December’s skies were gray, temperatures frigid, the year I returned home from college in time to witness my grandmother’s descent into a sullen funk.

Let’s go shopping, said my mother.

Grandma sighed as we reached for our winter jackets and headed for the car.

You need a new coat, she said, eyeing my current one.

I shrugged.

Find one today, and I will pay for it, she said, abruptly closing the car door.

History, if nothing else, had taught me three things:

1. Shopping was an unsuccessful method in dealing with Grandma’s mood swings.

2. This shopping spree would not end well, given her inevitable post-spending slump.

3. Grandma’s gifts were wrapped up in perplexing strings. Cords I was never able to untangle.

---

As we traipsed through the mall, I found the perfect coat. Soft brown suede with a stylish hood. Attractive, comfortable, and warm.

This one? Grandma wrinkled her nose.

I nodded.

Her small eyes narrowed as she flipped through the display rack: empyrean blue, blood red, pea green, Windsor plaid, all the while muttering a repetitive buh-buh-buh as she searched.

I reminded myself to be polite and respectful, while simultaneously bracing for the customary insults.

As a college undergrad, I did not have words for her petulance, a poison that bubbled within, seeds of bitterness that grew tall and tangled as they were coddled, watered, and nurtured. Weeds springing from pools of pain: tender bruises pressed down, buried, and left to run wild. Untended wounds that festered and resurfaced with a mighty kaboom in old age, scalding.

Our family’s modus operandi was to dismiss her attitudes with a shrug, a wave of the hand: It’s just who she is!

I had been silently trained that my only recourse in dealing with Jekyll and Hyde was to whistle in the dark, going along as though my grandmother’s unkindness was perfectly acceptable. This woman who claimed to be a Christian.

My mind toyed with a different truth, weaving its way through stories shared by college friends who detailed shopping trips with their grandmothers. Afternoons of laughter, hugs, tea, pastries.

Imagine!

Soft, twinkly-eyed grandmas whose chief delight was spoiling their favorite girls, offering sage advice, while putzing around the mall, gifting, with no strings attached.

These, said Grandma, pulling me from my reverie, as she spread a trio of coats across the racks, are far more flattering.

As I glanced at the brown suede favorite atop my arm, Grandma simpered, staring at my French braid.

You really do need a haircut, she said.

So much for whistling in the dark. I blinked hard, fingering the ends of my braid.

In the end–and who knows why–Grandma bought the suede coat, which I wore for years.

Sewn inside the pockets were punishing memories, sharp as glass.

In hindsight, I see the truth.

God was near, calling and keeping and tending my heart. By placing me in a small furnace of affliction, with a suffering I never would have chosen, he taught me the importance of loving my future grandchildren well.

God granted me a broad, sweeping mural of how sin, unmortified, destroys.

What Satan intended for evil, God used for my good.

---

This fall, I went shopping with my daughter and granddaughter, a precious munchkin now seven months old. As we perused the racks, I found the one: the perfect winter coat for my little love. A soft, pretty, one-piece fleece. While my little miss is too young to give her approval, her Mama did. My granddaughter looks like a little button as she smiles in her winter accoutrement.

My sweet baby girl is an undeserved gift from God.

The day will come when she will want to choose her own coat, and I am already forming plans.

May I bless her with ears to hear her voice, eyes to read her heart, and lips to encourage. May we laugh, a zest of joy atop our shopping adventures, complete with pastries. May she trust me to fully listen, to speak wisely, to pray for her, and to write words of kindness and goodness across the tablet of her soul.

---

I was at the park with my grandson last week, a four-year-old delight who is quite the wordsmith, borrowing, experimenting, and peppering our conversations: cottage, swelter, famished, toasty, first down, rambunctious.

I am smitten.

The two of us glided through the air on old-fashioned swings, practiced layups with the junior-sized basketball, and perfected our spirals with his beloved football (Listen Nonnie, he said after catching a pass, the crowd is cheering!)

I hovered at ground level while he climbed fearlessly to the tippy top of the skyscraper jungle gym.

A cold wind swept in and I shivered.

Want your jacket, Buddy? I hollered.

No, Nonnie, he said. I’m warm.

I draped his coat across my arm and patted it. Soon, it will no longer fit.

Shielding my eyes from the sun’s glare, I smiled as he yelled: Watch me climb, Nonnie! Look at me!

I pumped my arm and clapped.

We dug in the dirt with sharp sticks, collected a heap of acorns and pinecones, and moved rocks to form a circle, as we roasted marshmallows, browning them over our imaginary fire pit. He told me about a girl at preschool who threw mulch on his head.

She roared at me, Nonnie, he confided.

I am sure she did, I thought, taking in his handsome face, those enormous brown eyes.

When it was time to go, he asked for his coat. As I helped him stuff one arm in, then the other, he squeezed my neck and kissed my cheek.

We walked back to the truck, and he let go of my hand with an idea: Take that path, over there, and I will go this way, okay?

