Margin and Wonder

My sister-in-law is a professional organizer. She tidies with precision, and every space she touches transforms into fresh, clean, and beautiful. The other day she posted a kitchen pantry photo in which chaos had been magically put to rights, with the caption: It’s okay not to fill up every space on the shelf. In between neatly stacked cans and linear spices was space. Glorious space.

This margin has a soporific effect. I gazed at these pictures and grew calm.

Margin is not only for shelves and drawers and homes. Embracing margin is a chosen way of living that often paves a path to wonder.


When our children were young, I built a couple of hours of margin into our days. Rest time followed lunch, and for thirty minutes everyone had a book to read…a non-negotiable habit. After this, they played quietly in the solitude of their bedrooms for an additional hour. It was soothing. One son memorized football statistics, another played games with his toy rescue heroes, and another built endless Lego creations and puzzles. Our daughter lined up her many stuffed animals, and decorated her dollhouse and created delightful feasts in her toy kitchen. Sometimes I peeked into their rooms, and often our children would be staring out the window, just thinking. I wanted them to know that their worth was never tied up in their doings or accomplishments: they were designed by God, created in his image, and beloved. This set aside time of margin allowed their wonder to sprout wings and soar.


Over a year ago, I took part in a writing mentorship, and signed up for a Facebook account to interact with the other women in the group. This was my first go-around with Facebook, and I had been warned of its powerful sway. It proved to be a mighty pull, and as much as I enjoyed the writing information shared within our group, I quickly discovered the underbelly that lures with curling, baiting finger: Look at this and Come, see what you don’t have, or Spy on her and judge. Go ahead, waste five, ten, or forty minutes here. Within days I felt all slivers of contemplation dwindling, creative juices growing sluggish, and time in prayer shortened. An overall diminished sense of margin. I had allowed white space to vanish, eaten up in snippets of gluttonous waste. My heart and mind felt slow and dull.

One morning during this time, I sat down at my desk, and spotted a dazzling bluebird flitting upon the branches outside of our office window. It cocked its vibrant head, and its eye was so perfectly round that I could not help but stare. As it hopped from branch to branch, chirping, I felt a rush of wonder at the precision of God’s creation. Moments passed before a male cardinal landed upon a nearby branch, and suddenly I had the privilege of marveling over the beauty of these two bright creatures decorating our tree. I felt quickened, alive by five minutes of pure, uninterrupted thinking.

I tapped the delete account button on Facebook within the hour, and was filled with relief, exhaling as though I had personally bypassed something dark and uncontrollable: a thief to margin and wonder. With one click I had crushed a boulder blocking my path towards calm contentedness. Perhaps others may partake and thrive and even minister in such social media spaces, but I was definitely not one of them.


These small thoughts bring to mind one summer afternoon at my grandparent’s home on Washington Street. Their front door opened into a small, rectangular front hall which held a classic New England desk stained dark. An old-fashioned wooden mortar and pestle sat nestled against the leg of the desk, and within that container stood a pair of ancient bellows.

One afternoon, as a child, I ran my hands over the smooth bellows, curious. Grandpa happened through the front hall, and scooted down next to me. Those are antique, Kristin. Would you like to see how they work?

I nodded, and he compressed the leather apparatus which produced a fast and forceful rush of air. They are used to make a small spark or flame grow larger. These hold the power to create a roaring fire. I have remembered my grandfather’s words often.

Whatever I choose to fan in my personal life will grow. How much wonder and awe will I invite into each day by pumping the bellows of stillness and margin?

It is okay not to fill up every nook on life’s shelf.

Unclutter your life. Slow down for a spell. Pitch and delete and turn the things off. Look out the window, take a walk, or rock in a chair on the front porch and feel the simple goodness of a gentle breeze. Chisel pockets of margin into your day, a space to hear that still, small voice (I Kings 19:12 NKJV).

Experience the richness of the wonder of God. It is a gift.

Do Not Delay

It was a lush summery day, some forty years ago. The sun sparkled and a gentle breeze blew, causing the tall grass to bend and sway in a field close to Washington Street, near the home of my grandparents. My uncle had coaxed my father, brother, and me to observe his dog in action.

She’s an attack dog, he boasted. I glanced up at my father and could tell by his narrowed squint that he detected exaggeration.

My uncle was never known for follow-through, and in fact, quit things with alarming regularity. One time, while in high school, he secured a lengthy newspaper delivery route for summer employment. After a few days of hard work, and a route far longer than he preferred, he quit delivering without telling a soul. One evening that week, during dinner, my grandfather received a phone call: a manager reporting that a string of customers were beyond livid, wondering where on earth were their daily papers? As it happened, my uncle had dutifully picked up his delivery stack each morning, bicycled down to the local bridge, and dumped the papers into the rush of river, before pedaling home to munch on cereal and watch television.

He held many jobs, for short periods of time, before either quitting or being fired, which must have been a difficult pill for my respectable grandfather to swallow.

Another high school catastrophe occurred when my salesman-grandfather noticed that a score of his finest sample pens had gone missing. He emptied filing cabinets and drawers, before discovering the cold truth: his son, my uncle, had been peddling the pens at school, selling them for quick cash, which obviously suited him far better than holding any job that required actual labor.

So, by the time we stood in the field that day, I had heard all of the stories, and was inclined to believe not a word that my uncle said. Attack dog? Whatever.


My uncle had purchased this expensive purebred puppy two years prior: a female German Shephard named Rontu. She had grown from a frolicking and chunky bundle of energy into a sleek, dark, and still creature. By nature, I was comfortable around all dogs, never one to scare. This lack of fear bothered my parents who regularly warned me: Not every dog is safe or friendly, Kristin.

Rontu was the very first dog that I did not wholeheartedly embrace; there was something different about her. An intensity, a silence. I chose to keep some distance.

They made an odd pair: my uncle, swaggering, unfocused, with little forethought to any venture, and his dog: alert, highly focused, yet aloof; detached from anything other than her master.

Are you guys ready? My uncle grinned. Stand back and watch what she can do.

He began with the basics, which were actually impressive, considering the source. Sit. Stay. Down. Heel. Come. Rontu’s obedience was as swift as his commands. There was no cajoling, no second reminders. He was basking in this showing off, feeling the power of his words coming to fruition in front of this slim audience of three. Even at the age of nine I sort of felt sorry for him; embarrassed by his need to be king, if only for an afternoon.

We enjoyed watching the show, though. I was shocked that this particular uncle had taken the time to consistently attend so many classes with his dog. (Later on, I found out that he lived in a terrible section of the city, and he owed people money. Cash that he did not have. He had been beaten within an inch of his life, wailed my grandmother, and in order to preserve his existence, trained Rontu as a form of protection. It worked.)

After twenty minutes or so, my father thanked him, and suggested we head back to my grandparents’ house. But my uncle, reveling in such glory, had one more trick.

It’s the best one, he added. He mumbled something to my father, who shook his head.

But my uncle was on a roll and issued the command anyway.

Rontu, he said. Her brown eyes gazed directly at his face. He pointed to a man on the far side of the field, walking, minding his own business on this lustrous summer’s day.

Rontu, hit!

And she took off, without sound, but with a blazing speed and surety. A dangerous blur flying in a direct line to this perfect stranger. She was gaining on him.

Call her off! my father hollered.

My uncle only laughed. Isn’t this cool? She will do whatever I say!

At this point, my heart was thudding in my throat, my feet glued to the earth. Rontu was catching up to this helpless victim who was now high-tailing it, bracing for an imminent attack.

And then, within yards, my uncle called only two words: Rontu, out!

She slowed immediately, curving and beautifully turning back to her master, loping in relaxed fashion; completely ignoring her former prey. She arrived at my uncle’s feet, panting.

Good girl. He patted her head and her eyes closed as she plopped down submissively at his feet.

