Preston Gillham

There is a difference between wilting and withering. In the plant world, wilting is remedied with water. Withered is irreparable.

The concepts of wilting and withering carry forward into the world of the heart. Like plants, a wilting heart can be fixed. A withered heart isn’t exactly irreparable, but it is a serious matter. Proverbs says you must guard your heart diligently since it is the wellspring of life. That’s wise counsel.

Threats to our hearts abound, but no danger is riskier than that which threatens our dreams and quenches our heart’s desire. Although your heart’s dreams and desires might be ill-defined or lack articulation, deep in the recesses of your soul, your heart holds these tender treasures in trust.

Mismanagement of your heart’s dreams and desires is a bad plan. Initially, your heart wilts, but in time it will wither.

On one end of the mismanagement spectrum, the celebrity types famously flash their wilted-withered hearts on the front of numerous magazines (not to mention their music and movies). At the other end of the gamut are people who cram their heart, and all it contains, inside the bottle of their intellect and screw the lid of rationale on so tight no man can unscrew it.

Whether flaunting or repressing, fear drives the mismanagement of this deepest and dearest treasure called the heart. Initially, it wilts. But in time, the heart withers.

And what is fear? It is the belief that you can find yourself someplace where God is not.

Here is a story about fear, trust, and care for the heart.

Getting started is the hardest part. The passage from no momentum to having momentum is remarkably difficult, especially if initiating momentum signals that you are embracing a foreboding change. The greater the change, the harder it is to take the first step.

Even if the status quo is not working very well, or is completely bankrupt, change can be threatening. Familiar routines, habits, and predictable outcomes are appealing. In fact, many people opt for the familiar even though it is broken. Covey has noted that doing again today, what you did yesterday, while believing you will get a different outcome tomorrow is a form of insanity. I don’t think he literally means “insane,” but when you sit down to think about it, such behavior is irrational at best.

Everywhere I look there is change occurring in the Believing community, and not just a little bit. The changes occurring are disruptive. Disruptive change is change that is so fundamental that returning to the status quo will never occur.

While there are convulsive reactions to these spiritual changes, I believe the disruption is a good thing. In fact, I think it is quite possible the disruption in the status quo is being driven by God.

All the indicators point to stagnation inside the church. Anecdotally, committed Believers are longing for their faith to be more relevant in their daily lives and are frustrated that they are not finding the organized church more facilitative of this desire. The disruption has already begun.

God wants to take us to a new place—His place. He wants to refocus us. He wants to disrupt the abnormalcy of spiritual apathy and return us to what Nee called the normal Christian life—a life of heart-to-heart connection with God that disrupts the status quo and propels us toward our spiritual desire to walk with God in His light.

Sounds good, doesn’t it? It’s the first step that is the hardest.

And what does the first step look like?

It is a prayer: “Father, take me where you are going. Tell me about yourself. I want to walk in the light.”

Here is a story about a man who stepped into the light.

Envision two rivers: one is moderately fast, the other flows fast and furious. In both instances, envision yourself standing on the bank, studying the flow rate, weighing the risk of crossing to the other side, but knowing that if you opt to do nothing—to stay on your side of the river—you will die a pitiable death.

Crossing the river is a visual image conveying the disruption involved in changing.

The first river, the one with the moderate current, represents those changes that require you to adjust. Entering the river will most certainly change you, but in time, you will cope and manage, and regain your footing on the other side. You can see it, and can imagine what crossing will mean to you.

The second river, the torrent, represents disruptive change. Crossing this river will revolutionize your life, and this sounds really cool. The trick is, the revolution and its risks are uncertain. You can wade into the raging current, swim for all you’re worth, believe you will survive the experience, but there is no guarantee where you will land on the other side. Crossing could be ruinous or glorious. Your life will most certainly be transformed radically, so profoundly you will never be able to return to the status quo of the river bank where you stand now.

Staying where you are—on this side of the river—is an option, but a poor one. This side of the river is heart-degree dissatisfaction. Either quickly, or after a passage of time, you will suffer the loss of courage, possibility, honor, and determination. All these are things your soul needs to live a robust life.

This parable applies to all change. But with the portrayal of the second river, I’m specifically thinking about spiritual change. Revolution. Return to a fiery heart-disposition akin to your Heavenly Father’s fiery heart-passion.

