Would Jesus tweet?

If Jesus was wandering around earth with a Smartphone, I wonder what He would do?

Would He check in to a location so people could stop by?

Would He Google the local wedding announcements and crash the celebration?

Would He download an app to keep track of his disciples?

Would He tweet?

And if He did tweet, what kind of things would He say in 140 characters or less?

Way excited. So hungry. Dinner @ Martha’s.

Come by Mt today. Sermon 4 u will b gr8.

Love your neighbor as yourself – #importanttruths

Flashmob at 12:30. Bring own loaves and fish.

Yeah…. I’m with you.

Can’t really see it.

In fact, I wonder if Jesus chose the timeframe that He did so He could avoid all the techno stuff.  I can almost imagine the heavenly dilemma as He weighed out being born in a manger versus coming up with a clever Facebook status…

Hands down, He went with the feed trough.

I get that.

But I also get that Jesus calls some of us to the techno world. So while Jesus may have chosen not to tweet, I sense his smile as He’s asked me to pick it up—if only to entertain him as I try to compact profound spiritual truth into five words or less.

So there you have it. If you’d like to join me for the ride, and “follow” (Yes, I use that word very loosely), my twitter account is @elsakokcolopy. Oh, and if you have any recommendations of other folks I can learn from and follow, leave your suggestion in the comment section.

What’s with the naked people?

I promise, I don’t seek out naked people.

They just seem to follow me around.

Let me explain. When Brian and I went on our honeymoon to St. Maarten, we inadvertently stumbled onto a nude beach for senior citizens. At first, we were confused. Is that a skin colored bathing suit? Or is that… oh my…. oh goodness!


We quickly came to the same conclusion: Some wrinkles should not be made available to the viewing public.

On this last trip to the Caribbean, we were far more prepared. We researched the area, checked out the hotel. All looked good. So after a week with my side of the family, we took a taxi to a remote getaway on the other side of the island. We were planning to celebrate our five-year wedding anniversary.

On our way over, the taxi guy caught our eyes in the rear view mirror. In a thick Caribbean accent, he asked, “So are ya goin’ to check out the Bomba Shack?”

“The Bomba Shack?”

“Ya, it’s just down the street from your hotel. You sip on da mushroom tea and fly as high as a kite.” He laughed, “Many a young lady has lost her bra and panties after just a few sips.”

I looked at Brian. Brian looked at me.

I wrapped my arms around my all important clothing items.

“I’ll be avoidin’ the mushroom tea then.” I said in my best Caribbean accent.

My husband nodded firmly.

The taxi man laughed.

Our second day in, we took a walk around the neighborhood. We came across the  Bomba Shack, thankfully during daylight hours. It was less than a shack, really. Just a deck with an occasional piling and teetering lumber holding up half a roof. It had advertisements for their full moon party to take place that very night. Various makes and models and sizes of panties adorned what remained of the walls.

A little later in the day, two of our elderly neighbors at the hotel had a wee bit too much rum. They were in the water, frolicking away. Brian and I were about to go outside and sit by the water when I noticed something floating beside the two women.


It was a bathing suit.

Now, I have nothing against naked.  I’m a firm believer in enjoying a good naked in the right marital circumstance.

What doesn’t sound good is the rum-induced, stumbling, toss-your-bathing-suit kind of naked. Or the drink mushroom tea, use-panties-to-decorate-a-plank kind of naked.

The sad thing is that the elderly skinny-dipping women from our hotel, friends on a vacation together, couldn’t look us in the eye the next day. They were more than a little embarrassed by their revealing game of Marco Polo.

And I can’t imagine that the ladies who plastered their panties in the Bomba Shack put that venture very high on their lifetime list of accomplishments either.

Maybe I’m a stick in the mud, an old fashioned girl without a clue. Or maybe I’m just a woman who has walked through some broken places too, a woman who has some regrets of her own. Oh, not that my panties are hanging around any Caribbean shacks – but there are certainly times in my life when I was ashamed to look people in the eye the next day.

No holier than thou here…

This kind of thing has been on my brain a lot lately. I recently finished a purity book and I’ve been getting more and more of a feel for God’s heart on the whole topic. How He loves, protects and longs for us to be free of shame. How places like the Bomba Shack may bring laughs for the moment, but usually bring that gut feeling of “yuck” in the morning. How God wants to protect us from that. How He loves and honors our bodies and hates for us to wear shame as our clothing of choice.

It’s not about uptight rules and clasped hands of holiness. It’s about fierce love, a love that longs to protect us from that kind of pain and embarrassment.

So here I am, back home after our adventure. And thanks to God’s love and goodness, I returned with my panties intact, a happy hubby and a clean conscience.

Now that’s a good time.

Don’t fear the mountain goat…

As I write, my man is on snowshoes in the middle of the wilderness.

It’s my personal opinion that if God wanted us to climb in the snow, He would have equipped us with lots of fur and very large feet.


Now it’s not that I’m a worrier. Let’s just say that I proactively take the time to envision any potential outcome and in a slightly obsessive way, process the dangers.

Ummm, that's really, really high honey.

Like the possibility that a mountain goat will barrel across the mountain and eat my husband.

Or the distinct danger of a snowshoe malfunction and the love of my life sinking 20 feet into a snowdrift.

Or the fear of important body parts freezing and falling off at the most inopportune moments.

And OK, yes, there are the occasional visions of avalanches, crevasses and cliffs, complicated by mountain lions, bears and rabid squirrels.

You get the idea.

Of course I didn’t mention any of these wayward thoughts to my man when he got up at 4:15 a.m. to go climb a 14,000 foot mountain on this snowy May morning. I just kissed him and wished him a wonderful hike and fervently began to pray.

I get it. He’s a guy. He needs a little risk. But I also confess that part of me wishes he’d taken up chess or golf. I mean, there’s certainly an element of risk in pro chess playing (chair collapsing, bumping hands against the calloused knuckles of your opponent), and golf has its dangers too. Stray balls, the wrenched back as a result of carrying that crazy heavy bag.

But mountain climbing?

Oh, my love.

So yesterday, I was talking to God. And He had a few words with me. I was reading in Exodus when I stumbled across this verse: “The appearance of the LORD’S glory to the Israelites was like a consuming fire on the mountaintop.”

My man loves his God. And he’s told me how he senses God’s presence on those mountains.  He prays for his children. He processes his pain and his joy and his future on those steep journeys.

So God reminded me that this is His time with Brian.

“You’re right, God.” I whisper, “But are you sure you couldn’t speak to him through a rousing game of competitive chess?”


“Yes, God. Sorry. He’s yours. And I’m grateful for his adventurous, manly heart. Just please, please God, keep him safe from the mountain goats, lions, squirrels, avalanches, cliffs, snowdrifts, freezing temperatures, wild turkeys and snow aliens…. OK?”


Right. Sorry.

So here’s my question. Does anyone else struggle with this risk thing? Share your thoughts with me in the comments.