The strongest memory is weaker than the palest ink. I write to remember.
I am delighted to have finally been able to record this conversation with our daughter, Lauren, the mother of our first (and most adorable) granddaughter.
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There is an unexpected tenderness, a sober joy, soft, unshakeable, even as my flesh faints and my bones seem crushed by sorrow. I stand quietly and watch the world burn —set on fire, torched by the prince of darkness.
Christians are assassinated and martyrs continue to perish worldwide, as they have throughout the ages. Men and women steadfast, ramrod straight in their stalwart refusal to renounce their sole passion: Jesus Christ. They are being slaughtered now, a dozen or more each day.1 Great is their heavenly reward.
Amid such brutality, I bring you good news of hope and truth, a curl of smoke ascending from the ashes.
With eyes kind and tone soft:
God is ruling, always working, and always good, no matter what atrocities unfold. The Bible promises that the days will worsen, growing darker as the return of our Savior grows closer.
As part of the remnant—God’s true children in faith—we dwell under the shadow of the Almighty, even as we break and break and break again.
Our suffering and groaning will not last forever. As wickedness prevails, plod on in faith, and do what is right in God’s eyes, even as this world does what is right in their own eyes.
Let us encourage one another to stay faithful to God by treasuring Jesus, obeying the Bible, repenting of sin, and doing good.
Cling to this: God holds Satan on a short leash, and nothing that happens on planet Earth is random.
In the midst of sadness and suffering, it is crucial to remember that God’s will is not capricious, but purposeful.
Waste not a second. Now is the time to make your calling and election sure.
Resist the urge to fool around, scrolling the news all day long, studying conspiracy theories, descending into tunnels of evil. We already know God’s judgment: people love darkness instead of the light.
Crack open your Bible and chase down truth: eternity is coming, and not everyone who says Lord, Lord, will enter the kingdom of heaven.
Dear Bona Fide Christian,
(not doer of good deeds, nor member of a specific political persuasion, nor self-sufficient one, but wretched sinner, saved by God’s mercy and grace)
Remember, according to Jesus Christ, we are the light of the world.
So, when this life erupts, a volatile powder keg of mass evil, may you, may I, burn calmly, brightly, and steadily until the end… lanterns for all the world to see.
And as we grieve, may we be found singing through our afflictions with a flutter of enduring hope beating in our chest, as we dwell upon our beautiful inheritance. Christ died in our stead and will carry us from this present darkness into the arms of God.
***
Last evening, I stepped beneath the stars, feeling small and fragile. Gazing heavenward, I was undone by the endless constellations blinking against the obsidian night, brilliantly defying all darkness.
You are the light of the world. A city set on a hill cannot be hidden. Nor do people light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on a stand, and it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven.
-Matthew 5:14-16
I stood wounded
by rapid-fire words.
Be my shield, God.
My heart is sore.
***
I stood captivated
by a bluebird
pecking in our yard.
The sun dazzled and caressed-
Brilliant feathers, unmatched.
God’s paintbrush,
strokes of splendor,
nature trilling.
***
The bluebird
toted a sprig of grass
tender in its beak.
To the birdhouse he soared,
low,
rising softly,
nest building.
Blade by blade
He labored,
instinctive;
undeterred.
***
So too, go I.
Stringing words,
chiseling sentences,
fashioning a nest of thoughts.
Stories woven,
cradling life.
***
Wounds not wasted.
Scars reborn:
explore, create, write.
A tiny offering to my Creator.
Warmed his jarring mercy,
Kept by his endless grace.
I can imagine you now: sharpening pencils, organizing folders, surrounded by paper, pencils, and erasers. You have packed away bathing suits and beach towels–farewell, summer–as you soar into September, swooning over the possibilities on the cusp of this school year.
Cheered by the thought of beginning again, you smile, your heart singing as you blow a chef’s kiss over the tall stack of textbooks, inhaling this vibrant beginning, as cool and shiny as a penny.
How I remember the swell—no, a roar of invincibility—This year will be the best!
As an older woman who now sees the forest through all those mighty Redwoods, may I encourage you to set aside your beloved curricula and lean in?
While academic studies have their place, grades, achievements, and human accolades are fading shadows.
Successful homeschooling, in God’s eyes, is heart work.
****
I am saddened by the blustery Christmas cards we have received for decades: For unto you is born this day, a Savior who is Christ our Lord, followed by a folded letter, carefully showcasing children’s academic prowess: soaring GPAs, president of this, high achiever of that, and on and on and on it goes.
How confusing to pay lip service to the truth that your child’s worth is bound up in God as an image bearer, and to then pivot and boast about grades, IQs, and awards. What will happen when your student hits a rough patch, loses a scholarship, or grows weary of the pressure to perform, ceasing to make you shine?
For the Lord sees not as man sees: man looks on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.
Please, please do not hear what I am not saying. There is nothing wrong with high intelligence, a gift from God, to be stewarded well.
But as my grandparents used to say: Smart is as smart does.
In other words? Learning to walk in humility, godliness, and kindness is far more important than acing trigonometry.
Additionally, I am not suggesting a laissez-faire approach to home education, nixing the Peloponnesian Wars, Algebra II, Latin, or biology. A well-rounded education is valuable, and yes, I held high academic expectations for my children and encourage you to do likewise. It is good and wise to develop minds for the glory of God.
