This one is for the writers and creators.

---

I understand. You have words to write, music to produce, drawings to sketch.

Life, however, has blown in on a gale, fierce winds pounding your office door.

Someone in your sphere is grumpy, bent out of shape–in a snit, and has spoken brusquely. While you cannot begin to imagine why, it is nonetheless disturbing not to mention distracting. Amid this conundrum, you recall that you have doctor’s appointments to schedule, library books to return, another meeting tonight, and guests coming for Sunday dinner. Meanwhile, assignments have begun to accumulate, and as happy as you are for the work, you are weary from scattered interruptions: a knock, a call, a text, just as your creative juices have begun to swirl.

Staring down the list of tasks, it suddenly feels like a steaming locomotive is brushing your heels. A silent whimper hovers in your throat as your canvas remains blank.

Finally, finally, you hush the distractions, but it is too late. The train of thought has left the station without you.

The seconds pass.

Tick, tick, tick.

Your fuzzy brain is tired, but your heart is thumping hard as you strive to regroup.

It’s no use. The ideas have fizzled and perished. Up and died.

The more effort you exert, the worse the situation becomes.

Tick, tick, tick.

//

I have been there and it is a sore place. May I encourage you with some ideas that have helped me return to the canvas of creativity?

• Turn off the computer and go for a long walk. What seems counterproductive is life-giving. Ideas spark when we aren’t trying so hard. And the thing I love about walking is that nearly anyone can do it, with one pair of good sneakers. No need for expensive memberships or workout gear. Simply lace up and go.
• Work physical labor. Clean your closet, pluck weeds from the flower beds, fold laundry, declutter your desk, shovel out the garage, or cook a meal to gift to another. Seeing the fruit of your hands through measured productivity will relax your brain.
• Step into the sunshine and pray for your family, friends, and neighbors.
• Ask God to bless your creative labors.
• Fire up a sermon podcast and take notes.
• Complete small tasks that do not require wild creativity. Piece together your monthly newsletter, answer and delete emails, write old-fashioned thank-you notes, and pay bills.
• Grab your keys and go for a spin, cranking up the music while breathing deeply, relaxing your shoulders as you thank God for life.
• Sit outside, inhale the fresh air, and revel in birdsong.
• Count your blessings out loud.
• Read a beautiful book.

That creative assignment coming due?

It will keep.

Rest your mind, tend to your soul, and busy your hands.

Walk away from your desk and breathe.

Before you know it, you will be ready to create once again.

//

May I also suggest carving out time to assess your current schedule? Are your working hours borderless? Perpetually bleeding into other commitments?

It is profitable to preserve structured hours, honoring this time as good work. Perhaps it is time for gentle conversations with yourself and others, clearly articulating your work schedule. Only you can initiate such things and yes, it is your responsibility.

Ask yourself: If I worked as a bank teller, would Joe and Suzy be calling me to chat in the middle of the work day? Or would they respect my work hours? And would I be casually answering phone calls and responding to texts during my bank hours?

Of course not.

With this in mind, watch the clock and go for it.

Create something good and true and beautiful for the glory of God.

---

More writing encouragement:

Words That Lead

On Writing

Twenty years ago, in the top floor of our white brick home sat a beautifully spacious room with a prominent bay window. It was a bedroom shared by our oldest sons, adorned with bunk beds and soft, stretching carpet.

One night, after the sun had set, the boys set up their Rescue Heroes and Legos to play before bedtime. The windows were inched open, begging a slight breeze of night air. Suddenly, they heard a commotion outside, in our culdesac. Peering through the blinds, they noticed our typically reclusive neighbor hollering at his dog. The boys ran to the top of the stairs, calling for us: Mom, Dad!

Jon and I jogged upstairs and flicked off the lamps, watching the outdoor drama unfold as we peeked through the blinds.

Come here! The man bellowed in the dark, pointing at the sidewalk before him, and stomping his foot. The street light glowed, casting shadows over this peculiar scene. The dog faced his owner directly, smiling so it seemed, wagging, tail high in the air as his front paws crouched low. He was ready to leap and play.

I said come here! The man shouted, lurching forward as fast as his paunchy, middle-aged self could.

The dog ran and soon circled back, just barely out of reach. Our neighbor stopped, winded, brushing sweat off his shiny forehead with his sleeve, before bending at the waist, hands resting kneecap. After a moment he ramped up the yelling and the short bursts of chase, to no fruitful end.

The angrier the man became, the more energized the dog grew, relishing such sport.

I could see the poor fellow wrestling with ideas, turning over possible ways to end this torment, such blatant disobedience. He lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. Come here! When that command was ignored, he shot for friendlier tones, with Come here, Buddy!

And when these attempts floundered, inspiration struck.

The allure of the promised dog treat.

Treat! Come here and get a treat!

Nope.

Please! Please! He wailed, and I thought he just might crumble into a heap on the pavement.

The dog, of course, did not care one whit. He was having fancy fun provoking his master, who then circled back to the former tactics of seething irritation and loud threats. Measures that yielded nothing more than empty hands.

The dog was delighted, dashing and spinning away only to return, again and again.

This scene played out for the longest ten minutes as we giggled, albeit quietly. It was like watching a slapstick comedy. Imagine that…Barney Fife in our own neighborhood.

Finally, the man was done. Ready to explode.

Flinging his hands straight into the air, he shook his fists, yelling Aaaaagh! as he cried to the skies for help.

Met with silence, he raked his fingers through thinning hair and performed an about-face, and with one last spasm of rage, marched violently to his front door.

The four of us bent over, covering our mouths, howling at this primetime show unfolding beneath our window. It was now over, as the credits rolled.

But wait.

An encore.

Just as the man pushed open his front door, the dog breezed by, running directly into the house.

//

I have thought about the dog and the man many times over the years. When I feel myself growing weary and frustrated with people who are repeatedly toying around with God and Scripture, claiming the label Christian while digging in their heels and living precisely as they please?

I am learning to pause, pray, and walk away.

Jesus never chased people. He spoke plain truth in love, calling people to repentance and holiness, while permitting them to disregard his words and bend toward their own sinful desires. The Spirit is not at work in such people. Jesus knew this, understanding that his sheep would be different, knowing his voice and following him.

Do you have people in your life taunting you, having the appearance of godliness but denying its power?

