What Happened on a Sunny Afternoon at the Jordan River

6 Replies

I’m only nine years old. She is not yet twelve. She takes my hand and we step up to the altar and fall to our knees in surrender.

The preacher places her hand on our young heads as we kneel side by side. We don’t really know what this means. We are just girls after all. We will not remember her words. But we will never forget the moment.

I’m fifty-five years old now. She is not yet fifty-eight. She takes my hand and we step into the river and fall back in surrender.

We’re much, much older than the day when we knelt at the altar. Many things have changed. We’re no longer girls, but grandmas. We have gray hairs where blonde used to be. We have laugh lines and wrinkles and our knees cannot bend quite as fast as they once did.

But our hearts have not changed.

And God’s Holy Spirit, who first drew us to the altar all those years ago remains the same. It still whispers to us and calls us by name and echoes through these four decades that have passed so quickly by.

And when we emerge, dripping and sodden, from the exhilarating cold of the Jordan River; in the very same place where Joshua crossed the waters to claim the Promised Land; in the very same spot where Jesus waded out to John the Baptist; on this sunny afternoon in the company of blue skies and bulrushes, my sister and I turn to each other and laugh, and hug.

And as we rise from the river, three white doves fly overhead. ..

Just as if someone had opened heaven’s doors and set them free.

Where Hope is Hiding…

2 Replies

I sit in front of the window on yet another freezing cold Michigan morning. Snow lies thick and deep outside, as it has done for weeks, stretching as far as the eye can see, and covering the ground in a blanket of white. Winter is not yet ready to release her grip, and the shovel and snow blower stand at the ready.

But underneath that icy blanket, hidden deep in cold and dark, hope is living. She is simply asleep, waiting for her cue. And when the time is right, when she feels that little bit of warmth that whispers Spring, she will push her way through the dark and out into the light.

And she will not be alone.

When the snow is still melting, and the grass is beginning to reclaim her green, thousands of little shoots will rise. Like the advance of an invincible army, they will bravely break the soil, and daffodils and tulips will stand together and dance in the wind. And although it’s hard to imagine that now, it will surely happen. They are just waiting for their time.

And where would be the surprise of Spring without the weariness of Winter?

Where would be the beauty of the butterfly without the cold of the chrysalis?

Where would be the reality of resurrection without the grip of the grave?

And so we wait.

Through Lent.

Through Winter.

Through snow.

But we wait in hope. New life is on the way.

Taken in The Garden Tomb (Resurrection Site) Israel 2013

What I wished I had known When I was Little…

8 Replies

When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a farmer’s wife. I wanted to emulate the lady in the apron who came swinging cheerfully through the kitchen doors carrying a steaming hot platter of roast ham and new potatoes for the kids whose adventures I loved to read about in the Famous Five.

The Farmer’s Wife was always happy. She was everyone’s favorite. You just had to love her. She was popular; she was treasured; she was special. And I wanted to be her.

But it didn’t take me long to realize that I couldn’t cook. And all farmers’ wives can cook. I couldn’t grow vegetables either. And all farmers’ wives grow vegetables.

When I was a young teenager, I wore my skirts short and etched my eyes in deepest kohl. I wanted to be like my friend…the one who always had a boy holding her hand. The one who was chosen; the one who was beautiful; the one who was loved. I wanted to be chosen, and loved, and beautiful too.

But no amount of makeup could mask my pimples; no high heels could make me as tall as her; no expensive conditioner could make my hair as smooth.

And even though I was raised in a Christian home, the voice of the world was always louder than the Voice of the Word. I just couldn’t hear when God tried to whisper hope into my heart.

And even though I had a Bible, and knew all the exciting stories it contained, I somehow missed all the wonderful promises that were just waiting to be discovered within its pages.

And I wish, when I was that long-ago girl, I could have read a book like Love Letters from God. Because maybe if I had, I might have heard God whisper:

You will be my special treasure!

Maybe then I would have known that I do not have to be a good cook or grow vegetables to be popular or special or treasured in God’s eyes.

