“When a writer is born into a family, the family is finished.” -Czesław Miłosz

I laughed when I read this quote because I believe any writer willing to scratch his soul on paper is attempting to finish something.

The yearning, the howling in the bones with pen in hand, is not a cry to finish off family. It is a quest to discover one hidden, luminous pearl. The offering of words is a quiet force, an urgency to consider. The writer flings the door wide enough to usher in cool ocean winds.

The intent is to whisper, to warn. And the finest writing propels change. Otherwise, why labor and bleed?

The words, the sentences, and the paragraphs– bubbling up, up, up, and thus filling readers’ goblets– are gifts.

Swirl and sip, urges the writer, first as a palate cleanser. Then I shall grant you eyeglasses. Now try these on, and tell me what you see. Look around, my friend.

A gasp erupts in the windpipe of the reader, whose eyes widen, whose heart thumps in a jolt of recognition.

Yes, consider this the writer’s aim: to offer sight, ushering readers to unbidden places, both tasting and seeing that powerful triumvirate.

The healing elixir of goodness, truth, and beauty.

***

So, perhaps in one sense, when a writer is born, a family is finished, as rusty, unspoken systems have now been exposed and upbraided.

God alone may soften hearts. But a writer worth his salt will wave a high-beam flashlight on family structures deemed permissible.

Unmentionable.

***

Back in my lineage, pinned upon the branches of my family tree, lived a woman who suffered a nervous breakdown in her early twenties. It was a hush-hush affair, whispers religiously silenced, stories squelched.

Her pain pooled then chilled and formed a pond of ice two feet thick and scuffed up with figure eights. The ugliness, the bitterness, the dark places, morphed into hideous creatures pinned beneath the surface. Rather than ice-fishing, the adults around the generational dinner table opted to hire a Zamboni and sweep the shavings clean, leaving the top of the pond as smooth and pretty as glass.

But there were cracklings and groanings and hairline fissures.

What might have been different if a family writer had emerged? What if the beasts beneath the surface had been poked; if honest questions had been asked of this quietly raging woman, who claimed Christianity but did not seem to know God at all? Would such boldness have unhinged a secret door, eased the building pressure, and healed the ache? Protected others?

We will never know. Concealed sin throbbed and pushed, heaved and moaned, and finally shot upward through the ice. Corruption was birthed in dozens of slithering ways.

Her pain ruled heart and home. This was accepted for generations and was neatly packaged as a personality glitch, a convenient pet name to adopt. Naming specific sins was unimaginable.

One ho-hum day, her cruelty rose like a cresting wave and drowned the innocent.

***

I will call my ancestor Jane.

Jane was in her twilight years, when a friend, likewise a widow, invited Jane to go antiquing. The widow had little money but was happy of heart, the kind of woman who knew precisely how to enjoy living in plenty and in want, content and glowing with God’s provision.

This unlikely pair–jar half empty and jar half full–set out together. The widow soon happened upon a lovely set of China – a perfect dozen – that reminded her of her late husband. Her eyes shone brightly.

Jane, aren’t these lovely? She squealed as her cheeks pinkened, hands resting along her softened face as she gushed with cascading memories.

Once upon a time she and her love had hosted exquisite dinner parties, dancing throughout the kitchen in happy preparation as she baked fresh bread and miniature quiches, rinsing and patting and piling arugula atop China plates. She dotted the greens with halved cherry tomatoes and tiny carrot shavings. Her husband ground the salt and pepper mills over the entrées before setting the long farmer’s table. The two of them crooned alongside the record player and laughed as the fireplace popped and crackled. When the doorbell rang–

Are you going to buy them? Jane asked, her small eyes narrowing, interrupting the widow’s memories. The plates?

Oh, how I wish I could! But no, they are far too expensive.

She was making do on a meager pension.

But not to worry, Jane! she continued, smiling. It is fun to poke around, and simply remember.

So she did just that, circling back to the dishes only once more, tenderly holding one up to the light, and reminiscing. Eventually, she found Jane in another aisle and whispered that she would visit the restroom before they meandered to the next shop.

Jane nodded.

