Jennifer L. Wright's Blog

There will be no Wellness Wednesday or History Friday post this week as I enjoy the long holiday weekend with my family. I pray you all have a blessed time with loved ones, celebrating all the “good and perfect gifts” that have “come from above” this year.

I am thankful for YOU!

Headstrong. Bull-headed. Strong-willed. Single-minded.

Take your pick. They all mean the same thing: Stubborn.

And I have been called them all.

Usually with a negative connotation.

Okay, I admit. Being stubborn isn’t usually something to boast about. Sometimes it can cause me to be a little too set in my ways, rigid even, unable or unwilling to see another side or take a different approach. I am fiercely protective of my routine, almost to a fault. Being stubborn is definitely one of those things with which I struggle; it’s a sin I need to daily surrender to God, asking His help to soften my heart against its own stiffness.

But…what if being stubborn isn’t all bad?

As mentioned above, I’m well aware of the ways my inflexibility can potentially hinders God’s work in my life. However, in others, I actually interpret it as an asset.

And it took a couple of equally as stubborn Jewish men, trapped in the bondage of Babylon, to help me see it.

In the Book of Daniel, we find the ancient Israelites in captivity, their kingdom having been overtaken by the Babylonians. Of these, a few select men–among them Daniel, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego–were given special privileges, places of honor beneath the king. The way they navigated being in the kingdom but not of it is especially fascinating, and I highly recommend reading it if you haven’t before. But, for our purposes, we are going to pick up in chapter three. King Nebuchadnezzar had erected a giant golden statue, with the directions that “as soon as you hear the sound of the horn, flute, zither, lyre, harp, pipe and all kinds of music, you must fall down and worship the image of gold that King Nebuchadnezzar has set up. Whoever does not fall down and worship will immediately be thrown into a blazing furnace.” (Daniel 3:5-6)

Talk about motivation, right? Not exactly authentic worship, but I’m pretty sure that wasn’t high on Nebuchadnezzar’s priorities.

But then, as now, there were tattle-tales.

“At this time some astrologers came forward and denounced the Jews…there are some Jews whom you have set over the affairs of the province of Babylon—Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego—who pay no attention to you, Your Majesty. They neither serve your gods nor worship the image of gold you have set up.” (Daniel 3: 8, 12)

And so, despite all the ways Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego had faithfully served him, “furious with rage, Nebuchadnezzar summoned Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego. So these men were brought before the king, and Nebuchadnezzar said to them, “Is it true, Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego, that you do not serve my gods or worship the image of gold I have set up?” (Daniel 3: 13-14) He then threatened the men, reminding them that “if you do not worship it, you will be thrown immediately into a blazing furnace. Then what god will be able to rescue you from my hand?” (Daniel 3:15b)

The chapter continues: “Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego replied to him, ‘King Nebuchadnezzar, we do not need to defend ourselves before you in this matter. If we are thrown into the blazing furnace, the God we serve is able to deliver us from it, and he will deliver us from Your Majesty’s hand. But even if he does not, we want you to know, Your Majesty, that we will not serve your gods or worship the image of gold you have set up.” (Daniel 3: 16-18)

Whenever I read this now-familiar story, I always wanted to pump my fist in triumph here. What courage! What gall! What absolute faith! Their statement was the equivalent of an Old Testament mic drop, and you can’t help but cheer for them.

But, reading this the other day, another realization struck me.

Yes, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego had courage. They gall. And they most certainly had faith.

But they also had stubbornness.

On the threat of being burned alive in a blazing furnace, they stood their ground. Eye to eye with a man who held the absolute power of life and death over them, they refused to bow, either to idols or to him. They were headstrong. Bull-headed. Strong-willed. Single-minded.

About their God.

Being stubborn is defined as “having or showing dogged determination not to change one’s attitude or position on something, especially in spite of good arguments or reasons to do so.”

And Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego certainly had no reason to expect God to intervene. After all, God had not prevented their exile or rescued them from forced slavery in the court of this arrogant king. It had been generations since the Israelites had last experienced a miracle. And yet still, these men remained steadfast–stubborn–in their faith. They truly believed God could and would rescue him. And, even more tellingly, if not, they resolved that they still would not worship a false idol.

No matter what their circumstances tried to tell them, they would not give up the faith.

And that is the kind of stubborn that elevates our relationship with God rather than hinders it. The resolve to trust God, believe Him, serve Him no matter what the world looks like around us? I would be proud to be called that kind of inflexible. In fact, it’s my goal.

So carry-on, fellow pigheaded friends. But let us seek to redirect our stubbornness not to ourselves, but to God.

