To say that Beth Harris was cosmetic perfection is an understatement. If you ever witnessed her gargantuan make-up bag, then you know what I mean. She knew every shade of her favorite L’Oreal lipsticks and even lamented on social media when a specific color was discontinued. This is just an estimate, but I’d confidently guess that 92% of photos with Beth were prefaced with frantic purse rummaging for a quick lipstick touch-up.

The funny thing, though, is that Beth would probably laugh at any notion of her flawless appearance. In fact, she’d object with pretty convincing proof: a pair of white pants stained with coffee by 8:00 a.m., for example, or “hat hair” after a beach walk. “There’s no pretense of perfection here,” I can hear her saying with lips freshly adorned courtesy of L’Oreal’s Prosperous Red 185.

We used to chat about our humble beginnings when fancy cosmetics meant the leftover Avon samples of our mamas. As Beth navigated adolescence in the West Virginian mountains, I was doing the same in rural Alabama. We didn’t know each other then, but God Himself was simultaneously raising up a couple of barefoot, curly-haired tomboys who’d find each other in adulthood. He took two “regular girls,” we used to say—not beauty queens but also not half bad in the right light—to shine our best for Jesus.

 And oh, did Beth Harris shine! She could meet you for the first time, flash that million-dollar smile, and instantly make you feel seen. She was exemplary at remembering names, connecting people, and gushing over a new friend’s “awesomeness.” I cannot count the times she exclaimed, “Do you know so-and-so? Her heart for God is gorgeous. Y’all have GOT to meet!”

If you didn’t know Beth or you haven’t heard, then I have some news: she met her Savior face-to-face yesterday. For my dearly departed friend, a mirror once seen darkly is now crystal clear. A fallible human is now an image bearer of God. She is, at this moment, pure perfection.

But for us staying behind, some daunting challenges loom: Who’s going to connect us now? Who’s going to pray down Heaven when a sister needs a miracle? How can we match Beth’s knack of bringing messy people to a merciful Jesus? The void feels too vast, the wounds of grief too deep.

Our healing salve, I believe, rests in the quiet whisperings of Beth’s Lord—my Lord, too. Even now, I can sense Him reassuring me with one simple strategy: just keep abiding. Abide with God this minute, then the next. Abide with Him this day, then again tomorrow. And as I listen and act on His tender promptings, all will be good: His good, His purpose, His glory.

I’m not suggesting that this loss will be easy. I’m not purporting to understand why. But as I grieve my forever-reigning Lipstick Queen, inexplicable joy soothes unimaginable loss. She is, after all, wholly healed and flawless: “Beth!” I say to her in my mind. “Your new shade of radiance is immaculate! Your Crown of Life is stunning! I’ll see you soon, my glorious friend, at Jesus’s beautiful feet.”

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“My ears had heard of You [God], but now my eyes have seen You.”~ Job 42:5

I was very young, still in elementary school, when the Jesus Movement found its way to Brewton, Alabama, in the early 1970s. Our church—Cedar Hill Baptist—was suddenly vibrant with high school and college students who were excited about their faith.

My Uncle Bob, Aunt Kathy, Uncle Kenny, and their friends were smack dab in the middle of things, and they not only saw my little sister Andrea and me looking on, but they also included us wide-eyes babies. We sang along with those guitar players like we belonged. We attended a poster-making party at least once, and our church even renovated an old home—called The Youth House—just for the hippies, errr, Jesus People, to fellowship. (I think the walls were painted purple.) My favorite song, often belted out with a group on the front porch, began with this line: “It only takes a spark to get a fire going.”

As I watched the movie Jesus Revolution today, I began crying and couldn’t stop. It was as if I suddenly realized the impact of this movement on my own faith walk. Those “big kid” teens and young adults brought me into their authentic, curious, electric faith. They knew Jesus and wanted to know more of Him. As far as they were concerned, my sister and I were part of the Team: little sparks waiting to catch the fire of mature faith.

So thank you, Cedar Hill Baptist, for embracing the least of these. Thank you to the “big kids” who modeled relationship over religion. And thank you to God for blessing His timeless Word still spreading like wildfire.

~Ava Sturgeon, grateful follower of Christ.

