But godliness with contentment is great gain.

~1 Timothy 6:6

(You may read about Jacob’s missionary journey here.)

I enjoyed this conversation about godliness & contentment with our son, Jacob. He is now on South African soil, a missionary sharing the Gospel day by day. His absence provides a perfect opportunity for me to practice contentment in the good yet hard places…those tender, aching goodbyes that only a mother’s heart can know.

(Marcus Couch Productions© 2023)

Kind Reader, I invite you to sign up for my monthly newsletter.

Put not your trust in princes, in a son of man, in whom there is no salvation.

Psalm 146:3

***

I once was acquainted with a man who pitched his entire life into dreams of retirement, beginning on Day One of his career. His personal plans escalated to the degree that everything in life hinged upon his sixty-fifth birthday party. Then, and only then, would real life begin.

Retirement was his saving prince.

He grew ill and died many years before reaching it, with decades spent wasted. Those retirement plans ruled his heart. God did not.

There is no salvation there.

***

I once knew a woman who was exquisitely beautiful. She worked religiously, spending copious amounts of money to soften her face and chisel her physique. It worked, for a time, by way of expensive creams and even botox injections. She was part of our large mothers’ group, and on our fun and noisy outings, while the rest of us shared our drippy ice cream cones with our toddlers, she wrinkled her nose, shunning dessert as though it was the plague. A cold diet beverage forever in hand, she stayed quite slim and perfectly tanned but remained perpetually anxious, distracted, and obsessed with the anti-aging battle.

It consumed her and exhausted others.

Here’s the truth: she eventually aged.

Of course she did—we all do. As her slim body plumped then sagged, as wrinkles formed around her mouth and eyes, her heaviness of spirit sunk her to the depths of despair as her relentless preoccupation with appearances was found to be a pirate and not a prince.

Her security crutch splintered and shattered. Physical beauty had vanished, and she was left with the knowledge that she had spent decades trusting in fleeting things.

There is no salvation there.

***

There once was a man who bought houses to flip, growing greedy as his bank account fattened. He was consumed with a drive for wealth and finery, but when the stock market plummeted, he was left penniless, overnight. First, he grew enraged, and then he grew despondent, and finally? Suicidal.

The prince of wealth is shaky and feeble.

There is no salvation there.

***

Trust not in princes.

Or family

or friends

or jobs

or ideas

or trinkets

or popularity

or beauty

or wealth

or positions

or houses

or vacations

or cars

or romance

or work

or retirement

or youth

or old age

or angels

or dreams

or goals.

When blessed by earthly goodness, thank God for His plan and trust only in Him.

When speared by trial and suffering, thank God for His plan and trust only in Him.

Anchor your faith in God, the Author of Salvation.

He is the Master, painting every speck of our lives, brushing our canvas days with strokes of measured purpose. God is never the author of random, haphazard paint-splattered messes.

Put not your trust in princes but in God, who holds salvation in his hands.

***

If you have been trusting in princes, you are not alone. I, too, have done this very thing. Princes as in actual people. Burned once, twice, three times, and more. Those I imagined might save me, speared me.

Et tu, Brute?

It was God’s kindness to allow this, I tell you now, with the startling clarity called hindsight. A searing lesson on repeat.

A lesson that goes something like this:

The cavalry is not ruling and reigning and coming to save the day, Kristin. Look to God as your Shield and Defender. Not the sons of Adam and daughters of Eve. People hold no power to save.

There is no human cavalry.

It is God who rescues.

I am still surprised by my slowness to embrace this lesson, and equally surprised by God’s patience with me.

He severed those stubborn cords of idolatry beyond repair. The hurt was fierce. It burned, stung, and was chased by the phantom pains of amputation, which lingered for a time.

I admittedly floundered, much like a small, sinking boat in the heart of the deep, wind-tossed ocean. I flailed in swirling, shark-infested waters, and my feet could not find solid footing without succumbing to the depths and drowning. But Christ Jesus pulled me to the safety of himself and strengthened me with the Bible.

Christ is my anchor, and Scripture is my soul-feast.

I trust God alone. He is my everything.

Is he yours?

***

Psalm 118:8-9:

It is better to take refuge in the Lord
    than to trust in man.
 It is better to take refuge in the Lord
    than to trust in princes.

When walking through trial after trial, those stormy times when life presses in, threatening to choke and extinguish all happiness, it is easy to back away, curl up, and grow discouraged, isn’t it?

Often life is quite difficult to bear.

As a child, I remember reading Alexander, and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day by Judith Viorst. The main character is a little boy who experiences one disappointment after another, small events that culminate in a crummy twenty-four-hour period.

(You may read the rest of the piece, here.)

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

One bright September day, those shimmering early school days: untainted notebooks, sharpened pencils, crunchy leaves and crisp air, afternoons of slanted sunshine upon porch pumpkins, yes on that type of day, our junior high class was introduced to Mr. Langley.

Seventh grade meant Latin, and I felt the twins of curiosity and nervousness flutter. I knew nothing about this language or the teacher. Mr. Langley, a new hire, stepped carefully into our bright classroom and placed his slim briefcase upon the teacher’s desk.

Salvete, discipuli, he said quietly, pushing his wire rims to the top of his nose. He turned to grasp a piece of chalk, and as he began writing his name on the chalkboard, his briefcase toppled and the chalk broke, all at once.

Oh dear, he mumbled, scooting down to gather the mess of papers that had spilled. When he stood, again adjusting his glasses, I saw chalk dust streaked along his face, and on the side of his navy pants.

The boys started laughing, and when Mr. Langley did not stop them but continued to fumble with the papers and chalk, cheeks crimson, I knew he would never be able to control our class. Our other instructors knew precisely what was what, and could cast a glance at any student and reel them in. Or else.