And if that book had been mine, I would surely have cherished every letter that bore my name, and claimed every promise when God told me:

I have chosen you!

I will hold your hand!

I have loved you with an everlasting love!

And maybe if I had truly believed those wonderful words, I would not have needed to strive to be beautiful in the eyes of the world. Because surely then I would have understood that I am chosen by One whose enormous love for me would last beyond all my time; whose strong hand would always hold on to mine; and in whose eyes I am beautiful indeed.

But it is never too late. And that is why I wrote the book—so God’s letters could be read, so God’s promises could be claimed, so God could gently whisper hope into our hearts.

Will you get a Valentine Card this year?

5 Replies

I can still remember the feeling just before Valentine’s Day- slightly excited, somewhat anxious. Would I get a Valentine card this year? Would my secret admirer (or if I was feeling really optimistic, admirers) surreptitiously slip that coveted red envelope adorned with kisses into my locker, or maybe inside my desk?

It was always a proud moment when that happened, especially if my friends were with me. That way, they would see how popular I was; how much I was admired; how pretty I must be.

The trouble was, I don’t actually remember those moments. What I do recall is the feeling of disappointment; the kind of ‘shrug-it-off-who-cares’; ‘I-actually-never-even-wanted-a-card-from-him-anyway’ pretense that I was so good at.

When you are thirteen years old, in a competitive school, surrounded by pretty girls and handsome boys, Valentine’s Day can be a cruel twenty-four hours to get through.

But girls grow up. They mature. They somehow survive those brutal ‘will I get a Valentine card or not’ days. Sometimes, they might become grandmas. They can shake off all that teenage silliness; all that emotion; all that comparing yourself with others business; and if they are really good at it, they can pretend they don’t need to be loved.

Except they do.

And as I wander through the stores, two weeks away from Valentine’s Day, surrounded by row upon row of red hearts, and red envelopes; red boxes of chocolate wrapped with red ribbon; red balloons flying above my head and red roses standing at my feet, I think about the color of love.

And if the cross had a color, what color that might possibly be?

No one has greater love than the one who gives their life for their friends. John 15:13

When Love Letters fly all over the World, and end up in Places you never would have Imagined…

10 Replies

In the entrance hall of a little Primary school in northern England, Love Letters from God sits quietly on a podium. It has pride of place next to the school Bible. My sweet nephew, Jake, proudly placed it there.

In a dementia care unit in Grand Rapids, Michigan, Love Letters from God sits on a bedside table. It is being read to an elderly lady as she slips in and out of awareness. The reader is her daughter, a lady who does not know God…yet.

In an orphanage in Botswana, Love Letters from God is being shared with children who have no home, no parents, and no books to call their own.

In a small New York apartment, Love Letters from God belongs to a fifty year old man who struggles with mental illness. He smiles when he hears the familiar stories, and clutches his photo of the author as if she were a celebrity.

In a house not far from my home, Love Letters from God is owned by a young boy with special needs. His parents tell me that when he lifts the flaps and hears his name, he squeals with excitement. He knows that those letters are written to him.

In a home in Paris, Love Letters from God sits on a bookshelf. Given as a gift, my ministry colleague left it there for the host she stayed with on her travels. Inside the book, Laurie wrote words of hope, healing, and comfort. It was the day after the Charlie Hebdo shooting.

And for every book that has been bought, for every story that is shared, for every place where Love Letters has flown, I am awed, and humbled, and thankful.

For the teenager who found hope through the story of David and Goliath when he was being bullied at school; for the mom who heard God speaking to her heart as her young daughter read the letters to her and inserted her mom’s name into each one; for the grandchildren who beg to hear their love letters each night; for every story of grace I hear, I am awed, and humbled, and thankful.

You pick up the pen. You begin to write. You create a Storybook Bible for children aged four to eight, for this is your target audience. And then you watch what God can do…for God’s target audience is the world.

All authors have a target audience, but God’s target audience is the world.

