Chuck Carr's Blog

The mountain-top experiences of life excite, inspire, and renew us. Graduating from school, going on a dream vacation, getting accolades at work, or bringing home a bonus paycheck can make us feel wonderful and boost our confidence. When we stand on the mountaintops of life, we find great strength to accomplish bigger things, come up with new ideas, and produce some of our best work.

For me, one such mountain-top experience was the 2025 Write to Publish Conference in Wheaton, Illinois. Often dubbed as one of the best Christian writers conferences in the country, my second-time at the conference did not disappoint. With the intentions to learn everything I could, I also desired to meet with industry professionals and peers I’d not seen since 2023. Having missed being in the company of other writers, I was convinced seeing them again would encourage me. After all, they also chased the same dream I ran toward.

At the conference, I was blessed above my expectations. After learning from incredible instructors, I met, laughed with, and prayed together with my peers. I stood among those who’d made it as authors, those who had published many books and were getting their messages and stories out to readers.

The inspiration went deeper, as I had the chance to see the actual desks where J. R. R. Tolkien and C. S. Lewis wrote their books, and got to touch the famous wardrobe—imagining myself climbing into it and escaping to Narnia. At the Billy Graham Museum, I stood at one of the greatest evangelist’s pulpit as though it were my turn to speak. It was humbling. I prayed I’d also rise to share God’s good news.

The closing keynote was a bittersweet moment. Although I had had a great time, and the speaker did a phenomenal job sending us off with an encouraging word, it’s tough to do a conference with a brain injury. I had paced myself well but was physically worn. I missed my wife and kids and couldn’t wait to tell them stories from the conference. As much as I wanted to stay, I needed to leave. I couldn’t wait to dive into my writing and put everything into practice.

I was standing on a mountain top, and I didn’t want to come down.

A thought began to trouble me. I knew that the second I left the campus, the rest of the world was waiting to snatch away my inspiration, energy, and drive. Would I get support for my writing from those in my hometown as I had from conference attendees? Would I have the same undivided time to devote to my writing as I had enjoyed for the past four days? I’d been submersed in a writing culture where it was easy to be creative, disciplined, and focused. When I got home and household duties, busy schedules, and real life would take hold, would my passion for writing be the same?

I made the drive from Wheaton to my hometown, arriving at 4:00 a.m., and felt bamboozled. I took a shower and crawled in bed. Figuring on sleeping late, I anticipated waking up to nothing more than the opportunity to put the things I’d learned from the conference into practice. I would enjoy a steaming hot fresh cup of coffee in my office and start working with a full tank of writing inspiration. I would enjoy the writing life I desperately wanted to live. I would do what I am called to be.

Until . . .

Coming down from the mountain isn’t fun. And should it be? With all the expectation, energy, and glorification of going up mountain-top experiences, how could coming down from them be enjoyable?

I was unexpectedly woken up at 9:30 a.m. the next morning. After such a long drive the night before, four and a half hours of sleep felt like I’d only blinked my eyes. And although I didn’t feel refreshed, I figured, “How hard could starting to write be?” I’d grab a cup of coffee, go to my office, and the magic would surely continue.

With a brain that wouldn’t fully function, I stumbled downstairs and turned on the coffee maker. After the coffee perked, I took a hot cup to the office building my wife has termed as my “johnny hut” and struggled to get the doorknob to unlatch, only to see that a team of mice had called all their neighbors to party on my desk while I was gone. I grabbed disposable gloves, paper towels, and cleaning spray to sanitize my writing area. By the time I wiped everything down, set traps, and regrouped, my energy was depleted, and my injured brain felt overstimulated.

The coffee wasn’t great anymore, and the tank inside my soul seemed empty. I sat at a blank computer screen, with a blank mind, struggling to stay awake.

After reading a few emails, checking Facebook to see others’ conference photos, sulking in my bad mood, and wasting time, I headed for another cup of coffee. On the way to the house, I realized the once-well-worn path I had usually walked to and from my office was now hard to find. The grass was so overgrown that my normal walkway was tough to discern. Had it been that long since the lawn was mowed? I turned around and looked back at my office. How symbolic of not writing for a while, I mused. The path to my office has disappeared.

***

Although the details of coming down from my mountaintop may be different from others, we’ve all had similar let-downs. The highs of life are a lot of fun. Coming down from them are not. It makes me think of Moses, who in Exodus 24-31 had an incredible mountain-top experience with God. While spending forty days free from the distractions of the world—and in God’s presence—the Lord spoke to him, revealed his new plan, and gave him the tablets we know as the Ten Commandments.

My mind drifted. I imagined dwelling on a mountaintop with God for such a length of time.

But Moses’ mountain-top experience didn’t last forever either.  His anger burned when he discovered his people turning their hearts to a false god. I feel for Moses. No doubt he was ready to lead the Israelites into the goodness of what God had just revealed to him. Instead, the sweet communion with God, inspiration, and anointing quickly dissipated into intense frustration as Moses broke the tablets of stone and ground the idol to powder.

