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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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

Revelation 19:16

---

Will you support my writing ministry by clicking on the quill pen?

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

---

“Motherhood: All love begins and ends there.” ~ Robert Browning

---

There was food to prepare and mattresses to fluff, sheets to wash, woodwork to dust and deskwork to complete. Bring it on I grinned, my heart dancing at the mere thought of our adult children–all of them– circling the dining room table once again for a few fleeting days.

My favorite people came home for Thanksgiving.

***

It is a terrible and beautiful thing to bid farewell as sons and daughters move away, skipping headlong into their own lives–with jobs, friends, spouses, and children of their own. The phantom pain is real. A physical amputation from my four beauties.

All those years of ongoing banter, inside jokes, vibrant conversations, football games, piano recitals. Stuffed animals and Calico Critters, Matchbox cars, and Legos. Read-alouds, multiplication facts, and mountains of groceries. Food that seemed to vanish before I could shelve it neatly in the pantry.

And the coffee pot, Old Faithful. Dripping, steaming, and huffing all day long.

Our family’s unique hardships, heartaches, happiness, and hopes forged an imperfect yet resilient togetherness. A tender gift from God.

This old heart of mine, pulsing shadows and light, is prone to wistful remembrances, turning over those olden days and tearing up, just a little.

Which surprises me, still.

I am convinced that no earthly love may rival a woman’s heart stitched to her children. A mother’s love is primal.

***

A godly mother is a steady river, her loves the tiny boats traveling her back. The boats observe, trusting the gentle waters that guide, protect, and nurture through life’s unexpected curves and rapids. Little boats sense the tempo and flow, learning and growing and trusting. The river moves, gently steering her own toward the great ocean of Adulthood, where she will bid adieu to her precious ones.

After many years of slow days and long nights, the moment arrives: sunny, cold, and bright. It is time for the river to meet the ocean.

She releases her boats–one by one– into the briny sea. As she raises their striped sails, the wind whips and the current tugs. The river smiles through tears and waves goodbye as her children’s sails swell, bending and cruising away to unknown waters.

One by one her boats disappear into the horizon.

The river is both proud and reluctant: happy and hurting, strong and sad.

***

Every hug, comfort, Band-Aid, Bible verse, prayer, song, correction, joke, apology, ice cream cone, board game, spelling word, backyard race, song, encouragement, birthday cake, football game, music lesson and read-aloud matters.

Motherhood matters.

And it will not thrive if left to fend for itself in the margins, life’s crevices, like some waning hobby.

Motherhood is the work.

Nurture and strengthen those little boats now. Love and train them. Give them the gift of your undivided attention. They do not need more things. They need a present, godly mother. Understand that time is short; this season is fleeting.

As you go, rest in God’s kindness and his grace. Pray for wisdom and stamina, and meet God humbly each morning in the Bible. Enjoy your little boats, who are a blessing.

Trust God, the One who called you to this river dance.

***

Over Thanksgiving week, everyone gradually arrived, bustling about and filling our home with beloved noise and laughter: a mother’s delight. The coffee pot rose to the occasion, full of dark roast: Thanksgiving Blend. Strong sons roamed the kitchen, their old, favorite mugs in hand, conversation flowing, and I realized just how much their absence had become a presence. My husband wandered in with a smile just as our daughter descended the stairs, rounding the banister.

For thirty seconds we were together in the kitchen, just the six of us, like old times, days when conversations were natural; our language easy. A lump rose in my throat and I blinked. This moment was a mirage that could not hold, a season forever gone, and I knew it.

Life is different now.

Our daughters-in-law and son-in-law gradually emerged from other rooms and our grandson raced into the kitchen in his footed pajamas calling my name, a sound most sweet. He hugged my legs and asked for gummy bears. I scooped him up and kissed his handsome face, saying: Yes! Of course! to as many gummy bears as he wanted.

My heart returned to this precise and beautiful moment in time.

May my presence never be an absence, I prayed.

Today is a brilliant gift from God, full of divine purpose that I refuse to miss.

***

Motherhood does not dry up and blow away when children become adults.

Its duties, however, do tumble and shift, quite violently, and it takes time for a mother to gain sea legs in this raw season of life. Time and patience are needed for the heart to catch up with what the head knows to be true.

Once the boats set sail, the wise mother becomes an anchored lighthouse rather than a flowing river.

Although her love remains as deep as the deepest ocean, it is time to relinquish her precious boats. When the last one skims away, rising to meet the future, a mother does well to become a lantern light in the tempestuous seas, a beacon in the pitch of night, burning brightly with the steadfast hope of Christ.

***

My favorite moments in life prove natural in origin, lovely; and unscripted.

