A God for Emersyn

The ending of the story was already written. A carefully formed nest lay fallen from my redbud tree, beside it a shiny, turquoise egg. A frail, broken, newborn robin lay on the cold, rain-soaked ground, abandoned, apparently forgotten. Heartbeats pulsed visibly beneath translucent pink skin, slowing as the bird blindly twisted his body, hopelessly fighting for life. I held the bird in my hands, powerless to save it, yet comforted to know the truth as I placed it beneath the soft, green Lamb's Ear leaves. The God who created this bird sees every moment of its life. It is tenderly loved.

Look at the birds of the air, that they do not sow, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not worth much more than they? - Matthew 6:2

A fragile, newborn Christian is entering a life of faith this week. I accidentally gave her a wrong phone number for my cell. I've been concerned because, while she can email me, I'm not as immediately available to her as I had hoped. She's a survivor of a cold, pain-soaked life and I feel powerless as I wait to hear from her. It comforts me as I realize she knows the truth. The God who created her sees every moment of her life. She is tenderly loved.

There is a God who sees and is available always. There is a God who is able to do more than we ask or imagine He can do. There is a God who loves with an everlasting love.


Emersyn was born into our family this week, and, after months of waiting, she has arrived wrapped in warmth, safe from the storms of life and cherished beyond measure. Her body was covered with prayer multiple times daily as God knit her together in my niece's womb. As her story unfolds, I know Emersyn will have disappointments, pain and losses. It comforts me as I realize she will know the truth. The God who created her sees every moment of her life. She is tenderly loved.

The ending of your story is not yet written. Pain and disappointment may have left you broken. You may feel abandoned, apparently forgotten. The God who sees you every moment of your life Is available to wrap you in warmth and hold you in His hands, safe from the storms of life. You are worth more than you realize, cherished beyond measure. You are tenderly loved.

I have loved you with an everlasting love; therefore I have tenderly held you with compassion. -Jeremiah 31:3

Stuck at the Recital

Luke finished playing the theme to James Bond, then to the crowd's delight, he transitioned into the jazz rendition he had created. The crowd clapped, cheering him onward as he stood from the piano and returned to his chair.

I was thrilled for him. He had worked hard on his music, honed his gift over the months and seen the results of an excellent performance. A piano recital can be stressful for young pianists as well as a teacher. I was proud of Luke for his example of excellence. I knew his performance would inspire and encourage my younger students.

Later in the program, Luke returned to the piano for his final performance of the afternoon. He had learned to play the music from "Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone" through diligent work. I had heard him play it flawlessly several times during rehearsals, but midway through the music his mind went blank. His eyes widened with surprise and he glanced at me for help.

I smiled and gave an encouraging nod. My students know what to do when they stumble or feel lost. I knew Luke would hear my unspoken words.   "Go to where you know what to play. You can always start over."

For seconds in the silence, Luke's hands were still, paused over the piano keys. Then his trained fingers played the beautiful music he was able to remember, the last few measures. He grinned at me. It was only the ending, but it was played with excellence. He had remembered what to do when he gets stuck and he had finished by giving his best effort.

More important than the learning of music, I want my students to grasp hold of the life skills I am able to teach them along the way. Perhaps nothing I teach Luke will ever be as important as the lesson he has learned this week:

It doesn't matter what happened in the past, how you started out. You can always start over. It only matters that you finish well.

Well done, my good and faithful student.

Whatsoever Things Are Pretty

Of all the picture books in my antique wooden bread bowl, Maisy was paging through my dear, one-of-a-kind nature journal.

"I like this," Maisy declared, pointing to a painting of a tree. "It's pretty."

I live in a house full of antiques, flowers, china and pretty one-of-a-kind things. I also live in the atmosphere of rough and tumble children. It's a good mix.

Children need to play among lovely things, to be educated about wonders. As we walk alongside children, we can teach them lessons that point the way through the brokenness and confusion they encounter.

Guests for dinner, whether for Thanksgiving or a regular Sunday dinner, gather around a table set with china and crystal, cloth napkins and candles.

"Oh, my," a new guest will comment to me, "What if a child breaks something?" But we don't worry over what might be lost or broken. Children are eternal, things are not.

Very few precious things have ever been broken in my home, and almost always the brokenness has been at my own hands. Children learn to control their strength and handle things gently. They want the privilege of touching my lovely treasures.

