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.

//

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.

---

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.

//

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.

Sign up to receive my monthly newsletter—the Good, the True, & the Beautiful—the place where I link to my favorite things.

Let those be thy choicest companions who have made Christ their chief companion.

~Thomas Brooks

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I remember my earliest friendships in elementary school, relationships sparked from being tossed together during recess and afternoon playdates. We did not choose friendship per se—our comradery simply happened. Little drama and lots of fun dangling upside down from the jungle gyms, playing hopscotch, and dizzying ourselves on the playground’s merry-go-round. For years we more or less played alongside each other.

And then, in fifth grade, I left my chums behind and entered private school.

This new school was tiny, meaning friendships were visible and competitive. A wave of pressure arose to have a best friend, and pronto. One girl dangled the term best friend before me, a bright carrot swinging from a moving stick. She slipped me notes during history class, a daring stunt at the teacher’s back, diminutive pencil sketches of posies, horses, and rabbits, and sentences with multiple choice options.

Does Charlie have a crush on:

a) Missy

b) Suzy

c) Amy

Circle the answer.

One ho-hum day she passed me a different sort of note, informing me that she was going to choose a best friend. The race was on, said she, between Kelly (a girl from another school) and me.

What seems silly now—I assure you—did not seem silly then, as I sat at my desk, chewing my Ticonderoga # 2 pencil, wilting inside that old stuffy classroom with its temperamental heating system and heavy doors. I toyed with the pewter buttons on my blue cardigan sweater as my face burned hot.

Oh, how I longed to be chosen.

The next few days were unpleasant, even as my friend floated about, unperturbed, jubilant in fact, enjoying the crescendo of suspense. There was power in making me wait.

Would she choose me?

Finally the jig was up.

I’m sorry, Kris, but I chose Kelly.

She tossed me another note, which I opened slowly, my heart pounding.

Want to be my second-place friend?

Circle Yes or No.

I blinked hard and slowly spun a thin circle around yes, adding a smiley heart for good measure. If I had been seasoned and secure, I would have discerned that her overt insistence in calling me Kris, a nickname she knew I despised, was terribly unkind. Certainly not the words of a friend, blatantly scorching an open wound.

We were not friends, in the truest sense of the word. Just classmates, seated side by side. There was no give and take, our relationship was a one-way street going her way.

This entire will she choose me incident was a knife in my young heart, an ache furthering my unspoken mission to become a pretzel, twisting myself to be whatever others wanted. It would take years and a heap of heartache for me to realize that the deepest desire of my heart, to be chosen, had already happened.

God had chosen me.

Once I grasped this truth, everything changed.

//

The finest example of genuine friendship is the ancient account recorded in 1 Samuel. The bond between Jonathan and David.

If ever there was an improbable friendship, this was it.

Jonathan’s father, King Saul, hated David, and was determined to kill him. While the King of Israel was consumed with envy due to David’s success and dazzling popularity among the people, Jonathan, prince and heir to the throne, was consumed with reverence and fear of God.

The Bible tells us, in aching simplicity, that Jonathan’s soul was knit to David’s, and he loved him as his own soul.

Knit.

Isn’t that a picture? Interwoven, gentle strength.

Jonathan relinquished his right to the throne, giving David his cloak, sword, and belt, because of his humble recognition of truth: his friend was God’s choice for future king.

Can you imagine? An heir by blood, honorably stepping aside out of supreme devotion to God and love for his best friend?

I believe Jonathan was one of the godliest men in all of Scripture.

He forfeited not only his royal standing, but his life for his friend, alerting David to every one of the King’s wicked, murderous, schemes. Saul grew so enraged by his son’s devotion to David that he attempted to spear Jonathan.

Even so, Jonathan’s loyalty remained unwavering, as he protected David. His friendship was a roaring fire kindled by humility, selflessness, and honor, seeking David’s good above his own, a posture born of security in God. The world and its ways fell to the wayside.

Jonathan could not be bought by power, pride, or prestige. He was God’s man.

His covenantal love was an earthly foreshadowing of Christ’s love for his own people, a love unto death.

Jonathan and Saul died in a battle against the Philistines, and David’s grief was overwhelming. The love, respect, and devotion encompassing their friendship did not cease with death. David went on to show immeasurable kindness to Mephibosheth, the son of Jonathan, giving the land of his grandfather to him, and offering him a permanent seat at his royal dinner table.

