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

I invite you to sign up to receive my free monthly newsletter.

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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.

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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.

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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)

It is January and it is cold. Snow grows slushy by noon, freezing again come nightfall as the temperatures plummet.

It can be an overwhelming time of year: a fresh list of to-dos, paired with a bleak landscape. The pizazz of the holidays is now but a distant memory, a faint speck in the rearview.

And yet I love winter…the crackling fireplace, hot soup for dinner, a mug of tea, and reading, lots of reading.

I am most delighted to be back on my Bible-in-a-year reading plan. Straight through, Genesis to Revelation, five chapters each weekday, and then lingering on passages of choice over the weekend.

Today, in Exodus, I read of the midwives who defied the king of Egypt, and in doing so spared the lives of Hebrew baby boys. They lied to the king and God favored them.

Just think! They feared God more than a king, and God honored them for it, multiplying the Hebrew people, and making them mighty.

I pondered this for quite some time. Fearing God most and loving him above all, is paramount. To do so, we must first understand what pleases God, and we may only know through his Word.

Read it, study it, pray it! This is God’s voice to us.

My passion for the Bible was not always a white-hot flame.

In fact, I remember a time when I did not cherish his Word.

***

One spring day during my university years, I entered our chapel service, thumped my backpack on the ground, and slipped into the auditorium’s cushy seats, waving hello to friends.

I remember a speaker–holding up a glass jar–laughing while singing a snappy tune.

It’s the fun jar time, it’s the fun jar time,

Everybody loves the fun jar time.

Here’s the story.

***

I was a girl uprooted from New England, replanted for collegiate purposes in the Midwest, where fields of tasseled corn grew tall and stretched wide. Folks from Indiana spoke in a leisurely drawl. Buggy instead of grocery cart, pop rather than soda, and tennies in place of sneakers.

I was dwelling in a foreign land.

While this entire Midwest culture was slower, softer, and informal in speech, it seemed nosiness ruled the day. Private property and solitude? Flung to the curb! Everything was fair game–wide open for discussion and dissection. It felt unnerving to my bones–persistent and borderless.

My new friends could not believe I was from New England–Where is your Boston accent? they ribbed, before saying Park the car in an overly-clipped manner, abandoning all letter r’s.

I told you I am not from Boston, I sighed, laughing while rolling my eyes.

The differences did not end there.

I was spiritually floundering. Although I attended both chapel and church services regularly and nodded appropriately during our hall’s weekly Bible Study, I rarely opened the Scriptures. My heart flip-flopped as I sat alongside girls who comprehended so many interesting Bible truths. I felt exposed–for the first time grasping how little time I had spent with God.

The dark bottom line? I was a baby Christian who had remained an undernourished tadpole, circling in the shallowest of waters.

***

The week I arrived on this pretty university campus, staff herded all freshmen into the university’s chapel, treating us to a summary of the Bible taught through rapid hand motions. Creation! Fall! Flood! Nations! the folks on stage chanted, hips swaying, hands whirling. The one I remember best–namely because they screamed it–was: Moses said, “Let my people go!“

What were they even talking about? The entire scope and sequence of the Old Testament, following original sin in the Garden of Eden, was mysterious. I certainly remembered scattered stories from my childhood–Noah’s ark, Abraham wielding a knife over his restrained son, Isaac, Samson (of long and flowing hair) toppling columns in mesmerizing strength, and David slinging a stone, striking Goliath squarely in the forehead. A sudden, thumping death for this formidable giant.

These were stories centered upon brave men, not God.

I stood in that whipping Indiana wind–a girl clutching her satchel of random tales about obscure, ancient people–completely missing the crucial, overarching truth of a sovereign, unchanging, and holy God. A good and mighty Creator who never ceases weaving his magnificent tapestry, generation by generation, with brilliant, eternal purpose.

So yes, I lacked context. Truer still? I lacked the Bible.

I did not pine for the breath-taking story of Redemption, a steadily flowing stream from Genesis to Revelation. Why? I was not tending to my soul, digging into the deep, rich soil of God’s Word. Even now I can still recall that hollow, destitute feeling.

How was I supposed to climb out of this dank, inky pit and into the sparkling sunshine?

