In fifth grade, I left behind my public elementary school life and transitioned to a tiny Classical School in New England, where autumns burn gloriously, and scholarly minds are most prized.

After the first few weeks at this school, I accepted two cold facts: the headmaster regarded our studies as the be-all and end-all, and the brightest students were her charms.

Continue reading “An Education” →

We have a family of deer–eight, as of this morning–a slender-legged, soft-eyed herd that gently wanders to nibble ground cover in our back woods. After a time they amble from backyard to front, down the slope of our broad yard, toward the road. They are quietly graceful, calm as three speckled little ones prance beside and behind, happy to follow the leader: a handsome buck with a growing rack.

In my early morning glimpses of such summer beauty, I have yet to see a deer left behind.

Continue reading “Gently Walk Her Home” →

What a joy it is to be a woman who serves the church.

How we serve matters.

Join me over at Desiring God…

Helpers, Mothers, Teachers ~ How Women Bless the Local Church

---

The other Wednesday evening, following Bible study, we lingered.

There was conversation buzzing in one corner of the sanctuary, a cluster praying in another; two with Bibles open in deep discussion while others tipped their heads back in contagious laughter.

This scene unfolded, unscripted, for nearly an hour.

My heart sang.

For this we prayed.

Continue reading “Any Given Sunday” →

I have shared stories about my grandfather, and the words come, soft and easy.

This New England grandfather of mine loved well, through clear, deliberate action. He understood that grandchildren were gifts from God, and it was his chief aim, duty, and delight to make certain my brother and I knew it.

In a dimly lit, passive world that flips and flops, flagrantly averse toward relational commitment, my grandfather burned brightly. He noted our preferences, listened to our thoughts, and treated us to Italian fare–bubbly lasagna, bright Romaine sprinkled with fresh Parmesan, and a napkin-laced basket of crusty garlic bread. Other evenings it was magnificent Maine lobster and hot clam chowder dotted with oyster crackers, served alongside soft yeast rolls. For dessert we skipped inside Brigham’s for a cone, and as the tiny bell jingled overhead, Grandpa invited us to choose three whole scoops of ice cream.

He paid for cottages along the shores of Cape Cod, gifting us sunny weeks of beach vacations—salty hair and sandy toes, suntans and shenanigans—with plenty of family stories and drama. In fact, when the women began to bicker, Grandpa sent us off to the candy store down the lane, with a crisp dollar bill in hand.

I can still taste those magnificent meals and feel the ocean breeze from the cottage’s steep back porch overlooking the ocean marshes. Only now do I imagine what such love must have cost him: time, money, longer hours at the office, and personal comfort in his ageing years. Did he pummel us with reminders of the expense? Did he needle his family about the restaurant bill, or sigh at the rising cost of beach rentals?

Never. It was his deepest pleasure to express his love.

On ordinary days he cruised around town in his Volvo; my brother and I in tow, taking us to the dump, the dry cleaner, the pharmacy, and the hardware store. What I remember most of all is his happy heart, as he crooned along with old cassette tapes: Andraé Crouch’s To God Be the Glory, and Bill Gaither’s Because He Lives which elicited tears that trickled down his face. He was never embarrassed by such emotion.

God is wonderful and he rescued me, he said.

Grandchildren notice everything, and to have a grandparent who demonstrates their heart’s affections?

Pure gold.

To grandparent with eternity in mind is to forget all about yourself and go serve your darlings, choosing to spend the rest of your life showing them just how much you care. This is a love that cuts no corners, but lives to serve with outstretched arms.

Grandparenting well is both a light and weighty endeavor, a call to die, and an invitation to live with purpose.

But what about all those hard stories that are painful to tell? When grandparents do not rise to embrace their biblical role?

Pain, as I have discovered, has the potential to be a powerful tutor. The wise will heed the poor decisions of others and choose the better way.

I am now a grandmother, a fifty-four-year-old who remembers the ache.

***

My earliest memories of my father’s mother are swept up in mystery and longing.

Flo, as she was called, even by her sons, was German, stoic, and stubborn.

She and Grandpa lived 1000 miles away and visited our family once and only once.

Out East, she called it, in her heavy Chicago accent.

I was small when she and Grandpa visited and felt a shiver of excitement as I waited for them to arrive, my nose pressed against the windowpane.

