All great literature is one of two stories: a man goes on a journey, or a stranger comes to town.

Leo Tolstoy

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Perhaps the story begins the day his sentence ended, when the drug lord crept out of prison with the clothes on his back and the sun on his face, blinded and blinking and grateful for freedom, as he ambled toward the homeless shelter, without money or game plan.

Or maybe the story starts when a stranger came to town, a man who relinquished everything to dwell among outcasts, men without table or pillow, souls who stepped from the streets into the shelter, eager for a bowl of thin soup, a crust of bread, and a cot to lay their head.

The stranger leaned in and listened to their stories, and they were unaccustomed to being truly heard. They shared long-winded tales, and soon the stranger shared the hope he found only in Christ.

Some dismissed his invitation to come to Jesus.

In fact, most did.

Several, however, pressed him for details. So the stranger opened his worn Bible and read the gospels; his voice strong and sure.

Tired, toothless, and defeated men wept.

Weeks passed, and one Sunday morning, as the sun rose, the stranger returned to the shelter and offered the men a ride to church. His invitation was met with raised eyebrows and wagging fingers.

Invitations to Sunday worship are not done here. It is too dangerous, some said.

The stranger met their resistance with only a smile as he opened the sedan’s rear door, and with a broad sweep of his arm, bid his guests to buckle up, soon treating three famished men to a hearty breakfast.

As the stranger bowed to say grace, his guests, wide-eyed, removed their ball caps.

These men did not imagine they deserved such kindness, as they wolfed down scrambled eggs, bacon, and buttered toast, gulping coffee vigorously, until satisfied.

And then they went to church.

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One day, the stranger rose to greet the drug lord, a new face at the homeless shelter. The stranger recognized this man as one of God’s image bearers, a person like any other, with a beating heart and restless soul.

The drug lord was disarmed by the stranger’s calm gaze, the kindness in his eyes, and the strength of his handshake.

After a week’s worth of observation, the drug lord, a clam, began to slowly open his shell. He could not help himself; something about the stranger bred trust.

This was new and uncomfortable territory, speaking the shadows of his sketchy life aloud, with a perfect stranger. Yet gradually, a vulnerability–and yes, a friendship– blossomed.

The stranger spoke of God as though he knew him, as he unashamedly read the Bible aloud.

Oh, how the drug lord longed to believe that this Jesus could rescue someone as unrighteous as he.

It seemed unfathomable.

Until the restaurant.

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One evening, the stranger invited him to dinner. A reservations-required establishment: table linens starched white, iced water served in heavy goblets, tasteful piano music swirling, serving as a peaceful backdrop rather than a deafening pulse.

There was an unspoken dress code, and the maître d’ clearly had no qualms dismissing riffraff.

So the unlikely duo arrived—the young, handsome stranger man, in his pressed Oxford and khakis, and the drug lord, clad in a short-sleeve t-shirt, dusty and torn, tattoos running from wrist to neck; crumpled shorts that had seen finer days.

The maître d’ took one look at the drug lord, and wasted not a second.

We have a dress code here, he said, as he peered over his glasses in disgust. You must leave.

The drug lord did not need to be told twice. He felt the shame bearing down, and abruptly turned for the door when his friend stopped him.

Wait, he said.

Stepping between the drug lord and the maître d ‘, the stranger said, This man is my guest.

The maitre d’ flushed. I beg your pardon, Sir, he said, bowing ever so slightly before the well-dressed man.

Pulling two fine menus from the rack, he said, Right this way.

In a flash, the former drug lord had eyes to see.

God had made a way for filthy rags to stand in his presence: a people redeemed, welcomed, and beloved.

Tears streamed down his face as he embraced the truth: God looks at his chosen ones, all those who turn in faith to Christ Jesus, and rather than seeing their sins and tattered garments, he only sees his crucified Son, alive; risen; magnificent.

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 ³ For you have died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God. ⁴ When Christ who is your life appears, then you also will appear with him in glory.

Colossians 3:3-4

Our third grandchild is due any day now.

I cannot wait to rock him; to gently circle my hand over his tiny back, humming Bye, Baby Bunting, softly, as I did for our first two grandbabies, and our own little ones long ago.

What a holy calling to love and serve our children’s children. My heart and hands are full with these souls created by God, the Giver of life.

