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

---

Now available for preorder at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, The Good Book Company

I am deeply fond of behind-the-scenes storylines, tales of men and women living faithful, quiet lives. Missionaries, pastors, stay-at-home mothers, musicians, athletes, plumbers, janitors, executives, teachers. Their humble beginnings always shape their future life as they make a difference in tiny, ordinary ways.

Recently, I enjoyed a delightful conversation with Kurt Goff and Kate Brewington on Moody Radio’s Kurt and Kate Mornings. They graciously invited me to chat about Secret Service. We discussed the small, hidden ways any one of us may serve God in our beautiful mundane.

Come along and enjoy the behind-the-scenes story.

---

Speaking of behind-the-scenes, my next monthly newsletter will link to the story of a 9-1-1 operator and the unusual, terrifying call she received one day. This humble, down-to-earth woman remained calm and steady despite an unbelievable twist. You won’t want to miss it.

My newest book, Deep Roots, Good Fruit, is now available for preorder at The Good Book Company and Amazon.com.

---

I imagine that every mother has a personal soapbox, which she ascends from time to time.

My primary soapbox? Go to sleep early each night.

I once read that every hour in dreamland that occurs before midnight counts as two hours of rest for your mind and body. I bought in, wholeheartedly.

Hear ye, hear ye: Commit to early nighttime z’s. 

My husband and children heard me murmuring about the importance of sleep for decades.

Have a sore throat? Turn in early.

SATs tomorrow morning? Get a good night’s rest.

Feeling blue? Go to sleep and everything will be brighter come morning.

I was fastidious regarding our children’s bedtime. No ifs, ands, or buts. In fact, I distinctly remember four-year-old Marcus asking me, one muggy summer’s night, why he had to go to bed before the sun?

Because I love you so, so, much and that is why, I answered, folding back his cool sheets and kissing his deliciously shampooed head. Sleep keeps you healthy and strong. 

He looked at me with large, handsome eyes and sighed. Can you read me a book?

And I happily obliged, followed by lights out.

My second soapbox?

Now that is a story far more complex.

//

Beginning the autumn of my junior year of high school, many friends and classmates fell absent on Fridays to face the dreaded wisdom teeth extraction, returning to classes on Mondays with mild facial swelling. By Tuesday their life had more or less returned to normal.

One blustery day during this season my mother informed me that I would be having four wisdom teeth extracted after Christmas. 

But they haven’t even poked through and nothing hurts, I moaned.

We did not spend thousands of dollars on braces to have wisdom teeth ruin your bite, she replied.

Two days after Christmas we made the trek to the city, my stomach empty, per doctor’s orders. Anyone familiar with New England will appreciate its narrow, snaking roads. I have forever been plagued by motion sickness, so by the time I was positioned in the endodontist’s chair, receiving twilight sedation, I was feeling poorly.

As it went, my wisdom teeth were perfectly comfortable in their current home, more deeply impacted than initially believed, and I still remember the digging, crushing, breaking, and scraping sounds as the doctor pressed on my face and rattled around in my mouth. I felt nothing but pressure yet swallowed much blood and was feeling worse by the minute.

Finally, the atrocious deed was done and as we checked out, the nurse reminded my mother to fill the prescriptions, and quickly. Your daughter will be having a hard time, soon.

The city’s second terror, in addition to swervy roads, is its traffic. The starting, the stopping, the honking, the motion.

Why, oh why did we not get the prescription filled earlier? I silently whimpered as the effects of the twilight meds dissipated and were replaced by stabbing pain that knifed through my stiff, tender jaw.

Because of said traffic paired with a pharmacy pit stop, followed by a 30-minute wait to have my prescription filled, our journey homeward took hours. I should have known something was off when during the excruciating drive I asked my mother to hand me her small purse mirror so that I could see why I felt like I was perishing. She declined. 

I don’t want you to be looking down and getting more carsick.

Too miserable to counter, I leaned back and attempted to doze.

Once home, I sipped ginger ale, downed pain pills, and huddled on the sofa as my mother fluffed pillows and tucked a blanket around my curled frame. As I drifted off I overheard her whispering to my brother and grandparents: unbelievably impacted…arduous…grotesque swelling.

It was true. My face, in fact, stretched and swelled to be an enormous bowling ball. When I finally crawled off the couch and into the bathroom I made the mistake of glancing at my reflection, and with a sharp cry became violently ill.

It is a terrifying thing to not recognize your own face. 

