The Shopkeeper's Secret (and It Impacts You)

"'I'm here for my rose,' she'd say."

Mary stopped speaking and pushed her red hair behind an ear.

"Each week she came in, this sweet retired school teacher. ...There were photos everywhere in her home of her kids. School kids would come back year after year to visit her, even when they were married and grown. They'd send her Christmas cards with family photos, and Char would add the photos to her walls. Her walls were covered with photographs. She loved her students and loved being part of their lives as they grew up."

Mary stopped to run a hand across her face. Hot chlorine-scented steam surrounded us at the public pool. We paused to glance at the swimmers in nearby lessons, and then returned to talking.

"When her husband was dying, he set it up: one peach rose for her. Every Tuesday Char would come to the flower shop where I worked."

Photo Credit: Flickr user Adam Jones, Creative Commons cc license

'I'm here for my rose!' she said.

"She and her husband were Christians and had married later when they were in their forties or so," Mary continued.

"He grew roses, and they had met over that. At his home he grew bush after bush of peach roses. They were his favorite colored rose. He always said he didn't know why he would grow any other flower."

Mary chuckled and shrugged.

"And that's what he arranged for her to receive every week after he died: one peach rose. She came in every week, and everyone in our shop knew her."

Mary paused to check on her grand-children in the pool, and I breathed it in, this act of love throughout the ages.

What a great way to show love, I thought, wriggling my bare toes on the wet tiled floor. Cheeks red with heat, I pushed shirt sleeves higher up my arms and leaned back in my bench. What did a gesture like that cost, I wondered.

And I loved the foresight of this flower-loving, wife-loving man to set up a fund that weekly supplied his bride with the reminder that he loved her, that he had thought of her, long after he had gone.

It reminds me of Easter, actually. This costly act of love that ripples back throughout the years, weekly reminders of our God's love for us. Jesus endured a Roman torture death to show the world how much he loved it. Our humanity-loving Creator chose to die so that he could give us life.

His love takes my breath away.

And he invites us into a relationship with him, boldly saying, "I have come that they may have Life and have it abundantly."

Too often, I think, I grow complacent, lazy, and forget to be grateful. I forget to stand up smiling, eager, thankful.

So I stand up today, and speak it out in grateful love. "I'm here for this New Life.  ...He already purchased it for me."


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Our Bold Dares

It's audacious and daring actually. What is it about this bold act that says it'll ever work?

We push fingers into dark soil, scooping out vaults. Then with brazen hands we press small brown bulbs into the earth and claim they'll rise again.

Burying them, covering them, we smooth the ground and walk away, with nary a trace of them left.

It feels like a swindlers trick, a money scam, and yet every few years I peruse bags, choose colors, and plop money down.

On a sunny day this month, I kneeled onto damp green grass. Red leaves swirled and dropped. Yellow maple trees shivered and shook in the breeze. Autumn afternoon sun scattered brilliantly across a shocking blue sky. And the beauty caught me. I stopped and snapped photos.

It relaxes me, this time of plunging hands into earth, smelling the loam and dirt. I scooped and filled, scooped and filled. Planting bulbs in October reminded me of my Dad's death, the one year anniversary of it came and went October 27th.

While heaven's hello is still far off, I know the results of pressing violet, fuchsia, and yellow tulip bulbs into the ground, along with tall bobbing purple alium heads. I've seen them. Can't deny them. I look forward to seeing them each year, and have been bowled over by the gorgeous beauty that springs from them.

Bold, brave, audacious flowers erupt each year from dark empty-looking dirt. I've seen it. I know it to be true.

And so I peruse bags, choose colors, and pick up my dusty trowel. It looks different at the end. The splendorous results are nothing like the simple bulbs I handle now, and I know it to be true. Life will come. This is not the end.

Several days later, my husband and I clear off the kitchen table, and plop heavy pumpkins on it. Six squat orange squash await faces. I pile knives and carving tools around them, and scatter empty bowls around for the seeds and pumpkin pieces that'll follow.

"Mom, when are they here?" Daniel asks impatiently, popping his head in the door.

"Soon, buddy! Want to climb a tree?"

He dashes out, eager for his big brother, sister-in-law, and sister to arrive.

For hours into the night, six of us smiled giddy at our pumpkins, imagining their faces, picturing who they would be. We carved and cut, deliberated and decorated. Deep dish pizza slices dripped juices and oil onto small plates. Tangy lime papaya cubes glistened as we popped them in our mouths.

Pumpkin seeds waited and dried, spread across metal trays. Sometimes the good things are now, sometimes we have to wait.

But the bold dares? The audacious hopes? They seem less daring as the evidence piles up, as each year's experiences and gifts stack before me.

Our God's gifts are constant, tender, daily as the sun. His presence is there. He walks beside us. Some gifts are now. Some gifts we await.

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Don't Blink. Don't Miss a Moment of the Joy!

Basketballs ricocheted off concrete and clanged against blue chain link.

I plucked green grass and bent it methodically in fours, snapping after each bend.

"Are you okay?" I had asked her. "Your eyes look sad."

She laughed wryly, surprised, and we started talking more. Four of us sat on a blue blanket, legs outstretched or tucked up under us, and we spoke of our families. She shared for a while. We offered ideas, and then we chose prayer. Praying in rusty French, I walked with my sisters to our Heavenly Dad.

This was the day of the phone not working, I remember. Accompanying one of my American students back to the Paris airport for an earlier departure to the United States, I had then traveled back across France alone by train, metro, and bus to join French and Belgian friends in a park in northern France.

My borrowed Belgian phone refused to connect. An automated French message told me that part of my phone's number needed to be registered. Plus there was the complication of using a Belgian phone to call a French number, and therefore the phone number would alter slightly.

"Okay, drop the 32, add a zero..." I mused aloud, "or if calling France, drop the 33, and add a zero?"

Flitting back and forth across the French-Belgian border and calling friends with both numbers, I tapped again and again into my borrowed phone, with no results.

Gathering my courage and my French, I approached friendly-looking French and Belgian strangers again and again that day. On sidewalks in Lille beside soaring tall white train stations, and on crowded city buses in Belgium, I was entranced time and again by the graciousness of strangers. Beautiful moments of connecting over phone issues led to kind conversations, warm smiles, and the chance for me to thank them and to shower God's blessing on them.

