When there is a new baby in the house, you mark milestones. Whether is it the first time he rolls over or mutters a discernible word, mommies and daddies mark it down. And in today’s world, we post it online, on some form of social media, for the whole world to enjoy with us.


We have a new baby. She’s 15 weeks old and already potty trained. Ornery and feisty in the morning, she is the perfect lap dog in the evening when we’re all on the sofa ready to read and relax. Yes, she’s a fur baby, another goldendoodle, and she is the perfect compliment to our 4 ½ year doodle Winston. Maggie is her name and we are smitten. We are marking her milestones, her shot schedule, waiting impatiently for the day we can safely take her for a walk around the neighborhood, tracking her weight gain, and teaching her manners. It’s fun marking those milestones!


As I mentioned, Maggie has a big brother, Winston. While Maggie is very much her own dog, she looks up to her older and wiser doodle. While they play together something fierce and while I love watching them romp, I most enjoy watching Winston guide Maggie, showing her the ropes, minding his manners so that she learns hers. I caught this photo of them together the other day. You get the idea.12510461_10208182632501642_3559157654668221333_n


I wanted to share this photo with you for two other reasons.


  1. When Compassion Tea started on February 26, 2011, (Do you note the date? Do you see the milestone?) we began much like this photo, looking up to our God for guidance and direction. We founded our company on these 5 Bible verses:
    1. Proverbs 19:21 “You can make plans, but the Lord’s purpose will prevail.”
    2. Psalm 37:5 “Commit everything you do to the Lord. Trust him, and he will help you.”
    3. Psalm 16: 1-3 “Keep me safe, O God, for I have come to you for refuge. I said to the Lord, ‘You are my Master! Every good thing I have comes from you.’ The godly people in the land are my true heroes! I take pleasure in them!”
    4. Psalm 90:17 “And may the Lord our God show us his approval and make our efforts successful. Yes, make our efforts successful!”
    5. Isaiah 46:9-11 “Remember the things I have done in the past. For I alone am God! I am God, and there is none like me. Only I can tell you the future before it even happens. Everything I plan will come to pass, for I do whatever I wish. I will call a swift bird of prey from the east – a leader from a distant land to come and do my bidding. I have said what I would do and I will do it.”

Over the past 5 years, we’ve held approximately 250 prayer calls to pray over our tea, over our business, over our customers, over the people we are serving in Africa, over the people in Africa who are providing medical and spiritual care at our partner clinics, over each other. We have consistently held up the company before the Lord and asked him to heal, redeem, direct, guide, provide wisdom, to multiply efforts and monies and supplies, to give us strength to keep walking forward, faith to take the next step, and hope for an even bolder, broader, and beautiful future wherein we are able to serve more and more people. 250 calls. Yes, we’re like puppies looking up to the big dog to see what’s next!


2012-10-13_14-10-53_91tea rounds ready to goTea pouches for Christmas Tea bazaarAnd he has rewarded that faithfulness on our part, offering the next steps when the time was right, bringing new customers and directions, and multiplying the funding we are able to provide to CompassioNow. And the number of prayers He has answered in those 5 years is astonishing. With God as our CEO, we have built a thriving business, we have changed lives here in the US and in Africa, and we have brought Him continual glory. That’s not to mention the new connections and the healing and the stronger relationships and the safe travel and the beneficial exchange rates and shipping costs. The list of success and answered prayer goes on and on!




Reason 2:

On February 4, 2006, CompassioNow was awarded its non-profit tax status, making it a legal and legit organization. Ed and Wendy Bjurstrom recently tabulated what they have been able to provide monetarily to the clinics in Africa over the last 10 years. They discovered that it was over $1 million! Another milestone… $1 million and a 10 year anniversary! Woo hoo! But that hardly shows the full impact of those 10 years. It doesn’t tell the stories of the lives changed, the clinics that have been built, the new buildings and medical wings, the staff and supplies, the men, women, and children who have turned to one of our partner clinics as a last resort, after the witch doctor didn’t work, after the government hospital sent them away without proper treatment, after they’ve come to the end of their ropes, desperate for relief and healing.

It doesn’t tell the stories of the people tested early for AIDS and who began early medical intervention, the lives saved from parasites, which could have been lost had it not been for a basic antibiotic; the children who have been given life through urgent medical care and/or pre and perinatal care of their mothers; the home-bound who have community health care providers making regular visits; and the children who have been granted eyesight from a donated pair of eyeglasses.

10730920_758595184211972_8498419272600274584_nBuffalo Bicycle Ambulanceunnamed-9unnamed-6

This doesn’t tell the story of medical training and supplies, of medicine shelves stocked, and birthing beds delivered, of bicycle ambulances, and fixed airplanes to transport medical staff and those who need more urgent medical care.

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We can put a number on the money raised for Africa but we can’t put a number to the people who have been touched by CompassioNow and its mission to bring “life-saving medical care to the world’s least served.”


Oh the milestones! Biblically, when people wanted to celebrate and remember what the Lord had done for them, they built an altar or raised a rock on end. They made a physical mark on the landscape to say, “Here, God answered us.” That is no longer tradition. But here, we raise our Ebenezer, we make our mark on cyberspace, we count the successes and mark the milestones. And we look forward to the future, knowing that with God as our CEO there is more goodness to come. “Commit everything you do to the Lord. Trust him and he will help you.”




Margin is a hot word in my house these days.

There’s the margin of business, of getting the most buck for your bang. It’s the fine line between squeezing the most money out of clients and the most work out of your employees – without tipping either side of the equation. And big margins are good, sought after, applauded. Margin.

Then there’s the margin of life, the blank space, the whitespace that circles the words of our chaotic lives. Margin is space to breathe, to create, to still and listen, to put down the phone, the TV remote, the computer, the calendar, the to-do list 3 feet long and just… be. Margin is time for the kids to play and be kids. Margin is time for mommy to soak in a tub or for daddy to unwind from the day and connect with someone in his family… or vice versa.

