When our older son Knox was around 4-years old, he was given my husband’s vast collection of Matchbox cars. Included in the throng were sleek sportscars and fire trucks with moveable ladders, brightly colored convertibles and a Volkswagen bus to take to the beach. It was a treasure trove of painted steel from the 1970’s and 80’s. One day, Knox and I went on an errand to Old Time Pottery, and he took one of the sportscars with us. Now if you’ve never been to one of these giant stores, just imagine a small nation filled with things like bath mats, novelty holiday dishes, and kitchen gadgets. Now imagine that the whole place smells like artificial flowers. I literally could roam around there for hours. At some point on this particular trip, Knox lost that little Matchbox car which he had brought along. He didn’t realize it was gone until we were checking out, and he became frantic. “We have to find it!” he cried. “It’s Daddy’s favorite!” We left the cart of paid items by the entrance and retraced our steps. We went up and down all the aisles we had visited, peeking under shelves and digging through bins of throw pillows, but no luck. That black Pontiac Firebird Trans Am with a golden bird painted on the hood was gone. Now you should know that Brent, my dear husband, isn’t one of those sentimental collector-type people. He doesn’t know where his first grade report card is and he doesn’t have a binder of prized baseball cards up in the attic. That’s just not his thing. But when Knox lost that car, that little boy’s only thought was disappointing his daddy. That night, Knox confessed about the lost car, and my husband assured him all was well. Brent wasn’t angry. He wanted Knox to try to be more responsible (or as responsible as a 4-year old can be), but Brent emphasized that he was totally forgiven. I believe our little fella felt a measure of relief initially when he was granted a complete pardon, but he never let go of his desire to reclaim that lost car. Now that Knox is 17-years old and driving his own Pontiac Firebird Trans Am with a golden bird painted on the hood (Just kidding…but wouldn’t that be crazy?!), he still talks about that day with a timbre of tragedy and regret in his voice akin to Romeo’s final speech before drinking the poison. In fact, anytime we pass Old Time Pottery, Knox brings up that lost car even though it never ever crosses Brent’s mind. I think we all do this from time to time. We’re told we’re forgiven, but we hold on to what we did wrong. It’s like being given the greatest gift, but we’re too wrapped up in ourselves to fully accept and be grateful for it. So we turn to the Scriptures and read how to view this gift of forgiveness. Ephesians 2:8 “For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God.”

On a cold evening, a few weeks ago, I turned on the television and was pleasantly surprised to find there’s a whole channel devoted to The Joy of Painting, a show which originally ran its 31 seasons from 1983-1994. Most of the episodes showcase the soothing voice and sweeping brushstrokes of Bob Ross, complete with his distinctive, permed afro which was just as wispy as the clouds he would often paint. In the episode I settled in to watch, Bob was painting a pair of purple mountains in the background with a river snaking its way in front. The water reflected the mountains in reverse and there were trees jutting up all along the riverbank. The serene scene, along with Bob’s mellow voice, made me nestle deeper into the sofa under a blanket. I found out later that Bob enjoyed painting landscapes which included mountains because of the decades he had spent staring at snowy peaks. Though he was born in Florida, Bob spent 20 years in the Air Force most of which was served in Alaska. It’s comical to think of soft-spoken Bob Ross as a sergeant, barking orders to men in his division as they scrubbed the latrine and re-made their beds. He said that once he left the military, he never wanted to scream at people again. Besides his afro and painting style, Bob Ross was known for his chatter during the episodes. One of his most famous quotes goes something like, “We don’t make mistakes. We just have happy accidents.” But there are other Bob Ross quotes I find even more profound: “Go out on a limb—that’s where the fruit is.” “You need the dark in order to show the light.” “In nature, dead trees are just as normal as live trees.” Critics might categorize his 30,000+ paintings as nothing more than “hotel art,” but you can’t deny his appeal. When he stepped up to a blank canvas and showed all of the possibilities available to someone with a palette of colors with exotic names like Prussian Blue, Sap Green, Cadmium Yellow, Midnight Black, Dark Sienna, and Van Dyke Brown, and then you watched him make quick crisscross motions which materialized into sky and long, slender lines which became tree branches, it’s hard not to be impressed. By the time the 30-minute episode was over, Bob had created something unique. He had taken a scene from his imagination with bits thrown in from memory, and then those of us watching from home could see on the screen what he had formally only seen inside his mind. Speaking as someone who isn’t particularly gifted in the painting department, I connect to Bob Ross and his statements about creating art in a non-paintbrush-related way. I see the title of his television program as a call to change our outlook on life. I’m never going to be the host of The Joy of Painting, but, with the right attitude, I could be the star of my own show with names like The Joy of Emptying the Dishwasher or The Joy of Rolling the Trashcans Down the Driveway. I can and should find joy in what I do today and tomorrow and the next day. It’s like Bob said, “Isn’t it fantastic that you can change your mind and create all these happy things?”