Hundreds of broken people of all ages have eaten from my china and crystal. I want my guests to be among the pretty things, to enjoy things from my history, to hear the stories that surface from my life. We all need to live life noticing whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable, to ponder what is excellent or praiseworthy.

The china and crystal that I use is what my mother used before me. There is a handle missing on the serving bowl. I broke it putting it into the china cabinet when I was a little girl. My mother glued it back together, but it has never been quite as pretty or serviceable.  I still use it, though. It's my favorite piece of china.

The china was important to my mother because my father gave it to her during the war years when they were apart. It was important to me, as a little girl, because it was pretty, delicately painted with beautiful pink roses. It is important to me now because it represents a mother who encouraged me to live among pretty things even in a house full of rough and tumble children. Broken does not mean useless or without value.

A china pot full of tea, a stack of fragile books, a tattered Raggedy Ann that might so easily tear....all pretty things from my childhood. I could store them away out of sight, out of reach. People often choose to put away their pretty things until the children are older.

I did, too. And then I realized one day that I never want my home to be an empty nest. I want my life to always be full of curious, rough and tumble children. If I put away my "pretties", they will never know my treasures, never learn to rein in their strength to be gentle, never know that broken doesn't mean useless or without value.

As I am writing, two year old Johnathan jumps from the sofa (inherited from my grandmother) to the rocking chair (inherited from my husband's grandmother). All the way he carries with him my precious one-of-a-kind nature journal which he is now pondering, gently tracing my simple sketch of a squirrel.

He looks over at me, "Skirl. Pretty. C'mon, Nana. See?"

Maybe I'll wait to scold him for jumping on the furniture. I'd rather ponder squirrels with him.

Ben Sits Still

Ben scampers across the church aisle and scoots in next to me during the quiet communion time at church. With swinging legs, bouncing arms and alert eyes, he is trying his best to be quiet and still.

Like dozens of Sundays before, I put my arms around him, hug him close and kiss the top of his head.

"Nana loves you," I whisper. Since his newborn days, rubbing his back and cuddling him close has helped quiet him.

He knows the church routine and he's not a difficult child, but he's a little boy. Learning to be quiet and still, to know God, takes a lifetime of training.

Ben wants to play. He wants to run. He wants to talk. He wants to giggle.

Clasping his hands, bowing his head, Ben tries his best to be quiet and still. He wants to make good decisions. He wants to please God. He wants to delight in obedience.

He reaches for my hand and squeezes each of my fingers before resting our hands in my lap. He traces the veins on the top of my hand and draws numbers in my palm. Then he remembers. Once again he folds his hands and bows his head, squeezing his eyes closed.

Leaning back against me, he rests his head on my shoulder, trying his best to be quiet and still. With a weary sigh, his eyes pop back open and he examines each of my fingernails.

Be still and know that I am God, the Psalmist tells us. Be like a weaned child resting in a mother's arms. Sounds easy, doesn't it?

"Sit still!" a frustrated mother behind us urges her little one. Ben grins up at me and I lift him into my lap as his giggles escape.

"I love you, Nana," he tells me when I remind him to be still.

On the inside of my wiggly little bundle of joy, deep in the heart of him, the training has begun. The God who knit him together in his mother's womb, is still at work, answering our prayers for him, keeping his heart tender, peaceful and safe.

All discipline seems not to be joyful, but sorrowful, at times;yet to those who have been trained by it, afterwards it yields the peaceful fruit of righteousness. (Hebrews 12:11)

Every morning I discipline myself to sit still, to be quiet, to know God. I seek to have a tender, peaceful and childlike heart.

I lose focus and find myself playing. Sometimes I find myself running from the discipline. I want to make good decisions. I want to please God. I want to delight in obedience.

"I love you," He tells me as I lean into Him, squeezing my eyes shut, folding my hands and bowing my head. I am, once again, for awhile anyway, focused and still, quieted by His love.

Learning to be quiet and still, to know God, takes a lifetime of training. We will reap a harvest of peaceful fruit, if we do not give up.

I love you, Father. Remind me to sit still.

A Pie for Lynette

One of my earliest memories is making pies alongside my mother. I stood on a chair rolling dough to fit two little aluminum pans, one for my brother, Larry, and one for me. My pies were lopsided, unlike the excellent pies my mother could make.

