I grew up in a weathered New England farmhouse that had been quartered into apartments, one of which housed our gruff but kindhearted landlord, Norman, and his wife, Mary. Together, they tended the property’s resplendent yard and gardens. 

This aging pair faithfully shoveled wheelbarrows of heaped compost—leaves, kitchen scraps, coffee grounds, grass clippings—and spread these dark layers thickly over every inch of their vegetable garden: efforts that rendered fertile soil. Pressing thumb to dirt, they sowed the seed, backs hunched while sprinkling tiny kernels row by row, tucking and patting each one safely beneath a blanket of earth, before drizzling the soil with ice-cold well water. 

The seeds quickened, poking through the rich compost, sprouts taking firm root, thereby yielding robust produce bursting with vibrancy: raspberries, blackberries, tomatoes, squash, beans, cucumbers, peas, zucchini, potatoes, pumpkins, and corn. 

For hours each day, Norman and Mary worked faithfully as they hoed, raked, and weeded, then plucked beetles, worms, and bugs from their plantings. In the months that followed, the fruit of their labors filled bushel baskets heavy with harvest, food they washed and scattered across their kitchen table, while they set vats of water to boil. Mary canned it all, lining jars across the wooden shelves in their root cellar. They shared God’s bounty with friends and neighbors—hearty food that nourished many through winter’s long, intractable chill.

There was one problem. A midnight thief was stealing corn from their beloved garden. Norman discovered raccoon tracks in the soil, but although he owned a shotgun, he could not bring himself to exterminate God’s creature, even one bent on destruction. 

Our landlord stood guard one night, firing a shot skyward with high hopes of scaring the critter away. The ringtail did not cooperate but returned, night after night, pilfering corn. 

After contemplation and study, Norman sketched blueprints. He measured twice, cut once, and nailed wood and screen together. Blowing off sawdust, he set the trap one evening by the light of the harvest moon. 

In the pitch of night, he bolted upright, awakened by bloodcurdling screams. Jumping into faded overalls, he seized his shotgun and lumbered to the garden, where he was greeted by one jailed raccoon, who hissed and snarled a violent warning.

Raccoons are enamored by all things sparkly, which had prompted Norman to roll a ball of aluminum foil as bait. Moonbeams had caught the shine, enticing the creature to reach his tiny paw through the trap’s narrow hole, greedy for this glittery prize, which he grabbed but could not retrieve, given that it was larger than the hole his paw had entered. 

He was trapped.

And here is the stunner: to gain freedom, the raccoon needed only to release the foil and run away. A slave to desire, he refused, stood his ground, and shrieked. The worthless foil was a prize he would not relinquish.

Norman locked the crate, heaved it into the bed of his pickup, and drove twenty miles to a patch of conservation land, where he freed the thief, who returned to the garden the following week, only to be trapped again. 

Lured Away

As Christians, we long to bear the Spirit’s fruit of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. 

Yet how often are we raccoons, hungry, yet lured away, enticed by desire, trading spiritual fruit for the sparkly offerings of this world? When caught, why do we lash out, refusing to spear our selfish pride?

The answer is simple but not easy.

We have neglected to dress the soil of our hearts in humility.

It is good to travel through the pages of Scripture, paying careful attention to God’s words regarding both humility and pride—that ugly viper of the heart that expels all meekness.

James, the brother of Jesus, does not mince words: “God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble” (James 4:6 ESV). 

Stiff-arming humility in favor of pride is an invitation to bear rotten fruit. In contrast, Jesus, in Matthew 5:3, calls those who are “poor in spirit”—meaning the humble—a people who are blessed and recipients of heaven. 

Pride’s Bitter Poison

If haughtiness is the soil bedding our heart, good fruit will never grow, as pride quenches and grieves the Holy Spirit.

A prideful spirit yields bitter poison. To walk in pride is to go to war against God. And to war against our perfect, mighty, sovereign Creator is the most terrifying, foolish, and eternally destructive battle of all. If haughtiness is the soil bedding our heart, good fruit will never grow, as pride quenches and grieves the Holy Spirit. Those who live like this will not inherit the kingdom of God. 

Judah’s King Uzziah served God until he embraced pride. 

“But when he was strong, he grew proud, to his destruction. For he was unfaithful to the LORD his God and entered the temple of the LORD to burn incense on the altar of incense” (2 Chron. 26:16 ESV).

Burning incense was an act restricted to priests, and when these men tried to remove Uzziah from the temple, he grew angry. God immediately struck him with leprosy, for life.

Another example of pride’s destruction is King Nebuchadnezzar, who strolled his rooftop and gave himself all credit for building the great city of Babylon by his own mighty power, for the glory and fame of himself (Dan. 4:30).