I languished for a time, floundering in nonsensical helplessness–before reaching to fix myself by trying harder rather than reaching for God himself through his Word. After a while, my worn-out, broken-down bootstraps could no longer be yanked up, even as I persisted, jaw set–You’ve got this, Kristin.

But of course I didn’t have anything, other than a pile of sin, sorrow, and a pathetic fix-myself mentality. My neglected bridge to God remained creaky and weed-infested. A draw near to God and he will draw near to you, but in complete reverse. I was hurting.

During that spell I could not even have articulated the meaning of repentance, which was the precise remedy my withered soul needed–in the very way a parched, dying man requires water.

So when I meandered into chapel that morning, please understand that I was perfectly ordered in appearance– pretty clothes and shiny hair and tended makeup–smiling, laughing with friends. I’m fine! I’m fine!

My soul was anything but.

***

The speaker that particular morning was delightfully engaging, a consummate wordsmith who seized our attention. After a few minutes of verbal pleasantries, he opened his Bible and read. My eyes filled–I was pierced by the verses and did not know why. I remember thinking:

Tell me something true.

Please—tell me something true.

He paused and quipped that this was a lengthy text, especially for exhausted college students.

Wake up, everyone! It’s the fun jar time! he began singing the little song, laughing good-naturedly as he grabbed his glass jar and plucked one of the many pieces of paper from within, reading a scripted joke.

Fifteen hundred people roared.

I probably smirked too, keeping up appearances even as a catastrophic feeling crept over my throbbing heart. Jokes weren’t going to help the state of my soul and I knew it. He chose to carry on with feel-good speech–eclipsing the meaning of the text.

The fun jar was a stealthy diversion–glossing over truth in favor of popularity, humor, and applause.

***

I could blame my collegiate lack of Bible knowledge on a plethora of things, such as–please take your pick–lack of structured Bible training, lack of accountability, a youth group that fed us pizza and took us skiing and offered glow-in-the-dark frisbee games, smothering our group with pleasure (Fun Jar time! Fun Jar time!) before doling out a serious, lengthy list of Thou Shalt Nots, fingers pointed.

But the honest-to-goodness reason for my lack of godly living was this: I did not pick up my Bible and dive in. Reading and meditating to commune with God, reading to know and understand what pleases him, reading to order my life under his authority, reading to saturate my thinking with truth, reading to nourish and change my heart.

The Bible is life. And while each person must work out their own salvation with fear and trembling, (an individual task), remember that Christ died for his people.

He did not die only for me.

If only I had seen the significance in college as the Bible leaders chanted: Moses said: Let my people go!

God placed Pharaoh squarely on the throne to resist the Almighty himself so that God’s power would blaze in unequaled majesty. God had a plan to save his people, to bless them as a nation. A familial line ultimately leading to Christ Jesus, our Redeemer.

Today God is still rescuing his people from every tribe, tongue, and nation.

Have you considered that we, as Christians, do not know who these people are? It could be anyone. God has chosen, and that is his perfect doing. Our work? To tend to our own souls, to be spiritually well, feasting on Scripture and generously sharing the rescuing power of Christ Jesus.

We do not exist for ourselves, but for God and for others.

Think of it! Our Maker chooses to use us to speak truth about himself. What we say, what we write, what we teach, and what we pray matters. Always. It is not only about our own souls but for the bride of Christ, his people, his church.

***

I was that college student desperate for truth. A girl pulled in by the Bible verses read in chapel, and of course I was— For the word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing to the division of soul and spirit, of joints and marrow, and discerning the thoughts and intentions of the heart. (Hebrews 4:12)

Living. Active. Sharp. Piercing. Discerning.

We cannot thrive without it. Consider your soul, which will outlive your temporal body. Tend to this space, and do not grieve the Holy Spirit by dismissing him, but instead rightly order your life by the precious Word of God. It will look different from the world, and it should. Strive to be winsome, but at some point, your sober-mindedness will offend, and that is as it should be.

I remember being that floundering collegiate girl who slowly awakened to the depths of God as the Holy Spirit worked in my soul. A flicker that in time became a candle that became a torch as God pursued me. In His kindness, he transplanted me firmly back into the pages of Scripture, and completely reordered my priorities, my soul, and my entire life.

