and again they turn away from You, Lord. I read the words, and I wince because honestly, 2020 feels like it could have been plucked out of the prophet’s passages in the Old Testament. So much death, so much disaster.
This phrase in Ezekiel struck me this morning: “He (God) appointed beautiful ornaments for majesty, but they made their detestable images from them, their abhorrent things. Therefore, I have made these into something filthy to them…” (Ezekiel 7:20).
We’ve hoarded wealth, Lord, and we’ve mistreated the beautiful world You created, and then instead of praising You for it, we’ve made ‘detestable images’ out of beauty. We’ve sought comfort and ease above care and protection for the planet and those who indwell it. We’re so confused, Lord, because we’re double-minded.
I get that those who don’t know You would misuse all the beauty and bounty in this world, but it’s the Christians that break my heart when I see us misusing it. Sometimes it’s not caring about the world, the earth, sometimes it’s misusing Your Word, like when mega-church pastors say it’s better to obey God than man and then gather thousands in a church building without masks or social distancing.
But the church is not a building! When I read articles about this in the news, I get angry. I don’t understand such arrogance. How can we show love to one another and to those outside the church by putting thousands in danger of infection?
But after reading in Job and Ezekiel, I move to my daily reading in Acts, and there are Peter and John saying, “Whether it is right in the sight of God for us to listen to you rather than to God, you decide, for we are unable to stop speaking about what we have seen and heard.” Acts 4: 19-20
What is the answer, Jesus, in these dark times? We pray and try to listen and hear You.
And on my own tiny little personal level, my heart hurts at my hard heart. Because honestly, Lord, I care so much about myself. Sometimes it seems my heart is stone again—when I compare with others and grow jealous, when I just want to sit back in my backyard in the lounge chair and sip a glass of wine and breathe deeply after a day of hard work, when I judge other’s hypocrisy or fanaticism instead of humbly confessing my sin.
These are indeed dark times, and I do believe You are calling Your people to shine Your light. But if we all disagree about how to do that, oh, Lord, what is the witness?
I know there will always be a remnant, Lord. You promise this in Ezekiel and all the other prophets. Have mercy on us, Lord. And please, please, give me back my heart of flesh and ears to hear You so that I can do the next thing, step by little step, that You ask of me. May I echo Peter and John and keep speaking of Who You are and Your goodness and glory, no matter what.
For such a time as this.
Because even in these dark times, I spy a rainbow.
Dear readers, look again at the photo at the beginning of the post. Do you see it, too? Hope!
ELIZABETH MUSSER writes ‘entertainment with a soul’ from her writing chalet—tool shed—outside Lyon, France. Find more about Elizabeth’s novels at www.elizabethmusser.com and on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and her blog.
I asked Kim Platt, my dear friend, colleague with One Collective, and fellow Pastor to our Workers, to be my guest today. I know her words will be an encouragement to your soul.
3 Days
The 10th of August marks 3 years since my breast surgery. I’m still ‘coming to terms’ with it. I’ve been thinking a lot about having body parts removed—ectomy: hysterectomy, cholecystectomy, tonsillectomy, thyroidectomy. Maybe with the thyroid there is an indent where someone who knows can see that something is missing. But usually you can’t spot someone who has had their gall bladder out—their external shape is unchanged. You can’t spot that something’s gone and you can’t see the healing. And then there is the breast—not something on public display.
But why did I let them cut into my breast and alter the shape of my body? Altered but hidden, visible only to me, my husband and various doctors and technicians. Altered and now no longer matching its twin. I see it everyday. I examine it carefully every few days—has it changed at all? I add a small silicone ‘chicken filet’ to a pocket in my bra. The nerves still itch, but the scars are healed.
The answer to the why is cancer. The answer is submission to trained doctors. The answer is bowing to statistics that say surgery gives the best survival rates. The answer is better a chunk out of your breast than to lose the whole breast. The answer is a choice I made. And being able to make that choice was an answer to prayer.
I remember a woman asking me in the grocery store if I’d had a mastectomy. I said, ‘No’. But I wish I’d said, ‘That’s not really a question for a public place.’ But inside I was keeping my eyes fixed on hers, not wanting her to scan my body shape to see if she could tell what particular surgery I’d had. I’m pretty open with people, even those I hardly know, but I still want my shape to look pre-cancer. I love it when people say I look better than I did before the cancer. That somehow means the damage hasn’t been as bad as I think.
