Whispery Secrets (Some Exciting, Some Embarrassing...)

Hi. You over there, and me over here with my coffee turning cold.

Can I lean in and whisper a few things that I'm excited to tell you? 

Photo Credit: Katie Treadway, UnSplash

First, a story. When my son Daniel was a toddler, he told secrets in an unusual way. Instead of sending whispery air puffs from his mouth to my ear, he faced forward. Bringing his ear as close to my ear as he could, our heads touching, he then whispered his secrets straight out, lips forming words I was too far to hear.

Can I lean in ear to your ear? I'm excited to whisper things with you. Some of it is exciting news which I'm eager to share. Some of it is embarrassing, and I'm thinking we can laugh together, with me shrugging shoulders and grinning.

Some of the good news? 

• My blog website is 13 years old and we've been building this online friendship for a while now, you and I. Whether you and I met through the blog, or through one of my Speaking events, or through Facebook, or in person, I'm so thankful for you. I like this habit we've grown of opening up lives and talking honestly together. 

• Another exciting piece of news is that, together, there are over 1100 of us email subscribers -- one thousand one hundred and six, to be precise! 

Here's the embarrassing part: 

• Due to technical difficulties, however, only some of those subscribers ever successfully received my emails. With their activation links lost in an email folder somewhere, they were repeatedly not getting the emailed stories and resources they had asked for. 

To fix that, I've had help re-designing my website. You are some of the first to hear that it is coming out any day! Update: HERE is the NEW WEBSITE! 

And you can laugh, in an inside-scoop-kind-of-way, when you hear me stumble through introductions in my next post, re-introducing myself to people who have asked for my emailed stories and resources, but who may have since forgotten who I am! I know. Awkward, right?

Laugh with me, rejoice with me, and grab some more hot coffee. See you soon.

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For When You Need Fresh Wind

Wind chimes jangle a constant song, and the maple trees whoosh long loud sighs of summer.

Twenty-one year old Morgan contemplates virtual art classes, scrolling through her phone, long legs curled up under her on the honey-colored couch. Daniel's noises are distant, quiet, away down the stairs, his tiny blonde head dwarfed under large white headphones. He speaks into a microphone to his twenty-five year old brother who lives ten miles away and they build virtual worlds and cities with square video game blocks.

Photo Credit: Nicola Pavon, Unsplash 

Mark stares at the laptop screen in front of him on the dining room table, surrounded by yellow highlighted-in-books, drafting a paper on textual criticism for his Masters of Divinity program.

Huge gusts of wind keep stealing my attention. The wind blows loud warm air through the two maples, splashing sunlight on the tops and undersides of the leaves, a dazzling display of yellows, greens, and whites. I love the sounds of summer. Lawn mowers in the distance, sleepy droned airplanes hum quiet on the horizon, and far-off highway trucks rumble.

Saturdays and Sundays are my enforced rhythms of rest. I stretch toes luxuriously even now, at the thought that it's not about any legalistic day, but a manifested idea by our Creator God that rest is good and should be worked into each week as a gift, a decadent and desired dalliance into play, and fun, joyful savoring.

"I love Saturdays!" he had exclaimed it happily not too long ago. My eleven year old Daniel had been building Lego cities in the sunshine beneath the south-facing window. Black and white cats stretched languidly beside him, soaking up the sunshine heat, lying in between red, blue, and green Legos. I had murmured happy agreement from the table not far from him, raising my favorite blue mug filled with hot french press coffee, my journal and Bible beside me.

We were made for creative work and we were made for creative rest, and as we cycle in between those days, our best selves emerge, I'm convinced of it. Wherever our work happens, whether in landscaping, engineering, teaching, medicine, sciences, social work, security, computers, or construction, we get to flex our problem-solving skills, our creativity, perseverance, and innovation.

In between our day jobs and then loving and caring for the people in our lives, we get to reserve moments and hours to recharge and rest. Yesterday that looked like long conversations with a smooth Americano coffee while watching an emerald green mallard duck and his feisty brown feathered mate climb grassy pond-lapped hills. This morning, I grabbed hot coffee and slipped outside in cool 8:30 morning air to rock on an ancient wooden and olive lichen-covered swing. Pine bark mulch compressed beneath bare toes. Robins and cardinals called. Branches swayed and rushed overhead. Fragrant white and pink peony flower heads hung heavy with their scent and beauty, and I drank them in. Later my family curled up in chairs around our computer screen to sing along in virtual online Covid 19-quarantine church service, with friends on their screens around the state and world singing and commenting too.

