I invite you to first read Part I

Before I tell you the story of Grandpa’s Christmas decorations, and the kerfuffle that ensued, we must back up to my grandmother’s role in my childhood Christmas seasons on Washington Street.

Grandma was the oldest of four daughters, quiet, proficient at rummikub and card games, a whiz with numbers, a meticulous housekeeper, deeply fond of babies until the moment they could walk or speak or both, a voracious knitter, a zippy reader, and a big-time fan of the Boston Red Sox.

Grandma gave gifts differently than my grandfather–hers were wrapped with invisible, complicated strings. Did you like the dress? Why haven’t you worn the shoes? Did the mailman lose the thank-you note? That isn’t the bookbag I gave you last fall….is it?

Grandma, in fact, was nothing at all like Grandpa.

The older I become, the more clearly I am able to discern the shadows that clung to her heels from her childhood, creeping into her adulthood. Things never spoken, but present.

When a child, it is difficult to appreciate that one’s parents and grandparents have lived decades of life before we entered the scene–and unless the full stories are shared in context–we only see the current behaviors of the people before us as though in a vacuum, rather than seeing the backstory of these men and women who have been shaped by circumstances and formed by a worldview of life: bowing humbly before Christ or bowing arrogantly to self.

Grandma and Grandpa both grew up in unbelieving homes. Early in their marriage, Grandpa became a Christian at a Billy Graham crusade. My grandmother followed him down that stadium aisle in Boston, also professing faith.

Grandpa was a radically changed man–he had become a new creature. Grandma, it seemed, did not allow Christ to heal and change her, until perhaps in her final earthly days. There remained a cold lump of impenetrable bitterness inside, holding her back from a life of joy and freedom. Her personality was jagged, sharp, and unsteady.

Like any granddaughter, I desired to connect with my grandmother, but realized that she was quite unavailable. As silly as it sounds, when she flew across the country to first meet me (I was six weeks old) I cried, without fail, every time she held me. After a few days of this, Grandma clucked, returned me to my mother’s arms, and resorted to cleaning house and cooking.

This story became her weapon, a tale often repeated to family and friends and colleagues, for as long as I can remember. She often brought the story to light following a kindness shown to me by my grandfather or by another. I did not understand that this was jealousy, every time she cut her eyes, jabbing at me. I simply knew that she had never forgiven my newborn preferences, which made me feel guilty in a strange and uncomfortable way. I always assumed that our lack of connection was my fault.

In remarkable contrast, my love for Grandpa was natural, happy, and secure. He sparkled with the fruit of the Spirit, as this was the core, his essence. He did not try to make others love him, as he was secure in the Lord. And because of this, people did love him. Grandpa read his Bible, loved God, served others, apologized when he needed to, and lived his happy life of faith to the hilt.

***

During the Christmas season Grandma often flourished, growing a shade warmer. She unpacked the crèche and placed sprigs of pine and red velvet atop the fireplace mantel. Out came the glass bowls, filled to the brim with ribbon candy and butterscotches, with endless boxes of Russell Stover chocolates for one and all.

She was a fine cook, and rather than smiling and looking directly into the eyes of her children or grandchildren with: I love you so much, and I am thankful for you, sweet pea, she cooked and baked and ignored and presented the food.

She fashioned tender roasts and juicy chicken, with buttery mashed potatoes and long cooked carrots, offering warm and softened rolls alongside salt and peppered peas. It was all meat-and-potato fare, made to suit Grandpa’s preferences. He praised her cooking, and she glowed under such kindness. Grandma understood food in a rather remarkable way: this tasted best when paired with that, precise temperatures and cooking times, producing beautifully cooked meats that were tender, juicy, and never dry, timing up every dish just right.

My grandmother, so it seemed, was more herself in her narrow kitchen than anywhere else in the world.

Come to think of it, she understood food in the same way that Grandpa understood people.

Following Thanksgiving, Grandma settled into the Christmas spirit, mixing up a huge lump of her pie crust, tucking it up tightly in Saran wrap in order to chill, informing me that this would produce superior pies, if it had first sat in the ice box (her term for refrigerator). These comments were spoken indirectly, her back to me as she swooped through her kitchen, tidying as she went.

After a few minutes of observation, I found my winter coat and boots and scooted outside, crossing my fingers–hoping and wishing that she might remember to bake her small, scrumptious specialty from the extra pie dough.

I remember her calling it a pie roll, and this is how she made it:

Taking a small piece of pie dough, she rolled it out and buttered one side (always butter, Kristin, never margarine) and sprinkled a generous amount of sugar, a few teaspoons of cinnamon, and a miniscule pinch of nutmeg on top. Then, she rolled it up, dotting the top with butter and cream and another sprinkle of table sugar, using a dull knife to press even diagonal cuts (not clear through, mind you) before wrapping the entire delicacy up in foil and baking.

That little treat, proffered each year, was a smidgen of love that I pulled from Grandma’s kitchen on Washington Street, holding it close. It would have to last for twelve more months.

So as much as Christmas on Washington Street meant buying wreaths and ice cream and presents with my grandfather, it was a painting also adorned by Grandma’s apple pies and homemade fudge, the finely wrapped boxes of chocolates and ribbon candy in glass bowls, the sweet display of the crèche on the mantle, the velvet bows and a pie roll.

And then, one Christmas day on Washington Street, Grandma surprised me with an unexpected gift, from her heart.

***

(Come back next Thursday for the final installment of Christmas on Washington Street.)

Thank you, Gentle Reader, for your kindness in showing up at this space this year. By way of gratitude, and to offer you a heartfelt Merry Christmas, I will share my Grandma’s pie recipe with any reader who chooses to sign up to receive my blog and newsletter in your inbox. Simply email me at kristincouch@gmail.com, and I will send this fine recipe your way.

My earliest memories of Christmas began each Thanksgiving night, on Washington Street.

The turkey platter and bone China had been washed and dried, stacked neatly on the hutch. Likewise the pewter platters. My aunt or mother would shake the crumbs off of the well-starched tablecloth, clucking, while fussing over a stubborn stain of some sort and thus hastening to the basement, murmuring about white vinegar and grease, while tossing the massive heap into the washing machine, along with bunches of soiled cloth napkins.

My grandmother bent low into the hutch, pulling out another pressed tablecloth, flinging the covering through the air with a whoosh over the sturdy table as the kettle heated for tea. The men and grandchildren were scattered: some in the living room chatting or playing cards, others napping upstairs, belts loosened a few notches after such a fine feast.

But as soon as the tea kettle whistled, everyone emerged from their preferred nooks and gathered back around the table again, grabbing a sterling silver fork and spoon. It was finally time for pie and ice cream. Grandma was known far and wide for her apple and squash pies–her crust reigned supreme. I am grateful to use that recipe today, as I have yet to taste any pie crust that comes even close to hers.

The adults poured the hottest of tea with lemon and sugar into delicate heirloom teacups, resting their spoons on matching saucers. Grandpa, forever the cold one, slipped his beloved beanie onto his balding head before descending the narrow steps to their frigid, New England basement. He shuffled about their deep freezer, as it was called, lugging a five-gallon container of Brigham’s vanilla ice cream back upstairs into the kitchen, smiling contentedly at my little brother while scooping heaping portions of delicious goodness into everyone’s bowl.

