Author Archives: Glenys

About Glenys

A writer with a passion for God, my family and children's ministry.

Why a Dead Flower Pod Might be Better For Our Kids than an iPod….

So his little four year old legs are pedaling fast, and his yellow helmet leads the way. I’m almost running with the stroller, trying to keep up. When suddenly, my grandson stops pedaling and jumps down from his bike. He has seen something that interests him, something so ordinary that most would pass by without a second glance. But not him.

He’s mesmerized by a dying flower garden.

Look at this Grandma! He shouts in excitement.

He’s holding a brown stem, with a fat pod at the top. It’s just a dead flower head. Most would think that all its beauty has long since faded. But he knows something different. He knows that inside that pod, a secret is hidden. Something is waiting in there. And no one knows how many seeds it contains. No one knows what color they are.

We stop. Because this is the beauty of being a grandma: we have time.

He collects. Lots.

Back at home, we spill the pods onto the table, where he proceeds to prise open each one, slowly and carefully. He will not miss a single seed. They all go into his bag.

His favorite ones are those that are perfectly black and round, like teeny tiny bouncy balls. And when one accidentally rolls on to the floor, he’s on his little hands and knees, searching for it like it’s missing treasure. He doesn’t stop until he finds it.

And while the world bombards our children with screens, and sounds; with toys that light up, and buzz and flash in their efforts to entertain, I get to share my days with one who is delighted by simple seeds, and mushrooms, and the sound of cicadas in the trees.

And I’m reminded of a dark summer’s night, long ago, when the evening sky was pierced with a zillion twinkling lights, and how that same little boy took my hand in his and said, in his wonderful three year-old way:

Grandma, look at the stars. Aren’t they marvelous?

And these days, these moments, these precious times, they are marvelous to me.

How are you fostering a sense of wonder in your children, your grandchildren, or your children’s ministry?

The Story of the Hippo Bucket

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Twenty six years ago, a grandma in a floppy hat was shopping In a little seaside town in Spain.

She wandered among the colorful stalls, looking for just the perfect beach toy for her newest grandson. She paused outside the toy shop where buckets and spades swung cheerfully in the Spanish sun and fishing nets stood to attention. And there, on the shelf, sat a little blue and yellow bucket, waiting patiently to be bought.

The grandma in the floppy hat picked the bucket up. It was a hippopotamus, whose nostrils made the perfect watering can. And she bought it for her little grandson.

That was the day the hippo bucket joined our family… just a little plastic toy that James, my son, loved to play with. Every day of our two week holiday in Spain, he would scoop up the turquoise waters of the Mediterranean Sea and pour them out onto the golden sand. Wherever James went, the hippo bucket went too. On the beach, in the pool, in the bath tub, the little hippo bucket accompanied him everywhere.

We snapped the picture of his little blonde head as he bent over the bucket, gripped the handle in his chubby fingers, and poured water from its nostrils.

Somehow, we made room in our suitcase to fly that bucket home to England. And for the next ten years, whenever we went on holiday to Devon, the hippo bucket came with us.

One day a big truck came to our home and delivered twenty empty boxes. We were emigrating to America and our sons were given just one box each, in which to pack their toys and games.

Choose wisely, we told them. Take with you only what is precious.

Into James’ box went the blue and yellow hippo bucket, where it sailed four thousand long miles across the Atlantic Ocean, on its way to our new home in Michigan.

And for the next twelve years it lay in that box, along with legos, and teddy bears, and a little yellow robot.

Until one day James had a son. And when that son was three years old, the hippo bucket came out of the box.

Now it’s my little grandson who plays with it on the beach, who bends his blonde head over the bucket, who holds it with his chubby hand, and pours water from its nostrils.

And suddenly I am the grandma in the floppy hat, my blonde haired son has become the father, and his smiling grandma who flew with us to Spain lies in a quiet graveyard in England.

Take with you only what is precious. My words echo back to me.

And even though oceans may separate; even though the waves of time roll incessantly in, erasing our footprints and stealing our yesterdays, I’m holding on to those precious memories and taking them with me…

And when I close my eyes, or watch my grandson play, I can still see that little blonde head, and his grandma on the beach, as the waves roll in on the shore.

Sometimes you will never know the value of a moment until it becomes a memory. Dr Seuss

What Happens When You Let God Sit in the Teacher’s Chair, Instead of You…

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So I’m sitting in the teacher’s chair at Central Michigan University.

It’s my first time here- at Mission u, an annual event sponsored by United Methodist Women, where people come together to explore the mission of the church in the current world context. My role is to teach the children about Latin America.

