A little over five years ago our family set out at dawn and trekked northward, a caravan of cars plus one behemoth of a Penske truck stuffed with our life’s belongings.

My husband had accepted a pastorate, and we were moving.

What a time. The skies were a somber, moody gray. As we drove, our windshield wipers soon flapped, dancing full throttle. Conditions grew increasingly hazardous as it became impossible to see. When we finally exited the highway to refuel, my hands ached from clenching the steering wheel.

It poured the entire 800-mile journey up the crowded highway.

Florida… Georgia… South Carolina… North Carolina… And then?

Virginia.

We slept fitfully in the hotel, rising early to meet volunteers who had planned to help us unpack, unloading approximately one million boxes from the truck.

I can still remember the feeling of the sun against my face as I stepped off our front porch, my hands tracing the porch railing. A man startled me as he hollered–Hurry up people! Let’s go! Faster, faster, faster! Come On!

I looked up just in time to see him toss our floor lamp from the height of the moving truck to an unsuspecting recipient below.

The situation unfolded in slow motion, as the lamp slipped through the receiver’s hands and landed with a hard thump and crack, resulting in a long hairline fracture and a significant hole.

I stood, silently gasping, recalling how many gift cards I had saved up to purchase this dream luminary.

Oops! The two men guffawed and shrugged, offering neither apology nor recompense.

I felt a foreboding…a foreshadowing.

My husband’s hand brushed my back as he passed by to lug more boxes.

Smile, Kristin, he whispered, and keep moving. I will buy you a new one.

We never bought a new one, and the lamp remains, sitting in the corner of our living room now, telling its own story, its damage hidden.

Yet this same lamp has become priceless in a quiet, unexpected way.

Each time I flick the switch, I am prompted to forgive.

Again, and again and again. Way down deep, in bone and marrow.

And I am no longer speaking of merely broken lamps.

//

We are human beings– cracked, fragile, and in desperate need of God’s forgiveness, grace, and mending. How grateful I am to be the recipient of such forgiveness.

But I have learned that it takes long, sweeping glances at Christ for me to fully forgive others.

It isn’t too difficult to forgive contrite people. But to forgive stony-hearted people who are reckless in deed and speech, playing fast and loose with sin while claiming to be Christians?

This is when forgiveness becomes a choice, an act of faith that slices straight across the grain of my flesh. It is otherworldly, born of the Spirit.

Do you ever struggle to forgive the impenitent?

When waves of painful memories crash, I have learned to close my eyes and pray for these people by name, asking the Holy Spirit to turn their hearts fully toward Jesus in repentance. I also pray for my heart to remain anchored–pliable, tender, yet steadfast while eschewing all bitterness.

This deliberate act, relinquishing my pain and transferring the entire tangled mess into God’s hands unchains me from anger and bitterness.

I am free and filled with joy.

Forgiveness is born of obedience rather than feelings. My primary fidelity is to God and the Bible, not people or outcomes. (Ephesians 4:32, Mark 11:25, Matthew 18:21-22, Matthew 6:14-15, Luke 23:34)

Do I long for reconciliation?

I do.

Does forgiveness always lead to reconciliation?

It does not, and this article explains why.

//

Late this afternoon, as autumn’s shadows crept and danced along our walls, I slipped into the living room and turned on my favorite lamp, sitting tall, elegant, and fractured.

Its broad glow warmed the room.

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The overhead light in our laundry room had been slowly fading for who knows how long before it flickered and perished, leaving the repairman murmuring over something called a ballast. It is a long and boring story, but suffice to say we had to wait weeks for the replacement part. I went from spinning clothes in the shadows, to wrangling laundry in the dark, with a hall light barely illuminating the washer and dryer.

While laundry is no longer the massive chore it once was, I still love the scent of fresh detergent paired with a lavender-vanilla fabric softener. The world might be raging all around, but our laundry still sings for me, and there remains a quotidian comfort in warmly scented clothing, folded and delivered.

Quietly, so quietly, it sets the elfin patch of earth beneath me to rights.

//

A decade backward found me spinning laundry dials round and round the clock, like no one’s business. I had sons playing football and mowing a gazillion lawns, stashing twenties for college dreams while sweating ferociously in the south’s inferno.

The daily clothing of the six of us, plus mowing attire, football practice apparel, and Friday-night-sweat-producing uniforms, meant laundry was a time. Our washer and dryer were run ragged, wheezing, coughing, and quitting more times than I cared to count.