Fall is for brown-eyed brunettes. It’s our time to shine. Our mousy brown locks suddenly takes on streaks of auburn and honey-gold in the slanting afternoon sunlight. We can easily pull off warm, autumnal colors. That’s why our wardrobe is full of chocolate brown. Speaking of chocolate, Fall is also for the less-than-slender. Gone are the summer days when you had to wrestle your way into a bathing suit. Now our outfits are like onions—layer upon layer. We are even able to wear skinny jeans or even jeggings because the roly-poly parts will be covered in over-sized tunics and long shirts, sweaters and sweatshirts. Now that you mention it: Fall is for sweatshirts. What can possibly match the blissful feeling of slipping into a big hooded sweatshirt on a chilly day? You remove the uncomfortable business casual you’ve lived in for the past eight hours. Then you sigh and bask in the relief offered by the fleecy soft inside of your favorite hoodie. Once properly attired, you can prop up your feet and watch TV or a crackling fire. Fall is for bonfires. The sooty smell is unmistakable on an autumn night. If you are fortunate enough to be present at a bonfire, you bring home the bonfire smell on your clothes and in your hair. It lingers like a perfume and it speaks of more than just scent. It says that you are rugged and you like being outdoors. It also says you enjoy s’mores over an open fire. Besides the bonfire scent, Fall smells of cinnamon and wet leaves. It smells like silk floral wreaths and roasted pumpkin seeds, chili in the crockpot and cornbread in the oven. I’m so grateful to live in a place with changing seasons. Fall comes at exactly the right moment for me. I welcome Summer when it comes calling around Memorial Day, but I’m never sad to see it go. By late September, I’m ready for something different. The author of Ecclesiastes saw the beauty of changing seasons: “For everything there is a season, a time for every activity under heaven. A time to be born and a time to die. A time to plant and a time to harvest. A time to kill and a time to heal. A time to tear down and a time to build up. A time to cry and a time to laugh. A time to grieve and a time to dance. A time to scatter stones and a time to gather stones. A time to embrace and a time to turn away. A time to search and a time to quit searching. A time to keep and a time to throw away. A time to tear and a time to mend. A time to be quiet and a time to speak. A time to love and a time to hate. A time for war and a time for peace.” (NLT) Sometimes life seems to be spinning out of control. Changes come as uninvited guests. If we choose to relinquish our role as “spinner of the universe,” we might see these changes as opportunities. We might see this new season as a gift. #change #seasons

Putting up Christmas decorations is an annual battle of my two selves. There is the sentimental side that lives for Christmas movies and swoons for Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas.” Then there’s my practical side: the “waste not, want not” me, the “plan for every contingency” me, the “waiting for the other shoe to drop” me. It is an epic struggle to see which side wins. For instance, as I’m stringing the lights on our Christmas tree the Oscar the Grouch part of me is asking, “Why am I doing this? In just a few weeks I’ll have to take all of this down and put it away. I’ll have to drag out those dusty plastic bins and try to fit this stuff back in before storing it away in the basement again for another 11 months. And I’ll most likely be doing this cleaning up all by myself with no help from the other people who happened to live in this house.” The Buddy the Elf part of me is saying (or probably singing or maybe shouting), “I love Christmas! I love Christmas! I love Christmas!” If only I could see all of this magical Christmas splendor through the eyes of our 5-year old son. This is his first American Christmas—his first Christmas with his forever family—and every Christmas decoration fills him with unimaginable awe. Every Christmas tree twinkling through an open window, every giant Snoopy blowup wearing a Santa hat and swaying in a front yard, every set of net lights thrown atop a bush incites a cry from the backseat, “Oooo, Mom, look! So pretty!” The Grinch-Me knows his sense of awe won’t last forever. He is partly in love with the sights and sounds of this holiday because it’s new and so different than what he’s used to. After a few years of blinking lights, he probably won’t think everything is quite so amazing. The once mind-blowing may ultimately become the expected and uninspiring. The Mistletoe-Me believes he will always feel a tingle of excitement when those Christmas songs start playing on the radio