They’ve already discovered and labeled the Amazon River, the rainforest, and the mountains of Peru. They know all about the Mayans, the Aztecs, and the Incas.

We’ve started to talk, a little, about how some of the children there have no homes, and no toys; how some have to work all day, and don’t get to play.

And now it’s time for the Bible Story. The children lie on colorful rugs at my feet.

Close your eyes as I read. I tell them. See the pictures in your mind.

I’m using a book authored by Barbara Bruce, a veteran Christian Educator who has written extensively about learning styles. The story we share is one of my favorites. It takes place on the hillsides of Lake Galilee when the disciples, in an effort to protect Jesus, try to send the children away.

So my little ones close their eyes. And lie. Their feet, adorned with the Caribbean jewelry we made, are still.

Take three deep breaths. See a hillside with many people. See Jesus sitting on the ground talking to the people….what does he look like? What does his voice sound like? See mothers come through the crowd with their children…how old are they? Are they quiet or noisy? Are they boys or girls?

Now hear some men yelling at the children to go away….how do the children look now? Are they frightened?

Now hear Jesus say ‘Let the children come to me; do not stop them because the kingdom belongs to such as these.’

Now see Jesus take all the children in his arms, hug them, and bless them. How do the children look now? How do the men look now? How does Jesus look now?

When you are ready, open your eyes, and slowly come back to the room.

I barely finish talking when up jumps one of our youngest. He cannot contain himself.

I saw the WHOLE thing! He says excitedly. I saw every page!

Well tell us. I say, laughing.

Well I saw all these children, playing on the hillside……in Peru.

I’m confused. This is the moment when, as a teacher, you feel like a failure. This little guy is mixed up. The story didn’t take place in Peru. The story took place in Galilee. But I don’t say anything. (Thank goodness.) I just nod, and wonder where he’s going with it.

And so all these children just wanted to have fun in Peru. And all of a sudden, these men said ‘you can’t play here. You can’t have fun here. Go away.’

And then Jesus comes.

Jesus comes and he says ‘no, that’s not right. The children can stay here. I want them to be here…because children everywhere should have fun. Children everywhere should be able to play. And Jesus hugs them. And that’s it. That’s the whole thing.

It’s quiet in the room. For a moment, I don’t say anything. The other children listening- they don’t say anything either. I look at my co-teacher as sunlight streams in through the window and we shake our heads in wonder…. at this eight year old boy, who has just demonstrated perfectly the upside-down kingdom of God, where a child becomes the teacher, and the teacher becomes the learner.

I am the one who is mixed up!

Don’t I know by now that Jesus is meant to be lifted out from the pages of the bible and moved from the hillsides of Galilee to the mountains of Peru? That Jesus belongs, not simply in a story, but in the streets of Haiti, and in the marketplaces of Mexico, and in the fields of Guatemala, where he yearns to welcome every child who comes to him?

‘Children everywhere should have fun. Children everywhere should be able to play.’

I’m back at home now, thinking about what I learned from an eight year old boy in the last few days. And I just can’t help but wonder…

When Jesus called the little children to him, was it really so that he could bless them, or instead, was it so they could bless him?

Q & A With Denette Fretz, Author of The Next Door Series, and a Giveaway!

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I’m browsing the children’s section of the bookstore, as I frequently do, when a title catches my eye. It says: Pirates on the Farm. Now who wouldn’t want to read a book like that? Intrigued and amused, I pick it up and read from cover to cover. I love it, and so does my four year old grandson…..I love parables; he loves pirates. Here’s a book that cleverly combines the two….

Written to help children learn about loving their neighbors, Pirates on the Farm is Denette Fretz’ first book in The Next Door Series and tells the humorous tale of a family of five swashbuckling pirates who move into a little southern community.

Her second book, Conrad and the Cowgirl Next Door, is just as cute and clever as the first.

Poor Conrad is not only struggling to master the art of being a cowboy, but also has to cope with Imogene Louise, who lives next door. It’s another humorous tale that helps little ones learn about loving your enemies.

I’m thrilled that Denette not only agreed to participate in a Question and Answer session with me, but also graciously offered to give my readers an opportunity to win their own signed copy of one of her books.

Hi Denette! Before we talk about your books, tell us a little bit about yourself and how you became a writer.

