---

From time to time I receive comments about the writing life. A day-dreamy look appears on questioning faces, eyes all soft with: I think someday I will write a book about my life.

I nod, waiting for the inevitable.

And then it comes.

How do you ever find the time?

It used to make me feel funny, intuiting this belief that folks have regarding writers, which goes something like this: It must be nice to have so much free time to write articles, posts, and books, rather than working like the rest of humanity.

Of course these words are never directly spoken, but the vibe circles the room, a mist falling upon my shoulders. Rather than taking offense, I have decided that it might be helpful to clear the air of several common misunderstandings.

Myth number one: Writers write in their free time.

Serious writers schedule time to write and do it. People are surprised to know that I treat my craft like a job (which it is), while holding to a strict schedule.

Myth number two: Writing is not work, but a hobby.

I call writing a hard joy. Some days are tedious. Other days are enjoyable and the words flow. But ultimately, writing is work, and writers must do the work. It is not glamorous or easy or even a hobby. In fact, it is quite challenging.

Think of it like this: would you ever ask a veterinarian if he performed surgeries on ailing animals as a hobby? Does he operate on a whim, only when the spirit moves him? No. It is the same with writing. A writer must sit and complete the task.

Most writers enjoy hobbies that are more physical in nature–walking or jogging or biking or knitting or painting or photography. It is good for the writer’s mind to rest by laboring physically.

Myth number three: Words magically appear on the page.

Words never magically appear.

Readers see the finished labors absent of the blood, sweat, prayer, and tears that lead to that final piece. In all of my writings, I recall only a few times when the words have flown from my brain to the page with ease. Most often, I write and rewrite and write and rewrite again and again and again.

Myth number four: Every season is conducive to full-time writing.

I have scratched out words for as long as I could spell. However, I did not begin writing consistently until 2020, once our children were nearly grown. My previous adult years were spent homeschooling, and if I could do it over again, I would choose the same path.

No earthly anything is more precious to me than my family, and raising and teaching our children was my full-time occupation. My favorite work of all time. God has blessed each one of us with different seasons, and now that my husband and I have an empty nest, I am grateful to be able to dedicate the lion’s share of my working hours to writing.

Myth number five: Everyone is a writer.

I would ask you this: Is everyone a scientist? A painter? A professional football player? A musician?

Of course not.

I am not sure why people often assume that everyone has a book glowing inside, waiting to be born. I would argue that everyone has a story to be shared, but not necessarily through the medium of writing. Do not feel badly if you are not inclined to write. You do not have to be.

On the flipside, if you enjoy words, and crafting sentences, perhaps you should set aside a few hours each week and give it a whirl. Do this consistently for a month and see where it takes you. Perhaps you are a writer.

***

May I add another important truth? Writing is a responsibility. A weighty one. Every word published will lead your reader somewhere.

Will that somewhere be good, true, and lovely? Or will that somewhere lead to a tangle of confusion?

Personally, I love memoir and I wish that more sober-minded Christians would pen it.

I enjoy reading about life’s small moments: one’s thoughts as they stand at the kitchen sink washing dishes– fresh lemon soap growing sudsy on tired hands while scrubbing the egg-coated pans to a fare-thee-well, all of the while considering the wonderous beauty of nature, observing chunky chickadees flitting upon the bird feeder outside their narrow kitchen window.

Such a pretty sighting thus prompts them to contemplate the Master Artist. Those chickadees, as well as that humbling act of scrubbing away the remnants of breakfast stuck to pans mean something. God is with us at the kitchen sink of life, inviting us to consider and worship and enjoy him.

Writers who are Christ-followers are highly favored with the precious opportunity to write about our Heavenly Father, who is with us in our daily mundane. I pray that, as a writer, I may be a heated iron, used by God to smooth the wrinkled shirt, inviting order and biblical truth to the tired, the worn, the frayed. A heat that sizzles, smooths, and prayerfully diminishes the wrinkles. I have discovered that God’s Word, when known and loved and cherished and obeyed, rightly orders our lives.