Moses had good reason to be angry, but if we aren’t careful when coming down from mountain-top experiences, we can become disillusioned, depressed, and dysfunctional. Isn’t that what our adversary desires? Just as in Moses’ example, Satan’s tactics are designed to keep us from God’s plan and stop our productivity.

Looking ahead, we have a hard question: what do we do in those difficult times? Is there some way we can recover from mountaintop descents?

Searching for answers, I opened my Bible to Exodus 33 and was inspired by Moses’ drastic actions. He took the tabernacle, pitched it far off from the camp, and gave it a name. “The Tabernacle of the Congregation,” was now the place where anyone who sought the Lord could get a little recharge.

The passage doesn’t tell us who else took Moses up on the offer, but it does say that he and his servant Joshua used it. In verse 9, the cloudy pillar came down and stood at the door of the tabernacle. The Lord talked with Moses. In what would otherwise seem like a moment of Moses’ despair, disheartenment, or disappointment, God spoke to him “face to face, as a man speaketh unto his friend.”[1]

I cannot think of a better way to recover from mountain-top mishaps.

We have moments when expectations don’t meet our reality. The world is often not ready for our ideas, our inspirations, or our enthusiasm. In moments that seem to crash down around us, it’s important to know that the same God who empowered us on top the mountain will also speak to us in the difficult moments at the bottom.

God did it with Moses, and He did it with me.

I encourage others to do the same. The next time discouragement from coming down from a mountain-top moment hits, get outside of the tough situation. Move from whatever the stressful “camp” looks like, set up a new home base, and spend some time with God.

Once this happens, it’s possible to stay atop the mountain. In fact, when communing with God, there won’t even be a need for the “mountain” anymore.

by Chuck Carr

[1] Exodus 33:11 KJV

Live moments. Don’t phone them.

 

Let me explain.

 

There are several reasons why I enjoy the movie “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty.”

 

First, I love to travel, and I doubt I’m alone. Does adrenaline rush through your veins at the idea of voyaging to remote landscapes and standing on lookouts overseeing the vastness of God’s creation? Do your tastebuds crave experiences of authentic foods you can’t find around home? Does meeting different cultures and finding out the intricacies of how they live as people groups excite you? This film has a lot of that, and it seems to feed my sense of travel and adventure. Second, I feel it’s important when I sit down and spend two hours of my time watching a film, that the producer has something to say.  I like that there are messages written in the backgrounds and tucked in strange places for viewers to pick up on if they’re quick enough.  Finally, I’m big on purpose.  I find movies with deep meaning and sentiment fulfilling and satisfying to watch.

 

It would come to no surprise that this film catches me in ways most others do not.  Specifically, during the scene when the character Sean O’Connell stalks a snow leopard and has opportunity to capture it on film, I seem to hold my breath and soak in what he says.

 

I won’t spoil his line, but I found myself doing the exact thing this past week.

 

It was a gorgeous, spring evening, and I decided to get some fresh air on the trail that meanders through our fields. When I made it to the top of the hill overlooking our house and farm, I gazed at the sun.  It was such a beautiful sight, and I decided to stop for a while.  I’m glad I did.

 

My artist eye took over.  I watched the way the sunlight and shadows interacted, dancing in places like the undersides of the growing wheat sheaths.  The sky was glowing pink around a bright, yet soothing sun—like it was bathing everything in a peace the day had not known until then.  The clouds turned purple.  Everything seemed to hush. 

 

And I remembered.  Nostalgia overtook me.

 

The mood of the moment brought back the days of my childhood when I had been in the same spot.  Instead of relishing it, I immediately took out my phone, snapped this picture, and began texting my siblings the thoughts swirling through my head: Do you remember when you were seven, and the music of the ice cream truck always seemed to play, and every summer evening seemed warm, and the sunsets were always wonderful, and the world was an easy place to—

 

Oddly, when I looked up at the sunset to gather my next thought, I realized that texting was distracting from what I was partaking of.  I was missing the beauty of what I had been so excited about when I did the cultural norm of whipping out my phone every time something significant occurs.  And so, after catching myself trapped in what I had hoped would never happen, I looked at my screen, pushed the backspace button, and deleted the whole text.  I put my phone in my pocket.  I resumed viewing the beauty of what God had made—seemingly for me.  I sang a worship song to Him.

 

And just like Sean O’Connell, I lived life.Crazy, isn’t it?

 

I tell this story so that you can do the same.  The concept behind “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty” is not my own, but I’ll gladly adapt it.  Far too many times we are living moments we never dreamed we would, only to clutter or distract ourselves with a device.  My suggestion?  Walk to a hilltop and watch a sunset in person.  Go outside at night and count the stars without an electronic device.  Walk the seashore and don’t expect to take Instagram by storm with your next selfie.  Eat the yummy dinner you paid for without snapping it.

 

Live the moments that make life grand.

 

But if you do take a photo, enjoy it later.

