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

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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.

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“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)

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“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)

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For every trial, every embarrassment, every rebellion, remember their dusty frames.

Join me over at Rooted today.

Remember That You–And Your Children–Are Dust

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A little over five years ago our family set out at dawn and trekked northward, a caravan of cars plus one behemoth of a Penske truck stuffed with our life’s belongings.

My husband had accepted a pastorate, and we were moving.

What a time. The skies were a somber, moody gray. As we drove, our windshield wipers soon flapped, dancing full throttle. Conditions grew increasingly hazardous as it became impossible to see. When we finally exited the highway to refuel, my hands ached from clenching the steering wheel.

It poured the entire 800-mile journey up the crowded highway.

Florida… Georgia… South Carolina… North Carolina… And then?

Virginia.

We slept fitfully in the hotel, rising early to meet volunteers who had planned to help us unpack, unloading approximately one million boxes from the truck.

I can still remember the feeling of the sun against my face as I stepped off our front porch, my hands tracing the porch railing. A man startled me as he hollered–Hurry up people! Let’s go! Faster, faster, faster! Come On!

I looked up just in time to see him toss our floor lamp from the height of the moving truck to an unsuspecting recipient below.

The situation unfolded in slow motion, as the lamp slipped through the receiver’s hands and landed with a hard thump and crack, resulting in a long hairline fracture and a significant hole.

I stood, silently gasping, recalling how many gift cards I had saved up to purchase this dream luminary.

Oops! The two men guffawed and shrugged, offering neither apology nor recompense.

I felt a foreboding…a foreshadowing.

My husband’s hand brushed my back as he passed by to lug more boxes.

Smile, Kristin, he whispered, and keep moving. I will buy you a new one.

We never bought a new one, and the lamp remains, sitting in the corner of our living room now, telling its own story, its damage hidden.

Yet this same lamp has become priceless in a quiet, unexpected way.

Each time I flick the switch, I am prompted to forgive.

Again, and again and again. Way down deep, in bone and marrow.

And I am no longer speaking of merely broken lamps.

//

We are human beings– cracked, fragile, and in desperate need of God’s forgiveness, grace, and mending. How grateful I am to be the recipient of such forgiveness.

But I have learned that it takes long, sweeping glances at Christ for me to fully forgive others.

It isn’t too difficult to forgive contrite people. But to forgive stony-hearted people who are reckless in deed and speech, playing fast and loose with sin while claiming to be Christians?

This is when forgiveness becomes a choice, an act of faith that slices straight across the grain of my flesh. It is otherworldly, born of the Spirit.

Do you ever struggle to forgive the impenitent?

When waves of painful memories crash, I have learned to close my eyes and pray for these people by name, asking the Holy Spirit to turn their hearts fully toward Jesus in repentance. I also pray for my heart to remain anchored–pliable, tender, yet steadfast while eschewing all bitterness.

This deliberate act, relinquishing my pain and transferring the entire tangled mess into God’s hands unchains me from anger and bitterness.

I am free and filled with joy.

Forgiveness is born of obedience rather than feelings. My primary fidelity is to God and the Bible, not people or outcomes. (Ephesians 4:32, Mark 11:25, Matthew 18:21-22, Matthew 6:14-15, Luke 23:34)

Do I long for reconciliation?

I do.

Does forgiveness always lead to reconciliation?

It does not, and this article explains why.

//

Late this afternoon, as autumn’s shadows crept and danced along our walls, I slipped into the living room and turned on my favorite lamp, sitting tall, elegant, and fractured.

Its broad glow warmed the room.

---

The overhead light in our laundry room had been slowly fading for who knows how long before it flickered and perished, leaving the repairman murmuring over something called a ballast. It is a long and boring story, but suffice to say we had to wait weeks for the replacement part. I went from spinning clothes in the shadows, to wrangling laundry in the dark, with a hall light barely illuminating the washer and dryer.

While laundry is no longer the massive chore it once was, I still love the scent of fresh detergent paired with a lavender-vanilla fabric softener. The world might be raging all around, but our laundry still sings for me, and there remains a quotidian comfort in warmly scented clothing, folded and delivered.

Quietly, so quietly, it sets the elfin patch of earth beneath me to rights.

//

A decade backward found me spinning laundry dials round and round the clock, like no one’s business. I had sons playing football and mowing a gazillion lawns, stashing twenties for college dreams while sweating ferociously in the south’s inferno.

The daily clothing of the six of us, plus mowing attire, football practice apparel, and Friday-night-sweat-producing uniforms, meant laundry was a time. Our washer and dryer were run ragged, wheezing, coughing, and quitting more times than I cared to count.

For a short stint, I attempted drying laundry on a clothesline strung from our parsonage’s backyard shed to a tree, endeavoring to lower our stout electric bill.

