When our four children were young, and I was in the throes of homeschooling, I followed a strict inner compass. There were a few things that I was bent on teaching them, and it had nothing to do with worldly recognition, high grades, or prestigious awards.

Mainly, I wanted them to grow and mature in godliness. We sang the books of the Bible together, memorized Scripture, and read God’s Word daily. It was also my aim to teach them to be kind. Academically, I strived to help them become proficient readers and able writers–skills needed for all of life.

Read-alouds reigned supreme, and that is what I miss the most: diving into the good books, together. The Hobbit, Lord of the Rings, Pilgrim’s Progress, Shiloh, Caddie Woodlawn, Where the Red Fern Grows, Summer of the Monkeys, Owls in the Family, The Best Christmas Pageant Ever, Lad: A Dog. I still recall how much we all looked forward to our read-aloud times.

Then there was math–a necessary evil, (in my opinion) because, well…college.

I received much outside help for higher mathematics, given the fact that geometry gave me nightmarish flashbacks to my freshman year of high school. My teacher, Miss O’Neill, of frosted hair, coral lipstick, and smoker’s voice, was as thin as a wisp, gaunt really, which made her appear older than she likely was. She spent the entire class fuming at anyone who did not pick up on the finer details instantly, which was pretty much all of us. Tapping her heeled toe and rolling her narrowed eyes, she tossed up her hand with an irritated: Come on people!

When the bell finally rang, she flung her heavy purse over her shoulder and made a dash for the cement stairwell, landing in the parking lot for a quick drag on a cigarette before next period began. I never fully understood proofs, (still don’t) which is why I did not teach geometry to my children but farmed out those painful lessons. Obtuse, scalene, acute, intersecting, congruent, isosceles? What in the world?

Algebra was far better, thanks to Mr. Munroe. Excellence in teaching is a sweet gifting, isn’t it? And just because a person understands a subject does not mean that he or she should be teaching it. Patience and kindness and classroom leadership come into play, big time.

It was of prime importance to me that my children learned to be timely, meet deadlines, complete chores, and be able to interact with and serve all kinds of people. So we worked together on these things, little by little. I knew that if they could pay attention, heed instruction, welcome constructive criticism, and read and write with ease, then they could learn pretty much anything.

During this time, my husband was pastoring his first church. From time to time, he asked the congregation to stand and read Scripture in unison.

And I was stunned.

The group was unable to read chorally.

Some were reading aloud quickly, blowing through commas as if they were green lights, while refusing to pause for periods. Others were reading so slowly, dragging behind by a good three or four words, oblivious as to the flow. It was terribly distracting, with voices all over the place, so much so that I could not possibly concentrate on the meaning of the verses, which was the entire point in the first place.

So I made it my immediate mission to teach our children the art of choral reading. I am sure they thought it was overkill, which it most certainly was, but I could not live with the notion of them growing up and lagging behind or racing ahead in church. Reading in unison was a skill, a unifier, and we worked it out.

There was another area that bubbled to the surface, mainly because it felt to me like fingernails scraping north to south on a chalkboard. It was a widespread problem: the inability to summarize.

I noticed this issue at church, the grocery store, with friends, even at football practice. Everywhere.

Our children were so, so, cute. Polite. But it was hard for them to endure a longwinded story from a parishioner as I stood in conversation. Take someone’s upcoming surgery, for example. A woman might look heavenward, beginning with the words I was born in Kansas in the year…. and fifteen minutes later she had still not arrived at the ailment prompting a surgery. I can still envision my little ones tugging on my sleeve, eyes wide, shoulders droopy, silently pleading for deliverance. It had been a long morning, church was over, and they were ravenous.

So that is when I sprinkled another couple of features into our homeschool curriculum: the fine art of patient listening, coupled with the art of summary. I had them speak and write four or five sentences to capture that entire movie plot, book, or event from sports practice. We also put diligent effort into becoming a kind and patient listener, and I might have even taught them how to slip in a question in order to break that tedious soliloquy and gently hasten the story towards its conclusion.

After years of summarizing together, I began to notice a stunning benefit: my children’s ease of encapsulating large passages of Scripture into a few sentences. In hindsight, it is simple to realize that summarizing Scripture should have been at the forefront of my mind, rather than summarizing so as not be an annoyance to others.

Monday morning-quarterbacking is real, I tell you.

