I have saved sparkly Christmas ornaments that our children glued for us in Sunday School, ages ago really. They hang on our Balsam fir, and when I spot them, I smile, carried back in time. I can resurrect their bright faces, Christmas creations in hand, so happy to be retrieved from class, heading home for lunch and rest time; worn out from a morning with friends and glue and noise.

I do not enjoy crafting in the least. Coloring? Yes. Sketching? Absolutely. But popsicle sticks and glue and glitter for miles? I just can’t.

What I lacked in crafting, I like to imagine I made up for in reading. My goodness, did we read. From the time our oldest was a newborn, we read stories together, which I continued to do with all of our babies. We devoured books after breakfast and throughout the day. Bible stories, adventure stories, picture books and fairy tales. The local library was our treasured friend.

Confession number two: I do not garden. The beauty of cut flowers: tulips, hydrangeas, and lilacs especially, arranged in a vase on our dinner table, is delightful. I am also quite attached to the only house plant I have ever managed to keep alive: my Philodendron whom I affectionately call Phil. He cleans the air, and requests only happy sunlight and a touch of water. But gardening? No. This is funny, because I do love being outdoors. Walking is one of my favorite activities, and I feel most alive while taking in the beauty of the cold air, maple trees, mountain views, and bright flowers. I just do not desire to plant them myself.

So I ventured daily upon long walks with our little ones: mornings and late afternoons. I would point towards the stately trees and fluffy Cumulus clouds, the Roseate spoonbills and Robins, and all of the fat squirrels gathering nuts. I avoided most baby talk, speaking clear descriptions to my babies, filling their imaginations and minds with God’s creation. They would soon speak these words back to me.

I can still smell their baby shampoo, brushing my face as I kissed their soft hair, scooping them up and holding them high as they giggled and hugged my neck.

Dinnertime was followed by baths, baby-damp hair combed back, pajamas snug. While I cleaned up toys, and quieted the kitchen for the night, my husband played with our little ones: blocks and chunky Legos and tossing a soft ball. Daddy-games so fun and different from the hours spent with me.

I now feel like Mary, treasuring up all of these things and pondering them in my heart.

***

I was a bit stunned, recently, to find an old piece of writing of mine, composed when our children were ages eight and under. It snapped me back to those former days, days which I have already begun to sugarcoat.

During this time period someone was awake most every night, with a bad dream, or an upset tummy, or an earache, or thirsty, or lonely, or just wanting to sleep in our bed. As I read my own words, I remembered how my husband and I grew accustomed to a small face in our dark bedroom, stirring us from deep sleep. It got to the point that I would sit up, eyes closed, while a little body would hop up and crawl in between us. I would thump back down, eyes still shut, and wait for little knees to snuggle against my back, warming me.

What I am tempted to say is: how sweet those times were, and what I wouldn’t give to go back. Which carries a measure of truth. But my own voice, on that old scrap of paper, jolted me into remembering the entire narrative: the fatigue, the sleep deprivation, the trips to the pediatrician, my hard-won patience, in addition to the beauty of loving and raising these four little people with fierce devotion.

There was not time to process much during those tender days; I was about the business and busyness of raising children. I wrote for ten minutes here and five minutes there, sometimes scratching a sentence on an old bill envelope that I had yet to throw away. And then, mid-thought, one of the children would need me, and from the very depths of my heart, I felt such love, awakening, and total surrender to this magical and precious gift of motherhood, that it was my joy to lay the paper down.

A few people tilted their heads over the years, asking if I regretted not using my writing degree; choosing instead to stay home and raise our children? Does it not feel a bit wasted?

Oh, I am using that degree, I told one. I am writing books. Four of them, actually. It took her a moment, but she nodded, following my gaze to the breezy backyard, where our three sons and daughter were playing.

***

In my lack, God was there. I could not craft, nor garden, and we were young and as poor as church mice. We never purchased a fancy baby nursery, with all of the things, and it took awhile before we purchased our first house. But we had each other, and I was entrusted, by my husband, with the gift of time with our babies. There is no replacement for that. Time that leant itself to Bible reading and early memorization, good books, sweaty outdoor play, games, and conversations for the ages. Our children are now our very best friends.

So as not to sugarcoat, we faced financial pressures and stresses stemming from one income. My husband and I bickered at times, petty disagreements. We never were, nor are, a perfect family. There were seasons when we had only one old car, which proved tricky and inconvenient. As an introverted mother, I occasionally felt stretched thin with so much outgoing conversation and constant interaction. But God always provided, gifting me with a few good friends, a husband who could break the day’s monotony with humor, many good books read in snippets here and there, and of course his Word.

I am rounding the corner, nearing the end of my stay-at-home-mothering years. Looking back, I can now see that as much as I was raising our children, God was raising me. So enjoy your children to the hilt, knowing that they are a true blessing from the Lord (Psalm 127:3). Those little people are God’s will for you because he has given them to you, and only for a short time.

Recognize, too, the wideness of God in this: he fashioned each of us with preferences and abilities, shortcomings and dislikes. No two people are created by his design to be exactly alike. You are uniquely positioned to raise up your children, and no, you will not be perfect. Keep in mind, on those long days, or sick days, or lonely days, that the Lord has called you to this tender love and sacrifice. It is a hard and holy work. Parenting well takes courage; a labor of love flush with future rewards (Proverbs 22:6).

We sat cross-legged, in soft pajamas, hair upswept and faces washed clean, before our hall meeting. I had only been in college for a few weeks.

I glanced at the girls around me, surprised at our fast-deepening friendships. The personalities on our floor were an exquisite blend, and we were getting along famously.

Before our hall meeting kicked off, a few girls had ordered breadsticks from our favorite pizza delivery. We took turns splurging on this delicious treat, complete with warm cheese and Italian tomato-dipping sauce. The cost was dangerously affordable for even the poorest of college students: three dollars including tip.

I had been warned about gaining the freshman fifteen, so I subsisted mainly upon salad and cold cuts and apples, skipping the mystery meat, dutifully drinking plenty of iced water each meal, and jogging five mornings per week. Doing these few things, plus having a healthy teenage metabolism, freed me to enjoy breadsticks, milkshakes, or Dr. Pepper on occasion. I enjoyed my food, and truthfully thought precious little about it.

So our meeting began, and one girl, clad in fuzzy pink slippers, offered the foiled treat to one and all: breadstick with sauce, anyone? There was a lot of feasting going on; those breadsticks were mouth-watering. An added bonus? There were no boys present to tease us about our late-night snacking.

One girl put her hand straight out.

I don’t want any.

I will call her Stacey. She was a transfer student, small with a thin-lipped mouth; an unexpressive face framed with wired-rimmed glasses. Her way-to-big sweatshirt swallowed her wispy frame.

Really, Stacey? There is one left for you! They are yummy…

To entice, the pink-slippered girl wafted the foiled breadstick under Stacey’s nose.

I said, no!

Her voice was so loud that we all stopped chewing. And stared. The silence was awkward. One of the RA’s put her hand softly on Stacey’s arm.

Are you okay?

She nodded, looking down at her lap. I’m just not hungry.

After a few seconds, the meeting began, and I peeked at Stacey, watching us eat, her eyes taking in our bites, our chewing, and our pleasure. There was something beneath the outburst. A longing.