***

There is a time and a place for Fun Jar games.

But in Church, Chapel, Sunday School Class, Bible Study, or Youth Group?

Please–No.

We need God’s Word to truly live. Speak it, write it, pray it, and share it–without apology.

And please.

Tell me something true.

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Some days, the words tiptoe in, surprisingly fragile and unbidden.

I pause my kitchen work —slicing tri-colored peppers as thin as can be, rolling chicken in crunchy panko laced with parmesan and pepper—and wander to my office, scribbling a word or a phrase in one of five fat notebooks, pads of paper crammed with ideas that might or might not see the light of day.

Continue reading “288 North” →

Happy New Year!

I greatly enjoyed this conversation with our son Jacob, who is preparing for a lengthy missionary journey overseas. I pray our words encourage you to bless missionaries who obey the Great Commission and carry the Gospel to the nations.

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Early this morning I sat before our twinkling Christmas tree, wrapped up in my softest blanket, with no agenda other than to reflect.

These past twelve months have been a study in contrasts…one of the hardest yet brightest years of my life. A time when in the deepest pitch of night, a stretch I imagined might never end, the stars rose high, gleaming in brilliance.

God kept me, walking me through deep waters to the other shore. He strengthened and grew my faith in him, through the heavy weight of affliction. I stand amazed and humbled, now grateful for this uncomfortable time.

It is a braided tale, containing every ingredient for compelling storytelling: the collision of good versus evil, truth versus lies, honor versus dishonor, light versus darkness.

I return to this anchor: God is always working and always good and will keep and hold his own.

And he did.

This year simultaneously beheld the richness of blessings: the welcomed return of our missionary son from overseas, our daughter’s wedding, our new church plant, the togetherness of our family during Thanksgiving, the delightful anticipation of another grandbaby, and the release of my second book.

Life is hard and life is grand, all swirled together, isn’t it? Every circumstance is a gift, a precious opportunity to trust God and obey his Word.

This year, may we endeavor to live daily from a tender-hearted posture of humility, submission and lowliness before our King, who does all things well.

//

As I mused upon these things from the comfort of our sofa, I remembered:

There is an invisible war raging in the heavens, right now.

Jousting–do you hear it?–a clashing of swords. (Ephesians 6:12)

This realization awakened my sleepy heart to a firmer resolve as we anticipate a new year. To resist every avenue of complacency, every street of sin, every path offering false promises of happiness which instead lull captives into the glassy-eyed stupor of worldliness.

I pray that God will keep me on the narrow road that leads to life. (Matthew 7:13-14)

//

Come along and carve out some time to reflect on the state of your soul during these final days before Christmas. Sit still and ponder the birth of our King, our Redeemer. Thank God for his kindness, goodness, faithfulness, and mercy throughout every blessing and sorrow he has stitched within your days. Praise Him for sending his Son to wash away our every sin.

Christ Jesus is:

God made flesh,

our Savior,

Divine Royalty

He is our Magnificent and Matchless King, the Son of God who holds the peace our restless hearts crave.

Come, let us adore him.

This song is a beautiful reminder of our True King.

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“On his robe and on his thigh he has a name written, King of kings and Lord of lords.”

Revelation 19:16

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Merry Christmas!

Two things:

I met you inside a box.

And I loved you from the start.

This was no ordinary box, but a decorative treasure meant to resemble a book. Your Mama handed it to me one chilly Friday evening in early October, as she and your Daddy blew into the kitchen just as I pulled dinner out of the oven.

How lovely, thought I. My daughter is gracing me with a pretty box to store small treasures.

Your grandfather, Papa, stepped in from the garage, murmuring about his ongoing battle against autumn leaves, relentless leaves that continue to drop and cover our lawn, a yard he tends with precision and great care. (You must know that I secretly adore these leaves, and prefer to think of them as cascading lovelies that crunch deliciously beneath my feet.)

Anyway, while your Papa was scrubbing his hands at the kitchen sink, readying for dinner, I placed the box on the countertop and turned off the stove–green beans are done!–when your Mama urged: Mom, open the box. Your Daddy stood behind her, and they both smiled.

