There was a man who was born blind. Day after day, he sat while the world zoomed past him. Then one day, he met a man who changed everything for him. Jesus saw him—a man so many in his village probably walked right past without noticing. But Jesus felt compassion for him. He spit on the dirt to make a little mud, then he rubbed the mixture on the man’s eyes. Jesus told the man to go and wash his face, and Scripture says “the man went and washed, and came home seeing.”   The religious leaders—whose sight was sharp enough for them to have seen what happened to the blind man—saw only what threatened them. They accused Jesus of breaking the law for healing on the Sabbath, entirely missing the point. Then Jesus used their accusations to teach a lesson. He said that since these leaders were trying to steal one of His sheep—the man who had been healed and put on a path to worship—they were thieves and robbers.   During the course of John 10, Jesus tells anyone listening that He’s three things: the Good Shepherd, the Gate to the sheepfold, and the sacrificed lamb. He says that His sheep know His voice, which only makes sense considering how much time sheep and a shepherd spend together. They’ve had long, monotonous afternoons searching for shade, and they’ve spent long, scary nights listening to the howls of wolves prowling nearby. They know Him and He knows them.   A Scottish pastor named Douglas MacMillan wrote a book called The Lord Our Shepherd . In the book he tells a story of riding a train with a friend who was a shepherd. The friend had just sold some of his lambs. As they pulled out of the train station, the friend looked out the window and saw a flock of sheep. “Look! There are four of my lambs!” the friend cried. How could he recognize them and from such a distance? The shepherd knew his sheep. What looked indistinguishable and commonplace to others was unique to him.   Jesus comparing us to sheep is not so much to insult our intelligence (even though we often are pretty dumb), as much as it is to highlight our utter dependence on someone stronger and smarter than us. However self-reliant we think we are, we desperately need a shepherd.   Besides the shepherd, Jesus also said He is the gate. A sheep pen would often be constructed of a rock wall with deterrents like thorny vines (Bible times version of barbed wire) along the top. There would be no gate swinging open and closed. The shepherd himself would be the gate. This way, no one could come in to attack, and no one would leave to get lost.   Then Jesus explains his role as the lamb slain for us. John 10:18 says, “No one can take my life from me. I sacrifice it voluntarily. For I have the authority to lay it down when I want to and also to take it up again.” He knows us to the core, and yet He died for us. No one will ever know us more and love us more than Him. He says “You are my sheep. I claim you as my own. Not to get anything from you…in fact, I will become a lamb myself, a lamb sent to earth to be slaughtered as a sacrifice.” A thousand years before Jesus healed that blind man, David wrote a psalm thanking the Lord for being our Shepherd. David said that our Heavenly Shepherd gives us what we need. He helps us rest and refreshes us. He guides and comforts us. He takes away our fear. He reminds us that we’re chosen royalty. He makes a home for us forever.

Have you ever endorsed something that you didn’t actually know that much about? Maybe it was a product or a restaurant, and then you find out later that it’s not what you thought or how you remembered it. For instance, you remember watching a movie when you were younger—maybe on TV when they would edit inappropriate scenes or replace bad words—then you see the movie is streaming somewhere, and you say, “Oh! This is great! Let’s watch it! You’ll love it!” So you get your preschool aged nieces and your grandmother to the living room, and you start it up only to find out that it is in no way appropriate for this audience and you feel so foolish to have recommended it to everybody. In the end, you didn’t really know the movie, either because you only saw the edited version that the network wanted you to see or because your memory just isn’t all that reliable.   This is what I’ve been considering as I try to live a life dedicated to tell others about Jesus. But before I can really do this, I have to ask myself if I really know who Jesus is. And the best way to do this is to find out who Jesus said He was. While He walked on the earth, He was constantly being asked that very question. He even put it to His disciples: “Who do people say I am?” and they gave a variety of answers. So I don’t think He’ll be offended if we ask Him the same question: Jesus, who are you?   I’m starting my quest to find out who Jesus says He is in John 6. At this point in His ministry, Jesus has fed more than 5,000 people with just five loaves of bread and two fish. His fame is spreading, so the crowds of people are searching for him. They finally track Him down in verse 25. Jesus tells them, “You are looking for me, not because you saw the signs I performed but because you ate the loaves and had your fill. Do not work for food that spoils, but for food that endures to eternal life, which the Son of Man will give you.” They want real food—bread they can hold and eat and digest, but then what? They reference the manna God provided for their ancestors in the wilderness, but they still don’t get it. All they can see is their immediate hunger.   