There are books that gently encourage us on our journey, ever-upward to the high places with God. Then there are other messages that find us in the lowlands, the deepest, darkest valleys, and give us the courage to look back up and start the climb again. Wendy Speake has written a rare book that sojourns with readers wherever they find themselves on this holy ascent. Many of you already know Wendy through her honest, grace-filled writing and her invitation to pursue Jesus in the ordinary rhythms of everyday life. But this new book comes from an especially tender place, born from a season when her own heart was shattered and praise felt almost impossible. I think so many of us know what it feels like to keep praying for God to change our circumstances while wondering if He sees us in the middle of them. Wendy’s story reminded me that sometimes God meets us not by immediately changing our situation, but by gently changing our gaze. I know you’ll recognize pieces of your own story in its pages, and I pray this book leaves you with fresh courage to lift your eyes toward the One who has always been worthy of our praise. It’s a joy to welcome Wendy to the farm’s table today…

Guest Post by Wendy Speake

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You can’t begin to imagine what a profound pleasure it was to sit down to talk with Wendy Speake in the belltower of our 1896 old stone church — this is genuinely a NOT-TO-BE-MISSED-CONVERSATION….  Don’t miss our powerful video convo below…

I didn’t intend to be the last person boarding the plane for San Diego that morning.

While I was waiting at the gate, gazing out the large airport windows as others boarded the plane, my mind did what it had been doing for months—it all but shut down, along with my heart.

To those passing by I probably looked like I was daydreaming, but my inward reality felt more like a nightmare. My mind was fractured, my heart frayed, and my faith oh-so fragile.

I was at one of my lowest points.

My marriage was falling apart, my children were struggling, and deep depression threatened to take my very life. 

The flight attendant’s hand on my elbow drew me back to the present. She scanned the code on my phone and motioned me through the door, down the boarding bridge, and onto the plane.

Since this flight was sold out and seats were not reserved, I figured I’d find the last available seat in the back row—a middle seat, perhaps, with its headrest pressed against the lavatory wall. However, when I boarded the plane, I noticed the sole vacant chair was a window seat in the second row. The man seated by the aisle used his cane to stand, and, with the help of his wife, they moved into the open aisle to let me through.

Finally situated, I laid my head against the cool window and watched the last bags being loaded into the belly of the plane. My own belly rumbled, and I realized I had forgotten to eat, again. Fumbling unsuccessfully through my purse for something to nibble on, I tried to recall what I had packed for my three-week trip to Southern California. I couldn’t remember a single item, save the green sweatpants and white T-shirt I was presently wearing. Exhausted, I closed my eyes and fell asleep before we were off the ground.

Two hours later, I awoke and looked at the clouds. I thought about how two short weeks earlier, I was slumped against a pile of cushions on my therapist’s couch when I tearfully asked her to send me to a residential program for a few months. My heart was so broken, my nervous system so traumatized, that I couldn’t function. Sleepless and stuttering, I was desperate for help.

With compassion in her eyes and a sisterly tone in her voice, my counselor replied, “How about you plan a trip to visit some people who simply love you? Start there.” The next day I sent messages to a few friends and family members, scheduled time with those dear ones, and booked my ticket. Now here I was, on my way.

As the gentle whir of the engines attempted to lull me back to sleep, something gentler caused me to sit up and look to my nearest neighbor, who was smiling at me. I met her gaze with the sincerest upturned lips I could muster. With only twenty minutes left in our flight, she introduced herself as Cheryl and invited me into one of the most anointed and appointed conversations of my life.

“Are you headed home?” was her opening line.

“Home? . . . Well, sort of, yes. I live in Texas now. But California was my home for most of my life, and I’m headed back to visit friends.”

“That’s nice. Will you need to be working, or can this be a real vacation?” she continued.

“I’m an author, so I guess I can do that from anywhere . . . but, no, I don’t imagine I’ll be writing on this trip,” I replied.

Exhausted by this simple conversation, I was ready to turn away and lay my head back against the window when Cheryl continued, “What type of books do you write?”

“I write . . .” I faltered for a moment then took a deep breath and tried again, “I write devotional-style books for Christian women, to encourage them in their faith.” When she asked for the titles of my books, I started with The 40-Day Sugar Fast, as I often do. Cheryl nodded, leaned in a bit closer, then shared a fasting story with me unlike any I had heard before.