Just two days later was my birthday. Actually my 4th one since the diagnosis. A couple of weeks ago a friend ended an email with the phrase, ‘It’s good to have you in the land of the living.’ It really surprised me. Though I thought cancer (and the treatment) would kill me quick, I don’t find myself thinking everyday about still being alive. But birthdays are about life, even life in a body that’s been reshaped. And I’m happy to be here to celebrate another one. And I want to be happy about it, not just counting.
And the day in–between. You see because most days are in-between. Between processing what happened, ‘Did that really happen to me?’ And celebrating what is now possible—what I can go forward with. I’m going forward with my life, looking forward to more birthdays.
If I ignore what happened, try to shove it away in a box, like the wig under my dressing table, I deny the depth of the pain. I ignore the growth, turn away from the healed scars that are witnesses to trauma.
We live in-between the cross and the resurrection. I’m still trying to figure it out. My life with Jesus is so much richer when I remember the cross and his trauma on our behalf. And this life I’m living, looking forward to my own resurrection—new body, new home—I’m already reaping the rewards of Jesus’ resurrection.
So these three days—the anniversary of a surgery that literally reshaped my body, my 56th birthday, celebrating life, and the day in-between reminding me that we live between death and birth, trauma and healing, agony and hope. I’m really glad that this sequence for me put life after pain. My body is reshaped, it’s not the one I was born with and grew into. My life is also reshaped. You can’t always see it just by looking. I’m straining to live grateful in this life that’s been handed back to me. I’m processing so the scars represent healing and not bitterness.
I’m handing these days over to Jesus so that the in-between days aren’t me being stretched on the rack between living with a mangled breast and celebration days that aren’t very genuine because they ignore the pain of the journey. Jesus holds all these days and me. He says he is reshaping me—actually I was pretty mangled before the surgery—his vision of me is better than any I could wish for.
I don’t know what you’re living in–between. Are there markers, milestones that create the boundaries of your life? How do those boundaries impact the in-between days?
I keep coming back to these verses, maybe they seem extreme and dramatic. But if the extremes aren’t sorted then the in-betweens get messy.
For I fully expect and hope that I will never be ashamed, but that I will continue to be bold for Christ, as I have been in the past. And I trust that my life will bring honor to Christ, whether I live or die. For to me, living means living for Christ, and dying is even better. But if I live, I can do more fruitful work for Christ. So I really don’t know which is better. I’m torn between two desires: I long to go and be with Christ, which would be far better for me. But for your sakes, it is better that I continue to live. Philippians 1:20-24 NLT
So Jesus, take these 3 days—pain and celebration and whatever falls ‘in-between’—reshape me, for you see me like no one else. I’ll keep following you.
All my days are held in your hands.
Kim Platt
Kim works in member care with One Collective, lives in Wales and loves to watch tennis. You can follow her cancer journey on CaringBridge or contact her at kim.platt@onecollective.org
ELIZABETH MUSSER writes ‘entertainment with a soul’ from her writing chalet—tool shed—outside Lyon, France. Find more about Elizabeth’s novels at www.elizabethmusser.com and on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and her blog.
I penned this little essay years ago, but I find it oh, so true today, about my pool and my heart.
It seemed like a good idea at the time. It really did. A pool. Oh, not the real, down in the ground, big, expensive kind. Just a little above-the-ground pool. To help us cool off in the hot, hot summer.
We’d moved to a new house and I found the perfect spot in the yard for this pool. We yanked up and out an overgrown, ugly and prolific plant and cleared the place for the pool. Of course, I didn’t want just any pool, small though it might be. I wanted a pool that could stay up year round and look nice—the small kind with the wooden frame.
Paul said okay. My dear husband usually says okay. Sometimes he lives to regret this.
But a pool is not as simple a thing to install as one might believe when you look at the glossy magazines with the shiny pictures of beautiful blue water inside sturdy and attractive aquatic structures. First of all, you have to lay a foundation—a cement block—to put the pool on. This involves no small amount of calculations, mixing cement in the borrowed cement-mixer, pouring the stuff, leveling it off, etc. etc with enough complications to make even the absolutely kindest man in the world (my husband) want to cuss.
Okay, the foundation is laid. Next step—get the darn thing up. Not a small task. But with a husband and two able-bodied teen boys, it happened. Ah! After weeks of work (I thought the kit said it would take a day), there it was—our wooden-sided, hexagonal above-the-ground, clear-watered pool! Delightful!