Just like this one.

 

By Chuck Carr

 

 

 

 

 

In times like these, it is good to know God is greater than our struggles, and He is in control.

I don’t feel alone admitting this has been a long winter, and it’s been a long time since I’ve posted.  Perhaps I’ll write more about it later, but my wife’s car accident, concussion, and many doctor and therapy appointments had put a halt to the normal creativity flow in our house.  I’m sure many others can testify that in moments like these our energy drifts toward survival and strays from imaginative or artistic things.

But we cannot—and should not—stay in a place of survival.

The good news is that you and I can lean on Jesus.  We can read the love letter He has given us and find out that in the end, our struggles are minuscule in the grand scheme of things.  Just like after a long winter—when the birds start to chirp, and the flowers begin to bloom—the last book of the Bible speaks of a glorious new beginning.  For those who trust in Jesus, we will enjoy a place of peace, beauty, and perfection alongside of Him—as God originally intended.

You and I have hope today, no matter what we are going through. He is rebirthing us. Rebuilding us. Reshaping us. 

And I’m glad. 

I’ve been made new.

by Chuck Carr

This post is long overdue.  I’m quite emotional about it, and it’s not possible to voice it properly.

 

Simply put, life is meant to be lived well.

 

We all have things in life we love to do.  Things that bring us enjoyment.  Things we are passionate about and like to share with others.  I love to be outdoors, and one of my favorite pastimes has always been cycling.  Some of my best memories are biking trips with our sons on the scenic, Pennsylvania Rails to Trails or the countryside around where we live.

 

But sometimes the unexpected in life happens, and even things we enjoy are stripped from us. 

 

When the things we love are gone, we can be left with a void, a scar, or confusion.

 

My 2018 accident and traumatic brain injury prevented me from biking.  I could no longer enjoy cycling with our kids.  It was a hard thing to accept.  Also difficult to acknowledge, was the decline of my health overall.  My doctor said I needed more cardiovascular activity, and it was very challenging to find a way to exercise in my condition.  I needed to be active.  I needed off the couch and out of the house. 

 

More importantly, I wanted to have a part of my life back. 

 

God is good, and so are the friends and people around me who care.  A buddy of mine pointed me toward the Challenged Athletes Foundation.  They help people like me reach goals, live life fully, and afford the equipment necessary to continue a healthy, athletic life despite physical shortcomings.  He figured a three-wheeled, recumbent bicycle would be a perfect way for me to get exercise despite my balance issues.  He helped me look into things and I applied for a CAF grant. 

 

Months later, when I discovered I was awarded one, I became weak to my knees and a tear of joy crept from my eye.  I shared the incredible news with my wife, family, and friends, and searched for a dealer.  After speaking with a salesperson over the phone about my balance issues, I decided on the model they recommended.  My excitement was building—I couldn’t get to the store and pick up the bike fast enough.  I wanted to be active.  I wanted to improve my cardio-vascular health.  More importantly, I wanted to have a part of my life back. 

 

I didn’t post this initially.  Brain injuries are a unique beast to wrestle with, and it took a while for me to learn how to ride the bike.  After a few months of trial and error, I’ve learned how to ride well, get some cardio exertion, and spend time with loved ones on closed-course trails.  I cannot tell you what this means to me.

 

I now am riding harder, pushing farther, and tracking miles.  I set goals and break them.  I find new trails and enjoy new adventures.  It’s healthy for my mind and body.

 

Sitting in my recumbent bike is like sitting in the seat of freedom.

 

I want to thank the Challenged Athletes Foundation, my medical doctor, and all those who helped make this possible.  Thanks for making a difference for me and the many others like me who also now have a story to tell.

 

Here’s to living life well.  I’ll see you on the trails.

 

Please share with me in the comments about how you are also living life well despite adversity. I’d love to hear!

Chuck Carr.

#TeamCAF

 For more information about Challenged Athletes Foundation, click this link.

 

 

 

 

 

It doesn’t take long to notice when a drought occurs.  Plants, animals, and people all suffer when the land becomes dry.  Everything changes when the rain shuts off as the availability of water is paramount.

 

Sometimes we feel like we’re going through other types of droughts in life—emotional, spiritual, and mental—and in these times we feel empty, worn, and depleted.  These moments are often accompanied by our lack of gumption, focus, and energy.  If our droughts get severe, the mere mention of “hope” can make us aware of how little hope we hold.

 

During my own drought, I worked diligently with my writing but struggled to catch a creative streak. I searched for inspiration yet had none for those who follow my page. When the droughts come and our internal well feels dry, there’s not much available to pass out to others.  I took a break from social media for this exact reason. 

 

And so, I needed to make some changes.  I’ve been intentional about my choices lately.  I’ve moved toward things that will bring me health, peace, and a closer relationship with Christ.  During prayer times, I’ve tried listening more than speaking.  I’ve spent time doing more of the things God desires and less things that just fill time.