For a short stint, I attempted drying laundry on a clothesline strung from our parsonage’s backyard shed to a tree, endeavoring to lower our stout electric bill.

My experiment failed in five different ways, chiefly because a ruffled parishioner spied me from her binoculared perch in the church’s back hallway window. With a clothespin hovering between my lips, I happily strung football jerseys and shorts, heart glowing with accomplishment, having no idea someone was watching.

I startled at the sound of her voice.

Good morning, Kristin.

Removing the clothespin from my mouth, I smiled.

Hi Marge.

Ohhhhhhh she said, hands on hips. A clothesline? Here?

Words that brought a swift and mighty end to my Caroline Ingalls-type inclinations.

In the end, it mattered not, given the humidity did not lend itself to air drying.

It was back to square one, which meant a return to the laundry room doubling as a homeschooling space–two cumbersome desks pushed up against adjoining walls, swallowed by the sounds of a spinning washer and chugging, dying dryer. The heat was astonishing, prompting me to position a boxed fan in the doorway, cooling our two oldest sons, now entrusted with the noble task of keeping their school papers from taking flight. While the boxed fan assuaged the heat, it also left the schoolroom sounding like a Bowing 747 airstrip.

This was life as we knew it, and our hours were fully stacked with school, church, sports, music lessons, and homeschool group activities. The washer/dryer/fan noises became the customary backdrop to our daily rigamarole.

There is always an upside, isn’t there? Forever something to thank God for, no matter what.

Yes, our noisy, clunky washing machine and dryer situation might not have been idyllic, but the light shone brightly in the laundry room allowing me to see the work of my hands.

//

Our repairman returned this morning. As I typed away at my desk I silently prayed that the new part would work. A while later my husband called my name, and I jogged upstairs.

Light, restored!

How beautiful, how bright, how awful.

My dusting rags sat in a mismatched heap. The detergent, fabric softener, and cleaning supplies were haphazardly positioned. Liquid had drizzled down several of the containers, leaving a sticky residue. The washing machine beheld a grimy film circling the edges of the detergent pocket.

Weeks of darkness and shadows had concealed the grim reality.

Bright light illuminates everything, does it not?

I was presented a choice: Switch off the light and walk away in denial, stiff-arming reality, while pretending all was well.

Or humbly acknowledge the truth, and correct it.

I rolled up my sleeves and went to work.

//

Autumn is a prime time to examine your soul.

As the leaves turn brilliant, fiery flames of red, orange, and gold, I remind myself they are dying.

Death can be beautiful, I consider. In solitude, with my Bible wide open, I ask:

What needs to perish within the laundry room of my life, to make room for growth in holiness?

We must first see the truth of our dark, tangled hearts before truly confessing our need for a Savior.

Have you been operating in the shadows of a darkened laundry room? Has your soul grown dim? Grimy? Cluttered?

Are you choosing fidelity to God through the treasuring of his Word? Are you part of a church that teaches the whole counsel of God, firmly planted and rooted in Scripture alone?

Or has the light of church dimmed, flickered; grown dark under man-centered foolishness? Has false teaching slithered into both pulpit and pew–anathema to the soul?

Be careful.

The condition of one’s soul is no small matter. In fact, it is the most serious business of all. (Deuteronomy 4:9)

Shine the light of Christ over the laundry room of your soul, making it your chief aim to grow in truth, obedience, and humility before the Lord, decimating all shadows. Be faithful to God, walking circumspectly, making certain that you are not resting in the wisdom of man, but in the wisdom of God.

May Christ burn brightly, alighting and sweeping clean our wandering hearts.

---

John 3:19-21 And this is the judgment: the light has come into the world, and people loved the darkness rather than the light because their works were evil. For everyone who does wicked things hates the light and does not come to the light, lest his works should be exposed. But whoever does what is true comes to the light, so that it may be clearly seen that his works have been carried out in God.

John 12:46  I have come into the world as light so that whoever believes in me may not remain in darkness.

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I had not flown for nearly a decade.

In fact, after the last trip, I looked straight into my husband’s eyes and said: Never again.

And I meant it.

The flight had been a wild child. Turbulence is a lenient term for what we experienced during the first leg of travel, and then, at the tail end of a layover, the pilot declared that there was an unexpected engine issue.

We were not permitted to exit the aircraft, as men in jumpsuits and toolboxes scurried feverishly beneath us for an entire hour.

Please, Jon, I whispered. Get me off this plane. Right now.