He alone is worthy.

“Call me Ishmael.”

Chances are, even if you haven’t read it, you know the book from which this line is taken. Commonly known as one of the canonical Great American Novel, Moby Dick, which was first published in the United States on this day back in 1851, is the celebrated tale of quest of Ahab, captain of the whaling ship Pequod, told by the aforementioned Ishmael, as Ahab seeks vengeance against the giant white sperm whale that bit off his leg on the ship’s previous voyage. It was generally panned upon its release, not finding its audience or place in literary history until well after the author, Herman Melville’s, death in 1891. Nowadays, the work is celebrated, quoted, and parodied, with the term “white whale” becoming synonymous with an elusive dream.

But the white whale, tragically, was in fact very, very real.

The novel has become so encroached in American popular culture that many do not realize the story was based on the real-life–and horrifying–experience of the whaling ship Essex back in August of 1819.

The trouble for the ship began as soon as it left Nantucket on a whaling voyage that was supposed to last two and a half years. The 87-foot-long ship was hit by a squall that destroyed its topgallant sail and nearly sank it. Still, Captain George Pollard Jr., who was just 29 years old, managed to command the ship (and its 20-man crew) all the way to Cape Horn. Finding the waters off South America nearly fished out, they decided to sail for distant whaling grounds in the South Pacific, far from any shores. After restocking in the Galapagos Islands, the ship set off once again.

The decision turned out to be a prosperous one.By November 1820, over a year since they’d first set sail, the Essex had spent months in the South Pacific, harpooning whales with fervor, dreaming of the payday awaiting them upon their return home.

One particular morning, Captain Pollard, along with several other men, left the ship in one of several smaller whaleboat, intent on joining the day’s hunt. First Mate Owen Chase stayed behind to make repairs on the main vessel. It was Chase who first spotted a very big whale—85 feet in length, he estimated—lying quietly in the distance, its head facing the ship. Then, after two or three spouts, the giant made straight for the Essex, “coming down for us at great celerity,” Chase would recall—at about three knots. The whale smashed head-on into the ship with “such an appalling and tremendous jar, as nearly threw us all on our faces.”

The whale passed underneath the ship and began thrashing in the water. “I could distinctly see him smite his jaws together, as if distracted with rage and fury,” Chase recalled. Then the whale disappeared. The crew was addressing the hole in the ship and getting the pumps working when one man cried out, “Here he is—he is making for us again.” Chase spotted the whale, his head half out of water, bearing down at great speed—this time at six knots, Chase thought. This time it hit the bow directly under the cathead. Water rushed into the ship so fast, the only thing the crew could do was lower the boats and try fill them with navigational instruments, bread, water and supplies before the Essex turned over on its side.

Captain Pollard and the other men returned swiftly but, at this point, there was nothing they could do but watch helplessly as the Essex floundered. In all, there were three 20-foot boats with 20 men spread out between them. They calculated that the closest land was the Marquesas Islands and the Society Islands, and Pollard wanted to set off for them—but in one of the most ironic decisions in nautical history, Chase and the crew convinced him that those islands were peopled with cannibals and that the crew’s best chance for survival would be to sail south. The distance to land would be far greater, but they might catch the trade winds or be spotted by another whaling ship.

Upon setting out, they were challenged almost immediately. Saltwater saturated the salvaged bread, and the men began to dehydrate as they ate their daily rations. The sun was relentless and brutal. Pollard’s boat was attacked by a killer whale. They spotted land—Henderson Island—two weeks later, but it was barren. After another week the men began to run out of supplies. It was decided their best bet was to set out into open water once again. Three of the men, however, decided they’d rather take their chances on land than climb back into a boat. No one could blame them. And besides, it would stretch the provisions for the men in the boats.

By mid-December, after weeks at sea, the boats began to take on water, more whales menaced the men at night, and by January, the paltry rations began to take their toll. On Chase’s boat, one man went mad, stood up and demanded a dinner napkin and water, then fell into “most horrid and frightful convulsions” before perishing the next morning. “Humanity must shudder at the dreadful recital” of what came next, Chase wrote. The crew “separated limbs from his body, and cut all the flesh from the bones; after which, we opened the body, took out the heart, and then closed it again—sewed it up as decently as we could, and committed it to the sea.” They then roasted the man’s organs on a flat stone and ate them.

In avoiding cannibals, the men had become ones themselves.

