I like the small side of life. Those little beauties that are often overlooked. Tiny things, when noticed and appreciated, create a thankful heart posture and a rich life.

Hand written notes sent by stamp, a newly fallen maple leaf in autumn, the sizzle of an outdoor grill, hoodies on a chilly day, a sparkling clean kitchen, freshly cut flowers on the dining room table, an “I’m just thinking about you” text, a magnificent book I cannot put down, handing cash to a homeless person, a long walk with a friend, a dog giving me her paw, family dinners, lavishing a gift upon someone just because, that one Bible verse leaping off of the page and suddenly making sense as the Holy Spirit nudges.

Our particular sphere of influence may be small, but I am remembering today that that specific sphere is also a gift from God. He plants us in different locations for seasons of life, and he gently calls us to be faithful wherever that may be. We do not know our own future, and that is as it should be. We are not God.

1 Corinthians 3: 6-7 (NASB) says: I planted, Apollos watered, but God was causing growth. So then neither the one who plants nor the one who waters is anything, but God who causes the growth.

Steady faithfulness shines brightly in the midst of division and anger and broken relationships. We do not cause anyone to grow spiritually. If we are humble and faithful, willing to be guided and corrected, the Lord God will bring about growth in His timing. It is not our work to save anyone; that is a work of God as we encourage and teach and pray. Those small kindnesses, and little acts of faithfulness are never wasted. God uses them all.

Many times, as we face hardship and pain, it is easy to forget the small joys and beauty that God has given us. Do, do, do. Always frantic, always working, joy-less. This always becomes self-focused, causing more harm; never gracious.

There is a beckoning; a better way if you choose to listen. Stop the striving, and serve with joy. Striving is working to earn a place of recognition, it is burdensome and weighed down and complaining and heavy. This is easy to spot in others, but difficult to call out in myself. Serving with joy is more like “my burden is easy and my yoke is light.” The doing is not frantic, but giving, peaceful, and happy. This serving will still be a sacrifice of time and perhaps money, but it is wrapped up beautifully with a bow of peace.

When I was small, I remember holding my grandfather’s hand somewhere in Downtown Boston one Sunday after church. We were making our way to Legal Sea Foods restaurant, where I always ordered my favorite clam chowder. My grandfather lavished his family with good gifts, and going out to fancy restaurants was one of them. I always felt important to him, mainly because he spoke my love language of gift-giving. And with each gift, he never once reminded me of what he had done for me in the past; and this, too, was another gift in itself. I felt honored, and cherished, and important.

That day, as we were walking, we passed a fountain. I looked over the edge, and noticed what seemed to be a million coins: pennies, nickels, dimes, and even quarters, covered in the fountain water. That is a wishing well. Make a wish and it might come true! My Grandpa handed me some loose change from his pocket, and I tossed it, making my wish.

Most adults were walking by, ignoring the wishing fountain, and the treasure that lay within arms reach. I think I am sometimes like that: the riches of God are within reach, and I am oft that foolish person, walking right by treasure that is mine for the taking. I would rather work things out on my own, ignoring the small joys of life, working, working to earn something that I have already been given.

So I am thankful for small things today. I am also thankful for God’s goodness, and forgiveness, and mercy. Those big things that He lavishes upon his children.

Fifteen years ago, on a lazy Sunday afternoon, I settled onto our soft living room carpet, plucked Parade magazine from the bundled newspaper, and flipped to the back pages. With my husband and children napping, I looked forward to this simple weekly pleasure. Those were the days when Parade’s writing was mostly thoughtful.

On this Sunday, an editorial was written by a man whose wife had spent an inordinate amount of time and money on cold creams to stop the premature wrinkling of her skin.  It is one thing to spy crows’ feet at age thirty, but this woman had begun wrinkling in her twenties, and by the time the article was written, she was nearing fifty but looked far older. She was not a vain woman but nevertheless ached to give her husband a beautiful face to love.

I only wish that I had kept a copy of his writing. (I spent a few minutes searching, but so far nothing.) The author’s words pulsed with devotion and unconditional love for his wife. He wanted no part of lotions and creams. He told her every day that she was the most breathtaking woman he knew. I still remember how my heart swelled with the idea of such a devotion despite the world’s opinion. We all ache for such a human love.