But he was different from the other teachers: gentle; shy. As he stood, lean and awkward, scripting his name precisely on the chalkboard, I noticed his fingernails were neatly clipped; scholarly. I could not imagine that he ever mowed the lawn or pushed a wheelbarrow or tossed a football. His aura was one of meticulous caution and forethought, a stretch when governing a junior high classroom. As the weeks unfolded, his intellect proved both humble and mighty in a way that spun impractical: an apprehensive scholar who likely poured over his textbooks line by line, perhaps by candlelight, smiling at the wonder of those mighty Latin roots, unperturbed by any other event taking place on planet earth.

Despite these inauspicious beginnings, he clearly understood Latin, and longed to share the importance of this unspoken language that had crumbled in tandem with the Holy Roman Empire some 1500 years ago. As the weeks moved along, he encouraged us with the practical benefits of the Latin language: If we memorized that pater meant father, for example, we could decipher the meanings of English words such as: patriarch, patron, patronize, paternity, patriot, and expatriate.

Isn’t this wonderful? he beamed, impervious to the disinterest of most of his pupils. Latin helps form the logical portion of your brain, he offered, pushing up his glasses with his index finger. It will help you not only in college entrance exams, but in all of life, as you read the classics and delight in learning new vocabulary. He annunciated each word thoughtfully, as he gazed absentmindedly out the schoolroom window at the majestic maple in all of its autumnal splendor; branches spreading throughout the schoolyard.

He then walked back to the chalkboard, asking us to join in the verbal chant of conjugations. Amo, amas, amat, we began. I heard a noise and peeked over my shoulder as a classmate lobbed a spitball across the room, hitting his friend’s neck. The boy retaliated in kind, and they hooted. Mr. Langley turned, oblivious to the cause of disruption, and kindly requested our full attention yet again.

***

As the months passed, and our Latin vocabulary expanded, Mr. Langley handed each of us a copy of Lingua Latina, and then took his seat behind his desk. We took turns reading aloud and translating.

Imperium Romanum, I read. The Roman Empire, I translated.

I heard snickering and looked up. Mr. Langley had stood and was writing Imperium Romanum on the chalkboard. Clinging to the back of his pantlegs were dozens upon dozens of white page-hole reinforcements.

Had this been any other teacher, to my shame, I probably would have laughed, at least on the inside. But Mr. Langley was so kind, so gentle, such a frail bird that I felt miserable as he deciphered the trick played at his expense. His face flushed and his shoulders drooped, mumbling to himself as he exited the classroom to remove the stickers.

To my initial surprise, a pretty and popular girl laughed, claiming ownership of the prank. As she high-fived the spitball fellows, I had a flash of understanding: recalling her careful exclusion and subtle mocking of the girl with the lisp, the boy who wore the same three shirts on repeat, and the shy, smart girl who was dared to outshine everyone on exams. And now our introverted Latin teacher, brought low in humiliation while she, the self-proclaimed queen bee, rose to rule.

***

I am married to my pastor.

This does not make me special or remarkable. Quite the contrary. I am an average, middle-aged woman.

What it does mean is that my viewpoint from the pew to the pulpit is unique.

I drive into the church parking lot each Sunday and Wednesday, knowing.

I know when my husband is juggling six or seven weighty situations, I know of our family’s stresses and sin struggles, I know his deep longing to please the Lord. I know when he is excited in the growing discipleship of our men and women, I know when he is weary, I know the pressures of decision-making in leading a congregation and answering ultimately to the Lord. I know when a member has greatly encouraged him with a kind word, I know when he has wrestled with a difficult text all week, I know the time spent in prayer, I know the double-digit hours spent in study and preparation as he preaches verse-by-verse, and I know when he has tossed and turned all Saturday night.

But the hardest part is that I know when members are clashing for control, tossing bolts of intimidation subtly, working against unity and submission to God and his Word. It is impossible not to see, not to know, and my husband does not need to even speak a word. These things step into our home, draped over his shoulders like a cloak at day’s end. I offer to take the cloak and stuff it in the closet, but it sheds something fierce, and remnants remain on his shoulders, day after day. I vacuum them from the carpet, as they are sprinkled everywhere. This is undeniably part of his work, and by default, mine as well.

What am I to do? I have a soft heart for the struggling, the weak, the hurting of our church body. They are the image of Mr. Langley, all of these years later, and my instinct is to defend, to help, to shield. My protective instincts have always run a bit hot; it is my native tongue.

My heart’s posture towards the troublemakers? If left alone, it grows into a cold, hard stone.

***

Years ago, when our two oldest sons lit up the Friday night field, one a quarterback and one a tight end, my joy knew no bounds. Jacob threw with mighty precision, and Caleb’s soft hands caught those passes with ease.

Caleb had this thing, after catching the football while running to the end-zone; a signature move that became known as Caleb’s stiff arm. His powerful arm shot forward and held, pushing down any defensive player who attempted to stop the scoring mission. They simply could not bring him down. It was incredible to watch him put points on the board out of sheer strength and to witness the team gather around our sons, slapping backs and helmets, high-fiving, while Caleb and Jacob gave each other a quick hug. This was all so natural: they had grown up playing backyard football and with a glance, knew what the other was thinking, what play to run. They looked out for each other.

This is the picture I conjure now. I am like Caleb, pulling in the long and beautiful pass, catching the ball softly, cradling it securely, and forcing a stiff arm to bring the play to a magnificent completion. My husband is preaching the Gospel, offering the Good News and I am striving for softness, and winsome kindness, seeking determination and strength to carry it generously, and when necessary, stiff-arming in protection.