Plant seeds by speaking the gospel truth in love. If they reject it, time and again, be like Christ, and keep moving along. Resist the urge to pull out a bag of tricks in the failing attempt to lure someone who does not want to surrender their will to God.

Pray for them, yes. But remember that changing hearts is the Holy Spirit’s work, not ours.

Be kind, let them go, and minister to others.

---

No one can come to me unless the Father who sent me draws him. And I will raise him up on the last day.

-John 6:44

My dermatologist is a gem. She is friendly, and not easily spooked, a quality I deeply appreciate.

Once per year I sit in a paper gown, and she knocks, greeting me with: Hi Kristin!

She scrubs up at the tiny sink while her assistant asks perfunctory questions, manicured nails tapping the keyboard at lightning speed.

The doctor: How’s your grandson?

Ah… the magical phrase. I am happy—and surprised—that she remembers CJ, but then again he is the one who misses the mole she removed from a spot above my lip. One year later he still asks where it is.

I love that he has memorized your face, she says, bringing me back to this bright room and paper gown.

Her hands travel my back as she speaks, occasionally using her mini magnifying glass, looking for anything unusual, given my blue eyes and fair complexion, armed with the knowledge of my high school layout sessions, years of roasting in the sun, earning a tan with the help of baby oil.

Back then my brother shook his head as I fanned a long beach towel over the back porch. At high noon, of all things.

Turn me over I am done on this side, he teased.

The doctor and I continue to chat as she moves to my shoulders, then arms. I ask about her family, and she says a European vacation is in the offing.

How exciting! I say, inquiring further about Rome. We discuss their trip.

So, she says after a bit, Any special plans this summer?

I cannot hide my smile. Yes! Two big things. First, our son is returning from South Africa.

We discuss his missionary work, and she is curious, asking careful questions, her interest piqued.

She parts my hair this way and that, searching for anything amiss, before examining both ears. Looks fine. Now tell me the second thing.

Our daughter is getting married!

She claps. How exciting! Do tell.

She moves to stand before me, her eyes bright, diamond sparkling. She is paying attention and seems genuinely interested. I know that given a normal setting, we would be fast friends.

So I tell her bits about my pretty daughter and her love, both young and happy and counting the days. How my pastor-husband will officiate, with our sons as groomsmen, our daughters-in-law as bridesmaids, and our grandson the ring bearer. We will be together (with a bunch of other people) for two whole days.

Who is your wedding planner? she asks and I laugh.

You’re looking at her!

I love it! she laughs. What a time!

I nod. My daughter and I have enjoyed the hours of planning together, little by little, just the two of us.

Wow, I feel your love, she says, stooping to examine my toes, causing me to realize once again how I would never ever wish to practice medicine.

So you two haven’t squabbled while planning this? That is the finest part of all. My mother and I were hissing cats, clawing the entire 6 months of my engagement.

I am sorry, I say.

She sighs, asking me to stand before taking her magnifying instrument to the back of my legs.

You, my dear, are rich. She sighs again, pointing to a picture of her junior high daughter on the corner shelf.

I think of her, and how I want things to be between us when she gets married. But I don’t know. It takes two people to want to get along before they do get along, doesn’t it? A dash of give and take. She shakes her head again.

I nod. This is true. Give and take plus lots of apologies and forgiveness. It isn’t easy, is it?

Her eyes fill and she shakes her head and blinks. I remember saying I do. Wow! The passage of time.

And then:

You are good to go. I will see you in a year unless something pops up. Next visit I expect to hear every single detail about the wedding.

And with a wave and a smile she is gone.

I pull off the paper gown and get dressed, pausing only to look at the family pictures on the corner shelf. The stunning slopes of Aspen, the stretches of Hawaiian sand, the cruise ship extravaganzas.

And I marvel– how could this doctor call me rich?

Yes, she had dutifully examined my head, my arms, and my feet.

But I do believe she had read my heart.

---

Let all that you do be done in love.

~1 Corinthians 16:14

It had been bothering me, in the back of my mind, for weeks.

That little nudge that something was wrong.

With my houseplant.

On cleaning days, as I scrubbed and polished countertops, pausing to drizzle water over each pot of greenery, one seemed a bit pale, and droopy.

This surprised me because it was an offshoot of my other philodendron which stood tall and stately, flourishing and stretching by the week. Yet this sagging sprig now dangled limply in my office. It had previously appeared happy but now looked quite pathetic.

All of this was faded background noise as I went about my daily work. It hovered along the edges of my mind, traipsing about the periphery.

//

The other morning, I awakened two hours before usual and padded downstairs, surprising two sleepy-eyed dogs. It was still pitch dark.

With a busy week ahead, I was grateful for this unplanned jump to my day. As the coffee maker groaned and brewed, and the dogs crunched kibble, I hunched over our kitchen island, scribbling a cursory list on a pale blue index card. Things I needed to finish before a bustling weekend.

Suddenly I jumped, startled, as a mighty and explosive crash erupted from my office.

Running to the scene I took stock and winced. My hanging plant, wrought iron hook and all, had fallen from the wall and shattered into a million pieces.

Ivory shards scattered far and wide, intermingled with wet soil and my tired, wilted plant.

The ceramic pieces were sharp against my fingertips as I bent low and scooped them into the trash bag.

And the roots of the fallen plants?

Rotted.

//

It is profitable to take personal inventory, paying close attention to your life’s surroundings. Are your relationships, systems, and work robust and God-honoring? I am not suggesting that healthy things are easy, but are their roots strong, abiding in Christ and ordered by Scripture? If something seems off, investigate.

Has a relationship soured? Is your home fraught with tension? Are you spinning your wheels trying to outwardly improve something that is unhealthy at a core level?

It is crucial to look squarely at what is and name it. Have eyes to see what is root-rotted, and spiritually dead. Some things might appear healthy for a season but are not. Diseased roots, left alone, will give hints.

Sweep up and toss away the godless debris scattered in your life, heart, and home. Take stock, rather than noticing with an Oh well! If you ignore the decay, the plant will wither and die.

But also remember, even if you have done your part–watering, feeding, and offering sunlight–God, in his perfect wisdom, may ordain an office floor full of broken pottage and soil.

Trust him.

Abide in Christ, feasting on prayer and Scripture, and watch as your roots grow strong, deep, and anchored. And then, when life crashes and soil and ceramic spill and scatter, you will be prepared, healthy at the root level, as God transplants you into fresh soil, to thrive again.