Over the coming week, three more sailors died, and their bodies were cooked and eaten. One boat disappeared, and then Chase’s and Pollard’s boats lost sight of each other. The rations of human flesh did not last long, and the more the survivors ate, the hungrier they felt. On both boats the men became too weak to talk. The four men on Pollard’s boat reasoned that without more food, they would die. On February 6, 1821—nine weeks after the sinking of the Essex—it was proposed that the remaining men draw lots to determine who would be eaten next. The short end of the straw was drawn by Owen Coffin, the captain’s first cousin. And the man who drew the straw–Charles Ramsdell–was required to shoot him.

It was a horrific choice, but one the two men dispatched.

Thus, the survivors lived another day.

By February 18, after 89 days at sea, the last three men on Chase’s boat spotted a sail in the distance. After a frantic chase, they managed to catch the English ship Indian and were rescued.

Three hundred miles away, Pollard’s boat carried only its captain and Charles Ramsdell. They had only the bones of the last crewmen to perish, which they smashed on the bottom of the boat so that they could eat the marrow. Almost a week after Chase and his men had been rescued, a crewman aboard the American ship Dauphin spotted Pollard’s boat. Wretched and confused, Pollard and Ramsdell did not rejoice at their rescue, but simply turned to the bottom of their boat and stuffed bones into their pockets. Safely aboard the Dauphin, the two delirious men were seen “sucking the bones of their dead mess mates, which they were loath to part with.”

Years later, the third boat was discovered on Ducie Island; three skeletons were aboard. Miraculously, the three men who chose to stay on Henderson Island survived for nearly four months, mostly on shellfish and bird eggs, until an Australian ship rescued them.

The five Essex survivors were reunited in Valparaiso, where they recuperated before sailing back for Nantucket. Rumors of the ship’s ordeal soon spread like wildfire. Though the crew’s cannibalism was, for the most part, seen as acceptable given the dire circumstance, Owen Coffin’s mother never forgave Captain Pollard. Neither did Pollard, it seemed, forgive himself. Once a year, on the anniversary of the wreck of the Essex, he was said to have locked himself in his room and fasted in honor of his lost crewmen. Though he eventually returned to whaling, the wreck of his next ship, Two Brothers, upon a coral reef sealed his reputation as unlucky at sea.

He never sailed again, instead living out his remaining years on land, as Nantucket’s night watchman.

I have to admit: out of all the Gospel accounts, the one written by John is my least favorite.

As a Type-A person, I tend to gravitate to Luke’s account (an account he himself describes as “orderly”–my kind of writing!) But that’s not to say John’s is bad, by any means. It, as with all the others, has its merits, as each Gospel was written to a specific audience for a specific purpose. So, if you’re trying to draw a link between Jesus and the prophecies He fulfilled, John would be especially helpful. Yet, still, I struggle with it.

But one particular aspect of the Book of John always gave me a particular jolt: in it, John repeatedly refers to himself as “the disciple whom Jesus loved.” In fact, John uses the term five times when alluding to himself: when he and the others were reclining around the table with Jesus, discussing His eventual betrayal by one of the disciples (John 13:23); when John is standing at the foot of the cross with some of the women, watching Jesus’s agonizing death (John 19:26); when revealing to whom Mary told the news of the empty tomb (John 20:2); when the disciples saw the Risen Jesus from the boat (John 21:7); and when Jesus is restoring Peter (John 21:20).

Each time I read John’s Gospel, I wrestle with this terminology, trying to discern his rationale behind using it. The first few times, it made me chuckle, as I perceived a little bit of showmanship and arrogance. After all, this is the same disciple who just HAD to include the notation that he beat Peter to the tomb when the two of them ran there to investigate Mary’s report (John 20:4). Using the phrase “the disciple whom Jesus loved” seemed a bit of posturing, perhaps a way of elevating his status above the rest of Jesus’s followers. It made John seem both childish and endearingly human.

Another possibility for including this moniker was fear, a theory put forth by some biblical scholars. They believed John may have been afraid of reprisals during the rise of persecution that arose against Christians. This theory never made any sense to me as John, as opposed to all the other disciples, does not show the same level of fear towards authorities, as evidenced by his presence not only at the cross, but also at Jesus’s trial, where it is revealed he was known by the high priest and, as such, would have been easily recognizable (yet does not shrink away).

But, the last time I read John’s account, something else struck me:

Perhaps, just perhaps, John refers to himself as “the disciple whom Jesus loved” because that’s how he saw himself. No matter what sort of labels or names society or culture tried to put on him, John recognized his core identity as resting on the love Jesus had for him.

It wasn’t arrogance.

It wasn’t fear.

It was surrender.

No more was he a fisherman. No more was he a “son of thunder.” In Jesus, he had been changed from the inside out.

He was a disciple whom Jesus loved.

Oh, what confidence to be able to name yourself as such!

