The news is out. Archie Andrews has made his decision. In the 600th edition of the 65 year old comic, Archie will propose to his on-again, off-again girlfriend Veronica. That leaves sweet, girl-next-door Betty stuck with Jughead and his weird hat. Or arrogant bad-boy Reggie.

We should have seen it coming. Archie's always got his eyes on Veronica, even when Betty's got her eyes on him. Or is Betty looking at Veronica? Oh dear.

Before you get mad at Archie, or "dis" Veronica, or feel sorry for Betty, let's be real. Good girls don't win in the game of love.

Dan Kiley described this principle more than twenty years ago in his book, "The Peter Pan Syndrome." In it, he explains that Peter (the quintessential man-boy), though a part of him is attracted to Wendy and her mothering ability, will always choose Tinkerbell in the end. Yes, the same Tinkerbell who sells Peter down the river to Cap'n Hook out of spite and jealousy.

We all married little Peter Pans. The magical boy who was entranced by some aspect of our personalities. The one who swept us off our feet and carried us away to Never-Neverland. In our imaginations, Peter would eventually quit playing childish war games, risking life and limb for the sake of an adrenaline rush; he'd stop spending all his time hanging out with the Lost Boys; and he would grow up into a responsible man to whom we could safely entrust our lives.

If you've been married-or in a long-term relationship-you've probably learned at least two things by now. One, Peter never really grows up, at least not in the ways you expected him to; and two, he doesn't appreciate all your mothering nearly as much as you thought he would. Disappointing? Yes, if you're nothing but a Wendy. But none of us are "just" Wendys or Bettys. Every woman has a Tinkerbell spirit somewhere on the inside. (Read "Captivating," by John and Staci Eldredge.)

The end of the Archie/Betty/Veronica love triangle illustrates the same principle. Betty has always "been there" for Archie. Veronica does as she pleases. Betty is dependent, Veronica is independent. Can you see the Wendy/Tinkerbell parallel, here?

Here's the problem: Women, especially Christian women, are raised to be Wendys, not Tinks; Bettys, not Veronicas. While men's culture-Christian and secular-glorifies the mystery, glamour and adventure of the Tinkerbells, women's culture promotes the idea of becoming the best Wendy/Betty you can be. Want a real-life example? Brad Pitt=Peter Pan, Jennifer Aniston=Wendy/Betty, and Angelina Jolie=Tinkerbell/Veronica.

Don't get me wrong. There's nothing wrong with Betty. Betty's a nice girl. She's a great friend. There's nothing wrong with Wendy, either. Wendy is a caretaker. She takes care of her father, her mother, Nana the dog, and her little brothers. When responsibility knocks, Wendy answers. Someday she'll be a great homemaker and a good mom. But she doesn't win what she wants most: Peter's heart.

When it comes to being the woman of our husband's dreams, we'd better dig out that sassy, sexy, independent woman who got buried under maternity clothes and burp rags and cookbooks. Why? Because that's who he married, ladies! He married the Veronica, or the Tinkerbell, he saw in you, and that's who he still dreams about. Don't leave him wondering where she went!

Find your sassy, girls.

Are you a Christian?
Is your relationship with Christ, your faith, your religion, relevant (pertinent, fitting, apropos) to the world in which you live?

If you aren't a Christian, is it because Christianity seems irrelevant based on the lives of the Christians you know?

I read an interesting blog post today from a fellow believer who is ready to pull the plug on his social networking connections and get back to real fellowship and assembly with others, because all these electronic relationships aren't what God had in mind. A comment on a friend's Facebook page shouted to the world at large that he--a devout Christian--is ready to kick the A**** of those promoting the homosexual agenda. A note on a critique I received gently reminded me that CBA guidelines discourage my fictional characters from participating in certain questionable activities, or from using words like "heck" and "darn" and "shucks."

Darn it.

Unfortunately, these kinds of behaviors, ideas, and conventions have made much of Christianity irrelevant -- not applicable, inconsistent, unrelated -- to the lost souls we encounter (and ignore) every day.