My pies are still lopsided. My sisters, Kathy and Nancy, both make beautiful pies. I could eat a piece of Nancy's raspberry pie every day. Heaven on a plate.

It isn't the recipe. I have been given four no-fail pie crust recipes. What makes a blue ribbon pie for someone else is always lopsided for me.

My cousin Laura, like my mom, says the secret of pie excellence is using lard. She laughed at my frown, knowing I didn't want to put lard in my clean arteries. "But pie is a special treat," Laura explained. "How often does a person eat pie?"

So I tried. But it's not the ingredients. I've tried them all.

I called my aging friend Lynette on the phone one morning to encourage her during her long terminal illness. I offered to deliver dinner, clean her house, do some laundry or bake cookies.

"Oh, I can't think of anything you need to do," Lynette assured me.

"Is there something I could cook for you that sounds good? Maybe one of those favorite recipes you've cooked a thousand times," I suggested, wanting to make anything that would give comfort and cheer.

"A piece of pie would taste good. Any kind of pie," she admitted softly.

I laughed, lifted my eyes to heaven, shaking my head. "Sure," I told Lynette. "I'd love to make you a pie! What kind sounds good?"

"Butterscotch pie?"

Butterscotch pie. Butterscotch pie?

After she ate my pie,  Lynette asked, "How in the world do you make your pie crust? What's your secret? It was excellent, so flaky! Best butterscotch pie I ever ate. It tasted wonderful!"

My secret? Pillsbury pie crust. I knew how to make meringue so I put it together as best I could. Turns out meringue evens out a lopsided pie quite well.

It's not the gift we place in a weary soul's hands that matters so much. It's the love we place in a heart that changes the world. We offer a little bit of who we are and what we can do.  Out of our little, God creates much.

I didn't get a chance to bake a pie for Jesus when He was weary and worn, but I made a lopsided one for Lynette and God blessed it.

During my last conversation with her she squeezed my hand and whispered weakly, "You keep on making pie. Doesn't matter how it turns out. Matters that you made it."

One of Lynette's favorite verses was Psalm 121:1

I will lift up my eyes to the hills from whence cometh my help. My help comes from the Lord, the maker of heaven and earth. 

To make a pie alongside God is to have the greatest of all Makers helping me.

Johnathan's Marvelous Miracle

"Wook!" Johnathan shouted in the middle of our walk around the block, "Oh, otay! Wain!"

"It's not raining. That's the flower petals blowing from the tree," I laughed.

His pudgy toddler hands raised toward the sky as he blinked in wonderment at the hundreds of tiny white petals raining down and the thousands more piled at his feet.

"There shall be showers of blessings," I sang to him. "Showers of blessings we need. Mercy drops 'round us are falling! But for the showers we plead." (D.W. Whittle, 1883)

Johnathan began to laugh at this event too marvelous for words as we twirled and danced in the shower of soft petals.

He was delighted at the prospect of rain showers and mud puddles on our walk. He was prepared, dressed in rain boots and a jacket. But, this miracle of flowers in what looked like rain was too marvelous for words.

What if His mercy comes through raindrops? What if His blessings come through tears? What if our greatest disappointments are his blessings in disguise? ("Blessings", by Laura Story)

Perhaps the secret to seeing our disappointments as blessings lies in being prepared to splash in the mud, to having tucked into our jacket a faith in the God whose ways are too marvelous for words.

We danced through the flower shower then ran to the top of the hill laughing. Looking back down the street, knowing what we knew now, the petals falling were pretty, but not nearly as wondrous as when we were dancing and singing in the middle of it, watching the petals falling around us.

Some moments you cannot do over. You only get one chance to see the marvelous miracle unfolding around you. It may look like rain or it may look like flowers, but you have to be prepared for both, eyes wide awake to the possibilities on your walk with the God who makes all things glorious.

Living With Impossible

"He's too little," the nurse told me. "Life looks pretty impossible. I hope he makes it, but he's got a big battle ahead.."

I reached through the incubator wall to touch his tiny arm. I was ready to fight for this newborn baby boy, to battle alongside of him. It would be weeks before I could take him home from the hospital, but in that moment all I could think about was how much grace it took for God to send this precious, valuable child into my world.