---

And the surviving remnant of the house of Judah shall again take root downward and bear fruit upward.

Isaiah 37:31

My daughter was ten when she sidled up beside me as I folded clothes. Slowly, she began to pair socks from the mountain of fresh laundry strewn upon the bed, her hair shimmering gold in the sunbeams streaming through the windowpanes.

I waited, sensing something was brewing.

Mom, they are only fake-nice to me because they want my brothers to like them. They don’t care about being friends. Her lips quivered.

I hugged her and listened to all of the painful details. Soon, we were discussing counterfeit friendships versus true-blue ones. The complexity of what it looks like to love someone well, unselfishly, rather than using others for personal gain. I spoke hard truths about walking away from bad company.

What Lauren shared with me that day was no figment of her imagination. I had seen it firsthand. Her three older brothers loved her, and it sparkled. Their affection for her spun jealousy in more than one girl. Lauren held the proximity they desired, the favor they pined for, and suddenly James 3:16 exploded:

For where jealousy and selfish ambition exist, there will be disorder and every vile practice.

While I have long since forgotten the names and faces of those jealous girls, I do know this: there is nothing new under the sun.

//

I was once a friend of Andrea, a girl who had been my playmate since kindergarten. We traveled through elementary school together, playing frequently at each other’s homes. She had a menagerie of animals: a massive, gentle Saint Bernard named Maggie, two cats, hutches full of fluffy Dwarf rabbits, and one Chinchilla. Andrea’s mother was both a painter and an avid smoker, a woman disdaining all forms of housekeeping. While I disliked the cigarette haze that swirled aimlessly throughout their kitchen, and the stacks of dirty dishes and foggy paint jars piled high in the sink, I greatly enjoyed our outdoor play. We frolicked with Andrea’s pets, cartwheeled across the grassy backyard, as only second graders can do, and tiptoed barefoot across wide stepping stones peeking from beneath the shallow flowing stream skirting their property.

After fourth grade, our family moved a few towns away and I entered private school. Due to distance, we did not see each other so often.

And then, one happy Saturday morning my sixth-grade heart soared as I received an unexpected call from Andrea, inviting me to the afternoon movies. My mother dropped me off at the theater with a wave and a promise to return a few hours later.

I had never been to the movie theatre by myself before. This was big.

The two of us stood in line, giggling, our jean jackets collared up, as we plunked down cash for popcorn and soda, feeling superbly mature. As we walked inside the dark theatre, Andrea abruptly turned around.

Kristin, I’ve met the cutest boy at school and we’re gonna watch the movie together. My parents can’t ever find out so I invited you to be my cover. You don’t mind, right?

My heart thudded as I fought back tears.

Out of nowhere, a shadow materialized. This tall boy, an 8th grader, looked more like a man. He clasped Andrea’s hand and they crept to the back of the theater.

I sat through the movie… stunned. Alone and devastated. Only once did I turn around and in frozen astonishment realized that they were not watching the movie after all.

It was a lonely afternoon.

We did not see each other again. I had served her purpose.

//

Twenty years ago, my husband and I moved halfway across the United States. I was a stay-at-home mother to our four loves, home educator, cook, chief bottle washer, and folder of unending laundry. It was my favorite job of all.

We had waved goodbye to our support system of friends, and tumbled into the Wild West, otherwise known as Texas. It was a challenging season, as I missed the people and homeschool group we had left behind. Life with four young children was in constant motion from dawn to dusk, leaving little time to process. My husband worked full-time while also serving in ministry, and we traveled together, as a band of six on Sunday mornings as Jon preached in various churches.

This life was virgin soil. For a long time, the situation was difficult to navigate…a jagged thicket slicing my skin as I blazed this new-to-me trail.

I carried the conundrum inside, finding it virtually impossible to articulate. Eventually, I wrote a long letter to a dear friend, pouring every last ounce of my aching heart, and her response was kind and essentially this: Bloom where you are planted.

But how? I felt like a tumbleweed in this strange, parched land.

And then one ordinary day a woman knocked on our front door.

Hi, my name is Emily, she said, smiling brightly.

She and her sons were moving into the neighborhood, and she was eager to introduce herself.

Speaking quickly, she stacked up facts in rapid succession: her sons were still in Arkansas, she had traveled alone to sign the papers for their new home, she was in med school, and her husband had abandoned her ages ago, when the boys were in diapers, her life since had been brutal. She sold makeup as a side business to make ends meet until she officially became a licensed M.D., and was hoping for a fresh start as she finished school in Texas.

I could hardly keep pace with such words from this stranger.

My nine-year-old twin boys are honor students, with straight A’s and perfect attendance. By the way, I have seen your sons playing with the other neighborhood kids. Would they include my boys in their culdesac ball games?

I nodded. Sure.

She put her hand on her hip, smiling again. We are going to be the best of friends I just know it!

I smiled, said goodbye, and was about to shut the door when she turned back around.

Oh, hey, I forgot! Would you mind taking care of our guinea pigs for three days while I go back and fetch my sons in Arkansas?

Much, much later I would think back to this conversation and realize that she had shown me exactly who she was.

But I did not believe her.

Yet.

//

The next morning, Emily was back, with a heavy cage containing two terrified guinea pigs.

I laughed after she left, telling my husband: Hey, we already have two guinea pigs…what are two more?

I was pleased to help her, and optimistic about this new friendship.

Three days elapsed, then four, which turned into an entire week. I received a voicemail on day eight, saying there had been a few hiccups, and would I please keep the animals one more week? Never mind that I had been given a three-day supply of hay, feed, and bedding, which had long since disappeared.

By the time Emily cruised back into town more than three weeks had elapsed.

She seems to be taking advantage of you, said my husband, and I felt embarrassed. Had I been too trusting?

Emily, however, was nonplussed, all smiles, introducing her sons to ours. No comment was made about the change of plans…those three days that had morphed into more than twenty.

I was a woman thirsty for one friendship here in the Wild West, so I brushed past the truth of her character, chalking it up to the craziness of moving.

It would be fine.

Just fine.

Everything was fine.

//

Early one morning, and I mean pitch dark early, Emily knocked on our door. I was brushing out my shower-damp hair as I answered quietly, given that my entire family was asleep. She smiled brightly, impervious (or so it seemed) to the time.