They looked uncomfortable that first night, seated on our striped sofa that doubled as a hide-a-bed. Smoking was prohibited in our apartment, and I could feel the discomfort as Grandpa smiled and absentmindedly patted his shirt pocket. As night encroached and the tree frogs sang, my father cleared his throat and stood, tugged the triad of cushions from the sofa, and heaved the heavy bed frame across our olive shag carpet.

While my mother tucked soft sheets around the thin mattress, I wandered over to our fish tank, which glowed and bubbled. A school of neon tetras and zebra fish darted as I pointed and introduced my grandparents to Chubby, my favorite fish of all, a stout zebra fish twice the size of the others.

Grandpa nodded, soft eyes distant.

Well, he said, more than once, while Flo toyed with her purse handles and asked where she should ready herself for bed.

***

In lieu of their future refusal to travel Out East, my parents packed up our family many a summer, stuffed our suitcases into our small vehicle, and drove from New England to the Midwest and back again. Our car lacked air conditioning, and this, paired with my unrelenting carsickness, made for one long journey, windows down, wind whipping.

After two days, we arrived, and I felt a thrill zip down my spine as I studied their Sears & Roebuck house. Just imagine…my tall father had once been my age right here on this street–riding bikes, playing tag, and romping with cousins during steamy summer cookouts.

My brother and I unbuckled our seat belts, peeled our sweaty legs from the vinyl seats, and pranced behind our parents through the squeaky back screen door, which banged. I counted the steps up, up, up into my grandparents’ kitchen.

Grandpa pushed his cigarette stub into the yellow ashtray and smiled as he stood, gentle and slow.

Oh golly! he said pleasantly as he stretched his legs, patted our shoulders, and shook my father’s hand.

Hello, Tommy and Kristin, said Flo, with a fluttery wave.

She did not scoot down to hug us, or offer a drink of lemonade, or tug open a cookie jar. I stared longingly at the refrigerator, hoping she might offer something now that my carsickness had abated, but she did not.

The fridge, in fact, was speckled with photos of my uncle’s cats. I wondered where our school pictures were.

With hellos swept out of the way, my brother and I were shooed outdoors to play with our cousins.

During our week-long visits so many summers ago, I cannot recollect one personal conversation with Flo, no questions about school or hobbies or friends, nor any delicious snacks. We ate German sausage, hamburgers, coleslaw, and potato salad, and the adults downed endless pots of coffee. I watched Flo’s face, her smile lovely and guarded as she spoke to the adults, and I longed to know this grandmother of mine who felt unreachable.

***

Flo tended her flower gardens with precision, kneeling, patting, weeding, watering, forever hovering over Day Lilies and Hostas. The garden might have been small, but it was a beauty, and one she nurtured. I noticed her admiring her labor one summer evening, her back to the house, as the sun began to dip. She seemed lost in the beauty, with knuckles rested on her hips, the same mannerism my father displayed after an afternoon of gardening, dirt-laced garden gloves dangling between thumb and index finger.

Flo’s garden skirted their garage, the garage that held not only Grandpa’s woodworking table, but Grandma’s prized possession: her 1972 Oldsmobile Delta 88, Matador Red.

Heaven help anyone who touched it.

***

Grandma’s nurturing of plants and automobiles did not extend to people.

One of the repeated stories of my childhood was her response to my black eye. At the age of two, I tumbled down the wooden staircase of our apartment, which left me with a shiner. My father relayed this story to his folks during a long-distance phone call.

Flo’s response?

Get used to it. It is one of the first of many falls she will take.

Everyone chuckled.

Vintage Flo.

***

She birthed four sons who grew up in the house where she was born, the house in which she died. The same square footage for 82 years- can you imagine? She and my grandfather never wrangled a mortgage and given my grandfather’s steady income as a house painter, there was no need for her to work outside of her home.

But work she did, leaving her boys with her live-in mother as she accepted a factory job that lasted for decades, a job she spoke fondly of. Interestingly enough, her obituary said nothing of this long-standing employment but did mention her love of knitting and crocheting.

What about the hooked rugs?

This grandmother of mine hooked endless rugs, and one holiday she gifted us a hooked Christmas tree skirt, a rug that brightened the base of our Fraser Fir and served as an annual reminder that she was alive and well, crafting 1000 miles away.

I asked for my own rug kit one year, and through trial and error, mastered the stitch required to loop and twist the thread.