Then in verse 35, Jesus lets them in on the biggest secret since God told Adam and Eve not to eat that one particular tree in the garden. Jesus says, “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never go hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.” Not only does He have the bread, He is the bread. “Your ancestors ate the manna in the wilderness, yet they died,” Jesus continues. “But here is the bread that comes down from heaven, which anyone may eat and not die. I am the living bread that came down from heaven. Whoever eats this bread will live forever. This bread is my flesh, which I will give for the life of the world.” Jesus is preparing their minds for the upcoming Passover meal by proposing something that is nearly unthinkable—He’s offering himself as the perfect, unblemished lamb to be sacrificed.   He tells them, “…the one who feeds on me will live because of me… Your ancestors ate manna and died, but whoever feeds on this bread will live forever.”  The one who feeds on me will live. This sounds gruesome, and it was probably shocking to the people listening, but it makes me ask myself: Where does my nourishment come from? The manna that God gave the Israelites was a temporary solution. They weren’t even allowed to gather extra (with the exception of the day before the Sabbath so they could have a work-free day once a week), otherwise the manna would rot and it would be full of maggots. But there’s no such thing as gathering too much of Jesus! He is the bread of Life that never spoils. He feeds our eternal souls.

The Israelites had escaped Egypt and slavery. The plagues and the flip-flopping Pharaoh. The Passover lamb and the midnight getaway carts. Then God gave them a pillar of cloud to guide them on their way and a pillar of fire to give them light at night. Scripture says, “Neither the pillar of cloud by day nor the pillar of fire by night left its place in front of the people.”   The one time when we see that pillar change positions is at the Red Sea. The Israelites weren’t free from the Egyptians yet. Pharaoh and his army had pursued the people, and as the Egyptian chariots and their riders approached, “The angel of God, who had been traveling in front of Israel’s army, withdrew and went behind them. The pillar of cloud also moved from in front and stood behind them, coming between the armies of Egypt and Israel. Throughout the night the cloud brought darkness to the one side and light to the other side.” Just think of that pillar of God’s presence getting into a defensive, protective posture!   If you’ve heard the story (or seen the movie), you know that the Lord drove the sea back to make dry land for the people to cross. They had a wall of water on their right and on their left. But the Egyptians stayed hot on their trail. “During the last watch of the night the Lord looked down from the pillar of fire and cloud at the Egyptian army and threw it into confusion. He jammed the wheels of their chariots so that they had difficulty driving.”   The Egyptians were drowned and defeated, and the Israelites continued to seek after the promise of the Promised Land. Because they had to stay on the move, following the cloudy or fiery pillar wherever it led, they had to live in tents—temporary shelters that could be set up and taken down quickly. This process was the inspiration for one of the seven feasts God laid out for them to celebrate in Leviticus 23. “At the end of your harvesting, begin to celebrate this seven-day festival before the Lord. On the first day, build shelters. The purpose of this is to remind the people of Israel, generation after generation, that I rescued you from Egypt, and caused you to live in shelters. I am Jehovah your God.”   Once the temple was eventually built and they were no longer a wandering people, the Feast of Tabernacles continued with a few additions. They still built temporary shelters, and they incorporated a water-drawing ceremony and a light ceremony into the week of festivities. For the light ceremony, Levites would climb ladders to reach the sixteen golden bowls which were perched 75 feet in the air. They would fill the bowls with oil and light the wicks. It was said that all of Jerusalem was illuminated by these lamps, the light shining off of the yellow limestone walls. The choirs of Levites would sing praises, and the people would dance and rejoice. The lamps would burn all night.   More than a thousand years later, Jesus stood in the area where the bowls had been burning. The seven-week feast had ended. Sadly, the shelters had been dismantled and put away, like us taking down Christmas lights in January. Part of the people’s collective sadness—if they knew their history—was that in the stories of the time of Moses, the older generations would have taken down their tents and followed God. They would’ve seen where God’s pillars were heading to go in that direction. They would have evidence of God’s continual presence. But in Jesus’ time, they didn’t have that. Somewhere deep in their souls, they were missing it, but Jesus had something to tell the people who remained. “I am the Light of the world,” He told them. “So if you follow me, you won’t be stumbling through the darkness, for living light will flood your path.”   Imagine what this statement meant for the people gathered there! If they grew up in a Jewish home, they probably had heard about the stories of the pillar of light each year when they were setting up their temporary shelters. They had been told the importance of light during the festival ceremonies. They had been taught to expect a Messiah.   God had “tabernacled,” or dwelled, with the people in the wilderness for forty years, but they had lost their way long ago. Christ’s appearance was the fulfillment of God’s faithful promises. He continues to be the light in the same way that the pillar of fire brought light. Just like a candle brought into a dark room brings light, Jesus (as the light) has to be brought into a dark world to bring the light that brings life.