Photo Credit: Hannah Olinger, Unsplash

Tomorrow, I slip back into work and I'm excited. In summer breaks from teaching and speaking, I get to give more time to my creative work of writing. One of six writers working to complete our ten-week Old Testament small group Bible study, we are in the last legs of revising and editing this study which has already been Beta-tested with several Bible study groups. We are excited to implement their feedback and to get this Old Testament Bible study to the publishers, ready for use this fall! I am excited about this project, my friend, and will keep you posted on the inside scoop too.

"What? You keep looking over at me," my husband asks, looking up from his work on the paper.

"No," I laugh. "I'm not looking at you. I'm looking at the trees behind you. I love seeing the wind blow!"

Happy resting today, my friend. May our God blow fresh wind and rest through you today.

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Mother's Day Confessions and a Shared Video Devotional

They careened up in two black vans. Car doors popped open and shut, and they emerged with masks and glittering gold balloons.

And it worried me for a moment, me in my comfy black yoga pants that I've been wearing all week, and my hair not fully combed this morning. Sipping coffee and on the phone to my brother, I was relaxed and slightly worried that the visitors were for me on an early weekend morning during quarantine lock-down. 

Two moms in pink and blue masks clicked open the trunks of their vans, propping them up, while four or five elementary-aged daughters gripped deflating gold metallic balloons and pulled their jackets tighter around them against the cold spring air.

A third vehicle, a grey minivan, drove up to join them, slowed slightly, looking for a clandestine place to park, and then drove further up the road.

Laughing and whispering, the women crossed our grass lawn, glanced towards our neighbor's house to the right, and disappeared out of view from the window. 

On a Mother's Day weekend that looks different for everyone, want to grab some hot coffee or tea with me, or a cold guava kombucha and join me for a video devotional? 

Hi from my sunny living room, trying to catch a non-ridiculous talking smile. (Video attached below)

(I was honored to guest speak online at Farmington Bible Baptist Church with Deanna and Pastor Judd Weniger this weekend, and they gave me permission to share this with you as well.) 

Click this link to watch and listen with me.

Happy Mother's Day, my friend.

Wood and Marble Spaces to Inhale in Deeply

The woman in front of us had coughed and squirmed, her face red as she tried to hold in quiet wheezes. Poor lady. I had wanted to tap her shoulder and assure her it was all right. This March 7th afternoon in Minneapolis basilica grandeur comes to my mind now, two weeks later.

Two weeks since then and the world has dramatically changed.

Two weeks ago, though, on March 7th, hundreds of us had crowded into St. Mary's Basilica for a free Minnesota Sinfonia concert, featuring world-renowned violinist Ilya Kaler. His renditions of Antonin Dvorak's Romance stirred our spirits, swirling through the giant marble-carved cathedral to hang majestic in the air.

An hour had passed in quiet peace and beauty. We listened in silent rapture. Attentive to each rise and fall of the instruments, caught up in the cascading crescendos and rivulets of song, we stopped only to applaud or to shift positions on the wooden benches polished by generations before us.

Celebrating my Mom's birthday that March 7th weekend, my Mom, sister, and I, and a friend of ours relished the symphony concert, then walked in crisp sunset down grand avenues in nearby St. Paul, where tall historical houses rose high against pink and grey sky. Bronze lions stalked an entryway and the moon tangled in a tree.

With newly-fledged precautions to reports of Corona Virus overseas, it still seemed so far off on that March 7th Saturday. We stood in line at Cafe Latte, ordering colorful salads, crusty mini baguettes, and tall luscious cheesecakes. Carefully washing our hands, using napkins to grab bread rolls and utensils seemed safe and ahead of our times, a "wise but early precaution," we wondered silently.

We had leaned in for the birthday photograph, our friend producing kazoos and pink birthday napkins from her purse. Blowing horn kazoos, we sang happy birthday to my Mom.

Two weeks later and the world has now drastically changed.

In between news headlines and aching prayer for people around the world, I grabbed my keys and kids. Daniel and my niece grabbed their sweatshirts and we headed to the wild.

We needed the beauty of lofty grandeur and the majestic sight of trees.

Driving to our favorite woods, we raced to the fallen tree.

"It's still here!" Daniel yelled excitedly, jumping into descriptive narrative to his cousin.

The silence and sound of trees sighing sank deeply into my psyche. Finding a warm log and a tree to lean against, I sat and closed my eyes. Oak trees rose regally. The winds ebbed and flowed. Leaves scuttled and whirred quiet percussion. Bird calls rang in cascading crescendos.

Time passed in quiet peace and beauty. In raptured silence I listened, attentive to each rise and fall of the instruments, caught up in the cascading crescendos and rivulets of song, stopping only to smile or shift positions on the wooden tree trunk.