And I thought the hard part was over (notice that up until this point, most of my help had come annoyingly from the sidelines).
Boy, was I wrong. You see, a pool requires lots of upkeep. There are all kinds of complicated things you must do to a pool. You have to calculate the Ph, you have to fill it with products to keep the water pure, you have to buy a vacuum to clean the bottom of the pool of leaves and dirt, you have to make sure the motor runs properly. When you look at the manual—which goes on for pages and pages—it seems the rest of your life will be spent in the upkeep of this pool.
But finally all the preliminary steps have been taken and ah, you jump in the freezing water and enjoy!
For us, this joy lasted all of about two weeks. That’s when we noticed that the stuff on the bottom of the pool was not coming up very easily and the vacuum seemed impuissant. The pump did not seem to be working correctly. Soon the pool was downright dirty. And then, horror of horrors, it turned green. A very ugly, algae-covered green. And even though that thick manual said that all you had to do was restore the Ph balance and throw in a bunch of liquid—what the manual called a ‘shock treatment’—this did NOT work. The pool remained a lovely green despite our best efforts. Ever-patient-Paul was truly losing his cool, especially since HE was the one who was supposed to have divine knowledge of how to keep the pool clean.
Finally we did what any sensible pool owner would do. We emptied the whole tub of its rotting water. We had no choice. Little by little we watered our lawn with the algae-infested liquid. The lawn seemed to like it. At last, after two days, the pool was empty. So we started filling it back up. Of course, all of this occurred during the hottest part of the summer and instead of bathing in the pool, we were scrubbing green scum off the sides of an empty container at five a.m.
We filled it again—at no small cost to our budget—and for a while, we truly enjoyed the pool. But a while was a very short time—like a week… We finally decided that the pump was faulty and we needed to send it back—under guarantee, of course. However, we’d have to wait at least 3 weeks to get the replacement pump. Delightful—should we simply give up and not use the pool for three weeks?
And so the saga continued and gave us many a chance to grit our teeth or cry or cuss. And the wooden siding did not weather well. Nothing about the pool was as easy as it seemed.
As I gaze out this morning, two years later, at the once-again green pool—despite a new pump and all the right products put in at precisely the right time, I have only one recourse besides tears and curse words: a simple analogy.
This pool is so much like the human soul. Ah, a spiritual analogy at that!
We humans generally want to look good on the outside, so we try to choose the right covering for our bodies—in-fashion clothes, nice hair-style—equivalent to the wooden frame of our pool. We don’t ask to be glamorous, not that big fancy pool. Just in style.
But the outside doesn’t really cover up the inside and without faith, the wooden siding is empty. Sometimes we try to construct our lives with an attractive outside without ever putting down a firm foundation. This is disastrous. The structure is uneven and sags. When we find faith, at last!—what joy. But pouring the right foundation takes wisdom. If not built on Jesus, it will not stand. So we take the plunge, the first step, we believe and the foundation is laid.
The Lord fills our ‘pool’ with His sweet Spirit and at first, it all seems so absolutely refreshing and pure and clean and delightful! Our soul is clean! We are forgiven! Life will never be the same!
Not far along in the Christian life, we realize that this ‘pool’ is going to take some upkeep. Otherwise, the pure waters will get dirty quickly—dirty with little sins. So we learn the formula—attend church once a week and stay clean. It seems simple enough—only it doesn’t work. Even with the good input of products of preaching and prayer, the human pool gets dirty if left alone during the week.
So we add an essential step—reading the Owners Manual. Ah yes! Reading the book and then praying—it’s like letting the vacuum tube clean out the residue on the bottom of the pool. This formula works pretty well for a while.
But one day, horror of horrors, we awake to algae in the bottom of the pool. Green stuff. Accumulated sin. We’d been going through the steps, trying to be sincere, but as we go to the Owner, and humbly ask advice, we see several problems.
First, we only skimmed over the manual. When it got too complicated—talking about Ph control with logarithms—gasp, I studied that 30 years ago—well, we tend to skip over it a bit and just do what has always worked. And the algae starts growing. God wants a pure pool and sometimes, if we are to mature in our spiritual life, He allows the scum to come in so we’ll turn to Him for a solution.