When Christian pioneers began to interact with the Native Americans, it was natural for them to want to share their belief in the Savior. But instead of hearing the good news, most of the Native Americans heard a lot about the white man's religion. They heard about how they were supposed to dress, how they were supposed to eat, what to do with their free time, what kind of music and art they could create, and so forth. Needless to say, the religious message wasn't very well received.

There was a small religious sect called the Shakers who lived in the United States several hundred years ago. One of the tenets of their doctrine was that all sexual relations were base and somehow evil. Their sect died out pretty quickly. For some strange reason, no one wanted to join up! Their faith in God was genuine, but their application of faith was irrelevant to the people around them.

Our culture today is changing dramatically, some think for the better, others think it's all going to hell in a hand basket. Atheism and agnosticism are reportedly increasing faster than ever before. While Christian leaders take public nosedives, Christian activists and lobbyists battle liberals for the return of conservative family values. Political lines are drawn between pro-life and pro-choice, left-wing and right-wing, Christian and non-Christian.

Christians demonize other Christians for infractions of the "rules" as they interpret them. And then they demonize whole groups of sinners for doing what comes naturally to sinners: sinning. Oh, oops, did we forget John 3:16? For God so LOVED the world? Whom did He love?

Meanwhile, believers "witness" to their unsaved friends and family members and churches plan community "outreaches." And no one understands why so many would rather wander lost and alone in this miserable world than come to the arms of a loving Savior.

Well, duh. We've made Him irrelevant to a dying generation, like taking an aspirin for a diagnosis of terminal cancer.

I want my faith in Christ to be relevant--practical, applicable, effective--in my own life, and in the lives of those I love. I want to represent my Jesus to others in such a way they can see His love and goodness and want to welcome Him into their lives as well. I think I'm going to have to push the "offering envelope" to accomplish that. I'm going to have to stretch my faith out of its cozy, safe Christian corner and apply it out there in the big nasty world where people use cuss words and flaunt their sexuality and refuse to make time (or get dressed up for) Sunday morning worship service and Wednesday evening prayer.

Would Jesus have a Facebook page? Probably. Do you think he would text message his disciples? Can you imagine what His "tweets" on Twitter might say?

I know, this is probably going to make folks cranky. And I know we walk a fine line between being in the world and yet not of the world. But if we don't figure out how to balance on that tightrope--being relevant without being irreverent--we risk losing the most precious commodity on the planet for all eternity: souls.

Maybe it's just me, but the opportunity to get discouraged nails me every time I step out to accomplish some goal. I don't think I'm the only one, or we wouldn't have a world filled with wanna-be's.

Wanna-be skinny.
Wanna-be rich.
Wanna-be a _______________ (fill in blank with career title you covet)
Wanna-be healthy.
Wanna-be happy.
Wanna-be smarter than a 5th grader.
Wanna-be younger/older/single/married.
Wanna-be a rock star. : )

Discouragement is the equivalent of a roadblock. We see it coming as we cruise down the highway of life, striving to reach our dreams. It can be triggered by a major crisis, but usually garden-variety discouragement comes from the simplest of things.

In the Bible, the prophet Elijah struggled with discouragement. Not because he was failure in God's eyes, not because his calling was in question, but because of a verbal threat from Jezebel after Elijah had called down fire from heaven and crispy-critter'd 350 of Jezebel's favorite puppet prophets. In other words, after a major victory, Elijah had a chicken fit and ran away to the hills to hide out under a tree. An ugly tree, even.

Discouragement never takes you anywhere you'd normally want to be.
For example, you start exercising and watching what you eat. Two weeks later you go shopping and try on a dress, but the dress doesn't fit you well and makes you "feel" fat. Wham-o! You're discouraged. On your way out of the mall you stop at the ice cream shop and load up with a triple-decker fudge fantasy sundae. Yeah, pull up a rock and plop your butt down next to Elijah under that tree.

It took me a long time to recognize the discouragement ploy. I'd find myself starting a project (weight loss was a 20 year battle) or stepping out in some other new area. When I didn't get the results I wanted within a "reasonable" amount of time, I'd start to question myself. "Am I really supposed to lose weight? Maybe I'm just doomed to be this size. Genetics, you know."
Hello, ice cream. And popcorn with extra butter.