I nodded.

I’ll meet you at the truck, Non, he added with a grin, teasing me with this new nickname.

The dropping rays of afternoon sunshine simmered through the swaying branches, playing peekaboo; light and shadows.

He ran on his path as I kept to mine. My grandson, a little boy with roots and wings.

I am here for it all.

No more whistling in the dark.

---

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Happy Thanksgiving!

I am grateful for each and every reader that God brings to this blog. Your kindness in taking the time to read, comment, and email me is precious. As a writer, it is reassuring to know that my efforts have a soft place to land.

It is my deepest prayer to enrich others through my weekly posts here at The Palest Ink.

Have any stories resonated, touched your soul, opened your eyes, and drawn you nearer to God?

Have any pieces caused you to remember, prompted you to take action, mourn, or face your fears?

Have you scrolled back to read The Things We Remember, Remembering Finn, Piano Man, Eighteen, or Crowned?

Have you listened to the radio and podcast interviews, read my outside articles, chosen a book from my Favorite Books List, signed up for my free monthly newsletter, or read my first and second books?

My heart’s desire is to keep each weekly blog post free and available to everyone, as it has been for over 5 years. Given the number of hours I spend writing, I am now asking something of you:

Will you support my writing ministry with a monthly donation? A one-time gift?*

Thank you for your faithfulness in reading along. With your financial support, I will prayerfully be able to expand my content and keep The Palest Ink paywall-free.

To hear my heart behind my writing, I invite you to listen to Thinking Small.

*(If you prefer to support my writing ministry by check, our mailing address is: Kristin Couch, PO BOX 2759, Chester, VA 23831)

---

Whoever brings blessing will be enriched,
and one who waters will himself be watered.

Proverbs 11:25

Join me in this fun conversation as I chat with my son, Caleb, about his experiences as both an athlete and a coach.

---

Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that by testing you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect.

~Romans 12:2

I once knew of a man, freshly hired, who was late to work. His boss extended mercy—after all, who among us has never been late? Traffic jams, missed alarms, spilled coffee, et cetera.

But then he was late, again.

And again.

And yes, again.

His boss confronted him, firmly and kindly.

The man mumbled and fumbled, hemmed and hawed, boots toeing the floor with an aw-shucks sort of speech, as if to say: What’s the big deal? yet promising to be on time going forward.

As Christians, the boss reiterated, we must strive to be people of our word.

The problem continued.

It was no surprise that his short tenure proved problematic.

***

I had a friend in college who was perpetually late. In fact, you could set a watch to her tardiness, which hovered at the 18-minute mark.

Whether it be mandatory dorm meetings, dinner dates, or church, she was incessantly tardy.

I will call my friend Lily.

One day, something quite remarkable happened during our early morning English class.

Our professor, a no-nonsense, bright, and articulate woman, held zero tolerance for laziness, pithy excuses, or tardiness. In fact, she considered punctuality the politeness of princes. On the first day of class, with heels clicking across the shiny floor of our bright classroom, she informed our large class that we were no longer high schoolers. It was high time to bid adieu to childish behaviors.

She announced that she would permit one free pass per latecomer, but following that pardon, should that same student be late again, he or she would be marked absent and receive zero credit on any assignments due.

Lily experienced her free pass on day one, and was never late to English class again.

Our professor’s strict policy proved a severe mercy.

Lily did, however, remain indelibly late for everything else.

My point?

We do what we want to do.

Although the girls on our hall adored Lily, who was both conversational and fun, could they count on her?

No.

Her reputation preceded her.

Most bothersome was her apathy in regard to church.

She had wheels, and many of us did not. When we piled into her car on Sunday mornings, we grimaced, intuiting that we would be eighteen minutes late, give or take, which proved both embarrassing and disruptive, given the stuffed sanctuary. With heads drooping, we were forced to parade to the front pew.

***

Not long ago, I remembered my English professor.

I was seated amongst a women’s group, and as Scripture was being taught, a handful of ladies trickled in ten, twenty, thirty minutes late. I could feel the distraction–palpable– as the latecomers shuffled to various seats, murmuring hello, their chairs scraping, squeaking.

While grace is required, given that tardiness is occasionally unavoidable, thoughtfulness whispers: Remain in the back, do not distract, in a respectful effort not to disrupt the flow.

Unlike my professor in a college setting, there is little recourse in these matters. The speaker was not taking attendance or handing out grades, but relying on common courtesy.

***

Have you ever been in the company of one who is chronically late?

Late to church, late to a business meeting, late to dinner, late to a family event?

Punctuality is certainly the politeness of princes, but ongoing tardiness is rude.

If you are a soul who is perpetually late, consider this truth: you likely have a heart problem.

I have nothing of the sort! you might say.

While Scripture does not state: Thou shalt not be late, the Bible sings of the beauty in remaining humble, honorable, trustworthy, and selfless.

