One memory always comes to mind.

How could someone not realize they had arms? I wondered as I watched my son sitting in his high chair. We were visiting Granddad and Grandma Karen, his daddy’s parents. He was almost three years old, and Grandma had served mashed potatoes from the garden with rich homemade gravy. As usual, everyone around the table was enjoying dinner.

He lowered his face into the bowl like a puppy and licked the potatoes. Sometimes his hands wandered into the bowl to help the food along, but just as often his face did all the work. I watched with a knot growing in my stomach. That afternoon another mother quietly pulled me aside in the kitchen.

“You really need to work on his table manners,” she suggested.

She meant well, but we didn’t yet know he had autism. I had raised four children before him and had taught them all to use forks and spoons. I had tried exactly the same things with him, but nothing seemed to work. Her words stung because I already felt like I was failing.

Just a few weeks later came the appointment that changed everything. The doctor looked kindly at me through thick bottle glasses.

“He is autistic,” she said. “Very autistic.”

Drawing a half-circle on a sheet of paper, she pointed. “It’s a spectrum,” she explained, indicating a place near one end. “I’d place him about here.”

Today that would be considered Level 3 autism. At the time, she estimated his cognitive abilities to be around those of a six-month-old. He was three.

The drive home was quiet as he slept peacefully in his car seat. My husband and I talked in low voices about the future—about therapies, possibilities, fears, and hopes. We didn’t know where this road would lead, but we knew we had to start walking it.

Suddenly so many things made sense. He couldn’t seem to color. He couldn’t manage utensils. He didn’t appear to understand what his own hands were for.

So we started working on connections—and then on his hands.

Every meal began the same way. After we prayed, instead of picking up my own fork, I walked around behind his chair. Slipping my arms beneath his, I wrapped his little fingers around his fork, covered his hands with mine, and together we lifted the food to his mouth…again and again and again. Every single meal.

Eventually I began loosening my grip, sliding my hands farther down his wrists until his fingers carried more of the work. One day I decided to wait. We finished praying, and everyone reached for their forks, but I stayed in my chair and watched him expectantly.

He frowned and squirmed. Then came the familiar warning.

“Do you hear that tractor?”

Those words almost always meant a meltdown was on the way. He lifted both hands into the air and waited with them suspended above his plate. My heart felt like dry ground waiting for rain, about to crack.

After a few moments, I walked around the table again, placed my hands over his, and together we ate. It wasn’t the victory I had hoped for, but it was still progress. Because now, as long as my hands rested lightly on his wrists, he would hold his own fork. So the next day I moved my hands to his elbows, and then to his forearms. Sometimes I let go for only a second before taking hold again.

Little by little, his hands were learning.

One meal, after the blessing, I remained seated once more. Steam rose from fresh green beans, and crusty bread lay freshly sliced on a homemade cutting board. He looked at me expectantly but quickly averted his eyes. Then he fussed, and his hands floated uncertainly over the table.

Then…he picked up his fork, speared a piece of chicken, and lifted it to his own mouth.

For a split second the whole table froze. Should we cheer? Would we scare him? But somebody couldn’t help it.

“Christopher!” We shouted.

The dining room erupted with applause. He glanced around in surprise and burst into laughter. Delighted, he dropped his fork on purpose, picked it back up, and fed himself again, hoping to keep producing the laughter. He loved making everyone laugh.

To discover your hands is no small thing. It’s certainly cause for celebration. But…if his hands could learn to feed him, perhaps someday they would learn to write and draw. Perhaps someday they would build or play music. Maybe even someday his mouth would find words too?

So we just kept practicing. Coloring came next. He didn’t understand crayons any better than forks, so again, he held his hands out for mine.

I bought a large whiteboard and dry-erase markers. Standing behind him, I wrapped my hands around his, and together we drew circles, squares, arrows, smiley faces, and simple lines every day. He loved it.

Truthfully, I think he loved the smell of the markers at least as much as drawing. He would lean close and sniff them with obvious delight, and he always seemed comforted by the firm pressure of my hands around his wrists. Deep pressure always settled his little nervous system.

Eventually preschool time would end each morning, and I needed to teach his older brothers and sister. One day, I sat working through grammar with Andrew while Christopher played quietly on the hardwood floor beside me. His favorite toys were blocks, so I dumped a pile for him to play in. He could sort and stack them for what seemed like hours.

As Andrew and I worked through his lesson, I glanced down, and there beside Christopher lay one of the small whiteboards his older siblings used for spelling. A dry-erase marker was clutched in his pudgy hand.

And on the board…was a tractor! A real tractor!

I stared at it. He had never drawn a single thing by himself! He hadn’t even made a single mark on a board without my hands guiding his. Grabbing my phone, I snapped a picture before it disappeared and sent it to my husband at work.

“Our son just did this!” I shrieked into the phone.

Original drawing from Christopher

Hardly believing what I was seeing, I wondered, how in the world had he gone from holding out his hands so I could help him draw a single line…to drawing an entire tractor? He looked up at me proudly.

“Do you hear that tractor?”

For so long that phrase had been nothing but the warning that a meltdown was coming, but that day, I felt that it meant something else. I truly believed he had seen something, imagined it, and had actually drawn it. And finally he had found those familiar words to share it.

Little by little, he was finding his hands. He was finding his feet. And hidden inside the mystery of his mind, the gifts God had placed there all along were beginning to emerge.

We’re still seeing that today.

“Let all things be done decently and in order.”
(1 Cor. 14:40)

Dearest Daughters,

Well, here we go, beginning a new year of Dearest Daughters letters. I thought I would start by talking about some of the tricks, tips, and helps I’ve learned in housekeeping over the years.

In my very first letter to you a year ago, I talked about how motherhood is like a dance. I really meant that. To me, it’s still the image that most captures what it means to be a wife, mother, homemaker, and all the other things God may call us to be. There are many steps in the dance, and no two are exactly alike. The rhythm may change, the song may change, and we must bow, bend, step to the side, step back, and step forward in time with the music.

Homemaking is much the same. There are seasons when it comes more easily and seasons when it doesn’t. As your families grow and your responsibilities expand, you will discover that keeping a home orderly is not simply a matter of wanting to do it. It requires patterns, habits, and systems that help carry the load when life becomes full.

I’m blessed to see all of you keeping your homes well, at least from the times I’ve spent with you. Some of you are better at it than I am, but there have certainly been seasons when I’ve done better and seasons when I’ve done worse. I love a clean home, an orderly home, and a beautiful home, and I really dislike clutter. When I got married, I confidently told myself that my house would never be messy or dirty. It was a lesson in humility to discover that good intentions alone do not keep a house!

I’ll tell you the story of when I first realized that simply deciding to do something was not enough.

Helen, you were only a week old.

I had nothing to wear that fit properly after your birth, and I was realizing that losing the baby weight did not necessarily mean fitting back into my pre-pregnancy clothes, at least not right away. Prior to your birth, I had kept an immaculate house. After you arrived, it seemed as though all I ever did was feed you, change you, prepare meals, clean them up, make laundry piles ten times larger than Dad and I had ever produced, and then try to find time to wash, fold, and put everything away again.

One day, right before lunch, I was trying to find something to wear because we had an event to attend. After trying on about the ninth outfit and tossing it onto the couch in frustration, I heard a knock at the door.

I nearly had a heart attack.

My hair was a mess. Nine outfits were draped across the couch. A load of unfolded laundry sat in a chair. Breakfast dishes were still in the sink.

Then the knock came again.

What do you do?

I gathered up the pile of clothes from the couch, wadded them into my arms, tossed them onto my bed, and hurried back to answer the door. It was my parents and some relatives of my dad’s. I couldn’t believe it!

“Sorry to drop in unannounced,” Dad said, “but we were driving by, and I thought they would enjoy seeing your wedding furniture.”

Several family members had made beautiful furniture for us as wedding gifts. Your Uncle Abraham and some of Dad’s friends had made our coffee table, rocking chair, bed, dresser, and nightstands. Your Uncle Philip had made our dining table and chairs.

Then Dad added the fatal words:

“I knew you always kept an immaculate house, so I figured it wouldn’t alarm you too much.”

I laughed weakly.

“A baby has changed that,” I said.

Everyone was gracious, but when they stepped inside, I could see the surprise on my parents’ faces. Not only did they tour the living room, but one of the ladies wanted to see the bedroom furniture as well. After they finally left, I flopped onto the couch and covered my face with my hand. Oh, no!

I was going to have to establish some patterns and rules for myself because this couldn’t happen again. I’m still cringing about it twenty-eight years later.

That day, I made a few decisions. First, I would not do laundry in the living room. The living room would remain a sanctuary. No piles of laundry. No household clutter.

Later this developed even further. I don’t generally allow children to play in the living room unless they are playing there with their parents. Toys belong in designated play spaces. The purpose of this rule isn’t rigidity but hospitality. I want to be able to welcome company into my living room without first needing thirty minutes to make it presentable.

Second, I made a rule that I would never go to bed with dirty dishes in the sink.

Third, I’d never leave the house with dirty dishes in the sink unless there was a genuine emergency.

Those simple habits helped me enormously.

The lesson was not really about laundry or dishes but that good intentions are rarely enough. Homes are generally not kept by inspiration but by patterns.

Scripture tells us that everything should be done decently and in order. It has always struck me that when the disciples entered the empty tomb, they found the grave clothes lying there and the face cloth folded separately. There was order even in the midst of the greatest miracle in history. I figured that if there could be order in an empty tomb on resurrection morning, there ought to be some order in my laundry basket as well.

During different seasons, I’ve handled laundry in different ways. As you children grew older, I taught you to fold and put away your own clothes. But during that season with a newborn, I folded everything immediately as it came off the clothesline or out of the dryer and placed it directly into a basket ready to carry to the drawers. It was one less pile to create and one less pile to conquer later.

Over the years I’ve learned dozens of little habits, tricks, and systems that have helped me care for a home and family. Some were learned from wise women; others came through trial and error. And some came through embarrassing moments such as the one I just told you about.

Over the next few months, I’d like to share more of these with you. Take what is useful, discard what is not, and adapt the rest to your own homes and personalities.

The goal is not perfection but to create a place of peace, welcome, beauty, and provision for the people God has entrusted to your care.

With all my love,

Mom

Many of you have faithfully chosen to support my writing, even when you weren’t receiving anything exclusive in return. Your encouragement has meant more to me than you know, and I am deeply grateful.

That is about to change.

I’m excited to begin sharing something that no one else has seen yet—a sneak preview of the book that Christopher and I are writing together.

The book is made up of letters exchanged between the two of us. Some are letters I have written to him, and others are his responses back to me. It has become a beautiful journey of reflection, growth, and the grace of God at work through the years.

Today, I’d like to share one of Christopher’s letters in response to one I wrote to him.

I hope you enjoy it, and thank you again for your continued support. It has helped make projects like this possible.

—Amanda

Read more

“One generation shall praise thy works to another, and shall declare thy mighty acts.”
(Ps 145:4)

Dearest daughters,

Well, this is the 52nd letter—an entire year of Dearest Daughters letters!

I hope these letters have been as much of a blessing to you as they have been to me. Taking my thoughts, putting them into words, and sharing them with you each week has been a transforming experience. As I write, I picture each of you and the different seasons you are walking through, and I hope that somewhere along the way these letters have been inspiring, encouraging, or helpful in your own journeys as wives and mothers.

I wanted to give you a little glimpse of what I am planning going forward.

I have begun the process of turning these first 52 letters into a devotional, which I hope you will enjoy. My vision is for it to be both a devotional and a prayer journal, a place for reflection as well as encouragement. Lord willing, it will be ready this fall, and I’m very excited about it.

As I look ahead to the next year of letters, I find myself wanting to move into some very practical areas of wifehood, motherhood, and homemaking.

