While summer should be winding down, a few things are still cranking up.   The track and field events are about to start at the Summer Olympics in Beijing.   Rick Warren of Saddleback Church is about to host a forum for presidential candidates Barack Obama and John McCain.  And the Democratic Party will be staging their made for TV convention in Denver.   Where will I be?  In Europe, fighting cancer at the first Reel Lives Film Festival in Geneva.

A few years ago, as John Marks and I finished filming the first part of a Purple State of Mind, my precious wife was diagnosed with Hodgkins lymphoma.   It was quite a blow.   Cancer snuck up on our family and delivered a sucker punch when we least expected it.   Unfortunately, cancer never takes a summer break.

The best thing about a good song is the beat. Now a days, people are always making iPod playlists, car soundtracks, and video montages with that perfect song because life is just a bit better when walking to a beat.  This is most likely one of the biggest driving forces behind the sales and the obsession with the iPod.  According to arecent study there are approximately 70 million current iPod users.  [1]  Take a second and think about that number.  An average heart beats103,680 beats in a day. That means that if music was blood, there is enough music being played in to give  67,515 people breath. These white ear-buds give it’s owners the ability to drown out the societal noises of cars honking, baristas screaming and even their own thoughts and get lost in a rhythm that seems tobeat the same thump-thump of the emotions of their heart.  But why, why must there be anelectronic phenomenon to create this rhythm?  Is this world so chaotic that ears must be stuffed full ofbeats in order to truly hear?  Must footsteps really be in tune to the latest and greatest song, or were they meantto hit the pavement to different sort of rhythm? 

Every time the 9-5 life sets in, I begin to down coffee like it's part of my job. Not only does my checking account begin to go down (because I have fallen for the Starbucks lure) but my addiction sky rockets. In college, I would drink about 6 cups a day. Yes, you heard me: 6. I loved it. Loved the sound of it brewing, loved the taste of it, loved watching the milk swirl like a Monet painting as I poured it in....ok I sound crazy. But so was my addiction. I'd take it anyway that it came: steaming hot with a biscotti, over ice, no frills in a double shot, flavored with vanilla or carmel, or toffee nut, frozen and blended...you name, I would drink it. My addiction came to a halt when I came down with an awful cold and could not eat or drink anything except herbal tea. The bite the tea gave to my coffee-loving tongue was almost unbearable, but it was the results that kept me drinking it. Perhaps my other addiction you should know about it my love for buying books. (Which is why, although I think it's the neatest thing to be able to buy a book at the tip of your fingers, I will never buy a Kindle because just as Video Killed the Radio Star, I fear that Kindle will kill the smell of brand new turning pages....) So as I am sick, and beginning to like tea, I purchased The Ultimate Tea Diet. And in it I found a few daunting facts:

This past Tuesday, my husband reported for work promptly at 8am, just as he does every weekday.  His coworkers began to trickle in, slowly, as those in the technology world are want to do.  All but one.

Two hours later, his entire department was called into a conference room and informed that one of his coworkers had been killed the night before.  A 39 year old man, living in NYC, he left his job on Monday evening and while stopped at a red light was hit and instantly killed by a driver under the influence of drugs.  My husband, stunned, described to me the surreal feeling as he passed by his friends cubicle and saw piles of papers he'd been working on the day before scattered on his desk.  Work he fully intended to complete, work that will now remain undone.

The quest for the knowledge of good and evil (the original curse and the one from which so many others are born) rubs up against the virtue of having an open mind and this is the battle that often renders me unproductive.  William Young, in his novel The Shack, frames these often opposing forces as such: expectation versus expectancy. 

Here’s an example: we recently moved into a new home.  The garage, up until last weekend, was an absolute disaster.  Standard stuff really – boxes, gear, bags, equipment and so on  – general mayhem.  For some reason I have a goal to park cars in garages.  So the gauntlet was laid down.  And here’s what my “attack” looked like.  I got out there in clothes I predicted would get dirty and torn and shoes that would be sturdy yet comfortable for the many trips up a ladder.  Then I got right to it!  I started staring.  Just looking at it all.  Not doing much.  Just looking.  But from all sorts of angles mind you.  Just to be sure.  Sure of what I’m not sure but sure enough I was doing it.  Staring.  Unproductively. 