This is what I loved most about Grandpa: he lived large, and he lived to serve. Selfless I tell you. No cheap brands of anything would suffice. Quality and generosity mattered and he gave everything that was good in deep abundance, and with wild abandon.

Once the ice cream was served, Grandpa unwrapped and placed a box of Andes mints on the table. At this precise moment, unbeknownst to anyone, a shiver ran down my spine and I knew that Christmas was finally near.

I savored the slice of pie and ice cream, not only because they were so tasty, but because dessert prompted the beginning of family stories. This seemed neither planned nor rehearsed. It just happened, quite naturally, year by year. After a moment of sweet silence, with only: Mmmmmmm, Libby this is delicious, the best pie ever, or Thank you, Grandma! someone would share of days gone by, my aunts and uncles and grandparents painting vivid pictures of memories that seemed both odd and wonderful to me. Stories that rounded out a fuller, different family portrait than I was accustomed to viewing.

Apparently, Grandma and Grandpa were once so strapped for cash that Grandpa had taken on three jobs to care for their family of seven.

Wait a minute. I thought. My Grandpa, this fantastic gentleman who drives a Volvo and wears finely polished dress shoes and tailored business suits to work once worked an extra job cleaning ship decks on the wharf in Boston? How could this even be?

I leaned in, folding and refolding the pretty foil wrapper of my Andes mint as I reached for another.

One year, when my mother was only a baby, Grandpa’s knee swelled-angry and hot and tender, days after working a shift at the shipyards. It gradually worsened over the course of a week, until he was bedridden, tossing and nearly delirious with raging fever. In desperation my grandmother rang for the doctor, who in those days made speedy house calls. He swiftly punctured Grandpa’s knee to drain the infection, and to everyone’s complete horror, pulled a lengthy, spaghetti-like thread of pus from his leg. According to both of my grandparents, he pulled and pulled and pulled this thin string of contagion (Yes, it was exactly like a string! Grandpa reiterated) from his knee, a task which seemed terrifyingly unending. The doctor had never seen anything like it. Once out, the fever quickly subsided and Grandpa healed nicely.

Bob would have died, if I hadn’t called the doctor, said Grandma, matter-of-factly, with precious little tact as she popped another mint.

Grandpa noted my wide eyes, and calmly changed course.

Oh Libby, it wasn’t that serious. He winked at me. I am here, alive and well, aren’t I?

Well, according to the doctor–she continued as he put his hand firmly on her arm.

Little pitchers, Lib. Little pitchers.

And that was that.

Thanksgiving was also a time for funny stories to be retold. Some sagas that I had lived through and could actually remember.

Like that one Easter dinner on Washington Street. There were probably fifteen of us clustered around the table, famished after a long church service and ample drive back to Grandma’s and Grandpa’s house. Grandpa said grace, and my uncle, starving, quickly heaped salad onto his dish, while reaching for the bottle of House Italian. The oil had separated from the spices, so he began to vigorously shake the dressing, not realizing that the lid had already been removed.

As the dressing catapulted airborne, hitting the ceiling, he shouted, Libby is going to kill me!

We roared at his retelling, laughing until we cried, because he was right: My grandmother, squeaky-clean, had looked grimly at her white ceiling, now dotted with impossible-to-clean House Italian. She was not pleased.

Some humorous stories retold had unfolded long before my birth. Such as the time my uncle, the firstborn, left for college. My grandmother was beside herself, missing him, and telling her four younger children, ad nauseam, how awful it was to have one less dinner plate at the table. She spoke about this so often, that everyone grew weary of the same tired story, repeated night after night.

Finally, as Thanksgiving mercifully approached my grandmother hatched a brilliant plan. She would bake an entire extra pie before the actual holiday, since her favored son adored this dish above all others.

I will make him his own pie for his first night back! she declared triumphantly. For him only!

Everyone rolled their eyes and left her to it.

She gushed when he walked through the front door, proudly displaying the pretty pie. I made an entire apple pie, just for you!

Thanks Ma, he said, kissing her cheek.

After dinner, and to no one’s surprise, she made an exaggerated ordeal out of serving him his very own dessert, as the remainder of the family looked on, miserably.

And then he took a bite.

This, he said, is the worst pie I have ever tasted.

In her day-dreamy excitement, my grandmother had forgotten to add the sugar.

All of us grandchildren giggled as the adults howled, hitting their hands on the table for good measure. The funniest part was that she did not miss him quite so much after that dinner scene. Or if she did, she didn’t let on.

There were a few mildly scandalous stories as well. One was told in bits and pieces, adults tiptoeing carefully, leaving out the most important, and sordid details.

When my grandparents were newly married, Grandpa’s widowed mother fell on hard times. Grandpa’s sister, many years his junior, was still in high school, and Grandpa offered to move them both into his (and Grandma’s) newly purchased home.

Whenever this story was rehashed, which was every few years, I held my breath. There were clearly missing puzzle pieces, and although I was young, I felt the vibe. The move-in arrangement lasted for a remarkably brief time. Grandma always sighed, eyebrows furrowed and frowning with: Elsie was so difficult and Carolyn was a brat.

Grandpa said little, looking down. He loved his mother and sister and his wife. It was terribly complicated, whatever happened, and I got the impression that my honorable grandfather was covering for his wife.

So there was far more to it, (isn’t there always?), which is a story unto itself. But I will say this: one of my earliest, and fondest memories of all included this Elsie Francis, my Grandpa’s mother, my great-grandmother. Once upon a time she had welcomed me into her humble apartment, a place so fresh and inviting, smelling of lemon oil and peppermint, and comfortably adorned with a slender vase of flowers perched elegantly on her fragile kitchen table.

Her face was openly kind….so much like Grandpa’s, that I took to her immediately, at the tender age of four. She gifted me with a wide green scrapbook, full of blank pages, plus a full bottle of rubber cement, placing a stack of fanciful magazines at my side, with a pair of scissors.

Kristin, you may cut and paste anything that you wish from these old magazines. She peered over her glasses at me. And I also have some exquisite alphabet stickers. I will help you spell out words for your scrapbook.

So the adults visited and I created. The afternoon flew by, and I did not want to leave this peaceful, warm home.

The scrapbook disappeared over the years, but when I close my eyes, I can see my name, spelled golden and sparkly in foil, heavenly letters that were of remarkable quality, made to last.

Yes, she was the measure of my Grandpa, a woman of depth, and despite her meager income, she remained a lady, full of class. This was plain for anyone to see.

Make something lovely, she had said as she smiled widely, speaking to me with purpose, and free of dreadful baby talk. She expected more and it definitely prompted me to rise to the challenge.

I nodded.

Make something lovely.

I never forgot her directive.

Most adults chose to shoo children along with a distracted: Go play.

Grandpa once informed me that his mother was a kind and very stubborn woman. So there was that, as well. Stories are rarely linear in nature.

So yes, Thanksgiving stories repeated around the table were infused with greater meaning than the actual story itself. I was learning the importance of paying attention to every word, every nuance.

It is sad to think of the many stories left untapped, wasted because they remain untold, unwritten, and forgotten.

I firmly believe that God gives us lives full of stories to share.

***

After a time, on these majestic Thanksgiving evenings so long ago, when the inky, star-studded skies grew cold and the adult conversations turned to boring matters, my brother and cousins and I scooted upstairs to my grandparents’ tv room. There were two recliners in the small space, but we preferred to line the carpet instead, resting on our stomachs, elbows propping our faces, as children often do. We cranked the television knob until we found the first Christmas movie of the season.

