Preston Gillham

A few days ago I put a copy of “No Mercy” in the mail to my good friend, Fred. He emailed yesterday to say my package had arrived, but without the book. Someone along the way neatly cut the mailer open, removed the book, and resealed the envelope. An empty envelope from Bonefish Publication arrived in his box on Wednesday.

Fred, who lives in Vermont, said he had the same thing happen on another occasion. He packaged up a container of maple syrup and mailed it. When it arrived, the recipient said the top of the box had been neatly opened, the syrup removed, the box resealed, and the empty container delivered otherwise unscathed. This is bad news for whoever ordered the syrup but good news for the value of “No Mercy.”

Items get lost, damaged, and delivered wrong all the time. There are whole departments at the USPO that manage these inevitabilities. But tampering with the mail—I think that is a federal crime that can land you a pair of orange coveralls and shower shoes.

Here is what I find interesting: Thousands of books are mailed, probably every day. I don’t have a clue how many of these packages are tampered with, but I find it remarkable that no more copies of “No Mercy” than there were in the mail on this given day (probably just that one), Fred’s was methodically, carefully opened, the book removed—and kept!—and the package resealed and delivered.

There is some probability that this event is coincidental. There is also a probability that this event is spiritual. Personally, given the content of “No Mercy,” what I’ve been observing of Father’s work through the book, and what I know of spiritual warfare I think the spiritual probability is statistically much greater than the coincidental option. Indeed. Much greater!

Since there are two, great forces in the world, this leaves two perspectives to consider: First, Fred is without his book. So, Satan prevents Fred from whatever benefit he will ultimately derive from reading “No Mercy.” Knowing Fred as I do, I think he’ll make it until the replacement arrives. Satan’s thwarting also costs me money and the anticipated endorsement from Fred once he is done reading. But seeing as how the “No Mercy” project and related business is Father’s, I’m not sure there is anything to be consternated over.

Second, the person who opened this innocuous package containing “No Mercy” (why didn’t they open the box containing the Magic Bullet blender?), and kept what they opened, is now in the hands of Father God. That’s pretty interesting to contemplate.

As we have seen time and again, Father will go to any measure to engage a man who is seeking Him. I like this option and consideration, although I’m not certain how a just God gets around mail tampering in His quest to engage this person’s heart. He’ll most likely get this figured out though.

Satan’s pettiness is easily remedied: a new book is en route to Fred via the US Mule. He’ll have it by spring.

But the man or woman with the stolen copy of “No Mercy:” Now this is something different.

I have two, big thoughts as I write: Pray for this person. You’ve read the book, and if you haven’t, this is a pretty good indicator you might closely consider doing so. It seems quite probable that Father is on this person’s trail—the “Hound of Heaven,” as Francis Thompson called Him, is chasing him. Intercede for this person! Pray that their encounter will be life-altering.

Second: Father is distributing “No Mercy” via unconventional means. I cannot honestly say my marketing plan included mail tampering. Clearly, it should have. Chalk it up to a small vision on my part!

What is an integral part of the marketing plan is for “No Mercy” to spread and circulate because you talk about it. That Father would smuggle a book to an unknown person between Texas and Vermont indicates He is using the message and story of “No Mercy” in remarkable ways. He is targeting souls, hunting them down, and engaging them. (Can you envision the person with the stolen copy of “No Mercy,” the book crying out to him from the kitchen counter or wherever it rests now that he has tampered it into his possession?)

I don’t know about you, but when I see Father head down an unmarked trail like this, I want to join Him.

So, please pray for this unknown soul. Please pray for yourself in light of this post, and if you need a copy of “No Mercy,” or need to send a copy to someone, here’s how to get it done. And, your discount increases as you order more copies. While you are praying, pray for Fred too. He’s a great man doing fabulous work.

Dianne and I have worked hard to establish holiday traditions. Most of these happen before and in between since the actual holiday demands of Thanksgiving and Christmas are so unpredictable.

One tradition we have created fits within a modification of Advent that I created for us. Beginning with the first Sunday after Thanksgiving, we read relevant stories each evening. The stories are the same each year. That’s part of the tradition.