Prescience is my norm, intrinsic so it seems. I notice details, the slightest of things: body language, a cutting look, a nervous laugh, that smidgen of a sigh, the set of the jaw, eyebrows raised, anxious hands.

My point?

I am seldom surprised.

This situation clearly was not that.

The truth is that I had nary a clue.

So I removed my oven mitts and lifted the box’s lid, and there you were.

I shrieked and screamed and jumped up and down, and your Papa said:

Kristin, what’s wrong? What is it?

I held your sonogram photo high and his eyes found mine, and widened.

We were stunned, together.

Beneath your picture lay the teeniest pink outfit.

Your parents were perfectly convinced that you are a girl.

I just know it, your pretty Mama said, her eyes dancing as I hugged her, so gently.

I laughed aloud, marveling at her stubborn decisiveness.

But Lauren, I said, you won’t know for two more months!

Oh, I just know, Mom. It’s definitely a girl.

I grinned, realizing that whether you are a boy or a girl, you are a precious gift. I have been crowned, again.

God is kind.

//

Dear Little One,

Your Mama was my baby, the last of my four beauties, following her three big brothers. I cherish the tender memories belonging to each one of them. I ponder the stories of us, our family, and how God has mercifully worked and is working. Stories that one day I will delight in telling you.

God is the Author of our family tree, and your Papa and I have happily agreed: Our home is a retreat, a safe and godly space for you, and our entire family.

Your big cousin already knows precisely where his fully stocked snack drawer is (goldfish crackers, applesauce pouches, chocolate chip cookies, and random surprises) plus the location of the glass jar overflowing with gummies. Get ready, my sweet little one, as these things will also be yours. We will have marvelous adventures at our home, yard, and neighborhood park.

Place is dear to me, as I was loved and cherished by my Grandpa at his home on Washington Street. All of the ice cream cones and songs and gifts and trips to the local hardware store created a magical belonging in my young heart, a warmth that made me taste the goodness of God. I gave my life to Christ Jesus one humble night on Washington Street, and have been a work in progress ever since.

Jesus has gone to prepare a place for his people, and your Papa and I have been praying that every single one of our grandchildren will bow before God in adoration, knowing and heeding his voice. We are preparing a place for you in our home, too.

We are Memory Builders and we take this fun seriously. Here is my promise to you: when you come to our house, I will pause every other endeavor in order to play and sing and read and talk and listen to your tender heart. I will speak clearly and directly about the Lord, teaching you to sing the same Bible verses that I once taught your uncles and your own Mama.

I cannot wait.

My heart is thumping to learn you: your voice, your eye color, and your favorite stuffed animal. Will you adore carrot cake like your Mama, and carry a blanket everywhere like she once did?

Will you be an introvert or an extrovert?

Will you be musically inclined? Athletic? A voracious reader?

I cannot wait to hold you, rock you, and hum gentle lullabies, singing Jesus Loves Me, softly, as you drift off to sleep, your tiny frame falling limp and trusting in my arms.

As far as I’m concerned, the end of April cannot get here soon enough.

//

We threw a party in your honor last Saturday. I tidied the house and your Papa banished every last one of the fallen leaves to the woods. Your Mama and I made cupcakes, and your Daddy blew up bunches of balloons, stringing them along our banister.

Family and friends arrived, bearing diapers, and enjoying the guessing game.

Pink or blue?

Twenty-four of us guessed, clipping pastel clothespins to our sweaters.

Everyone held opinions, hunches, inklings. It was fun, a playful game no one could truly lose. Life is a gift. Boy or girl, God decided before he created the world. His decisions are firm, final, and always deeply good.

After eating our fill, we gathered outside, the fire pit crackling in the late afternoon air, a beautiful December day, cold and sunny.

Papa began the countdown and we all chimed in, while your Mama and Daddy stood side by side, the gender reveal smoke and confetti rockets ready in their outstretched hands. Their eyes shone as they anxiously awaited to see if their inclination proved true:

Five…four…three…two…one…

The sky exploded.

Pink.

Welcome to our family, sweet granddaughter of mine.

“Children are a heritage from the Lord, offspring a reward from him.”

Psalm 127:3

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