Last week, I had the privilege of attending an advance screening of an independent film called TAKE (opening this Friday, July 18th in NYC).  The film was a visual masterpiece with an amazingly engaging story.  I learned a great deal about the concept of Restorative Justice that night, but what I learned more about was the baseness of my own human heart. 

I'd never heard of Resorative Justice before, but at first glance the idea certainly seemed valid to me.  Focusing attention on the human aspects of crime, involving both victims and willing offenders in acts of restitution and resloution.   Noble pursuits indeed.

Which is why I was so surprised at my visceral reaction to the situation I watched play out before me.  As I saw the story unfold before my eyes, I realized that I didn't want the perpetrator of this heinous crime to be restored.  So horrified by what I witnessed, I wanted this man to be punished for what he'd done-- not only by the criminal justice system, but by God.   It seemed unfair that eternal forgiveness could be extended to someone who so devalued a human life.

 "I have told you these things so that you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world." - John 16:33.

Since the beginning of my walk with Jesus, I've been warned against the "Prosperity Gospel". The above verse, the very words of Jesus, has armed me against this misconception, and indeed I've seen it played out in my own life. I am in no danger of believing that God allows only blessings to touch those whose walk is blameless-- I've lived the truth of John 16:33 firsthand.

The danger I face is of a different variety. In taking hold of this verse, and making it central to my walk with God, I've come to believe in the Gospel of Adversity. In my mind, the deeper my relationship with Christ, the more suffering I will be asked to endure, the more sacrifices I will be asked to make, the more pain I will experience. I have known this to be true. But I've begun to believe it to be absolute, without exception.

Without realizing it, I have rejected the idea that God wants to bless me in EVERY way-- spiritually, physically, mentally, financially...in every area of my life. I'm comfortable with the spiritual part-- after all, our sufferings produce character. But physical, and dare I even say, material blessings? I have completely cut myself off from the possibility that God desires to do great things in these areas of my life.

But its deeper than that; its a matter of faith. I want so much for my life to be predictable that I'm willing to embrace suffering if I'm sure its what He'll always give me. Anything else is just too uncertain. Yet today, I feel myself being challenged. Can I pray for great things with faith enough to know He is able to do "exceedingly and abundantly more than I can ever ask or imagine"? Do I believe He loves me enough to answer such prayers? And if He chooses not to act, can I bring Him my disappointment and rest in knowing that He loves me and has my very best at heart? 

I'm happy to recommend that you spend some time this summer reading the book I've written that just came out, called "o2 - Breathing New Life into Faith". Summer is traditionally known as that time of year when we all get a chance to catch our breath, but often we so fill our summers with surfing, mountains, hiking, fishing, tanning, and whatever else we do to refresh ourselves, that we find ourselves worn out by fall, dreading the full schedules and in danger of repeating patterns that we've lived previously which are less than life giving. Might I suggest that you invest a little time this summer considering how to develop the critical lifestyle habits that we all need if our faith is to be sustainable for decades to come. I've offered a survey of classic spiritual disciplines in this book, but they're offered in a narrative style that shares both my own story and that of many friends, so that you can consider the inhaling and exhaling habits that are needed to vitalize and sustain us. Balancing the inhaling and exhaling habits, and being intentional about building them into our lives is just what this book is all about.

I've been walking around in my own personal fog for the past few weeks.  Going through the motions, you might say.  I'm busy enough in my daily life that I can do this for awhile without having to sit down and navigate my way through the mental haze back to clarity. 

But the time has come and as I wade through my emotions, I realize that two weeks ago I was a victim of an emotional ambush.   

Two weeks ago today, Tim Russert passed away.  I didn't know Tim Russert personally, but admired him as a reporter, and more importantly, as a human being.  And while the news of his passing shocked and saddened me, its not his actual death that has impacted me so greatly.  It's how he died. 

Tim Russert was under the care of an excellent cardiologist.  Just like me.

Imagine lying in a bed in a windowless room.  You've been ordered to stay in this bed for an unknown amount of time and are allowed one visitor for one hour each day.  The room is small, colorless and because there are no windows, you have no idea if it is day or night. 

Time passes, one day drags into the next. You hear noises from the rooms adjoining yours; many of these noises sound like screams of pain. People come and bring you food and drink, but none stay long enough to have a conversation.  However, your room is never silent.  Over your shoulder, there are machines beeping every single moment of every single day.  The constant noise is maddening, but you know that should these noises cease your life will end.

What kind of prison could I be describing?