God’s intent is evident, but there is a torrent between where you are and what can be. Where do you begin?

To read a story about the journey–and adventure–of crossing over, click here.

I want to introduce you to my new novel, “No Mercy,” and offer you this free copy to read, review, and share. The story is a sweeping adventure of life, love, trust, and desire.

Why are you receiving this link to the free e-book?

First, because I want to share my latest creation with you. And, I want to give you the freedom to share it with others.

I began writing No Mercy in 2003 to express some of the wisdom and insights that Father God has etched into my heart. Like “Hank,” the story’s main character, I doubted God. But over time, through persistence and care, God reached into the dark place where I lived and led me from darkness into light.

In 2008, I left my job and a certain future to write No Mercy and put on paper what I have discovered about living in the light.

Second, if you like what you read in the excerpt, a complete download of No Mercy is also available on my website–free.

If you prefer a hard copy, you can purchase a book here.

Third, if you like what you read, share it–share it until your heart is content. Please. Please forward this to an interested friend .

The option to live in the light—to walk in it and run in it—is only a step away. But the path needs some illumination. My best effort, in story form, is here, in “No Mercy.”

Again: Feel free to download No Mercy and share it generously. This is my gift—the dream of my life—to you and those surrounding you.

Enjoy reading, and like the main character “Hank” comes to understand, always remember!

It is important to note that I am swimming in details, not drowning. However, I’m tired of swimming.

The end of the ecommerce trail is in sight. Once this setup is completed, people will be able to securely purchase “No Mercy” at my website, PrestonGillham.com, and at Amazon. More on that in a week or so.

I’m going to be quiet on my blog for about a week, but here’s what I would ask you to discuss with Father for the next few days: “No Mercy” is about connecting with God, what goes wrong in the process, and how to remedy the relationship. It’s a story about the main character’s heart, and God’s heart, and the nature of that bond.

Stories of the heart are both written and comprehended by the heart. This is why I’m asking you to pray that prospective reader’s hearts will be prepared for the book and its story.

Pray for me along these lines: For the business details; they are very important. In addition, pray for my heart. With all the detail, I have not properly grieved the loss of my friend, Kevin—in my heart. I’ve also not properly celebrated my heart’s achievement in completing, “No Mercy.” These are high priorities.

Caring for these important components is integral to me being properly prepared for the release of “No Mercy” in a few days. It is tempting to keep pushing these to the back burner in favor of the “to do” list, but that is a bad plan. One devalues my friend and the other discounts my heart.

Thanks for praying. More in about a week. Bless you,

My friend Kevin died of cancer on Saturday, but he wasn’t just my friend. He had a lot of friends—praying friends—who are godly, righteous people. Certainly hundreds, if not several thousand, souls were imploring God to heal Kevin.

James writes, “The effective prayer of a righteous man can accomplish much” (5:16 b), which begs the question: Did Kevin not have any righteous people—or the requisite number of righteous people—praying for his healing?

A friend from another state called on Sunday to report that during their church service the pastor reported that “Sally’s” struggle against cancer was progressing toward victory. The cancer in her brain was gone and other, cancer indicators had declined by 50% over the last week. “Keep praying,” the pastor said. “Your prayers are working.”

Why are the righteous people praying for Sally experiencing success and the righteous people who prayed for Kevin suffering defeat?

Part of the answer lies in this: the definition of “accomplishes much,” from the James quotation. Someone we love, like Kevin, is diagnosed with a dread ill and we presume God wishes him healed. We pray, and we assemble teams of pray-ers, and we pray hard, fervent supplications for what we deem in Kevin’s best interest and our preference. At best, God will agree with us. More troubling, God is not paying attention to Kevin’s plight, but our prayers get His attention and healing occurs. Or…we conclude we are stuck with a God who doesn’t care, plays favorites, or is capricious. All are bad options.

What if accomplishing Kevin’s healing is not on God’s agenda? In other words, in His sovereignty, He knows healing Kevin is a bad plan.