In addition to simply sharing my Christmas writings with you, e.g. “Baby Names,” I hope you will feel free to use these stories in your Christmas reading tradition. And, please pass them along to others as you see fit. I wrote them to be shared.

I’ll post another story here early in the week.

Before I conclude, have you thought about “No Mercy” as a Christmas gift? Not only can you wrap it up and give it, but there is a gift inside as well.

Yesterday I was on the set of “100 Huntley Street” discussing “No Mercy” with Jim Cantelon.

Interviews can be dicey deals. If the host hasn’t read the book, looked over the media packet, or isn’t prepared the interview can be a high-speed run down a twisting, unfamiliar road. I’ve had plenty of those experiences—and a few times the interviewer and I have run off the cliff and accomplished nothing more than to fill airtime.

But not yesterday! Jim was not only prepared, he had read “No Mercy” and had dug deep into my biography. It is quite an honor to write something and have the opportunity to discuss it with someone who values the art, work, and message. You will see this in Jim—very noticeably, in fact.

After you have watched this clip, I’d ask that you pray for me please. While I am interactive with Jim, I’m tired, very tired. As you would suspect, life has not slowed down yet after Mom’s passing and the Thanksgiving holiday. I don’t regret the investment of my energy and life in joining my family to care for our folks, but the last months have clearly taken their toll. I need to tend to my health right away.

I want to write more–and I will soon–about my discussions with my Partner in the “No Mercy” project.

But today is not the day. Maybe after I get my head back above water. In the meantime, you can see that the message and story of “No Mercy” is engaging, even though the author is less than a compelling advocate. It was a privilege to sit across the table from Jim, and it was a joy to see that this book meant something special to a man who reviews books nearly every day.

Here is the video clip from “100 Huntley Street.” Here is a link to the “No Mercy” page. And here is a link to purchase the book.

I will be discussing my book, “No Mercy,” live on “100 Huntley Street” Wednesday morning, 9:00 AM Eastern. You can watch online or check out the archive later in the day.

It is odd to touch death. Were it not for the heart, and the treasures of faith stored there, death’s cold stiffness would feel final.

I have come to write about Mom’s passage to heaven, to speak to you with words of comfort about Anabel, and to share my reflections on her life—our life—as my Mom. I’m afraid to though. I’m afraid I won’t get the job done well. Nevertheless, I begin—knowing it will be imperfect.

I’m overwhelmed reading the comments about Mom at lifetime.org. Your notes to me at my Facebook are such an outpouring that I’m paralyzed to write a reply. “Thank you” seems worn, but it is the only blanket I find that feels warm as I think about where I am, where you are, and where my Mom is.

Mom needed to make her exit from life. She fell badly on October 2nd. She called me every day, at least once, usually several times. She started calling early on the 2nd, very early for a Saturday. I could hear her pain as she told me she had fallen and needed help getting up. I asked if she needed 911. Vintage Mom: “No. I just need you to come help me. I’ve hurt my arm and can’t roll over.”

I doubted her assessment of her situation. Mom tended to be either understated or overstated. With doubts rumbling in my brain, I turned on my emergency flashers and headed her direction. I broke a lot of rules driving to Mom’s house, which is interesting in reflection. Rules were made to be lived by in Mom’s estimation. That’s why she called me and not 911. In her mind, she needed help; she didn’t have an emergency.

The metal screen doors were locked on the house when I arrived. My key was useless. As I contemplated my situation for ten seconds, Mom called again to say her hip was also hurting. I called for an ambulance and broke into the house.

Mom looked like a squirrel that had been run over, except she was lying in the kitchen floor with her head mashed up against the base of the stove. As I straddled her body, touched her shoulder, reassured her, and waited for the emergency personnel to arrive, I asked her what happened.

For as long as I can remember—since I was a little kid—Mom periodically washed her hair in the kitchen sink. I don’t know why. She just did. And on the 2nd of October 2010, she decided to wash her hair in the kitchen sink. When she lifted her head, she became disoriented, danced around a bit trying to regain her balance, and then her feet kicked out from under her. Mom didn’t fall—she splatted.