But before this little one is born, our daughter will experience excruciating pain, labor pangs that feel destructive and unending.

The truth?

That agony is the precursor to life.

While this concept is simple enough to understand regarding childbirth, it is easy to forget that every affliction we face, whether visible to the human eye or invisible to the watching world, is God’s personal invitation to deepen our spiritual life. An exquisite opportunity to grow in our love for Christ, as God shapes us for eternity with him.

Dear Christian, while our sufferings often feel excruciating and unending, let us press on and believe God, who calls our afflictions light and momentary, and who lavishes us with tender compassion.

The best news is that even though our vision is dim, God sees the entire scope of our life, from beginning to end, and keeps us safely in his hands, through every affliction. I have seen magnificent beauty sparkle through the intense suffering of two of God’s saints–ordinary women who have treasured Christ through heartache.

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Collen Chou has battled cancer for many years, living longer than doctors deemed possible. Be encouraged and strengthened as you watch this beautifully tender video, filmed several years ago. Would you please pray for Colleen and her family, as you hear her recent update?

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There is another woman who impacts me, still.

Seventeen years ago, Rachel Barkey spoke to a group of women shortly before she died, her speech entitled Death is Not Dying. God used her to awaken my soul, and I am eternally grateful.

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Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.

(2 Corinthians 1:3-4)

Not only that, but we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.

(Romans 5:3-5)

When I was a young mother, reading Beatrix Potter to my two-year-old and cradling my newborn, I remember feeling called and overwhelmed.

Called, and delighted, to be a stay-at-home mother of two precious baby boys, and overwhelmed by the enormity of responsibility called motherhood. Jon and I were early to marry; the first of our friends to be ushered through the halls of parenthood. Amid such change, I had been transplanted to the southernmost state, our midwest college days growing dusty in the rearview.

We were young, poor as church mice, and faithfully attending a certain church each week for all of the wrong reasons. God worked out that knotted mess rather beautifully in his time and in his way.

I say all of this to give you, my kind reader, context: I loved my husband and my children and my stay-at-home work, dearly, but also experienced pangs of displacement. Parched, and quite desperate for cool water.

One ordinary day during this stretch, I was gifted a subscription to a beautifully written, monthly magazine. I say magazine, but there were no glossy pictures, no Gap ads, no fragrant cologne samples. It was simply a small collection of true stories written by stay-at-home mothers, women in the trenches, who bravely shared their lives by way of Times New Roman displayed on thick cardstock.

I meandered to our apartment mailbox each day with my two little loves in tow. Caleb’s hand tugging mine, his gravelly voice counting our steps; Jacob’s baby soft hair brushing my chin as he napped on my shoulder. Caleb and I studied clouds and trees and birds, along with his favorite cars in the apartment’s parking lot. I slowed as he crouched and examined each caterpillar and anthill and butterfly, as I gifted him splendid words–cumulonimbus, magnolia, osprey, Monarch, Mercedes— terms he soaked up and practiced, smiling as he sorted them out; new words savored to repeat to his father over modest dinners served at our humble table.

We eventually arrived at the mailbox and collected the bills and flyers. My heart warmed as I spotted it.

My subscription!

Later, after lunch crumbs were swept up, and the boys were tucked in for afternoon naps, I heated the kettle for peppermint tea and curled up on our sofa.

I read.

And I read.

Soon, the hard, jagged edges softened.

That dull ache had vanished, replaced by the beauty of story. The cobwebs of life had cleared.

The stories were far from grandiose and favored the mundane, which I loved, and still do. I soaked it in and gave myself permission to see my own quotidian life with fresh perspective while embracing the joys of playing blocks and cars and stuffed animals with my sons. I was armed with rich stories, narratives from other women not so different from me. Normal mothers wading through oceans of sickness, shoestring budgets, and discouragement in the daily grind.

Yet paired with these were simple pleasures: gratitude in the intricacies of family life. They sparkled everywhere, didn’t they? I closed my eyes and went treasure hunting: my baby’s first dimpled smile, toddler hugs smothering my neck, the softness, the gentleness in smoothing freshly scented bedsheets, cool beneath my sons’ damp hair after bathtime. The symphony of crickets and tree frogs chirping by dusk as I read Goodnight Moon to my loves. My husband’s intentionality in working hard to meet the needs of our growing family.