God swiftly humbled him, making him crawl among oxen, eating grass in fields until he acknowledged God as sovereign. In time, and after much humiliation, Nebuchadnezzar repented and only then did God graciously restore him. 

“Now I, Nebuchadnezzar, praise and extol and honor the King of heaven, for all his works are right and his ways are just; and those who walk in pride he is able to humble.” (Daniel 4:37 ESV)

The New Testament’s King Herod Agrippa was another pride-saturated ruler.

On an appointed day Herod put on his royal robes, took his seat upon the throne, and delivered an oration to them. And the people were shouting, “The voice of a god, and not of a man!” Immediately an angel of the Lord struck him down, because he did not give God the glory, and he was eaten by worms and breathed his last. (Acts 12:21–23 ESV)

By accepting the adulation of the crowd, rather than correcting them and humbly paying homage to God, Herod was killed.

The Sweet Fruit of Humility

How encouraging to ponder the beautiful ways God exalts humble-hearted people!

Moses, according to Numbers 12:3, was the meekest man on earth. He was bold for God, yet mild in defending himself, as shown when Aaron and Miriam spoke against him. Moses was humble because he knew God to be guardian of his reputation. 

Mary, the mother of Christ, was a woman cloaked in humility. When the angel Gabriel approached her to announce that she, a virgin, would give birth to the Savior of the world, his salutation was:“Greetings, O favored one, the Lord is with you!” (Luke 1:28 ESV) Favor means grace—God’s gift to the humble-hearted. 

Mary’s humility shines throughout her prayer. “My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has looked on the humble estate of his servant. For behold, from now on all generations will call me blessed; for he who is mighty has done great things for me, and holy is his name” (Luke 1:46-49 ESV).

There is no greater example of humility, however, than Jesus, God’s Son, who crouched in the dirt of the Garden of Gethsemane, sweating drops of blood, agonizing over his unimaginable suffering to come. He knelt in lowly submission before his Father and prayed, “Father, if you are willing, remove this cup from me. Nevertheless, not my will, but yours, be done” (Luke 22:42 ESV). 

Such a heart cry is humility on fire, singeing all pride to ashes.

As Christians, we long to be like Christ, but if we are honest, we are often raccoons, clenching in our fists the trappings of this perishing world. The raccoon of my childhood had acres of fine dining at his fingertips: crayfish, nuts, and wild grapes. But pride invited him to clutch shiny foil, which meant banishment from the great kingdom of Norman’s garden. Our own unrepentant pride will result in the same (Gal. 5:19–21). 

To walk victoriously in the garden of humility requires a Gethsemane “nevertheless” song of soul, denying ourselves and obeying God. There is neither romance nor ambiguity in killing pride and pressing into humility. 

Philippians 2:3 says, “Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves” (ESV).

As Christian people, how does our humility flesh out in daily life?

A humble woman thinks less of herself and more of others. 

A humble man embraces happy surrender to God, serving his family, friends, and church with joy.

A humble person is quick to exchange bucket lists for quiet service and self-agendas for opportunities to give to and bless others. 

A humble woman is content to receive nothing in return for her labors save the joy of pleasing the Lord. 

Harvest Time

Just as Norman and Mary heaped and spread compost over their garden’s soil in preparation for an abundant harvest, so must we blanket our souls in humility before reaping the Spirit’s fruit: a harvest of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.

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A form of this article was first published at Revive Our Hearts.

I am road-tripping today, relishing a time of rest and refreshment with family.

The past few years have pressed hard, with bruises lingering. This getaway seems a kind invitation from God to rest mind, body, and soul.

Have you ever faced arduous seasons when it has been impossible to take a physical sabbatical? During those trying stretches, I have learned to echo the psalmist’s words:

This is my comfort in my affliction,
That Your word has revived me.

-Psalm 119:50 (NASB)

We may be revived by the Bible, God’s voice.

Isn’t that a wonder?

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September is coming, Lord-willing, and as autumn’s chill blows in on a breeze, swirling with both adventure and startling schedules, I plan to slip into a soft hoodie, lengthen my morning walks, and return home to pen fresh stories.

In the meantime, as summer’s heat hums its swan song, I invite you to tune in to my conversation with Adam Miller from Songtime Radio. I pray our words encourage you today.

They laughed behind cupped hands, grade-school whispers assessing her dress.

Look! It’s as big as a tent!

Peter’s face reddened as he accepted his forgotten lunch bag from his mother’s strong hand. Her face glowed, Scandinavian accent thick as she spoke love over her son in broken English.

I dangled upside down from the playground bars, observing this heavyset woman adorned in a shapeless house dress swishing past her ankles. 

Thank you, Mimu, Peter spoke quietly, his eyes beholding his mother, affection mingled with a touch of embarrassment upon realizing he had verbalized his gratitude before a captive audience. This, during his first week at our school.