And yet.

The Gospel is not only for the weak, the vulnerable, the Mr. Langley types of this world. The Gospel is also for the bullies, the arrogant, the queen bees who must be struggling under such staggering poverty of spirit; layers of insecurity that lead them to harm and rebel.

Yes, the Gospel is for all.

The solution for both my cold heart and the bullies is one and the same: a tender work of the Holy Spirit. A repentant heart.

In weak moments, I daydream of clever loopholes, desiring a Bible verse that would permit the stony portion of my heart to remain in a perpetual stiff arm. This is exactly why soaking up the entire counsel of God, from Genesis through Revelation, is the only way to grow in wisdom and grace as a Christian.

Away with sweet platitudes and easy, milky devotionals. I desperately require the unadorned truth: raw, complicated, meaty. Sola Scriptura: a comprehensive, exquisite, yet savage mural of the riches of God’s Rescue Story, which is living and sharp, holding the power to crush the hardest heart to bits, softening all jagged edges, filling me with compassion and kindness and patience and love. An overarching reminder that God is always working on his children’s behalf, no matter what.

Our son, Marcus, compels the piano to sing. The keys cooperate with their Master, following in obedience as he instructs the notes to unravel in beauty, but only at his bidding. It pierces an almost unreachable place in the listener’s soul: the timing, the softness of his hands as they travel up and down the keys, the flow, the tempo, the sound that sweeps gently over the listeners, falling upon them with presence. The song is not finished until Marcus, the Master Player, has said so.

As long as we have breath, the song of our life is not yet finished. Our music will fall with sweet, lasting beauty upon the world only as we bow to our Creator.

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

(P.S. I worked a short-term job this summer, which left little time for writing, which is why I have dipped back into the archives. I hope new readers enjoyed this older piece, even as old faithfuls enjoyed a rerun. I will return soon with fresh writing for you, Kind Readers.)

I came home from work the other day, kicked off my flats, slipped my earrings into a tiny bowl on our kitchen windowsill, and bent down to scratch the dogs’ heads.

It’s so good to be home, I murmured to them, their soulful eyes squinting at me with pure love, tails wagging in response to my low, hushed tones.

Delicious, that peaceful feeling of home. I beckoned Alexa to play a little George Winston as I sunk into our oversized chair and closed my eyes.

Home. My favorite place.

There is little doubt: I am a happy, happy homebody.

***

On writing days, I walk into my office and read the framed canvas adorning the wall:

Home is where our story begins.

The first home of my memory was a beauty, indeed, an antique New England farmhouse, neatly squared off into several apartments. One decade of my childhood played out in this pretty little town where apple blossoms fluttered and good neighbors inhabited stately homes. The majority of breadwinners in our town earned large paychecks and bought all of the fine things. None of this mattered even a smidgen to me–I adored our road and humble apartment but was mostly swept up by the great outdoors. The landscape surrounding our farmhouse signaled home. The treasures of God’s countryside were grand–the magical seasons; distinct and true.

I close my eyes now and journey back into a different era…the rustling wind in those back fields, my hands brushing the swaying grass as I ran freely, hours before the tractor rumbled out back for baling.

My little brother, Tommy, and I romped, laughing and yanking thick blades of sun-scorched grass, stretching the slips tightly between our thumbs, and blowing hard to create a whistle. Plucking bouquets of purple thistle, we sipped its pure, sweet honey, pretending we were brave nomads staving off famine in foreign lands.

As we skipped under the clothesline and beneath the billowy bedsheets, we allowed the soft cotton to brush our faces before racing each other to the crabapple tree. There we twirled on swings–a wooden bench, and a dangling old tire.

The tips of our sneakers circled the dirt, spinning us around and around as the tractor arrived and circled the field, cutting neat bales. The sun warmed our faces, sparkling against the sky-blue backdrop, as a faint breeze cooled, whispering future promises of fall. In a few months, the maple trees would glow brilliant orange, rich yellow, and fiery red.

My parents’ landlord, the retired Mr. Golden, scrupulously tended the property alongside his wife. Only now do I fully appreciate their attentive devotion to caring for the expansive grounds. They spent long days outdoors, backs bent weeding, hoeing, and turning the soil before gently dropping and bedding the seeds. Their long shadows cast dreams of future abundance, brilliant flowers and vegetable gardens.

At their garden’s edge, I crouched, spying on the throngs of earthworms wiggling, racing downward, burrowing into the depths of the dark, rich earth. Soil that, given time and sunshine and rain would yield potatoes, corn, tomatoes, summer squash, zucchini, beans, pumpkins, and peas. The straight, tidy rows and bright growth were lovely, prompting a poem to bubble up inside, a child-like string of words that I scribbled down but shared with no one. I remained shy about the fire burning within, a flame sparked by both the beauty of God’s creation and the enormity of words that infused my spirit.

A stone’s throw past the wide rectangular garden lay a cluster of raspberry and blackberry bushes. Tommy and I were given permission to feast freely, and we did–liberally. Our mouths and fingertips were stained purple on those hot summer days, as we paused our play to snack.

We perched cross-legged atop an old, heavy millstone, which lay flat beneath the impressive maple in the front yard as we downed berries. For an entire decade, this millstone anchored us and served in happy ways: home base for games of tag, a picnic table for our peanut butter sandwiches, and the consummate spot to wait for our shiny yellow school bus to come chugging down the road.

Tommy and I built a hidden fort in the front woods. A cobblestone wall bordered the spot, and we hacked away at the thick underbrush to make our playhouse maneuverable. He swung from a heavily braided rope swing, sailing high and stretching far as he let go and landed with the ease of a cat, grinning wide, those dimples etched deep. When it was my turn, I swung but was terrified to let go, clinging to the rope until my arms ached.