This account raises the friendship bar, does it not? Many scoff and jest at the deep love between these two men of ancient times, but I consider it powerful. A true devotion. God’s blueprint for enduring friendship.

//

Are you aware that you are not meant to be friends with anyone or everyone?

Perhaps you will find this little mantra helpful:

Be kind to all and friends with some.

Our souls are not meant for haphazard knitting. In fact, God instructs us to choose our friends thoughtfully, judiciously, and with great care. We must practice discernment.

The righteous choose their friends carefully. (Proverbs 12:26)

May we resist slipping into elementary thinking, casually tossing around the word friendship, using it lightly; indiscriminately.

//

There are many dear women I pray for, care for, talk to, and serve. But only a few are friends.

Authentic friendships are strong as bone and proven over time.

These special ones love me enough to ask hard questions, pray for my marriage, my husband, my children, their spouses, and my grandchildren. We have cried together, laughed together, and endured the hard and rocky places. They have shielded me from those seeking to harm, and have been a Jonathan by my side. They have seen me at my worst and corrected and uplifted me. They have rejoiced in my victories, and bent low with me in my sorrows. Our relationships are a back and forth commitment, a two-way street. I have an unspoken place at their table, and vice versa.

We are for each other. Our hearts are knit.

But even so, know this: Jesus is dearest, and Chief of my heart.

I ponder Him now, fully God and fully man. I consider the many ways he was kind to all and friends with some while walking the dusty road called earth. He ministered to his chosen twelve, invested more deeply into Peter, James, and John, and seemed closest to John. (John 13:23)

I have learned this: the deep friendships you crave will not flourish until your heart is first satisfied in Christ. Until then, friendship will be a dangling carrot, a dead-end road, and an idol burning in your heart.

---

A true friend is closer than a brother. (Proverbs 18:24)

A true friend is not a friend of the world. (James 4:4)

A true friend will not gossip. (Proverbs 16:28, Proverbs 17:9)

A true friend is rare. (Proverbs 20:6)

A true friend will speak the truth in love. (Proverbs 27:5-6)

A true friend will give godly advice. (Proverbs 27:9)

A true friend will stick by you in hard times. (Proverbs 17:17)

A true friend is not one easily angered. (Proverbs 22:24-25)

A true friend desires your good more than their own. (Philippians 2:3-4)

Bad company corrupts. (1 Corinthians 15:33)

A month ago, we awoke to the prettiest snowfall: fluffy flakes descending and glistening in the morning sun. It was Saturday, my normal day to rest, but instead, I was playing catch-up after an eventful week.

I charged Alexa to find a playlist of relaxing instrumentals while I filled my coffee mug to the brim with vanilla roast and padded to my office in my favorite slippers.

Twenty minutes in, my husband appeared in the doorframe.

I think we should go sledding, he said.

I had not once considered it. In fact, the last time we had gone sledding was three years ago, a lively trio including our daughter.

So, I tucked my favorite pen inside my desk drawer and rose to find my winter boots. We ventured outdoors, creating fresh tracks through the wispy blanket of snow.

What fun! Two fifty-somethings trudging hilltop with one red sled, taking turns amid a cluster of skinny teenagers. The two of us must have seemed ancient and ridiculous in their youthful eyes…but never mind. Throwing caution (and perception) to the wind, we laughed as the wind nipped our noses.

After I zipped down the long hill, the sled gradually slowed. I stood and turned, looking up while shielding my eyes from the sun’s glare. My husband now seemed like a speck atop the hill.

A hill that suddenly resembled a mountain.

I weighed my options. If I raced up I would likely trip and plunge into a snowdrift. If I remained rooted to the earth, paralyzed by the rigorous climb, I would never reach the summit.

Festina lente, I thought.

Make haste slowly.

So I inhaled and with determination began, one boot in front of the other, and scaled the hill, our plastic sled bouncing lightly behind me.

After what seemed like many moons I reached the top, dazed and breathless, but happy. I handed the sled’s rope to my husband, who hunkered down and after one mighty push blazed down the slope, pumping his fist the entire way.

I laughed aloud.

//

The topic had been assigned, and I sat still, ruminating, watching the cursor blink rhythmically.