Here are eight truths to consider:

1. Being consistently late is prideful.

Pride bathes in self-importance and conceit, prioritizing the needs and whims of self, rather than consideration for others, as supreme.

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)

2. Perpetual tardiness shows a lack of discipline and self-control.

If you are perpetually late, pray for a heart change and discipline yourself to arrive early, practicing the good fruit of self-control.

A man without self-control is like a city broken into and left without walls. (Proverbs 25:28)

For the Spirit God gave us does not make us timid, but gives us power, love, and self-discipline. (2 Timothy 1:7)

3. Forever late to the game is a form of rebellion.

Whether it be work, church, or a coffee date with a friend, ongoing tardiness displays a heart bent on doing whatever it pleases, rather than bowing humbly to the plans and structures that have been set in place.

Let every person be subject to the governing authorities. For there is no authority except from God, and those that exist have been instituted by God. Therefore, whoever resists the authorities resists what God has appointed, and those who resist will incur judgment. (Romans 13:1-2)

An evil man seeks only rebellion,
and a cruel messenger will be sent against him.(Proverbs 17:11)

4. Refusing to arrive on time displays a lack of love.

It is never loving to insist on one’s own way, undermining authority, and garnering attention by being late to everything. It is unloving to steal people’s time, controlling the narrative by pleasing yourself.

Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful. (1 Corinthians 13:4-5)

Let love be genuine. Abhor what is evil; hold fast to what is good. Love one another with brotherly affection. (Romans 12:9)

And it is my prayer that your love may abound more and more, with knowledge and all discernment, so that you may approve what is excellent, and so be pure and blameless for the day of Christ, (Philippians 1:9-10)

5. Refusing to arrive on time exhibits a lack of honor.

An honorable person follows through on promises, while a dishonorable person does not.

Outdo one another in showing honor. Do not be slothful in zeal, be fervent in spirit, serve the Lord. (Romans 12:10)

But he who is noble plans noble things,
and on noble things he stands. (Isaiah 32:8)

6. Being late may cause others to stumble.

If you are chronically late for church, let’s say, waltzing into the sanctuary on your own timetable, impervious to the service’s clear start time, you are a distraction. And is that pleasing to God? Taking people’s eyes and ears away from the pastor’s preaching, as you climb over and around others, forcing them to stand, or scoot over, taking their minds off the teaching?

Incessant tardiness is deeply irritating to those who strive to focus and press into God’s Word, and ongoing frustration may stir up anger.

But whoever causes one of these little ones who believe in me to sin, it would be better for him to have a great millstone fastened around his neck and to be drowned in the depth of the sea. (Matthew 18:6)

7. Perpetual tardiness damages your reputation and maims your witness.

We are known by our actions, which yield good fruit or rotten fruit. A damaged reputation never breeds trust and will be an obstacle to sharing our faith. How can a person trust one who has no regard for time or for keeping simple promises?

Even a child makes himself known by his acts,
    by whether his conduct is pure and upright. (Proverbs 20:11)

We put no obstacle in anyone’s way, so that no fault may be found with our ministry. (2 Corinthians 6:3)

8. A pattern of tardiness is antithetical to the pursuit of holiness:

The world might whisper: be yourself, serve yourself, arrive at whatever time suits your fancy.

Dear Christian, this is not the voice of God, who commands us:

Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that by testing you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect. (Romans 12:2)

---

Look carefully then how you walk, not as unwise but as wise. (Ephesians 5:15)

I have friends who are moths to a flame when it comes to gifting from their stockpile of doorbuster deals: 75% off the cheap brand of paper towels that soak up nothing, bath towels that are scratchy and non-absorbent, chintzy plastic gadgets that last for a day or two before falling to pieces.

I politely decline to join these shopping sprees.

Why?

Quality matters, especially when giving to others.

Surprisingly, I have been critiqued for this.

Case in point.

Years ago, I hosted a ladies’ event at church. In preparation, I ascended our attic and returned with my pile of linens and simple decor, which I keep for hosting.

Then, I zipped to the grocery store and bought a bright array of fresh fruit, which I planned to serve alongside a platter of cubed cheese and crackers.

My heart desired to honor each guest by creating a peaceful, pleasant, and delicious atmosphere as we celebrated.

All was dandy until the day of the event when I rounded the corner into the church kitchen and happened upon a trio of women hoisting the extra-large platter of fruit above their heads, squinting as they studied the price tag clinging to the bottom of the tray.

Clearly, they were appalled.

My goodness, she spent a fortune, said one as she lowered the tray and bit into a plump strawberry.

Too much money! said another, nibbling on a cheese cube and licking her fingers.

Then they noticed me–oops, too late–and stammered, blushing like children caught with fists in the cookie jar.

I laughed.

Everything okay in here, ladies? I grinned.

Um, yes, one said. Just curious to know where you bought this delicious food.

The store name is right next to the price tag, I said with a wink.