As the long hours ticked by, I was grieved to see the sun rising and setting, rising and setting, as the world carried on normally despite my disfigurement. Would I ever look like myself again? About the time milkshakes and soups began to lose their luster, I eyed the calendar, deeply concerned about the prospect of missing school and equally as terrified of ambling the halls with a bowling ball face.

Finally, I crept off the sofa but remained dizzy. After a full week of convalescing, the swelling began to subside. Regardless, my disfigurement was still obvious.

The cherry on top of this misery?

Bruising.

For weeks following my return to academia, my jaw was an artist’s delight: patches of black and blue, morphing into shades of army green, and finally a mustardy yellow. I appeared jaundiced for an entire month.

//

Time heals all wounds they say, and yes–I lived to tell about it. Five years later, my brand new husband casually mentioned that his jaw was hurting. 

At this point, we had been married for less than two months.

You mean it hurts like a cavity? I asked.

He was uncertain since he had never had one. 

I made an appointment and the dentist delivered the grim news.

Why do you still have your wisdom teeth at the age of 22! he looked incredulous. They must be removed. Immediately.

I could not believe this turn of events. We were beginning our new life together and had spent every shiny penny of our wedding money to buy groceries and a mattress, minus any pretty bed frame.

Why do you still have your wisdom teeth? I mentally repeated, mildly irritated, my brain a looping merry-go-round.

Come to think of it, why had I not questioned Jon about my nemesis—wisdom teeth–while we were dating? During my high school days, extraction was nearly a right of passage. Had this not been true of his high school, too?

The day of his surgery I flew to the grocery store and filled the cart with pudding, jello, applesauce, and ginger ale. After the successful procedure, he experienced some pain, little swelling, and no bruising.

//

This is what I thus determined in the quiet recesses of my heart. My mission and mantra. My battle cry. My soapbox.

No future children of ours would enter the state of holy matrimony with any wisdom teeth in their body. I would make certain of it. And when their surgery day arrived? We would have bushels of pain meds and Pepto Bismol on hand.

I tucked these firm promises away, bringing them out of my pocket like a worry stone when triggered by horrifying extraction stories and fables and jokes. Wisdom teeth were no laughing matter, in my book.

//

Over the next decade, we were blessed with four beautiful babies. 

I was too busy rocking newborns, changing diapers, and eventually homeschooling each one to contemplate their wisdom teeth. The days were long while the years sped by and one ordinary day when our oldest sons were 13 and 11, the dentist informed me that our strapping boys had unusually developed wisdom teeth for their young ages.

I sat up a little and felt my heart flutter. Were wisdom teeth still to be the bane of my existence? It seemed I could not escape it.

To give further context, I held, shall we say, a low opinion of this dentist. Because of our income at the time, and lack of insurance, my choices were few.

Better stated, he was our option.

The man was peculiar, making odd jokes as he polished our children’s teeth. I told Jon that I believed this white coat might be nipping the twilight medication. His favorite phrase to repeat in the presence of patients as he worked?

Life is like hugs and kisses are chocolate.

The boys howled later on at our dinner table, imitating his oddities with uncanny perfection.

After dinner, while standing at the sink sudsing plates and glasses, I ruminated. Eight wisdom teeth would need to be extracted within the next year. For no small sum, at that. I pulled out my invisible worry stone and studied the budget as though taking a final exam. There was not much to study.

But then I remembered my promise, my mantra, my dear soapbox. And where there is a will, there is always a way.

For the next nine months, every time Jon was paid I sped to the ATM and slipped cash into an envelope, which I then tucked beneath my socks in our dresser drawer. I asked God to help me stretch our groceries since that was the line item I was pulling from.

Gradually, the envelope fattened.

//

Ten months later Surgery Day arrived, and both boys eased into reclining chairs. One was done quickly, and the dentist met me in the waiting room to report that our son had pulled through quite nicely and was resting with an ice pack. 

I’ll be back in a jiffy after Patient Numero Dos is ready, he laughed, pretending to tap dance away.

Mother of the year, letting that man near my boys, I thought in despair.

The minutes slowly ticked by as I waited.

No word.

The entire shebang was taking far too long, and just when I could not endure another second, the doctor returned to the waiting area, looking peaked.

I’m sorry, Mrs. Couch, but your son is sleeping, his jaw closed. I cannot open it, nor can I awaken him enough to do so. I apologize, but our policy states that in such a case you will still have to pay the full amount. I know what you must be thinking, but this is a highly unusual situation.