We presume God agrees with our assessment, that healing is the right and best thing, and we effectively pray to that end. Then, when Kevin dies—and Sally lives—we question our fervor, our righteousness, and God’s fairness. When we are disappointed, we lapse easily into assuming we didn’t try hard enough, pray long enough, or assemble a formidable enough team to storm the gates of heaven and secure Kevin’s healing. Or, we are left with a God we would rather avoid.

And the devil has a field day in our disillusioned souls.

So why pray at all? If God is going to do what He’s going to do regardless of our prayers, no matter how effective, what’s the point?

At first glance, it would appear we should carefully define “accomplish much,” and once done, then pray successfully in agreement with God’s will and enjoy the control we derive by discerning the mind of God. I’m not buying that. When I pray like that it feels like I’m negotiating a real estate deal.

When confronted with Kevin’s cancer nine months ago, I went to my place of prayer: the streets in my neighborhood. I prayed, and said, “Father, what are you thinking?” I didn’t wait for His answer, but quickly got sidetracked by my shock and dismay and reverted to telling Father the outcome I desired with this bleak diagnosis. On this went: “Father, what are you thinking?”—but no break to let God answer, before—“Let me tell you what I’m thinking.”

I was persuasive. I asked for favors, pleaded for mercy, and bargained for healing. I hammered on the gates of heaven. I cried. I wailed. When I saw Kevin’s pain, I prayed more fervently.

You know what? This is typical, normal behavior for a friend who has gotten shocking, unpalatable news. It’s the rough equivalent of running around in a panic when the skillet on the stove catches fire.

Not long after Kevin’s diagnosis, my initial shock calmed, and I went to the streets and said, “Father, what are you thinking?” And then, I was quiet. I waited for His reply. Then, back and forth we went in dialogue about the concern at hand: Kevin’s health and the extenuating issues. This is the rough equivalent of realizing the skillet is on fire, gaining my wits, and managing the situation.

Here is my conviction regarding complex issues like cancer: Father wants us to tell Him what is on our mind. He wants to hear from us without edit. I believe He longs for an honest, forthright conversation with us. But take note: Conversation is a dialogue, not a monologue. If I do all the talking when God and I get together, we don’t get nearly as much accomplished as when we communicate.

I just hung up the phone from talking to my friend, WO. Man-to-man, friend-to-friend, adult-to-adult, WO and I discussed our loss with Kevin’s passing. Back and forth our conversation went: talk, listen; talk, listen. That’s how dialogue works. One way communication is called a sermon, or a lecture. For the most part, sermons and lectures are not very effective forms of communication. Interaction, on the other hand, is much more effective, meaningful, and powerful. This is what God desires. It is what we are equipped to do. It is what bonds us together.

Prayer is a dialogue. God, in Christ, made us righteous people so He could interface with us. The seizing of that reality affords us the effective ability to communicate with God. And make no mistake, that communication is a two-way street—a dialogue. This “accomplishes much.”

Our prayers regarding Kevin’s cancer were not in vain. How can visiting with God about a subject that is important, like Kevin, be considered pointless? Were you not inspired as you considered Kevin’s life? Were you not challenged to walk more closely with God as a result of discussing Kevin’s life with God and others? Are you not a better person after discussing Kevin with God?

I am, and in this way, my prayer did “accomplish much.” Effective prayer is not about Kevin or Sally or cancer or healing. The accomplishment is defined by God, and the only way to discover the definition, is to discuss it with God.

Do I miss Kevin? Terribly. Would I bring him back if I could? Not in a million years. Am I still discussing Kevin’s life and death with God in prayer? You better believe it.

Thank you for praying for me this week. The death of my friend—our friend—Kevin Walker, Walkit.org, is a monstrous loss. I told a friend today after lunch that there is no way to process Kevin’s life or death with our intellects.

If there was a recipe for greatness then we could bottle it and sell it. If greatness could be defined then we could study it. If greatness could be apprehended then we all could possess it. But there is no recipe, no definition, and no hand hold. Thinking about greatness is illusive. However, greatness can be recognized with the heart.

What made Kevin a great man? His intellect was an aspect of him. I knew him well, but he surprised me regularly with his incisive ability to assemble disparate pieces of information into keen wisdom.