So they drove to the next shop, and the next, and finally decided to call it a day. When the widow signaled her blinker and pulled into Jane’s driveway, she glimpsed a box on the back seat.

I didn’t know you bought anything! she smiled.

Jane nodded.

Oh! Do tell! What did you find?

Jane opened the back door, reached into the box, and held up the China plate. There were eleven others.

***

The writer stands on the edge of the salty shoreline, gazing out…up…around…and down, inhaling every minute, invigorating detail. Winds whip fierce, tugging him this way and that. Pulling his ballcap low, he remains strong, determined to stay the course. As the waves lap against his ankles, and retreat with the tide, his feet sink down, down, down. Soon he is covered to his shins in sand and despite sinking low, he remains resolute; immovable. He is going downward for the good of his readers. The words must be written, and he is sober-minded and willing to make straight the story.

By patiently enduring, observing, and intuiting, he creates a fresh lexicon to the raging waters before him. Make no mistake, this is vital: new words hold distinct power to make the blind see.

Pen and notebook in hand, he ascertains that in the far distance lies the deepest place on planet Earth—the Mariana Trench. It is hushed by untamed, pitch-black waters.

What lies beneath those currents on that vast, unexplored sea floor?

The grave pressure of those deep, still waters makes it uncomfortable, but the writer will forge ahead anyway–he is made of strong stuff–gifting his readers a journey to untapped places.

It is, in fact, the most generous thing he can do.

To be a writer is to swim to the deep Mariana trenches of life, and to sink to the bottom, mining for those treasures masquerading as monsters.

Writers, scribble your stories in indelible ink, and then?

Show us Christ.

***

I have daydreamed about rewriting this sliver of ancestral history, but cannot.

I am a writer, entrusted with stories to steward, not change.

So here is my goblet, dear reader. Take a sip, cleanse your palate, and see.

***

“When a writer is born into a family, the family is finished.” Czesław Miłosz said.

Where, oh where is the buried pearl on the dark sea bed of this Mariana Trench?

***

The widow grinned happily at Jane.

The China plates!

And her upturned face glowed with expectancy.

Yes, said Jane.

And with that, she shut the car door and lugged the heavy box inside, arthritis notwithstanding, as the widow drove slowly away.

But you already have too many dishes. Why did you do it? a relative asked Jane, later.

Jane stood still–hands in pockets; eyes cold.

Because I could, she said.

And she smirked.

***

As I scour for pearls in the deep, my lungs are crushed, threatening to explode under such pressure. But God is here–holding the pearls and the waves, the Mariana Trench, and me.

Would you be surprised to know that God used a deceased ancestor to show me the repulsiveness of my own unrepentant spirit?

My heart is dashed to bits upon the ocean’s rocks when I envision her cruelty. Such grief weighs as I plead silently: May I never smirk, Lord! Help me to walk in lifelong repentance. May I be generous of heart and obey you.

And when I sin, raging against God, I am quicker to feel the pangs of sin, and turn to God in brokenness than I would have been without the costly pearl.

I envision the smirk and the widow’s stunned, sad expression and feel the searing pain.

My sins nailed Christ to the tree, and without humble contrition, I am no different than Jane.

This Gospel is truth; meant for every second of everyday life. And yielding to it in full repentant submission is what separated King David and Apostle Paul–both wicked sinners turned saints–from Pharoah and Jezebel and countless others who are forever separated from God.

***

The writer’s family is not finished because God is not finished.

This is the writing life.

(Thank you for reading along. I invite you to visit the sidebar & header to receive my weekly posts and my monthly newsletter directly in your inbox.)

It seems silly, I know.

Those unremarkable choices.

I sometimes take the long way home, for the beauty but mainly for the memories. Instead of pulling the first right, the direct route, I take the second, and my heart warms. One of our sons sparked this preference, opting to slow the pace by the less traveled path, reveling in the beauty of a magnificent maple, burning on the corner. The verdant, clipped lawns sit pretty on this lane, as the cluster of sprawling hydrangeas falling against the white picket fence yields a regal, hushed beauty. He enjoys this gentle way so I now follow suit, alone as I take the winding way home; grateful for the gift of my son while also missing him.