I worked feverishly, even though the yarn made a tight squeaking sound as I yanked it through the mesh square, a horrid noise that gave me the chills.

When I finally completed the project, my parents handed me the phone and mouthed: Thank your grandmother for the kit.

Thank you, Grandma, I said, and then tried to describe the puppy now decorating my bedroom wall.

Oh? she said.

Twisting the phone cord around my hand, cheeks burning, I raced to quell the silence.

How’s the weather at your house? I said, like a grown-up.

I was nine.

***

She had a gentle side with animals.

One summer, our family joined everyone at my grandparents’ cottage on the lake.

My brother and I, children of the sea, frolicked in the lake with our cousins, a body of water dark, strangely murky and still, save for the occasional lapping from the wake of ski boats. I was horrified to discover that the lake bottom was covered in slimy muck.

Which is why the next day, I skipped swimming and meandered to the front of the cottage, surprised to find Flo alone, perched on the front stoop in slippers, her pale arm outstretched, a hill of peanuts on her flattened palm. She sat motionless, her snow-white bouffant teased high; eyebrows arched, thinly penciled.

I held my breath and watched.

After a minute, a timid chipmunk darted from beneath the stoop. Wide-eyed, it inched toward Flo. After a minute, he cocked his head, gathered courage, scuttled up the steps, and nibbled peanuts directly from her palm.

I had never seen my grandmother look so happy.

Serene and almost pretty while smiling at the little fellow.

***

When my father and his brothers were young and fell ill with a stomach virus or fever, Flo shooed them upstairs to their bedroom to wait it out.

What do you mean? I remember asking my father incredulously when he told me this disturbing news. Did she bring you ginger ale? Medicine?

No, he said. We stayed upstairs by ourselves until we were better.

This was unfathomable until the summer visit I came down with strep.

I awakened from a fitful sleep, queasy, fever high, my throat speckled and hot.

As it happened, I was down for the week. My mother came and went with medicine and soup; my aunt tiptoed upstairs with gum and magazines to pass the time. Even Grandpa climbed the stairs to say hello.

But not Flo.

***

We were not supposed to ask our grandmother anything about God. Even though she and Grandpa frequented the same church throughout their marriage, all thoughts about God were considered private, off table.

The only time I heard her mention God was when she took his name in vain.

I worried about this.

***

Frugal to a fault and highly mistrustful of banks, she concealed great sums of cash inside coffee cans, hidden throughout her home. My uncles discovered mountains of money when she died.

All of those presents we gifted her and Grandpa over the years?–birthdays, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Christmas–were found untouched, neatly stacked in closets.

***

I have a striking photo of Grandma and Grandpa–young, freshly married, smooth-skinned, handsome–clasping hands outdoors, their gaze set toward the future. This was before they had children, before he was drafted for war, before they were oceans apart for seven entire years, and before he was awarded the Purple Heart.

Those seven years became a locked vault, never opened.

Heaps of stories, gone.

All that remained was silence.

Silence and a scar.

A wartime bullet had grazed Grandpa’s cheek.

***

I told you Flo gave birth to four sons, but that is not quite true.

Days before her first baby was due, he stopped kicking.

Yes, their first son had died in her womb, a devastating fact my grandparents concealed from their four living sons for decades.

Mounds of pain, pushed down, down, down, in an unmarked grave.

A chamber of secrets.

***

Over time, I grew up and grew accustomed to not knowing my grandparents, a former longing that eventually waned with acceptance of what was. I graduated from college and got married. Grandma Flo and Grandpa did not attend our wedding, given it was Out East.

My father was irked, but by then, I understood how little there was to salvage.

The hard truth remained: I did not know my grandparents any better than I knew the older couple who lived three houses up the street.

My husband and I were gifted one son, two sons, and by the time I gave birth to our third little boy, life was rolling along, busy and beautiful and challenging. After our third son’s birth, I descended into the baby blues, inexplicable to my mind while rocking a handsome bundle of pure sweetness.

One afternoon during this fraught time–I will never forget it, so unusual–the mailman delivered a letter from Flo, now seven years a widow. This was the first and only letter (other than generic Christmas cards) I had received from this grandmother of mine.

I was thirty years old.

The card was kindly congratulatory, with a sketch of three little mice each holding a bright balloon. Inside each balloon, Flo had penned my three little boys’ names. And beneath, in wobbly penmanship: Congratulations, Kristin! You are just like me, having all boys. Love, Grandma.