Mimu smiled as she tenderly tousled his hair, murmuring love in her foreign tongue. Blowing her son a kiss she turned and padded down the street, humming as she pushed her baby home.

The playground taunting resumed.

Mimu? Mimu? Sounds like a whale! croaked one student, sending the scoffers to another round of jeering.

Keep Reading…

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Many of you are summer people, folks who revel in the blaze of sun while enjoying this whimsical season of long, unstructured days.

Personally, summer is a trial as I am forever an autumn person, awakened by brisk temperatures. Come fall, I relish my morning walks around our sprawling, leafy neighborhood as the blaze of maples turns golden, fiery, and crimson. On Saturdays, I make a batch of crockpot applesauce–college football volume up–and then chop onions for soup or chili.

The productivity of highly structured weekdays makes work richer and weekend rest sweeter.

This summer has been a wild child: a wedding, a hefty workload, a book launch, some heartbreak, and in God’s providence, something beautiful; new. Jon and I celebrated our 30th anniversary this week, and over a delicious dinner, we smiled and agreed that simple, holy living is good. It is our theme heading into a fresh season.

As we reminisced over our empty nest, we thanked God for his tender provision and for the gift of our precious, growing family. And then we went home and enjoyed a bowl of ice cream.

When walking through a taxing season, it can be tempting to veg out, binge shows and read fluff. Resist the impulse. In times of exhaustion, stress, and mental whiplash, I have learned to feast. Not on ice cream, mind you, but on good books.

When Christianity Today’s senior books editor Matt Reynolds kindly asked me to share 5 books on cultivating the Fruit of the Spirit, I was delighted. Sharing noteworthy books is one of my favorite pastimes.

As we prepare to wave goodbye to summer and embrace autumn, I encourage you to set your table with good books. Prepare to feast, carving out time to renew your mind and strengthen your heart.

These five books are soul food that will not disappoint. Promise.

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“Visit many good books, but live in the Bible.” – Charles Spurgeon

In the sidebar, you will find this same bundle of books. Click to view book recommendations and return often as I will continue to add more.

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When the kind people at The Good Book Company invited me to write a book, I was stunned, but recovered in time to say Yes, and soon began writing what became Deep Roots, Good Fruit: Seeing the Fruit of the Spirit Through Story and Scripture.

Now, two years later, the book is finally here. And I wrote it for you.

It is my prayer that you will hunger to treasure Christ above all, walk in the Spirit, dig into Scripture, and be awakened to God’s magnificence in every sliver of the mundane. Our stories matter because God is orchestrating them all. Our job is to abide in him.

In full transparency, I am far more comfortable writing stories than promoting them, so I will leave you now with endorsements from generous hearts who graciously read an advanced copy of Deep Roots, Good Fruit.

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Let another praise you, and not your own mouth; a stranger, and not your own lips.

Proverbs 27:2

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Tim Challies Author and Blogger:

It is one of God’s greatest promises and one of our foremost encouragements: that he is changing us from the inside out. By the work of his Spirit, he is transforming us so we bear fruit—fruit that displays the goodness and grace of our Savior. That is the subject of this book, which has been written by one of my favorite authors. And as Kristin does on her blog and elsewhere, she not only writes what is true, but she writes it beautifully and compellingly.

Scott Hubbard, Editor, Desiring God (desiringgod.org):

If Kristin Couch had only helped me to better understand the fruit of the Spirit, I would be grateful. But this book does far more; through brilliant storytelling, Couch makes the Spirit’s fruit smellable, tasteable, and alluringly beautiful.

Kurt Goff – Host Kurt and Kate Mornings, Moody Radio

Wouldn’t you know it! I was praying this morning about more of the fruit of the Spirit showing up in my life. This is how God works: Kristin’s work has been on my desk for weeks. I ‘just happened’ to grab it during a moment when I was trying to catch my breath during a super-busy day. BAM! I couldn’t put it down! The right book at the right time! The other stuff can wait. Deep Roots, Good Fruit is filled with Scripture-saturated encouragement. Kristin has a gift for pairing observation with inspiration. She makes me want to be more like Jesus. Thanks, Kristin!

John Myers, Director of Ministry Advancement, Strategic Renewal

In a world where ‘spiritual amnesia’ has infiltrated our hearts and minds, Deep Roots, Good Fruit brings us back to the truth of God’s word and the reminder that the Holy Spirit is willing and available to us at any moment of need to give us the desire, power, and ability to accomplish his will. I highly recommend this book to anyone who needs encouragement and the reminder of God’s love and care for us. Deep Roots, Good Fruit was a huge encouragement to me as it focused on the fruit of the Spirit. Several words came to mind as I read this. Biblical: it never strayed from the truth. Authentic: it’s obvious these were not just words on a page but life-changing words from someone who has experienced them. Encouraging: from beginning to end—and a reminder of the power of the Spirit to change and transform lives, including mine. Thank you, Kristin, for your transparency and authenticity in Deep Roots, Good Fruit.