The hardest day for a foster mother is not the first day, though those are indeed memorable. The child so lost and afraid, the newborn failing to thrive, the teenager angry and rebellious. We rescue our child from those problems through consistent sacrifice and diligent love.

The hardest day is the day you watch them walk into their life journey without you.

Life can be impossible. You look at your life and whatever it is going to take to get through a particular hardship, you're empty. There's not enough energy, not enough endurance, not enough hope, not enough fight.

Sometimes the apostle Paul faced circumstances too impossible for him, too.

"We don’t want you in the dark, friends, about how hard it was when all this came down on us in Asia province. It was so bad we didn’t think we were going to make it. We felt like we’d been sent to death row, that it was all over for us. As it turned out, it was the best thing that could have happened. Instead of trusting in our own strength or wits to get out of it, we were forced to trust God totally—not a bad idea since he’s the God who raises the dead! And he did it, rescued us from certain doom. And he’ll do it again, rescuing us as many times as we need rescuing. (2 Corinthians 1:8-11, The Message)

Are you lost and afraid? Like a newborn that is failing to thrive, are you dying on the inside? Are you using your last ounces of strength to rebel in anger at the God who is able, but seems to have left you without hope?

That little newborn and I battled through the pneumonia, the drug withdrawal, the pessimists and severe eating difficulties. With hands painfully cramped from feeding him slowly through a tube, arms and back aching from rocking him and a voice gone from singing to him we battled forward. I faithfully prayed and waited. I worked alongside angel armies when only the God who is able could rescue this life.

God is faithful. Even when we are not faithful, God is faithful. He sent his own precious, valuable son, Jesus, into the world to rescue you. He is the God who sees, the God who loves, the God who is able to do more than you ask or imagine he can do in the impossible.

Stand back and see what he will do for you this day. Don't walk into your life journey without him

Katherynn and the Tangled Mess

"Why do you sort all of your hangers into colors?" Katherynn asked me. "All the blue. All the black. All the pink. All the green. All the white."

"I like knowing where to find things I need," I answered, tossing her some clothes to put in the washing machine.

"Most people don't do that," the six year old explained to me as she worked. "They just dump them in a big tangled mess."

"That's true," I agreed, searching my brain for a life lesson that surely was in the laundry room with us.

"Which way works better? If you need to grab a hanger quickly, is it better to be already organized or to sort through an overwhelming tangled heap of hangers?"

"Well. If I want a pink hanger today, I know where to get one!"

"Being organized helps me to be ready for a problem, like needing a hanger right away. If I'm in the habit of doing something, like putting the hangers in order, then that habit is very important when I am in a hurry."

"So you aren't supposed to hurry when you do the laundry, right?" Katherynn agreed, trying to grasp yet another life lesson I was trying to tuck into her mind.

"Sometimes you have to hurry," I told her. "Life gets busy. Problems just happen. But good habits train us to be ready even when there's no time to think about it. Quick, hand me a green hanger!"

Katherynn raced to pull it out and hand it to me. She was laughing, but she understood. If the hangers had been tangled it would not have been an easy task.

I don't care that much about the habit of sorting hangers by their colors.  But I do care about nurturing the habit of looking for life lessons in little things to teach the children.

Because of that habit, I gave Katherynn the gift of fun and laughter in a laundry room. I planted hope that she can find answers to problems if she plans ahead.

And I helped God to build a little woman.

All About with Blaine

"It would be a good idea for us to write a song together," I suggested to my five year old student as we finished up his piano lesson books for the day. "What could you write about?"

Blaine puckered his lips and frowned as he considered my suggestion. "Well, I think I could write a song about black and white because I'm all about black and white."

"That's a really creative and fun idea! Tell me about black and white."

"Penguins are black and white...and a panda. Oh! And piano keys are black and white!"

"Let's do this," he said, beginning to put his song into words and music. "All about black and white."

What are you all about?

When Jesus was twelve his parents, Mary and Joseph, discovered he had gone missing from the group of people traveling together. They back tracked until they found young Jesus in the temple talking to the elders and teachers.

When asked what he was doing, he replied, "Did you not know, I must be about my father's business?"

The phrase literally means, "Did you not know I must be all about my father?"