I realized after I had placed the strap of a heavy bag on my shoulder that I was sunburnt. The sunburn itself probably occurred after sitting outside at our son’s soccer game where I forgot to use sunscreen. That feeling of having something dig into that too-tender, reddened skin brought back a memory from years ago:   We had taken our very young children to the beach. Our older son was just walking and our girls were preschool-aged. We had spent the day digging in the sand, and now it was time to head back to our condo and have lunch. The only way to get to our home-away-from-home was by trudging up a steep set of weather-worn, rickety, wooden stairs. My husband and I split up the many bags which held an assortment of sand toys, beach towels, and snacks. He hoisted our son on his hip, I held the hand of each of our girls, and we began the (seemingly mile-long) ascent, putting one foot in front of the other while simultaneously ignoring our sunburnt shoulders and sand-covered flip-flops. Just…keep…going…   This is also the memory that pops into my mind when I think of the word perseverance . Gritting my teeth and just getting done what needs to be done. No chitchat. No pleasantries. It’s grin and bear it , but without the grinning.   And then, just like God so often does with His word, he convicts me of my flawed thinking. I read a few verses from the Book of James, and I realize I’m only halfway doing this. “Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds…” Pure joy? Are you kidding me? You want me to regard this bad situation as a big old party? If James had said this stuff while standing beside your hospital bed or at the funeral of a loved one, he might have received a dirty look or two. But James wasn’t finished with his sentence. “Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance.”   So you’re saying I should want the perseverance? Like that’s my main target? James, James, James. That sounds like a lot of pain. Isn’t there an easier way? But James lets me know he’s not done with this whole trials + perseverance = pure joy. Listen to what he says next: “Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.” A life without trials isn’t complete. And since the trials are going to come whether my attitude is good or bad, I might as well try this God’s way. Maybe the pure joy is part of the maturity and the wholeness. It’s cyclical. But back to my first question, James. I know I should consider it pure joy when I face trials. And I know I should want to have my faith tested. And I know I should want to be a mature Christ-follower. But all of that sounds really, really hard.   In my imaginary conversation with James, he steps aside at this point and his brother, Jesus, walks towards me. Jesus looks me in the eye and I instantly know that I don’t have to do this very hard thing—facing pain with a holy attitude—all by myself. Jesus gently reminds me, “I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.”

I love to read books to children. Whether it’s a novel with cliffhangers at the end of each chapter or a picture book with simple text and detailed illustrations, reading aloud with a little one (or more) nearby creates cherished memories and encourages them to become readers themselves.   When our twin daughters were infants, not even old enough to sit up yet, I would lie on the floor between them and hold up books to read aloud until my arms got tired. One of the books given to me at a baby shower was a classic written by the prolific author Margaret Wise Brown and illustrated by Clement Hurd— The Runaway Bunny . It was a large board book (extra heavy for me to hold above my head!) with a mixture of pen and ink drawings and colorful illustrations. It may be less well known compared to Brown’s Goodnight Moon , but The Runaway Bunny has definitely stood the test of time.   I re-read the story recently using that same copy which is now more than twenty years old. I held a sweet almost one-year old in my lap as we examined the pictures and read about the naughty bunny who wanted to run away. In the story, the little bunny would tell his mother that he planned to become a trout swimming in a trout stream or a crocus growing in a hidden garden or a bird flying in the sky in order to run away, but each time the mother countered with a plan to find her bunny, doing whatever was required to bring him back. She would become a fisherman or a gardener or even the tree that he would fly home to. And her reason for the pursuit of her child was only “for you are my little bunny.”   The little bunny’s persistent plots for running away and the mother’s relentless pursuit to thwart those plots made me think of one of my favorite chapters in the Bible—Psalm 139. King David, the author of this poignant, poetic prayer, says to God, “I can never escape from your Spirit! I can never get away from your presence! If I go up to heaven, you are there; if I go down to the grave, you are there. If I ride the wings of the morning, if I dwell by the farthest oceans, even there your hand will guide me, and your strength will support me.” (NLT)   Just as a you might ask why a silly, little bunny would want to leave the comfort and safety of his mother, you might wonder why David would try to escape God’s spirit. Was it a guilty conscience, self-destructive rebellion, or just foolishly listening to the wrong people? Whatever the reason, God continued to be there, waiting to welcome him back in a manner that defied comprehension. David says, “You go before me and follow me. You place your hand of blessing on my head. Such knowledge is too wonderful for me, too great for me to understand!” God is in front and behind while also placing His hand on us…each of us…at the exact same time. It’s even more impressive than the mother bunny who was willing to become a tightrope walker to walk across the air to get to her son who ran away to join the circus.   