The months rolled along, and then: our floor Christmas party. My roommate and I made rice-crispied treats, decorated with holiday M&M’s pressed firmly on top. We pooled our quarters, depositing them in the vending machine, dropping Little Debbie’s oatmeal cream sandwiches with a flurry. Someone had opened sparkling grape juice. This was fun…a delightful reprieve from our looming final exams.

Stacey had missed a few hall meetings, citing work issues and poor health. She slipped in late to our Christmas festivities, after our RA had already prayed. I think we were all a bit reluctant to offer her food, choosing instead to enlarge our circle and placing a paper plate in front of her; a gentle offering. Our conversations were loud and laughter-laced: we were overtired from studying, excited for the holidays, and as we ate, we spoke of our favorite Christmas cookies, dreaming of home.

I have heard there is a natural lull in conversation every seven minutes. That hush happened, just in time for the loudest stomach growling I have ever heard. Stacey blushed and covered her belly.

Have a cookie, our RA offered.

Stacey downed it in seconds. Then she inhaled a rice-crispied treat, followed by another.

I am so hungry, she groaned, mouth full.

Sweetie, said our RA, quietly. When is the last time you ate?

Sunday.

No one moved. Or spoke. It was now Wednesday night.

Stacey stood up. I need to jog.

No, said our RA. You have not had enough to eat to go running.

Stacey paled: a frantic, wild fright upon her face.

I have to. I just ate so much.

The RA’s led her to a private room. I heard whispers later that Stacey had endured so much parental pressure to perform: grades, sports, clubs, that she subconsciously fought for control of the only thing left to manage: her weight. I was neither mature nor experienced enough to know how to help Stacey. But one thing holds true about that night: I woke up to the hunger all around me.

***

Circling the pond this week on my usual walk has been different. Our magnificent foliage has once again departed. Vibrant leaves have died, now brown and crunchy under my shoes. The air is colder; I can see through the treetops to surrounding homes. The once burgeoning fullness and color have been eclipsed with stark branches, chilly air, and a stillness. Everything is bare and visible; revealed.

I walked and pondered. With Christmas coming, I mused upon holiday recipes and grew hungry, and then remembered Stacey, all of those years ago. I recalled her panic and longing, all tangled together in a messiness that pulsed.

That frightening hunger is everywhere: stomachs starving for peace and control, pleasure and belonging. A hunger for happy times to remain; an equal tug for hard circumstances and sadness to vanish.

Life is not this way though, and there will always be a continual want for our lasting home. And like the splendor of changing seasons, there are times for everything under heaven (Ecclesiastes 3). Although autumn is my utter favorite, there is beauty to be unearthed in the still and cold barrenness. God uses these times to wrench the hardened soil of our hearts. Control, outside of him, is an illusion. We know nothing, other than his birth, his death, his rising to life, and the certainty that he is coming back to make all things new. That promise tastes of springtime to our weary, hungry souls.

***

Our daughter is nearly seventeen, and stunning. I watched her from across the dance floor at her brother’s wedding, laughing true and clapping, the edge of her bridesmaid’s dress sweeping those wooden planks, sweeping childhood years away. She was once a ballerina and four years old; blond pigtails and pink leotard, stretching high upon tiptoes. It feels impossible that so many years have faded while I was busy tending to her, her brothers, my husband; our home.

I see the hunger beckoning to her generation: the Instagram posts and stories, bright flashes promising: more! better! thinner! prettier! that will only deceive, promises that distract and steal and then fade; meaningless really. But then I recognize that it is not only her generation tempted. It is all of humanity since the Garden of Eden: chasing fading ways to be known and seen and loved. Ways to control. If only we would embrace that we alone are not enough, and never will be. If we were enough, there would be no need for a Savior. Freedom lands on our doorstep when we acknowledge that God is God, and we are not.

Winter in our souls does not have to be wasted. It may be used as an offering to our Maker: a scooping up of the dead and crunchy leaves; holding them high and then letting them fall to the hard ground. Stand still and watch what our God will do. I speak from experience. Do the hard work of letting go. Remember, control is always a mirage. Only God holds that master key. If you love and trust him, you cannot lose for eternity, no matter how long earth’s winter may last.

I was eighteen years old, thumbing through a magazine at the dentist’s office. It was time for my annual cleaning; another chore to check off before heading to college.

As I was casually flipping the pages, an insert dropped and floated lazily to the floor. Picking it up, I caught an inviting scent: warm, rich; earthy. I asked the receptionist if I could keep the insert and she obliged. I traced the words with my fingers, repeating the name: Roma Perfume by Laura Biagiotti.

Days before college began, I made my way to the mall and purchased a bottle of this Roma. I rarely bought anything extravagant, but simply knew this was my perfume. I had rubbed the sample insert to a fare-thee-well upon my wrists. It was nice to have a full bottle to spritz each morning; something I have now been doing for three decades.

Just the other day, an acquaintance who is nearly blind, smiled and told me that she knew my presence before I greeted her because of my perfume.

***

It has been a full week, with family and friends: cooking and feasting, laughing and watching football. After everyone had gone home, I vacuumed and dusted and cleaned the fridge before sinking into my favorite chair with a steaming mug of coffee and my Bible. The aroma reminded me of our children, who also appreciate a good mug of joe.

So I stopped and prayed for each of them, slowly. Not a snappy list, but a steady holding of their faces in my mind’s eye as I placed them one-by-one before the Lord: Thank you, God, for their precious lives. Thy will be done as they follow you. I whispered my specific requests for each, appeals from this mother’s heart. As I did so, I felt my soul soften.

I opened my Bible, savoring 2 Corinthians 2:14-16a:

But thanks be to God, who in Christ always leads us in triumphal procession, and through us spreads the fragrance of the knowledge of him everywhere. For we are the aroma of Christ to God among those who are being saved and among those who are perishing, to one a fragrance from death to death, to the other a fragrance from life to life.

I looked out of our living room window, and watched as dying leaves slipped from their branches to the ground. The phrase triumphal procession reminded me of Noah guiding the animals and his family into that massive ark. I imagined Noah’s neighbors, a perishing people, snickering or perhaps squinting skyward at the bright blue expanse absent of rain clouds, laughing at the absurdity of this Noah-man, leading the beasts, side-by-side into an ark. The ark, perched upon dry land, with no rain in sight.

I also envisioned Noah, plodding along faithfully, ignoring the insults, exuding an aroma pleasing to his Creator; a fragrance from life to life. This was not silliness; but pure faith and obedience beautifully intertwined; understood by precious few. The work of Noah’s hands, the crafted ark, revealed what had already been reckoned in his heart. Steadfast trust.

There was only one door to this massive craft, and the Lord shut them in (Genesis 7:16). A triumphal procession, for certain. Noah carrying out his part in unquestioning obedience, and God sealing them up in perfect safety.

***

Last night, as a man was backing out of a parking space, he came close to hitting our truck. I quickly pressed the horn, which was loud. He braked, just avoiding a near collision. As he sped off, he thrust his hand out the window in an obscene and rather prolonged gesture.

This was an excellent opportunity to overlook an insult, something I have been working on this year. If I am to ever become wise and tender-hearted, it will be through perseverance and speedy forgiveness, I am quite sure.

Unlocking a forgiving and forbearing spirit is easier said than accomplished. Not too long ago, someone stole my idea, claiming it as their own. Just typing that sounds childish, and it was.