What are you all about? When people spend time with you, do they find that you are all about your job? Your worries and complaints? Maybe you're all about knitting, reading or football.

When people describe you, what would they say you're all about?

Blaine sighed with contentment as he played his finished composition. "It's wonderful. Can I play it at the recital? Nobody has ever heard it before. They don't know that I'm all about black and white yet. I'm the only one who is going to tell them."

You are unique and there will never be another life just like yours. The lifesong you choose is your legacy. Are you all about the Father?

Hailey, Chris and the Penny

During church Sunday morning Hailey learned to count to five with her grandma. She held hands with her daddy, memorizing his smile and each of his fingers. She sang like her mom who was on stage helping to lead our worship songs.

With a pile of pennies tucked into her chubby little fist, Hailey patiently waited to give them to God. As she was dropping them in the offering plate one at a time, a single penny went wayward across her chair, rolling to the floor and out of reach.

Chris, an elder who was passing the offering plate, loves Hailey. He has been watching her grow and praying for her heart to be tender toward God since she was born. Hailey is growing up in the church.


My husband and I spend our Monday nights in a state women's prison loving people to Jesus. Frequently we ask the group of women if they went to Sunday School, Vacation Bible School or church camp. I get a rush of joy every time I see all the hands going up.

"My grandma took me to church every Sunday. We always sat on the second row. I still know those songs."

"We had a neighbor that took us to Vacation Bible School. It was the only time all summer I would get cookies and Kool-aid. I loved the crafts we made."

"I never went to church on Sundays, but I always went to church camp with my best friend. Every year."


Chris got on his knees and chased the penny under the chair. He picked it up and gave it to Hailey so that she could put it into the offering plate. Hailey beamed up at him with delight and pride in getting to be a part of the worship of giving.

Chris won't remember that he did that for Hailey. Hailey won't remember giving God that penny. None of us will remember that particular Sunday.

But such moments have eternal value, even though forgotten.

Hailey has been loved in our church. She has not only love, but faith tucked into her jacket as she journeys into life. Her heart is tender toward God, ready for him to mold someday when hope is illusive and peace gets shattered.

Look around you for the little ones. Who might like a ride to church this Sunday if only you would ask?

Johnathan Said No

Johnathan wanted to stay up with his older siblings. It wasn't that he cared about their games and books, he just didn't want to be left out.  He didn't want to miss anything. First he begged me, then he argued with me. After that, the child ran away from me.

"No, Johnathan. Come, please," I encouraged the toddler, moving toward the stairs. "Come to me."

"NO! No. No. No. Nana. NO!" He yelled as I lifted him into my arms. Legs kicking, arms pushing me away, I carried him toward the bedroom as he continued to rebel.

In the darkened room, next to the crib, he softened his crying as he realized he was helpless to change his lot.

As I cuddled him close and rubbed his back I talked gently, patiently. "Night Night Stars. Night Night Moon. Night Night Bear. Night Night God."

As I comforted him, he put his head on my shoulder, and I began to sing. Though still disappointed, he began to tune in to my words, quieted by my love.

"No, Nana, " he whined softly. "No. No. No. No."

My heart rebels, too. At first, maybe I'm only disappointed, but my frustration can quickly grow into anger and resentment. I want to do what God wants me to do, but there is hesitation, fear or rebellion against his plan.

I know he wants what is best for me, but must it take sacrifice? What if I miss out on something everyone else is getting to do? I beg him, argue with him. Sometimes I even run away from him.  "No, God. No. No. No."

"I love you, Johnathan," I said, "It's time for night night."

"No. No. Nana....Okay. Yes," my little one agrees.

What opportunity is God putting in front of you today? Will you trust him even in the sacrifice?

Not my will but yours be done. Okay. Yes.

Maisy in the Hubbub

Only a few people were in the church building when I arrived on Sunday. Maisy was sitting quietly on a chair munching some dry cereal, watching her father practicing music with the worship team. She smiled up at me from her peaceful reverie as I sat down beside her.

I hadn't seen her for a day or two so there was much news to tell me. She had thought of me in my absence and I had thought of her. Indeed, she is one of my little favorites and always in my heart and mind.

My husband and I always sit near the front of our church. Some of the parents of our favorite little ones teach Sunday School and lead worship. Being easy to see as the children return to the worship service after Sunday School helps them to find us when their parents are on stage or ministering in other rooms.