This kind of margin keeps perspective, holds the balance, allows for God to be heard, for healing and health and reconciliation and emotional stability.unnamed-23

unnamed-40But is this margin applauded? Don’t we prefer to applaud the family that can pile the schedule with sports and arts and homework and busyness? Don’t we marvel at the mom juggling all 10 balls marginally well and wonder skeptically at the efficiency of the mom who only juggles 3 very well? Or the husband who works all day, serves on boards, and coaches little league… don’t we marvel at his dedication? But we don’t ask where his margin is, do we?

Is there an assumption that the more margin we have financially, the more margin we’ll have time wise? That the striving and squeezing and pinching stops when the bottom line looks good? Or does the striving and squeezing and pinching just pick up in other areas, cluttering our lives with the trappings of affluence?

And I’m wondering this morning, as I’m flailing in the struggle of creating margin in a world that demands we keep running without margin, what margin looks like in Africa.

Like in Zomba, Malawi, where Passion Center for Children is located. Where is the margin in life when floods have destroyed your house and your crops? Is there rest, blank space, stillness when there aren’t mosquito nets and pots and pans and food and when children are sleeping in the open because there are no beds, no walls, no roof? When there is no monetary margin, no buck for the bang, when life is hand to mouth, where is the margin?10378274_812999028771587_6202102954853020024_n

10923281_812999078771582_747795061580541710_n10917445_812999052104918_3699448331697225328_nOr in Uganda where Village of Hope is located, where 9 new sponsors for children this week is celebrated! And the bottom line says that there are 200 more that need sponsors. And the bottom line reads like this: “Dear friends… this is Cindy. We really need your help. As you know the last couple of years have been hard on me physically. So I have not been able to go out and ‘friend’ raise. Because of that… we are running $20K short each month. We have added a Skill Training Center and another 50 kids to our Villages. Those things add up. So we, our 340 children, need your help. Every dollar helps!”

How do you build margin into your finances, into your life, when there are 340 kiddos who depend on you for life – food, education, healthcare, nurturing, shelter – because the alternative to this is child-run families, sleeping in the open, abuse, days without food, a tentative survival, and no upward mobility. Where is the margin?10299080_10152398008179763_3795027765915466660_n 11015953_10153109834269763_317411810080949687_n 10352939_10152674151649763_6536344923481152464_n

Or in the Valley of 1000 Hills, South Africa, where 1000 Hills Community Helpers is located, where some 5000 people this month will attend a medical clinic of some sort and will be treated effectively and well for the unimaginable cost of $1 per person. Where that same number of people or more will gather for meals, where children will meet daily for schooling and care, where mommies and daddies will learn skills and grannies will meet and sit under the canopy or gather around a table and sew. Where the safe house had to close because there wasn’t funding to keep it open. And where the bottom line says we’re running this amazing operation on nickels and dimes, we are doing great good, but we’ve got no margin and we’re not meeting our financial needs to keep all these balls in the air.1011836_10151711910730854_1547028917_n 10628167_10152865178225854_4632364125688208242_n 1800479_10152895399445854_1985007257085480745_n 10628268_10152895404295854_8499036510535850559_n

Where is the margin when it all sounds so dire?

The margin is in the whitespace. The margin is in being still and listening for God to speak, being still and knowing that He is God, being still and knowing that He is at work, that He has built up these relief centers, that He has begun a good work, and He will fulfill His promises to His people, and He will finish those good works.

And margin is in the whitespace created when we take a moment to savor a cup of tea. Whether we’re members of Compassion Tea and we amble into a pantry well-stocked with a multitude of tea flavors or whether we buy our favorite flavor every other month online or whether we shuffle into our favorite coffee shop, favorite because it carries tea with a cause, how ever we come to our cup of tea and with whomever we share it, when we create this pause in our day, we are creating margin in Africa.IMG_7536

And that’s the bottom line!


There is a dripping sound in our bathroom. It’s been there for months. We thought it was the air conditioning/furnace in the attic above. And it was. Ironic that in this drought, in this period of desert living, we’ve had a hot water leak under the house and an air conditioning leak in the attic. So we had it fixed and stood in the bathroom and marveled because there it was still. The dripping. Hubby has crawled under the house; he has battled the attic; he has searched for any indication whatsoever of wet, dripping something. Nada.

But there’s a crack in the tile of the bathroom floor. IMG_5863It is new in the last months, and it is growing. And my friend has a pool that is sinking on one side, and there are articles that the land is shrinking because of the drought, and so is it possible that our phantom drip is no drip but rather a cracking and shifting?

The drought. There are dire reports that this is just the beginning and California is going to turn into desert, that the lush green and fields and trees and agriculture that feeds our nation are drying up.IMG_5872 IMG_5873

There are talking heads saying this is just the beginning; judgment is upon us. Conversely, there are weather forecasters projecting an El Nino winter full of hearty, drenching, reservoir-filling rain.

The drought. And the moms meet at the poolside and watch the kids splash and they compare their sub-par gardens and their conservation efforts and the dirt of their cars and the grime behind the ears of the kids and the water bills.IMG_5875 IMG_5877

But the kids are in the water; there is water when we turn on the faucet; there is water to wash the scrapes and cuts of summer, to cool a feverish head, to wash away grime and to quench the sandy throats of summer.

Yes, the specter of turning on the faucet and watching the last drip of water eek its way out is there… off in the distance… and we’re praying for God to shelter us from that reality… and we’re saving water with a measured frenzy. And the government agencies are singing their 2-song showers and chanting their 50% reduction slogans, and we hope they’re making plans to be better stewards themselves.

But there is water in this drought.

And now there is water at Chalabesa!

Back in 2011, I wrote about Chalabesa:
The situation at Chalabesa Mission Hospital in Zambia is similar. The clinic is run by a Polish nun, Sister Marta, and is the only one for miles. Sister Marta has been reporting that the solar-powered electrical system hasn’t been working and the water for the clinic comes either from a wind-powered pump that is leaking and that only works when there is wind or from a river 160 yards away. This river is visited by elephants and other animals who not only drink its water but who grossly contaminate it. To compound things, measles, deadly diarrhea, typhoid, and malaria are striking in epidemic proportions due to the drought in that part of the world. In one day alone, with flashlight in hand, Sister Marta took care of over 240 patients who had walked miles and waited hours in the dark, crowded rooms of the clinic. These patients were thirsty, feverish, ill, dehydrated, malnourished, and fearful for their lives. Chalabesa is their only hope.
Currently, the CareNow Foundation is raising funds to supply the Chalabesa Mission Hospital with a “bucket brigade” of relief. They would like to dig two new boreholes, erect two new 2,600 gallon tanks and necessary pipework, and purchase two solar pumps plus associated solar panels and control electronics.

