A few months ago, I informed my husband that I just might apply to be the groundskeeper of Green Gables on Prince Edward Island.

I will keep the home clean and loved, the gardens tended, and the rest of the time I will walk and think and write, I sighed, happy at the mere thought.

Sounds like a plan, he laughed, a safe answer for this shimmery mirage that will never come to pass.

I momentarily drifted away, imagining the swaying grass, sun-kissed waters, apple orchards, and birdsong.

Bliss.

Perhaps I might even build a clean, one-room cottage on the grounds, a structure with tall, pretty windows, white clapboards, black window boxes, and a porch rocker.

I can envision it now: my Bible, Kindle, reams of paper, and sharpened pencils spread wide across a broad farmhouse table.

Thinking and scribbling for hours, uninterrupted, the breeze blowing strong.

Such are the musings of an introvert.

I grew up in a time, age, and place that sought to correct and temper introversion. A reserved nature, a rich inner sanctum was permissible if one was a painter, an artist, or an off-the-grid recluse.

But a little girl like myself?

Not on your life.

One primitive memory takes me back to the sands of Cape Cod. We children were frolicking at the beach, hunched over tide pools, collecting periwinkles and hermit crabs. The adults were a stone’s throw away, sunbathing and chatting, sprawled in a line of canvas chairs, while seagulls mewed overhead and waves crashed, soaking the sand.

Suddenly my mother flew from her chair, unable to see my little brother, a highly extroverted four-year-old, who, according to my grandmother, knew no stranger.

It was true. He could and would and did talk to anyone.

I stood on the shoreline, scanning the beach for my dearest pal. Scrunching my toes in the sinking sand, I shielded my eyes, feeling the sun’s heat browning my back; warming my shoulders.

And then we spied him standing at the base of a distant dune, chatting with an elderly man. When asked why he wandered off, my little brother explained that he was just talking.

I exhaled, while the adults stood proudly smiling.

I marveled at this little brother of mine, forever eager to chat.

Yes, extroversion was better.

As my childhood years passed, I intuited the importance of keeping up the extroverted pace, hushing and burying my burning for solitude.

Over time I was signed up for nearly everything, to rectify my homebody ways.

Pioneer Girls, Brownies, needlepoint, macrame, group swim, flute, ceramics, VBS, ice skating, ski lessons, basketball, t-ball, softball, and one tear-filled summer of town orchestra.

Also?

Endlessly revolving playdates with Missy, Kristen, Jennifer, Andrea, Marcella, Amy, Rachel, Julie, Holly, and Melinda.

Yes, they were my friends.

Legion and loquacious.

After full days at school, I longed to pedal up the road and feed our neighbor’s horse a bright, crunchy carrot, or sit on the porch steps and observe the darling chipmunks in our side yard, or lollygag on the fat tire swing dangling from our backyard crab apple tree.

We live in a noisy world, do we not? Deafening, in fact. A chaotic culture with throngs of people highly uncomfortable with silence. It is considered prestigious to fill up one’s time indiscriminately, often to the neglect of one’s soul.

Personally, it has been in the lovely well of solitude, deliberate moments of thinking, studying Scripture, praying, and reflecting–purposefully removed from noise and chatter–that I have come to know God intimately and love him supremely.

So yes, I embrace God’s design for me, a happy introvert.

It was not until college that I began to realize God stitches his children together purposefully and that we are to praise him for it.

I will give thanks to You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made; (Psalm 139:14)

I was paired with the most extroverted roommate on our college’s campus. She was a midwestern delight—bubbly, chatty, and loud. Go-go-go…a bundle of vigor and non-stop conversation.

I tried hard to keep up, at first. She grabbed me by the hand and pulled me headlong into breakfasts, lunches, large group dinners, socials, and incessant events, with introductions galore, all of which caused my head to spin.

This new friend of mine was volume up; silly and funny and smart and a sharer of all personal information.

Nothing, and I mean nothing, was considered off-limits.

She was greatly perplexed by my reticence.

You are a mystery, dear Kristin, and your seriousness can be intimidating, she chirped one night, tossing me a few of her favorite cinnamon gummy bears, as I washed my face after begging off a late-night social.

What in the world are you talking about? I laughed, patting my face dry. There is no mystery. I just enjoy a bit of space and quiet.

She tilted her head, smiling, her eyebrows furrowed.

In time, we became dear friends, patiently learning to understand each other’s natural dispositions. I pushed myself to jump into events by her side, (every now and then) and she learned to appreciate my need to study at the campus library, surrounded by the whisper of books.

It was these years away from home that granted me permission to structure my days, rather than filling every waking hour with a string of socials. It took a fair bit of practice, but by senior year I was thriving in a handful of life-giving friendships. We met at the dining commons regularly, jumping headlong into the deep places.

As Christians, it is essential to recognize that introversion and extroversion are natural personality traits, not character flaws.

God has knit us together, creating his people for good works ordained before our birth. (Ephesians 2:10) It is through our individual personalities that many of these works come to pass.

We are meant to joyfully obey the Lord, being good stewards of the gifts God has granted, while serving one another, and showing honor. (1 Peter 4:10)

Plainly put, there are times I must die to my wishes for solitude, and intentionally move forward in engaging others, caring for and serving people when I would naturally prefer to go for a walk or read a book or study cloud formations.

This is Christianity, isn’t it? Denying myself and in humility serving others. Being an introvert is God’s good design for me, but growing selfish or stingy with my time is not his plan.

The disconnect, I have found, is that extroverts are typically not held to this same standard. Part of serving others, thereby showing honor, is for the extroverted believer to graciously extend the gift of quiet; margins of solitude to introverted people. Or at least to gently understand that for the introverted, time alone is essential before jumping back into the fray.

I have never once heard this mantra spoken. Instead, the refrain I keep bumping up against, over and over and over again is the poorly articulated, yet die-hard notion that introverted Christians must pull it together and become more extroverted.

Not so! Jesus served, engaged, and loved multitudes of people, before retreating to spend time in the quiet places, communing with the Father. (Mark 1:35; Mark 6:31-32; Luke 6:12-13; Matthew 14:13; Mark 6:46; Matthew 15:29)

As the bride of Christ, we are one body with various parts making up the whole, created to glorify God through our dispositions. While Scripture is clear–we each are called to deny ourselves, take up our cross, and follow Christ–may we not fall prey to the sinful notion that God somehow erred in his workmanship of our chosen personalities.

I have watched, amazed, as extroverted Christians warmly welcome newcomers into the church, serving beautifully in highly visible ways– throwing parties and events, bubbly and conversational, often fired-up, and greatly energized by people. I have extroverted friends who sprinkle a little pizzazz over my plate, spicing up my days, and I love them for it.