Stephanie O’Donnell, Writer and Photographer

With each chapter of the book, each fruit of the Spirit, I was irresistibly drawn in. I felt like I had been welcomed in with warm hospitality, wrapped in a blanket and given a cup of hot cocoa to watch authentic lives play out before me. And at the end of each chapter, I was prayerfully inspired to walk more worthy of the Lord.

Pastor Bryant Crane of Agape Baptist Church in George, South Africa:

Kristin Couch’s book is a wonderful resource to emphasize the necessity of the Spirit’s work in believers’ lives. More than just teaching about the fruit of the Spirit, Kristin has given us real-life examples of what that looks like in everyday life. I highly recommend it.

Lyndsay Keith, Host, Centerpoint TBN

Deep Roots, Good Fruit puts what matters most into plain sight through vivid storytelling. You will walk away feeling encouraged, inspired, and convicted, and ultimately desiring to be more like Christ through the power of his Spirit.

Sarah Puebla, Biblical Counselor

Kristin does an outstanding job of weaving together her very personal stories with God’s story to make a beautiful creation. She does an amazing job of capturing the reader’s attention with snippets of tenderness to then draw us in to the beauty of God’s Word and living out our lives as believers to showcase the beauty of the fruit that God intends for us to shower on others as we shine our lights and share our testimonies. Thank you to the author for making this goal tangible.

Brian McDougal , Executive Pastor Idlewild Baptist Church, Lutz Florida

Deep Roots, Good Fruit is like medicine for a dry and weary soul. When Kristin writes, it is like a brush on canvas that makes you see so vividly what she intends. How she uses her own stories to paint the picture of what the precious Holy Spirit has given to us through the fruit of the Spirit is certainly encouraging and simply refreshing.

Carolyn Lacey, Author, Say the Right Thing and Extraordinary Hospitality

Growth in godliness is slow, and it’s easy to become discouraged. In this beautifully written book, Kristin Couch skilfully weaves story and Scripture together to show how God’s Spirit works, gently and patiently, through the day-to-day, seemingly insignificant experiences of life to grow good fruit in his people. Her invitation to slow down and notice this transforming work in your own life will encourage you and fuel your desire to grow more like Jesus.

Jana Carlson, Writer and Blogger:

…Each chapter focuses on a different fruit, from love through self-control, as listed in Galatians 5:22–23. In her signature style, Kristin captures her readers with charming, funny, and even suspenseful tales from her own life, then seamlessly draws us in for a deeper look through the lens of God’s Word. 

This is not a devotional book, nor an in-depth Bible study. It doesn’t quite fit the memoir mold either. Like a vibrant fruit salad served on a sweltering summer day, Deep Roots, Good Fruit is as tantalizing as it is nourishing. It’s a welcome addition to my overflowing bookshelf. 

Andrea Sanborn, Writer and Blogger

This book was both encouraging and challenging. The format was straightforward and the descriptions rich. It was the kind of book that takes you by the hand as a friend, drawing you into a deeper desire for holiness. Kristin uses vignettes from her life, sets them before the reader, frames them with practical application, and shows us the beauty of walking by the Spirit. In addition, her chapter discussion questions stand out for their way of thoughtfully drawing the reader in rather than the usual surface-level questions some books toss in like an afterthought. Highly recommended for anyone on the journey to Heaven, whether you have just stepped onto the narrow way, or have been traveling it for decades.

More Endorsements

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But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control; against such things there is no law. (Galatians 5:22-23)

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Relax in your favorite chair with your steaming mug of coffee and enjoy my first book as well.

It can feel confusing, restrictive, and nothing like you once imagined. 

Life in the fishbowl. 

You have a husband working tirelessly to teach and preach beautiful, hard truths from Scripture. A husband juggling hospital visits, Bible study, counseling sessions, church problems, and family life. 

Although your heart is happy to follow your husband to the ends of the earth, it is often more difficult to follow him into the same church building week by week. 

Why? 

Primarily because your family is under attack. Satan has come to kill, steal, and destroy. (John 10:10) Any man willing to faithfully preach the gospel is the Enemy’s primary target. 

Secondly? 

Unbiblical expectations. 

Rest assured, there is no list of duties for the role of pastor’s wife found anywhere in Scripture. We are called to be godly wives and mothers, faithful helpers to our husbands, like all Christian women. Regardless, a handful of dominant parishioners always emerge, expecting more from the pastor’s wife than is humanly possible. 

