My grandfather was a salesman. His office was filled with normal and eccentric promotional items: pens, mini flashlights, stress balls, and small rubber change holders that when squeezed, pushed out loose pennies. He had boxes of miniature tools and calendars and paper weights, boxed mints, and heavy glass mugs with fancy frosted inscriptions that read “Your Logo Here.”

Grandpa worked from home, shuffling papers in his basement, before it was trendy. He was usually cold, and being mostly bald, wore a wool beanie as he phoned his customers. Well hello Charlie! And how are you on this fine morning? You don’t say! How is Anne? And the children? My brother and I would sit on the top step of the stairs, elbows propped on our knees, quietly listening, watching the phone cord stretch as he swiveled in his chair. When the conversation ended, he pulled open a metal drawer stuffed with promotional items, and waved us over. How are my favorite kids today? Pick out a souvenir! We were welcomed with a flourish into his presence, which is precisely how he acted towards most everyone. When he received an order from a customer, he sealed the deal with a handshake followed by Charlie, You are a gentleman and a scholar. He made everyone feel valuable, from family to clients to neighbors. It was magical. My Grandpa had class.

He once told me that he always kept a folded one-hundred dollar bill hidden in his wallet. You never know when you might need a little spending money. He was never much of a saver, but more of a “go big or go home” type of man, lavishing his family with gifts in his later years. He had scraped by during The Great Depression when he shouldered the responsibility of keeping their family of seven dressed and fed, juggling three jobs to stay afloat during those lean times. It was probably a good thing that my Grandmother was a saver.

One average day, Grandpa told me that he had a gift for me. He knew I had a ceramic piggy bank, and enjoyed plunking loose change in it. This piggy bank was nearing full capacity, and he had just the solution. Reaching into the back of his Volvo, he pulled out an enormous five-foot plastic blue Crayola crayon shaped bank. A customer had ordered a batch, and this was an extra.

My eyes grew wide.

Now you can really save your change! He smiled broadly.

And I did. Every spare cent was pushed through the slot.

As the years slipped by, I stopped getting quite so excited about quarters, nickels, dimes, and pennies. Yet I still faithfully deposited them into that gigantic crayon. One day, many years later, while redecorating my bedroom, I realized that crayon bank was nearly impossible to move. How had it grown so heavy?

One penny at a time.

Faithful deposits had led to more savings than I had realized. When an opportunity arose during my college days to travel to England for an English Lit class, I decided it was time to roll my loose change, and put it to use.

It paid for most of my trip.

I think about my faith in much the same way. Every time I choose to trust and obey God, no matter how small it seems, I am making a deposit which strengthens my relationship with Him. Becoming more like Christ is usually a slow process; so slow it takes a lifetime and will not be completed until I reach heaven. But as each deposit of prayer, faith, trust, obedience, and studying and applying God’s Word accumulates, my piggy bank grows heavy. When those mighty winds blow, and trials loom, I have withdrawals available. God is trustworthy and why should I fear? (Hebrews 13:6)

Recently, one of our sons was cleaning out his wallet. Hey Mom! Look what I found!

It was a folded twenty.

I remember you always told us to keep some money folded and hidden in our wallet. I forgot about it!

I smiled, and thought of my Grandpa. If only he could see his great-grandson today….

You are a gentleman and a scholar he would say with a handshake.

I was three years old when I awoke with a horrible sore throat and a deep, chesty cough. As my fever spiked, my mother whisked me to Dr. Schwartz, our local pediatrician. I have always preferred wide margins of personal space, and a stranger touching me only fueled my misery. Being a rule-following first born, and shy, I endured quietly, and my mother and I soon left the office, prescription in hand.

It was a horrible pink medicine, coupled with Robitussin cough syrup, which to this day is pretty much the worst taste in the world. I had a strong gag reflex, and as soon as the cocktail of these two liquids passed my lips, it was game-over. No amount of cajoling or bribing, pleading or spanking could make me take the medicine. This was not good; I was quite ill and needed the antibiotic.

In desperation, my mother called the pediatrician, who was shocked. What? That compliant little girl I saw this morning? He told her to put me on the phone. I was a couple of months shy of my fourth birthday, and can remember this event clearly. I wrapped myself up in the phone cord; salty tears of shame and embarrassment trickling silently down my cheeks. I was not being obstinate…..I truly could not swallow this flavored medicine. You have to take the medicine, Kristin. Be a big girl and obey.

After the phone call, my mother tried again. To no avail. Now I was ashamed for upsetting her. I typically complied, and this was painful.