The question presents itself: are we willing, as writers, to yield our time to the beauty of pairing words for the glory of God? Even if those words are read only by Him?

All writing, not only memoir, takes people on a journey leading to a destination. This is important to understand, which is why writing itself is work, to be taken seriously. Words, strung together, grow and swell and sway people, leading them to run deeper into a pit of noisy confusion and self-help, or to a golden field of truth. This place of truth invites readers to look up and away from themselves, considering the wonders of God.

The best advice I have to offer writers is to stay tethered to the Lord through Scripture. Love him most, pray continually, and seek to obey his Word.

Then?

Write.

---

My second cousin traveled to the East Coast one scorching summer, joining us at the pretty beach cottage my grandfather had rented for a month. Like me, she was ten, but even though our similarities ended there, we had fun palling around.

We spent weeks frolicking at the shore, filling our pails with horseshoe crabs and periwinkles. Anchoring our feet beneath the ocean’s sandy floor, we braved the waves—diving in and splashing each other, our skin briny, clean. As the sun tilted and dropped, hushing in its hushed afternoon descent, we combed the beach for sea glass.

And so the days passed, until one afternoon I heard a relative’s voice rising on the wind. There she sat, sprawled in her striped chair, heels pushing a pile of dug-out sand, nose smeared with zinc oxide.

To the family lounging alongside, she laughed and pointed:

Look! Kristin’s skin is so fair compared to her cousin’s, beautifully tanned and as brown as a berry.

Until that moment, I had not given a moment’s thought to my skin. But now I studied my arm alongside my cousin’s as we patted down our sand castle.

The waves buckled and crashed, as seagulls soared and mewed overhead. Throngs of children tiptoed along the ocean’s edge, giggling, as they scurried away from foamy waves, peanut butter sandwiches clutched in one hand and a pail of ocean treasures in the other.

Amid waves, wind, and whooping laughter, this was no quiet beach, yet my relative’s voice superseded all, a scream in my ears.

A seed of worry was born, a sprig of self-consciousness.

I felt embarrassed and oddly apologetic, but could not say why.

I kept digging, digging, digging, pretending I did not hear. My eyes filled as my heart crumpled.

Family ought to be the kindest people of all.

***

My senior year of high school, our family spent spring break vacationing in the Caribbean. I had high hopes of returning, tanned.

The previous summer—in early June—one of our teachers hosted an end-of-the-school-year pool party.

The yard was packed, and I was dressed in a soft t-shirt and Umbros, an unassuming cover-up over my bathing suit. With so many boys in attendance, I did not plan on swimming (although I loved swimming), given that my skin had not seen much sun since the previous summer.

My friends jumped in, stirring up a game of Marco Polo, with a Come on, Kristin!

So I threw caution to the wind.

What a time! Splashing, laughter, fun! A competitive ruckus. I forgot all about myself and reveled in the game.

As the grill sizzled, a delicious scent wafted through the pretty backyard. Our teacher whistled between her fingers, summoning us to the patio.

Hamburgers are ready!

We lunged for our thick beach towels, cinching them around our waists in a fashionable knot. Squeaking in wet flip-flops, we lined up on the concrete slab, ravenous from our water games. Everyone heaped paper plates with pasta salad and chips, spreading swaths of ketchup and mustard atop cheeseburgers. Styrofoam coolers were stuffed with icy-cold cans of Dr. Pepper.

And that is when it happened.

Kelly.

Kristin, you are so pale. Don’t you tan?

Silence all around.

A friend piped up.

So rude, Kelly. Not everyone is as tan as you.

It was awkward. Waiting an appropriate amount of time, I rose and tossed my uneaten food in the trash. Stepping behind a flowering shrub, I slipped my t-shirt over my head and ran my fingers through my damp hair.

Seventeen years old, but feeling like a ten-year-old, all over again.

For the next few months (in between shifts at my summer job), I spread a thin beach towel on our back deck, lathered myself in oil, and implored the sun to work its magic.