It was a small thing really, an uncreative measure I hatched to serve someone, and although I proposed it, another took credit, claiming that the idea was hers.

So I said nothing, and carried on with false cheerfulness, at first. But I was miffed.

I silently stewed and simmered, feeding my own irritation until the next day when my husband asked: What’s wrong?

So I told him. And as I verbalized the story, I realized what did it matter as long as the needy person was served? I was missing the entire point, and this was absurd. My attitude was not a pleasing fragrance to anyone, especially the Lord. And with that acknowledgement, the knot in my stomach dissolved. I forgave the thief, praying for God to bless her. And I meant every word.

***

So I spray perfume on my wrists absentmindedly each morning, part of my routine, but now with a certain and growing awareness that the fragrance most pleasing to God springs from my heart: that tender place formed and fashioned and fed by the Holy Spirit. Those quiet, unseen moments of prayer and Bible meditation, obedience and faith, forgiveness and repentance, count; big time. And they are never unseen by God. They lift, rising heavenward; a fragrant offering pleasing to Him.

We are having a houseful (as the older generations once said) this Thanksgiving, something that has not happened for years, as our family has been prone to travel the fourth Thursday each November.

So I have made all of the lists: recipes, ingredients, and cleaning chores, while also counting chairs, beds, sheets, towels and pillows. Wiping the dust from ceiling fans, I noticed scuff marks in the hallway, which led me to enter a home improvement store; a nearly frozen can of old paint in my hand, labeled wall. The paint department employee, with squinted eye, informed me this was in fact, ancient paint, so old that surely this could not match our current wall color?

I don’t know, I offered. We just moved in a little over a year ago, so I really have no idea.

He stares at me dully, clearly not wanting further details, then looking behind me at the growing line.

I waited while he matched the color, then drove home $15 poorer, with a pint of touch-up paint that, you guessed it, did not match. It looked as though it would, so instead of wisely brushing a tiny and inconspicuous area, I threw caution to the wind and began touching up all of the scuff marks. This is how I roll, an unapologetic get-it-doner rather than a perfectionist. Preferable in some situations, but not in this particular one with a houseful arriving.

I felt slightly impatient, with my to-do list mentally scrolling on autoplay as I drove to Home Depot after having made some phone calls to track down the proper paint color.

Now I was second in line at the paint center, and with my mind fixed upon inconsequential things, I must have stepped over the orange tape affixed to the floor. The sign in front of me read: Please stand at least six feet apart.

The customer in front of me looked hard at my sneakers, toes over the line, before taking great pains to deliberately move his cart further away from where I had overstepped, adjusting his mask decisively for good measure.

Suddenly, in that moment, I felt tired of everything. Tired of scuff marks and masks and lines. Tired of sickness and suffering and death, of critical spirits and fighting and misunderstandings and corruption and gossip and Do Not Step Closer tape lines.

***

As a little girl, I recall standing tiptoed one hot summer day in front of a candy store window, nose pressed up to the glass alongside other children as we watched the baker man create salt water taffy.

He picked up a massive slab of taffy from a metal pan, heaving it upon a machine fashioned with long hooks. Once the switch was flipped, the hooks would pull the taffy, over and over, purposely creating tiny air bubbles throughout the candy. It was mesmerizing to watch the rhythmical tug of those machines, stretching to perfection. Depending upon the flavor, the candy man would adjust the time of the pull. It could be twenty minutes or perhaps an hour. Those tiny bubbles, he explained, made the candy what it is designed to be: light and chewy.

Only after the pulling was complete, could the candy be cut and twisted into tasty treats, wrapped in wax paper and sold by the pound.

***

Standing in that paint line, feeling done, I glanced over my shoulder, catching a glimpse of a twinkly Christmas tree display. I am preparing for Thanksgiving, but Christmas is coming too, and quickly.

Feeling convicted of my whiny spirit, I prayed for God to change my attitude; to help me begin preparing my heart for Advent. Eternity is coming.

Sometimes God moves swiftly. I looked at the grumpy man in front of me, scrolling on his phone, and suddenly felt compassion. We have all endured this heartbreak year; everyone has suffered to some degree, and we are feeling hard-pressed.

Aren’t we like taffy, being pulled and twisted again and again and again? As a Christ-follower, I understand that none of this is random. God is working out his kindness and perfect goodness, measuring our days on the machine, creating air bubbles of faith and obedience, making us more like his Son. Each day is a treasure, and although we cannot control what unfolds, we are permitted to choose what attitude we will hold.

What paint project are you working on today? I asked the man in front of me.

He turned, surprised I think.

I’m painting a shed. He pulled out his phone. Let me show you the color.

So he did. It was a beautiful shed, an addition to the new house he purchased. The color was just right, and we discussed palettes, and the best paint brands and so on. Sometime during the conversation, he lowered his mask and his shoulders relaxed.

And then, his paint order was ready, and it was my turn.

Enjoy your shed! I smiled as he walked away.

I will! I think I’ll call it my He-shed! He cackled at his own joke, waving as he left.

***

This time my paint color matched. It was supposed to be flat, but I think the paint man gave me eggshell, so there is a slight sheen during certain moments of the day, when the sunlight hits.

I will leave it. It feels like a holy reminder, a nudge prompting me to see that it is not the paint nor the lists nor the recipes nor the holiday perfection that matters.

It is the attitude of my heart, my tenderness towards God and my love for the people he has gifted to me today.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Once upon a time, my grandmother baked the most delicious apple pies. The secret was her crust recipe, kept strictly for family, which she scribbled down for me to file in my recipe box the summer I was married. Soon, I will be rolling out this very dough for Thanksgiving, the weight of the rolling pin steady beneath floured hands.

She was a superb cook; a meat-and-potatoes type of woman, with little fondness for casseroles. Seasoned simply, her cooking was fashioned with real food and few ingredients. The steamed carrots, bright, cut long and even, were neatly positioned aside the peas, slightly salted and peppered. A fluff of buttered mashed potatoes gave way to tender roast beef, never dry and only slightly pink, shaved thin. I loved it.

Despite these fine culinary skills, she was not one to teach cooking or baking or anything else, really. She possessed a superb memory, retaining cooking measurements and numbers with ease. Grandma did not suffer fools in the kitchen, which left little time and less patience for most. Even the recipes she offered me before marriage have important information missing, such as oven temperatures and cooking times. I have just had to figure it out. She did not require recipe cards.

My grandparents eventually lived with us, and there were inevitable childhood days when my brother and I fell ill, tucked in bed; home from school. My parents left early for work, and my grandmother tended to us.

Something overtook her when we were sick; she abruptly shed her cloak of disinterest, growing warm and attentive with a flourish, checking our fevered foreheads and bringing us tiny glasses of ginger ale, just the right temperature for our upset stomachs. She whipped up strawberry and lime jello, cut into wiggly cubes, coaxing us to eat slowly and assuring that we would feel better.

Just a little something in your stomach will help.

She was right.

I always knew how sick I was based on her culinary behaviors. When especially ill, I would hear the fork whisking eggs against the metal bowl. The oven would beep, signaling that it was preheated. After a time, dozing in and out of fever-induced sleep, I would inhale the scent of custard.