Yesterday four little boys and Maisy were sitting beside us as the worship service came to a close. People began moving about after church in the hubbub of happy visiting and cleaning tasks. I gave permission for the boys to go play and continued talking with a friend.

Maisy laughed at the boys silliness as they disappeared into the small crowd. Suddenly seeing only unfamiliar people, she covered her eyes and put her head down on a chair.

"I'm right here, Maisy," I reminded her. She sat on my lap and snuggled into my hug.

"You're not alone. We would never leave you alone. Daddy is putting away his guitar. Mommy is somewhere around here cleaning up or something."

"Don't leave yet," Maisy said, her peace quickly restored. "I feeled like I mighted panic."

"I won't leave," I promised, lifting her up. "Let's go see what Mommy's doing."

Outside of the hubbub of life, peace comes easily. Familiar pleasures fill us with joy. Peace is the absence of fear and turmoil, but it's not always the absence of pain or disappointment. We can be full of peace and full of sadness at the same time. We can be full of joy and full of disappointment at the same time.

I am the disciple whom Jesus loves. As a child of my heavenly Father, I am the apple of His eye and one of His little favorites, always in His heart and in His mind.

Do you feel like you might panic and fall apart in the noise and the fray, beloved one? Does the way look unfamiliar, even dangerous?

 Fear not. The Lord is near. Panic not. He has a plan for your well being, not your calamity. He would never leave you alone in the hubbub.

The Work at Hand

Michael looked up at me with widening blue eyes as I continued to tumble wooden blocks from the crate to the floor. To a three year old, it must have seemed like an endless supply.

"Oh, wow!" he breathed, tossing his red curls as he shook his head. With a soft groan of confusion, even dismay, he sat down beside the blocks, took a big breath and slowly released it, simply sitting there looking at the mountain of blocks.

As he acquainted himself with the various shapes and sizes, he began to sort piles of blue squares, red rectangles and yellow triangles. Every few minutes he would bring me tall cylinders, dowel rods and half circles.

He began to build with sure fingers and focused brow. This boy had a definite plan in mind and was working diligently to bring his vision to reality. When his project would crash, Michael would focus on the problem and rebuild.

Sometimes life can look like a mountain with it's seemingly endless supply of challenges and hard knocks.

I'm glad for my paycheck, but I don't know if I can keep working at this pace. I'm grateful for my children, but I don't know how to get through the clutter in my kitchen. The wow moments are often groan moments.

"Michael," I said, drawing away his focus. "What do you want me to do with the blocks you brought to me?"

He grinned. "You can have them. I don't know what to do with those. They're too big."

Michael evaluated what he had, considered what he knew how to do. The blocks he wasn't ready for or didn't know how to use were placed out of sight, out of mind. Through failures and successes, he intentionally continued to build and rebuild, to learn from the problems and make changes.

What do you want to create in your life? A healthier body? A happier work place? An uncluttered home?

We need a definite plan, a vision for building our best life. We need to focus and work diligently until our project is done. The overwhelm and chaos leave our minds when we focus on the work at hand.

Michael stood up, placed his hands on his hips and viewed the finished project. My smile drew him to me and he sat silently, peacefully in my lap. I rocked the chair back and forth as we viewed his completed project.

"Well," Michael said, "I did it. I created the best castle ever in this whole city."

"Well done, my good and faithful servant, you have been approved to receive the keys to the city," I told him. "Diligent work shall be rewarded. I decree cookies and milk with the king. What say you?"

Johnathan Goes Home

My home is familiar to Johnathan. He runs through the house from favorite spot to favorite spot almost every day. He is contented and secure here.

Favorite rocks, toys and gourds were scattered around the toddler as he played in front of the cozy fire. I was reading a book when he left his play, crawled into my lap and snuggled sleepily with his Pooh Bear.

Having already had his milk, evening snack and changed into pajamas, I said, "Time to go home. It's night-night for my happy boy."

Johnathan nodded and repeated, "Hap Boy. Nigh-Nigh."

As soon as I set him down on the threshold of his house next door, Johnathan ran toward the kitchen. "Mommy! Mommy!"


There was no welcoming smile on the dearest face he could see, no reassuring hug. Mommy was with the rest of the family attending a volley ball game. He ran back to me and, though a little bit disoriented and disappointed, there were no tears.