And it did. Gradually, I browned, returning to school that September with tanned limbs and high hopes that Kelly would leave me alone.

***

Senior year and Spring Break.

We flew to the island and took a winding bus tour before heading to the oversized pool. I was a New England girl, not accustomed to intense heat. I smiled at my good fortune.

My mother passed me the bottle of sunscreen, but I quietly turned to my old friend, the beloved oil.

All was well until I readied for dinner later that evening. As I stepped into the shower, the water droplets became rapid-fire bullets, pelting my tender skin.

I gasped, horrified at my mirrored reflection.

I was as red as a cooked lobster.

My skin bubbled and blustered, despite slathering on vast amounts of soothing aloe vera. Sleep eluded me; the agony of my burn was indescribable.

I was on fire.

At two o’clock in the morning, whimpering in misery, I awakened my mother, who led me to the swimming pool. Slowly, gingerly, I submerged myself in the cool water and wept in sweet relief.

The next two days were agonizing, until at last my skin peeled. I smeared sunblock liberally over my tender skin and ventured to the beach in the early hours, returning indoors at high noon. The rest of our vacation was pleasant, and I landed upon my native soil—and homeroom—tanned.

***

Others were not to blame for my sunburn.

That was my own doing, a pathetic attempt to meet a silly standard.

Yet this I know:

Thoughtless words are taloned creatures, beasts that sink their claws deep, painfully clutching our minds and hearts, a painful reminder that we are frail, easily wounded people, mortal dustlings prone to injuring others with careless speech.

Yes, death and life are in the power of the tongue.

How wise to pause and think before speaking.

---

And the tongue is a fire, a world of unrighteousness. The tongue is set among our members, staining the whole body, setting on fire the entire course of life, and set on fire by hell. -James 3:6

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Have you signed up? May 25th is the deadline to register for my online writing class, Write the Truth, Beautifully™

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 by the raw miracle of birth and the blossoming motherhood that you glimpse unfolding in your wife; it is your chief delight to honor her.

Maybe you are grateful to be 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 who has been maimed by your very own mother, who is supposed to love you most. Or you are an aging mother wrapped in selfishness, simmering that you are not being served by your adult children in the manner you feel you deserve.

Perhaps you are a single mother surrounded by little grabbing hands, and instead of counting blessings 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 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.

On this Mother’s Day, remember that God is kind and merciful. There is no grief he cannot carry, 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).

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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

I invite you to sign up for my writing class: Write the Truth, Beautifully™

I came home from work the other day, kicked off my flats, slipped my earrings into a tiny bowl on our kitchen windowsill, and bent down to scratch the dogs’ heads.

It’s so good to be home, I murmured to them, their soulful eyes squinting at me with pure love, tails wagging in response to my low, hushed tones.

Delicious, that peaceful feeling of home. I beckoned Alexa to play a little George Winston as I sank into our oversized chair and closed my eyes.

Home. My favorite place.

There is little doubt: I am a happy, happy homebody.

***

On writing days, I walk into my office and read the framed canvas adorning the wall:

Home is where our story begins.

The first home of my memory was a beauty, indeed, an antique New England farmhouse, neatly squared off into several apartments. One decade of my childhood played out in this pretty little town where apple blossoms fluttered and good neighbors inhabited stately homes. The majority of breadwinners in our town earned large paychecks and bought all of the fine things. None of this mattered even a smidgen to me–I adored our road and humble apartment but was mostly swept up by the great outdoors. The landscape surrounding our farmhouse signaled home. The treasures of God’s countryside were grand–the magical seasons; distinct and true.

I close my eyes now and journey back into a different era…the rustling wind in those back fields, my hands brushing the swaying grass as I ran freely, hours before the tractor rumbled out back for baling.

My little brother, Tommy, and I romped, laughing and yanking thick blades of sun-scorched grass, stretching the slips tightly between our thumbs, and blowing hard to create a whistle. Plucking bouquets of purple thistle, we sipped its pure, sweet honey, pretending we were brave nomads staving off famine in foreign lands.