My initial thought is to spend six weeks on practical homemaking, six weeks on newborn and baby care, six weeks on toddlers and preschoolers, six weeks on beginning school, six weeks on family schooling, six weeks on the teenage years, and six weeks on navigating relationships with married children.

That still leaves room for additional topics, and before I begin, I would love to hear from you.

What specific subjects would you like me to address within those categories? Are there other categories you would like included? What questions do you find yourself asking as wives, mothers, homemakers, and women seeking the kingdom of God in your homes?

Your feedback would be wonderful and would help shape the direction of the coming year’s letters.

I would also love to hear from other mothers who may eventually read these letters. If you feel comfortable, perhaps you could leave a comment on my Substack page beneath this letter and help get the conversation started. Of course, if you’d rather respond privately, that’s perfectly fine, too.

Before we close out this first year together, I want to leave you with a poem I wrote for you:

If You Are A Mother…

If you’ve awakened in the night
to the grunts of your baby,
fed them and turned them,
yet lingered a moment longer
because you couldn’t bear to lay them back down,
then you are a mother.

If you’ve stayed awake in wonder,
just to marvel,
just to weep over the wisps of breath
upon a silky cheek,
then you are a mother.

If you’ve picked up the messes,
wiped away the grime,
and still found yourself smiling
at some point each and every day,
then you are a mother.

If you’ve been vomited on and cried on,
plastered with slobbery kisses,
and simply wiped it off again with a laugh,
then you are a mother.

If you’ve embraced every moment—
the sunshine and play,
but also the chaos
that shatters your day—
then you are a mother.

If you’ve disciplined your child,
then hidden away to weep,
yet still kept doing
what would keep him safe,
then you are a mother.

If you’ve lain awake at night
repenting again and again,
yet risen in the morning
to do it all over once more,
then you are a mother.

If you’ve tried and you’ve tried
and you’ve failed,
yet left a trail—
even a broken one—
for those who come behind,
then you are a mother.

If you’ve loved beyond your strength,
prayed beyond your wisdom,
given more than you thought you had,
and risen each morning
to surrender once more,
then you are a mother.

Not because you did it perfectly.

Not because you never failed.

But because you loved.

You are a mother.

As I watch your lives unfold, I see that those of you who have children are becoming mothers, not simply by giving birth, but through the daily laying down of your lives in love.

And that brings joy to my soul more than I can adequately express.

With all my love,

Mom

The phone rang, and I looked at the number, surprised. It was a single guy whom I’ll call Bill. I couldn’t remember a time he’d ever called me before.

“Hello?” I said.

“Hi, Amanda. I just thought I would let you know that, well, you might want to know that your son is standing on the windowsill in his room, and he doesn’t have anything on. Like, nothing on. And he’s looking out the window.”

I groaned.

“Okay. Thank you very much,” I said, shaking my head.

Dashing back to Christopher’s room, I opened the door. Sure enough, he was standing on the windowsill again, but then the smell hit me like a tsunami.

What in the world?

This would not be the first time his room had smelled like this. Our toilet-training journey was not going well. Then I saw the window, the walls, and the shoes in the corner. All of them had been smeared and painted with unspeakable substances.

I grabbed my head in my hands.

“Oh no, Christopher. What did you do?” I asked.

He jerked and jumped off the windowsill where he had been standing.

“Come with Mommy,” I said.

I took him to my bathroom and turned on the water. I felt like taking him outside and spraying him off with a hose, but I knew that would cause even more alarm. After rinsing him off in the shower and settling him into a bath, I went back to clean and sterilize the room.

How were we ever going to overcome the toilet-training issues? We’d been at it for years! And not just the toilet-training issues, but the hatred-of-clothing issues as well.

I had tried softer clothes and cut every tag out of T-shirts, pants, and underwear. But there was always some problem. The second Christopher was out of sight, off came the clothes.

During nap times and while he was outside playing, we lost more shoes than I could count. Somehow they simply disappeared, but I reminded myself that this was a journey.

At least it seemed like we already had some victories behind us, like wetting. Now if we could just get victory with the big jobs and clothing.

Learning to use the potty had included sitting for entire days with him, reading books while he sat on the potty, or sitting beside him next to the adult toilet waiting and watching for success. As strange as it sounds, that turned out to be marvelously helpful because he loved watching water coming from any source. Watching it hit the water in the toilet was even more exciting.

Suddenly, we had a breakthrough, and I wished I’d known that trick before spending endless days and weeks sitting beside the little frog potty that a typical child would have learned on.

After Christopher got out of the tub that day, I brought him back into his room and showed him the pile of dirty rags, clothes, and ruined shoes.

I talked to him as if he could understand every word.

“Christopher, we never do this. That’s very dirty. It can make people sick.”

On and on I went.

I didn’t know if a hundred percent of my words were being understood, or three percent, or zero, but I kept talking. I showed him and let him smell the mess. I explained until I saw something registering in his big brown eyes.

“Oh, you don’t want to do that? Oh, you don’t want to do that?” he repeated in a high-pitched voice, nervously shaking his hands like wings.

Walking the fine line between disturbing him enough not to repeat the behavior and pushing him into a meltdown was always a balancing act.

“That’s right,” I said. “We’re not going to do that anymore.”

And amazingly, we didn’t.

That problem finally disappeared.

Now, the getting-naked issue was another story. At my daughter Helen’s sixteenth birthday party, she had several friends over to celebrate. The house was full of girlish laughter and chatter. Candles had been blown out, presents opened, and Helen was enjoying her special day.

Meanwhile, I had been working diligently on privacy lessons.

“We get dressed in private,” I explained again and again. “No one should see you getting undressed except a doctor or if Mommy is helping you.”

We practiced shutting the door and putting clothes on privately.

Then suddenly, in the midst of the party, Helen squealed.

“Mom!”

I turned around to see a very naked Christopher standing right in the middle of the room full of teenage girls.

“Christopher! What’s the problem?” I asked, rushing over to usher him out of the room.

“Nicolas invaded my privacy,” he announced indignantly, referring to his two-year-old brother, and using terms he’d heard me use in my explanations.

“I was getting dressed, and he opened the door.”

Well, at least part of the lesson had worked.

“Okay,” I said, trying not to laugh. “But let’s not come out here.”

I herded him back toward the bedroom while poor Helen turned bright red all the way to the roots of her hair.

“I’m sorry,” I told the girls. “Just think Adam and Eve. He doesn’t understand.”

The toilet training eventually became a success, and sometime later we were taking a family trip through the mountains of Utah.

We packed our lunch into backpacks and headed down a trail toward a beautiful river. After hiking for about half an hour, we found the perfect picnic spot.

The pine trees swayed in the wind. The scent of the forest drifted through the air, and the river rushed over the rocks beside us.

Carri Beth gathered pinecones in her skirt. Blair skipped rocks, and everyone settled in for a wonderful picnic.

Then suddenly Christopher began to dance.

“Do you need to go potty? Do you need to go potty?” he cried.

Which meant, of course, that he needed to go potty.

What followed was a complete disaster, or so I thought.

I took Christopher off to a private spot and carefully explained that there weren’t any potties in the wilderness, but that we could make do.

The moment I reached for the buckle on his bib overalls, however, he looked at me as though I had violated one of the Ten Commandments.

He dashed around the other side of the tree with a scream. I followed, but he darted around the opposite side, smearing sap on his clothes in the process. The cries escalated into shrieks. Soon we were headed straight into a full-blown meltdown.

Dan came over.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“I don’t think I’m going to get him to do this.”

“Well, what do we do?”

“I’m afraid we’re going to have to take him all the way back.”

“Oh boy,” Dan said. “That’s a long walk.”

As the meltdown intensified, Dan scooped him up and began jogging back down the trail toward the trailhead where there was a porta-potty.

“He acted like you were murdering him,” Blair observed.

“He doesn’t understand the difference between a small deviation from normal and a terrible crime,” I said.

We laid out the turkey sandwiches, opened the chips, and sat down beside the beautiful mountain river, but our hearts were heavy.

“When’s Daddy getting back?” Zach asked.

“Hopefully soon,” I said.

We were packing up lunch with Christopher’s plate still sitting untouched on the picnic table when we finally saw them.

Dan walked up with a grin on his face. Then he sat down and patted the seat beside him. Christopher climbed onto the bench, picked up his sandwich, and took a huge bite.

Now that was a victory all by itself.

There had been a time when even eating away from home could cause a meltdown. New places, new routines, unfamiliar surroundings—any one of them could derail an entire day. Yet here he was, calmly eating lunch beside a mountain river as if nothing unusual had happened.

Then he looked around at all of us.

“Christopher was a big boy,” he announced proudly.

We smiled.

“He went potty.”

The family erupted into cheers. To anyone else, it might have sounded ridiculous. A family celebrating a trip to the bathroom, but to us it felt like standing on the summit of a mountain.

We knew how many tears stood behind those words. How many hours spent sitting beside little plastic potties. How many ruined pairs of shoes and loads of laundry. How many public embarrassments. How many moments of wondering whether he understood anything we were trying to teach him, and somehow, little by little, the lessons were taking root.

Raising Christopher taught our family to celebrate things we might never have noticed otherwise. A successful trip to the potty. Keeping clothes on all day. Respecting privacy. Eating a meal away from home.

To most people these would seem ordinary. To us they were hard-won triumphs.

There were many times when I wondered whether my words were reaching him at all. I wondered whether the constant explanations, the patient repetition, and the endless practice were accomplishing anything, but over and over again, Christopher surprised me.

Sometimes the victories came months after I expected them or arrived in forms I never anticipated. Sometimes what looked like a defeat in one area turned out to be a step forward in another.

That day in the Utah mountains seemed at first like another failure. We had interrupted the hike, disrupted the picnic, and sent poor Dan jogging down the trail with a screaming child in his arms. Yet by the end of the day, all any of us remembered was Christopher’s proud announcement.

“He went potty.”

We often measure progress by the battles we lose. God measures it by the ground we gain, and most of the ground is gained one small victory at a time.

Those small victories accumulated over months and years until one day we realized we have been utterly transformed into something much better than before.

The victories have become a life.

Dearest Daughters,

Scripture tells us, “This is the victory that overcomes the world—even our faith.” (1 John 5:4)

If faith is the victory that overcomes the world, then it seems that if we’re looking for victory in life, we ought to practice faith and come to a deeper understanding of what it truly means.

I believe that if faith is the victory that overcomes the world, then certainly it can also be the victory that overcomes fear, anxiety, discouragement, and the daily troubles of life.

Whenever I’m not feeling victory in some sphere of life, I often ask myself: Is this simply the challenges of life or is there a lack of faith?

If the house feels chaotic and lacking peace, perhaps I don’t have enough faith.

If there’s tension in my marriage, perhaps faith is running short.

If I seem unable to gain forward momentum with a toddler, where is the faith?

If I can’t seem to connect with a teenager, perhaps faith is the shortfall. When I encounter these difficulties, one of the first places I should look is whether I am responding in faith.

So let’s examine faith. I think the definition of faith in Christian circles is often diluted until it becomes little more than mental agreement that God is God. But biblical faith is quite different. Biblical faith always produces action. Hebrews 11 describes faith in vivid terms. Noah, having faith, built an ark. Abraham, having faith, left his country. Moses, having faith, chose to suffer with the people of God. Again and again, faith moved someone to act.

And when we look at the passage where the disciples ask the Lord, “Increase our faith,” in Luke 17, we find something very interesting.

Jesus has just told them that they must forgive—not merely once or twice, but over and over again. In response they cry out, “Lord, increase our faith!”

Jesus first tells them that if they have faith as a grain of mustard seed, they can say to a tree, “Be uprooted and planted in the sea,” and it will obey them.