Even though wildly unrealistic, unfair, and unbiblical expectations arise like an ocean wave from merely a few, it feels like a tsunami. The reality is that such expectations have long existed, and always will. May I encourage you to speak patiently and kindly, before swimming away, back alongside your husband?

Continuously abide in God’s Word. 

As you seek to follow the Lord, remember that your primary task is to tend to your family. Adorn your home with holy calm, praying as you make it a space of refuge and retreat. Pray for your husband, children, grandchildren, and church. Love your family with tender devotion, happily displaying that they are your top priority, second only to God. Many church members can accomplish various jobs at church, but you alone are the wife of your pastor, chosen by God to bless him. 

Take a moment to ask your husband what is most helpful to him as you serve your church. You may be surprised by his answer. 

I have friends who are also married to their pastors, and each one of our husband’s answers to that question vary: 

• It is helpful when you have dinner ready when I come home from work, so that we can relax as a family around the table. 
• I would love for you to oversee the women’s ministry because I trust you to teach truth to our ladies. 
• It is most helpful that you oversee nothing at church. I need to know that you are praying for me and that you are present in the pew. I love that you manage our family, home, and checkbook well. 
• It is most helpful that you are willing to work part-time. The financial pressures of our little church burden me, and your willingness to work inside and outside our home is a blessing. 

Dear pastor’s wife, take heart today and remember that you have been gloriously stitched together by God’s holy design, a woman forever loved, created by him to swim through the waters of ministry life for his praise and glory alone. 

“An excellent wife who can find? She is far more precious than jewels.”  Proverbs 31:10

A form of this article was first published here.

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A Book for You

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

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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.

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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.

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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.

---

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

I invite you to read more about this wonderful man in both of my books:

It Began on Washington Street: Tracing the Goodness of God Through All of Life

Deep Roots, Good Fruit: Seeing the Fruit of the Spirit Through Story and Scripture

Six years ago, as I fast-walked our neighborhood, lost in thought and captivated by the beauty of flowering trees, I tripped.

My left foot caught a dip in the road and my ankle buckled, turning outward. I fell hard and heard a tiny pop, and quickly discovered that I was unable to stand. Thankfully our sixteen-year-old son was home, and moments after I phoned, he arrived and helped me home.

My ankle swelled and bruised, so I borrowed a brace from a friend before purchasing a heavy boot to stabilize my tendons and bones. I realize now that I should have visited a doctor (Monday morning quarterbacking is apparently my strong suit). Regardless, it took months to heal, and even longer for me to resume fast walking.

When I finally fired up my exercise regime, my ankle shrieked, a weeping which I remedied by slipping my foot back into the boot.

Relief.

The boot became a silo of safety. As long as I wore it, I felt protected.

The downside?

It was cumbersome and sidelining. I could not skip or jog but limped through my days, keeping the stress tucked inside as life blew by with the comings and goings of our large family.

Now, years after the mishap, I walk pain-free.

Well, mostly.

Hours before a rainfall, as the summertime humidity rises and swells and threatens to suffocate, I am surprised to detect a vague, solemn ache in that ankle of mine. It rises from the depths, fragile.

An unwelcomed reminder of my fall.

And I wonder: Should I scour the attic for my boot?

//

We are not meant to suffer alone, are we? A protect-myself-at-all-costs type of existence. At a core level, most of us are quick to nod and affirm such sentiments. But regardless of this head knowledge, building high and sturdy walls often feels like a safer bet.

The siloed life.

Found on dairy farms, silos were built to keep large volumes of hay and grain fresh. Bovine breakfasts and dinners were carefully preserved and guarded from rain, sleet, and snow.

How I love the semblance of a grain silo. In fact, I remember childhood drives, a green pushpin dotting the map of our teeny tiny New England town and another marking the journey’s end in a suburb of Illinois. My brother and I sat buckled in the backseat of our Volkswagon Rabbit, a brown economy car without the pleasure of air conditioning. We traveled a thousand miles to visit my paternal grandparents on a road trip that sent us cruising by the gorgeous farmlands of the Midwest.

The two of us —so small!— flung our hands out the back windows to capture the breeze, dipping our arms up and down, up and down. As the wind kissed our faces and blew our hair, I counted barns and silos. A country girl to the core, I felt my heart soar at the peaceful sight of dairy cattle grazing hillside near burnt-red barns and impenetrable silos.

Silos rising tall and stately.

Something about those formidable structures whispered safe.

//

God fashioned us to be human beings, not silos, but people with frail flesh, beating hearts, and eternal souls. All of those grainy aches stored and stirring about inside each of us are meant to be stewarded, sifted through the sieve of Scripture, burdens to be shared in Christian fellowship.

Galatians 6:2 – Bear each other’s burdens and so fulfill the law of Christ.