When I’m asked about who I am, I usually say “Oh, I’m a writer.” Or I’m a wife. Or I’m a mother. I very rarely, if ever, name my identity as it really is: a child of God.

One whom Jesus loves.

How much different would my life look if I did? How much different would I look?

So, yes, I still prefer Luke’s Gospel account. But the humble confidence in which John names himself in his has given me something to aspire to: to be so rooted and entrenched in Jesus’s love for me that it forms the core part of my identity. Because it does, whether I acknowledge it or not.

So, friend, go boldly into the world today with this reminder:

You are the one whom Jesus loves.

Okay, I know the subject of Halloween can be taboo in some Christian circles but, I have to admit, I love it.

I love the candy, the cute costumes, the pumpkins, caramel apples, and spooky stories. I love the coming together of our neighborhood when everyone sits out in their driveway and passes out goodies and greetings their neighbors. Most of all, though, I love the ministry opportunity, a chance to go out and meet the world at large on common terms. Every treat back I pass out comes with a reminder of Jesus’s love–whether that be a sticker, a pencil, or a toy. It changes every year. And, honestly, the what of the whole thing doesn’t matter. What does matter is that, inside that bag of candy, that child is going to see the name of Jesus and is going to read about how much He loves him/her. To me, that’s what Halloween is all about.

Plus, I REALLY love dressing up in costumes.

BUT, I get it. Halloween has, traditionally, been a day seeped in darkness. The tradition originated with the ancient Celtic festival of Samhain. It was usually celebrated from October 31 to November 1 to welcome in the harvest and usher in “the dark half of the year.” Celebrants believed that the barriers between the physical world and the spirit world break down during Samhain, allowing more interaction between humans and denizens of the Otherworld. Departed loved ones were expected – and welcomed – and the practice of setting out favorite foods for the dead may have originated as early as 2,000 years ago. Just as likely to show up, however, was the vengeful spirit of someone who you may have wrong, or even elves, fairies, sprites, or other “dark energies.” In order to deceive these unwanted spirits, people darkened their faces with ashes from the bonfires or wore masks. A living person would recognize the spirit of a loved one and could then reveal themselves but otherwise remain safe from the unwanted attention of darker forces.

Christianity soon began to spread through the area of modern-day Ireland and, in an attempt to “redeem” many of the prevalent pagan symbols, temples, festivals, legends, and religious iconography in order to ease the conversion process of the population (as I mentioned early–meeting the world on common ground!), Pope Gregory III moved the date of All Saint’s Day (All Hallows’ Day), which was a feast day to celebrate those saints who did not have a day of their own, from May 13 to November 1, coinciding with the festival of Samhain. Eventually, the night before All Hallows’ Day (October 31 or All Hallows’ Eve) became a night of vigil, prayer, and fasting in preparation for the next day when the saints were honored at a far tamer celebration.

The old ways did not completely die out, however. Bonfires were still lit – only now in honor of Christian heroes – and the turning of the seasons was still observed – only now to the glory of Christ. Many of the rituals which accompanied this new incarnation of the festival are unknown but by the 16th century, the practice of “souling” had become integral. The poor of the town or city would go about knocking on doors asking for a soul-cake (also known as a soul-mass-cake) in return for prayers. This practice is thought to have begun in response to the belief in purgatory where it was thought a soul lingered in torment unless elevated by prayer and, most often, money paid to the Church. After the Protestant Reformation, “souling” continued in Britain, only now the Protestant young and poor offered to pray for the people of the house and their loved ones instead of those in purgatory while Catholics continued the older tradition.

According to worldhistory.org, “in the 17th century, Guy Fawkes Day added a new component to the development of Halloween. On 5 November 1605, a group of dissident Catholics tried to assassinate the protestant King James I of Britain in an attempt known as the Gunpowder Plot. The attempt failed and one of the group, Guy Fawkes, was caught with the explosives beneath the House of Lords and, although he had co-conspirators, his name attached itself famously to the plot. Guy Fawkes Day was celebrated by the Protestants of Britain as a triumph over “popery”, and 5 November became an occasion for anti-Catholic sermons and vandalism of Catholic homes and businesses even though, officially, the government claimed it was a celebration of Providence sparing the king. On Guy Fawkes night, bonfires were lit and unpopular figures – most often the Pope – were hanged in effigy while people drank, feasted, and set off fireworks. Children and the poor would go house to house, often wearing masks, pushing an effigy of Guy Fawkes in a wheelbarrow and begging for money or treats while threatening vandalism if they were refused.”