I have observed introverts serving the church quietly and graciously. In fact, I cannot count the number of times such a friend has grabbed my hand and prayed quietly for me with little fanfare, inquiring about my children and grandson, and sending me kind texts and notes, continuously seeking to serve others in oblique ways.

As an introvert, I understand the exhaustion of entering a large gathering and graciously interacting with others. I know well the temptation to vaporize, especially after hours of ongoing dialogue. However, it is good and right to honor others. So I aim to walk joyfully into the crowd, especially on Sunday mornings, lingering just a bit longer, choosing not to forsake the gathering.

May God be glorified.

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Available Soon: Write the Truth, Beautifully™

My husband and I recently celebrated our 30th in a year brimming with change. A few weeks after our anniversary, we arranged for a few days away at the prettiest beach, with soft, briny sands stretching for miles.

The sands were smooth, but the vacation itself was a bumpy start, as we have become a pair accustomed to working, not vacationing. Yes, our calendar is dotted with family gatherings and holiday events and afternoons spent relishing a lazy Saturday, pausing to peacefully sip coffee in our living room before rising to finish household tasks. But a string of days in a row? This seemed a vicious and abrupt halt; my heart was bucking.

As we walked along the shore that first evening, our feet sank into the edges of the Atlantic. Waves roared and crashed in rhythmic fury, foamy waters breaking, skirting our ankles, pulling us in. We evaded a bloom of jellyfish and bent low to collect shells. I lamented my neglect in packing a shovel and pail and thereby cradled an overflow of exquisite shells in my cupped hand.

My pastor-husband was trying to unwind but I saw his lips moving silently as we walked, a sure sign that he was untangling something weighty. Our brains were full as we beheld a lengthy list of tasks requiring attention on the other side of this reprieve.

My mind roared: Hurry up and relax! Have fun! Right now!

We plodded along in silence, holding dense space in our togetherness, as seagulls swooped, spun, and mewed overhead. Then, tiny Grey Plovers captured my attention.

What adorable birds, scooting away as the waves rolled in and swiftly returning to the ocean’s edge as the tide washed out. They gulped mollusk meat and other invertebrate seafood, relentlessly pecking at the sand for hidden treasure.

These delicately built shorebirds seemed resilient, feasting between crashing tides, the mighty waves and powerful undertow sifting and rattling the sand, stirring up the seafloor teeming with food for these quaint creatures.

As I studied them pitter-pattering over the sand, I felt the depth of my fatigue–years of dodging an onslaught of waves, determinedly returning to the fray time and again, pecking spiritual sand for substance and dashing for cover as the next breaker raged to shore.

The waves of suffering that threatened to drown in fact became the impetus, the crash and pull, that God used to jolt my soul awake, stirring up not only the sands of affliction but of affection. For Christ.

God does that.

//

We continued walking as the sun descended. A young couple, all swagger and charm, passed by and I paused.

That was us thirty years ago.

The wind grazed our backs, and I recalled the recent musings of a dear friend.

Kristin, so many dreams have fizzled along the way in my marriage–a good marriage, yes–but now I find myself at an age where I consider all those things we never did.

I swirled her heartache round and round. Something pricked my mind as I turned and discovered my footprints being erased by the tide.

Oddly, my friend seemed to cherish the injury of unfilled dreams.

A trickle of sweat raced down the back of my neck. My husband and I had walked a long way in the sand.

There remains a powerful temptation in midlife to nurse and rehearse dreams unfulfilled. The loop snags and captures with:

We never did this, we never went here, we never bought this–

To what end? I whispered and the wind carried my words and lifted them high, a strata of smoke poised over a stunning view. I suddenly felt invisible against the backdrop of sky, sea, and sand.

The all those things we never did is a thorny and fruitless path, often culminating in a sour, self-centered existence.

For the Christian, all those things we never did may humbly be replaced with:

Your kingdom come; your will be done.

A Grey Plover, less than a stone’s throw away, pecked at the ocean’s edge and was rewarded with a fat sea worm that dangled from its beak. He cocked his head and stared at me, before gulping his dinner.

//

The next day we returned and meandered the same beach. We laughed at the previous days’ fretfulness, as generosity and kindness took front and center stage in our conversation. Our minds and bodies had grown fond of vacation.

We unfolded our beach chairs and reclined, legs stretched and feet toeing the sand; reminiscing about long-ago beach ventures with our four little children. How few we were actually able to take and when we did?

My, oh my. The planning, the coolers, the sunblock, diapers, sippy cups. Skipped naps and endless treks to the public restrooms, bathing suits tugging uncomfortably with wet clumps of sand scraping salty skin. The laughter, the togetherness, tossing frisbees and footballs and scooping up shells. Stopping for ice cream on the way home and surrendering to the deep sleep that falls like magic come nightfall following a day at the shore.

The wonder of memories is that they can only be fully appreciated backward, even as the hourglass sands continue to trickle.

And then: Poof!

The season is gone.

The passage of time tends to tame previous difficulties, smoothing hard edges, we mused aloud, eyes closed; lulled by the tide. Soon my husband was asleep, and I rose to meet the ocean, surprising myself by diving in.

The Atlantic Ocean is more forgiving than the passage of time. I dove beneath the waves and swam, eventually floating, eyes closed, recalling what it felt like to be a child at the beach, carefree days when I thought childhood would last forever even though I wished it wouldn’t. Late afternoons spent with a shovel and pail mining tidepools and capturing unsuspecting periwinkles and hermit crabs, gathering sea glass as my damp hair bleached, years before I cared about natural highlights.

After riding the waves for a time, I bid goodbye to the waters and moved toward the sands, dripping, and noticed that the beach was largely deserted, except for one elderly couple, holding hands while leisurely walking the shoreline, weathered and wrinkled and slow, pants rolled high and hats pulled low against the fading sun.

That might be us in twenty-five years, I thought.

My husband opened one eye and smiled, as he stood and stretched. We folded our striped chairs and slung our thick beach towels around the back of our necks.

I noted something poking out of the sand.

An abandoned shovel and pail, nearly buried.

I scooped it up for our next walk which yielded shells that now inhabit our garage. I will do something with them, as a memorial of our 30th. They will serve as a reminder of the Grey Plover, the beauty of life, the joys of a long marriage, the flame of hope amid suffering, and the memory of diving beneath the clean and cold Atlantic.

Your kingdom come; your will be done.

//

Three decades ago I could not discern what lay ahead on life’s stretch of sand. I shielded my young eyes against the burning sun but try as I might could not see the end of the beach. The shoreline–speckled with beauty, blessings, and brutality–remained hidden.

How could I imagine the joys and sorrows of marriage, motherhood, and ministry? Or the growth that would come through surging waves of suffering?

How could I know that heartbreak would push me to pick up pen and paper and trace the goodness of God?

How good to pause and remember all the things that God has done.