Whether it is forming art, buildings, quilts, gardens, music, computer programs or inventions, humans desire to generate something distinctive. It is part of being made in the image of a creative God. Since I was young, my imagination and my need to create “something out of nothing” has best been expressed through stories. (My second grade teacher even blamed my new glasses on “writing too long of stories.” What educator tells a seven-year-old she is writing too much???) My mom’s book collection and my career as an elementary teacher translated into a fondness for picture books and the goal to author one. Writing is a “good and perfect gift” I have been given and continue to work to develop.

I wonder what that second grade teacher would say if she knew that those ‘too long stories’ would lead you to become an author! What inspired you to write Pirates on the Farm?

PIRATES ON THE FARM was the first book in The Next Door Series and its inspiration relates back to praying for insight and my vocation as an educator: I wanted to write a humorous, engaging story that piqued kids’ imaginations and offered parents (or teachers) one more way to bind the second greatest commandment, “love your neighbor as yourself,” on children’s hearts. Integrating a subject kids love—pirates—into a creative parable gave voice to biblical truth in both secular and Christian markets.

How about Conrad and the Cowgirl Next Door….what was the inspiration for the second book?

The inspiration scripture for CONRAD AND THE COWGIRL NEXT DOOR came from Matthew 43:7a, “If you love only those who are kind to you, how are you different from anyone else?” This book continues The Next Door Series’ “love your neighbor” theme, but highlights a different aspect—loving your enemies. Like PIRATES ON THE FARM, I chose subject matter kids love: cowboys and cowgirls.

The illustrations for both books are so fun! What did you think when you first saw them?

With PIRATES ON THE FARM, I mentally prepared to be disappointed with the illustrations. I didn’t believe someone else’s interpretation of my manuscript could match the beloved characters or vivid scenes roaming my brain. When I first saw Gene Barretta’s illustrations, they were not “as good as” my mind’s pictures—they were better! I absolutely LOVED them.

I love them too! Did you have any say in the illustrations or how the characters were depicted?

Since both stories are picture-dependent for humor and message, I supplied detailed illustration descriptions when I submitted each manuscript. That way, an acquisitions editor could “see” the comedy, depth, and text versus illustration juxtaposition. When each story began the design process, I supplied character descriptions. Gene expanded on my ideas and added his own, resulting in more than I “could ask for or imagine.”

Who is your favorite character in each story and why?

When I wrote character descriptions for PIRATES ON THE FARM, I included dog-like characteristics for Pooch. (When Pooch was two, he fell off of a passenger ship and was raised on a deserted island by his hairy dogmother.) Gene did a fabulous job of portraying Pooch as happy, friendly, playful, naive, and loveable. I also really like “Dad,” a farmer in the story. Dad is quiet, strong, unassuming, and “the hands and feet of Jesus” to the pirates.

I just have to interrupt Denette here and say how hilarious that Pooch was raised by a hairy dogmother…so clever and funny! Okay…who is your favorite character in Conrad and the Cowgirl Next Door?

The main character, Conrad, is my favorite personality in the second book. He is a city-slicker who approaches his goal of becoming a cowboy with eagerness, wide-eyed wonder, and…a Mega Ultimate Extreme First Aid Kit. Despite his naivety causing humorous calamities and conflict with the bossy cowgirl next door; Conrad remains kind and optimistic. Also, Gene’s depiction of him is heartwarming and adorable.

I agree Denette! A wonderful feature in each book is the inclusion of a parent letter in the back which offers discussion questions to help children learn more about the biblical principles in the story. Can you tell us a little more about that, and the reason behind it?

Since both books are written as parables, the purpose of each parent letter is to connect the story to specific biblical truths and scriptures. My hope is that my stories foster discussions between parent and child, as well as help the child understand and live Matthew 22:39, “love your neighbor as yourself.” For example, in CONRAD AND THE COWGIRL NEXT DOOR, Imogene is a know-it-all cowgirl who is unkind to Conrad. The last discussion question asks the child to evaluate if there is an “Imogene” in his or her life, talk to a parent about the situation, and list some ways to show love to “her.”

What a wonderful way to help little ones try to apply biblical principles in their own lives! Since the books form part of The Next Door Series, I assume there’s another book or books in the works? Can you tell us anything about that?

A third manuscript has been written, but is not currently in process.

Well if it’s anything like your first two books, I can’t wait to read it! Thanks so much for stopping by today Denette, and for offering readers a chance to win one of your books.

Be sure to enter the giveaways below and stay connected with Denette via:

Author Website

The Next Door Series on Facebook

Twitter

Enter to Win Pirates on the Farm!

Enter to Win Conrad and the Cowgirl Next Door!