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Of Sicilians and Songs

Buried high inside a wooden cupboard, we find it.

"Alley" by Carl Campbell, Creative Commons cc license 

A dusty cardboard box with black marker states "Tapes for Car Trips."  And the music for our family's road trips stands shoulder to shoulder, encased in black plastic cassette tapes labeled with my Dad's handwriting. Pink Floyd, Dire Straits, Phil Collins, Dan Fogelberg and Bruce Cockburn. I'm not sure where all the Petra albums are, but here too are the Moody Blues and two cassettes marked simply, "Harmonica and Guitar, rock and blues."

Later in the day, Bruce Cockburn's husky Canadian vocals and fine guitar-playing swell through my kitchen, and the memories flood back, joy shining in.

Music is powerful.

We see it in tambourine-shaking Sicilians stepping out onto apartment balconies, stacked high to the sky. Cream-colored high rises stretch tall and the Italian men and women lean out, belt it loud, and call out new verses to each other. While quarantines fall tighter, death rates rise, and brave hospital staff around the world battle to save lives, we see beauty rise even higher.

Sicilians lean over balconies and sing to each other, keeping time with tambourines, accordions, and recording mobile phones.

I call over my husband, daughter, son and niece and hit replay on the short social media video clip of the Italians singing. Voices find their harmony, and I can see multiple instruments. Joyful, hope-filled tears rise to my eyes, and I hug my daughter. "It's happy tears," I explain to my son.

"There are videos of Chinese people shouting to each other from their homes too," Morgan says, her voice close to my ear as we all lean in to watch the clip again. "They're yelling encouragement to each other," she clarifies as my eyebrows raise.

"Where is it?" I ask and she shrugs.

"Online, you'll find it," she grins and heads downstairs.

And that's just it, huh?

As the headlines cycle, and the numbers rise, we battle it together. Together with Italy, Iran, China, and almost every other country, we can stand together.

We can stand up and lean out. We can look for ways to stand tall and to belt it out, these songs of solidarity and soul.

I hit print and watch a second sheet of paper head to our printer downstairs. "Hi, we're your neighbors at.... As Corona Virus heats up, we wanted you to know that we're here and we can try to help if you need it..."

I admit, I'm not quite sure how to do this. In a time of protective measures to guard those of lower immune systems, I don't think knocking on neighbors' doors may be the best step. So I'll pray and brainstorm how to get it to them.

For you and me today? God is big and good, and he walks beside us. He sings songs of love to his world, and I want to do that better too.

Singing beside you, my friend, and praying for the people battling hard things in our world today.


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Of Cancers and Suicide and Where to Find Joy that Sustains

In noisy bustling houses, we've poured more coffee and settled in close.

Photo Credit: Ell Brown, Creative Commons cc license

In a sunken living room last night at a friend's house, I pushed my grey footstool closer and we talked of kids, of this last year, and of the future. Pulling photographs from her purse, she showed me her son's senior pictures. We pored through eight or nine of them. His tousled blond hair caught the sunlight, and we debated which shot best captured him. Our talk moved on and, in between hope for the future, we voiced the hard things too. She laughed and ran hands through her hair, fatigue written between her eyes. I nodded and stretched out toes, arching ankles in a physical therapy habit from a decade ago after a sprained ankle. Hours later, after jokes, games and countless trips to the snack table, a church party crowd of us cheered in the New Year. Glittery plastic and streamer-lined kuzuus shrilled as children danced and bounced around us in a cacophony of noise.

Earlier on Christmas Eve, we brewed more coffee, laughed at the short intervals between meals, and slid up chairs around the dining room table. My tall twenty-four year old son and my gentle dark-haired daughter-in-law joined us. Newly-twenty-one year old daughter Morgan flopped onto the black couch beside Kate, and the young women grinned and worked on their art alongside each other: Morgan with digital pen and Kate with a crochet hook and soft yarn. My blue-eyed Irish Mom, my husband and I, and our two sons sorted playing cards into suits and calculated. My youngest, eleven year old Daniel, vacillated freely between clasping soft new toys, assembling plastic building pieces, and joining us at the table for games.

I watch them, my growing kids, and my heart swells with love so much it hurts and thrills me. These four that we get to call ours now -- they bring such joy. We delight to spend time with them, we love that they like to hang out here, and we are always honored when they ask to talk.

And I hear it, in my suddenly choked up throat in Sunday singing this week, how the joy and sorrow can be intertwined so deeply. Who ever said that life was simple or easy? Joys don't negate sorrows. Joyful hearts don't preclude the hard things in life. Standing, mouthing worship lyrics this past Sunday, I spoke them to Abba God, because the hards were crashing in.