My eyes widened as I thought:

Situation? SITUATION? That is my baby back there and don’t you realize that he cannot get married with wisdom teeth in place? Do you understand that I have the pain medications and Pepto stashed in my purse? And do you have any clue how long it has taken me to squirrel away this cash? How many spaghetti dinners and bland casseroles we have swallowed to make this happen?

I felt the tears threatening, before remembering my mantra and replacing fear with a focused calm. I was the mother right now, and no son of mine was going to exit this building with wisdom teeth in place. I thought of the tattered envelope, the months of simple dinner fare, and the bleak prospect of ever having to come back to this dreadful place again.

I looked Mr. White Coat directly in the eye.

His wisdom teeth must come out today. 

His eyebrows rose. 

Please, I said, more gently. Let me talk to my son.

He glanced at the wall clock. Okay. But he is lethargic and loopy and I promise you it it won’t work. I already tried. He sighed. Five minutes. I have other patients.

My son was in a daze as I hovered above him and slowly, clearly explained that he needed to relax and open his mouth for a few minutes because if he did not, we would have to reschedule the entire procedure which also meant missing a string of football practices.

He murmured and gradually relaxed his bite.

The doctor could not believe it, and soon the wisdom teeth were out. 

I emptied my entire cash envelope before the receptionist and asked for a receipt. Gathering my two exhausted sons, I fled.

//

Both boys swelled and were queasy in pitiful ways that Pepto could not assuage. But neither one bruised.

As for me, I finally sat down and took stock of my mantra.

Seeing the clear truth, I hurled my worry stone into the lake and laughed.

How silly I had been to worry about wisdom teeth. What good would ever come from fretting?

The bell of clarity rang deep in my bones. It was time to choose to trust God with everything, especially our children. I suddenly imagined how profitable it would have been not to worry, but to instead use my personal wisdom teeth trauma to serve my loves in utter confidence, modeling the exquisite truth that God does all things well, even in our deepest, darkest valleys. He is always present in our troubles, and always working his perfect wisdom on our behalf.

As their mother, I was graced with the opportunity to walk through every discomfort, every sickness, and every peril by their side, moving tenderly, and with prayer. But it was beyond me to prevent sickness and hardship, control life’s outcomes, and determine their futures.

I was chosen by God to love my children, pray for them, teach them the truth, and let them go.

//

By the time our two youngest –Marcus and Lauren– had their wisdom teeth extracted, we had dental insurance, meaning professional endodontists, which translated into normal communication, rather than pathetic tap dancing and bizarre phrases regarding hugs and chocolates. In fact, I was even able to fill a prescription for anti-nausea meds which proved revolutionary. Lauren swelled up as her two older brothers had, but it was short-lived and without bruising. 

It was Marcus who came through with flying colors, nearly unscathed, looking as though no extraction had even taken place. I told myself that this fine turn of events made up for the hardships of early bedtimes as a little boy.

//

These days, with the nest empty of our favorite people in the whole wide world, I turn in early, honoring the magnificence of my early-to-bed and early-to-rise philosophy. I relax and enjoy page-turners on my Kindle Paperwhite and then pray for my dear family, all of whom are busy living out the daily without the perils of wisdom teeth.

When I am tempted to brood, I remember that my Heavenly Father instructs me not to worry. So I turn in confidence to Him, trusting his every promise.

The day is finished, so I close my eyes and go to sleep.

Early.

Because every single hour before midnight counts as two…

---

And which of you by being anxious can add a single hour to his span of life? (Luke 12:25)

Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. (Philippians 4:6-7)

Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand. (Isaiah 41:10)

---

Now available for preorder at the Good Book Company.

And also available on Amazon.

Nearly two years ago, I received an email from The Good Book Company, asking if I would be willing to meet over Zoom to discuss a possible writing opportunity. The words took my breath away, the possibility feeling like a fragile dream.

Our meeting went well and by the summer of ’22, I was humbled and honored to sign a book contract.

The title?

Deep Roots, Good Fruit~Seeing the Fruit of the Spirit Through Story & Scripture.

After many moons of writing and editing, I am thrilled that my newest book is now available for preorder.

I long for each of you to know the wonder and delight of the Holy Spirit in your daily life. Deep roots of faith always grow in rich soil born of genuine heart surrender to Christ, rather than the dust of self-effort.

And deep roots produce exquisite fruit.