Tweet This

You watch as God picks up the book, and flies it all over the world: to Botswana, and Italy; to England and France; to Australia and Switzerland.

In schools and churches; in hospitals and orphanages; on bookshelves and bed-side tables, God is placing this book in the hands of those who need to read it, and touching the hearts of those who need to hear it- no matter their age, no matter their circumstance.

God is at work in the world.

Do you know someone who needs to hear God’s Love Letter to them? Enter this free giveaway here.

Memories of a Sunny Afternoon in a Home-made, Wooden Houseboat…

4 Replies

On a wintry, sunless day in Michigan, when the snow lies deep, and the trees are bare, it feels good to close my eyes and remember one sunny afternoon, just a few months ago, floating down the Erie Canal, as we came to the end of our three-week adventure aboard our wooden, homemade houseboat.

Here’s what I penned as I sat on the bow, homeward bound…

I sit on the bow under a cloudless sky, no sound save for the quiet drone of the engine and the occasional song of an elusive bird.

We glide through turquoise, led by a belted kingfisher, its flashes of blue darting from bank to bank ahead. Sunlight peeps through trees as water gurgles underneath, and we ride the ripples past tall purple flowers that stand to attention on the bank, with three little ducks for company.

Our journey is watched with interest by a long-legged, and beady-eyed great white egret. Her reflection stands immobile as we pass by.

And even though this canal was carved and hollowed by human hands, this is still God’s creation we traverse. I soak up His trees, His skies, His water, His world. And I wonder why it is that anyone should pay for entertainment, when all this beauty is free.

When all I have to do is sit and spectate, like the birds assembled on their front row seat high above my head.

And here, I think I know how one might be inspired – by the sight of a simple yellow daffodil, like Wordsworth, or the glimpse of a small silver fish, like Walter de-la-Mare; and how strong is the urge to pick up the pen and create something of beauty, something of note, something as pretty as leaves shimmering over still waters on a Thursday afternoon.

Earandel…built by David

The Story You Won’t Believe…

7 Replies

One day I sat on the edge of a high, high roof swinging my legs in the air like I was a little girl.

Except I was twenty-five. And although in my youth I loved to climb trees, there was no way I could have climbed on to that roof. I flew. And it wasn’t actually day-time either. It was in the middle of the night; under a dark, cloudless sky; under the stars and moon.

And I know what you’re thinking…. that this far-fetched tale belongs in the pages of Alice in Wonderland. But it’s true.

I’ve never written about it before. I don’t think about it much. But when I do, it comes back to me as clear as if it happened yesterday. I still don’t understand it.

Thirty years ago I woke in the morning and looked over the side of my hospital bed, just to make sure that my newborn son was still there. He was. Snuggled safe; sleeping tight; lying on his side; just one day old.

Later that day, my husband came to visit and I told him about the weird and wonderful dream I had in the night, of how I flew out of my body through the window, and sat on a high rooftop somewhere in the dark, and swung my legs over the edge and laughed. How I felt full of an inexplicable and uncontainable joy after the birth of our first son.

How I was suddenly overtaken with the feeling of having to return, because it wasn’t safe. And how I fearlessly jumped off the edge and was reeled back into my body, like one of those tape measures that skitters swiftly back into place when the button is released.

It felt SO real David, I say.

Then I forget about it.

And it’s not until a few days later, when we leave the hospital to go home, and I climb in to the car with my new baby snug in my arms, and turn to glance through the back window at the hospital as we leave, that I see it.

There’s the flat roof. There’s the windows. I see that tall hospital building reaching high into the sky. And I know that’s where I sat, swinging my legs in the dark, right on the very edge. And I know it was no dream.

I don’t know why it happened. I don’t understand it.

Like Nicodemus, the intellectual, who came to Jesus at night, who just couldn’t fathom how the spirit blows where it will, or comprehend the things that Jesus tried to explain, the things that point towards another realm, those inexplicable moments that whisper:

there is more to this life than we mere humans can ever know.