For me, the best part of The Runaway Bunny is the end, because who doesn’t love a happy ending? The little bunny finally comes to his senses and says, “I might just as well stay where I am and be your little bunny.” To which the mother bunny practically replies, “Have a carrot.” (She probably suspects that he was just hangry and in need of a snack.) Our happy ending comes with knowing that God made us, He knows us, and He sent His son to die for us. The names of His children are written in the Book of Life and engraved on the palms of His hands. Jesus is positioned to speak in our defense and he’s busy getting our bedrooms ready in the most amazing mansion ever built. So we must be pretty special and sought after for Him to go to that much trouble. In other words, we are His little bunnies.

On a recent trip to Costa Rica, my husband Brent and I went on a little river trip. We were accompanied by our captain, a guide (let’s call him “Larry”), and three strangers from Canada. (Not that it matters, but if this was  Gilligan’s Island , I think that I would be playing the part of Mrs. Howell.)   This particular river is chock-full of crocodiles. In fact, according to Larry, it’s the second most crocodile-infested river in the world. And those animals are no joke. They are HUGE…like make-you-believe-in-dinosaurs huge. When you see one slyly swimming along and following your boat, with just his eyes poking out in front of him and his giant tail cutting S's in the brown river water behind him, it makes a land-loving girl like me question the sea-worthiness of the vessel. I mean, these massive creatures can grow up to 20 feet long, for Pete's sake! Fortunately, we all made it back in one piece, but while aboard, Larry told us an interesting story.   This stretch of the river is hemmed in on both sides by jungles teaming with all kinds of wildlife, including primates. We heard peaceful howler monkeys before we ever saw them, their throaty calls warning each other about our presence. We also saw capuchin monkeys. As cute as they appear to the casual observer, they can be aggressive and bloody-thirsty. Larry told us about one little fella named Caesar, after a character from  The Planet of the Apes  movie. (As far as I know, Caesar didn't give himself the name. Larry did. Although you can never tell with those smart, little monkeys!)   Apparently, Caesar was a part of a family of capuchins, but he developed a case of mange, which Larry claims he got from eating cookies and other junk food given to him by well-meaning tourists. One day, Caesar’s family tried to push him out of a tree so that he would fall into the river and become a snack for the crocodiles. His troop saw Caesar and his sickness as a liability, so they wanted him gone from the group. Lucky for him, he was able to hop onto the roof of a vessel similar to ours, and the captain ferried him over to the other side of the river, where he could eat nutritious food and recuperate far away from his would-be assassins.   Over the years, Larry would regularly reconnect with Caesar, now healthy and strong and still living on the other side. While the river in this section isn’t especially wide, the two sides might as well be a million miles apart for the existence of those sneaky, hungry crocodiles. Larry said that we had a 1% chance of swimming successfully from one side to the other without being eaten. (I can’t actually say if that statistic is true because none of the passengers and crew aboard that Costa Rican  S.S. Minnow  tested his math.)   It’s a commonly held belief that primates resemble humans. This phenomenon can be observed in the ways we communicate, have fun, display emotions, use tools, and, I’m sad to say, how we function as a part of a community. How often do we dismiss those who are struggling or displaying weakness? How about when someone seems to be dragging us down? Do we find ways to help him, or do we calculate the costs and attempt to shove him out of a tree to save ourselves the bother?   One thing that separates us from capuchins (besides our capacity to eat cookies without developing mangey fur...thank goodness) is our ability to examine the life of a man named Jesus and try to live like Him. Through Christ, we see someone who touched lepers, ate with tax collectors, and spoke to women with bad reputations. He welcomed the outcasts. In our communities, we’ve got at least three choices: we can be the selfish, shoving capuchins or we can be the cruel, prowling crocodiles or we can be the boat—a safe vessel to transport the hurting to where we know (from experience) is the best place to heal.