Deep Roots, Good Fruit is a book full of stories from my one, ordinary life. Stories bearing witness to the Spirit’s love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Stories entwined and undergirded by Scripture.

I invite you to read and taste and see the Spirit’s lush fruit amid the mundane journey of life.

Thank you, kind readers, for faithfully reading my words. I am most grateful.

---

Your preordered copy will arrive on August 1st. Stay tuned as the book will soon be made available on amazon.com.

And for readers across the pond? You may preorder Deep Roots, Good Fruit here.

---

My free monthly newsletter is the place where I link to everything Good, True, & Beautiful. Give it a whirl, if you wish.

When I was growing up in the 1970s, women and girls wore slips beneath their dresses and skirts. Does anyone even wear these anymore?

A slip was a satiny fabric intended to smooth and free your dress from clinging to pantyhose or tights. It also served as a barrier to prevent your silhouette from being seen if the dress was sheer. It was a necessity for modesty.

All too often, a slip malfunctioned and dropped a bit beneath the dress or skirt, its snowy white fabric becoming visible for all the world to see.

It was a kind and lovely gesture to be alerted to this faux pau by another woman before anyone else noticed. There seemed to dwell a common understanding–a golden measure of solidarity between women back then. Far more so than now, I am afraid. A touch on the elbow, a gently whispered “Your slip is showing, dearie.” And off one would race to the powder room to make the necessary adjustments.

What if we, as sisters in Christ, could whisper to another woman: “Your slip is showing!” meaning, Warning! Your sins are on display.

Perhaps you are disrespecting your husband, or have become entangled in the spider web of gossip, or are embittered with weighty discontent and a complaining spirit?

The loving whisper from another, “Your slip is showing,” is the mark of a genuine friend, isn’t it? One who loves you enough to alert you to the inherent dangers of your indwelling sin?

Or perhaps you are humble enough to gratefully receive such correction, but find it nearly impossible to confront a fellow sister?

Scripture is not silent on these matters. God’s Word speaks truths meant to embolden believers:

“Iron sharpens iron, and one man sharpens another.” (Proverbs 27:17)

We need the counsel of godly friends amid this crazy world, don’t we? And if we cannot receive correction with humility and appreciation, may we remember Proverbs 9:8:

“Do not reprove a scoffer, or he will hate you; reprove a wise man, and he will love you.”

To be wise is to be like Jesus—loving others enough to confront sin in a spirit of kind boldness. The end goal is always repentance and restoration, not embarrassment. To be a scoffer is to be like Satan, haughty, boastful, and far from God.

Be bold today, speaking truth in love, and tell a sister if her slip is showing. But before you alert her, take heed, and first make certain your own slip is in order.

---

This piece first appeared here.

A week or so before Christmas a smidgen of church members gathered in the foyer to venture into our community. We had planned to sing Christmas carols to a handful of elderly shut-ins.

It was a clear, cold evening, and the stars twinkled against the night sky as we united in lifting our mediocre voices in melodies of old, pausing only to blow warmth into our frozen hands. The recipients heard our warbling and shuffled to the door in slippers and robes, frail in the glow of porch light, tears glistening and spilling down wrinkled cheeks.

They were not forgotten, after all.

Yet I would venture to say it was us, a little band of untrained singers, who were most touched. After singing multiple times over, we congregated back at church to reflect on our evening. One man shared from the deep places, tearing up as he spoke.

That was a powerful time, serving others. I almost didn’t come out tonight but am so glad I did. One day that might be me, a shut-in. I pray my church family remembers.

I mulled over his words as I drove home in the pitch dark, considering the ways God mysteriously enlarges and softens our hearts as we stretch to serve others rather than ourselves.

No bells no whistles, only our openhanded: Yes, Lord. Send me.

//

The following morning I took an extra long walk to consider the slow and quiet kingdom work waiting to be accomplished.

This I knew: the holiday bustle and glitz and excitement would soon dim, once the calendar page turned, and I would naturally return to my own dutiful rhythms while neglecting to serve the community until the next Christmas season returned.

One glance at my day planner reminded me of an obvious truth. The majority of my days were spoken for; brimming with work. With precious little time to spare, what could I do to serve the forgotten?

I prayed for wisdom and God graciously opened the door. Within a week, I zipped up my coat, met a friend, and entered the world of Secret Service.

Do you realize that there is an entire globe of marginalized, discouraged, and unreached people on planet Earth, residing in your town and neighborhood? People who are in despair, waiting for someone to hold their hand, listen to their stories, receive prayer, and hear the hope of Christ?

