During the past year I’ve been emailing my beach friend Lucy. We even packaged up a Christmas gift to send south and continue building our friendship. Lucy has lived here in Sarasota since 1981. I believe, if my math is surprisingly working, that Lucy turned 86 this year.

This morning she was looking for me as she strolled up the beach around 6:30. She was walking more briskly than I remember, and without her walking sticks. I wasn’t sure if this was really Lucy heading my way. I sent up a tentative wave from about 50 yards away. Lucy reciprocated with a big smile. She had emailed earlier in May that she wanted to walk with me on the beach during this year’s study break. I quickly replied with our study break dates and confirmed her walking plan.

We walked to the sea wall and then back to the white sand in front of her property. We covered about a mile and a half, and I worked to make sure I wasn’t a deterrent to Lucy’s previously determined pace. Lucy is a wealth of history and traveled world culture stories. I couldn’t help but think how unique it has been to get to know this eclectic beach walker over the past few years. Our conversation seemed to lack the awkward pauses one might expect from a 35-year gap of generational differences.

After I made it back to my lonely chair and slipped on my ipod, it hit me that most of the early morning beach walkers seem to be “lifers” not unlike Miss Lucy. They were the lucky folks who were living their retirement beach dreams. Their addresses were etched in the crystal sands. They worked all their life for this. This is what the good life had afforded them. Leather skin, salty walks, and all the nasty tourists they can handle has become the much anticipated payoff.

I’m certain that’s not what God has called me to. This seemed to be affirmed in me when later in the day I floated by a young, newly wed couple doing that familiar two heads, one body, water-treading dance. I heard the confident husband say, “We should retire here before we hit 30.” An agreeing giggle was all I could hear through a crashing wave. This little stolen exchange was equivalent to my usual Starbucks eavesdropping, only wetter. With this one, however, something profoundly wrong was stuck in my water-logged crawl.

I don’t want to be livin’ the same dream when I’m sixty-five. Darrin Patrick has challenged my thinking with his book, “Church Planter.” Being a rescued, called, qualified, dependent, skilled, shepherding, and determined man demands such a better, more God-exalting ending. Do I end my life in a barely noticeable fizzle where grains of sand forget my very footsteps within hours of my demise? Or… do I allow God to continue to point my life and ministry in more radical ways that recognize the power of the resurrection, the preeminence of Jesus, and the desperation of 4.5 billion without Christ?

Don’t get me wrong. I love the beach. This is where I recharge. This is where I listen. This is where God will speak into me. This is where He’ll re-create me as He has faithfully done in years past. I always look forward to these concentrated, intentional times away to think, read, study, worship, pray, write, and reconnect with family. I’m grateful to have met such a wonderful lady as Lucy. This beach, though, is not my home, nor do I think it will ever be (much to the chagrin of Sherry). I can only hope that my good life will afford more people more of the gospel and more of me, the older I get. THAT would be livin’ the dream!

I’m thinking about what Mike Thurman will be preaching back at CCC this morning. Genesis 22… and Abraham taking Issac to a mountain for worship. To the foot of the great Mt. Moriah, it was a three day trek on a real donkey of a vehicle. Then it was several thousand feet of elevation for a very old Abraham to climb. The journey was no walk in the mall for Issac either. He would carry wood and supplies while helping his hobbling father along.

The point is this: It took a lot of work, sweat, and intentional frustration to meet with God. Because Abraham and Issac did that, they met with God in one of the most powerful worship experiences recorded in scripture.

How far am I willing to go just to hear from God? What amount of frustration will I endure to ensure His presence is engulfing mine?

As we were throwing the last few pieces of baggage for six onto our overloaded van, I told Sherry this has been one of the hardest study breaks to get ready for. Just to finally arrive at our departure time has been a real pain in our donkey of a vehicle.

A week or so prior to our study break, our Toyota van began begging for our attention. The front CV axle needed replaced, and then the rack and pinion. We attempted to fix these ailments with a cheaper mechanic #1. Big mistake.

And then… the real culprit was a front end wheel bearing that only a dealer and mechanic #2 could diagnose. This was something mechanic #1 swore was not the problem. THIS was a painful experience.