He wasn’t short on emotion and didn’t hesitate to demonstrate what he was feeling. He cried, laughed, loved, touched, and talked readily. Having worked in Eastern Europe for years, I’m somewhat accustomed to being kissed on each cheek by men when they greet me there. But I never quite got over Kevin kissing me on the head and blessing me. The only other person who kisses me on the head and blesses me is God, and I haven’t gotten over that either, but Kevin helped me not resist Him.

Kevin was a good musician, a skillful player, a fine composer, and a gifted lyricist. He and Bobby Price won a Grammy, after all. He led worship like no one else I’ve ever encountered—and I’ve encountered a lot in my profession.

No. Kevin was all of these things, but he was—is—more. He was a man of heart who walked with God, whom he called Papa. This composite, this integration, this blending of all that was in him into an expression of his heart and God’s heart is a decent definition of Kevin. Add a streak of courage, a fiery tenacity, a resilient frame, and the description is closer.

The trouble with great men is that when they pass it catches us off guard. We are left with hard questions that roil inside us in a tumult.

One of the beauties in the passing of a great man is that it holds us accountable to manage what is in our soul versus going about our business as we are prone to do when other men pass from us. If we are not aware, denial of our loss can drown us in their wake. But riding the wave of their loss can wash us with what made them great and transport us to a new place.

Like you if you knew Kevin, I’m suffering my loss. In time, I will stabilize, but I don’t want to cling to a reef of expedient stability–like work, for example, or trite dismissals–in fear of engaging the grieving process.

No. It is not time to drop anchor or search the horizon for a safe harbor. Now is the time to cry for no apparent reason. To recall and laugh. To be quiet. To cling to my friends and bury my face in their necks. Now it is time to celebrate that my Father, in His wisdom, equipped me—and you—with the capacity to grieve and remember tenaciously that He promised to never leave me destitute.

As I do this, then I pay tribute to a great man, who in death created a current to transport me through life. My final words to Kevin were, “I love you. I’ll see you soon.” I thought that meant I would see him on Wednesday. Now, of course, I understand it meant I will see him shortly.

It’s Thursday night—probably Friday morning by the time you read this post. I was just sitting by the fire and thinking backward when it occurred to me that I should let you know what’s on my mind.

I fought a brutal battle against feeling insignificant for years–and have now written a book about it called, “No Mercy.” The battle over significance culminated on another cold night a few years ago while I was sitting on a curb, in my neighborhood, with my dog. It’s a story for another day, but I came to realize that evening that I was significant because my Heavenly Father chooses to spend time with me.

The victory came from space. Not outer space, but realizing that since no one else—not the dog that was sitting between my legs, nor my dear wife with whom I sleep—can occupy the same time and space that I do, I’m singular. These can be close, but they can’t be completely integrated into where I am.

Therefore, no one occupies the same place in time and space that I do…except for my Father, who lives in me. That makes me significant. Singular. Important. Noticed and valuable by virtue of the fact that God spends time alone with me.

He could be anywhere. Everywhere. And He is. But most importantly, He is in me, where I am, and no one else is there—can’t be—and that makes me singularly significant.

Like I said, it’s a story for another day.

Significance and recognition—the subject of my thoughts this cold night—are not synonyms. Father resolves my need to be significant by connecting with me, and with me alone, in my space and time and place.

But recognition is different. Of course, He recognizes, e.g. “Well done, good and faithful servant,” but I believe He intends for those around us to play a part in our recognition.

Herein is the problem. God is dependable and absolutely faithful, and I wish the same could be said for me. But I am human, fatally flawed, and undependable. When humanity is introduced into your equation, you should expect disappointment. Drag.

I need to be recognized. To be sure, I won’t die without it, but I will suffer without it. Analogously, I need to be touched, but I won’t die without it. Like my need to be touched, I need to be recognized, and while Father is sufficient to carry me forward with/without touch, He is sufficient to carry me forward with/without recognition. I believe this. I believe Him. So, I’m OK in the long run, but I feel vulnerable sitting snuggly by my fire.

It is tricky to manage this battle against recognition—to be noticed. It is not as clearly defined as the battle with significance. It comes down to what a friend of mine calls “keeping your own counsel.” From my experience, keeping my own counsel is like balancing the ingredients in a complex recipe. Get it right, it’s good. Get it wrong, you feed it to Fred (that’s our garbage disposal’s name). Fred lives large at our house.