But then He immediately tells what seems at first to be an unrelated parable. He speaks of a servant who has spent the day laboring in the field. When he returns home, the master does not tell him to sit down and rest. Instead, the servant prepares the master’s meal and continues serving. And after doing so, he simply says, “We are unprofitable servants. We have done only what was our duty to do.”

Somehow, this story is part of Jesus’ answer to their request for greater faith.

I have often thought about that. When I lie in bed at night after a long and taxing day, my mind wanders back through the hours. If I’ve simply done what I know was required of me before God as a wife, mother, homemaker, or friend, there’s a certain satisfaction in that.

But there is a different feeling altogether when I have responded to the prompting of the Holy Spirit.

When I have reached out to encourage someone.

When I have written a note.

When I have given a gift.

When I have made a meal or a phone call.

When I have gone beyond what was merely required of me.

Those are the days when I feel as though I have stepped into a rushing current. New ideas come. New energy comes, and above all, joy comes. And what is remarkable is that whenever I step beyond myself in faith, God often sends something back in return.

It’s like casting out a tiny seed and watching it spring up into a tree. The encouragement returned. There are unexpected blessings, and I find renewed sense of purpose. There is deep joy that comes from knowing God moved through me in some small way.

Faith seems to grow from faith and glory grows from glory. When you give faith away, it somehow reflects back to you. When you extend courage, hope, kindness, and love to others, the radiance of God shines both through you and then back upon you. Faith becomes contagious.

So if you find yourself falling short, if victory seems absent in some area of your life, ask the Lord as the disciples did:

“Lord, increase my faith.”

And then look for an opportunity to go beyond the call of duty. Do something that requires you to step outside of yourself. Encourage someone. Forgive someone. Serve someone. Bless someone. Take one small step of faith, and then watch what God does.

I challenge you to see whether you do not find more victory, more faith, and more momentum than you had yesterday. Let us walk in the victory that overcomes the world. The victory that overcomes fear. The victory that overcomes doubt. The victory that overcomes the cranky toddler. The victory that overcomes the despondent teenager. The victory that overcomes selfishness and brings the radiant glory of God into the world.

With all my love,

Mom

“Let us not grow weary while doing good, for in due season we shall reap if we do not lose heart.” (Gal. 6:9)

Dearest daughters,

Today, Dad and I are celebrating twenty-nine years of marriage.

I remember this day vividly, twenty-nine years ago, the awe, the fear, even the trembling I felt in my soul as I prepared to make such a momentous, lifelong decision. Was my perspective truly right? Was my love what it needed to be? Above all, I did not want to let Dad or God down.

I knew Dad saw more in me than I even believed myself to be. And I knew God was counting on me to be a reflection of His love.

My mom was busy preparing my little sister for the wedding in my bedroom, so I spent that morning in my brother’s bedroom, praying, pacing the floor, getting down on my knees.

“God, help me to do this,” I prayed. “Help me to bring glory to You in this marriage. Don’t let my shortfalls change the trajectory You have for my life.”

There was such a weighty feeling that morning. But the moment I made that commitment with my mouth—“I do take this man to be my husband, for better, for worse, in sickness and in health”—it was as if those words cut through the cloud of heaviness, and I saw the light of love like never before.

Now, twenty-nine years later, I realize I was only barely seeing a glimmer of the shine our love would become. It has only grown brighter.

Not one single day has gone by that I have not repeatedly declared my love to your father, and he to me. And it is my wish and prayer that each of you will have a marriage like Dad and I have had.

Our marriage has far exceeded my expectations, and I owe this in part to my own father, who told me from the beginning, “Marriage will not be about you. If you go into it to see what you can get out of it, you will be disappointed. Marriage will be about God being made more visible through your union, through your overcoming, through the way you work through your trials. And it will take a lot of work.”

So I came into marriage expecting a challenge. And because of that, I found the challenges to be part of the adventure.

Let me give you an analogy.

If I go down to the car to leave, running late for church, and realize I have left my keys upstairs in the bedroom of our large farmhouse, I resent every step back through that house. I resent that my bedroom is upstairs. I resent every step back down. It all takes longer. It’s all an inconvenience to me getting on my way. The stairs and the house itself become adversaries to my purpose.

But if I am preparing to take a beautiful alpine mountain hike with your father in a month, I count every step. I am thrilled that my bedroom is upstairs and that our house sits at the top of a hill. I take every step as preparation, as a challenge making me more fit for my goal.

This is the attitude that will shape your marriage.

If our attitude is that everything is a hindrance to our own purposes, then every request, every difference of viewpoint, every need in our spouse or children will begin to feel like they’re in the way of our life and our agenda. And little by little, we will begin to resent our marriage.

But if we believe marriage is a chance to prove to the enemy that love triumphs, then every difference of opinion, every inconvenience, every sorrow becomes a chance, an exercise. It becomes a stairway to climb in preparation for standing on the mountain that declares love will triumph over hate, life over death, and that we are part of the winning team.

So may you view each day of your marriage as steps preparing you for the mountain view, not as inconveniences keeping you from the journey of your own independent life.

May you be blessed with a marriage like mine.

May you hear love from your spouse every day, and may you give it every hour, so that on your twenty-ninth anniversary, you can say with me:

I would do it all over again!

And though I was head over heels in love on day one, I barely knew what love was compared to what I feel today.

With all my love,
Mom

But we all, with unveiled face, beholding as in a mirror the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from glory to glory. (2 Cor. 3:18)

Dearest Daughters,

I recently had a conversation with an Alaskan man that got my attention. He was talking about the constant problem people in Alaska, and in many northern countries, face with vitamin D deficiency.

Vitamin D is the vitamin our bodies get through exposure to sunlight. It’s absorbed through watching a sunset or sunrise, and through simply living in the sun. This vitamin helps the body absorb calcium, strengthening bones, muscles, and teeth, and even contributing to emotional well-being. But after months of winter and near darkness, where the sun barely peeks above the horizon for an hour or two each day, many people emerge from winter feeling depressed, weak, fatigued, and physically depleted. Some even develop bone disorders and increased fragility.

What struck me was that even many people who are health conscious and faithfully take vitamin D supplements still discover, through bloodwork, that they are deficient.

And interestingly, vitamin D deficiency is becoming increasingly common even in places filled with sunshine, simply because so many people spend enormous amounts of time indoors, disconnected from natural light.

But it especially affects the far north after long winters. This got me thinking about spiritual life. Because we need light both naturally and spiritually.

Naturally, light strengthens us. It lifts mood, strengthens muscles and bones, and keeps us from becoming brittle and injury-prone. Without enough light, people weaken.

Spiritually, I believe the same thing can happen.

Jesus so often used physical realities to describe spiritual truths: light, bread, water, the body, ligaments, joints, sight, blindness, fruit, seed.

So what is “light” according to Scripture? One of the primary ways we receive light is through the Word of God. “Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path.” (Ps. 119:105)

The Word of God brings light into dark places. And I don’t believe this refers only to reading Scripture privately, though that is essential. I also believe it includes the living Word preached through those whom God sends to us.

As Romans says:

“The word is near you, in your mouth and in your heart” (that is, the word of faith which we preach). (Rom. 10:8)

Faith is ignited when the Word comes alive through those God sends us, then enters our hearts, and begins to live in our mouths also.

This is why it matters so much where we situate ourselves spiritually. We need to be in places where the Word of God is living, active, spoken, embodied, and believed.

Another way light comes to us is through the unveiled faces of our brothers and sisters.

But we all, with unveiled face, beholding as in a mirror the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from glory to glory. (2 Cor. 3:18)

When believers walk honestly and transparently before God and one another, they begin reflecting His light back upon each other. We become, in a sense, beams of reflected glory, mirrors catching the light of Christ and shining it into one another’s lives. This is why fellowship and community are so vital.

We need to be in the presence of people whose lives shine the presence of God on us and to us. And we ourselves are called to become that kind of light for others.

When we walk in the presence of His people, we are also walking in the atmosphere of His presence.

And then there is the matter of our own transparency before God. Light cannot penetrate tinted windows. If we layer our lives with distraction, manipulation, hiddenness, dishonesty, bitterness, pride, or self-protection, we slowly become opaque and stop seeing clearly. We stop receiving light clearly.

True honesty is more than merely abstaining from a direct lie. It is a vulnerable openness before God and His people. It is living with untinted windows.

I remember seasons in my own life when I didn’t even realize how little light I was receiving until I stepped back into the light again. Everything had become dim and distorted. Relationships became confusing. Problems became exaggerated and frightening. A shadowy stump in the yard begins to look like a bear on a dark Alaskan winter evening, and spiritually, that same thing can happen.

Without enough light, we begin seeing our brothers, our circumstances, and even ourselves through distortion, judgment, and fear. But a moment in the presence of God and His people can cast out the dark distortions, and everything becomes clear again.

And what are the “muscles” and “bones” of spiritual life that can become weakened without light?

They are the inner strength and flexibility that allow us to move with grace, humility, courage, forgiveness, wisdom, and endurance in every capacity God has called us to walk in. When those spiritual bones become weak and brittle, fractures begin appearing in relationships, churches, families, and hearts.

Ephesians says that the whole body is joined and strengthened by “that which every joint supplies” (Eph. 4:16).

When ligaments tear apart, when relationships lose grace, when fellowship breaks down, perhaps one of the first questions we should ask ourselves is this: Am I getting enough light?

Am I receiving the Word of God, in Scripture and through the living voice of faith-filled believers whom God sends to me?

Am I walking in fellowship where His face shines upon me through my brothers and sisters?

And am I keeping my own heart transparent before Him, without tinted windows?

Because God desires vibrant, joyful, healthy Christians—people strong in spirit, supple in love, and radiant with His presence.

So step into the light in every way you can. The winter doesn’t have to last forever. Even in the far north, the sun eventually rises again. And in Christ, that summer Sun can shine even at midnight.

With all my love,

Mom

Dearest Daughters,

Lots of people talk about agricultural sustainability, but very few are talking about sustainable relationships, sustainable marriages, and sustainable generations. And that is the most important sustainability of all.

I was recently in a meeting where I heard a man say that he personally knew twenty-four people whose adult children had “canceled” them. Until the last few years, I’d never even heard that term used this way, and I find it deeply grievous. It is the sign of a failing culture. If there’s no sustainability in relationships, if there’s no continuity between generations, then we have lost life itself.

So what does it take to create that kind of durability?

First, I believe it’s a question of identity.

Second, it’s a recognition of our place in eternity and in history.

We were never meant to be the whole picture. We were meant to be connected. We’re connected to the roots, the trunk, and to the preceding branches. If we sever this connection, how can there be fruit? Only God is all in all, and each generation is one step closer to the harvest He desires.

Let me begin with identity.

I’ve often heard people ask, “Was it hard for you to give up your career, your dreams, or your previous life to become a mother?”

For me, no. Once I understood motherhood to be my calling, I couldn’t imagine anything more important in the world. Motherhood was not a detour from the future. It was the future.

This was how the kingdom of God would continue coming again and again upon the earth, generation after generation.

To stand in the place of motherhood was, to me, to take hold of a story stretching from the faith of Abraham, through whom all the families of the earth would be blessed, to the returning of the Lord and the question of whether He would still find faith upon the earth.

We know the kingdoms of self-centeredness, broken families, dissolved relationships, and fragmentation are flourishing. I wanted to see the kingdom of heaven flourish also—the kingdom of love, faithfulness, sacrifice, and thriving life. Motherhood was my opportunity to participate in that work.

So if motherhood is your calling, don’t view it as an isolated or temporary identity. View it as part of the future itself. The future of whether there will still be a people of faith upon the earth when your grandchildren are born . . . and when your great-grandchildren are born.

We must think long-term.

We’ve been trained by a culture of “click here,” “swipe there” to think in short-term, immediate, narrow fragments. But you must learn to think generationally.