On June 17 of this year, we received confirmation that there is now running water in the hospital! All the necessary pipes and pumps and panels are installed and running!

It has been a long process, one complicated by what we lovingly call “Africa time,” a pace that can seem aggravatingly slow compared to our rush-life. Thanks to our friends at Mission Medic Air for their part in arranging the supplies and the workers and for their aid in accomplishing this monumental task! How thrilled we are that patients at the clinic can now access running water, that treating patients can be both easier and more sanitary, and that precious time helping people can be reclaimed from hauling water from the river. Hooray!

It reminds me of something. Sunday, during church, I watched a dear friend walk up the aisle looking for a place to sit. She saw another sister of the faith and joined her in the pew. But not without the kind of embrace that speaks volumes to the depth of the friendship. Witnessing this, I thought of the struggles that friend has gone through. And I thought of the storms and the deserts she has weathered and traversed. And I thought of the new paths God is showing her. How incrementally He is gracing her with new beginnings, how He has been faithful this whole time to walk with her and to even carry her through those storms and across those deserts. But witnessing it in someone else’s life… oh, the joy!

God has been faithful in bringing water to Chalabesa. He has been faithful in bringing my friend through her drought period. He will be faithful in this drought, too.IMG_5622 IMG_5602

And one day soon, the skies will open and water will fall and we’ll go dance in it, letting the moisture sink in deep, deep into the cracks in our foundations. Because when He is your foundation, the shifting, shrinking earth all around can’t shake you.

The Something-Not-Someone

“Are you guys going to get a divorce?” my little girl asked one day. The question took me by surprise because Hubby and I weren’t fighting, there was no particular stress between us. Struggling to understand where the question came from, I hesitantly said, “No. Why?” The question stemmed from things she was hearing in school. Friends, classmates were experiencing rifts in the family, a breakdown of communication, love, joy, safety in the one area of life where there can’t be a breakdown. Not without major complications and ramifications.

“No, “ I plowed on in my answer. “Daddy and I made a promise when we got married. We made the promise to each other and to God that we would stay together. And we intend to keep that promise. God will help us.”

Today, we’re celebrating that promise made 19 years ago. But my heart is heavy for a friend who wrote to me late last night saying, “I need something, not someone, to believe in.” She’s whirling in a divorce vortex currently and is seeking the life-buoy that really saves.

She’s right that one person can’t be the one we place our hopes and dreams in; although, that is the romantic vision of our world. In the first flushes of romance and burgeoning love, we are quick to pin our hopes and dreams on that other person. But as the glow fades and we’re left with the ring-around-the-collar, and the stains, and the habits that grate, and the quirks that we’re pretty sure we’ll never understand, and the ways he/she does that that annoy and astound, disappointment grows.

So you either stop getting annoyed and your lower your expectations, or you go seeking the next best thing.


Or you look at the promise. You look at the “in sickness and in health” and the “for richer or poorer” and the “to death do us part” and you remember that this is a pledge you made before family and friends and at the feet of

Nineteen years ago, I donned the white gown I’d been planning for months. Last minute changes to the veil came to fruition. My girlfriends were there laughing beside me and spirits soared. unnamed-7But one thing… actually two things… we had agreed to before our wedding. 1. There would be no forced kissing. I hate (even to this day) the tradition of hitting a glass with a fork or knife just to make the bride and groom kiss. There would be none of that at MY wedding. And 2. No reading of Ephesians 5: 21-33.

And further, submit to one another out of reverence for Christ.
22 For wives, this means submit to your husbands as to the Lord. 23 For a husband is the head of his wife as Christ is the head of the church. He is the Savior of his body, the church. 24 As the church submits to Christ, so you wives should submit to your husbands in everything.
25 For husbands, this means love your wives, just as Christ loved the church. He gave up his life for her 26 to make her holy and clean, washed by the cleansing of God’s word.[b] 27 He did this to present her to himself as a glorious church without a spot or wrinkle or any other blemish. Instead, she will be holy and without fault. 28 In the same way, husbands ought to love their wives as they love their own bodies. For a man who loves his wife actually shows love for himself. 29 No one hates his own body but feeds and cares for it, just as Christ cares for the church. 30 And we are members of his body.
31 As the Scriptures say, “A man leaves his father and mother and is joined to his wife, and the two are united into one.”[c] 32 This is a great mystery, but it is an illustration of the way Christ and the church are one. 33 So again I say, each man must love his wife as he loves himself, and the wife must respect her husband.

Nope. I didn’t want this at our wedding.

Silly, naïve me.

Ironically, this has become the backbone of our relationship.
That girl walking down the aisle 19 years ago really hadn’t a clue what this kind of love really looked like. Truth be told, I didn’t understand a God who would send His son to die. How do you do that? How do you love so deeply you are willing to sacrifice a part of yourself? How?

And so consequently, how do you submit? How do you take the screaming parts of yourself, the needy parts, the parts that disagree, rebel, and cringe, how do you take them and then do the opposite of what they are screaming? How do you place the needs of someone else first?


You pray. Not just the “it’s the end of the day and I’m falling asleep so I better shoot something up to heaven” kind of prayer. But the “I’m at my wits end and I’m feeling waves crashing over me and I need to fall on my knees and weep like I’ll never smile again” kind of prayer. Where you lay it all before Jesus.

There were times over the past 19 years where Hubby and I stood near each other, each hurting in really deep and profound ways, hurting so deeply that we couldn’t even reach out to each other. There were no words for the pain. Just ache.

There were times we were tempted to blame, to point fingers, and even to run and hide.

But Hubby told me, in the middle of these deeply painful times, that he was praying for me.
And that was the spark of light and hope I needed. Because I was being lifted to the throne of God, and God was on His throne. He must listen.

And He reached down… He the perfect model of love and sacrifice and submission… and sang over my soul. The singing heals, the weeping washes away the pain… because He weeps with us. And He says over and over in a hundred different ways, “I love you.”