While I have learned that these types of situations come with the territory of being married to my pastor, life in a fishbowl, what these women did not consider was that I had spent our personal money on purpose.

For their enjoyment.

And for this, I was criticized.

***

Is there anything wrong with saving money? No, if one’s heart is in the right place. The Bible tells us that a wise person saves for the future. (Proverbs 21:20)

Problems arise, however, when money becomes our God, and fear our companion.

God blesses us with good things to enjoy and to share. How attractive authentic generosity and openhandedness are in this selfish world!

When fear takes the wheel, generosity fades, giving way to miserly behaviors, giving others less than our best.

Here are some helpful questions for self-examination:

Whose money am I stewarding?

Am I using the money and things God has loaned me to lavishly bless, comfort, and help others?

Am I giving my life and my possessions away for the good of the gospel?

Am I spending money to own the best things for myself, while giving poorly to others?

No one takes their piggy bank to heaven.

***

Fifteen years ago, I had been wishing for a quality hutch. I had visited thrift stores and was met with poor-quality wood, particle board pieces that were in tatters and would eventually collapse.

I perused advertisements in our mailbox, fine hutches so far out of reach that I laughed and gave up. We had bigger fish to fry with four growing children. So, I tucked the wish away and counted my blessings instead, repeating Elisabeth Elliot’s sentiment: If I don’t have it, I don’t need it.

Right, she was! God supplies our every need, not our every wish.

And he sometimes delights to surprise us.

One Saturday morning, more than a year after my hutch-dreaming saga, I opened my email and read a notification from our homeschool group:

Anyone want a free Ethan Allen hutch?

I responded with a swift yes, please, and given the early morning hour, I was first to respond. Not only was it a gorgeous, high-quality piece, but it came with a large dining room table and chairs.

Fifteen years later, we still gather around that table. The timeless hutch, now painted butternut, adorns our dining room today.

My favorite part of the story?

The man who kindly blessed us with such fine furniture was already giving his life away by serving in full-time prison ministry work.

Here is what I know: when God takes a heart of stone and redeems it, everything changes. Our affections for God and others are full of gracious generosity. We treat others as we want to be treated.

God himself gave us his best, sparing not his Son.

***

I was once told the story of a church that decided to go above and beyond by blessing missionaries one holiday season. The ladies’ coordinator rounded up the women for a deep planning session. They circled their folding chairs in the fellowship hall, sipped Starbucks, and concocted a plan.

For one month, each woman pledged to save her (used) morning tea bags, drying them out and storing them in a plastic bag to send overseas.

Hold on. It gets worse.

Each woman was also instructed to rummage around in purse, makeup bag, and drawers, gathering perfume and cologne samples. As in the paper ones tucked in magazines, along with partially used teensy vials included in mailers. (For goodness’ sake, not actual perfume bottles, ladies, the shipping would be astronomical!)

They gathered proudly one month later and gift-wrapped those samples, placing them alongside the second-hand teabags as a pleasant way to bless those men and women who had forsaken everything to spread the Good News of Christ with the nations.

I have no words.

In fact, when I heard this, I thought of my grandfather, who spent his life giving quality gifts to his family, friends, coworkers, and church, faithfully blessing pastors and missionaries who had few possessions. He never announced it, but silently met needs, his heart happy and full. He died without a large savings account, having honorably given it away while he was alive.

Countless people were changed by his unending generosity, this I know.

His heart was tender as his hands were open, graciously holding all things loosely, stewarding whatever the Lord had given him in order to meet needs immediately. He understood what the ladies murmuring over the costly fruit tray, and the women sending missionaries crummy leftovers did not:

Giving the best to others is a reflection of one’s heart.

Some people have precious little money and few material possessions, and yet they overflow with generosity, sharing and giving what little they have, with the happiest of hearts.

Do you remember the poor widow who had next to nothing, but gave everything to God?

Jesus read her heart and praised her cheerful giving.

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2 Corinthians 9:6-7

⁶ The point is this: whoever sows sparingly will also reap sparingly, and whoever sows bountifully will also reap bountifully. ⁷ Each one must give as he has decided in his heart, not reluctantly or under compulsion, for God loves a cheerful giver.

Proverbs 11:24-25

²⁴ One gives freely, yet grows all the richer;
    another withholds what he should give, and only suffers want.
²⁵ Whoever brings blessing will be enriched,
    and one who waters will himself be watered.

I invite you to listen to this rich conversation that I enjoyed with my son, Jacob.

---

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It is early, and the air is frigid as I push back our heavy comforter, shivering as I slip from bed. I pluck my warmest socks from our bottom left drawer, memory serving me well in the dark.

I have awakened with the words swirling fast and furious, so I text remembrances to myself, as I brush my teeth minty, squinting at the brightness of bulbs.