My experiment failed in five different ways, chiefly because a ruffled parishioner spied me from her binoculared perch in the church’s back hallway window. With a clothespin hovering between my lips, I happily strung football jerseys and shorts, heart glowing with accomplishment, having no idea someone was watching.

I startled at the sound of her voice.

Good morning, Kristin.

Removing the clothespin from my mouth, I smiled.

Hi Marge.

Ohhhhhhh she said, hands on hips. A clothesline? Here?

Words that brought a swift and mighty end to my Caroline Ingalls-type inclinations.

In the end, it mattered not, given the humidity did not lend itself to air drying.

It was back to square one, which meant a return to the laundry room doubling as a homeschooling space–two cumbersome desks pushed up against adjoining walls, swallowed by the sounds of a spinning washer and chugging, dying dryer. The heat was astonishing, prompting me to position a boxed fan in the doorway, cooling our two oldest sons, now entrusted with the noble task of keeping their school papers from taking flight. While the boxed fan assuaged the heat, it also left the schoolroom sounding like a Bowing 747 airstrip.

This was life as we knew it, and our hours were fully stacked with school, church, sports, music lessons, and homeschool group activities. The washer/dryer/fan noises became the customary backdrop to our daily rigamarole.

There is always an upside, isn’t there? Forever something to thank God for, no matter what.

Yes, our noisy, clunky washing machine and dryer situation might not have been idyllic, but the light shone brightly in the laundry room allowing me to see the work of my hands.

//

Our repairman returned this morning. As I typed away at my desk I silently prayed that the new part would work. A while later my husband called my name, and I jogged upstairs.

Light, restored!

How beautiful, how bright, how awful.

My dusting rags sat in a mismatched heap. The detergent, fabric softener, and cleaning supplies were haphazardly positioned. Liquid had drizzled down several of the containers, leaving a sticky residue. The washing machine beheld a grimy film circling the edges of the detergent pocket.

Weeks of darkness and shadows had concealed the grim reality.

Bright light illuminates everything, does it not?

I was presented a choice: Switch off the light and walk away in denial, stiff-arming reality, while pretending all was well.

Or humbly acknowledge the truth, and correct it.

I rolled up my sleeves and went to work.

//

Autumn is a prime time to examine your soul.

As the leaves turn brilliant, fiery flames of red, orange, and gold, I remind myself they are dying.

Death can be beautiful, I consider. In solitude, with my Bible wide open, I ask:

What needs to perish within the laundry room of my life, to make room for growth in holiness?

We must first see the truth of our dark, tangled hearts before truly confessing our need for a Savior.

Have you been operating in the shadows of a darkened laundry room? Has your soul grown dim? Grimy? Cluttered?

Are you choosing fidelity to God through the treasuring of his Word? Are you part of a church that teaches the whole counsel of God, firmly planted and rooted in Scripture alone?

Or has the light of church dimmed, flickered; grown dark under man-centered foolishness? Has false teaching slithered into both pulpit and pew–anathema to the soul?

Be careful.

The condition of one’s soul is no small matter. In fact, it is the most serious business of all. (Deuteronomy 4:9)

Shine the light of Christ over the laundry room of your soul, making it your chief aim to grow in truth, obedience, and humility before the Lord, decimating all shadows. Be faithful to God, walking circumspectly, making certain that you are not resting in the wisdom of man, but in the wisdom of God.

May Christ burn brightly, alighting and sweeping clean our wandering hearts.

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John 3:19-21 And this is the judgment: the light has come into the world, and people loved the darkness rather than the light because their works were evil. For everyone who does wicked things hates the light and does not come to the light, lest his works should be exposed. But whoever does what is true comes to the light, so that it may be clearly seen that his works have been carried out in God.

John 12:46  I have come into the world as light so that whoever believes in me may not remain in darkness.

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I had not flown for nearly a decade.

In fact, after the last trip, I looked straight into my husband’s eyes and said: Never again.

And I meant it.

The flight had been a wild child. Turbulence is a lenient term for what we experienced during the first leg of travel, and then, at the tail end of a layover, the pilot declared that there was an unexpected engine issue.

We were not permitted to exit the aircraft, as men in jumpsuits and toolboxes scurried feverishly beneath us for an entire hour.

Please, Jon, I whispered. Get me off this plane. Right now.

Instead of responding As you wish, he squeezed my hand and assured me we would be just fine.

You don’t know that, I countered.

The flight proved bumpy with more than one unusual clunking noise. We survived and once home I dropped my suitcase and hugged our children tightly, my heart trilling: Peace out, Delta. I am done.

That melody was the sweetest bliss for over nine years, until last week when I found myself at the airport.

Flying to attend a conference, given that my schedule did not permit road-tripping.

All was fine. All was dandy.

Until I boarded the plane.

It was tiny. It was minuscule. I was trapped.

To give further context, I spent decades warning our children about the dangers of small aircraft. Don’t ever, ever, ever, ever, ride in a small plane, I cautioned. They are most dangerous.