Look back into the past:

Why did my ancestors come to this country?

What were they longing for?

What sacrifices did they make?

Then look forward:

What will I leave behind for my grandchildren’s children?

What kind of inheritance—spiritual, relational, and cultural—will remain after I’m gone?

If you think this way, your parenting will be grounded in vision rather than reaction, and your family will have roots deep enough to endure storms.

And this brings me to generations. No generation in and of itself, and certainly no individual—is meant to be all in all. That’s who Christ is. He alone fills all in all. He was before time began, and He will remain after time ends.

I think of history like a tree planted from a seed. The roots go deep into the earth, carrying out their hidden work. Without them, the tree would die. Yet we don’t look at the roots expecting fruit. Neither do we find fruit in the trunk, or even in the earliest branches.

So it’s futile to look back at your parents or grandparents and complain that they didn’t bear the fruit that perhaps your generation was meant to bear. When we compare one generation to another in this way, we misunderstand what God is doing across history.

Every time we sever ourselves from the generation before us, we cut ourselves off from the roots. And when branches lose connection to the roots, the leaves begin to wither.

I believe much of this rejection of previous generations comes from a loss of vision and identity. People no longer understand that humanity itself was meant to be on a journey back toward God, back toward the wholeness we lost in the Garden when mankind chose autonomy over surrender.

Every act of severing becomes, in some way, a participation in fragmentation, death, and entropy, another bite from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, deciding for ourselves rather than surrendering to the Tree of Life.

And yet it is those ancient roots, however tangled, scarred, or gnarled they may appear, that still nourish us. It is that old trunk, no matter how imperfect, gnarled or weathered, that still supports us.

May God help us to give thanks for the generations that came before us. No matter their failures, we would not exist without them.

That honor for one’s roots is something I always admired about my father.

His own father was a deeply broken man who tragically eventually ended his own life, and yet my father still spoke of him with kindness and honor. I never heard him speak with bitterness, though he certainly did not condone the things he had done.

My father believed that his father had given him life. He had ridden the rails and eventually settled in Texas, where my father would one day encounter God. And to my father, that was enough reason to give thanks and honor his memory.

Do not sever yourself from the roots, my daughters, or you may one day find your own branches barren.

“When the Son of man comes, shall He find faith on the earth?” (Luke 18:8)

With all my love,

Mom

“My little children, of whom I travail in birth again until Christ be formed in you…”
— Galatians 4:19

Dearest Daughters,

As Mother’s Day approached, I could not help but think of all the blessings of being a mother.

Being a mother expanded my heart. The moment I laid eyes on you, Helen, for the first time, I understood a dimension of love I had not even known I needed to understand. It was like discovering clouds existed after having seen nothing but blue sky.

Motherhood taught me how to sacrifice—not only to sacrifice, but how to sacrifice with love and even joy. Getting up at night was never a drudgery to me. I loved looking at your little faces. As I fed you in the quiet darkness, I didn’t want to cut it short. I cherished every moment.

Then, as you became toddlers and grew from there, motherhood taught me patience. I didn’t know I was impatient until I had children. And when I became frustrated, it was not truly with you, but with myself—because I wanted so deeply to impart to you the things that would make you happy, whole, obedient, and free.

Motherhood taught me to be a teacher. I had always thought of myself as a student, but I came to realize that learning and teaching walk hand in hand. As I longed to reveal to you all the beautiful things I was discovering about life, I became a teacher.

It taught me to be a nurturer. As I made your favorite foods, puzzled over health problems, worried over infant weight gain, and learned what strengthened and nourished you, I became invested in good food, good habits, and healing.

It taught me to be a healthcare provider as I faced each sickness and injury, as I sought to understand and get to the bottom of them.

It taught me how to hear from God, because I so desperately needed wisdom and words to help you overcome. It gave me spiritual gifts—words of knowledge when I needed to know truth from a lie. It even made me a kind of prophetess in my own home when I needed to proclaim the word of God and the word of faith to you.

But most of all, motherhood humbled me. It made me more dependent on God, because I discovered I couldn’t do it without Him. Ultimately, only He could bring you to Himself. I could only point the way, and hope to live a life that inspired you to want to do so also.

Nothing has given me more joy than seeing you, my daughters, become mothers yourselves—watching you enter that holy process of surrender, transformation, and love.

The apostle Paul wrote to Timothy that a woman will be saved through childbirth (1 Tim. 2:15). We often understand this to mean that she will not die due to childbirth, and perhaps it does mean that. But the words that follow, continuing in faith, love, and holiness, suggest something even more ongoing: that we ourselves are saved, shaped, and sanctified as we surrender ourselves to bringing children into the world, and then labor again to birth them into the kingdom of God.

No work has worked a deeper work in my heart than motherhood.

May God bless you as mothers. May you surrender yourselves to receive all the gifts that come through motherhood. May you be transformed into the image of our Lord, and may this calling fill every dream in your heart.

All my dreams, and I believe yours can be can be encompassed in the word:

Mother.

I love you.

Love,
Mom

“Mom, have you seen the bathroom?” fourteen-year-old Helen said in a pleading voice.

I glanced up from grading school papers. “No. Why?” I asked.

She pushed a sandy wisp of hair behind her ear and let out a long-suffering sigh. “You really have to see it to understand. I just finished cleaning it fifteen minutes ago.”

I set aside my paperwork and followed her down the hallway.

There on the bathroom floor sat five-year-old Christopher. He had brought multiple bowls from the kitchen, plus Tupperware containers, shampoo bottles, hairspray lids, cups, pitchers—every kind of vessel he could think of. Fully absorbed, he never even noticed Helen and me standing in the doorway as he poured water from cup to bowl, bowl to pitcher, pitcher to bottle. Back and forth the water moved.

There was water all over the floor.

He was soaked from head to toe, and soap suds floated through puddles carrying the mingled scents of shampoo and bubble bath.

“Oh my,” I said once again.

This was becoming a daily occurrence. I had lost count of how many school papers, drawings, and books had been baptized in Christopher’s rituals.

“I just cleaned the whole bathroom and mopped the floor, and now this,” Helen said, staring at the disaster with pained hazel eyes.

It wasn’t just the water, either. His muddy sandals had tracked brown footprints everywhere because every time he went outside, the hose came on too. Water had become a constant battle.

“Help Mommy pour them all into here,” I said, pulling a pitcher into the mix.

Together we emptied each vessel, stacked them in the sink, and dropped towels across the floor to soak up the mess.

We were in the thick of it then.

Though Christopher had a few words and some sign language, the meltdowns were still overwhelming and mysterious. A few days earlier I had been on the phone when I heard screams erupt from the kitchen.

I rushed in to find Christopher face down on the floor, his fingers jammed into his ears as he beat his head against the tile.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

The children stood huddled around silently, and Annie, our friend who was helping us, looked helpless. “I don’t know,” she said. “He seemed like he wanted a piece of cake, and when I gave it to him, he started screaming.”

I looked at the slice of cake sitting untouched on his plate. It seemed perfectly fine, so I offered it to him again.

Christopher lifted his red, tear-streaked face, glanced at the cake, and began screaming harder.

I carried him to the dining room and sat him on the bench. We tried everything—a different dessert, someone else’s cake, another fork—but nothing helped.

Then seven-year-old Zach spoke quietly from the corner.

“Do you think it’s because it’s lying on its side?”

I stopped and looked around the table.

Every other slice of cake stood upright with the frosting on top. Christopher’s had tipped onto its side.

I gently turned the cake upright.

Christopher immediately picked up his fork and began to eat.

We all stared at each other in astonishment.

There seemed to be no gauge for what would become a crisis and what would not.

I was beginning to learn the warning signs of an incoming meltdown, but if I missed the clues, things escalated quickly.

One phrase had become especially familiar.

“Do you hear that tractor?”

Over and over he would repeat it.

“Do you hear that tractor? Do you hear that tractor?”

There was never actually a tractor.

But Christopher was terrified of tractors, and I slowly realized the phrase really meant: I’m afraid.

So whenever he started saying it, I tried desperately to redirect him before panic overtook him completely.

Standing there in the flooded bathroom that afternoon, watching him move water endlessly from one vessel to another, an idea suddenly came to me.

If water soothed him so deeply, perhaps I could use it to help him.

It didn’t take long to test the theory.

A few evenings later I was cooking dinner when I heard it from the other room.

“Do you hear that tractor?”

Then again, half an octave higher.

“Do you hear that tractor?”

I shut off the burner and hurried toward him.

“Come with Mommy,” I said, grabbing his hand.

I pulled him into the kitchen and handed him a cup.

“Let’s fill the cups with water for dinner.”

Together we hurried to the refrigerator dispenser and filled the cup. Then we rushed it to the table and placed it beside Daddy’s plate.

“Now a green cup for Kippy.”

We grabbed another cup.

“Now red for Zach.”

Back and forth we ran, filling cups for every place at the table.

Christopher became increasingly focused, moving faster and faster with purpose and excitement.

But the moment we stopped, the anxious refrain returned.

“Do you hear that tractor?”

I paused, thinking hard.

Then suddenly inspiration struck again.

I hurried out onto the porch and grabbed the dog bowl.

“Give the dog water,” I said, placing it in his hands.

We ran to the spigot, and Christopher shoved the bowl beneath the stream of water.

We carried it carefully back to the porch.

“Do you hear that tractor?” he said again, but quieter this time.

A warm wind stirred across the yard, leaves skittering through the grass.

I grabbed his hand again.

“Come on.”

We hurried to the chicken coop.

The black rubber trough inside was running low. Christopher peered through the wire fencing while I handed him the hose.

“Put it in the bucket,” I instructed.

He fed the hose through the fence while I turned on the spigot.

The hose jerked ans leaped up like a snake, spraying water everywhere. Christopher shrieked with laughter as the trough slowly filled and overflowed.

The chickens came running and clucking noisily toward the water like prancing ladies.

Christopher laughed again and imitated them.

When I finally shut the water off, he stayed standing there, mesmerized by the chickens.

And for the first time all evening, I no longer heard:

“Do you hear that tractor?”

I had discovered something. The next day we did it again.

Some days became fill the cups, water the plants, water the chickens, water the ducks, water the dogs, water the garden days.

Other days it was simply filling cups at the table. But slowly, little by little, we were getting somewhere.

Then one evening, as I coded and the peppery smell of enchilada sauce filled the kitchen, Helen washed dishes beside me. I heard the familiar words drifting from the next room.

“Do you hear that tractor? Do you hear that tractor?”

“There’s no tractor,” ten-year-old Andrew answered patiently.

I sighed inwardly. Dinner was running behind, and I knew watering everything might take the next hour.

I reached to turn off the burner. But before I could move, Christopher walked into the kitchen.

Watching him, I held my breath. He went to the dish rack, picked up a cup, and filled it carefully with water. Then another, and another. One by one he carried them to the table, setting them beside each person’s plate.

I felt a sudden sting behind my eyes. He was serving the family, and all because of water.

Water soothed him, and somehow, by learning the language of what calmed him instead of fighting against it, we had found a way to help him belong.

“We know that we have passed out of death into life, because we love the brothers.” (1 John 3:14)

Dearest daughters,

Love truly overcomes all, but how do we know if we’re walking in that love—if we’re truly serving our Lord and our neighbor as we ought?

We know, according to Scripture, that we have passed out of death and into life because we love the brothers. So the question arises: what is this death we’re to come out of?

Of course, it includes death in the ultimate sense of physical dying. But it’s also something more immediate; it’s the entropy we experience each day in the weight of troubled thoughts, in our own despondent attitudes, in the inward struggles, and even in our physical battles and failures. It is that inward decay that spirals us back upon ourselves.

But there is a clear path out of this death and into life, into living fully. That way is love.