John O’Donohue, the late philosopher, said that the world mistakes glamour for beauty. Yes. And the glamour is not even real. It is airbrushed and obsessive and restrictive in all of the wrong ways.

Which reminds me…

Two years ago, our neighbor died of a heart attack in her bed one January night. She was fifty-five years old. Within a week, her sister Brenda arrived to clean and sell all possessions before putting the little yellow house on the market.

Brenda was breathtakingly lovely. She was tall and large-boned and hugely overweight. Her hair had thinned down to wisps after enduring chemotherapy and surviving breast cancer. A large mole clung to the tip of her nose, her eyes were squinty, and her clothing was ill-fitting. She spoke kindly, expressed genuine appreciation for the smallest things, gave away quality belongings of her late sister to neighbors, and accepted all help graciously and without apology. She shared challenges in her own life with an authenticity that, for me, was unprecedented.  And despite her own recent trials, she listened well, laughed loudly, and loved big.

Imagine if we all were this beautiful.

Oh my goodness. I should have used a pencil.

For over thirty years I have measured and structured my days by keeping a day planner. The styles have varied, and have most recently landed in the month-at-a-glance type. Not too bulky, lays flat, and holds enough space to jot down birthdays and appointments. I simultaneously have an index card under a paperclip that holds the planner open to the proper month. 

On the index card is my daily to-do list. Using various color pens, I write things like, “buy coffee” or “plan next year’s history class” or “schedule eye doctor appointments.” I do not write normal daily things such as Pilates, take a walk, Bible reading, cleaning, cooking, laundry, etc. Those just happen because those just happen.

I am fond of writing things down, and it delivers inordinate pleasure if it looks pretty. Thus the colored pens, and neat index card and attractive planner. Bless the people who keep all appointments and plans in their phone. They are missing out on the beauty of a straight, clean line crossing through a finished task.

Back in college, I recall using a pencil to write in my planner. Things were prone to change quickly with assignments, social gatherings and the like. I learned quickly that unless I wanted to own stock in white-out, I had better use pencil. Years later, when our children were small, I still used a sharpened Ticonderoga. Our best made plans seemed to flounder weekly, as they are prone to do with little ones. Someone would come down with a fever, or the baby was teething, or I was too tired to attend.

Then our children grew up, and although the pace of life increased, I was no longer cancelling things. I could leave everyone home when I needed to get a cut and highlight, or pick up medication, or meet a friend for coffee. One day I started jotting things down in pretty pen colors in my planner. And life carried on.

Until 2020. Wow. I continue to think of Proverbs 16:9 (ESV):“The heart of a man plans his way, but the LORD establishes his steps.” We had BIG things planned for this year, and most of them simply will not happen. It feels tangled and sad and uncomfortable. Yet God has allowed this pandemic and the cancellation of so much. 

My hero, Elisabeth Elliot, famously said, “With acceptance comes peace.” Yes. The posture of our heart will lead to hand-wringing, clenched fists, and anger, or….peace. Have your way, LORD. I love and trust you.

“Come now, you who say, “Today or tomorrow we will go to such and such a city, and spend a year there and engage in business and make a profit.” Yet you do not know what your life will be like tomorrow. You are just a vapor that appears for a little while then vanishes away.” (James 4:13-17 NASB)

In other words, write in pencil. Make plans and hold them loosely. God knows best.

I have been spending my words in other places lately and it has been good. This writing mentorship I am taking has required daily work, and I am sore from processing thoughts to words, and then refining again. I have always believed that the greatest and most honest writing is a holy work. A writer has the potential, through words alone, to bring folks along, sway, sadden, mislead, hurt, or heal.

Writing intensely during a pandemic is, for me, cathartic. Big feelings are happening in our home, (and nationwide) and none seem consistent. I have accepted that this is a grieving time, and people grieve differently. For me, the worst part of the pandemic is not knowing an end date. I can endure much if I know when it will end. A hurricane for example. Yes it rages, yes it destroys, yes it kills. But several days later the healing begins and people go back to work and life resumes its ebb and flow.

I read every night before I go to sleep. Since 2006, I have kept what I call a Life Book: a list of every book I read in any given year. I star the books that mark me; books that leave an indelible impression. There are not many. The books that mark me are the books where great suffering has taken place, and there is a struggle followed by survival and redemption. Little House on the Prairie, Caddie Woodlawn, Where the Red Fern Grows, Crow Lake, Educated, to name a few.

