By Kristen Entwistle

He breathed life into her soul.
Showed her the way to walk, showed her His love.
Willingly she followed, amazed and awed, drinking in the life He offered.

And then her eyes catch something else.
Someone else takes her hand.
She is beguiled by the one who tells her she is beautiful and unforgettable.

She runs after money.
Fame.
Fortune.
She turns to drinking.
Puts her hope in physical beauty.
Causes herself bodily harm.

All the while, Jesus is calling.
Waiting.
Loving her.

And as she holds the gun to her head, she remembers that the One who has been calling her since the beginning is still standing there, begging her to return.

The music swells, and every time I watch this video, I get goosebumps.

As the girl fights to get to the outstretched hand of Jesus, the world fights back.
It batters and bruises us, but still we press on.

And then Jesus does the incredible. He took on the world for us.
Protects us.
Wipes us clean.
Forgives us.
Overcomes the world.

Shows us, again, how much we are loved.
Wanted.
Redeemed.
Chosen.
Justified.
Sanctified.
Free.

And how can I stand here with you,
And not be moved by you?
Would you tell me,
How could it be,
Any better than this?

By Kristen Entwistle

In the midst of this Christmas season, with all its joy, celebration, and love, I am reminded of those for whom this season brings sorrow as well. Just this morning, I scrolled through my Facebook newsfeed to find friends struggling with the loss of parents, uncles, and unborn children. I am reminded anew of those who lost children in the Newtown shooting just over two years ago. I am reminded of those who are struggling with terminal illnesses, who will spend this Christmas in the hospital or in hospice care. I am reminded of those who are living far from their families, unable to get home for Christmas due to money, war, danger, sickness, estrangement…

As I write this, I am scanning old 35 mm slides from my grandfather’s old camera into my computer. I’m finding pictures of him and my grandmother as young parents, my mother and her siblings as children, and many pictures of people that I do not know. But the one thought running through my head – I wish that I had done this sooner. Because my grandfather won’t ever get to see these pictures. He won’t get to see the faces of his kids as they see these pictures, or swap stories and memories. I remember at our family Christmas gathering a few years ago, when Grandpa was really sick from the cancer, thinking, “This is gonna be the last Christmas I get to spend with him.” It was, in fact, the last time I saw him.

My heart breaks for my friends and family, and for those I do not know who are experiencing sorrow – anew or remembered – this year.
There’s a hymn that comes to mind when I think about these things – the hard things of life, the loss, the sorrow, the heartbreak, the sickness, the disease, the unexpected and the unexplained. It was penned by Horatio Spafford. Spafford had everything he wanted – a wife, four daughters, a successful law career in Chicago, heavily invested in Chicago real estate, and was friends with high profile evangelicals like Dwight Moody and Ira Sankey.

The great Chicago fire destroyed all of his investments in 1871. Spafford, his wife and his daughters planned a vacation/business trip to Great Britain in 1873, and he sent his wife and daughters ahead of him while he finished some work in Chicago. He received word around Thanksgiving that year that the ship had sunk, and that of his family, only his wife had survived. It is said that Horatio penned the words to his hymn, It is well with my soul, during the journey to see his wife in Great Britain.

In the next years, Horatio and his wife returned to Chicago, Horatio’s wife would have three more children, two of whom lived into adulthood. The family then moved to Jerusalem, where they opened a children’s home. Horatio would contract malaria fever and pass away in 1888 at the age of 59.

Take a moment and read the verses penned by this man who experienced so much sorrow and loss at once:

When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,
Let this blest assurance control,
That Christ has regarded my helpless estate,
And hath shed His own blood for my soul.

My sin, oh, the bliss of this glorious thought!
My sin, not in part but the whole,
Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more,
Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!

And Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight,
The clouds be rolled back as a scroll;
The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend,
Even so, it is well with my soul.

Through all of the loss, in the midst of the loss, Horatio penned the words, “Whatever my lot, though has taught me to say, It is well with my soul.” Through the loss of his four daughters on the ship and the loss of his son to scarlet fever at four years old, he was able to say, “It is well with my soul.” He was able to say this because of what we remember this Christmas season. Through all the sorrow and heartbreak and loss, still this one thing remains: Christ came to this earth as a baby, the ultimate sacrifice for our sins. He was born to die. Born to be an offering for us. Born to give us a way to the Father. Born to give us life.

No matter what you are facing today, no matter what sorrow has overwhelmed you this year, this truth will never change – that you have been redeemed, chosen by the God of the Universe. That He sent His one and only Son as a baby to die for your sins. That’s worth celebrating, in the midst of sorrow. That’s worth giving thanks for, in the midst of pain. That’s worth remembering, in the midst of everything unknown.