One day we heard a noise coming from our fort. A pitiful mewing. As it turned out, a stray cat had caught its front leg within its loosened collar, leaving the skin rubbed raw and hot with infection. Our neighbor paid for a vet visit, but the antibiotics proved too little too late, and the poor creature, mere skin and bones, died.

Across the road lay a lazy pond, and at the far end of the calm was a steep, rushing dam. My brother and I had been told that once upon a time, a teenager had stubbornly ignored all cautionary warnings, and sauntered across the top of the dam– showing off for friends. She slipped and died after colliding headfirst with a rock.

So death, too, was as much a part of home as life, and we remained careful, our memories pulsing long.

At the pond’s edge were clusters of Concord grapes. The dark, plum-colored skin was tough, but the inside fruit was delicious; satisfyingly tart. Sometimes we spied female snapping turtles nestled and hidden beneath the grape vines, preparing to lay their eggs. In time, those baby turtles peeked their tiny heads out from their shells, wide-eyed while observing the enormous world.

This entire scene?

Home.

From field to yard to fort to millstone to berry bushes to pond.

Oh, yes.

The rowboat, too.

***

I recently told my husband that I am wishing for a rowboat.

He nodded, his mind in other places.

To be fair, I have murmured about row boats for years. No motor, nothing fancy or pretty. Just an aluminum rowboat with a pair of wooden oars.

I pictured it in vivid detail and then sighed. For better or for worse, the inescapable truth is this: I am a person who forever thinks and processes by writing.

The stories I jot down go unspoken.

So when I tell Jon: I am wishing for a rowboat, what I am really saying is this:

I long to return to the feeling of damp earth squishing on my bare feet as I push an old rowboat from the pond’s shoreline. I wish for one more gentle trip around the pond, my fingers dipping in the cold water as my brother paddles, and we count turtles and fish and tadpoles and frogs, pointing and naming them aloud, while our life vests, old and ripped, rise stiffly and bump against our chins.

I want to paddle out to the middle, where the bottom is dark and deep and frighteningly thrilling, the snapping turtles dangerous, and the painted turtles abounding. I want to switch places with Tommy and feel the boat wobble and tip just a little, taking my turn to row so my younger brother can cast his fishing line and get a nibble, the tug creating lovely ripples in the otherwise still water. I want to see him grin, happy as we circle the pond, spinning stories about the dam, and wondering what might happen if we took the boat just a bit closer.

I want to scoop up tiny tadpoles in an old pickle jar and watch them, just because, before freeing them to the pond, their home.

I want to push the boat back to shore, shoving it high up on the dirt, and hear Mr. Golden holler: “Kids! Turn the boat over and hide those oars underneath and then come see what I caught!” which always meant one thing: a ring-tailed raccoon trapped and hissing, unwilling to release his fisted prize: the ball of aluminum foil which lured him from corn thieving by moonlight.

I long to feel the sun on my face, the berries on my tongue, and the joy of twirling on a tire swing while inhaling the perfect smell of freshly mowed grass. I want to remember the sweetness in penning little love poems to God, thanking him for making this big, wide, beautiful world full of leaves, trees, grass, clouds, birds, fish, cats, and raccoons.

Sometimes, I ache for that feeling of home.

But all I say is: Wouldn’t it be fun to have a rowboat?

***

We were standing on a dock recently, as Jon officiated a wedding. It was appallingly hot and humid, but nevertheless, the bride and groom glowed, happy at their new beginning.

Life is forever shifting, isn’t it?

Fresh beginnings–and not always welcome ones–are legion.

Always we begin again.

We eventually bid adieu to childhood homes, trading them in for grownup residences and marriages. Children are born; the home bustles noisy with new life, as the space swells. In the blink of an eye, children grow tall and take wing, and the home exhales, standing still and quiet and different and tired. The walls bear witness to beautiful and fun and exquisite and sad and painful memories. Those walls remain hushed as old age creeps in and settles: another type of beginning.

Home is elusive.

We believe we have captured its essence when it sways, shifts, and changes.

I was pondering all of these things as the wedding ceremony on the dock progressed when I began to feel motion-sick.

The dock was swaying, only slightly. But just enough to disrupt my equilibrium.

And isn’t that the image of our earthly dwelling? Of home? A solid structure forever swaying on moving waters?

Unsteady, I tell you.

***

The other day my brother texted me current photos of our ancient stomping grounds.

It stung–and sliced–to see the grounds in a state of neglect. Mr. and Mrs. Golden passed away decades ago, their fidelity to their magnificent acreage laid to rest.

The grass is now dry and shabby, the bushes overgrown and laced with weeds, the gardens a patch of nothingness. The millstone is no longer flat beneath the radiant maple but has been propped upright and decorated with a metal inscription; declared historic.

Nothing feels the same, save the tire swing, which dangles beneath the crab apple tree.

The truth?

There is no going back.

It is the kaleidoscope of memories that remains.

***

So I have heaved this longing for home garment off my shoulders and offered it back to God, returning to the surety of his Word. He will wash the garment and iron it and clothe me in it one day, soon.

In the meantime, I am steadied by Acts 17:26-27:

And he made from one man every nation of mankind to live on all the face of the earth, having determined allotted periods and the boundaries of their dwelling place,  that they should seek God, and perhaps feel their way toward him and find him. Yet he is actually not far from each one of us.

Earthly times and dwellings are part of God’s good design– a shadowy likeness of the true Christian’s forever home. God is near to us, such frail creatures of dust and rib, designed in his image and pining for home.

Our heart’s cry?

To enter a perfect and stable dwelling, no longer East of Eden.