If you only hear one thing today, may it be this: the bulk of faithful homeschooling means first and foremost training and equipping your children for every good work. Over time, I realized my chief aim was to teach my children to love the Lord with all their hearts, souls, and minds. (Matthew 22:36-38) This heart work involved regular tune-ups: modeling diligence, kindness, humility, courtesy, timeliness, servanthood, forgiveness, and respect.
I look in the rearview mirror and see so clearly what mattered. Those schooldays when a poor attitude was corrected and forgiven, the days when a big brother rose to comfort his sister, when siblings cheered each other on in athletics, recitals, and contests. The moments spent teaching my children to read and write. The year we spent memorizing the book of James, words that still return with a flourish to convict my wandering heart. Our family, shoulder to shoulder in the pew, each and every Sunday. The togetherness of those decades, unbreakable family ties, and our love for God that anchored us throughout life’s storms.
We love each other, albeit imperfectly, but we also like each other, a fact I do not take for granted.
What does this have to do with decades spent homeschooling?
Everything.
The greatest gift my husband gave me was trusting me to teach our children as we played the long game: preparing our four favorite people to pursue a life of godly wisdom rather than chasing the stuff of this world. I prayed that they would love God supremely, know and cherish the Bible, and consider others more important than themselves. This trajectory meant pouring into my children’s hearts.
Does this sound like an impossibly tall order, dear homeschooling mom?
In our own strength, it is.
Rather, heap your trust upon God as you endeavor to do your part, praying for the Lord to work in your children’s souls as well as your own. Be faithful as you labor each day. Give your sons and daughters the gift of structure as you model timeliness, showing them that our great God is a God of order.
This homeschooling endeavor is not achieved overnight, but little by little, day by day, month by month, year by year.
We are imperfect, sinful mothers who serve a good, kind, and perfect God.
****
Children flourish beneath a high bar of godly expectations, seasoned with gentleness, understanding, kindness, and grace. (And donuts, on the first and last day of school.)
Seek to know each one of your children’s strengths and weaknesses. Encourage them often, cheer them onward.
May I encourage you to offer up a feast at the beginning of each school day? An unshakeable triumvirate: Bible reading, Scripture memorization, and prayer.
With souls thus softened, jump into the pages of The Pilgrim’s Progress, The Hobbit, Lad: a Dog, Shiloh, and Little Britches. Live your read-alouds to the hilt, with grand expression, laughter, and even tears, transporting your favorite people from the living room, as you together soar to another time and place.
Help them thirst for good books, and The Good Book. Make them long to hear one more chapter.
Now, with souls softened and hearts tended, cheerfully crack open those textbooks and get going: math, spelling, handwriting, grammar, history, and science, keeping in mind that the beloved curriculum cradled in your hands plays second fiddle to godliness, a work of the heart. (Proverbs 4:23)
“Mothers, the godly training of your offspring is your first and most pressing duty.”
Charles Spurgeon
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Upstairs, I have an old photograph, in which I am cradling our newborn. We are studying each other, our profiles etched, two upturned noses kept frozen in time, mother and son. My face achingly young, his softly brand new.
I am smiling from the shadows, dressed in my husband’s button-down shirt, the lighting poor, our camera cheap.
That old striped Oxford was my wardrobe extraordinaire in postpartum days, soft, loose. I pined for comfort as motherhood had risen to jolt, ushering in oceanic feelings, all-consuming tides. The fervent motions continued long after labor and delivery, a revolving cycle of nursing, changing, rocking, swaying, soothing, singing, crying. My muscles whimpered tender from hefting seven deliciously-scented pounds of miracle upon my shoulder.
It was 1996 and we lived humbly, with few distractions. No extra money, no internet, no cell phones. Come to think of it, no email. In hindsight, such simplicity proved priceless. My feet and mind were planted on terra firma as I pushed the stroller around our apartment and whispered to my little Caleb descriptions of everything I saw, heard, felt, touched, and tasted.
Puffy white clouds, quacking mallards, gentle breezes, scorching sun, soft blanket, tart lemonade, minty gum, I love you, I love you, I love you.
As I spoke my affection, I also begged him to sleep–the one thing he clearly did not prefer. We circled around the lake, returning home. I gentled him in the wind-up swing, cranking that contraption to a fare-thee-well, clockwise, knowing that I had precisely nineteen minutes until it would slow and stop, waking him again.
If I hurried I could fluff the pillows, spritz the bathroom mirrors, fold the laundry, and rush a steaming shower.
Most days, however, I slid into my rocking chair, gazing proudly at our stunning little bundle of sweetness.
I was now a mother.
****
Motherhood displaced my heart, which now danced and hovered outside my body.
It pulsed hard, following our little man everywhere, our baby who was soon cooing, sitting, teething, crawling, and talking. Mornings, he reached his pudgy arms skyward, calling Mama, as I plucked him from the crib into my arms, pajamas all snug.
Good morning, Bugaboo.
I nuzzled the soft spot on his neck with my nose, before kissing it repeatedly as he giggled, his small fists tangled up in my hair.
My heart, my world.
Less than two years after becoming a mother, I shook my husband’s arm. It was nearly midnight and time to drive to the hospital once again, the pains bearing down, sweeping my breath away.
Between contractions, I worried. How could I ever love another baby as much as our Caleb?
Treason!
Such heavy thoughts brought tears to my eyes.