---

Old age, when life becomes quieter and slower, is prime time to reflect on the power of the gospel to change us. It is also a time when we are tempted to think small–to think about our aches and pains, our disappointments and unrealized expectations. Will we be good stewards of our old age? Even as physical strength diminishes, will we pursue our destiny–knowing God?

Susan Hunt, Aging With Grace: Flourishing in an Anti-Aging Culture

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This piece was written last year. I reposted it in honor of our 31st anniversary, which we celebrated this week.

Write the Truth Beautifully™

One summer’s day, long ago, my grandfather hung the moon above our cottage by the seashore.

***

A promotional salesman by trade, he dressed to the nines, with suits smartly pressed, shoes polished to shine, and tie gently loosened, long before this was considered stylish. Grandpa felt no pressure to adapt to others’ expectations, which in a delightful twist made him a leader among men. He stood handsome while shaking hands with neighbors, clients, strangers, and friends, smiling broadly and conversing with ease; a consummate gentleman.

Grandpa worked hard without complaint, happy to live a life aimed at reducing the burdens of others. He loved lavishly, gifting his family in countless ways, without a speck of fanfare.

A penny pincher he was not. In fact, he was miffed by stinginess–a language utterly foreign to his person. In his mind, quality mattered deeply, and giving cheaply to loved ones was worse than giving nothing at all.

His restaurants of choice were exquisite–swirly background music, shiny silverware, and heavy water goblets. And his mantra? Let’s skip the fast food and enjoy a night on the town. On such evenings we relished unhurried conversation and mouthwatering food. I studied him as he studied the menu, eyes perusing the choices with an affable grin.

Once served, he took care in slicing the meat, fork turned over in one hand, the other wielding a knife while slicing tender prime rib, his thick cloth napkin tucked stiffly within his collar to protect his fine shirt. Following dessert (ice cream, always ice cream) he cheerfully paid the bill with a generous tip before offering my brother and me a peppermint. The evening’s benediction.

The truth? Grandpa’s love glowed in deeds, not words.

This fine and classy man was a steady lantern, fueled by the Spirit. Isn’t that always the way with people who continuously walk in love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control? The fruit is vibrant, irresistible, a stunning, flickering torch lighting the narrow way. A wild abandon, living life with a generous invitation–Come along, dear one, taste and see that God is good.

His kindness created a soft and gentle blanket around my shoulders. I was a little girl cherished in his presence, warmed by the calm realization that it was his delight to bless. He never griped about money he spent upon my brother and me or anyone else– and I certainly didn’t need to fritter away my time attempting to earn his favor because it was unwavering, as true and steadfast as the North Star.

He was a rare and precious gem, a man whose heart was a deep ocean filled with gratitude to Christ, his Redeemer. The salty waves were pure, crashing beautifully into the lives of those whom he encountered.

My brother said it best:

Kristin, he was magnificent.

***

For many years, summertime meant a vacation at the seashore. This was an extravagance that our family could not afford.

Never mind that, Grandpa made sure he could afford it. For many years he rented a sizeable cottage and invited his children and grandchildren. The two cottages I remember best were named–a sweetness that gave language to memory.

The Cherry Cottage and The Marsh Cottage. I close my eyes and my senses light fire, as I tumble backwards to a time gone by. The sights, scents, tastes, and sounds rush back.

Here come the adults, schlepping L.L. Bean™ bags up the cottage steps, flip-flops smacking while screen doors screech and bang. The women groan as they pull open the windows, inviting a salty breeze to brush through and freshen the air as grandchildren, youngsters with bright beach towels slung over our necks, jump up and down, up and down, begging Can we please go to the beach now? Pretty please?

Gulls mew overhead while the coffee pot hisses and the teapot whistles.

We are shooed outdoors, our paper plates sloping under the heft of peanut butter-and-honey sandwiches, carrot sticks, and the saltiest potato chips. Killing time, we sip sun tea and munch lunch on the back porch, sharing our summer’s dreams, while pining for the shore, the waves, the jetties, the tide pools.

***

Finally–finally–everyone is ready, conversing loudly, interrupting more than listening, scrambling for sunglasses and lotion, chapstick and thermoses, binoculars, and of course, beach chairs. We travel the road in a large huddle, plodding the steamy pavement before taking a hard right onto the sand dunes, awkward and cautious in our flip-flops–attempting to avoid the sharp, pokey seagrass.

The adults scout for the best spot, pointing and squabbling before anchoring themselves. Setting up a formidable row of beach chairs morphs into a great to-do, dousing and smudging noses with zinc ointment, donning floppy beach hats and sinking low into striped chairs, stretching legs long with a contented sigh, feet pushing the wet sand, creating a cool pit of comfort, while foraging for misplaced sunglasses and newspapers and yellowed paperbacks from the depths of oversized canvas bags. Conversation and gossip ebb and flow amongst the women while the men drift to sleep, open-mouthed beneath the sun.

My brother, cousins and I waste no time, catapulting into the chilly tides, splashing and dunking and racing and somersaulting, carefree and happy, swimming, tossing a neon frisbee, and treading water for hours. We pause only to guzzle lemonade, devour pretzels, and study our wrinkled fingertips. I wander away to a tidepool and scrunch low, licking salt from my lips, collecting periwinkles and hermit crabs; plunking pretty shells in my red pail.

After several hours in the sun, we leave the roar of the tides behind and flip-flop back to the cottage, hungry and tired and sizzling, rinsing off in the outdoor shower so as not to carry any sand inside, because heaven help us if we do. The women cluck and sigh: A woman’s work is never done, not even on vacation, while the men raise an eyebrow and wink at us.

My brother and I slip into our softest t-shirts and shorts, sunburned and already feeling the heat. We comb our wet hair and accept our cousins’ invitation to venture to the Candy Store, down the street and around the corner.

And that’s when we realize the sad truth: unlike our cousins, we have no money for penny candy.

Grandpa overhears our whispers of despair and opens his wallet, giving each grandchild one dollar.

We are rich!

Thank you, Grandpa! we hug him and skip down the street and around the corner, soon blowing into the establishment and causing the tiny bell atop the screen door to jingle. It is spring-loaded and snaps shut with a furious bang, part of summer’s charm. The cement floors beneath our feet are tidy and swept, which is impressive given all the incoming sand.

We are swept up in the divine aroma of newspapers, doughnuts, and coffee, draped in the vision of penny candy stuffed inside endless jars. In a flash, we fill our tiny paper bags to the tippy top with our favorites, then pay and exit, leftover change jangling in our pockets. Our cheeks are bulging and our hearts are full.

We return to the cottage for what my grandmother calls supper, followed by chores, card games, and a few minutes of reading time before lights out. We are sound asleep in seconds, plunging headlong into dreamland, our young bodies full of blissful, beachy exhaustion.

Day one of vacation is over.