Reunited with my friends by the basketball court later, I thanked God for the fun adventures and the people I had been gifted to meet that day, and settled down onto the blue blanket. Conversation ebbed and flowed around us and our love for each other grew.

And that's what it was, I noticed... a love for each person I had seen or met. A surreal beauty of striding through any city, any country, any street, and seeing the thousands of people around me, knowing that God knows them each by name, that he is enamored with them, that he delights in them and loves them fiercely. And I? I got a chance to see them, to walk by them, to pray for them and love them joyfully, yet with only a fraction of what his love for them is.

Weeks later, back in the United States, this feeling remains. Choosing to stop and truly see people, to try to love them, pray for them, and ask God for rich blessings on them is a joy and a privilege. 

I smile at strangers in my grocery store, start up conversations with the cashier, and savor long the talks with friends at Minnesota parks too.

And on a Sunday night in Minneapolis, I join my Mom for the honor of a Somali wedding party. Glamorous, beautifully-robed women in glittering veils and jewelry surrounded us. They were breath-taking and gracious. Our hostess, the mother of the bride, welcomed us, motioning us over to a a table better suited to view the dancing circle.

Drumbeats led the dancing and chanted blessings. Lilting Arabic tongue trills amplified the excitement, and women rushed in to swirl veils around their heads, over the griot's microphoned head, and back into the dancing circle again. Taking turns, pairs or trios of women rushed into the circle, danced and stamped out their blessings, whirling and twirling in sparkly, iridescent beauty. My mom and I stood and clapped along, our faces creased in warm joy at the honor of being invited to share this celebration, and full of our Creator's love for these new global sisters.

Can you see it too? The beauty and joyful honor in being able to meet and smile and to be Love to the people around you? We have the joyful gift of being able to see and to savor the gorgeous beauty of God's people all around us. Each moment, each conversation, is a gift.

Happy summer, friend. I have missed being here with you. How is your summer? What have been highs and lows for you? Feel free to comment below and I would be honored to cheer with you over the good and to cry and pray with you over the hard parts. (Those in email can click here to join the conversation.) 

I'm excited to start up my 2018-2019 speaking and teaching season again. Many of us have been talking already as we set up opportunities for me to come teach at your church, retreat, homeschool co-op, MOMS group and more. Feel free to email my Speaking Board and I to check availability for your group's next event and to save your date on my calendar. 

If you are interested in joining me for the Cover to Cover Bible survey class where we read through the whole Bible in a year and get college-level Bible learning, there are still some spots left. Simply register through Village Schools of the Bible here. 

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The Question that Dangles For Us Who Grieve in this Season

It was after her question at the hardware store. Trudging across broken pavement in biting snowy cold, we pushed hands in pockets deep, my arm through hers protectively.

Inside the red box store, she asked it --my mom wanting to know -- and it has reverberated inside the depths of me still.

"I want the kind that keeps burning even if one has burned out."

Photo Credit: Flickr user Rakka, Creative Commons cc license

She's holding a defective string of Christmas lights, but it feels like me. How do we keep burning even if part of us is gone?

At the customer service desk earlier, we had graciously handed back the cardboard box of twinkly lights, sliding the receipt beside it.

"Anything wrong with them?" a red-sweatered woman asked smiling.

"Nope, they're just the wrong ones. I want the lights that'll keep burning even if one bulb is dead."

Later in the parking lot, we walk arm in arm and I unlock her door first.

"Jennifer, I've realized that I need to let my friends know what I've been learning -- what God has been teaching me in these hard times. God has been teaching Dad and I so much about suffering..." she trails off, her voice breaking slightly.

Dad is gone, and Mom has been sobbing in the loving closeness of her God as she walks through the grief of losing her husband.

Her friends are veiled elegant North African women, emigrated to Minneapolis. My mom learns the lilting beauty of their language and helps them navigate English grammar and vocabulary. They eat sambosas and saffron-flavored rice, and speak often of husbands, children, and aging parents faraway.

"I get to tell them of the hope we have in Jesus and of the confidence we have that Bruce will be in heaven with God."  Mom spoke excitedly of the Christmas presents she was gathering for her international friends, and she carefully chose cards to accompany them.

At home later, Mark and I uncoil our own long strands of lights and assemble them end to end. Wrapping the tree in strands of red, blue, green, and yellow, all the wiry lights culminate into one outlet plug. Electric current courses and the lights shine on.

Verses of Bible truth grab me this Christmas break as we march wise men to a starry stable and gather shepherds near, their sheep already fallen over. I pour eggnog and grind another portion of French Press coffee beans. In crowded rooms here and there, we pass gingerbread men and Belgium chocolate truffles, talking loudly as nieces and nephews race with toys underfoot.

And my mom, sister, and I plug into our Source again and again, drawing strength and constancy from God. As the tears come, and we count it out -- two months now since Dad died-- we play his songs, and laughing-cry as we scroll through old photographs.

This intermingled grief with joy is a sharper chapter for me now, a newly-formed reality. As the question bubbles up: "How do I keep burning even when part of me has burnt out?" I sense the answer.

Pulling out pen and paper, I reflect further. I trace the words and underline "In Him" and the lights keep burning -- through no strength of their own.

"We wait in hope for the Lord; 
He is our help and shield. 
In Him our hearts rejoice for we trust in his Holy Name. 
May your unfailing love rest upon us, O Lord, even as we put our hope in you." Psalm 32:20-22.

Merry Christmas, you. May this New Year bring you an even deeper sense of God's rich love for you and his delight in you. May you rest in his presence. What have you been reflecting on this month?

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The Chicken and the Egg in a Bedroom of Silk Sheets

I've seen the chill creep right up through a marriage -- seen it in others and watched it frost up my own. I know firsthand the battle to restore romance, one choice at a time. And while experts are right that hostility shrinks up desire, experts also point out this powerful hope: any relationship can be transformed as both people work at it.

