I awoke this morning to headlines saying the “highlight” of the opening ceremony for the Olympic Games in Rio was the long walk of a Brazilian supermodel on the stage. Seriously!? I don’t think the millions of viewers would agree, including that model. Instead, I think a major highlight was when ten athletes—all refugees without a country—walked into the arena together to a standing ovation. Or when Vanderlei de Lima was chosen as the one to light the Olympic cauldron to ignite the first Games in South America because he was robbed of a gold medal when a crazed fan attacked him during the race back in 2004 in Athens. But what struck me the most—in the midst of all the unrest and fear across our globe—was the joyful, unified, peaceful celebration among hundreds of nations represented by the elite athletes in that arena. I loved that Portuguese-speaking athletes from Angola were there, and a handful from the country with the whimsical name of Djibouti were there. The team from Bermuda, all in Bermuda shorts, made me smile. And the towering basketball players from America made me proud. The crescendo for me was watching the video of Kip Keino, 72, a former Olympian from Kenya who won two gold medals and is now training young athletes to run in his footsteps. That video showed children gleefully running with their hero through African fields while flying white kites shaped like doves. And then that same hero was live in the Olympic arena, running with Brazilian children with those same white kites trailing behind them (link). (Image Credit: Lars Baron/Getty Images) Even in the midst of an underlying fear that terrorists might target the arena, or the unrest outside those doors as hungry Brazilians protested such extravagant costs for the ceremony, I think I still saw a hint of heaven. The beautiful tapestry of faces from so many nations in joyful celebration together reminded me that one day we’ll be in a similar crowd, with all eyes on Him, worshiping Him together. Yes, I know it’s only the Olympics, and likening that scene to heaven is a stretch. But I found it somewhat ironic that the last camera shot that night was up by the famous statue, overlooking that city of millions covered in dazzling lights. (Fun side note: As I watched the sea of Brazilian nationals smiling in their colorful costumes and heard samba music and…

The pastor and his young family spoke in hushed tones while we met in their small apartment in Bucharest, Romania on a cold winter’s night. They knew that the Communist government placed their apartment under surveillance, and openly discussing the translation of our curriculum could lead to arrest and imprisonment. I was just twenty-three years old, fresh out of college, and part of a mission to write and translate seminary-level curriculum for pastors in Eastern Europe. The year was 1983, when Nicolae Ceaușescu—who was likened to Stalin—ruled Romania, then a Soviet-bloc country. His Communist regime was one of the most brutal and repressive, especially toward Christians. As a result, any type of seminary-level training was forbidden except for one government-controlled seminary where only five students were allowed to enroll every two years. Our publishing office was based in Vienna, where we wrote theology and Bible curriculum to train pastors in Eastern Europe. I was asked to go into Romania to teach Christians how to use our floppy disks (remember, it was 1983) to access the files for translating our curriculum. I’ll never forget crossing the border with those disks hidden in my luggage. I tried to act like a nonchalant tourist as the guard looked through my bags. Thankfully, the disks weren’t discovered, and I made it through customs. The next morning we had prearranged that I would go to a neighborhood park and wait on a park bench. A man was going to come up to me with a newspaper under his arm, briefly greet me, and then I was to follow him to his car. True story. As a mother now of twentysomething daughters, I can’t believe it either! That man was the pastor who would later invite me to his family’s home for dinner. He had sacrificed so much to make God and His Word known in Romania. He had given up his medical practice to pastor at least five small underground churches. He had been arrested and beaten many times before I met him. And yet he was risking further persecution just to get our curriculum into the hearts and minds of other pastors and leaders. Decades later, the impact of my visit stays with me. How do you ever forget young families willing to risk beatings, imprisonment, and even death to disciple others? How do you take for granted the freedom to gather openly to worship…

There was a time—not so long ago—when the only way I could fall asleep at night was with worship music playing in my ears. I would try to keep my thoughts captive to the truths of the lyrics instead of being overwhelmed by the storms raging in my life. One night, right before bed, I said aloud to my husband, but really more to God, “This wasn’t supposed to be my story!” I felt that I had been faithfully following and serving God for decades, and I didn’t think it was fair that He seemed to be cueing one storm after another, storms that threatened to pull me under in despair. Right after saying “this wasn’t supposed to be my story,” out came the headphones so I could try to fall asleep by listening to a new worship album. I soon heard these lyrics being sung over me . . . Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine! Oh, what a foretaste of glory divine! Heir of salvation, purchase of God, Born of His Spirit, washed in His blood. This is my story, this is my song, Praising my Savior all the day long; This is my story, this is my song, Praising my Savior all the day long. Perfect submission, perfect delight, Visions of rapture now burst on my sight; Angels, descending, bring from above Echoes of mercy, sweet whispers of love. This is my story, this is my song . . . As those beautiful promises washed over me, I started singing the song out loud, tears streaming down my face. I looked over at my sweet husband and tears were in his eyes, too, as he held me close. Just after crying out to God, “This wasn’t supposed to be my story,” He was saying to my heart, “Judy, your true story is that you are an heir of My salvation. You were purchased and washed by My blood. You are born of My Spirit. THIS is your story, this is your song! Even though storms are raging right now, all is at rest . . . because of Me!” “Blessed Assurance” was written in 1873 by one of my heroes, Fanny Crosby (1820–1915). Fanny was blinded in infancy by a botched medical procedure, later married, and had only one child, who died in her sleep soon after birth. Fanny could have easily cried out to God, “This wasn’t supposed…

Tucked away in Psalm 18:16 are these words: He reached down from on high and took hold of me; he drew me out of deep waters. Almost every time I read those words I tear up. That is exactly what God did for me in the midst of some severe storms in my life that threatened to overtake me a few years ago. Our extended family was facing some serious health issues, I was reeling from the betrayal of a loved one, and my faith was shaken. But my all-powerful, holy, magnificent God cared enough about me to reach down, take hold of me, and draw me out of the deep waters. When I first discovered this verse, I pictured my water-walking God reaching down with powerful arms and hands and pulling me out of a raging sea. Oh, seaweed was still wrapped around my feet; the storm was still raging; I was gasping for air, but He had come for me. He took hold of me, and His Presence began to calm the storm in my heart and mind. I think that’s what the disciples saw, too, when Jesus pushed through the stormy seas to walk on water to get to them. I don’t think He looked like the flannel-graph Jesus of my 60’s Sunday school class, the one that appeared in every scene. Whether He was confronting Pharisees for their legalism, healing the sick, weeping at a friend’s grave, or walking on water, flannel-graph Jesus always had the same smiling face, white robe without spot or wrinkle, and hands folded serenely. That is not the Jesus of the New Testament or the God that I’ve come to know. It’s more likely that Jesus—lightning flashing around Him, waves and wind swirling about Him—marched on with a face of relentless determination, charging through the storm to get to His disciples. I am so grateful that God continues to tread the stormy waves of our own lives to rescue us with His calming presence, even when the storms keep raging. That’s the message of the song “Praise You in the Storm” by Casting Crowns. In this link of the song the lead singer introduces the song with these words:  “Sometimes God calms the storms in our lives and sometimes He just rides them with us, but either way, blessed be the name of the Lord.” The lion image was painted by my friend Rita: My Stormy God, 48×48″ Acrylic…