***

Today was a writing day.

I studied my sign as I walked into my office: Home is where our story begins.

But there is a bit more to it.

Redeemed by Christ, home is where my story ends.

That ache burning deep in my bones is a cry for heaven, a longing to see Jesus face to face. He has gone to prepare a place for me, and when I arrive my yearning for home will be forever satisfied.

I had fun writing this piece over a year and a half ago. Many of you were not part of my readership back then, so I invite you to read along.

Life is full of funny stories if you pay attention.

Go ahead and laugh. It is good medicine.

***

My husband had been given tickets to a comedy night at a nearby church.

I hear this guy is pretty funny, said Jon as we herded our four children into our van, some fourteen years ago.

The small sanctuary was packed, standing room only. Five minutes before the show was to begin, our two youngest informed me that they needed to use the restroom.

I took them to the foyer, pointing to the twin doors with a Make it snappy! We don’t want to miss the beginning!

As I waited in the lobby, tapping my foot, and watching the clock, the church’s front door opened and a man stepped inside. He was dressed in ratty jeans and an old t-shirt, with a mop of tangled hair. Without warning, he dropped to the ground, completing rapid-fire pushups. Then he sat up, leaned back against the wall, and closed his eyes.

The poor man, I thought. Homeless. He probably can’t even afford a ticket. I decided to give him mine.

My two children joined me, and I grabbed their hands, heading back to our seats. We passed Homeless Man, who was performing yet another round of speedy pushups on the foyer’s carpet.

Why is he doing that? asked my six-year-old.

We slipped back to our seats, and I leaned over to ask Jon about giving the man my ticket, but the crowd was now standing and applauding and he did not even hear me.

As the pastor welcomed the comedian, everyone clapped. I turned to see this comic jogging up the aisle.

Wait a minute.

It was Homeless Man.

Everybody give it up for Tim Hawkins! cheered the pastor.

***

We have had plenty of laughs over this.

Can you imagine if I had offered him the ticket?

I never would have lived it down. My reserved nature is a running joke in our family, and this comedian would have had an absolute field day.

It is good medicine to laugh at myself and all of those quirky happenings that unfold in everyday life.

***

I remember a season, before Jon became a pastor, when we were serving in a local church. We had recently moved long-distance and were new to this small congregation.

Joe and Marie.

That is what I will call them.

For whatever the reason, these congregants took a strong and immediate liking to our family.

Joe and Marie were sincere and friendly, sixty-something with precious little concept of personal space, standing uncomfortably close during every conversation. Marie wore the thickest of glasses, which might have provoked such proximity. Who knows about Joe.

My natural instinct was to back up, flee, or maybe disappear into thin air. But I quickly discovered that it was nearly impossible to kindly slip away from these two. I heard myself repeating, Well, I better be going, as they doggedly continued speaking, ignoring my cues, which no longer felt subtle, as they persisted with another story, another opinion, another idea.

I never recall seeing them at church without Styrofoam cups of steaming coffee in hand. Joe and Marie were an overtly animated couple, constantly interrupting and speaking loudly over one another, while emphasizing everything with exaggerated and frequent hand motions, thus prompting their milky coffee to slosh over cup’s edge, dripping on the floor.

They were, as Tim Hawkins quips, window-washing–hand-raisers during worship, in a group that was not, shall we say, quite as expressive. One morning as the congregation sang, Marie began window washing, which clearly inspired her husband, who joined in. I am not sure if they forgot the coffee at their feet, but one of them bumped it and it flooded the tiled floor. Joe bent down to wipe it up, and as he did so, kept window-washing with one hand, while swirling napkins on the floor with the other, one eye closed before the Lord, and one eye trained upon the mess, in a unique wink. While this was happening, the chorus picked up, and Marie, quite overcome, began deeply swaying while window washing, inadvertently clunking a woman standing next to her.

As the woman rubbed her head and glared, Marie carried on, blissfully unaware of her mishap, eyes closed, tipping over yet another coffee, which kept Joe busy even longer as he sopped up the mess, one-handed and one-eyed, with too few napkins that were now drenched, dripping, and ineffective.

This was all too much. My children’s shoulders began to shake uncontrollably, and I felt a contagious giggle bubbling up. My husband was working hard to keep a straight face as he helped clean up the mess.

We howled in the car later on, laughing until we cried, tears streaming down our faces.

***

After a few months at this church, Marie invited us over for dinner. The first two times she extended an invitation, we legitimately had other plans and were unable to go.

I assumed she would forget, but she did not. She was, in fact, perfectly relentless.

I don’t want to go, I informed my husband one night as I brushed my teeth in front of our mirror. They stand too close, and they don’t stop talking. Ever. Can we please decline?

Maybe we should just say yes and endure one evening? he said.

I sighed in defeat.

They were being hospitable, after all.

***

Joe and Marie swept us into their home without missing a beat. The conversation was unsurprisingly one-sided, as they talked and talked and talked some more, literally picking up from the place they left off the previous Sunday. I tried to keep up but found myself struggling to endure.

I was pretty sure, while listening to Marie talk, that I heard Joe telling my husband, that he had once siphoned gasoline with his mouth.

I am resourceful if nothing else, he added proudly, hands resting atop his rounded belly.

Jon was visibly stunned.

Somehow, we survived dinner and thanked them for hosting. My husband glanced at his watch: We must be going!

Our children revived, the boys especially. This was Saturday night in late fall, and college football was whispering our names. I was proud of our crew…they were polite troopers who had graciously endured a most tedious evening. Perhaps this would build character and fortitude in us all.

Wait! Before you go, we must show you our collection! Joe and Marie herded us toward a side room.