That doesn’t mean it’s easy to smile and celebrate when your heart is breaking. But It is well with your soul because of this baby that came to die. So know that you are in my prayers, this week especially.

It is well with my soul, in the midst of sorrow, suffering, hurt, and pain. It is well with my soul.

By Kristen Entwistle

Weeks ago, I was at a Living Proof Live conference, where Beth Moore was speaking to a group of over 10,000 women present, and another 50,000 watching via the internet. I was one of those 10,000 women packed into seats too small for comfort, waiting for the Word to come to me through His vessel.
The whole day was wonderful. I laughed, I cried, I was convicted, I was encouraged. But there’s one thing that stands out to me, something that happened that I never expected.
At the end of the day, Beth asked for women to stand for different things that they needed prayer for – deliverance from the struggle of fear; prayer for a covenant friendship that was broken; prayer for healing from being hurt by someone else, man or woman, so deeply that it didn’t seem possible to be healed. She asked those under 40 to stand and be prayed over, then those over 40. She asked for each of these groups to stand and for those around them to lay hands on them. I leaned forward with hands outstretched to the women in front of me who I did not know to pray for them, let them know that they were not alone. And yet I had come alone, sat alone, listened alone. And so when I stood with a group, I did not expect what happened next.
As I bowed my head in prayer, women from across the aisle came and prayed with me. They laid hands on me – a woman they did not know, as tears streamed down my face. As Beth’s friend prayed for healing from a hurt so deep that you didn’t think you could ever get over it, my shoulders shook with tears falling down my face. The women around me did not know my name. They did not know my situation. They did not know why the tears were falling – only that they were praying for a sister in Christ. Only that they were reaching out to touch a sister who was falling apart, and unbeknownst to them, helping to put her back together.
After the prayer ended, some of the women turned and went back to their seats. But one woman held onto my shoulder and turned me towards her. And then she hugged me, saying, “I’ll be praying for you.” She didn’t know me. Didn’t owe me anything. Didn’t have to pray for me. But she said she would anyway.
What if we did what these women and so many others did, but we did it every day? What if we crossed the aisle at church this Sunday and prayed for the person who walked through the door for the first time today? What if we stood with the grieving, the joyful, the hurting, the happy – and prayed with them and for them…even if we don’t know their name?
You might just be the prayer that one person needed today.

By Kristen Entwistle

In stark contrast to the last post on hope in the Brittany Maynard story, here is one that brought tears to my eyes.

Lauren Hill is a college freshman who was diagnosed with a rare form of brain cancer known as DIPG.  Last year, as a high school senior, she was given two years to live.  After a newer MRI this year, she was told to get her affairs in order – that she was going to die before the end of the year.

Lauren’s dream was to play in a college basketball game.  But the season opener for Mount St. Joseph University, where she signed to play, was not until November 15, and it was away.  Her coach, the other team, and the NCAA made an exception for the teams to play at MSJ on November 3rd.  The 10,000 seat stadium was sold out in just hours.  And they all came to see one girl.

Watch the video here.  If you’re anything like me, you’re going to need a kleenex or two.

Amazing, isn’t it, that one woman ends her life so that she doesn’t suffer anymore, while another lives her life because she knows she doesn’t have much left.  In other stories I have read and watched, Lauren’s parents talk about their daughter as a ‘gift from God’ and that for the 19 years they have had her, they have been grateful.  If God is going to take her home now, they say, then He will.  And we will be grateful for the time we’ve had.

Interesting, isn’t it, that both the family of Brittany and the family of Lauren are or will be experiencing loss.  But one has lived life every day as it comes, while another has stolen the days she had left.  One has put her faith in what is greater, while one has put her hope in a painless medicinal-assisted suicide.

Wonderful, isn’t it, to see the community that has rallied around Lauren and her family.  Incredible to see the way that Lauren is pouring out her love and her life on those around her.  ‘I’m not scared of leaving,’ she says, ‘you know, not being here.  Because, like, I won’t be here.  But the people I worry about are the people that I’m leaving behind.’  Her brother and sister look up to her, knowing that they will miss her, but that she has made a huge impact on their lives.  (See another video http://www.godfruits.com/7659/she-was-told-she-wont-live-past-december-so-her-school-does-the-unforgettable.php?ref=8)

Never give up is Lauren’s motto.  A story of hope in the midst of the hardship and suffering.  One that happened just a day after Brittany’s life ended.  A stark contrast to each other, and a message of hope and never giving up.