***

I intentionally roll the grocery cart by the lone section of frozen foods to glimpse the cream puffs, and I rewind fifteen years, remembering another son’s little hand in mine.

Can we buy cream puffs, Mommy? I always wanted to try them.

He is on a special date– alone with me–quite the rarity in our large family. I look at his handsome face and toss budgetary caution to the wind, handing the cashier a twenty and grabbing our bag as we race each other to the van, laughing; breathless, wind in our hair. We munch cream puffs the entire drive home. I glance in the rearview and he is grinning while telling me a little fairytale, blissfully unaware that a wisp of cream is streaked on the tip of his small nose.

***

Or this…the tattered bookmark that I purposefully repositioned in my Bible just this morning, one that another son crafted for me in Sunday School over twenty years ago. That day was so wonderfully ordinary but magical. He held the thin treasure before me, a shy offering, his favorite color now laminated and given to me to mark the pages of my beloved books. I squeezed him tight, kissing the top of his head; undone by the kindness of God to grace me with this little person, this son. I love you, Mommy, he said in a burst of affection, his voice forever gravelly.

That bookmark? Priceless.

***

I dust her bedroom slowly…lifting the stuffed bear that once upon a time meant everything. She discovered him at a church garage sale with: Mommy he was looking at me and waiting for me to buy him!

We paid a dime, and from that moment he was stitched into the fabric of our family, sitting at the edge of our dinner table with his own miniature plate, traveling on every errand and adventure. He was even the proud recipient of Christmas gifts complete with his own miniature stocking. I knit checkered scarves and soft blankets for this small grizzly, as my daughter’s eyes sparkled. When I smoothed her sheets come bedtime, there he was, a little bear brushed up against her cheek, dutifully claiming his spot on the pillow.

My little girl is now a woman, but the bear remains. He has been loved to a fare-thee-well, and although he is, at least for now, mainly forgotten, he keeps careful watch like a faithful friend, waiting.

***

Each quiet remembrance of our children inclines me to pray. And it is tender–painfully sweet way down in my bones. To be able to stand still and thank God, to cup their four stunning faces before him, a fragrance whispered from the heart of a fragile, sinful saint.

Prayer and memories and love–my invisible aroma before the Lord.

This is a different type of mother work. No more tying shoes or brushing baby teeth or reading books or packing lunches or penciling playdates. They are adults, making their own way in this corrupt and shattered world, fellow heirs of Christ busy with their own schedules and duties and families. Who am I to even have this highest honor, the holy privilege of crying out on their behalf, to our King?

To be their mother is my joy, my dearest delight; the sweetest ache on earth.

The longer way home, the cream puffs, the bookmark, the bear. Quotidian, unremarkable things–plus the hundred more moments that I hold close, privately pondering and treasuring in the deepest of places–remind me to come to God and pray for them without ceasing.

The light never fades; the work is never done. No one but God hears or sees my utterances, but the joy, the bowed head, the bent knee, and the fullness of love carry on, rising heavenward.

---

Tune in, Kind Reader, and hear from our son, Marcus. He is a Christian man and musician whom God has gifted to lead in worship. I so enjoyed our conversation and his gentle wisdom.

Marcus Couch Productions©

Marcus at the piano, worshipping.

(I have named this podcast “Until Next Time” & you may find all episodes in the blog header.)

My husband and I are off…taking a road trip together during a hectic season of life. Ever feel a bit whiplashed?

Me, too.

I am happily looking forward to every stretch of highway, every speck of foliage, every cup of pumpkin coffee, and every conversation with friends.

Rest is a choice, isn’t it?

So this week, given my absence, I have dipped into the archives, digging way back, long before most of you were even a part of my kind readership.

I hope you enjoy Never Switzerland.

The days, the months, and the years have sprouted wings and soared. Time is roaring by at an audacious speed.

Our grandson is now two. His tanned skin is wonderfully soft as he hugs my neck tight, and his voice is honey as he speaks my name. Nonnie.

It is close to nap time, but he prefers to stretch on the floor and read and talk and sing.

So, we do.

This is miles apart from mothering. At first blush, you would not think so: filling sippy cups, opening snacks, picking up toys, readying baths, reading books, kissing those chunky cheeks, swinging, collecting rocks, frolicking, and singing.