All fear vanished by lunchtime the following day. I had been proven wonderfully wrong. The moment our second son was born, and my husband held him high, my heart lept, and doubled in size.
I was smitten as I cradled him, inhaling his newborn scent. Counting his fingers and studying his long eyelashes spun me into a sea of bliss. In the years to come, I fell hard in love two more times, with the birth of our third son and then our daughter. The togetherness of us, our familial love and laughter, was more delightful than I ever dreamed.
My heart was an inferno, on fire, and had now quadrupled in size. God had entrusted me with these four beauties, little image bearers with souls that would never die. Motherhood was my ache, my dream, a hard work soaked with gravity and laced in beauty, a serious endeavor to be cradled, gently.
Those early years of motherhood were earthy. Four children to nurture, teach, discipline, and love. Full days of wiping sticky hands and jellied tables, mountains of laundry to smooth and fold, bandaids to apply, fevers to soothe, hugs and kisses, and reams of books to read aloud. It was board games and races and hide-and-seek. Sheer physical exhaustion come nighttime, waking early to do it all over again.
Oh, how I loved the slow, long, steady life of motherhood. Tangible work, gritty and good and meaningful, fingernails caked with dirt, sweat, and love.
****
Winds of change arrived repeatedly, blowing in breezes and occasional tempests. The moment my heart had grown accustomed to the earthiness of my calling, the seasons swelled and changed, leaving me to reach for a windbreaker, rain jacket, hoodie, or heavy winter coat.
One quotidian day I realized our cradles and high chairs and booster seats and diaper bags were gone. My children were growing up with new horizons and friendships and weighty decisions, joyous victories filled with laughter, and sometimes broken hearts and tattered dreams. There were championship games and recitals, driving tests and college applications, goodbyes and graduations, engagements and weddings, moving trucks and missionary journeys.
So many goodbyes over and over and over. Changes that left me breathless.
And then the evening arrived when I set our dining room table pretty for two. Our new normal. My heart tiptoed about and then broke just a little as my husband and I held hands, bowed our heads, and said grace, our forks clinking against our plates, breaking the hush.
It’s hard, isn’t it? he said, his eyes filling.
Later, I washed the dishes as he took out the trash.
My hands scrubbed slowly, and gently as I prayed.
It was a healing balm, easing the ache a little, just me before my God, as I remembered his promises throughout Scripture. He had chosen to make me a mother and as long as I had breath, my work was not finished.
Earth, wind, and fire.
The fire?
Oh, the fire.
It burns steady, strong, and hot. Such unconditional love, my prayers rising. I am a house-on-fire, one average, middle-aged mother, on bended knee.
****
Last week I stood on our back porched and for the better part of an hour watched a squirrel building a nest–a drey it is called–out of leaves and twigs. She crawled to the end of a limb, bit off a sliver of a leafy branch, ran down to the grassy earth, picked it up in her teeth, and raced to the highest of heights, fussing and building, moving twigs and leaves every which way.
Her diligence and patience paid off. I shielded my eyes against the sun and imagined a handful of baby squirrels mewing, tucked safely in the crook of the massive tree, in the nest the mother had labored to build.
They would be warm and safe for a time, but soon Mama Squirrel would release them to the earth, teaching them to hunt and forage and in time, build their own nests.
****
My hands no longer rock the cradle, smooth back sheets, or prepare my children’s meals. (How I miss my sous chefs!) But the joy of motherhood carries on through every conversation, phone call, text, and gathering. Caleb, Jacob, Marcus, and Lauren are priceless gifts.
During the decades I spent raising our children, God was raising me. Motherhood has shaped and refined me, drawing me close to the heart of my Heavenly Father.
Thank you, God, for such undeserved treasures.
Behold, children are a heritage from the LORD, the fruit of the womb a reward.
Psalm 127:3
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Stretching dunes, untamed waters, sunrises from the deck.
Magnificent.
With a chipped, heavy coffee mug in hand, and hair tousled by the Atlantic’s salty breeze, I felt dwarfed by the beauty of God’s creation.
Our few vacation days were glorious and hard-won: saving money, wrangling schedules, working ahead to beat deadlines. We congregated in a tall, weathered cottage, relaxing as we relished the ease of togetherness.
Some delighted in rounds of Go Fish, others napped, or slipped behind the pages of a book. We took turns on the porch, mesmerized by the crashing waves, our legs dangling from oversized Adirondacks.
Daily breakfasts were up for grabs, although the coffee pot worked overtime. Lunches were plucked from coolers stuffed with cold cuts, chips, fruit. Dinner? A sweet benediction, as tanned faces filled the kitchen: reaching, nibbling, laughing, chopping, sizzling, and grilling our way to the feast. Folded napkins weighted by mismatched forks, dinner plates circling the table—a hubbub of noise and happy confusion.
Between breakfast and lunch, we became pack mules, single file: schlepping chairs, buckets, towels, tents, umbrellas, and coolers up, up, up, and over the wind-sculpted dunes—Don’t trip!—dodging spiked beach grass and sharp driftwood.
We hopped tenderly across the scorching sands, relieved to sink into the cool, rugged shoreline.
I bowed to inspect the ocean’s trinkets: shells that scampered across the sand with each lapping wave, a bloom of whisper pink jellyfish jiggling alongside translucent ones, a child’s forsaken shovel.