I was surprised to feel a flicker of happiness, a recognition that despite her decades of cool distance, perhaps she did care.

A few weeks later, Flo died suddenly, in the only home she had ever known, never having met my husband, our sons, or our daughter, born a year and a half later.

***

Here are the gems I now cradle, jewels kept from many sad stories I rarely tell:

It does not matter what I think about my grandchildren or what I feel for them quietly on the inside.

My grandchildren cannot read my mind, but they will forever read me.

The baton has been passed, and it is now my chief aim, duty, and unending delight to make certain each one of my grandchildren knows, beyond any shadow of doubt, that they are invaluable gifts from God, always loved and forever cherished.

---

Come along and listen to our recent conversation as Jacob and I consider how to leverage every season of life for the glory of God.

---

I include Jacob’s monthly prayer requests in my free monthly newsletter.

I passed our front door on the way to my office and glanced out the tall window, hoping to glimpse a ruby-throated hummingbird at our feeder.

No hummingbirds this morning, only our potted petunia, wilting on the front stoop. My husband surprised me with several potted plants this past spring. A sweet balm, given that deer have happily nibbled our garden hydrangeas to shreds, munching in the pitch of night, I presume.

The wilting petunia startled me, given that I had watered it just yesterday.

Filling the watering can up to the brim, I soaked the droopy plant. We survived a heat wave this week, and I should have considered that skyrocketing temperatures would exhaust our plants.

Within the hour, the petunia revived and stood tall, vibrant, and pretty.

***

Recently, I have felt as dry as our potted plant. Thin soup, as my grandmother once called it.

That is, until a dose of unexpected encouragement fluttered into the mailbox.

A letter! My favorite kind of all — handwritten on pretty cardstock.

A long-time blog reader (whom I do not know) put pen to paper and shared God’s goodness in leading her to repentance, detailing the specific ways The Palest Ink strengthened her soul. Her words were generous and sincere.

As a writer, I never know where my words will land or how my efforts will play out. But this dear reader had taken a moment to pull back the curtain and share from the deep places, inviting me in, while gently extending a gift of hope in this exhausting season. Her thoughtfulness, wrapped up in tender, care-filled words, was a balm.

Within minutes, I was a watered petunia, refreshed and invigorated.

Encouragement does that.

***

On the heels of such kindness came something quite different.

A blog reader, named Anonymous, typed words that cut. I blinked hard, my heart racing. What was this?

Criticism is inevitable, dare I say especially in the writing life, and while my heart’s desire is to remain humble and teachable, these accusations were cruel and assumptive.

Her words stung.

And then I remembered an article I read long ago of a pastor who, upon receiving anonymous hate mail, pushed back his chair, walked to the paper shredder, disposed of the words, and returned to his desk where he cheerfully began to work on the next sermon.

If disgruntled Anonymous did not have the courage to sign their name, so be it; he would not waste a speck of his time fretting.

Sounds exactly right to me.

Our words matter.

Whom will you and I water today?

---

There is one whose rash words are like sword thrusts,
    but the tongue of the wise brings healing.

(Proverbs 12:18)

Throngs of teenagers are floundering, feeling anxious, disengaged, and lonely, while spending swaths of time on phones and social media. Many wander aimlessly, without understanding their life’s true purpose. 

Parents, does this ache sound familiar?

If so, I encourage you to reflect upon question number one of the Westminster Shorter Catechism. The answer is beautifully biblical and succinct.

Question: What is man’s primary purpose?

Answer: Man’s primary purpose is to glorify God and enjoy him forever.

Although it may be tempting to offer your teen more of what the world promises with its bright slogans—“fun,” “exciting,” and “new”—God’s ancient paths are timeless and true, leading to everlasting life (Jer. 6:16). While I am not proposing that your teen become a Luddite, I am saying that the only way for anyone to live a purposeful, soul-satisfying life is to adore God above all. God does not desire our worship to be a drudgery, but a revelry, steeped in enjoyment. We were made for this: to glorify and enjoy God forever.

God said through the prophet Isaiah, “For I am God, and there is no other; I am God, and there is none like me” (Is. 46:9).  When we, as mothers and fathers, grasp the power of this truth and bow before it wholeheartedly, a holy reverence will descend, quieting our own hearts—an exquisite billboard for our teens to witness. In order to embrace our highest purpose of glorifying and enjoying God, we must turn from worldliness and heed the Spirit’s call. This frees us to model truth for our children as we cherish the Bible, walk in joyful obedience to God, live a life of ongoing repentance, and practice the lifelong habit of self-denial.

