You can keep them in the pew, you know. We did.

Let me say from the top that as imperfect parents, Jon and I made mistakes raising our children. We are a normal family with everyday problems and sin challenges. Only by the kindness and grace of God, do we have four grown children pursuing the Lord. Children whose Bibles are cherished, worn; beloved.

Another disclosure: I write today from a mother’s vantage point and not as a pastor’s wife speaking into a specific situation. By the nature of my husband’s vocation, I must make this distinction. Please understand that I am not railing against all children’s church environments. Our church offers this option to our parishioners, and numerous adults work to make this available.

Our personal choice is not prescriptive. It is a preference…one that I believe to be biblically sound, and a passion I share only when people press me with:

Kristin, how did you raise your children to love God and the church?

This happens from time to time, and when they ask?

I answer.

***

Pulpit and Pew.

Our nation and world are undeniably crumbling with families scattered and torn, fragile and broken. I would argue that this is not because mothers and fathers are purposefully gathering their little loves around the dinner table each night, praying and opening their Bibles for family devotions, or sitting elbow-to-elbow in the pew every Sunday, eager to hear God’s Word unpacked while uniting together under the preaching of Scripture.

I would argue families have sadly drifted because they are not doing these things.

***

Biblically speaking, a home is to be God-centered, not child-centered. God is our Heavenly Father, our Ruler of order and of peace. In a Christ-centered home, there will be zero questions about the I’m importance of attending church each week. It is understood, from Scripture, that in love, devotion, and obedience to God, the family will gather to be spiritually fed. (Hebrews 10:25)

The sermon itself is the high point of the entire week. It is the Christian’s banquet, the meat of life. The sermon is when Christians and unbelievers in attendance hear faithful, biblical exposition. It is a holy time of exhortation, admonition, conviction, and comfort.

This I why I cannot, in good conscience, favor anything that pulls adults and children away from Sunday’s sermon.

For Christian parents, entrusted with raising their own little ones, the question becomes:

Why would I desire to dismiss my children from this succulent feast?

An important question to ponder.

Most parents spend copious amounts of time planning and ensuring that their children complete their homework, achieve good grades, pursue extra-curricular activities, have a decent haircut, consume nutritious foods, wear clean clothing, and enjoy safe playtime.

How much time do parents spend planning how to incline their child’s soul to the things of God?

Children’s church will never replicate the gathering of saints under pastoral preaching. A common argument in favor of children’s church is that children require age-appropriate teaching. Yes, this, too, is important, which is why we offer Sunday School and midweek children’s classes.

But there is something far more important.

The preaching.

The Gospel message itself–declared week in and week out, is ordained to grow and mature Christians.

Colossians 1:28 states:

Him we proclaim, warning everyone and teaching everyone with all wisdom, that we may present everyone mature in Christ.

Yes, every Christian must be weaned from rice cereal and introduced to the divine steak dinner.

***

When I am asked how we endeavored to raise our children in the church, the answer is plain, not easy, and judging from countenances, somewhat disappointing. I often get the impression that people believe a parent can dole out a multivitamin and Voilà! Their son or daughter will morph into a spiritually mature young adult who is steadfastly committed to being in the pew weekly, adores God most fervently, and abides in the Scriptures daily.

It simply does not work this way.

***

Every Saturday night, when our children were small and tucked in bed, I pulled out the ironing board. As the iron hissed and steamed, I pressed four little outfits, plus two adult ones. It took a bit of time, but as my husband polished his sermon I prayed for the person whose clothing I was ironing—something my great-aunt had inspired me to do.

Afterward, I lined up four pairs of clean shoes in our front hall and set the kitchen table with bowls, napkins, spoons, and cereal boxes.

Sunday mornings were a flurry with four young ones and a preaching husband, but with the preparation mentioned above, we made it to church on time.

In fact, the only time we stayed home, ever, was when someone was ill. And even then, I tended to our little patient while Jon took the others to church.

To be clear, we did not attend every church event.

But Sunday morning worship?

Non-negotiable.

Let’s assume that you keep your children in the church nursery until they are three years old, and then welcome them to the family pew. You have graciously gifted them over 250 more scriptural expositions than the child who remains in children’s church, not joining the family pew until age eight.

***

Do we truly, deep down in our bones, believe Romans 10:13-14?

For “everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved.” How then will they call on him in whom they have not believed? And how are they to believe in him of whom they have never heard? And how are they to hear without someone preaching?

Jesus Christ is the Word. Our Savior’s excellencies are to be preached to everyone.

When the disciples rebuked adults for bringing children to Jesus that he might touch them, Christ became indignant and said:

“Let the children come to me; do not hinder them, for to such belongs the kingdom of God. Truly I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child shall not enter it.” (Mark 10:14-15)

Consider welcoming your children, whom Jesus loves, into the family pew and under the pulpit. Do not hinder them by sending them away. Let them hear the Bible preached. They will not understand everything, at first, and they may even be bored. But remember that this is precisely how they first learned to speak, through immersion, by hearing your voice daily, from the moment they were born.