By Kristen Entwistle

The story of Brittany Maynard has been covered in news outlets, Facebook posts, blog posts, and websites for weeks now.  If you aren’t familiar with the story, Brittany was diagnosed with stage 4 terminal brain cancer this year and was given six months to live.  She moved to Oregon mid-year such that she could be prescribed a medication that would allow her to take her own life before the cancer completely took over her mental faculties.  She very publicly campaigned for death with dignity, and announced that she would end her life on Saturday, November 1st.  Despite reports that she had decided not to do so, her website has posted her obituary, and reports are indicating that she did in fact take her life on Saturday.

You can visit her website here to read her obituary and other information on her story.

I have not voiced an opinion on this story, mostly because I do not think it is my place to judge another person, particularly when I am not in their situation.  That being said, there are not sufficient words to express the loss of a loved one, no matter how their life ends.  It is not easy.

As someone with a chronic illness, I can relate to Brittany on some levels – not wanting to fight anymore, not wanting to put family and friends through pain.  But what I have a hard time identifying with is the sense of hopelessness that I get from reading Brittany’s posts.  It seems that much of her joy in her last few months came from things – doing things, seeing things, and being with people.  My joy is different.  I do find joy in people and in the things I get to do in my life.  But my joy is made complete because of Christ.  My hope, my rock, my joy, and my salvation is in Christ my God, who has redeemed me, chosen me, and loved me even though I do not deserve it.

No matter how bad things get, no matter how tough it is to get out of bed in the morning, no matter how many medications or doctor’s visits or hospitals fill my weeks, I have hope.  Hope that I have been placed here, with these circumstances, for a purpose.  Hope that He is still working out His plan in me, and that He is not done with me yet.  Faith that He will continue to bring me to a new day as long as He has ordained.  Faith that He is working ALL things for the good of those who love Him and are called according to His purpose.  Hope that no matter what comes, He is with me.  Faith that what Romans says is true: that suffering (of all kinds) produces perseverance, perseverance produces character, and character produces hope.  And that hope is the most glorious thing of all because of God’s love.  And it will never fail.  Never give up.  Never leave us hanging.

Therefore, since we have been justified through faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have gained access by faith into this grace in which we now stand. And we boast in the hope of the glory of God.  Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us. […] For in this hope we were saved. But hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for what they already have?

Romans 5:1-5, 8:24

I do not doubt that Brittany did not come to this decision lightly.  I do not doubt that it has been hard for her, for her husband, for her family.  I do not doubt that it will continue to be difficult for them in the days to come.  I cannot say that I agree with what she chose, though I cannot say that chemotherapy, radiation and slowly dying would have been a better option.  It is a hard situation, and one that I pray I never have to face.  But regardless of her choice, her death is still death.  In this world, that is final.

But we have a hope eternal, one that promises something after this life.  A God who has conquered death and the grave.  A God who uses the circumstances in our lives to teach us, grow us, and mold us.  A God who loves us more than we will ever know.

My prayer for the family of Brittany Maynard is that they will see this hope, this faith – lived out in the people around them, that through this they would see the grace of our Savior, that they would have hope for tomorrow.

I pray that you also see hope today, no matter where you are or what you are facing.  For our hope is in the Lord, through whom we have been saved.

By Kristen Entwistle

When you were a kid, did you build towers with the big cardboard blocks?  Maybe you built the highest tower possible, or maybe you were the kid that ran around knocking down everyone else’s towers.

When I was a kid, I liked to build walls around myself.  Enclose myself in so that the walls were all around me.

And I’ve done the same thing with my life.

Maybe, like me, you’ve built walls around your life.  You convince yourself that they keep your heart safe.  You convince yourself that the higher your walls, the safer you are.  You convince yourself that the thicker your walls, the less people can see of the real you, and that’s a good thing.  Because if they were really to see your sin, your hurt, your brokenness, your pain – they wouldn’t want to know you.  They’d run in the other direction.

I used to think that my walls were my security, my protection from the world, from the hurt.  That if I had higher, thicker walls, no one could see the real me: the ugly, torn, and worn girl who does not see herself as beautiful; the girl who struggles with feelings of worth and inadequacy; the girl with the life-shortening illness; the girl who is alone; the hurt, broken, sinner in desperate need of a Savior.

When we build up our walls, we end up pretending.  Pretending to be someone we’re not.  Pretending that those words didn’t hurt; that being rejected…again…wasn’t painful.  Pretending that it’s all okay on the outside but falling hopelessly apart on the inside.  Pretending that we don’t struggle with things, too.  Pretending that our past isn’t as checkered as the flag at the end of the race.  Pretending that we don’t have secrets we’d rather keep hidden.