As we skipped under the clothesline and beneath the billowy bedsheets, we allowed the soft cotton to brush our faces before racing each other to the crabapple tree. There we twirled on swings–a wooden bench, and a dangling old tire.

The tips of our sneakers circled the dirt, spinning us around and around as the tractor arrived and circled the field, cutting neat bales. The sun warmed our faces, sparkling against the sky-blue backdrop, as a faint breeze cooled, whispering future promises of fall. In a few months, the maple trees would glow brilliant orange, rich yellow, and fiery red.

My parents’ landlord, the retired Mr. Golden, scrupulously tended the property alongside his wife. Only now do I fully appreciate their attentive devotion to caring for the expansive grounds. They spent long days outdoors, backs bent weeding, hoeing, and turning the soil before gently dropping and bedding the seeds. Their long shadows cast dreams of future abundance, brilliant flowers and vegetable gardens.

At their garden’s edge, I crouched, spying on the throngs of earthworms wiggling, racing downward, burrowing into the depths of the dark, rich earth. Soil that, given time and sunshine and rain would yield potatoes, corn, tomatoes, summer squash, zucchini, beans, pumpkins, and peas. The straight, tidy rows and bright growth were lovely, prompting a poem to bubble up inside, a child-like string of words that I scribbled down but shared with no one. I remained shy about the fire burning within, a flame sparked by both the beauty of God’s creation and the enormity of words that infused my spirit.

A stone’s throw past the wide rectangular garden lay a cluster of raspberry and blackberry bushes. Tommy and I were given permission to feast freely, and we did–liberally. Our mouths and fingertips were stained purple on those hot summer days, as we paused our play to snack.

We perched cross-legged atop an old, heavy millstone, which lay flat beneath the impressive maple in the front yard as we downed berries. For an entire decade, this millstone anchored us and served in happy ways: home base for games of tag, a picnic table for our peanut butter sandwiches, and the consummate spot to wait for our shiny yellow school bus to come chugging down the road.

Tommy and I built a hidden fort in the front woods. A cobblestone wall bordered the spot, and we hacked away at the thick underbrush to make our playhouse maneuverable. He swung from a heavily braided rope swing, sailing high and stretching far as he let go and landed with the ease of a cat, grinning wide, those dimples etched deep. When it was my turn, I swung but was terrified to let go, clinging to the rope until my arms ached.

One day we heard a noise coming from our fort. A pitiful mewing. As it turned out, a stray cat had caught its front leg within its loosened collar, leaving the skin rubbed raw and hot with infection. Our neighbor paid for a vet visit, but the antibiotics proved too little too late, and the poor creature, mere skin and bones, died.

Across the road lay a lazy pond, and at the far end of the calm was a steep, rushing dam. My brother and I had been told that once upon a time, a teenager had stubbornly ignored all cautionary warnings, and sauntered across the top of the dam– showing off for friends. She slipped and died after colliding headfirst with a rock.

So death, too, was as much a part of home as life, and we remained careful, our memories pulsing long.

At the pond’s edge were clusters of Concord grapes. The dark, plum-colored skin was tough, but the inside fruit was delicious; satisfyingly tart. Sometimes we spied female snapping turtles nestled and hidden beneath the grape vines, preparing to lay their eggs. In time, those baby turtles peeked their tiny heads out from their shells, wide-eyed while observing the enormous world.

This entire scene?

Home.

From field to yard to fort to millstone to berry bushes to pond.

Oh, yes.

The rowboat, too.

***

I recently told my husband that I am wishing for a rowboat.

He nodded, his mind in other places.

To be fair, I have murmured about row boats for years. No motor, nothing fancy or pretty. Just an aluminum rowboat with a pair of wooden oars.

I pictured it in vivid detail and then sighed. For better or for worse, the inescapable truth is this: I am a person who forever thinks and processes by writing.

The stories I jot down go unspoken.