and those wreaths start showing up on front doors. His present level of awe reminds me of a group of men sitting on a hillside, barely staying awake as they were watching their sheep, a couple thousand years ago. There they were, minding their own business then, all of a sudden: “And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.” (I’m with Linus—King James Version only for this one.) This was new and different and glorious. They were afraid but fully listening to the instructions given to them via a bunch of angels. I wonder, after the angels were gone, did the Shepherds’ faces glow like Moses on Mount Sinai? When they told others about their experience did they get a reputation for being crazy? Right after the angels disappeared, could they close their eyes and see the remnant of their brilliance, like when someone takes your picture with a very bright flash and you can still see the flash seconds later? What would it be like to carry that kind of memory with them for the rest of their lives? The experience was strong enough for them to pick themselves up off the grass and head to Bethlehem, lickety-split. Did they feel honored that they had been chosen to receive this information? Did they want to get over to the stable before they could talk each other out of what they had seen, before that radiant, angelic outline they could still see when they closed their eyes had fully faded? For me, this will be the Christmas of Awe. It will be the Christmas of “Oooo, pretty!” And Lord willing, it will be the Christmas of “glorifying and praising God for all they had heard and seen.” Just like those shepherds did as they returned to their sheep on that night so long ago. #Christmas

So it all started with a dead pine tree. Our yard is bordered by these giant conifers, and one of them up and died. We had a couple of professional tree loppers (Tree surgeons? Arborists? Lumberjacks? I’m not sure which term they prefer…) come out and give us estimates on the removal of the tree. One of them recommended that we clear out the growth below the trees. Come to find out, the weed trees and vines which have been filling out our fence line could be damaging the pine trees towering above us. For this reason, I donned a long-sleeved shirt, pants, and garden gloves one coolish morning and got to work cutting back these weeds. Now on the list of things you should know about me, you would definitely see “Abby has allergies.” I’m allergic to nuts, watermelon, and chickpeas, to name a few. I’m also allergic to cedar trees and cat dander. And there was that one time when the Golden Gate bridge gave me a rash when I rested my arm on it. So, yeah, it makes sense that I’m allergic to poison ivy and all its family members. I tried to protect myself from the urushiol, the oil these nasty plants secrete, but at some point that morning, I must’ve scratched my right eyebrow because I’ve got the rash to prove it. It’s funny because the rash didn’t pop up right away. For about a day after the bushwhacking of my backyard, I thought I was in the clear. But I was wrong. That poison sap got me after all. There are lots of times when we’re enjoying the Great Outdoors that I ask the question: What’s the purpose of this annoying specimen of nature? Spiders are creepy, but they keep the insect population down. Vultures are gross-looking, but they speed up the decomposing process for roadkill. But what’s the purpose of poison ivy? It doesn’t seem to have any redeeming qualities. You can’t eat it or burn it for fuel. Why is it there other than to make me itchy? All I can assume is that poison ivy wasn’t in the blueprints for the original backyard—the Garden of Eden. I feel confident in saying that Adam and Eve could look around and see everything blooming and growing perfectly, and they didn’t even need to add any MiracleGro. They didn’t have to slip on their garden gloves (or any other clothes, apparently) to protect themselves from the poisonous parts of the garden. It was heaven on earth. But we know how that all turned out…they followed the bad advice of a snake, disobeyed God, and got kicked out of their perfect garden. Fast forward many millennia to me and the poison ivy. It’s just another reminder that, though life here can be beautiful and chock-full of blessings, it’s not all that it’s supposed to be. The original plan was a perfect existence of spending our days worshipping our Creator and giving animals names like “hippopotamus” and “ring-tailed lemur.” Instead, we tear out the weeds and rip down the vines because we know there’s something better to strive for. We’re created in God’s image, the ultimate Creator himself, and He has a plan to get us back to a garden free from all that nasty poison ivy.