Several months ago, I boarded a plane for a Spring Break trip to Florida. Once everyone had settled into their seats, announcements were made and emergency instructions were delivered. The passengers and crew prepared for takeoff. Our seats were relatively close to one of the flight attendants, and being an avid observer of human nature, I watched this seasoned professional as she followed her protocol. With each hair in place and sitting ram-rod straight in her backwards facing seat with feet flat on the floor, the flight attendant tucked her perfectly-manicured fingers, palms up, under her legs.   Later, once I was back on earth and with my phone out of “airplane mode,” I googled what I had seen, asking the internet why the flight attendant was sitting on her hands, and, subsequently, if I should be doing the same thing. I came across an article from People which explained the reason for this bracing position. A flight attendant named Henny Lim said, “The aim is to keep the body in a rigid pose, so that if there was any impact from an unplanned emergency, the body is damaged less. This keeps body movement restricted so that there is less chance of injury if there was an impact."   The article continued, quoting Hilary Clark, a spokesperson of a private jet company. She said, "The reason for this safety position is if an emergency were to occur on takeoff or landing, their head, hands, and arms are already in a slight brace position.”   Reading their descriptions, I realized that I’ve been in a bit of a bracing position myself, only without the overhead compartments, seatbelts, and tray tables. Since our kids’ existence first became known to me, I’ve been anticipating this time—the years when they grow out of the house and step into adulthood. I’ve been bracing for their takeoff.   I continued reading the article and learned what the flight attendants are supposed to be doing just before takeoff and landing, the time when they’ve just sat on top their hands. This is when they’re expected to take part in a “silent review.” According to an Airbus safety document, "The silent review (or 30-second review) is recommended for cabin crew to mentally recall the key aspects of the emergency evacuation procedure…This silent review will help the cabin crew to focus and be prepared in case an emergency evacuation is required. This technique will also help to minimize the startle effect."   I felt like that was my signal to do the same. I needed to stop and make a silent review, so I talked to God and thanked Him for all the days, months, and years I’ve been able to live in the same house with my kids. I told Him how grateful I was for the people who helped to shape them, and I asked Him to protect and lead them in these next seasons. I also asked Him to help me focus on what’s worth focusing on. And instead of bracing for the next bad thing, I prayed that I can fix my thoughts on Him with a laser focus I’ve been lacking. As it says in Isaiah 26, “You will keep in perfect peace those whose minds are steadfast, because they trust in you. Trust in the Lord forever, for the Lord, the Lord himself, is the Rock eternal.” No more bracing for a crash. I’m racing to the Rock!

It’s summertime! Along with the heat and the humidity, the wasps and the lightning bugs, summer comes with the annual cry from every kid stuck at home for two months…“I’m bored!” A parent can counter this claim of “There’s nothing to do!” with suggestions about cleaning rooms and working on summer math packets, but this response is mostly met with eye rolls at best, if not exposed contempt. As a fairly productive adult, I don’t really know what boredom is anymore. Granted, I’m sure I said the same thing every summer to my mom growing up, but now I fill my days with getting things done. Although that feels pretty terrific to a task-oriented person like me, it is possible that all of those checkmarks on my extensive to-do lists may be getting in the way of my creativity. Agatha Christie, one of my favorite authors, once said, “There’s nothing like boredom to make you write. By the time I was 16 or 17, I’d written quite a number of short stories and one long dreary novel.” She said that her imagination had been strengthened because she had been forced to entertain herself as a child. Another great author, Neil Gaiman, said, “You get ideas from daydreaming. You get ideas from being bored. You get ideas all the time. The only difference between writers and other people is we notice when we're doing it.” That sounds about right! When I wrote the first book in my middle grade fiction series, the opening scene came straight from a moment of daydreaming. I was on our front porch, looking at the overgrown field in front of our house, and my imagination sparked an entire novel from what I thought I saw moving in the tall grass. According to the Boredom Lab at York University in Canada—a real thing, apparently—researchers study this very connection between boredom and creativity. John Eastwood, a psychologist at the lab, explained it this way: “When we’re bored, there are two key things happening in our mind. The first thing is what I would call a ‘desire bind’. That’s when someone is kind of stuck because they desperately want to do something but they don’t want