Our newborn granddaughter napped atop a towel, shaded by the tent, as our grandson crouched in tidepools, studying a school of teensy fish.
Come on, Nonnie, he said. Let’s build sandcastles.
Yes, I said.
The sea is surreptitious, guarding all that lies beneath. How softly the waters pulse toward shore, bidding us to enter the dance. Just a little deeper, only a bit further. Quite suddenly, white crests emerge, tip, and roar; we are surprised to be swimming in deep waters: untamed, ravenous, wild.
My soul is full of longing for the secret of the sea, and the heart of the great ocean sends a thrilling pulse through me.
— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
And therein lies its charm: the mystery of the feral, the unknown.
The ocean is powerful, beautiful, and dangerous. Never turn your back on the sea. How foolish to swim carelessly in waves that creep and pull, retreating to the fury hiding within the deep. Enjoy the ocean, yes, but be cautious.
Although its brutish beauty is magnetic, the sea remains savage.
This summer, I jumped into crashing waves, chest deep and chin up, laughing, squealing with my daughter-in-law.
After a time, as the waves lulled, we relaxed, chatting lazily, floating with our heads tilted skyward, eyes closed. My back was against the deep as I carelessly lolled and bobbed, succumbing to the comfort of rhythmic waves.
And then the wind picked up, and I saw my daughter-in-law’s eyes widen as her mouth formed a perfect “O”. I turned as a rogue wave curled, surged, and buried me. I was catapulted, flung upside down.
And there I was, a rag doll held by the talons of the sea, its Herculean grip an impossible fight. My lungs were fire, the pressure rising as my mind screamed for air. When I finally emerged, there was no time to breathe before another wave upended me.
Pitched again, I struggled, swallowing briny water, terrorized.
And then my daughter-in-law reached for my hand and lifted me.
Kristin, are you okay? she said.
I pushed hair from my face, breathless.
I thought I was drowning, I gasped.
The rest of our family, scattered along the beach, had noticed nothing. Several tossed a frisbee, another sat reading, toeing the sand. A few more spritzed sunscreen on their arms, laughing as they stretched over toasty sands. I could hear the echo of their voices, talking over the crashing tide.
Have a good swim? one asked as I reached for my towel and thumped breathless on the sand.
By all appearances, I had simply been frolicking in the ocean that I love.
Now, I understand.
Drowning is fast. Silent.
How we treat the church is how we treat Jesus, for the church is His body.
-Joel Beeke
I am drowning, she says, eyes filling.
This? A familiar conversation with many.
The pattern goes like this:
forsake church,
life implodes,
a gush of tears,
Fix me! Help me! Save me! I am drowning!
a temporary return to Sunday’s gathering.
Until…
The ocean beckons, the world woos, and the cycle begins afresh.
Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
Meanwhile, her life continues to unravel, thread by thread by thread.
I gently remind her that to grow in faith and to thrive, we must anchor ourselves to God, His Word, and the church. Our souls flourish beneath the steady submission to the preaching and teaching of Scripture, as we come alongside and minister to one another.
She nods, sniffling into a tissue, and returns the next Sunday.
But the following Lord’s Day?
An empty seat. She is in the wind, again.
Although the excuses vary, it is the same song, different verse.
Sore throat, a daughter’s soccer game, relatives in town, fatigue, a cookout, catching up on yard work, cleaning out the pantry, a family birthday party, a once-in-a-lifetime concert, a weekend getaway, impending rain.
Flimsy excuses that yield flimsy living and maim the body of Christ.
She is drowning, unwilling to grab my hand.
Let us hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering, for he who promised is faithful. And let us consider how to stir up one another to love and good works, not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the Day drawing near.
Hebrews 10: 23-25
A few months ago, I informed my husband that I just might apply to be the groundskeeper of Green Gables on Prince Edward Island.
I will keep the home clean and loved, the gardens tended, and the rest of the time I will walk and think and write, I sighed, happy at the mere thought.
Sounds like a plan, he laughed, a safe answer for this shimmery mirage that will never come to pass.
I momentarily drifted away, imagining the swaying grass, sun-kissed waters, apple orchards, and birdsong.
Bliss.
Perhaps I might even build a clean, one-room cottage on the grounds, a structure with tall, pretty windows, white clapboards, black window boxes, and a porch rocker.
I can envision it now: my Bible, Kindle, reams of paper, and sharpened pencils spread wide across a broad farmhouse table.
Thinking and scribbling for hours, uninterrupted, the breeze blowing strong.
Such are the musings of an introvert.
I grew up in a time, age, and place that sought to correct and temper introversion. A reserved nature, a rich inner sanctum was permissible if one was a painter, an artist, or an off-the-grid recluse.
But a little girl like myself?
Not on your life.
One primitive memory takes me back to the sands of Cape Cod. We children were frolicking at the beach, hunched over tide pools, collecting periwinkles and hermit crabs. The adults were a stone’s throw away, sunbathing and chatting, sprawled in a line of canvas chairs, while seagulls mewed overhead and waves crashed, soaking the sand.
Suddenly my mother flew from her chair, unable to see my little brother, a highly extroverted four-year-old, who, according to my grandmother, knew no stranger.
It was true. He could and would and did talk to anyone.
I stood on the shoreline, scanning the beach for my dearest pal. Scrunching my toes in the sinking sand, I shielded my eyes, feeling the sun’s heat browning my back; warming my shoulders.