As immigrants began to pour into America, they brought their traditions with them–including both Samhain and Guy Fawkes Day. Other folk legends soon became intwined with them, including the Irish folktale of Stingy Jack, a clever drunk and con man who fooled the devil into banning him from hell but, because of his sinful life, could not enter heaven. After his death, he roamed the world carrying a small lantern made of a turnip with a red-hot ember from hell inside to light his way. On All Hallows’ Eve, the Irish hollowed out turnips and carved them with faces, placing a candle inside, so that as they went about “souling” on the night when the veil between life and death was thinnest, they would be protected from spirits like Stingy Jack. Upon arrival in America, the Irish switched from turnips to pumpkins, as they were much easier to carve and carry.

By this point, the basics of modern-day Halloween were now in place: people going from house to house asking for sweet treats in the form of the soul-cakes and carrying jack-o’-lanterns. Though Guy Fawkes Day was no longer celebrated in the United States after the Revolutionary War, aspects of it remained, including vandalism, a fact that irritated a woman named Elizabeth Krebs from Hiawatha, Kansas. In 1913, tired of having her garden destroyed every October 31, she organized a party e in town, including a band, a costume contest, and a parade. It was her hope the festivities would give young people something else to do to rather than vandalize the neighborhood–and it worked.

News of her success traveled outside of Kansas to other towns and cities which adopted the same course and established Halloween parties which included costume contests, parades, music, food, dancing, and sweet treats accompanied by frightening decorations of ghosts and goblins. The practice of trick-or-treating followed closely behind.

Nowadays, though some people do still view the day as a celebration of the occult, Halloween has taken on a much more innocuous tone. It’s more about candy and costumes than any real belief in the supernatural.

So, if you’re like me and you happen to enjoy a bit of light-hearted fun on October 31 but often get chided for celebrating “the devil’s day,” simply smile and remind your naysayer that God is still on the throne and that means the devil doesn’t get a day.

Then adjust your mask and enjoy that Reese’s Cup.

I have a confession to make:

There is a person in my life I’m having a REALLY hard time forgiving.

I know all the Scriptures in my head.

“Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you” (Ephesians 4:32).

“Bearing with one another and, if one has a complaint against another, forgiving each other; as the Lord has forgiven you, so you also must forgive” (Colossians 3:13).

“Judge not, and you will not be judged; condemn not, and you will not be condemned; forgive, and you will be forgiven” (Luke 6:37).

And on…and on…and on. The Bible may be full of mysterious, but God’s stance on forgiveness isn’t one of them. He calls us to forgive, just as He has forgiven us.

But, sometimes, it’s just so hard. Especially when the person we are called to forgive is unrepentant or, perhaps, doesn’t even care about the hurt he/she has caused. Maybe the behavior is a pattern this person doesn’t view as an issue. Worse, he/she might even view you as the problem and not themselves. Or maybe the hurt just goes so deep that it’s come to define much of your life, affecting every aspect, and it’s become impossible to disentangle the hurt and bitterness you feel towards this person from who you are at your core.

Whatever the case, forgiveness is hard. Full stop.

But it’s also true that nothing is more wearying than un-forgiveness. Nothing is more burdensome. When God calls us to forgive, He isn’t telling us to do it for the other person’s benefit, although there are certainly rewards for them too; He calls you and I to do it for us. And I’m not talking about the trite, speaking the right words with no change of heart kind of forgiveness. That kind of forgiveness does nothing for our healing and can, in fact, do more harm than good. No, I’m talking about real forgiveness. The kind that doesn’t deny the hurt or wrongs done to us, but does not let us linger on them either. It’s the kind of forgiveness that involves trusting God with this person, this circumstance, and this pain.

It’s the kind of forgiveness that takes time.

You see, I think we look at the Bible’s command to forgive and think it should be an instantaneous thing. Like, just gritting our teeth and saying the words–even when we don’t feel them–should be enough to satisfy God’s call to obedience. But we have to remember that God desires our heart above all else, and rote compliance does not hold the kind of benefits God has in store for us when He commands us to forgive. We get the feeling that we should be like the words of Hebrews 8:12: “For I will forgive their wickedness and will remember their sins no more.”

For God, forgiveness is that fast, that instantaneous. It is what He desires for us. But He also recognizes the limitations of our sinful hearts and our broken flesh.

“Then Peter came up and said to him, “Lord, how often will my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? As many as seven times?” Jesus said to him, “I do not say to you seven times, but seventy-seven times” (Matthew 18:21-22).

I always assumed Jesus was talking about repeated sins against you here, that He was telling us to continue to forgive someone no matter how many times he/she sins against you. But what if He wasn’t? What if He was talking about just one sin—that one, huge hurt someone committed against you, the one you can’t get over–and He was telling us forgiveness needed to be a constant, almost daily surrender?

