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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.

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

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

Kristin and her grandfather, in 1973, on Washington Street

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

---

Months ago, when our daughter asked me to give a speech at her wedding reception I was both surprised and honored. I decided to record it after the wedding (this time sans tears) to share with you.

You will hear Pachelbel’s Canon in D, a piano piece our son, Marcus, gifted his sister.

Such a beautiful wedding.

Congratulations, Lauren and Alexander.

@marcuscouchmusic

I miss you much, Sweet Girl.

It hurts, that loss of shadow by my side, the clicking of your nails on the hardwood floors. It is painful to see only one dog wagging, rather than two when I return home, grocery bags in hand.

I catch myself singing out: Hey girlies!

And then I remember.

Your physical pain had twisted noticeably; the few steps off the porch into the yard might as well have been an arduous mountain descent. You did not complain, but oh, how it hurt to see you declining.

The second to last morning before you died, I said my quiet goodbyes, unrehearsed and fervent, in the early morning hours, the birds singing as a lump rose tall in my throat. I cupped your head in my hands and kissed the spot between your eyes, my words falling desperately short of everything I felt. You listened patiently, tail wagging, eyes cloudy but steady, soulful and true.

I cried because you trusted me, a tender fact that made my decision both resolute and painful. After you died my neighbor texted, compassionately reminding me I made the right choice. A bit of healing ointment for my crumpled heart.

You outlived every dog we have had thus far, and your next birthday would have been your twelfth. A faithful life, a quiet dog. Many of our other goldens have been wildly rambunctious, but never you. You were a low-key puppy from day one, playing and sleeping peacefully, even amid thunder and rain.

In fact the only noise that frightened you was our smoke detector’s shriek whenever the battery was on the fritz. At that, you trembled, quaking like a frail leaf, and I realized then that every man and beast is vulnerable, scared of something.

Molly girl, you kept my thoughts safe under lock and key, listening as I read and reread freshly written chapters aloud from my desk, as I endeavored to make syllables sing. You heard my book before anyone.

Faithful love is sticking close to your people, you taught me, always welcoming them home, never complaining, but rather living each day with gratitude for life’s simple pleasures: food, love, and a soft bed.

//

We cried as you drifted to sleep, the IV drip flushing cold into your leg. We stroked your head and whispered goodbye, knowing you would never wake on this fallen earth. The veterinarian was soft-spoken and kind as our family wept, our arms cradling you on the soft purple blanket.

And then?

You were gone.

It is the end of an era in expansive ways. Many exhilarating changes stand beckoning on the horizon, calling my name, and I lament that you, my sweet shadow, are no longer by my side.

I loved you, Molly, which is why I let you go.

The Bible does not say if I will see you again, but I see no reason why not. God created you and saw that it was good, and therefore I have great hope that you will run to me in heaven, eager to be scratched behind the ears, your eyes clear and bright.

If so, let’s plan to take an amble through the woods, you and me, for old time’s sake.

---

Whoever is righteous has regard for the life of his beast,
    but the mercy of the wicked is cruel. ~Proverbs 12:10

---

Summertime is for flip-flops and barbeques, sandy beach towels and magnificent sunsets. Evening fire-pits and spontaneous car rides ending in ice cream. Sun pulses against evening shadows, turning to morning rays tapping through the blinds early; awakening the birds who trill the beginning of another dawn.

Summertime is also for weddings.

I remember one pretty summer morning, twenty-seven years ago this August. My maid-of-honor and I had whispered late into the night, dreaming of our long anticipated futures: grown-up lives and handsome husbands and future children, with nary a clue of the complexities of real-time marriage: the newness, followed by the permanency of our vows, followed by shadows of our own sins pressed up against a fellow heir of Christ with his own shortcomings. All of it intricate and beautiful and crushing…this becoming one. A slow dance requiring a lifetime of learning, loving, forsaking self, forgiving, and growing. It is never what one imagines; but far more weighty; made richer through sacrifice.

Any two may properly answer the questions posed during the finest of premarital counseling, in addition to reading all of the books, but still. It is like researching and daydreaming of swimming: proper techniques and strokes and breathing; the rhythmic arm motion and kicking. At some point you can only learn to swim by letting go and jumping into the water.

But on that breezy, blue-skied August morning decades ago, I knew none of these things, and my first order of business was to join my bridesmaids, each of us fresh-faced and tan in our umbros, soft t-shirts, and wedding shoes. We danced the driveway and laughed, performing the twist as we intentionally scuffed the bottoms of our slightly heeled shoes so as not to slip while later walking the aisle to Bach’s Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring (them) and Clarke’s Trumpet Voluntaire (me).

That scuffing did the trick; it gave the shoes solid traction for wedding day festivities. It altered the shoes for the better, and although no one could see the ugly pavement marks, hidden beneath our feet, they remained. We each survived the long, lilting walk down that brilliant aisle to the front of the sanctuary.