But Elisabeth Elliot is my hero. Digest any and all of her books, and your heart will be first undone, then strengthened, and secured in the truth of Jesus. I love stories where women are gently strong, submissive to God and servants of others.

Writer Christy Karras recently wrote, regarding the coronavirus pandemic, “Did you ever wonder how you would have acted if you had been caught up in one of those difficult times in history – the American Revolution, the flu of 1918? Do you hope you would have been one of the brave, helpful ones? Here’s your chance.”

Indeed!  What a perspective! We do not know how this will end. But I can be about the business of loving and serving. Writing holy words that till the soil of souls, and produce healing.

You would imagine that 47 trips around the sun would be enough time to learn that I cannot be all things to all people.  In fact, I cannot even be all things to myself.

This is what I pondered the other day while jogging around the pond.  I was crying a little bit, which isn’t typical for me.  I usually only cry a few times a year, but the last week has been a doozy, and the crying, though quiet, has been frequent.

Here’s the thing, though.  Through the ugly, the pain, and the trials, I feel God pruning away all of my props.  ALL of my props.  We all have them, don’t we?  And not all of the props are bad things.  They can be good:  family, community, church, work, hobbies, friends.  But none of these things are God.  

God is so good to prune me.  If he didn’t, then I would always be prone to wander, prone to leave the God I love.  He is so kind to draw me back to himself, and I am grateful.  

I remember 15 years ago, when our youngest was a tiny wisp of a baby, and we had been transplanted to another part of the country.  Every Friday, I would bundle up our four children for a trip to the library followed by lunch at Wendy’s.  It was a busy and lonely stretch, but the library was like an old friend to me.  (Reading is the best.) One day, at this library, I wandered to the spirituality aisle and browsed.  I was feeling parched, and something needed to change.  

Running my fingers over the books I paused at a title called “The Pleasures of God” by John Piper.  I flipped it open and read a page or two.  It looked solid, even though I did not know who this John Piper was.

Later that night, while my husband was at his seminary class, and all four children were fast asleep, I picked up my Bible and highlighter and “The Pleasures of God” and dug in.  My dried up heart was watered, and before I knew it, hours had passed.  

The next week was spent finishing the book, which led me to devouring my Bible, which led me to taking ownership of feeding my own soul.  It was a tough season of life, but it was also sweet.  I was never willing or fully able to articulate what this book did for my soul, but 15 years later I can see so clearly.

Lately, I have been feeling a bit parched again, and a little sad.  What do I need?  More time for me?  More time to serve myself?  A vacation?  More understanding?  A friend who “gets it?” Nope.

Just an open Bible, a quiet heart, and prayer. Hard times are promised for believers.  Tears will come after heartache.  But God is pruning, and tenderly caring for me.  

Autumn’s leaves blazing.

Hot coffee with cream.

That bygone feeling from decades ago, of one of our sleeping babies on my shoulder, soft and smelling of Johnson’s shampoo.

A crackling fireplace.

Living in a new and beautiful state.

That story I cannot put down.

A belly laugh.

Open doors and windows.

A long walk with a new friend.

Our dogs resting their golden heads in my lap.

Pumpkin bread.

Our family, together around the dinner table.

A deep sleep in chilly weather.

That one Bible verse, read again, with sudden and new understanding.

Praying friends.

Nearly a decade ago, when our four children were small, and my husband had begun a new pastorate, I found myself in the living room of one of our parishoners, Helen.  She was downsizing, and needed help packing up boxes of things to donate for our church yard sale, which was to benefit a missionary family overseas.

She was a young eighty-year old, and we made piles and laughed as she told me some of her life stories.  I taped and wrapped and labeled boxes, and she sorted then poured our coffee.

After a couple of hours she stared.

“You like work.”

I shrugged.  “I guess so.”

“Well I do too, and I recognize it in you.”  She stared a moment longer, and I have often wondered what she was about to say.  Her phone rang and we did not finish the conversation.

Her comment stuck with me over the years.  She has since died, but I have not forgotten.

With the years whipping by, I recognize that we all have holes that we attempt to fill.  Old habits die hard, and I bump up against my need to always be working to earn love or respect or worth or an unhealthy combination of all of these things.  It is ugly to see, but there it is.

I keep speaking these words to my children:  “I love you unconditionally.”