What if forgiveness wasn’t a one time act that didn’t quite reach into our heart, but a ceaseless relinquishing of the situation into God’s hands until it does?

The number seventy-seven isn’t an act science; it’s the number of completion. What if Jesus was telling us we needed to continue to forgive until it stuck, until we felt it?

Until God’s work on the subject matter inside our heart was complete?

So, no, I’m not quite at the place where I feel forgiveness towards this particular individual. I still struggle with bitterness, anger, and resentment. But, every day, I am committed to laying the situation at the feet of Jesus, asking for help forgiving, not necessarily for his/her sake but for my own.

So I can lay this burden down.

Not seven times. But seventy-seven.

On January 17, 1899, Italian immigrants Gabriele and Teresa Capone welcomed a baby boy in their newly adopted home city of New York. They named him Alphonse Gabriel Capone but to his friends–and later the world–he was simply known as Al.

Even from an early age, Al was trouble. Although he showed promise as a student, he had trouble with the rules at his strict parochial Catholic school. It came to head when, at age 14, he was expelled for hitting a female teacher in the face. Afterwards, he worked at odd jobs around Brooklyn, including a candy store and a bowling alley; he even scored a short stint as a professional baseball player. But everything changed when he met gangster Johnny Torrio, whose nickname was ‘The Fox,’ due to the man’s cunning and finesse.

Al had scored at job at a pub run by Paul Kelly, founder of the Five Points Gang, one of the most dominant gangs in New York at the time. It was here at the met Torrio, who had an impressive mind for running legitimate businesses supplemented by incomes from bookmaking, loan sharking, hijacking, prostitution, and opium trafficking. Al quickly came to view Torrio as his mentor, and Torrio eventually hired him to bartend at the Harvard Inn, a bar in the Coney Island section of Brooklyn owned by Torrio’s business associate, Frankie Yale, who also began to mentor the impressionable young man. It was during this time that, according to legend, Al inadvertently insulted a woman while working the door, and he was slashed with a knife three times on the left side of his face by her brother, Frank Galluccio; the wounds led to the nickname “Scarface.”

Al allegedly hated the moniker.

In 1919, Capone left New York City for Chicago at the invitation of Torrio, who was imported by crime boss James “Big Jim” Colosimo as an enforcer. Within a few years, Torrio was the head of an essentially Italian organized crime group that was the biggest in Chicago, with Capone as his right-hand man. In January 1925, while walking home from a shopping trip, Torrio was shot several times. After recovering, he effectively resigned and handed control to Al, aged 26, who became the new boss of an organization that took in illegal breweries and a transportation network that reached to Canada, with political and law-enforcement protection. Under his direction, the organization grew more violent; any establishment that refused to purchase liquor from Capone’s gang often got blown up, and as many as 100 people were killed in such bombings during the 1920s. He was also quick to snuff out any perceived rivals, the most famous of these attacks being the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre in 1929, during which four of Al’s gunman disguised themselves as police officers to initiate a “police raid”. The faux police lined the seven victims along a wall and signaled for accomplices armed with machine guns and shotguns. Photos of the slain victims shocked the public, and quickly moved Al up on law enforcement’s radar.

By 1930, Al was at the top of the F.B.I.’s “Most Wanted,” but he avoided long stints in jail until 1931 by bribing city officials, intimidating witnesses and maintaining various hideouts. There was one thing he couldn’t shake however:

Taxes.

Ninety-four years ago today, on October 8, 1931, Al Capone was convicted of tax evasion, an error of his own making. Back in 1930, Ralph, his brother and a gangster in his own right, was tried for tax evasion and spent the next 18 months in prison after being convicted. Seeking to avoid the same fate, Al ordered his lawyer to regularize his tax position, and although it was not done, his lawyer made crucial admissions when stating the income that Capone was willing to pay tax on for various years, admitting income of $100,000 for 1928 and 1929, for instance. Hence, without any investigation, the government had been given a letter from a lawyer acting for Capone conceding his large taxable income for certain years he had paid no tax on.

It was an open and shut case.

Al was sentenced to eleven years in prison and fined $50,000. He spent the first two years of his incarceration in a federal prison in Atlanta. After he was caught bribing guards, however, he was sent to the notorious island prison Alcatraz in 1934. Isolated there from the outside world, he could no longer wield his still considerable influence. Moreover, he began suffering from poor health. Capone had contracted syphilis as a young man, and he now suffered from neurosyphilis, causing dementia. After serving six-and-a-half years, Capone was released in 1939 to a mental hospital in Baltimore, where he remained for three years. His health rapidly declining, Capone lived out his last days in Miami with his wife.