I didn’t know the extent of Mom’s injuries at the time, but I sensed them as I stood over her. Come to find out, she broke her hip, her pelvis twice, and her elbow. The hip and elbow required surgery early the next day. Vintage Mom, she used her broken-elbow arm to reach into the front pocket of her jeans and call me.

I put my hand on Mom’s shoulder, touching her back carefully as I straddled her form. It was a helpless feeling. I wanted to reassure her and to comfort her, which I did, but they were grim assurances I don’t think I believed.

A few days prior, I gingerly broached the subject of a cane with Mom. I suggested she might use her cane when she stood up and sat down. “You know, Mom. It would give you three points to balance on. Once you are certain you are stable, you don’t have to use the cane. You can carry it by the shaft.” Adding for good measure, “If you don’t like the metal cane, there are all sorts of nice walking sticks we can get for you.” And for double measure: “I carry a walking stick when I’m by myself out in the woods, Mom. Just in case.”

Mom’s cane hangs today where it hung the day I made the suggestion she use it. Vintage Mom: On the morning of the 2nd, as I stood over her broken body, sirens screaming from both directions down Chelsea Drive, I asked Mom what happened. “I just lost my balance—but I didn’t need my cane!”

And she doesn’t, does she? I still do, and you do, and my brothers do. Because we are here and she is there. She is there with the One who took all brokenness and promised to make it right.

Anabel and I had a unique relationship. She and Bill (Dad) came to work for me in 1985. Prior to that, Dad and I worked together. Mom was around, and she and Dad did their conference gigs once a month, but that was the extent of her involvement; direct involvement, anyway. She was always involved, if you know what I mean, speaking strictly as her son.

But in 1985 our relationship shifted. It wasn’t dramatic, only sort of formal, but in retrospect I became son and boss while she became Mom and Anabel. Managing my mother was like managing a mountain river. She didn’t flow, she roiled.

The flash I saw from her green eyes as a child, I saw as she lobbied for her perspective and projects inside Lifetime Guarantee. The toughness that dug her mobile phone out of her pocket, in spite of a broken elbow, was the toughness that determined to say what she needed to say, the way she wanted to say it, and to whom she felt she needed to speak to. The tenacity to endure the last five weeks of inexpressible suffering is the same tenacity she brought to writing one thought after another until she had written enough devotionals to cover more than a year.

Most of the last 36 days, Mom would instruct me to organize her hospital room and surroundings. She wanted everything orderly and cleaned up. This was the way my room had to be as a kid.

And it is the way her computer had to be at the office. No clutter. If there were files not doing anything meaningful, she wanted them gone. On three occasions that I can recall, she cleaned her computer hard drive. By the third occurrence I knew what I was going to find when she called for my assistance. “Pres, can you come help me with my computer? I’ve lost the file I was working on.”

These were the old days of personal computing—the days of DOS. Somewhere along the way, Mom picked up the command, “format,” and three times she used it at the DOS prompt. It is very hard as a son and a President to explain to your mother and an officer in the company that everything is gone.

For Mom, it was legal to come to the office wearing both her “mom” hat and her “office” hat. It wasn’t really fair, but neither was it unethical. It was vintage Mom: determined; passionate; intense. Mom didn’t live life or come to the office half way. She brought everything she had, every time, all the time.

Managing Anabel was a challenge and a demand that drove me frequently into late night discussions with Father God. But managing Anabel was also a privilege and a reward. The comments posted at lifetime.org about her life speak volumes—about her, but also about me, and us, the people who worked and lived alongside her.

I think I knew when Mom came to work for me in 1985 that my days as her son were largely over. Ministry was her life’s devotion. Dad too, for that matter. So when the family gathered, I wore my son hat to the occasion, but my work hat was never far from reach.

And this arrangement persisted with Mom and me—until October 2nd. On that morning, the world reverted back to what it once was, with only one hat apiece: mom and son.

Mom’s last five weeks were immensely difficult, but I think they were necessary. By that, I mean they were necessary for both of us to reset our relationship.