Photo Credit: Flickr user Mercedes Dayonara, Creative Commons, cc license

Restoring romance, chiseling off the chinked walls that creep in, and softening our hearts one moment at a time can bring amazing hope and change. Rekindling instant romance with the one you love starts with smaller steps than I thought possible. With our gritty grace-filled words, re-focused attitudes, and softened hearts, we can melt angry hurt and restore intimacy.

...I like science.

And you grin to hear me say this in a post about marriage, but there is some neurological chemistry that has changed how I view sex. For many women, sex is something we are interested in once we feel connected to our man. (And the days' harried pace needs to be beaten back with some conversation, eye contact, cuddling, and a helpful hand around the house from our handsome men.) For many married men, however, sex is the solace, the conduit, and the very act that rekindles connection and intimacy with their wives. It's the chicken and the egg dilemma, except in a bedroom with silk sheets.

And the science behind What Sex Unlocks in Marriage is fascinating. This neurological chemistry floods oxytocin through a man's brain, instantly re-bonding him and connecting him more devotedly to his wife and family. Gary Thomas, in his article, The Power of Pure Passion, unpacks this further.

So, grab your man. Have him splash on that cologne, and go disappear into your room.

Our God is a clever and playful inventor, isn't he?

(This is the third post in a series on Let's Talk about Sex. The first two are: The Lie that Will Ruin Your Sex Life, and Of Sex and Cheesecake.)

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

What Your Beloved Wants to Tell You

"O M W," he texts me. It would have been cryptic and uncrackable if he hadn't just warned us. "I'll text you when I'm on my way," he had said, his eyes flashing excitement, hair freshly-cut, the ring safely tucked away.

"They're on their way," I called out to Mark, Daniel, and Morgan. Grabbing my camera, I dashed outside, bare feet trampling warm spring grass.

"Isn't it like a twenty minute bike ride, Mom?" Morgan asked.

"I don't mind." I wandered in my front yard, soaking in the seventy degree sunshine, stroking red tulip heads and brushing fingers through velvety hedge growth.

And then they were in view. John and Kate, cycling on the borrowed tandem bike, faces giddy and flushed with excitement, turned into our driveway. Kate's face was still red and tears slipped down. She grinned, shyly wiping them, and her diamond ring caught the light.

"Congratulations! Let's see the ring!" They giggled and stepped off the bike, standing arm in arm.

Mark, Morgan, Daniel and I took turns hugging our eldest son, John, and his new fiancee, Kate. I snapped photographs like a madwoman.

That night after the dozens of phone calls to the relatives, after our two new families merged for an impromptu family grill-out of hot dogs and watermelon, and after praying aloud on the back deck for the new couple, everyone went home, and an emotional happy silence fell on the house.

"Mom, do you know about Jewish weddings?" John asked, towering over me at the sink as I washed hands.

With neither family Jewish, his question surprised me. "Well, my grandpa performed a Jewish wedding for my cousin years ago..." I trailed off.

"Well, I've been learning about this somewhere. Did you know in some Jewish customs the bridegroom had to go to his father's house and prepare a home for his wife before he could marry her?"

Sudden word pictures sank in deep to me.

"We're like the bride," he said, and the beauty of it surged clearer to me.

Jesus's words in the biblical book of John chapter fourteen rang in sharper meaning for me suddenly. Jesus talked about the rooms in his Father's house, and about going there to prepare a place for us. "And if I go to prepare a place for you, I will come again and take you" with me so that we can be together there, he said.

It strikes me that we're all the pretty, shiny red-cheeked fiancees, and our Beloved is coming soon.


(If you are near the Farmington area, you are welcome to check ticket-availability to join me at the Mother-Daughter luncheon at Bible Baptist Church this Saturday, May 14th. I'm looking forward to that time and sharing there with them.)

Korean Octopus, and You, and Me

"Whoa, octopus! Let's get some."

He's peering in past a frosted glass window to a ten-inch package of purple tentacled octopus legs coiled tightly, their suction cups pointed out at us. In an international Asian grocery store with green tea popsicles and dried mango slices, I love that seven year old Daniel is brave and eager to try new things.

Photo: J. Griffin Stewart, Creative Commons, cc license

"We'll see," I murmur, "I don't know how to cook them yet."

Twenty minutes later in the deli section, we see it, and my husband and I grin to each other. "Daniel, remember how you wanted to eat octopus? They have it here. We'll get some!"

He cheers and skips happily as we edge closer to the counter. Soon we are crowded around a small square table, the three of us sharing a monstrous bowl of soup and nibbling steaming octopus dumplings. He slurps beside us, wrestling with his chop sticks on the miles of ramen noodles, and the beauty of this moment etches itself onto my heart. Japanese, Korean, Chinese, Vietnamese, Hmong, and our European blend of German, English, Irish, and Czech whirl and pass in this busy, jumping restaurant, a gorgeous mix of cultures and languages. And I love that I can sip spicy Japanese soup, sample Korean octopus dumplings, and pass tall elegant veiled Somali women on the sidewalk outside.

We finish our meal, wipe up our spills, and carry the dishes to a back corner. Paying for the groceries, we drag a metal cart holding our fifty pound bag of rice to the car, and turn towards home. In the car, the Minneapolis skyline dips and whirs past, and the beauty of cultures reminds me of heaven.

Daniel surprised me recently. Sitting on the couch beside me, he said, "I have a Korean friend."

"Yeah, you do," I agreed, thinking of his cousin and several friends from church. "That's cool, huh?"

"I'm a little Korean too," he stated matter-of-factly.

"Really?" I asked, curious to see where this was going, looking at my son's summer-highlighted caramel hair, brown eyes, and peach face.

"Yeah, I have the shirt."

And I laughed to remember that his cousin and his friends had all received the same soccer jersey he had from a recent missions trip. And apparently having identical shirts from overseas makes him Korean.

I hugged him and thought about heaven where the Bible says we will have people from every language and people group around the Creator's throne, and I can't wait. You and me? We're part of an international family. It is beautiful, vibrant, and requires action some days too. 


I have the shirt.

What the Mirror Can't Tell You

The scissors snipped.

Photo: Astrid Westvang, Creative Commons, cc license

A chunk of hair slipped into the sink below, and instantly I knew. This was something best left for the ones who know: the pros who can feather and layer hair styles, not leaving a gaping column of hair, slashed off in error.