That monthly publication became my trusted companion. I attempted to savor it, hatching a plan to read one article per day, thereby stretching the delight to last for weeks.

It never worked.

I feasted.

***

That publication spoke truth; honoring the exquisite beauty so mysteriously found in the quicksand of hardships. The authors refused to gloss over the gritty places of life but instead pressed in. I was bolstered to search for the pearls formed by the sandy irritants that greatly disturbed the oyster.

Those bits of writing were certainly not fairy tales. They were dear treasures, articles that plunged into the deep, cold, intricate waters of motherhood. The writers, pens in hand, chose to play the long game, bleeding onto the page for many to read, exhorting moms to stay the course, come what may.

I recall one prolific piece, written by an older woman whose children had grown and left the nest. Her words went something like this:

Mothers of little ones: You will never regret laying your life down for your family. Every hug, every bandaid, every read-aloud, every damp, cool washcloth on fevered brow spells love; devotion. Your children will remember. And those soft places you grace them to land will help them to soon forgive your many, many mistakes. This I know.

***

One day, when Jacob was learning to walk, I took my two little boys to our mailbox where I discovered a thin envelope, a slip of paper informing me that the magazine had folded.

Their small and loyal following was unfortunately not enough to sustain their publication.

I was crushed.

The month after the last publication arrived, I found a monthly mother’s group at a church 40 minutes from our doorstep. We owned one car at the time, which often meant that I stayed home with our boys on weekdays. My husband and I worked out a plan, which would afford me the luxury of wheels on the first Tuesday of each month. So the boys and I packed PB& J’s and danced across town, making a fun day of it.

While my sons played with other children, I met some lovely women who in due time became friends. Friends who pulled our family into their church. Within a year of the first mother’s meeting, we moved, joined the congregation, and watched as God slowly grew our faith. Soon the Lord gifted us two more beauties, only twenty-one months apart. Our Marcus and Lauren.

The loss of my magazine, something so small, had sparked delightful, life-changing events, prompting me to pursue connection and leading us to join a new church family.

But also? I never forgot the power of words, and of story, to befriend.

Our life was full, blossoming in fact, as I began homeschooling our older two while changing diapers and going to sports practices around the clock. Jon coached our boys in church leagues and also became increasingly active in his men’s small group Bible Study.

We moved into our forever home, and life was a happy, rushing, river of dreams.

***

And then everything so familiar and stable and lovely came undone.

Jon met me in the high heat of our Florida garage, to carry groceries inside. Our baby girl was two months old, and I had just returned from shopping. I carried baby Lauren and Jon carried the bags.

Something was wrong.

Or right.

He told me that he was being called to full-time ministry.

***

Four months later:

We are fully unpacked, and 1,100 miles away from the familiar. Jon is working full-time and taking seminary classes. I am homeschooling and keeping everything spinning in our new home.

It is late. So late that it is early.

The house is dark, still, quiet.

I cannot sleep.

I slip out of bed and tiptoe into the living room, noticing by way of moonlight, that even Swimmy, our betta fish, is resting. I creep up the carpeted stairs to the bonus room, which has three expansive windows, unhindered by blinds or shades. The harvest moon illuminates: round, buttery, glowing.

Here, in the hush of night, I brush up against stark reality, the knowing that my sense of normalcy has completely evaporated. I am displaced, nomadic, a foreigner in a strange land. It feels reminiscent of those early motherhood days before my magazine and mother’s group. Only bigger, greater, and frighteningly insurmountable.

Here is what I did not know in that moment:

The cross-country move would rock me, tearing me wide open in private, silent, ways for years. The pain of the moment, there in the bonus room, beneath the watching moon, and the insufferable pain yet to come, would unravel every thread of self-sufficiency.

Soon, I would see Christ, fully. Everything, everything would change through my suffering.

The magazine, the mother’s group, and the easy church friendships, although good, would never, could never, be my savior.

But I don’t know these things yet as I cinch my bathrobe tighter, cross my arms, and study the magnificent, broad, unshakable sphere hanging heavy in the night sky. All I know, then, is loss.

So I pray in desperation: Tell me something true.

God is silent. The moon is quiet. Everything, save the ticking clock and my rumpled soul, is still.

***

The next week God met me in the library.

He told me something true.

