Hell Houses

When I was in college, majoring in youth ministry, I ventured to a church in Texas for an internship. We all know it's not officially summer in Christendom without several sweaty, chlorine laced weeks of church camp. This week of camp was for 4th and 5th graders. The theme of the week was "God". Well, actually, I don't remember the theme but I'm sure it had something to do with God, so let's call it even. What I do remember was one bright and shining example of why the 90s is a decade The Trinity would just as soon forget.

I probably shouldn't be telling you this, so keep it on the downlow. At every church camp there's a secret Armageddon shelter roughly 200 feet below the chapel. It's filled with everything you'll ever need to convert campers: tracts with cartoon characters set ablaze, pictures of strung out addicts, lots of Michael W. Smith and David Meece tapes, 5 gallon buckets of sulfur & napalm, Joan Rivers without make up...you know, death and hell stuff. You must know that this is just too much power for some well intentioned folks. When you put all these things in the wrong hands you get what I'm about to describe.

Jump into the story with me. It's Wednesday and the dean at camp decides not enough kids have accepted Christ throughout the week. So, he's going to pull out all the stops and make a "Hell Walk". This is what he envisions: Let's take some little kids on a shrieking, pitch-black, middle of the night walk through The Bowels of the Earth. Tell the kids they can't make a sound. Have the adults quote Scripture about hell while we walk. Dress some other adults in "demon" attire and have them run around moaning. Then at the end, let's bring in a big dude with a stone cold grey face and bulging eyes pretending to be Satan. Cue strobe lights and creepy music. AND! Let's have him tell the kids how much he loves them and wants their souls. Then have him lunge at them while demons start wailing.

Somehow I missed all the planning but when the event took place I tried to behave and go with the flow. That is, until a little girl in my cabin starts crying because her mom had died less than 6 months before. That ended it for my compliance. Right there when Satan was about to start frothing at the mouth, I decide I can't take it anymore. I stand right up, loudly and adamantly declare, "This is ridiculous. My cabin, UP!! We're outta here." We went back the cabin, tried to calm down, thanked God for heaven, and fell asleep.

While Hell is a real place I think the church gets it wrong when we use it as a means of evangelism. Say what you will, but the love of Christ will not only compel people to come to Him, it will make them stay with Him, too. So, when it comes to Hell Houses, I'm not so much a fan.

But what if we reworked the idea just a bit? If Hell Houses are such a Halloween tradition I think we should have our own, don't you? But it would have to contain the scariest, most horrific rooms imaginable if I'm going to put the SFL stamp on it. Right?

Without further delay, I'd like to walk you through the Stacy From Louisville Hell House. Warning: Not for the faint of heart or weak of bladder!

Scene 1: Bible College
Speaking of holidays, Bible College is a whole holiday in itself. It's a 4 year (or 5 or 6 or 7 year) vacation from reality and common sense. So right at the main entrance to this room you will need a steel wool brush and a big ol' bucket filled with sudsy baptismal water. How else will you brain wash people? Moving on...

Scene 2: Elder's Meeting
This is the only room in the Hell House where the comb over isn't part of a costume. And if you're a girl I'm not sure you're allowed to come in, but just this onec... Remember Pleasure Island in Disney's Pinocchio? Where all the naughty boys with buck teeth start smoking cigars and turn into donkeys? I think this happens at some elder's meetings. Fire the youth pastor because he's got some crazy ideas about preaching salvation? All in favor say, "HEE-hhhaw!" (Okay, that's supposed to be a donkey noise but I've never been schooled in phonetic donkey so get a new cause.)

Scene 3: The Coat Closet
Not necessarily a scary room, just a place for coats. And making out. Which is why I saw fit to include it. Which reminds me, this last week alone I saw three couples grabbing each other's butts during worship service. One man, bless his heart, must not have known how to clap hands. But he seemed to keep time to the music pretty well from the way he slapped his wife's rear in time to "We Will Dance". It was a song about heaven but I was pretty sure I was in hell...