Take a few minutes and listen to this song, from Tenth Avenue North, Healing begins:

So let ‘em fall down,

There’s freedom waiting in the sound,

When you let your walls fall to the ground.

We’re here now.

This is where the healing begins,

This is where the healing starts. 

When you come to where you’re broken within,

The light meets the dark.

So you’re telling me that if I let my walls down, let down my guard, let people see the real me, the messed up, broken me – that it will bring freedom?  Oh, more than that, dear friend.  It will bring healing.  Healing from the heartache, the guilt, and the pain.  As far as the east is from the west, so far has He removed your sins from you (Psalm 103:12).  All of your scars, all of your sins – they are forgotten to Him.

The walls you and I hide behind aren’t doing us any favors.  They aren’t helping us or anyone else.  In fact, when people see the real you – the struggles, the brokenness, the weakness, the imperfection – they see the grace of our Savior.  They see a God whose power is made perfect in our weakness (2 Corinthians 12:9).  They see that they are not alone in their struggles.  They are reminded that He is faithful.  And letting your walls down reminds you that you are not alone.

Also published at brokenbeautifulbold.com

By Kristen Entwistle

My family is not the ‘flower-sending’ type.  When I was in high school musicals, other kids would get flowers at the end of the show from their parents or friends, but I would get a hug and maybe some ice cream.  At college graduation, it seemed like everyone got flowers.  I got a hug and a mission trip to China.  I don’t think I ever felt like I got the short end of the stick by not getting flowers.

Yesterday was a pretty important day in my graduate school career.  For those of you who aren’t familiar with a scientific graduate school PhD program, here’s how it works: You get accepted, pick a lab, take your few classes, and start working on your dissertation research from the get-go.  At the end of your second year/beginning of your third year (depending on your program) you have to pass what are known as qualifying, comprehensive, or preliminary examinations.  For my program that entailed (1) a written NIH style proposal on the research that I have done and will continue to do for my dissertation, (2) a formal presentation on that research to a public audience, and (3) up to two hours after that presentation where your committee (made up of five faculty members) can ask you any question they want.  At the end of that two hours, you can either pass, pass with condition, or fail.  If you fail, you’re done.  You can leave the program with a masters degree, but you cannot continue on to your PhD.  If you pass with condition, you have to redo something (such as rewriting your proposal), and can continue on to your PhD if you pass the conditions.  If you pass, you can continue on to achieve your PhD for the next how-many-ever years it takes.    Suffice it to say, lots of stress and probably the smallest hoop that you have to jump through for this persistence degree.   I’d liken it to threading yarn through a needle meant for thread – it’s possible and people have done it, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy.  So, yesterday was my preliminary exam.  And (spoiler alert), I passed.  Praise God!

And so, when flowers showed up at my door yesterday, I was a little surprised.  “Who in the world would have sent me flowers?” I thought.  And as I opened the card attached to them, I was overwhelmed with emotion.  My family had sent me flowers.  My family – the non-flower-sending type – had sent me flowers.  As I read the rest of the card, which said that they were so proud of me, I was in tears.  Why, you may ask, was I in tears?  Because these flowers symbolized something even greater than my parents and brother and sister being proud of me.  They gave me a glimpse of hope that it has been and will be worth it.

Worth it to keep fighting this exhausting disease day after day.

Worth it to have pursued a higher education degree, and to keep pursuing it.  And to be encouraged that I can do it.

Worth it to potentially make someone else’s life better.  I think particularly of my siblings, whose children and children’s children may have a better life because of the drugs that are being developed even now.

Worth it to have struggled so much these past three months – with living life alone, struggling with feeling worthless and inadequate, wondering if this is really where I’m supposed to be.  Praying that God would give me the strength do get through just one more day at a time.  And worth it to keep trusting God that He will provide what I need even when it may not be what I want.

Worth it to keep studying and reading and researching my own disease.  It’s hard.  Really hard, sometimes.  I can’t leave work at work.  It comes home with me.  I live it.

And those flowers meant that someone was proud of me.

My parents – who have raised me, loved me, encouraged me, and believed in me from the start; my younger brother – who has been my constant encourager and cheerleader, reminding me that God has a bigger plan than I can even imagine, and who is more mature than any kid his age (and many older) that I know; and my younger sister – who has always loved others through her words and actions, who challenges me to be a better person, and who is brilliant and smart and beautiful – they were proud of me.

And not because I had done something – no, there is no way that I could do any of this on my own.  But they were proud of me because of what Christ has done through me, His imperfect vessel of hope and love and encouragement.

And when I am tempted to lose sight of the fact that God is still working, God is still sovereign, and that He still knows what is best for me, He provides me with people like my Mom and Dad and brother and sister – to send me flowers that mean so much.