Mothering?

Now that was an all-consuming fire burning in my bones: responsibility swirled with unmatched devotion, protection, and love. It was training and teaching and chores and tears and mountains of soft, clean laundry folded and tucked into drawers, again and again and again.

It was heaps of patience and sometimes impatience and hourly repetition and doctor’s appointments and braces and football practice and piano lessons and gymnastics and math flashcards and financial constraints and pizza Fridays and Latin and Algebra and stomach viruses and earaches and sleepless nights.

It was the joy, the wonder of recognizing flashes of myself in four little people. The knowing that God had entrusted me to nurture four spirited souls, even while he was nurturing me. As much as it was—and I believe, is—the purest, most robust form of human love on planet Earth, motherhood was also missing the magnificent forest through the trees, as I stoked the flaming campfire of devotion at my feet.

***

Once upon a time, I was fully responsible for the daily lives of four children, and now I am not. Forever their mother, but no longer their keeper.

Those younger years spun fast, the hourglass sands slipping.

Going, going, gone.

It is true, you know.

***

He is not my son, but he is my little Boo. This grandparenting relationship has delighted me; I am utterly smitten. I was quite shocked that my immediate, vast love for our grandson sings at a different pitch than mother-love. I am not sure why I believed it would equal motherhood, but it does not. It is a different branch on the same tree. One step removed, and just so.

Grandmothering is love and love and love, and yes and yes and yes. It is slower paced than early mother-days: play and song and books and forts and endless snacks and soaking up every moment without the worry. I now am able to glimpse the forest through every birch and pine, and it is mysteriously stunning, those dappled rays of sunlight spilling through windswept trees.

Soren Kierkegaard was not wrong: Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards.

Hindsight proves a fine and noble teacher.

As a grandmother, I intuit what I could not glimpse as a young mother: those unstoppable hourglass sands.

Unstoppable.

***

With his dimpled hand in mine, we study rocks and cardinals and sharp sticks. He helps me pour seed into the bird feeder and drizzle water over the hanging plants, deadheading the wilted buds. He looks so much like my own children that I am now a passenger strapped inside a flying time machine, whizzing backward. Those familial genes run strong, I tell you.

We play hide-and-seek again and again; unhurried. I am not tasked with making sure he takes his naps or eats his vegetables or cleans up his toys. It will never be my responsibility to make sure that he straightens his room or finishes his homework or mows the yard or completes his college essays.

Right now there is nothing but swaths of time to chitchat and sing and inhale the fall air blowing through the maples and onto our back porch. He and I swing on the swings, kick the ball, and collect rocks.

Snacks? Of course, my love, eat them all.

Ice cream? Yes, and sprinkles too, shall we? Who cares what time it is!

This is certainly not the echo of my motherly voice.

We sing the B-I-B-L-E, loudly, and he giggles, saying: Again! Again!  Just as his Daddy once did.

Together we pull out the dump trucks and backhoes and fire engines and blocks and to my sweet delight, the books.

He adores reading, every bit as much as I do, which sparks no small joy within my depths, as Goodnight Moon and I am a Bunny and Jamberry roll from my lips.

Hello, old friends.

I remember. And it is delicious.

***

The first part of Proverbs 17:6 says:

Grandchildren are the crown of the old.

Today I studied my husband’s profile and smiled as he swooped our grandson up and away on a carpeted airplane ride, the two of them laughing aloud on the living room floor. An echo of days gone by.

And in that moment?

I felt it.

Honorable, weighty, chosen.

A crown, shining golden; solid upon my head.

***

Fifty-one is not terribly old, but neither is it young. It is now autumn, but my own winter is approaching. As I shield my eyes against the setting afternoon sun, I imagine the snow clouds forming in the distance.

I pray for our beloved grandson, and for our future grandchildren yet to be born. May I happily serve and cherish each little soul entrusted to the branches of our family tree, leading them kindly, winsomely, straight to the heart of God.

***

The other day I said to my little Boo: Do you know that God loves you?

His eyes widened, and his hands shot up in the air, reaching to the heavens.

So, so much! he cried.

I nodded, a lump in my throat.

Yes, my little Boo.