 

As a result, God used a recent trip to the dry, rugged countryside of Texas and a visit with great friends and family to change my perspective. 

It’s quite ironic how God used a land which receives little rain to illustrate how I could be watered best even in the dryest times of life.  God met me once again.  Like a gentle, desert rain, He freshened me and my relationship with him.  I’ve been reading His Word more, and spending more time with Him in thought and prayer has changed me. He brought me back to the simple foundations of where He and I used to be. 

To be honest, it felt like a cool, refreshing drink on the hottest summer day. 

 

Looking back, I now see a beauty in the dry times of life—a beauty only God can create, cultivate, and nurture.  Life droughts are precious because they bring us closer to God.  The dry times of my life have taught me the most—because He and I walked the dry land together.  He gave me strength when I lost a spouse to cancer.  His Word became alive when I went through a divorce.  He brought me peace when nothing made sense during my accident and brain injury recovery.  I’ve seen God’s beauty in the droughts.  He’s always been there.  He provides fresh water.  I’ve been satisfied.

 

I challenge you to do the same.  In our dryest moments, we can turn to God and have the richest experiences.  The life-sustaining water He brings to the table is the purest, most refreshing kind.

 

Comment below how God has been closest to you during the droughts of your life.

 

Psalm 63:1

O God, you are my God; earnestly I seek you;

my soul thirsts for you;

my flesh faints for you,

as in a dry and weary land where there is no water.

Life is often much bigger than what we make it. To live only for ourselves is to cheat our own experience. To do something truly significant is to invest in someone else.

On Sunday, Oct 22, 2023, Mark Stuart invested in me.

You may know Mark Stuart from his earlier days as lead singer for the Christian rock band Audio Adrenaline. I was a Christian-music-loving teen in the 90’s, and I listened to Audio Adrenaline. In fact, I attended their Bloom tour when they came to Pittsburgh, Pa.

During that concert, I watched the band intently. Mark Stuart and Audio Adrenaline seemed to be something special. I was impressed and inspired with what I saw and heard on stage and remember singing their song “Big House” for weeks after the concert was over. Even today, I still listen to songs like “Mighty Good Leader,” “Get Down,” and “Some Kind of Zombie.”

However, on Oct 22, 2023, I was no longer a teenager. My wife and 45-year-old self attended a local church doing our best to haul a bunch of youth group teens to a Mac Powell show. Everybody else was already inside. I was late getting to my seat—with two coffees and water bottles in hand. I sat down, a bit dizzy from the commotion and over stimulation that so often fights my traumatic brain injury. I took a deep breath and looked at the stage.

I know that face!

I missed Mark Stuart’s introduction, but he didn’t need one. Though it had been years, I didn’t forget the face and voice of a band I had grown to love. He held my attention. I heard him speak.

Wait a minute. Is this the same Mark?

Somehow amidst my own storms in life, I had missed knowing the events of his.

He barely got his words out. His voice was scratchy, yet somehow reached a deep place inside me I had closed off to others. He explained losing his singing voice due to an incurable vocal disorder—and expressed the struggle and hardship that came with it—yet he proudly showed us his new mission in life was to be the “hands and feet of Jesus” to the children of Haiti.  He conveyed his drive and passion well. He was making a difference to countless children in need. I was stunned to hear what he was doing.

His testimony touched me.  He admitted being used more now with a broken voice than when he could sing.

A screen behind him flashed images of his work in Haiti. Personal ones. Incredible ones. His vocal cords struggled to speak the words, but his heart spoke clearly; he had my full attention. The room was silent; it seemed he had everyone’s attention. I’ve never seen someone pitching for help or relief or a cause like he did. It was different. Powerful. Real.

He didn’t need to prove anything to me. His voice was stronger broken than when I had seen him perform as a singer.

Intermission hit and the lights came on. He left the stage. I watched him walk. Something burned inside me; something compelled me to move. Typically, I am not a bold person. Mark Stuart is famous. Am I crazy?

In that moment, I knew I was supposed to meet him.

I have got to talk to Mark Stuart.

Without thought, I stood up, left my seat, and followed.

It was one of those meetings that only God could have planned.

(What an incredible Mac Powell acoustic show!)

The next day I sat in my office trying to process what had occurred. My mind felt numb as I tried to take in everything. To have such a meaningful and God-ordained moment left me wanting more. I took out my journal and jotted this down:

In God’s infinite ways of love and mercy, He knew I needed to hear what Mark Stuart could barely say. Yes, the concert was beautiful, and I thoroughly enjoyed hearing Mac Powell sing. But having Mark Stuart speak life into my broken soul that night was priceless—and I’ll never forget it.

Looking back, I remember explaining to Mark the quick details of my brain injury and my consequential losses. I confessed to him that they seemed too impossible to grieve and move past. I also knew God was using me more now in my broken state than He had in my pre-accident condition.

“But it still hurts sometimes,” I said. “And I still get hung up on what I used to enjoy.” I looked at Mark, found the courage, and flat out asked him: “I remember what I lost. I think about what I can’t do anymore. How do you keep your head in the game and keep doing what God called you to do?”