Scene 4: Women's Ministry
This room has pastel sequin Easter sweaters, floral centerpieces, and PMS. Apply too much eyeliner, hide SSRIs in your fake Coach purse, and make a straw hat craft. Be sure to turn up the Twila Paris. As people enter the room repeatedly hug them and offer them cheese cubes and brownies. Repeat, until everyone goes completely insane. Then do it AGAIN! AND AGAIN! (infer devilishly high pitched laughter and charm bracelets)

Scene 5: Church Nursery
Take an 8x8 room. Install 3 cribs, 2 rockers and a baby swing that doesn't work. Cover any remaining floor space with mismatched Fisher Price farm sets and teething rings. Hose everything down with high fructose corn syrup and sprinkle with Cheerios. Turn up the heat and put a poopy diaper in front of each vent. Now you are ready for 13 overstimulated 10 month olds. This could also double as the pro-abstinence room.

Well, there you have it. But surely 5 rooms isn't enough. Don't you think I've missed some things? How much should we charge to get in? How do you get out? What scenes did I overlook? Come on SFL readers. You asked for a Hell House. Now let's scare the hell out of each other...

Happy Birthday To Me

On October 4, 1974 the world welcomed my sass mouth to existence. Humanity has not been the same since.

I wish we could get together for a big SFL crazy, sarcastic birthday party. You wouldn't have to bring a gift. I prefer cash anyways. But since you can't share a party in cyber space, just know you'd be invited and you'd get SFL Bible College credit, too.

Even though it's my birthday, I have a gift for you!

Because I will be 34 in less than 12 hours I have one of my most favorite videos of all time to share with you. My sister tipped me off to this a year ago and Nicole from May I Water Your Camels? reminded me of them. (Go see Nicole's blog. She got the name from my SCL post.) Remember before you see them we all have lots of misconceptions about Jesus. What you are about to behold exploits those stereotypes better than anything I've ever seen. Get out your Depends, you're gonna need 'em.

Happy Birthday Everybody!!!!

As you watch the clips - there are 4 in all - which lines should we adopt for our Bible College? My favorite: "Thee before thou except after thine." What's your favorite?

October is Halloween Month!

If you've been reading my site for any amount of time you might call me a little conceited. But I reject that idea. Instead, I propose that I'm more a fanciful blend of obnoxiousness and narcissism. I like to define myself that way for two reasons: A) using big words makes me look cultured and introspective and 2) there might be one or two of you out there who have to look up "narcissism", again pointing out my superior use of the English language. So like I said, I'm not conceited. At all. All that has nothing to do with anything, I'm just saying...

October is Halloween Month at Stacy From Louisville!!!!
(cue giddy girly clapping and screaming) (And yes, that's me last Halloween. I went as a character I made up called, "Family Embarrassment".)

Could we let October pass without acknowledging this ridiculous holiday? Absolutely not. There is so much we could discuss, but I need your help. Leave your suggestions here. Let's get crazy with Halloween!

(For those of you who might want to burn me at the stake for celebrating Halloween please be sure to indicate your disdain for me at stuffchristianslike.blogspot.com.)

Heart of the Matter, Part 2

(If you have not read Heart of the Matter, Part 1, please take a moment to do so. What you see here is the conclusion to that post. Thank you to all my readers who patiently waited for the second half of my story. You're awesome!)

I mistakenly thought that once I left my parents' home my pain would dissipate; I would have my own life, on my own terms. It would be the "happily ever after" they didn't give me. But in order to do this my marriage had to be perfect. So when I said my wedding vows I held a bag of resentment in one hand, and a bag of unrealistic expectations in another. Without knowing it I was setting us up for failure. So just to be safe, I kept Dan at a distance, not realizing it was self-fulfilling prophecy.

And God, where was He? Well, most of the time I was running from Him. Or at least keeping Him at a distance. I knew something inside me was very wrong but I didn't want to face it. After all, running a marathon isn't too bad if you think there might be a prize at the finish line.