Instead of responding As you wish, he squeezed my hand and assured me we would be just fine.

You don’t know that, I countered.

The flight proved bumpy with more than one unusual clunking noise. We survived and once home I dropped my suitcase and hugged our children tightly, my heart trilling: Peace out, Delta. I am done.

That melody was the sweetest bliss for over nine years, until last week when I found myself at the airport.

Flying to attend a conference, given that my schedule did not permit road-tripping.

All was fine. All was dandy.

Until I boarded the plane.

It was tiny. It was minuscule. I was trapped.

To give further context, I spent decades warning our children about the dangers of small aircraft. Don’t ever, ever, ever, ever, ride in a small plane, I cautioned. They are most dangerous.

My loves listened politely, eyes round. And then, as they grew older one of my sons asked what he should do if he was stranded on a remote island and a small plane arrived to rescue him.

Swim. Or wait for me to arrive by rowboat, I might have said.

So you may now understand my dilemma when I stepped onto this aircraft and saw only one pair of seats on either side of the wispy-thin aisle. Even the skinny stewardess had to walk the length of the plane sideways.

Have I mentioned I do not prefer small, inescapable spaces?

The plain truth: I was stuck on a narrow metal tunnel that would soon be torpedoing through the sky at an impossible speed. I was traveling alone, while stuffed inside a plane full of complete strangers.

By nature I am calm. On land, I do not fidget or worry or keep company with anxious thoughts. In fact, I had largely forgotten what anxiety felt like, until I maneuvered that aisle and dropped into my seat, which was at the rear of the airplane.

Breathe, Kristin. Pray and count your blessings, I told myself.

And so I began.

When my mind arrived at the blessing of fine weather, I wrongly assumed that favorable weather would yield smooth travel.

And then, as I tightened my seatbelt the pilot announced over the intercom:

We are expecting a bumpy ride today, folks. Some currents will cause significant turbulence, and I will be asking that you keep your seatbelts fastened. Thank you for traveling with us today. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight.

My heart thumped.

Relax and enjoy the flight? You’ve got to be kidding me.

The towering marine in front of me moaned and curled into a fetal position as his wife rubbed his wide neck. She turned and whispered: He is terrified of flying.

I nodded, thinking: ditto.

The older gentleman–right next to me– asked if I enjoyed flying.

Not really, I said.

Oh, we’ll be just fine, M’am. My method in life is to think positively. Yes, siree. His hands shook as he pulled back the tab on his Nicorette gum and popped the shiny rectangle into his mouth.

My method is to trust God, I smiled weakly, attempting to escort my jittery heart toward truth, while feeling like a charlatan.

Thus began our brief conversation about faith. He frequented church a few times a year. It became obvious that he did not want to pursue a conversation about God or the Bible. I invited him to our new church plant and he murmured Thank you, M’am, maybe I will, and coughed nervously, a polite decline.

He kept right on talking, without end, showing me photos of his Doberman Pinscher, Alice, whom he had trained to snarl on command, curling her upper lip and terrifying strangers, and Frank, his Macaw, a parrot who placed his beak gently over people’s noses–a delightful display of affection, don’t you think? And let’s not forget his striped cat, Otto, who was enamored by YouTube videos designed specifically for felines.

At this point, I began to assume this flight was a bad dream.

Takeoff was smooth, but twenty minutes in, we were being tossed to and fro. I prayed and breathed deeply and thought of my family as my neighbor grew increasingly jumpy, amping up the volume of his pet sagas. His hands trembled, and my heart quaked as I tried my best to ignore both the turbulence and the marine who was now hovering over a sick bag while his wife dug furiously in the depths of her oversized purse before finding a prescription bottle and placing one miniature pill beneath her husband’s tongue.

Did I mention the conference’s theme?

“The Steadfast Soul: Enjoying Peace in an Anxious Age.”

And how I was thrilled to attend because so many people I love battle anxiety?

My comeuppance came swiftly as God humbled me on that plane.

By 8:30 am my neighbor had ordered and downed not one but two Bloody Marys while I sipped water and crunched every last bit of cubed ice.

The rest of the flight smelled like gin and regrets, and I prayed for deliverance to graciously survive the ceaseless monologue unfolding in my left ear.

We finally landed, and the marine stood and stretched, pecking his wife’s cheek, revived by land, by control.

Me too, I thought. Me too.

//

The conference ministered to the crevices of my heart in specific ways I could not have anticipated.