I am in a pinch, as my sitter just canceled. I have to be on shift at the hospital in 27 minutes and counting, she said, glancing at her watch. I remembered that you are an early riser. She tilted her head. You are such a doll, Kristin. Can my boys stay with you today?

It was not a good day, and I was certainly not a doll, but a woman with a full plate. I chided myself for thinking such things, because kind people never say no, right? Nice people are available. Always.

We had just begun our homeschool year, and I was already maxed out. Emily’s sons would not begin public school until the following week.

Inwardly I sighed.

Outwardly I said: Okay.

I knew it! You are the best.

We survived the day, and it was no picnic. Her boys were picky eaters, moaning about the sandwich lunch and spaghetti dinner I provided. Somehow we pulled through, and I was sound asleep when Emily phoned me at 11pm that night.

Oh, Kristin! The babysitter ended up quitting and I am on shift for the next two weeks. I will pay you well to watch the boys this week and next. Pretty please? You and your family are good Christians, and I trust you.

It was late, and I felt trapped.

She dropped them off at 5 am the following morning: two boys in pajamas and slippers, with tired eyes and hair standing on end, clutching their pillows and blankets. They swiftly curled up on our sofa and fell asleep. This pattern repeated itself for days, and Emily was continually late to pick them up.

Her sons told me that their mother had sent them to school in Arkansas with fevers and strep throat, masking it with Tylenol so that they would win the perfect attendance award, which they did. They spoke as though this was perfectly normal. I was uncertain if they were telling the truth, but regardless, it was disturbing. They remained moody and argumentative and my own children were tired of this off-kilter mess that now permeated our home.

So was I.

The second week I drove the twins to their first day of school, and when I walked them inside I was informed that we were at the wrong location. Emily had given me the address to another elementary school, and laughed about the entire mishap, but only after hearing that her sons had not been marked tardy.

They still have perfect attendance, she beamed.

I told my husband that I could no longer do this.

No more favors. I am tired.

He nodded.

We high-fived when week two was finished.

//

Time passed and one day, two things happened.

I was running errands when I passed Emily driving in the other direction on the main road. She was smoking, her slim hand expertly tapping the ash against the slightly opened car window as she spun by. She did not see me.

The previous week she had loudly complained as we stood outside chatting while the kids played.

Shaking her head she said that she could not understand why people smoked. A filthy habit, she declared. Disgusting. Everyone knows what it leads to, and as a physician, I will one day be forced to treat many with self-induced lung cancer. What are people thinking? She groaned, rolling her eyes.

Duplicitous.

Later that afternoon she phoned me.

Hey Friend, I know you have family in town, visiting, so I thought this would be a grand time for me to come over and show you ladies my makeup samples? We are running a fantastic sale, and I can be there in one hour.

I took a deep breath.

This is not a good time, Emily. I still have plenty of makeup from the last time I ordered. Plus Jon and I are watching our budget. I know you can understand.

Yes, but I am just a few hundred dollars shy of earning the seller award. Be a friend! I promise I won’t take up much of your time!

I am sorry, Emily, but no. Like I said, we have guests.

She hissed several choice words and hung up.

I had finally told her no.

Game over. I no longer served her purpose.

//

People will show you who they are. The question is: will you believe them?

It is unwise to disregard ongoing jealousy and selfish ambition, frittering around, toying with ungodly friendships. We are to avoid them.

Linger over the wise words of C.S. Lewis:

Look for Christ and you will find him. And with him, everything else.

God is always working and always good. He used suffering–this difficult season in the Wild West–to reveal that Christ was not my Highest Treasure. Pain, fallout, and a season of loneliness deeply stirred up my affections for Christ. God drew me to his Son, and I found him faithful.

He is now my Truest Friend.

When I learned to love and adore Christ most, I stopped twisting myself up like a pretzel, yielding myself indiscriminately in sour, self-serving, envious friendships. And then, when my life became rightly ordered, the Lord gifted me several true, godly friendships. Not perfect–we are all sinners that still sin! But to be favored with true friendships is precious, indeed.

Look for Christ, and you will find him. And with him, everything else.

Be on guard if someone acts entitled, demanding to hold court within the inner circles of your life, expecting full access. Biblical friendship will never appear on your doorstep as a list of selfish demands and envious desires, but more like a fresh spring breeze, as God knits hearts together in his time and good purpose. Authentic friendship is life-giving and sacrificial, whereas false friendship is built upon jealousy and selfishness, always leading down the path of disorder and every vile practice. These behaviors hurt others.

In fact, the Bible shows us that envy and selfishness lead to death.

Consider Cain’s jealousy and self-ambition, which led to the murder of Abel.

Remember Ahab’s envy for Naboth’s vineyard, his sullenness and childish pouting which prompted his evil wife’s successful plot to kill an innocent man.

Think of Joseph’s brothers, insanely jealous of this favored brother, and their self-serving attempt to snuff out his life.

And King David, who, before humbling himself in repentance, was ruled by his unchecked selfishness. He lusted after and stole Uriah’s wife, fathered her child, and attempted to cover up the entire plot, before murdering Bathsheba’s innocent, unsuspecting husband.

And what of the Pharisees’ and chief priests’ obvious lust for power, praise, and admiration coupled with their raging envy of Jesus? Such sin culminated in our Savior’s death.

Today, wage personal war on the sins of envy and selfishness. They have no place in the Christian’s heart. Look to Christ to satisfy all of your desires. Do not pursue friendship with darkness, where disorder and every vile practice rule the day.

---

Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves. Let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others.

Philippians 2:3-4

I am fast-walking in the morning chill, my breath puffing, little clouds rising against the sunrise. Chickadees, cardinals, and bluebirds are trilling and flitting before me. As the sun creeps steadily upward, slowly warming the ground, I notice our neighbors’ mailbox flags fluttering in the wind.

Welcome, says one.

Happy Easter, another.

Others are wordless: fluffy cottontails hopping about; pastel Easter eggs tucked in a white basket.

I soon round the bend and spot an uncommon flag.

A cartoonish, short-legged dog, running happily, ears blowing back in the breeze. It reads:

Live like someone left the gate open.

My heart sings at this unorthodox, delightful reminder.

God has opened paradise. Through Christ, the gate has been flung open for those whom God beckons.

Am I living as though this is true?

Am I running happily toward eternity with Christ Jesus in mind?

//

Perhaps this Easter week, it is time to stop spending your cash and attention on countless hours of shopping for another springtime dress, bright tie, or shiny shoes.