He put his hand on my shoulder and smiled. “I used to sing to eighty thousand people. Now, because of what I’m doing, eighty kids will eat tonight.”

It was super simplistic, but he was right. What he was doing in Haiti couldn’t be compared to what he had previously done. It was different. It was new.

“You gotta celebrate what God is doing with you right now,” Mark said, squeezing my shoulder a bit harder. “Besides, nobody wants a 55-year-old on stage singing ‘Big House.’”

Mark Stuart blessing me with a selfie.

I put my journal to the side. To have such a meaningful and God-ordained moment left me craving what God had next. I looked Mark Stuart up online. He had written a book, and I clicked.

The book came two days later. I tore the package open and dove in.

Admittingly, I’m a slow reader. I’m also a little behind schedule, as Losing My Voice to Find It came out from Thomas Nelson in 2019. It took me quite a while to read the documentary, but that’s partially because I have lived through many of the events he wrote about and wanted to savor the moments. I had been a 90’s teen, remember?

As Mark walked me through the memories, I went on a journey. In many ways, we walked it together. So much of my emotion, pain, agony, frustration, and resentment he not only identified with, but seemed to understand. Although the loss of his voice and my brain injury are very different, so many of his experiences were interchangeable with mine. Many days I scratch my head and wonder if people will ever understand my injury struggles. Mark Stuart does. Though he lived in a different town, in a different state, with different circumstances, the big picture remains the same.

God took Mark Stuart on an incredible road of discovery. I’m thankful, because the same God used Mark to help me walk mine as well.

Today, I finished his book. I quietly closed it, not sure if I’m ready to cry or shout for joy. This book may not be for everyone, but it certainly spoke to me. And if you were a 90’s teen or are someone sorting out a life that doesn’t make sense, this book will bless you as well.

Thank you, Mark Stuart. You didn’t cheat yourself from your own experience. You stuck through the hard stuff and are living for something bigger than yourself. Thank you for doing something significant.

Thank you for investing in me.

 

by Chuck Carr

Find out more about Mark Stuart, see what God’s doing with him, and order his book with this link:

https://www.markstuartmedia.com

My wife and I sat at the table with our kids. We were dying Easter eggs when the memory came to me. I dunked an egg and looked at my family. “When I was younger, we used to watch The Ten Commandments when it came on television.” I doubted any of our kids knew what I was talking about, so I turned to my wife and continued. “I liked that movie—we waited every year for it to come on. Did you watch it when you were little?”

With the memories now flooding my mind, I could picture how eager my siblings and I would be each Palm Sunday when the movie was broadcasted. “We waited all year, then tried to stay up and watch it.”

My wife nodded, but again, it seemed as though I was speaking a language our children couldn’t understand. I noted their confusion. Turning to our kids, I explained. “Back then, you couldn’t watch things whenever you wanted. You had to wait a whole year for the movie you wanted to be on TV. It was a big thing. You didn’t want to miss it.”

One of our children jumped into the conversation. “Why didn’t you just watch Prince of Egypt or something?”

I laughed. “Because I was born in the 1900’s.”

The comment made my wife laugh as well. “We both were. And The Prince of Egypt didn’t exist when we were little.” My wife grinned from ear to ear. “The Ten Commandments is an old movie.”

Our foreign exchange student began googling movies on her phone. “Prince of Egypt came out in 1998.”

My wife laughed again. “Exactly. We were adults when they came out.”

We continued coloring eggs and enjoying one another’s company, but my mind wandered further. I could picture Charlton Heston standing with the staff in his hand. I could remember the love triangle and power struggle that captivated the hearts of millions of viewers. I remember how old Moses looked when he was up on that hill at the end—the one time I made it to the end of the movie without falling asleep (author laughs at himself).

These memories also make me think of my childhood as a whole. Just like the movie, things were very simple back then. It leads me to my point—the very thing none of our children could understand—I lived in a time that people knew how to wait.

“You waited a whole year, Dad?”

Can you imagine asking someone in today’s Netflix/Amazon Prime culture to wait a whole year to watch a movie? More than that, remind them to be ready—because you cannot pause the movie for snack breaks. Their reaction would be comical, I’m sure.

Today’s culture expects nothing less than the instantaneous. We wait for nothing, and measure things by ease of access—which is now milliseconds. If Netflix or Amazon Prime doesn’t have what you’re looking for, we feel the world is coming to an end.

Yet things get worse.

The shortening of our attention spans has produced little positive effect. We do not know how to wait for anything anymore, and our demands reflect it. Drive through windows have been around for a while, yet now we frequent those who have “quicker” service—those who have mastered the ability to get your order out the window more efficiently than the competitor. I’m amazed when we don’t choose where we will eat based on taste, but speed.