He died of cardiac arrest on January 25, 1947.

I’ve always been a very independent, self-sufficient person.

I think a lot of it goes back to the way I was raised. While I’m not trying to throw anyone under the bus here, my mother was a product of the sixties, with its hyper-focus on the empowerment of women, and she coached me from an early age about “not needing a man.” Again, I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with a woman being able to stand on her own two feet, I also recognize my particular personality took this advice to the extreme (as it tends to do).

I wasn’t just NOT going to need a man; I wasn’t going to need anybody.

This was all well and good until, surprise surprise, I actually did end up falling in love. Not only did I fall in love, I fell in love with a military man…and I married him. Very quickly, life took me out of my comfort zone and into an arena where I was forced to need him. Moving to a foreign country, I left my job, my friends, my family, my independence. Suddenly, I was relying on my husband and his job for income, health care, social activities, and a whole host of other things; the military even referred to me as a “dependent,” a term which makes me shudder to this day.

While, outwardly, I eventually came to accept this new reality, inside I balked. The world could call me a dependent, but that didn’t mean I had to call myself that. My heart became fiercely rebellious, clinging to the lie that I would only be worthy, be safe, if I was independent. As you can imagine, this caused more than a few arguments within the confines of my marriage. My husband was just trying to love me.

Unfortunately, so was I.

I’d love to tell you that I’ve changed. That I’m a completely new person who no longer struggles with this issue. But that’s not true. The desire to be independent and self-sufficient is still a huge stumbling block in my life. But what I can tell you is:

I’m learning.

I’m learning that ‘I don’t need you’ is the language of a wounded heart.

Our needs express our vulnerability, our imperfections, our weaknesses. And that’s a scary thing to expose to the world. But, no matter how much we try to deny it or put on a mask, we have needs. Every single one of us. And they are needs we cannot meet all on our own. And that’s by design–God’s design.

You see, our God is a God of love. He Himself is love, and He created us to experience that love not only with Himself but with others. And one of the most authentic ways to know love is to have our needs meet. Beyond the physical, God is committed to, every day, answering our deepest needs–the need for attention, the need for acceptance, the need for security, the need for guidance, the need for protection, and the need for significance. He made us; He understands our craving for all of these things. So He provides them, always and forever, each day.

But sometimes He also provides them through other people.

Denying our needs is a form of self-protection, giving us the excuses we need to build walls that safeguard us from the risks of broken relationships. But, rather than protect us, those walls only serve to isolate us, stunting our growth and adding salt to the wounds we try so desperately to deny are even there.

Admitting we have needs is risky, no matter if we’re admitting it to God or another person. But I’m slowly learning that the reward is even greater. When I allow my needs to be meant, it satisfies me at the deepest level, producing peace, contentment, and–most importantly–healing. And, as wounds heal, it frees me to look outwardly rather than inwardly, toward the needs of others without resentment.

This is the beauty of love as God designed it: the end goal of being able to truly receive love is to give it back.

By allowing myself to need God and others, I am allowing myself to be loved.

And to give love in return.

When World War II came to an end in 1945, a pair of Allied peace conferences at Yalta and Potsdam convened to determine the fate of Germany’s territories. After much discussion, they decided to split the former Axis power into four “allied occupation zones”: The eastern part of the country went to the Soviet Union, while the western part went to the United States, Great Britain and (eventually) France. However, even though the German capital of Berlin was located entirely within the Soviet part of the country, they agreed to split the city as well into similar sectors. The Soviets took the eastern half, while the other Allies took the western. This four-way occupation of Berlin began in June 1945.

Unfortunately, it didn’t take long for the illusion of peace, desperately hoped for after the long, bloody years of war, to crumble. The stark differences between east and west, communism and capitalism, pushed under the rug in the pursuit of defeat of the Nazis, soon reared its ugly head again; taut tensions grew even thicker after the Soviets tested their first atomic weapon in August of 1949, confirming fears of espionage long held within the higher-ups of the United States.

The “War to End All Wars” had ended. But the “Cold War” was just beginning.

The very existence of West Berlin, a conspicuously capitalist city deep within communist East Germany, “stuck like a bone in the Soviet throat,” as Soviet leader Nikita Khrushchev put it. Relations at the border within the city were strained, often leading to violent altercations between soldiers and civilians. As conditions within the communist-held Eastern section deteriorated, refugees began to stream into the Western half. Estimates put the number of defectors at nearly 3 million between the years of 1948 and 1958.