We went to the library every single Friday in those days, as part of our homeschooling plan. I loaded my basket with bunches of good books for my beauties, and on this particular Friday, I impulsively grabbed one for myself: The Pleasures of God.

This book sparked curiosity as I read–Can these things be true? Is this what pleases God? –and sent me running to Scripture. I remember those early tremors of insatiable delight, flipping through many, many, passages, sixty-six books of truth that in my uncertainty, were soon to become my everything.

What had I been doing my entire life? Why had I only cherry-picked verses? I could not believe that I had missed such riches.

Suddenly, my appetite for God and the Bible infused me. Instead of curling up on the couch with a mother’s magazine, I was meeting the God of the universe on our sofa.

God speaks.

Did you know this?

He does.

Page by page. Every word is true.

***

Tell me something true, you say.

My response?

I just did.

Open your Bible, feast, and come alive.

God will speak.

To you.

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Sanctify them in the truth; your word is truth. ~John 17:17

Years ago, in the pitch of morning, I drove my daughter to work. I remember that trip well: the crisp, thin air, a quartet of deer stilled by our headlights, the lullaby of our quiet conversation in the moonless sky before daybreak. I glanced sideways at my girl, who swiped Vaseline–Crème Brûlée–across her lips with ease, not missing a beat as we chatted.

How beautiful, how still the wide, winding road that drew us across the lake and up the hill.

Watch out for the deer, Mom, said Lauren.

I nodded, turning on my truck’s high beams.

It’s so dark, I said, as our headlights illuminated another pair of speckled fawns.

Minutes later, as we looped out of our neighborhood onto the main road, I gently accelerated. The road was ours and ours alone, until one car entered from a side street, ahead of us.

After a few seconds, the driver began pumping his brakes, red lights pulsing, repeatedly. And then he slowed way down to a crawl, while continuing to pump his brakes.

Why is he doing that? I said.

So strange, said Lauren. Something’s off.

I agree, I said, slowing to keep our distance.

For the next few minutes, the pattern repeated. Braking and slowing, braking and slowing.

By this time, we had become a mother-daughter duet: Is he a serial killer? A madman? Kidnapper? Convict?

One thing was true: Lauren could not afford to be late for work, and one glance at the dashboard clock told me she would be tardy unless I stepped on it.

Double-checking that our doors were locked, I accelerated.

The effect was instantaneous: The car’s incessant braking was now accompanied by fist-pumping, a jacketed arm protruding thickly from the passenger window.

And in a flash, I realized.

My high beams were on, and for over a mile I had been blinding this poor man.

A man now enraged.

I groaned as I fumbled to dim my lights, moaning an embarrassed apology in the dark.

The driver took off, peeling out and blasting his horn for good measure.

My heart was thumping as I slowly exhaled.

All was quiet.

And then my daughter snickered, smothering a laugh. Her giggle proved contagious, and I joined in. Soon, we could not catch our breath or even complete a sentence as we gasped until we cried, able to utter only a few words that sent us straight into another roar: convict? serial killer? madman?

How pathetic, our assumptions.

I considered him a lunatic when, in fact, I was the cause of his blinding misery.

Mea Culpa.

My fault.

***

There are times when we mean no harm, but our carelessness hurts others. It is good and right to be able to look squarely in the mirror and say: My fault.

If the scenario were reversed, and I were blinded by another driver’s lights, how might I extend grace rather than rage? Would I be slow to impute bad motives and speedy to forgive?

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A fool takes no pleasure in understanding,
    but only in expressing his opinion.

Proverbs 18:2

Today’s article is dear to my heart.

I invite you to come along, read, and share it with others.

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A gracious soul may look through the darkest cloud and see a man smiling at him. -Thomas Brooks

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My slim passport has been stamped only twice, as God has chosen to keep me close to home. I am deeply grateful for this quotidian life he has appointed me.

Given these facts, one might be surprised to learn that I travel abroad regularly, whipping across international borders.

My paperless passport, as I call it, has been stamped with passages to dark, dingy hallways, hovels, and stark, lonesome rooms where time crawls. Destinations no one would choose.

It is a funny thing: this tattered passport has grown increasingly precious with time, its title embossed in the softest gold: Suffering.