Soon I am dressed–a soft, threadbare hoodie and sweatpants, beloved and tattered and dotted with speckles that pay tribute to the colors of our home–Village Square, Owl Gray, Honest Blue, Butternut. I descend the cold hardwood stairs and whisper good morning to our trio of pets who blink at me and stretch; yawning.

We travel as a pack outside, and the bright ball of yellow moon, a beauty which hung low and heavy and mournful in the pitch of sky only days ago, has now melted and waned and whitened, perched high and faint; a fading crescent.

I miss the robust harvest moon in the way I miss our children: wishing for swaths of time together that once seemed full and endless. My heart tiptoes around loss, as I grow familiar with separation, phantom pains of amputation slowly morphing toward contentment, hard-won.

The stars blink and twinkle, steady and hushed, and I am small against the inky backdrop; fragile as I regard the constellations. Three nights ago I reveled in the canopy of dark as a shooting star lept and danced and dropped earthward. I stand undone, pondering the greatness of God, who with mere thought and command, flung these wonders to dot the sky.

Our dogs give me a nudge, noses cold on my hand, and I scratch their heads while Josephine Bean, Joey, meows, rubbing her head against my shins. My breath puffs cold as my hand circles the doorknob. Longing to stay in this quiet beautiful, I glance up one more time, freeze-framing the wonder of it all, such ancient loveliness no painter can match.

Inside, I measure and pour three bowls of dry pet food and finally reach for coffee grounds. I notice Joey limping, and I hazily recall her previous tussle with a neighbor’s cat.

With animals tended and coffee brewing, I waltz into the canopy of Monday’s headspace, aglow with delicious possibility.

Mondays are my favorite. A peaceful, solitary stretch to write and write and write some more. It is the only day in which I am not expected to appear anywhere. It is life-giving, and I shield Writing Mondays like a guard at Buckingham Palace, protecting his Sovereign.

Yes, Mondays are for slipping away, carrying only thoughts and keyboard. A few minutes of slow stretching gives way to a long morning walk as the sun lifts in the eastern sky, pastel portraits of oranges and pale pinks. These walks are cushioned by prayer, podcasts, and the sizzle of song. Thoughts emerge that could break any writer wide open, but the Author of memories and words keeps me.

Life is one long story, I decide as I walk. Days stacked upon days, and the trajectory is like a shooting star careening toward eternity. The truths within our stories will become either a duck and run or a pressing in, a steadfast journey of perseverance.

As I walk I carve and slice with the sharpest of blades, wielding my knife invisible, abandoning unnecessary words on the chopping block. Everything promising ends up in a thick notebook, material that might not see the light of day for years.

A family of deer lurches ten paces before me, gracefully emerging from the woods, across the path, and over the golf course where they pause and stare. They are handsome, a broad-chested male with thick antlers, his gentle, wide-eyed mate, and their four offspring sporting wet and shiny noses. A hawk soars overhead and the deer leap and prance from the meadow into the nearby thicket.

The sky has now begun to awaken, and I slip off my headphones in favor of birdsong.

Two squirrels chase up the old maple and down again, racing for the larger pine. A chipmunk scurries toward the edge of the wood, as a flutter of leaves floats earthward, rocking back and forth in the wind, little boats in no particular hurry, landing peacefully to their death. The burnt reds, yellows, and oranges will soon fade brown, and I think: from dust we came and dust we return.

***

I return home, sip coffee, and lose myself in the pages of 1 Thessalonians before settling in at my desk.

The previous three Writing Mondays have gone quite poorly with interruptions aplenty. I thus grew dull of thought, sluggish, and overwhelmed by initial streams of thought mercilessly crushed by too many social engagements paired with the whiplash of trials unfolding beyond the walls of our home.

It is time for the tide to change, and my soul swells as the words flow on this Monday morning. I am praying for the richness of today’s work to match the magnificent harvest moon: satiating and delicious; a feast.

The table is now graciously set to write, and I aim to honor my goal of completing two pieces while beginning a third. My heart is cartwheeling, as I think: our girl is coming home, our girl is coming home, our girl is coming home. I have missed our daughter something fierce this semester, and am longing for the holiday break. This spurs my excitement at the prospect of getting ahead in my work.

How I am pining for our morning coffee rituals and unhurried conversations in our pajamas. Time spent swinging wide the hutch doors and digging around for our cookie cutters, mixing and rolling and smoothing the sugar dough like we do come November and December. And our beloved movies–we will watch them all, oh yes, we will.

I am writing away when I receive a phone call that I cannot ignore. There is another issue to tend to, and one hour later all concentration has begun to wilt and perish. I wander into the kitchen in defeat, heating the kettle for oolong, mentally fighting to return to the ashy embers and beg a flame, when Joey limps through the kitchen on three paws.

My eyes widen–her back leg has swelled to ghastly proportions. I watch in horror as she presses herself thin, flattening and escaping beneath our sofa.

It is then I realize that she has retreated to die.