Instead of spiffing up your outward appearance, making your entire family matchy-matchy and photo-ready, even as your eyebrows remain furrowed while you attempt to set your dining room magazine-pretty in preparation for Easter dinner, step away.

Step away and think for a moment.

What am I doing to ready my soul for Easter?

Forget what this upside-down world is up to: frenzied purchases of chocolates, jellybeans, hams, and stuffed toys. Yes, those traditions have their place and are often fun, and delicious, but they will never heal the desperate ache of your soul.

If Jesus is not your Risen Savior, King, and Treasured Friend, it will remain impossible to celebrate his death, burial, and resurrection worshipfully, in a spirit of awe and wonder.

Candy, tablecloths, and fine clothing matter not if your heart is stuffed with this world. Partake like a pagan and watch your soul wither. You will inevitably grow tired and moody, scrolling, scheming, and shopping for the next event or holiday, while mentally rehashing Sunday’s irritation toward that one maddening dinner guest who dared cross you, ruining your entire Easter parade.

Or perhaps you are a genuine Christian who has forgotten the truth of God’s kindness in redeeming your soul from Satan’s clutches. Maybe your spirit has grown dry, brittle, and cold. When this happens, and it can, there is only one remedy.

Stoke the fire of faith, poking and fanning and urging the tiny flames to life until they burn white hot. Confess your sins to the Lord, in genuine repentance, and God will lavishly forgive you.

May I suggest renewing your mind by dwelling in the pages of Scripture? The Bible is God’s voice, the manner he has chosen to speak to us, so graciously condescending to our humanity. We are frail children of Adam, a highly rebellious people who have wandered so far east of Eden.

Remember, each one of us, at some point, has wandered. It is what we do next that matters.

Will you or I stumble on in blatant pride, further hardening our hearts? Or will we remember and return to the finished work of Jesus and in humility run to our Savior?

I encourage you to take some unhurried time to pause and see who Jesus is.

Scripture speaks beautifully, describing our Merciful Savior:

The Way, the Truth, and the Life, The Good Shepherd, True Vine, Prince of Peace, Lamb of God, Bread of Life, King of Glory, Chief Cornerstone, Word of God, Light of the World, Holy One, Redeemer, Alpha and Omega, Image of God, Son of the Most High, Name Above All Names, Ruler of the Kings of the Earth, Bright Morning Star, Our Protector, Great High Priest, Immanuel, Holy and True, Founder and Perfecter of our Faith, The Door.

//

The soul is a funny thing, isn’t it? Invisible, untouchable, yet fully steering one’s mind, affections, and steps.

Do not grieve and quench the Holy Spirit if he favors you by choosing to rustle a fresh breeze into your soul; summoning your dead bones to life as you bow low in reverence to Christ.

Hebrews 7:25 is stunning; hope-filled:

Consequently, he is able to save to the uttermost those who draw near to God through him, since he always lives to make intercession for them.

Remember, the gate has been opened.

Christ, our Savior, is fully alive.

Awake my soul and sing!

---

Crown Him With Many Crowns

(My favorite Easter hymn)

A few months ago, I informed my husband that I just might apply to be the groundskeeper of Green Gables on Prince Edward Island.

I will keep the home clean and loved, the gardens tended, and the rest of the time I will walk and think and write, I sighed, happy at the mere thought.

Sounds like a plan, he laughed, a safe answer for this shimmery mirage that will never come to pass.

I momentarily drifted away, imagining the swaying grass, sun-kissed waters, apple orchards, and birdsong.

Bliss.

Perhaps I might even build a clean, one-room cottage on the grounds, a structure with tall, pretty windows, white clapboards, black window boxes, and a porch rocker.

I can envision it now: my Bible, Kindle, reams of paper, and sharpened pencils spread wide across a broad farmhouse table.

Thinking and scribbling for hours, uninterrupted, the breeze blowing strong.

Such are the musings of an introvert.

//

I grew up in a time, age, and place that sought to correct and temper introversion. A reserved nature, a rich inner sanctum was permissible if one was a painter, an artist, or an off-the-grid recluse.

But a little girl like myself?

Not on your life.

One primitive memory takes me back to the sands of Cape Cod. We children were frolicking at the beach, hunched over tide pools, collecting periwinkles and hermit crabs. The adults were a stone’s throw away, sunbathing and chatting, sprawled in a line of canvas chairs, while seagulls mewed overhead and waves crashed, soaking the sand.

Suddenly my mother flew from her chair, unable to see my little brother, a highly extroverted four-year-old, who, according to my grandmother, knew no stranger.

It was true. He could and would and did talk to anyone.

I stood on the shoreline, scanning the beach for my dearest pal. Scrunching my toes in the sinking sand, I shielded my eyes, feeling the sun’s heat browning my back; warming my shoulders.

And then we spied him standing at the base of a distant dune, chatting with an elderly man. When asked why he wandered off, my little brother explained that he was just talking.

I exhaled, while the adults stood proudly smiling.

I marveled at this little brother of mine, forever eager to chat.

Yes, extroversion was better.

//

As my childhood years passed, I intuited the importance of keeping up the extroverted pace, hushing and burying my burning for solitude.

Over time I was signed up for nearly everything, to rectify my homebody ways.

Pioneer Girls, Brownies, needlepoint, macrame, group swim, flute, ceramics, VBS, ice skating, ski lessons, basketball, t-ball, softball, and one tear-filled summer of town orchestra.

Also?

Endlessly revolving playdates with Missy, Kristen, Jennifer, Andrea, Marcella, Amy, Rachel, Julie, Holly, and Melinda.

Yes, they were my friends.

Legion and loquacious.

After full days at school, I longed to pedal up the road and feed our neighbor’s horse a bright, crunchy carrot, or sit on the porch steps and observe the darling chipmunks in our side yard, or lollygag on the fat tire swing dangling from our backyard crab apple tree.

//

We live in a noisy world, do we not? Deafening, in fact. A chaotic culture with throngs of people highly uncomfortable with silence. It is considered prestigious to fill up one’s time indiscriminately, often to the neglect of one’s soul.

Personally, it has been in the lovely well of solitude, deliberate moments of thinking, studying Scripture, praying, and reflecting–purposefully removed from noise and chatter–that I have come to know God intimately and love him supremely.

So yes, I embrace God’s design for me, a happy introvert.