And if He can love me, broken and cracked and flawed, then maybe I can look at Hubby, at the ring-around-the-collar and the OCD about certain things, and love that too. And Hubby can love me despite the dirt on the floor and the pile of dishes in the sink and the bad mood and the way I do that that drives him nuts.

This is a kind of love that also rejoices… in all things.

A few Saturdays ago, I woke up in a foul mood. It just felt like it was going to be a lousy day. But Hubby came into the kitchen where I was making pancakes and with a few wise cracks and silly antics had me laughing. I turned to my little girl and told her, “When you go to find a husband, somewhere long down the road, look for a man who makes you laugh. Because life is hard and you’re going to need someone beside you to make you laugh through it.”unnamed-6

And you’re going to need that something-not-someone in which to believe. When God is in the center of a strong marriage, in the center of a single life, then there is the perfect example of grace and mercy and forgiveness, of submission and healing, and above all love.

At our wedding, I did allow this reading: 1 Corinthians 13
If I could speak all the languages of earth and of angels, but didn’t love others, I would only be a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. 2 If I had the gift of prophecy, and if I understood all of God’s secret plans and possessed all knowledge, and if I had such faith that I could move mountains, but didn’t love others, I would be nothing. 3 If I gave everything I have to the poor and even sacrificed my body, I could boast about it;[a] but if I didn’t love others, I would have gained nothing.
4 Love is patient and kind. Love is not jealous or boastful or proud 5 or rude. It does not demand its own way. It is not irritable, and it keeps no record of being wronged. 6 It does not rejoice about injustice but rejoices whenever the truth wins out. 7 Love never gives up, never loses faith, is always hopeful, and endures through every circumstance.
8 Prophecy and speaking in unknown languages[b] and special knowledge will become useless. But love will last forever! 9 Now our knowledge is partial and incomplete, and even the gift of prophecy reveals only part of the whole picture! 10 But when the time of perfection comes, these partial things will become useless.
11 When I was a child, I spoke and thought and reasoned as a child. But when I grew up, I put away childish things. 12 Now we see things imperfectly, like puzzling reflections in a mirror, but then we will see everything with perfect clarity.[c] All that I know now is partial and incomplete, but then I will know everything completely, just as God now knows me completely.
13 Three things will last forever—faith, hope, and love—and the greatest of these is love.

No. The something-not-someone to believe in is the God who is patient and kind, not jealous or boastful or proud or rude, but the God who never gives up, never loses faith, is always hopeful, and who endures through every circumstance. He was in the beginning and He is the end. And He is in the middle of it all. Forever. And ever. Amen.

Glory, Glory, Hallelujah!

Just yesterday I was driving to an event. My heart started racing. As I become more aware of how this kind of thing gets going in my body and may or may not send me into a full on panic attack, I stop to ask myself why. Why, little heart, is the approach of this event, sending you into spasms. The answer? Because I’d rather be at home writing.

“The Introverted are the people who live in the constant tension between the desire to communicate… and the desire to hide.”
This from Ann Voskamp, another “I’d rather stay home and write” kinda gal. So she wrote it out, her story, and it has launched her into comfort zones far beyond staying home. She says, “…well, when you’ve been revived from the dead, you keep mustering the courage up to communicate this story because maybe it will help just even one other person?”

And today Maya Angelou died and I’m thinking about how her voice was my first experience with poetry that licked my heart as it sang to my brain, how her words opened new doors and suggested to me that form in poetry could be more organic, subtle, sensuous, slithering up the backside. Her voice, husky, grandmotherly, wise, pooled around my high school self and flung wide doors of language.

And I think back to three days ago when I was watching my daughter perform with her choir during a church service and how words, lifting in song, touched people. The choir cast the words of The Battle Hymn of the Republic into air, and I watched as the grey haired ladies in their own special pew popped above the surface to nip at them. Joy spread across their faces and their lips moved uncontrollably, lipping the words, eyes bright. I had glimpses of young girls in those wizened faces. Young, smooth skin under the wrinkles, tossing curls under the white and grey. Age remembering youthful prayer meetings and days spent with beaus and a patriotism that is no longer politically correct. And I thought, “Oh how God loves you, ladies.” More than me, they have seen Him marching on.

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord;
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword;
His truth is marching on.
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! His truth is marching on.

I have seen Him in the watch fires of a hundred circling camps
They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps;
I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps;
His day is marching on.
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! His day is marching on.

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment seat;
Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet;
Our God is marching on.
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! Our God is marching on.

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me:
As He died to make men holy, let us live to make men free;
[originally …let us die to make men free]
While God is marching on.
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! While God is marching on.

It was here, at this verse, that my own tears started, flowing fast, joy … joy that my daughter was in a choir that was teaching and challenging and training her voice and that that voice was singing one of my favorite hymns… a hymn for crying out loud. On the cusp of Memorial Day, it had meaning.
As He died to make men holy, let us live to make men free…
There are men and women who stood up, left their comfort zones, their homes, their cozy and with racing hearts faced the enemy, the freedom takers. Their voices, their stories were shortened, heroic, often unsung, unheard. But their acts made differences, changed tides of battles, changed lives. Their passing may have seemed a blip on the map of strategy, but in God’s great economy, not a drop of blood was wasted.

These words of march and fight and triumph are reserved for Memorial Day, for funerals, for times of passing. But we need them every day. Because every day is a battle. We need to know that there is purpose, a strategy, a plan in place, a plan for victory, and an exit plan, even before we move from our beds in the morning. God’s plan, God’s march, God’s victory.

Plan enacted, sweet son sent. Holy oneness broken for a bit so that holy becomes human. Holy takes on skin but not the depravity of human. Holy walks soil, holy sleeps and eats and touches and feeds and speaks words of love and healing and dangerous words that turn thousands of years of “God says” into “but now.” Holy from the beginning, there in the beginning, there in the early sacrifices that will herald and explain and ready hearts.

Yes, oh sinner. God spent those years teaching his children that certain actions are sin, the most offensive of which is turning away from God.

There must be retribution.

Retribution taken by himself on himself for me so that the swift sword loosed is not for me deserving though I be. Oh be swift my soul to answer Him, be jubilant my feet!