She called Dr. Schwartz again, and he said that if only I was older, he would prescribe the antibiotic in pill form. She told him to call the pharmacy and we would go for it.

And that is how I became his youngest patient to swallow pills. After several days, I felt better.

Some time elapsed; probably a few years. In my memory, it was towards the end autumn, when the burnt orange and golden leaves had begun their cascade to the ground. Pumpkins decorated porches, and the slant afternoon sun glistened without warming. Crisp weather, as we called it in New England. Folks would stoke their fireplaces and pull out their quilts and space heaters. It was magnificent.

At our elementary school, firefighters would arrive like clockwork at this time each year. They taught us to: Stop, Drop, and Roll. In the late 1970’s and early 1980’s there was a national campaign regarding these measures. So we listened, and practiced, and hopped off the school bus at the end of a long day, armed with papers and diagrams to show our parents regarding the importance of having A PLAN of how to escape a fire. Shall we meet at the mailbox? The big stone in our front yard? What happens if the stairs are on fire? Do we have a ladder?

These thoughts consumed me for a few days; the fear of being stuck in a burning home was terrifying.

And then, one morning shortly thereafter, we found out that there had been a fire at Dr. Schwartz’s house. The inferno erupted in the middle of that cold and dark night, while everyone was in deep sleep. Dr. Schwartz was able to guide his wife and children and pets to safety. Everyone was terrorized, but alive.

Dr. Schwartz’ office, where he treated patients, was part of his expansive home. The family watched their home and his office burn. While anxiously waiting for the firemen to arrive, Dr. Schwartz ran back into the blaze. My files! he cried. His wife begged him to stay.

When I heard this as an elementary student, I could not believe it. Part of THE PLAN was to never return to a burning building. For anything. Never ever.

He had raced back to retrieve his patient files. There were no personal computers in those days, and all of his detailed notes were in filing cabinets. They represented his life’s work. He never returned to his family. Dr. Schwartz perished in those flames, trying to save a mere shadow of his patients.

Sometimes, I do the same thing, returning to things and for things that will not last and are of little importance. I grasp for the unnecessary yet urgent tuggings of my heart. We can be lured and enticed by our own desires (James 1:14). I remember, too late, that all that sparkles is not gold. Those files of Dr. Schwartz’s were important; they just were not that important.

Have you ever seen a raccoon trapped? My brother and I helped capture raccoons when we were young. They robbed the corn fields at night, eating their fill. We learned that with nothing more than a big, shiny ball of tinfoil, a raccoon could be baited.

In the glint of moonlight, a coon would dip into a container that was wider at the base than the top. The aluminum foil was sparkly, shiny and enticing. With a tiny paw, he grabbed the object of delight, but no! It was too large to pull through the opening. He was now stuck: a victim of his own desperate longings. By merely dropping the foil, he could be freed instantly. But the sparkle was too much to resist. When we checked the cages in the morning, the raccoon would snarl and hiss in a bold refusal to drop his priceless, yet worthless, treasure.

Our landlord, a grumpy yet softhearted man, would band the coons, and haul them miles and miles away, releasing them to the wild woods. Those very raccoons returned quickly for the corncobs and shiny trinkets; travelling great distances quickly to fulfill their insatiable appetites.

Sometimes I think about Dr. Schwartz, and wish that I had complied and taken my medicine. My little girl heart was marked by his death; one of those files he had gone to retrieve had my name stamped upon it.

Yet now, as an adult, I see how easily I can be ensnared by stuff: reputation, money, peace-at-all-cost, appearances. Godly sorrow over my own sin leads to repentance; worldly grief leads to death (2 Corinthians 7:10). Am I repenting and returning to God? Or am I stuck in worldly sadness, feeling badly, but returning time and again to sparkly substitutes? Am I like that raccoon, fiercely guarding my worthless trinkets?

All that sparkles is not gold. God himself is our treasure.

When our youngest was a tiny wisp, we moved across the country. While preparing for the move, I had an eight-year old, a six-year old, a 23-month old, and a newborn. I was hardly sleeping, attempting to finish our homeschooling studies, changing diapers, and packing. There were a few personal goals lingering within that simply were not happening. I mentioned this in passing to a friend.

She looked at me for a moment, then clasped both of my hands. Gently yet firmly.

Kristin, don’t you think those things can be shelved for a bit?