I learned later that if he had not summoned her, she would have bitten the man first on his forearm, dragging him down before fastening her razor sharp grip upon his throat, puncturing the jugular.


Is there anything as disturbing as a child who is encouraged to disobey? Children trained for disobedience?

Stewart, come here. Little Stewart crosses his arms and locks his legs. Stewart, I am going to count to three. One…Two…Thr-

And Stewart ambles half-heartedly to his parents, who then praise him for disobeying the first time.

To delay is to disobey.

God’s word is simple to understand, and in our sinful bent towards defiance and stubbornness, often difficult to obey.

The biblical structure of the home and the church is now being called into question by professing believers: Did God really call men to lovingly shepherd their families and their churches? Is marriage really between one man and one woman? Do parents really have authority over their young children? I hear people questioning these clarities of Scripture, and I tremble, reminded of Eve, heeding the voice of Satan, rather than the voice of God. Did God really mean to abstain from this one luscious tree? Why that makes no sense! Partake, and you will be like God, full of knowledge.

She believed herself to be wiser than her Creator.

Her choice of blatant disobedience, coupled with Adam’s floundering silence and lack of backbone led to death. The consequences resulted in ruin for the ages.

A swift glance at biblical disobedience beyond the Garden of Eden is also alarming: Cain’s rage and eventual murder of his own brother, Noah’s neighbors swept to eternal damnation by flood, Lot’s wife becoming a pillar of salt, and the Jewish nation wandering for four decades as punishment for their rebellion. There are always steep consequences for disobedience.

The commonality of origin is clear: an ongoing rebellious reliance upon human wisdom rather than God’s instruction.

There is strength in obedience; in swift godly submission. Think of Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice his son in obedience to God’s instruction, Mary’s response of Yes, Lord, May it be to me as you have said, and Jesus’ humble submission to God the Father, as he hung on the cross. Each one of these acts of prompt, sacrificial obedience produced blessings for the ages.

It is time, Christ-followers, to become like Rontu: singular in focus, with our aim to hear and obey only the voice of our God, our Master. Leave all consequences for such obedience in his hands. Hands that created the universe out of nothing; hands that are holding the world even now. Eternity is coming, and eternity is forever. Do not delay.

Isaiah 5:20-21: Woe to those who call evil good, and good evil; Who put darkness for light, and light for darkness; Who put bitter for sweet, and sweet for bitter! Woe to those who are wise in their own eyes, and prudent in their own sight!

Remembering Finn

(I put this story to paper over a decade ago, and chose to dust it off this week as a way to celebrate this one year anniversary of The Palest Ink. The events themselves took place nearly fifteen years ago. I remember Finn and pray. The Lord softens our hearts towards certain people, doesn’t he?)


We had lived in our Texas home for three years when Finn arrived. Several families had come and gone during those dry, hot summers. So when another moving truck rattled onto our street, I thought little of it.

Our brick home was situated on a dead-end street, which was perfect for the children to ride bikes, play baseball, pull wagons, and chase each other. One summer morning our children and several neighbors were doing these things while I weeded the flower beds. I thought I heard a new voice and as I looked up, there stood a young boy, perhaps ten years of age. I remember thinking, My goodness, he looks like something straight out of a Charles Dickens novel.

The boy was much too thin with large hazel eyes and dirty blond hair that was tangled. A slight overbite became obvious when he quietly spoke, and dark circles lay under his eyes. His shoes were completely worn out and far too tight….I made a mental note of the fact that it was over 100 degrees yet he wore a long-sleeved shirt.

I had a sudden urge to take him inside, scrub his hands and face with a warm washcloth, and feed him a triple decker sandwich washed down by cold lemonade.

Would anyone like some water? I asked instead.

A resounding yes was the answer, but I noticed the new boy hung back while looking down the street.

So I stepped inside, and upon returning with the pitcher and cups, he was gone.

His name is Finn, my son Caleb informed me. And he’s frightened.


Over the course of that summer we got to know more about Finn, albeit by piecemeal. He gathered with the boys and other neighborhood kids after dinner (the only time the temperature seemed to fall below 95 degrees) for games of kickball, football, and baseball. I watched carefully…discreetly. Soon I discovered that he would have small conversations with me as long as I was preoccupied with other activities such as walking the dog, picking weeds, or helping Lauren Olivia on her tricycle.

Finn’s father remained mostly in the house that summer with the blinds closed tight. I saw Finn’s mother only when she pulled in from work each evening and collected her mail. Occasionally she would wave. Finn usually greeted her, but without much enthusiasm. And she called him Dalton….not Finn.

Your name is Dalton? I inquired one evening as I brushed our dog in our driveway.  He shrugged.  I’d rather be called Finn.  

He kicked a few stones and kept his gaze low. 

Finn suits you…I like that name. He smiled briefly. 

The Texas heat was brutal that summer, and I wondered why Finn rarely sought the coolness of his air-conditioned home. The boys asked him why he was always outside and he shrugged, glancing back at his house.

I have more fun out here, was the reply.

While the neighborhood children played with abandon and freedom and joy, Finn remained anxious, having spurts of fun followed by quiet. Finn’s twin sister occasionally emerged from their home as well. She and Finn were a study in opposites. She was pudgy with short chestnut hair, thick coke-bottle glasses, and fair skin.  For all of his quietness and reluctance to speak, she was a chatter-bug with a lisp.

Dalton doethn’t like to be at home, she spoke freely to me, as was her custom.

He doesn’t? I answered, noting the use of Dalton again. 

No……me neither. I nodded, waiting for her to continue.

At that moment, Velma, our next door neighbor, hollered my name in order to discuss an upcoming garage sale. I watched as Finn’s sister waved a cheerful goodbye to me, absentmindedly pushing her thick glasses up towards the bridge of her nose before skipping home. She was pleasant, simple, and unremarkable for as long as I knew her.

Her twin brother, Finn, remained elusive. He did engage our sons in whatever they played outdoors. Occasionally, the boys would come home with tall tales woven by Finn. I was pretty sure that he escaped reality by devising a fictional life that he needed to believe. Once the summer began to wane and school started, we didn’t see him as often. 

As with any shared story, details are never complete. The story must be pulled from ongoing lives that have their own twists and turns, beginnings and endings. I do not recall every event from that fall. Our family life was full with school, sports, ministry, extended family visits and the like.

I do, however, recall snapshots: 

Finn outdoors, on school nights, until ten pm. The evenings gradually growing colder and Finn without a sweatshirt or jacket, riding a skateboard. 

His older, teen aged brother, adorned in black, with dyed hair hanging over his eyes shouting for Dalton to get his rear end home.

Finn’s father, an imposing and intimidating man, always in a trench coat, never acknowledging his son, but walking straight inside the house after work. 

Finn’s mother, waving over the mailbox, friendly yet detached. As elusive as Finn, and as forgettable as her daughter.

Finn’s grandmother, babysitting most afternoons. A chain-smoking woman, snapping at her grandchildren, and ignoring everyone else. I was told that she shooed her grandchildren outdoors while she caught up on her soaps and cigarettes.

Other neighborhood kids rang the doorbell most afternoons, beckoning our children to please come out and play. Not Finn. He would simply wait in our driveway, kicking pebbles in the street, head hung low.

One day I stood by our dining room window and watched as my Caleb and Jacob ambled outdoors with a football in hand. Caleb called out a hello to Finn. Finn’s shoulders relaxed and he smiled wide. The moment was so unrehearsed and so unusual and so very real that it took my breath away. Such happiness on his small face. I knew at that moment he felt safe. I wondered right then if his mother ever gave him a tight hug just because.

It would be a few months later that Finn rang our doorbell and stepped into our home. An unforgettable day.