Have you ever just wanted a change? I wanted subtle face-framing layers. Studying hair styles for a few days, I found some ideas, and grabbed the scissors Tuesday night. Halfway through one side of my head, I knew, and a laughing dread slipped chuckles out of me while I stared into the mirror.

Mark walked in after I finished the second side. Seeing the seven inch-long locks of hair in the sink and my sheepish grin, he groaned and laughed with me. "What did you do?"

Shyly I flipped the hair in front, and we stared at the forlorn results in the mirror. Big brown eyes framed by two painfully-obvious haircut fails looked back, and we laughed. He hugged me, and I shook my head, giggling and pressing in deep.

There's a safety in a marriage love that is breath-taking and stalwart, that settles deep into our bones. This love, modeled first by our Creator God, seeks to love unconditionally, to see beauty in a soul that whispers, moves, breathes, and lives, unhindered by outer accouterments.

I showered the next morning and arranged a quick haircut appointment, but our beauty is never limited by hair styles or clothing or jean size, women. Your beauty flows out from you in the way your laughter dances in your eyes, the way you sneeze so uniquely, and the way you treat the people in your life. You are loved and delighted in by an Artist God. And the loved ones in our lives? They strive to love as well as this God Being, who models it first to us, and then watches it trickle down to the people around us.

Into a dark six-thirty morning, my six-year old crept quietly around the bed to whisper in my ear. "Hi, Mom, I'm awake."

"Hi, buddy. You can play in your room. Dad and I are going to sleep a bit more, okay?"

The door clicked shut behind him. Mark and I moved sleepily to the center of the bed, and snuggled into spoon mode. His right arm slid under my pillow. Pulling me close, he wrapped his left arm around me. We slid aside my long hair from tickling his face, and adjusted our pillows in automatic mode. There is a rhythm that sinks deeply into loved ones, where nestling in can come without thought or much wakefulness. I slid back, feeling his chest rise and fall in slow breaths against my back. My breathing soon matched his, the warmth of his body wrapping my frame, and we dozed.

There is a safety in a love that is breath-slowing, breath-forming, and stalwart. It settles in, deep into our bones, freeing beauty, freeing us to see love and give love, modeled first to us by our God.

For When You Wonder if You're Seen

Photo: Cedric Lange, Creative Commons cc license

Purple and orange cream sliced the horizon in layers as twilight sank into cold winter night. I scrawled a few lines in my journal during a work lull Monday night, before clocking out for the day. Twining the black scarf around me in layers and zipping my red jacket up high, I crunched through swirling snow.

A duo of pecking fights Sunday night had left us hollow and discouraged. My heart was tired from them. Sunday night's family supper had quickly soured, and the intended bonding time wasn't. We spent the evening in different corners of the house.

Monday morning we kissed stiffly and chose to hug, trying to start fresh but still fearful of communication minefields. In my journal late Monday afternoon, I wrestled and asked hard questions.

Because what we all really want in a relationship is to be seen and found interesting. We long to be sought after. And those needs? Your needs, my needs, our men's needs? They are valid and real. And the truth is, our loves have sought us out and found us interesting. There have been times of great connection and there will be again. But in the moment, the unresolved tensions or the lack of quality time together can bring out the lonely and the missing in a heart. 

I crunched through a layer of shattered snow, skidding slightly on the ice below, praying and resolving. Asking God to help me start fresh tonight, asking his help to speak kindly, to respectfully build up, to listen better, and to see my man's heart behind his choices or words, I sucked in cold air and shoved my hands deeper into silky pockets. Rush-hour cars crackled by, and the sky turned pink and violet. Almost unconsciously, I straightened my torso, threw my shoulders back, and took deep full breaths through my nose. A hope-filled peace settled in.

Several blocks later, I stepped over a pine threshold onto a red swirled rug and walked upstairs. My husband smiled and came over. We kissed, lingering.

"Let's go out tonight," he suggested, holding me close. "Let's go right now."

We hugged longer, smiling, before I raced off to gather a few supper items for the kids. Fifteen minutes later we drove on a dark Monday night, eager for this chance to re-connect, to truly see each other, and to be seen. We talked for hours, holding hands across a booth counter still oily from drippy hamburgers, laughing and seeking each other out. Happy peace settled in.

May I encourage you today that our God sees your heart? He knows that occasional lonely and missing ache, and he longs to fill it in tangible, good-for-you ways. The God, whose very nature breathes in rhythm from within a three-in-one trinity relationship, knows you and loves you. He is at work in me and in you, bringing hope and intimacy.

What Is It For You?

This post is part of the Atlas Girl Blog Tour which I am delighted to be a part of along with hundreds of other bloggers. To learn more and join us, CLICK HERE.

It still does it to me, the smell of popcorn. It reminds me of home.

Home wasn't a zip code, a particular house, or the number of years in a place for me. Those changed and there were many.

Rural American bullfrogs bellowed from the cowponds, and I climbed high into a green apple tree. Corn fields rippled for miles, tall honey-colored grasses swayed, and lawn mowers droned sleepy in the distance.

In another setting, mango trees swayed high above our cement block house, while tropical rains hammered and crashed on our metal zinc roofs in a way that still leaves me nostalgic. Rice bubbled over coal pot fires, and neighbors chopped sugar cane stalks, throwing a chunk to the monkey pet nearby.

You know it too. That smell, sight, or sound that reminds you of home. Because no matter what state or country we were in, my mom and dad made it home with a few simple touches. Scrounging up batteries or electricity, they slipped in some family-favorite musicians and suddenly music slid through the house. Familiar refrains from Bruce Cockburn, Kansas, Pink Floyd, Phil Keaggy, and Michael Card peeked around corners, explored new houses, and traipsed over our luggage to each of our family of five. Instantly, our shoulders relaxed and we stretched out our legs.

Mom popped popcorn, shaking kernels at the bottom of any large pot she found, fiercely holding down the lid, as corn rattled in the oil and exploded. She shook her hips and torso in an attempt to give every kernel a chance at the heat and oil; we watched my dad watch her and smile or steal up for a kiss.

And suddenly, we were home.