It is magnificent that every single Christian has been entrusted with spiritual gifts meant to edify the church body and further the gospel. This is God’s good design and such giftings are most definitely a blessing–when properly stewarded. Yet sadly, there have been times I have waved the This is not My Spiritual Gift banner as an excuse to neglect loving others in ways that will meet their deepest needs. Making myself available to new endeavors outside of my wheelhouse stretches me uncomfortably, which also nudges me to trust God more.

Denying ourselves, taking up our cross, and following Christ will not always neatly conform to our natural abilities. Personally, I have found that moving beyond my own safety shell of spiritual giftings and personality tendencies has been a healing balm to my sore heart. It has pumped fresh oxygen into my lungs as I serve in humble, quotidian, hidden ways. A slender, fragrant bouquet offered to my Heavenly Father.

What a joy it has been to give back a thimble of love in Jesus’ name. No hype, no announcements, no committee meetings. Just two middle-aged women savoring a few hours each month to serve aching people. As we travel along, we happily discuss the things of God: Sunday’s sermon, narrow-path living, meaty Scriptures, answered prayers, weighty sufferings, the hope of heaven, and what it means to be the Bride of Christ beyond the walls of our church. We laugh and tear up and trade delicious dinner recipes and cleaning hacks. It is fun.

As I have discovered, laying aside myself while choosing to serve others with the love and truth of Jesus lifts my heart and soul to new heights. In a world that champions self-fulfillment, I am most fulfilled when I place others before myself.

Imagine if the entire universal Church joyfully skipped into their communities and served wherever the needs arose, regardless of personal giftings. I think our Sunday morning church services would be overflowing with a depth of spiritual vigor, pulsing with the Fruit of the Holy Spirit.

We are born to glorify God and make much of Christ. What a pity to miss the mission.

//

I encourage you to smile and serve someone else in quiet humility this week. Pencil in a few hours to table your giftings, agendas, and dreams. Keep the riches of Jesus’ words from Matthew 10:39 close.

Whoever finds his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.

Your behind-the-scenes kindness might mean delivering a meal to a shut-in, visiting a sick soul languishing in a hospital bed, buffing the smudgy fingerprints off of your church’s glass door, or writing notes of encouragement to weary pastors and missionaries. Perhaps it will involve rolling up your sleeves and scrubbing bathroom sinks for an exhausted mother or anonymously mailing grocery gift cards to a hard-pressed neighbor. You might even stuff Little Free Libraries across town with Bibles and good books. No need to construct a billboard detailing your efforts. God sees.

The truth? Secret Service will cost you something: time, money, and convenience.

Such efforts will also spear to death any self-absorption. Praise God.

You may bank on this: God sees your quiet service and will reward you.

---

“And you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength.’  The second is this: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ There is no other commandment greater than these.”

Mark 12:30-31

When our son, Jacob, returns stateside this summer, we will fill our coffee mugs and record a proper podcast full of his stories from the mission field.

This time, I invited Jacob to record his reflections for you, my kind readers. If you are willing to take twenty minutes and lean in, you will be greatly blessed.

And the King will answer them, ‘Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me.’

~Matthew 25:40

---

Dear Lauren,

I walked into your bedroom early this morning, my arms full of things you left behind as you returned to college.

It was still dark, the sun sleepy and hidden. I took a moment and sat on the edge of your bed, smoothing the comforter and missing you. It is quiet here once again.

My eyes studied your closet doors, and the furniture we pushed up against them, for now. No one must peek. Within your closet hangs a beauty of a dress.

Only you, me, and the store clerk have witnessed its splendor adorning your frame.

And so it will be until summer arrives.

//

When you were six weeks old, a photographer friend emerged from her minivan, multiple camera bags slung over her shoulder, eager to snap pictures of my four loves. I buttoned you up in a tiny white dress, all ruffles and lace, and held you close, beneath my chin, nuzzling your soft, sweet-smelling head while your brothers chased barefoot in the lush grass of our Florida lawn. They were decked out in jeans and white t-shirts, all boyish, hair slicked. I called for them, and they raced our way, grinning at your beauty, your dress, proud of their brand-new sister.

Oh, Kristin! She is so beautiful, my friend said. Just think—One day you will be the mother of the bride. Her eyes crinkled as she played with the edge of your gown.