It makes me want to stand at attention, eager along the parade route, listening for the trumpet that shall never sound retreat, butterflies in my stomach anticipating the display that is about to pass. Glory, Glory, Hallelujah! Drips from lips like so much honey.

Can I stand at the parade route and stay home and write too? Can they be one and the same? Can my voice raised in writing be loud and cheering? Can yours?

So, I’m writing and I’m crying, my soul purging. And my daughter comes in and says, “Why? Why are you crying?” Crying and writing, writing and crying? Isn’t that normal? Because it is in the writing that I feel the hand of God, like He is pouring His voice into me, filling me. In the preaching gospel to myself, I touch God, spend an hour at His feet, rest in the beauty of the lilies, glory in His glory. Voice my own hallelujah. Cast it out into air. It’s the introvert way, the God way for me. For now.

He is coming like the glory of the morning on the wave,
He is wisdom to the mighty, He is honor to the brave;
So the world shall be His footstool, and the soul of wrong His slave,
Our God is marching on.
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! Our God is marching on.

If I Close My Eyes…

If I close my eyes, I can see it.

Joseph dancing in the back aisle, joy moving his limbs in awkward cadences to the words … Our God, you reign forever. Our Hope, our strong deliverer….

His feet dangling out the back of the pew after he crawled under it…

The way he draped over me, head hanging down to the ground, and then curled up all fetal like knees to nose head on my lap…

The thumbs up he gave after taking communion for the first time…

Clara sketching next to us, flowers, girls, the chalice and the bread and the words of command and institution…

Her glances to check in… is Mama crying… again… in church…

The mom in front of us with 3 children wrapped around her…

The flickering candles on the wall…

If I close my eyes, I can see it.

In the moment, it seemed embarrassing and funny and soul-crumbling all at once. Me, a piece of fabric, wadded in a ball, stomped on by two beautiful angels bent on sabotaging a moment in time and in space. Joseph kicks as he squirms down to the ground, he butts his head against his sister who complains like a squeaky door. He is heavy, this growing boy who can’t for the ever-living life of him sit still. Ever. Even in sleep….

But I don’t want to take that joy from him. I don’t want church to be all rules and sitting up straight and not making a noise because that is not how God meets us, in the straight and narrow, in the clean and pure and well-manicured.

But when Joseph asked me, “Can I take the bread and the wine?” I hesitated and reviewed the rules. Rules I wasn’t sure about for our current church. Rules.

Well, why? I struggled to understand why he was interested.

And out of the mouth of my babe came, “Because it is Jesus’ body and blood. He told his friends to eat it to remember him.” If my growing, squirmy man-child knows this, then there are no rules to follow.

Because God doesn’t meet us in the rule-following, but in the heart-calling.

The heart-calling.
“Let’s imagine Jesus washing our feet.” This is the call from the front.

If I close my eyes, I can see it.

A basin. A towel. The base of the cross in the background. A hand. Water. Dropping, dribbling, gentle and cleansing. This God, my God, tenderly caressing my weary soul. In the middle of the mess, in the middle of the chaos, this water becomes stillness and peace and the holy.

It’s today now. Another day of it. The mess and the chaos and the meeting God in the middle of it. And it’s Good Friday and we remember the mess and the chaos and the seeming end of it. Jesus on the cross. Blood, vinegar, final words, nails, ripping curtains, ripping hands and feet, dark skies, dark hearts, and the exclamations of “Surely, this was the son of God” and I wonder if there was a heart-cry that followed, “We killed him… the son of God.” The despair.

Joseph is sitting in the chair behind me kicking me and complaining that I won’t add a new app to the iPad and I want to curse the iPad and send it screaming out of my family forever for the ways it tries to seduce and steal my family, my boy who knows that the bread and the wine are for Jesus, that life is for Jesus.

It’s going to be a messy, chaotic day.

But if I close my eyes, I can see it. The Easter sunrise, the Easter sonrise, on the other side. And there can be joy behind my closed eyes that will sustain. My God, My Hope, My Strong Deliverer….

Hunger Games

Tis the season of the curveball. Okay, not so much for my little guy who is just getting the hang of the whole hitting off of pitches rather than a tee. But baseball is in full swing!

And so are the springtime distractions. There are gardens to till, flowers to plant, vegetables to start, leaves to rake, fertilizer to be spread, and plants to be loved. The activities at school are racheting up as are the after-school activities. Getting ready for concerts, performances, games, the culmination of weeks of practice. Fundraising events, spring parties… it’s like the world is awakening from its winter hibernation and the perennial quest for … what?… has begun.

Heading into this weekend, I was feeling pretty good about life. Like maybe just maybe I’d have some quiet time to pull aspects of life together, get things done, relax and enjoy my family.

Yeah. Not so much.

Clara brought home The Hunger Games (book one) with the intent of reading it over the weekend. I’m enough in the loop to know that this series has caused controversy and many debates over its appropriateness for certain age levels. So red lights started going off all over my body when she presented her plan for the weekend. Nope. Not until I read it first. Which I did. Cover to cover in 24 hours time… in between a ceramics painting party, a work event for hubby, and the required meals of my family. I felt like I’d been hit by a train by the time I was through.

And the verdict was that this weekend was not the right time for my 10 year old to read this book.

The grand debate here is how much do we shield our children from and to how much do we expose them? When is the right time for them to start to learn about lust (because Katniss is developing lustful feelings for Peeta), the political power games people play, the insidiousness of the entertainment industry, the vacuousness of certain people, and the pure evil that the human heart can harbor.

I thought I was being generous by letting her read the Harry Potter series!

But seriously, there is a vivid difference between the Hunger Games and Harry Potter. (Caveat… I haven’t read books 2 and 3 so I’m operating solely on my knowledge of book 1). In Harry Potter, Harry is battling in an epic way the physical manifestation of evil in the person of Voldemort. Harry is a loveable, laughable endearing teenage boy, full of foibles and questions about his past and his future. But even when he goes half-heartedly, he goes out to fight evil marked with the lightning bolt of love and armed with loving friends. Katniss has glimpses of humanity, but for the most part, her actions and emotions are primeval, instinct-driven, and she is motivated not to right the world but to survive by playing the game better than anyone else. She is a product of her society and that is the only reason I can find to feel any sympathy for her. When she flaunts the Gamemasters, she does so not out of any great understanding of the system, but out of a survival instinct and intense hatred for the way the system has robbed her.