Our short attention span has also changed the literary market. Moby Dick is a classic, written in a day and age when people enjoyed reading descriptive language. Back then, there were no televisions, and people read big words and engrossed themselves in lengthy depictions. Imaginations flourished and minds pictured the words on page. Herman Melville’s novel had a word count of a bit more than 209,000 words. On today’s shelves, most fiction books are less than half of that.

Social media targeting proves we have little time for anything other than our own specific interests. Targeting has become a science. Unless you are not on social media, you cannot avoid it. Advertisers invest where their dollars will most likely return. There is no excess. No waste. No waiting for customers.

Perhaps the most obvious and potentially dangerous example I can think of is the current trend in kids’ movies and YouTube videos. These movies, clips, and videos intensify the craving for constant action. There is little time for the viewer to rest between scenes of rapid movement. If you pay attention to YouTube influencers, they do not breathe between words and phrases. By intentional editing, almost heart-poundingly fast content is produced for things that are by themselves, not all that exciting. This produces clicks. Views. Revenue. We are creating a climate for the next generation to be driven by adrenaline.

We stop at red lights, yet multitask. We cram every second of our day clear full. We are a microwaving, short cut taking, GPS navigating, artificial-intelligence-homework-assignment-using society.

But I know how to wait.

In fact, I sometimes enjoy waiting.

My generation could wait on a fish to bite your bait, stand in line for a rollercoaster, watch a deer come out of the woods, wait for spring to bloom from a long winter, and plan on watching The Ten Commandments on Palm Sunday. I don’t think waiting hurts anyone. I might sound crazy by today’s standards, but I believe waiting produces a finer person. Waiting for something lets you appreciate things. It teaches you to value what you wait for. It develops you into a person who is punctual and dependable when the time is right to enjoy something.

Waiting makes things special.

Someone once said, “good things come to those who wait.” As I muse that expression, I realize Easter is nearing. It is the time of year we celebrate victory, salvation, hope, rebirth, and renewal. I love Easter. In our house, we celebrate Good Friday because the death of Jesus Christ satisfied the penalty for our sins. We celebrate Easter Sunday because the resurrection of Christ from the dead—and the victory he won over death—brings us the hope of a glorious future. Christ’s resurrection is the single greatest event in the history of humankind.

And so, I think. Deeply. Even Jesus had to wait. His body lay in the grave for three days. Forgive my mind for wondering, but I imagine it would be painstakingly hard to wait that long for such an incredible event to occur. Yet He did. All for a reason. He had a plan. He fulfilled scripture. For you. For me.

He waited.

Even Jesus waited.

 

 

 

 

By Chuck Carr

Benjamin Franklin is quoted as saying, “Tell me and I forget, teach me and I may remember, involve me and I learn.” If we’re honest with ourselves, we can testify to the truth of his statement. A good mentor is a priceless gift.

I’ve heard my own mouth say it many times. “Everyone needs a mentor.” I’ve preached the notion to others. “Get a mentor! Find someone you trust. Someone who’s doing what you want to do. Someone who already is what you want to become.” Doing so only makes sense, and I’ve taken my own advice many times.

I’ve had several mentors.

Even from a young age, I’ve been skilled at drawing. With the desire to expand my abilities, I studied watercolor painting under a fantastic teacher in high school named Mr. Good. I would eat my lunch quickly so I could spend my time in his art room. He was happy to teach me one-on-one, and I learned watercolor techniques I never would have learned except for his time and effort. I still have the paintings I worked on while he taught me. I’ll forever be thankful for his instruction.

A watercolor painting I did under Mr. Good’s instruction.

After graduation I attended the New Kensington campus of Penn State University and became an art major. It only took a moment after meeting my professor, Bud Gibbons, for my creativity to spark. I saw his work and ideas instantly formed in my mind. He painted with a style I’d never seen before. What could I do if I learned from him? What if I painted large scale, too?

Art Professor Bud Gibbons

I had no clue what I was doing, but I studied what Bud did. I learned because I hungered to know the craft. I admired him and took his classes. My spare time was spent in the art department. It wasn’t long before I found myself working on a large-scale painting of my own and my instructor took me under his wing. He let me paint in his section of the studio because it was the only place spacious enough for a large canvas to hang. I remember vividly how he involved me in the style of art I wanted to discover. Bud Gibbons wasn’t just teaching me. Through his help, art became alive inside of me. He put a brush in my hand inspired me to use it. He helped me line up my first solo-artist show. My art spoke to people as painting became a language I understood. I’ll forever be grateful for his investment in me.

“Lake Erie Glow” by Chuck Carr. Acrylic Painting.

Painted with techniques learned from Professor Bud Gibbons.

By this time in my life, there was no doubt the value my mentors had to me and the idea of having a mentor was solidified as one of my core values. My Christian faith was another, and so I put the concept of mentorship into this area of life as well—I knew I needed a spiritual mentor.