 My blogging friend, Emily T. Wierenga, award-winning journalist and author of 4 books, has released her first memoir, Atlas Girl: Finding Home in the Last Place I Thought to Look. I was honored to read a sneak preview of the first two chapters before it was released, and now I am scarfing down my newly-arrived full-length copy of the book, and enjoying it. You can grab a copy here. All proceeds go to Lulu Tree in Africa. #Atlasgirl

Can You Picture When It Switched For You?

 I remember when it switched.

You had always been my comfort-Mom, the one I called upstairs late at night when my middle school friends and I had scared ourselves with sleepover ghost stories. Sara's tales of a come-alive puppet proved too much for us that summer, and suddenly my five-foot tall rag doll Jenny was terrifying. We could almost see it sitting up and slipping nearer, so we yelled as loud as we could-- Amy, Sara and I-- hoping you could hear us downstairs and across the house. You came, prayed with us, laughed at our foolishness, and probably scolded us some too, but you took the doll and our fear away with you.

Dad was our protector, you were comfort, and all was well with the world. It's not that you two were perfect, but you loved us, you loved God, and you lived authentically before us.

Minnesota corn fields turned to Pennsylvanian's green rolling hills, and then to Liberia's lush African wetlands. Some months into our new home there, it happened.

You and I had been taking long hikes across town to the open air market and back each day, sloshing through mud puddles where the dirt squished up over our flipflops and between our toes, or swirling up cyclones of red dust in the dry season. We carried heavy plastic bags of groceries home each day, and guzzled down water they sold in tiny plastic baggies. In our green cement block house with no electricity, refrigeration wasn't an option, so any perishable foods had to be bought and eaten each day. We feasted on juicy mangoes, creamy avocados, fresh glinting-scaled fish that slapped in dead motion against my legs as we walked, and pineapples.

Wow, our African friends worked hard. We joined them, living with them, beside them, and jumping full-blast into their way of doing life. Squatting between our knees, we rubbed sloshing clothes in buckets by hand, hanging them dripping from clotheslines. You kneeled beside coal pots, blowing red embers to flicker into flame, and you cooked new African dishes each day over steaming metal pots.

At night, our family of five sprawled happy and relaxed under mango trees and in hammocks, listening to neighbors toss jokes between cement block porches and an orchestra of crickets. We loved our life there, but the learning curve was sharp as we struggled to catch up to our strong hard-working African friends.

After months of drawing water from the well, walking miles to and from the market, and the endless loads of laundry by hand, malaria slipped in quiet one night. And that's when it switched.

You were feverish and pale, shaking with chills under as many blankets as we could find in our African home of one hundred degree weather. Tie-dyed sheets flushed crimson and shook under your shivering frail body. Nauseated, dehydrated, and weak, you pulled your sheets to your chin, and I peeked in worried.

It's not that you were ever invincible, but I unwittingly thought you were, and then suddenly you were dangerously ill, and the world stopped.

I brought you water, urged you to drink, and tried to make you laugh. In the kitchen, I reminded my siblings to continue their school, and then numbly chopped potato greens, diced onions, and tried not to burn the rice. Time slowed.

I remember when it switched. And this friendship now, this relationship, is sweeter because of it.

Moms and dads of all ages, we can and should still be comfort to our kids, but when it changes and they get to comfort us as well, that is a good thing too. As sisters, brothers, friends together, we continue. 

Happy Mother's Day, Mom, to the mom who still comforts me, and yet who lets me comfort and pray for her too. I enjoy doing life together.

(And I am blessed to have a dear sweet mother-in-law as well, whom I enjoy doing life together too. You will get to meet her in another blogpost.)

How Flashes Deep With an Atom Reflect the Life We're Searching For

"Oh, I forgot to tell you! As I was driving to come get you just now, John, something fell off the car."

Both kids looked at me in surprise.

"Fell off the car?"

"Yes, I felt something tumble off the bottom of the car and, looking back in my rearview mirror, I saw something roll away."

The kids laughed, exclaimed, and followed me to the door. John was already looking for his flipflops.

"Do you want to go find the part for me?" I asked, grinning at him, describing the spot just up the road where I had turned onto the highway. He grunted happily at finding his sandals in the jumble of winter boots and shoes, and opened the door. 

"Here's where it fell off from," he stated proudly as soon as we were outside, peering under the back of the car. Where the muffler should have been was a gap, leading from an open pipe. John sauntered off comfortably in the blue twilight, my laughter following him.

In my daughter's ninth grade science book this week we have been reading about the wild intricate behaviors of proton, neutrons, and electrons within an atom. Inside the nucleus is a flurry of activity where protons and neutrons exchange tiny particles called pions in a frenzy of energy. Electromagnetically, like charges repel each other. Protons, as positively-charged aspects of the atom, should repel each other, like same-sided magnets do. Yet, mysteriously, they don't.

Bewildered scientists wondered for years why the protons' positive charges didn't repel each other and explode. They knew there must be a strong force holding everything together, but didn't know what it was. Experiments and observations hinted at the existence of this strong force, but not much was known of it until the 1930s and 40s. Eventually scientists confirmed the existence and nature of this strong force, the strongest force in creation.

And my daughter and I at the couch are reading the textbook, underlining key parts, and giggling about this knowledge, as we try to illustrate and act it out. And do you know what thrills me about this force?

This strongest force in all creation, this strong force that overrules normal magnetism and is stronger than gravity... this strong force in science reminds me of the Trinity. Protons and neutrons are huddled so closely in the nucleus of the atom because they are giving of themselves. Taking part of themselves to manufacture pion particles, they give sacrificially to each other. Over and over they break off part of themselves, and give to the other. In what reminds me of sacrificial love, there is a frenzy of breaking and making and giving and receiving, and breaking and making and giving and receiving. Pions flash as gifts that last for a brief instant then are gone.

Giving of themselves to each other, they are wrapped intricately close. This-- the strongest force in creation-- is woven so tightly that all other natural laws of magnetism, poles, and gravity are broken, and in the center of the atom, unseen by the world, protons and neutrons give of themselves and hand off themselves as endlessly-given gifts to each other. And it's the strongest force in science.

We get glimpses of that other-focused giving, in our families and friendships at times. I grin as my son strides back in the house, depositing an angular muffler on our front step, and it reminds me of this endless giving we see in this science, and in our God.