Frantic, I whisk her to the vet– sans makeup, in my paint-splattered sweats with thick socks and worn-out Crocs that I slip on to save time. My hair is yanked through my favorite ballcap–all of this my normal attire for my beloved (and typically invisible) Writing Mondays.

Except today I am not hidden.

It is not until I blow into the emergency clinic that I consider my appearance.

There are swarms of people in the waiting area, and I am now deeply worried about Joey, who is our college daughter’s beloved pet. Wildly embarrassed by my appearance, I attempt to quietly speak above the din to the receptionist, with the cat carrier perched countertop. Did I mention that my husband and I could not figure out how to properly attach the door? And that electrical tape now holds the steel piece in place?

This? The stuff of nightmares, I tell you.

Name? The receptionist snaps her gum, manicured fingers clicking the keyboard as she types.

Kristin.

She looks at the crate. And what is wrong with Miss Kristin?

No, I am Kristin.

She sighs. What is the cat’s name, Ma’am?

Joey.

Joanie? What is wrong with Joanie?

I lean closer, inwardly perishing as people stare.

No. Joey. Josephine Bean.

Cute. She laughs too loudly and blows a snapping bubble.

Why, I am thinking, did I not pause before I left the house and swish mascara on my lashes, or spritz perfume on my wrists, or at least lace up my good sneakers?

But I know the answer. Our smidgen of a cat was suffering and I was racing against the clock.

After ten minutes, they whisk our lethargic, swelling feline to the back and I slip into a seat in the back row, praise be, hiding while mentally refiguring my workweek as the hourglass sands drizzle.

I think back to this morning, now a lifetime ago: the waning moon, the stars, the chill of autumn, the deer, and the brilliant sky that glowed as the dark awakened to light. My warmed heart now feels squashed, my plans squelched, roadkill for the fourth Monday in a row.

Suddenly, a high-pitched screech erupts, and a woman anxiously teases her sweatshirt drawstring as her cat wails. The animal slinks dull and feverish in its carry case, at death’s door, poor thing, and the round, middle-aged woman is brushing her tears away. Her husband wraps his thick arm around her shoulder, and in that moment they become their own universe.

It is oddly lovely, as full and true as the harvest moon.

It’s okay darlin’ he comforts, and I hear his smoker’s voice, uninhibited. The entire, overfilled waiting room must also hear it as we are stuffed together in this sad space.

As I observe this couple it is not too hard to imagine them sharing an ashtray at their Formica kitchen table. Smoke swirls as they trade newspaper comics, munching Sarah Lee coffee cake straight from the tin, a dull kitchen knife smeared with frosting as they slice ample pieces, washing down the pastries with endless cups of tepid Maxwell House.

We’ll do whatever it takes because we love her, right darlin’? he comforts, pulling her close. Neither husband nor wife would be considered even remotely attractive by the world’s harsh measuring stick, but I think: Who cares? This is living. This is lovely.

He shuffles her even closer, his movements rough, but not unkind, smooching the top of her head.

But the money? she whispers looking up at his face in grief and in trust.

It is undeniable: he is her sun, and she is orbiting.

Husband waves a hand over his protruding belly. It don’t matter, darlin’. And he smiles. I’ll work it out.

The vet assistant appears, taking the sick creature back for examination. The large husband wraps his bride in his arms as she weeps, and I turn away at such beauty.

***

I have been watching this movie unfold, and it seems that so has the middle-aged lady seated in front of me, next to her own husband. She tucks her salon-cut hair behind her ear and I see a sparkling diamond, a crown jewel. Her starched collar is upturned, crisp; timeless. Her man is dressed to the nines, cologne swirling expensive, his elbows resting on his knees as he works the phone with two hands.

Their pet must already be in the back because the only thing between them now is space. And plenty of it.

After a moment she turns: Do you think Everett will be okay? she whispers.

He shrugs. He better be, for what we are about to pay.

She glares, fingers toying her diamond.

But I love him, Peter.

Don’t I know it! He rolls his eyes and his phone pulses and he stands. I’ll take this outside.

And he is gone.

Her profile is one of high breeding, classy, but seasoned with sadness. Her doe eyes fill as she studies the couple two rows over. The pudgy couple who have no diamonds to sparkle.

The longing on this woman’s face haunts me–and I turn away at such sorrow.

***

In my haste to save Joey, I forgot to bring paper and pen, so I tap my terribly neglected notes app and string words together as I consider the stealth of pain, the brokenness swirling around me, the brokenness within me, and what this means in the light of eternity as we sweep through impossibly jagged shards.

I remember the moon. While the luminescent sphere in the night sky waxes and wanes, this satellite itself is unchanging. Our frail perspective, our dim eyes, and our feeble earthly positions fool us into believing otherwise.

How much more so, God? Unchanging, steadfast, and perfect. Master of all.

He is Lord over sweet marriages with Hey darlin, and difficult marriages with painful spaces. He is to be trusted when the children are small and the dinner table is full and loud and filled with laughter. He is to be trusted when the table is small and the presence of absence is weighty.