Spring was especially beautiful that year in Texas, and I spent many afternoons outdoors, snapping pictures of the wide blue sky and fragrant flowers beginning to bloom. Neighborhood children loved our large dead-end street, and emerged many afternoons to play pickup games of football, baseball, and soccer. Bikes were scattered everywhere, and I recall mixing lots of lemonade to share. Finn guzzled it down and always thanked me, eyes cast downward.

He loved Caleb and Jacob, that was clear. Perhaps love is the wrong word….I believe he felt safe with them. They didn’t tease, but listened and encouraged him. We discovered that Finn was an avid reader and I wasn’t surprised. His vocabulary was as strong as his imagination.

One afternoon I overheard Finn talking with the boys. Do you fellows have chores?

They nodded. Yes, we have lots of stuff we do to help Mom, said Jacob.

Like what? Finn seemed interested.

Let’s see…walking the dog, emptying the trash, clearing the table, setting the table, cleaning our rooms, making our beds–

Finn, uncharacteristically, interrupted. You make your beds?

Sure do. Every day. Caleb answered.

And then when Mom washes our sheets, we have to make the whole bed from scratch. Jacob’s brown eyes became round, just thinking of all that extra work he didn’t particularly enjoy.

Wow. Finn looked surprised. He glanced my way and I suddenly became very busy fiddling with my camera. His voice grew quiet. 

And then: No one’s ever washed my sheets. And they don’t smell good either. 

He paused, waiting for some reaction. My boys looked at each other, uncertain.  

And finally, Caleb: It’s okay Finn. He patted his back. Let’s go play frisbee.


Towards the end of March, I planned a neighborhood birthday party for Caleb and Jacob, who are slightly less than two years apart in age. I chose a Saturday in April, and the boys distributed the invitations to friends on our street. Several of them told us they would be there, but I only received one official phone RSVP, and that was from Finn’s mother. 

Dalton will be there. Her voice wasn’t unfriendly. Thank you for inviting him. 

She was reserved and articulate and distant.  I was left wondering how the day would unfold.

Precisely 15 minutes before Caleb’s and Jacob’s birthday party was supposed to begin, our doorbell rang. We had decorated simply, and as my eyes scanned the room, I decided everything looked fresh and clean, festive, yet simple. 


I opened the front door.  There stood Finn. My heart caught in my throat and I again suppressed the desire to pull him through the front door and adopt him as one of our own. My goodness, the lengths he had obviously gone to for this party.

Hello, Ma’am. All formal, perfectly rehearsed. I am a bit early. 

Finn’s hair had been parted and combed down with scented hair gel. He wore a clean, new collared shirt, and a new pair of sneakers that I had seen on big-time sale at Walmart earlier in the week. I found my voice. 

Finn, honey, come right on in. 

I closed the door behind him and called upstairs to the boys, who tumbled down the stairs. They welcomed Finn as his gaze wandered around our house. He turned to me and whispered.

It is so nice and bright here. It smells good too.

I thought about the drawn blinds about his house, the smoke and soap operas.

Thank you, Finn. And then: Would you like me to take those from you? 

It was only then that I noticed four gift bags in his hands. He smiled. 

I saved my money and actually bought something for all of your children.

He sounded so grown up and so proud and it was beautiful and sad all mixed up together.  My husband walked into the room. 

Finney! he called out and shook Finn’s hand. Jon has a way with nicknames, and Finn was glowing like a Christmas tree.

Hello, Sir. 

His smile was wide. I noticed several large bruises on his arm. Well, then. Not the time to ask about that. By this time the doorbell was ringing again, and several other boys entered our home, two of whom informed me immediately that no, they didn’t like ice cream cake, and by the way, did we have party favors to pass out? 

Then I turned back to Finn, who was on one knee telling our little Lauren Olivia and Marcus that he picked out something special just for them, too.

Dear Lord, make him yours, I prayed.

After everyone had arrived, Caleb and Jacob opened their gifts and expressed their thanks. I cannot even remember what Finn gave them, but when Caleb and Jacob high-fived him and repeated their thank you’s I knew that the giver was more blessed than the receivers.

He was careful all party-long to say: please and thank you, and that was delicious, Miss Kristin.

I was in my element waiting on him, and making sure he had as much to eat as he wanted. The dark under his eyes was pronounced, and as he sat next to Jacob, I realized that my boy was the picture of health next to this poor little guy.

Okay, boys! Jon rubbed his hands together. Who is ready for the outdoor competition?

The boys hollered, and for a moment Finn paled. I needn’t have worried. Jon tousled his hair. 

Come on buddy. We’ll have a great time. Finn’s shoulders relaxed and they all raced out the front door.

Isn’t this party great? Jacob smiled and brushed by me out the front door. 


Simplicity and the great outdoors. That was the ticket. If there’s one thing I dislike, it’s intricate and expensive birthday parties. My birthday boys were having the time of their lives. I scooped up Lauren Olivia, and we followed the party out into the front yard, where Jon was explaining the contests, all of which involved football.  

Finn stood quietly, earnestly listening to the instructions, his small face upturned towards the sunlight. He chewed his lower lip, a habit I had grown accustomed to over the past eight or nine months. In contrast, twin brothers who were also our guests at the party, largely ignored Jon and began arguing over who was going to compete first. Jon glanced at me and I rolled my eyes. He shushed them and finished his explanations.

The competitions began and I remember cheering for all of the boys. Finn held his own, but didn’t win anything at first. Caleb and Jacob won a few, as did one of the twins, while the other sulked miserably on the sidewalk. Caleb and Jacob were having a blast, as was Finn.

As best as I can recall, the last competition involved catching a long pass. I couldn’t have written a better script if I had tried. Everyone had had a turn, and there were many drops. Jon lobbed the ball high and deep, and Finn ran. His small body in those new Walmart shoes seemed to fly. He looked over his shoulder and placed his arms out to catch the ball. And he did. Our family cheered and the boys ran and high-fived their friend. The twins sulked off to the side, claiming something was unfair. Jon chose to ignore them.

Finney….that was the catch of the day, man! Jon patted his shoulder and Finn’s smile stretched to his eyes.  I walked over to him.

You are something else, Mr. Finn!

He glanced shyly at me and whispered a thanks. Jon passed out medals, and Finn was awarded the gold, for the catch of the day.  We passed out gift bags and the party was over.  

Late that night, long after our children were asleep, I stood silently at the window, watching as Finn played in the street, gold medal around his neck, football in his small hands.

Chasing Rest

Sometimes, my friend, the most faithful thing you can do is crawl into bed at the end of the day, close your eyes, and sleep.

This is my mantra for today, this week, this month, and this summer.

Softly placing my head on my pillow each night, especially during busy or chaotic times, requires an abandonment of control. Intentionally ceasing to still my hands and quiet my mind at day’s end, when work still beckons, is an acknowledgment of my human frailty before our Creator who flung the stars to shine by pitch of night and designed the sun to warm by day. Resting reminds me that I am not God. Created in his image, I rest out of obedience (Deuteronomy 5:12). God values a pause in work, as he himself rested after his six days of Creation.

But there is an even deeper rest than sleep. It is a rest of the spirit: an abiding tranquility of the soul. A gentle ocean, with quiet, steady, lapping waves. Clear water, unperturbed and obedient to the moderate tide. A safe and beautiful place to boat and swim.

How different from the anxious, bothered soul! A roaring ocean, beating the shoreline, its undertow yanking swimmers, tugging them away from land, flailing and choking and even drowning. The anger of the white crested waves is powerful and dangerous and often deadly.

The soul of gentle waters trusts God moment-by-moment in contentment, and remains calm through absolute submission to God, who is wisdom and authority and perfect power. Nothing startles the Lord, and unflappable tranquility is the result of a heart set upon him.