Growing up mostly in the 1980’s, I will admit that I watched a lot of television. And once we eventually got cable, my sisters and I especially enjoyed reruns from the 1960’s—Gilligan’s Island, The Brady Bunch, I Dream of Jeannie, The Addam’s Family. A common trope in so many shows from that time period (and continuing into future decades) was amnesia. One of the characters would suffer a blow to the head and find themselves stricken with severe memory loss. It was comedically tragic and miraculously healed by the end of the half-hour episode, often with a new head trauma incident which would reverse the condition. We may not ever suffer from actual amnesia in our lifetimes—only 1.8% of people in the U.S. are diagnosed with the condition, which I’m sure is not nearly as funny as the Skipper on Gilligan’s Island made it out to be—but we may still find ourselves with an acute case of forgetting. We see this idea of spiritual amnesia over and over in the stories of the Bible. God would come through for His People in majestic ways (think parting of the Red Sea), then they would get their heads turned and hearts altered by the idol-worshipping nations nearby and they would forget who God was. It was like they got clubbed in the noggin with popular pagan culture resulting in national amnesia. After a period of time, God would send a judge or a prophet or a conquering army, and they’d get hit again and feel bad about how they had turned their backs on God. They would cry out to God for help and start the whole thing over again. We can find a good summary of this process in the 2nd chapter of the book of Judges. “After that generation died, another generation grew up who did not acknowledge the Lord or remember the mighty things he had done for Israel… They abandoned the Lord, the God of their ancestors, who had brought them out of Egypt. They went after other gods, worshiping the gods of the people around them. And they angered the Lord. They abandoned the Lord to serve Baal and the images of Ashtoreth. This made the Lord burn with anger against Israel, so he handed them over to raiders who stole their possessions. He turned them over to their enemies all around, and they were no longer able to resist them… Then the Lord raised up judges to rescue the Israelites from their attackers… Whenever the Lord raised up a judge over Israel, he was with that judge and rescued the people from their enemies throughout the judge’s lifetime. For the Lord took pity on his people, who were burdened by oppression and suffering. But when the judge died, the people returned to their corrupt ways, behaving worse than those who had lived before them. They went after other gods, serving and worshiping them. And they refused to give up their evil practices and stubborn ways.” I wish I could say that this forgetful behavior went out of style with the end of the Old Testament, but it’s just as prevalent as ever. Tell me if this sounds familiar: We’re just tootling around and everything’s going pretty well for us, so we start forgetting who spins the planets and convince ourselves of our own divinity. We have a bout of spiritual amnesia. Then something bad happens—tragedy strikes—and we cry out for deliverance. We realize that we’re not God after all and that we really need Him. The word remember is used 231 times in the Bible, and for good reason. We need reminding. And I, for one, would rather the gentle remonstration from the Scriptures instead of a painful conk on the head.