Sometimes the pump just isn’t working—the filter has to be cleaned with confession, with reconciliation, with tears and abandonment. Sometimes the hose from the vacuum to the pump is clogged. Often as I am trying to vacuum our pool, I realize the hose has simply come detached from the source. No wonder that pesky leaf won’t come off the bottom. In my life in Christ, I can easily detach myself from the Source and just float around on my own, trying to rid my pool of sin through my own feeble efforts.
This is useless. In pool terminology, it just stirs up the water and the green stuff on the bottom infests the whole pool and it is murky and dark and unpleasant. Sometimes it even smells bad. So we have to clean the filter, get the hose attached to the vacuum, make sure the pump is working at the right speed. At times, it can seem exhausting, controlling this spiritual life. At times, all our best efforts of reading the manual thoroughly and cleaning and products—following the instructions carefully with prayer and praise and reading—it still just isn’t getting us anywhere.
This happened in my pool-life this week. So I did what any desperate woman would do. I complained to my friends—two who had similar small pools. “Am I just stupid? Does everybody else’s pool always stay clean?” In desperation, I admitted my complete lack of ability to keep the pool clean. And oh, the truth! Misery loves company and company I got! They too had had awful experiences with their above-the-ground pools! This was actually comforting. After complaining awhile, they shared advice and I found some new ideas to try. I felt less like a failure. I was encouraged.
Our souls need the encouragement of fellow Christians. Sometimes when we are stuck in our Christian lives, the best place to go is humbly before another ‘pool’ owner and beg for advice. Prayer and laughter and tears and encouragement work wonders in the upkeep of the ‘pool’ soul.
But sometimes, no matter what we do, it’s still green. So we try the shock treatment. We put our whole body and soul into begging the Lord to do something in this mess of our life. We fall on our faces before Him and cry, admitting we can’t and begging him to intervene.
Oh, how I wish that living for Jesus was as simple as a formula that always works. Or do I? When I look back on all that has been good and profound and worthwhile in my life, the most refreshing times have come after the pouring out of myself, after the humbling and the tears. After the total emptying of my pool. Every once in a while, this is the only solution that works. And then He fills us anew with the fresh pure water of His Spirit and we begin again.
I’ve learned a lot from my physical pool. Daily maintenance—vacuuming the dirt, cleaning out the filter—weekly treatments, and sometimes drastic measures—calling for an in depth reading of the manual and perhaps a total emptying of the water.
It is time-consuming to be filled with God’s Spirit. Hard work, but oh, the benefits when we, at last, enjoy the cool refreshment of His grace.
Where do you need a little shock treatment today?
ELIZABETH MUSSER writes ‘entertainment with a soul’ from her writing chalet—tool shed—outside Lyon, France. Find more about Elizabeth’s novels at www.elizabethmusser.com and on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and her blog. +
Oh, Lord, it’s so often the little things that trip me up.
During the past month, I’ve been doing a Virtual Camino—a wonderful program that InterVarsity has set up for faculty and staff at universities during this strange and difficult summer of 2020. When I heard that this virtual experience was also open to others, I signed up since my new novel, The Promised Land, is all about pilgrimage on the Camino.
Each week, I take a walk in the hilly countryside around our village, accompanied by a wonderful audio guide that leads me through different spiritual disciplines, scripture readings, and commentary.
I’ve loved these weekly walks. The first walk’s theme was Simplicity, the second, Presence, the third, Hospitality and Gratitude.
So it was with joy and anticipation that I headed out for my fourth Camino Walk, with the theme of Perseverance.
Five minutes into the audio guide I was obediently sitting on a bench, as instructed, and using all my senses to pay attention to my surroundings. But this lovely spiritual exercise was ruined by the annoyance of my audio guide suddenly not working. I couldn’t get it to start again at the right place and my phone kept randomly starting Spotify instead and playing a song and then my ‘Siri’ thing kept coming on for no reason at all.
It was super frustrating.
And it just kept getting worse, the audio guide starting and randomly stopping even as little blips about ‘perseverance’ came across my ears!
Oh, Lord, it was strange and strangely ironic. As I was doing this Camino walk, which was supposed to be a longer walk to stretch me, what stretched me was my response to the little annoyances of life.
And that mean old voice from my childhood that the enemy still shouts at me in times of weakness kept reverberating in my ears, saying, “Stupid girl! No common sense! You can’t even figure out how to use your phone!”