Hooray! We cheered, clearly on an exhausted sugar high. Usually the movie was Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer or Frosty the Snowman. We often fell asleep in that warm and comfortable upstairs, as the fireplace crackled downstairs and the adults kept pouring hot tea and reminiscing.

Sometimes, our family even spent the night, if the conversation went long and my parents were too spent for that forty-five-minute drive home. If we were especially lucky, my brother and I were allowed to sleep in my grandparents’ bedroom, our green sleeping bags sprawled on the floor alongside their enormous king bed. Grandpa usually snored, which kept me awake, but I didn’t mind.

It was not as though I could sleep anyway. Excitement was in the air.

Yes, Thanksgiving was over, and we could now spend the next morning helping Grandpa putter around, while taking his time setting up his favorite Christmas decorations of all.

Decorations which prompted quite a stir.

(Return next Thursday, for Part II)

It was the fall of my first-grade year. Autumn in New England is a splendor to behold, the colors magnificent, brilliant as bunches of ripened apples drape heavy from their branches. That particular year I was reveling in the joy of learning to read, in a time when phonics were kindly held in high regard, and children were taught to read well.

An entire world of goodness had been unleashed at my doorstep, beautiful words strung together and opening the floodgates to magnificent paths of imagination.

My first-grade teacher intuited both my shyness and my love for reading, and thus invited me to stand at her desk and quietly read Amelia Bedelia directly to her rather than before the entire class. She rewarded my efforts with scented stickers–banana, strawberry, and root beer. I can smell each one, even now.

I spent happy hours each week practicing my penmanship with sparkling, new-to-me vocabulary. Not only did books become my treasured companions, but soft green writing paper and chunky, chiseled pencils sent me tiptoeing into realms of unbridled delight.

I participated in reading lessons with a dose of gravity, flipping through phonics flashcards with a sober-minded type of joy, putting such knowledge to practical use. One afternoon during that fall, my little brother and I decided to sell lemonade at the edge of our front lawn. I displayed my homemade For Sale sign with the symbol signifying the long vowel sound atop the a, and a diagonal strike through the silent e.

Reading was–in my humble, six-year-old opinion–a full-time job.

So I cherished every moment of that September. That is, until Pioneer Girls began.

Pioneer Girls was comparable to Girl Scouts, but a Christian version that met weekly at our church.

I had quickly grown accustomed to my first-grade schoolroom which was bright, highly structured, and calm. I knew precisely what our teacher expected, and this dear woman had not one shred of tolerance for so much as a whiff of chaos. Period.

Pioneer Girls, on the other hand, was held in the depths of the church basement, dark and noisy and confusing and full of multiple projects to keep us busy.

So while my ferocious appetite for stories and books and first-grade writing was continuing to blossom, my Pioneer Girl instructor announced, over the din, a project for each of us to complete. The Leaf Collection. We were instructed to collect a minimum of twenty-five different types of leaves, thereby creating a laminated book of specimens to be neatly labeled with proper names.

It was due in two weeks.

No one else appeared at all fazed by any of this, but my conscientious heart thudded. How would I ever be able to learn my vocabulary words and study for my spelling tests while also collecting leaves?

I slumped home that Monday night and my stomach ached. After a few days had elapsed, my mother found me crying silently into my pillow, my Holly Hobby pillowcase drenched.

Kristin, what is wrong?

It took a while, but I finally fessed up and told her that making a leaf collection and learning my phonics and practicing writing new words was simply too much to bear. I could not do all three well.

Ultimately, I was allowed to step away from Pioneer Girls and the looming leaf project. My relief was swift and I settled down, returning to my books and spelling lists.

I now laugh as I consider this saga, while also considering that perhaps we do not change quite as much as we imagine, over the course of our lifetime.

***

It is still in my nature to partake of fewer tasks wholeheartedly, attempting to do them well.

Which is why I seldom wrote when my children were young and at home. This was no sacrifice for me as they were my dearest loves, my greatest joy, my priority. Nurturing our family and tending to our home has been my greatest earthly honor, my life’s work. God entrusted me with four children, and I knew that I was accountable to him for my mothering decisions. Serious business.

As they eventually grew up and left the nest, one by one, I was stunned to discover that my three oldest chums were waiting in the wings: the pen and the page and the words.

Don’t you regret not writing sooner? I have been asked.

I shake my head no, thinking: Don’t you see? To have loved and raised and served my children, I needed to love and raise and serve my children, without any competition of my time and focus. Writing could wait, or even disappear. My children could not.

From time to time I linger in our front hallway, studying the photograph of our four grown beauties.

Oh, yes, I was writing all along. My four favorite books of all time. Books entrusted to me by God himself.

***

Don’t miss it: To say yes to God’s plan is to say no to other things.

Don’t ever believe the lie that you can have it all and do it all and still be well with God.

You cannot.

***

Today is December 1, and Christmas is near. I have been making inner preparations for months, striving to keep a soft and tender heart, staying tethered to Christ during this holiday season in which we honor his birth.

Sadly, such preparation has not been my strong suite for December, ever.

December is famous for multiple gatherings and church events and shopping and wrapping and baking. While I enjoy some of these things, I often overspend and overeat and wonder why I feel pressured and headachy and dull.

A few months ago I realized that in order for this Christmas season to be different, I needed to change. So I studied my day planner and acknowledged an upcoming road trip, a speaking engagement, the weekly work of my blog, another book project, the occasional substitute teaching job, a delightfully full house come Thanksgiving, and likewise for Christmas. Plus completing homework for my weekly Bible Study, preparing to teach another monthly Bible Study, housework, family time, and rest.

It was plain to see that I had choices to make. I had previously prayed over each commitment, and I was at peace knowing that God wanted me to accept these things. While it has never been my tendency to overcommit, to say yes to each of these things, and to do them well, meant saying no to other things.

Much like Pioneer Girls.

So I took an hour with my Bible and a cup of tea, plus my favorite pen and a blank page. I began to sort things out. I crossed out events that perhaps were expected of me but were non-essential, and set aside a few extra afternoons to read the Gospels for the pleasure of my soul. I mailed a few Thanksgiving cards to friends living far away rather than stamping a thick and expensive bundle of Christmas cards that I usually send. I revamped my writing schedule, planning times to get ahead with a few projects in order to relax with our large family at Christmas and penciled in some mother-daughter time with Lauren before we deliver her to college come January. These are days that will never return, and to say yes to precious time with my favorite girl requires more than one no to other things.

***

And this is where I am going, dear reader: whether it is writing a book or raising children, cooking a delicious dinner, or teaching a Bible Study, preparing a speech or hosting a holiday, or even simply being fully present with the loved one before you, we must first be willing to say no to something else.

If I choose to cook spaghetti sauce from scratch, browning the ground beef and dicing the onions and adding spices to the tomato sauce, I cannot simultaneously be baking chicken and roasting a pork and grilling hamburgers. To do so would cause distraction, and likely a lousy dinner.

For every yes there are a thousand nos.

But if I take my time and cook a delicious sauce, boiling the pasta, and rounding out the dinner with a pretty Romaine salad, my family will be blessed and satiated.

***

With that mug of steaming vanilla chai in hand, I prayed over my schedule, and came to grips with reality: I am not God, but am woven together by flesh and bone. I have been designed with limitations and to pretend otherwise is arrogant; foolish.