In many references, the Bible tells us about people who looked to others for guidance on the spiritual journey they walked. Most notably were the twelve disciples who called Jesus their rabbi. They learned from him, and we benefit from what they gained thousands of years later. I think about Peter. He went from a defeated man denying his Lord three times to a powerful witness of Christ’s love and forgiveness. Jesus knew Peter. Through Jesus’ mentorship, Peter was called higher with perfect words and a challenge: “Feed my sheep.”

When I began seeking council from a spiritual mentor, I found it to be a lifeline. For the last twenty years, my spiritual mentor has been there to help me through the highs and lows of life. He’s a very humble man, but his help through the years was solid and dependable. There were times when he gently slapped sense into me. There were times he cried with me. Times he rejoiced with me. I’m shaped because of his instruction. He never tried to make me a version of himself but a closer version of Jesus. It was always about my relationship with Christ. Instead of simply stuffing me with answers, he involved me in the Christian faith. Lately, I’ve caught myself teaching what I’ve learned from him to others. I’ll always appreciate what he’s done for me. I will never be the same.

Things don’t always go the way we think or plan, however. My accident in 2018 took much of what I knew about life and radically changed it. When I had my traumatic brain injury, art stopped. In fact, I didn’t know if there’d ever be any more expression of any kind, let alone painting.

It took a long time for me to see how I could still use creativity and express ideas during recovery. My wife was paramount to show me that writing was an option—a way I could paint with words.

God is always faithful. Somehow, someway—when all I did was show up and put my foot out for the next step—He orchestrated a unique opportunity for me. It was a blessing I couldn’t believe. A gift I needed but didn’t deserve.

Author Cecil Murphey is now another mentor of mine. We have a special relationship and I’m in his protégé program. For those who may not know Cecil, he’s written 140 books including 90 Minutes in Heaven and Gifted Hands: The Ben Carson Story. He coaches me on my writing and sometimes on life. I’ve never known anyone like Cec. He doesn’t give me answers. He doesn’t do the work for me. Instead, he somehow pulls the work out of me, involving me in the process, letting me discover things for myself. Some people may wonder why I haven’t published a book lately. It is because writing school is in session, and I’m learning from a legend. Cecil is not only teaching me writing, but why one writes.

And I need that.

Author Cecil Murphey

Two of Cecil’s books.

A wise person will look around, seeking those who have already accomplished what he or she aspires to do. I don’t boast to be wise, but by God’s grace Cecil and I were lined up together. I am beyond thankful.

I challenge you.

What is it you aspire to do? What is it the Lord has asked of you? Is there someone around you who is already doing it? Look to that person. Connect with them. Let them shape you, form you, and develop you—not as a copy of themselves, but a refinement of what God desires you to be.

Have you made it, already becoming what you aspired to be? Please, don’t stop there. To those who have accomplished what your heart set out to achieve, I challenge you also. Is there someone out there who could benefit from your mentorship? Look around. Who’s eyes do you see looking your way? What greater legacy can you have with someone than by involving them, refining them in the gift or ability they desire?

Mentoring is a priceless gift that gives both ways.

Everyone benefits from mentorship. Everyone grows, learns, and discovers.

Embrace the value of mentorship today.

 

Social media is not real. Maybe you’re strong enough to withstand seeing a constant barrage of perfection online, but I’m not. I live in a real world—one with problems, struggles, and unmet expectations. Sometimes, when scrolling through my feed, seeing too much of a fake world bothers me.

 

Are all these people perfect?

 

And truth be told, we all want to have the best life possible, don’t we? Who wouldn’t want perfect relationships, romantic love without end, a sailboat, incredible vacations, a beautiful wife greeting you with morning coffee, a husband with the perfect job, or kids with sports trophies in hand?

 

The question is, what happens to us when online viewing doesn’t match real life?

 

What if we don’t have the Instagram house, relationships, figure, or wallet?

 

Do all those things exist?

 

The social media reel drives us even further. We don’t treasure the aspects of life we already possess for what they are. Each day we have blessings in our life—good things, things we should be thankful for. But when we line them up against the measuring stick of social media, we feel they aren’t worthy of our appreciation or gratitude.

If we truly appreciated the good things in our lives for what they are, our back pockets would be full of memories and hearts would be swelling with glass bottle moments—that’s what I call the special things in life. I love glass bottle moments. When one happens, I smile, mention it to my wife so she can enjoy the moment with me, then tell her I’m putting it in my glass bottle.

 

My bottle is full of precious memories.

 

But how many times do we skip the glass bottle and run right to our phones? Especially if it is a moment that can gain us recognition, likes, or followers on the social scene?

 

Social media is not real, is it?

 

Yet we scroll. It is a driving force, a cycle that never ends. We see what we want to become, achieve, and aspire to—then get sad, thinking we can never reach these things. It bothers us. Even if we don’t admit it.

 

We long for something more.

 

I saw a quote by Kate Hewitt on Goodreads. She said, “What consumes your mind controls your life.” This is certainly the case for those caught in the social media trap.

 

Here is a secret to bail you out:

 

Change what your mind is focusing on.