They did not understand the meaning of your words for a long time, did they? In this same manner, they will soak up the doctrines of Scripture, the truths and delight of God’s Word, little by little. Understanding will come in time.

Your children are eyewitnesses as you, parents, worship the Lord through praying, singing, notetaking, and obeying him by not forsaking the gathering of the saints. Children are sponges, and if you continually chirp: Church is important! and then dismiss them before the sermon, what are you showing them?

Church is about God, not about creating a fun, exciting, palatable place for children. Children, like us, are terribly prone to me-centeredness. I once heard a little one whine: I want to be up on stage this Christmas so people can clap for me! while pointing to the pulpit.

And there it is– the lie that church is a stage to spotlight oneself.

Leading your children into the family pew is not a boring punishment to be avoided but a treasure to be shared.

***

Once upon a time, I doled out mints to Caleb, Jacob, Marcus, and Lauren, my four stairsteps in the pew. I also gifted them their own notebook and pencils as I took notes during the sermon. As they sat and sketched and eventually learned to jot verses and key points, they intuited the importance of taking the sermon seriously. I expected them to.

As parents, it is our personal responsibility to teach our children to sit for the duration of the service. To pay attention and be generous by not distracting others from hearing the message. This is a good discipline, teaching them to sit respectfully, and reverently for ninety minutes. It takes practice.

Our world is forever spinning the message that children must be seen, worshipped, and given their way, no matter what. Teaching them to listen to their pastor preach is a gift to their souls, for all of eternity. It shows them how to deny themselves and follow Jesus. Such efforts stand contrary to worldly opinions, and they should. It reinforces a priceless truth–your children are not the center of the universe–God is.

Children can accomplish this, and such discipline begins at home. If your expectations are low, your children will wilt and misbehave. Endeavor to raise the bar with clear instruction and gentle encouragement. When they squirm or misbehave, view this as your opportunity to train them more diligently at home.

Practically speaking, I used to insist that my children used the restroom (whether or not they wanted to) before the service, which eliminated unnecessary roaming. When they were small, I squeezed their hands three times (secret code for I love you) or scratched their shoulder or winked at them during the message. I wanted them to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that they were a part of this body of believers and that I loved them until the end of time and was most delighted that we were seated as a family, together.

I find it interesting to note that the Apostle Paul penned the following to the church in Ephesus:

Children obey your parents in the Lord, for this is right. (Ephesians 6:1)

This clearly indicates that children were an important part of the ancient church, gathering with their families to worship as Paul’s letter was proclaimed. This man of God, with divine apostolic authority, spoke directly to the children.

Dismissing children from the preaching speaks powerfully, doesn’t it?

Choosing to welcome your little ones to the pew, showing them how to open their Bible, how to worship the Lord reverently, how to bow in submissive prayer, and how to sing robust songs and hymns and spiritual songs speaks powerfully, too. It heralds the truth:

God’s Word is my authority, and it is yours, too.

***

I have had people tell me that expecting children to sit through the weekly sermon is unreasonable, especially for single parents. Although I was not a single parent, my husband was in the pulpit, and I was solely responsible for four children. At one point in Jon’s pastoral ministry, I added seven or eight other children to our pew; children who came from broken homes and were delivered to our church by bus. They were a bit disruptive, and a few of those children even had learning and social disorders. Sitting in the pew with them was trying, but I remained convinced that they were souls who deserved to hear the Holy Bible preached. So I pressed on to the best of my abilities, trusting God with the results.

I share with you as someone who speaks from decades of experience: it can be done, if you are willing to train up your loves, wholeheartedly trusting God’s promise that his Word never returns void. (Isaiah 55:11)

There are 10,080 minutes in each week. What might happen if you kept your family together in the pew for 90 of them?

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And these words that I command you today shall be on your heart. You shall teach them diligently to your children and shall talk of them when you sit in your house, and when you walk by the way, and when you lie down, and when you rise.

Deuteronomy 6:6-7

Thank you, Kind Soul, for reading along in 2023. Lord willing, I will meet you in your inbox on the first Thursday in 2024. Please sign up on the sidebar to receive my writings directly by email. You may also sign up for my free monthly newsletter in the blog’s header.

Once or twice per year I invite my readers to support my writing ministry, by clicking anywhere you see the feathered pen, or under the “Support” tab in the header. I am honored and humbled to have some brand new readers, and if this is you, welcome.

Writing is my honor and joy, an endeavor that God has entrusted me to accomplish. It is a labor of love, time, and perseverance, which is why I ask you to consider supporting my work.

If you should have any questions, please email me at: kristincouch@gmail.com. I welcome your kind correspondence, and I am grateful for each note that lands in my inbox.

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For fun, here are some pieces you might have missed from earlier this year:

Social

Tagless

Piano Man

Benched

Words That Lead

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Lastly, can anyone else relate?

(I am not sure who created this, but it is perfect.)

Happy New Year!