I looked at the kindness in her eyes, and suddenly I saw my situation for what it was. Had the roles been reversed, I would have recognized the necessity of letting go of certain things for a spell. Cutting myself slack has always been difficult. It is one of my life-long challenges: giving myself permission to be. I actually schedule time to relax, and it always must occur after earning it by working hard. It cuts to my core if anyone hints I am not working hard as a homeschooling mom and homemaker. It stings and settles and festers. These jobs have been my magnum opus.

But that friend touched something deep; it rocked me then and I remember it still after seventeen years have swept by.

The human heart can only hold so much.

Our third son has left for college, and my role as a mom has changed. I am more cheerleader than coach now.

One might think that saying goodbye to child number three would be easier, like slipping into a broken-in and comfortable old shoe. Not true. I have wept off and on for months, even as I am so happy for the new life he is beginning. It is just as it should be. Yet I still see his little two-year-old face, and the hours he spent playing in the sandbox with his tractors. What I wouldn’t give for a momentary return to those days.

But my heart can only hold so much. And to that end, I will be shelving some things. I know what those things are, and will hold myself accountable. I have conjured up the memory of my friend’s words from years ago, and will minister to myself during this fragile time. I am learning that the Lord holds my tears in his bottle; he knows how he has formed me, and how he is still forming me. He fashioned me with a sensitive spirit, and for that I must never apologize. He gave me a tender love for my family; and reminds me that he loves them even more than I do.

God is gentle; he is bearing my burdens. And when the winds of change blow hard, I rest in knowing that he holds and guards my heart.

When I was ten, my friend Jeannie invited me to spend a whole week at her vacation home in Bar Harbor, Maine.

Jeannie had been a lovely surprise to her family; her older brothers were fifteen and twenty years older. Her parents took the two of us throughout the harbor and beyond in their fishing boat, and we spotted speckled seals all along that frigid Maine coast. The water sprayed our freckled faces as our hair flew back in the wind. The air was clean and the views stunning. We later did cannonball jumps off the end of their pier, and I noticed the water was as black as night; nothing like the beaches I was accustomed to. It was many years later that I learned the water was fifty feet deep off that pier! No wonder it was pitch black.

One morning, Jeannie’s mother shooed us out the back door with a sturdy basket each. Fill them up, and I will make pies for dinner. We were true New England girls, and we imagined the pages of “Blueberries for Sal” by Robert McCloskey. I held my breath hoping to see a bear and her cub as we picked wild blueberries in the woods of Maine. Every snap of a branch made us jump.

We ate as many wild blueberries as we picked, and our fingers and cheeks were darkly stained. When we returned to the house, Jeannie’s mother looked at us and laughed, her blue eyes dancing. Go wash up, she said, as she swatted us gently with her dish towel. She evidently understood ten year old girls, and she never complained when we left blueberry stains on her white towels and in her porcelain sink. We helped her roll the dough, and fashion the pies. She placed them carefully in the hot oven and we played a board game together before setting the dinner table.

Pie was served that evening with a scoop of Brigham’s vanilla ice cream and a dollop of kindness. I was feeling a bit homesick, and Jeannie’s mom knew it. She tucked Jeannie and me into side-by-side twin beds in the blue room each night, crisp sheets starched and cool beneath our sunburned skin. I whispered my own prayers when the lights were dimmed and fell fast asleep. Outdoor play and fresh sea air tired us to perfection. Sleep was solid and earned; our bodies exhausted with the goodness of exercise.

As I gaze back in time, I see with adult eyes the kindness of Jeannie’s mother, who was nearing sixty with a ten-year-old daughter. She cared for us tirelessly and made sure we had fun. She watched over us gently without stifling our play. She swept and hung out towels and bathing suits on the clothesline, cooked simple and delicious fare, and prepared picnic baskets of bologna and cheese sandwiches on white bread smoothed with mustard for our outdoor adventures. She smiled a lot.

We would not have been able to have such a time if we had access to a television or an iphone. We were accustomed to imaginative play, occasionally growing bored with each other and with make-believe. This was not such a bad thing. Boredom pushed us to creativity or to chores: both of which are essential to a well-lived life.

The decades have passed, but I remember Jeannie’s mother well. Kindness lives long and reaches far.

At the tender age of twelve, I packed a suitcase and a traincase (who else grew up calling a tiny suitcase filled with makeup. shampoo, deodorant, and a hair dryer a traincase?) for a week of Christian Camp in Western New York. This girls’ camp had been in existence since forever, and although I was happy to be with a few friends from church, I was nervous rather than excited.