Philippians 4:8 kept coming to mind as I read: And now, dear brothers and sisters, one final thing. Fix your thoughts on what is true, and honorable, and right, and pure, and lovely, and admirable. Think about things that are excellent and worthy of praise.

And my years of teaching English and the debate over what is the purpose of literature reared up. Is literature to hold a mirror up to our faces and show us what we are? Or is it to lift man out of the muck and give him hope for humanity? William Faulkner in his 1949 Nobel Prize Acceptance Speech says it this way, “Ladies and gentlemen,
I feel that this award was not made to me as a man, but to my work – a life’s work in the agony and sweat of the human spirit, not for glory and least of all for profit, but to create out of the materials of the human spirit something which did not exist before. So this award is only mine in trust. It will not be difficult to find a dedication for the money part of it commensurate with the purpose and significance of its origin. But I would like to do the same with the acclaim too, by using this moment as a pinnacle from which I might be listened to by the young men and women already dedicated to the same anguish and travail, among whom is already that one who will some day stand here where I am standing.

Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit. There is only the question: When will I be blown up? Because of this, the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat.

He must learn them again. He must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid; and, teaching himself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the old universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed – love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice. Until he does so, he labors under a curse. He writes not of love but of lust, of defeats in which nobody loses anything of value, of victories without hope and, worst of all, without pity or compassion. His griefs grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. He writes not of the heart but of the glands.

Until he relearns these things, he will write as though he stood among and watched the end of man. I decline to accept the end of man. It is easy enough to say that man is immortal simply because he will endure: that when the last dingdong of doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking.
I refuse to accept this. I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance. The poet’s, the writer’s, duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past. The poet’s voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.”

I tend to agree. We need all the props and pillars we can gather to shore us up here in this shaky ground we call life.

Does Hunger Games do this? Not in book one. I walked away disgusted. I wanted open, knowledged rebellion. I got backtracking and backstabbing. Like the Ancient Booer in The Princess Bride, I felt like saying to Katniss, “Your true love lives…. True Love saved her in the Fire Swamp, and she treated it like garbage. And that’s what she is, the Queen of Refuse. So bow down to her if you want, bow to her. Bow to the Queen of Slime, the Queen of Filth, the Queen of Putrescence. Boo. Boo. Rubbish. Filth. Slime. Muck. Boo. Boo. Boo.”

I wanted redemption, a character I could cheer for, the savage from Brave New World, ideas that were lofty and worthy and selfless. What I saw was a character motivated by survival and her burgeoning sensuality. Period.

But I’m having trouble leaving it at that. It’s difficult to walk away and completely dismiss this book, this character.

Because there are so many people in the world like Katniss who have no moral compass, who operate out of the need to survive and the need to meet the ever-increasing demands of their sensuality. Which is probably where Suzanne Collins is going with this.

And there’s this desire to wrap them in loving arms and say to them, “There is healing for this.” It isn’t a skin buff, shower, and manicure. It’s a soul garden replant, weeding and tilling and watering and feeding that looks and feels like redemption.

Sometimes I think I’m getting to be an old fuddy-duddy. But I’m seeing things in new lights these days. I remember a day when I moved in the world much like Katniss, not with 23 other children hunting me down per say, but moving through the world meeting the body’s needs and not much else. I believed in God and claimed to believe in the redeeming power of the cross and of Jesus on that cross. I developed strong head knowledge of parts of the Bible because that is what a good church-goer does. I even supported the missional work of the church, not necessarily because I thought it was a good idea for people in third worlds to know about Christ as much as I thought they needed a good meal or maybe a shot at some medicine or education typically not available to them.

But joy? Me sharing the gospel? Jesus dying on the cross for me personally? Yeah, none of that was mine to claim. Just get through another day.

Heck, I still have days like that. Where busyness crowds out the stillness and communion I need to connect with my God.

But somewhere along the way, God’s knocking finally resonated. And He said to me, “You are my princess. I love you the way you are. I would have died just for you, just like I promised Abraham I wouldn’t destroy Sodom and Gomorrah for the sake of 10 righteous.” He released me from the labels of the world, gave me new purpose and direction, and gratitude is becoming a way of life. I’m beginning to understand what it means to crave reading Scripture. This is the healing I needed and the healing that God offers all the children/people of the world. It is a feeding of the hungry soul.

You know, Jesus talked a lot about being the bread of life, the living water that quenches the soul thirst. I used to think that was a clever little metaphor he had going on. We all need bread and water, so of course we all need him.

But it’s more than that. It speaks to our need to find meaning and peace and resolution. The world is constantly offering us ways to fill those needs. If you eat at this restaurant, buy these clothes, use this fabric softener, own this car, view these shows, listen to this music, wear these jewels, shop at this store, if… then… amazing happiness will follow you all the days of your life.

And we “buy” into it only to find that we’re craving more and more of the world’s “food” because what we just bought… the clothes, the food, the car, the house, the floor cleaner… lacks the protein, the sticking power to stay our hunger pangs for very long. Like gluttons, we gorge on more and more of the sugary stuff of life, the fake, processed, unnatural. When what we really need is the word of God. This fills the belly with meaning and purpose, a life driven by gratitude, reacting out of joy, overflowing with generosity. And it lasts.

Wanna talk about Hunger Games? We’re all playing the hunger games… searching for ways to game our hunger. When the food we really need has already been gifted in the silver parachute of Christ on a cross. Eat and be filled.


I have so much else to do, but there’s a refrain playing in my heart and if I truly believe God is a God of abundance and generosity, He will take the time and bend it and shape it and time warps are possible. And so I believe He, who spoke this refrain, will sanctify the time I spend mulling His words in it.

Masterpiece. I showed the ladies a copy of the Sistine Chapel. “They should have clothes on.” I showed the Mona Lisa, the façade of Notre Dame, Paris. I handed out copies of War and Peace, Hamlet, Moby Dick. I passed around Tchaikovsky’s Romeo and Juliet and Handel’s Royal Fireworks music. What do they all have in common? Masterpieces. Someone’s hard work, opus magnum, life’s blood spilling in artistic fervor, passion in word or paint, creative genius, something that had never been before.