I see it in you as you love and care for the people in your lives. I see it in moms, dads, grandparents, siblings, relatives, friends and neighbors. This strong force. This breaking and making and giving...

Who knew it was modeled in pions buried deep within the atoms?


(Photo Credit: Mufflers: Michael Ash, Creative Commons,cc license.
Photo Credit: Atom: Argonne National Lab, Creative Commons, cc license.)


Linking with Emily at Imperfect Prose.

Shhh, They're Playing Your Song!

Photo Credit: Paulo Vicente, Creative Commons, cc

It's jarring and unexpected. Beer advertisements jangle loudly across my Kenny G saxophone instrumentals every five seconds. The latest in internet viruses seems to be this one, attacking online radio stations with incessant invisible advertisements. More than just the occasional advertisement between songs, these ads soon play nearly non-stop, blocking out all music.

As I look into tackling this computer issue, it strikes me how often our lives are like this too, though. Our Creator woos us, serenading us with songs of love. Too often, our focus is pulled off him. Others' voices, songs, and noises pop up, and soon his song is buried under chaos.

Want to clear away the noise with me tonight? Take a moment to pause life, turn off other distractions, quiet your mind, and listen to the original Singer. He's singing to you tonight.

"The Lord your God is with you,
He is mighty to save.
He will take great delight in you,
He will quiet you with his love
He will rejoice over you with singing." (Zephaniah 3:17)

Shhh, they're playing your song...

Happy Valentine's weekend, friend. Know that you are loved, pursued, and delighted in, by the Lover of your soul. He's playing your song...

The Love that Leaves Us Breathless

Photo: Flickr User: Daniela Silicz, Creative Commons, cc

There is a woman I know. Blonde hair hangs short on her neck as she races up and down stairs a million times a day, laughing breathlessly at the pedometer she wore for a week to count the steps. Steps that swept in love through peanut butter and jelly toast to a daughter with special needs, steps that answered worried calls from a child who wants to know she's near. My blonde haired friend kneads bread, measures gluten-free alternatives, and makes suppers from scratch, because that speaks love to her family's health. She hikes steps countless times a day, and her love for family tumbles over.

There is a woman I know. Brown curls tease the sides of her face whether she is cracking jokes or sharing about hard days. Wrapping arms round her kids, they pray "in Jesus' big and strong name," bringing all things to him. And on those hard days, when child mental health anxieties flail tiny limbs against a mother's safe body, this woman cushions in silent weeping love. In between occasional childhood angst, laughter rolls across a kitchen that smells deliciously of egg rolls and home made plum sauce, and her entryway screams welcome. I see love spilling across burnished hardwood floors and scattered shoes.

There is a woman I know.

She looks like you.

I see you. I know the way you care for your family on the days that you are tired. I see it in your kids' faces and their zipped up jackets when we pass in the hall or meet in a store. Scrounging creatively for meals after a tiring day, you still have homework to inquire about, spelling words to glance at, and the mystery of three mismatched socks on the floor.

I see you. The way you work to care for your man, striving to see him --really see him!--to love him, to learn his needs, to want the best marriage, even on the hard days. I see you.

Our God sees you too. You are loved, delighted in, prized. His very name means breath, pneuma, and his love for you tumbles over, spilling out, filling us with life.

There is a woman I know. She looks like you, and her love leaves others breathless.

(and counting with Ann at A Holy Experience...)

How to Heat Up Any Frosted Marriage

Photo Credit: Sami Ben Garbia, Creative Commons cc

Arctic chills coat the lower corner of the window with ice and send cold drafts into me. I shiver in my green long sleeves, wishing I had a sweater with me. Bob Marley sings through the coffee shop speakers, and a three-person business meeting continues at the table behind me. Hot coffee scalds my mouth futilely as I huddle my shoulders and tuck hands between my knees to warm up.

Arctic chills can slip into marriage relationships just as suddenly. Lingering resentments, feelings of loneliness or not being appreciated, and even just long hours at work can grow frost in any relationship. Men and women from all ages approach me after speaking engagements to share their hearts. If this is you, you are not alone. Any marriage can be thawed out with God's help and gentle intentionality. 

Knowing that chills can creep in from unkind comments, unresolved issues, and harsh unapologetic attitudes, our de-thaw remedies begin there.

My husband and I recently found ourselves needing to un-thaw momentarily too. Climbing into the car after work one day, I kissed him for the surprise pick up. Gentle silence fell, though, in the wake of something we needed to talk about. Intentionally choosing soft hearts, we tried to speak respectfully, to ask clarifying questions, and to offer humble reconciliation. Sometimes, it takes our feelings longer to catch up. We've learned that when we choose to invest in the relationship and to meet each other's needs despite our moods, joy dividends pay off.

That evening, we took turns caring for our family and each other. Mark cooked dinner while I helped Morgan with homework, and connected with Daniel in Uno. Behind us, Mark stirred red curry soups of ginger and lime. After supper, while Morgan and Daniel watched a show together, I worked quietly on some writing deadlines, trying to be done early. Daniel crawled up on my lap throughout that time too, missing me from my afternoon at work. I paused writing to snuggle and tickle my five year old.

After putting Daniel to bed, I revised and finished my writing project, still not quite satisfied with it, but settling for now. I looked at Mark and we left our computers to sit on the couch. Intentionally entwining our legs and chests, we watched a few British comedies together, the closeness and laughter melting and bonding us naturally.

We chose to bond, moving in for quiet kisses. Then, with a glance between us, I ran a quick bath, while he cleared away supper. We met in our room and locked the door. Later, happy, breathless and completely relaxed, we fell asleep.

The next morning, we hugged happy for the day, lingered in kisses before his work, and prayed together. Joy dividends, with God's help and our intentionality, had paid off. I would love to say that we remember this every time, but I'm just thankful for each time God teaches us this, and whispers patiently, "Choose this. Choose obedience to me in any relationship, Jen. It brings joy."

How Do You Live Without Regrets?

 "Jen, do whatever it takes to rearrange your schedule and make it happen. It may well be your last chance."

The email finds me late one night, as insomnia stalks me. Curled up in the corner near an outlet, I'm reading emails after midnight. Blue light from the ipad casts a blinding glow across my corner, throwing shadows into the sleeping house.