The anxious, swirling ocean rears up at each bothersome wind of trial. There is no peace, because there is no authority or anchor. This soul is like a doubting, unstable wave of the sea, driven and tossed by the wind (James 1:6).

I remember so many years ago, rocking our babies in the middle of night. A street lamp threw a narrow gleam upon the dark canvas of that three a.m. window. The gentle creak of the rocker leant noise to the otherwise silent room. My babies must have felt the steady thumping of my heartbeat. In a short time, as we swayed, I sensed their small bodies relax, limp and heavy with sleep. I held them tenderly against my shoulder, kissing their downy heads and marveling at the wonder of them. They rested in my arms in utter trust.

How much more our Heavenly Father holds his own. We are so beloved by him that he cares for us moment by moment, held fast even beyond our lifetime, cradling us into forever. How often I forget the sturdiness of God’s love. We discover true rest only in Him.


This week I had plans to work on specific projects. Those plans crumbled due to unanticipated events, and I instantly felt a growing tightness in my shoulders, and a clenching of my jaw as I reviewed my unfinished To-Do list.

I love my To-Do list. It is how I navigate through each day. God pried the list from my hot hands and turned this week into something quite different.

I confessed yet again, apologizing for curling into selfishness: something I thought I had crucified. Tricky, because my planned projects themselves were for others, and while that in itself appears generous, I neglected to rest in God and to keep a tranquil spirit: Nevertheless not my will but yours, be done (Luke 22:42). I somehow forgot that he orchestrates all events with purpose.

I was a turbulent ocean.

I will not slip into a state of godly tranquility by happenstance. These bones require the meat and skin of repentance, prayer, and Bible reading. I am asking God to refine my To-Do list, praying for him to infuse me with a desire to obey and please only Him. Everything else is quite secondary.

I have also decided on the front end of what is shaping up to be an exceptionally busy summer, full of deep projects and extra work, to cheerfully tend to the duties which he has placed in my lap.

And then, when the evening beckons, and the sun lowers its heated rays, I will faithfully slip between cool sheets, read a good book, and go to sleep. God is awake and working, that I may rest.

In peace I will both lie down and sleep; for you alone, O Lord, make me dwell in safety. Psalm 4:8

I Do and I Will

Summertime is for flip-flops and barbeques, sandy beach towels and magnificent sunsets. Evening fire-pits and spontaneous car rides ending in ice cream. Sun pulses against evening shadows, turning to morning rays tapping through the blinds early; awakening the birds who trill the beginning of another dawn.

Summertime is also for weddings.

I remember one pretty summer morning, twenty-seven years ago this August. My maid-of-honor and I had whispered late into the night, dreaming of our long anticipated futures: grown-up lives and handsome husbands and future children, with nary a clue of the complexities of real-time marriage: the newness, followed by the permanency of our vows, followed by shadows of our own sins pressed up against a fellow heir of Christ with his own shortcomings. All of it intricate and beautiful and crushing…this becoming one. A slow dance requiring a lifetime of learning, loving, forsaking self, forgiving, and growing. It is never what one imagines; but far more weighty; made richer through sacrifice.

Any two may properly answer the questions posed during the finest of premarital counseling, in addition to reading all of the books, but still. It is like researching and daydreaming of swimming: proper techniques and strokes and breathing; the rhythmic arm motion and kicking. At some point you can only learn to swim by letting go and jumping into the water.

But on that breezy, blue-skied August morning decades ago, I knew none of these things, and my first order of business was to join my bridesmaids, each of us fresh-faced and tan in our umbros, soft t-shirts, and wedding shoes. We danced the driveway and laughed, performing the twist as we intentionally scuffed the bottoms of our slightly heeled shoes so as not to slip while later walking the aisle to Bach’s Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring (them) and Clarke’s Trumpet Voluntaire (me).

That scuffing did the trick; it gave the shoes solid traction for wedding day festivities. It altered the shoes for the better, and although no one could see the ugly pavement marks, hidden beneath our feet, they remained. We each survived the long, lilting walk down that brilliant aisle to the front of the sanctuary.


I recently heard of a couple who has been married a handful of years, claiming to have never once argued. Pardon me? I nearly choked. This seems so impossible, that I am left wondering if one of them is void of opinions? Have they both reached an impossible perfection?

I am not suggesting to go home, cantankerous and spoiling for a fight, but in any real and honest marriage some scuffing up will happen, and if weathered for better or worse, will produce a gradual change in this merging of two distinct people: one man, one woman. It is the staying, the dogged determination to see this promise through, without optional exit ramps, but frequent: I am sorry and will you forgive me pleadings that result in something beautiful and lasting and God-honoring.

There is a glorious triumvirate in a Christian marriage: God…husband…wife. Through the scuffing and scars and suffering, your footing will become more sure, only if you first bow in obedience to God. Ephesians 5:21-33 has taken Jon and I years to practice and learn. It is the simplest and most difficult formula to flesh out. But it works. Dying to selfishness and sin, plus continually striving to outdo one another in showing honor (Romans 12:10) is no cheap trick. It is costly, as is loving your neighbor as yourself (Mark 12:31). A spouse, as it turns out, is our closest neighbor.


This is what I do know: as pretty as cut flowers gifted by my husband and perched tabletop appear, they pale in comparison to the truly costly. Who knew that Jon’s filling up the truck with fuel, or taking out the bulging trash bag, working so hard to pay unexpected bills, bringing me ginger ale and saltines when I was down for the count, or patiently rubbing the back of our sick children in the middle of the night would have stitched my heart to his? The grit of life. These are the selfless acts that make a velveteen rabbit marriage: soft and worn and a bit threadbare, yet beautifully blended and cherished and deeply good. Love is kind.


Many years ago we took the children and our dog to romp at the park, where we played for hours: football, swing sets, slides, timed races. It was lively and it was fun.

As we drove away, I looked down and gasped: my diamond setting in my engagement ring was gone.

We returned and combed the park, which was of course futile: acres upon acres of field and sand, and we had played upon it all. As we drove home, it was quiet in the car until Marcus, age six, whispered: Mommy, you and Daddy are still married though?

I laughed, and the sadness fled. We pulled into our driveway and I scooped him up and reassured him, and myself, that a diamond is just a thing, not nearly as important as the husband and wife in covenant.

Oddly enough, within a year, I was slicing apart frozen chicken, when the knife in my right hand slipped, cutting a fast and angry gash above my wedding band. My finger swelled faster than I could remove the ring, which left a helpless choking sensation in my left hand.

Jon rushed home and we raced to a walk-in clinic, where a doctor sawed the band off. The relief was immediate, followed by tears. Hadn’t it been enough to lose my diamond? Now I was holding a crudely broken wedding band. But then I remembered: it was an object. We had each other.

Ultimately, we paid a jeweler to repair it, and I wear it now. We persevere: a circle of gold, without end.


This August, soon after celebrating our twenty-seventh year of marriage, we will embrace our first grandbaby. This circle of life looks much like our worn wedding bands. As our children begin their marriages, promising their own vows, Jon and I will cheer them along. God treasures marriage.

I sometimes study the familiar silhouette of my husband, and remember all of the love and fun, sacrifice and hardships, disagreements and differences, and then marvel at the kindness of God. Those scuff marks have formed us, sometimes in the furnace of affliction, while enabling us to step down the aisle of life together. Not in perfection, but with strength and love, inching forward still, holding our covenant high before God. The journey of a lifetime.

My Hiding Place

For many years, my childhood church was held in a finished barn, attached by narrow hallway to the parsonage. One warm summer’s evening, when I was four years old, our congregation gathered there to watch a film of Corrie ten Boom, who spoke of her book, The Hiding Place. We scrunched uncomfortably close, sans air conditioning, to make room for all members and visitors who had come to hear this woman share her survival story. As soon as the movie began, I was captivated.