And then the mirror comes out.

What do you see? “A wreck.” “Oh dear.” That one actually turns the mirror and won’t look. “My rosacea.”

One gets it. “God’s masterpiece.”

God says, “We are God’s masterpiece, created anew in Christ Jesus to do the good things He planned for us long ago.” Ephesians 2:10

God’s masterpiece.

Compassion Tea's Anne and Chris learning about the first pluck in Sri Lanka.

Compassion Tea’s Anne and Chris learning about the first pluck in Sri Lanka.

Visiting the doctor in all her finery at Tanzania Christian Clinic

Visiting the doctor in all her finery at Tanzania Christian Clinic

Clinical officer David at Tanzania Christian Clinic

Clinical officer David at Tanzania Christian Clinic

One of the "mommies" caring for the orphans at Village of Hope Uganda

One of the “mommies” caring for the orphans at Village of Hope Uganda

Celebrating at the watering hole… masterpieces at Village of Hope Uganda

Celebrating at the watering hole… masterpieces at Village of Hope Uganda

Dawn at 1000 Hills Community Helpers holding two new masterpieces

Dawn at 1000 Hills Community Helpers holding two new masterpieces

A masterpiece with ice cream at 1000 Hills Community Helpers

A masterpiece with ice cream at 1000 Hills Community Helpers

Wendy Bjurstrom of CompassioNow with Scovia

Wendy Bjurstrom of CompassioNow with Scovia

Blowing bubbles at 1000 Hills Community Helpers

Blowing bubbles at 1000 Hills Community Helpers

I’m preaching this to everyone who will listen. To my daughter who thinks holding her nose when a certain boy walks by is okay. To my friend who has a “thang.” To my husband who needs to be reminded as he walks through the lonely halls of business. To myself because the accuser and the world conspire to whisper the opposite. Why do I even give them audience?

I’ve been putting off reading this blog. But this morning, reciting “We are God’s masterpiece created anew in Christ Jesus to do the good things He planned for us long ago,” for the 10th time today, I click on the link. And I find that God is preaching this message through others too.

God’s masterpiece. Creative genius. Passion in flesh and blood. Unique and never been before. His blood spilling in artistic fervor. That’s you.

An Inconvenient Truth (or rather a truth for the inconvenience)

It’s humid this morning and it’s gumming up the works. Like the air is sliceable and we’re moving in slow motion, fighting against the extra resistance of the air.

Which may be why we were almost late to school this morning.

Or maybe it was because I’m cooking out of the trailer right now. Running the house from an off-site location.

Yesterday, I spewed forth a total Pollyanna response to someone’s compassion over our kitchen situation. It went something like this: “You know, we get really comfortable in our patterns and in our habits and sometimes we need to shake things up a bit. Sometimes God shakes us up a bit to get us acting and reacting in new ways. Cooking in the trailer takes creativity and patience and we’re finding ways to be joyful in our situation. It’s actually kind of fun.”

Yeah. That.

Was yesterday. Today, as I tossed backpacks and lunchbags into the truck and slammed the door, I believe my words were, “I’m so done with this.” Specifically done with a 12-inch by 12-inch square of counter space for cutting, preparing, making lunches, cooking breakfast, and putting dinner in the crockpot all at once. Done with leaving the kids in the house on their own while I go cook. Without my constant nagging, and yes, on certain days, it is constant, they wander off the “get ready for school” path onto the “let’s play and lollygag” path. Those walkie-talkies Joseph got a few years back… yep. We ‘re putting them to use starting tonight.

“Roger, roger, kids are you getting dressed?”
“That’s a 10-4 Mom, dressing going on now.”

Did you notice the title of this blog? An Inconvenient Truth. Do you know why that sounds familiar? It was the title of the film that catapulted Al Gore into international fame that went beyond his political career and that landed him the Nobel Peace Prize.

As I watch ¾ of my friends, of my country, struggle under the weight of snow and cold and as I feel for my mommy friends out there who are snow bound yet another day with the kids off school and as I hear the people around me stewing about our drought here in California, I have to chuckle. It’s weather. And it’s inconvenient… as is our kitchen situation. Inconvenient.

And the truth is that we really can’t make a hill of a difference.

Just finished reading the book of Job. WOW. And ugh. Page after page and verse after verse of argument and finger pointing until the heavens open somewhere around chapter 38. And God speaks up. “I’ve got a few questions for you, Job,” God says. Forgive me for this long quote, but really, this is good stuff.

38 Then the Lord answered Job from the whirlwind:
“Who is this that questions my wisdom
with such ignorant words?
Brace yourself like a man,
because I have some questions for you,
 and you must answer them.
“Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth? Tell me, if you know so much.
Who determined its dimensions and stretched out the surveying line?
What supports its foundations,
and who laid its cornerstone
as the morning stars sang together
and all the angels[a] shouted for joy?
“Who kept the sea inside its boundaries
 as it burst from the womb,
and as I clothed it with clouds
and wrapped it in thick darkness?
For I locked it behind barred gates,
limiting its shores.
I said, ‘This far and no farther will you come. Here your proud waves must stop!’
“Have you ever commanded the morning to appear and caused the dawn to rise in the east?
Have you made daylight spread to the ends of the earth, to bring an end to the night’s wickedness?
As the light approaches, the earth takes shape like clay pressed beneath a seal; it is robed in brilliant colors.[b]
The light disturbs the wicked
and stops the arm that is raised in violence.
“Have you explored the springs from which the seas come? Have you explored their depths?
Do you know where the gates of death are located? Have you seen the gates of utter gloom?
Do you realize the extent of the earth? Tell me about it if you know!
“Where does light come from, 
and where does darkness go?
Can you take each to its home? Do you know how to get there?
But of course you know all this!
For you were born before it was all created,
 and you are so very experienced!
“Have you visited the storehouses of the snow 
or seen the storehouses of hail?
(I have reserved them as weapons for the time of trouble, for the day of battle and war.)
Where is the path to the source of light? Where is the home of the east wind?
“Who created a channel for the torrents of rain? Who laid out the path for the lightning?
Who makes the rain fall on barren land, 
in a desert where no one lives?
Who sends rain to satisfy the parched ground
 and make the tender grass spring up?
“Does the rain have a father?
 Who gives birth to the dew?
Who is the mother of the ice?
 Who gives birth to the frost from the heavens?
For the water turns to ice as hard as rock, and the surface of the water freezes.
“Can you direct the movement of the stars—
binding the cluster of the Pleiades or loosening the cords of Orion?
Can you direct the sequence of the seasons
 or guide the Bear with her cubs across the heavens?
Do you know the laws of the universe? 
Can you use them to regulate the earth?
“Can you shout to the clouds 
and make it rain?
Can you make lightning appear and cause it to strike as you direct?
Who gives intuition to the heart
 and instinct to the mind?
Who is wise enough to count all the clouds? 
Who can tilt the water jars of heaven
when the parched ground is dry and the soil has hardened into clods?
“Can you stalk prey for a lioness 
and satisfy the young lions’ appetites
as they lie in their dens
 or crouch in the thicket?
Who provides food for the ravens when their young cry out to God 
and wander about in hunger?