to do anything that’s on offer. Secondly, when you’re bored, your mental capacity is lying fallow. We’re itching to engage our mind. These are the two core things that are what it means to feel bored.” Dr. Eastwood went on to say, “Boredom triggers mind-wandering, and then mind wandering leads to creativity.” Beautiful art has to start with a blank slate! Sometimes boredom seems like the enemy, but it may actually be the antidote to our often ridiculously busy lifestyles. And if writing fiction isn’t necessarily your thing, consider all the other benefits to being bored. For instance, you could slow down enough to have an authentic conversation with a bored employee. You could let your mind wander—screen free—until you have someone pop into your head who needs your prayer and encouragement. Remember these words from two wise men of the past: “There are no uninteresting things, only uninterested people.” – G.K. Chesterton. “Only those who want everything done for them are bored.” – Billy Graham

If you live in Tennessee, the Carolinas, Alabama, Arkansas, Missouri, or Illinois you have something in common—cicadas that have been underground for 13 years are now trying to fly inside your mouth or get caught in your hair. In comparison to the annual “dog day cicadas,” the green and brown ones that tenderly serenade us every summer and mostly stay out of our way, these periodical cicadas are generally regarded as a creepy nuisance with their bulging red eyes and the bzzzz-ttt sound they make when you try to kick them away from your door before going inside. I like to go for walks in the morning, and there’s no ignoring their presence when I’m trekking down the sidewalk. This emergence, which some people have dubbed “cicadapocalypse,” includes millions of these bugs just droning away. The male cicadas make the noisiest sounds as they call out, looking for females cicadas willing to mate. The males are designed with a hollow abdomen where the sound can bounce around, ramping up the volume so that their combined “wolf-whistle” can be as loud as a motorcycle engine. Then the single-and-ready-to-mingle females respond with a clicking sound made with their wings. On a recent walk as I listened to the pulsing whine of the cicadas, I thought about the verses that describe nature singing praises to God. Read through Psalm 96 and you’ll be rewarded with poetry such as: “Let the heavens rejoice, let the earth be glad; let the sea resound, and all that is in it. Let the fields be jubilant, and everything in them; let all the trees of the forest sing for joy. Let all creation rejoice before the Lord.” Thinking of the cicadas’ sound as a song meant for God beautifies their noisy vibrations, upgrading it from an annoyance to an echoing hymn of praise for a Creator who kept them safe 8-feet underground for more than a decade. And just like those male cicadas who are crying out for someone (in their case, a red-eyed lady friend with a talent for wing-clicking), we can also call out for (capital-L) Love. Deep inside our hollowness, where fear and loneliness and sorrow can threaten to drown us, we can begin to rejoice with a single word or thought centered on God’s goodness. We can let even that small contribution of praise echo inside us until it grows into a symphony of worship.

blochworld.com In college, my older sister was cast in the role of Cinderella’s Stepmother in the musical Into the Woods. She was told to buy a pair of character shoes which she would wear during the performance. I remember going with her to a store which sat above a dance studio that specialized in theater and dance apparel. If memory serves, these shoes were tan-colored, had a bit of a heel and an adjustable strap across the ankle. I’m no expert on the rules and practices of theater, but apparently these character shoes were meant to help her with dancing, balance, and generally just being on her feet during multiple rehearsals and performances. Some performers claim that just strapping on these shoes gets them “into character,” making them stand straighter and walk more gracefully. It’s often surprising how the things we wear can change not only the parts of us that people see on the outside but also affect the inside, too. This phenomenon is why we say things like: “Dress for the job you want, not the job you have,” and “Clothes make the man.” (Or as Mark Twain famously finished the thought, “Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society.”) We see this exhibited in superheroes drastically changing their identities when they change clothes (think Superman in a phone booth). Since ancient times, it’s not only clothes that change a person’s attitude and confidence, but also armor. When the shepherd boy David volunteers to fight against Goliath—the giant with the bronze helmet, a coat of bronze armor weighing in over 100 pounds, and a pair of bronze greaves—King Saul’s prep session includes a fitting for Giant-resistant armor which was too big and altogether unnecessary for David. David sets the armor aside and claims a victory which was only possible because of God’s help. Heading to the Book of Ephesians, we read about a different kind of armor—a spiritual defense. In Ephesians 6:10-11, the author Paul