And then… my air bag light came on and horn stopped working. Apparently a steering wheel column cable was compromised by mechanic #1, and so mechanic #2 proceeded to fix. More pain.

And then… my radiator had begun leaking while sitting overnight at the dealer. How does that happen? These days you don’t fix bad radiators, you replace them. Along with my serpentine belt, the new radiator repair bill was equally as painful from a mechanic #3 recommended by a friend (I just couldn’t stomach dealer repair costs at this point).

And then… three sprinkler heads in my front yard needed replaced on the day before we hit the road. When it sprinkles it pours. This is such a wimpy, American, suburban, comfortable… although real… complaint and audible whine.

Yesterday morning we got in the van at 6 a.m. with great determination, so we could drive nine hours south… so we could attend a Saturday night church service in Sarasota. As we drove, I slowly began realizing how the work mechanic #1 did needs to be undone and redone. There’s something going on with a funky vibration attached to all the stuff our cheaper #1 attached. Cheaper certainly isn’t better. I’m praying we will make it back home.

And then… it was THE worst church service my family and I have ever experienced. It was, as best as I can briefly describe, a meeting of Dr. Phil and Oprah to help people get their “breakthrough” by repeating small phrases led by the pastor’s wife as she painfully tried to find a teaching gift still buried somewhere on the beach. THAT was painful. After almost TWO HOURS, we ran out during the closing prayer because we knew we would be accosted by the 20 other exuberant members hungry for new people to brainwash.

I’m thinking God is going to speak something very powerful this study break. The work, frustration, and anxiety to get here would point to perhaps, a mountain experience worthy of the climb. I don’t have a mountain, but I’m hoping a huge ocean will do. You’ve got my attention, Lord. Speak.

How do I believe without doubting? How do I have a radiator installed in my van without wondering and fussing if it’s going to still leak? How do I pray for a couple struggling with infertility, and not wonder if God can really open up a womb previously closed for fourteen years?

Last night at our monthly prayer gathering, we sat in the glory, wonder, and mystery of God. A young woman who had recently started coming to church openly explained her struggles of being a struggling, college-trained actress. She needed a stronger faith to survive and conquer her God-lacking world. After we prayed for this hungry waitress, I looked up and there next to her was another Godly, excellently-trained actress sitting right next to her. Was that an easily dismissed coincidence or God? Believing bolsters my faith. Questioning feels incredibly unstable.

In the back row of our small gathering sat an African couple from the U.K. I had never seen them before, but she… Jacquelyn… felt the Spirit’s freedom to speak up. She and her husband, Brian, had seen our banner on the frontage street, and came hunting for some intense, intentional prayer.

Jacquelyn and Brian have not been able to conceive for fourteen years. They have prayed and waited. On Sunday, they just happened to be at church with us as I unfolded the story of Abraham and Sarah being told they will have a baby when they are 100 and 90 respectively. “There is nothing to hard for our Lord,” Jacquelyn quietly reminded us of my sermon and God’s Word.

Was their Sunday visit merely convenient because their motel is 100 yards away from our church? Perhaps this was one of God’s appointed times that was set fourteen long years ago.

How do I keep from laughing or mocking as Sarah did when Jesus told her she was going to have a baby? Brian and Jacquelyn were with us at church on Sunday to hear, “Is there anything too hard for our Lord?” Then they meandered in to our prayer gathering just three days later. I believe that was no coincidence.

We anointed them with oil, and prayed over them with the stability that comes from a faith certain of what cannot be seen. We prayed for healing. We prayed for the possible task of adoption their parental hearts might become pregnant with.

It’s really a thing of maturity, isn’t it? Our struggles point to perseverance, which leads to maturity of faith. A mature faith can swim in the mystery of God. A mature faith gives stability when the seas are not. A mature faith allows God to be God exactly when we realize that we are not.

Believing without doubting comes from a furnace-tested, mature faith. Slowly I’m getting there, but nights like last night seem to help expedite my slow process… at least by one glorious day. I sure hope I get to see Brian and Jacquelyn again some day — preferably one year from now. I really do believe there is nothing too hard for our Lord.