Let me explain what I mean in the ordinary, daily sense. There’s a simple measure I’ve learned to use in my own life to know if I’m walking in this love for my brothers and sisters that will bring me from dying to living. God alone is the true judge of all things, but this measure has often served as a faithful guide to my heart.

When I find myself weighed down and consumed with my own problems—my emotions, my temptations, my failures—I take it as a sign that I’ve turned inward, and that I’m no longer loving as fully as I have been called to love.

I know there are certainly seasons in life that are difficult, and burdens that must be borne with patience and prayer. But I’ve also known another kind of burden that we are not called to live under.

I first noticed this when I was a teenager. Just before our Thanksgiving Fair each year, life would become very full. There were crafts to finish, schoolwork to complete, nightly music practices, and long afternoons spent preparing the fairgrounds or bringing in the last of the harvest. My days were poured out from morning until night.

And I began to notice that temptations that had often troubled me—distraction, wasted time, idle talk—all seemed to dissipate in that season. I realized that it wasn’t that I’d conquered them by consciously striving against them—it was simply that no room was left for them, because my life was full of giving.

And later, when we became involved in ministry, and I began to feel compassion for the struggles of others, I saw this even more clearly. As I gave myself to the needs around me, my own needs seemed to shrivel up—sometimes even my physical ones.

Then I discovered something even more interesting when I first began working in women’s health. I was part of a home group with many young, single women. One after another came to me, concerned about physical problems—especially related to their “unusually difficult cycles.” By the time the ninth young woman had come, I realized something: These were not rare or unusual problems! This was a Lake Woebegone malady, where all the women were above average.

And this caused me to wonder whether sometimes, when we’re left alone too much with ourselves, if our difficulties—both physical and spiritual—do not become magnified. I don’t mean to dismiss real struggles. We must never presume or diminish another’s pain. But it does give us pause. Is it possible that both real and imagined problems germinate and thrive in loneliness and inward focus?

But I’ve seen another way. When we’re wholly given to the work of the Lord—to loving our children, to serving our husbands, to caring for our neighbors—those problems that once loomed so large begin to shrink. Some even disappear altogether.

And so, again, this has become, for me, a kind of measure. If I find myself returning again and again—month after month, year after year—to the same struggles, the same discouragements, the same inward battles, I don’t begin trying to fix the problem by focusing on it. Instead, I begin by turning outward. I remember the instruction of Scripture: “Let no one seek his own good, but the good of his neighbor.” — 1 Corinthians 10:24

And I ask: Whom can I love today?

When you feel the pull toward distraction, toward self-pity, toward discouragement, answer it with love. Make a meal for someone. Serve in your home. Clean that closet that’s been waiting, do the job that would bless your husband or lighten another’s load. Look for the need, and meet it. You may find, as I have, that these small acts carry power far greater than you imagined.

For in the end, it’s not by wrestling endlessly with ourselves that we overcome the world—it’s by faith working through love. Give yourselves to love!

With all my love,
Mom

Dearest Daughters,

A number of years ago, I had a pivotal moment that gave me a key in learning how to relate to people in a way that is more effective and helpful.

We were trying to help a young woman who was walking through a very difficult family crisis that involved unbelievers connected to her life before she came to the Lord. She was fearful for her children and their safety, and, as is fitting for a mother, her heart was fixed almost entirely on them. Every attempt she made to move the situation toward resolution was undermined by her own fear, expressed through defensive words and actions.

After multiple counseling sessions with her and others who were helping, I found myself unsure of what to do. I felt a deep compassion for her, yet everything seemed to circle back into the same self-defeating pattern.

One night, before bed, I began to pray. I asked God to please speak something to me that might help bring light into the situation.

That night, I had a dream.

In the dream, your dad and I were speaking with others who were also trying to help this young woman, and suddenly I said, “The Lord has told me that empathy is the key and the message.” I woke with those words still resounding in my mind, and with a strong sense of the Spirit of God surrounding me.

As I lay there and prayed, I felt the Lord impress again on my heart: “This is exactly what I did.” And immediately, my thoughts turned to Jesus—

“And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us . . .” — (John 1:14)

Empathy is, in essence, what Jesus did. He clothed Himself in our humanity, our thoughts, our frailty, our suffering, even our capacity to die. He did not love us from a distance, but from within the very limitations we carry. I felt the Lord showing me that I must, in some small way, do the same.

I needed to step inside this woman’s world—to feel as though her children were my own. How would I think? How would I respond? What fears would grip my heart?

Over the next day or two, I practiced this. I knew I could never fully carry the weight she bore, but even the attempt began to reshape my thoughts and soften my responses. It governed the way I saw her, and, more importantly, how I would speak to her.

When we met again, I shared this same truth with her: that if she truly wanted to move toward resolution, she would need to step into the hearts of those who were hurting her and to understand their fears, their wounds, their perspectives.

This is the way of Christ.

“Let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others.” (Phil. 2:4)

So often, we are wounded by others, sometimes even those we love, and who love us. And when we are hurt, we naturally retreat into our own perspective. We see only our angle, our pain, our justification. But if we remain there, we lose, and everyone loses.

Christ offers us another way. His love becomes a bridge that allows us to cross over into another’s experience. In a very real sense, He takes on flesh again through us when we allow His love to move within our hearts. We begin to clothe ourselves in another’s fears, another’s hurts, and from that place, we can speak truth with gentleness, and love with power.

This is the key to understanding. It is the key to your marriage. You are female; he is male. There are differences that will, at times, feel like barriers But in those moments, ask God to help you step inside your husband’s thoughts—his pressures, his concerns, his silent burdens.

With your teenagers—ask Him again.
With your neighbors—ask Him again.
With those who wound you—ask Him especially.

This is what will make you an effective vessel of love. This is what makes the love of Christ visible again on the earth—His body still living, still moving, still reaching through His people.

May God help us all to become expressions of His love, even in the midst of our human weakness.

With all my love,
Mom

Nine-year-old Christopher frantically tugged at my skirt, clutching my hand, he shouted for the entire Walmart store to hear,
“Did I lie? Did I lie? Mommy, did I lie? I didn’t lie, Mommy, did I? Are you mad, Mommy?”

“You did not lie,” I said, leaning close to his ear and whispering. “I’m not mad, but we’ll talk about it later, in the car.”

“Why later? Why later? Did I lie? Was I bad?”

“You did not lie. We’ll talk about it in the car.”

“Are we going to the car? Will we talk about it in the car?”

His voice was high-pitched, and everyone was watching. How had I gotten myself in this predicament?

Well, it had all started from good intentions, but good intentions, I’d discover, can take some twists and turns, especially when they are connected to an autistic child.

In my journey with my son Christopher, I have read scores of books, watched documentaries, consulted with speech therapists and neuroscientists, and my mother’s heart was determined to give him the best chance—a chance to belong, a chance to succeed, and most of all, to communicate, to love, and to be loved.

At that time, there was a lot of controversy around whether an autistic person could empathize or even feel emotions, feel love, but I knew my son could. I had seen the tears roll down his cheeks while listening to a beautiful song. But there were other times when it didn’t seem like he could. He laughed at the wrong moments. When his little brother got a splinter in his finger and was screaming, he laughed. But in still other situations, he’d nearly gotten himself killed trying to save a toddler from running into the road.

The emotions were there. The heart was certainly there. It was all just a little scrambled together and chaotic.

So I ordered a stack of emotion cards, and each day we sat on the bed in my room and looked at them.

“This boy is bored,” I said, holding up a picture of a boy sprawled on the couch, arm over his head, eyes drooping. “This little girl is afraid”—high pigtails, wide eyes, tightened cheeks.

We’d look at a card, and then Christopher stood at the mirror and make the same face. I’d heard that when you actually make a face, you can feel that emotion. If you smile, you’ll be happier. As a matter of fact, I’d read a study that demonstrated how movie stars claimed that their lives deteriorated and their relationships became rocky when they played the role of an angry or miserable character—and improved when they played the role of a joyful one.

I believed that making these gestures and expressions would help Christopher to empathize, so it became a daily routine.

We took turns. I’d make the face. “Now what do you say to me when I’m making this face?”

“Are you okay?” he would imitate; his eyebrows high as he watched to see if he got it right.

Then later, around the dinner table… Steam rose from the mashed potatoes, as we all ate, and suddenly Christopher leapt up and rushed into the kitchen.

“Oh, he’s so sad,” we heard him say in his own voice—and then, in my voice, “Are you okay, Christopher?”

We knew what he was doing. He was standing in front of the stainless steel Berkey water filter, looking at his reflection and practicing the emotions.

Was it working? I wasn’t really sure, but I felt we were making progress. He was tuning in.

When I scolded our toddler, Nicolas during family devotion time and his lip popped out and he began to cry, Christopher reached over and grabbed my arm.

“Is he okay?” he said, and there was genuine concern on his face. I was excited.

The next step was dealing with moral issues.

Christopher was a little thief when it came to treats. He loved sweets. Our canister of chocolate chips was regularly mysteriously empty, and I had run out of ideas for how to hide it. I tucked it behind a jar of oats. I even put it in the pan cupboard, but somehow he always found the chocolate chips, and would even scoop sugar straight from the bin.

The crazy thing was, none of us ever saw him doing it. If we were in the room, he was good—but if we were not, he didn’t seem to be stricken by his conscience at all.

So that became my next project. I wanted him to have a sense in his heart of right and wrong.

I began to read a book by Molly Bang on design—how abstract art was meant to create feelings and emotions. Certain colors came together to give peace, joy, and harmony—colors like blue, yellow and gold. Horizontal lines, soft rounded edges—these brought peace. But diagonals, black, purple, red—created tension and chaos. Heart rates went up. Breathing quickened. I had an idea.

I began to put together a scrapbook with Christopher.

“What does it mean to tell a lie?” I asked him. “What is a lie?”

“It’s a snake,” he said. My brain did a bounce. A snake, I thought. Something in it actually rang true in my heart.

“Well, maybe you’re right,” I said, thinking—the snake did have a forked tongue. And the first lie was told by a snake. God had ulterior motives, and we could be as gods. So we built a picture.

The smell of Elmer’s glue wafted up as Christopher and I cut out shapes—black, red, purple. The colors didn’t go together. The shapes were tense. A triangular snake head peeking out behind a falling-down forest. A forked tongue. Black trees. Purple background. A red snake. It gave me the creeps.

“This is a lie,” I said.

Then I gave him examples. “If you eat sugar and Mommy comes and asks you, ‘Did you eat sugar?’ and you say, ‘No,’ that’s a lie.”

“Now here’s the truth,” I said.

We made another picture. A beautiful cream-colored pathway under a golden sun in a blue sky. Two figures walking side by side.

“When you tell the truth, you’re in the light. The sun is shining. Jesus is with you.”

We memorized scriptures to go with each trait—honesty, lying, obedience, disobedience.

I asked him, “What does it mean to disobey?” He instantly quoted a scripture, and my mouth dropped open.

“Whoever hears these words of mine and obeys them is like a wise man that builds his house on the rock…” he said.

So we cut out a picture of a house on a rock. The colors were peaceful. Then we cut out another picture of a house on sand, and a tornado was tearing it up. The colors were chaotic and the shapes disorganized. But Christopher was getting it!

The amazing thing was, he could now look at people’s faces and tell me, “He’s telling a lie”—even about his own sibling, and he was right. We had a truth detector right in our own home.

I could feel hope rising like our river after a storm. Christopher was going to be a man of character someday. And Christopher always told the truth. He could also quote scriptures to stand behind those truths.

But it had some drawbacks.

It happened on a Monday. Normally the kids visited Grandma on Mondays, and I took that opportunity to run errands and clean house. But on this particular Monday, Grandma wasn’t available, so I decided to take Christopher with me to the store. After all, it was good for him to get exposure to stores periodically. We already had his service dog, so we were a bit of a spectacle anyway, but this would be good for the dog, too. Right…?