Suffering is the terror of unwanted places: cross-country moves, fears, death, abandonment, persecution, strife, sickness, wretched misunderstandings, and sin.

Here is the hidden treasure: every single stamp has been sanctioned by God and sifted through his hands.

Suffering is a severe blade. A scalpel used to scrape the world’s plaque from my thumping heart. A blade causing me to whimper as it shaves through my rebellion, dropping me to my knees in both agony and wonder, an unbidden awakening that pushes my flesh and fragile bones closer to God.

Time and again, the Lord has patiently gathered my crushed spirits, singing over me while stitching me back together with his long and loving needle, creating something new from torn rags. A woman slowly transformed, growing resilient yet tender, with an inner beauty mirroring her Savior.

Even so, I remain a creature of forgetfulness, requiring paper and pen to stir up my soul-waters and refine my affections as I preach the truth to myself: God is working behind the scenes for my good.

Our Maker, while never capricious, does what he pleases to transform his redeemed. More often than not, our transformation comes by suffering.

As Ligon Duncan said: There is a God we want and a God who is, and the two are not the same.

***

Once upon a time, for the better part of a year, I devoted a large slice of time to discipling a younger woman. It felt audacious, given the hours already set aside to serve my own growing family and church.

Nevertheless, I happily dove into teaching and mentoring. The two of us dug into a rich Bible study. She leaned on me for encouragement and guidance. We laughed and cried and prayed.

I had absolutely no inclination that this relationship would end with a new stamp in my passport. After the study ended, our friendship continued until one day, without fanfare, sans conflict, she disappeared. It was nothing short of bizarre.

In my astonishment and grief, I neglected to skim my passport and trace the faithfulness of God throughout previous sufferings. For a time, I ceased to sing my own song amid solace and sorrow: God is always working and always good.

The days bled into weeks, then months, and although life carried on, I kept asking my husband the same tired question: How could this have happened without warning? until I finally realized the time had come to grant my open wound the rest it needed to heal. So, one moonless night, I sat still in bed, and with my eyes closed and hands open, I thanked God.

For what?

For his sovereignty in granting me this trial. For inviting me to share in the fellowship of Christ’s sufferings. For his broad forgiveness of my own sins. For providing me this sweet opportunity to mentor and befriend this woman in the first place. For the remembrance that no matter what, His Word will never return void.

I also thanked him for mapping out my personal passport, a journey stuffed with throbbing grief and wisdom.

***

For over fifty years, I have experienced an injury-free life. I walked, jogged, and rode my bike whenever and however I wished. Fast walking in the beauty of our neighborhood, through winding paths and golf course hills, has long been my beloved morning ritual–one of my favorite activities in the whole wide world.

Early last summer, I unwittingly embarked on what would become my last neighborhood walk for the better part of a year. The following week, I injured my knee on our family vacation, skipped medical treatment for weeks, and wrongly assumed things would heal on their own. One sunny morning soon thereafter, I felt a snap and dropped to the floor, in excruciating pain.

A brand-new stamp in my passport.

I get it – some people revel in being waited upon, served, coddled. To others, such as myself, this is anathema.

I have been forced to cradle my independent streak in both hands and offer it to God. If this cup won’t pass, I will trust him, still.

For many months following my injury, I hobbled on crutches and could not lace my sneakers, vacuum our home, cook dinner, or let our dog outside. I could not stand on crutches for five minutes without wincing, nor was I able to retrieve the mail or go grocery shopping.

The truth felt crushing: I was needy.

Those beloved morning walks?

Gone.

God had plans. I was forced to learn to ask for help and graciously receive it without perpetually apologizing. I had to accept (and believe) the words of a physical therapist who said I might be feeling normal one year out, no promises.

This passport stamp has flown me not only to the land of physical pain, but also into a new community. Far from the prized, quiet nature walk to begin my writing days, I now exercise with other women who are rehabbing, a sorority of sisters with the gift of gab, tugging at my introverted nature. Women who have truly become dear to me. I have been graced with several opportunities to share the hope of Christ, and am praying that God will plant these tiny seeds upon good soil and cause them to take root and flourish.

I would love to report that I have brilliantly conquered this round of suffering, but the truth is layered. In the quiet places, way down deep, I still feel a prick of despair regarding my physical limitations and the death of complete independence. I continue to battle the envy that arises while driving past fast-walkers, folks able to stride effortlessly toward the warm, rising sun as it ascends the pretty tree line.