She called the custard grape-nut pudding, baked in white ramekins. While it cooled on the counter, Grandma helped me to the sofa, where I lay under a thin blanket while she stripped the fevered sheets off of my bed, quickly replacing them with a set of fresh ones, folding hospital corners to utter perfection. It felt divine slipping back between those cool cotton sheets before drifting off again.

The same care in cooking, however, used to show affection, was also withheld to show displeasure. If a mood struck, or she was crossed, then dinner might be cheese and crackers, or perhaps a bowl of cereal. A little sulking, a closed door, rather than dealing squarely.

***

The other morning, I held my breath as a doe pranced across the road. She paused, her wide eyes surveying. It was early and chilly, and the glow of the sun shimmered through the maples. Bearing witness to this creation, and acknowledging who painted the sky, I worshiped. Scenes of nature, created by the hand of God, feed my soul. I felt spoiled, to have such beauty gifted to me.

Psalm 84:11: For the Lord God is a sun and shield. The Lord bestows favor and honor. No good thing does he withhold from those who walk uprightly.

I was meeting with my spiritual mentor recently, doing some heart work, casting off cobwebs of sin as I long to walk uprightly. We discussed why many people willfully withhold good things from others: Kind words, favor, praise, money, gifts, encouragement.

It is a sinful, passive-aggressive way to control and manipulate she offered simply.

Yes.

Human beings are complex layers: body, mind, soul; yet often we fancy ourselves more complicated than we truthfully are. Aren’t we all children of Eden, lured by the serpent and star-struck by our own desires, our own glory and power? We want what we want, and we oftentimes push God aside to get it. God and others.

But God is never lured. He is perfect, steadfast, and shows passionate restraint. Every time he withholds something that I have desperately craved, it is his faultless hand, full of holy favor and honor. This is not the selfish withholding practiced cruelly by we as people. He is our sun, casting pure, warm light, and our shield, protecting us from ourselves.

***

I was a junior in high school when God withheld what I thought I needed. It was years before I understood why.

My best friend, who attended a different high school, but the same church, decided that we must attend the same college. I absolutely agreed. We had schemed for years about this. So we flew to several Christian colleges, spending a weekend in the dorms, testing the waters.

She was pretty sold on one of them, and started making plans.

I told her I would think about it, but I knew I could never go. The campus buildings, in a deeply wooded area, were dark and poorly lit. The cafeteria, also dim, had an odd smell, and simply felt unclean.

I never voiced aloud, to anyone, why I declined to attend a reputable college with my dear friend. Something I very much wanted. I muttered something about it not being the right fit, which was true enough, but it was actually because I preferred bright lights, clean and tidy spaces, and pleasing aromas.

Soon thereafter, I flew to one more Christian university, one that my parents and many other relatives had attended. A place I did not wish to attend. Fifteen minutes on campus and I just knew. This was where I would spend four years of my life. The buildings were bright and clean, with natural lighting. And the dining hall, freshly vacuumed, smelled like good food.

What I did not know was that my future husband was also making the rounds in search of the right college. A football athlete, he was narrowing down his list, but had his eye on one. When he did not hear back, he continued his search, ultimately deciding on the university that I had chosen. Only after committing, did he hear back from his first choice. I have the typed letter still. Your football information was lost in the mail, apologized the coach. By the time the school had finally received it, Jon had already promised to play elsewhere.

Passionate restraint.

I would love to report that I made my college decision after praying long and hard. The hard truth is that because of my minor obsession with clean and tidy spaces, I chose school number two.

But God uses all of the things, doesn’t he? He designs us, and uses our quirks and preferences, and seemingly insignificant details, such as lost mail, to divinely orchestrate our days.

***

The summer of my wedding, I asked Grandma to teach me how to make pies. I was beginning to panic, suddenly realizing that I was going to be cooking for my soon-to-be-husband every single night for the rest of my life. I had about three proficient recipes in my arsenal, with a few weeks to build up my repertoire. This was not good.

Rather than accepting whom I already knew her to be, I built up this grandmother of mine in my mind, envisioning a homespun afternoon of bonding as she shared her plethora of baking secrets with me.

Instead, she began dumping ingredients for the crust into a bowl, quickly, blending with a fork, and not speaking measurements.

How many cups of flour was that? I asked.

You peel the apples while I make the crust was her reply.

So I peeled apples and she made the pies. I offered to use the rolling pin but when I did not press down firmly enough, which kept the dough too thick, she laughed, annoyed, and took the reigns.

Then laying the top of her rolled crust effortlessly on the pie, running a fork around the edges to seal, she reminded me to always dab cream on top before sprinkling with sugar. It makes it brown just right.

With the remaining dough, she fashioned her famous little cinnamon roll using butter, cinnamon, sugar and cream.

And then she was done, tired and spent. Handing the timer abruptly to me, she turned on her heel, retreating into her dark bedroom.

***

Sullen moping and moodiness are as strong a repellent to my spirit as are unclean places. Oddly enough, so is hyper-cheerfulness, which usually comes crashing down, given time. One is pure negativity and the other is a strong lie. Both are a withholding of goodness.

I am anchored to the middle ground: honest, sincere, and striving for contentment in the ways of the Lord. Steady. A nod to the reality of a situation, yet firmly tethered to the hope found in Christ. Come, let us reason together, and with a grateful heart. God knows what he is doing.

It has taken me years to accept that I cannot snap my fingers and change anyone for the better. I cannot even bring lasting change to myself: that is a work of the Holy Spirit. I keep my eyes wide open, and acknowledge the complicated table my grandmother set. And what a table she created: preparing and fussing and then withdrawing and withholding. An impoverished way for a child to experience love, confusing under those long and conditional shadows.

I forgive her for those behaviors that have settled deep, fueling my ardent desire to serve and love my growing family with honest and unconditional devotion. A no-matter-what-kind of love.

So this Thanksgiving, during our cooking and baking frenzy, so loud and fun, I will treasure the precious faces in our kitchen. Faces that were birthed from the Lord’s passionate restraint: a no to our teenage wishes that ultimately yielded our greatest earthly gifts.

Then I will dab cream on the top of those apple pies before sprinkling the sugar and baking hot. They will brown nicely, I am quite sure.

One September day in the late 1970’s, a family was traveling on a rare and much needed vacation. While stopped at a toll booth, the father leaned out the window, flinging the quarters into the bin. At that precise moment, a sleepy truck driver barreled into multiple vehicles, including this family’s stopped car, which burst into flames. Stunned, and momentarily unconscious, the adults fell from the car, burned. Their towheaded twenty-two-month-old was engulfed in his car seat, the plastic melting into his smooth skin.

A stranger, hearing the toddler’s screams, raced to the car and reached his bare arms inside, plucking the nearly dead little one from the inferno. He was alive, but barely. He was now charred beyond recognition. His skin was falling off his tiny frame in puddles as they waited for the ambulance.

***

Year’s later, on a warm summer’s day, when I was nine or so, our family drove into the city with relatives to enjoy a festival together. I would be meeting Joel, the little boy who had survived more than eighty surgeries after being burned from head to toe. His family were longtime friends of my aunt and uncle.

As we approached our meeting spot, my parents whispered: Be polite and Don’t stare, explaining that he looked different.