A few weeks ago I finished the edits on a large project, hit send, and padded to our dining room window, gazing across our frozen lawn, as the sun began to dip in hushed descent. A bright cardinal pecked at the feeder, tilting its head after detecting my presence behind the window pane. His brilliant crest stood fluffy in the bite of rushing wind and I smiled, permitting my mind to relax and simply be.

I love to labor, to persevere, to work, and to finish. Whether it is writing, layering shepherd’s pie, tidying the living room, scrubbing the kitchen sink, wrestling with a difficult text of Scripture, knitting a blanket, or weeding the flower garden, I am a happy worker.

During the past six months, which have been filled to the brim with various jobs and commitments and a fair bit of odd drama swirling like an unwanted cherry piled atop my normal rigamarole–the songbirds dotting our yard have carried on in their work: singing merrily, flitting from branch to shrub to feeder, eyes round and alert. They feast on the meaty seed I keep stuffed in the dangling feeder. Yet come early evening, they stop and rest.

It is a lovely pattern.

In this maiden voyage of diverse multi-tasking, I have spent little time in the quiet, pleasant observation of these feathered darlings. I see this only now, detecting a loss of this simple pleasure lodged firmly between my shoulder blades.

A loss of what?

Rest.

For as long as I can remember, savoring nature has been a soft blanket of leisure for my heart and mind, country mouse that I am. While I have continued walking the trail this year, my mind often remained at work, neglecting mental rest. And this is the thing I now see with a rush of hindsight-clarity: I am not made to stave off rest until the i’s in my work are dotted and the t’s in my relationships are crossed.

Silly isn’t it? To keep chugging like a machine?

I am no empress, hovering over my kingdom of work as though the outcome of the next 24 hours is fully dependent upon me. Because it is not. Satan cackles at this silly mantra, licking his chops, because he knows that self-dependence paired with pleasing people will smother my walk with Christ, weaken my spirit, and leave me limping along in life.

To place work above rest in Christ is arrogant. We are fragile, fleshly beings harboring souls—both of which require a ceasing beyond the normal nightly sleep.

We have a chunky wooden sign displayed on our dresser that reads: Give it to God and go to sleep. Isn’t that the way? It is a productive rest, trusting that God is always working on my behalf. Although it seems counterintuitive to productivity, the Lord is glorified when I rest in Him, as such stillness proves a humility born of right standing: He is God and I am not. (Psalm 46:10)

I have learned an important lesson this year–one that I will prayerfully carry into next year as I erase some good things to make time for better things, such as rest.

I invite you to pause in stillness, making time to cease for an entire hour or a full day or even a week. Marvel at the kindness, the goodness, and the faithfulness of God. Feel the peaceful calm that washes over you as you slow down.

Work hard? Yes, as unto the Lord.

And then, like our feathered friends, stop, and remember that true rest sings a song of quiet beauty. Such reliance on the Lord is deeply good.

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

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When our son Jacob first told us that he was going to become a missionary, I knew two things:

1. My heart would hurt.
2. Our loss was the world’s gain.

What I did not know fully then, but do now, four months after his departure across the Atlantic, was how God would pull me close and teach me his character through the labors of our son.

There are many stories to be shared with you, my kind readers, and in the New Year, I will make sure that you hear from Jacob himself. He has been in dangerous situations, (likely more dangerous than he lets on to me) and the Lord has strengthened him and kept him from harm. Jacob has shared the Gospel with many, and a few have wholly embraced it, several of whom dwell in a homeless shelter in South Africa.

Jacob perseveres joyfully, delighted to teach Christ, inviting others to church, while resting contentedly in the sovereignty of God. I have written about Jacob before, and as you know, the stories of our four children are the easiest pieces I have ever penned. My greatest earthly joy was the long, slow work of loving, mothering, and home-educating each one of them. They have taken flight, which is precisely what Jon and I raised them to do but my goodness, I do miss them something fierce.

Parents, this is me looking you in the eyes, and urging you: forego the expensive clothes, the pricey vacations, the steep mortgages. Teach your children Christ, go to Sunday worship every single week, read the Bible together, pray together, laugh together, live simply, and love well. No one does these things perfectly, especially me, but every single day I am thankful that my husband championed my work at home, passing up a second income.

Spend time with your loves now. Life is a vapor, and those precious little faces will step out of your home and into the world soon enough.

May they step out with God ruling their hearts.

***

Last weekend Jon and I returned home from church, excited to catch up with Jacob via WhatsApp, eager to hear about a homeless outreach he had been a part of the previous day. He told us that some 200 homeless people had attended, longing to make use of the portable showers with the additional option of having their feet washed.

I have read about Jesus stooping to wash the disciples’ feet, including those of his soon-betrayer, Judas. In Bible times, people’s feet were perpetually grimy–filthy after miles of walking dusty dirt roads in sandals.

But I was not prepared for what Jacob described.

These men’s feet were wounded, and even decayed. Many had not experienced the joy of a hot shower in months, or more. The people, Jacob said, were desperate, grateful to have their swollen, aching, diseased feet washed, and their thick toenails clipped. They were noticeably moved by the gentle care displayed by human hands.