I grinned, happily tossing that thought in the background. There were decades to go and so much life to enjoy before I had to think about your wedding. About bittersweet goodbyes. Never mind all of that.

And then I blinked and Alexander proposed, looping a sparkling ring upon your finger.

Ready or not, here we go.

//

It is a gray, blustery day when we enter the bridal store, but your face is aglow–all summer light beams– as you smile, twirling before the trifold mirror, gathering up the long silky dress, and gliding toward me with: Mom, what do you think?

I blinked. What do I think?

I think you are the sun, moon, and the loveliest flower. I have never seen a more exquisite dress or a more beautiful daughter–my favorite girl. Wasn’t it only yesterday that we brought you home from the hospital, and your brothers gathered around your infant seat to hold your tiny hand and grin as they pecked your cheek? It seems perfectly impossible that you will be married this summer and—-

Mom? you lure me out of my thoughts. Do you like my dress?

I nod, a lump rising in my throat.

It is perfect, Lauren. Perfect.

//

Now that you are engaged, I have this urge (upon waking in the middle of the night) to remind you of certain things.

Always use real butter. Wash your sheets often, and invest in fragrant fabric softener. Cook meat slowly to keep it tender. Overlook petty annoyances, and love in truth. Pray for your future babies, and always pray for your husband. In fact, pray without ceasing. Stay on a budget without turning stingy, practicing creativity in wild generosity. Dust ceiling to floor before vacuuming. Remember to come home to visit–and never ask permission to open our fridge or pantry, as they will forever be yours. Say “I’m sorry” first. Laugh daily. Cook cheese noodle casserole and crockpot cherry pie on those cold, dreary January days that never seem to end, and watch the world brighten, if only a little. Take your vitamins each and every morning. Feast on the Bible, and talk to God all the day long. Remember that I am forever your mother and here for you. Always and no matter what.

Marriage feels like a riddle, my daughter. What you think you know about this holy institution right now you will soon call into question. It is part of the fall of mankind. Mysterious. Fear not–God is near and will teach you everything you need to know. Remember your vows, and honor them.

//

As I sit perched on the edge of your bed, I consider my own wedding dress, currently hanging in the back of our closet. I loved my dress, and still peek at it on occasion, but it is more of a distant memory marking the beginning of my marriage to your Dad. The gown is not nearly as important as I once imagined it would be. You will understand, in time.

God will take you and Alexander and he will grow and stitch and clothe you in the fruit of his Spirit. Who you are on your wedding day is only the beginning of who you will become.

Your breathtaking gown will fade or go out of style or both but remember: it is your marriage that is meant to brighten and grow sturdy roots. Marriage is a gift designed to endure for your lifetime. The dress? Not necessarily.

You will soon pledge your commitment to your groom–and together God will strengthen and weave you through seasons of plenty and seasons of want. Those inevitable times of scarcity? Fear not…they will serve as a gift, a palate cleanser, rinsing your mouth of worldly longings, and sweeping your heart free of burdensome clutter. Difficulties will pull you closer to God if you choose to trust him moment by moment.

//

It is time for me to stand and walk out of your room and firmly back into my own life. I fight the notion that these days often feel like frail architecture in this empty-nest landscape. I stubbornly preach truth to my soul: God is here and steadfast throughout every season of life, no matter how flimsy life may appear. Every beat of the human heart holds a purpose before the Lord. Remember this, my daughter.

I can scarcely believe the rush of the passage of time, and I remain humbled that God chose me to be your Mom. What an honor, both grand and grave.

Your radiance will saturate the wedding chapel come summer, and I am praising God in bringing you and Alexander together. Our family is multiplying, and this is an adventure and a true joy. But it is not without its own tender ache–a throb born of a mother’s love. I will miss you.

While our guests feast on wedding cake as you and your groom dance, I will smile and vanish back in time, to the memory of cradling you close in infancy, swaying back and forth as your brothers circled me on tiptoes, their hands resting on my arms as they kissed your face and called you by name. It takes so little to bring me back to those days. Faded snapshots of a season gone by repeatedly bear witness to a chapter concluded. I will treasure the gift of memories, always and forever.

You are a joy, a delight. May God bless and keep you and Alexander on this journey of a lifetime.

I am delighted that we found your resplendent wedding dress, together. Such a fun day.

I love you so,

Mom

---

You can keep them in the pew, you know. We did.