So when I tell Jon: I am wishing for a rowboat, what I am really saying is this:

I long to return to the feeling of damp earth squishing on my bare feet as I push an old rowboat from the pond’s shoreline. I wish for one more gentle trip around the pond, my fingers dipping in the cold water as my brother paddles, and we count turtles and fish and tadpoles and frogs, pointing and naming them aloud, while our life vests, old and ripped, rise stiffly and bump against our chins.

I want to paddle out to the middle, where the bottom is dark and deep and frighteningly thrilling, the snapping turtles dangerous, and the painted turtles abounding. I want to switch places with Tommy and feel the boat wobble and tip just a little, taking my turn to row so my younger brother can cast his fishing line and get a nibble, the tug creating lovely ripples in the otherwise still water. I want to see him grin, happy as we circle the pond, spinning stories about the dam, and wondering what might happen if we took the boat just a bit closer.

I want to scoop up tiny tadpoles in an old pickle jar and watch them, just because, before freeing them to the pond, their home.

I want to push the boat back to shore, shoving it high up on the dirt, and hear Mr. Golden holler: “Kids! Turn the boat over and hide those oars underneath and then come see what I caught!” which always meant one thing: a ring-tailed raccoon trapped and hissing, unwilling to release his fisted prize: the ball of aluminum foil which lured him from corn thieving by moonlight.

I long to feel the sun on my face, the berries on my tongue, and the joy of twirling on a tire swing while inhaling the perfect smell of freshly mowed grass. I want to remember the sweetness in penning little love poems to God, thanking him for making this big, wide, beautiful world full of leaves, trees, grass, clouds, birds, fish, cats, and raccoons.

Sometimes, I ache for that feeling of home.

But all I say is: Wouldn’t it be fun to have a rowboat?

***

We were standing on a dock recently, as Jon officiated a wedding. It was appallingly hot and humid, but nevertheless, the bride and groom glowed, happy at their new beginning.

Life is forever shifting, isn’t it?

Fresh beginnings–and not always welcome ones–are legion.

Always we begin again.

We eventually bid adieu to childhood homes, trading them in for grownup residences and marriages. Children are born; the home bustles noisy with new life, as the space swells. In the blink of an eye, children grow tall and take wing, and the home exhales, standing still and quiet and different and tired. The walls bear witness to beautiful and fun and exquisite and sad and painful memories. Those walls remain hushed as old age creeps in and settles: another type of beginning.

Home is elusive.

We believe we have captured its essence when it sways, shifts, and changes.

I was pondering all of these things as the wedding ceremony on the dock progressed when I began to feel motion-sick.

The dock was swaying, only slightly. But just enough to disrupt my equilibrium.

And isn’t that the image of our earthly dwelling? Of home? A solid structure forever swaying on moving waters?

Unsteady, I tell you.

***

The other day my brother texted me current photos of our ancient stomping grounds.

It stung–and sliced–to see the grounds in a state of neglect. Mr. and Mrs. Golden passed away decades ago, their fidelity to their magnificent acreage laid to rest.

The grass is now dry and shabby, the bushes overgrown and laced with weeds, the gardens a patch of nothingness. The millstone is no longer flat beneath the radiant maple but has been propped upright and decorated with a metal inscription; declared historic.

Nothing feels the same, save the tire swing, which dangles beneath the crab apple tree.

The truth?

There is no going back.

It is the kaleidoscope of memories that remains.

***

So I have heaved this longing for home garment off my shoulders and offered it back to God, returning to the surety of his Word. He will wash the garment and iron it and clothe me in it one day, soon.

In the meantime, I am steadied by Acts 17:26-27:

And he made from one man every nation of mankind to live on all the face of the earth, having determined allotted periods and the boundaries of their dwelling place,  that they should seek God, and perhaps feel their way toward him and find him. Yet he is actually not far from each one of us.

Earthly times and dwellings are part of God’s good design– a shadowy likeness of the true Christian’s forever home. God is near to us, such frail creatures of dust and rib, designed in his image and pining for home.

Our heart’s cry?

To enter a perfect and stable dwelling, no longer East of Eden.

***

Today was a writing day.