Isn’t is a poor plan to say yes to any and every opportunity straight away, and then turn around and sprinkle a hopeful prayer over the entire mess, begging God to bless and enable us to do that which he never asked?

He will, however, always equip his children to do his will.

If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me. For whoever would save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will save it. For what does it profit a man if he gains the whole world and loses or forfeits himself? For whoever is ashamed of me and my words of him will the Son of Man be ashamed when he comes in his glory and the glory of the Father and the holy angels. (Luke 9:23-25)

I cannot prescribe the specifics in how this will unfold in your life. That is between you and the Lord.

But according to the Bible, obedience to God always entails surrender, personal sacrifice, and obedience.

***

So this December, may I suggest a different way? Seek God first in prayer, and disregard the Bucket List you are accustomed to checking off each year.

I know, I know–you are quite certain this completed list will make you happy and fulfill your candy-cane dreams.

It won’t.

Instead, ask God what you shall say no to in order to fulfill his plan for the yeses that you offer before him.

It is worth it. There is no substitute for trusting God with your time and decisions.

Abide in him and you will perhaps be surprised. Stunned by the freedom to fully enjoy every good and perfect gift, coming down from the Father of lights. (James 1:17)

I was graciously invited to Moody Radio’s Kurt and Kate Mornings a couple of days ago, to discuss my recent piece From Griping to Gratitude. I thought it would be fun to share it with you in the midst of this festive week.

May we all strive for thankful, satisfied hearts this Thanksgiving and beyond.

And thank you, my dear readers, for taking the time to read my words. You are a blessing to me, and I am grateful for each one of you!

(I wrote this piece last year, and have chosen to offer it up once again for my new readers. It is also the final chapter of my first book, It Began on Washington Street, Tracing the Goodness of God Through All of Life.)

My plans for Advent have crumbled, and it is perfect, in a terrible sort of way.

***

It all began Thanksgiving Day. We had a houseful of family, friends, and neighbors. Midway through meal preparations, I peeked inside the turkey roaster and discovered that the bird was a whitish-pink. After initially cooking hot, for a short time, the roaster conked out. I glanced about our home at the sheer number of hungry people. At least there were plenty of side dishes, now sans turkey.

No one else was perturbed, given the bounty of food, but let’s face it: my plans for a tender, juicy platter of meat fizzled.

To further complicate, I began to feel unusually tired, but isn’t that normal (or so I told myself) when hosting an extensive holiday gathering? As the day unfurled, I began to daydream of slipping upstairs, crawling into bed, and sleeping for days. I longed for my soft pillow. (This is definitely not normal. My family knows that anytime I want to nap, something is off.)

Within seventy-two hours of Thanksgiving, I was terribly unwell. I curled up in bed and stared longingly at my new Advent book perched upon my nightstand, but could not draw strength to read so much as a sentence. When all was said and done, I was ill for over a week. And then, just about the time I began to recuperate, my husband came down with an aggressive kidney stone attack, landing us in the ER, and beyond. Shortly thereafter, I circled back around to the doctor yet again, this time with an angry sinus infection.

What does any of this have to do with Advent?

I had great expectations. Advent is a hunger, an anticipation of Christ’s coming. This was going to be the year for me to dig deep, to partake of the month-long devotions, to soar to new spiritual heights.

But like the cold turkey, Advent has not cooked up according to my best laid plans.

***

Down for the count as Advent began, I contended, painfully, in the dark. I tossed and I turned and I slept. And I wrestled. And through that struggling, I saw afresh my self-reliance in times of plenty.

Suffering, by its very nature, changes things. It forces my hand, and requires me to operate at a subdued frequency. Suffering whittles the edges off of things I hold dear, replacing those seared spaces with a burning for heaven. Suddenly, this present world loses its sparkle.

Advent is a fresh wailing. A pleading for Jesus to come to earth and make all terrible things new. He alone can put all sin and pain to rights. During the desperation of suffering, I see my complete lack and God’s goodness with fresh eyes. Prior to any of us being bedridden, or bankrupt, or living in bedlam, we assume that we may control and plan and move the proverbial needle, rising to our best self. And we fool ourselves into believing that this must be God’s plan.

It isn’t.

Read your Bible from beginning to end, and you will understand that we are, and have always been, a desperate, needy, sinful people. It is the wise soul who recognizes this, and moves toward Christ in humble repentance and trust and obedience. Again and again and again.

I have just finished reading my Bible straight through this year. It is the only way to stay grounded in truth. Through this daily reading, I have born painful witness to my own familiar sin on repeat. (As Ecclesiastes 1:9 tells us, There is nothing new under the sun.)

I am like Eve in the garden, vying for supremacy, and after willfully disobeying God, I blame others (Genesis 3:13).

I am the children of Israel, impatient as God writes the Ten Commandments with his own finger (Exodus 31: 18). I seek that pretty golden calf, tossing my soul towards idols, before becoming a shadow of Aaron who shrugs, casting blame while pathetically announcing: No one knew where you were, Moses, so I collected gold, threw it into the fire, and voila! out came a calf (Exodus 32:21-24)!

I am like the children of Babel, fashioning towers of self-glory, which God mercifully confuses, opening my eyes to my foolishness (Genesis 11:4-9).

Like Jonah, I am a petulant child, often dissatisfied with where God has placed me to serve, irritated at all of the people who just don’t get it (Jonah 4:1-3).

I am Peter, boldly proclaiming God and his goodness, and then creeping to the shadows (Luke 22:54-62) and denying Christ.

But God (Ephesians 2:4-5).

There is hope. And this is what my daily Bible consumption gives me:

Jesus.

Our Savior is tucked right there in Genesis, and is present throughout Scripture, all of the way through Revelation. At the moment sin entered, there is a gracious promise of the offspring of Eve, who will crush the serpent’s head (Genesis 3:14-15).

I finished Revelation this week and could have wept in relief. Jesus calls himself the bright morning star. (Revelation 22:16.) He is our Advent come to fruition. Our everything. Our only hope.

Jesus Christ was our chosen Redeemer before the foundation of the world. (1 Peter 1:20-21) Understanding this, believing this, clinging to this, leads to life. The world is broken and we do well to remind ourselves that it is so. This is why a sinless baby was lowered from the heavens. To suffer and to bleed and to sweat drops of blood as the sins of his people thudded upon his shoulders. The agony of it, the curtain wrenched and torn from top to bottom is a mighty preview of the Second Advent as we prepare for that eternal feast in heaven with Christ.

Under normal circumstances, when life is jolly: the presents are wrapped, the lists are checked off, the carols are trilling merrily in the background and everyone is quite happy and healthy, I would say something sweet, like: Advent is the anticipation of Christ’s return. A time to prepare ourselves for Christmas.

Years like this? When suffering and sickness are playing tag, and it is difficult to imagine how to survive the next twenty-four hours? Now I am desperate. Deep groanings. Jesus is coming back to make all things new, and I plead for his return.

In a rude stable Christ was born, in veritable obscurity, as a star sparkled in the heavens above him. In Christ, we too have a star overarching our painful, beautiful, God-ordained lives. It is a star called salvation, a gift for the ages: imperishable, and hidden with Christ on high.

Advent, for the true Christian, is a restless, holy, and deeply personal matter. A work between you and God alone. Pray to him, ask him to soften and ready your heart for his coming. Remember that he is always faithful.

This is the time to work out your salvation with fear and trembling. Do not wait.