All seemed to be going well. People admired his dog. He was behaving nicely—until we came to the checkout line.

In front of us was a young man in a wheelchair. I wasn’t overly concerned. Christopher had a beautiful sympathy toward people with handicaps. But this young man—I don’t know why he was in a wheelchair, but his body was at least three times as wide as the wheelchair, spilling out over the tires and overlapping the armrests. He had definitely outgrown the wheelchair a long time prior.

Christopher suddenly said at the top of his lungs, “That is a very fat man!”

“Christopher,” I exclaimed in a loud whisper, “shh!”

“Why are you shushing me?” he said. “Did I lie?”

I didn’t want to say, “No, you didn’t lie,” in front of the man, so I just said, “Don’t say that.”

“Shouldn’t I speak the truth? Don’t I tell the truth?” he shouted back.

I whispered in his ear, “We’ll talk about it later.”

“Why do we talk about it later?”

And on and on he questioned me, becoming more and more frantic until he was leaping up and down beside his dog. The dog circled him, whining, then pushed his head against him to try to calm him down.

I hastily heaped items onto the conveyor belt and then shoved them into bags behind the cashier.

For once, I was very glad to have the dog and hoped everyone would consider his handicap enormously debilitating.

At last, we managed to get out the door. A mist was falling. We rushed to the car—the whole way, Christopher tugged at my arm.

“Did I lie? Did I lie, Mommy?”

At last, we settled into the car. I buckled him in, climbed into the front seat, and leaned my forehead against the steering wheel.

“Oh, my Lord,” I breathed.

Christopher bounced franticly in his seat, his voice high-pitched. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong? Did I lie?”

“You did not lie,” I said.

“I told the truth. I was a good boy.”

Now how do I explain that?

And then my shoulders began to shake.

I laughed and laughed until the tears rolled down my cheeks. Before long, Christopher was watching me in the rearview mirror—laughing along with me. So what kind of page do I make for this—chaotic colors or peaceful colors?

My dearest daughters,

I’ve often pondered why faith, hope and love remain when all else fades. But this much I know—if these are eternal, then every time we practice them, we are investing in eternity itself. As for me, I want to invest in what will not pass away.

So how do we make those investments here on earth? We’re commanded by God to love—to love our neighbor as ourselves, and even to love our enemies. But what does that truly mean?

Mere Christianity, by C.S. Lewis, offers helpful clarity. Loving our neighbor does not mean that we like everything about them. We may strongly dislike their actions, their attitudes, even their patterns of behavior, and yet we are still called to love them.

So how do we love our neighbor as ourselves?

Think of your own life. Do you always like yourself? Are there not nights when you lie awake and grieve over your own words or attitudes? Perhaps you’ve thought, I hate how I spoke today. I regret how I treated my child, or my husband. And yet, most don’t entirely lose hope for transformation. You don’t say, I’m beyond change.

Instead, you turn to God and say, You are faithful. You can change me. You can make me into who I long to be. I believe in You, so I will change!

This is also how we love our neighbor as ourselves. We hold that same faith for them and reach for the same hope that we have for our own souls. We look beyond what they are today and fix our eyes on who God created them to be, and who He is still able to make them into.

I remember a time when, as a young woman, I struggled deeply to love another woman. It was early in my marriage, and all I could see was how she was doing things wrong. I didn’t think she treated other sisters well. She seemed nitpicky. I didn’t like the way she interacted with her children, and it began to consume my thoughts.

To be fair, some of what I observed may have been true. But truth, when filtered through a wrong spirit, becomes a blinding monster far from love.

One day, I brought all of my grievances to your dad, carefully cataloging what I had seen and felt. He listened quietly for a time and then said something piercing: “I don’t know if that’s accurate or not. But I do not feel the Holy Spirit or a spirit of love in your attitude toward her. I think the first step is to repent.”

Feeling the deep conviction of God, I went into our bedroom, found the little striped chair, and knelt beside it to pray. But I didn’t even know how to begin. The thoughts I had entertained had so shaped my vision that I could hardly see her any other way.

Finally, I prayed, God, deliver me from my perspective. Help me to see her through Your eyes. And in a moment, my view shifted so that I saw her fears, her insecurities, her love, small and fragile, but real. I beheld her tentative efforts to give what she herself was still learning to receive. I was grieved with myself more deeply than I had been in a long time.

That very evening at a church service, the Word of God came with power. And though neither I nor my husband had said a word to anyone about my concerns, that woman went to the altar and knelt to ask for prayer.

As I watched her, I sensed the Lord speaking to my own heart. Could it be that my judgment, even though unspoken, had been a hindrance to this step? Could it be that my step of repentance for holding her in condemnation had released something in the Spirit that had long held her back? It was a sobering thought.

Our attitudes toward others matter more than we often understand. They do not remain contained within us, but either hinder or help the work of God in another’s life.

If we would walk in hope, believing for others, our faith would spread like water over a dry, unsprouted field of corn, until the small, hardened seeds begin to break open and reach toward the light of the sun.

But what do you do when you have a neighbor—perhaps a sister-in-law, a mother-in-law, or another woman in your life—whose behavior you find yourself recoiling from? How do you continue to love them?

We must first understand something: Having affection for someone is not the same as truly loving them. Affection can be fickle. As Mere Christianity illustrates, a mother may feel great affection for her child, and yet that very affection may lead her to indulge him in ways that are not for his ultimate good. In this case, affection is actually overriding true love. Affection and liking someone can certainly facilitate love—but they are not its foundation.

True love is a choice of the will and of the heart. We choose to love. And when we practice the commandment to love, something remarkable happens: affection can begin to grow. But it follows, it doesn’t lead. This is actually a relief, because it means that if you don’t feel affection for someone—if you don’t enjoy their personality, their habits, or their behavior—you aren’t disqualified from loving them. You can still love them fully. And over time, affection itself may grow.

So how do we do this? We practice love—especially toward those we have trouble liking and for whom we feel little to no natural affection. When you’re struggling to love someone you know you’re commanded to love, you must begin with action. You look for opportunities to be kind. You look for a compliment to share. You train your eyes to see what is worthy of honor. Ask yourself: What would I do for this person if I truly loved and liked them? Then do that thing at once. And you’ll find that your love and affection immediately begin to grow.

This concept becomes especially important in close relationships, such as with your children—particularly in their teenage years, when much of what they do may not feel especially likable. In those moments, you must set them up to succeed. Find one thing they do well. Create a place for it, and then call it out and praise it.

The very act of offering a compliment, of giving a service, of making a meal for someone you’re struggling to love—these things expand love and even affection, because love is a living, growing thing. When you feed it and water it, it grows.

If you practice the works of love, even when your heart lags behind, your love will increase, and often, affection will follow.

But the opposite is also true. If you practice criticism, if you rehearse faults, if you speak about someone’s weaknesses and dwell on what you dislike, your dislike will grow. Your love will diminish. You will have fed into the destructive work of the accuser.

You’re always cultivating something. So I plead with you—invest in love.

“Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.” (Philippians 4:8)

Think on these things. Speak of these things. Dwell on these things. In doing so, you’re making an investment, not only in the love you will experience here on earth, but in heaven itself.

You’re preparing a home, and home is where love thrives, where peace expands, where hope continues, and where faith is ever-present. So build your home in eternity—by building your faith, your hope, and your love, not only for yourself, but for your neighbor. Believe for them. Hope for them. Love them for eternity.

Love is not static but living.

And it grows where it’s cultivated. So cultivate love, that in the light of the face of the Son, it will sprout and bloom.

With all my love,

Mom

We will not hide them from their children,

but tell to the coming generation the glorious deeds of the Lord,

and His might, and the wonders that He has done…

that the next generation might know them,

the children yet unborn,

and arise and tell them to their children. (Ps. 78:4-6)

Dearest Daughters,

Every child is given two gifts: roots to hold them, and wings to carry them. But the wings only grow strong when the roots run deep.

I cannot impress upon you strongly enough how important intergenerational connectedness is, the connection of parents to children, children to parents, and grandparents to grandchildren. As much as we’re able to tie the generations together, we inherit the love, the wisdom, the experience, the stories, and even the joy of those who came before us. It’s a kind of birthright, passed down, shaping who we are long before we even realize it.

In our society today, as people marry later and later in life, I see a troubling pattern emerging. More and more children will grow up without truly knowing their grandparents. If a generation waits until nearly forty to marry and have children, it only takes two such generations for grandchildren to be born to eighty-year-old grandparents. Much of the time that could have been spent weaving those relationships together is simply gone. The thread that was meant to bind three generations begins to fray, and finally is irreplaceably is lost.

I feel, more and more as the years go on, what a privilege it has been to live differently. As you know, I live within sight of two of you married children, with the third just two miles up the road. For years now, I’ve lived a short walk through the cedar woods to my own mother, and also within walking distance of her parents until they passed last year. That kind of closeness has shaped our lives in ways both seen and unseen. It has meant shared meals, quick visits, borrowed tools, stories told and retold, tips and recipes passed along, children running freely between homes, and a constant reinforcement that we belong to one another.

I truly believe this kind of interconnectedness is vital not only to family life, but to sustainable communities, to enduring love, and to the passing on of what matters most.

Yesterday, as I was reading with your little brother Ari, I came across a story that deeply stirred something in me. It was about the Whooping Cranes once found in the tens of thousands across North America, their fluted voices marking the changing of seasons. But by the 1940s, due to hunting, urban expansion, and difficult seasons, their population had dwindled to only fifteen birds.

A small group of people set out to save them. They collected eggs, hatched them in safe environments, and began raising a new generation. But their goal was not simply to preserve the cranes in captivity; they wanted to see them fly again, and to fill the skies in the fall and return again on the fresh breeze of spring.

The first challenge was that these young cranes, having been hatched by humans, didn’t know how to migrate. They had lost that knowledge. Then someone discovered that Canadian goslings had imprinted to a fisherman in his boat as to a parent figure! There’s very strong imprint instinct among many migratory birds. So with this knowledge, a man then experimented using an ultralight plane and young birds, and, remarkably, they followed! As they grew, they took to the skies behind the plane and were led along a new migration route. Even more remarkable, they returned to their hatching grounds the following year.

It seemed they had found the solution. The cranes could now be taught to migrate, and the population could recover. So they led them on their migration with ultralight planes, and all seemed well—at first.

But after several years, something went wrong. The population not only wasn’t growing; it was dwindling. Though the cranes could fly and migrate, they weren’t raising their young successfully. These birds raised in captivity rarely tended their eggs. They didn’t protect or nurture their offspring and never guarded their young from predators. Of all the cranes raised in captivity and taught to migrate, only ten chicks survived.

In time, the realization came: these cranes had lost their connection to the previous generation. They had learned to migrate, but they had never had the imprint training to learn how to parent. That knowledge had not been passed on through relationship, through example, through presence.

So the effort changed. Eggs were placed with the few remaining, older, wild cranes, and the young birds were raised by those who still carried the instincts and habits of good parenting. And with that restored connection, the cycle of life could continue.

I’ve not yet fully put words to all that I feel in this story, but something in it has spoken deeply to my heart. It’s not enough to teach our children to “fly”—to succeed, to function, to find their way in the world. They must also remain connected to their roots and to those who can show them how—how to live, how to love, how to nurture, how to stand. We, as parents, must do the same. We must cling to those physical or spiritual “parents” who’ve successfully nurtured and protected others, whose relationships have survived.

There’s something about that early “imprinting” in children that is far more powerful than we often realize. In their earliest years, they’re watching, absorbing, modeling. They will take on our habits, our attitudes, our work ethic, our responses to hardship, and our way of loving others. These things are not only or even primarily taught through explicit instruction but are passed on through lived demonstration and close connections.