It was an embarrassment to the Soviet Union; not only that, it was a security risk during times when nuclear war seemed not only possible but imminent. The communists had to act.

On August 12, 1961, Premier Khrushchev gave the East German government permission to stop the flow of emigrants by closing its border for good. In just two weeks, the East German army, police force and volunteer construction workers had completed a makeshift barbed wire and concrete block wall, an edifice that would soon become further fortified and known as the Berlin Wall.

Before the wall was built, Berliners on both sides of the city could move around fairly freely: They crossed the East-West border to work, to shop, to go to the theater and the movies. Trains and subway lines carried passengers back and forth. After the wall was built, it became impossible to get from East to West Berlin except through one of three checkpoints. Even the, except under special circumstances, travelers from East and West Berlin were rarely allowed across the border. Families were divided. Friendships were severed. Berlin became a city divided, and not just in an ideological sense.

During its tenuous history, 171 people were killed trying to get over, under, or around the Berlin Wall. However, more than 5,000 East Germans (including some 600 border guards) managed to cross the border by jumping out of windows adjacent to the wall, climbing over the barbed wire, flying in hot air balloons, crawling through the sewers and driving through unfortified parts of the wall at high speeds.

By the late 1980’s, however, the Cold War began to thaw across Europe as Soviet power began to wane. Facing mounting pressure, on November 9, 1989, an East German Communist Party spokesman announced a series of new policies regarding border crossings. In a twist of irony, however, this same spokesman declared the border open….when it actually wasn’t.

East Berliners, however, would not let their leaders backtrack. They flocked to border checkpoints, some chanting “Tor auf!” (“Open the gate!”). After several tense hours rife with confusion, guards finally began letting the crowds through, some 2 million in all, where West Berliners greeted them with flowers and champagne. Fearing the Soviets still might renegade on their word, people used hammers and picks to knock away chunks of the wall while cranes and bulldozers pulled down section after section.

The Berlin Wall was no more.

Shortly thereafter, talks between East and West German officials, joined by officials from the United States, Great Britain, France and the USSR, began to explore the possibility of reunification, an act with was made official 35 years ago today, on October 3, 1990.

I was re-watching ‘The Chosen’ a few days ago (it’s a fantastic show, by the way; if you haven’t checked it out, I highly recommend it!), and one particular line struck me. In season 4, episode 2, Matthew, one of Jesus’s disciples, is talking to Gauis, a Roman soldier. The two had previously worked together, with Gauis guarding Matthew when he was a tax collector for the empire. By this point, however, Matthew had left his old job–and his old life–to follow Jesus. The two haven’t seen each other in a long time and, after the usual small talk, Gauis responds to Matthew’s innocuous queries about his life by explaining that it’s “complicated” and maintaining that Matthew “wouldn’t understand.” In a moment of raw vulnerability, he admits, “I’m helpless.”

After a thoughtful moment, Matthew sighs and says that Gauis is probably right; he wouldn’t necessarily understand the pressures and intricacies of his life. And, even if he could, Matthew himself tends to over-complicate everything. However, he maintains, “my teacher? He makes life very simple. Every morning I wake up, my ideas and fears are jumbled. I feel overwhelmed with doubt and regret. But if I just pause for a moment and remember…I have only one thing to do today: Follow Him. The rest takes care of itself.”

What a beautiful picture. What a realistic picture.

Even as a long-time Christian, I wake up most days feeling overwhelmed. The pressures and worries of work and family life can sometimes feel heavy, not to mention the overall burden of just living in the world at large, with its injustice, poverty, violence, and evil. Add to this shame and regret over sins, both old and new, and Matthew’s early morning doubts and fears become very much my own. Much like Gauis, I, too, can be left feeling helpless, almost paralyzed with defeat.

All this before I even get out of bed.

But what if I–and you–approached the day like Matthew? What if we were able to push aside all of that negativity and remember that, no matter what our to-do list looks like, no matter our calendar, no matter our circumstance, there is only really one this we must do today?

Follow Him.

If we were to truly live this out, imagine how much lighter our burdens would be, how much more joyful even the most mundane of tasks. Because we would no longer have to sustain the pressure of it all being on our shoulders. We would no longer have to have everything figured out. And we would no longer feel alone.

There is something terrifying about surrendering control, but there is also something freeing. And that freedom comes from realizing the beautiful truth in the very thing many of us (myself included) have been trying to deny: “I have only one thing to do today: Follow Him. The rest takes care of itself.”

Just follow Him, friends. He will lead, guide, sustain, provide. More importantly, He will love and strengthen.

And then “the rest [will] take care of itself.”