We moved in a cluster through the slim hallway, stepping into a bubblegum-pink guest room.

Dolls.

They were everywhere. These were not cute baby dolls, but adult dolls with staring eyes and shocking hair and candy-appled cheeks. A few clown-type dolls were strewn about for good measure, which I found greatly disturbing.

These beings sat perched upon chairs, beds, shelves, and even the floor.

Marie picked up one doll, and Joe another. They created high-pitched voices to these lifeless toys, holding them up to our faces, attempting to spark discussions between us and these ghoulish creatures.

It was wildly uncomfortable.

I am not quite sure how, but we finally managed to exit. I seem to remember Jon thanking them once again, his hand firmly propelling the small of my back toward the front door.

At first, it was quiet, driving home.

I cleared my throat.

What in the world just happened? I said.

One of our sons started to laugh, and soon we were doubled over, roaring, not so much at the oddity of such a night, but rather at the memory of each other’s facial expressions during those bizarre conversations. It was hard to get complete sentences out as we laughed, but a few words triggered understanding… Mom’s face…Dad’s shock…Siphoned gasoline?

My sides ached from laughing so hard.

It ultimately became a story for the ages. We have bunches of them, actually. Memories understood in our own language; comical tales and inside jokes that resurface at perfect times. When the going gets tough, we pluck them liberally from our treasure chest, laughing all over again, and it is good, good medicine.

***

A joyful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones. ~Proverbs 17:22

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

Come along and tune in to my recent conversation with our son, Jacob, as we discuss one of his favorite places, the need for more missionaries, and what it actually means to be making disciples wherever you go.

In the spring of our senior year, Jon and I were driving along the country roads of Indiana, hemmed within vast fields of corn. It was a high spring day, with the sky stretched out in crisp, blue brilliance. Everything lovely it was.

Until we hit a deer.

The poor creature was gracefully loping: legs slender, shoulders broad, rack magnificent. It sprung airborne– up, up, from a low ditch. As it catapulted toward us, I scarcely had time to gasp.

The beauty collided with the front right fender of the car. Jon braked hard and we came to a jerking stop.

Are you okay? he said.

I nodded and flung open the door, leaping out. The magnificent buck was alive but suffering, his eyes perfectly round; terror-filled.

Jon, do something! I sobbed.

It’s okay. He guided me back to the car. I will take a closer look.

As I climbed back inside, legs shaking with a rush of adrenaline, a beater of a pickup pulled up behind us and a shaggy fellow stepped out. I stared in the rearview mirror and noticed a wad of tobacco bulging grotesquely beneath his lower lip. He repositioned his tattered ballcap over his matted hair, and after spitting a mouthful of tobacco juice into the grass, grabbed his rifle out of the truck bed and approached Jon.

Mind if I take the buck’s head? he grunted.

Before Jon could answer, the man aimed and fired.

And just like that he ended the creature’s misery, country style.

***

I cried most of the way back to our university’s campus, thinking:

The poor creature!

and

We could have died before our wedding day.

Once back in my dorm, my suitemates gathered, wanting to hear every detail, so kind in their gestures, hugging and inviting me to repeat the story. They had never seen me cry and they seemed surprised. One girl microwaved popcorn and shared. We munched our way through conversation, everyone sharing personal stories of scrapes and close calls, of animal deaths and accidents, of broken hearts and broken down cars.

In time, we dipped into the hard questions together: If God is good, then why the accidents, the hardships, the pain? I was poorly versed in biblical answers at the time and became painfully aware that I was more thin soup than a rich stew.

But God is always working. The close call with the deer cracked the door of my heart a sliver wider, prompting sturdier thoughts of the Lord.

Those were good days of intimate chats. Crockpot conversations– slow and tender and well-seasoned.

Twenty-nine entire years have passed since we tossed our mortar boards into the air, whooping and grinning, believing that anything was possible, our shadows stretched long in the midwestern sun.

Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined that smart phones and social media would rise tall and engulf the delight of authentic community and conversation and slow musings.

***

Present day: I am seated across from an acquaintance, our conversation edging toward the deep riches of God. We are plucking at our salads when her phone pings. Placing one finger in the air while shielding her lips with the opposite hand, she crunches hard on a crouton and with a mouthful says: Hold that thought, Kristin.

She then disappears into the shallows of Facebook and Instagram, scrolling like a woman parched. I gaze out the restaurant window and notice a gentle puff of cloud, moving lazily in the summer sky. Cars roar by and a motorist honks aggressively, three times over, while another tosses up his arm in outrage.

The cloud remains unhurried, delightfully fluffy, taking its sweet time to sweep across the eastern sky. I suddenly wish to be outside, walking my morning path, counting bluebirds and rabbits and chipmunks. Treasure hunting for fragile robin’s eggs, cracked and broken.

Instead, I stifle a sigh and turn back to my remaining Romaine and iced lemon water. The goblet is heavy and perspiring, the glass wonderfully solid and cool beneath my fingertips. At that moment I consider what might change if I call the phone company and hire them to install a rotary phone on our kitchen wall, and pronto.

I am warmed by the mere thought. Perhaps I could go all out and even fling my cell phone into the pond during my next walk? Good riddance.

But alas, I will do no such thing–no Luddite here. The iPhone is my connector with my dear family, who are my greatest earthly treasures, gifts from God. Texting and Facetime and WhatsApp are blessings, allow me to keep in touch.

These thoughts dance through my mind as my friend eventually returns to reality, eyebrows furrowed as she waves her hands, upset over someone’s social media rant. I listen but have no idea what she is talking about, and quite frankly do not care. We had been on a narrow path, but that conversation has whimpered and perished.