I was not prepared for what this meant. My heart was crushed for this little fellow. He had mere stumps for arms, and a type of surgeon-created claw for one hand. His face resembled someone adorned in a hockey mask with small slits for eyes. His mouth, not much bigger than a cheerio, was formed stiff in a surprised-shaped O.

People were pointing and staring; some openly laughing.

He looks like a monkey! a little boy shrieked, as his parents tugged him away.

Joel’s father remained calm, smiling wide and holding fast to his son, seated so high upon his shoulders. This is Joel, he offered, introducing him to my brother and me. I waved, and then didn’t know if that was okay, since he couldn’t really wave back.

Joel loves when people say hi! his father encouraged. And then, Wow, it’s hot! Let’s find some ice cream.

We followed behind, and in the midst of stares and ridiculing, Joel’s Dad strode forward, laughing and telling Joel about the beautiful day God had made, and how much fun it was to be outside together. His genuine cheer nestled deep within. Remember this, I thought.

We found a soft-serve stand, and I waited to see if Joel could even eat. His Dad lifted him down, tenderly placing him in a stroller. Then, taking the tip of the ice cream into his own mouth, and pulling upward, he created a thin, pencil-shaped tip to that vanilla cone. The perfect size for Joel’s tiny mouth.

And this is how he proceeded to share an entire ice cream cone with his boy. It was natural and steady and one of the most beautiful things I have ever witnessed. Somehow I felt sorry for those kids making fun; it was Joel who was to be envied, with a father who clearly knew that he held the most precious of gifts upon his shoulders.

***

I was browning some ground beef last weekend, listening to it sizzle as I tossed in one finely diced onion, some garlic, salt, and pepper. Using a wooden spoon to turn the mixture, I held close the knowledge that this was the last dinner that I would prepare for our oldest son before his wedding. I asked him to choose any meal in the world.

Shepherd’s Pie, Mom?

Of course.

Heart preparation is a good and holy chore, often necessary for life’s changes. As the mother-of-the-groom, I am swinging wide the doors of my heart. Memories are a fountain flowing daily, and as the ground beef cooked and the potatoes simmered, I remembered twenty-three-month-old Caleb sitting high upon my husband’s shoulders. We were at the park, and it was warm, and I was hugely due with our second baby. My husband jogged, holding our boy’s chunky hands tight, his golden hair bouncing, his baby laughter contagious. Father and son, enjoying the afternoon in perfect simplicity. People smiled at our handsome boy. I had no idea how quickly those days would pass.

As I mashed and salted the potatoes, I spoke truth to myself. Always, we begin again. Births and graduations and baptisms and weddings and funerals. God holds it all: the pain, the people, and the pleasure. It is our life’s work to follow him, holding fast to his robes; trusting.

So I was happy, stirring our son’s favorite dinner. And truthfully, a little bit sad, too. It is the end of an era.

A wedding sparkles: an adieu to the old, a breaking off of an established branch. The start of a new and beautiful family. Our son and his bride love God. It is lovely and right and good.

As I layered the shepherd’s pie: ground beef and spice, vegetables, cheese, mashed potatoes, I prayed for the layers of our family: our son, his new bride-to-be, our three other children, the hope of future grandchildren. Holding up our family as an offering, a fragrance pleasing to God. Every word we utter and love we share and forgiveness we cultivate matters deeply; weaving the fabric of family for generations to come. Fidelity to the Lord through both joys and trials.

And then I remembered Joel’s family. Their hearts did not have the luxury of time to prepare: one minute they were laughing and sailing out of town to grow memories, and a second later, life as they knew it had vanished. This too, is the Lord at work.

I can only imagine the weight of those surgeries, the sadness that could encompass their marriage and other children, the feelings of lost time and withered dreams. No time to slow down and grieve properly. One surgery after another followed by another. During those horrific years, God held them and carried them as they chose to trust and offer their son first to God and then to the often-cruel world, many times overlooking insults. Plodding through the promise that God’s Word never returns void. (Isaiah 55:11) He is always working: holding, pruning, loving, permitting us to walk next to him into the fellowship of suffering.

I read that Joel is a married man today, a pastor now with children of his own. He has traveled the world, sharing his story and the goodness of God with thousands.

This does not surprise me, because I was once that little girl, watching a God-fearing man love his burned little boy with both tenderness and strength. Joel’s father was weaving a tapestry that would warmly blanket his son; allowing him to flourish; pointing his boy to security in Christ. And really, is there anything richer than knowing that our children are forever safe with God?

***

We enjoyed that Shepherd’s Pie and hot coffee. I cherished small memories a mama’s heart holds close. Seeing the light in his eyes, the words of the future, and the smile so genuine provided lantern-light to my feet. Soon we will take the path that waves goodbye, and then, after a time, bids welcome to this precious family of two. A tapestry fashioned by God.

In fifth grade, I left behind my public elementary school life and transitioned to a tiny Classical School in New England, where autumns burned glorious, and scholarly minds were most prized.

After the first few weeks at this school, I accepted two cold facts: the headmaster regarded our studies as the be-all and end-all, and the brightest students were her charms.

The upside about my being an average student was that I blended in. Public speaking and performing and even answering a question aloud felt like sudden death. So I studied hard, kept quiet, and observed. It was fun making new friends, but the academic expectations were taxing.

Headmaster, I am sure, had noble intentions. She was passionate about history, and it became widely known that her grade-school history exams rivaled that of most college freshman. She was born to lecture and philosophize, and would probably have been better suited teaching at the graduate level.

I distinctly remember trying to memorize the lengthy definitions of our vocabulary words: city-states, Acropolis, colonization, revolution, assimilation, Manifest Destiny, Louisiana Purchase. After defining these from memory on our test, we moved on to a matching section. This was followed by a handful of short answer questions. Then the dreaded map: twenty cities or countries or bodies of water to color and label. The grand conclusion? A one to two page essay. These Friday exams took an hour to complete. I was eleven years old.

When Monday arrived, she handed back our tests, always in the order of our scores: from highest to lowest. The same few students continually achieved the top grades, and Headmaster smiled, congratulating them as she returned their tests, voicing their scores. The rest of us prayed we wouldn’t be last. We looked away from that poor student who clutched the final handout.

I preferred to stay in the shadows, and I didn’t worry about getting the highest grade. But I did want to understand what I was studying, and often I did not. I dreaded those tests because of the suffocating pressure from the top. Drooping under the weight of being a slave to the test rather than a master of the material, I was not consuming any of history’s rich lessons. The irony was that the school’s primary objective was to train up children to think biblically and critically; grasping our world’s historical sins and mistakes so as not to repeat old follies.

Recess was even measured by brain power. Many recesses were staff-structured around a highly involved game of capture the flag. I nodded in pretend understanding of those complicated strategies, while my heart longed to play tag or softball or four-square…all things I had done at my previous school.

English class proved to be arduous as well. The diagramming felt endless. We parsed sentences to death on that black chalkboard; chopping them up and dissecting , naming every blasted syllable and part of speech. While this must have had its benefits, the beauty of the music of the sentences fell deaf; crushed beneath my chalk-dusted fingers.

I did earn an A for spelling, and went on to win a trophy at our small area spelling bee. Headmaster quickly reassured our class that spelling did not reveal intellectual ability; studies proved that people who excelled in this area had a unique way of processing written words in their brain. Perhaps it was meant to comfort the smart kids. I put my trophy away, feeling oddly apologetic.