There are those aspects of life that Father deems so important that He singularly takes care of them, e.g. significance. There are those aspects of life that Father partners with us to achieve, e.g. recognition.

Dianne (my wife) and I want to introduce you to a dear friend, Reny Madjarska, and ask you to join her in forming a Prayer Tribe to pray for us and my nearly-completed book, “No Mercy.”

Reny and I worked together for eleven years at Lifetime Guarantee Ministries. She is talented, trustworthy, and has a vibrant relationship with God.

Reny came to college at TCU from her home, Bulgaria, in 1994. She was an atheist, a card-carrying communist, and on a full scholarship in Economics. Our Heavenly Father pursued her, won her heart, and she became a follower of Jesus Christ. She has since earned a MATh, a MBA, and is currently the CFO of a financial services company in California.

“No Mercy” is a work of fiction. It’s about connecting with God, what goes wrong in the process, and how to remedy the relationship.

As Dianne and I discussed with Reny some of our challenges, she offered to assemble a tribe of people to pray. This is where I hope you enter the picture. Would you join the Prayer Tribe and pray?

As I share with Reny, she is going to write to you and post to my website, PrestonGillham.com, under the “Life” column. If you sign up by clicking this link, you’ll see “Join the Prayer Tribe” in the right column. Reny will keep you focused.

Reny has expressed concern that she, whose third language is English, is posting to a writer’s website. I have encouraged her that you are meeting to pray, not judge her writing.

So you’ll know, as Reny writes she will sign her name to her posts. If my name is on a post, it’s from me.

Thanks in advance for joining us. If you want, please pass this invitation along to others.

You will see “Join the Prayer Tribe” in the right column of PrestonGillham.com.

Bless you,

Preston

It’s Sunday night—probably Monday morning by the time you read this post. I was just sitting by the fire and thinking backward when it occurred to me that I should let you know what’s on my mind.

I fought a brutal battle against feeling insignificant for years. It culminated on another cold night a few years ago while I was sitting on a curb, in my neighborhood, with my dog. It’s a story for another day, but I came to realize that evening that I was significant because my Heavenly Father chooses to spend time with me.

The victory came from space. Not outer space, but realizing that since no one else—not the dog that was sitting between my legs, nor my dear wife with whom I sleep—can occupy the same time and space that I do, I’m singular. These can be close, but they can’t be completely integrated into where I am.

Therefore, no one occupies the same place in time and space that I do…except for my Father, who lives in me. That makes me significant. Singular. Important. Noticed and valuable by virtue of the fact that God spends time alone with me.

He could be anywhere. Everywhere. And He is. But most importantly, He is in me, where I am, and no one else is there—can’t be—and that makes me singularly significant.

Like I said, it’s a story for another day.

Significance and recognition—the subject of my thoughts this cold night—are not synonyms. Father resolves my need to be significant by connecting with me, and with me alone, in my space and time and place.

But recognition is different. Of course, He recognizes, e.g. “Well done, good and faithful servant,” but I believe He intends for those around us to play a part in our recognition.

Herein is the problem. God is dependable and absolutely faithful, and I wish the same could be said for me. But I am human, fatally flawed, and undependable. When humanity is introduced into your equation, you should expect disappointment. Drag.

I need to be recognized. To be sure, I won’t die without it, but I will suffer without it. Analogously, I need to be touched, but I won’t die without it. Like my need to be touched, I need to be recognized, and while Father is sufficient to carry me forward with/without touch, He is sufficient to carry me forward with/without recognition. I believe this. I believe Him. So, I’m OK in the long run, but I feel vulnerable sitting snuggly by my fire.

It is tricky to manage this battle against recognition—to be noticed. It is not as clearly defined as the battle with significance. It comes down to what a friend of mine calls “keeping your own counsel.” From my experience, keeping my own counsel is like balancing the ingredients in a complex recipe. Get it right, it’s good. Get it wrong, you feed it to Fred (that’s our garbage disposal’s name). Fred lives large at our house.

There are those aspects of life that Father deems so important that He singularly takes care of them, e.g. significance. There are those aspects of life that Father partners with us to achieve, e.g. recognition.