I studied my sign as I walked into my office: Home is where our story begins.

But there is a bit more to it.

Redeemed by Christ, home is where my story ends.

That ache burning deep in my bones is a cry for heaven, a longing to see Jesus face to face. He has gone to prepare a place for me, and when I arrive, my yearning for home will be forever satisfied.

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Thank you, dear readers, for indulging me with a post from the archives. Rather than tapping the keyboard this week, my hands have been holding and rocking our beautiful new granddaughter, born last Thursday. God is kind.

I invite you to sign up for my Zoom writing class taking place in June.

One year ago, a seamstress shuffled us to the far end, Pedestal number three, please, positioning Lauren in front of a ceiling-to-floor mirror, a reflection revealing what I already knew to be true: my daughter was glowing. Her wedding gown, a faint blush, exuded a tender and exquisite femininity.

The middle-aged seamstress, dressed in black from shoulder to toe, crouched nimbly at my daughter’s hemline, glass pins hovering delicately between her lips as her thimbled fingers flew—in, out, in, out, in, out—pinning the gown.

She worked quietly, square fingernails neatly clipped, eyebrows furrowed. After a time, she glanced at me, removing three pins from pressed lips. Her voice was soft, her English broken.

Beautiful gown, she said.

Isn’t it, though? I smiled.

Your only daughter?

I nodded, feeling an encroaching shadow—the impossible rush of time—hovering.

I glanced up as another bride entered the stitching room, and stepped atop pedestal one, while her sister dropped into the chair by her side.

This bride did not twirl or smile, sashay or smooth. She stood still, hunched in her gown, auburn hair limp, eyes dull. She studied my daughter who was turning and spinning at the seamstress’s bidding.

After a few minutes, I grew uncomfortable with her bleak-eyed staring and said:

When is your wedding?

In four weeks.

Exciting! I said. Do you have brothers and sisters?

Just four older brothers.

I grinned. Well that is fun! Lauren–I pointed–has three older brothers.

She nodded.

Are they excited? I said. Or feeling protective, maybe?

She shrugged.

I guess you could say they are supportive.

She pointed at the woman seated by her side.

This is my wife-to-be.

The poker-faced seamstress caught my eye and returned to hemming.

Just then, another seamstress waltzed to the middle of the room, chatting and laughing as she bid the bride to ascend, thus blocking my view.

Lauren spun slowly, while the seamstress hovered, searching for the slightest mistake. It must be perfect, she murmered.

Later, as we made our way to the register, my daughter touched my arm.

That was so sad Mom, wasn’t it?

I nodded, searching the boutique for the groomless bride. How I longed to speak with her.

But she was gone.

***

It gnaws at me, still: the gospel conversation I did not have with the confused bride, the gospel conversation I did not have with the seamstress at my daughter’s feet, and my woeful unpreparedness in such an awkward situation.

As a Christian, I do not find it difficult to understand and teach women the truth of biblical marriage, God’s way: one man and one woman in covenant for life. God makes his design stunningly clear.

But it takes courage and preparedness to graciously apply these truths in real-time situations, sharing the world’s only hope, Christ, in daily encounters.

May God grant me boldness, next time.

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I invite you to register for Write the Truth, Beautifully,™ my three-session Zoom class this June.

He was Adonis to the masses: chiseled, handsome, affable. A distinguished son born to a famous father.

The story was raw, detailing a life of suppressed pain. The gaping wound of fatherlessness had festered, quietly infecting flesh and bone, churning throughout his childhood, adolescence, and seeping into adulthood.

The world seemed his oyster as he grew in fame and wealth, a colorful life amid bougie friends and unending lovers. But appearances are deceptive murals, painted with broad brushstrokes.

The reality was that he was a complicated, tormented man, his soul a painting dotted with tumultuousness, grief as wild and unpredictable as a storm-tossed sea. He lay shipwrecked alongside dozens of one-night passengers, lonely relationships that quenched his grief for a night but left him floundering by morning.