//

I recently heard of a couple who has been married a handful of years, claiming to have never once argued. Pardon me? I nearly choked. This seems so impossible, that I am left wondering if one of them is void of opinions? Have they both reached an impossible perfection?

I am not suggesting to go home, cantankerous and spoiling for a fight, but in any real and honest marriage some scuffing up will happen, and if weathered for better or worse, will produce a gradual change in this merging of two distinct people: one man, one woman. It is the staying, the dogged determination to see this promise through, without optional exit ramps, but frequent: I am sorry and will you forgive me pleadings that result in something beautiful and lasting and God-honoring.

There is a glorious triumvirate in a Christian marriage: God…husband…wife. Through the scuffing and scars and suffering, your footing will become more sure, only if you first bow in obedience to God. Ephesians 5:21-33 has taken Jon and I years to practice and learn. It is the simplest and most difficult formula to flesh out. But it works. Dying to selfishness and sin, plus continually striving to outdo one another in showing honor (Romans 12:10) is no cheap trick. It is costly, as is loving your neighbor as yourself (Mark 12:31).

A spouse, as it turns out, is our closest neighbor.

//

This is what I do know: as pretty as cut flowers gifted by my husband and perched tabletop appear, they pale in comparison to the truly costly. Who knew that Jon’s filling up the truck with fuel, or taking out the bulging trash bag, working so hard to pay unexpected bills, bringing me ginger ale and saltines when I was down for the count, or patiently rubbing the back of our sick children in the middle of the night would have stitched my heart to his? The grit of life. These are the selfless acts that make a velveteen rabbit marriage: soft and worn and a bit threadbare, yet beautifully blended and cherished and deeply good.

Love is kind.

//

Many years ago we took the children and our dog to romp at the park, where we played for hours: football, swing sets, slides, timed races. It was lively and it was fun.

As we drove away, I looked down and gasped: my diamond setting in my engagement ring was gone.

We returned and combed the park, which was of course futile: acres upon acres of field and sand, and we had played upon it all. As we drove home, it was quiet in the car until Marcus, age six, whispered: Mommy, you and Daddy are still married though?

I laughed, and the sadness fled. We pulled into our driveway and I scooped him up and reassured him, and myself, that a diamond is just a thing, not nearly as important as the husband and wife in covenant.

Oddly enough, within a year, I was slicing apart frozen chicken, when the knife in my right hand slipped, cutting a fast and angry gash above my wedding band. My finger swelled faster than I could remove the ring, which left a helpless choking sensation in my left hand.

Jon rushed home and we raced to a walk-in clinic, where a doctor sawed the band off. The relief was immediate, followed by tears. Hadn’t it been enough to lose my diamond? Now I was holding a crudely broken wedding band. But then I remembered: it was an object. We had each other.

Ultimately, we paid a jeweler to repair it, and I wear it now. We persevere: a circle of gold, without end.

//

This August, soon after celebrating our twenty-seventh year of marriage, we will embrace our first grandbaby. This circle of life looks much like our worn wedding bands. As our children begin their marriages, promising their own vows, Jon and I will cheer them along. God treasures marriage.

I sometimes study the familiar silhouette of my husband, and remember all of the love and fun, sacrifice and hardships, disagreements and differences, and then marvel at the kindness of God. Those scuff marks have formed us, sometimes in the furnace of affliction, while enabling us to step down the aisle of life together. Not in perfection, but with strength and love, inching forward still, holding our covenant high before God.

The journey of a lifetime.

---

(I wrote this piece three years ago, and am posting it again in honor of our daughter’s wedding this Saturday.)

When our four children were young, and I was in the throes of homeschooling, I followed a strict inner compass. There were a few things that I was bent on teaching them, and it had nothing to do with worldly recognition, high grades, or prestigious awards.

Mainly, I wanted them to grow and mature in godliness. We sang the books of the Bible together, memorized Scripture, and read God’s Word daily. It was also my aim to teach them to be kind. Academically, I strived to help them become proficient readers and able writers–skills needed for all of life.

Read-alouds reigned supreme, and that is what I miss the most: diving into the good books, together. The Hobbit, Lord of the Rings, Pilgrim’s Progress, Shiloh, Caddie Woodlawn, Where the Red Fern Grows, Summer of the Monkeys, Owls in the Family, The Best Christmas Pageant Ever, Lad: A Dog. I still recall how much we all looked forward to our read-aloud times.

Then there was math–a necessary evil, (in my opinion) because, well…college.