Shortly after this incident I decided to change my handwriting. One day I simply altered my cursive. She handed back my short story, looking displeased.

I will not grade this story until you write it in your real penmanship.

I think my phony handwriting was my way of telling her my words, my style, my real penmanship, seemed never good enough.

So I began filling composition books at home with short stories and journals and ideas. I kept it carefully hidden under my pajamas in my dresser drawer.

The next year, when I was a sixth-grader, winter struck hard, and one January day it was too icy to go outside for recess. No capture the flag today. Headmaster announced that we would play an indoor game instead. Everyone groaned.

I will pick an unusual word from the dictionary, and each of you will create a plausible definition.

She would then read our definitions aloud, without revealing the author, and our class would vote on the definition that sounded correct. Slipped in between our fabricated answers was the real definition.

She spoke the first word, which I no longer recall, but remember it being a noun. I played with it in my mind, and scribbled down my first thought.

A tiny, dwarf-like creature.

I won that definition, and Headmaster looked up at me. Surprised. She carried on with the game, and I scripted some more false definitions that earned more votes.

Kristin wins again. Her eyebrows furrowed, and it wasn’t so hard to read that expression. It felt a whole lot like the Spelling Bee, part two.

And that is precisely when I folded.

Written words held power, and she didn’t like my words. I was not supposed to win anything, because I was not an exceptional student.

Her words and opinions wielded their own sovereignty too, and I was tired on the inside. I stopped trying to do my best, and wrote crummy definitions for the rest of the game, pretending not to care.

It wasn’t until a few years later, in ninth grade and at a different school, that my heart’s door slipped open; ready to participate in English class once again.

***

Then I was thirty-two with four children of our own. We had been homeschooling, and I was in love. With my husband and our children; with our life. With the school lessons, and especially the stories we read aloud together every day. It was simple and true.

When our daughter, our fourth little one, was two-months old, we found out that we would be moving across the country. My stable existence melted. As we lugged moving boxes, insecurities suddenly reared, voices whispering and begging my attention: was I really doing a good job homeschooling? Were my lesson plans truly challenging enough? We wouldn’t know anybody in our new state, so should I enroll our oldest in school?

There are all kinds of ways to stifle the Holy Spirit. And I did just that. I acquiesced to the loudest sound, pushing down the quiet truth of wisdom that my heart already knew: my children, beloved by God, were on the right path. Our home was gently structured: breakfast, chores, Bible lessons, math, reading, history, science and read-alouds. Lunch and rest time, plenty of fresh air and free playtime, library visits, trips to the park, good movies, and backyard football. There were hard days, to be sure, but overall it was wonderful. There was order but mostly there was a bunch of love, unhurried and strong.

So we schlepped across the country in a huge moving truck, unpacked, and tried to settle in. Our sweet baby was thrown off her normal sleep pattern and cried on my shoulder night after night. Our little boy was scared to sleep in his new room, and took to bringing his pillow on the stairs where he could get to us more quickly in case of bad dreams. Our two-year-old clung to our legs, unsure of where we had landed. I had also enrolled our third- grader in a university-model classical school which meant he would be attending classes two days per week, and completing work at home the other three days. I ignored my gut instinct, reasoning he would make new friends and still be at home most of the time.

When I had registered for these classes, however, I had not taken into consideration the fact that I would be dressing and hustling four children into the van bright and early, driving 25 minutes to drop him off, another 25 minutes home, homeschooling my first grader, getting our baby down for a nap, and entertaining an exhausted two-year-old. Lunch was a rushed affair, peanut-butter-and-jelly left on plates followed by another round of: Hurry! Hurry! In the van! Time to retrieve our son.

As it turned out, there would be more problems. The amount of work our son brought home was appropriate for a tenth-grader, not an eight-year-old. I could read our dear boy, who never was one to complain. But he had certain tells, and they were manifesting in spades. He was a bundle of stress. We all were.

One night, when everyone was fast asleep, I studied my son’s binder, and the work he was expected to do. My heart began to thud. It suddenly struck me; why had I not recognized it? I remembered my Headmaster’s face, prizing her sophisticated lectures, but never truly connecting with the student. And now I had resisted the promptings of the Holy Spirit, trusting my doubts rather than my God, placing our son into this wrong, yet strongly familiar setting.

I knew then that school was never meant to be a Venus Flytrap: snapping up a child and snuffing out his life. An education should be a gentle wooing, challenging and beautiful and filled with all of the good books and read-alouds: Shiloh, Little Britches, Lad: A Dog; Little House on the Prairie, Where the Red Fern Grows, The Hobbit. Stories of redemption, pulling the reader’s heart toward the goodness of God. Stories with meat that would form character: mind, heart and soul. I wasn’t after heady knowledge; I was pursuing lasting heart-change for our children. And the master key? Relationship with my beloveds. Take my hand and I will show you. It wasn’t going to happen if we remained tangled in the chaotic, neglecting our consistent ebb and flow of schoolwork, outdoor play, unhurried meals with good food and better laughs.

That schoolyear mercifully ended, and none too soon. Our son came home that final day, dropping his backpack by the door. It landed with a thud. He raced to join his brothers, sifting through Legos together as they built. I rocked our baby girl, kissing her soft hair, enjoying the sound of their laughter and her sleepy song. The relief was stunning, and I closed my eyes, thanking God for new beginnings.

My sons were building Legos, and I was building our life.

We had little in common, other than the fact that we were in the same gym class, and shared the same name.

She spelled her name Kristen, as did the other handful of Kristens in our elementary school. Mine is Kristin, a slight difference, and a moot point when our gym teacher called out first names for attendance.

Kristen came from a family of athletes. We were third-graders when she won the chin-up contest for the entire elementary school. It seemed unnatural to watch this small girl pulling up on that bar effortlessly, beating out every boy. We all stood, mouths open as she kept going. While most of us were eating Cheerios each morning before school, Kristen’s parents were leading their kids in calisthenics routines. Pushups, sit-ups, dips, and chin-ups. They were a highly competitive bunch. I had actually played little league under Kristen’s mom, and it was not pretty. Forget having fun. We were little soldiers going to battle. And if the umpire made a remotely questionable call against our team, her temper flared.

One Saturday, we had to drop off something to Kristen’s family. Their house was at the end of a long, deeply wooded driveway. As our mothers were talking, Kristen invited me up to her room.

As we were standing there, her three-year-old brother wandered in. I gasped. An angry red gash spanned his face, from the corner of one eye, across his cheek and lips, then trailing down his neck.

He was attacked by a flying squirrel, said Kristen.

He nodded his small head in agreement, and lifted up his t-shirt, revealing yet another wound.

As it happened, this flying squirrel had nested in their attic. The little guy’s room was beneath, and somehow the creature had chewed its way through the ceiling before sailing downward and attacking him as he slept. Not only had he been scratched and bitten, but he was painfully treated for rabies, a precautionary measure, since the flying squirrel was potentially rabid.

The worst part of this situation was that flying squirrels are a protected species, and to have this creature hunted down and destroyed would take mounds of paperwork and lots of time.

As our mothers continued talking, we wandered into their kitchen. I watched Kristen’s father at the table, building a turkey on rye. With an eyebrow raised, he recounted the frustrating rules of the United States Fish and Wildlife Service.