Who are we? Who do we think we are? What do we know of God? Who are we to complain? Who are we to stew, fret, worry? Doesn’t the maker of the whole universe, the One who controls the snowy storerooms and the One who directs the path of the lightning bolts, doesn’t He have the ultimate control? And doesn’t He provide?

Doesn’t He provide.

That is the truth of it all. Throughout the incoveniences of life, the salt-shaker that broke between the garage and the trailer this morning, IMG_20140124_194531_592 IMG_20140129_125338_926 IMG_20140129_130840_322 IMG_20140129_131729_852the plate of scrambled eggs left on the table, the garden shoes I’m wearing instead of “real” shoes because of our rush, the car that is in the shop, driving the truck instead, making my Compassion Tea in the laundry room morning, noon, and night, throughout all of that… I have everything I need. God’s love, God’s grace, God’s son. I have God’s promises… spring will break the bonds of the cold, will break free from winter’s prison, rain will fall and the golden state will be green again, mold will be abated, lives restored. Maybe it won’t follow our timing, but it will happen. And in the meantime, I have all that I need.

And in truth, that repaints the morning. The humidity, the tardiness, the mess waiting to be cleaned, the snow, the drought, let’s even throw in climate change… when we look through the lens of God’s control, with a God’s got this mentality, it all seems like a hamster ball exercise.

My friend has mentioned that I’ve got material for a reality show going on in my life right now. I’ve responded that I’m grateful there are no cameras. Can you just imagine. But, I can imagine God laughing in joy at his little Linda hamster, spinning in her wheel of worry and stress, loving my running, shaking His head at me, and reaching down to lift me off the wheel, to hug me and caress my heart. Dear one… get off the wheel. Let Him handle this.

Of Leaking Pipes and Moping Children

“Well, that just shows that you never have time for us.” These are the words out of my son’s mouth.

Him, the little one who is always first in line for a kiss, who hugs bear style, trying to wrestle you to the ground with the fierceness of his affection, him with the bright blue eyes that speak of summer skies and flying, of crystal waters and deep swimming, of adventures and calm juxtaposed in limitless blue, he who utters “love you mama” at the slightest offense on his part, the one I can always count on to take my side, have my back.

And I’m standing in the mud next to a lake in the shadows of dusk, fishing tackle in one hand, dog leash in the other. We’ve spent an hour trying to catch fish, throwing sticks into the water for the dog, exploring the reeds, and just breathing in the chill as evening settles in. We have to go home. It will be dark by the time we get home and the plumber will be waiting. Turns out we have a hot water pipe leaking under the kitchen. Mold and mildew in the cupboards tipped us off something is amiss. I don’t want to miss the plumber.

Yet, this. These words of frustration or trial or just plain mean-hearted sass. I’m blind-sided. Not fair. I want to turn hard, to force recognition of injustice, to call this one out. I want to whine like they do. Not fair.

2:37 AM. I knew I’d be awake. I had fallen asleep readily, but the idea of leaky pipes, mold, sopping insulation, changing a day’s plans, remodeling, no hot water for how long… I knew in advance that at some point these monsters of supposition, of inference, of imagination, of unknown commodities would rear up and strike at my rest. Am I doing enough, disinfecting everything in sight? Are we all going to fall violently ill? How long are we going to be inconvenienced? Who will I have to inconvenience along with me?

I can feel the knots forming around my body. In the shoulders, in the stomach. I’m hot and restless and hubby’s heavy breathing grates. This is not how to spend the night.

Ann’s book comes to mind. Find the gift, because “before the miracle comes the eucharisteo.” 1000 Gifts. Count them.

First thoughts are hard. I want to moan and complain. Maybe a little self-pity here is appropriate. Not unlike my son and his scathing, scarring words, I feel a little put out. If everything that befalls passes through His hands first, has to be approved by Him, then why. Why can’t I be left to do my work, to do my writing, my child-rearing, my wifely duties, my duties as a daughter and as a community member. Why thwart, inconvenience, alter plans?

Petulant, pouting child that I am.

But then the conversation starts. Father God. Please send us a plumber. Please protect us from the mold. The broken record of my mind skips and replays these requests.

Peace like a river? More like a slow warming, like snuggling up in a blanket by a warm fire, bit-by-bit the body responds to the warming trend, to the peace-giving. Remember that time when God gave this? Remember how He is working in that life, in that situation, look back and see the times He showed up. In looking back, I see the promise fulfilled, the peace given, the miracle delivered. Which is why we read the Bible I’m told. To remember. Through the Word, we see the promise fulfilled, the peace given, the miracle delivered… to others, yes, but to us by association, by adoption, by grace. Their stories are our stories. How many times did God’s people say, “Well, this just proves you never have time for us” when in fact the time has been taken, the way paved, the fire quenched, the lion’s mouth closed, the enemy defeated.

With the remembering and the counting comes sleep, peaceful sleep.

And in the morning as I pray again, “Father God, please send us a plumber,” the phone rings. Who calls at 6:45? It’s the plumber. And he’s coming. And no one is inconvenienced.

This will be another gift to remember, to count. With time, I hope, there will be less of the drama and more of the peace, less of the accusation and moping, and more of the rejoicing.