Sometimes discouragement would strike in the form of a friend's success. Their church or ministry would be growing fast, while ours appeared to be wilting in the heat of religious persecution. Then I felt guilty AND discouraged. I should be rejoicing with them, not feeling sorry for myself!

Other times it comes in the form of words. Negative words. I've been most vulnerable to this in writing. Not so much negative critiques or criticism, but all the words about how hard it is to get published, how difficult it is to succeed, how rare it is for an aspiring writer to achieve the degree of success that will allow them to write full-time and support their families.

For someone with marriage trouble, those seeds of discouragement might be as simple as a statistic on the high percentage of failed marriages among people in their 30s. Or news of a friend's impending divorce.

Someone just starting out in the workaday world might be tempted to quit before they begin with all the negative soundbites about the state of the economy. And that seems to be the key to recognizing discouragement... it tempts you to quit before you've really even begun.

"Quit while you're ahead," may have been the thought running through Elijah's brain.
"Quit before you get hurt."
"Quit before someone tells you that you aren't good enough."
"Quit before that other person quits on you."
"Just quit. It won't ever work for you anyway, that thing you want, it's too hard. In fact, it's impossible to achieve."

God didn't pat Elijah on the head and say, "ooh, you poor baby, I know it's too hard for you." No, God wanted to know what the heck Elijah was doing hiding out in a cave in the wilderness! Implied in His question, "Why aren't you doing what I told you to do?"

Discouragement is a lie. It attacks those who are MOST likely to succeed. Want me to prove it? Discouragement never bothers all those folks in line at the convenience store who shell out their rent money to buy lottery tickets, or the people who order 36 magazine subscriptions so they can have a better chance of winning the sweepstakes. Now, they ought to be discouraged, and quit, and go find something productive to do, but they don't!

So, if you feel that pressure of discouragement today, the temptation to quit and draw back from your dreams, from your goals, DON'T DO IT!
Pick yourself up, dust off your vision, and get back to work. Plug in your iPod and tune out the naysayers. Turn off the news. Surrounded by successful people? Hey, if it can happen for them, it can happen for you! God is no respecter of persons, but He is a respecter of faith, of hope, of love, and of determination.

Don't quit now! You've only just begun... (now sing the song, and get back to work.)
Blessings!

I've struggled with fear my entire life, so I could relate to the heroine in Brandilyn Collins' latest release, "Exposure." Kaycee Raye has turned her compulsive phobic behaviors into a career as a columnist and begun to gain some ground on the paranoia that plagues her life. But the death of a close friend to illness has challenged her faith and rejuvenated her fear. What if what she most fears, being watched, comes to pass?
The tension builds to a buzzing hum from the first page onward as Kaycee's fear becomes reality. But she can't prove it, and no one seems to believe her, until a little girl disappears, and Kaycee has no choice but to set her fears aside and find her faith in God. But is the true source of her fears just something in her mind, or is there more to it?
This book has all the hallmarks of a great suspense read, with a dash of humor to lighten the tension, and an inspirational message that fear can be faced, and overcome, with God's help. A great book for anyone who struggles with fear and faith.

