Our puppy drives me crazy.

He nips when I want him to sit. He jumps when I want him to lie down. He eats paperback books for lunch and toilet paper rolls for dinner.

We’ve done what we can.

Strategically placed puppy control

We’ve placed spray bottles in strategic locations around the house. We’ve watched YouTube videos on dog obedience.

“Sit, Ubu, sit!”

I read one website that said Australian Shepherds need a job to do in order to feel happy and fulfilled.

I made him do the dishes.

He hated it.

Nothing has worked…

Except relentless, unending exercise.

That's Mad Max, straining to come nip my toes

Brian and I have gone on multiple 14 mile hikes since we became puppy owners.

On those evenings, when Max is totally wiped out after a long hike, he is darn near close to lovable.

But every other day, I’ve had bad thoughts and terrible fantasies:

Pack him up and send him to Australia with the words “You may have cute accents, but you make bad dogs.”

Or catch the ice cream truck that goes by every afternoon and barter him in exchange for a Bomb Pop.

Then this morning, I took Max on a walk. It was five a.m. and he was already driving me bonkers. I plugged in my i-pod, put on some worship tunes and walked down the street, asking God’s forgiveness for my propensity for puppy cruelty.

Max pulled on his leash.

Chased a moth into the street.

Peed on a recently planted bed of flowers.

I walked him hard. Walked him fast. The sun started cresting over the horizon. Worship music blared in my ears. And then, just over the trees, came a hot air balloon.

Deep sigh...

It was beautiful. It caught my breath.

I found my whole body relaxing, and a smile cracked through the grump lines.

I knew I wouldn’t be out here if it weren’t for Max.

I knew I wouldn’t have the exercise or the beauty or the worship…

I bent down and scratched him behind his ears.

Silly Max. God knew what He was doing when He put you in my world after all.

I was the only white girl.

And I loved it.

I just spent the weekend with some amazing ladies from a small and vibrant church in Dallas. Yesterday we spent the day together for a conference and today they invited me to speak in their church service.

They placed me front and center.

I’m not talking about the front row, I mean they graciously escorted me up to the pastor’s seat. I was full-on facing the lovely congregation. And they were facing me.

Oh my.

The choir stood behind me and began belting out such beautiful music that when I closed my eyes, it felt like heaven. Their worship was so clear and pure, strong and vibrant. The congregation joined in with enthusiasm.

Then they started moving and clapping to the beat.

I bobbed my head, tapped my foot and slapped my thigh.

Then again. Head. Foot. Thigh.

I know they were focused on Jesus, but I have to wonder if they weren’t secretly watching the white girl working on her rhythm.

God bless them, they didn’t laugh out loud.

After the service, we gathered together for a meal. I looked around that fellowship hall and took in the beauty. Older ladies in their hats, laughing together. The pastor, sleeves rolled up, serving meals to the women.  Little ones running around, knowing they could find a resting place on any lap they roamed past.

Sitting there with them was definitely a taste of heaven.

I can’t believe I get to do what I do.

My heart is full.

So I need your help. Here is my very first uploaded YouTube video. It’s only 4 minutes long and you all are the first to see it. Gulp. Be kind, but let me know your thoughts. Should I put this on my website as a promo clip? Find something else? Scrap speaking all together?

Let me know!

Ever since I was itty bitty, people have offered their thoughts on my name.

“Elsa? Like the lion in Born Free? You little lioness, you.”

Ummm…. thanks?

“Your name is Elsa? Did your parents name you after Elsie the Cow?”

Yes. Underneath their kind exteriors, they were cruel, cruel people.

“Elsa? Wow, you’re so young. I pictured an ‘Elsa’ to be like, 90 years old.”

 I’m 92. It’s called Oil of Olay.

My maiden name also caused a whole set of issues: Kok. Some elementary and middle school kids were painfully creative with that one.