Corrie ten Boom was a Dutch woman, who along with her sister and father, was caught sheltering Jews in a hidden compartment within the walls of their home in Holland during the Nazi terror of World War II. Because of their steep involvement in the Dutch underground resistance, Corrie, her sister Betsy, and their aging father were separated and herded off to a concentration camp. Their father died within days, but Betsy and Corrie survived to suffer starvation, humiliation, and torture under the Nazi prison guards. Betsy guided and encouraged Corrie to stand strong in faith, and together they shared Jesus with fellow inmates during nightly Bible studies. The guards remained providentially oblivious, due to a bedbug infestation in those very rooms. Betsy perished only days before Corrie was freed. It was later discovered that her freedom was due to a clerical error.

God had wonderful plans for sparing Corrie from death: one of which was to herald her testimony of the freedom found only in Christ. Once released from the concentration camp, she acknowledged a hardened place growing in her heart, a wide cavern filled with hatred and bitterness toward those monstrous guards.

Corrie dumbfounded the world by fully forgiving her tormentors, repeatedly sharing her testimony in her world-wide missionary travels. This was staggering in a time where nearly everyone was hand-feeding rage and bitterness due to the gut-wrenching atrocities inflicted by the Nazis.

One day, in her travels, a former German guard approached her and offered his hand, seeking her forgiveness. She immediately recoiled, recognizing him as the most debased guard of all, a man who had personally humiliated both Betsy and Corrie. As he stood directly before her, apologizing and speaking of his new faith, she yielded to the Holy Spirit’s promptings, choosing to radically forgive him.


Of course I knew none of these things that warm summer’s night in our barn-church, but I do remember, even now, the black and white film, and Corrie’s face: kind, peaceful, lovely. Her words were spoken clearly in her Dutch-laced accent, unmistakable in their pulsing love of God, and others; even her tormentors.

My little-girl heart stood transfixed: never had I seen the Lord so vivid in the being of another. So genuine. Corrie was not a dynamic speaker: she was direct, full of authority, both soft-spoken, and happy. Her face radiated calm. I was too young to know of her suffering, (those blanks would be filled in later), but her joy of Jesus was undeniable. Corrie was simply at rest in Him, and I could feel it in my bones: this was exactly what I wanted.

After the film, there were platters of finger foods and punch, and the children gathered outside to play tag, waiting for the fireflies to begin their flickering lantern-dance by dark. I romped and played, delighting in a summer’s night with an abandon that often eclipses adults. As we chased each other, my imagination soared with fantastic plans to build secret compartments and rescue people. I longed to be brave just like Corrie ten Boom, and I wanted to know the same Jesus that she did.


Suffering has a way of parting the heart, chiseling a highway straight down the middle, before offering grave detours; choices. I have yet to meet a Christian who radiates the image of the Creator, that has not suffered well, choosing to accept in peace the precise will of God.

It is easier, by nature, to suffer poorly: plunging into self-pity and complaining, nursing and rehearsing grievances to anyone who will lend an ear, growing bitter and sullen, storing up a record of seemingly justified wrongs. I have been guilty of these very things.

Years ago, God took me through a season of paramount suffering. Multiple heartaches within a two-year span, which at the time, felt like 200 years. I will not say that the details are unimportant, because details are always important. But more importantly, within a short time of this suffering, I reached the end of my workhorse self.

I awoke one morning, looked into the mirror, and bumped up against the ugly truth: I was a thoroughly exhausted people-pleaser, who could no longer patch things up for myself or others, while bowing to the whims of whomever, and hanging on to simmering grudges, festering yet silent, buried deep inside. I had gods before me, and the God, my jealous Heavenly Father, had had enough. He chose to unravel the entire mess.

I can see now, in hindsight, that God designs sufferings, created uniquely for his children. He does not toss hardships at random, like dreadful Christmas gifts from some Great Aunt who bestows the same matching, ill-fitting sweaters to each family member carelessly, with little care. Instead, God gives us our sufferings to fit his good and holy purpose: to grow and form and shape us in likeness to his Son. Our part is to trust and obey and follow our Father, knowing that there is nothing reckless or random in his plan. He is our perfect hiding place; the safest spot to dwell.

During those two years, suffering had blazed a deep highway down my heart, and I held two choices in either hand: obey God and forgive, or hug bitterness, and thus quench the Holy Spirit.

And then I remembered Corrie ten Boom. After searching, I discovered an old video clip, and I was suddenly four years old again, seated in a packed New England church. Her face was precisely as I had remembered: confident, soft, and joyful. Regardless of the consequences, we must forgive, she said.

And there it was: my next act of the will. A choice: obey God, or follow my own heart?

I could not change my suffering, I could not erase the sins of others inflicting harm, and I could not strong-arm anyone’s heart into biblical repentance.

But I could forgive, and leave all consequences in God’s care. (Forgiveness does not necessarily result in reconciliation. The Bible teaches us to guard our hearts and walk in wisdom. There are dangerous situations and dangerous people, who may be forgiven, but kept at a distance until time reveals a true heart change.)

So I forgave. Wildly, I might add. My list was embarrassingly long: silly little grievances and monumental ones, long-standing grudges and recent, ongoing hurts.

There was nothing gradual about the moment following: my newfound freedom was swift and delightful, and like Corrie ten Boom, I was flooded with warmth and peace. Absolutely nothing around me had changed; but I was now unchained, and free to live.

Corrie, godly and wise, was changed through her furnace of affliction. She understood that forgiveness is the heartbeat of Christ. Father forgive them for they know not what they do (Luke 23:24).


Corrie ten Boom and her family saved some 800 Jewish lives in that tiny hiding place in the heart of their Holland home, but her bold forgiveness of one guilty prison guard resulted in the rescue of so many more. I am one.

Psalm 32:7 You are a hiding place for me; you preserve me from trouble; you surround me with shouts of deliverance.

I Thought You Should Know

One bright September day, those shimmering early school days: untainted notebooks, sharpened pencils, crunchy leaves and crisp air, afternoons of slanted sunshine upon porch pumpkins, yes on that type of day, our junior high class was introduced to Mr. Langley.

Seventh grade meant Latin, and I felt the twins of curiosity and nervousness flutter. I knew nothing about this language, nor the teacher. Mr. Langley, a new hire, stepped carefully into our bright classroom, and placed his slim briefcase upon the teacher’s desk.

Salvete, discipuli, he said quietly, pushing his wire rims to the top of his nose. He turned to grasp a piece of chalk, and as he began writing his name on the chalkboard, his briefcase toppled and the chalk broke, all at once.

Oh dear, he mumbled, scooting down to gather the mess of papers that had spilled. When he stood, again adjusting his glasses, I saw chalk dust streaked along his face, and on the side of his navy pants.

The boys started laughing, and when Mr. Langley did not stop them, but continued to fumble with the papers and chalk, cheeks crimson, I knew he would never be able to control our class. Our other instructors knew precisely what was what, and could cast a glance at any student and reel them in. Or else.

But he was different from the other teachers: gentle; shy. As he stood, lean and awkward, scripting his name precisely on the chalkboard, I noticed his fingernails were neatly clipped; scholarly. I could not imagine that he ever mowed the lawn or pushed a wheelbarrow or tossed a football. His aura was one of meticulous caution and forethought, a stretch when governing a junior high classroom. As the weeks unfolded, his intellect proved both humble and mighty in a way that spun impractical: an apprehensive scholar who likely poured over his textbooks line by line, perhaps by candlelight, smiling at the wonder of those mighty Latin roots, unperturbed by any other event taking place on planet earth.

Despite these inauspicious beginnings, he clearly understood Latin, and longed to share the importance of this unspoken language that had crumbled in tandem with the Holy Roman Empire some 1500 years ago. As the weeks moved along, he encouraged us with the practical benefits of the Latin language: If we memorized that pater meant father, for example, we could decipher the meanings of English words such as: patriarch, patron, patronize, paternity, patriot, and expatriate.