“I used to work for a pastor in San Diego. This was years ago, back when he hosted an annual citywide revival. My job was to lead the prayer team. It was a big outreach, and I was engaged with this ministry for quite a few years. Anyway, one year, as we were preparing for the revival, I felt the Lord lay it on my heart to do a complete food fast for forty days. I had never done anything like that before and, honestly, I didn’t want to. But when I walked into church the next morning, I told my pastor what I felt the Lord was calling me to do.

Without missing a beat, he exclaimed, ‘I’ll do it with you!’ ”

“I confess I wasn’t seeking accountability or confirmation, but I had them,” Cheryl said with a laugh, then continued. “Those forty days of fasting from everything but water were powerful. Though I was keenly aware of my weakness, I was overcome with a fresh experience of God’s power. It was as though His strength flowed through us during our preparation days and then through the actual revival. I’d never experienced anything like it before.”

My mind began to wander. I thought about how little I had eaten the past few weeks, but I knew it hadn’t been the same as a fast.

Cheryl took my hand and brought me back into her story. “While I could tell you all sorts of wonderful testimonies of those fasting days, it was the next year’s fast that really blew me away.” She shared that as she approached the next year’s revival, she didn’t have a strong sense of what God wanted her to do in preparation. But as soon as they hit the forty-day threshold, Cheryl heard God clearly tell her, Do an ask fast.

“An ‘ask fast’?” I questioned.

“Praise Me for being God—then watch Me be God. Praise Me for being Savior—then sit back and watch Me save.“

“Yes, an ask fast,” she said, with a twinkle in her eye. “Instead of asking Him to do anything, God told me simply to praise Him for being able to bring revival to our city. He was inviting me to something so simple yet radical when he said, Praise Me for being God—then watch Me be God. Praise Me for being Savior—then sit back and watch Me save.”

As we started our descent over Mission Bay, with the Pacific Ocean spread out like a blue baptistery below, I knew the Lord was using my new friend Cheryl to invite me into a new thing. He was calling me, too, to a season of fasting from asking. Even though I was in agony, He was asking me to cease from asking that I might simply praise Him for being sovereign over every aspect of my life.

I asked Cheryl, “What did God do that year, at the revival?”

Her face broke into a smile. “Not only did more people accept Christ as their Savior that weekend than ever before, but the entire prayer team testified that something new was happening. In past revivals we had prayed with people, but it seemed as though our prayers could only go so high, like there was a glass ceiling keeping them from breaking through. But on the first night of that year’s revival, it was as if all our collective praises shattered the ceiling, and our prayers soared higher and God’s presence seemed stronger than ever before.”

As our plane continued descending, I thought of their praises ascending, up beyond the clouds, above the realm of my understanding, into the throne room of God. I realized that while I had been praying during my current season of suffering, I’d never considered praising Him.

While the corporate experience of Sunday morning praise and worship had been a balm to my broken heart, Monday through Saturday was spent . . . begging and pleading.

I begged Him to rescue and restore.

I pleaded with Him to hear and act.

As the psalmists before me I cried, “Why, Lord, do you stand far off? Why do you hide yourself in times of trouble?”; “How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me?” (Psalm 10:1; 13:1).

On the plane that day, I was convicted by the kindness of God, extended through the kindness of a stranger, to fast from asking and instead simply praise Him for being God, for being good and able to accomplish more than I could ask or imagine.

I deeply desired, with every shard of my shattered heart, to see that metaphorical ceiling shattered so I could experience more of God’s glorious power and presence than ever before.

During our last seated moments, as we waited for the other passengers to deplane, I asked, “Cheryl, if I were to memorize one passage of praise, where would you have me start?”

She gave me a wink and replied, “Psalm 100.”

Enter his gates with thanksgiving, and his courts with praise! Give thanks to him; bless his name! For the Lord is good; his steadfast love endures forever, and his faithfulness to all generations.

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A Deeply Life-Giving Conversation: BellTower Stories

What happens when you stop asking God for anything? Ann Voskamp and Wendy Speake discuss Wendy’s new book, A Sacrifice of Praise and Thanksgiving. Come join us in BellTower Stories, up in the 1896 bell tower our little Village Table church, as “the bells are the voice of the church, with tones that touch and search.” (Longfellow)

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