//

It was not until college that I began to realize God stitches his children together purposefully and that we are to praise him for it.

I will give thanks to You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made; (Psalm 139:14)

I was paired with the most extroverted roommate on our college’s campus. She was a midwestern delight—bubbly, chatty, and loud. Go-go-go…a bundle of vigor and non-stop conversation.

I tried hard to keep up, at first. She grabbed me by the hand and pulled me headlong into breakfasts, lunches, large group dinners, socials, and incessant events, with introductions galore, all of which caused my head to spin.

This new friend of mine was volume up; silly and funny and smart and a sharer of all personal information.

Nothing, and I mean nothing, was considered off-limits.

She was greatly perplexed by my reticence.

You are a mystery, dear Kristin, and your seriousness can be intimidating, she chirped one night, tossing me a few of her favorite cinnamon gummy bears, as I washed my face after begging off a late-night social.

What in the world are you talking about? I laughed, patting my face dry. There is no mystery. I just enjoy a bit of space and quiet.

She tilted her head, smiling, her eyebrows furrowed.

In time, we became dear friends, patiently learning to understand each other’s natural dispositions. I pushed myself to jump into events by her side, (every now and then) and she learned to appreciate my need to study at the campus library, surrounded by the whisper of books.

It was these years away from home that granted me permission to structure my days, rather than filling every waking hour with a string of socials. It took a fair bit of practice, but by senior year I was thriving in a handful of life-giving friendships. We met at the dining commons regularly, jumping headlong into the deep places.

//

As Christians, it is crucial to understand that introversion and extroversion are personality traits, not character flaws.

God has knit us together, creating his people for good works ordained before our birth. (Ephesians 2:10) It is through our individual personalities that many of these works come to pass.

We are meant to joyfully obey the Lord, being good stewards of the gifts God has granted, while serving one another, and showing honor. (1 Peter 4:10)

Plainly put, there are times I must die to my wishes for solitude, and intentionally move forward in engaging others, caring for and serving people when I would naturally prefer to go for a walk or read a book or study cloud formations.

This is Christianity, isn’t it? Denying myself and in humility serving others. Being an introvert is God’s good design for me, but growing selfish or stingy with my time is not his plan.

The disconnect, I have found, is that extroverts are typically not held to this same standard. Part of serving others, thereby showing honor, is for the extroverted believer to graciously extend the gift of quiet; margins of solitude to introverted people. Or at least to gently understand that for the introverted, time alone is essential before jumping back into the fray.

I have never once heard this mantra spoken. Instead, the refrain I keep bumping up against, over and over and over again is the poorly articulated, yet die-hard notion that introverted Christians must pull it together and become more extroverted.

Not so! Jesus served, engaged, and loved multitudes of people, before retreating to spend time in the quiet places, communing with the Father. (Mark 1:35; Mark 6:31-32; Luke 6:12-13; Matthew 14:13; Mark 6:46; Matthew 15:29)

//

As the bride of Christ, we are one body with various parts making up the whole, created to glorify God through our dispositions. While Scripture is clear–we each are called to deny ourselves, take up our cross, and follow Christ–may we not fall prey to the sinful notion that God somehow erred in his workmanship of our chosen personalities.

I have watched, amazed, as extroverted Christians warmly welcome newcomers into the church, serving beautifully in highly visible ways– throwing parties and events, bubbly and conversational, often fired-up, and greatly energized by people. I have extroverted friends who sprinkle a little pizzazz over my plate, spicing up my days, and I love them for it.

I have observed introverts serving the church quietly and graciously. In fact, I cannot count the number of times such a friend has grabbed my hand and prayed quietly for me with little fanfare, inquiring about my children and grandson, and sending me kind texts and notes, continuously seeking to serve others in oblique ways.

As an introvert, I understand the exhaustion of entering a large gathering and graciously interacting with others. I know well the temptation to vaporize, especially after hours of ongoing dialogue. However, it is good and right to honor others. So I aim to walk joyfully into the crowd, especially on Sunday mornings, lingering just a bit longer, choosing not to forsake the gathering.

May God be glorified.

---

I am away from my desk this week as our daughter is home for Spring Break. We will finish smoothing out all of her wedding details, enjoying this last bit of time together before she says I do.

In the meantime, I have dipped back into my writing archives for you.

Enjoy!

Eighteen

Finding Home

No Strings Attached

All That Sparkles is not Gold

---

Public school subbing is not for the faint of heart.

For several years I have traveled from one end of our county to the other, filling in. I am grieved by the lack of innocence, the lack of learning, and the lack of manners among elementary-aged children. Also? The reticence of administration to promote teaching in ancient, proven ways.

Regardless, my difficult subbing scenarios have not been without humor. One day, while in a disturbingly cluttered, raucous classroom, I informed the children that following their current assignment, we would be cleaning (more like shoveling) out their desks before recess. One boy stood up, rolled his eyes, and informed me that their teacher never made them clean anything.

Clearly, I thought.

Please sit down and finish your quiz, I said.

Are you trippin’? he said, pointing at me.

Sit down, I repeated firmly, pointing to his chair.

After he plunked down, I walked to the back of the classroom and pulled my phone from my bag, texting my family in our group chat.

Hey guys-I’m subbing today & a boy just asked me if I am tripping. What does this even mean?

I could hear the laughter via emojis.

Trippin’ Mom. Not tripping. He’s asking if you are crazy.

Well then.

The answer for today is yes.

Yes, I am crazy.

Crazy to be subbing.

In fact, I must be trippin’.

//

After a few rough swims through the subbing seas, I resigned myself to the cold, hard facts:

1. I am one woman—not Houdini—a woman unable to snap my fingers and fix a broken system.

2. I must switch things up if I aim to return home with one ounce of sanity.

3. I have one day only to reach the hearts and minds of the children in any given classroom. But how?

Read-alouds.

Good stories, from the dawn of time, are potent. The best words awaken the human heart and invite the reader to feast on something beautiful, nourishing, and true.

Fine stories are powerful, indeed.

And reading aloud, I have discovered, is essential.

//

A few weeks ago I encountered a wild second-grade group. And by wild, I do not mean sweet little spitfires; rambunctious children with normal energy to burn.

I mean wild as in rude, obnoxious, angry, belligerent. Troubled.