My loves listened politely, eyes round. And then, as they grew older one of my sons asked what he should do if he was stranded on a remote island and a small plane arrived to rescue him.

Swim. Or wait for me to arrive by rowboat, I might have said.

So you may now understand my dilemma when I stepped onto this aircraft and saw only one pair of seats on either side of the wispy-thin aisle. Even the skinny stewardess had to walk the length of the plane sideways.

Have I mentioned I do not prefer small, inescapable spaces?

The plain truth: I was stuck on a narrow metal tunnel that would soon be torpedoing through the sky at an impossible speed. I was traveling alone, while stuffed inside a plane full of complete strangers.

By nature I am calm. On land, I do not fidget or worry or keep company with anxious thoughts. In fact, I had largely forgotten what anxiety felt like, until I maneuvered that aisle and dropped into my seat, which was at the rear of the airplane.

Breathe, Kristin. Pray and count your blessings, I told myself.

And so I began.

When my mind arrived at the blessing of fine weather, I wrongly assumed that favorable weather would yield smooth travel.

And then, as I tightened my seatbelt the pilot announced over the intercom:

We are expecting a bumpy ride today, folks. Some currents will cause significant turbulence, and I will be asking that you keep your seatbelts fastened. Thank you for traveling with us today. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight.

My heart thumped.

Relax and enjoy the flight? You’ve got to be kidding me.

The towering marine in front of me moaned and curled into a fetal position as his wife rubbed his wide neck. She turned and whispered: He is terrified of flying.

I nodded, thinking: ditto.

The older gentleman–right next to me– asked if I enjoyed flying.

Not really, I said.

Oh, we’ll be just fine, M’am. My method in life is to think positively. Yes, siree. His hands shook as he pulled back the tab on his Nicorette gum and popped the shiny rectangle into his mouth.

My method is to trust God, I smiled weakly, attempting to escort my jittery heart toward truth, while feeling like a charlatan.

Thus began our brief conversation about faith. He frequented church a few times a year. It became obvious that he did not want to pursue a conversation about God or the Bible. I invited him to our new church plant and he murmured Thank you, M’am, maybe I will, and coughed nervously, a polite decline.

He kept right on talking, without end, showing me photos of his Doberman Pinscher, Alice, whom he had trained to snarl on command, curling her upper lip and terrifying strangers, and Frank, his Macaw, a parrot who placed his beak gently over people’s noses–a delightful display of affection, don’t you think? And let’s not forget his striped cat, Otto, who was enamored by YouTube videos designed specifically for felines.

At this point, I began to assume this flight was a bad dream.

Takeoff was smooth, but twenty minutes in, we were being tossed to and fro. I prayed and breathed deeply and thought of my family as my neighbor grew increasingly jumpy, amping up the volume of his pet sagas. His hands trembled, and my heart quaked as I tried my best to ignore both the turbulence and the marine who was now hovering over a sick bag while his wife dug furiously in the depths of her oversized purse before finding a prescription bottle and placing one miniature pill beneath her husband’s tongue.

Did I mention the conference’s theme?

“The Steadfast Soul: Enjoying Peace in an Anxious Age.”

And how I was thrilled to attend because so many people I love battle anxiety?

My comeuppance came swiftly as God humbled me on that plane.

By 8:30 am my neighbor had ordered and downed not one but two Bloody Marys while I sipped water and crunched every last bit of cubed ice.

The rest of the flight smelled like gin and regrets, and I prayed for deliverance to graciously survive the ceaseless monologue unfolding in my left ear.

We finally landed, and the marine stood and stretched, pecking his wife’s cheek, revived by land, by control.

Me too, I thought. Me too.

//

The conference ministered to the crevices of my heart in specific ways I could not have anticipated.

I first had to be trapped miles above the earth, shaken by turbulence to bump up against the truth that God longs for me to press more deeply into him whether on land, sea, or sky.

As Abraham Kuyper said:

“There is not a square inch in the whole domain of our human existence over which Christ, who is Sovereign over all, does not cry, Mine!”

The question is: Will I relinquish my strong affection for personal sovereignty?

I now see plainly: My safety has grown far too precious.

There it is.

Another hard truth.

//

I daydreamed (just a little) about asking my husband if I could rent a car and drive home, hoping he might say As you wish.

But I did not even ask. It was time to change my tune.

On the return flight I armed myself with a conference notebook full of wisdom, prayer, and two Bible verses. This cocktail was far more potent than my neighbor’s drink, and yielded a calm, peaceful heart and trip, in those deep-down places, even though the flight was, yet again, turbulent.

God is kind to shake us out of ourselves, isn’t he?

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My flesh and my heart may fail,
but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.

Psalm 73:26

You keep him in perfect peace
    whose mind is stayed on you,
    because he trusts in you.

Isaiah 26:3

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