The Story of Half a Book

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It’s summer 2010. My first children’s book manuscript sits on a shelf. Half finished. Gathering dust. It’s been there a long time.

And it would have stayed there, had it not been for my husband.

Where’s your book? he asks one day.

Oh, that. It’s on the shelf.

Why?

Because it’s a waste of time, that’s why. Who gets to write a children’s book? Who gets to write a children’s book AND have it published by Zondervan?

I had started Love Letters from God several months before, inspired by the beautiful words of Sally Lloyd Jones, as I read her Jesus Storybook Bible.

Every morning I would eagerly grab my pen, pour out my soul on the page, and be swept away by the beauty and mystery of the creative process. What began as an empty, blank sheet of white was somehow filled with life.

On those mornings, I think I knew how God must have felt when, from a desolate void of nothing, came a wonderful world of everything. It was good.

Then I stopped.

I stopped because I had a visitor one day. I never saw him, but I heard his voice whisper in my ear as he tapped me gently, but persistently, on the shoulder.

What are you doing? You can’t write a children’s book. You’ll never get it published. You’re wasting your time.

I listened to that voice. It was hard not to. Obediently, I put my half-finished manuscript on the shelf, where it sat. For a long time.

Enter David, my husband, whose middle name is Encourager.

Glenys, do you believe that God called you to write that book?

The answer to that was easy. I had known the truth of that since the very beginning.

Do you believe God wants you to finish it?

The answer to that was easy too, even though I didn’t want to say the word.

And then David says something I will never forget. It’s simple, and silly, and utterly life-changing.

Well why would you not finish it…

What would have happened if Noah had only built half a boat?

One of the reasons I married David is because he could always make me laugh. I laughed at the thought of all the animals falling off a half-constructed boat, and the impossibility of such a vessel floating. But even though I laughed, that silly statement was exactly what I needed.

I pulled out that half-written manuscript, blew the dust away, picked up the pen, and began to write. The rest, as they say, is history.

Love Letters from God would be published, four years later, by Zondervan. That one book would turn into a series of its own, and point the way to thirty other titles.

And I think about all those abandoned manuscripts, half-written, lying on dusty shelves, in hope-robbed rooms, and how God cannot possibly publish half a book.

I think about Jesus, and what might have happened if, half way through his ministry, he had given up. But he didn’t. He completed fully the work to which he was called, until finally, one day, he was able to say:

It is finished.

And wasn’t it only when Jesus had finally finished, that God could really start?

Wonderful Wigan

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John Wesley called it Wicked Wigan but it’s Wonderful Wigan to me.

I just never thought it was wonderful when I lived there. Somehow, in this little northern English town, the skies always seemed grey, the winters long, the sunshine sparse, and the opportunities bleak.

But it’s strange how I have grown to cherish a place I once couldn’t wait to leave; how on a sunny Monday morning when my lovely sister and nieces are playing in the brass band, their notes can make me cry for days long gone, and family time that slipped through my fingers.

This is what I think as I stand, listening to them play. Dressed in their smart black suits with white shirt and striped tie, they sit under the red canopy, their hair blowing in the wind. We gather nearby to listen – my sister and brother, my nephews, and nieces. I video the girls as they play. Later on we will walk by the lovely canal that weaves its way like a secret through the streets of industrial Wigan, and my nephew, Jake, will run ahead of us and back again, like I used to do when I was a little girl.

Fifty long years ago, those were my feet, that ran back and forth on this same tow path, laughing with my dad and my brothers and sisters as we fed the ducks and ate our cream cheese and spring onion sandwiches.

Once, when it rained, we sheltered under one of the little stone bridges that arch their way over the water and watched as the raindrops made ripples that spread from bank to bank. I didn’t know it then, but I was a lucky girl to have been born in this little town, and to be part of such a wonderful family.

But I know it now.

And this is what I think about as the notes of All Through the Night are carried on the breeze and through the streets of Wigan… the far-away town where I was born.

And sometimes, even though I am four thousand long miles away, I imagine I can still hear them.

https://youtu.be/XgVbSZ8cgjg

Seasons Of My Childhood

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It is Spring. I am seven years old.

It is early morning and still dark outside my window when I hear Dad whispering in my ear.

Glenys, get up…let’s go swimming.

It’s Saturday! I jump out of bed and pretty soon we’re on the bus, going to Wigan Baths. The pool is huge and the water is cold but Dad has already dived in. Not me. I’m an inch-by-incher my dad calls me, and I take forever to get in the water.

But that’s not the only reason…. I am afraid. I can’t swim.