Grandpa leaves the cottage late the next day, on Sunday afternoon, returning to the city to work for a spell before returning to enjoy a long weekend with us. My brother and I blow through our leftover change, spending every last cent on more penny candy.

How we will survive the late afternoons stretching before us?

It is a dilemma indeed, a riddle we untangle as we sprawl on our twin beds, squeaky clean hair shining, our faces sunkissed, propped on our elbows, chins resting in hand.

We have to earn money, I say.

How about a lemonade stand? my little brother says.

We don’t have lemonade or money to buy it, I answer.

All is quiet.

And then? An idea is born.

Shells!

We will sell seashells at the end of the cottage’s driveway. Combing the beach for a pretty array, we will coat each one with my leftover clear nail polish. Once they are dry, we will arrange them on the card table, and earn money.

Two days later, during the adult’s afternoon siesta, we hang a shingle, confident it won’t take long for change to fill our jar.

Imagine the scene–two children selling shells less than a quarter of a mile from a beach full of free ones.

I am here to tell you that we gave it our best.

A handful of tanned and wrinkled beachcombers stroll by with wan smiles and shuffle away, shaking their heads and laughing. We soldier on.

After two sweltering afternoons in a row with not so much as a nickel to show for our labors, we begin to crumple in despair.

And then? A familiar sound.

Could it be?

Shielding our eyes from the afternoon sunbeams, we cry: Grandpa!

He cruises up in his Volvo (always a Volvo) and waves, classy and unhurried while retrieving two boxes and a paper bag from the back seat. Pies and ice cream from Grandma’s Pie Shop, one of our favorite establishments situated by the rotary before the Bourne Bridge.

And just like that our entire world shifts for the better.

What are my beautiful grandchildren selling? I see him smile, eyes taking in our collection and pitiful sign.

Shells, says my brother proudly. So we can go to the candy store.

Grandpa nods solemnly.

I see, he says. These are quality products, and you have done an impressive job making them to shine. What a fine business.

I think of him now, in his sixties, likely exhausted, but nonetheless choosing to gift his family a beach vacation. If tired, he wraps up the feeling and buries it in his back pocket.

His love is a mighty, roaring ocean wave, smoothing out the sands of life.

Tommy and Kristin, he says, I must buy some of these shells, which will make excellent gifts. Can you wait a few minutes while I give your grandmother these pies?

We nod, beaming, our grins reaching our ears.

***

Grandpa was our only paying customer that summer. He purchased nearly all of our inventory, placing a fat tip in our jar, for good measure.

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And let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up. (Galatians 6:9)

Kristin and her grandfather in 1973, on Washington Street.

Today, I have recorded a message for you, Kind Reader.

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Write the Truth, Beautifully™

It has been a week, indeed. One that has left me hobbling around on crutches.

Has your life been upended?

If so, I encourage you to slow down and pay attention. God has not forgotten you, but has delivered a tender invitation to trust him through your discomfort and the unknown. Suffering has a mysterious way of pruning and refining us, does it not?

As my precious rhythms are upended, I ask myself:

How will I choose to respond to hardship?

Will I joyfully submit to God’s plans in this classroom of affliction?

Will I delve into my Bible and pray?

Will I learn contentment?

God is good and kind, and his timing is supreme. Our son, Marcus, recently released a new song that he wrote and produced. His voice, the lyrics, and the music have ministered to my soul all week long.

Taste and See the Goodness of God

I encourage you to listen. This song will be a healing balm of refreshment for you, too.

Here is the story of the first time Marcus shared this song with our family — a memory I will long cherish.

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I know what you are thinking. Life is difficult, and serious.

I agree.

But life is also brimming with humor, if you pay attention.

And humor lightens our hardships, doesn’t it?

Laughter is a gift.

***

Our oldest son, Caleb, now a husband and a father, has been playing and organizing sports competitions since he was in grade school. He is a fine coach with a quick mind and the ability to clearly explain skills and systems and rules of most any game. He once competed in more college intramurals than anyone I have ever met, and there now hangs a shiny plaque in his honor, displayed in the workout facility of his alma mater.

Caleb never believed in competing haphazardly or playing without keeping score. (Why would you do that?) He consistently executes gameplay with excellence, fairness, and the drive to win. He also adheres to the team mindset.

As in, there is no “I” in the word team.

We are a team, and the best team players will be placed in the right positions to increase the chances of a victory. Selflessness, always, for the sake of the team.

Enter Gary.

One fall, late in his college years, Caleb coached an intramural kickball team. The team ended up being so large that Caleb created a rotation of players.

One of the players was a commuter student named Gary.

Gary was a solid decade older than everyone else, a man in his thirties.

It soon became clear that Gary was a mighty legend in his own mind and had made it his life’s mission to shine as brightly as the North Star on those intramural fields–fields that had long since passed him by.

The first problem was that there was not a speck of team mindset buried within the crevices of Gary’s soul.

He began to press Caleb for more playing time, scoffing at rotations.

Caleb is not one to be pressed, and while gracious and kind, Caleb remained firm with Gary, who, how shall I say it? did not excel on the field.

Caleb adhered to his ongoing rotations, and it was a remarkable grace that Gary was permitted to play at all.

Gary began to simmer.

Our son holds little tolerance for sulky behaviors and ignored Gary’s mood swings. Caleb happily captained his team, who, in spite of Gary’s shenanigans, were having a blast on those hilltop fields in the cool of evening. As the weeks passed, the team racked up enough victories to propel them into the playoffs.

As playoffs began, every team member played at least a portion of the game, but only a chosen few participated in both offense and defense.

Gary was not one of those selected to play both sides.

He desperately clung to the notion that he deserved to play the entire game and like a whiny child, moaned about it.

I know my son well enough to picture his wide blue eyes locking in on the demanding player before him. I can conjure the set of his mouth, a firm line, and his gravelly voice: low and serious and quiet.

Where should I go? Gary whined; this petulant man turned child.

Caleb pointed to the bench. Right there.

Gary huffed and stormed to the bench, enraged.

The game kept rolling and it was close.

Caleb called out: Let’s go! Defense on the field!

Defense flooded the field, and Gary joined, scurrying onto the grass, rebellion darkening his face.

Gary, I said defense. You are not on defense. Caleb said.

Gary countered. You need your best people playing right now.

I know that, Gary. Back to the bench–you are a sub.

A cool wind picked up and Gary stared at Caleb, who did not budge.

Gary, a member of the I mentality rather than the team approach, tightened his fists and again stormed off the field to the bench.

Caleb rallied the defense, clapping and offering encouragement.

Another inning passed and then?

Crunch time.

Two outs and it was Gary’s moment to shine. He was up.

The pitcher rolled the kickball straight to Gary who lifted his foot and launched that ball as high as he possibly could into the air. Something no one had ever done that season, and for good reason.

It was an intentional, easy out. Anyone with a pulse would be able catch that airborne sphere, which they did.

Game over.