My eyes filled as Jacob spoke. I could picture our son–quarterback, singer, writer, and missionary–a man who could choose to do almost anything–sharing the truth and love of Christ, humbly.

***

Here is something else I now understand: you are who you are wherever you go.

Heading to the mission field does not make one holy. That is a work of the Spirit performed within the human heart. If God is your Lord, and you are spiritually robust while dwelling in Chicago, then you will be spiritually well in Denver or Toronto or Frankfurt or Athens or Cape Town or wherever you go. It is neither the location nor the vocation, but the pulse of the Holy Spirit at work in the secret places, the depths of the soul, that shines.

***

May you and I reach out and serve someone with the love of Christ Jesus.

Even if that someone is Judas.

I leave you with pictures of Jacob, washing feet in South Africa.

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John 13:14-17

 If I then, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. For I have given you an example, that you also should do just as I have done to you. Truly, truly, I say to you, a servant is not greater than his master, nor is a messenger greater than the one who sent him.  If you know these things, blessed are you if you do them.

I invite you to read more about Jacob’s missionary work.

Oh, how Christmas sparkled on Washington Street!

The chill of December, the snow piling high on my grandparents’ front porch, the twinkly lights fluttering as they lay draped against the decorated Fraser Fir which brushed up against the living room’s windowpanes.

My brother and I pushed open our grandparents’ wreathed door, silver bells jingling as we entered the front hall and into the living room warmed by the crackling fireplace. Conversations swirled as last-minute hubbub ensued. The scent of apple pie, the vision of multiple glass bowls overflowing with ribbon candy, mixed nuts, and pastel dinner mints whispered: tradition. The delight of Christmastime sent a shiver down my spine.

But the best part of Christmas on Washington Street?

Grandpa.

My hero.

Grandpa was a smartly dressed gentleman, with a warm handshake and wide smile. He drew people into unscripted conversation, forever interested in others rather than himself.

People adored him, and I knew exactly why.

He was magnificent.

Grandpa’s love for my brother and me remained unrivaled. He honored our contrastive personalities with ease, understanding us well. Each December, Grandpa swept us into his Volvo, driving to his favorite spots: the ice cream parlor for a cone no matter what time of day, the Five-and-Ten to do a bit of Christmas shopping, and of course the toy store where we were invited to pick out a trinket. He was a Go Big or Go Home man, showing love in countless, tangible, and splendid ways.

As we cruised, he played gospel songs on his cassette tapes, crooning along. Never did he push against my reserved nature, but winsomely drew me out little by little, and I soon sang along. With Grandpa I felt cherished.

The final stop along our drive included the neighborhood hardware store. Grandpa chatted with the workers, and despite not having one handy bone in his body, rallied my brother and me with: Let’s be sure to give the fellows some business! –generously opening his wallet and returning home with another unnecessary tool, or extension cord, or come Christmas? Fresh light bulbs for the window candles.

Much to my grandmother’s chagrin.

These bulbs were, in fact, a sticking point in our family tree. As my brother has noted, they were the exact color of Campbell’s tomato soup—opaque and unattractive. As classy and gracious as Grandpa was, when he made up his mind about something?

So be it.

These bulbs were one shining example.

The family grew accustomed to the color as the years unfolded, accepting this uncomfortable quirk, which was glaringly obvious to every commuter passing by on bustling Washington Street.

Even now I feel a lump in my throat when I remember returning home from college one Christmas—the first Christmas without Grandpa.

My ride pulled into the driveway late that frigid December night following a harrowing nineteen-hour drive through snow storms and black ice. As I emerged from the car, blowing warmth into my cupped and frozen hands, my backpack pulling heavy upon my shoulder, I was shattered to see white lights glowing through every frosty windowpane. As soft and exquisite as they were, such decorations were a throbbing reminder that my grandfather was gone.

Tears sprang up and I looked away, crushed.

***

The years have taken wing and now my own grandson is two. I revel in his laughter, his antics, as I squeeze him tight, kissing his shampooed head and telling him I love him. The memories of Grandpa’s love circle around my head, a majestic symphony, exhaling. God is the Maestro, urging the strings and woodwinds to life, a background song rising steady and lovely and true. Grandpa died over thirty years ago, but his music rises, still.

His lavish love endures—a tender swell for God, for family, for common hardware store workers, and even for those quirky orange bulbs. Grandpa was confident, poised, knowing who God created him to be, while also embracing that he was a sinner redeemed by the grace and kindness of God.

Of course, I will never be a clone of my grandfather– purchasing tomato soup bulbs, traipsing through hardware stores to buy something I do not need. It is not in my nature to shake hands and chat with anyone and everyone while juggling a wildly flourishing sales career.

That was Grandpa’s realm–not mine.

Yet like him, I will seek to fan the flame of my adoration for the Lord…pouring over Scripture, sharing Christ in my small writing endeavors, and abiding in devotion to God. I pray that this lavish love will overflow and warm my grandchildren, too.