It had been a hard week with bad news of Covid deaths and other elderly people struggling, especial our dear Mamaw, Paul’s mom, suffering from a fall and then congestive heart failure. The news kept getting worse.
And many of our workers were struggling.
And also I was waiting, waiting, waiting to hear about an important decision for my writing career.
Then I headed out on the walk and my phone kept screwing up, and what was supposed to be a deeply spiritual experience where I heard Your voice, Lord, became extremely upsetting where all I could hear was that voice repeating again and again, “Stupid, stupid girl! No common sense!”
Finally I just stopped trying to fix the **** phone and burst into tears. (This is always a good choice!)
I’d walked up past the statue of Mary with its breath-taking views and continued to the end of the road. It was a beautiful blue-sky day with fields of wheat and sorghum all around me, and I was alone with You, Lord. Crying.
Then as I turned the corner and headed downhill, I literally heard You say in my spirit, “Lizzie, you persevere well in the big things, but the little things trip you up. But it’s not because of you being stupid or lacking. It’s just life. Remember, dear one, to let Me into every little frustrating space.”
I’d had the same thought, earlier in the walk as I thought about perseverance. I can often handle the big things in life—death of a loved one, tragic loss, chronic pain, bad news about my career, others’ tragedies—because I go in deep with You, Lord. I run quickly to You because I know You’re faithful and that You have faithfully carried me through so many difficulties. I hide in the shadow of Your wings during life’s hardest moments.
But it’s the little things in life that overwhelm me and catch me off guard so that I’m not paying attention. And my amygdala kicks in, and I respond unkindly to myself.
And it’s all about persevering in the little things, too, isn’t it, dear Lord? That’s where we’re made holy, day in and day out. The little disappointments, the little interruptions to our schedules.
Covid has interrupted everyone’s schedule, and how we need our focus to keep steady on You. Because actually it’s interrupted everyone’s schedule except Yours, Lord. You aren’t shocked or surprised, and You will redeem it.
I love these lyrics from Selah’s song Unredeemed:
It may be unfulfilled
It may be unrestored
But when anything that’s shattered is laid before the Lord
Just watch and see
It will not be unredeemed
That is the story of my life and all of our lives in Christ. Yes, we’ve been shattered by disease and death and loss and grief and by daily struggles and annoyances that chip away at our faith, but You will redeem it.
My Camino walk ended with the audio suddenly working again as I picked wild blackberries from a bush on my way home, praising You, Lord, because You are the One who gives us the strength, grace, forgiveness, and love we need to persevere.
Where do you need to persevere today?
ELIZABETH MUSSER writes ‘entertainment with a soul’ from her writing chalet—tool shed—outside Lyon, France. Find more about Elizabeth’s novels at www.elizabethmusser.com and on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and her blog.
Lord, my heart is heavy today as I grieve the death of a remarkable woman, Sallie. She was as unique as the spelling of her first name, a Southern belle with lots of grit and a wild and passionate love for life and Jesus.
I met her when Paul was in seminary in South Carolina. We attended the same church, and I admired her from afar as she led many women’s Bible studies.
But it wasn’t until we left for the mission field that I really got to know Sallie, and she became a mentor, a cheerleader, and a friend. Twenty years my senior, I gulped down her wisdom and candor whenever we came back to the States on furlough.
We’d visit our home church and Sallie and her husband, Bill, would inevitably have us out to dinner or a day on the lake. They were on the missions committee and were fierce advocates for those of us serving overseas.
I was a young, exhausted, and often discouraged wife and mother. Our first years in France were fraught with a seemingly impenetrable darkness in spite of the world’s perception of la belle France. A heavy spiritual apathy hung over the country, so much so that when we left France, whether crossing a border in Europe or an ocean, I felt the heaviness lift.
That’s where Sallie would find me, licking my wounds, wondering at the effectiveness of our ministry. And she’d welcome me into her beautiful home, serve us a delicious meal on fine china, and then listen as I spilled out my soul.
I was safe with Sallie. I knew she wouldn’t offer a platitude or chastise me for my lack of faith.
Instead, she’d wrap me in her arms and pray for me, calling on the strong name of Jesus to meet my needs.
We talked of our children, of my struggle with depression and chronic pain, of church woes in South Carolina and France, of the beautiful and fractured body of Christ around the world. And always, always, Sallie pointed me back to Jesus, encouraging me with her spoken words over dinner or a cup of tea or in prayer.