And then we spied him standing at the base of a distant dune, chatting with an elderly man. When asked why he wandered off, my little brother explained that he was just talking.
I exhaled, while the adults stood proudly smiling.
I marveled at this little brother of mine, forever eager to chat.
Yes, extroversion was better.
As my childhood years passed, I intuited the importance of keeping up the extroverted pace, hushing and burying my burning for solitude.
Over time I was signed up for nearly everything, to rectify my homebody ways.
Pioneer Girls, Brownies, needlepoint, macrame, group swim, flute, ceramics, VBS, ice skating, ski lessons, basketball, t-ball, softball, and one tear-filled summer of town orchestra.
Also?
Endlessly revolving playdates with Missy, Kristen, Jennifer, Andrea, Marcella, Amy, Rachel, Julie, Holly, and Melinda.
Yes, they were my friends.
Legion and loquacious.
After full days at school, I longed to pedal up the road and feed our neighbor’s horse a bright, crunchy carrot, or sit on the porch steps and observe the darling chipmunks in our side yard, or lollygag on the fat tire swing dangling from our backyard crab apple tree.
We live in a noisy world, do we not? Deafening, in fact. A chaotic culture with throngs of people highly uncomfortable with silence. It is considered prestigious to fill up one’s time indiscriminately, often to the neglect of one’s soul.
Personally, it has been in the lovely well of solitude, deliberate moments of thinking, studying Scripture, praying, and reflecting–purposefully removed from noise and chatter–that I have come to know God intimately and love him supremely.
So yes, I embrace God’s design for me, a happy introvert.
It was not until college that I began to realize God stitches his children together purposefully and that we are to praise him for it.
I will give thanks to You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made; (Psalm 139:14)
I was paired with the most extroverted roommate on our college’s campus. She was a midwestern delight—bubbly, chatty, and loud. Go-go-go…a bundle of vigor and non-stop conversation.
I tried hard to keep up, at first. She grabbed me by the hand and pulled me headlong into breakfasts, lunches, large group dinners, socials, and incessant events, with introductions galore, all of which caused my head to spin.
This new friend of mine was volume up; silly and funny and smart and a sharer of all personal information.
Nothing, and I mean nothing, was considered off-limits.
She was greatly perplexed by my reticence.
You are a mystery, dear Kristin, and your seriousness can be intimidating, she chirped one night, tossing me a few of her favorite cinnamon gummy bears, as I washed my face after begging off a late-night social.
What in the world are you talking about? I laughed, patting my face dry. There is no mystery. I just enjoy a bit of space and quiet.
She tilted her head, smiling, her eyebrows furrowed.
In time, we became dear friends, patiently learning to understand each other’s natural dispositions. I pushed myself to jump into events by her side, (every now and then) and she learned to appreciate my need to study at the campus library, surrounded by the whisper of books.
It was these years away from home that granted me permission to structure my days, rather than filling every waking hour with a string of socials. It took a fair bit of practice, but by senior year I was thriving in a handful of life-giving friendships. We met at the dining commons regularly, jumping headlong into the deep places.
As Christians, it is essential to recognize that introversion and extroversion are natural personality traits, not character flaws.
God has knit us together, creating his people for good works ordained before our birth. (Ephesians 2:10) It is through our individual personalities that many of these works come to pass.
We are meant to joyfully obey the Lord, being good stewards of the gifts God has granted, while serving one another, and showing honor. (1 Peter 4:10)
Plainly put, there are times I must die to my wishes for solitude, and intentionally move forward in engaging others, caring for and serving people when I would naturally prefer to go for a walk or read a book or study cloud formations.
This is Christianity, isn’t it? Denying myself and in humility serving others. Being an introvert is God’s good design for me, but growing selfish or stingy with my time is not his plan.
The disconnect, I have found, is that extroverts are typically not held to this same standard. Part of serving others, thereby showing honor, is for the extroverted believer to graciously extend the gift of quiet; margins of solitude to introverted people. Or at least to gently understand that for the introverted, time alone is essential before jumping back into the fray.
I have never once heard this mantra spoken. Instead, the refrain I keep bumping up against, over and over and over again is the poorly articulated, yet die-hard notion that introverted Christians must pull it together and become more extroverted.
Not so! Jesus served, engaged, and loved multitudes of people, before retreating to spend time in the quiet places, communing with the Father. (Mark 1:35; Mark 6:31-32; Luke 6:12-13; Matthew 14:13; Mark 6:46; Matthew 15:29)
As the bride of Christ, we are one body with various parts making up the whole, created to glorify God through our dispositions. While Scripture is clear–we each are called to deny ourselves, take up our cross, and follow Christ–may we not fall prey to the sinful notion that God somehow erred in his workmanship of our chosen personalities.
I have watched, amazed, as extroverted Christians warmly welcome newcomers into the church, serving beautifully in highly visible ways– throwing parties and events, bubbly and conversational, often fired-up, and greatly energized by people. I have extroverted friends who sprinkle a little pizzazz over my plate, spicing up my days, and I love them for it.
I have observed introverts serving the church quietly and graciously. In fact, I cannot count the number of times such a friend has grabbed my hand and prayed quietly for me with little fanfare, inquiring about my children and grandson, and sending me kind texts and notes, continuously seeking to serve others in oblique ways.