On the upside, my compassion for others has deepened, and I am both spellbound and encouraged by Christians with permanent disabilities who suffer with increasing joy, thankful and pleasant, whistling through affliction as they trust God. I am their new pupil, whether they know it or not, shadowing them as they journey onward through fragility.

These fresh stamps in my paperless passport have prompted me to scour the writings of saints who have suffered beyond the pale, while remaining well with God. Men and women worth emulating: Corrie Ten Boom, John and Betty Stam, Geoffrey T. Bull, Amy Carmichael, David Livingstone, Esther Ahn Kim, and Joni Eareckson Tada.

***

Today, I flipped through the pages of my passport and smiled, tilting my face toward the rising sun. God is working, God is sovereign, and God is good.

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Not only that, but we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.

Romans 5:3-5

I would like to introduce you to two writers whom I have had the privilege of meeting face-to-face. In a world brimming with noise and a writing culture fraught with competition, relentlessly clamoring for recognition, it is good to slow down and relish the writing of authors who care more about creating something beautiful than they do about garnering accolades.

I met Cara Ray at a conference years ago and swiftly recognized a kindred spirit. I savored her first book, The Pursuit of Holy Leisure, over a long, rainy weekend. Gently, she invites readers into a deeper pursuit of God through soul rest. Her book is every bit as lovely as she is.

Karen Wade Hayes is a fellow Virginian, and not too long ago, we met for lunch and discussed it all: God, family, church, and the writing craft. What a joy to spend time with a fellow Christian writer. I have long enjoyed her work, and her recent post, How Broken Things Heal, ministered to my heart.

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She appears three times in Scripture, this quiet one, Mary of Bethany.

A woman unashamedly surrendered to her Lord above all; a disciple, consecrated.

I trace my fingers slowly over the verses tucked in the Gospel accounts, stories that herald her homage to the Lord, disclosing her beautifully zealous heart.

How may I emulate this lovely one whom Jesus praised?

***

The world’s mantra echoes and reverberates: create a steady life, neatly parsed into categories of self-care: work, play, and spend. Yes, shell out your money, spoiling yourself, soothing your conscience by dubbing such expenditures a well-deserved hobby, a reward for enduring the hardships of the daily grind. By all means, devote the lion’s share of each day to brooding, calculating ways to prioritize your sacred personal comfort while simultaneously fretting, diligently constructing a future retirement laced with ease and aimlessness.

How easy it is to slip into this mindset, especially in the West, striving to construct a safe and selfish life, considering it responsible, even noble, while carving God out of the entire equation.

Mary of Bethany tipped such thinking upside down, her heart burning with complete devotion to her Lord. Each account of her actions shimmer: this woman treasured Jesus deeply, rode the tide of self-forgetfulness, did not complain when maligned, and kept her soul bowed in humility.

Mary took the long, eternal view, heaping up treasure where moth and rust did not destroy.

How did she hold fast?

She listened to Jesus. (Luke 10:38-42)

Mary, brimming with faith, sat still and listened, enraptured by Jesus’ every word. Many tend to empathize with Mary’s sister, Martha, a distracted woman who scuttled about serving irritably, moaning to Jesus about all the help she was not receiving.

Jesus renounced worldly wisdom, saying, Martha, Martha, you are terribly distracted, but your sister has chosen the good portion.

What did he mean by the good portion?

Namely, himself. Mary worshipped Jesus, and her tender heart was on display. The Lord was her foundation, her treasure, and her eternal inheritance. She was not primarily consumed with cooking, entertaining, or serving. Things which in and of themselves are good, but when rightly ordered, play second fiddle to beholding Jesus.

The Lord read Mary’s heart and praised her, this devoted one who remained serenely poised, eager to listen, and happy to shun distractions.

*Will you and I dismiss all distractions and linger at Jesus’ feet? Is Jesus our portion? Are our priorities aligned with God’s Word?*

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She fell at his feet. (John 11:17-34)

The second story of Mary takes place during a season of weeping. Mary and Martha’s brother, Lazarus, died, and after several days of mourning, Jesus returned to Bethany. Many neighboring Jews had gathered to console the grief-stricken sisters. When Martha tells Mary that Jesus is calling for her, the Bible says that Mary immediately rose to find him, and many Jews followed her.