Isn’t this wonderful? he beamed, impervious to the disinterest of most of his pupils. Latin helps form the logical portion of your brain, he offered, pushing up his glasses with his index finger. It will help you not only in college entrance exams, but in all of life, as you read the classics and delight in learning new vocabulary. He annunciated each word thoughtfully, as he gazed absentmindedly out the schoolroom window at the majestic maple in all of its autumnal splendor; branches spreading throughout the schoolyard.

He then walked back to the chalkboard, asking us to join in the verbal chant of conjugations. Amo, amas, amat, we began. I heard a noise and peeked over my shoulder as a classmate lobbed a spitball across the room, hitting his friend’s neck. The boy retaliated in kind, and they hooted. Mr. Langley turned, oblivious to the cause of disruption, and kindly requested our full attention yet again.


As the months passed, and our Latin vocabulary expanded, Mr. Langley handed each of us a copy of Lingua Latina, and then took his seat behind his desk. We took turns reading aloud and translating.

Imperium Romanum, I read. The Roman Empire, I translated.

I heard snickering and looked up. Mr. Langley had stood and was writing Imperium Romanum on the chalkboard. Clinging to the back of his pantlegs were dozens upon dozens of white page hole reinforcements.

Had this been any other teacher, to my shame, I probably would have laughed, at least on the inside. But Mr. Langley was so kind, so gentle, such a frail bird that I felt miserable as he deciphered the trick played at his expense. His face flushed and his shoulders drooped, mumbling to himself as he exited the classroom to remove the stickers.

To my initial surprise, a pretty and popular girl laughed, claiming ownership of the prank. As she high-fived the spitball fellows, I had a flash of understanding: recalling her careful exclusion and subtle mocking of the girl with the lisp, the boy who wore the same three shirts on repeat, and the shy, smart girl who was dared to outshine everyone on exams. And now our introverted Latin teacher, brought low in humiliation while she, the self-proclaimed queen bee, rose to rule.


I am married to my pastor.

This does not make me special or remarkable. Quite the contrary. I am an average, middle-aged woman.

What it does mean is that my viewpoint from the pew to the pulpit is unique.

I drive into the church parking lot each Sunday and Wednesday, knowing.

I know when my husband is juggling six or seven weighty situations, I know of our family’s stresses and sin struggles, I know his deep longing to please the Lord. I know when he is excited in the growing discipleship of our men and women, I know when he is weary, I know the pressures of decision-making in leading a congregation and answering ultimately to the Lord. I know when a member has greatly encouraged him with a kind word, I know when he has wrestled with a difficult text all week, I know the time spent in prayer, I know the double-digit hours spent in study and preparation as he preaches verse-by-verse, and I know when he has tossed and turned all Saturday night.

But the hardest part is that I know when members are clashing for control, tossing bolts of intimidation subtly, working against unity and submission to God and his Word. It is impossible not to see, not to know, and my husband does not need to even speak a word. These things step into our home, draped over his shoulders like a cloak at day’s end. I offer to take the cloak and stuff it in the closet, but it sheds something fierce, and remnants remain on his shoulders, day after day. I vacuum them from the carpet, as they are sprinkled everywhere. This is undeniably part of his work, and by default, mine as well.

What am I to do? I have a soft heart for the struggling, the weak, the hurting of our church body. They are the image of Mr. Langley, all of these years later, and my instinct is to defend, to help, to shield. My protective instincts have always run a bit hot; it is my native tongue.

My heart’s posture towards the troublemakers? If left alone, it grows into a cold, hard stone.


Years ago, when our two oldest sons lit up the Friday night field, one a quarterback and one a tight end, my joy knew no bounds. Jacob threw with mighty precision, and Caleb’s soft hands caught those passes with ease.

Caleb had this thing, after catching the football, while running to the end-zone; a signature move that became known as: Caleb’s stiff-arm. His powerful arm shot forward and held, pushing down any defensive player who attempted to stop the scoring mission. They simply could not bring him down. It was incredible to watch him put points on the board out of sheer strength, and to witness the team gather around our sons, slapping backs and helmets, high-fiving, while Caleb and Jacob gave each other a quick hug. This was all so natural: they had grown up playing backyard football and with a glance, knew what the other was thinking, what play to run. They looked out for each other.

This is the picture I conjure now. I am like Caleb, pulling in the long and beautiful pass, catching the ball softly, cradling it securely, and forcing a stiff-arm to bring the play to magnificent completion. My husband is preaching the Gospel, offering the Good News and I am striving for softness, and winsome kindness, seeking determination and strength to carry it generously, and when necessary, stiff-arming in protection.

And yet.

The Gospel is not only for the weak, the vulnerable, the Mr. Langley-types of this world. The Gospel is also for the bullies, the arrogant, the queen bees who must be struggling under such staggering poverty of spirit; layers of insecurity that lead them to harm and rebel.

Yes, the Gospel is for all.

The solution for both my cold heart and the bullies is one in the same: a tender work of the Holy Spirit. A repentant heart.

In weak moments, I daydream of clever loopholes, desiring a Bible verse that would permit the stony portion of my heart to remain in a perpetual stiff-arm. This is exactly why soaking up the entire counsel of God, from Genesis through Revelation, is the only way to grow in wisdom and grace as a Christian.

Away with sweet platitudes and easy, milky devotionals. I desperately require the unadorned truth: raw, complicated, meaty. Sola Scriptura: a comprehensive, exquisite, yet savage mural of the riches of God’s Rescue Story, which is living and sharp, holding the power to crush the hardest heart to bits, softening all jagged edges, filling me with compassion and kindness and patience and love. An overarching reminder that God is always working on his children’s behalf, no matter what.

Our son, Marcus, compels the piano to sing. The keys cooperate with their Master, following in obedience as he instructs the notes to unravel in beauty, but only at his bidding. It pierces an almost unreachable place in the listener’s soul: the timing, the softness of his hands as they travel up and down the keys, the flow, the tempo, the sound that sweeps gently over the listeners, falling upon them with presence. The song is not finished until Marcus, the Master Player, has said so.

As long as we have breath, the song of our life is not yet finished. Our music will fall with sweet, lasting beauty upon the world only as we bow to our Creator.

Great is His Faithfulness

This Mother’s Day might be joyous: perhaps you are a new father, amazed by the mystery of those sweeping waves of unconditional love towards your new little one; stunned with the raw miracle of birth and the blossoming motherhood that you glimpse unfolding in your wife; you are delighted to honor her. Maybe you are graced with a kind and tender mother, not perfect but deeply good. Or you are now a middle aged mother, blessed by children grown, sons and daughters who have flown the nest, but still call you and text you and open wide their adult lives. Your heart is flooded with love, and it is your primary delight to serve them, still. Or perhaps you are a grandmother, full of gray hair and smiles, fashioning notes and gifts, praying and delighting in those young lives birthed through your own children. Mother’s Day seems a crown of glory.

Mother’s Day might also throb: you have buried a son or daughter and your grief is torturous, or your medical chart has been stamped in red ink: unable to conceive, or miscarriages have haunted you repeatedly. As a husband you are stuck; terribly helpless, longing to comfort your wife while also wishing this very day would pass, and quickly. Or you are a single woman longing to marry, desirous of children, but so far nothing. Or you are a child that has been maimed by your very own mother, who is supposed to love you most. Or perhaps you are an aging mother simmering that you are not being served by your adult children in the manner you feel you deserve. Maybe you are a single mother surrounded by little grabbing hands and you are depleted, tired, over it. You are a mother burning with regret: you have abandoned or abused or neglected your children, or have chosen abortion, or have stubbornly refused to repent of your sin, remaining stuck on the merry-go-round of worldly sorrow that leads to death, rather than living godly grief which produces repentance that leads to salvation without regret (2 Corinthians 7:10).