On the corner of my desk lay a three-by-five index card with my to-do list.

What if I work double time, and get everything done today? I mused.

So I went for it, permitting myself a scant two hours to write the entire article, determined to devote the rest of my workday to plowing through the remainder of my tasks.

I sprouted ears and became the rabbit of Aesop’s fable, hopping, racing, flying down too many trails, and after a couple of hours, I had penned a passable essay within the allotted word count.

I had not, however, reached the summit. The piece lacked warmth and personality. Heart and soul had evaporated in my haste.

And that is when I remembered a promise I once made, a silent pledge never to hit publish or send on words carelessly cobbled together– sentences yielding a bland, microwaved dinner.

How much grander to slowly, tenderly, peel, slice, braise, and season the ingredients, creating a rich, sumptuous stew of story–setting the mixture stovetop, setting the knob on low, and inviting the meaning and understanding to marinate–bubbling and simmering for days.

Festina lente.

//

At my office desk sits a miniature glass turtle, a cherished reminder that slow and steady, in the end, is rather lovely.

Aesop’s tortoise won the race, didn’t he?

My personal work, whether writing, teaching, tutoring, or cleaning houses, profits from a slow, steady burn, rather than a sizzling flash in the pan.

In this loco world, a culture obsessed with speed, I aim to choose the road less traveled, to make haste slowly, seeking to finish well.

Jesus finished well, accomplishing his Father’s will, while moving forward with calm resolve.

In fact, I cannot think of one instance in the Bible when Jesus rushed. His plate was full of Kingdom work, and he ministered to many. Christ was undeniably on mission, withdrawing only to pray and rest. Never once does Scripture indicate that our Savior scurried frantically from task to task. (Neither did he live passively, with lazy indifference.) His life was busy and purposeful.

He made haste with calm and measured surety.

The supreme example of diligence.

Festina lente.

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The plans of the diligent lead surely to abundance, but everyone who is hasty comes only to poverty.

(Proverbs 21:5)

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As a Christian walking through life’s inevitable storms, are you able to peacefully rest in the knowledge that God is always working, always good, and forever kind?

I invite you to listen in as writer, speaker, and podcaster Shannon Popkin and I discuss the Spirit’s fruit of kindness in the life of every believer, as well as the unusual kindness the Apostle Paul received in the middle of a tempest.

God is kind.

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The building is stuffy and reeks of urine and lethargy as the elderly lie bedridden beneath crumpled sheets.

Nonetheless, like moths to a flame, we happily return.

It goes like this: for the past fourteen months, in the busyness of hectic schedules, the pair of us, two middle-aged women who happen to be friends, carve out an afternoon, the words: Secret Service splashed across our day planners.

One of us offers to drive, and we chatter as we go, listening, counseling, tearing up, and laughing, swapping sermon notes and stories. We dive down down down, into the wondrous depths of the Bible, astonished by the ways God’s Word forms our daily lives.

This is our pact: as long as we have breath in our lungs, we refuse to retire from eternal work. This common passion unites us, a fire burning hot in our bones: taking the Gospel to the least of these.

As we arrive at the facility we pause to pray.

Please, Heavenly Father, give us soft and tender hearts. And courage to speak the truth in love.

I root around in my bag and pluck a piece of gum from the jumbo pack, curling the soft, minty stick between my teeth, a potent remedy for staving off the nausea that rises upon entering hallways stained by the noxious odor of death.

//

Lest you imagine that I am some do-gooder, a woman who has perfected these afternoons of Secret Service, having crucified all selfishness, or that I have been graced a blank calendar to do whatever-it-is-that-suits-my-fancy, know this: nothing could be further from the truth.

In fact, I always have a reasonable excuse to forgo local missions.

Always.

My day planner is stuffed. Fuller than I prefer. In further transparency, I struggle to accept the current demands in this season of life.

In fact, just last week I moaned to my husband about my lack of time, my lack of resources, and my relentless schedule.

Too much outpouring, Jon, all at once, I sighed, zinging calendar commitments toward him like bullets from a firing squad.

This is not sustainable, I might have whimpered, eyebrows rising as I stood in our kitchen, browning meat for the sauce.

I felt awful for complaining and later prayed and repented of my griping.