It was exceptionally hot that July, and with cabins that were primitively dark, damp, and musty, we looked forward to swimming. As soon as our parents left, our camp counselor informed us that due to a lifeguard shortage, sixth graders would not be swimming on this particular week. Instead, we could take sailing lessons as long as we wore life preservers. This was going to be a long seven days.

As it turned out, we had one sailing lesson, because rain fell in torrents most afternoons that week. The girls from our cabin stuck together, and visited the camp store where we ate too much candy. At lunch and dinner we were told to drink our milk, which I could not do without gagging. I was accustomed to drinking mainly water, and simply could not choke down milk. My sweet friend switched cups with me, thus drinking two milks, while I started feeling funny from lack of hydration. In desperation, each night I would sneak out of my cabin and head to the showers, drinking water from a spicket outside the building. Not a good plan, and I was sick each morning.

I finally asked my counselor if I could please have water at mealtime, and she told me that camp was a time to grow up and toughen up. I nodded and pretty much decided I was not going to ask her for anything else.

One afternoon mid-week, when the sun poked out from behind the heavy clouds, our counselor reminded us of the importance of trusting in God. We had been having campfire discussions about this, so nothing new there. It was the way she said it though. I had a funny feeling that we were going to embark on a surprise lesson. I had had enough surprises that week (no swimming, upset stomach, musty cabins, only one sailboat lesson) and did not relish the idea of any more.

Follow me girls, she said. So we marched single file behind her for a short hike through the woods. Eventually we stumbled into a clearing. In front of us sat a log cabin with an old pickup parked outside. Form two lines at the bed of the truck, and grab hands with the girl across from you.

There were ten of us, so five one side, five the other. Palms up as you hold hands. We rotated our hands as our camp counselor jumped up into the bed of the truck.

Today, we are going to do trust falls. Just as we need to to trust God, so we can learn to trust others.

Oh no. This I could not do.

As the counselor turned her back to us, she crossed her arms over her chest, and reminded us that we could not bend our knees. This is a picture of trusting the Lord, girls.

She fell lightly and our arms swayed, but we caught her.

She picked the next girl, who waffled for a minute, then fell back but bent her knees a bit, and although we broke her fall, she landed with a thump in the dirt. She laughed and so did we. Kind of.

The next girl went, and was far more solid. She did not bend her knees, but her weight caused our damp hands to lose their grip and she landed more loudly and hurt her tailbone.

In hindsight, this would have been an excellent time to call it quits. But no. She tapped my shoulder. You are next, Kristin.

I climbed up in the bed of the truck and looked at the large maple tree above me. It was beautiful and I wished that I could be as anchored to the earth. This trust fall was something I would not do. And in my twelve year old heart, I also realized deep down that this had nothing to do with trusting in God. I loved God, and I did not trust these girls to catch me. We had already dropped a few campers, and I had no intention of adding a bruised tailbone to my growing list of bad things at camp. I also did not trust my counselor who refused to allow me to drink a lousy cup of water at meals.

At the same time, I was not the girl to buck a system, or to talk back, or to be publicly embarrassed. So I had to quickly choose: embarrassment or getting injured. Embarrassment won.

I cannot do this.

Oh yes you can. You trust God, don’t you?

Yes. But I won’t do this.

She shook her head and I jumped down, ashamed of what my friends might think.

As it turned out, they were real friends, and really did not care that I bowed out.

******

If we place our trust in people, we will live in a constant state of fear. Look about you. Our world is wringing their proverbial hands during this time of global pandemic. If we take a trust fall into the arms of worldly opinions, or CNN or local news, we are going to land with a hard thump. This is not what God asks of us.

God beckons us with Fear not. My heart is grieved to see fellow believers panicking. Nothing in this world happens without God’s knowledge. He sees our tears and anxiety and calls us to abide in Him. He is our shelter and our shield of protection.

Christ died for his bride, the church. He knows the hairs upon our head, and he catches all of our tears in his bottle. We have been given a specific amount of days on this earth, and we are to live them fully, not in fear, but in joy, serving and loving others.

My hero of the faith is Elisabeth Elliot. She faced many hardships during her life, and often shared about battling fear. Her first husband was killed by a tribe of people whom he was serving, and her second husband died after a raging battle with cancer. Acceptance is the key to peace in suffering, she taught women. And she lived those words. For the Christ-follower, suffering sands away our heart’s rough and calloused edges. Without suffering, we would remain cold and heartless.