Dad takes hold of me and with one strong arm under my stomach he supports me over the water while I vainly flap my arms and legs. I look out over the deep end and vow I will never go there.

But then an amazing thing happens. I realize my dad has taken his arm away and I am swimming!

I’m swimming Dad, I’m swimming!

We both laugh and I know that next week, I’ll be in that deep end and I’ll be swimming under my dad’s legs like a little fish.

On the way back I savor every one of my Benson’s Cheese and Onion Crisps but I will still have room for the piles of crusty toast my dad will make for us when we get home.

It is Summer. I am eight years old.

I wake with the birds and see that Dad is already packing the boot of our blue Vauxhall Victor.

He crams my tennis racket down by the side of the box of beans and cornflakes and biscuits that we have been saving for our holiday and then the best part begins…..

We race into Mum and Dad’s bedroom and tip our jars of pennies on the bed. Whatever we have saved will be doubled by dad and spent in the little camp shop at Blue Anchor Bay.

And then we are off!

I curl up with my little I Spy book that will occupy me for most of the journey, and dream about days at Blenheim Gardens and Watchet and Minehead and Dunster.

Most of all, I dream about the day when it will be my turn to have The Big Ice-cream.

I will choose a Mr Whippie, with huge, soft vanilla and strawberry swirls that hang over the edge of the cone.

And me and my dad will play tennis and badminton and hunt for glow worms at night. And I know I must be the luckiest girl alive to have a dad like that.

It is Autumn. I am nine years old.

We are walking down to Roby Mill Methodist Church along College Road.

The pavement is strewn underfoot with a million brown, crunchy leaves. Dad leads the way and we scrunch, scrunch, scrunch behind him.

Fast forward a few months on that same road. Dad helps us find twigs and we race them in the rushing stream of rain that tumbles along the edge of the pavement.

Oh no! I’m in the doldrums! the cry goes up.

But it’s a funny thing….no matter how many doldrums our little boats get stuck in, Dad never wins. Always, one of us kids is the winner.

It is Winter. I am ten years old.

The nights are long and dark, but Dad knows just how to cheer me up.

Who’s ready for a Secret Supper? he asks.

We all cheer and a plate is produced with a quarter of a buttered Eccles Cake, a small piece of Kit Kat, half a Bourbon biscuit and a cup of Ovaltine.

When those nights get really long and dark, our suppers are upgraded to a Special Secret Supper, or even a Super Special Secret Supper.

As I nibble at the edge of my biscuit, I am reminded what a Super Special dad I have.

We curl up in bed and he reads The Lost World and I am transported to a strange forest where all kinds of adventures await me. And from my dad, a life-long love of books and reading is rooted in my soul.

Before I fall to sleep, we play Show Me and we take it in turns to find tiny images in the pictures. One day, I will play that game with my grandson….and my dad’s legacy lives on.

Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter…..seasons of my childhood spent with the most wonderful dad a girl could ever have.

Thank you Dad. I love you.

What a Wonderful Day…

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Can we get ice-cream now Grandma? comes the four-year old’s plea.

I’m not sure about that. He is already full of bagel and cream cheese and jam. But as I’m trying to decide whether this is a good idea or not, he has already begun to pedal those little legs towards the ice-cream parlor. Fast. And so I turn the stroller towards it too.

We sit in the shade of a big maple tree with our tubs of soft vanilla ice-cream covered with multi-colored sprinkles. There are three pretty flower baskets swinging overhead. Their petunias dance in pink, and purple, and red. It’s my grandson who points them out.

The brothers don’t talk much as we sit at the table- just two blonde heads bent over their treat in the sunshine, intent on savoring every last scoop. But then the four-year old in Grandma’s sunglasses starts singing, while the one who is not yet two joins in loudly wherever he can, and conducts in the air with his plastic spoon…

Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah, Zip-A-Dee-Ay,

My oh my, what a wonderful day.

Plenty of sunshine heading my way,

Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah, Zip-A-Dee-Ay.

The family at the next table stop talking. They turn and listen and smile, as I join in the second time around, and we sing it again.

And I look at these boys sitting in the sunshine, swinging their legs, and eating their ice–cream. And I want to capture this moment, and keep it with me forever, while the sun’s high in the sky, and petunias dance in the wind, and little boy’s voices fill the air.

Life is a gift.

My birthday was last month. I’m nearer to sixty now than I was to fifty. And I want to unwrap that gift slowly, and savor everything it holds.

Life is a gift.

My, oh my, what a wonderful gift.