Yes.

One generation shall commend your works to another, and shall declare your mighty acts. ~Psalm 145:4

When I was a young mother, reading Beatrix Potter to my two-year-old and cradling my newborn, I remember feeling called and overwhelmed.

Called, and delighted, to be a stay-at-home mother of two precious baby boys, and overwhelmed by the enormity of responsibility called motherhood. Jon and I were early to marry; the first of our friends to be ushered through the halls of parenthood. Amid such change, I had been transplanted to the southernmost state, our midwest college days growing dusty in the rearview.

We were young, poor as church mice, and faithfully attending a certain church each week for all of the wrong reasons. God worked out that knotted mess rather beautifully in his time and in his way.

I say all of this to give you, my kind reader, context: I loved my husband and my children and my stay-at-home work, dearly, but also experienced pangs of displacement. Parched, and quite desperate for cool water.

One ordinary day during this stretch, I was gifted a subscription to a beautifully written, monthly magazine. I say magazine, but there were no glossy pictures, no Gap ads, no fragrant cologne samples. It was simply a small collection of true stories written by stay-at-home mothers, women in the trenches, who bravely shared their lives by way of Times New Roman displayed on thick cardstock.

I meandered to our apartment mailbox each day with my two little loves in tow. Caleb’s hand tugging mine, his gravelly voice counting our steps; Jacob’s baby soft hair brushing my chin as he napped on my shoulder. Caleb and I studied clouds and trees and birds, along with his favorite cars in the apartment’s parking lot. I slowed as he crouched and examined each caterpillar and anthill and butterfly, as I gifted him splendid words–cumulonimbus, magnolia, osprey, Monarch, Mercedes— terms he soaked up and practiced, smiling as he sorted them out; new words savored to repeat to his father over modest dinners served at our humble table.

We eventually arrived at the mailbox and collected the bills and flyers. My heart warmed as I spotted it.

My subscription!

Later, after lunch crumbs were swept up, and the boys were tucked in for afternoon naps, I heated the kettle for peppermint tea and curled up on our sofa.

I read.

And I read.

Soon, the hard, jagged edges softened.

That dull ache had vanished, replaced by the beauty of story. The cobwebs of life had cleared.

The stories were far from grandiose and favored the mundane, which I loved, and still do. I soaked it in and gave myself permission to see my own quotidian life with fresh perspective while embracing the joys of playing blocks and cars and stuffed animals with my sons. I was armed with rich stories, narratives from other women not so different from me. Normal mothers wading through oceans of sickness, shoestring budgets, and discouragement in the daily grind.

Yet paired with these were simple pleasures: gratitude in the intricacies of family life. They sparkled everywhere, didn’t they? I closed my eyes and went treasure hunting: my baby’s first dimpled smile, toddler hugs smothering my neck, the softness, the gentleness in smoothing freshly scented bedsheets, cool beneath my sons’ damp hair after bathtime. The symphony of crickets and tree frogs chirping by dusk as I read Goodnight Moon to my loves. My husband’s intentionality in working hard to meet the needs of our growing family.

That monthly publication became my trusted companion. I attempted to savor it, hatching a plan to read one article per day, thereby stretching the delight to last for weeks.

It never worked.

I feasted.

***

That publication spoke truth; honoring the exquisite beauty so mysteriously found in the quicksand of hardships. The authors refused to gloss over the gritty places of life but instead pressed in. I was bolstered to search for the pearls formed by the sandy irritants that greatly disturbed the oyster.

Those bits of writing were certainly not fairy tales. They were dear treasures, articles that plunged into the deep, cold, intricate waters of motherhood. The writers, pens in hand, chose to play the long game, bleeding onto the page for many to read, exhorting moms to stay the course, come what may.

I recall one prolific piece, written by an older woman whose children had grown and left the nest. Her words went something like this:

Mothers of little ones: You will never regret laying your life down for your family. Every hug, every bandaid, every read-aloud, every damp, cool washcloth on fevered brow spells love; devotion. Your children will remember. And those soft places you grace them to land will help them to soon forgive your many, many mistakes. This I know.

***

One day, when Jacob was learning to walk, I took my two little boys to our mailbox where I discovered a thin envelope, a slip of paper informing me that the magazine had folded.