My about-face was swift as the Lord kindly brought to mind Corrie and Betsie Ten Boom, sisters once jailed in Ravensbrück, middle-aged women who repeatedly shared the Gospel while suffering in this Nazi prison camp. If two, middle-aged Dutch women, once huddled and freezing in threadbare rags, starving, mistreated, and forced to work inhumane hours were willing to share the Gospel and risk further torture, who am I to whine?

Proverbs 10:5 says:

He who gathers in summer is a prudent son, but he who sleeps in harvest is a son who brings shame.

I run my finger slowly across the verses once, twice, and again, remembering an old-fashioned phrase that rights my wandering heart:

Make hay while the sun shines.

We are called to intentionally share the truth of Jesus now before he returns.

//

So, my friend and I keep returning to this forsaken place, holding each other accountable, making hay while the sun shines. We leave uplifted and exhilarated, knowing we are pleasing God by sharing his Son.

Christ is with us, leading the way.

What a privilege to travel the rooms full of shattered bodies and minds, listening to stories and sorrows and garbled, nonsensical words strung together. We read the Bible and pray as we clasp veiny hands and cradle aching hearts. My friend pulls a pair of reading glasses from a stash she keeps in her shoulder bag, a gift that perpetually yields startled, happy grins. I can see!

We speak clearly, and in unadorned speech: the misery born of sin, the about-face of repentance, and the beauty of Christ–crucified and risen to redeem those given to him by the Father. Every visit is a touch different; never as tidy as one might imagine. Regardless, our mission remains fixed.

We have come to scatter Gospel seeds and ask the Lord to bring dead bones to life.

Our visits have been met with curiosity and warmth, resistance and disgust. Not everyone is a fan of Truth, and some have even denied us permission to pray over them. One might guess that elderly, feeble men and women, languishing in a hospital bed would respond with relief and delight at the hope of salvation offered through Jesus.

But the hard truth is that poverty, illness, old age, and looming death (in and of themselves) do not produce heart transformation. Neither do riches, good health, or youth.

Heart change is a work of God.

My friend and I have watched, stunned, as turbulent responses to the Gospel rise in a terrifying, mighty crescendo, on vivid display in those dingy, overheated rooms as infirmed stiff-arm Christ. It cuts my heart, to see Corinthians 2:16 play out in real-time:

But thanks be to God, who in Christ always leads us in triumphal procession, and through us spreads the fragrance of the knowledge of him everywhere. For we are the aroma of Christ to God among those who are being saved and among those who are perishing, to one a fragrance from death to death, to the other a fragrance from life to life. Who is sufficient for these things? For we are not, like so many, peddlers of God’s word, but as men of sincerity, as commissioned by God, in the sight of God we speak in Christ.

My comfort is this: God is sovereign in everything, including salvation. So, we continue to labor and trust him.

//

No one is promised tomorrow.

But we do have this moment, a precious gift, this sliver in time.

Take a moment to genuinely reflect. Are you joyfully sharing the Gospel or have you grown lackadaisical? Do you unapologetically love comfort to the degree that you religiously sink into your cushioned chair, scrolling the stock market, news, and social media, while skipping face-to-face Gospel sharing? Do you make decisions primarily based on ease? Are you passively refusing to deny yourself anything in order to meet spiritual needs?

Or perhaps you are terribly busy doing good things but have forgotten the purpose and pleasure of sharing the Good News?

As my husband often says, Jesus gave us The Great Commission, not The Great Suggestion.

It’s time to get going.

I invite you to rise and go, sharing the truth with people in your locale. Image-bearers who are aching, in need of Christ.

How sad for any Christian to fritter away golden days on trivial pursuits; how beautiful, how prudent to go and share the goodness of Christ Jesus today.

I pray you will link arms with a Christian friend and get to it. Yes, you might feel uncomfortable or nervous at first, but over time it will become more natural and even fun.

How precious to know that God is near and will gift you with words. The results are in his hands.

God has placed us on planet Earth to know him, adore him, and make him known.

So go ahead and make hay.

While there is still time.

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And he said to them, “Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.” – Matthew 4:19

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Today, I happily invite you inside the world of our oldest son, whose days are filled to the brim with Kingdom work. May his story encourage and embolden you to go and serve others well.

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Greater love has no one than this, that someone lay down his life for his friends.