The pain, sickness, loneliness, and confusion on earth? None of these things may separate you from God. Remember, what Satan intends for harm, God will use for good (Genesis 50:20). There may be joy and growth in the midst of suffering. Draw near to him in repentance.

Whatever cup Christ has poured for me, I must steadfastly accept and drink. Suffering in itself does not make any of us holy, as suffering is universal. It is suffering well, the pressing into God with our open-handed Yes and Amen, trusting his good plans when they hurt most, when the glass seems dim and we do not understand how he can allow such terrible cutting shards into our lives, that makes us more like Christ, and deepens our relationship with him.

***

This frosty morning, on my walk, I stepped over a dead copperhead on the edge of the road. His head had been crushed.

My heart swelled at the consummate symbolism.

Satan has been crushed.

It is finished.

Come Lord Jesus, Come.

I am sitting in the walk-in clinic and my throat is on fire. I lean my head back in the chair, longing to be at home, and I am now imagining a day, a week, a month, where I have few obligations. I conjure a day spent, windows open, piano music in the background by way of Alexa, dusting the hutch, brushing our dogs, not a care in the world. Strings of days void of all deadlines as I pause to sip fine coffee, take leisurely strolls through the neighborhood, texting our children and phoning my husband at work just to say: Hey there, husband of mine.

I close my eyes, lost and treading water in my pretty little palace of unreality, waiting to be called back for my throat swab. Suddenly, a woman trips over my extended legs as she leads her coughing daughter from the waiting room to the common restroom.

I pull my aching legs back as her little brown-haired pixie, maybe five-years-old, passes by. Another spasm of coughing erupts, as the mother propels her sick little one into the bathroom with a Hurry up! as she closes the heavy door.

She glances my way.

I don’t mean to stand over you, she says, but my daughter will probably need my help again. She thumbs toward the closed door and rolls her eyes in great exaggeration, seeking comradery in the annoyance of children.

Not today, Mabel, I am thinking.

You’re fine, I say instead. My throat hurts so much that it is painful to speak.

And then I hear: Mommy!

The woman pockets her phone and sighs, shoulders slumped in frustration as she enters the restroom. She must not realize how paper-thin the walls are as she closes the door behind her. Echoes of spoken impatience flood the waiting room. I am both annoyed and embarrassed on her behalf.

Your daughter is sick, I long to say. Be kind to her.

They emerge from the restroom, mother and daughter, hands dripping. Paper towels must have run out, I imagine, and I watch as they plunk down into a chair across from me.

The mother slides her favorite world from her back pocket and begins the almighty scroll, her thumb breaking records and her eyes desperate, as the little girl leans against her arm in between coughing jags. The mother’s eyes remain fixed to the screen as she inhales all of the juicy tidbits that will never satisfy. She has disappeared into a dark forest, utterly lost in false reality, into a place light years apart from the actual terra firma she has been gifted: the little person coughing beside her.

I am now convicted of my judgy thoughts. I ask God how it is possible for me to be thankful and peaceful with a throat aflame and aches all over while a mother masquerades across the aisle and a little girl is all alone as she presses closer, seeking comfort from her distracted parent?

The Holy Spirit nudges, bringing to mind my own recent thoughts. (Matthew 7:3)

Okay, so I was not on my phone, but I was definitely scrolling through escape scenes that diminish my current reality. Imagining a carefree life void of sickness, deadlines, genuine relationships, and weighty responsibilities. Void of everything God had graced to me in this actual here-and-now.

And isn’t this the pulsing drumbeat of grumbling? Wanting something just out of reach? Escaping to a plot of earth where the grass grows only a bit greener?

***

I was blessed with a bona fide friend during my later years of college. Thursday nights were our meet-for-dinner-in-the-dining-commons-and-engage-in-honest-come-to-Jesus-conversations.

In other words?

Genuine accountability and discipleship. But never mind the labels. We were friends. And real friends speak truth.

I had no idea at the time how rare such friendships are.

The two of us swam to the deep end those Thursday evenings so long ago.

I will never forget her words:

Kristin, a grateful heart is always satisfied.

***

So I close my aching eyes and pray for the little hacking girl and her mother. I try to put myself in the mother’s place: maybe she didn’t sleep a wink last night, or maybe she lost her job and is frantically scrolling for job opportunities. Thus the apathetic, lukewarm distractedness.

Maybe. But regardless? It’s not my business.

So I turn it around and thank God for the precious gift called motherhood, with all of its twists and turns and beauty and heartache.

I see the receptionist running a credit card payment and ponder the bill I will receive from today’s visit, which momentarily distracts me from practicing thanksgiving.

So I turn it around yet again and offer gratitude for my husband’s work, my work, and for our children’s jobs. God is our Provider, and every paycheck is his grace in our lives.

I am on a roll now, and I remember another stunning gift – prayer. You, dear God, allow your lowly creatures of dirt and rib to speak directly to you at any given time, our words a sweet aroma. (Psalm 141:2)

Praise be.

Thank you for walk-in clinics.

Thank you for Advil.

Thank you for a bed to sleep in and warm, soft blankets.

Thank you for the perfect weight of our grandson in my arms, and his little boy laughter.

Thank you for the most stunning fall I remember, and for the leaves now dropping and crunching under my feet as I walk.

Thank you for gifting us with stars and moon and sun, cold winds and fluffy snow.

Thank you for birds that sing and deer that graze.

Thank you for the gift of a growing family.

Thank you for nieces who correspond the old fashioned way as I joyfully pluck letters from our mailbox.

Thank you for Christ Jesus, who is coming back soon.

The little girl begins hacking again as the doctor calls my name.

I would love to share that the mother brushed back her daughter’s hair and planted a tender kiss on her forehead, pulling her close and reassuring her of her presence.

The truth? She kept scrolling.

I wish I could report that I felt better quickly, and that all returned to normal the next day, and I caught up on my work, but I didn’t.

I will say, however, that as I walked into the exam room feeling much like thin soup, my heart was well, robust once again, soft and tender and full of gratitude to God.

He had used a sore throat to bring me to the mirror of my pathetic self: tired, whiny, judgmental, and disquiet of heart.

But as the Holy Spirit flicked his spotlight, I was graced with the opportunity to see and turn back to God.

Yes, a grateful heart is always satisfied.

I was no longer daydreaming, filling my mind with a different set of circumstances, but instead choosing to thank God for what is, and what he is doing today.

Rejoice in the Lord always, and again I say, Rejoice. ~Philippians 4:4

A few weeks ago I stepped into a second-grade public classroom for my inaugural attempt at substitute teaching.

The majority of the twenty-one children were wild from the start, and completely undisciplined.

My lesson plans, left by the teacher and deposited in a blue folder atop my desk, were suspiciously scant, and nearly void of actual teaching. The instructions were geared toward busy-work, and would keep things rolling for two hours, max.

I stared at the wall clock and wondered how on earth I might survive the next seven hours.

After attendance and introductions, I began with the script for geography, as given by the teacher. We were supposed to review the world’s main bodies of water, followed by an exam. Problem number one? I was reviewing something that had not been taught.

Not one of the eight-year-olds could tell me where the Pacific Ocean was located.

Confusion erupted, as everyone began talking over me.

Shhhhhhh, I said. No speaking while I am talking. You must raise your hands. We are going to begin all over again. Okay?

A few nodded.

What planet do we live on?

The United States, a small boy said.