My daughter was born and my heart softened toward my parents. I began to see them differently, especially when I realized the immense responsibility of being a parent. I realized that responsibility again when my son was born. Yet I still held to my crazy standards. But then, out of nowhere, my ideals of perfection were completely destroyed, once and for all.

BAM! I developed severe postpartum depression. Imagine me running at full speed, only to topple over myself onto pock-marked pavement. Emotionally, I saw my own flesh torn to shreds. The blood that poured was my own. It terrified me. Yet I tried to run again.

BAM! I was diagnosed with a chronic pain disease. The road beneath me ended at the edge of a cliff. I couldn't run anymore. I hurt all over from wounds and exhaustion, the potential fall from the ledge made every movement throb with anxiety.

THIS. WAS NOT. What I wanted!! Not only was I fighting my own demons emotionally and spiritually, but my physically ability to manage life was decaying. Perfection was no longer an option and I didn't have a plan B. It all came crashing around me, devastating and isolating.

Dan couldn't talk me down from the ledge. I wouldn't let him.

The kids were too little to help, let alone understand.

My sister lived far away.

"God, where are you?" In my brokenness I wailed out to Him. I prayed He would listen because I needed help and was finally in a place to ask for it. I resigned myself to accepting whatever He chose to give.

Always faithful, God was just waiting for me to ask. He sent the perfect person to minister to me on His behalf. He sent my mom.

For 3 months she set her life aside. Every Monday she drove 200 miles from her front door to mine. She stayed Monday through Friday. She cleaned my house. She took me to doctor’s appointments. She took care of my children. She folded laundry, cleaned up toddler messes, and tried to encourage Dan. As I watched her come and go to my house, week after week, the hand of God rested heavily on me. My mother, the same woman I rejected, was the glue that held my household together. The irony rocked me. Gently, God forced me to face the fact that I had seriously misjudged something.

My dad, who had worked nearly 15 hours a day while I grew up, was more of a stranger to me than a dad. However, when I fell apart, he started called me nearly every day, just to say he loved me. At first I acted cordially but blew him off. Yet the phone calls continued to come. I realized how much I loved him, too. I looked forward to hearing from him every day. Again, the irony and the hand of God rested heavily.

The concept of forgiving my parents had never really occurred to me before then. But it seemed so clear that working harder to overcome my past only fixed my focus on what was behind me, making it my god.

One summer evening, 3 years ago, I sat with a friend and recounted to her my desire to forgive my parents. Tears streaked my face because the task seemed bigger than me. It took me an hour of pacing the floor before I hit my knees. The words fell out of my mouth in rapid succession. Like a floodgate, healing washed over my soul.

The enormity of letting go of my superiority complex is beyond what I can describe. But in the middle of my prayer a bolt of conviction shot through me, silencing me before the Lord. In those moments I came face to face with the real heart of the matter: My sin - the sin of me not forgiving my folks - was what needed the repentance. Never mind what my parents may have done against me, that was over. What I had done to God was put myself above Him, wearing my religiosity like a whore's banner as I mocked His grace. Yes, it was that serious.

God was gracious enough to sharpen my focus and gently lead me as I laid myself bare before Him. Second only to the moment I first accepted Him, this was the most powerful moment of my life. The bloodied wounds I'd been wearing were the same wounds that in those moments He bandaged and healed. You see, my wounds were unnecessary; I traded them for Christ's. He freed me from all the self-destruction, the pursuit of perfection, and the bondage of my past. His forgiveness can do that. It changed me in ways only God and I can fully know.

Within weeks I faced my parents again. To each one I confessed my sin against them, saying something along the lines of, "I have been holding things against you for a long time. I hurt our relationship and I'm sorry I did that. Will you please forgive me?" For each one, I could see weight released from their faces. God built a bridge that day between them and me. And 3 years later I have a relationship with them that isn't perfect but it's enjoyable and genuine. I love them.

Did I finally get the perfection I longed for? No, no I didn't. Are my parents suddenly transformed into passionate Believers? No, but there's always hope, which is more than we ever had before. I wish I could tell you I don't run from God any more, but sometimes I do. Remember that chronic pain issue I deal with? I think He's given it to me as a way of keeping me from depending on myself. I can truly say that I'd rather have pain every day and depend on God than to be completely healthy and try to be my own salvation.