I cuddled him close, prayed over him and sang to him, our usual routine before I put him in the crib. He nestled happily under his quilt and was singing softly as I left his room.


I'm familiar and loved, but I am not Mommy, the center of his universe. My house is familiar and Johnathan loves it here, but it's not home.

I listened to Johnathan singing in his crib for several minutes. Even though he still mostly speaks baby talk and I couldn't understand the words, there was a sweetness in his singing, a peaceful security.



Almost daily I sit in front of a cozy fire and snuggle under a quilt with a cup of coffee in my familiar chair. I read my Bible, write in my journal, sing worship songs and pray.

It is my favorite spot in all the world, not because it's home, but because I'm with Jesus, the center of my universe.

This world is familiar, but it's not home. It is His welcoming smile I seek, the dearest face I could ever see.

A Story Worth Reading

My home is familiar to Johnathan. He runs through the house from favorite spot to favorite spot almost every day. He is contented and secure here.

Favorite rocks, toys and gourds were scattered around the toddler as he played in front of the cozy fire. I was reading a book when he left his play, crawled into my lap and snuggled sleepily with his Pooh Bear.

Having already had his milk, evening snack and changed into pajamas, I said, "Time to go home. It's night-night for my happy boy."

Johnathan nodded and repeated, "Hap Boy. Nigh-Nigh."

As soon as I set him down on the threshold of his house next door, Johnathan ran toward the kitchen. "Mommy! Mommy!"

There was no welcoming smile on the dearest face he could see, no reassuring hug. Mommy was with the rest of the family attending a volley ball game. He ran back to me and, though a little bit disoriented and disappointed, there were no tears.

I cuddled him close, prayed over him and sang to him, our usual routine before I put him in the crib. He nestled happily under his quilt and was singing softly as I left his room.

I'm familiar and loved, but I am not Mommy, the center of his universe. My house is familiar and Johnathan loves it here, but it's not home.

I listened to Johnathan singing in his crib for several minutes. Even though he still mostly speaks baby talk and I couldn't understand the words, there was a sweetness in his singing, a peaceful security.

Almost daily I sit in front of a cozy fire and snuggle under a quilt with a cup of coffee in my familiar chair. I read my Bible, write in my journal, sing worship songs and pray.

It is my favorite spot in all the world, not because it's home, but because I'm with Jesus, the center of my universe.

This world is familiar, but it's not home. It is His welcoming smile I seek, the dearest face I could ever see.

Soldier-Princess Gratitude

For every lost dream that crushed my heart because You dreamed bigger for me, thank You.

For every broken road that brought confusion, anger, doubt and fear, thank You.

For every night I lay prostrate before the throne pleading and You silently waited, thank You.

For swinging a wrecking ball into my heart for noble purpose, thank You.

For allowing what You hate to accomplish what You love in my life, thank You.

For watching me choose a pit over shady green pastures and never leaving my side, thank You.

For hearing my mocking voice among the scoffers and enduring the cross anyway, thank You.

"This is who asks us to trust him when he calls on us to suffer." -Joni Eareckson Tada, When God Weeps"

Consider it all joy.  Consider it all grace. 

Maisy and the Ragamuffin

Luna, Maisy's doll, has bright blue eyes in a clean, polished face. She is sturdy and easy to hold, ready to travel through life with Maisy.

"Can I play with Rockitty Ann?" asks two year old Maisy.

Raggedy Ann has been with me since childhood. The decades have crippled her, left her with stains and scars. She is neither pretty to look at nor easy to hold. Printed over her heart are the words "I Love You" and to a little girl, this gives her great value.

Maisy is cautious and gentle when she plays with Raggedy Ann. A special name is given and Maisy sings over her with love and kisses the limp doll's boo-boos.

We are created by a loving, versatile God. He gives each of us a knapsack of gifts, prints "I Love You" on our hearts and sends us on our life journey.

Nobody but me can see the rough moments my ragamuffin doll has survived. I am the one who first saw her heart. I am the one who walked alongside her through the years. She was a gift in my knapsack and that gives her value.

Who are the ragamuffins in your life?