Faces and names rose up in my mind, my heart sad with them. An acquaintance's suicide on Christmas day, her present from me still unwrapped and ready; her texts still lit in my phone. We waited her arrival in vain. Another friend watches handfuls of her blonde hair fall out from chemotherapy, her small children and husband looking on. Other family friends watch brain cancer steal away their dad's personality, saying small goodbyes each day now, even though he is still there.

In the row at church, I swallowed and talked honest to God. Choosing to worship You doesn't mean that life is easy. Choosing to thank you and to see the joy doesn't mean that life is blissful and pain-free.

And at home with journal and Bible, I stretch toes, twist ankles in habit therapy, and write out your words too. Seeking you out, speaking out the hard, naming the many good, stating again and again that you are good, that your character and promises are enough, that you are faithful to sustain, to be There, to walk with us through the hard, to carry my friends through their pain and yuck and sorrow... this is my therapy to untighten the hard, to loosen the tough, to move into the pain.

Joy is still there too. I watch blankets of snow drop silence and beauty, coating trees in white wonder. Slim black-capped chickadees and charcoal dark-eyed juncos dive-bomb red cranberries in the snow on my deck. I write out your words, seek You, and lean into the habits you've been teaching me, reminding my heart. You are trustworthy, you are good, you are here, you walk with us. Your heart can be trusted and you sustain and fortress your people.

And it slips joy in.


Hey, is reading the Bible more consistently one of your New Year's resolutions? Join me Monday nights, starting Jan. 6th, as we dive into the New Testament in my Cover to Cover Bible study group. Registration closes this week, so sign up now. It is open to all, and Village Schools of the Bible offers financial aid too. 

Join me? I can't wait to dig into the fast-paced true accounts of Jesus' life and death here and to watch the exciting urgent action of the early church growing, fleeing Roman emperors, and building lives centered on the truths and joys that surmount everything. 

If you are not receiving my posts by email yet,welcome. Simply enter your email address in the box under my bio at the top right of the page. Be part of any special invitations and don't miss a post!

Dear John MacArthur, You Chose Wrongly, my Brother

Dear John MacArthur,

You chose wrongly, my brother.

Your Two-Word answer should have been, "A sister."

Photo credit to Grace Church

I understand that maybe you answered impulsively, and that now, hopefully, you are regretting it.

I found your email address online, and I wanted to contact you directly. You are my brother in Jesus, and I think of you as someone who loves God and who loves his Words.

For us who have the honor of saturating ourselves in God's Words, though, our responsibilities are higher. A God-soaked life should radiate out of us into a love-saturated lifestyle, and a deep humility. 

When you derisively, dismissively, and dishonoringly said, "Go Home," in a word-association game about Beth Moore, you chose wrongly. Whatever your disagreements are theologically with another person, they do not lead to dishonoring, contempt-filled language. She is a sister in Jesus with whom you will spend eternity, across God's table.

At a ceremony honoring your fifty years as preaching pastor at a church called Grace, you displayed none. I am saddened, my brother, that this occasion that should have been marked with joy for you and your members is now framed in sad shame for the rest of us.

When Todd Friel set you up for this derisive comment, he embarrassed himself, and other Jesus-followers, and he shamed his title as a shepherd-pastor. When Phil Johnson called her narcissistic and claimed her teachings were self-focused, he was dishonoring to another brother or sister in Jesus, as well as incorrect.

You know that our God calls us to go directly to our brother or sister if we have a disagreement with them, not to name-call or attack them publicly. 

When nervous or complicit laughter broke out across your auditorium at the sight of three pastors dishonoring a fellow Jesus-follower, we shamed the name of Jesus. At a conference called Truth Matters, you did not honor the One Called Truth. Truth is a person, who calls us to live and walk in his Ways. Behind a website called "Grace to You," we have tripped and fallen and are not offering grace there this week.

Half of your constituents are women. Strong capable women, called Ezer Warrior Helpers by their God, the name he calls himself often in the Bible, meaning warrior, ally, comrade. Many other wise people have already answered back against your claims on women this week, though, here, here, and here.

That is not the aim of my letter to you, though. My brother, you chose wrongly. Your Two-Word answer should have been "a sister." 

Please speak up in humble gentle apology to the watching world. Our God watches. The world watches. Our words matter. Our attitudes lay naked, exposed, and our words carry power. As family in Jesus, we can always agree or disagree with each other, but our model is to do it in honoring, respectful ways, and to their faces.

I'm clicking "send" to this email to you, and Todd, and Phil, and praying hard.

Sincerely, respectfully,

Jennifer Dougan
a sister in this God-family around the world