As an introvert, I understand the exhaustion of entering a large gathering and graciously interacting with others. I know well the temptation to vaporize, especially after hours of ongoing dialogue. However, it is good and right to honor others. So I aim to walk joyfully into the crowd, especially on Sunday mornings, lingering just a bit longer, choosing not to forsake the gathering.
May God be glorified.
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My husband and I recently celebrated our 30th in a year brimming with change. A few weeks after our anniversary, we arranged for a few days away at the prettiest beach, with soft, briny sands stretching for miles.
The sands were smooth, but the vacation itself was a bumpy start, as we have become a pair accustomed to working, not vacationing. Yes, our calendar is dotted with family gatherings and holiday events and afternoons spent relishing a lazy Saturday, pausing to peacefully sip coffee in our living room before rising to finish household tasks. But a string of days in a row? This seemed a vicious and abrupt halt; my heart was bucking.
As we walked along the shore that first evening, our feet sank into the edges of the Atlantic. Waves roared and crashed in rhythmic fury, foamy waters breaking, skirting our ankles, pulling us in. We evaded a bloom of jellyfish and bent low to collect shells. I lamented my neglect in packing a shovel and pail and thereby cradled an overflow of exquisite shells in my cupped hand.
My pastor-husband was trying to unwind but I saw his lips moving silently as we walked, a sure sign that he was untangling something weighty. Our brains were full as we beheld a lengthy list of tasks requiring attention on the other side of this reprieve.
My mind roared: Hurry up and relax! Have fun! Right now!
We plodded along in silence, holding dense space in our togetherness, as seagulls swooped, spun, and mewed overhead. Then, tiny Grey Plovers captured my attention.
What adorable birds, scooting away as the waves rolled in and swiftly returning to the ocean’s edge as the tide washed out. They gulped mollusk meat and other invertebrate seafood, relentlessly pecking at the sand for hidden treasure.
These delicately built shorebirds seemed resilient, feasting between crashing tides, the mighty waves and powerful undertow sifting and rattling the sand, stirring up the seafloor teeming with food for these quaint creatures.
As I studied them pitter-pattering over the sand, I felt the depth of my fatigue–years of dodging an onslaught of waves, determinedly returning to the fray time and again, pecking spiritual sand for substance and dashing for cover as the next breaker raged to shore.
The waves of suffering that threatened to drown in fact became the impetus, the crash and pull, that God used to jolt my soul awake, stirring up not only the sands of affliction but of affection. For Christ.
God does that.
//
We continued walking as the sun descended. A young couple, all swagger and charm, passed by and I paused.
That was us thirty years ago.
The wind grazed our backs, and I recalled the recent musings of a dear friend.
Kristin, so many dreams have fizzled along the way in my marriage–a good marriage, yes–but now I find myself at an age where I consider all those things we never did.
I swirled her heartache round and round. Something pricked my mind as I turned and discovered my footprints being erased by the tide.
Oddly, my friend seemed to cherish the injury of unfilled dreams.
A trickle of sweat raced down the back of my neck. My husband and I had walked a long way in the sand.
There remains a powerful temptation in midlife to nurse and rehearse dreams unfulfilled. The loop snags and captures with:
We never did this, we never went here, we never bought this–
To what end? I whispered and the wind carried my words and lifted them high, a strata of smoke poised over a stunning view. I suddenly felt invisible against the backdrop of sky, sea, and sand.
The all those things we never did is a thorny and fruitless path, often culminating in a sour, self-centered existence.
For the Christian, all those things we never did may humbly be replaced with:
Your kingdom come; your will be done.
A Grey Plover, less than a stone’s throw away, pecked at the ocean’s edge and was rewarded with a fat sea worm that dangled from its beak. He cocked his head and stared at me, before gulping his dinner.
//
The next day we returned and meandered the same beach. We laughed at the previous days’ fretfulness, as generosity and kindness took front and center stage in our conversation. Our minds and bodies had grown fond of vacation.
We unfolded our beach chairs and reclined, legs stretched and feet toeing the sand; reminiscing about long-ago beach ventures with our four little children. How few we were actually able to take and when we did?
My, oh my. The planning, the coolers, the sunblock, diapers, sippy cups. Skipped naps and endless treks to the public restrooms, bathing suits tugging uncomfortably with wet clumps of sand scraping salty skin. The laughter, the togetherness, tossing frisbees and footballs and scooping up shells. Stopping for ice cream on the way home and surrendering to the deep sleep that falls like magic come nightfall following a day at the shore.
The wonder of memories is that they can only be fully appreciated backward, even as the hourglass sands continue to trickle.
And then: Poof!
The season is gone.
The passage of time tends to tame previous difficulties, smoothing hard edges, we mused aloud, eyes closed; lulled by the tide. Soon my husband was asleep, and I rose to meet the ocean, surprising myself by diving in.
The Atlantic Ocean is more forgiving than the passage of time. I dove beneath the waves and swam, eventually floating, eyes closed, recalling what it felt like to be a child at the beach, carefree days when I thought childhood would last forever even though I wished it wouldn’t. Late afternoons spent with a shovel and pail mining tidepools and capturing unsuspecting periwinkles and hermit crabs, gathering sea glass as my damp hair bleached, years before I cared about natural highlights.