-John 15:13

Once upon a time, I sprinkled a little pizzazz over Valentine’s Day, wrapping up small treasures for our young children. The night before, once everyone was asleep, I slipped into our dining room and decorated our breakfast table with shiny heart confetti, cards, gifts, and a slew of candy.

Those mornings were happy occasions. Four children’s mouths stuffed with pre-breakfast candy, and as sunlight streamed through the blinds, I heard the echoes of notes read aloud, four offerings shyly gifted to my husband and me. We oohed and ahhed over the handmade cards and tricked ourselves into believing these moments would never end—mornings sugared in simplicity and love.

Yesterday, I reached tippy-toe, to the highest shelf, and retrieved a few precious remnants from the depths of my keepsake box. The children’s handwriting has endured, four unique slants winking at me—precious curves I would recognize anywhere. The faded red and pink scraps of paper take me back to a season hushed by the annals of time.

Do you remember? the cards whisper.

I remember.

//

As a young mother, I determined to keep up the tradition of valentining—Forever! Until the end of time! or so I dreamt in a flair of she-bear instinct: wild, ferocious, tender: My precious cubs!

As the hourglass sands trickled like a soft and gentle snowfall, February celebrations waned. Little boys grew tall and chiseled, our daughter spun into a fair maiden, and in a blink all four waltzed into adulthood, some marrying Valentines all their own.

While my bone-strong devotion never dimmed—perish the thought—Valentine’s Day celebrations with our children breathed a quiet and natural exhale, rather than a sudden death. My husband and I exchange gifts and dine out, with conversation unapologetically circling back to our growing family.

Do you remember?

I remember.

//

During my elementary school days, come February, Miss White lined us up—coats on, my dears! Zip-zip your zippers up to your chin!—and marched us outside—no talking! straight line!—leading us to art class. Across the icy sidewalk, down the brick steps, and inside the poorly lit, musty halls of the primitive brown building. The air was frosty but never mind, we were New England children, accustomed to winter’s frigidity and accouterments—snowsuits, scarves, mittens-on-a-string, and enormous pompom hats—children most eager to decorate our Valentine boxes.

Mrs. Gorss, our art instructor, a teensy woman, wore a silky brown blouse and a floral scarf wound and knotted tightly around her aging neck. She floated about the classroom with her chipped, almond-colored coffee mug in hand, edges smeared by salmon lipstick, a horrid shade. These sights gave me the shivers, both the choking scarf and the lip-stained mug, so much so that I longed to race back to my tidy second-grade classroom and Miss White with her icy Nordic eyes, a teacher who chewed minty gum and smelled as clean as a bar of soap.

Mrs. Gorss was kind though, as she passed out cardboard boxes, placing them alongside bottles of paste, scissors, dixie cups full of glitter, and thick construction paper: red, pink, and white. We spent the next hour hard at work, cutting, pasting, sprinkling, and copying each other’s artsy ideas, pretending they were our own.

Put your names on the box, Mrs. Gorss reminded, smiling, a streak of salmon dotting her front teeth as she unsheathed her exacto knife and snipped a rectangular opening atop each one of our boxes.

When Valentine’s Day officially arrived, we raced from the bus and into our brick school, straight down the shiny-floored corridor, unzipping our snowsuits and slinging our hats and mittens over pegs, smoothing the static from our untamed hair. Cheeks red from being thrust from freezing temperatures into the overheated classroom, we hurried to our desks and studied our finished boxes. Soon we dropped our Valentine’s cards into each box. Instructions had been firmly issued to parents, making clear the path of inclusion. No student was to be left out. Period.

It was such a happy day given that everyone was included, even those who were sometimes forsaken. Classmates like Roger, a quiet boy who stood hunched, wearing the same shaggy brown cords everyday, Melissa with a lisp who was ushered off to speech therapy three times per week while the rest of us met in reading groups, and Jason who had a disease that left him forever the size of a three-year-old, with a squeaky voice and mottled skin.

But on Valentine’s Day, all of us were on our best behavior, and generous in spirit. I remember walking up and down the aisles wearing my cherry red turtleneck, slipping cards into each of my classmates’ boxes. We had a fancy party complete with ruby punch, pink frosted cookies, and chewy cinnamon hearts that turned my tongue scarlet. But our favorite were the boxes of Sweethearts, candies with stamped messages that made us giggle: True Love, Kiss Me, Sweet Pea, Love You, Marry Me, XOXO.