Thank you for believing in me, encouraging me, and loving me – and for sending me flowers.

By Kristen Entwistle

I wanted to share with you all some exciting news. Near the end of July, I received an email from a family friend pointing me to a blog that was looking for contributors to join their growing ministry team by the end of the month. A contributor would be asked to post on the blog once a week and help to shape the ministry into whatever God makes it. There would also be opportunities to speak at conferences and have a hand in shaping this ministry as it grows.
I prayed about this opportunity, and ultimately decided on the last day of July to pursue the application process, only to go back to the blog to realize that they had wanted a team in place by the end of July, which was that day. Rather than waste time putting together a ministry resume that would never be read, I emailed the woman in charge, Angela, and asked if they were still looking for contributors. She emailed me back saying that I was welcome to submit my resume and application, though most of the slots had been filled.
I closed my computer and walked away, and when I got home that night about 10 pm, I intended to submit everything. But instead I found an email in my inbox that said: “Scratch that last email. I don’t need your resume. I read some of your blog and you’d be a perfect fit for our ministry. We would be honored to have you on our team. I’ll send you the official document tonight.”

Talk about God opening a door and shoving me through it. 

The blog is now up and running with the eleven new contributors, and so far it has been a blast.  I have loved putting together just a few blog posts so far, but look forward to seeing everyone’s stuff each week, and how God is working through this already.  I have added a new tab on the side titled “Broken Beautiful Bold” where you can find all of my posts as they go up on the blog.  I’ve also posted the link for the site at the end of this post.

I can’t promise that the words you read will be earth-shattering.  I can’t promise that they will be perfect.  But I can promise they will be real.  Honest.  Vulnerable.  Some of them will be hard to read – they are certainly hard to write.  Some of them will bring laughter, others tears.  But through it all, I pray that you will be encouraged, uplifted, challenged, and strengthened.  All the glory to Him who has redeemed us, called us His children, and loved us when we did not deserve it.

Broken Beautiful BOLD

By Kristen Entwistle

I’m pretty sure you have to live under a social media-less rock to not see all of the videos of the ALS ice bucket challenge in the past couple of weeks.  From national TV news anchors to celebrities, and to average people like you and me, everyone seems to be dumping buckets of ice on their heads and giving money to support ALS research.  And the people who aren’t dumping ice water on their heads are taking to social media to complain about the movement.  “Just give money,” they say.  “Quit wasting water and just give them money.”

I’d like to propose that that’s not the solution.  But neither is dumping ice water on your head.

To the complainers of the ALS ice bucket challenge: What problem has ever been solved by people just throwing money at it?  True, money to support research is absolutely necessary for every disease.  For goodness sake, I am paid to do research by federally- and nonprofit-funded sources.  I am not saying that money isn’t necessary to try to find a cure or better treatments for ALS.  But it shouldn’t end there.  And it shouldn’t end with just ALS.  There are hundreds of thousands of people suffering with many different diseases, some of which don’t even have a name.

To the completers of the ALS ice bucket challenge: Congratulations, you just dumped a bucket of ice water on your head.  But more than that, you just donated some money (I hope) to research for ALS.  More than that, you just raised awareness about ALS to people who may not have even heard of it.  But now that you have had your two minutes of Facebook fame, what are you going to do?  When you wake up tomorrow, are you going to even remember what ALS stands for?  Your 10 or 20 or 100 dollars may help to find a cure, or a new treatment.  You have told people about ALS.  But what’s missing?

I think that what is missing is support.  Not monetary support.  But emotional and physical support.  How about finding a friend who knows someone with ALS or another disease, and asking how you can help?  Maybe that means you drive them to a doctor’s visit.  Perhaps you pick up their medicines from the pharmacy when they can’t.  Maybe you bring their family dinner one night, because you can.  Maybe you commit to pray for that friend’s friend and family.  But support them.  Love them.  Pray for them.  Live life with them.  Learn from them – and let them learn from you.

So let’s not let this ice bucket challenge end with your 2 minute video on Facebook, or your re-posting of numerous articles bashing the ice bucket challenge, or just complaining about it in general, or your $10 donation: Let’s actually be the hands and feet of Christ to people who are hurting and suffering.

Go dump a bucket of ice water on your head.  Or don’t.  That’s your choice.  But go support your brothers and sisters.  There are plenty of great causes out there aside from medical research.  Find a passion and be the hands and feet of Christ to a broken world.  And then tell your friends so they can tell their friends.  But don’t do it because I said so.  Do it because it’s what we are called to do as we follow the example of Christ.