The work Mom, and Dad, and I did together through the ministry of Lifetime Guarantee was powerful. It was important to you, to them, and to me. It was consuming as well. The notion of leaving work at the office was a misnomer. Consequently, it was pervasive to our relationship.

Lifetime Guarantee demanded professionalism from the three of us. Behind closed doors, Bill and Anabel were Dad and Mom; publically, they were Bill and Anabel. Today, they are Dad and Mom.

When I transitioned Lifetime Guarantee Ministries to the next generation of leadership two years ago, I hoped that a collateral benefit would be that I could return to being Bill and Anabel’s son. Mom and I were getting there—sort of—but powerful relationships are difficult to redirect. Dad and I regained our familial balance pretty quickly as Parkinson’s began to exact its toll from him.

But for Mom and me, I guess we needed a more profound catalyst. With her big fall, we were catapulted back to the basic relationship that defined us from the start: mother and oldest son.

I don’t recall when I stopped holding Mom’s hand as a child. I guess it must have been early, but I remember when I started again: it was October 2nd, in the back of an ambulance. I don’t recall when I stopped kissing Mom aside from a rare peck on the cheek. But I know when I kissed her on the head and treated her as my Mom again—just my Mom, not the Co-Founder of an international ministry. It was on October 2nd in the emergency room at Baylor Hospital.

My brother called last night to ask me questions about Anabel’s professional life as he assembled her obituary. The information did not readily come to mind even though I thought about it every day for thirty years. I eventually referred him to the LGI website.

But there are details about Mom that are at the forefront of my memory—like her birthday, her favorite flowers, the birds she liked, and my favorite dishes she prepared. I know her favorite poems and can hear her playing Grieg’s, “Wedding Day at Trogholden,” on the piano. I hear her tune as she whistles while getting the house in order and move again to accommodate her asking me to relocate the bird feeder to outsmart the squirrels.

And in my younger days, I can still see her with her head bent over the kitchen sink washing her hair. It was an odd practice to me growing up, but I never questioned her habit. And had I known she was washing her hair in the sink on the morning of October 2nd, I wouldn’t have questioned her. It was probably safer than climbing in and out of the shower, but it was fateful, and it was the beginning of the end.

As is the case with anyone you live around for nearly fifty-five years, I have lots of memories of Mom. October 2nd was the second time I had seen Mom carried away in an ambulance due to a broken hip. The first time was in 1963, but she lived over that fracture—barely. Blood clots threatened her then, and they threatened her again last month.

There were lots of hospitals during Mom’s final days. In fact, I was introduced to hospitals that I didn’t even know existed. I’ve learned things I would just as soon not know about: transfusions, Hospice, “Do Not Resuscitate” orders, the tenuous balance between pain management and blood pressure, to name a few. I’ve wrestled with life and death, articulated my thoughts to my brothers, and then turned to the doctor and made life-altering decisions as medical power of attorney.

I have rediscovered that the theories of life get hammered out in the living of life. It is humbling to espouse an eternal belief before crowds of people as I have done, and then flinch when the nurse reports Mom’s oxygen saturation is 50% of normal and her appendages are turning blue. “My recommendation is that she be sent to the hospital now, Mr. Gillham. Do you concur?”

Mom did not die for lack of oxygen, but it looked like she was going to on Saturday when her oxygen saturation dropped. I’ve not asked my brothers how they felt after the fact, but I felt like I was killing Mom when I declined to have her rushed downtown to one of the big hospitals.

In those moments, I didn’t have a crisis of faith regarding where Mom was going to spend eternity, but the application of my faith into life and upon death was challenged enough to give me pause. Big decisions, one after the other, concerning Mom’s (and Dad’s) wellbeing have dragged me into different catacombs inside my soul.

It is humbling to face a circumstance larger than the force of my spiritual confidence. I’m not used to that.

Death is formidable. I quoted the Scripture about death having no victory or sting, but in the end, only God faces down death. I am embarrassed that I flinched when tested and humbled by the divine mercy that patiently waited until I collected myself and sided with my eternal convictions over the temporal crisis.