I first had to be trapped miles above the earth, shaken by turbulence to bump up against the truth that God longs for me to press more deeply into him whether on land, sea, or sky.

As Abraham Kuyper said:

“There is not a square inch in the whole domain of our human existence over which Christ, who is Sovereign over all, does not cry, Mine!”

The question is: Will I relinquish my strong affection for personal sovereignty?

I now see plainly: My safety has grown far too precious.

There it is.

Another hard truth.

//

I daydreamed (just a little) about asking my husband if I could rent a car and drive home, hoping he might say As you wish.

But I did not even ask. It was time to change my tune.

On the return flight I armed myself with a conference notebook full of wisdom, prayer, and two Bible verses. This cocktail was far more potent than my neighbor’s drink, and yielded a calm, peaceful heart and trip, in those deep-down places, even though the flight was, yet again, turbulent.

God is kind to shake us out of ourselves, isn’t he?

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My flesh and my heart may fail,
but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.

Psalm 73:26

You keep him in perfect peace
    whose mind is stayed on you,
    because he trusts in you.

Isaiah 26:3

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Trailing behind my daughter as she led the bridled beauty into the ring, I paused and leaned against the fence, tilting my face towards the sky. Autumn’s slanted sunbeams glittered and danced through crimson treetops. Glancing back toward the arena, I smiled as Lauren mounted the chestnut horse, urging him to trot.

Calm and assertive, her voice soothed as her hands softly stroked encouragement. For years, I had observed my favorite girl, ponytail swishing as she mucked stalls, brushed flanks, smoothed tangled manes, deftly scooped oats, and replenished countless water buckets. When the horses cooperated, she rewarded them with ragged chunks of apple, praising in low, steady tones as they nudged her affectionately.

If the horses tested her—and they did—every shred of nippy defiance was met with calm correction. Lauren never raised her voice but stood undisturbed and attentive, her boots firmly planted in the dirt.

I witnessed other equestrians in neighboring stalls shouting at mares and geldings and slapping those shiny, stubborn flanks into submission. While neither excessive nor cruel, their harshness was received poorly and returned in kind. All manner of bucking, kicking, whinnying, stomping, and plain old grumpiness ensued, which led to further roars. A hard-to-break cycle.

Lauren’s judicious approach, on the other hand, yielded a pleasant reward: magnificent beasts who desired to please their boss. Their responses mirrored a trainer who was winsome and tranquil yet firm in boundaries—strength under control.

Under Lauren’s guidance, horses were gentled.

Gentled by Jesus

As mothers, we are presented with endless opportunities to train our children, aren’t we? And yet, we find ourselves in need of training and discipline as well. When duties and disruptions fill our days, temptations to be harsh or lash out can multiply. Mountains of laundry, sticky countertops, dirty dishes, and stinky diapers. Untied shoes and unfinished homework. The constant ferrying of our loves to play dates and practices. Stomach viruses and fevers, family arguments, broken-down vehicles, and shattered hearts. Each of these scenarios is an invitation from Christ to put aside the natural inclinations of our heart and practice his gentleness instead. 

It is common to mistake gentleness for an inherent trait—like extroversion or brown eyes or left-handedness—rather than acknowledging such a virtue for what it really is: a fragrant fruit of Christ’s Spirit.[1] Gentleness is a serenity of soul—a peaceful contentment anchored in love for and devotion to our Redeemer. Strength under control. But how can we possibly muster this up in the tumultuous times of motherhood? 

We can’t. Like the other fruits of the Spirit—love, joy, peace, patience, etc.—gentleness is not something we can bring to life ourselves. It’s not a random virtue we try on for size. It is a divine outflow—growing proof of who governs our soul. 

As we learn to listen to his voice—to turn aside from our sin and stay tethered to his Word— Jesus gentles us. He brings us under the control of the Spirit, that we might do the good works which he prepared in advance for us to do—including in our homes.[2] We must be gentled by Christ before we can mother gently.

Mothering Gently

My dear friend Susan has a delightfully large brood of children, whom she nurtures with exquisite gentleness. She corrects her children softly but never passively. Her love for God and pursuit of holiness are bound up in obedience to Scripture, lovely and remarkable in their simplicity. She loves God most, and his gentleness fills her being and overflows upon her children. Her soul is like a peaceful lake of glass.