And that, my friends, is the truth about homeschooling. As the teaching parent you are able to address pet peeves, and to deal with uncouth habits. I peek back in time now and plainly see the dozens of ways I could have improved as a homeschooling teacher. Time (plus a quiet house) often yields clarity, but God used even small pet peeves of mine to teach my children an important skill for better understanding his Word. Isn’t he wonderful?

Truthfully? No education is perfect because we are not perfect. God was gracious to allow me to serve him as a stay-at-home mom and homeschooling parent, and I thank him for gifting me those years.

This is the first year in forever that I am not homeschooling someone, and while it feels strange, I figure that every now and again I can encourage younger parents in the midst of their labors.

So I will offer this:

If you are new to this homeschooling venture, be patient with yourself and your children. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and neither is an education.

Pray over everything, stick with a simple plan while keeping a routine, tell your sweeties that you love them, buy doughnuts on the first day of your schoolyear, and make sure that everyone receives a solid dose of fresh air and sunshine daily. (Teacher included.) Recess is golden. Truly.

Recess and read-alouds.

Our grandson recently turned one, and every time I visit him we read books together. His Daddy, our firstborn, likewise reads to him every night. It is part of their routine, and my heart is bursting. The love of reading has been passed down to a brand-new generation.

Our grandson’s first word was Dada. His second?

Book.

I cannot stop smiling.

His education has already begun.

---

Thank you, Kind Readers, for indulging me in a rerun of this previously posted piece. We are in the final countdown to our daughter’s wedding, and I have chosen to be deliciously present for every single speck of it, meaning time away from my desk.

Our son, Jacob, has returned from his overseas missionary journey to South Africa!

I warmly invite you to listen to our recent conversation, which I pray encourages you to serve God no matter where he sends you.

Even if it is simply across the street.

---

I was invited to a tea party yesterday. The softly carpeted floor was set with pink and teal teacups, purple plates, yellow saucers, and plenty of sugar. I had two choices of flavored tea: cheese or muffin.

I chose the cheese tea and it was delicious. The little girl who served it was smiling widely–her bright blue eyes fairly dancing as I asked for seconds, this time with a wedge of lemon if you please.

Immediately following the tea, we munched on applesauce and manicotti, with ice cream for dessert. Topped with cheese, of course.

When we had eaten our fill, she brought me her three baby dolls, and we rocked them and changed them, and patted their backs. Lauren Olivia soon declared it was time for them to sleep, so she prayed over each little one and tucked them in for the night.

Then she snuggled in my lap and smiling said, I love my babies, and I love you, Mommy.

I hugged her back and my heart overflowed.

//

Now, seventeen years later, Lauren and I are planning another special meal, a beautiful luncheon following her wedding.

I have little memory of scribbling the tea party words above, but I am happy I did.

The strongest memory is weaker than the palest ink.

I write to remember.

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Upstairs, I have an old photograph, in which I am cradling our newborn. We are studying each other, our profiles etched, two upturned noses kept frozen in time, mother and son. My face achingly young, his softly brand new.

I am smiling from the shadows, dressed in my husband’s button-down shirt, the lighting poor, our camera cheap.

That old striped Oxford was my wardrobe extraordinaire in postpartum days, soft, loose. I pined for comfort as motherhood had risen to jolt, ushering in oceanic feelings, all-consuming tides. The fervent motions continued long after labor and delivery, a revolving cycle of nursing, changing, rocking, swaying, soothing, singing, crying. My muscles whimpered tender from hefting seven deliciously-scented pounds of miracle upon my shoulder.

It was 1996 and we lived humbly, with few distractions. No extra money, no internet, no cell phones. Come to think of it, no email. In hindsight, such simplicity proved priceless. My feet and mind were planted on terra firma as I pushed the stroller around our apartment and whispered to my little Caleb descriptions of everything I saw, heard, felt, touched, and tasted.

Puffy white clouds, quacking mallards, gentle breezes, scorching sun, soft blanket, tart lemonade, minty gum, I love you, I love you, I love you.

As I spoke my affection, I also begged him to sleep–the one thing he clearly did not prefer. We circled around the lake, returning home. I gentled him in the wind-up swing, cranking that contraption to a fare-thee-well, clockwise, knowing that I had precisely nineteen minutes until it would slow and stop, waking him again.

If I hurried I could fluff the pillows, spritz the bathroom mirrors, fold the laundry, and rush a steaming shower.

Most days, however, I slid into my rocking chair, gazing proudly at our stunning little bundle of sweetness.

I was now a mother.

/

Motherhood displaced my heart, which now danced and hovered outside my body.

