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

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.

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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…

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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…

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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

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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

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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

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The Unrehearsed Nativity

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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

When You Get a Glimpse of Christmas in the Unexpected…

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It is early summer, a full six months away from Christmas. The only snow to be seen today sits atop Mount Hood, hugging her slopes like frosting on a giant cupcake and gleaming brilliant white in sunshine.

I am walking around picturesque Trillium Lake in Oregon, in the company of blue skies and bald eagles. This has to be one of my favorite places in the world. Everywhere I look there is beauty. I feel like I’m in a picture postcard.

Above I see the majestic slopes of Oregon’s most famous mountain, framed against a background of sheer blue. Below I see her white covered peaks reflected in shimmering turquoise. All around are trees, and birds, and sunshine on leaves. The air is filled with laughter and conversation as we finish our family picnic and begin our walk together.

And my three-year old grandson – always ahead, and always running, and always the one to notice things, is making his way back to me, running back down the wooded path with something in his hand. It glistens in the sun.

What is that? It’s a shiny Christmas bauble.

I’m confused.

It’s a steaming hot day. It’s early summer. Where did that come from? And then I see it….

On the path up ahead is a solitary pine tree, quietly standing to one side, waiting to be noticed. And from its branches hang shiny Christmas baubles…red, and green, silver and gold, catching the sunlight and swinging in the breeze.

And we all stop, and laugh, and marvel at the sight, and take photographs with our phones. And then we keep on walking.

And I can’t help but wonder…

Who was it who placed those baubles there?

Who was it who walked that path before us; who noticed that pine tree; who went home; foraged for their hidden-away Christmas ornaments; took out the baubles; selected the colors, and then brought them back to hang on that tree –

so that everyone who passed by would stop, and take notice, and smile, and perhaps write blogs about what they had seen that day?

Because whoever it was, that little unexpected surprise took a whole lot of thought, and planning, and detail, and purpose.

Like God.

Sending Jesus.

Who stands quietly to one side of our path as we walk.

Waiting for us to stop.

Waiting to be noticed.

When we might least expect it.

“This is how much God loved the world: He gave his Son, his one and only Son.” John 3:16 #Christmas

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Looking for Something Special in the Darkness of a Christmas Eve…

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It’s Christmas Eve in a big old house in northern England. Above the fireplace in the front room, eight socks dangle- empty, but expectant. Each sock has a name attached tightly to it by a wooden clothes peg. The fifth one says GLENYS.

On the hearth beneath sits a glass of milk, a plate with one home-made mince pie, and a carrot. The stage is set.

Night is falling and bedtime approaches. We scamper upstairs, my seven siblings and I, and congregate in the darkness of the bedroom. The curtains are parted, and we peer into the night. For a moment all is quiet. Our eyes search.

Where is it, Dad? Can you see it?

I see it! The cry goes up from my youngest sister. It’s over there!

She points and we all gaze in the direction of her finger, scanning the darkness until we see it too.

It’s a light.

A light, flickering and traveling in the darkness.

There it is! My exuberant and energetic dad exclaims, seizing the opportunity. He’s on the move! He’s getting closer! You’d better get straight to bed. Father Christmas won’t come if you’re not asleep!

And we jump into bed and pull the covers over our heads, and dream of morning, when our front room will be filled with love and laughter, presents galore, and eight socks will bulge with promising and peculiar shapes.

We will marvel at the mysterious bite taken out of the home-made mince pie and search for Rudolph’s teeth marks left in the half-eaten carrot.

But amidst these wonderful memories, always, always for me, one will remain uppermost…

Looking for Father Christmas’s light on Christmas Eve.

We lived atop a hill, overlooking the town of Wigan. On any given night, a million stars shone, and hundreds of lights twinkled and traveled in the darkness.

I’m sure that those eight little faces, glued to the window in the darkness of a Christmas Eve, each saw a different light. But it didn’t matter. We saw the magic. We felt it in the air. We share the memory.

That ritual on Christmas Eve, created by a dad who was so full of fun and love and life, is one that I will replicate with my grandchildren this year. For the first time, I will be with them on Christmas Eve, in their home atop a hill.

And as we stand at the window and scrunch our noses against the glass and search for Father Christmas’s light in the darkness, I’ll be thinking of my dad, and a faraway home in England, and how utterly precious is family, and how fleeting is time, that passes by so very, very fast.

The day I met God at the Christmas Craft Fair

What to do if you’re sitting with your enemies at the Thanksgiving Table…

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When I close my eyes I can still smell the sweetness of the apples.

I can still see row upon row of carrots and turnips and onions and cabbage sitting proudly along the window sills beneath stained glass.

I can still hear the notes of the organ and children’s voices as we sing, ‘Come ye Thankful People Come, Raise the Song of Harvest Home.’

Harvest Festival in England was always a wonderful time. Never had our little church looked so pretty as when her altar was laden with baskets of apples and every available space adorned with the greens and browns and reds and oranges of Autumn.

And although I obviously never celebrated Thanksgiving in England, the colors and sentiments of the harvest season are the same. Families gather, food is shared, and thanks is given.

A few miles away, a wonderful Thanksgiving table is being prepared for me by my American family. As I write, I know that my host is standing at her kitchen sink. She is most probably peeling, and mixing, and measuring.

I know that a place is reserved for me at her table. I know that as I sit at that table, it will be laden with an abundance of food: an enormous platter of turkey; a bowlful of steaming mashed potatoes; a variety of vegetables, and fruit pies in abundance. I will share in that feast. And I will come away full.

And I think about the wonderful host God must be, and how a place is reserved at that huge table for me.

Can’t you just picture God standing at heaven’s sink, preparing that feast- a massive table laden with love, and joy, and peace in abundance? And God smiling, holding a gigantic pitcher, ready to pour a never ending supply of hope and forgiveness to all who are willing to bring their cup to the table?

But therein lies the problem.

In order for us to be filled with God’s best, we must bring an empty cup.

We cannot bring one that is already full… of fear, or anxiety, or jealousy, or busyness. And aren’t they the real enemies at the table? When we are filled with those things, it leaves us no room for anything else.

But if we can learn how to come to the table emptied of the world’s worries, ready to be filled with God’s greatness, then what a feast we will share!

If we can come to the table ready to be filled with God’s greatness, what a feast we will share!

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We will sit at a Thanksgiving table where our enemies are conquered, and where the host is One who never stops pouring. And my cup will not just be filled…

It will simply overflow.

You prepare a table before me
in the presence of my enemies.
You anoint my head with oil;
my cup overflows. Psalm 23:5