Raise your hand, Jimmy. No, the United States is our country. Earth. We live on planet Earth.

I tried again. What continent do we dwell?

What does dwell mean? A girl giggled as she stretched, sprawling across her desk.

It means “live.” What continent do we live in?

Virginia, hollered the little linebacker in the front row.

Charlie. Raise your hand. And no. Our continent is North America.

What is our state? was my next question.

In unison, they shouted the name of our town.

I was losing all footing, and quickly.

No. That is our town. Our state is Virginia.

I scrapped the lesson plan before me and headed directly for the gigantic world map.

Children, this is our continent called North America. And this is our country tucked within the continent, called The United States of America. And this is our State of Virginia inside of the United States. Tucked inside Virginia are many towns and ours is right here. I pointed to the speck.

They stared at me.

What is this body of water? I pointed toward the azure coastline hugging our state.

The beach! Charlie hollered again. I went to the beach once and we ate ice cream! He rubbed his belly.

Charlie, please raise your hand. This is the Atlantic Ocean. My hand swung left until it reached the California border. And this is the Pacific Ocean.

I longed to add that God had created the entire world, and isn’t he the Perfect Master Artist, painting the east coast so differently from the Midwest and the deserts and the west coast? How creative! How beautiful!

But alas, I am not permitted to speak the greatest truths in public school.

Rather than teaching geography and math facts and phonics, I discovered that this school teaches children that their emotions rule everything. Feel all of the feelings and obey them is the unwritten ideology. One of the teachers told me as much with a winning smile, and Isn’t this wonderful?

I was soon to be the recipient of such chaos.

We segued from geography to science. After reviewing the stages of metamorphosis, I asked the children to cut, paste, and color the egg, larva, pupa, and adult stages of a butterfly. It was simple and it was straightforward.

All was going swimmingly until I heard a gasp from the far corner. There stood David, standing by his table, mouth opened in a silent cry.

Whatever is wrong, David? I made my way over to his seat.

I am having a meltdown! he cried, unleashing a wail. The children glanced at him, nonplussed.

He does this every day, a girl nearby yawned.

I am super-sensitive! yelled David as I told him to calm down.

I have meltdowns every day because school is stressing me out. I want to learn something different. I want to pick the worksheets! He stomped his foot. I hate metamorphosis! His face was hot.

Well, you cannot choose, I said calmly. We are studying metamorphosis which is wonderfully fascinating. He yelled even louder and covered his ears.

I asked the children to put down their scissors and give me their full attention.

Just then another girl began sniffling, tears streaming.

What is wrong, Julia?

Amelia told me I am stupid and that I should be homeschooled.

Amelia, apologize to Julia.

She refused.

Apologize to Julia, now please. No one is stupid, and homeschooling is fantastic. In fact, I homeschooled all four of my children.

That got their attention.

Did your kids eat lunch at home? asked Charlie, who had already asked me for lunch three times over. It was now 9:30 am.

Children. Pay attention while I tell you something. Do you know that getting good grades is not the most important thing?

My mom says it is! shrieked David.

Children, what is more important than good grades?

A boy raised his hand. To get all straight A’s all of the time, he hollered.

No.

Emma raised her hand. My parents say the most important thing is that I am happy.

Oh boy. This day was tanking. Quickly.

No, your happiness is not the most important thing. Being kind is far more important than good grades, I said.

I longed to explain to them that loving God was the most important thing of all.

Charlie wandered up to the front and gave me a hug. I like being kind, he said. And I am hungry.

I squeezed his shoulder as a girl chirped: Hey! He is not allowed to hug you!

I could not believe how this day was unfolding.

No one ever hugs me, he lowered his head and plunked down in his chair.

David began wailing again.

I feel another meltdown! I have lots and lots of feelings!

David. Stop crying. Please. We are going to finish metamorphosis and then I have a surprise book I will read to all of you.

He dropped into a heap on the carpet as everyone else ignored him and finished cutting, and scraps of paper began to litter the floor. I collected their work, and instructed everyone to place their heads on their tables.

No one makes a peep for five minutes. If you do, you will miss recess.

Instantaneously David began crying even louder and another boy challenged me by speaking out so as to test me. I told them both they would sit out during recess.

The class looked at me wide-eyed, and Charlie pretended to zip his lips. I was told later that no teacher ever does that.

The room was quiet, and I located the classroom broom and dustpan, and swept the scraps of paper and nubs of crayon off of the floor. I spritzed cleaning spray on the white board, and with circular motions removed all notes and words–a jumbled mess–from the previous day. Next I placed notebooks back in the cubbies and straightened the mound of papers on my desk into a neat stack. Lastly, I walked around the classroom offering every child a swirl of hand sanitizer.

With the room (and students) now tidied and hushed, I invited them over to the rug.

They sat cross legged and I pulled Miss Rumphius from my bag, waiting for complete silence before I began reading. We paused and lingered over the pictures, and this was our sweet spot in a day of bedlam.

They were mesmerized by such an exquisite book.

Did you enjoy that read aloud? I smiled as I completed the last sentence.

What’s a read aloud? asked a girl.

A book read out loud.

No one reads to me, ever, she said, and others nodded.

One student’s eyes sparkled. I am going to write books just like that someday, he said, shyly.

Charlie was also inspired, this boy who stood a whole head taller with thirty plus pounds on his classmates. A teddy bear of a boy.

I want to make something beautiful too, he said. Just like the book said.

What are some ways we can create beauty and kindness today? I asked. They had all sorts of interesting ideas.

So we turned over many stones–considering kind words spoken and kind deeds done. We also discussed the goodness of thinking of others before ourselves.

It was a magical time that carried me throughout the remaining hours.

***

The rest of the day was filled with meltdowns, phonics, recess, and gym class. The Phys Ed teacher told me the children were terribly unruly, but she used other words that were neither kind nor beautiful.

She also mentioned that she was ready to go home.

We had one thing in common.

And then finally, with five minutes to spare before lining up for their buses, I asked them again.

What planet do we live on?

Planet Earth!

What is our continent?

The United States!

Ah. I see how it is.

Substitute teaching is interesting. The key is to recognize the small victories.

Like read alouds.

Someone remind me to pack a suitcase full of them next time.

It is roughly the size of a human fist and weighs only between 9 and 12 ounces.

It beats 100,000 times per day.

It pumps blood, giving life to our frame.

We cannot live without our heart, which feeds and awakens the body.

But there is something more important than this organ’s physical, life-giving job. It is also the gatekeeper to our spiritual condition.

The world casts its greedy eyes on outer appearances, so quick to judge and categorize: tall or short? Chubby or slender? Brown eyes or blue? Dark or fair-skinned? Handsome or homely? Stylish or frumpy?

Yet God studies the heart.

But the Lord said to Samuel, “Do not look on his appearance or on the height of his stature, because I have rejected him. For the Lord sees not as man sees: man looks on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.” (1 Samuel 16:7)

The condition of our heart matters. God is observing those chambers where motives are born, swell, and give way to actions. A healthy heart will be soft, tender, and malleable, eager to submit to the Lord, while a hardened heart is cold, rebellious, and bitter. It rages against God and becomes incensed when faced with truth.

Pay attention. If you find yourself making excuses about haphazard Bible consumption, sloppy church attendance, or if your heart remains impenetrable while hearing the preaching of Scripture, you are in a dangerous place.

Thin ice, my friend.