 

I’ll admit it. I am not the perfect social image I see in others online. I have faults. I struggle to learn, grow, and mature into something who closer resembles what I want to be. I don’t have a sailboat. I cannot afford the vacation I want. There are days that I wish for more. I have a dad body now. I cannot wow my wife any longer by flexing my biceps (author smiles, as he never could). But ultimately, I’m slowly figuring out something more valuable.

 

Romans 8:38-39 ESV says this: For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.

 

I’m learning, day by day, that there is One who cares infinitely more for me than I do for myself.

 

I’m learning, day by day, that there are meaningful and real things all around me because of Him.

 

I’m learning, day by day, that the social media lie does nothing for me.

 

I’m learning, day by day, that I am a child of God—and that means more than a like on any post.

 

I know this is going to clash against every cultural norm we have accepted as truth, but I’m going to state a radical concept anyhow. I hope those who need it can soak it in and heal.

 

Being accepted, favored, liked, loved, saved by, adopted, and chosen by God is far better than a million followers on Instagram.

 

And despite my lack as the perfect social image, I’ll take what God thinks about me any day.

 

 

 

By Chuck Carr.

 

Sometimes things are not explainable. We scratch our heads till our brains are sore, yet we don’t get it—and we may never understand. Sometimes the Lord simply blesses us with a gift that just can’t fit into a package making sense. And so, all we can do is smile, and tell the story. I’m a storyteller. Here’s my story.

 

This summer was bittersweet. Anniversaries can be hard. Last month my family faced the intersection of two big events. In one hand, we were sharing the joy of our middle son graduating high school. In the other, July 20th marked 15 years since my first wife and mother of two of our children had passed away.

 

It was a hard crossroads to stand on. Grief is like that. It never goes away, lingering a trail you walk forever.

 

Yet the Lord is good. And He dots flowers on that trail.

 

Speaking of flowers, my first wife, Becca, loved to plant them. She planted flowers all around the house. I don’t remember the names of the flowers she planted—I maybe never knew them—but there was a lot of color when she was done planting, and it brought a smile to her face.

 

A favorite of hers was the sunflower. She had a flowerbed alongside the house specifically for sunflowers. It was nice to pull the car up and be welcomed by the bright yellow summertime faces. I loved them too. She began decorating the house with sunflowers. Our bathroom became a sunflower room with shower curtain, soap pumps, and framed photos of her flowers.

 

When she died, the sunflower oddly became synonymous with her in ways. An icon of ironic beauty. The saddest, most beautiful flower of the summer.

 

15 years is a short, long time. As the years went on, so did boy’s interests. They became heavily involved in racing, plunging into the sport of motocross. Weekends meant races. Weekdays meant prepping for races. A natural progression occurred as we modified things around the house to make racing and practicing easier.

 

And one day, I came home to a construction zone.

 

The two older boys had a skid loader in the driveway. They had removed the flowerbed before I could stop them. “Dad, we’re making a bike washing station.” They thought it was important. I thought it was ridiculous. A rubber mat was installed. Concrete blocks lined the area where the bikes would be pressure washed. An outdoor, weatherproof electric outlet was wired. It was intense.

 

And for years, bikes were washed where flowers once grew.

 

But as time neared the crossroads of the graduation party and the 15-year anniversary, a curious thing was happening.

 

Could it be?

 

Sometimes things are not explainable. We scratch our heads till our brains are sore, yet we don’t get it—and we may never understand. Sometimes the Lord simply blesses us with a gift that just can’t fit into a package making sense. And so, all we can do is smile, and tell the story.

 

Getting ready for a graduation party is hard work. There is a lot to do and a lot to be done. It was late. Dark. I was outside wondering what else needed attention. And when I spun around, its bloom about knocked me over. What? How? I did a double take, then looked over the railing to see how it could possibly have grown. The sunflower stalk had grown up through the hole of a concrete block. Who would have ever thought?

 

Yet the Lord is good. And He dots flowers on that trail.

 

It has been 15 years since Becca has been here with us. She hasn’t planted sunflowers in that spot for at least 17 years. And yet there I was, standing in the dark, looking square in the face of one of her flowers. A miracle? A gift from God? It blew me away like a hurricane, then left me speechless to how good the Lord is to us.

 

I called the kids. Faerie, my current wife, came out to take some pics. It was a special moment. One nobody could believe.

 

And God didn’t stop there. The graduation party happened. Our son had a blast. It was everything we wanted for him—and everything his mom would have wanted for him, too. And somehow, in some way I have no idea how to explain, it felt like she was able to partake in it. Crazy, I know. But while everyone was talking, telling stories, and reuniting after years of not seeing each other, there was a sunflower standing at the end of the porch, at the head of the table, watching it all.

 

And I stopped to enjoy it. It made me smile. Because if nothing else, her flower got to watch.

 

Grief is like that. God walks you through the trail. Dotting flowers along the way.

 

He’s certainly walking me on mine.

 

 

 

By Chuck Carr