An incredibly encouraging sign appeared in my kitchen this morning. It was something I haven’t seen in a while, a phenomenon that spoke to me loud and clear about God’s grace and His passion for “healing the broken hearted and bandaging their wounds.” (Psalm 147:2)

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

Well so what, Dan? 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.

I’ve just returned from a pre-screening of the new film Evan Almighty. I’ve been curious about this one, ever since I saw an ad for it on the back cover of a major Christian magazine. And banner ads on several Christian websites. And trailers on several Christian TV programs. Do I detect a pattern here? Could it be that someone thinks there’s money in the Christian marketplace? That the Christian market is worth the effort?

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.

D.

Back in 1990 or so, I lost the right to call myself “unpublished” (and disqualified myself from a remarkable number of writing contests) by selling the first article I ever wrote to Christian Single for a whopping $64. My pastor, and his drawer full of rejection letters, never forgave me. If I had realized that they paid by the word, I’d have written it longer. And if I had, they would have edited it and I’d have gotten $64.50 instead.

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.

D.

I’m writing this from a splendid, weathered rocking chair in a place known affectionately as “Rocking Chair Ridge.” It’s a wonderful little strip of elevated concrete that spans the gulf between two buildings at the Ridgecrest Conference Center, nestled in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina. I’m here for the Blue Ridge Mountains Christian Writers Conference that starts late this afternoon, and believe it or not (and I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t ) I’m early. I arrived a little past noon, and after dodging the busses, vans, and cars of departing youth groups and Salvation Army women, I found a parking space and got myself checked in. I didn’t even have to wait in line–there wasn’t another soul on my side of the check-in desk.

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.

D.

It’s a sad day for me, a day of mixed emotions and inner conflict. Today, the remains of one of my dearest friends in the world, Christopher Kota, will be laid to rest here in central Arkansas. I miss my friend, and that in itself is enough reason for sadness. My inner conflict stems from the fact that, as my family, friends, and church are celebrating Christopher’s life, I will be somewhere between Cincinatti and Ashville, North Carolina, my bountiful frame crammed into a far too small airplane seat, and my grieving heart still in Little Rock. I’ll be on my way to the Blue Ridge Mountains Christian Writers’ Conference in Ridgecrest, North Carolina. The trip has been planned for nearly a year now, and it’s where I need to be . . . but still, I wish I could be with those who will be celebrating Christopher Kota’s life. His is a life worth celebrating.

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.

D.

 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 have to admit that I’m not a speed-reader like my wife Sharon. It’s downright scary how fast she can zip through a book. Me, I read just like I write–the way I speak. I can read faster if I have to, but it’s like recording a dramatic reading and playing it back at high speed. The words are there, but it loses something. SO, when I read a book, particularly with the schedule I’ve been keeping lately, it can be a long-term commitment.

Then along came a copy of Lightning and Laceby DiAnn Mills.

I started to read this book just like I’ve read many books before. A chapter over lunch. A chapter when I’m too tired to write but too wound up to sleep. Then yesterday at lunch, something almost magical happened. I had been reading for almost an hour when I realized that they had never brought my sandwich. In fact, I think there was a shift change somewhere around chapter ten. After a polite but firm inquiry they made me another Thai Chicken Wrap and delivered it apologetically. I hope that whoever ate the first one enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed the chapters I had for an appetizer.

When I got home from work, I headed straight for my favorite chair with book in hand, pausing only long enough to answer the door and eat. I’m not sure what was on TV last night. It was on, and Sharon watched something, but I wasn’t there. I was in Kahlerville, Texas, wishing I could reach out and choke the daylights out of Lester Hillman . . . in Christian love, of course. I went to bed sometime after midnight, and then only because I could no longer keep my tired eyes open.

One of the things I’ve had hammered into my head as a fiction writer is the importance of “hooking” your reader, drawing them into the story so thoroughly that they can’t stop flipping pages and can’t wait to see what happens next. DiAnn Mills knows how to do it. I just finished reading Lightning and Lace a few minutes before starting to write this review. I read most of the book within 24 hours. It may be a new personal record.

Did I enjoy this book? You betcha. I laughed, I cried, and on several occasions I did both in the same breath. DiAnn’s characters came to life in my mind, almost as though I were watching the story rather than reading it. Not every author has that ability. I can tell you from my own experience that it can be a lot of hard work. DiAnn Mills did it masterfully.

If I have any criticism, it is that it took me a little while to figure out that the story takes place in the past. There’s nothing on page one that smacked me in the face and screamed “Hey, Dan! This is historical!” Of course, that may be because I wasn’t bright enough to notice that this is the third installment in the “Texas Legacy” series. Duh. Legacy = “from the past.” Apparently, the publisher expects readers to pay attention to such things. Between the train, horses, one-room schoolhouse and the lack of cellular service, I did eventually figure it out.

Perhaps the best thing about Lightning and Lace is that it is a story of restoration, healing, and renewal. The themes of grace and forgiveness are skillfully woven throughout the story without being “preachy” (except for the parts where the preacher is . . . well, doing what preachers do). It’s a warm, wonderful romance that explores not only the love of man and woman, but also of the perfect love of our perfect God and His imperfect people.

Even if you don’t think you like romance novels, you ought to read Lightning and Lace. Click here to buy your copy!

I’ve been biting my tongue and slapping my hands ever since the flap with Don Imus and his comment about the Rutgers women’s basketball team hit the news. Well, okay, I haven’t been biting my tongue, as my wife will surely attest. But, the time has come when I’ve got to speak my mind through my fingers–so here it is.

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.

D.