says, “Finally, be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power. Put on the full armor of God, so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes.” Paul lists the components of this armor: the belt of truth, the breastplate of righteousness, the “gospel of peace” shoes, the shield of faith, and the helmet of salvation. Each part has its own specific function, but they’re meant to protect and help the wearer to “stand firm,” to remain on our feet when times get tough and faith gets tested. Five of the six parts are defensive, with one piece—"the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God”—listed as the only weapon. Unless you’re in a Sunday school class and you’re learning the parts of the Armor of God with plastic costume pieces, these aren’t physical items to hold in your hands. We can’t wake up each morning and strap on our gospel sneakers, though that would be nice (if they have good arch support). I did a little digging into what this might have meant—"your feet fitted with the readiness that comes from the gospel of peace”—and it’s surprising. Just like Goliath and his bronze greaves (for you soccer moms, picture metal shin guards), these “shoes” may have actually been coverings to protect the soldiers’ legs from hidden traps and sharp sticks which would be strategically placed in the way of a marching army. These soldiers weren’t always able to avoid these dangers, so they had to prepare for them. And if we’re talking about the "gospel of peace," then what we’re preparing for is peace-making. This is my new way of thinking of character shoes: Whatever I put on my feet, I should pretend that they are my gospel sneakers. Sharp words and precarious pitfalls are just waiting to trip me up so that I’ll speak and act and think in a way that doesn’t promote peace or the gospel. So I have to be ready. Hopefully, if I know I’m sporting this spiritual footwear, I won’t just stand straighter and walk more gracefully. I’ll stand firmer and talk with more grace.

I have a friend who adopted her son after several years of fostering him. She said that when the official court date drew closer, she told him it was time for him to call her mom. It was difficult at first. His associations and connections with the idea of motherhood were fraught with complicated memories and preconceptions, but she knew that calling her mom was just another step toward the familial bonds becoming more real. That’s the thing about names. They stand for more than just a word to hear your mom call out the back door to say that supper is ready. They carry a weight all their own, and we see this in Scripture. From Adam giving names to all of the animals in Eden to Jesus calling out “Lazarus” in front of an open tomb to John prophesying in Revelations about our names being written in the Book of Life, names play an important role in the history of humankind. Because the names that we assign others are so important, we also see a variety of names for God. Elohim (a generic name for God first seen in Genesis 1:1 which means “Mighty One”), Adonai (“Lord”), El Roi (“the God who sees me”), El Shaddai (“God Almighty”), Jehovah Jireh (“Provider”), Jehovah Rapha (“Healer”), Jehovah Shalom (“Peace”), and Yahweh (the personal name for I AM, the Sovereign Lord), just to name a few. And then there’s Abba, Ancient of Days, and the Alpha and Omega. Why so many names? That’s just how awe-inspiring, unfathomable and yet accessible our Heavenly Father is. (Heavenly Father…That’s another one!) These names give us insight into who He is while also revealing how He relates to us. Reading the story of Samson recently, it was pointed out to me that you can predict the ups and downs of this has-really-bad-judgement Judge from the Old Testament by the names he uses for God. All through his story, super-strong Samson is careless with this unearned gift that God gave him. He could’ve led the people to follow God and be free of their enemies, but instead he starts a bunch of fights and lights foxes on fire. Such a waste! When he talks about God he calls him Elohim—not what you would use if you had an intimate relationship with Him. By the end of his life, when he was a blind prisoner trotted out before the Philistines for their amusement, he finally realized Who he had been dealing with all along—Yahweh. Once they had placed Samson’s hands on the pillars holding up the pagan temple, he prayed, “Sovereign Lord (Yahweh), remember me.” He had to be brought so low to find a place where he could get personal with God. Maybe he thought he could continue to satisfy every sinful whim and desire as long as he kept a safe distance between him and God. Silly Samson! His story is a great reminder for me to seek out God, not hide from Him. I can approach the Mighty One who sees me, provides for me, and offers healing. I can receive peace from my Yahweh. Then, if I ever get bold enough, I will do what Moses did in Exodus 33 when he asked God to show Moses His glory. That’s when God replied, “I will cause all my goodness to pass in front of you, and I will proclaim my name, the Lord (Yahweh), in your presence.” I don’t think I could stand all that glory on this side of heaven, but oh, can you imagine the fireworks display we’ll see just from Him proclaiming His name? I can hardly wait!