God is unchanging in our bouts of sickness and mounting bills and in flashes of soaring health and stuffed bank accounts. He is the Author of every Writing Monday that crumbles and perishes, and the Author of every Harvest Monday that sparkles as the words light up the page.

He is my Treasure, my Hope, my All.

And through it all, I–mere dust and bone– am made to fall before him in worship and in trust. He knows what he is doing, and that is my peace.

God is Lord of the faint, waning moon and Lord of the magnificent, buttery harvest sphere.

A sight that makes any poet ache and burn.

***

After an hour, the vet called me back to say that Joey got into a scrape with either a copperhead or another cat. Her fever soared as the infection raged. They flushed her tiny frame with antibiotics and armed me with pain meds for days. She will recover.

My girl is coming home, my girl is coming home, and you are alive, I warble the entire way home, to Miss Josephine Bean.

***

Last week I could almost reach out and touch the harvest moon, but then it paled, fading dim.

God is near.

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The LORD reigns; he is robed in majesty; the LORD is robed; he has put on strength as his belt. Yes, the world is established; it shall never be moved. Your throne is established from of old; you are from everlasting.

Psalm 93:1-2

This week’s piece is from my archives.

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Dear Youth Minister,

My husband is also my pastor. Most Sundays, after he preaches, we walk to the back to greet people, and I whisper: great message. Then we turn to converse with the congregation.

What I really mean by great message is this:

Join me over at Rooted Ministry to keep reading.

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I remember a few childhood afternoons spent roller-skating straight through Raquelle’s lobster-red kitchen, her Italian mother enormously great with child, baby number nine. This sainted woman cradled the phone, laughing as we dipped beneath the mustard cord and sailed beneath her tattered oven mitts, hands that cradled an enormous tray of bubbling lasagna. When we grew tired of lapping their downstairs, we unlaced our skates, padded in our stockinged feet to the laundry room, and ripped open a chocolate cake mix packet for Raquelle’s Easy-Bake oven.

Soon, an army of little brothers clustered round, licking the spoons and swiping the frosting from the bottom of the store-bought cylinder. I marveled at the rising decibels of noise, the utter chaos, and the love fluttering inside their home.

***

Playdates at Andrea’s house were notably different, as her mother preferred painting to domestic duties. Dirty dishes were stacked precariously high in the sink, drinking glasses smeared and foggy, countertops sticky. A Mount Everest-sized laundry pile soared beneath the basement’s laundry chute.

Andrea’s mother chewed her bottom lip, eyebrows rumpled as she toyed with the paisley bandana cinched at the base of her long, pale neck. She was surrounded by clusters of stout jars filled with murky water atop a water-stained dining table that butted up against her broad easel.

When Andrea asked her mother for a snack, she was met with a glare from the short-tempered artist, her words clipped and exasperated. The vibe to seven-year-old me was obvious: children, laundry, cooking, and housework were burdensome distractions. Everything played second fiddle to her creative pleasures.

Given this gloomy internal state of affairs, Andrea and I tumbled outdoors singing The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow at the top of our lungs, pretending we were little Orphan Annie.

The family’s enormous Saint Bernard, Maggy, stood watch, guarding us with mournful eyes.

***

Jeanie, another childhood chum, was a surprise daughter born to old parents. The pair of us squandered afternoons playing chopsticks, fooling around on the baby grand, learning scales, sitting ramrod straight as we swung our legs and clanked away in the immaculate living room. A living room with plush, ivory carpet.

Jeanie grew tired of chopsticks long before I, as did her mother, who shooed the two of us upstairs, while anxiously fingering her strand of pearls: Play something quietly, girls, while I fix a snack.

Soon, the aroma of blueberry muffins filled their home. Muffins, which I knew from prior experience, would be dry as a bone. Jeannie’s mother, soft-spoken and well-bred, was clearly tired, hurrying us to finish, sweeping up our crumbs with a sigh while we were still chewing.

We gulped our apple juice, zipped up our snowsuits, and sped outdoors, grabbing two wooden sleds along the way. As we sailed down the steep back hill, we spoke dreamily of cocoa and marshmallows to ward off winter’s chill. But then I remembered the luxurious carpet, and my delight dimmed.

We would get in trouble for spilling our cocoa.

***

My grandmother was a fine cook. Oh my, I can still taste her melt-in-your-mouth roast with pearl onions and long slices of tender carrot, surrounded by clusters of soft, tiny potatoes. Once Grandpa bowed and offered grace, Grandma disappeared into the narrow kitchen, teasing liquid into gravy. I wandered in once, and only once, mind you, curious. I slipped beside her as she whisked, her tongue pressed between her lips, stirring with gusto.

I must have temporarily forgotten that while cooking was her strong suit, patience was not.

It’s hot, she said. Go sit down.