Today, Mom is gone. God has made all things right for her, and my confidence of faith and trust in Christ Jesus have grown exponentially during her passage. Is there any greater treasure we can invest upon this terrestrial sphere than an eternal confidence that life is much more than the things we leave behind?

Mom leaves a number of things that will prove challenging to care for as the Executor of her estate. At the top of the list is her Bible. It was so precious to her here, but so unnecessary there that she left it. Close to the top will be her copy of “Streams in the Dessert,” then perhaps her edition of “Grace in Ungracious Places,” and the winnowing process will go on from there.

Ultimately, Mom and Dad’s lives will be resolved with an estate sale. More accurately, the stuff that made their lives comfortable and that create nostalgia for us will be sold. Their legacy—I shouldn’t speak of Dad in the past tense yet—her legacy is posted at the memorial page of lifetime.org, and that will not be liquidated. She might be forgotten, but that is our choice, not hers.

Mom lives—in heaven to be certain. But Mom lives in me, and she lives in you. She did a fabulous job of conveying what it means to trust Christ as her life. She and Dad together were unparalleled in delivering that message from Scripture. That is one reason I gave up being a son and chose to become a coach, and mentor, and their boss. Others did similarly, and in so doing, facilitated Anabel’s ability to articulate what was working itself out in her heart and life.

The message Mom wrote about, spoke about, and relayed in her devotionals at lifetime.org was not her message, and the Gillhams (me included) did not deliver a unique message; it was an old message delivered uniquely. It is an essential message that every one of us must grapple with, implement, and then if we are true to ourselves and to our belief, that we must transfer to the next generation.

Mom did this. Anabel did this. The transfer wasn’t perfect. It couldn’t be. Otherwise, none of us would have believed it was true that the infallible God lived within a fallible vessel of humanity with green eyes. You loved this about her, and in the end, I loved this about her as well.

There were incongruities in Mom. The Bible calls it the flesh, and just like the Book says, Mom’s flesh warred against the Spirit in her. As Mom said so often, publically, she was a performer. In the end, she wasn’t able to perform. In the end, she reached out for my hand and longed for one more kiss to reassure her that she was loved, accepted, and not alone.

It was good for Mom and me that life was reduced to such a tender reassurance. We were both too resolute, too head-strong, too much forces to be contended against, for too long to have laid all that aside, found each others’ hand, and allowed all that preceded and all that remained to be covered in a kiss.

In the end, I was struck by how human she was and I am, that though broken irreparably, life would coalesce into one vital concept essential for her the dying one and me the living one: mercy. Mercy together, mercy for each other, mercy from our Heavenly Father, and mercy as a way of life.

I have written a great deal about grace. My latest book, “No Mercy,” is a book about grace—and the germination of mercy. Father is speaking often with me about this complement to grace. After the dust settles—in life and in the storm within my soul—I know that mercy will play a prominent role in my next book, the sequel to “No Mercy.”

I began writing to you about my Mom and have concluded talking about myself, what I’m learning, and my next writing project. This is how it should be. If something remarkable—my Mom’s life—ended on November 7 at 12:30 PM in Room 113, then life the day after would always be less than remarkable.

I don’t believe that. I believe all that is noteworthy in her lives on in service to me and to you and to those who follow us. What is left behind an arm’s depth in the Oklahoma clay was broken beyond remedy and is rejoining the dust from which it was formed. What remains of Mom is noteworthy in that we live beyond because she lived here.

Thank God for the heart—for the capacity to bond, to connect, to remember, to hope, and to have faith. Thank God that everything is right for Mom, and that the placement of her remains in the Oklahoma dirt cries out to us through the ashes that everything will be right for us as well, and sooner than we might imagine.

Mom was born, Anabel Hoyle on May 10, 1928. She died, Anabel Hoyle Gillham on November 7, 2010. She leaves behind thousands who are better people because of her transparent sacrifice of thought, life, reputation, and story.

May we who come after follow her lead.

Whether you are in the DFW area, or are planning on making the trek to Fort Worth for Mom’s/Anabel’s memorial service on Saturday, let me offer some scheduling considerations and make accommodation suggestions for those who need them.