Gary, who could have catapulted the team to the championships, chose to kill their entire season.

And it did not end there.

He jogged to first, patted the base, and careened off of the field and into the parking lot. He drove away, never to be seen again.

Later that night he sent Caleb a scathing text, which our son wisely ignored.

I cannot stop laughing whenever the story is rehashed.

Such silliness from a grown man, benched.

***

Here is another funny story of a man who benched himself.

My brother and I spent our elementary school days playing in the sunshine with friends. These were the golden days of the late 1970’s, when children actually romped outside in the delicious fresh air, for hours on end. Who had time for indoor games while the sun was still high in the blue sky?

It was grand.

Holly and Stu were a brother and sister who were the same ages as we were, which worked out perfectly. For a time, we lived in the same neighborhood, and frequented each other’s homes.

Holly and Stu’s father was named Al, and he was known affectionately as Big Al. I am not sure exactly how tall he was, but my best guess was that he stood six foot four: a massive man with an ample tummy and a friendly, booming voice. Al perpetually smoked a thick cigar, (my brother and I called it a stogie) dangling it from the corner of his mouth, clenched between his molars, and there it remained, bobbling and flaking through each and every conversation and good-natured belly laugh.

People flocked to Al, because he was friendly, generous, and the life of the party. He did not know a stranger, as they say. Soon after we were introduced to this family, Al’s career skyrocketed, propelling his family into the highest of tax brackets and into a mansion of a home that overlooked one of the finest valleys in all of New England. He built a swimming pool in their gorgeous, and enormous backyard, and graciously invited us over to swim any time during the high heat of summer.

All of this to say: Al did not change with his sudden windfall. Yes, his family’s zip code was new, but he still slapped every friend and acquaintance on the back, chuckling at a story or joke or at anything, really. He waved at his short and tiny wife, beckoning her his way, with: Honey, thaw a few more steaks, as he randomly invited so-and-so and another so-and-so for dinner.

Al loved to feast. Steaks, burgers, baked potatoes, cake, cookies, and ice cream. The more people the merrier, and the tastier the delicacies, the better.

During this time, Al and his wife stopped at a convenience store while out driving one weekend, purchasing two of Al’s favorite candy bars and on a whim, a scratch ticket.

Go ahead, honey, let’s see what we didn’t win, he said with a laugh, handing her a key to scrape away the shimmery coating.

The 5 then became a 50 which became a 500 and finally? $5000.

He laughed as he shared this story with one and all, his cigar resting lightly between two fingers while he paused to guzzle a Coke. Good fortune seemed to rain upon Al.

In due time, as his waistline expanded further, his wife insisted that it was time for a checkup.

He obliged, and the doctor told him he must get in shape: the candy bars and potatoes and steaks and cokes were catching up with him. Time to lay off the cigars, too.

Al took the warning in stride and hit the department store, purchasing a velour jogging suit paired with a matching striped sweat band. (Anyone else remember when those suits and sweatbands were the hottest style?)

And then, when the excuses had finally run their course and the luscious spring weather blew in on a breeze, Al laced up his sneakers, pulled the sweatband above his ears and around his forehead, and pecked his little wife on the cheek.

Honey, I am going jogging, just like the doctor said.

This, if not a miracle, was certainly an enormous accomplishment, because Al preferred anything over exercising.

Little wife breathed a sigh of relief, and watched her husband scoot down the road, albeit at a slow lumber.

Al turned the corner, having huffed and puffed for less than one quarter of a mile when a familiar car, windows rolled down, pulled up next to him.

Hey! said the friendly fellow, an acquaintance from the office building next to Big Al’s.

Al, still breathless, was delighted at such good fortune. An unexpected reprieve! He leaned in, resting his arms on the vehicle’s window frame, as his friend spoke.

Say, Al, there is a brand-new doughnut shop across town that is holding its Grand Opening today. Care to join?

Without missing a beat, Al hopped in the car and off they drove.

And that is how Big Al benched himself.

His exercise days were over before they truly began.

He stoked this favorite story, building it up, tending it like a perfect campfire, warming and drawing his rapt audience in as he roared with laughter, bringing everyone to raucous delight, his cigar shaking as he passed more chips and soft drinks to the many guests circling his table.

And this was his charm: not the house with the view, nor his scratch ticket, nor his swimming pool, nor his prominent job.

The charm was his invitation to join him in laughter, never taking himself too seriously.

---

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:

…A time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn, and a time to dance.

Ecclesiastes 3:1,4

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but man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward. – Job 5:7

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Nonnie, asks my grandson, Why did Molly die?

Molly, our Golden Retriever, passed away one year ago.

Well, sweetie, she died because she was very old.

He considers.

I don’t want to get old. I don’t want to die.

This conversation has been replayed many times when he is at our house for an overnight. Our routine is buttoned up: dinner, bath, brush teeth, playtime, reading, prayers, sleep. (Please, just one more book, Nonnie? A symphony to my ears.)

I keep this routine unchanged, given the chaos in our world today. Our grandson knows the sequence, recites it aloud, and smiles, comforted by what is to come.

With hair still damp—all slicked back—he jumps into bed, smelling of soap.

Nonnie, I miss Molly.

His lip quivers.

Me too, I say.

I fold back the cool sheets and smooth the comforter.

I’m not scared of fireworks, he says, studying my face.

Is that so? I kiss his forehead, recollecting last year’s college football game, complete with fireworks.

Blasts that left him sobbing.

They are loud, but I am big now, like Daddy.

Yes, you are so big!

He pauses.

Well, sometimes I’m scared.

I nod.

It’s okay, I say. Jesus is with us.

He hugs my neck, reaches for his stuffed animal, and closes his eyes.

As I hum Jesus Loves Me, he drifts off.

And then, his eyes pop open.

Nonnie, if Jesus is here, why can’t I see him?

So I explain. In under ten minutes, we have covered much ground.

***

Some day, I will tell him how we are born to trouble. Sin, suffering, and sorrow abound, creating all those sparks that fly upward.

But those conversations must be preceded with a sturdy foundation: doses of love, undivided attention, spoonfuls of understanding, gentle truths spoken over and over again.

Playing Legos and trucks and I Spy and Go Fish with wild abandon, riding bikes and watching Little Bear, sharing fat ice cream cones with sprinkles.

Keeping him company, cradling his heart, while humming Jesus Loves Me as he falls asleep.

He will soon turn four, and I am 49 years his senior. Old enough to sense the brevity of life and to see the kindness of God in giving me time. Moments to love well, by pointing our grandson to Jesus, as the sparks fly upward.

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I have been wishing to have this conversation about creativity with our son, Marcus, for quite some time. Since he and his wife live several states away, I snatched some time to record on our recent family vacation.