After riding the waves for a time, I bid goodbye to the waters and moved toward the sands, dripping, and noticed that the beach was largely deserted, except for one elderly couple, holding hands while leisurely walking the shoreline, weathered and wrinkled and slow, pants rolled high and hats pulled low against the fading sun.
That might be us in twenty-five years, I thought.
My husband opened one eye and smiled, as he stood and stretched. We folded our striped chairs and slung our thick beach towels around the back of our necks.
I noted something poking out of the sand.
An abandoned shovel and pail, nearly buried.
I scooped it up for our next walk which yielded shells that now inhabit our garage. I will do something with them, as a memorial of our 30th. They will serve as a reminder of the Grey Plover, the beauty of life, the joys of a long marriage, the flame of hope amid suffering, and the memory of diving beneath the clean and cold Atlantic.
Your kingdom come; your will be done.
//
Three decades ago I could not discern what lay ahead on life’s stretch of sand. I shielded my young eyes against the burning sun but try as I might could not see the end of the beach. The shoreline–speckled with beauty, blessings, and brutality–remained hidden.
How could I imagine the joys and sorrows of marriage, motherhood, and ministry? Or the growth that would come through surging waves of suffering?
How could I know that heartbreak would push me to pick up pen and paper and trace the goodness of God?
How good to pause and remember all the things that God has done.
Old age, when life becomes quieter and slower, is prime time to reflect on the power of the gospel to change us. It is also a time when we are tempted to think small–to think about our aches and pains, our disappointments and unrealized expectations. Will we be good stewards of our old age? Even as physical strength diminishes, will we pursue our destiny–knowing God?
Susan Hunt, Aging With Grace: Flourishing in an Anti-Aging Culture
This piece was written last year. I reposted it in honor of our 31st anniversary, which we celebrated this week.
One summer’s day, long ago, my grandfather hung the moon above our cottage by the seashore.
***
A promotional salesman by trade, he dressed to the nines, with suits smartly pressed, shoes polished to shine, and tie gently loosened, long before this was considered stylish. Grandpa felt no pressure to adapt to others’ expectations, which in a delightful twist made him a leader among men. He stood handsome while shaking hands with neighbors, clients, strangers, and friends, smiling broadly and conversing with ease; a consummate gentleman.
Grandpa worked hard without complaint, happy to live a life aimed at reducing the burdens of others. He loved lavishly, gifting his family in countless ways, without a speck of fanfare.
A penny pincher he was not. In fact, he was miffed by stinginess–a language utterly foreign to his person. In his mind, quality mattered deeply, and giving cheaply to loved ones was worse than giving nothing at all.
His restaurants of choice were exquisite–swirly background music, shiny silverware, and heavy water goblets. And his mantra? Let’s skip the fast food and enjoy a night on the town. On such evenings we relished unhurried conversation and mouthwatering food. I studied him as he studied the menu, eyes perusing the choices with an affable grin.
Once served, he took care in slicing the meat, fork turned over in one hand, the other wielding a knife while slicing tender prime rib, his thick cloth napkin tucked stiffly within his collar to protect his fine shirt. Following dessert (ice cream, always ice cream) he cheerfully paid the bill with a generous tip before offering my brother and me a peppermint. The evening’s benediction.
The truth? Grandpa’s love glowed in deeds, not words.
This fine and classy man was a steady lantern, fueled by the Spirit. Isn’t that always the way with people who continuously walk in love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control? The fruit is vibrant, irresistible, a stunning, flickering torch lighting the narrow way. A wild abandon, living life with a generous invitation–Come along, dear one, taste and see that God is good.
His kindness created a soft and gentle blanket around my shoulders. I was a little girl cherished in his presence, warmed by the calm realization that it was his delight to bless. He never griped about money he spent upon my brother and me or anyone else– and I certainly didn’t need to fritter away my time attempting to earn his favor because it was unwavering, as true and steadfast as the North Star.
He was a rare and precious gem, a man whose heart was a deep ocean filled with gratitude to Christ, his Redeemer. The salty waves were pure, crashing beautifully into the lives of those whom he encountered.
My brother said it best:
Kristin, he was magnificent.
***
For many years, summertime meant a vacation at the seashore. This was an extravagance that our family could not afford.
Never mind that, Grandpa made sure he could afford it. For many years he rented a sizeable cottage and invited his children and grandchildren. The two cottages I remember best were named–a sweetness that gave language to memory.
The Cherry Cottage and The Marsh Cottage. I close my eyes and my senses light fire, as I tumble backwards to a time gone by. The sights, scents, tastes, and sounds rush back.
Here come the adults, schlepping L.L. Bean™ bags up the cottage steps, flip-flops smacking while screen doors screech and bang. The women groan as they pull open the windows, inviting a salty breeze to brush through and freshen the air as grandchildren, youngsters with bright beach towels slung over our necks, jump up and down, up and down, begging Can we please go to the beach now? Pretty please?
Gulls mew overhead while the coffee pot hisses and the teapot whistles.
We are shooed outdoors, our paper plates sloping under the heft of peanut butter-and-honey sandwiches, carrot sticks, and the saltiest potato chips. Killing time, we sip sun tea and munch lunch on the back porch, sharing our summer’s dreams, while pining for the shore, the waves, the jetties, the tide pools.