My guess is that in this messy life, many are experiencing a measure of both joy and grief tangled up together this Mother’s Day week.

I invite you to slow yourself, and cradle this coming Sunday in your hands as a pure treasure; an opportunity to allow your heart’s posture to bend as your yes to God. Let it be to me according to your word. (Luke 1:38). Refresh your weary mind with Lamentations 3:22-24. Our world is turned upside down with much foolishness, but God’s Word always remains right side up; a razor sharp straight edge; an imperishable anchor that steadies and holds us fast.

Remember on this Mother’s Day, no matter where you may be, that God is kind and gentle and merciful. There is no grief he cannot carry, there is no sin he refuses to forgive. Carve out some time to preach the Good News of the Gospel to your weary heart. Come to him and find rest (Matthew 11:28).

The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. “The LORD is my portion,” says my soul, “therefore I will hope in him.” Lamentations 3:22-24

On Writing

My daughter and I sometimes play a word game as we drive the gloriously winding stretches of road leading to her classes, her job, and horseback riding. It is rapid fire:

Three pet peeves. Go.

So I answer:

Clowns, small planes, and ice-breakers.

She laughs, unruffled, and her eyes are so blue. Oh Mom, you are the most predictable.

I like to imagine this is part of my staying power. In an ever-changing world, I enjoy not surprising people. And if you paid attention to my pet peeves, this might not surprise you, either.

I began this type of game when our children were quite small. It was a slower volley back then, with me asking their favorite color, favorite books, favorite animals, and favorite foods? I already knew the answers, from paying attention to those four little beauties. I treasured their opinions and preferences; I wanted them to not only be known, but to know that they were known; beloved. And then, their little voices from the backseat would return the favor, peppering me with questions. They especially enjoyed posing the same ones, time and again. It felt like a test: Is Mom really listening? Will she tell the truth?

I remember one day, driving home from the park, the heat oppressive. My iced lemonade sat perched, perspiring in the minivan’s cupholder, and even with the AC cranked full blast, we were sweltering. The boys had guzzled their juice boxes, ballcaps all crooked, cheeks crimson. They had even peeled off their socks in a desperate attempt to cool down. To pass time, Jacob began the question game: Mommy, what is your favorite season?

Mentally I thought: Well, not this one, sweet pea.

As I prepared to answer aloud, I first took a sip of my cold drink.

This must have taken a bit too long, because I heard Caleb’s gravelly voice:

Remember, Jacob? Her favorite season is fall. It’s always fall.

Oh, to be known.

The pure sweetness of those long days and flashing years echoes deep. I see now the gift of those hours stacked upon hours, a long string of days with my children; the character-forming and shaping, the consistency built without shortcuts. Time and work and repetition paving the quotidian path for trust and security to take root. I made so many mistakes, but God saw fit to work through my lack.

Children are onions, made up of thin layers. As their mother, it was my joy to gently peel layer by layer; learning them; understanding that they, too, are image-bearers of God, unique and quite separate from me. Children begging for both boundaries and freedom, but ultimately requiring freedom within boundaries to flourish.

The mother and child relationship is tender. A baby is carried and slowly formed for the better part of a year, and there is a knowing of that tiny person. And then, with the birthing, comes a sudden severing of the oneness. The baby cries, disoriented by the bright lights and cold air; the harsh separation. The mother cries out with pain, followed by swift joy and a holy fear at the weight of her treasure. I remember for weeks after the birth of each of our babies, awakening from snippets of sleep in a flooding panic, realizing all over again that they were no longer safely growing within, but were separated from me, an arm’s length away in their bassinette, which might as well have been oceans away in my sleep-deprived stupor. The cord had been cut.

Thus began the lifelong ebb and flow: the pulling in and nurturing, the sending off in independence, the pulling in of loving and training, the sending out to leave and make their own way, the pulling in of please come home anytime, coupled with the willingness to step outside, barefoot on the porch, waving goodbye with a full, aching heart, genuinely happy for their adulthood, while utterly missing the olden days when every little stairstep was tucked safely into bed by eight o’clock.


Writing is not so different.

Each story grows and flutters within, and is held safely until it is born. And then once it is out there in the big wide world, I am relieved yet left wondering what ever possessed me to let it go. I hold a loving attachment to each piece: a longing to serve my reader well, yet pondering if the words might have missed the mark. Every story is as unique as each of my children, yet there is a resemblance, a solidarity of voice, just as each of my children holds a portrait of familial likeness. Separate yet similar and uniquely cherished.

Ultimately I do my best and let the story go. The baby has been prayed over and birthed, and I have already asked God to please make it true and beautiful and read by those of his choosing. The story sprouts wings and is gone. After a few days, I begin stitching together the next one.

My stories are born from paying attention to tiny details; threads pulled and woven. Snippets of conversation, observing beauty in the great outdoors, hearing a string of words that sparks a memory, wrangling goodness in life’s hard crevices. I keep a notebook of things I see and words that dance and stories I remember, hoping to eventually mix them together to awaken something in my reader. Most of my notes are yet untapped. These things take time.

I think of writing in this space as the onion approach: the gentle pulling back of layers, inviting the reader to figure it out.

Instead of writing this:

I prefer cold weather. I like to exercise outside. I enjoy when our whole family is at home together for dinner.

I bid you to understand with this:

Three Favorite things. Go.

Soft hoodies, long trail walks, a crowded family table with elbows bumping, dishes passed, laughter and clinking silverware.

How to write? Sit down and do the work, no matter what. Attention, time, labor, repeat. There are many days I write for an hour or more and ultimately scrap the entire mess. This is not a waste of time. It is part of the process that yields the finished piece. Also, take a break and go live. Take a walk, clean the kitchen, read books formed by another, enjoy coffee with a friend, wash the car. Words often come when you are not drumming your fingers impatiently.

The work of writing is costly for the author: born of heart and soul and stretches of time.

The reader is the recipient of the final draft only; he will never know the dreadful beginnings, the bleeding out, the middle parts of despair, the jagged margins, nor should he. The finished work is his gift.


This morning I drove our daughter to work in the early morning, and coming home, it was still dark. As I accelerated over a hill, I was astonished to see the moon hanging low in front of me: swollen, massive, buttery bright and breathtaking. I felt as though I could stretch and touch it; as though it might swallow me up. What joy to be alone with God and his magnificent moon.

Yet there was a twin longing: to share this early morning beauty with someone, to bring others inside the goodness of God, to be surprised with me by the Creator and all of his masterpieces.

So I write.

(This week’s post is my response to Abigail who so kindly nominated me for the Liebster Award.)

Between the Lines

The best kind of books are the ones you enter, roaming along the edges before diving headlong into the middle, lost in the pages that have become real. The types of stories where you are right there and have grown incapable of hearing the ringing doorbell or whistling tea kettle; the tales where you travel alongside the characters: dashing through an airport, or sitting scrunched up at the school desk in the back of ninth-grade homeroom, or chopping onions at a kitchen island flush with natural lighting, or hiking the Appalachian Trail, shivering alongside the protagonist as they warm their hands fireside, bandage their blistered heel, or dodge a hungry wolf.

My utter favorites are the ordinary, the mundane slice-of-life variety discovered in novels or memoirs that provoke tears to fall and laughter to bubble up and the deepest of sighs because the author just granted words to your pain, confusion, and pleasures. There is a knowing in these kind of books, where the pages cannot be flipped quickly enough; a type of read where you dread the final page because that means the end will arrive and the story will be over. You are left lingering, turning the saga over in your mind, thirsting for more.