As you know, your grandparents had an enormous impact on your lives when you were young, and they continue to shape you even now. Helen, besides regular visits, you exchanged letters with your grandmother every weak through your formative years. I see that same blessing of interaction continuing all the way down to Ari. He spends part of each week with each of his grandparents. He’s being formed in ways that will bear fruit for the rest of his life.

These relationships don’t happen by accident. They must be cultivated. They must be protected. They must be valued highly enough that we make decisions around them.

So my encouragement to you, my daughters, is this: don’t lose sight of the generations, and don’t make light of “imprint training.” Draw near to the generations that went before you. Honor them. Make space for them in your daily lives. And as you build your own families, think not only about what you’re creating in your own home, but how it connects to what came before—and what will come after.

May God help us all to raise children who can both soar and sustain, who are not only capable in the world, but deeply rooted in a culture of love that will endure.

With all my love,

Mom

A trip to New York in the fall, during the height of color, was meant to be a family vacation, woven together with visits to relatives and friends along the way. By then, I knew that five-year-old Christopher (Kippy) had autism. What I didn’t yet understand was how deeply it would touch every part of what we did.

He had learned a phrase that clearly held some sort of meaning for him, though we didn’t yet know how much, because it was classic echolalia.

“What are we going to do?” he repeated in a lilting voice.

He sat behind me strapped in his booster seat, in the RV we’d borrowed for the trip. The hum of the engine steady beneath us, his small sneakers tapping lightly against the seat as he repeated it again and again.

“What are we going to do? What are we going to do? What are we going to do?”

“We’re going on a trip to see Grammy,” I answered.

“What are we going to do?”

“We’re going to New York. We’re going to see Grammy.”

“What are we going to do?”

With each repetition, his voice grew louder and more urgent, threaded now with something rising toward panic.

“Why does he keep saying that?” Zack asked, his forehead resting against the cool glass as the Tennessee hills rolled by in long, green waves.

“What are we going to do?” came again from Kippy’s seat, like a needle stuck in a groove.

Twelve-year-old Blair decided the solution was to tell him everything.

“We’re going down this road. The wheels of the car are turning. We’ll stop at a light. Then we’ll go into a restaurant…”

But interestingly, Christopher seemed to listen; his gaze was fixed somewhere above Blair’s dark feathery bangs, his head tilted, brow furrowed.

“He almost seems to understand,” I said to Dan.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he does,” Dan replied. “Maybe we should tell him more.” And so we began to try to explain, narrating everything, every transition, each step.

“We’re going to stop at the hotel. Daddy will go in first. Then we’ll carry the suitcases. Then we’ll go into the room…” And almost imperceptibly, things began to smooth, but the trip wasn’t over.

I felt distressed by his manners. I didn’t know how people would interpret what they saw. We avoided restaurants, choosing instead to make sandwiches and eat in parks, the fall grass fading from summer green, but still warm from the sun. But actually, the picnics were something of a gift. Still, meals were difficult. The moment I set a dish in front of Kippy, down went his head, eating straight from the plate. At best, he would grab with his hands and shove the food into his mouth, mustard painting his palms and arms. I’d sit beside him, guiding his hands, helping him hold a spoon, one bite at a time. But the moment I turned away, the old pattern returned. No explanations or demonstrations seemed to reach him.

When we at last arrived in upstate New York, it was apple season. The air itself was scented, cool and damp, with the faint sweetness of fallen fruit. Orange maple leaves skittered across the gravel driveway, fluttering along the ground as we climbed out of the motorhome.

Christopher ran wildly around the vehicle, his footsteps crunching over leaves and small stones. He bowed and bent in a crazy dance all his own, muttering grunts to himself.

“What are we going to do? What are we going to do?” he again chanted.

We had borrowed the motorhome intentionally, so Dan and I would stay there with Christopher and the baby, while the other children slept in Grammy’s house. I knew meltdowns would be forthcoming, and the motorhome felt like a small, contained refuge.

It worked out well, and we were able, for the most part, to shelter his struggles from the relatives. We spoke plainly about his autism and the road we were on. Everyone responded with support and kindness.

Our next stop was Connecticut. A small group of families had gathered, interested in community life. They had invited us to come and share, drawn by what we had experienced growing up in community at Homestead Heritage. I was both excited… and uneasy.

By then, I had been teaching child-training classes for a few years. If I am honest, perhaps I’d taken some pride in the success we had seen with our first four children. But then came Christopher. We didn’t introduce ourselves by explaining his autism; that seemed awkward. We simply let thing unfold.

The group had prepared an evening for us, supper in the backyard, a fire crackling low, with thin ribbons of smoke rising. The air had an early-autumn bite that stiffened my fingers and numbed my ears. There was to be singing and worship, so Dan brought his guitar. Helen was to play the piano. At first, all went well with lots of introductions and small talk.

Christopher tugged at my skirt, the fabric twisting in his grip.

“What are we going to do? What are we going to do?” I bent low and whispered each step ahead to him.

The children were seated at a long picnic table, and the adults sat at a nearby separate table. I probably should have had Christopher sit with me, but I asked Helen, at fourteen, to stay close to him.

Hot dogs were served, on glass plates for the adults, paper plates for the children. Someone placed a glass plate in front of Christopher… he flapped his hand in excitement. He was hungry, since dinner had been so delayed. But, the young woman, realizing her mistake, took the glass plate away to replace it with paper.

I saw it happen out of the corner of my eye, and my heart dropped. He was already tired, already hungry. This wasn’t going to go well. He wouldn’t understand. Suddenly, he pitched backwards, rolled off the bench and onto the ground, screaming, writhing in the damp leaves and black soil, now clinging to his clothes and hands. The whole gathering fell silent, as I abruptly left my conversation and rushed to him.

“Kippy, they’re bringing you another plate,” I whispered close to his ear. “They’re bringing you another plate.”

But the screams only grew louder, echoing against the stillness of the yard. He clamped his hands over his ears.

“What are we going to do? What are we going to do?” he cried, until his hoarse words dissolved into breathless sobbing.

I couldn’t calm him, so handing the baby to Helen, I tried to de-escalate things, only to trigger a meltdown from another direction…my baby’s feeding was interrupted when I suddenly pulled him from under the nursing cape.

Christoper was large for five years old, but lifted him anyway—his body rigid, hot with distress, covered in dirt, now soaked in urine—and carried him to the motorhome. The cool night air echoed with his screams. There, I spent the rest of the evening trying to soothe him.

Helen, always conscientious, came quietly, opening and closing the door in intervals, letting in the distant murmur of voices, to ask if we needed food or for her to take over. I fed Christopher a hot dog, one bite at a time, between his shuddering sobs.

Eventually, he fell asleep in my arms, his breathing finally softening, his weight heavy and exhausted against me.

Finally, I laid him down on the couch and sat there a moment in the quiet. By now, the evening was nearly over, and I didn’t know what to say, what to do. I didn’t know how to explain. So I didn’t. Finally, trading places with Helen, I simply stepped back outside for the last moments of fellowship. And tried to act as if it hadn’t happened.

That night, lying beside Dan in the motorhome, the narrow space dark and still, I cried.

“We’ve been a disgrace,” I said. “Everything we stand for… people are going to misunderstand. Maybe we shouldn’t have come. Maybe someone else should have…”

Dan reached over and patted my hand.

“I don’t think they feel that way,” he said gently. “I think it’s obvious he has needs.”

“But what do I do?” I said. “What are we going to do?” Even as I said it, I heard the echo.

What are we going to do?

“God is going to help us,” Dan said. “Step by step. The victories will mean more because of the battles. We have to trust that people will understand what we can’t explain.”

Then he added,

“And you’re going to have to let go of that image… of being the perfect mother.”

I knew he was right, but the path forward felt hidden behind a fog of uncertainty. If only I could have seen a few years ahead. If I could have known that these very people would one day be woven into our lives. And it wouldn’t be our perfection that spoke, but our weakness.

It could never be us speaking only transmitting His voice through the victories God gave, His strength made perfect in our weakness.

“Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility, value others above yourselves, not looking to your own interests, but each of you to the interests of others.” (Phil. 2:3-4)

My Dearest Daughters,

From the moment we make Jesus the Lord of our lives, we’re saying that we will no longer be lord. We step off the throne of our own hearts, our minds, our desires; we remove our crown, and place it upon His head.

And when we say that He is Lord, we’re choosing to live now for His kingdom, for His glory—that His desires may come to pass, that His dreams for our lives, and for the lives of many, might be fulfilled through us.

So whenever something becomes all about me, I know that I’ve somehow slipped back onto that throne, and Jesus has been displaced.

In my previous letter, I spoke to you about relationships between women. In my experience, this is one of the most common places where the lordship of Jesus begins to break down and we slip back into ruling over our own ambitions and desires. I want to speak a little further into this with you.

In Philippians 2 we are told:

“Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility, value others above yourselves, not looking to your own interests, but each of you to the interests of others.”

This is a challenging command—to stop living with our own advancement at the center, and instead begin to make room for others to flourish.

I recognize, as I’ve shared with you before, that much of my early life was spent simply growing up. Then, in my twenties, I was trying to figure out who I was. And during that process, ambition was a constant struggle, and competition a persistent adversary.

But as I moved through each decade of my life, I began to notice that the deepest joy and fulfillment I’ve ever known has come not from establishing my own place but from helping others step into theirs.

I think often of my father. He founded the church community that we’re now part of, a community that has grown and spread far beyond what any of us could have imagined. And yet, he never built his life around himself. He could have remained a single, prominent pastor, earning a large salary with a large congregation. He could have held tightly to influence, but he didn’t. He lived simply, even in a mobile home until just a few years before he passed.

He believed that all the saints were called to the work of the ministry, and he shared what he’d been given.

But even more than that, there was something in his heart that marked him. I remember coming home from a service while he was ill and telling him how another brother had brought a powerful word, a word that brought victory and life to many. My father lifted his hands, weeping, rejoicing that the Word of God had come so powerfully through someone else. And this was not unusual for him.

It was only later in life that I realized that this is not common.

We must learn to rejoice when others take their place.

One of the clearest ways to know whether the Lord is on the throne or we are sitting on the throne of our own hearts is to ask yourself this: Can I rejoice when someone else does something better than I did or steps into a place I once held?

In recent years, I’ve experienced this myself. I have watched some of you begin to fill places I once filled—for example, Helen, in music. I see younger midwives rising up, and I know that one day I will step aside and no longer fill that role. And to my own surprise and delight, this brings me joy, because it means that what was sown was not planted into myself—but into the kingdom.

When we plant the seeds of our calling only into the soil of our own ambitions, they become like annual plants—springing up quickly, blooming for a moment, and then passing away with us.

But when we plant into others, into our children, whether natural or spiritual, into the lives entrusted to us, those seeds become perennial, sustainable. They endure and carry on long after we’re gone.

This is the nature of the Body of Christ. It is vast, interconnected, and full of many parts. And when someone greater comes along, we must, like John the Baptist, say:

“I must decrease, that He might increase.”

I’ve seen this in music ministry. I’ve seen it in ministry of the word. Those who are truly used by God must be willing to make room for even greater expressions than their own so that the kingdom advances, not their personal story.

Does this mean we stop growing? Stop trying? Stop offering what we have? No, not at all! We continue to learn. We continue to give. We continue to become faithful with what is ours to carry.

But we must also learn to rejoice, deeply and sincerely, when others succeed, because His kingdom is coming!

Women, especially, can be tempted toward comparison and competition. We may feel threatened when another woman shines. But this is simply a clear sign that something in us has stepped back onto the throne, that we have begun, again, to live for ourselves and think, it’s all about me.

But when you can truly rejoice in the success of your sisters, your children, and the people of God—when their victories bring you as much joy, or even more, than your own—then He is reigning!