My friend and colleague is ill. If you’ve known her for long, then you’ve seen generosity in human form. She has many, many gifts, but yesterday I was reminded of her teaching talents: my bedridden friend gave me homework.

”I have an assignment for you,” she whispered. “Think about water. Then write about it.”

In all honesty, a blog about water has never been on my radar. But after seeing my friend thirsty and asking for fluids, I began to understand. Water is often overlooked but necessary, simple but satisfying. Water is what we’re made of.

A day after our visit, I’m still water-logged with brainstorming. After all, there’s homework to do. Mostly, though, I want to honor a woman who’s poured into many. So here you go, my friend:

Blessings of Friends and Fountains

When emotions flow, water is there: a surge of accomplishment as sweat pours. A wince of sadness as tears fall. A taste of deliciousness as mouths water.

When memories surface, water is center stage: baby’s first bath. Salty beach vacations. Born again baptisms. Slip ‘N Slides in June.

We need water—literally and figuratively—in the most desperate of ways. But sometimes, given our distracted, overwhelmed selves, we don’t realize we’re parched. We go and go and go, dry-as-dust but still moving, depleted but still striving. We don’t reach for fountains of refreshment; there’s no time. Maybe we don’t drink from that well for another reason: we’ve forgotten where to find it.

My friend, it seems, has remembered. And she’s not only thinking about water; she’s humming it, too. Her favorite hymn, “Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing,” offers a Divine Oasis for those barren places:

Come, Thou Fount of every blessing,

Tune my heart to sing Thy grace.

Streams of mercy, never ceasing,

Call for songs of loudest praise.

If you’re like me, this melody is now stuck in your head. You might also be reminded of a woman—a biblical outcast—who  felt especially thirsty. She’d been scorched by life. But as she dropped her empty bucket into the town’s well, a stranger named Jesus offered something better. He called it Living Water. I call it rescue:

Jesus said to her, “Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks of the water that I give will never be thirsty again. The water that I give will become a spring of water welling up to eternal life.” 

Spoiler alert: She chose a lifetime with Jesus. So did my friend and I. Now streams of mercy truly never cease. Our hearts do indeed call for praise. Are the days always easy at the well? Hardly. But even on the tough days, through our tears the Divine Fount of Blessing delivers: peace will flow, hope will float, faith will swell. We close our eyes and feel His love wash over us.  He is here. He is our rescue. In this life and the one that’s coming, Jesus is enough. 

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I’ve journaled about this passage before, and I’ve mulled it over 1,000 times. Today it’s back again, the story of boldness gone vulnerable. In a small way, I’ve been there, too.

Matthew 11 takes us inside the dismal prison cell. John the Baptist has seen Jesus with his own eyes. He has recognized and baptized the Messiah. Even while John was still in his mom’s womb, the Holy Spirit filled this unborn child with purpose and passion.

Considering these mind-blowing Divine encounters, I’d expect John to be a real force in that prison, pacing his cell like a country preacher while roaring the message of Messiah, hope, and of course the flip side, judgment. (If I were John, an innocent man in prison, I’d yell the judgment part really loudly.)

What we see instead is a heart-wrenching, tender question for Jesus: “Are you the Messiah we’ve been expecting, or should we look for someone else?” In my own mind, I hear other questions: “Jesus, are you for real? If so, have you forgotten me?”

I wonder about the tone of his question as it’s uttered. I wonder about the volume. Does his voice crack? Does weariness speak through the eyes? Is doubt lurking in those shadows of imprisonment? Do the second thoughts surprise him?

Oh, John. I get it, but take heart. This hint of shaky faith is not the sum of your life (or your honorable death). It’s not an indictment of failure. It’s not proof of betrayal or bitterness, either. Instead, I sense guttural but temporary pain of a man who’s human, suffering, and isolated. In the midst of the greatest trial of his life, John desperately needs to hear this lifesaving reminder: “Jesus is exactly who He claims to be. And He claims you as His own.”

It’s now the year 2020, and similar questions haunt. God’s children are still fallible, and suffering still blurs perspective. But hang on, sisters and brothers. Let’s ask God for friends who speak hope despite darkness. Let’s be grateful for stories unmarred by temporary despair. Most of all, let’s bask in relief that Jesus is for real. He claims us as His own. And whether or not we feel it at the moment, those torturous shackles are falling. We, even now, are free.

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