I have kept what I refer to as my Life Book for fifteen years. It is a notebook, categorized by calendar year, (I am fond of old-fashioned paper and pen) with a list of books that I have read. The excellent ones receive a star, of which there are precious few, and the finest, the most gripping, the life-changing cannot put down type receive three stars.

If you are a Christ-follower and a reader, it becomes essential to work out your own reading plan. As a voracious book-lover, I have learned, through trial and error, to happily trust the Holy Spirit to guide my reading. I understand that what I read will shape both my thinking and my writing. It is impossible for it not to, because of the sheer amount of words that I absorb.

My favorite English professor from my college days spoke to this very thing with a bold: Think people. Chew up the meat and spit out the bones. Use the brains that God gave you, and be discerning. Read broadly and understand that all truth belongs to God. I have taken this to heart ever since she spoke these words decades ago.

I probably tend to read a bit less broadly than others, only because I know my own weakness when it comes to beautiful writing; I recognize my proclivity to be swept away with the lovely, even if it is untrue. I don’t mean only a stellar storyline; but the beauty with which words are spun. There is a balance I have learned to mentally weigh, but in a nutshell, I have learned to question: Is this beautiful and is this true? I have not always been right.

The Bible is the only perfect book ever written, and if I split hairs over every single thing I disagree with in regards to other books, I would read nothing at all, thus missing untold treasures and truths and delights. This would be a shame, as my imagination and understanding and compassion would also fade. Books are passports, flinging wide the gates to varying perspectives and time periods and heartaches and triumphs. Good books, beautifully written and true, broaden us in the best of ways.


For as long as I can remember, I have loved animals. Especially big dogs, with an acute fondness for Golden Retrievers. This stems back to my childhood, where for my first twelve years, we were not allowed to own a dog. I grew up in a pretty New England farmhouse, divided into apartments, where our landlord did not permit large pets. We had fish and gerbils and outdoor rabbits, all of whom I loved. But at the end of the day, these sweet creatures could not satisfy my deep ache for a dog.

Half a mile up the street, our neighbors owned a horse, whom I spoiled with apples and carrots in a semi-regular fashion. I stroked his nose and told him my deepest thoughts. He listened while innocently chewing grass, and I daydreamed about having my own farm some day. But that wish remained a dim flicker compared to my burning for a dog. Some days, while petting the horse, I was lucky enough to see Happy.

Happy was the farm owner’s Golden Retriever, who lived every square inch up to his name, wagging and jumping and licking my face. I stroked his benevolent head, scratching behind his ears as my mother visited with our neighbor. When he flopped down and panted, extending his paw to rest on my arm, I was a goner. Completely smitten.

Many years later, when our youngest child was two, I carefully snipped a slim blurb in our newspaper, advertising: Puppies for Sale. Golden Retrievers with papers, for a mere $250. I waved the clipping under my husband’s nose, looking directly at him with my large and hopeful eyes. He raised an eyebrow knowingly, and said We’ll see. And then, a few weeks later, we buckled up four excited children, and drove three hours into the middle of absolutely nowhere to choose our puppy.

The dam was sweet and subdued, licking her many puppies. She was gorgeous, with a shiny, glistening coat of deep red. We chose our dog and christened him Noah. As we were preparing to leave, my husband asked to see the sire. The couple hemmed and hawed, then motioned, albeit sheepishly, to a distant pen, mumbling: He’s a tad hyper today. Jon gave me a look, and I followed, with slowly fluttering heart to the pen. Noah’s father was splendid: large and perfectly proportioned, a lighter coat than his dam, stately and impressive. As it goes, Noah ended up being his carbon copy, in more ways than we bargained for.

Noah’s sire was wild. As soon as he spied us, he began barking and leaping, his four paws quite literally air born. He beheld a crazed look, and his barking never once ceased. Jon stepped behind me and whispered: Now I know why these puppies are only $250. Are you sure you still want him? I felt a shadow, a foreboding, but nodded determinedly, already swooning at this this darling bundle of fur in my arms. I was quite beyond reason.

Noah proved to be a lot. He was an anxious dog, but for whatever reason, set his affections upon me. I have never seen such unbridled favoritism. He followed me everywhere, and as time went on, would bark five minutes before I returned from any outing or errand. Our family grew used to it, but it was odd that he instinctively knew when I was nearing home. Each night, he circled then thumped on his dog cushion next to my side of our bed, and whenever I so much as sneezed, would place a paw firmly on my arm, watching me with mournful, worried eyes.

I registered him for puppy classes at the local pet store, and although he quickly mastered the commands: Sit, Stay, Down, Heel, he remained nervous, mouthing my hands gently as a type of pacifier during class. We started referring to him as Needy Noah.

One Christmas season, while Noah was still young and in training, Jon and I sat down to watch a movie. I clipped Noah’s leash to his collar, teaching him to obey the Stay command while at my feet. On this particular night, he repeatedly attempted to lurch towards the dining room. I kept tugging him back, urging Stay, which he obeyed for a moment, before lurching again. This was unusual, because although a bit wild, he typically longed to obey me.

Crazy dog, Jon said.

I think he is trying to tell us something, I responded. Jon wasn’t buying what I was selling.

As he lurched again, I intentionally let go of the leash and watched as he flew into the dining room, suddenly barking. I followed, and to my horror saw that a candle had fallen from the window and was burning a hole in our carpet. He had sniffed out danger and alerted us. I was so proud of him and praised him wildly. This story eventually became Noah’s Magnum Opus, one I would dredge up every time he misbehaved, (which was often), as I watched my longsuffering husband shake his head and sigh.

Noah lived for nine-and-a-half years, and the older he grew, the more bad-tempered he became with everyone except me. When cancer ultimately had its way, I cradled him as he breathed his last, his eyes locked with mine until the very end. I kissed him goodbye at that sweet spot between his eyes that had always smelled so clean, like fabric softener. I cried for days.


Noah certainly wasn’t for everyone, and his hyper-active jumping and anxious barking understandably annoyed many. But his immeasurable, and singular devotion to me was irresistible, and I loved him, craziness and all. We have owned a string of Golden Retrievers since, and their dispositions have been sweet and happy. Jon loves one now, and would do anything for her. I smile knowingly at his devotion, while remembering Noah.

Good books are like dogs. Different personalities and preferences and styles will lend themselves to favorites. What bursts open your heart in a certain book, might not spark others. I recommend chewing up the meat and spitting out the bones as you travel the reading road.

My Three-Star Favorites:

At Home in Mitford – by Jan Karon (I recommend the entire series which I have read through countless times.)

Educated – Tara Westover (A stunning and heart-wrenching memoir with splendid writing.)

The Pleasures of God – John Piper (This book has played a tremendous role in shaping my walk with Christ.)

Some One-Star Favorites:

Little Britches – by Ralph Moody

Stepping Heavenward – Elizabeth Prentiss

The Hiding Place – Corrie TenBoom

Safely Home – Randy Alcorn

Papa’s Wife – by Thyra Ferre Bjorn

God’s Smuggler – by Brother Andrew van der Bijl, Elizabeth and John Sherrill

An Invisible Thread – by Alex Tresniowski and Laura Schroff

True Companion: Thoughts on Being a Pastor’s Wife – by Nancy Wilson

Lad: A Dog – by Albert Payson Terhune

Shiloh – by Phyllis Naylor

Bruchko – by Bruce Olson

Wish You Well – by David Baldacci

Keep a Quiet Heart -Elisabeth Elliot (every book by Elisabeth Elliot is a worthy read)

Eight Twenty-Eight: When Love Didn’t Give Up – by Ian and Larissa Murphy

Mama’s Bank Account – by Kathryn Forbes

Crow Lake – by Mary Lawson

A Grace Disguised: How the Soul Grows Through Loss – by Jerry Sittser

The Sun is Still Shining on the Other Side – Margaret Jensen

Becoming Elisabeth Elliot – Vaughn