//

Valentine’s Day in high school proved nerve-wracking. One of the clubs held its fundraiser on February 14th, and for two dollars, students could purchase a rose to be delivered to any student’s homeroom. Red for love, pink for friendship, and white for secret admirer.

I remember the popular girls (who blazed through boyfriends at lightning speed) smiling as their tangle of long-stemmed roses grew higher and covered their desks, the scent filling homeroom.

The social outcasts, wearing chiefly black and gray on this day of love, cracked open their textbooks during homeroom, supposedly reading without once turning a page. The rest of us, feeling vulnerable and terribly average were relieved to receive a pink rose or two, from one kind friend or another who understood the pain of a vacant Valentine’s desktop.

Yes, ninth grade was oceans apart from the stuffed boxes of elementary school.

//

Life has come full circle, and now I have another Valentine.

He is three-and-a-half years old, handsome, bright, and fun.

His newest pastime is telling jokes, and I am completely undone.

Last Saturday, my husband and I awakened before dawn and drove to cheer on his early morning basketball game. It was a time. Our grandson scored his first game basket ever and it was better than any Super Bowl, which is saying something, at least in our family. My husband and I went wild.

At one point during the game, our little fellow ran out of steam and made for the sideline, shoulders drooping, telling me he was so, so hungry. I opened up a packet of gummies, and he revived, returning to the court, a lump of gummies in his cheek, plus a few more tucked in his fist while his other hand held the basketball.

Our visit ended all too soon, but not before I handed our daughter-in-law our little man’s Valentine’s Day present, plus a package of gummies, just in case.

I picked him up and twirled him, humming our Valentine’s song that we enjoy singing year-round. I told him how much I loved him and then kissed the sweetest, most magical spot right beneath his ear.

He giggled, grabbed my neck, and said: I love you!

And then:

Can I go to your house now?

Well not today but soon, I said.

His eyes started to fill so I told him a joke and he smiled and in turn, made up his own joke.

My funny Valentine.

---

Love one another with brotherly affection. Outdo one another in showing honor.

Romans 12:10

No one has ever become poor by giving.

– Anne Frank

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I learned of him through stories, a gentleman who became a missionary late in life. His beloved wife took ill and died just as he retired from the business world. Their burning dream had been to move overseas to give their lives away.

So off he journeyed, alone. That was many years ago, and this happy-hearted missionary is now in his eighties.

I marvel at the Spirit’s fruitfulness in his life. Instead of chasing money and ease, he has opted to meet spiritual needs with those living in darkness and despair. He moves winsomely, generous with his time and words as he steps into the grittiest, harshest places of the globe.

And to think he could have faded away, basking in the leisure of retirement: golfing, fishing, lazily sunning himself by the pool, perusing the news and social media from the comfort of his overstuffed, living room chair.

Instead, he spends his days ministering in cities swirling with sickness, danger, and spiritual oppression. He pours truth and encouragement over younger missionaries, treating them to dinner and conversation, wonderfully attentive; ever careful in listening. This gentleman is ungrudging with his time and selfless with his resources.

When dining out, he pays for those circling the table and then quietly tips the server the same amount as the bill. What humble generosity–munificence on fire.

The stories tell the man, do they not?

What we do and how we live showcases one of two murals: a generous heart or a stingy soul.

//

Twenty-one years ago, our kitchen phone rang. It was Stephanie, a woman I had met a handful of times in passing at our large church.

Congratulations on your new baby girl! she said, her smile sparkling through the phone. We chatted amicably for a few minutes and she prayed for our family’s upcoming move across the country. And then:

With three big brothers, I imagine your little one doesn’t have hand-me-downs. If you’re interested, I would love to pass along our daughter’s clothing.

I cradled the phone on my shoulder and closed my eyes as I swayed slowly back and forth, my chin nestled atop my newborn’s soft head as she napped. I was tired from labor and delivery, tired from weeks of battling my daughter’s severe jaundice, and tired from wrangling the logistics of our impending move.

Stephanie’s generosity was a bright sunbeam poking through pitchy clouds. One kind phone call served as a balm, smoothing my crumpled spirits.