After a rocky, disruptive morning, I took the bland lesson plans and tucked them in a drawer. The busy work was not cutting it, even a little. Every child was languishing, their faces blank in front of their glowing computers. Their eyes were dull, sluggish. I could not endure this pitiful scene one moment longer.

Boys and girls gather around on the carpet, I said.

They looked up at me, surprised.

We have half an hour before lunch, and I am going to read you a story.

But we never do that, one little man piped up.

Well, guess what? We are today, I said.

After everyone was situated, cross-legged, I cracked open A Chair for My Mother, by Vera B. Williams. One of my favorites.

Has anyone ever read this story? I asked, guessing at least a few had. Such a treasure, this Caldecott Honor book.

They shook their heads. Out of 23 children, not one?

Well, we are going to fix that, I said.

I read slowly with much expression, making sure everyone could see the pictures of a young girl and her waitress mother who works in the Blue Tile Diner. Mother and daughter plunk coins into a large jar, earnings from the mother’s waitressing tips. Grandma even pitches in when she gets a good bargain at the market. This trio lost everything in a house fire, and the story picks up with their gentle wish to purchase a soft, comfortable chair. Quarter by quarter, they work to fill the large glass jar, and make their wish a reality.

When I finished the story, I smiled at the little awakened faces before me. Boys and girls seated, hushed, on the shag rug.

Raise your hands, and tell me what you thought about this story.

Nearly every hand shot up in the air.

We discussed so many important things: the hardship of losing everything, the kindness of good neighbors, the importance of pulling together as a family, and the patience learned in saving coins. One girl told me her grandmother lives with her and brings her to church. This sparked a conversation about God, which was unexpected and grand. The children’s eyes now glowed, as the book worked its wonders.

I felt the fresh wind of life and learning and educational possibilities returning—a cool breeze blowing through this stuffy, overly decorated, and cluttered classroom.

One boy raised his hand.

Can you read us another story?

Others chimed in. Please? Please!

Of course, I said, reaching for Thy Friend, Obadiah, by Brinton Turkle.

The little boy stood and wrapped his arms tightly around me.

Thank you, he said.

I recalled a similar scenario that had played out months earlier with the boy who told me I was trippin.’

As it turned out, no one had ever read to him before.

He was smitten with the story I read aloud.

No hugs from Mr. Trippin’, but I received a fist bump and a smile that stretched for days.

//

Reading aloud is a gift. In fact, I can still tell you what books my first, second, and third-grade teachers read to us:

Frog and Toad.

Island of the Blue Dolphins.

Lost on a Mountain in Maine.

Those books were, and still are, dear to me.

I had forgotten what it was like to be on the receiving end of a read-aloud.

And then? A trio of students read to me.

//

I was invited into a public middle school as a volunteer—critiquing stories the students had written. I looked forward to this opportunity to encourage, knowing firsthand the vulnerability of speaking aloud one’s craft.

Writing is an open-handed offering… costly for the author, and free to the reader.

The teacher offered me a seat at a round table with three eighth-grade girls, one of whom handed me a translucent, half-sheet of paper with five neatly typed questions to consider as I listened. We were soon prompted by the teacher to get moving. Time is ticking.

I must confess that I would make a poor professional editor. I do not enjoy critiquing anyone else’s writing. I find it incredibly difficult to suggest improvements while simultaneously keeping the author’s voice intact. Writing is highly subjective, isn’t it? Personally, I either enjoy reading an author’s words or I don’t.

I am also of the persuasion that fine writing cannot be taught. Writers are born, not made.

While any writing may be slightly improved, exquisite writing is not an exact science as is spelling, algebra, geometry, or physics. The best writing breaks many, many, rules. Rules spun in the classroom by way of precise, cut-and-dry exercises.

Regardless, I have come to learn this:

In the writing world, 2+2 does not = 4.

//

The first student began reading, her long pink fingernails chipped. I enjoyed her story. After reading one page, she shared the heartbreak of her own parent’s recent divorce, which had prompted her to create this fictitious story of a plucky heroine who down deep, missed her Dad, desperately.

The second girl’s story was dull, rambling, and hard to follow. As she read aloud she pushed her glasses up the bridge of her freckled nose, peeking at me every so often over her paper. After a few paragraphs, she said, plainly: I wasn’t into this. Halfway through I wanted to quit writing but the teacher made me finish. I have a better idea for a story.

The four of us then discussed scrapping our own words.

Is it ever a good idea? they asked me and I told them that yes, sometimes it is.

I have crumpled up more pieces than I care to count, I told them, and it frees my mind to begin again. It is hard to resurrect a work that has wilted and perished in your heart. Sometimes it is better to toss what isn’t working and start fresh.

The third girl’s writing held immense potential. She had an overtly dramatic, depressingly dark storyline, but her timing and word choice danced. She told our group that she has always wanted to be a writer but she also wants to be rich. Which is why she might become a lawyer.

I smiled at her, shaking my head. I was not surprised by her longing to write.

Writers always want to write.

Hey, can you read something of yours? she asked me. I was caught off guard.

I picked up my phone and tapped into a piece I had been wrangling. The girls listened, and then the writer touched her heart and then my sleeve.

Wait a minute. You write stories of everyday things…I did not know we could do that!

I nodded.

Can you read us another story?

So I did.

And soon the bell rang, and we waved goodbye, going our separate ways.

---

Dear CJ,

Time marches on and so do you.

At 2 ½, you march about in your Crocs, your sneakers, your rain boots.

When Papa and I ventured to the park with you last weekend, we packed your balance bike in the truck bed. We arrived and you marched across the parking lot and in a flash, hopped on your bike and cruised down the sidewalk and off-road–a graveled path curling through the woods.

Your Papa and I laughed, jogging to keep up, and in that moment the burdens of life lifted and floated away. I glanced at your grandfather and remembered the two of us a quarter of a century ago, so young, vibrant, with two little boys of our own.

Time is a trick, a mist, a vapor.

Poof.

Gone.

The cold air whipped and spun, brushing our faces to life as we entered a small clearing. A moment later we landed the jackpot– a wooden bridge arching over a stream.

Oh! You said, dropping your bike and crouching low, as toddlers do.

There was serious work to accomplish, the job of rock collecting. We heard you counting the tiny stones: One, two, three.

Let’s throw them in the stream, CJ, and hear them splash! I proposed and you turned, eyes dancing at this happy invitation.