Love His Word 

The Bible is a lamp to our feet and a light to our path, breathed out by God to correct, teach, rebuke, and equip us for every good work (Ps. 119:105; 2 Tim. 3:16-17).

To love God and give him the highest glory, we must first know and delight in Scripture. Are you modeling a love of God’s Word to your teenagers? Not only as a duty, but as a delight? It is good and wise to create a home atmosphere of joy around the reading and discussion of God’s Word. As few as ten minutes of Bible reading and discussion as a family in the morning, and likewise at the dinner table, will prove profitable, spurring conversation, while bookending each busy day with a strong dose of truth. Remember this: God’s Word will never return empty (Is. 55:11).

Walk in Obedience 

Jesus said, “By this my Father is glorified, that you bear much fruit and so prove to be my disciples” (John 15:8). Knowing the Bible does not in and of itself bring glory to God. Even Satan knows some Scripture (Luke 4:9-11). To glorify and enjoy God, we must take hold of God’s written Word and walk in obedience to his precepts. A life aimed at the pursuit of holiness is a happy life bent on pleasing our Creator rather than succumbing to the world or gratifying ourselves. God is the Potter, and we are the clay, designed to honor him in every situation, for a lifetime (Is. 64:8). 

Teenagers who grasp this will shed the aimless life and strive to run life’s race with purpose and conviction. Pursuing joyful obedience has a stunning ripple effect, as Jesus says, “In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven” (Matt. 5:16). Part of walking in obedience is refusing to forsake the gathering—prioritizing church attendance each and every week as a family, unified under solid Bible teaching (Heb. 10:25).

Live in Repentance 

How wise it is, as parents, to not only teach but model repentance before your children, bearing in mind that any person who lives in a state of unrepentant sin will remain unable to glorify and enjoy God (Acts 17:30). Have you modeled an open acknowledgment of your own indwelling sin, confessing wrongdoing to your children and verbally apologizing to God? How good to swing open the door of vulnerable conversation by speaking of your own temptations to sin. In doing so, we lead our children to biblical examples of God’s gracious pardon of repentant sinners, such as King David, the Apostle Paul, Peter, the adulterous woman, and the thief on the cross.

While we cannot repent on behalf of our teens, we can model humility in confession, turning away from wrongdoing, and running to God’s Word for help in temptation. If I had known as a young mother what I know now, I would have practiced daily repentance aloud with my young children during our bedtime prayers. This is an opportunity to teach them the goodness of humility and tenderheartedness before the face of God, who is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and cleanse us fully.

Cherish Christ by Denying Self 

“And [Jesus] said to all, ‘If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me’” (Luke 9:23). I am not sure anything flies more in the face of modern culture than self-denial. Jesus’ words, recorded by Luke, serve as a winnowing fork, do they not? Our teenagers today are perpetually told: “You are enough. Follow your heart. Chase your goals. Live the American dream.”

But Jesus’ voice, a clarion call, turns such phrases upside down: “If you want to be my disciple, deny yourself. If you want to be my disciple, take up your cross. If you want to be my disciple, follow me.” God’s ways seem topsy-turvy and have absolutely nothing to do with self-gratification, ascending the top rung of the popularity ladder, living to achieve personal bucket lists, or planning one’s entire life with the end game of retirement, waltzing into old age stuffed with wealth and selfishness.

Parents, do not follow the lusts of this world, but give your teens the gift of abandoning the selfish life in order to pick up your cross and follow Jesus. Your children are watching and learning the beauty and cost of discipleship. What might happen at dinner tonight if you led your family in a happy discussion about life’s primary purpose? The Westminster Shorter Catechism is an excellent way to begin a discussion that will prayerfully open your children’s eyes and set their feet on the narrow path heavenward.

God is with you in this magnificent and overwhelming task called parenting. How comforting to know that although we often feel like a bruised reed, God will not break us (Matt. 12:20). His mercies are new every morning. Through Christ, we have an unfading inheritance waiting for us in heaven, and when we fix our gaze on eternity, the Lord gives us the grace to glorify and enjoy him each day, alongside our children.

---

This article was recently published at Rooted.