In a small way, I am thankful. This scenario has painted a foreboding mural that I needed to see, once again. A mural that serves as teacher:

Kristin, there is a better way.

***

A few weeks later I arrive at another friend’s house. I leave my phone in the console of our truck.

This is a large gathering, and several people are playing on their phones, off and on, all afternoon. Rather than judging, I choose to instead pay attention–simply notice– the social and the unsocial. I deleted all social media over a year ago, and have been awakened by calm clarity. My thoughts, my faith, and my relationships have grown sharper, more refreshing–much like a moving stream rather than a still and murky pond.

Despite such goodness, I have grown lazy and complacent with my phone consumption come evening: checking email and texts and reading blogs through the little bite-out-of-the-apple device that I absentmindedly carry to the coffee table after tidying and hushing the kitchen, come nightfall. With an empty nest, it has become easy to slowly fade as my husband opens his laptop or phone after dinner.

The impetus for change begins with noticing and honestly naming a concern in order to intentionally alter course and chase a better outcome.

So on the day of this particular get-together, my friend has likewise abandoned her phone, and we are fully present. Two normal, middle-aged women swimming against the tide. It sizzles, alive. A throwback to my college days, as we strike up fun and meaningful conversations. Oh, it isn’t all serious…we gather our people and play raucous card games at the dining room table followed by tossing beanbags for cornhole in the scorching heat, sweating wildly with the best of them. We feast liberally on smoked chicken and salad and fruit and chips and icy water, undone by waves of laughter, springing up from our depths.

And here is what I know: a whole lot of simple, happy living happens, organically, when no one cares one whit about staging pictures to make things appear special and cool and fun. I am sorry, but that is not fun. It is work–and pressure– to pretend.

Hours later it is time to head home and my soul is full to the brim. I turn and hug my friend goodbye.

Kristin, she says, eyes dancing. What a day! No pictures, no phones, no posting.

I smiled and nod.

But it’s better because it is all right here. She touches her head.

I drive away, hand to heart, thinking Yes, it is all right here.

***

C.S. Lewis once said:

“It would seem that Our Lord finds our desires not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered to us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased.”

Indeed, we are half-hearted creatures, ignorant children making mud pies in the slum, favoring screens over living.

Like addicts, tethered to our devices, we curl inward, unwilling to admit that our insatiable consumption maims not only ourselves but withers our heart connections with the people God has gifted to us.

May God’s voice lead us:

Look carefully then how you walk, not as unwise but as wise, making the best use of the time, because the days are evil. Therefore do not be foolish, but understand what the will of the Lord is. (Ephesians 5:15-17)

To know God is to love him, and to love him is to have our hearts thrilled by him.

– Tim Challies

The quote above is perhaps my favorite sentence that Tim Challies has ever penned.

Sit with his thought for a moment.

Now ask yourself this: Is my heart thrilled?

***

In Understanding and Trusting Our Great God, the second book in the Words from the Wise devotional series authored by Tim Challies, we are treated to rich quotes, stretching our understanding of and love for God. The book’s design is exquisite, drawing the reader to ponder words from sources such as Jonathan Edwards, John Piper, John Flavel, Jen Wilkin, A. W. Tozer, Joni Eareckson Tada, John MacArthur, A. W. Pink, Matthew Henry, and more.

Opposite each quote, you will discover a theologically rich devotional, exploring the stunning ways in which God is wise, powerful, holy, just, good, and true.

I have been reading this book several times throughout my day, and as I do, my heart sings over the wonders of God. Tim Challies’ writing is biblical, robust, and lovely. In fact, Understanding and Trusting Our Great God is every bit as good as the first book in the series.

Both add a rich layer atop my daily Bible reading, sending me deeper into the pages of Scripture. They are beautifully written and full of sound doctrine, which is the highest endorsement I may give.

***

If your heart is currently thrilled, Understanding and Trusting Our Great God will only increase your knowledge of and love for the Lord.

If your heart is not yet thrilled, pray for personal awakening and please read this book.

Once your purchase is complete, you will soon be rewarded with a 6 x 6 well-bound, glossy-paged hardcover book that will strengthen your sleepy heart by stirring up a deeper affection for our Great God.

It is available on Kindle as well.

***

The other evening, after a round of mini-golf, we stopped for an ice cream cone.

The order was simple, but the distracted woman behind the counter, despite jotting down our choices, got it wrong.

Twice.

An employee at the other window, shaggy hair tangled and concealing his eyes, pushed open the screened window and rather than wiping down the sticky counter, flicked a damp chocolate chip with his thumb and finger, sending it airborne toward the feet of patrons.

I observed the slow-motion movements of the employees within the establishment. It was not too hard to see that no one was in charge. The bar was low and the customers few.

The entire scenario sparked a memory from long ago.

1990 to be exact.

A summer spent scooping ice cream…and learning from the best.

***

College was three months away and I needed a summer job.

A high school friend, arms weighted with textbooks, sashayed to my locker on the last day of classes, her eyes bright.

Kristin! Guess what?

What? I said.

The ice cream stand is hiring. Let’s apply!

So we did.

This ice cream farmstand was wildly popular: offering the most delicious ice cream of all. In fact, customers drove for hours, braving agonizingly long lines, patiently enduring.

It was that worth it.

The woman in charge of the entire shebang was sixty-something Miss Kay…tall and imposing. Although she was forever smiling, I detected that she meant business. She conducted meetings from behind her expansive kitchen farm table, and my friend raised an eyebrow as she finished her interview and slipped out of Miss Kay’s kitchen.

It was my turn.

Miss Kay was running a tight ship, and I admired her candor and spunk. She spoke plainly and directly and offered me a job on the spot after clarifying the non-negotiables.