It was worth the wait! Be sure to listen in as Marcus shares his thoughts regarding children and music lessons, singing in church, and writing music that glorifies God. He also treats us to a sneak peek of worship songs that he has written and produced, but not yet released.

Enjoy!

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Stories of Marcus & Some of His Music:

Piano Man

Marcus

Canon in D

Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing

Iwas twelve when we moved out of our apartment and into a ranch-style home, a duplex shared with my grandparents, who had recently sold their home on Washington Street.

I had adored our New England farmhouse apartment, the only home I remembered. We were scarcely unpacked from this new abode when I began pining for my former stomping grounds: the pond and fields and forts and gardens and berry patches and obsidian nights with only the big dipper to light the way.

I also ached for Washington Street, the place where my love for God began; the home which burst with the magnificence of Grandpa, who invited my brother and I to fiddle around in sample drawers stuffed with promotional samples that he kept for clients. We galloped on the expansive front porch and played tag in the fenced side-yard, romping with cousins aplenty.

Washington Street was the unchanging place where our family’s heritage was ever on display: etched whale’s teeth heralding our ocean ancestry, spearing those massive creatures of the sea. Curious, heavy trinkets adorned each room: engraved pewter jewelry boxes, delicate bone China, mortar and pestle nestled beneath proper New England furniture, atop Oriental rugs. Even the galley kitchen held memory: Grandma’s famous apple pies and melt-in-your-mouth roasts around which clustered bright, tender carrots, evenly cut and placed alongside pearl onions and new potatoes.

Washington Street also held vivid story of my grandparents in their younger years–ages before I was born. I remained transfixed by the sound of Grandpa’s voice, carrying me backwards in time to their early days together. My grandmother had tripped and lurched headlong down the steep, narrow staircase while holding their newborn baby. A fall that landed them both in the hospital with dark bruises, broken bones, and crushed spirits. I considered this each time I descended those stairs.

This home on Washington Street was a historical mansion to me, built with the hammer and nails of Grandpa’s steadfast love and goodness. I was stunned, as an adult, to learn how tiny their Washington Street home actually was: a mere 1425 square feet. One bathroom and three slender bedrooms which housed their large family of seven. Memory is a funny, tricky thing. I only remembered their home as a structure fairly enormous.

***

Now, decades later, I am growing deeper roots of appreciation for what my grandparents actually did that year we combined our households under one roof with two doors. They paved a way for our family to purchase a home in a place where property prices made home ownership prohibitive. My parents were nominally paid schoolteachers and considering the fact that my brother and I were reaching an age where it would be difficult to continuing sharing a bedroom, something needed to change. Grandpa was paying attention and hatched a plan.

By all accounts, this certainly could not have been easy. Grandpa and Grandma were over sixty-five the year we moved. Grandpa was still a full-time salesman with rhythms of his own, plus a thirty-five-year faithful member and trustee in their church. He had always been most comfortable as a city dweller, inspired by the noise of heavy traffic, the throngs of people, and concrete sidewalks.

This move, some twenty-five miles west of Washington Street placed him away from all jumbled noise and under the hush of mighty trees, chirping birds, singing crickets, and green pastureland. The slow and gentle lilt of quiet, small-town living. Such a change prompted increased driving times, greater fuel expenses, and the sudden need to learn different highways and back roads.

Grandpa managed well, cheerfully disassembling his old home office on Washington Street, before unpacking his new space in our cellar, an office now shared with my father who graded student papers by lamplight. None of these changes could have been easy after decades of routine.

In hindsight, I understand that my grandparents probably could have maintained their daily warp and woof, holding fast to their comfortable habits by asking us to move into Washington Street, the home they had lived for their entire marriage. They might have built an addition and upped their square footage, keeping company with the familiar in their older age. Instead they chose the opposite, for the sake of my brother and me. We had bunches of friends, plus a sturdy sense of time and place in our church and school.

So they invited my parents to dinner one evening, and Grandpa proposed this new venture, as a way to help our family along, while also hinting at their future need for our assistance as they aged. My grandparents were still active and independent, but of course, this would fade, given time.

This move is a way to kill two birds with one stone, said Grandpa with his wide smile.

He was a rare species, our Grandpa. A true gentleman with total class. Insisting that he and Grandma would one day need help was a kindness aimed at preserving my parents’ pride.

I thought little of it at the time, being only twelve, but they sacrificed everything for us. Grandpa took the whole shebang one step further, insisting, on the front end, that this move hinged upon one absolute contingency: an addition on the back of our ranch home. It was to be an enormous family room, full of tall windows to invite natural light, complete with a wood stove and luscious carpet for comfort. Two outdoor decks would hug each side, allowing for perfect grilling space on those hot summer evenings. This family room would be the one shared space in our ranch home, other than the basement.

My parents hemmed and hawed, likely considering this too great of an expense, and one in which they could not afford to contribute.

Grandpa held out his hand, eyes wide and serious. This is my treat. It is for my grandchildren, and for all extended family to gather during the holidays.

My brother and I were ecstatic. The deal was done. We were the luckiest kids alive, with a Grandpa like no other. We thanked him.

Our grandfather had somehow made moving into our new home both a grand adventure and a small happening as he waved his arm nonchalantly.

Anything for you guys, he smiled good-naturedly, just as though we were going out for an ice cream cone rather than moving homes and habits and entire histories while spending his hard-earned savings and beginning afresh.

I can picture him even now in his office, rummaging through drawers of samples as he spoke in friendly tones to his clients by phone in our unfinished basement, beanie perched on his perpetually cold and balding head, Cross pen fastened neatly in his shirt pocket, dress shoes neatly tied and shiny. He steadily worked through any and all interruptions, of which there were now plenty.

Never once did I hear him complain.

***

True love always entails sacrifice, doesn’t it?

I often remember that time of life. That move away from Washington Street, a home so dear, and owned outright, must have shattered Grandpa in a dozen different ways. If it did, we never knew it.

My grandmother, however, took a vastly different approach, head flung back on the new sofa, moaning about having to carry the laundry basket all the way down to the basement. I stayed quiet, observing her griping from a distance, but marveled at her crumpled spirit. Their old washing machine on Washington Street had also been situated in the basement. How was this any different?

And we are now so far from church, and I am not getting any younger, she sighed. This stove is different and I am not used to living in the country–are there bear in these woods?

My brother, backed turned to our griping grandmother sprawled upon the couch, crossed his eyes for my benefit and made a crazy face. I stifled a giggle.

Plus Marilyn doesn’t style my hair the same way Dottie did. I miss Washington Street.

And on and on and on it went.

It was tedious, I tell you, listening to her complain. When she had lived on Washington Street, she had groaned about the narrow kitchen, the lack of closet space, the postage-sized yard. Nothing was ever right.