For general reference, DFW Airport is NE of downtown Fort Worth. All but the last hotel mentioned, as well as our home, are close to downtown, TCU, and off of I-30. The church is SW of downtown off of I-20. Unfortunately, cutting across Fort Worth is not straightforward. I will speak to someone about this inconvenience, but most likely this will not occur before Saturday.

Schedule for Saturday, November 20:

• 8:00 AM: I will be at the Marriott Courtyard off of University and the Trinity River at 8:00 AM on Saturday for breakfast. I would love for you to join me. All of the hotel suggestions below are within a quarter mile of the Courtyard, except for the last one, which is 25-30 minutes away.
• 11:00 AM: The memorial service is scheduled for 11:00 AM at Southcliff Baptist Church. You should allow 20 minutes to drive from your hotel to the church
• 3:00-5:00 PM: Dianne and I will host a come and go reception at our home on Saturday from 3:00-5:00 PM. We are about 5 minutes from the University/I-30 hotels referenced. Here is a map to 2020 Wilshire Blvd, 76110

DFW Airport:

If you are flying, it will be easier if you rent a car rather than attempt public transportation. In fact, I’m not certain you can get where you need to go without a rental car. It is a 45 minute drive from DFW to the church. It is a 30 minute drive from the hotel area to DFW.

Train:

If you ride the train to downtown Fort Worth, you will need a rental car once you arrive. It is less than 10 minutes from downtown Fort Worth to the hotel area, or you have loads of hotel/restaurant options if you would like to stay in downtown Fort Worth.

Hotel Options:

• Residence Inn, from $144
• Marriott Courtyard, from $144
• Springhill Suites, from $109
• Fairfield Inn, from $110
• If you prefer to stay in downtown Fort Worth (a totally cool, vibrant place), here are some hotel options for you to consider. Downtown Fort Worth is about 20-25 minutes from the church. If you want to stay over for another night, downtown is an excellent option with tons of things to see and do
• If you prefer to be closer to the church, i.e. 10-15 minutes, and farther from the breakfast and reception area, i.e. 25 minutes, check out this La Quinta hotel. It is 50 minutes from DFW.

Thank you in advance for your prayers, your love, your support during this challenging time, and for your presence.

I anticipate seeing you.

If you have not heard, my Mom—Anabel Gillham—passed away peacefully on November 7, 2010 about 12:30 PM. She was 82.

Now is not the right time for me to write about Mom. My words are all jumbled up inside my head and heart and my world is a cacophony of things screaming to be done. When the words assemble themselves in coherent fashion, I will post them here. I need to write about her. I want to write about her, and I want you to read more about her from my vantage point.

In the meantime, thank you for praying for my family and me. I appreciate your posts at Facebook more than I can express. If you haven’t visited the memorial page for Mom at lifetime.org, please do, and please comment if you have not done so and wish to leave a thought.

While Mom’s burial was a private, family gathering, her memorial service is a public ceremony that we would love for you to attend. Here are the details:

When: Saturday, November 20, 2010, at 11:00 AM
Where: Southcliff Baptist Church, Fort Worth, TX

My brothers and I, and our families, buried Mom’s ashes next to our brother, Mason, on Thursday. It seemed fitting that it was raining on us as I placed Mom’s remains an arm’s reach into the Oklahoma clay. Our little semicircle was informal and without much ceremony—more like a family discussion and reminiscence. It was appropriate, fitting, and healthy for my family and me.

Dad was not able to make the trip to Oklahoma. Parkinson’s is winning the day in Dad’s body and mind, but he clearly understands that Mom is gone and is grieving mightily. I appreciate your prayers for him. Not only are my brothers and I with him often, but he is visited frequently by his closest friends, and is surrounded by an amazing staff of care givers that defy description. I stand in awe of them.

Mom is now buried in a line of family memorials. She is interred next to Mason, who is next to my Granddad and Grandmother Hoyle, Mom’s parents. Next to them is my infant cousin who died three months after I was born. Her Dad, my Uncle Billy Jack Logan, rests next to her. And finally there is my Aunt Betty Logan, Mom’s older sister, who died one day shy of eleven months before my Mom breathed her last breath.