Number one: I expect you to be ten minutes early for every shift. Number two: You must pull your hair back. Number three: no chewing gum, and number four: I require my workers to memorize the orders.

She tapped her forehead.

Memorize them. No writing down anything. And remember to please smile at our guests.

I nodded, accepted the position, and thanked her, a touch sad that gum was prohibited. But rules were rules and Miss Kay was The Boss. I knew precisely what was expected.

Everyone did.

***

Day one of my new employment arrived. I thanked Miss Kay as she handed me a folded white apron and paired me up at the window with a girl who had been working at the farmstand for several summers. It was a hot, sunny day, and as the afternoon slipped by, the lines lengthened. More workers arrived, and soon we had all of the windows open for business.

The job was hard work, fast-paced, and fun.

We greeted each customer through a sliding screen window and memorized their orders, repeating every detail back to them in the pleasantest of tones. The orders went like this:

One strawberry sundae, vanilla ice cream, whipped cream, no nuts, and one cherry.

One large peppermint stick on a sugar cone with jimmies, and an empty cup and spoon on the side.

One banana split with one scoop chocolate chip, one scoop heavenly hash, and one scoop pistachio. Please substitute the pineapple topping with extra strawberries. Whip cream plus marshmallow, double cherries, no nuts.

I am here to tell you that the human mind is quite capable of remembering details when required. Every single employee who desired to keep their job rose to Miss Kay’s mighty expectations. The bar was high and we stretched.

As workers, we also became fast friends, waltzing by each other, cones in hand fulfilling order after order, bending low at the waist, and reaching into the frigid coolers to scoop. Conversations we began with each other often took the entire night to finish, based on how often we collided at the freezers. With so many workers, I had at least six conversations going on any given day. We stitched our banter together by piecemeal, as the afternoons slipped into the night.

We served our customers both kindly and dutifully, counting back change properly (another one of Miss Kay’s firm requirements), thanking them with a grin as our tips fell, clinking into cardboard cups. We scooped and hummed with the radio playing overhead, our Tretorn sneakers tapping to the beat.

Whenever The Boys of Summer began playing overhead, (which was often), someone slipped off to turn up the volume. We laughed and scooped until Miss Kay hushed the music, saying: Pay attention everyone! The lines are nearing the street!

We hopped to it under her fiery stare, yet within the hour someone had cranked up the volume again.

Oh you guys, Miss Kay said, smiling and turning it back down. I do remember being young, but you need to stay on task. Don’t touch the volume again.

So we didn’t, quite grateful she did not turn it off altogether.

The hours cruised by unless it rained. Whenever the weather soured, we were stuck wiping down counters and mopping the concrete floors, folding aprons, or filling up napkin dispensers under Miss Kay’s watchful eye.

She suffered no fools, and as long as we were employed by her we were expected to be moving, never idle.

The place sparkled as we scrubbed, and soon the drawers were stuffed with clean aprons and bleached rags. As the sun poked out again the lines formed and we resumed scooping.

I remember the exquisite exhaustion I felt at the end of each shift; the satisfaction of serving customers wholeheartedly, of being fully present with each person. There were far fewer distractions in 1990–namely no smartphones–and we thus bonded as employees and friends because there was simply no other place to be. Social media was wonderfully non-existent, and no one cared what acquaintances were buying or eating or doing.

We did not even think in such a vein. Life was generously spent where your feet were planted, looking ahead rather than down, and we were all the richer for it.

The frustration, complacency, and distraction I now witness most everywhere, were nearly absent then. People seemed more patient, conversing without distraction, making strong eye contact, and remaining truly interested in the people around them. I do not remember more than a handful of disgruntled customers the entire summer.

Now the world is flooded with miserable people, folks scrolling, heads down, grumpy and bellyaching and depressed, feebly attempting to impress people they do not know with things that do not matter. Scrolling and posting and scrambling to build personal platforms, thirsty for accolades, hungry to be known, while consuming online fairy tales which result in loneliness and longing.

How sad to miss out on real life.

Also? There is now far less laughter.

***

One sweltering Saturday I had an encounter at the ice cream stand that made us laugh until we cried.

A fancy schmancy bus had dropped off a group of foreign customers, touring New England. Several well-dressed folks approached my window, and I greeted them with, What would you like to order today?

Four nanilla cone, the man said as his family nodded.

I returned with four vanilla cones and as they took a bite they frowned.

Nanilla cone, he repeated.

Those are vanilla, I said.

No. NANILLA, the man repeated with a scowl, and a bit more forcefully.

This went back and forth a few more times.

Finally, another worker whispered as he passed behind me: Maybe they are trying to say banana?

I nodded, and tossed the four vanilla cones, returning with banana ice cream.

Banana, I said with a smile. Not vanilla!

The man took a bite.

Yes, the man said smiling. Nanilla cone!

Mystery solved.

We laughed for days, even Miss Kay.

It became the summer’s running joke.

Nanilla.

***

I did not know it then, but Miss Kay was to become one of my lifelong teachers, gifting me wisdom, and common sense for the ages. She would never have tolerated the casual indifference, defiance, and lackadaisical vibe so common today.

Her high expectations provided a hospitable structure and unity amongst her employees. We never had to wonder what was required. Her leadership left a deep impression, ingraining solid methods I eventually endeavored to carry into my life’s work as a mother, a home educator, and a writer.

Clarity over confusion. High expectations. Explicit instructions. Personal responsibility. Pride in a job well done. Determination and perseverance over complacency. Commitment to honesty and good work. The importance of submitting to a boss. Striving to be a person of integrity: kind, strict, and fair. Learning to shelve personal preferences for the greater good. Operating in decent order. The joy of laughter.

And music tamed, rather than silenced.