And I do.  In fact, it often feels like the purest form of love for me:  effortless… a mama bear who would step in front of any predator or train or person who would hurt one of the four of them.  As they grow older, I pray for them more now than I did when they were small.  But the most important thing for them to know is that I will always have their back; I will never turn against them, and my desire for them is to follow God wherever He may lead them.

So back to work.

Work is good, but to work for love is like digging a pit and crawling in while someone else is slowly filling the hole back in with dirt.  Sooner or later one will suffocate.  There is no thriving in the pit.  Crawl out and live in freedom.  Come into the sunlight and know that God is the only one to ever love perfectly.  I should never work for love.

Not everyone strives to earn love; others struggle with materialism or gossip or laziness or covetousness.  We all battle something.  Recognize it and own it and work it out.

And be gentle.  As they say, everyone is fighting a battle we know nothing about.

In the hush of the morning, I sew thoughts. Untangle the knots of life:  crushing disappointments and small victories.  I keep my old-fashioned, hand-written list of tasks and goals and dreams.  With pen to paper, my mind becomes less encumbered.

In the summer months leading up to our August wedding nearly twenty five years ago, I worked for a high-end babysitting service.  The type that involved stringent background checks and extensive interviewing.  I was able to earn good money, and in the evenings when the children had been tucked into bed but the parents were still waltzing through the country club in elegant attire and wineglass in hand, I addressed wedding invitations and tended to last minute wedding details.

One day I was hired to babysit during the day.  I borrowed my grandmother’s car, and pulled into the driveway of a massive colonial home with a manicured lawn.  The wispy mother-of-two welcomed me in quietly and introduced me to her two young children.  They smiled and returned to their play.  She led me to the kitchen and for the first time, I glanced around the home.  Clean and neat, to be sure, but sorely in need of furniture.  It felt hollow.

She pulled out a yellow legal sized pad, and began explaining what I needed to know for the afternoon.

“We moved in a few months ago and there is just so much to be done.  I am a little, well, overwhelmed.”  Her eyes filled up slowly, and then she smiled and grabbed her purse.  “I should be back by mid-afternoon.”

Something about this day has clung to me for a quarter of a century.  I have actually had difficulty pinpointing what that something is. She left and I scooped the children up and took them into the summer sunshine, pushing them on the swing set and decorating the driveway with sidewalk chalk.  We later ate peanut butter and jelly with a side of sliced apples.

What has remained in my memory, however, is neither the cute children, nor the stately colonial.  What I recall most is the mother’s wan smile and empty rooms and that yellow legal pad.  When she left the house, the legal pad, on the counter held her “to-do” list.  The penmanship was neat and the list was long and organized.  What was completed was marked through with an even stroke of the blue ballpoint.  It was a specific way to untangle those knots of life; making sense out of the heaps of responsibilities of being an adult.  To this day, I do the same thing.  I have been this overwhelmed woman; making sense out of difficulty through organized thoughts.

And yet, these lists cannot save.  They can give voice to our undercurrents, and some semblance of structure to our days, but out-of-control events and mishaps and hurts and misunderstandings will happen in life.  This I know.

People will disappoint and we will disappoint and at the end of the day, God himself is the only answer.  He is the only thing that will be constant.  You may choose to overly-control what you don’t eat or drink, or you may overly-consume everything, or you may refuse to rest or you may sleep too much.  You may bank on one person to come through, or you may believe everyone will always stay by your side as long as you play the pleasing game. 

That beautiful and hollow colonial is the human heart.  Lists and furniture and children and spouses and manicured lawns have their place; but this place doesn’t fill, nor was it designed to. 

“The only one that can truly satisfy the human heart is the One that made it.”

(unknown)

Her coffee-colored skin had precious few wrinkles as she smiled, but she was, at best guess, at least seventy-five years old.  Her demeanor and grace and kindness felt comfortable, lovely, and quite out of place given the venue.

The festival, with its carnival-type atmosphere, was crowded and humid and smelled mainly of deep fried food.  I know many people who adore this festival and its history which dates back over eight decades.  Lines for the rides were despairingly long, and some children laughed while others wailed in tired despair.  I found it fascinating to watch people open up their wallets to buy overpriced food and trinkets and take rides that for me would create instant queasiness.  I know that God wires each of us differently, and so many people would consider it wasteful and boring to vacation at an out-of-the-way log cabin in the mountains.  My dream!