As the years passed, he took increasing and unusual risks, upping the ante, ravenous for something to ignite and burn hot in his chest—anything other than sorrow for his absent father.

The world gasped at his sudden, violent death—a man snuffed out in his prime.

His final years were squandered, as he dabbled in Buddhism, Islam, and Hinduism. A fruitless journey that left him wanting, wandering in circles; desperately unsatisfied.

My eyes filled as I closed my Kindle.

How tragic.

Fatherlessness, twice over.

***

Stories of battered, barren hearts abound. Oh, how every person longs to be known and cherished by their father; loved unconditionally.

That timeless, relentless ache to hear: I love you not for what you do, or who you become, or what you achieve. I love you because you are mine.

We live in a land of broken down rubble, where many fathers have chosen to abscond from their high and holy duty. Unhealed children of all ages roam the planet, stuck, their lives reciting their sorrows.

A man without a father is a man without a country.

***

Money, marriage, fame, friendships, children, health, anger, power, beauty, drink, vacations, vocations, retirement, travel—none of these things will assuage father hunger. There remains only one way to heal.

Turn wholeheartedly to God, the perfect Father.

Regardless of your earthly dad, the Lord stands ready to receive you.

God gave up his Son, sending him to die upon the cross out of the deepest love. Because of his great love, we may turn from our sin and run to the Father and, through Jesus Christ, stand redeemed, forever.

Do you see? God was pleased to wound his Son in order that we—as sons of Adam and daughters of Eve—may call him Abba.

“For Christ also suffered once for sins, the righteous for the unrighteous, that he might bring us to God, being put to death in the flesh but made alive in the spirit… “(1 Peter 5:7)

This is the Father-love we are meant to pursue. Holy, unshakable, unending love, resulting in supreme peace.

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“For this reason I bow my knees before the Father, from whom every family in heaven and on earth is named…”

Ephesians 3:14-15

I invite you to sign up for my online writing class: Write the Truth, Beautifully™

Hand to heart, writers: The magic happens when the reader says yes.

Our world needs more Christians who write well. Men and women whose words touch the crevices of their readers’ hearts, with writing that yields change, a murmured Yes to truth, written beautifully.

This June marks five years of weekly writing here at The Palest Ink, and by way of celebration, I am hosting a 3-session writing class, via Zoom.

The details

Will you join me? And invite a friend?

I hope to meet you soon!

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Gracious words are like honeycomb, sweetness to the soul and health to the body. ~ Proverbs 16:24

Our son has landed overseas and will spend the next few years as a full-time missionary.

Before he left, we recorded a conversation I believe will greatly encourage you to trust God as you go, tell, and disciple.

I am praying for you now, dear readers.

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Resources For Evangelism & Discipleship

3 Circles Video

7 Commands of Christ

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(My free monthly newsletter includes updates and prayer requests for our son and his team.)

Hey there, little man; handsome grandson of mine.

I have been thinking about the other day when we stepped off your front porch, ambled down the sloping yard to the sidewalk, and swung left. Remember? Down the tree-lined road to the corner park?

Let’s go, Nonnie! You said, arms swinging, three-and-a-half years old and full of gusto.

I carried your stuffed animal and stainless-steel thermos, while you pulled along an orange string.

It was a jolly trio: grandmother, grandson, and string—our slender companion—trailing behind like one obedient dog. You turned and marveled as it rose over dirt and pebbles, and we stopped countless times to correct the tangles and knots, inevitable in a strand some ten feet long.

During our slow-going journey, we played I Spy and discovered a cheery cluster of daffodils, prompting me to recite stanza one of Wordsworth’s I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud, my feet marching to the beat. You glanced up and smiled, delighted at words deliciously new.

Say it again, Nonnie!

So, I did.

The orange string fluttered silently, dancing as we marched—a cord to the past. I turned, quite certain I heard your Daddy’s second-grade voice chanting Wordsworth to his sister and brothers. But he was not there—no one was—only the string and the breeze at our backs.