Let me say from the top that as imperfect parents, Jon and I made mistakes raising our children. We are a normal family with everyday problems and sin challenges. Only by the kindness and grace of God, do we have four grown children pursuing the Lord. Children whose Bibles are cherished, worn; beloved.

Another disclosure: I write today from a mother’s vantage point and not as a pastor’s wife speaking into a specific situation. By the nature of my husband’s vocation, I must make this distinction. Please understand that I am not railing against all children’s church environments. Our church offers this option to our parishioners, and numerous adults work to make this available.

Our personal choice is not prescriptive. It is a preference…one that I believe to be biblically sound, and a passion I share only when people press me with:

Kristin, how did you raise your children to love God and the church?

This happens from time to time, and when they ask?

I answer.

***

Pulpit and Pew.

Our nation and world are undeniably crumbling with families scattered and torn, fragile and broken. I would argue that this is not because mothers and fathers are purposefully gathering their little loves around the dinner table each night, praying and opening their Bibles for family devotions, or sitting elbow-to-elbow in the pew every Sunday, eager to hear God’s Word unpacked while uniting together under the preaching of Scripture.

I would argue families have sadly drifted because they are not doing these things.

***

Biblically speaking, a home is to be God-centered, not child-centered. God is our Heavenly Father, our Ruler of order and of peace. In a Christ-centered home, there will be zero questions about the I’m importance of attending church each week. It is understood, from Scripture, that in love, devotion, and obedience to God, the family will gather to be spiritually fed. (Hebrews 10:25)

The sermon itself is the high point of the entire week. It is the Christian’s banquet, the meat of life. The sermon is when Christians and unbelievers in attendance hear faithful, biblical exposition. It is a holy time of exhortation, admonition, conviction, and comfort.

This I why I cannot, in good conscience, favor anything that pulls adults and children away from Sunday’s sermon.

For Christian parents, entrusted with raising their own little ones, the question becomes:

Why would I desire to dismiss my children from this succulent feast?

An important question to ponder.

Most parents spend copious amounts of time planning and ensuring that their children complete their homework, achieve good grades, pursue extra-curricular activities, have a decent haircut, consume nutritious foods, wear clean clothing, and enjoy safe playtime.

How much time do parents spend planning how to incline their child’s soul to the things of God?

Children’s church will never replicate the gathering of saints under pastoral preaching. A common argument in favor of children’s church is that children require age-appropriate teaching. Yes, this, too, is important, which is why we offer Sunday School and midweek children’s classes.

But there is something far more important.

The preaching.

The Gospel message itself–declared week in and week out, is ordained to grow and mature Christians.

Colossians 1:28 states:

Him we proclaim, warning everyone and teaching everyone with all wisdom, that we may present everyone mature in Christ.

Yes, every Christian must be weaned from rice cereal and introduced to the divine steak dinner.

***

When I am asked how we endeavored to raise our children in the church, the answer is plain, not easy, and judging from countenances, somewhat disappointing. I often get the impression that people believe a parent can dole out a multivitamin and Voilà! Their son or daughter will morph into a spiritually mature young adult who is steadfastly committed to being in the pew weekly, adores God most fervently, and abides in the Scriptures daily.

It simply does not work this way.

***

Every Saturday night, when our children were small and tucked in bed, I pulled out the ironing board. As the iron hissed and steamed, I pressed four little outfits, plus two adult ones. It took a bit of time, but as my husband polished his sermon I prayed for the person whose clothing I was ironing—something my great-aunt had inspired me to do.

Afterward, I lined up four pairs of clean shoes in our front hall and set the kitchen table with bowls, napkins, spoons, and cereal boxes.

Sunday mornings were a flurry with four young ones and a preaching husband, but with the preparation mentioned above, we made it to church on time.

In fact, the only time we stayed home, ever, was when someone was ill. And even then, I tended to our little patient while Jon took the others to church.

To be clear, we did not attend every church event.

But Sunday morning worship?

Non-negotiable.

Let’s assume that you keep your children in the church nursery until they are three years old, and then welcome them to the family pew. You have graciously gifted them over 250 more scriptural expositions than the child who remains in children’s church, not joining the family pew until age eight.

***

Do we truly, deep down in our bones, believe Romans 10:13-14?

For “everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved.” How then will they call on him in whom they have not believed? And how are they to believe in him of whom they have never heard? And how are they to hear without someone preaching?

Jesus Christ is the Word. Our Savior’s excellencies are to be preached to everyone.