Even as a child I wrestled with the idea of the "perfect" mother. At some point during my elementary school years I asked my own mother why she "didn't bake cookies and wear an apron, like the other mommies."
"Because I work," she replied. Now, this was the late '70s, early '80s. Apron-wearing mommas were getting farther and fewer between in the age of "I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan" women.
Where did I get my maternal paradigm? I think it may have come from my Mom's 1961 Betty Crocker cookbook, with brown rings scorched on the cover where she set it on the stove's electric burner by accident. I pored over that book with its tabbed sections on planning dinner parties and setting a proper table, and suggestions like "freshen your lipstick and perfume before your husband comes in from work."
When I had my own children, I quickly discovered my paradigm was a pipe dream. Sure, I was a SAHM (Stay At Home Mom) who didn't have to work outside the home, but I couldn't seem to manage being fully dressed and smiling while I served a hot breakfast to my grateful family.
More days than I care to recall, I didn't manage to get dressed in anything except the pajamas I'd slept in the night before. And I was sure my smiling storybook family had been abducted by aliens and replaced with a fussy baby and cranky toddlers intent on destroying one another before their generic Cheerios were gone.
I didn't bake. It was too hard with a baby in a backpack and a toddler on each leg. I didn't own an apron and wouldn't have known where to buy one. And the oldest kid, or the dog, had eaten my lipstick. It's still a mystery.
I was a maternal failure.
And one day I read about the most famous mother of all. (If you've got the "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" song in your head now, that's good. It will help you remember this!)
The first chapter of the book of Luke tells us the story of an unwed teenage mother who, if she lived in today's world, would probably be hospitalized as delusional. Her name is Mary.
Mary was engaged, and historical data tells us she was probably between 14 and 16 years of age. One day an angel appears to her and tells her she's going to give birth to the son of God, who will become the savior of the world. Her response? After she asks "how," which was a logical question, she simply says, in modern vernacular, "okay, whatever You say."
Her cousin, Elizabeth, describes Mary this way: "Blessed is she who has believed that what the Lord has said to her will be accomplished."
What kind of mother does this make Mary, the mother of Jesus? She's a "faith-mom," and that's the kind of mother I want to be.
I heard a minister say, "The best thing you can do for your family is be a woman who hears from heaven." Not a woman who does craft projects, bakes the best cookies, has the cleanest house, dresses well, or participates regularly in school functions, (though none of those things are bad); but a woman who hears from God and believes what He says concerning her husband, her children, herself, and her household. She believes the best, she looks beyond what is "seen" to that which, as yet, is "unseen."
For the mother of a toddler struggling with recurrent ear infections, that means looking beyond those moments of lost sleep and doctor's bills, to see that child healthy and whole, and believing "it shall be."
For the mother of a child struggling in school, that means believing "all my children are taught by the Lord" and they "grow in wisdom, in stature, and in favor with God and man."
For the mother of a teenager going through a troubled period, it means confessing and praying over that teen, "the Lord will perfect that which concerns me," and "He will bring to completion this good work which He has begun in You."
I know of a mother whose children are all grown now. When her oldest son was out partying and carousing, she would pray, and the Holy Spirit would let her know where he was. She went so far as to go collect his inebriated personage and take him home. All the while, confessing over him that he would become the man of God he was destined to be. And he did! Now, that's hard to do! But that's being a "faith mom." And I can think of no higher goal to attain as a mother.
Happy Mother's Day!

In my high school wrestling-ruled town, my negative opinion about sports in general frequently puts me at odds with friends and neighbors. But there is one sporting event I indulge in every year: the Kentucky Derby.
Maybe it's because my mom's side of the family tree is from Kentucky (she grew up in Louisville, pronounced luuuh-ville). My grandfather still lives there.
When I was ten, I wanted a pair of Nike sneakers; the white leather ones with the red "swoosh" on the side and the little blue stripe in the sole. I coveted those shoes. Was that, perhaps, the start of my love of trendy footwear? It was 1980, and those shoes cost $40. My mother could not reconcile $40 for a pair of shoes I would grow out of in six months with my obsessive need to have them. I understand her point of view a little better these days.
We compromised on a pair of red and white nylon cheapo tennies. In my fourth-grade class photo, my feet (visible only because the short people had to sit on the front row) gleam as if they have encountered the presence of God during the transfiguration of Christ. I hated those shoes.
My aunt was still in Louisville at the time. Somehow my need for those shoes entered into a phone conversation about her going to the track. I don't remember who suggested I place a bet on the race, but I ended up sending my bet to my aunt. The morning of the race she called and read me the names of the horses in the field. I picked the one whose name I liked best, in spite of the face it had 20-1 odds. It won, to everyone's shock, and I was the proud owner of $40. And a new pair of Nikes. My mother was traumatized, concerned that I was headed for membership in Gambler's Anonymous. Funny, I haven't bet on anything since.
I watch the Derby almost every year, to the consternation of my children. I don't follow the field, place any bets, examine the odds, know the stables, or have a racing form. What is it that draws me every year? For me, I think it's the fact that the race never fails to remind me of how awesome it feels to beat the odds and win.
You're probably facing something right now where the "odds" are against you. It could be overcoming cancer, or finding a job, or saving your marriage. We've all got places in our lives where the bets are not on our side. Take heart. Nothing is impossible. Enjoy the Derby this afternoon!
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