There are a lot of things to love about Easter—chocolate bunnies, new dresses, egg hunts, spring blossoms—but the thing I love the most is reading the account of Christ’s resurrection. As a perpetual optimist, I’m a big fan of happy endings, and that’s what we get when we keep reading the Gospels after the events of the crucifixion. The difference between Luke 23 and Luke 24 is monumental! The women who had looked after Jesus and his disciples throughout his ministry saw him die a gruesome death. Luke says that others “beat their breasts and walked away” from the foot of the cross, but many of his followers, including these women, stayed to keep watch. Later, they followed Joseph, the man who had asked permission to bury Jesus, to see where he would lay the body. Once they knew where the tomb was, they went home to prepare burial spices and finish all their tasks so they could rest. It was the Sabbath, and these women knew the rules. I imagine them feeling weighed down, their arms and legs seemed heavier than ever before as they took down their spices, pausing to hold the dried flowers and leaves and resin to their noses to smell the familiar, soothing scents which perhaps reminded them of the burials of other loved ones. They were sad and confused, but I bet they were grateful for a job to do. They needed purpose and agency to keep going. Then, early in the morning on the first day of the week, the women took the spices and headed to the tomb. When they got there, they saw that the stone had been rolled away from the entrance. They ran inside, but Jesus’ body was gone. They clutched those spices and wondered what had happened. Was this good? Was it bad? What should they do? Who should they tell? Then two men in lightning-bright robes appeared out of nowhere. The women fell to the ground, hiding their faces. The angels said, “Why are you looking for him here? Don’t you remember what he told you? It’s all happened just as he predicted.” Then the women remembered, and they ran to tell the others. I look forward to the day when I can meet these women—Mary Magdalene, Joanna, and Mary the mother of James. I want to ask them what it was like to be a woman in their time, and what did Jesus’ teachings mean to them in light of their social position. I wonder if they’ll discuss how caring for others, especially Jesus and his disciples, was such a big part of their ministries. Whether they were preparing meals or preparing burial spices, this was how they showed love. The older I get, the more I see this to be true. I feel a natural pull toward feeding the stomachs and souls of those I get to love on. Now that I have college-aged kids, I like to cook a meal for them and their friends. And my kids are learning to appreciate our family traditions as they see them in a new light from a little farther away. One of those traditions is something my mom started when I was little. Every year, she made Easter Bread—soft, eggy rings of yeast bread covered in crunchy sprinkles with a dyed egg nestled in the center. It was my favorite breakfast all year, and now it’s the favorite of my kids. There are several steps to make the bread, but it’s not all that difficult. In fact, I made it twice this year to accommodate the busy schedules of my girls. That’s how important it’s become to us. But for me, it’s not about eating the bread. It’s about creating memories. Yeast dough has built-in periods of rest where you wait for the dough to rise. These magical moments are gifts. The dough expands while you remain watchful, expectant. Then, when the dough is baked, the house smells amazing, filling up with a heavenly aroma. This is how we prepare and celebrate. So much has changed over the thousands of years since Mary Magdalene, Joanna, and Mary crept home after witnessing the horrors of the cross. The most striking difference came when they entered the tomb and found it empty. They had carried spices to mask the smell of death, but left the tomb rejoicing with the angels’ news ringing in their ears! EASTER BREAD 12 hard-boiled, dyed eggs ½ cup milk ½ cup sugar ½ cup water 2 packets of yeast (or 5 ½ tsp) ½ cup flour ½ cup oil 1 teaspoon salt 2 eggs 4 cups flour 1 egg, beaten (for egg wash) Sprinkles (optional, but also essential) Cook milk, sugar, and water in microwave for 1 minute. Pour into large bowl, and add yeast and ½ cup flour. Stir until smooth. Add oil, salt, and 2 eggs, and beat with mixer. Add flour, mixing well after each cup. Turn dough on lightly floured surface. Knead for 5-8 minutes. Put dough back in well-oiled bowl, coating all sides of dough with oil. Cover with a cloth, and put the bowl in oven with the light on to rise for 1 hour. Punch dough down and let rise for more 30 minutes. Divide dough into 4 equal parts. Roll each part into a long rope. Take two ropes and twist them so that there are 6 “nests” to hold 6 dyed eggs. This makes one 1 large ring. Repeat with other dough and eggs. Let rings rise until doubled in size (or let rise over night in the refrigerator). Beat egg and brush onto dough. Add sprinkles. Bake at 350 degrees for 20 minutes. Cool slightly before cutting each ring into 6 sections.