Then you’re no longer building your own kingdom. You are participating in His.

So rejoice—always.

Rejoice when others succeed.

Rejoice even when they succeed in the very thing you once did or longed to do—because it was never about you. It was always about His kingdom.

With all my love,

Mom

Dearest Daughters,

I would like to speak to you about the relationships between women—woman to woman.

How should we relate to one another? And more specifically, what do we do when we see a need in a sister, a neighbor, or a friend? Do we feel threatened by other women?

Inevitably, we are human. We are broken and see only in part, so we will all notice weaknesses, failures, and faults in one another. But what we do in those moments, when we see, is what reveals whether we are truly walking as Christians.

There are few things I have witnessed that are more harmful to the body of Christ, to His image that we are meant to represent, than the ways women sometimes treat one another. This grieves me deeply. May God help us all.

Let us begin with perspective. God made us as mothers to be mothers, to nurture and raise children. Children need a specific type of guidance. Scripture tells us, “Now I say, that the heir, as long as he is a child, differs nothing from a servant . . . but is under tutors and governors until the time appointed of the father” (Gal. 4:1-2).

In the home, we understand this more personally: for a time, we become that governing tutor. Our “do this” and “do not do that” shape our children’s days. We watch their behavior, their habits, their responsibilities, closely, guiding them toward maturity and, ultimately, toward Christ. We might say they live under “the law” of “do’s” and “don’t’s” until they come to Christ and to adulthood.

But the difficulty arises when we carry that same “tutoring” “under the law” posture beyond its rightful place.

When our children grow into adulthood, or when we begin to treat other women as though they are under our instruction, correcting and managing them—we step into something that was never given to us. This kind of micromanaging is a form of legalism and can be deeply harmful.

God has given us authority within our own households. He has not given us that same authority over the souls of other women.

Yes, Scripture tells us that older women should teach the younger women (Tit. 2:3-5). But it specifies this instruction is to help them love their husbands and children, to walk in godliness—not to scrutinize, judge, and attempt to control one another’s every step.

If you have not been given permission to plow another woman’s garden, then to do so is trespassing.

So how, then, should we live among one another? A woman should live an exemplary life. Let her demonstrate her faith in God through her actions, her attitudes, and her prayers. Let her show others how to love by loving her own husband through service, kindness, honor, and affection. Let her demonstrate stewardship of her home with care—through the tending of her children, the order of her household, and the thoughtfulness of her provision. Let her exemplify perseverance with her prayers, in faithfulness, in serving and loving the body of Christ. When a woman lives this way, others will begin to ask her how.

And when they ask, when they invite her in, then she may speak, gently and humbly. She must teach through her own story, not as a ruler, but as one who has received grace.

If a woman says, “Please help me. Speak into my life. I am struggling,” then you have been released to help her—but always with meekness and kindness.

But apart from that invitation, do not criticize your neighbor! To do so is to trespass upon another soul.

Even more harmful than direct, uninvited nitpicking, is this: to pick apart your neighbor in conversation with others. Scripture warns us plainly, “A talebearer reveals secrets: but he that is of a faithful spirit conceals the matter” (Prov. 11:13). And again, “Where there is no talebearer, the strife ceases” (Prov. 26:20).

This, unfortunately, is a common and grievous pitfall. I have seen it both in the world and, sadly, within the church.

When I was in medical training, I noticed a pattern at the nurse’s stations. Conversations among women mainly revolved around two things: tearing down their husbands and dissecting other women. The only consistently positive thread was something as trite as beauty tips. It grieved me. There was a kind of unhealthy camaraderie formed in shared criticism and complaining.

But a godly woman does not build relationships this way. Gossip tears down not only the one being spoken of, but the one who speaks, and the very fabric of trust between them. Even those who listen, contribute and laugh, will never trust you, because they know you will one day speak of them in the same way.

There is a dynamic, sometimes subtle and hidden, that often provokes this destructive behavior between women. When any woman flourishes—whether in motherhood, education, skill, beauty, or calling—other women attempt to demean and tear her down.

In the world, this is often loud and visible on social media. You can pretty much count on it. As soon as anyone has success, the vultures gather to pick it apart. But in the church, it should not be this way! However, it sometimes does appear, typically in a quieter and more insinuated form. You’ve heard it:

“I’m not sure her approach is best…”

“I’ve heard others question it…”

“There are studies that say otherwise…”

“I think she doesn’t really get you..”

“I can help you with a much better route…”

And slowly, like a cancer, confidence is eroded, trust is weakened, and the work of God through the individual being attacked is undermined. This spirit is not from God. It echoes the accuser of the brethren. It mirrors Absalom at the gate, drawing hearts away—not for righteousness, but for his own elevation.

In another example from the Bible, when David gained victory over Goliath and the Philistines, Saul, who had once loved him and desired him as a son-in-law, began to hate him. He spent the remainder of his life seeking to kill David and destroy his reputation. Scripture tells us that a distressing spirit came upon Saul.

This same spirit can be seen in Cain when he rose up against Abel, and in Esau when he burned with anger toward Jacob. It is a spirit that can come upon any of us when we feel threatened by the success of another.

We must recognize it for what it is—envy. This distressing spirit increases anxiety, breeds insecurity, and subtly moves us to undermine our sisters or brothers. It is not from God; it is from the accuser of the brethren. It is the motive that caused the Pharisees to turn over Jesus Himself to death.

Sometimes women yield to this kind of subversion knowingly. But often, they do not. They are simply moved by their own insecurity, by a desire to be seen, or perhaps by wounds not yet healed. So they feel threatened by the security, visibility, and purpose in others.

I plead with you, and I pray this for myself as well: Do not participate in gossip. Do not engage in subtle undermining. Do not use words, either small or great, to diminish another in order to elevate yourself.

For “every wise woman builds her house: but the foolish plucks it down with her hands” (Prov. 14:1).

This is how a woman tears down her house and God’s house. Instead, choose a better way. Speak words of kindness. Guard the reputations of others as you would your own. Commit yourself to speak good, and only good, of your companions! And when you cannot truthfully speak good, remain silent.

Mind your own household.

Tend the garden God has given you.

And in doing so, you will be known as a woman of honor—one who can be trusted, one whose presence brings peace rather than division. If you do these things, the Proverbs tell us you will be respected in the gates (Prov. 31).

With all my love,

Mom

Sitting at my desk by the window, I worked my way through a stack of school papers, red pen in hand. The low hum of the window unit filled the room, steady and almost mesmerizing, and the cool air lifted the loose strands of hair from my face. Then it clicked off, and in the quiet, I heard him. His pounding feet so rhythmic and familiar.

I lifted my eyes just above the edge of the unit and saw him there in the yard—my now, nine-year-old son, Kippy. His feathery dark hair lifted slightly in the breeze as he paced and danced his well-worn path. Three long strides forward, then take a bow, his body folding deeply, hands flapping like butterflies behind him. Then he’d turn, three strides back. Again. And again. And again.

There was a cadence to it, a pattern I knew so well that I could hear it even in my sleep.

The crunch of tires alerted me to a car passing slowly along the road beyond the cedar rail fence that edged our yard. It paused, and the window rolled down.

“Hi, Kippy!” Bonnie called, leaning out with a cheerful wave. Her eyes crinkled in a smile behind thick glasses. I held still at my desk, waiting. There was always that pause, but four years ago, there would have been nothing, no words or response.

But we had been working toward this, patiently and faithfully, one small step at a time.

It had started under our fig tree. That tree stood at the corner of our yard, right where the dusty river road met Dry Creek Road before bending up the hill. Its wide, glove-shaped leaves cast a thick shade, and Kippy claimed that place as his post—his safe observatory of the world. From there, he watched life bustle by. Neighbors headed to milk chores, and families walking toward the river for a picnic. He watched the children running, voices bright in the distance. He peered at the milk cows ambling by for milking time. He gazed out on our geese as the strutted among the orchard trees.

But if anyone turned toward him, he would retreat back under the leaves and into the shadows, the low-hanging branches providing a protective screen.

“Hi, Kippy!” they called as they passed, but he never answered. And still, everyone loved him. Everywhere I went, someone would stop me.

“How’s Kippy doing?”

“How’s he coming along?”

“Is he talking yet?”

He had captured the hearts of the whole community without ever saying a word. We began to work on that road to his heart becoming more than a one way street.

“When someone says hi,” I told him gently, “you say hi back.” So we practiced.

“Hi, Kippy,” I would say, waving.

He would study my hand, puzzled, then echo carefully:

“Hi, Kippy.” It was a beginning.

“I say, ‘Hi, Kippy,’” I tried again. “You say, ‘Hi, Mommy.’”

It took months, but even once he got that, when his dad waved, he then said, “Hi, Mommy.”

When his brother waved, “Hi, Kippy.” All the names floated around, unanchored. Still, we were moving forward. Day after day, we practiced.

In the garden, as I weeded onions, I’d prompt him softly as neighbors passed while he stood under his fig tree,

“Hi, Connie!”

And then urge him, gently, “Say, ‘Hi, Connie.’” His hand would lift. His voice would follow.

“Hi, Connie.”

We practiced with siblings.

“Hi, Kippy,” Zach would say, and together we would answer, “Hi, Zach.”

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the pieces began to come together. Then one day, before Bonnie even saw him, he stepped out from under the fig tree, into the Texas sunshine and called:

“Hi, Bonnie!” And I knew something had clicked.

Now, three years later, I sat at my desk, waiting for his response. Outside, Bonnie’s hand still lingered in the air from the car window. And then—

“Hi, Bonnie.” The words came, clear and right. She smiled, and the window rolled up. Her car moved on. And the rhythm resumed. Three steps forward. Bow. Hands fluttering. Turn. Three steps back.

I smiled, marking the small victory. Then I heard his commentary to himself begin...

“Hi, Kippy.” I frowned slightly and looked toward the road, but no one was there. He was still pacing, still moving, but now speaking quite loudly.

“Hi, Kippy.” He repeated, then a pause.

“Hi.” Then again.

“Hi. Hi. Hi. Hi…” The words tumbled out—one after another, but not the same. Never the same tone or accent. Each “hi” carried a different voice. Low and gravelly. Light and sing-song. Fast. Slow. A trace of a Texas drawl. Then something sharper and northern. A New Jersey accent…

It was as if a hundred people were speaking through him, every greeting he had ever heard, replayed, reshaped, examined. I sat completely still, listening. Leaning over the desk for a closer look, I watched him mimic seemingly every “hi” he’d ever received as he loped back and forth on his worn trail. Minutes passed, and still he went on.

“Hi, Kippy. Hi. Hi, Kippy…”

His eyes lifted at an angle toward the sky, his body moving in rhythm with the words, as though he were sorting them, testing them, turning them over in his mind. And then, at last—it stopped. He stood still, and said, quite clearly:

“Why does everyone say hi, again, and again, and again…?” I leaned forward, hardly breathing.

“She has said hi to me 300 times.” A pause.

“Why can’t they say it once?”

“I already know they say hi. They want to say hi.”

Another pause.

“She said hi to me 300 times!” I pressed my hand over my mouth with laughter. We were odd, that need to greet each other again and again in the same way.

Slipping out of the room, I shook, half with laughter, half astonishment, and called Dan.

“You won’t believe what I just heard,” I said.

“Our son… he doesn’t understand why all of us keep saying hello over and over again.”

But later, as the laughter settled, I considered it all.

Under the fig tree, Kippy had not just learned to speak our language; he’d been studying us, listening and cataloging! He’d been trying to understand why we say what we say, the way we say it, again and again. What was automatic to us was such a mystery to him. What was simple to us was something he had to piece together—voice by voice, moment by moment, and I realized: He was not just learning to enter our world. We were being invited, little by little, into his. It was a wonder and an adventure!