We are all grieving. I include many of you in that collective pronoun, “we,” but while we grieve, we don’t grieve as those who have no hope. Not only do we have hope, we have more hope due to this stark confrontation with Mom’s passage. This life really is temporal, and if this is all there is, we are of all people to be pitied. But pity is not part of our heritage as Believers. We are people of hope, and for us, hope really does spring eternal because Christ is raised and we with Him.

I have sat down a few times to draft a post, but I couldn’t do the post, or Mom, or me, or you justice. So, I’ve been quiet. In due time, I will write to you again.

That which gets measured, gets done. I’ve said this, coached others based upon it, and managed organizations using measurements.

I didn’t come up with the succinct wording—“That which gets measured, gets done.” Peter Drucker did. He’s the father of modern management. And, he’s right.

But while true, is it absolutely true?

The implication is that we can measure, and that by measuring, determine if we are making progress. Progress leads to success. Reward success, starve un-success, and you get more progress and more success. People love success. People have money and want to invest in success. Simple enough, and now you’ve got a sustainable business.

Religious organizations—churches, nonprofits, and mission agencies—relay reports from the field that are amazing: miracles, conversion rates, baptisms, membership, outreaches, and dollars all of which can be budgeted, compiled on spreadsheets, and presented via PowerPoint. The success is impressive. The reports to the donors are tangible and the energy palpable. God is at work—here, here, and here.

Therefore, it makes measurable sense to reallocate personnel and financial resources to invest more heavily in growing markets of ministry. My financial planner does the same thing with my retirement portfolio. It’s a wise strategy. Invest in success.

So, how does this play out practically?

Ministries in Brazil are reporting remarkable increases in conversions while ministries in Vietnam are not. Ministry numbers in much of Africa are up while they are down in Asia. More troublesome is that ministry in China cannot be measured. No one knows if Christianity has deep roots in North Korea or not. Formal ministry in Yemen has gone underground and cannot be traced.

Based upon the truism—“That which gets measured, gets done”—the nonprofits and donors are correct to follow the numbers. Clearly, God is hard at work—and successfully—in Brazil and Africa and at the mega church in the suburbs. He is not at work, at least as successfully, in Myanmar, Iran, and the inner cities of America and Europe.

More challenging is that at a human level there are people laboring in ministry to those who live in these unsuccessful arenas. Are these ministers wasting their time? Has God moved on to more lucrative fields of ministry and left these ministers and human fields to waste away with abandoned neglect?

What should be done? When the numbers are not positive, should we conclude God is not active and reassign personnel and reallocate funds?

God can be measured and invested in, like a commodity, is the conclusion. Spiritual activity can be charted, rewarded, invested in, and propagated with funding. Therefore, we should evaluate where God is observably active and join Him there.

Are you buying this line of thinking?

Good. I was hoping you were skeptical by this point. There is nothing wrong with numbers and evaluation, but they must be used carefully lest we lapse into believing we can put God in a box and get Him to stay there.

God cannot be measured! He will not be measured, at least not in the moment. Later on, the historians might be able to report on what God did, but He is not static. Just because we figure out what He did and measure that does not imply that we know what He will do tomorrow.

Ministry is very tricky to measure and more difficult to plan. Don’t misunderstand. We should set goals, detail objectives, and we fail to pay attention to numbers at our peril. There is no reason to be a fool about evaluation, but there is no excuse to be foolish enough to think we can measure God.

You can define success—provided you use the correct metric. God considers dependence upon Him, through faith and trust, the ultimate success.

Walking in the Spirit, irrespective of measureable or evaluative success, is always the way God defines success. Walking independently of God, irrespective of measurable or evaluative success, is always the way God defines failure.

God traffics in the good news of Christ, the regenerate heart, eternal relationship, internal transformation, spiritual renewal, and eternal gain. These are broad fields of ministry that cannot be consistently measured.

The marketing blogger, Seth Godin, says there are two things you should never do. First, you should never try to measure that which is un-measurable. The reason is simple: You’ll get it wrong and have no way of knowing until much later. Second, when working in areas that cannot be measured, you must not compromise your investment in them. Either go all in—everything you have for the long haul—or stay home.