***
Finally–finally–everyone is ready, conversing loudly, interrupting more than listening, scrambling for sunglasses and lotion, chapstick and thermoses, binoculars, and of course, beach chairs. We travel the road in a large huddle, plodding the steamy pavement before taking a hard right onto the sand dunes, awkward and cautious in our flip-flops–attempting to avoid the sharp, pokey seagrass.
The adults scout for the best spot, pointing and squabbling before anchoring themselves. Setting up a formidable row of beach chairs morphs into a great to-do, dousing and smudging noses with zinc ointment, donning floppy beach hats and sinking low into striped chairs, stretching legs long with a contented sigh, feet pushing the wet sand, creating a cool pit of comfort, while foraging for misplaced sunglasses and newspapers and yellowed paperbacks from the depths of oversized canvas bags. Conversation and gossip ebb and flow amongst the women while the men drift to sleep, open-mouthed beneath the sun.
My brother, cousins and I waste no time, catapulting into the chilly tides, splashing and dunking and racing and somersaulting, carefree and happy, swimming, tossing a neon frisbee, and treading water for hours. We pause only to guzzle lemonade, devour pretzels, and study our wrinkled fingertips. I wander away to a tidepool and scrunch low, licking salt from my lips, collecting periwinkles and hermit crabs; plunking pretty shells in my red pail.
After several hours in the sun, we leave the roar of the tides behind and flip-flop back to the cottage, hungry and tired and sizzling, rinsing off in the outdoor shower so as not to carry any sand inside, because heaven help us if we do. The women cluck and sigh: A woman’s work is never done, not even on vacation, while the men raise an eyebrow and wink at us.
My brother and I slip into our softest t-shirts and shorts, sunburned and already feeling the heat. We comb our wet hair and accept our cousins’ invitation to venture to the Candy Store, down the street and around the corner.
And that’s when we realize the sad truth: unlike our cousins, we have no money for penny candy.
Grandpa overhears our whispers of despair and opens his wallet, giving each grandchild one dollar.
We are rich!
Thank you, Grandpa! we hug him and skip down the street and around the corner, soon blowing into the establishment and causing the tiny bell atop the screen door to jingle. It is spring-loaded and snaps shut with a furious bang, part of summer’s charm. The cement floors beneath our feet are tidy and swept, which is impressive given all the incoming sand.
We are swept up in the divine aroma of newspapers, doughnuts, and coffee, draped in the vision of penny candy stuffed inside endless jars. In a flash, we fill our tiny paper bags to the tippy top with our favorites, then pay and exit, leftover change jangling in our pockets. Our cheeks are bulging and our hearts are full.
We return to the cottage for what my grandmother calls supper, followed by chores, card games, and a few minutes of reading time before lights out. We are sound asleep in seconds, plunging headlong into dreamland, our young bodies full of blissful, beachy exhaustion.
Day one of vacation is over.
Grandpa leaves the cottage late the next day, on Sunday afternoon, returning to the city to work for a spell before returning to enjoy a long weekend with us. My brother and I blow through our leftover change, spending every last cent on more penny candy.
How we will survive the late afternoons stretching before us?
It is a dilemma indeed, a riddle we untangle as we sprawl on our twin beds, squeaky clean hair shining, our faces sunkissed, propped on our elbows, chins resting in hand.
We have to earn money, I say.
How about a lemonade stand? my little brother says.
We don’t have lemonade or money to buy it, I answer.
All is quiet.
And then? An idea is born.
Shells!
We will sell seashells at the end of the cottage’s driveway. Combing the beach for a pretty array, we will coat each one with my leftover clear nail polish. Once they are dry, we will arrange them on the card table, and earn money.
Two days later, during the adult’s afternoon siesta, we hang a shingle, confident it won’t take long for change to fill our jar.
Imagine the scene–two children selling shells less than a quarter of a mile from a beach full of free ones.
I am here to tell you that we gave it our best.
A handful of tanned and wrinkled beachcombers stroll by with wan smiles and shuffle away, shaking their heads and laughing. We soldier on.
After two sweltering afternoons in a row with not so much as a nickel to show for our labors, we begin to crumple in despair.
And then? A familiar sound.
Could it be?
Shielding our eyes from the afternoon sunbeams, we cry: Grandpa!
He cruises up in his Volvo (always a Volvo) and waves, classy and unhurried while retrieving two boxes and a paper bag from the back seat. Pies and ice cream from Grandma’s Pie Shop, one of our favorite establishments situated by the rotary before the Bourne Bridge.
And just like that our entire world shifts for the better.
What are my beautiful grandchildren selling? I see him smile, eyes taking in our collection and pitiful sign.
Shells, says my brother proudly. So we can go to the candy store.
Grandpa nods solemnly.
I see, he says. These are quality products, and you have done an impressive job making them to shine. What a fine business.
I think of him now, in his sixties, likely exhausted, but nonetheless choosing to gift his family a beach vacation. If tired, he wraps up the feeling and buries it in his back pocket.
His love is a mighty, roaring ocean wave, smoothing out the sands of life.
Tommy and Kristin, he says, I must buy some of these shells, which will make excellent gifts. Can you wait a few minutes while I give your grandmother these pies?
We nod, beaming, our grins reaching our ears.
***
Grandpa was our only paying customer that summer. He purchased nearly all of our inventory, placing a fat tip in our jar, for good measure.
And let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up. (Galatians 6:9)
Kristin and her grandfather in 1973, on Washington Street.
The Palest Ink 