***

When they purchased this new home, it was not, shall we say, move-in-ready. To give context, I hail from a long line of exceedingly tidy women, which is why I tell my family not to necessarily blame me for my freakish cleaning tendencies. My grandmother’s favorite saying was Soap is cheap, meaning anyone can be clean if they so choose. Whenever she crossed the threshold of a home that beheld dust or crumbs or a ring around the sink, I studied her narrowed eyes and pursed lips. She could certainly clean with the best of them, and she did.

So you can understand the horror when we discovered that the previous owners of our ranch home had owned a motorcycle, and had literally, in the chill of winter, changed the motorcycle’s oil in our living room. There, in the middle of a hideously abused rust carpet, lived a dark and foreboding stain. A pool of greasy residue. For the love, can you even imagine?

The kitchen linoleum not only held sticky grime, but also curled at the outer edges, which caused us to occasionally trip and pitch forward, careening into the wall. I remember my parents reminding everyone what the realtor had mentioned ad nauseum–location, location, location. So yes, it was a fine neighborhood, a pretty yard, but the house required work.

The interior walls were infused with a stubborn, smoky tinge, as if the wicks from hundreds of burning candles had joined hands and crawled upward. We scrubbed those walls for days with scarcely an improvement. Also? Our stove could not be cleaned.

My mother tried. Desperately, and for hours on end. Grandma, who had stretched the phone cord into their television room while gossiping to her sister, announced that my mother had scrubbed to a fair-thee-well, with plenty of elbow grease, but without luck. Grandma paused, probably hearing my tiptoed footsteps, but as I stood still and held my breath, she continued. And after so many expenses, they cannot even afford a new oven, she whispered. This raised my twelve-year-old hackles.

My father, who descended from a long line of housepainters, gave the entire home a fresh coat of interior paint which infused a clean, comforting glow within each room. It was a gamechanger that served to lift everyone’s spirits. My parents also ripped out the oil-stained carpet, replacing it with a greyish blue plush. The new carpet scent was a fantastic relief, and things were finally shaping up. My grandfather also paid to have our kitchen linoleum replaced.

We finally moved in and began unpacking.

A few days passed splendidly and without incident when my grandparents’ oven, which was old but at least clean, conked out.

Grandpa knocked on our door, and Grandma–who was carrying a generously peppered roast– stepped across the threshold and requested to borrow our oven. Grandpa bent low to open it for her, immediately glimpsed the unsuccessful-cleaning-attempt-situation, and stood upright.

No family member of mine is eating anything cooked in this contraption. His eyes were huge as he closed the oven door firmly and told us to grab our windbreakers. I am treating everyone to Giovanni’s tonight.

I felt like hugging him.

***

Within a week, delivery men finagled two brand new ovens through our narrow front door and into each kitchen. They were exquisite pieces, and we thanked Grandpa, who as usual, had chosen the finest.

He was certainly a Go Big or Go Home man; never one to skimp. He despised fast food, off-brand ice cream, poorly stitched clothes, and shoddy furniture. Everything he purchased was sturdy, made to last, with consideration toward the future.

God saved me, I heard him once say. How can I not give to others?

***

It is not difficult, as Christians, to dress up in our Sunday best for church: dress shirt, tie, blouse, skirt, or favorite jeans paired with good shoes. It is another thing entirely to clothe oneself the Colossians 3 way–setting one’s heart on things above and not on earthly things. As God’s chosen ones, holy and beloved, may we put on compassionate hearts, kindness, humility, meekness, patience, forgiveness. And above all? Love, which binds everything together in harmony.

This is simple in theory yet difficult in practice because it requires dying to our own flesh: our stubborn preferences, our beloved routines of self-preservation and self-care, our wants and perceived needs that are pervasive today. This current mindset of brooding, challenging, and questioning the authority of Scripture (surely Jesus did not really mean denying oneself, picking up our cross, and following him?) actually encourages division within the body of Christ, and is a mockery to God. If we have been truly redeemed by Christ, we are instructed to seek the things that are above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God. (Colossians 3:1)

In humility, may I suggest burning those bridges that encourage such deception? Not in anger or with noisy fanfare, but with the solid knowing that keeping company or seeking advice from those who encourage decision-making based on fleshly desires, following your heart rather than God’s ways, will ultimately harden your soul to the things of God. (Romans 12:2, 1 Corinthians 15:33) Do not be deceived–our flesh is weaker than we believe it to be, (Matthew 26:41) and our adversary, the devil is roaming around seeking someone to devour. (1 Peter 5:8) We become like those with whom we keep company. (Proverbs 13:20)

Truly following Christ will cut the flesh, and deeply. It will cost you, and it should. (Luke 14:33) Obedience and love always involve a measure of sacrifice.

Grandpa lived this. No long faces on his part–bemoaning the challenges. His steadfast faith in Christ was his joy. He trusted God, served others, denied himself at every turn, and kept in step with the Holy Spirit.

***

This is what I now understand, as I remember Grandpa and Grandma while considering the precious faces of my own family:

They will remember the Italian restaurants, the family table, the hey-pal-come-along-with-me moments. They will feel known as I remember their favorite color, favorite team, favorite book, favorite ice-cream. Their heart will feel tended and cherished when I call them by nickname. They will observe how well I live out my faith each ordinary day, and see if I choose to love God through obedience. They will remember if I show my love with abandon, lavishly offering my time and money and home and words–a way of saying “You first.” Most every storm can be weathered by being deeply known, unconditionally treasured, and completely loved, just as God first loved us.

Make no mistake, they will also remember the moaning, the selfishness, the ways they had to crawl around me to see Jesus. They will remember the lack of phone calls, visits, the selfish choices to withhold attention, kind words, gifts, money, and time. It does not matter if I dress up each Sunday and stroll into church while simultaneously choosing to cling selfishly to my rights and my preferences and my way. Faithless Christianity ultimately shows up in unrepentant selfishness, pride, complaining, envying, empty words, and rotten fruit.

I will never forget that Grandpa chose us over his beloved Washington Street home.

And isn’t this true? We are who we are no matter where we live. Being a Christ-follower is not dependent upon a certain street address or zip code. It is wholly dependent up the finished work of Christ, the indwelling of the Holy Spirit as we march forward in faith and dependence and obedience before God, joyfully denying ourselves.

I am not saying that place is unimportant. It is a secondary character within our story, isn’t it? God ordains our steps and places to tend–earth and brick and wood and beam that shelter us. But it is the people within such houses that shape us most.

My faith began on Washington Street, but it did not stop there. Grandpa brought his kindness beyond his cherished home, giving of himself until he died, for love’s sake.

I am still basking in his kindnesses, a flickering shadow of my eternal home with Christ in heaven.

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Once upon a time, there was a tug on my arm, one second after the closing prayer.

Hi, said she, standing uncomfortably close, I am so happy to be sitting under your husband’s teaching.

Thank you, I said.

I know it is not easy being a pastor’s wife, but I am in your corner. You can trust me.