Thin ice.

***

When I was a little girl, I waited eagerly for our pond across the street to ice over in winter. Ice skating was my favorite pastime, and I spent hours practicing.

The weekly lessons at our local rink were fun, and we would step off the ice only to watch the Zamboni clear the scrapings each hour, transforming the rink into a sheet of glass. Of course no one was required to examine the thickness of the ice, because if it melted, so what? There was no danger of drowning.

But our pond at home? Now that was a different story. Mr. Golden, our landlord, was the consummate safety patrolman. We were not permitted to put so much as a toe on the iced-over pond until he had given his nod of approval, and for good reason. The pond was not only deep, but it flowed to the steep dam, and if we were to fall in, we would be dragged downstream, carried away under the sheet of ice, unable to find the surface. We would likely drown.

There was no playing fast-and-loose on Mr. Golden’s watch. He required at least three hard freezes, with frigid temperatures in between before he would even consider testing the ice. Finally, after weeks of waiting, he drilled down to measure its thickness.

Once it met his approval, he stepped gingerly onto the slick surface and slid around in his work boots, jumping around a bit, arms waving to keep balance. My brother and I giggled. Mr. Golden was a large man–exceedingly tall and big-boned. It was comical to watch him bunny hop and flap his arms.

What’s so funny, you two? he roared, wiry eyebrows all furrowed.

We piped down.

Despite all gruffness, Mr. Golden was tender-hearted and his genuine love for us was displayed through protection. Thin ice equaled danger. We were warned that if we heard so much as a creak, we must get off the ice, and pronto.

Finally, when his standards were satisfied, we were free to skate.

Figure eights, twirls, jumps, a couple of hockey sticks and a puck, and we were off.

***

Oh friends.

There is so much toxicity swirling in the world this minute: a smoky haze of confusion. It is all too easy to grow careless and complacent in our pursuit of God. If not on our guard, we become like Adam and Eve, falling through the thin ice of Satan’s lies: Did God really say?

That one act of rebellion in the Garden of Eden resulted in heartache for the ages.

May I encourage you to wage war against all passivity? To awaken to the beauty and safety of loving God wholeheartedly? To guard your heart, and your relationships?

Will you choose to feast upon his Word daily and be quick to obey it?

To pursue holiness is to keep your heart healthy. No one can do this for you.

Keep your heart with all vigilance, for from it flow the springs of life. (Proverbs 4:23)

To keep your heart is a daily, life-long endeavor.

***

It is helpful to consider the saints of old, like Caleb. He stood boldly in the minority (with Joshua) speaking truth. In the fullness of his heart he trembled at God rather than those intimidating giants. He banked on the promises of God, who had already gifted the children of Israel with the Promised Land.

Caleb believed God and was later rewarded.

But because my servant Caleb has a different spirit and follows me wholeheartedly, I will bring him into the land he went to, and his descendants will inherit it. (Numbers 14:24 NIV)

Caleb loved God more than anything. Wholeheartedly. He was a leader among men, and a servant follower of God. He stood on solid ground.

The other children of Israel, floundering on thin ice, despised the truth he spoke and wanted to stone both Caleb and Joshua for their obedience. (Numbers 14:10) God intervened and everyone, apart from these faithful two, died without seeing the Promised Land.

***

I have been slowly reading and rereading Keeping the Heart, by John Flavel. Listen to what this Puritan minister wrote:

To keep the heart, then, is to carefully protect it from sin, which disorders it, and maintain that spiritual frame which fits it for a life of communion with God….Carnal and formal people do not pay attention to this; they cannot be brought to confer with their own hearts. There are some people who have lived forty or fifty years and have scarcely one hour’s discourse with their own hearts. It is a hard thing to bring a man and himself together to do this. But Christians know those soliloquies are very beneficial. The heathen could say, “The soul is made wise by sitting still in quietness.” Though bankrupt hearts do not care to investigate their accounts, upright hearts will know whether they are going backwards or forwards. “I commune with my own heart” David said. The heart can never be kept until its attitude is examined and understood.

***

In contrast to Caleb, consider Lot’s wife, whom God turned into a pillar of salt.

This woman dabbled in both the spiritual and the worldly, never a good plan. Conflicted in heart, she disobeyed God’s clear instructions to not turn back toward the destruction of the city. But her heart longed for sin. She was drawn to the life in Sodom, and the wickedness that flourished in that land. It pulled at her darkened heart.

Lot’s wife was destroyed for her disobedience, circling around her desire to melt into the throngs of the wicked. She died a salty monument to the bitter consequences of refusing to guard her heart through obedience to God.

***

I will speak plainly: it is often a lonesome thing to pursue holiness by keeping your heart. Many, many, people both inside and outside the church, will grind their teeth, incensed as you walk in truth. You will be mocked, slandered, and misunderstood.

It is wise to remember this: truth exposes wickedness. (John 3:20). We must obey God rather than men. (Acts 5:29)

Tuck Scripture into your heart, feasting on a treasure that may never be stolen. And as you carry God’s Word in those secret, inner chambers, remember that God will be pleased. The Holy Spirit dwells there, giving you, Christian, the courage, and desire to obey him in the first place.

***

Ezekiel 36:26-27  I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh. And I will put my Spirit in you and move you to follow my decrees and be careful to keep my laws.

I was folding a mountain of laundry atop our bed the other day, memories flitting to the surface. Once upon a time six people dwelling at home translated into as many piles of clean clothes, and I often sought the help of our four children to fold.

It took forever.

Occasionally I would leave them to divide and conquer, slipping away to grade math papers or stir the spaghetti sauce or if I was really craving a slice of quiet, I would lock myself in the bathroom, perch on the tub’s edge, and read the next chapter.

Upon my return, one of the boys would likely be wearing his dad’s shirt which hung loosely, reaching his calves, and another would be twirling a pair of gym shorts by the stringed waistband while gazing out the window, lost in thought, as my youngest two played stuffed animals amidst the sock pile.

I would grab the timer and announce: 3 minutes to finish!

That lit a fire. Competitive measures usually did.

These days I have three small piles to form, soon to be two. So I fold neatly and deliver efficiently, except now my husband’s sock is missing, and nothing drives me crazier than a missing something.

So I drop down and skim my arm under the bed, and my hand finds not a soft sock but something cold and smooth.

Our ancient phone and answering machine combo.

I smile and am surprised to notice a lump forming in my throat. This same feeling swelled earlier this week when I ceremoniously stood before my husband and told him I was throwing away my pillbox.

He looked at me and instead of teasing nodded with a spirit of gentleness.

The end of an era, he said wistfully, and I ached just a little.

Back in the laundry folding days, with four young children, I was queen of daily vitamins. Vitamin C and D and Lysine and Elderberry and you get the idea. It took precious time to pull the bottles from the fridge and dole them out amidst wiggly children squealing Did you take yours? and I am not sure!

So one day I purchased six individual pillboxes to carry us through the week. Sunday evening I would stand at the counter and fill them up and tuck them in the refrigerator. Each morning at breakfast, out came the pill boxes, so neat and delightfully timesaving. I was that mother, waging war on potential contagions, making sure our beauties were armed. I felt satisfaction upon seeing those six containers lining our breakfast table amidst bowls, napkins, and spoons. Our nest was full, and even if everything else came unhinged by day’s end, at least everyone had taken their vitamins.

And then?