It pulsed hard, following our little man everywhere, our baby who was soon cooing, sitting, teething, crawling, and talking. Mornings, he reached his pudgy arms skyward, calling Mama, as I plucked him from the crib into my arms, pajamas all snug.

Good morning, Bugaboo.

I nuzzled the soft spot on his neck with my nose, before kissing it repeatedly as he giggled, his small fists tangled up in my hair.

My heart, my world.

Less than two years after becoming a mother, I shook my husband’s arm. It was nearly midnight and time to drive to the hospital once again, the pains bearing down, sweeping my breath away.

Between contractions, I worried. How could I ever love another baby as much as our Caleb?

Treason!

Such heavy thoughts brought tears to my eyes.

All fear vanished by lunchtime the following day. I had been proven wonderfully wrong. The moment our second son was born, and my husband held him high, my heart lept, and doubled in size.

I was smitten as I cradled him, inhaling his newborn scent. Counting his fingers and studying his long eyelashes spun me into a sea of bliss. In the years to come, I fell hard in love two more times, with the birth of our third son and then our daughter. The togetherness of us, our familial love and laughter, was more delightful than I ever dreamed.

My heart was an inferno, on fire, and had now quadrupled in size. God had entrusted me with these four beauties, little image bearers with souls that would never die. Motherhood was my ache, my dream, a hard work soaked with gravity and laced in beauty, a serious endeavor to be cradled, gently.

Those early years of motherhood were earthy. Four children to nurture, teach, discipline, and love. Full days of wiping sticky hands and jellied tables, mountains of laundry to smooth and fold, bandaids to apply, fevers to soothe, hugs and kisses, and reams of books to read aloud. It was board games and races and hide-and-seek. Sheer physical exhaustion come nighttime, waking early to do it all over again.

Oh, how I loved the slow, long, steady life of motherhood. Tangible work, gritty and good and meaningful, fingernails caked with dirt, sweat, and love.

/

Winds of change arrived repeatedly, blowing in breezes and occasional tempests. The moment my heart had grown accustomed to the earthiness of my calling, the seasons swelled and changed, leaving me to reach for a windbreaker, rain jacket, hoodie, or heavy winter coat.

One quotidian day I realized our cradles and high chairs and booster seats and diaper bags were gone. My children were growing up with new horizons and friendships and weighty decisions, joyous victories filled with laughter, and sometimes broken hearts and tattered dreams. There were championship games and recitals, driving tests and college applications, goodbyes and graduations, engagements and weddings, moving trucks and missionary journeys.

So many goodbyes over and over and over. Changes that left me breathless.

And then the evening arrived when I set our dining room table pretty for two. Our new normal. My heart tiptoed about and then broke just a little as my husband and I held hands, bowed our heads, and said grace, our forks clinking against our plates, breaking the hush.

It’s hard, isn’t it? he said, his eyes filling.

Later, I washed the dishes as he took out the trash.

My hands scrubbed slowly, and gently as I prayed.

It was a healing balm, easing the ache a little, just me before my God, as I remembered his promises throughout Scripture. He had chosen to make me a mother and as long as I had breath, my work was not finished.

Earth, wind, and fire.

The fire?

Oh, the fire.

It burns steady, strong, and hot. Such unconditional love, my prayers rising. I am a house-on-fire, one average, middle-aged mother, on bended knee.

/

Last week I stood on our back porched and for the better part of an hour watched a squirrel building a nest–a drey it is called–out of leaves and twigs. She crawled to the end of a limb, bit off a sliver of a leafy branch, ran down to the grassy earth, picked it up in her teeth, and raced to the highest of heights, fussing and building, moving twigs and leaves every which way.

Her diligence and patience paid off. I shielded my eyes against the sun and imagined a handful of baby squirrels mewing, tucked safely in the crook of the massive tree, in the nest the mother had labored to build.

They would be warm and safe for a time, but soon Mama Squirrel would release them to the earth, teaching them to hunt and forage and in time, build their own nests.

/

My hands no longer rock the cradle, smooth back sheets, or prepare my children’s meals. (How I miss my sous chefs!) But the joy of motherhood carries on through every conversation, phone call, text, and gathering. Caleb, Jacob, Marcus, and Lauren are priceless gifts.

During the decades I spent raising our children, God was raising me. Motherhood has shaped and refined me, drawing me close to the heart of my Heavenly Father.

Thank you, God, for such undeserved treasures.

---

Behold, children are a heritage from the LORD, the fruit of the womb a reward.

Psalm 127:3

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This one is for the writers and creators.

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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.

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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)