Grandpa modeled an important truth for me: sturdy love means generosity of time in unhurried doses, a heart of selflessness laced with unmistakable acts of warmth and kindness and understanding. A You first before me type of love. There was nothing iffy about his commitment to my brother and me. We were never forced to wonder whether Grandpa was for us.

We knew, down deep in the crevices of our small frames, that we were most loved.

***

Now, it is my honor to carry this grandparenting torch to the next generation.

May I buy my grandchildren sprinkled ice cream cones just because, and splurge on Christmas decorations for their sake. May I happily read one more book, sing one more lullaby, and be the Nonnie who plays trucks and blocks and Legos and stuffed animals on the floor, building blanket forts in our living room as the rest of the world melts away.

May my grandchildren revel in our family traditions—Mud Pie, White Christmas, Buckeyes, and bulging Christmas stockings. May they one day skip along on our Christmas Day Walk and later grin over the day’s treasures as they nestle beneath warm comforters, and drift off to sleep in our soft guest beds. May they have tender hearts and ears to hear me speak naturally and happily as I make much of our God.

May they feel the Lord’s love warming their Nonnie who listens and understands and protects and sings and laughs and prays and holds them close, always and no matter what.

May my fervor for Christ spill over and tug at my sweet grandson’s heart this Christmas. May he love God most, as I bow daily on his behalf.

***

Thank you, Grandpa. You were a shadow of Christ to my young, impressionable heart, choosing to be an always-and-forever-without-end grandparent, rather than a confusing puzzle to be sorted and solved.

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They still bear fruit in old age; they are ever full of sap and green.

Psalm 92:14

*

All heroes are shadows of Christ.

-Pastor John Piper

I was recently honored to be able to unpack the topic of Generous Writing with two of my dear friends. Biblical friendship is a kind gift from God, is it not? I delighted in our conversation, and I pray that you enjoy it, too.

Marcus Couch Productions©

Tessa’s substack

Jill’s blog

Last month I breathlessly rounded the corner after walking an uphill slog. Gazing ahead, I stopped short and snapped this photograph as Matthew 7:13-14 flooded my mind:

Enter by the narrow gate. For the gate is wide and the way is easy that leads to destruction, and those who enter by it are many. For the gate is narrow and the way is hard that leads to life, and those who find it are few.

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There are six weeks left in the year.

I recently carved some time to be still and reflect on the work God has done in my heart over the past twelve months.

How have I obeyed him? How have I honored him? How have I sinned? Have I grieved the Holy Spirit? What dry and dusty crevices of my heart must I repent from and ask the Lord to sweep clean? Am I maturing in faith? Am I purposing to grow in holiness? Am I fully yielded to Christ?

Many people ask God to give them a specific theme word for each New Year. Fewer, it seems, drop to their knees in confession and repentance, arms flung wide, willing to joyfully embrace whatever cup of suffering God is extending.

May today be a fresh start, an opportunity to turn fully to Jesus (John 6:37). As I slow down and examine the messy, tangled underside of life’s fabric, I am also pressing into the promises of God (Psalm 32:1 John 14:3 Matthew 28:20).

Such truths are beautiful stitches adorning the right side of our fabric. With each passing year, I see more clearly that suffering is actually God’s favor–a gift meant to prune and refine. Suffering is his finest chisel born from saving love, a painful instrument he wields judiciously.

I have experienced God’s chisel time and again in a year that has been stuffed with quiet heartaches; corrupt schemes that Satan intended for evil. These hardships are largely invisible to the world. Such burdens have proven perplexing and difficult to navigate due to their clandestine nature. Upon reflection, one thing is evident: I have far to go in learning to respond with joy.

This last year has felt crushing for another reason, as I watched professing Christians abandoning the bedrock of Scripture. Their lust for power, hunger for control, and untamed selfishness exposed wide-path living. Such imposters wear the mask and cape of Christianity and prey upon the undiscerning.

If this is you, and a cape remains draped upon your shoulders as you pile your Babel bricks, remember that God is El Roi for a reason: he is the God who sees. Not one of us may ever fool him. Repent while you may.

God has also granted me many undeserved blessings over the last twelve months, such as the gift of deepening friendships and the steadfast love of family. But the greatest kindness from the Lord this year?

My increasing thirst for Him.

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The narrow gate is Christ, who leads his sheep into eternity with our Heavenly Father (Revelation 21:27). This path toward holiness is an arduous, uphill climb, a lifelong pursuit of holiness as the world waltzes by on the wide, easy road, sashaying its way to destruction.

May I encourage you with one way to incline your heart to God?

This Sunday, as your pastor exposits the Scriptures, choose to lean in, take notes, and mentally scratch a chalky circle around your own two feet. Resist the urge to elbow the person next to you, or to forward the sermon’s audio version to that specific someone who definitely needs to straighten up. Instead, ask the Holy Spirit to convict the bones standing within the circle (Psalm 51:4). Turn to him in full and genuine repentance (2 Corinthians 7:10). Then deny yourself, take up your cross, and follow him (Luke 9:23).

This is Narrow Gate Living.