Running to the bridge, you hurled the rocks with all of your might, watching as they careened into the air, dropping heavy and plunking beneath the water’s surface, sending rippled waves outward. Papa praised your efforts which spurred you to poke around for more things to pitch into that lazy stream.

I knelt down, helping you stockpile more rocks, and you even squirreled a few away, safe in your zippered fleece pocket. We gathered tiny twigs and crunchy leaves, which, once airborne, yielded vastly different results than the splash of stones.

//

Papa and I once had three little boys who played with rocks. Our firstborn, your Daddy, collected many, scooping them into his lifted t-shirt. These stones became football players–lined up in perfect formation. As he shuffled them down the backyard field of grass the running back scored, the commentator shouted, and the crowd roared.

Our secondborn, your Uncle Jacob, discovered a rock that whispered his name, and it became his friendly pet. He carried it in his pocket, buckled it in the car, and gentled it on his dresser come nightfall, as the moon rose high. The same full moon that you, Papa, and I studied on our ride home last weekend.

God made the moon, you said, breaking the momentary silence, and we cheered while you kicked your legs in delight, warming up for more pronouncements.

God made the sun, God made the trees, God made the road, you added for good measure, producing another grand ovation.

We are your biggest fans.

And our third little boy, your Uncle Marcus, was your age when he plucked handfuls of white garden rocks, rehoming them from the back garden to the front perennial flower beds. Occasionally, his little arm would hurl one onto the driveway, just for fun.

Good throw! I said. He smiled shyly, humming as he kept on working.

At night, when I gathered up his muddy t-shirt and overalls to baptize by way of washing machine, my hands scoured the small pockets and were rewarded with treasures aplenty: rocks, sticks, leaves.

My little boys are now tall, strong, men. Men who love God.

Remember, they were once little boys, collecting stones.

Just like you.

//

Every time you visit, we romp outdoors, prompting you to work up a gigantic appetite that is met with plump grilled cheese sandwiches, cut into triangles, and rounded off with a bowl of applesauce. You clasp and fold your hands, squeezing shut your eyes as Papa prays, just as your parents have trained you to do. Your Mommy and Daddy have also been teaching you please and thank you and you offer these words to us, proudly. Our affirmation of such politeness sends your fine manners soaring to skyscraper heights.

Following your nap, I prepare another snack, (I’m hungry, Nonnie, you say, upon waking, this blissful, familiar, and ancient melody causing my heart to swell and sing) as you and Papa play, sprawling across the living room floor, designing roads from blocks and driving cars and trucks and fire engines across them. Papa makes the best vehicle sounds and you are mesmerized.

The glory of a simple life.

CJ, I say from the kitchen. Are you strong like Daddy and Papa?

Yes! you answer, flexing your little bicep and Papa flexes his arm too, and then you prove your powers, huffing and puffing as you carry a block or two back to the basket to begin the task of cleaning up. Soon you grow distracted with a puzzle and Papa reminds: CJ big boys clean up and always finish the job.

Together, you do.

After snack time we sing songs and recite Bible verses and read books.

To my utter delight, you are a wordsmith, the two of us playing little rhyming games. I say fellow-yellow or true-blue or muffin-puffin and you echo, tumbling the phrases around for size, growing your vast repertoire, one word at a time.

Last weekend? Your favorite word was impossible.

You spoke it boldly, frequently, indiscriminately. Sprinkling it over sentences willy-nilly.

I study your profile, so familiar to my own four children, and think my heart might burst outside of my ribcage, exploding like Super Bowl confetti, and falling lovely. Everywhere.

Such outsized affection seems impossible.

//

As a grandmother, I hear the steady drumbeat of time, behind me, beside me, pulsing. This is why I gather the golden hours, stardust sands, and hold them heavenward with outstretched hands, praying, asking God to show me how to best love you, little man.

May I love you wildly and purposefully, painting both broad and fine brushstrokes, coloring the mural of your childhood with beauty and belonging. I toss the stardust high and the sands sparkle, shimmering earthbound, landing softly in our hair as you hug my neck tight and giggle as I spin you around and around and around.

May you never once doubt my devotion.

//

Little boys must learn to become men long before they actually are.

This is the Bible verse I pray for you, CJ:

Be watchful, stand firm in the faith, act like men, be strong. Let all that you do be done in love.

(1 Corinthians 16:13)

It will be many years before you are old enough to read these words. But I bank on this holy truth: God’s Word never returns void.

So I will teach you such wisdom on repeat from Apostle Paul, speaking his words often before you are fully able to understand them. God desires all Christian men, regardless of personality or disposition or appearance, to be watchful, standing firm in faith, acting manly and strong, and full of love.

The opposite of 1 Corinthians 16:13 is the grave sin of cowardice. (Revelation 21:8) It is running rampant today, decimating churches as throngs of grown men shirk their duty, ducking and running for cover, whimpering, hiding in caves rather than standing strong upon the firm authority of Scripture, valiantly protecting the bride of Christ, trusting fully in God, come what may.

God’s man is to be tender and kind towards his wife and children, governing wisely and serving humbly. He is Chief Guardian, Protector, Provider, Defender. A willing bondservant of Jesus Christ, tethered to the Bible, rising courageously against all evil, steadfast until the end.

Ever watchful, God’s man perceives the spiritual battle in any room and speaks truth born from biblical conviction.

Again, I am speaking of spiritual matters, CJ.

It takes a brave man to identify a physical threat and then rise to protect others, but only a discerning, God-fearing man will detect a spiritual toxin, and rise valiantly to defend the Bride of Christ.

Such a man feasts on prayer and Scripture, growing increasingly bold over time, denouncing people-pleasing ways, while protecting family and church.

Such men honor God.

Be one.

//

Throwing stones in the water and watching them sink and spawn rings is important work for you. Actions have consequences, and you are learning, CJ. You are observing your father and your Papa and your uncles, continually intuiting from them what it means to be a man. These men are pursuing holiness. They are God’s men.

//

David gathered stones too, didn’t he? He believed God, and such faith made him fearless in the face of the wicked enemy, Goliath. What a man believes in his heart will, in time, be evidenced in his actions.

Always, and forever, in spades.

David did not run, hide, or cower. He was bold, valiant, brave, fearless, steadfast, and courageous as he slung stones at Goliath. Why? God was his Shield and his Defender.

And the evil giant was destroyed.

That’s how it’s done.

Be God’s man, my strong, handsome grandson.

All of my Love,

Nonnie

---

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