I received much outside help for higher mathematics, given the fact that geometry gave me nightmarish flashbacks to my freshman year of high school. My teacher, Miss O’Neill, of frosted hair, coral lipstick, and smoker’s voice, was as thin as a wisp, gaunt really, which made her appear older than she likely was. She spent the entire class fuming at anyone who did not pick up on the finer details instantly, which was pretty much all of us. Tapping her heeled toe and rolling her narrowed eyes, she tossed up her hand with an irritated: Come on people!

When the bell finally rang, she flung her heavy purse over her shoulder and made a dash for the cement stairwell, landing in the parking lot for a quick drag on a cigarette before next period began. I never fully understood proofs, (still don’t) which is why I did not teach geometry to my children but farmed out those painful lessons. Obtuse, scalene, acute, intersecting, congruent, isosceles? What in the world?

Algebra was far better, thanks to Mr. Munroe. Excellence in teaching is a sweet gifting, isn’t it? And just because a person understands a subject does not mean that he or she should be teaching it. Patience and kindness and classroom leadership come into play, big time.

It was of prime importance to me that my children learned to be timely, meet deadlines, complete chores, and be able to interact with and serve all kinds of people. So we worked together on these things, little by little. I knew that if they could pay attention, heed instruction, welcome constructive criticism, and read and write with ease, then they could learn pretty much anything.

During this time, my husband was pastoring his first church. From time to time, he asked the congregation to stand and read Scripture in unison.

And I was stunned.

The group was unable to read chorally.

Some were reading aloud quickly, blowing through commas as if they were green lights, while refusing to pause for periods. Others were reading so slowly, dragging behind by a good three or four words, oblivious as to the flow. It was terribly distracting, with voices all over the place, so much so that I could not possibly concentrate on the meaning of the verses, which was the entire point in the first place.

So I made it my immediate mission to teach our children the art of choral reading. I am sure they thought it was overkill, which it most certainly was, but I could not live with the notion of them growing up and lagging behind or racing ahead in church. Reading in unison was a skill, a unifier, and we worked it out.

There was another area that bubbled to the surface, mainly because it felt to me like fingernails scraping north to south on a chalkboard. It was a widespread problem: the inability to summarize.

I noticed this issue at church, the grocery store, with friends, even at football practice. Everywhere.

Our children were so, so, cute. Polite. But it was hard for them to endure a longwinded story from a parishioner as I stood in conversation. Take someone’s upcoming surgery, for example. A woman might look heavenward, beginning with the words I was born in Kansas in the year…. and fifteen minutes later she had still not arrived at the ailment prompting a surgery. I can still envision my little ones tugging on my sleeve, eyes wide, shoulders droopy, silently pleading for deliverance. It had been a long morning, church was over, and they were ravenous.

So that is when I sprinkled another couple of features into our homeschool curriculum: the fine art of patient listening, coupled with the art of summary. I had them speak and write four or five sentences to capture that entire movie plot, book, or event from sports practice. We also put diligent effort into becoming a kind and patient listener, and I might have even taught them how to slip in a question in order to break that tedious soliloquy and gently hasten the story towards its conclusion.

After years of summarizing together, I began to notice a stunning benefit: my children’s ease of encapsulating large passages of Scripture into a few sentences. In hindsight, it is simple to realize that summarizing Scripture should have been at the forefront of my mind, rather than summarizing so as not be an annoyance to others.

Monday morning-quarterbacking is real, I tell you.

And that, my friends, is the truth about homeschooling. As the teaching parent you are able to address pet peeves, and to deal with uncouth habits. I peek back in time now and plainly see the dozens of ways I could have improved as a homeschooling teacher. Time (plus a quiet house) often yields clarity, but God used even small pet peeves of mine to teach my children an important skill for better understanding his Word. Isn’t he wonderful?

Truthfully? No education is perfect because we are not perfect. God was gracious to allow me to serve him as a stay-at-home mom and homeschooling parent, and I thank him for gifting me those years.

This is the first year in forever that I am not homeschooling someone, and while it feels strange, I figure that every now and again I can encourage younger parents in the midst of their labors.

So I will offer this:

If you are new to this homeschooling venture, be patient with yourself and your children. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and neither is an education.

Pray over everything, stick with a simple plan while keeping a routine, tell your sweeties that you love them, buy doughnuts on the first day of your schoolyear, and make sure that everyone receives a solid dose of fresh air and sunshine daily. (Teacher included.) Recess is golden. Truly.

Recess and read-alouds.

Our grandson recently turned one, and every time I visit him we read books together. His Daddy, our firstborn, likewise reads to him every night. It is part of their routine, and my heart is bursting. The love of reading has been passed down to a brand-new generation.

Our grandson’s first word was Dada. His second?

Book.

I cannot stop smiling.

His education has already begun.

---

Thank you, Kind Readers, for indulging me in a rerun of this previously posted piece. We are in the final countdown to our daughter’s wedding, and I have chosen to be deliciously present for every single speck of it, meaning time away from my desk.