Such steps are rare, humbling, and pleasing to our King (James 4:10). Humility is powerful because it is a shadow of our Savior who stooped low, dropping from heaven to die for us, God’s beloved. He lavishes grace on the humble of heart who continue to repent.

Isn’t this magnificent? Christ lives to intercede on our behalf (Hebrews 7:25). There is nothing more comforting than this wonder.

He is able to save to the uttermost, and he does.

Seek him now. Love him most. Walk the ancient, narrow path traveled by few.

(I invite you to sign up for my monthly newsletter.)

It is early, and the air is frigid as I push back our heavy comforter, shivering as I slip from bed. I pluck my warmest socks from our bottom left drawer, memory serving me well in the dark.

I have awakened with the words swirling fast and furious, so I text remembrances to myself, as I brush my teeth minty, squinting at the brightness of bulbs.

Soon I am dressed–a soft, threadbare hoodie and sweatpants, beloved and tattered and dotted with speckles that pay tribute to the colors of our home–Village Square, Owl Gray, Honest Blue, Butternut. I descend the cold hardwood stairs and whisper good morning to our trio of pets who blink at me and stretch; yawning.

We travel as a pack outside, and the bright ball of yellow moon, a beauty which hung low and heavy and mournful in the pitch of sky only days ago, has now melted and waned and whitened, perched high and faint; a fading crescent.

I miss the robust harvest moon in the way I miss our children: wishing for swaths of time together that once seemed full and endless. My heart tiptoes around loss, as I grow familiar with separation, phantom pains of amputation slowly morphing toward contentment, hard-won.

The stars blink and twinkle, steady and hushed, and I am small against the inky backdrop; fragile as I regard the constellations. Three nights ago I reveled in the canopy of dark as a shooting star lept and danced and dropped earthward. I stand undone, pondering the greatness of God, who with mere thought and command, flung these wonders to dot the sky.

Our dogs give me a nudge, noses cold on my hand, and I scratch their heads while Josephine Bean, Joey, meows, rubbing her head against my shins. My breath puffs cold as my hand circles the doorknob. Longing to stay in this quiet beautiful, I glance up one more time, freeze-framing the wonder of it all, such ancient loveliness no painter can match.

Inside, I measure and pour three bowls of dry pet food and finally reach for coffee grounds. I notice Joey limping, and I hazily recall her previous tussle with a neighbor’s cat.

With animals tended and coffee brewing, I waltz into the canopy of Monday’s headspace, aglow with delicious possibility.

Mondays are my favorite. A peaceful, solitary stretch to write and write and write some more. It is the only day in which I am not expected to appear anywhere. It is life-giving, and I shield Writing Mondays like a guard at Buckingham Palace, protecting his Sovereign.

Yes, Mondays are for slipping away, carrying only thoughts and keyboard. A few minutes of slow stretching gives way to a long morning walk as the sun lifts in the eastern sky, pastel portraits of oranges and pale pinks. These walks are cushioned by prayer, podcasts, and the sizzle of song. Thoughts emerge that could break any writer wide open, but the Author of memories and words keeps me.

Life is one long story, I decide as I walk. Days stacked upon days, and the trajectory is like a shooting star careening toward eternity. The truths within our stories will become either a duck and run or a pressing in, a steadfast journey of perseverance.

As I walk I carve and slice with the sharpest of blades, wielding my knife invisible, abandoning unnecessary words on the chopping block. Everything promising ends up in a thick notebook, material that might not see the light of day for years.

A family of deer lurches ten paces before me, gracefully emerging from the woods, across the path, and over the golf course where they pause and stare. They are handsome, a broad-chested male with thick antlers, his gentle, wide-eyed mate, and their four offspring sporting wet and shiny noses. A hawk soars overhead and the deer leap and prance from the meadow into the nearby thicket.

The sky has now begun to awaken, and I slip off my headphones in favor of birdsong.

Two squirrels chase up the old maple and down again, racing for the larger pine. A chipmunk scurries toward the edge of the wood, as a flutter of leaves floats earthward, rocking back and forth in the wind, little boats in no particular hurry, landing peacefully to their death. The burnt reds, yellows, and oranges will soon fade brown, and I think: from dust we came and dust we return.

***

I return home, sip coffee, and lose myself in the pages of 1 Thessalonians before settling in at my desk.

The previous three Writing Mondays have gone quite poorly with interruptions aplenty. I thus grew dull of thought, sluggish, and overwhelmed by initial streams of thought mercilessly crushed by too many social engagements paired with the whiplash of trials unfolding beyond the walls of our home.

It is time for the tide to change, and my soul swells as the words flow on this Monday morning. I am praying for the richness of today’s work to match the magnificent harvest moon: satiating and delicious; a feast.

The table is now graciously set to write, and I aim to honor my goal of completing two pieces while beginning a third. My heart is cartwheeling, as I think: our girl is coming home, our girl is coming home, our girl is coming home. I have missed our daughter something fierce this semester, and am longing for the holiday break. This spurs my excitement at the prospect of getting ahead in my work.