Suddenly (actually eighteen years in the making) Caleb left for college, and overnight (but really twenty-four months later) Jacob did the same, and soon after that my husband’s pillbox disappeared and he decided he didn’t need another one. Before I knew it Marcus was off to college and then Lauren’s pillbox cracked, and I ordered a new one. It is a temporary thing, though, as soon she, too, will be following in her brothers’ footsteps.

So my pillbox bravely soldiered on —serving close to fifteen years of perfect use. It was speckled with tiny stickers, decorated by our children so long ago. I loved it for the memories, the endurance. But the other day it simply gave way and the vitamins scattered everywhere over the kitchen floor and it was sad.

So I stood solemnly over the trash can and bid goodbye to the sweetness of young-mother days. Everything feels diminishing and dull.

I know who God is so I remind myself of his goodness and his gift of life-seasons. I will trust him through this new phase.

But I acknowledge that it hurts a little.

***

Some people are prone to sulking and I am not one of them. But I really do miss the togetherness of those days. The laundry folding and timers and happy noises and pillboxes all lined up. I miss hearing those four sets of footsteps prancing about the kitchen, the living room, the hallway. I miss our boys’ rough-and-tumble wrestling, pouring over stats and scores and Lego creations. I miss the piano playing and singing, and I miss our daughter twirling around each corner singing while perfecting her ballerina moves, stuffed bear in hand, her big brothers clapping and encouraging their one-and-only-sister. I miss the daily joking round the dinner table, and the stifled laughter at night when everyone was supposed to be sleeping.

I even miss the confusion of so many missing socks. Several times during those early years I asked everyone to dump all socks onto the living room floor as I tried one more time to match them up. So many holes, so many tinged gray, beaten down from sweaty, muddy football practices.

So I ultimately tossed the entire pile into the trashcan with Good riddance! spending a pretty penny to start afresh, and it was good.

Sometimes we need a fresh start, don’t we?

***

I plug in the answering machine and know perfectly well what’s coming. I have it memorized. Caleb’s five-year-old voice followed by Jacob’s three-year-old voice—a conversation accidentally recorded as they spoke with their Dad one common day on his commute home from work.

We had taken a field trip to the farm that morning, and there was so much to tell! Their voices echoed in the quiet, a time capsule whizzing through space and time, sparkling in the air, pulling me back to days long gone.

Daddy, there were chickens and horses and goats and baby bunnies!

And my husband’s voice so happy, asking questions and delighted by their excited answers.

It was such a good day.

Did I know it then?

Common days are the best.

And then Caleb says to Jon—Daddy guess what? You won’t believe it! Mommy beat the deck of cards! Voice all gravelly, that dear, dear, voice. I had taught him to play solitaire, telling of the delightful rarity in beating the deck without ever rolling.

And then he said: Daddy? Here’s Jacob.

And Jacob’s small, clear voice: Daddy? Why did you shut the door?

Jon had closed their door early that morning so as not to awaken them as he readied for work.

And I hear the sweet little boy, and I remember, all over again, his white-blond hair and brown eyes. A gifted conversationalist, so gentle of spirit. Did I see then who our children would become?

All of those mundane days were filled with glory. God is always at work, building his people, brick by brick. And those people begin as children.

Yes, it was good. Not perfect, but deeply good.

***

I slip the answering machine back under the bed–the only item I keep there. It is a cord to the past, to another time and place.

I stand up and deliver the few piles of clean clothes to their proper places. As I walk down the hall, I spy my husband’s missing sock on the laundry room floor.

So I pick it up and match it to its partner.

Twenty-eight years ago, we had two piles of laundry, which grew to six, and will soon be two once again.

***

Day by day, we hold out frail hands, cupping the gift of today, saying yes to whatever God chooses to give or to take. To trust God is to hold all things loosely.

We are now dwelling in shadowlands, with groanings that will soon give way to perfection: no more sinning, no more death, no more sorrows, and no more goodbyes.

Come Lord Jesus, come.

…The LORD gave, and the LORD has taken away; blessed be the name of the LORD.

Job 1:21

We hopped into our truck, the two of us, and sped away. Five whole glorious days with my daughter. Who knows when that might happen again? A punctuation mark at the end of an era. She leaves for college after Christmas, and this trip was a treasured gift.

We eventually exited our state, cruising toward the beautiful Midwest as we enjoyed fine music, podcasts, and audible books, sipping pumpkin coffee and Smart water, snapping gum, and playing word games. We laughed and chatted, discussed good things, funny things, and also delved into the hard, sorrowful places piercing the crevices of our hearts.

When all was said and done, and we pulled back into our driveway spent and happy, we had completed nearly forty hours of driving.

Just think of it: children, no matter how old, have one Mom and Dad, and you, parents, are it.

Cherish them, know them, love them well. Chase their hearts with a holy pursuit, seeking to engage them through conversation. And I am not only speaking to parents with young ones, but parents with children of all ages.

We are people of dust, yet made in God’s image, and shouldn’t we run after of our children’s hearts, just as our gracious Heavenly Father pursues ours?

Think about these things, ponder them.

And then?

Say the quiet things out loud.

***

Perhaps you are like me, more comfortable writing to process than speaking to process. I had one too many people recently express to me that they know me far better on paper than in person, which is probably true. I do not see this as a complete failure, necessarily, since God fashioned me to be an introvert. My dearest friends are few.

Yet at the same time, I want to make certain that my family knows me better in person than from my writings. Which clearly means a bit more effort and intentionality on my part.

This road trip offered unhurried time for deeper conversations, and there is something magical about long stretches of highway mixed with autumn’s splendor. A warm pathway to rich dialogue. It was a sweet opportunity to speak from the quiet places, and we did. Mother to daughter. Daughter to mother.

Also? We laughed a lot.

***

Don’t worry if you are not able to take a road trip. You can certainly venture to the grocery store or coffee shop, or enjoy a walk around the neighborhood with your son or daughter. Don’t just hear them but listen to them. There is a difference.

I remember sweeping up our third son, Marcus, to get his five-year-old pictures taken at JC Penney many, many, moons ago.

Just you and me, Mom? he said, handsome and wide-eyed, hair parted and slicked.

You bet, I told him.

Can we stop for cocoa on the way home?

And we did. We sat at a small table for a bit, and in that brief time he opened his young heart and told me all sorts of interesting ideas while peppering me with questions, this quiet little boy of mine. There was a sliver of time reserved for the two of us, and as the light cascaded through the establishment’s multiple windows, casting long shadows of my boy against the wall, I recognized, in that moment, that time was a fleeting gift; all too soon he would be taller than the silhouette behind him.

***

Here is the good news–even if your children are already adults, you may pick up the phone and call them, text them, and engage. No agenda other than to love them well. When they come home to visit, fluff up the pillows, buy their special coffee creamer, cook their favorite dinners, watch the game together. Listen to their words, because even when they are grown, good parents serve as a steady Home Base.

Be rocks, anchored in love and rooted in Christ. Many things will fade in this fickle world, but may our steadfast love never be one of them.

***

Bless your children with uninterrupted time. Serve them well, these people who are gifts from God. Be generous of heart. Forget about your phone and computer and grace your sons and daughters with your full presence.

Our children, regardless of their age, are not our parents. We are theirs–so let us be about the business of seeking and loving them well–unselfishly with our time, full gaze, and devoted words.

Go ahead–say the quiet things out loud.

***

A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in a setting of silver. Proverbs 25:11