I asked: Are you going to catch that flying squirrel?

Well, it is a protected creature, he said, scooping up his injured little boy and hugging him tight.

I thought about that sentence as we drove home. He had not answered my question. But I had seen the way he held his child, and I could feel the protection pulsing in that kitchen. It felt a lot like love.

Kristen ran over to me the next week during gym class.

Don’t tell, but my Dad killed that flying squirrel, she whispered, as we stretched in the gym.

I nodded. Of course he had. That was his son.

***

Friday night lights. Those were some of our family’s favorite years. Our oldest son was a tight end with a wicked stiff- arm yet soft hands; our second born son the consummate quarterback. My husband helped coach, and our third son was the ball boy. It was a fun time of life.

From the moment our boys could run, they played backyard football. There is something about that familiarity and chemistry that translated, quite seamlessly, to the high school football field. Words were not necessary, our tight end knew exactly what his quarterback brother was planning, and their timing was golden. To see those two in tandem, scoring touchdowns, was thrilling. They never owned all of the high-end gear or expensive cleats, but had something far better: a brotherly bond that was as natural as breathing. What everyone witnessed on that field was formed by years of play.

And then the time arrived for our oldest to go to college. Those Friday nights under the lights were still wonderful, just different. Our quarterback son’s arm was as accurate as ever, but the chemistry with receivers took more effort and patience. They weren’t brothers, after all.

One Saturday morning, during this time, I leashed up our two Golden Retrievers, and headed out for a walk. Our youngest three joined me. We discussed the football game from the previous night. Having fun conversation, I chose to lengthen the walk by going one street farther than usual.

Our discussion was suddenly interrupted by a deep, chesty growl. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw a massive Pit Bull, watching us; stone still. Thankfully he was chained, and his owner was hollering for him to shush. She gave us an apologetic wave as we quickened our steps, anxious to put space between us.

We turned off that street, rounded the corner, and headed for home. That is when I heard a snap and a clink.

The ground thudded, and as I looked back I froze. The Pit Bull was charging us.

I have read stories of people freezing in the face of danger. I never really understood how that was even possible. Until then. My legs were weak yet fastened to the ground. I held tightly to the leashes, and life unfolded in slow motion. The dog was now at my feet, snapping its fangs, biting our terrified dogs.

A true quarterback is wired to function at a high level on the field; especially under pressure. Reading the field and assessing the rushing danger is paramount. He must protect the ball at all cost.

As the beast began to attack, my quarterback son’s foot thudded against its wide chest. His arm swept his younger brother and sister behind him, to safety. He took the dog leashes from my hand as he continued to pummel the aggressor with his foot. He was calm; focused. The Pit Bull, bloodthirsty for our dogs, did not even seem to notice the beating.

My son then jerked our dogs away from the Pit’s jaws, handed their leashes back to me, pushed the menacing creature’s head to the ground, and straddled its back in a forced position of submission.

Looking directly at me, he spoke clearly as the monstrous dog beneath him kept trying to lunge.

Mom, stay calm and walk away. Slowly. If he tries to chase you, know that I won’t let him.

So I did.

Moments later, the dog’s owner came flying, a spiked choke chain in hand. She flung it over her dog’s head, and it ultimately took three people to drag the frothing beast back to its yard.

***

After we were safely home, and I had taken some deep breaths, I realized.

We were safe. My son’s actions had not been simply those of a quarterback. This wasn’t that. It was so much more. His swiftness to protect held an intense likeness to the heart of God; rescuing and leading his own to safety.

It felt like love to me.

My grandmother was born in the very same Midwest home in which she died. She married young, and her wedding photos show a beautiful bride with smooth skin, 1930’s waved hair, and a clefted chin, lifted slightly in what I imagine was defiance. My grandfather stands next to her, a handful of years older than she, hair neatly slicked and wedding band shining. Even in that sepia photograph it is easy to see that his eyes were a dreamy kind of blue.

A cursory glance and I recognize traits that have been passed down: the fullness of her lips, a chiseled chin, his expressive eyes and strong hands: some are reflected in my own mirror, and others I glimpse in my children.

When my grandmother married, she brought her new husband into her childhood home that was fully furnished, complete with her German mother. It was a good thing my grandfather was sweet-spirited and compliant; he most certainly had his hands full. He was soon called off to war and was eventually awarded a purple heart for bravery. He refused to speak of his time in combat, flying that double-winger. An intrinsically gentle soul, attacking enemy planes must have seared.

It’s a funny thing, remembering. People are often petrified of telling their stories slant. I say there is no other way. We should tell our stories exactly the way we remember them, which by no means makes them foolproof. But slant is honest as we share events that have unfolded. We are biased in our story-telling simply because we are human. Only God is omniscient.

So I remember these grandparents of mine, who passed away many years ago. They chose not to travel much, and visited our home only once in my entire childhood. We drove a thousand miles to see them many a summer. Without air-conditioning, that stifling summertime heat caused my legs to stick to the scorching vinyl seats.

Once we arrived, relatives congregated and I observed. My grandfather sat in his lawn chair, smiling and watching everyone visit. His face was kind and his words were few. He watched the entire clan collectively while drinking his black coffee. His four sons and their families spread wide throughout the yard, grandchildren playing tag and adults balancing drinks and paper plates laden with burgers, German sausage, and potato salad. When anyone spoke to him he seemed to hear without listening. It was as though his entire progeny were one in the same.

My grandmother pushed herself up from the lawn chair positioned next to my grandfather, and spent most of the afternoon bent over, pulling small weeds out of her flowerbeds. Hard work was master: she labored in a factory for decades, and by her own choice. When she wasn’t there, she was planting and picking and watering her lovely perennials. I watched her face as well as my grandfather’s, secretly longing for a connection to these grandparents of mine. I performed a quick cartwheel in the lawn in front of them. When they didn’t notice, I joined in the game of tag with my brother and cousins.

One day during a visit with our grandparents, my parents walked my brother and me down the tree-lined street to meet more relatives. It was a few houses away, and I remember jumping over every crack in the sidewalk. My father knocked and rang the doorbell, and we waited. He knocked again, and a tall, older man answered. The adults greeted each other, and we were invited inside.

Kristin, this in your great-great Uncle Otto. A small woman appeared from the kitchen, smiling broadly and drying her hands on a worn apron. And this is your great-great Aunt Emmy.

I said hello, and Emmy bent down, looking directly into my eyes and smiling. She smelled of ivory soap. Would you like to see our home? I spotted large hearing aids in both of her ears. I nodded and gladly followed; her kindness met a tender spot inside.

She served us sweet bread and punch, and as we sat in their living room, I decided that I liked Uncle Otto every bit as much as his wife. He looked like Atticus in the film To Kill a Mockingbird, only older. Speaking in a measured manner, he thoughtfully asked questions that proved he was listening. I noticed that he, too, wore hearing aids.

It was a happy afternoon.

Not too many months after this day, Uncle Otto and Aunt Emmy heard another knock on their door. A salesman had a great pitch for them. Always polite, they listened patiently even though they were not interested in anything he was selling.

Their hearing had continued to decline, despite hearing aids. So while the salesman rambled on at the front door, they did not catch the sound of an accomplice picking the lock of their back door. In less than ten minutes flat they were silently robbed of all valuables, including heirloom jewelry and money that had been hidden throughout the house.