I’ve noticed that, like my daughter’s horses, Susan’s children want to please their mama. She speaks about the gospel repeatedly to her loves, and her presence is winsome. I have been privileged to witness her gentle spirit calm her home through both mundane stretches of motherhood and intense fiery trials. She glows with the indestructible beauty of a quiet spirit[3]—a golden sunrise that warms others. 

Maybe you’re thinking, “But I’m loud, extroverted, and energetic! How can I possibly be gentle?” Is your soul gentle and quiet? Are you being “tamed,” day after day, by Jesus? You can have an outgoing, high-intensity personality and still be a tender, gentle mother to your children. On the flip side, you could be a naturally shy, subdued woman and be found lacking in true gentleness, repeatedly harsh with your words or cutting with your eyes. 

Jesus was strong and gentle, wasn’t he? He exuded kind compassion for the weak and downtrodden: “A bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out” (Isaiah 42:3a, NIV). Jesus was gentle with hurting, wayward people but also bold in calling soul-sick sinners to repentance.[4]

As mothers, we are gifted with the precious care of little souls. Bodies that succumb to sickness and thirst for a soft, gentle hand. Sinful souls that require correction and an about-face. May we turn small shoulders softly. May we exhibit strength under control. May we reflect our gentle Savior.

[1] Galatians 5:22-23

[2] Ephesians 2:10

[3] 1 Peter 3:3-4

[4] Matthew 9:12-13

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(This article was first published at Risen Motherhood)

(Getty Image)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God does that.

//

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

That was us thirty years ago.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your kingdom come; your will be done.

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

//

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

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

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

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

And then: Poof!

The season is gone.

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

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

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

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

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

I noted something poking out of the sand.

An abandoned shovel and pail, nearly buried.

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

Your kingdom come; your will be done.

//

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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I recently shifted our bird feeder, placing it squarely in front of my office window, thereby transforming my entire view.

In the last twenty minutes alone, I have glimpsed three chunky Northern Cardinals, one Carolina Wren, a Yellow-Breasted Chat, a White-Breasted Nuthatch, two Carolina Chickadees, and a pair of House Finches.

Years ago I might have told you that I enjoyed observing colorful birds flit to our feeder.

But now? I know their names, anticipate their eating patterns, and recognize their dear silhouettes. I have taken the time and put forth significant effort to study them. It has been a slow, intentional path of growing in deeper knowledge that has resulted in much delight.

Did the birds change?

Not one bit. But my habits did, pulling me closer to relishing these little feathered friends.

//

A few weeks ago, a kind writer emailed, asking if I might entertain a specific blog topic. This is what she said:

I am wondering if you could do one on HOW to study Scripture. You’ve written many times about the importance of digging deeply into Scripture, but I am curious as to how you implement that on a regular basis. I have recently entered a season of life where I have found it difficult to stay consistent (many small children and an ailing mother-in-law), and would appreciate hearing your thoughts and wisdom on this topic.

I am so glad she asked.

Sometimes I forget what my life looked like before I structured my days around the Bible.

What I do recall, quite vividly, is the persistent longing, a tender ache that fluttered for well over a decade, a strong desire for an older woman to take me by the hand and teach me how to live a godly life.

And if I am honest?

I also remember the twin pain of longing not to appear lacking and needy.

When I write about digging into Scripture, it grieves me to think that such a pursuit might seem impossible to anyone.

Please know that it is not impossible, no matter your circumstances. But it will require scheduling and stick-to-itiveness. You must determine to roll up your sleeves and persist, forgoing other pursuits in order to spend time with God. The narrow way is never passive but active, and your devotion will appear odd to others. (1 Corinthians 1:18)

The exact methods I employ may not work within the borders of your own life, and it is never my intention to burden anyone, but rather to encourage Bible study, which begins with scouring the Scriptures, verse by verse. Stoke the fire of devotion to God’s Word through consistent, daily reading.

I love how one pastor put it: “Minds engaged and hearts aflame.” The Bible is God’s voice, our final authority; by his words we know what pleases and displeases him.

I am in my early fifties, a married empty-nester with four adult children, two daughters-in-law, one son-in-law, and a grandson. I am a pastor’s wife, a writer, the keeper of our home, and my husband’s helper. I also work a few part-time jobs. I disciple several women, participate in a weekly women’s Bible Study, and prioritize spending time with my family and close friends.

My point is this: Life is every bit as full as it was when I was a stay-at-home mother homeschooling four children.

The only way I remain tethered to Christ is through committed daily patterns.