When the disciples rebuked adults for bringing children to Jesus that he might touch them, Christ became indignant and said:

“Let the children come to me; do not hinder them, for to such belongs the kingdom of God. Truly I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child shall not enter it.” (Mark 10:14-15)

Consider welcoming your children, whom Jesus loves, into the family pew and under the pulpit. Do not hinder them by sending them away. Let them hear the Bible preached. They will not understand everything, at first, and they may even be bored. But remember that this is precisely how they first learned to speak, through immersion, by hearing your voice daily, from the moment they were born.

They did not understand the meaning of your words for a long time, did they? In this same manner, they will soak up the doctrines of Scripture, the truths and delight of God’s Word, little by little. Understanding will come in time.

Your children are eyewitnesses as you, parents, worship the Lord through praying, singing, notetaking, and obeying him by not forsaking the gathering of the saints. Children are sponges, and if you continually chirp: Church is important! and then dismiss them before the sermon, what are you showing them?

Church is about God, not about creating a fun, exciting, palatable place for children. Children, like us, are terribly prone to me-centeredness. I once heard a little one whine: I want to be up on stage this Christmas so people can clap for me! while pointing to the pulpit.

And there it is– the lie that church is a stage to spotlight oneself.

Leading your children into the family pew is not a boring punishment to be avoided but a treasure to be shared.

***

Once upon a time, I doled out mints to Caleb, Jacob, Marcus, and Lauren, my four stairsteps in the pew. I also gifted them their own notebook and pencils as I took notes during the sermon. As they sat and sketched and eventually learned to jot verses and key points, they intuited the importance of taking the sermon seriously. I expected them to.

As parents, it is our personal responsibility to teach our children to sit for the duration of the service. To pay attention and be generous by not distracting others from hearing the message. This is a good discipline, teaching them to sit respectfully, and reverently for ninety minutes. It takes practice.

Our world is forever spinning the message that children must be seen, worshipped, and given their way, no matter what. Teaching them to listen to their pastor preach is a gift to their souls, for all of eternity. It shows them how to deny themselves and follow Jesus. Such efforts stand contrary to worldly opinions, and they should. It reinforces a priceless truth–your children are not the center of the universe–God is.

Children can accomplish this, and such discipline begins at home. If your expectations are low, your children will wilt and misbehave. Endeavor to raise the bar with clear instruction and gentle encouragement. When they squirm or misbehave, view this as your opportunity to train them more diligently at home.

Practically speaking, I used to insist that my children used the restroom (whether or not they wanted to) before the service, which eliminated unnecessary roaming. When they were small, I squeezed their hands three times (secret code for I love you) or scratched their shoulder or winked at them during the message. I wanted them to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that they were a part of this body of believers and that I loved them until the end of time and was most delighted that we were seated as a family, together.

I find it interesting to note that the Apostle Paul penned the following to the church in Ephesus:

Children obey your parents in the Lord, for this is right. (Ephesians 6:1)

This clearly indicates that children were an important part of the ancient church, gathering with their families to worship as Paul’s letter was proclaimed. This man of God, with divine apostolic authority, spoke directly to the children.

Dismissing children from the preaching speaks powerfully, doesn’t it?

Choosing to welcome your little ones to the pew, showing them how to open their Bible, how to worship the Lord reverently, how to bow in submissive prayer, and how to sing robust songs and hymns and spiritual songs speaks powerfully, too. It heralds the truth:

God’s Word is my authority, and it is yours, too.

***

I have had people tell me that expecting children to sit through the weekly sermon is unreasonable, especially for single parents. Although I was not a single parent, my husband was in the pulpit, and I was solely responsible for four children. At one point in Jon’s pastoral ministry, I added seven or eight other children to our pew; children who came from broken homes and were delivered to our church by bus. They were a bit disruptive, and a few of those children even had learning and social disorders. Sitting in the pew with them was trying, but I remained convinced that they were souls who deserved to hear the Holy Bible preached. So I pressed on to the best of my abilities, trusting God with the results.

I share with you as someone who speaks from decades of experience: it can be done, if you are willing to train up your loves, wholeheartedly trusting God’s promise that his Word never returns void. (Isaiah 55:11)

There are 10,080 minutes in each week. What might happen if you kept your family together in the pew for 90 of them?

---

And these words that I command you today shall be on your heart. You shall teach them diligently to your children and shall talk of them when you sit in your house, and when you walk by the way, and when you lie down, and when you rise.

Deuteronomy 6:6-7