If you read this and are tempted to think I'm some body's hero, I'd beg you to reconsider. I'm an everyday person trying to sort out what it means to give God my heart instead of my lip service.
Some of you have contacted me because you identified with part 1 of my story. My most sincere desire is that you'd identify with seeking God's forgiveness and extending His grace whenever possible. Others have contacted me with concern over the raw nature of my story. In all honesty, it is no problem for me to tell you about my mistakes, but only if I tell you what God did with them. This story is not about me as much as it is about what God did when I stopped running. That is what makes it worth sharing.

From personal experience I know forgiveness in Christ is a wealth that can't be overspent. But I dare you to try. Today.

(Special thanks to my friend, The Linguist, who talked me down off a completely different ledge Tuesday afternoon.)

Interlude

I have spent a good part of today trying to sort out the details of my story that began yesterday in The Heart of the Matter. In working on a conclusion to that post I've really struggled. The first part of my story is about me. The second part, which you have not read, is about God. In sorting through my story, I find myself stunned again by how often I think I've got it all figured out. Mistakes that I was certain were in the past have crept back into my life. The last thing I want to do is post a conclusion to a story that is disingenuous. That is to say, God pulled me up short today and I'm dealing with some conviction. Ergo, The Heart of the Matter, Part 2, is on the way, but not until God and I make our peace again.

In the meantime, without giving away the pieces of the puzzle, I'd like you to take something in. Because of where I've come from, this is my favorite song. Whenever I hear it the faces of people who have come in and out of my life flood my mind. For some of those people, due to circumstances that had nothing to do with me, their stories ended abruptly, painfully and with casualties.

Like a calloused hand that becomes oblivious to a splinter, infection can spread all the same, threatening the loss of the limb. Unforgiveness, though not a little thing, callouses our hearts the same way. To me it's far better to forgive a wrong, maybe even before it happens, so that life isn't choked away any sooner than need be. The singer, Don Henley, eludes to this idea when he says, "This song took 42 years to write, but only 4 minutes to sing." I love that.

This is my song. It's part of my story.

Thanks for understanding.

Heart of the Matter, Part 1

(The following story is something I have wanted to share with SFL readers since the launch of this site. To me, it is the most important thing you could ever know about me. It will be divided into parts over the next day or so. This is part one of my story.)

I haven't always been the pillar of decorum and maturity you know me to be. Once, when I was 6, the little girl down the street told me the other moms in the neighborhood didn't like my mom. In my mind I imagined grabbing her by her perfect ponytails and feeding her a mouth full of crabgrass. But I refrained. Instead, I clocked her square in the jaw. My eyes stung with hot tears as I jumped on my Huffy Sweet Thunder, riding the winds of hurt and furry all the way home. I couldn't let my mom go down that way - not by some uppity, skinny kids in a monogrammed sweater. To this day, not that it would matter now, I have never told my mom the real reason why I clobbered Little Miss Ralph Lauren and her pigtails of perfection. But to be sure, she never said a bad word about my mom after that.

You see, I didn't need a little girl down the street to tell me one of my parents wasn't perfect. I already knew that for myself. Even at 6, the whisper-shouting between them after I went to bed kept me from sleep more nights than I cared to acknowledge. Though not technically divorced, as a kid, I didn't need legal jargon to define what was happening. Kids know that divorce isn't always a matter of paperwork, it's a matter of the heart. And my heart was broken, over and over, in so many ways, until it didn't really look like a heart at all anymore. I was the angry little girl whose chest ached from stifiling so many disappointments.

So there we were, perfect house, pretty family. The facade was enchanting. But like all fairy tales, it faded, yet the words "happily ever after" never came. You know that feeling when a room is full of people yet you're still all alone? I lived like that every day growing up. Fear and isolation were my companions. Even into my teen years I kept waiting for a knight in shining armor to rescue me from dank cave that I called my home. Maybe the screaming kept him away. No matter. He never came.