Mary spotted the Lord and dropped at his feet, her words aching with belief: Lazarus would not have died if you had been there. Jesus, her Comforter, was so moved, a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief, that he wept before calling out to Lazarus, raising him back to life. The Jews who followed Mary to the tomb witnessed this miracle, and many hearts were softened, changed as they believed in Jesus.

*Will you and I rise quickly to find Jesus, trust him in our deepest sorrows, and worship at his feet?*

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She anointed Jesus’ feet. (John 12:1-8) (Mark 14:3-9)

This final account of Mary of Bethany is astonishing. As the sisters served Jesus in the house of Simon the leper, Mary broke a precious alabaster flask of pure nard and poured it upon the Lord’s head and feet and brushed it with her hair. The cost of this fragrant perfume was worth an entire year’s wage.

Mary’s love for the Lord eclipsed boundary lines; her extravagance was remarkable. When some disciples grumbled at Mary and scolded her frivolity, arguing that she should have sold the nard to feed the poor, Jesus rose as her only Defender: Leave her alone. She has done a beautiful thing.

Jesus goes on to say: She had done what she could; she has anointed my body beforehand before burial. And truly, I say to you, wherever the gospel is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will be told in memory of her.

Do you see the exquisite mural of her surrendered life? Adoration that culminated in the highest praise from God himself.

*Will you and I spend our possessions on the kingdom of Jesus, and joyfully deny ourselves? When others call us foolish, will we stand firmly settled in our faith and allow God to defend us? Are we doing beautiful things for God?*

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 But Jesus said, “Leave her alone. Why do you trouble her? She has done a beautiful thing to me.” 

Mark 14:6

With the gift of another birthday, here are truths I have learned along my 54 trips around the sun.

1. God designs us with unique abilities and quirks,
2. Intricacies richer than the results of any personality test.
3. We are stitched together, by God,
4. in secret and with purpose.
5. What I loved as a child, I still love:
6. Spending time with my family,
7. Reading good books,
8. Scratching the head of our Gold Retriever,
9. Crunching a McIntosh apple,
10. Inhaling the scent of autumn,
11. Cheering on the New England Patriots,
12. Long walks outdoors,
13. And writing.
14. What I disliked as a child remains unchanged:
15. Small planes,
16. Clowns,
17. Elaborate events,
18. Cottage cheese,
19. Sullenness,
20. Humidity,
21. Gorillas,
22. And the notion of a cruise.
23. I will never go on a cruise, because
24. I do not wish to be stuck on water with strangers:
25. A situation that seems quite punishing.
26. This being said, I am still pining for a rowboat
27. To paddle the pond with my husband and grandchildren,
28. Counting fish and turtles and clouds.
29. I have also learned that some things we dislike as children are the things that God asks us to embrace.
30. Such as public speaking,
31. Which I dreaded as a child, a high schooler, and an undergrad.
32. In fact, I am most surprised to enjoy teaching women about God and the Bible.
33. This change of heart transpired following much suffering,
34. As God stripped me of crutches, namely the fear of man.
35. Now, I am free to speak from the deep places, with joy.
36. I have learned the pleasure of reading the Bible again and again, in full,
37. Knowing that God is speaking to me through every verse and chapter.
38. What else have I learned?
39. When people show you who they are, believe them.
40. I am learning to speak the truth kindly, without compromise,
41. And to invite correction and embrace critique.
42. I have learned that bad company corrupts, and blessed is the man who walks not in the counsel of the wicked.
43. I have learned the importance and delight of Wednesday’s prayer meeting,
44. And how to overlook an offense.
45. Here is a big truth I have learned: Grandparenting matters.
46. I am brimming with memories of my grandfather, who died 34 years ago.
47. His choices back then inspire me to love my grandchildren fully, right now.
48. I have learned that bona fide Christians will fight to persevere to the end,
49. Because we are called, beloved in God the Father, and kept for Jesus Christ.
50. I have learned that apart from God, I can do absolutely nothing.
51. I delight in knowing from Scripture that God is Sovereign over every smidgen of life,
52. Including salvation and suffering.
53. This is truly the most comforting reality I know.
54. I have learned that 54 years is but a vapor compared to eternity in heaven.

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