Daffodils gave way to a dandelion posy. You crouched low and inhaled their scent. We did not rush but rather poked along. Exploring, my dear, calls for time, curiosity, and patience.

You stood and sipped iced water from your thermos, then we continued, pausing to wave and offer hello to the walking mailman whose tanned face and weathered eyes crinkled at the sight of you pulling your string.

Numerous dogs barked as we passed. We spied two cats: one, a soft calico lounging on the front porch swing, eyes closed, warm in the glow of sunshine cascading through porch railings. The other was a black and white, perched serenely on a narrow windowsill; a queen governing her kingdom.

And then you found every little boy’s treasure: a crooked stick.

Nonnie! A stick!

That looks like a fishing pole, I said.

No, a candy cane, you said.

Yes, a candy cane, I laughed.

The breeze blew our hair, and I tipped my face toward the sun and closed my eyes, reveling in God’s creation.

As we approached the corner park, you began one of our favorite games: naming God’s creation.

Sun

clouds

trees

grass

flowers

ants

cats

dogs

sticks

Houses, too, Nonnie, you added.

Well, people build houses but God makes people.

You thought about that and then added, God made the wood, though.

I nodded. Yes, because wood comes from trees. This telephone pole is made of wood.

You smacked the phone pole with your stick.

Nonnie, did God make footballs?

I laughed.

God made you and you like football! I squeezed your hand. I am so happy God made you!

Yes, you said. Because you love me.

You passed me the string so that you might dig with your stick. When your digging edged into someone’s yard, I explained that we must never do that.

You frowned and continued walking down the sidewalk, huffy. Then you placed the outer edge of your sneaker directly onto the neighbor’s lawn.

I stopped walking and waited.

You glanced back.

I spoke your name quietly and then shook my head. And then, to my surprise, you stomped on the neighbor’s grass yet again, your eyes locked with mine.

The orange string lay still behind me. I crouched low and looked straight into your beautiful eyes and thought I love you so much.

Time spun backward, and I was young, a mother in my twenties, gazing at your Daddy—my beautiful little boy–reminding him that he must learn to obey me.

I’m sorry, Nonnie, you said after a bit.

I forgive you and I love you, always and no matter what, I said. Remember this…we must always respect people’s yards.

You nodded, grinned, and said, Chase me!

So, I did. We ran the rest of the way to the corner park. You climbed the jungle gym and raced down the slide. The orange string flew along behind you.

We played in the fresh air and the exercise was good.

As the sun began to descend, we gathered up the thermos, stuffed animal, stick, and string.

It took a fair bit of time to walk the half mile home. In unison, we recited We’re Going on a Bear Hunt as you dragged the stick through the dirt inside the sidewalk’s crevices. And then we sang ourselves home, the pair of us, your sweaty little hand in mine. The orange string followed, growing dusty and tangled, but we did not mind.

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My dearest boy,

You are young enough to hold my hand, sing silly songs, and recite poems and good books. Young enough to enjoy taking a stroll to the corner park with me and your orange string.

Spring days are magnificent, no?

And fleeting.

Orange string days will not last forever.

This I know.

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There is such vibrant beauty, a dawning of life during late March. The burst of spring as daffodils bloom and bluebirds flit. Cool mornings unfold into bright and warmer afternoons. The earth is gently awakening from its long winter nap.

How I enjoy a deep spring cleaning this time of year: baseboards, cupboards, cabinets, closets. Anything seems possible once the gray days have fled and the slanted sun shimmers into the early evening hours.

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I am away from my desk this week, savoring extra moments with my family. This month is a tender time for my mother-heart, as we say goodbye to our son, Jacob, who is leaving for a lengthy missionary journey, and hello to our second grandbaby due next month.

Big changes all at once require a quiet spring cleaning for my soul.

So I will leave you today with a little something. An invitation to listen to a Moody Radio conversation I recently recorded and greatly enjoyed.

May it serve to encourage you to go and share the treasure of Christ with others, today, right where God has planted you.

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I am grateful for this recent review of my second book, Deep Roots, Good Fruit.

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