There are too many details to share, but believe me, my demons were real. (Please let me clarify that I was never physically abused. But the emotional abuse was staggering.) Though I came to know Christ at 12, I didn't see how He could do anything but keep me alive through my suffering. Know that I'm not belittling what God can do in any painful situation. I've seen some real miracles in broken families. All I'm saying is this wasn't my experience.

As I'm sure you can imagine I packed a big ol' bag of resentment and took it with me when I left my parent's home. Not only did I hold onto the pain caused by my circumstance, I had nearly every offense - and there were many - categorized, alphabetized, and locked and loaded. My hate gun was full and I was ready to land blast my parents. I relished fantasies of getting back at them. What I hadn't considered was that my gun might backfire.

I was proud of the fact that I had come through such adverse circumstances and was so fantastic in spite of it. My parents weren't Believers, but I was, and it gave me leverage. People loved hearing my testimony - how God raised me up from the ashes to save me and make me better than them. The unspoken truth was that I loved to tell people what I had come from; it shown a floodlight on the sinful, bad, bad people who were lucky enough to be my parents. I became a glutton, feasting on the praise given to me by people who literally embraced me, saying, "God will pay them back for what they did to you." I lapped it up like a starving animal. Ironically, the pain only intensified, and the hunger nearly ate me alive.

Now granted, my life up to this point (about my early 20s) was nasty. But the filth of it became my badge of honor. The more I shared my story the more rigorously I catalogued every new hurt, gesture, or sideways look my parents sent my way. So, while I was out being everybody's super Christian rock star, the more distance and judgement I placed between them and me. It took on a life of its own. Soon, I couldn't separate the sensationalism from the reality of this one fact: no matter what mess they'd made, these were my parents, they were going to hell and I was reveling in it. "Damn it. They deserve it." And somehow that perverted thinking became my gospel.

Though found by Christ, I remained more lost than ever.

(This post continues in a short Interlude followed by Heart of the Matter, Part 2.)

The Best Friend I Never Met

This world makes my soul ache. The fact that I was made for eternity but born into a world of sin is like being captured in a net. Even when circumstances in my life are stable the ache is still there, reminding me that eternity is just a whisper away. For me, the crescendo of following Christ reaches its culmination the split second I experience eternal life without sin. But for now, the ache remains. I'm telling you, there's not one thing authentic in me other than the reality of my failures. And while we all may share this same ache, there is one person who could articulate it better than anyone I know. That person is Rich Mullins.

I see a huge shift in the modern church culture to make following Christ a complicated marriage of philosophy and mysticism. And being authentic is key. Personally, I don't think "authenticity" is something you can cook up at a moment's notice, it's something you just are, or you aren't. I've seen stuff flood some "Christian" venues that's downright contrived: trendy, popular, and straying from Scripture in order to be palatable. Rich Mullins, as a person and an artist, stood in stark contrast to these views. What I like so much about him was that what you saw was what you got, He loved Jesus, spot on. There were people who didn't get him, but for those of us who did, even though we never met him, he was one of our best friends.

It is the gut-level sincerity of people like Rich Mullins that I try to find in myself. And as of today, I'm still searching. Hidden beneath layers of spiritual laziness, yelling at my kids, not making the bed every day, being more concerned about the next words I'll type than whether or not I've looked at any Scripture today, the same Truth that held to Rich Mullins is holding onto me. God knows, I'm not always holding onto it; I'm rebellious and would run from God lest my favorite TV show be interrupted. I care too much about appearances and not enough about other people to care sometimes. It's the pain of my sin that beats me against the musty, hateful rock of the threshing floor again and again. (And this is just my confession, when I think of the repentance that needs to take place it's appalling.)

Rich and I had a lot in common. We both have questions of theology and suffering that go unanswered because the answers are beyond what a human mind can grasp. And whether or not you like his folksy, hammer-dulcimer, torn up jeans, calloused foot music, you have to admit, the man seemed to understand what most of us only wish we could. I think I have a hunch as to why.

