One Quiet Life

A school bus passed by my house Friday afternoon. A sure sign that Autumn is on its way. Despite my dreams of cooler weather and pumpkin muffins, summer still burns down hot. It refuses to go without a fight. As I wait for the seasons to wrestle it out, I am doing some wrestling of my own. Finding this phase of my life a little uncomfortable. Stepping through each day gingerly, learning how to settle in. It will take time. In the meanwhile I'm adjusting to fewer loads of laundry and dishes, more time for reading and thinking. I'm also cleaning out some clutter, enjoying my library's digital audiobook service, loading up our Netflix and Amazon Prime queues, and looking for a good Bible study. Adjusting to a household of two will take time. And grace. And I'm thankful for each day that the Lord gives me both.

Nearly 18 years ago we brought our girl home from the hospital. She disrupted our comfortable life in every way possible. When she leaves for college next week, she'll do so again. It's written all over her face: she's ready! I have waxed poetic about how quickly the time has passed . It's true these are the days of bittersweet. Watching my girl chomping at the bit, so excited about what this next part of her life will hold is incredibly sweet. Understanding that this part of parenting is over and how far I missed the mark is bitter indeed. Syler Thomas writes , Raising children must be more about growing them as disciples than about our experience as their parents. His words cause me to examine the past 18 years. I cannot keep count of the moments that raising my daughter was about me - my expectations, my plans, my image, my happiness. How often did I earnestly seek God's expectations, God's plans, God's image, God's happiness? I squand...

The unbearable, energy-draining heat The non-stop political banter and back-biting The rapid pace of online debates The reality of my girl leaving home in less than four weeks Unexpected family health issues The combination of them can be exhausting. Despite my fatigue, my brain sometimes insists on performing mental gymnastics at bedtime. In these instances sleep evades me or, if it comes, is fitful. The next day I am on edge, more weary and more sensitive than the day before. I have finally put the merry-go-round behind me with the comfort of an evening ritual. I wrap the last 30 minutes of each day in beauty and truth. I set my Pandora station to Yo-Yo Ma Radio, pick up my stack of books and crawl into bed. First, I read soothing prose. This is not the time for an exciting, keep-me-on-the-edge-of-my-seat read. I deliberately seek a calming, rhythmic pace.  Wendell Berry is a favorite choice. Afterwards, I spend a few moments with the wisdom of Elisabeth Elliot...

Tears pooled in my eyes as I listened. I didn't know the man at the podium, but I was utterly surprised when he shared his testimony of God's faithfulness. I never would have suspected that he would choose to work with teenagers. He didn't look the part. But once he started speaking, his passion for older children and teens became evident. His love for the Gospel and sharing it with others was tangible. His words took me back to the time in my life when loving others and sharing the Gospel was part of me.  When serving was important. Has it really been seven years?  Not your typical North American soup kitchen Seven years since my eyes were opened... to the poverty that cripples much of our world to the depths of pain unknown in my comfortable life to the despair of those without the hope of the Gospel to the fact that there are families who feel blessed to live in ramshackle accommodations roughly equivalent to the size of my bedroom to th...

I lost her infant and toddler years. They are a blur of diapers and sleepless nights. A terminally ill father-in-law. Balancing home and work. All bear equal blame. I would tiptoe into her room at night - oh, so careful not to wake her - and peer into the crib, determined to memorize every sweet line in her face. I knew I would never forget. I was wrong. I lost her preschool years. On-going health issues and a number of surgeries stole them from me. I was so focused on building a new home that her first day of kindergarten sprung upon me like a jack-in-the-box. I heard the music and I knew it was coming, but I was still startled by its appearance.   I lost her elementary school years. They are hidden among the ball practices and dance classes, homework, and church activities. We lived in 4-week increments of shift rotation - planning "girl time", trying our best not to wake Daddy, and looking forward to that one precious weekend each month when all three of ...

There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens: ... a time for war and a time for peace.   - Ecclesiastes 3:1, 8   There is satisfaction in knowing that Nietzsche was right: That which does not kill us makes us stronger.  Muscles are strengthened and passions are ignited in battle. Defending something makes you realize how much you love it. Yes, there is a time for war. A time to stand up and fight, to make your presence known and your voice heard. There is also a time for peace. Not necessarily the peace of this world, but there is peace in accepting that some wars will never be won. There is relief in understanding it's time to walk away. In no longer being held captive by Satan's lie that those who retreat are cowards. In knowing that by refusing to engage, you can find rest under the heaviest onslaught of artillery. There is hope that the Lord is your strength and shield (Psalm 28:7). That, as He did for the ...

...doesn't enjoy the spotlight. She doesn't like to draw attention to herself. In a world of selfies and oversharing, I treasure that about her. The most important person in her life has always been her Daddy. They are peas in a pod, my Frick-and-Frack. One of the most joyous sounds I've ever known is their harmonious laughter. They look alike and they think alike. Not far behind her Daddy is mine. He is the only grandfather she remembers and she adores him wholeheartedly. She has a remarkable, understated wit. She doesn't try to be funny. She just is. Her deep blue eyes - the only trait I could claim as mine - are morphing into a stunning green. No matter their color, I have loved seeing the world through them: big, exciting, full of possibilities and challenges. She volunteers with the elderly, but her heart is with children. She wants to devote her life to making them well. The Lord has gifted her with a depth of compassion and mercy that I often envy an...