How I am pining for our morning coffee rituals and unhurried conversations in our pajamas. Time spent swinging wide the hutch doors and digging around for our cookie cutters, mixing and rolling and smoothing the sugar dough like we do come November and December. And our beloved movies–we will watch them all, oh yes, we will.

I am writing away when I receive a phone call that I cannot ignore. There is another issue to tend to, and one hour later all concentration has begun to wilt and perish. I wander into the kitchen in defeat, heating the kettle for oolong, mentally fighting to return to the ashy embers and beg a flame, when Joey limps through the kitchen on three paws.

My eyes widen–her back leg has swelled to ghastly proportions. I watch in horror as she presses herself thin, flattening and escaping beneath our sofa.

It is then I realize that she has retreated to die.

Frantic, I whisk her to the vet– sans makeup, in my paint-splattered sweats with thick socks and worn-out Crocs that I slip on to save time. My hair is yanked through my favorite ballcap–all of this my normal attire for my beloved (and typically invisible) Writing Mondays.

Except today I am not hidden.

It is not until I blow into the emergency clinic that I consider my appearance.

There are swarms of people in the waiting area, and I am now deeply worried about Joey, who is our college daughter’s beloved pet. Wildly embarrassed by my appearance, I attempt to quietly speak above the din to the receptionist, with the cat carrier perched countertop. Did I mention that my husband and I could not figure out how to properly attach the door? And that electrical tape now holds the steel piece in place?

This? The stuff of nightmares, I tell you.

Name? The receptionist snaps her gum, manicured fingers clicking the keyboard as she types.

Kristin.

She looks at the crate. And what is wrong with Miss Kristin?

No, I am Kristin.

She sighs. What is the cat’s name, Ma’am?

Joey.

Joanie? What is wrong with Joanie?

I lean closer, inwardly perishing as people stare.

No. Joey. Josephine Bean.

Cute. She laughs too loudly and blows a snapping bubble.

Why, I am thinking, did I not pause before I left the house and swish mascara on my lashes, or spritz perfume on my wrists, or at least lace up my good sneakers?

But I know the answer. Our smidgen of a cat was suffering and I was racing against the clock.

After ten minutes, they whisk our lethargic, swelling feline to the back and I slip into a seat in the back row, praise be, hiding while mentally refiguring my workweek as the hourglass sands drizzle.

I think back to this morning, now a lifetime ago: the waning moon, the stars, the chill of autumn, the deer, and the brilliant sky that glowed as the dark awakened to light. My warmed heart now feels squashed, my plans squelched, roadkill for the fourth Monday in a row.

Suddenly, a high-pitched screech erupts, and a woman anxiously teases her sweatshirt drawstring as her cat wails. The animal slinks dull and feverish in its carry case, at death’s door, poor thing, and the round, middle-aged woman is brushing her tears away. Her husband wraps his thick arm around her shoulder, and in that moment they become their own universe.

It is oddly lovely, as full and true as the harvest moon.

It’s okay darlin’ he comforts, and I hear his smoker’s voice, uninhibited. The entire, overfilled waiting room must also hear it as we are stuffed together in this sad space.

As I observe this couple it is not too hard to imagine them sharing an ashtray at their Formica kitchen table. Smoke swirls as they trade newspaper comics, munching Sarah Lee coffee cake straight from the tin, a dull kitchen knife smeared with frosting as they slice ample pieces, washing down the pastries with endless cups of tepid Maxwell House.

We’ll do whatever it takes because we love her, right darlin’? he comforts, pulling her close. Neither husband nor wife would be considered even remotely attractive by the world’s harsh measuring stick, but I think: Who cares? This is living. This is lovely.

He shuffles her even closer, his movements rough, but not unkind, smooching the top of her head.

But the money? she whispers looking up at his face in grief and in trust.

It is undeniable: he is her sun, and she is orbiting.

Husband waves a hand over his protruding belly. It don’t matter, darlin’. And he smiles. I’ll work it out.

The vet assistant appears, taking the sick creature back for examination. The large husband wraps his bride in his arms as she weeps, and I turn away at such beauty.

***

I have been watching this movie unfold, and it seems that so has the middle-aged lady seated in front of me, next to her own husband. She tucks her salon-cut hair behind her ear and I see a sparkling diamond, a crown jewel. Her starched collar is upturned, crisp; timeless. Her man is dressed to the nines, cologne swirling expensive, his elbows resting on his knees as he works the phone with two hands.

Their pet must already be in the back because the only thing between them now is space. And plenty of it.

After a moment she turns: Do you think Everett will be okay? she whispers.

He shrugs. He better be, for what we are about to pay.

She glares, fingers toying her diamond.

But I love him, Peter.

Don’t I know it! He rolls his eyes and his phone pulses and he stands. I’ll take this outside.

And he is gone.

Her profile is one of high breeding, classy, but seasoned with sadness. Her doe eyes fill as she studies the couple two rows over. The pudgy couple who have no diamonds to sparkle.

The longing on this woman’s face haunts me–and I turn away at such sorrow.