On Thanksgiving night, as everyone lounged, sleepy and stuffed, our thirdborn son and I lingered in the dining room, as he explained the inner workings of his recent songwriting, measures that were most interesting. And then, after a time, he offered a gift:

Want to hear my latest songs?

Yes, please, I said with no small delight, and then added, Can we all listen?

He grinned and found his guitar, and soon eleven of us piled into our living room, stepping over and around each other, pulling in extra chairs, hugging soft pillows, and muting the football game. Our grandson, hair slicked from his bath as he awaited bedtime, was invited to stay up late. He proudly carried his tiny guitar into the fray, and stood transfixed, studying his hero-uncle, who strummed as he sang.

The lot of us fell hushed–the moment tender; holy.

It swept my heart away, the beauty of worship, the prize of thoughtful lyrics grounded in the Word. I glanced about the room, feeling the impossible whoosh of time, the goodness of God, and a surge of gratitude for our growing family, anchored in Christ. What an underserved blessing.

As our son played, God was near, his Spirit working and churning my soul. I realized with a flash of clarity:

I am no longer the river.

My beautiful boats have sailed and only temporarily returned.

Motherhood is precious, isn’t it? It is not about me but remains an exquisite mantle designed by God for his good purposes. He is Master, growing our family tree, and while I am no longer a river, I long to be his lighthouse, burning brightly for my children and their families.

That living room worship hour was my favorite part of our Thanksgiving week. Our family praised God in unison, a foretaste of heaven, one that I wished would never end.

It will be an entire year before we are, Lord-willing, all together in our living room, once again.

***

Missing my grown children no longer feels like the jolt of birth pangs, but more like a gentle invitation to savor God as I seek to serve him and others. I have labored long to accept that a piece of my heart will always miss our four loves.

The Lord has gently gathered up all of those seeming loose ends of this season and fashioned a bouquet, bountiful and fragrant, beauty that I inhale with trust and anticipation. I now have more time to pray, serve our growing family, write, disciple women, and pour into our church. I enjoy various weekends with our grandson sprinkled throughout the year, unhurried times of playing trucks and trains, frolicking at the park, and reading the good books aloud.

Yes, God has revealed a strong purpose in this new season of life.

Even so, in the fading light when the house is still, save the thumping tail of our dog or the sleepy purr of our cat, I smile, sailing over the crested waves of good memories, reminiscing when we were once upon a time a family of six, clustered in a diminutive living room, laughing and singing as our son played the piano with wild abandon, his feet not even touching the floor as we clapped and roared. I loved those days, way down deep.

The rushing river of my heart that once raced wide down the slope of time, was a love that flowed over stones and pebbles. My mother-love is now a lighthouse, shining steadily over the ocean’s salty crests, waiting to welcome my beauties home.

---

“Whatever season we are in, and whatever kind of nurturing work we are doing, and however long our season lasts, life in Christ is our new normal. And it will still be thirty trillion years from now. We are in a season of life in Christ forever!”

– Gloria Furman, Missional Motherhood

I sit in a hardback chair inside a frigid room.

The nurse smiles as she hands me a heated white robe, its soft warmth warding off the chill as I await my yearly appointment.

It’s deathly still here—a space lined with pocket-sized rooms, dark, heavy doors inched open. A handful of women are tapping their phones, diddling their legs—anything to distract themselves.

A snowy-haired woman passes by, hunched and weeping as she clutches a crumpled tissue and wipes her smudged glasses.

Her shoelace is untied.

I am at least twenty years her junior, and by nature not touchy, yet I have the urge to pat her arm and double-knot her laces as I once did for my children. Time, however, is a vapor and so is she, gone, her sobs echoing, lingering in the bright hallway as the office door swings and clicks shut.

Shifting in my chair, I root inside my purse for a piece of gum and unwrap it, savoring the mintiness as I chew and snap, an oddly satisfying habit. After a moment I cinch my robe tighter and mindlessly fold the wrapper as I count.

One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine.

For nine years I have known that I am at a heightened risk for cancer, due to family genetics. Armed with this knowledge means that every twelve months I park in a pretty, tree-lined lot and enter a formidable brick tower filled with women waging war.

Throngs of females–young, middle-aged, old–sit trembling and tired in this central hub where disease rages and seems no respecter of age.

Although this is not a yearly appointment I relish, I have learned to grab hold of the truth tucked within every hardship:

Our Sovereign God is always working and he is always good.

The question becomes: Will I choose to trust him?

//

Suffering.

The universal condition. No one: rich or poor, young or old, is immune.

As Christians, we are called to suffer differently, bearing the Spirit’s fruit.

This might sound impossible but it is not. I have found that the only way to bear good and godly fruit amid suffering is to wholeheartedly embrace a rock-solid, God-centered theology.