His home was a old trailer on an Indian reservation where he dedicated his life to teaching music to Navajo children. After his death his friends went there to gather his personal effects. Upon entering they found little more than a mattress. He traveled light because he knew that's exactly what he was doing: traveling, passing through. He was not made for this world and he knew it; he lived it.

In a career that was marked with tremendous financial success and fame, Rich was incredibly uncomfortable with it all. At the Dove awards he left his seat at the dinner following the ceremony and donned a waiter's hat and began serving dinner to other guests. Many thought he was joking around, but I doubt it. From what I've heard of him, limelight made his eyes squint. He needed to serve because that's what made Jesus shine, so that's what he did. He was said to be flaky, and maybe that's because he simply wasn't tied down. In his entire career he never knew the extent of his earnings. His quarterly checks from record labels were sent to the board of elders at his small home church. He asked them to pay him the median salary of a typical US worker, about $24,600 annually. The rest was given away to missions and charitable organizations or put into his retirement. Rich said, "If I knew how much I made it might make giving the rest away all that much harder."

When he died I cried for a long time. I wasn't grieving Rich Mullins, I was grieving for myself. The pain was about losing a beatnik poet who never met me but understood the ache of my human condition - my sin and misconceptions of God. His music was the salve that soothed these wounds by reminding me that from the moment time began, the God of the Universe, the Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, had a plan for me. By putting Scripture, angst, sweat, and eternity to music he was an arrow pointing toward heaven.

Rich Mullins was far from perfect. But for me, I'll take the introspective search for The Real Jesus Christ over contrived authenticity on any given day.

Rich died 11 years ago this month. He was riding in an open jeep when fate stepped in. Then instantly, he was gone, straight to the arms of the Jesus he spent his life chasing. If I could tell Rich anything it would be to thank him. But my guess is, at this point, he really doesn't care.

This song, "Hard To Get", was recorded just days before his death. He purchased a cheap tape recorder from K-Mart, ergo the raw recording. I can't sing this song without being reminded of my soul's ache, but I am comforted knowing the ache won't last forever. I hope it does the same for you.

SFLBC Fight Song

Every school needs a good fight song. Well, maybe not necessarially a good one. Take The University of Tennessee, The Vols, if you will. I've got nothing against the Vols, so keep that in mind. Their fight song is "Rocky Top". Let's take a gander at one of the verses, shall we?...

Folks say corn won't grow on Rocky Top
Soil's too rocky by far
That's why all the folks on Rocky Top
Get their corn from a jar

Let's unpack this. It won't be hard. UT, God love 'em, is essentially telling the other team, "Dudes! We're drunk. And not even on the top shelf stuff they serve up at frat parties. No, we're drunk on fermented grain that some sweaty, toothless man named Cousin Grandpa cooked up in a rusted out steel drum. You thought you'd kick our butts at this football game today just because we're inbred and less coordinated? Well, we've got news for you! We're inbred AND plastered. So take that and punt it!"

It just seems like a good idea that the fight song should represent the strengths of the school. Or, at least that's my philosophy behind choosing a fight song for SFLBC.
An esteemed reader, Nicole, suggested the following video. And I'm pleased to announce the Stacy From Louisville Bible College Fight Song, "Baby Got Book".



Remember, (now say it with me), "At SFLBC we do have standards. We just forgot where we put them."

SFLBC, Established 2008

As you may know, from yesterday's post, I have started my own Bible College, Stacy From Louisville Bible College. Established in 2008, SFLBC seeks to equip future and current pastors and laypeople with the sarcasm necessary to survive church culture. Being in its infancy, I make up the board of directors, the teaching staff, and, of course, I'm the president. If you don't like it, go to real Bible college and see if you get a better deal. Go on. I dare you. Or, if you trust me enough to take my word for it, you can take that $9,000 a year and put it back in your pocket, after purchasing my birthday gift, of course. SFLBC is completely non-profit and free to all who choose to sit under my tutelage. (That's right, I said tutelage. I'm not as unqualified for this position as you thought!)