Later that afternoon I loaded up our children and pulled into Stephanie’s driveway. She opened her front door with a smile and beckoned us out of Florida’s scorching heat into her comfortably air-conditioned home.

She patted the heads of my trio of little boys, offering them juice boxes and cookies, and then opened her arms to my baby girl, making a pleasant fuss over her. After a time, she pointed to the hallway and the treasure that awaited.

I had imagined that she had kindly prepared one box of dresses and was thereby stunned by the four, industrial-sized trash bags stuffed to the brim, overflowing with pastel dresses, flowered jumpsuits, infant onesies, soft sweaters, hats, socks, and hairbows. Expensive, well-made clothing that exceeded anything we could ever have afforded.

For the next three years, our daughter was beautifully dressed in Stephanie’s generosity.

The stories tell the woman, do they not?

//

And day by day, attending the temple together and breaking bread in their homes, they received their food with glad and generous hearts…

-Acts 2:46

Many years ago, in my husband’s first pastorate, a family visited our church. The wife and I shared common ground and quickly connected. A few weeks passed, and as we chatted after the service, she asked me what day might work best for her to drop off dinner for our family.

Dinner? For us? Why? I asked, confused. Our family was neither ill, nor hospitalized, nor expecting a baby. I was accustomed to delivering meals to our congregation, not vice versa.

Later, much later, she told me how stunned and saddened she was to note my surprise. Your husband feeds our souls weekly. The least we can do is bless you with a meal, she said simply.

And what a dinner it was. The choicest meats cooked to perfection, alongside exquisitely seasoned vegetables. A bright green salad dotted with toasted nuts, fetta, cranberries, and itty bitty clementines, tossed with a light vinaigrette and sprinkled with coarse salt and pepper. Warm crusty bread, cradled in a basket, peeked temptingly from beneath a soft cloth napkin. Decadently chewy, melt-in-your-mouth brownies for dessert.

Her kindness graced us that night, decorating a ho-hum, ordinary Tuesday with a heaping dose of generosity.

The stories tell the heart. Always.

//

Generosity with strings is not generosity; it is a deal.

– Anonymous

Have you ever been the recipient of generosity with complicated strings attached? Or perhaps, as the giver, you have given generously with a hidden and selfish agenda?

Those are not generous offerings or gifts at all. They are something quite different–giving to get–which is the opposite of generosity.

John 12:1-8 is one of my favorite Gospel passages:

12 Six days before the Passover, Jesus therefore came to Bethany, where Lazarus was, whom Jesus had raised from the dead. 2 So they gave a dinner for him there. Martha served, and Lazarus was one of those reclining with him at table. 3 Mary therefore took a pound of expensive ointment made from pure nard, and anointed the feet of Jesus and wiped his feet with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume. 4 But Judas Iscariot, one of his disciples (he who was about to betray him), said, 5 “Why was this ointment not sold for three hundred denarii and given to the poor?” 6 He said this, not because he cared about the poor, but because he was a thief, and having charge of the moneybag he used to help himself to what was put into it. 7 Jesus said, “Leave her alone, so that she may keep it[c] for the day of my burial. 8 For the poor you always have with you, but you do not always have me.”

Mary’s extravagant generosity paints a portrait of her sweeping adoration of Jesus. In that day and time, such costly perfume was reserved for future marriage, a woman’s proof of devotion to her groom. Mary’s highest devotion to Christ as her Lord superseded all concerns of money, reputation, dowry, and future plans. She gave everything she had. Wholeheartedly.

How interesting to note that Mary’s devotion and lavish generosity were met with contempt and scoffing by the very one whose soul was selfish. A fraudulent disciple, this thief named Judas Iscariot. The one who lived a life tangled up in hidden strings and self-serving agendas, offering Jesus a warm greeting and a brotherly kiss, while simultaneously betraying the Savior of the World for thirty lousy pieces of silver. This small-hearted man could not see that magnanimous acts stem from a heart fully satisfied in bowing before Christ.

Mary’s generosity was praised by Jesus in the Gospel of Mark, as he told those gathered that she had done a beautiful thing. Her soul overflowed, a river rushing with happiness in God. And it showed.

May we be great-hearted, seeking to step outside of personal comfort and ease, traveling the extra mile to serve others.

Generosity is beautiful, indeed.