And she wrote me letters, the real kind with her large and loopy penmanship that rushed across the page, so filled up with Christ that she could not fit it all on the stationery, so that the cursive became smaller and smaller at the bottom of the page until she signed it simply “Me”.
About a decade ago, Sallie was diagnosed with cancer. She fought bravely, always filled with hope and faith and a seemingly unstoppable energy. She radiated joy and fun and faith. She radiated Jesus to every person who crossed her path, from her beloved husband, sons, daughters-in-law and grand-children and church family to a stranger she met on the street.
Sallie modeled an effervescent faith that was contagious.
Often she’d give me a book that had meant a lot to her in her spiritual pilgrimage. The last one is inscribed with these words in Sallie’s unmistakable pen: “This one ministered greatly—wanted to share it with you.” Then Sallie wrote a quote from the book “…that whether rich or poor, sick or sound, we might be transformed by Him and become an echo of Christ’s excellence in the world.”*
She indeed was an echo of his excellence.
We tried to see Sallie and Bill on our last two trips to South Carolina, but each time one of them was sick. And Sallie’s cancer was progressing.
I had a long and lovely phone conversation with Sallie in February, before we were heading back to France. I spoke of how the Lord had used her love and influence and faith to help keep me in ministry in France and beyond. She sounded weaker, but no less faith-filled.
In June we learned that she was hospitalized with Covid. We prayed with thousands of others for Sallie. I left her a voice message on her phone expressing my love and our prayers.
Last week Sallie left her earthly tent and entered into Jesus’s presence. What a time of rejoicing for Sallie as she met her Savior face to face. But here on earth, we grieve.
On Sunday we watched the livestream of her funeral, with masked family members and a few close friends present. The rest of us joined via internet from all around the world.
I laughed and cried as photo after photo proclaimed the joy of Sallie—as a baby, as a young mom, with her dear Bill, with her boys, with the grandchildren, with her close friends. There was even a photo of Sallie hugging me in her wonderful, Sallie way.
I was blessed to know and love Sallie. As I remember her life, I praise God for putting her on my path to encourage me along. Now it’s my turn to be that older sister in Christ to other pilgrims who are weary and wondering about where they fit into this crazy, beautiful body of Christ.
May we reach down in our souls until the love of Christ spills out to those God puts in our path, like Sallie’s did for me.
ELIZABETH MUSSER writes ‘entertainment with a soul’ from her writing chalet—tool shed—outside Lyon, France. Find more about Elizabeth’s novels at www.elizabethmusser.com and on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and her blog.
*from Seeing and Savoring Jesus Christ by John Piper
I’m in Ecclesiastes now, Lord, and today, in Chapter 3, as I read those beloved verses about time, so familiar, I think what a strange time we are living in now. We say it often. “These are strange and confusing times.” And it’s true. But whatever they are, this is the time we have, this present moment.
As I read through the familiar list of contrasts, I get to ‘A time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing’, and I think, “Lord, You inspired Solomon to predict our lives right now with Covid-19 and social distancing. These give and takes are as old as time itself.”
A little further on, I read ‘A time to speak, and a time to listen.’ Right now, everyone has an opinion. Sometimes it seems like everyone is talking at once so that we can’t really hear anyone.
So today, Lord, I just want to listen again. To You. And observe what You are doing in this present time. With that in mind, I offer no more words. Just a few photos of my slice of paradise where nature is proudly proclaiming again and again, “Life wins, even in such a time as this!”
Lord, I know what comes next in those verses. So may I trust You today to care for all my needs, even in such a time as this.
This is my prayer for you today, too!
ELIZABETH MUSSER writes ‘entertainment with a soul’ from her writing chalet—tool shed—outside Lyon, France. Find more about Elizabeth’s novels at www.elizabethmusser.com and on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and her blog.
Twenty years ago I penned a novel that I thought would get me in trouble. Instead it has brought me a tiny slice of fame. Here’s how it happened:
I’d finished writing a trilogy about France and Algeria and knew my next novel needed to be about my hometown of Atlanta. I’d heard the adage, “Write what you know about.” Well, I’d pretty much exhausted my knowledge of France and certainly of Algeria, so I turned homeward.
But it’s hard to write about your hometown. The first novels were fun to write, but The Swan House was downright hard because The Swan House is about me. I had to look back and consider the things that had shaped me.