Their small and loyal following was unfortunately not enough to sustain their publication.

I was crushed.

The month after the last publication arrived, I found a monthly mother’s group at a church 40 minutes from our doorstep. We owned one car at the time, which often meant that I stayed home with our boys on weekdays. My husband and I worked out a plan, which would afford me the luxury of wheels on the first Tuesday of each month. So the boys and I packed PB& J’s and danced across town, making a fun day of it.

While my sons played with other children, I met some lovely women who in due time became friends. Friends who pulled our family into their church. Within a year of the first mother’s meeting, we moved, joined the congregation, and watched as God slowly grew our faith. Soon the Lord gifted us two more beauties, only twenty-one months apart. Our Marcus and Lauren.

The loss of my magazine, something so small, had sparked delightful, life-changing events, prompting me to pursue connection and leading us to join a new church family.

But also? I never forgot the power of words, and of story, to befriend.

Our life was full, blossoming in fact, as I began homeschooling our older two while changing diapers and going to sports practices around the clock. Jon coached our boys in church leagues and also became increasingly active in his men’s small group Bible Study.

We moved into our forever home, and life was a happy, rushing, river of dreams.

***

And then everything so familiar and stable and lovely came undone.

Jon met me in the high heat of our Florida garage, to carry groceries inside. Our baby girl was two months old, and I had just returned from shopping. I carried baby Lauren and Jon carried the bags.

Something was wrong.

Or right.

He told me that he was being called to full-time ministry.

***

Four months later:

We are fully unpacked, and 1,100 miles away from the familiar. Jon is working full-time and taking seminary classes. I am homeschooling and keeping everything spinning in our new home.

It is late. So late that it is early.

The house is dark, still, quiet.

I cannot sleep.

I slip out of bed and tiptoe into the living room, noticing by way of moonlight, that even Swimmy, our betta fish, is resting. I creep up the carpeted stairs to the bonus room, which has three expansive windows, unhindered by blinds or shades. The harvest moon illuminates: round, buttery, glowing.

Here, in the hush of night, I brush up against stark reality, the knowing that my sense of normalcy has completely evaporated. I am displaced, nomadic, a foreigner in a strange land. It feels reminiscent of those early motherhood days before my magazine and mother’s group. Only bigger, greater, and frighteningly insurmountable.

Here is what I did not know in that moment:

The cross-country move would rock me, tearing me wide open in private, silent, ways for years. The pain of the moment, there in the bonus room, beneath the watching moon, and the insufferable pain yet to come, would unravel every thread of self-sufficiency.

Soon, I would see Christ, fully. Everything, everything would change through my suffering.

The magazine, the mother’s group, and the easy church friendships, although good, would never, could never, be my savior.

But I don’t know these things yet as I cinch my bathrobe tighter, cross my arms, and study the magnificent, broad, unshakable sphere hanging heavy in the night sky. All I know, then, is loss.

So I pray in desperation: Tell me something true.

God is silent. The moon is quiet. Everything, save the ticking clock and my rumpled soul, is still.

***

The next week God met me in the library.

He told me something true.

We went to the library every single Friday in those days, as part of our homeschooling plan. I loaded my basket with bunches of good books for my beauties, and on this particular Friday, I impulsively grabbed one for myself: The Pleasures of God.

This book sparked curiosity as I read–Can these things be true? Is this what pleases God? –and sent me running to Scripture. I remember those early tremors of insatiable delight, flipping through many, many, passages, sixty-six books of truth that in my uncertainty, were soon to become my everything.

What had I been doing my entire life? Why had I only cherry-picked verses? I could not believe that I had missed such riches.

Suddenly, my appetite for God and the Bible infused me. Instead of curling up on the couch with a mother’s magazine, I was meeting the God of the universe on our sofa.

God speaks.

Did you know this?

He does.

Page by page. Every word is true.

***

Tell me something true, you say.

My response?

I just did.

Open your Bible, feast, and come alive.

God will speak.

To you.

***

Sanctify them in the truth; your word is truth. ~John 17:17

I invite you to sign up for my monthly newsletter.

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.)

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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.

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(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.)