***

A year or so ago, I was driving home one afternoon with our son, when I noticed a bearded man hunched over a burgeoning shopping cart along a main roadway. He was attempting to push his worldly possessions up a small incline, while avoiding oncoming traffic. All of his things were strung together in tattered plastic bags. I asked my son to stop, as I wanted to offer him a few dollar bills that were in my wallet. My son braked, and I rolled down my window. Sir? Excuse me? Sir?

His back was facing me, and he did not turn. I raised my voice and tried again. He did not so much as turn around.

I shook my head. Forget it. Let’s go home, I said, slightly irritated.

So we did.

Yet I found myself thinking about him: He must have family, somewhere? And then, Why would a homeless person ignore help?

***

This morning, I read Proverbs 31:20: She opens her hand to the poor and reaches out her hand to the needy. I thought of Aunt Emmy, seeing me and holding out her hand, inviting me into their home. I was needy, just in a different sort of way: a longing to be seen, known, welcomed. She did all of those things beautifully, and in short order. Her native tongue was kindness.

God’s timing is quite perfect. I passed that homeless man again today, and instead of whizzing by, I remembered my Bible reading, and the five-dollar bill in my wallet. How good it would be for him to have a hot drink on a drizzly day.

So I pulled over, flashing the hazards, doors locked, and waved. To my surprise he smiled underneath the filthy hat and scraggly gray beard. I rolled down my window. This is for a cup of coffee, I said.

He took the bill, then gave me a gentle fist-bump with his gloved hand. Pointing first to his ears and then to his mouth, he shook his head. Placing both hands together in a posture of prayer he smiled wide and pointed at me.

He is deaf and mute.

I returned his smile as I accelerated, windshield wipers beating. A man, delighted with a five-dollar bill. And to think I had once so poorly assumed that he had ignored my help.

Once upon a time, it had been great-great Aunt Emmy, hard of hearing, who had heard me best of all. And now a homeless man, without a voice, had sung gratitude; a perfect melody, clear and sweet.

I was walking our neighborhood the other day, enjoying the pull of fall: hints of red and gold filling the treetops; a slant of sunshine through those same trees, skies clear and blue with the promise of autumn. The days are growing shorter, and my soul feels such relief at the promise of this seasonal change. It is a steady reminder to me that our Creator does all things well, even when we feel whiplashed. This is the season when my bones and soul are alive; I am keenly aware as I walk that God’s beauty reflects his goodness and his plan. As I walked, I recalled other autumns of my life.

***

One fall, many years ago, I was a little girl growing up in an expansive New England farmhouse that had been neatly divided into four apartments. The great outdoors was my playground: raspberry bushes, a massive garden, forts in the front woods, a pond for row boating and ice skating, a crab apple tree holding our swings, a sandbox under said apple tree, and a large field behind the farmhouse. My brother and I were continually outside, and it was good.

One day, when the field was harvest bleached, but not yet baled, I frolicked in the midst of it with my red-headed friend. My hair blended in the golden field, but hers glimmered auburn in the fall sunshine. We were playing house, as little girls do; patting down the field to form a well-designed living space: a kitchen here; living room there. Our imaginations soared on that beautiful day. We had no idea what danger lurked. Blissfully unaware.

My younger brother had endured a terrible scare in that field the previous summer. Wandering in the middle of that tall grass, a distant neighbor’s aggressive German Shepherd had broken loose, and loped to our yard: searching, stalking, hungry. He began to circle the field, ears pointed, teeth barred. As the circle grew smaller, my little brother was trapped and cried for help. My mother, upstairs, heard the commotion and ran outdoors, trying to scare the creature away.

Our landlord, a gruff yet soft-hearted man, came running with his rifle when he heard my brother’s cries. With a shot fired into the air, the German Shepherd, steadily closing in on my brother, changed course and fled. We were all trembling. The rifle had saved my brother.

Now as my friend and I fashioned our imaginary home in that field, we did not realize that our landlord had been doing battle with raccoons and woodchucks, which had been devouring his ample garden each night. He and his wife spent most of their days in that lush spot; it was their work; their love, and it was stunning. Corn, squash, pumpkins, carrots, peas, beans and potatoes filled that expansive spot of soil, and mason jars of glory stocked their neat basement shelves. Come winter, they ate of their labor.

Our landlord, working in his breezeway between the garage and main house, had glanced in the field and his eye had caught a reddish-blond blur in the center of it. I’ve got you now, he said, reaching for his rifle. Moving quickly, yet stealthily, he crept into the backyard, raised his arm, eye squinted.

My little brother had been twirling on the tire swing. He watched Mr. Golden aim, and flew to his elbow. That is my sister, he said simply, tugging at his sleeve.

And just like that, my life was spared. The same rifle that saved my brother’s life nearly snuffed out mine.

***

Some time before or after this, I was snuggled up in the blue guest bedroom of my grandparent’s home, spending the night. They lived in the suburbs, on busy Washington Street. From the narrow bed, I counted the bright headlights from passing motorists pull across the ceiling. Accustomed to quiet country living, where the nights were inky and crickets chirped, this place stirred my mind, keeping me awake long after my normal bedtime.

I was talking to God, asking him to come into my heart and make it his home. I knew that I needed a Savior, that I was hopelessly sinful. I repeated my request over and over, as if the God of the universe was hard of hearing. I was alone and my words were sincere and unscripted.

What I did not comprehend yet was the beauty of the Holy Spirit working that night. That without him, I would never have been talking to God in the first place. The Comforter was with me, quietly and gently leading.

I know not the date, nor the time, nor even the year this evening happened, but does it matter? God knows. Many times along life’s path I have felt strongly pressured to fabricate something, anything! But God is never rushed, and is always working in his own time. It would make for a good story to pen how being misunderstood for a woodchuck led me to bow before my Savior, but these events remain somewhat tangled, as events for children typically are. All I know is that they both happened, and God is at work, always.

One Sunday in my early adulthood, my husband was traveling, and I sat in church under a pastor who steadily pounded the pulpit, insisting that we have a dramatic before and after story of our walk with God, that should include a specific date, or at least a known year of acceptance. If you cannot produce an account, then are you really following Christ?

To be fair, at that moment I had four little children, a husband away on business, and was sleep-deprived. Feeling tired and weepy, I remember my eyes brimming, as I desperately tried to come up with my before and after. I was stuck; all I could envision was the blue guest bedroom, small and holy. I knew that I was often stumbling forward; but forward still. I also was painfully aware of several longish times that I had quenched the Holy Spirit, resisting his promptings. That was followed by repentance, a turning back to God. He never let me go.

And that is what counts. The beauty of autumn is the death of the leaves. Their dying results in majestic colors, showcasing a season of completion. Our seasons of life with God matter. It is not only a beginning date, but our following, stumbling, and returning to God that matters.

This autumn our oldest son will be married. As the leaves show off their glory, I will be thanking God for this lifetime he has granted me. If I had died that day in the field, I would not be dancing with my sons on their wedding days, nor watching our own daughter walk to her groom in years to come. If I had died that day in the field, I would also have been spared much pain that along with the joys has painfully unfolded.

But God uses it all, and holds our before and our after. His followers are those beautiful leaves, created by him: green then gold, then scarlet, falling gently so that new life will return, come spring.