She's right, of course, my sister. It's been four years since I've seen my grandma, and she was just transferred to a retirement home.

The next morning, I made my case to my husband; he kindly agreed, and we set in motion the long line of phone calls, cancellations, and work schedule changes. Six days later, I kissed my family goodbye, grabbed my backpack and drove to my parents' home for the carpooling road trip to Florida.

In two long days of driving, we passed corn fields, farmlands, barren strips with windmills, and bobbing carpets of pink cosmos blossoms. State lines ushered in rising temperatures, cotton fields, pecan orchards, and finally, sloping palm trees.

 My grandma is 86 years old, and has raised six strong, hard-working children who love their families. Children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren span the country, while our matriarch sits quietly on a black fold-up walker in her new center's tropical backyard. Air plants coiled sinewy vines beside Spanish moss and draped off trees, while tiny lizards skittered nearby. I watched my parents and aunts and uncles swap stories and share family news with my grandma, and I lapsed quiet, the stories washing over me.

The days passed quickly, coffee cups filled and refilled, and we gathered for one of Grandma's favorite meals: liver and onions. Later at a picnic in the park, and around family tables, I was thrilled to spend time with my cousins and their families, my aunts and uncles, and to get to know them more.

We wandered at the sponge docks, poked into shell shops, and marveled at this town that boasts its identity as a Little Greece, second only in size to actual Greece for its Greek population numbers. Throaty dark-haired gals shouted out bargain deals of gyros and baklava, and we headed into one of the bistros for a hearty Mediterranean meal.

All too soon, it was time to leave. We packed up the car, carefully placed in our bags of shells, and headed cross-country to the midwest. The temperatures fell with each state, and we added layers as we drove. By Minnesota, we raced the brooding snowstorm home, beating it by a few hours.

The next morning's snowfall blanketed yellow leaves, masked my footsteps, and washed away my time in Florida like waves on the sand.

Pinks and yellows strata the horizon tonight, as the sun sinks low. Meat sizzles and sears behind me, and dishes clatter.

Is there anyone you need to call or go see? My sister's right. Do whatever it takes to arrange your schedule to make it happen.

Because, me? I almost missed it. When this trip was first offered to me on short notice, I turned it down twice, not thinking I could pull off a week's notice of cancellations and schedule changes. I almost missed it, would have missed this chance to reconnect with relatives, to meet new ones and to hug and see my grandma. My sister's right. 

Anyone you need to call? Pick up the phone, or grab a pen and paper, and don't let this day pass without saying the words you would want them to hear...

(Found this helpful or encouraging? Please feel free to forward, or share, this article on to anyone.)

To All Of Us With Rings

Photo credit to K. Overson

There's something about watching wedding vows from shiny wooden benches in the sunlight. Grey storm clouds that hung ominously overhead all afternoon, suddenly slipped away, and family and friends straightened in the unexpected heat. The bride, with a cut-out lacy back repeated her "I do" vows in giddy joy, and I watched her fair skin pinken in the hot September sun. The groom in swirled dark hair stared steady at his bride, proud wonder and amazement seeping from him.

A violinist, guitarist and pianist joined several vocalists in the golden grass to our left, and music floated under blue skies. Bride and groom spoke promises to each other, and I leaned into my husband's side, tracing his gold ring on his tanned finger. He turned and glanced at me, smiling softly, brown hair streaked with slight silver now. We kissed gently, and turned back to watch the vows.

There's something about watching wedding vows from shiny wooden benches in the sunlight that raises in me joy, nostalgia, and gratitude, and yet an awareness this weekend of my own brokenness and flaws. The pastor spoke of sacrificial love that was willing to die for a spouse, and yet often our hardest sacrificial choices are the day-to-day smaller ones. I sat in sunlight, a light flashed onto my own discrepancies.

We huddled close that afternoon as twilight fell, the sunlight disappeared, and grey clouds rushed in. Over wedding toasts, bride and groom games, and guest laughter and conversations, the cold crept in. We dug out fleeces and blankets, sharing between friends, and draping ourselves in overly-large jackets to stay warm. Sipping caramel coffee creations and Indian spiced chai's, my man and I sat close, laughing with others, and exchanging glances through the night.

On the car ride home that night, we talked quietly, affirming love for each other, apologizing for our brokenness some days, and leaning in close. "God is bigger than all this, Jen," Mark said, picturing my struggles, his struggles, and everyone's struggles. "He is patient and good."

This morning, he melts chocolate chips into our home-made hot chocolates, and we hug and pray together before I head out the door. We text a few times, intentional and kind, building each other up, and speaking truth into our relationship.

God is bigger than any of our sins or bad habits or attitudes. He is patient with us, forgiving, and good. He is fighting for us, friend. And marriages are worth it.

Linking with Ann at A Holy Experience. 

The Best Parenting Advice This Week

This notion that restarts are always available, that second chances are never out of supply? It is revolutionary.

A friend of mine (details changed for privacy) adopted a young boy from Eastern Europe, and he arrived in the United States, wrapped in institutionalized ideas. Chestnut hair framed serious eyes, and tremulous smiles broke out like timid prisoners on parole in his first months home. He had been raised in silent rooms, with televisions blaring, and orphanage nannies forcing order in harsh strictness. Medicines had been doled out to active kids, lulling them quiet, and infractions resulted in lingering shame and punishment. Impulsive disobedience labeled and followed you for the rest of the day.

But in the United States here, amid rolling corn fields and winding rivers, his adoptive family are teaching him new habits and realities. "There are always second chances," his mom says. In rooms off to the side, quiet peace talks and reconcilitory missions take place surrounded by green walls and children's toys. He said/she said sibling play-by-plays are rehashed and resolved, and they emerge, wiping tears and smiling. After a quick hug, the children race away, eager to resume imaginative play.

This young man from Eastern Europe just picked up a brand new kitten. Three or four lines of text outlined his family contract. "I will feed my kitty, care for my kitty, clean up after my kitty..." topped the page, with room for a child's laboriously-printed signature and date. He painted the cat's home, chose soft towels for its bed, and meticulously painted the kitten's name outside the wooden cat house. Tiny wet paw prints dotted his sweatshirt the first few days after the kitten's arrival, and he was with the kitten all day. Occasionally wandering into an off-limits area of the home, the kitten had to be rescued and redirected, but the hugs and caresses never stopped.