Embracing is far more than knowing, nodding in agreement, or verbally repeating biblical truths. God-centered theology is a heart cry, a life centered upon adoring the Master. Embracing is grabbing hold of God and championing his absolute Sovereignty.

To put it plainly, I am not the center of my universe. My husband is not the center of my universe. My children and grandchildren are not the center of my universe.

God is.

It has taken me years to fully bow to the One who has ordained every hardship I face. Yet those very afflictions have been God’s instrument to right my soul, pointing me due North, to him.

This is not to say that suffering is easy or fun.

Of course not.

//

My greatest assurance and hope in every square inch of heartache–whether it be the knowledge of an inherited gene, a financial hardship, a relational crisis, mistreatment, the death of a loved one, the demise of a dream, the common cold, or plain old fatigue–is knowing that nothing, absolutely nothing, is given to me apart from God’s will.

Everything is sifted through my Maker’s hands.

And yet my personal response is my responsibility.

As Puritan John Flavel once said:

Affliction is a pill, which being wrapt up in patience and quiet submission, may be easily swallowed; but discontent chews the pill, and so embitters the soul.

I remember, quite vividly, my initial fear upon learning of my heightened health risk.

That fear has been replaced by the grand understanding that God is good and kind, creating me in secret; knitting me together, pulling me close. My days are in his hands, and my strength is from Him. My heart response to suffering has not changed because I figured out a clever little trick, or mindless diversion, or wrapped my head around all far-reaching possibilities.

Not at all.

My response has changed because I choose to draw near to God, immersing myself in the Bible, which prompts my affection for Christ to take deeper root. I have purposed to trust in the Lord–not potential outcomes–in every bit of personal suffering.

Quiet submission has replaced my fear of what-ifs.

Good thing, since there are absolutely no what-ifs, according to Scripture.

And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose. (Romans 8:28)

Our God is in the heavens; he does all that he pleases. (Psalm 115:3)

I know that you can do all things and that no purpose of yours can be thwarted. (Job 42:2).

For I am God, and there is no other; I am God, and there is none like me. My counsel shall stand, and I will accomplish all my purpose. (Isaiah 46:9–10). 

…God works all things according to the counsel of his will, (Ephesian 1:11)

the lot is cast into the lap, but its every decision is from the Lord. (Proverbs 16:33)

Whatever the Lord pleases, he does, in heaven and on earth, in the seas and all deeps. He it is who makes the clouds rise at the end of the earth, who makes lightning for the rain and brings forth the wind from his storehouses. (Psalm 135:6–7)

 Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? And not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. (Matthew 10:29).

You rule over all the kingdoms of the nations. In your hand are power and might, so that none is able to withstand you. (2 Chronicles 20:6).

The heart of man plans his way, but the Lord establishes his steps. (Proverbs 16:9)

The king’s heart is a stream of water in the hand of the Lord; he turns it wherever he will. (Proverbs 21:1)

No man can come to me, except the Father which sent me draw him: and I will raise him up in the last day. (John 6:44)

Fear not, I am the first and the last, and the living one. I died, and behold I am alive forevermore, and I have the keys of Death and Hades. (Revelation 1:17-18)

---

“Real satisfaction comes not in understanding God’s motives, but in understanding his character, in trusting in his promises, and in leaning on him and resting in him as the Sovereign who knows what he is doing and does all things well.“

-Joni Eareckson Tada

I took an extra long walk this morning, rising early to greet the day.

The world seemed hushed and sleepy, and I realized:

Quiet and Beauty are exquisite rebellions to our shrieking world.

It had been a lengthy few weeks of nonstop meetings and conversations—good things, mind you–but I had reluctantly played hooky from long walks and quiet writing hours for too many days in a row. I felt the loss gnawing at my bones.

I was parched; withering on the inside.

So I silenced my phone and made plans.

My introverted heart twirled in delight as I laced up and bolted outside, crunching through autumn’s leaves, maneuvering the winding trail, a happy student of broad maples burning their last fiery hurrah of my favorite season.

I spied cardinals, chickadees, and sparrows, their birdsong a tender morning melody. Two hawks soared, effortlessly looping the heavens above the tallest treetops, majestic against the cold, cobalt sky.

Pausing at the lake, I inhaled deeply, filling my lungs with crisp air, marveling at the autumnal palette of colors mirrored in still waters. A wood stove burned and the rich, smoky scent of autumn swirled, thin plumes of smoke etching enchantment in the morning sky.

//

One summer, a few years ago, I was reveling in a morning walk, when I happened upon a cluster of people murmuring, hunched low and pointing. As I neared, I imagined they had spotted an unusual insect or an injured bird, or a rare flower.

But no.

They were pointing at a handful of plastic toys, neatly staged at the base of a tree two feet from the sidewalk. A miniature-sized plastic family of four, seated at a teensy yellow table.