I crept back into the dining room, as everyone talked loudly over and around each other, scooping potatoes and spearing slices of roast, passing the heavy salt and pepper shakers, slicing and buttering the rolls. Grandma returned, smiling thin, the porcelain gravy boat clutched in her bent, arthritic fingers. Steam puffed delicately from the dish, a fact I noted while blinking back tears.

I longed to explain that I did not mean to get in the way, but instead, I stayed quiet, irritated and confused as I placed the cloth napkin across my lap, forming a perfect rectangle. Across the table, my cousin stared, amused, no doubt, by my threatening tears. He stuck out his tongue and fluttered his hands by his ears. I rolled my eyes and wrinkled my nose.

Life carried on.

***

Recently, with the advent of fall, I decided it was high time to redeem the roast. Beef enveloped by seasoned julienned carrots, alongside new potatoes. Throwing caution to the wind, I upped my game and tinkered around with spices, which proved rewarding. Dare I say better than Grandma’s roast? If not, at least equal. Savory, tender, melt-in-your-mouth forkfuls of delight.

When my pastor-husband and I return from church in the late afternoon, spent, we are welcomed by the warm aroma seeping from the crockpot. I scratch our dog’s ears, slip off my shoes, and shed my earrings. Pulling two bowls from the top shelf, I dish up dinner as Jon turns on the football game. We sink into our chairs and exhale as Jon says grace.

***

I have plans.

Long-term intentions, tiny seeds planted in my grandmother’s kitchen, in Jeanie’s tidy living room, in Andrea’s loveless kitchen, seeds watered while roller skating through Raquelle’s boisterous home. As a child, I bore witness to dozens of matriarchs, reading them like a chapter book…through the warmth of their eyes, the chill in their gaze, the softness of their embrace, the brusqueness of their hands, their carefree laughter or pursed lips, their abandon in serving others joyfully, or their stubborn determination to do whatever they pleased, serving only themselves.

I was a little girl who noticed, paid attention. A child with magnificent dreams of raising a big family. A child who grew up into womanhood, and who by God’s grace became a wife, a mother, a mother-in-law, and a grandmother.

What trail of memories will I leave for my family and friends?

Will they feel cherished, seen, and known?

***

It grieves me to observe so many women chafe beneath God’s precious design for womanhood. If only they could see the endless delight, responsibility, old-fashioned hard work, and immeasurable joy that come in nurturing a godly family; in stitching beauty and order within whatever four walls the Lord provides.

And the grandest kingdom work of all? Crouching low, in order to gently look your children and grandchildren in their eyes, pausing to unhurriedly listen to their hearts, their fears, and their dreams, while teaching them about God with soft, gracious speech.

Kind words, laughter, delicious food, and a comfortably tidy home are powerful weapons against the prince of darkness.

Warm eyes and soft embraces slice straight through worldly chaos: I want you here, I love you, you are dear to me. Take off your shoes and stay awhile.

***

Here is what I now know: a delicious roast, without love, is nothing.

Bubbling lasagna, easy bake cake, without laughter, kindness, and joy, is nothing.

While a dirty home with piles of dishes and dirty laundry is terribly unwelcoming, so is a clean home run by a grumpy, moody mistress.

Hospitality is a happy-hearted servanthood that begins at home, and it will cost me dearly: time, money, planning, and a million deaths to myself. The dividends, however, prove staggering: monumental, cascading through the generations.

My grandchildren will remember my happy heart, my eagerness to play, and the direct eye contact in patiently answering their questions. I have promised to keep their snack drawer and treat jar full, in order to make them feel known and loved. They will believe that they are cherished through my patience, preparedness, and playfulness. How else will they intuit that they are never a nuisance?

My children will remember my interest and love for them through thoughtful questions, listening, encouragement, unexpected gifts, fine coffee, and their favorite foods.

God wields every single circumstance, even the unpleasant ones, to teach us something true, and it is our responsibility to pay attention. The adults of my childhood remind me, even now, of a shadowed reality: Children and grandchildren are perceptive, with memories stretching long.

When my grandchildren one day ask me what I am cooking, I will pause, pull up a chair, and invite them to step up.

May I remember that the secret lies not so much in the spices, but in the love spilling from my heart.

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Better is a dinner of herbs where love is than a fattened ox and hatred with it.

-Proverbs 15:17

 Home is the place where hungry hearts are fed on love’s bread.

-James Russell Miller

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(Top image: Norman Rockwell’s Freedom From Want)

Mothers of missionaries know the tale well. Once upon a time, our children were babies: safely swaddled, a bundle of joy in our arms. Now they are missionaries: globe-trotting, gospel-sharing adults, ever precious to our hearts. How stirring to watch our children forsake earthly comforts to share the hope of Christ. He is their treasure, and for this we prayed…

Please join me over at Desiring God to keep reading When Missionaries Say Goodbye to Mom, an article I was recently humbled to write.

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