I am running toward the Lord only because he first pursued me, drawing me close, plunging me deeply into the Bible, and gloriously altering the inner trajectory of my existence. He has seen fit to enhance my thirst and affection for him, and my prayer is that he will do the same for you.

Did God change? Has the Bible changed?

Of course not. But God changed me.

Through Scripture.

I have discovered that I cannot sit like a spiritual lump amid my busy life and expect to somehow fall headlong into Christlikeness.

It has been my greatest joy to move the spiritual bird feeder of my life front and center, treasuring God and his Word above all. Every other speck of life circles this feeder.

If you hear nothing else, hear this:

Fashion your days around God and the Bible. Everything else is secondary.

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Here is how I study the Bible all week long.

It begins on Sunday. Every Lord’s Day I sit under verse-by-verse preaching at our church. I crack open my notebook and jot down truths, eager to learn, repent, and begin the week anew.

All Scripture is breathed out by God and profitable for teaching, for reproof, for correction, and for training in righteousness. (2 Timothy 3:16)

Monday through Friday I awaken early and exercise, listening to sermon podcasts from:

Light + Truth

Messages by Desiring God

Grace To You

Ligonier Ministries

As I fast-walk, my mind, heart, and affections are awakened, and I return home ready to read the Bible.

Once the coffee pot is humming, I eat breakfast and read five consecutive chapters of Scripture. Five chapters per weekday means I will have read the entire Bible within one year.

I love this plan for many reasons.

1. The simplicity. No charts, just reading and studying.
2. The grace. If I fall behind, I may catch up on the weekend.
3. The consistency. Reading all of Scripture transforms and refreshes my heart and mind.
4. The results. I treasure God more with each passing year.
5. Growth. Over time, my powers of discernment have been trained.
6. Discipleship. I am eager to share the Bible with others.
7. The Bible is meant to be read in context, as a whole. This plan ensures that I am reading every word that God intended for me to read.

On weekends, I linger upon a chosen portion or catch up if I have fallen behind. In the beauty of this season, autumn, I drink coffee on our front porch with my Bible in hand, reading while enjoying the sights and sounds of nature: birds, deer, squirrels, chipmunks, and all those leaves, colors slowly beginning to burn–gold, orange, and red.

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When I read the Bible, I ask myself:

1. What does this passage teach me about God?
2. What does this teach me about mankind and sin?
3. How does this point me to Christ?
4. How may I apply such truths to my daily life?

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Moms with little ones, I pray that you will carve out time each day to read your Bible. It might mean you read one paragraph or one chapter. Keep at it, little by little. Screenshot one verse and meditate on it throughout your day. Invest in a MacArthur Study Bible and read the introduction to each book as you go. The study notes are gold.

Train your children to play quietly, and let them see you happily reading Scripture. Such skills take time, but your loves will learn under your patient consistency and will one day remember your devotion. When they interrupt you, don’t turn them away, but pull them close, inviting them to listen as you read your Bible aloud. Talk about Jesus from the moment they are born. Your little ones are not a hindrance, but your mission field.

Another way to partake of Scripture is to open your Bible app and tap “play” listening as you wash dishes, chop vegetables, fold laundry, rake leaves, or commute to work.

May I offer a word of caution regarding devotionals? Devotionals are not Scripture. There are good ones, indeed, but if you read them, be sure you are not using them as a replacement for Bible reading. Sadly, many devotionals do not rightly handle the Word of God.

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Every night before I go to sleep I read from my Kindle, full of good books. Many of my favorites are old books, authored by Puritans. Other good books are not ancient but beautifully point to Scripture’s old and proven paths.

Wait! you might be thinking, I thought this post was: ‘How to Study Scripture?’

It is.

I have learned that I can better study the Bible by slowly digesting the brilliant, holy thoughts of tried and true saints. Their words are never easy but are bursting with truth. Such reads are a resplendent benediction to my day before I pray and sleep.

It seems my days are bookended: beginning with sermons and Bible reading, and ending with reading and prayer. In between lies the normal stuff of life–work, church, chores, errands, and time spent with family and friends.

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Are you in a formidable season of life?

I understand.

Personally, this year has been a wild ride, marking the first calendar year in over a decade that I will not have read the Bible through, from cover to cover. We all face times that don’t go according to plan, yet I am reminded that I must stay anchored to God through Scripture to flourish.

Read your Bible every day. Even if it is simply one verse.

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

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Recommended sermons to prep your heart for personal Bible study:

Satan’s War Against the Word

Is the Bible Reliable

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.