How did this get here? said one, hands to hips.

Who do they belong too? said another, eyebrows pressed.

What is the meaning? said a fellow, swatting a fly from his neck.

At least five adults stood mystified by a child’s toys. The group snapped endless pictures and texted them at lightning speed.

And so it goes.

The loudest voices—born from worldly chatter—have become the world’s echo chamber. We neglect the quiet beauty of God’s creation.

I resumed walking and with each step forward reminded myself:

Look up at the trees, and down at the wildflowers.

Close your eyes and feel the whisper of the wind against your face.

Pay attention to the majesty of the unfolding seasons.

Hear the purr of the ocean and consider all that lies beneath those deep waves.

Poke around in the soil and plant some seeds, giving thanks as those shoots grow tall and pretty.

Stuff the bird feeders and watch the darlings flock.

Sit on the front porch and study the sunlight flitting through every leaf and branch.

Make footprints and snow angels in winter’s first snowfall.

And thank the Lord who created it all.

//

Go ahead, I dare you. Sign your own permission slip and exit the daily rigamarole. (No one will do it for you.) Awaken extra early and pull a soft hoodie over your head. Lace up your sneakers and slip outside to revel in God’s creation.

Everything else will keep for a bit.

Your soul hungers for quiet.

Be still and know that I am God. – Psalm 46:10

Your soul thirsts for beauty.

The heavens declare the glory of God, and the sky above proclaims his handiwork.– Psalm 19:1

God is the Master Artist, and his workmanship deserves our utmost attention and praise.

Will you look up?

//

Outwardly, I have little to show for my morning walks as I linger with Quiet and Beauty.

And that in itself is lovely, is it not?

A heart purposefully attuned to the quiet wonders of God?

God paints the morning sky and the evening sunset. He creates pillowy clouds and icy air, breezes, rolling mountains, and vast plains. The stars and moon are his handiwork. Our Sovereign Maker designs every sequoia, pine, and maple, and every ant, chipmunk, bird, and beast is his.

Quiet and Beauty are exquisite rebellions to our shrieking world.

What a shame to neglect the canvas of God.

---

Both photos taken along my walking path.

Dear New York Times,

Recently you published an opinion essay, “You Might Consider Praying,” by Sara Sherbill, with sentiments that crushed my heart. Snippets of truth swirled together with error, and opinions that, if swallowed whole, will lead many far from God.

Continue reading “Dear New York Times” →

We naturally assume that leaders carry prestigious titles and rule with strict authority from the heights of the corner office, don’t we? While this may ring true in corporate America, the finest leaders in the Church govern powerfully from bended knee, bowing low in humility before the Lord.

Such a heart posture resonates with the conviction of John the Baptist as he spoke of Jesus:

“He must increase, but I must decrease.” (John 3:30)

The spirit of submission does not mean morphing into a doormat. On the contrary: those most submissive to Christ unwaveringly seek God through obedience to the sound doctrine of Scripture, with deep reverence and love for him. Godly leaders are marked by doctrinally-sound spines of steel paired with soft, tender hearts.

Such servants of God lead by example, increasing in sanctification while bearing the lush and fragrant fruit of the Holy Spirit. While some people will be favorably drawn to these characteristics in a leader, seeking to bear such fruit themselves, the arrogant will be miffed, exposed for who they truly are, bearers of rotten fruit, and thereby view humility as a weakness rather than a strength.

This scenario played out repeatedly in Jesus’ ministry. Our Savior was unremarkable in appearance, (Isaiah 53:2) walking the dusty roads of humanity, living, speaking, and teaching truth among normal people, rather than dressing in finery and dwelling in a golden palace. As he invited sinners to repentance and personal holiness, he served others and washed filthy feet. This King of Glory was God incarnate–the greatest Ruler the world will ever see. The Bible shows us that some responded in appropriate humility (Luke 19:1-10) while others raged against Christ’s teachings (Luke 20).

As Christians, we are invited to follow in the likeness of our Lord and Master, leading by dying to ourselves, decreasing so that Christ burns brightly in and through us, as we drop low in utter surrender, palms opened to whatever the Lord has planned, seeking to serve others from bended knee.

To lead from lowliness is an outflow of an inner conviction to follow in the footsteps of our Master: Christ.

Are you a leader in your church?

You do not have to oversee a ministry or serve officially to be a leader. As a faithful church member, walking in humble accordance with Scripture while serving others, you are in fact leading by example. Your spouse, children, grandchildren, friends, and fellow church members will be watching and learning as you press into Jesus Christ.

Your full submission to him, as a Christian on bended knee, is powerful, indeed.

“so that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.” (Philippians 2:10-11)

---

(I encourage you to revisit the blog for updates on my favorite books & to sign up for my monthly newsletter)