And what happened to me that night thirty years ago? There’s no rational explanation. But it was real.

I’ll never understand how that feeling of pure and utter joy, that sheer elation, could fill my soul and make it fly.

But it did.

On Marriage and Mountains

8 Replies

It’s not every day that you get to share in the blessing of your youngest son’s wedding at an elevation of 1073 feet in sight of two impressive, snow-capped volcanoes.

But on this first day of January in 2014, as the sun slips into the evening, this is how we welcome in the New Year….

It looks and feels like a scene from a Robin Hood movie.

We bundle up in hats and scarves as the freezing wind whips our faces. And gathering under a giant redwood tree, with ferns at our feet and sunlight dancing, the six of us hold hands and pray, while Mount Hood and Mount St. Helens stand strong in the distance, like two silent witnesses to the event.

On this clear, crisp day, standing on Council Crest in Southwest Portland, I can see for miles. I think about how small am I, and how big is God.

I think about family. And how precious is time. And how standing on the brink of this new year seems full of promise.

Up here I know that God is with us, riding the wings of the wind and using the mountains as footstools, smiling at two young people who hold hands under a tree as they set out on this journey.

And I think how appropriate it is for a marriage blessing to take place under the protection and permanence of that big evergreen, who will faithfully retain her color no matter the season, no matter what comes.

How she spread her branches over my son and his bride, reminding them to hold on to each other.

No matter what comes, to hold on to love.

To hold on to God.

The Birth Announcement

2 Replies

It was an ordinary day. An ordinary envelope. But there was nothing ordinary about the news.

The evidence slid out in black and white- a photograph taken from inside the depths of the womb. And there he lay, curled and fast asleep; his bones still forming; unaware of the world; unaware of all the love that was waiting to welcome him.

That was how we heard the news of our second grandchild.

There is surely nothing more wonderful than to announce the news of a baby.

For Mary, there would be no letters to write; no cards to mail; no excited phone calls to make; no photographic evidence.

But instead, there were a thousand angels who flew from heaven and announced the wonderful news in song to shepherds on a starlit hillside.

There were sleepy animals who would wake, astonished, in the middle of the night to witness the birth of a King in a love-filled stable.

There were wise men carrying treasures who would follow a star for miles and miles to kneel in awestruck worship.

And there was God.

And His name was called Jesus.

And even though baby Jesus slept- the world would never, ever, be the same again.

“And even though baby Jesus slept, the world would never, ever be the same again.” #Christmas

Tweet This

The Unrehearsed Nativity

2 Replies

A little story was re-enacted in church this morning; a little story that first unfolded in Bethlehem; a little story of hope that has always had the power to change the world.

It was totally unrehearsed.

Costumes and crowns lay on pews – no one knew who would wear them; gold, frankincense and myrrh sat at the ready – no-one knew who would carry them; a baby doll, wrapped snug in blue cloth waited patiently – no-one knew who would hold him.

But when the invitation was given to be part of the story, a boy and girl volunteered to be Mary and Joseph; shepherds and sheep came forward; three brothers opted to be kings, and a little boy eagerly grabbed a star that was bigger than himself.

And the ancient story unfolded, along with carols and readings, while proud parents took photographs.

And despite the big star tripping as he reached the stable; despite baby Jesus being almost thrown in the manger; and despite the big cardboard cow toppling over, it all turned out perfectly.

Unrehearsed Nativity Pic

And I think about that real journey to Bethlehem…totally unrehearsed; no-one knowing where or when the baby would be born; no-one knowing who would wear the crown, or quite who it was that Mary would hold..

And despite there being no room at the inn, despite being surrounded by the smell of animals, and despite the King of the World having to sleep in an eating trough, it all turned out perfectly.

God was born.

What could be more perfect than that?

And like a million lights twinkling in the darkness of a Christmas night, like a choir of carolers singing in the quiet of a December evening, magic must have filled the air.

Hope was born.

And aren’t we all meant to be part of that story too?

http://https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kWq60oyrHVQ