And the cat? It knew it was home, even by that first evening.

Watching this family-- and this brave, compassionate young man with a husky Eastern European accent still-- I am reminded. These restarts, these second chances? They are never out of supply. I'm thankful for an Abba God who models that to me daily, and for families around me who practice that with their children. It is revolutionary.

Hi, you. :) Sorry for my delay in posting. What's the best parenting advice you have been convinced of lately? (Those in email can click here to join the conversation. I love hearing from you.)

Photo credit #1: Copyright to the World Bank. Photographer Scott Wallace.
Photo Credit #2:  Copyright to the World Bank. Photographer Yuri Metchitov.

A Midsummer's Conversation

The words came together in a way I had never seen before. In between the sentences and the miracles, a quiet storyline unfolded before me.

There had been a macabre seven-veils-style of dancing in a Roman court, culminating in erotic shimmies, and a request for a head on a platter. Grisly details finalized the deal.

Some miles away, followers of John the Baptist spilled the news to Jesus about his cousin's death. "When Jesus heard what had happened, he withdrew by boat privately to a solitary place."

We expect a time of grieving, a chance to be still and mourn. Instead, "Hearing of this, the crowds followed him on foot from the towns."

Ever needed to be alone or desired downtime? Ever needed time to grieve?

"When Jesus landed and saw a large crowd, he had compassion on them and healed their sick. As evening approached..." 

I love this. A man in the throes of grief himself still senses others' pain. Then, instead of hurrying away, he stops, spends hours with them, listening, hearing the deeper issues, and healing their sicknesses and wounds.

"As evening approached...," we come face to face with one of his familiar miracles. And we encounter a logical polite retreat option for Jesus. "Well, it's late," his disciples subtly hint to him,suggesting he send the people home. This could have been his out, on a day of grief and weariness for him. No one would have faulted him. 

"They do not need to go away. You give them something to eat," Jesus replies instead, starting the miracle account. Bringing the small loaves and fish that had been recovered, Jesus looked up at heaven, smiled at his Father, thanking him for food and life, and broke the bread.

Bounty and nourishment flowed. 

Everyone ate and was satiated. Men, women, and children received what they needed from him. One of Jesus' largest miracles took place in a day of grief and weariness, when he was trying to get away to solitude. 

As the leftovers were being picked up and placed into baskets, Jesus "immediately made the disciples get into the boat and go on ahead of him to the other side, while he dismissed the crowd. After he had dismissed them, he went up on a mountainside by himself to pray alone..."

I love that Jesus' miracles and compassion happened here on a day of weariness and grief, when Jesus was really just needing some time away. In his grief though, he saw their needs, was filled with compassion, and invested in them for several hours. Then, when everyone was healed and full, he said goodbye, walked up the mountainside, and continued his conversation with the Father.

As moms, dads, friends, grandparents, or people in ministry, this encourages and teaches me. Lord, make me like you, to see other people's needs, regardless of my own energy levels that day, and to have compassion, moved into action. And the truly exciting thing? We have that same Holy Spirit in us, moving and empowering us to love like Jesus did.

Then afterwards, slipping away, we can continue our conversations. "Where were we, God?" 

Linking with Emily at Imperfect Prose. 

Photo credit

Sneaking Romance into the Work Week

Photo Credit

Last night, we maneuvered city streets, wove in and out of rush-hour traffic, and held creased paper map outstretched. "The parking ramp should be right here, on Chicago and Lake Street." Yellow awnings flapped cheerily in the winter breeze, and snow melted into slush. After a u-turn and my man's skilled stick-shifting, we slipped into a dark cement stall.

Inside the global market, vendors with Middle Eastern hummus and gyros stood beside Vietnamese bubble teas, Chinese kungpao chicken, Asian curries, Swedish biscuits and lingonberry jams. Mexican salsa verdes and corn husk tamales lined side alleys, while an American diner inside boasted cheeseburgers and "the best fries in town." Hand in hand, my husband and I meandered the halls, trying not to get lost in the rows of stalls and shops. A wooden giraffe towered over me near a Ghanian stall selling spotted goat horn rings. In the next shop, veiled Somali women leaned regally across counters, elegant and robed, their golden jewelry wares dangling from shop walls.

Photo Credit

In the center of the market,the ceiling broke away into sunny glass skylights. On a stage, musicians gathered, unpeeling and unfolding conga drums, baritone saxes, flutes, and guitars from their protective wraps. Nathanael and Friends, the 5:30-6:30 pm set, were three African-American men whose smiles split faces.We shook hands, talked of sound systems, drums, and the drummer's Marine tour of duty overseas. As they built up audience participation, we played "Guess that artist" to a Doobie Brothers' song from my past, and Marco was called up to drum with them for a song.

Photo Credit

Shoulders touching, we bent over sesame chicken, and slurped a cold chai bubble tea. Resting back against our chairs, we bobbed in time to folk rock. Pink-clad Latina pequenas danced nearby, while a proud grandma smiled and tugged their clothing straight. Nine to fivers headed home, weary from the day, nodding heads to the beat as they crossed the marketplace. Moms grabbed an easy supper for Cars Two-toting preschool boys, and a produce cashier danced in time, drumming against his right thigh to the beat, oranges stacked high beside him.

"Celebrate good times, come on!" belted the trio, whaling away on the sax, drum and guitar.

Man and I leaned over the last sips of bubble tea, kissed, and picked up our purchases. Injera bread, hummus, and guava nectar were for another day, another date. Holding hands, we walked out of the market and across the street, into normal.

Rekindling the romance in our marriages can be done on a shoe string, on a Thursday. The sun set across Minneapolis, staining pink against leafless trees and stark red branches. We grinned, held hands, catching glances across the stick shift and traffic. "That was fun," we breathed, steam brushing up against frosted windows. Traffic whirred by. We fell silent, relaxed and happy in the twilight.

Pink-stained trees dipped into snowbanks, and we chose romance.

Linking with Emily at Imperfect Prose.