I hushed my instinct to bolt and said:

It’s nice to meet you, and I am glad you worshipped with us today.

I turned to gather my Bible and bag when she poked my arm, again.

I must say that I am a born teacher. In fact, I have taught women my whole adult life. Tell your husband that God has gifted me to teach.

I smiled. Oh, you will need to speak to him directly about that, I said, adding: I hope you worship with us again. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a few other folks waiting for me.

I imagined that would be the end of it, but I was wrong. The woman proved relentless, her tactics nothing short of a blitzkrieg.

Subtlety not being her strong suit, she cornered me the following Sunday, feigning momentary interest in my children, before going in for the kill: Kristin, I am destined to teach.

When that did not work, she sought my favor through gifts.

I am uncomfortable, I told my husband. I do not enjoy being manipulated.

•••

Regrettably, we have all, at some point in time, resorted to manipulation.

Consider the toddler, grocery shopping with his mother. He swipes a package of cookies from the rack, as his mother sighs and says No, returning the cookies to the shelf.

His weeping turns to wailing as he pitches a fit in aisle 12. The mother’s cheeks flush as other shoppers gawk. She promises her screeching son a treat if he stops crying, but to no avail.

His shrieks escalate, so his mother caves, plucking the forbidden snack from the shelf back into his greedy hands. Instantly, he quiets down, hiccupping sobs traded for bright smiles.

His manipulation has worked.

How about the sixteen-year-old who overtly compliments her mother on the spaghetti dinner before offering to clear the table, wash the dishes, and sweep the floor. The mother is taken aback, charmed, and grateful for such an unusual turn of events.

Once the last crumb has been swept, and the kitchen set to rights, the daughter requests an extended curfew, Pretty please? Like everyone else? The mother complies, still basking in the warmth of her offspring’s accolades and exquisite cleanup.

The daughter’s manipulation? A dazzling success.

Or the wife who strategizes, scheming for days. She chews her thumbnail while studying their tired, faded sofa.

She must strike at the perfect moment since the leather wraparound is on sale for three days, and her window of opportunity is closing. Never mind that money is tight, she must have new furniture, and pronto. So, she cinches her apron and spends the lion’s share of the afternoon whipping up her husband’s favorite lasagna, chopped salad, and toasted garlic bread, turning sugar-sweet when he walks in the door.

He is astounded by this bright welcome, caught off guard by this exquisite meal, the drippy candles, and the shoulder rub that follows as she shoos the children upstairs.

Is he dreaming? At the wrong address?

Grateful for the relaxed, romantic vibes, he sinks into his recliner.

And then she strikes: Honey, there is a sale…

•••

Manipulation, at its core, is lying. It is premeditated selfishness—excessive flattery or temperamental mood swings—toying with another person in order to reap personal gain. When we manipulate, we mirror Satan, the Father of Lies, who masquerades as an angel of light.

I have heard variations to the same old song, as the winding river of manipulation flows through countless families, rapids that prove difficult to navigate. Patterns repeat because families, friends, and even unhealthy churches acquiesce to the manipulator’s demands, choosing to keep a facade of peace, rather than speaking the truth in love.

•••

I was speaking with a woman whose mother-in-law, a professing Christian, has been manipulating the family for decades.

If her sons and their families do not phone or visit as often as she prefers, she sulks and withdraws, pouting and spoiling the next family gathering. Yet at work and church, she is a different creature altogether: kind and charming, reserving all untoward behavior for her family, holding them hostage to her demands.

It works.

In fact, the cycle has been in play for as long as anyone can remember. This mother-in-law’s sons are highly accustomed to her mood swings, sighing and waving it off, with: That’s just how Mother is.

Their lifelong play is to comply. Go along to get along. Meanwhile, the daughters-in-law are growing increasingly irritated by the disordered thinking and behavioral patterns.

Can you blame them? The entire situation is stressful.

The woman asking for my help cradled her head in her hands and sobbed.

Have you considered speaking the truth kindly and directly to her? I asked.

I don’t think that’s allowed, she said.

•••

Proverbs 26:4-5

⁴ Answer not a fool according to his folly,
    lest you be like him yourself.
⁵ Answer a fool according to his folly,
    lest he be wise in his own eyes.

Recently, I studied these two verses. While I had previously read them, I had regarded them like this:

If someone says something dumb, don’t say something dumb in return.

But this time I read and scoured a few trusted commentaries.

When someone speaks foolishly, I must not speak in a like manner, becoming like them. At times, this means remaining silent and not engaging in a fruitless argument. But other times (I believe in recurring, unbridled patterns of manipulative behavior) it means speaking truth, directly. According to verse five, it is important to correct foolishness, otherwise, the fool will mistake his or her foolishness for wisdom.

Case in point: the grown sons accommodating a demanding mother—year after year after year—are complicit in her foolish sin. Why? They are feeding the monster, supporting the lie that she is free to manipulate her family with her unreasonable demands. As they go along to get along, they actually undergird and elevate her foolish thinking, and she mistakenly considers herself wise. The sons dishonor their wives and children by keeping false peace with their mother’s manipulative behavior.

A respectful conversation, beginning with: I love you, Mom, and I apologize for not speaking up earlier, followed by wisdom, might bring her back to truth: namely, the world does not revolve around her, and her manipulation is sinful and dishonoring to God and to her family.

Have you paid attention to Jesus’ direct approach in dealing with manipulation?

Consider Mary and Martha. Martha was bent out of shape, distracted, and tired of serving while her sister was lingering at the feet of Jesus, following him as a disciple. Can you hear Martha’s huffiness? Whining, Lord don’t you care? and expecting a strong dose of sympathy. Expecting to get her way.

Did Jesus respond with: Oh, you poor thing! Everyone, gather around and help Martha with all of her chores. Mary, rise and help!

No, he did not say these things, because this would have been answering a fool according to her folly.

Instead, he shot straight to the heart of the matter and spoke the truth in love.

Essentially this: My dear Martha, you are distracted, worried, and consumed with self-centered things. Mary’s heart is focused on what is best; the good portion. Namely, Me.

Jesus loved Martha enough to correct her.

Jesus also spoke the truth to those who did not follow or belong to him. Chiefly Satan.

Remember this Manipulator Extraordinaire, waiting for Christ in the desert? Striking when Jesus was tired, hungry, and thirsty?

Jesus corrected Satan’s twisting of sacred Scripture. In this case, he answered Satan directly, not foolishly.

Be gone, Satan! For it is written,

“‘You shall worship the Lord your God
    and him only shall you serve.’”

•••

Are you manipulating others? Using flattery or sullenness to achieve your desires? Massaging a situation to get what you deeply crave? Repent, and live in truth.

Are you answering a fool according to his folly? Enabling another’s sin by bowing to their histrionics?

How much wiser to be like Jesus, speaking the truth, clearly, and in love.

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