Walking in transparency alongside fellow believers is a priceless gift; a blanket of gracious care stitched with threads of truth-telling, prayer, admonition, correction, and encouragement. God is purposefully chiseling and sanctifying us, his precious people, often in the realm of fellowship.

Be discerning, be careful. I am not suggesting opening your heart’s door indiscriminately. Guard it and guide it toward truth-tellers, toward true Christians. There are many false ones, those who have the appearance of godliness but deny its power. God’s Word instructs us to avoid such people.

Happily seek fellowship with people eager to obey God and Scripture. It takes time, wisdom, and discernment to choose good company. Once we have been duped, the betrayal is a stoning that results in bruises, swelling, and scars.

While it might be tempting to curl inward and sink back into your boot, resist this impulse. Pray and forge ahead, trusting God to lead you into beautiful fellowship with genuine Christians, whose hearts are soft and tender, whose eyes are bright with joy and truth, and whose hands are eager to do the good works God has ordained. (Ephesians 2:10)

A silo is a keeper of grain, not heartache. Such a structure is not built to serve as an echo chamber for the weary, battered heart.

Run to God, the Keeper of your soul.

---

My second book is releasing soon!

Many months ago, I received an email from a dear, faithful reader, asking for help. Her life was quickly unraveling, and in the midst of persistent heartache, she had fallen headlong into envy. Jealousy towards a woman in her church, whose life seemed quite perfect.

This jealousy was destroying her, from the inside out.

Envy is the thief of contentment, isn’t it?

It reveals an idol tucked in the heart.

***

John Calvin wrote: The human heart is a factory of idols. Every one of us is, from his mother’s womb, an expert in inventing idols.

I invite you to consider this as perfect proof that we are made to worship. In the depths of our hearts, we recognize that there is something greater than ourselves. We are created to adore God. Sin is adoring something other than our Maker.

And isn’t the true meaning of life a magnificent reconciling of the fact that God is God, and we are not? True worship is to revere God alone. To adore him. To make much of him, as we decrease.

I am the Lord, and there is no other, besides me there is no God… (Isaiah 45:5)

Envy is a heart disruptor, an idol, revealing our lack of love for God’s plans and purposes.

It poisons as it rages.

***

Years ago I knew a woman who was a kind friend to me for a long time. This was during a season in which our family did not own a home, but lived in an old, narrow parsonage behind our city church. She attended a different church, and her family dwelt in the countryside. I greatly enjoyed visiting her each month, a gentle reprieve from our city existence. She prepared lunch, and we would catch up all afternoon.

Years passed, with greater seasons of hardship. She encouraged me well along the way, with Scripture and prayer and many kindnesses.

And then two things happened, quite unexpectedly: her family downsized to a smaller home in the suburbs, and a few months later, God provided a new home for our family in a pretty, tree-lined neighborhood. No more city living.

As I excitedly unpacked a gazillion boxes, my friend graciously arrived with a dinner for our family. As I welcomed her through our new front door, her lips seemed to tighten. The tension was palpable.

I showed her through our home, but she excused herself abruptly, saying that she had places to be.

The air felt notably different the next week when she returned for our customary visit.

Are you okay? I finally asked.

You should know that I have house envy, was her sullen response.

I did not even know what to say. It was not a contrite confession on her part, but an indignant sense of entitlement that she clung to, tightly. It was her perceived right to be jealous.

Things slowly deteriorated after that. Our get-togethers grew further apart and remained cordial, rather than warm and friendly.

I was her friend only when I did not have the something that she wanted.

***

A tranquil heart gives life to the flesh, but envy makes the bones rot. (Proverbs 14:30)

Perhaps the quickest way to discern envy within is to pay careful attention to our own heart posture when we do not receive those things that we desperately crave or believe we deserve. Something that someone else possesses. Pay attention as you are told no, or as you are overlooked, or when your heart sings a mournful, moody song as someone else receives praise, admiration, attention, or a material good.

If God is truly King of my soul, my response will be a swift and generous, Yes, Lord. I am happy for them and at peace in my soul. Your will is always for my good. You know best.

This is the heartbeat of true and vibrant faith.

The opposite of Yes, Lord results in James 3:16:

For where jealousy and selfish ambition exist, there will be disorder and every vile practice.

Remember this: Satan comes to kill, steal, and destroy. He thrives and hovers greedily over envy, jealousy, and selfishness, licking his greedy chops at such discord.

Envy grabs a chokehold around our throat, killing a serene heart, instead creating fathomless depths of angry discontent.

Spear envy, the moment it rises up. Kill it quickly, with Yes, Lord. I love and trust you. I will consider others more important than myself.

The reward for returning our gaze and affections to God?

You keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on you, because he trusts in you. (Isaiah 26:3)

And isn’t peace and contentment through God the healing medicine for our soul?

***

When Jon and I were young and as poor as church mice, I accepted a job as a nanny to a four-year-old little girl and her twin sisters, who were nine months old. When I accepted the position, I had only been married for one year and had just discovered that I was expecting our first baby.

The family I worked for was kind and financially comfortable. They informed me early on that once my baby was born, I could bring our little one to work with me. It seemed Providential.

Over the course of the next many months, I spent long weekday hours at their home, arriving at 7:30am and leaving no earlier than 5:00. I was exhausted by day’s end, but the paycheck was helpful and I loved those little girls. I changed diapers and played Candy Land and Old Maid, prepared their lunches, and tucked them into bed for their naps. We read books and colored, went for walks and swam in their pool, played in the yard and baked cookies. The entire time I was being trained and prepared for motherhood.

After months of employment, the mother pulled me aside one sunny day and told me that she was thrilled to be expecting baby number four. I congratulated her, wondering how on earth I would be able to manage her four plus my baby soon to be born? Time would tell.

I know that this one is a boy, she said, patting her belly, eyes bright.

Jon and I had decided not to find out the gender of our baby, wanting to be surprised.

So time breezed by, and the days were busy and good.

That April I delivered our beautiful baby boy. During that same week my employer had a sonogram indicating that they would be welcoming another daughter.

I remained at home for a month, growing accustomed to life with our newborn, and trying to figure out how I would handle returning to work.

When our little Caleb was one month old, I did return to nannying, carrying my most precious bundle.

The girls’ father made a huge fuss, grinning at Caleb and holding his tiny hand, remarking time and again how beautiful he was with such enormous blue eyes.

But the girls’ mother? She would not so much as look at Caleb.

I am late for work, she said on my first day back, pecking her husband on the cheek, smile fake as she breezed out the door, which abruptly reopened, with: Kristin, heat chicken tenders and soup for the girls’ lunch, and be sure to clean up.

Of course I would clean up. I always did. Her tone was cold and my heart sank. Soon her husband left for work, and then Caleb began to cry.

It was a difficult time. The twins were into mischief, the four-year-old wanted my undivided attention, and I had a fussy newborn. At the end of two weeks, the girls’ mother approached me. She had still not looked directly at my baby.

We are prepared to give you a raise, she said, eyes narrowed. But I will need you to start deep cleaning, preparing dinners for us, and taking care of our laundry.

I was twenty-four-years old, terribly naive, and beyond overwhelmed by my current responsibilities. Never mind her soon-to-be-born baby, plus laundry, deep cleaning, and dinner preparations.

I looked at her, perfectly stunned.

We will increase your pay by twenty-five cents per hour.

I had no words.

Her husband, shuffling through the day’s mail, looked deeply embarrassed as I gathered my things and told her I would need to talk it over with my husband.

It’s hard for her, he offered in low tones, waving a hand towards Caleb who was sound asleep in his car seat. She really wanted a son.

I am certain he knew that her pathetic offer would be impossible for me to achieve, and would ultimately lead to my resignation, which it did.

My last day at work was terribly sad, as three sweet little girls clung to my legs as I hugged them goodbye.

***

Envy.

The rotter of the bones.

It casts a long, dark shadow.

Nobody wins.

***

I had seen the ugliness of envy.

I had essentially lost my job because my employer wanted the son that I had.

Given these facts, you might guess that I would certainly not fall prey to such jealousy.

Wrong.

Nine months later, we were scraping by, without my paycheck. I was now a stay-at-home mom, my dream come true. Even though money was beyond tight, I loved taking care of my husband, baby, and our tiny apartment.

In time, I made a couple of friends who were six or seven years older, with babies the same age as Caleb. They lived in houses, (not apartments), and had plenty of extra cash. They picked Caleb and me up weekly (we had only one car then) and we would visit at their homes, allowing our babies to play as we traded stories and sipped iced tea.

All was well in my heart until the day they decided to plan and create the perfect nurseries for their babies. They poured over magazines, discussing wallpaper, paint, curtains, and crib designs. One of those catalogs was my absolute dream: Pottery Barn.

And that is when it happened.

Envy crept over my heart and began to rot my bones.

I grew grumpy and short with my husband. I went home and studied Caleb’s inexpensive white crib situated at the end of our bed. I felt sulky and disappointed that Jon was using our second bedroom for his work office. (What was I even thinking? Where else was he supposed to work? This good man was slaving away, determined to keep me home with our baby. How selfish of me!)

In short, I became self-absorbed. Envy is not the child of logic or of grace, it is a sin of passion. I want what YOU have. It is ugly and hungry and is never satisfied.

This lasted for a few days, until one night, after dinner.