Every good gift and every perfect (free, large, full) gift is from above. James 1:17 AMP

The Hope for The United Methodist Church

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I was fourteen years old, doing drugs with my friend, when a man knocked on the door. He had a microphone that he held to his throat. And in a strange, mechanical voice, he invited me to church.

This is how Adam Hamilton, senior pastor of the aptly named Church of the Resurrection in Leawood, Kansas, made me sit up.

Not that I really needed to pay attention. No one who attended the West Michigan Annual Conference this year was snoozing when he was on stage.

Adam Hamilton founded the Church of the Resurrection in 1990 with just four people. Today, it is the largest United Methodist Church in the USA, with a staggering 18,000 adult members. We, who serve in leadership in the same denomination, know that we have much to learn from him.

Here, on stage, was a speaker, pastor, and preacher passionately in love with God, with Jesus, and with the denomination he serves.

Adam Hamilton believes that if there is one church that stands a chance of transforming the world then it is ours: The United Methodist Church– as we open wide our hearts, our minds, and our doors; welcoming ALL without judgment; struggling together through questions and doubts; and striving to lead authentic lives that reflect our faith.

But it wasn’t just his message that gave me hope for the United Methodist Church.

It was the man.

It is conference policy to collect and return visiting speakers to the airport. For several years, this has been my husband’s wonderful privilege…but not this year. Adam had requested that a young, newly-ordained pastor be his driver.

Sitting in the conference bookstore, I saw why. I was witness as he came in, with his roll-away suitcase, getting ready to leave. His young companion was by his side. Adam quietly took her over to the table where the many books he had authored were sitting; and proceeded, one by one, to pick them up.

Do you have this one? What about this? Did you get the companion DVD to this book?

That one is out of stock, the bookstore clerk replied.

Can you please order it for her? asked Adam quietly. And put everything on my account.

After making sure that his young companion had every book he had ever written, Adam then thanked the bookstore staff for being there. And left.

This pastor is someone who practices what he preaches; who kneels by his bed every night; who humbly and quietly follows Jesus. And who encourages me to do the same.

And I think about that man with the mechanical voice. The one whom God called to knock on Adam Hamilton’s door and interrupt him as he was taking drugs; the one who could have been at home lamenting the state of his health, but who chose instead to listen to God’s call on his life and to obey the voice that had him knocking on stranger’s doors.

I wonder if that man would ever know the enormous impact he had on that one, fourteen year old life, and how, because of what he did, thousands upon thousands of lives are being challenged, and changed for the better….including mine.

There is hope for the United Methodist Church.

My Favorite Place to be on a Saturday Morning

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It feels like a dream come true. And it is.

Here I am… standing on the banks of the lake, on a beautiful spring, Saturday morning, under blue, blue skies with hardly a cloud in sight.

We have been in the Holy Land less than one week. But already I know that this is my favorite place.

This is Lake Galilee: the same hillsides, the same water, the same waves; the very same place where Jesus fished, and walked, and cooked, and prayed. No holy shrine or church is built on this site…at least not on the shores where I stand.

We climb aboard the wooden boat and sail out across these famous waters.

I can’t quite believe that I’m here. I look out at this picture postcard view of the very slopes where Jesus fed five thousand hungry people; the green hillsides where crowds once gathered to hear his voice, and the mountains he climbed to pray.

We reach the center of the lake and pause, while the anchor plops beneath blue and plumbs the depths to hold us safe in place.

I’m holding Love Letters from God and I stand to read the story of how Jesus calmed the storm on Lake Galilee. I remember penning those words long ago, and if someone had told me back then that one day, I would be reading that story in the middle of the very same lake where the events took place, I never would have believed them.

But here I am, reading the story called Wind and Waves. Except there is no wind. And there are no waves. I finish talking and close its pages. We all close our eyes. And for the next few minutes, it’s hard to imagine that we are on a boat at all. Something magical happens.

There is no movement. And there is no sound.

No seagulls call. And no breeze blows.

No water laps. And no engine drones.

No fishes splash. And no voices speak.

There’s only silence. And stillness. And God. And our thoughts.

And everyone can feel it…. something powerful in this moment, something we cannot hear, or see, or articulate. But it’s here.

And in the silence, I seem to hear the whisper of those two little words, echoing down through the ages, spoken in this very place, over these very waters, all those long years ago.

Be still.

And it’s in the stillness that I hear the call; I feel the power; I know the peace.

Of One who once walked on these waters, and calmed its waves, and whispered into the wind.

Be still.

boat on galilee