Samantha, a potential SFLBC applicant, was concerned that my fine institution frowned upon dancing. To clear things up, I did not say "no dancing". (Samantha, I would hope you fill out your application with more attention to detail.) I said, for the record:

1) No Mailman/Cop dancing as seen in yesterday's video.
2) No unitard dancing unless it's for ministry purposes.
3) No premarital sex (which is a different issue all together, but still.)

It goes without saying you will have an entire semester of interpretive dance. We supply super-flowing, consecrated ribbons, you supply the passion for socially awkward, ballet-like ministry at the mall. In front of Chick-Fil-A, of course. During that semester there will also be a class on the proper etiquette for wedding dancing, an excerpt of which appears below.



If any of you have further questions concerning the SFLBC policies or rules, please comment below. I will do my best to answer your questions.


Watering Camels,

Stacy From Louisville
SFLBC President
"We do have standards. We just forgot where we put them."

SFL Contest Winners Make Out Big! (but they don't make out with each other - it's not one of those kinds of sites)

Once, I dated a preaching major. For graduation he wanted a day timer so he could record his sins as they occurred. He wanted to make sure he was always on top of whether or not he was saved, cause (according to him) you just never know. I told him, "I'm pretty sure you're not saved in the first place." Surprisingly, we broke up soon after. It's been at least 15 years since that happened. He never calls or writes.

Hooray for the "Guess My SCL Blog Contest". Just as a reminder, here are the winners:

Bub
Dog Snob
Sam - who I don't think he realizes he won, but he did!!! Lucky ol' Sam.

(If you haven't already sent me your address shoot me an e-mail so I can get your gift to you.)

Because the gift needed to reflect the blog content, each winner will receive a Bible College Survival Pack. Here's a picture of what our contest winners will receive:



Here's the explanation for each piece of the gift:

1 Perfect Preacher Pocket Protector (don't panic, it's colorless so don't worry about it messing up your fashion statement)

1 red pen (because Jesus spoke in red ink and so should you)

1 highlighter for especially notable sermon illustrations

2 pens

1 set of floaties for safety while baptizing, which is a danger often overlooked

2 packs of grape Kool Aid for making communion on the go (Now I realize there are some denominations that use red wine for communion. Trust me, I would have sent it but I don't have a multi-state liquor liscense. Yet...)

1 stack of mini post it notes - for recording sins throughout the day so that you don't forget to repent

1 pack of pantyhose

1 lip gloss with a key chain that reads, "I heart Boys", signifying that if you were a Bible College chick trying to land a preacher you'd be more than happy to try your best to birth him some sons so they can go off to Bible College, become preachers, and make the family proud by wearing the same suits to class dear ol' dad wore 20 some years ago

1 pack of post it notes for writing down your sins, like my former preacher pal

1 Hose-Nose Mask - strap it over your own nose, remove the cap and green slime candy drips on your tongue - yummmm

And perhaps my favorite prizes are handkerchiefs that I personalized for each of my winners. Here are the super special personalisation messages:

Bud - S.F.L.B.C. Class of '08 Professional Pulpit Hog &
I heart B.C. Babes

Sam - Homiletics Hottie &
S.F.L.B.C. Class of 2008, Bible Banger
(Notice how Sam's handkerchief is misspelled? That's why it's best for everyone concerned I married a CPA. Not that I can add either.)

Dog Snob - my only female winner gets special hankies...
May I Water Your Camels? &
Wide Hips Increase Fellowships S.F.L.B.C. 2008

That's right, folks, I'm dangerous when it comes to puff paint. Also, notice that I have started the official Stacy From Louisville Bible College. Surely the great thinkers of all Christendom will flock. I can't guarantee you'll be accepted, but if you'd like to apply please - in 3,000 words or less - leave a comment that tells me why you might be worthy to attend such a prestigious institution. Remember, at SFL I do have standards. I just forgot where I put them.

And here's a little extra somethin'-somethin' to thank all of you for being such a good blog audience. I think I went to school with the mailman, but I can't be sure.



Don't forget to apply to SFLBC when you're done...