I was washing dishes at our tiny sink when I heard Caleb giggle.

I peeked into our living room, and there was Jon, sprawled upon the carpet, giving Caleb an airplane ride. Caleb’s chunky legs kicked, and his blond hair was still damp from his bath. They both looked so happy. It was so simple, so lovely. Lovely enough, in fact, to snap me out of my stupor.

My eyes filled at my utter wretchedness, and I told God I was so sorry. Caleb did not need a Pottery Barn nursery, or expensive toys, or wallpaper. He also did not need a mother full of envy, but a mother surrendered and joyful in the Lord.

We had everything single thing that we needed, and God was kind to give me two friends who were just that: friends. The problem was me and my state of envy.

What a relief to see it, and to kill it.

The peace of Christ returned.

***

Eve wanted to be like God. She envied his power and knowledge.

This woman had everything good and true and beautiful. She and Adam walked with God himself in the garden, in the cool of the day. She had a husband, magnificent scenery, and luscious fruit to enjoy.

But she hungered for the only fruit that was prohibited by God. The fruit that she believed would elevate her to be like him.

Envy rotted her, from the inside out. She listened to the wrong voice, the luring whispers of Satan.

Every bit of griping, whining, and enviously longing for the very things someone else has is anger toward God.

Not fair! Not fair! our toddler hearts rage.

Imagine if we were to cease such brazen posture, turning to God and thanking him for his perfect goodness and kindness.

Ed Welch said it well: Whatever wins our affections will control our lives.

May Christ win.

---

I wrote this piece two years ago and decided to share it again during this holiday week.

Hearts of stone grip many a North American pew, a truth that grieves my heart. Fruitless pining for the world, for power, for selfish gain. The prince of the air is cooing his pretty lullaby.

Amid such sorrow, God is working on behalf of his people. As he does, persecution is seeping closer, a slowly spilling inkwell swirling into the Western World.

This is good. Painful, startling, but deeply good. In time, it will reveal whose names are etched in the book of life.

So as this spiritual oppression inches closer, I must ask:

Are you ready?

//

The truth:

Not everyone who claims Christ is a Christian.

This is a hard pill to gulp.

The words of Jesus: Depart from me I never knew you.

//

I watched three Heartcry videos recently, Pure and Undefiled, showing the life of believers in Cambodia.

As they gathered for church their eyes danced. It was exciting to see the Bible held high–wielded to teach, correct, admonish, and comfort– the Scriptures cradled by a people honoring and treasuring its pages. The congregation knelt in prayer, sang truth, listened intently as their pastor preached, and smiled as they learned.

Unity abounded, and it was beautiful.

As the documentary continued, I also witnessed death.

A Christian stood with his family in the swampy streets and set fire to his Buddhist paraphernalia. His face was the sun–glowing, broad, radiant.

This scene was the death of a thing, a good and holy torch, proof of the regenerated heart that now firmly beat inside his chest.

It is estimated that some 96% of Cambodians are Buddhist, with less than 2% of the nation claiming to be Christians.

Those sweet few are a people on fire. Genuine repenters.

Persecution often serves to separate the redeemed from the world.

Threshing does that.

//

The question circles: what will I do to serve God with my one, precious life?

I am asking God to use my writing to disrupt and disturb the hard of heart, the lackadaisical, and the false converts, prayerfully rousing sleepy souls to life.

I was once a sleepy soul, and I see the peril.

American ground is terribly hard soil, with its unbridled wealth, soft teaching, false teaching, bucket-list living, and this relentless, pathetic mantra: do whatever seems right for you.

To swim against this deathly stream without drowning takes repentance, prayer, steadfastness in Scripture, and a reverent fear of God, not man.

Plus grit.

It is helpful to think of it like this:

To devoutly prepare for spiritual persecution is to embrace the death of a thing, stabbing a dagger in personal agendas, platforms, and highly “acceptable” sins that gut and ravage the inner man. Remember, while the Holy Spirit comes to breathe life into the soul and death into the flesh, Satan comes to kill, steal, and destroy. He’s a fire-breathing dragon blowing death into the soul and life into the flesh.

So if you are forever busy living a nice, comfortable life, gratifying and serving yourself, while sprinkling a few cherry-picked Bible verses–Abracadabra!— over your head and still claiming to be a Christian, please stop taking God’s name in vain.

Such a life is not the true fruit of a ransomed and redeemed heart.

//

I close my eyes right now and all I can see is that Cambodian family: alive in Christ, poor in wealth yet rich in obedience, joyfully burning all idols.

The death of sin leads to a surrendered life. Not a perfect life, mind you, but one of holy pursuit.

Repentance and godly fruit-bearing are proof positive of the death of a thing.

The death of a stony heart.

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