Raggedy Ann children with annoying habits. Raggedy Ann teenagers with rebellious attitudes. Raggedy Ann workers with boasts and complaints. Raggedy Ann elderly with urine smells and boring words.

You are poor if you do not spend time with ragamuffins. Find one and give her a special name. Sing over her with love and kiss away her boo-boos.

You may be the first one to read "I Love You" on her heart. God put it there for you to discover.

Seek and you will find.

Enough Time

Tears of frustration pooled in Mattie's eyes. Lifting her small hands off the piano keys to cover her face, she said in a muffled voice, "I can't do it, Teacher. It's too hard."

"But you love this song and you want to learn it," I reminded her. "You will definitely be able to play this song when you are 80 years old."

She moved her hands to smile at me. "I'm only eight."

"Then we have enough time to learn it little bit by little bit, don't we?"

God says, "Be holy as I am holy" and "Forgive one another as I have forgiven you" and "Love one another as I have loved you". If we don't hear the mercy of a Savior and the patience of a Father in His voice, we can be frustrated to tears.

"I can't do it, God. It's too hard."

Nothing happens as fast as we think it will so we need not be disheartened. To God a day is like a thousand years and a thousand years is like a day. The Author of our faith sees all the way to the end result.

Mattie first learns to love the song. The rules of technique and skill are learned little bit by little bit through practice, but her motivation is loving the song.

Our motivation for spiritual growth comes with peace, hope and delight when we read the Bible to know and love the heart of God. We can trust Him because He has a plan and a vision for teaching us.

Reading the Bible as a set of rules to follow will bring heartbreak and discouragement. The skills and techniques of a mature Christian are learned through practice, little bit by little bit.

My days are numbered by Him. My times are in His hands. The Author and Finisher of my faith is not pressured for time.

Ethan's Treasure

The door opened and closed so quietly that I wasn't even certain someone had entered the house.

Eight year old Ethan sat on the couch mesmerized by something in his hand. I paused, surprised, not because he was on my couch, but because he usually comes to me in a run, with a bang and a shout.

Life is an ongoing party for Ethan and it's one of my favorite things about him, but this time he was very still. When he looked up, his eyes were full of joy and wonder.

"Oh, Nana," he tells me, opening his hand to reveal a shiny black arrowhead. "Look what Carolanne gave me!"

I am amazed by the magnitude of Carolanne's generosity, wondering if it really should be seen as a gift. Ethan immediately senses my question.

"Really. She gave it to me. She said I will keep it," he whispers. "I need to draw it."

Working methodically through the disappointment and pain of my life with rheumatoid arthritis, a new appreciation is unfolding. I find myself awestruck with wonder at this gift, this treasure, this opportunity held in my hands. God is listening to me just as I listened to Ethan.

"Oh, Father. Look what You have given me. You said I will keep it. I need to capture my gift on paper, study it from different angles, appreciate it with gratitude.

"You can have the drawing, Nana," Ethan said, hanging it on the refrigerator. "I don't need it. I have my treasure."

He tucked the arrowhead in his pocket and hugged me even tighter and faster than usual. "Bye, Nana! Thanks!" he yelled, leaving the door to bang loudly behind him.

And I have a treasure, too. I have been given an opportunity to live fully awake to God's presence in every moment, every circumstance, to discover grace even in disappointment, even in pain.

It makes my life an ongoing party. I have a treasure that makes me want to create something colorful to give away...and maybe hang on the world's refrigerator.

In the Whole World

Delicate toddler arms reach wide. Maisy's hands open and close as if to grasp the whole wonderful world in her arms.

"I love you in the WHOLE WORLD!" She laughs as she runs and jumps into my hug, giving me a tight squeeze.

Maisy lives life wide awake to the joy of being in the world.

With little girl innocence, she expects goodness and generosity, beauty and happiness. Having the freedom to simply be who she is in the moment gives her a delight in life that is fresh, enchanting and original.

She is neither too busy nor too insecure to seize new opportunities to learn and express herself. There is always enough time to offer a hug, a helping hand, a pat of encouragement.

She needs no permission to be herself. She needs no self-promoting. Nobody has to convince her she is wonderfully made. She simply shows up for life hopeful, grateful and joyful.

Why do we think we need permission or approval to simply be ourselves, alive in His grace?

I'm an original and I get one chance at life in the whole world. No one can show up to live it but me.