Then God introduced me to the man of my dreams. I love the family behind the name, but God could have made it easy and birthed the whole slew of them with the last name of  “Smith” or “Jones” or plain ol’ “Black.” But no, the love of my life bears the name “Colopy.” At a speaking engagement one time, a gentleman who was about to introduce me said, “I know! I have a great way to remember your name. It’s like ‘colonoscopy,’ only shorter.”

Right.

To add to the confusion, I now use all three names. Since I’m crazy about my man, proud of the folks who gave birth to me and I have stuff written under my maiden and married name, I decided to keep it all in one big long confusing mess: Elsa Kok Colopy.

I might as well be talking Swahili.

It’s even harder these days. Now that I’m in the midst of book writing and marketing, I think of my name even more. It’s not an easy name to remember, like Joyce Meyer or Beth Moore. Nor is it super catchy and cool like JK Rowling or Agatha Christie.

I’ve been told that names matter. If I want to know true success, I need to be a household name…. right?

I decided to sift through some of the famous names littered in my brain: Madonna, Obama, Simon Cowell, George Bush, Lady GaGa, Lindsey Lohan, Tim Tebow (Uh, yeah. No evaluating my mental stability based on that list). The reality is that it’s easy to come up with a long list of names covering singers, politicians, movie stars and sports champions.

Some of those people I like, others I just know. But here’s the kicker:  knowing their name doesn’t change me. I’m not a smidge different as a result.

Other names come to mind too, but these names have warm fuzzies attached: Kitty, Piet, Carol, Enno, Rob, Laura, John, Wendy, Esther, Jennifer, Donna, Sandy, Jeff, Gretchen… these are the names of people who changed me, who loved me when I was little, loved me when I was broken, loved me through pain and hardship and stupidity.

Their names may not be plastered all over CNN or Time Magazine, but they’re engraved deeply in my heart.

So I ask the question of myself—as a writer and speaker who has recently been consumed with the marketing of my new book, and my excruciatingly long name—how do I want to be known? By my name in lights? A million hits on YouTube? Via Twitter or Facebook or the Best Seller’s list?

Or do I want my name engraved on someone’s heart?

Not that they’re mutually exclusive. Yes, I’ll tweet and Facebook and do my best to honor God with hard work regarding my book—but I continue to pray that my motivation will rest solely in loving people deeply through all that I do – in the way I have been loved.

It all makes me rather thankful for a name that’s hard to remember. If people forget my name or mangle it into a nasty medical procedure, it’s all good. As long as my speaking, writing or living leave an impression that points them to Jesus—and they engrave his name on their hearts.

Yup, that’s it. That’s good enough for me.

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!

Awkward.

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.

Really?

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.

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.

Sigh.

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?”

Elsa….

“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?”

Elsa….

Right. Sorry.

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

Green tops, green pants. The women of La Vista Correctional Facility filed into the visitors area for our time together. Some entered with smiles, others came visibly bearing their burdens. Several looked fresh out of high school. Blond hair, blue eyes, pretty smiles… and prison garb.  A few wore orange pants, a signal that they had broken a rule and were now separated from the rest of the prison population.

Jodi and Carol, the faithful warriors who serve the women every week, put on the worship music. The ladies lit up. Hands raised, the inmates began to fill the room with praise.

I closed my eyes, it seemed like a hundred women were singing together, so strong and passionate was their song.

I could almost picture the angels surrounding us. Mighty. Glorious. Majestic. It truly felt as if their voices mingled with our own.

I opened my eyes and scanned the room. My eyes lingered on the heavy metal doors locked from either side. And the bathroom to the right with a simple paper sign taped to its door: “Offender Restroom.”

I lingered on the first word.

“Offender.”

I turned to look at the women. Arms raised in worship. Tears on their cheeks.

Back to the sign.

“Offender.”

I bowed my head as the tears slid down my cheeks.

Offender. Yes, each woman there was serving time for a crime she committed. But as I watched these ladies worship, a whole different set of words came to mind.

Princess. Beloved. Cherished. Redeemed. Rescued.

Beautiful.

…then just imagine what heaven will be like!!

Happy Easter everyone!