Let’s Skip Some Stones.

Mother Teresa has been quoted as saying, “I alone cannot change the world, but I can cast a stone across the waters and create many ripples.” And I believe her. So this year at the Westmoreland Arts & Heritage Festival at Twin Lakes Park, my wife and I stood lakeside, skipping stones.

I can’t help it—people are important to me. I bubbled with anticipation at what was coming. Yes, we wanted to sell some books, but honestly, the best part would be meeting people. To meet real people, talk to them, share our faith and light—that’s what it’s all about, right?

And so, we did it. We packed our stuff, dodged the rain, trekked the mud, and met the people. For four days we sat in our booths as hundreds of people came by.

I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

My wife is a children’s book author, most known for her Wacky Jacky series. I had a tent beside hers, selling my books and posters. It was a nice display—very eye-catching. We attracted many people. Our books give hope. Positive messages. Inspiration. Encouragement. But to have the chance to go deeper than printed copy? I couldn’t wait to tell people in person about the hope we write about. Hope—something so many people needed.

And people could tell. Those needing hope found us.

The rains came pouring down.

Sometimes when you’re doing your best to bring light and hope into the world, the world tries to drown you out. The rains seemed to fall every hour. We huddled in the middle of our tents. Protecting books from water. Packing up. Unpacking. Packing up. Unpacking. A revolving door that never ended. The only thing to do was laugh. We did plenty of it.

Yet the people still came.

Praying for people.

It was remarkable. The people came despite the weather. Hurting people. Real people. Transparent people. People in tough binds. They stopped in. They received prayer. They bought books to take with them—books that contain hope. They talked to us—soaking in the connection.

Because we held the hope they needed.

It was such a rich experience. I didn’t want it to end.

But . . . the week was coming to an end, and I started reflecting on it. Through it all, I knew we were shining light, no doubt. We were living out a faith, doing exactly what my heart knows we’re called to. It was a dichotomy in ways—very hard to explain. The experience was both exhausting yet exhilarating. Depleting, yet reviving.

Can we pass hope out to just one more?

Yet God, in all His goodness, had something reserved for even me.

Me, Lord? You want to speak to me?

The conclusion of it all.

Sunday came around. The day we go to church and sit in chairs or pews and sing and worship our Creator. It’s natural for my wife and I to be in church. Normal. Routine. We enjoy it. Find comfort in it. A place to learn more, grow in our faith, and find strength with other believers. It’s mandated in scripture. A part of us. Like I said, normal.

Yet the thought ran through my mind: To be in church? At the expense of not reaching these people? I can only be in one place. Perhaps no church today.

God gently took my heart, gripping it, squeezing His passion into it. A gentle whisper so strong and clear, it changed me, maybe a permanent shaping.

Curiously, a question pricked my conscience: Are we the only representatives of hope in this park today? Is anyone else here to stand with us? I didn’t know who was at the festival. I didn’t have the chance to leave our tent and walk around. But suddenly, a weight rested heavy—deep, inside me. I looked around at the people. They were hurting. Searching for answers. Some, walked without hope in their eyes.

And I realized it to be true: Jesus would be right beside me. Because Jesus’ heart reached people. It beat for them—the same people walking by. Church in a building can wait till next week.

And so, we did it. We met them well. The best we could with what we had.

Mother Teresa was once quoted as saying, “I alone cannot change the world, but I can cast a stone across the waters and create many ripples.” And I believe her. So this year at the Westmoreland Arts & Heritage Festival at Twin Lakes Park, my wife and I stood lakeside skipping stones.

I know others are out there—many more like us. Vessels who understand it’s not about ourselves. Simply the willingness to take up this calling.

My challenge is simple: Pick up a stone. Life’s short, and the world is searching for hope. Are you willing to meet people where they are? Can you meet the sick, the hurting, the hopeless, the needy—no matter where they happen to be?

For us, it’s where we pass our books out.

Where will you skip your stones?

By Chuck Carr.