***

In my haste to save Joey, I forgot to bring paper and pen, so I tap my terribly neglected notes app and string words together as I consider the stealth of pain, the brokenness swirling around me, the brokenness within me, and what this means in the light of eternity as we sweep through impossibly jagged shards.

I remember the moon. While the luminescent sphere in the night sky waxes and wanes, this satellite itself is unchanging. Our frail perspective, our dim eyes, and our feeble earthly positions fool us into believing otherwise.

How much more so, God? Unchanging, steadfast, and perfect. Master of all.

He is Lord over sweet marriages with Hey darlin, and difficult marriages with painful spaces. He is to be trusted when the children are small and the dinner table is full and loud and filled with laughter. He is to be trusted when the table is small and the presence of absence is weighty.

God is unchanging in our bouts of sickness and mounting bills and in flashes of soaring health and stuffed bank accounts. He is the Author of every Writing Monday that crumbles and perishes, and the Author of every Harvest Monday that sparkles as the words light up the page.

He is my Treasure, my Hope, my All.

And through it all, I–mere dust and bone– am made to fall before him in worship and in trust. He knows what he is doing, and that is my peace.

God is Lord of the faint, waning moon and Lord of the magnificent, buttery harvest sphere.

A sight that makes any poet ache and burn.

***

After an hour, the vet called me back to say that Joey got into a scrape with either a copperhead or another cat. Her fever soared as the infection raged. They flushed her tiny frame with antibiotics and armed me with pain meds for days. She will recover.

My girl is coming home, my girl is coming home, and you are alive, I warble the entire way home, to Miss Josephine Bean.

***

Last week I could almost reach out and touch the harvest moon, but then it paled, fading dim.

God is near.

---

The LORD reigns; he is robed in majesty; the LORD is robed; he has put on strength as his belt. Yes, the world is established; it shall never be moved. Your throne is established from of old; you are from everlasting.

Psalm 93:1-2

I am so happy to introduce you to our oldest son, Caleb. He travels and preaches, unpacking God’s Word with rich teaching. I invite you to tune in and learn how adversity has shaped Caleb’s life and drawn him closer to God.

Marcus Couch Productions©

This beautiful time of year, the turning from summer to autumn in Virginia, is a sight to behold. The shifting light, the shortened days, and the cooler mornings signal a return to the splendor of fall. 

Autumn is a time of distinction, with the onset of firepits and football and family gatherings, as we anticipate Thanksgiving. 

It is also a time of busyness at church. 

While many of us are rolling up our sleeves to prepare for new Bible studies and fall festivals, may I encourage us, as pastors’ wives, to pause our labors and first tend to our souls? 

Picture a blazing firepit on a chilly autumn night. That slow, steady burn exudes heat and beauty, drawing people together, inviting a spirit of unity and conversation, and delight. The firepit does not set itself ablaze, but is sparked and stoked by wood and match, fed with kindling, as the backdrop of stars emerge to twinkle in the ink of night. 

As pastors’ wives, it is easy to become a lifeless firepit, as we bustle about with good things: encouraging our husbands, tending to our families and our homes, working jobs outside of those four walls, and often filling those church vacancies left void by fickle volunteers. 

On top of all these things lies the weight of ministry itself: we know what we know and wish we did not. Our pastor husbands are laboring to lead and teach and protect God’s flock, and to be blunt? The fury of Satan presses in and weighs us down. 

Remember this: It is tempting for us, especially as women, to do all of the things for others, while neglecting our own famished souls. As we do, we unwittingly grow cold and tired in spirit, a fireless firepit. 

What shall we do? 

Pause. 

Pause everything. 

Step away from church demands, take up your Bible, and abide. We only become a healthy, crackling firepit while seated at the feet of Jesus. 

Remember the account of Mary and Martha? 

“Now as they went on their way, Jesus entered a village. And a woman named Martha welcomed Him into her house. And she had a sister called Mary, who sat at the Lord’s feet and listened to His teaching. But Martha was distracted with much serving. And she went up to him and said, “Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to serve alone? Tell her then to help me.” But the Lord answered her, “Martha, Martha, you are anxious and troubled about many things, but one thing is necessary. Mary has chosen the good portion, which will not be taken away from her.” (Luke 10:38-42 ESV) 

Martha welcomed Jesus into her home yet quickly grew anxious and overwhelmed by her serving duties. She fumed that Mary was doing absolutely nothing to help. 

Yet shockingly, according to Jesus, it was Mary who chose the good portion, which entailed sitting quietly at Christ’s feet while soaking up His every word. 

Did you catch that? 

Sitting still and listening to the teachings of Jesus supersedes serving. 

Mary quieted herself and stoked the fire of her soul. This was, according to Scripture, the wiser choice. A decision that fueled the firepit flames of her soul. 

Dear pastor’s wife, be like Mary today. Cease the striving, the anxious serving, the box-checking on your to-do list. 

During this busy autumn season, quiet yourself at the feet of Jesus and listen to his every word. 

You will become a delightful firepit, flames rising and crackling by the fuel of the Holy Spirit, who will heat your soul with the good portion, which will never be taken from you.

This piece was first published here.