Anyway, in the midst of this festival, I stopped off at the public restroom.  As I stepped inside, a small woman was hovering by the sinks, shining them with her blue cloth.  She looked up at me and smiled, slowly extending her hand in an “over-this-way” fashion.

“Stall nine is open and ready for you.  Sparkling clean.  I tidied it myself.”  She smelled of ivory soap and lavender.

A smile stretched to her eyes and I thanked her.  You would have thought she was ushering me into a palace.  I heard her welcome another woman in line behind me.  

This whole event was small, but her humility shone brightly to me that night.  Her pride in a job well done.  Her willingness to welcome others.

I should have gone back and thanked her.  Told her that I noticed her grace and kindness.  

Small acts of sweetness are the most magnificent.

So, as those who have been chosen of God, holy and beloved, put on a heart of compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience…(Colossians 3:12)

I was fifteen and awkward and insecure and shy.

Having four years in an itty-bitty private school before transitioning to public high school proved to be quite the shock.  I had a few friends, which helped, but deep down I was tense.  Freshman geometry class became my perpetual bad dream with a chain-smoking, frosted haired teacher who abhorred questions, and whose complete lack of patience made me wonder why on earth she was ever allowed to lead a classroom of any kind. 

So, on the first day of tenth grade I swallowed my panic as I exited homeroom and entered my Algebra 1-A classroom.  The “A” stood for average. 

First one in, I sat down and pretended to search for something, anything in my bag.  Tears threatened. Math had never been my friend.

“Hello there, young lady!” boomed a voice.  I looked up.

My new teacher.  Mr. Munroe.

Well.

He could not have been any different from chain-smoking geometry teacher.  Tall and large and freckled, with a Santa Claus belly, he reminded me of a fifty year old version of John Candy with a wise-guy smile.

Others drifted in to class as the bell rang.

Mr. Munroe stood by the blackboard.

“Let’s get one thing straight.  I am the teacher and you are my pupils.”

Snickering all around. He grinned.

“We will work on algebra in this classroom.  I like class participation and I love to joke.  First we do math, and then sometimes we will have conversation.”  He looked over the top of his glasses.

“My goal is to help my students understand this math and not be scared of it.”

Let me tell you.  We worked hard that year.  Mr. Munroe was the master of the classroom.  We were to be punctual.  No speaking while he was teaching.  Raising our hands and respecting others in the classroom was paramount.

Also, no “almost” answers in his classroom.

“Almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades,” he quipped weekly.

Mr. Munroe might have been patient with math questions, but he was not patient with students who crossed the line.  We endured his quick Irish temper more than once.

One day, Megan, a bit of a wild thing, kept passing notes and talking while Mr. Munroe was scratching out problems on the chalkboard.  I felt my heartbeat quicken; I just knew he was going to call her out.

As he was working the problem, she kept up the whispering.  He did not turn from the chalkboard, but his hand stopped moving.

“Get out.”

The classroom grew still, and no one budged.

His voice, now louder:  “I said get out of my classroom.”

Silence.

“NOW!” he hollered.

Megan picked up her books and fled.

He turned and looked at us.  “No.Talking.While. I. Am.Teaching.  Got it?”

We got it.

“Now, let’s start this problem over.  If x=3, then….”

And so it went.

Towards the end of the term, I realized that I was actually understanding algebra.  My grades were mainly B’s, which was a tall victory in my world.

And then one Monday something was different.  We came into class, where Mr. Munroe was quietly leaning on his desk.

“Turn to page 198.”

We did.

He stared off into the distance.

“Nope. Close your books.  No math today.  Today you will get my two cents.”

And we did.  The night before, a teenager in a nearby town had died and killed someone else because of his drinking and driving.  So Mr. Munroe took the entire 40 minutes of class to warn about the stupidity of such decisions; decisions that could in one split second change our lives permanently.  He spoke to us from a place of deep concern.

He had our complete attention.

30 years have elapsed since that year of average algebra, and I have decided there was nothing average about it.  To this day, I can hear Mr. Munroe’s voice clearly:  “Almost only counts in horse shoes and hand grenades.”  I still remember how to solve for ‘x’.  And I still remember what it feels like to have a teacher care deeply about his students’ life outside of algebra.

Thank you, good sir.