Fear not should become our mantra. Bad things are happening, and will happen as long as we live on planet Earth. The Bible teaches this. But it also teaches us that faith is not born out of fear, but out of trust. Not in people or government or worldly goods, but in Christ alone.

As a little girl, I grew up in an expansive old New England farmhouse. The white house had been divided up into four apartment-type dwellings, and sat upon a beautiful piece of land. My brother and I had complete run of the yard, plus the field, gardens, and wooded area. Across the street was a pond and a small dam. We borrowed Mr. Golden’s tin rowboat and paddled all around, catching turtles, frogs, and small fish. We spent most of our play time outdoors in the fresh air. I loved that house and was sad when we eventually moved.

It was not difficult to know my boundaries at that house. Some of the vegetable gardens were staked off, other flower gardens we were told were off limits. Distinct property lines included an ancient stone wall. The neighbor’s field began after our woods, and I never stepped into it. Further down the street houses were divided by white picket fences, all whitewashed and pretty. They were not there for their beauty….they marked ownership and boundary lines. Those boundaries provided a source of safety and oddly enough, freedom.

Limits always produce freedom. Just watch children. It doesn’t take one hot minute to recognize which children are favored with boundaries that have been set and guarded. Most often the happiest children are the ones who understand that boundaries mean safety and the freedom to be themselves within those healthy limits.

Physically marked boundaries are obvious. Personal and emotional boundaries are often trickier. And if we do not build them, we will never be the whole person that the Lord desires us to be; his workmanship. We will be stunted and either frustrated, sad, or angry. Not to mention exhausted.

Recently, I have had to guard my heart with emotional boundaries. (Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it. Proverbs 4:23 NIV) This sometimes looks like sweeping a soft path away from a broken person who is inflicting pain, or other times looks like hammering a picket fence that allows the breeze to blow through, but definitively marks what will not be permitted to enter. We cannot change others, (that is the work of the Holy Spirit) but we may change what we allow to hurt our heart. If we do what we’ve always done, we will get what we always got.

One summer when I was perhaps ten, our family and extended family was vacationing on Cape Cod. Every day my grandparents would give us a handful of loose change to walk a half mile to buy penny candy at the corner store. This ended up being my brother, 2 cousins named Jim and Steve, and myself. Steve was harmless, but Jim was a sneaky and miserable kid. He caused problems wherever he landed.

We always raced from the candy store back to the cottage. Jim, who was bent on winning everything, would inevitably trip one of us to gain an advantage, or cheat with a head start. It was getting pretty annoying, but I did not say anything. I respected the boundaries of others, but had absolutely no boundary fence of my own. I had fashioned an idol out of peace-keeping, rather than being a good and objective truth-teller.

On the last day of vacation, we held our final race. This was it. I had had as much of my cheating cousin as I could take. I was determined to win this race. For the first bit Jim and I were neck and neck. Then I mustered up some determination and increased my speed. The cottage was in sight and I knew I could do this. My heart was racing and I was smiling. Just as I reached the foot of the cottage steps, I felt a pull on the bottom of my t-shirt, and suddenly I was falling backwards. I landed with a painful thump as Jim started of the steps.

“I won!” he gloated.

Something snapped inside of me, which up until this point in my life had never quite shown up. I flew up those steps, and as Jim reached for the screen door, I put my arm in front of his neck and pushed him. Hard. I flew into the cottage, and to the surprise of every adult announced loudly that I had had enough of Jim and his cheating ways.

Unknowingly, I had created a new boundary with my cousin that would remain. He continued to be a problem, but interestingly enough he left me alone. It had taken me at least five years of suffering to say enough.

Take it from me, it is better to trust in the God that created you and loves you. Your worth comes from Him. If you know this deep down in your bones, you will not be a people-pleaser and enabler, but a truth-teller. This does not mean pain will end; on the contrary. But you will have a clean and honest life before others and God.

Boundaries are not the same as walls. Walls block out everyone. Walls silence all conversation. Boundaries are fences that keep most toxicity out. One can gently converse over a fence, while maintaining a measure of safety and protection and limitation.

To be clear, some people do not like to be given limits, or boundaries. Pay attention. In my experience, every person who throws up their hands at healthy boundaries, are the very people from whom you must guard your heart.

Jesus was the ultimate boundary setter. He served, and then retreated to rest. He knew his purpose, and carried it out in an unhurried way. Often, if you read the gospels, Jesus did not do what everyone else wanted or expected him to do. He did not chase people down, but went steadily about the work that God had planned for him. He disappointed many, but it did not matter, because his focus was upon God alone.

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.