---

And do not forget to do good or to share with others, for with such sacrifices God is pleased.

~Hebrews 13:16

There we were, a small group of women seated at tables that formed a rectangle. It was prayer request time, a lengthy slew of health concerns.

As the teacher readied to pray, a woman spoke up, asking for guidance regarding a decision. Should she accept an invitation for an event in which her six-year-old was most eager to attend?

I remember sitting in that stuffy room, fluorescent lights blazing overhead, stunned by the rapid-fire advice that peppered the air, in this room full of professing Christians. One woman dominated, confidently offering advice based on fresh enlightenment from secular magazines and pop psychology.

Biblically speaking, her advice was nothing short of reckless.

Brazen words; void of wisdom.

I glanced around the room. Surely someone would speak up?

As the room fell quiet, I caught the mother’s eye. My words, no matter how gently spoken, would offend at least a handful of these women–this I knew. If I plunged ahead there would be fallout.

I think we must consider what God says, I began, speaking 1 Corinthians 15:33: “Do not be deceived: “Bad company ruins good morals.” An affirmative RSVP to this invitation will crack open the door to your vulnerable grade-schooler, a door that will be difficult to close.

The blessing and beauty of Psalm 1 is a helpful and powerful reminder. As mothers, we are designed to be our children’s truth-tellers, shields, and guides. Remember, a young child’s spiritual roots are neither strong nor anchored.

We please God when we choose to flee the voices of the ungodly, wrapping up our little ones in godly counsel, and pointing them to decisions that honor the Lord. We must resolve to seriously pursue what God loves, modeling godly decisions for our sons and daughters who are watching and learning.

She listened and nodded and thanked me, later on.

You told me the truth, she said.

Around the table, a fair measure of verbal and nonverbal resistance fell painfully atop my shoulders.

***

According to Jesus, we must do three things to become his disciples:

Deny ourselves, take up our cross, and follow him. This involves some form of suffering as we are called to take a stand for the truth. As disciples, we must be willing to follow Christ, unashamedly.

Remember Lot’s wife, who disobeyed the angel’s precise instructions? Escape for your life. Do not look back or stop anywhere in the valley. Escape to the hills, lest you be swept away. (Genesis 19:17)

Then the Lord rained on Sodom and Gomorrah sulfur and fire from the Lord out of heaven. And he overthrew those cities, and all the valley, and all the inhabitants of the cities, and what grew on the ground.  But Lot’s wife, behind him, looked back, and she became a pillar of salt. (Genesis 19:24-26)

In the New Testament, Jesus reminds his followers of this Old Testament story:

Remember Lot’s wife! Whoever tries to keep their life will lose it, and whoever loses their life will preserve it. (Luke 17:32-33)

Lot’s wife looked back with a longing for the home she had fled, a longing to be back in that evil city, where wickedness and worldliness reigned. She was deceived, delighting in the pleasures of man rather than the truth of God.

Matthew Henry said it well:

“Lot’s wife was turned into a pillar of salt, that she might remain a lasting monument of God’s displeasure against apostates, who (seemingly) begin in the spirit and end in the flesh.”

And from Charles Spurgeon:

“If God would save a man, he must fetch him out from the world–no man can remain part and parcel of an ungodly world and yet be God’s elect one…When the time for separation arrived, Lot’s wife could not tear herself away from the world. She had always been in it and loved it and delighted in it…Flight without so much as looking back was demanded, but this was too much–she did look back and thus proved that she had sufficient presumption in her heart to defy God’s command and risk her all–to give a lingering love-glance at the condemned and wicked world. By that glance she perished.”

***

The treasure of our hearts will eventually be revealed. Our words and actions prove the state of our souls.

Are you giving a lingering love-glance at this wicked world? Or are you anchored in Christ?

Don’t be deceived.

Don’t look back.

Remember Lot’s wife.

---

“Therefore, everyone who hears these words of Mine, and acts on them, will be like a wise man who built his house on the rock. And the rain fell and the floods came, and the winds blew and slammed against that house; and yet it did not fall, for it had been founded on the rock. And everyone who hears these words of Mine, and does not act on them, will be like a foolish man who built his house on the sand. And the rain fell and the floods came, and the winds blew and slammed against that house; and it fell—and its collapse was great.”

(Matthew 7:24-27)