My inspiration for the beginning of the novel came from a little-known fact in history, but one that was vastly personal to many Atlantans: the Orly plane crash in June of 1962 which claimed the lives of over 100 prominent Atlantans.
But there were many other experiences that influenced me: my years attending a private school, 2nd through 12th grades; the summer missions’ trips I took with my church youth group from 8th through 12th grades; watching my mother bring busloads of inner city children to skate at the gym at our Buckhead church; serving up spaghetti meals to the needy in the basement of a church in the Grant Park neighborhood, alongside Louise Adamson, a home missionary with the Baptist Convention who worked in the inner city of Atlanta; the African American woman who worked for my family during my growing up years. I loved Mary. She was like one of our family, and yet, did I really know anything about her life outside of our house?
I also found inspiration in my family history. I had a great uncle on my mom’s side whose first name was Swan as well as a few cousins. And my little brother, Glenn, would have been Mary Swan were he a girl. So I had the name of my main character. And I wanted to tie it in with a beautiful Italian mansion that was “just down the street” a bit from my house, the real Swan House.
But mostly The Swan House is about a wealthy young girl, who is confronted with tragedy and is asking lots of questions about life. I realize now that God was preparing me for my future work of missionary and writer during my teenage years. Much of my high school and college questions revolved around how to reconcile my wealthy upbringing with my deep faith. How would Jesus act? Although I had no idea I’d be writing a book about this at the time, the ideas that sparked The Swan House actually were birthed way back when Mary rocked me in her lap and when Mom and I serve up spaghetti meals beside Louise while I listened, enthralled, as Louise talked about what her days were like.
The Swan House is about contrasts and there were lots of contrasts in my life. After my Freshman year at Vanderbilt University, I worked as a waitress at the Swan Coach House by day and partied as an Atlanta Debutante by night. After my Sophomore year, I did an internship in the inner city of Atlanta at Stewart Baptist Center.
So my first taste of cross-cultural experience came long before I crossed the ocean. It came when I crossed Atlanta. Right after my internship, I went to Aix-en Provence, France to study for a semester. Wow, that was another eye-opener, another huge cultural change.
The questions I asked myself as a teenager are still questions I need to ask today. How does wealth fit in with my faith and what Jesus taught? What about wealth and poverty? What should I do with my education and privilege?
Where am I prejudiced? Is it race, religion, or just in grown patterns of prejudice that I don’t even recognize. And when I do, what am I going to do about it—not pointing the finger, but getting the log out of my own eye. These questions affect me in France as well as in Atlanta, Georgia.
All these life experiences contributed to my writing The Swan House. But I thought that when I told the truth about prejudice and racism, my white-privileged neighborhood would hate me for it.
Instead, they blessed me.
I’ll never forget the woman who came up to me with tears in her eyes at a bookstore signing. She held in her hands a Polaroid photo of her African American maid. She whispered through tears, “You understand. I loved her. She was my family.”
Novels can tell the truth. When I showed the truth of racism and prejudice, of white privilege (long before I’d ever heard that term), people listened and embraced the story.
And they still do.
Jesus told stories that spoke simple truths that changed people’s hearts. My prayer in these difficult times is that we will once again be moved by the truth, admit our prejudice, and ask the Lord to change us, to change me, before I worry too much about changing anybody else.
Moved and heart-broken by the events going on in the US, I asked my publisher to put The Swan House on sale for the month of July. I hope you’ll enjoy reading or revisiting this story which seems so appropriate ‘for such a time as this’.
And if you sign up for my reader Newsletter, coming out later this month, you’ll get to hear how characters in my new novel, The Promised Land, were first introduced in The Swan House, and then in The Dwelling Place. You’ll also get to read previously unpublished chapters that take place between The Swan House and The Dwelling Place, starting on the night that Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated.
From my Bible reading this morning:
“Therefore if you have any encouragement from being united with Christ, if any comfort from his love, if any common sharing in the Spirit, if any tenderness and compassion, 2 then make my joy complete by being like-minded, having the same love, being one in spirit and of one mind. 3 Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves, 4 not looking to your own interests but each of you to the interests of the others.” Philippians 2:1-4
May it be so, dear Lord. May it be so.
ELIZABETH MUSSER writes ‘entertainment with a soul’ from her writing chalet—tool shed—outside Lyon, France. Find more about Elizabeth’s novels at www.elizabethmusser.com and on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and her blog.
Elizabeth Musser 