God gave all, an infinite value, to make a purchase of no worth—me and you. In His economy He then declared us priceless and worthy of life. As the recipients of His valuation and life, He invites us to do the same for others as He did for us via ministry outreach.

Can you measure that?

Some people say my book, “No Mercy,” is outside the box.

I disagree. Oh, sure. I published it unconventionally, and I speak to issues that are not often revealed in nice company, but I had no intention of writing a book that is not relevant.

The concept of “No Mercy” is revolutionary, granted. And the literary style is outside the norm, but the story of Henry “Hank” Henderson is not uncommon. He is a normal person, living a fairly normal life, who encounters the revolutionary God of heaven.

And some say, “That’s odd: a revolutionary God. It’s outside the box. Abnormal, really.” No it’s not! That God cares, persists, and pursues is what He does, and has done, since He created mankind.

Had I written a book that was outside the box, then the concept of God I presented would have been remote, removed, indifferent, and irrelevant. I didn’t write a fantasy! I wrote about real life and a real-time, interactive God utilizing the literary elements of fiction and allegory.

Why? Because I hope Hank’s life-story sparks a revolution in our life-stories.

There are two types of revolutions: a) those fueled from outside, and b) those fueled from inside. “No Mercy” is the latter. Hank is like you and me. While fictional, he is not hypothetical. And, God is not distant. He is relevant. He is not outside the box. He is inside the box where we live. If God was outside the box, He never would have incarnated Himself. Like TR described, God is in the arena. He is active on the channel as my friend, Lamar, says. He is present and accounted for.

I’m hearing from two types of readers. The fist group encounter Hank, identify with him, generalize from his experience in “No Mercy” to their own lives, and emerge alongside him three-hundred pages later transformed. The other group appears to be afraid—scared that if they identify with Hank, their lives will be revolutionized like his. They seem fearful about transformation—as though it will take them to a place that is not OK.

Here is a thought about fear.

In the meantime, Hank’s story (i.e., “No Mercy”) is intended to instigate change through personal identification.

Revolutions are not driven purely by intellectual ascent, but by passionate identification, and collaboration resulting in true transformation from inside the box—inside the box of life.

Everyone needs private space, but leaders realize their private lives shrink as their responsibility increases. This is a burden of leadership—but it is also a privilege.

Leaders live in fishbowls. Good leaders understand this and use this transparency to their benefit and others’ good.

A friend of mine who runs a large company tells me he takes note of when he coughs during a meeting. Some would say he is obsessed. I would say he is a leader who comprehends the weight of leadership.

People are watching. They are looking for clues and indicators, anything that will help them feel secure, aware, confident, and informed.

Leadership is a privilege. It is a humbling honor to know people manage their lives by gauging theirs by yours.

Leaders cannot lead private lives in the same way the rest of us do. They are on display, whether they like it or not. Their lives are a barometer and field guide.

This means leaders must be deeply rooted in something greater than themselves.

Leaders who are selfish and self-centered, miscue. Leaders who are not anchored, drift. Leaders who believe their lives are private, behave irresponsibly. And the people who follow suffer.

But the leader who is anchored, the leader who is self-assured, and the leader who is self-aware has the opportunity to lead people well. Of course, this begs the question: Anchored to what? Self-assured about what? Self-aware in what way?

Scripture says about Believers that our souls are anchored in Christ. It says we are confident in Him. It declares that our identity is secure in His identity. These are fundamental truths for every follower of Christ.

Relating this to leadership, if a leader is organized and focused spiritually, then the foundation is laid to be transparent—deliberately; to put his life and leadership on the table for examination. Like Paul (and Jesus) say, “Imitate me.” Every one of us—including leaders—needs to be led in some way.

Leadership that begins with that transparency embraces the burden and beauty of leadership knowing that those who follow will do so with a sense of security.

We all imitate. Leaders have the opportunity to demonstrate what others will emulate.

Here is a transparent look into a leader’s life. He has gone to the trouble to write his experience down for our observation and imitation.