I love to read. In fact, falling headlong into a fascinating page-turner is one of my favorite things to do—summertime or wintertime, rainy days or sunny days, anytime. But it wasn’t always like that for me. When I was growing up, I longed to be an avid reader. When my older sister would pick her 4 or 5 books from the library to get her through a week of summer vacation, I would do the same, but I just couldn’t stay connected to the plot long enough to finish a book. I knew the first few chapters of several young adult fiction titles and that was it. Not knowing how the plotline moved forward or how the characters resolved their conflict didn’t seem to bother me much. Now it would probably keep me up at night. (Full confession: I may have fibbed on several occasions about completing the required number of books to get my free single-topping personal pan pizza from Pizza Hut through the Book It program. I don’t think they intended for me to just start 100 books. Phew! I feel better getting that off my chest!) The exception to my tendency to leave most books started but unfinished came in the form of the school summer reading list. All through my years at school, we had to pick books from the paper our teachers sent home at the end of the year. I saw this as an assignment and not pleasure reading, so I pushed myself to finish. I can vividly remember stretching out on the swing on our back porch as I read Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None from the 8th grade summer reading list. I was raised on PBS Masterpiece Theater, so I already loved a good mystery, which is why I was frantically swinging back and forth and getting so nauseous from motion sickness and probably a little over-heated, but I just couldn’t stop reading. I was totally engrossed in the story and desperate to find out who the killer was. When my family finally called me in for supper, I stood up and immediately ran to the bathroom where I stayed for a few hours until I could successfully keep down some Saltine crackers before going to bed. It wasn’t until I was out of school that I really found my love of books. Like it so often happens with people who have a stubborn streak, I realized I actually liked reading when no one was standing over me and telling me I had to do it. Right after the birth of my twin daughters, I found that I had so many hours in a day when I was stationary, stuck in our TV-free bedroom with nothing to do but feed my tiny babies. This was the moment when reading became my favorite. I worked my way through all of The Lord of the Rings books and every Jane Austen novel. I read Jan Karon books borrowed from my mother-in-law and any historical fiction novels I could get from the library. I stayed completely entertained. This is the magical power of books for those fortunate enough to find it. When an author makes us care or cry, laugh or loathe, wonder or wish for more, we can come away changed, transported to a new place with new (possibly fictional) best friends. That’s why one of the best compliments for an author is “I just never wanted this book to end.”

After a couple of months of harvesting grain along with the servants of Boaz, Naomi gets to thinking about her dear daughter-in-law Ruth. Things may be going well now, but Naomi knows only too well what sudden tragedy looks like—especially for a widowed foreigner, so she advises Ruth what to do next. Reading the 3rd chapter of Ruth looks really bizarre to our modern eyes. Naomi tells Ruth: “Tonight Boaz will be winnowing barley on the threshing floor. Wash, put on perfume, and get dressed in your best clothes. Then go down to the threshing floor, but don’t let him know you are there until he has finished eating and drinking. When he lies down, note the place where he is lying. Then go and uncover his feet and lie down. He will tell you what to do.” Even Bible scholars are confused by this ancient practice. Did she uncover his feet to wake him up? Did she lie at his feet to show her humility and submission as his future wife? We don’t know, but Boaz’ response is very favorable for Ruth. Ruth does just what her mother-in-law tells her to do. And when he wakes up, she tells Boaz that he’s their family’s kinsman redeemer and asks that he cover her with the corner of his blanket. Again, we don’t know what this is about, but it’s a beautiful metaphor for protection and rest. Earlier in the story in chapter 2, Boaz had told Ruth that in his barley fields she had found safety like in the protection of God’s mighty wings. And this corner of Boaz’ blanket is similar to the comforting shelter of a mama bird’s wing for her vulnerable babies. So what is a kinsman redeemer anyway? Thousands of years ago, women didn’t have the rights and privileges we American women have now. Laws were written to protect them from starving to death or being defenseless against the designs of evil men. One of these laws said that if a man died without any heirs, someone should step up and marry his widow. Then together they could have children and keep the family name going. This may not sound very romantic to us, but it was a matter of survival. So since Ruth had been left childless when her husband died, and Boaz was a part of that side of the family, he was in a position to help. Boaz was ready and willing to step up and do his duty, but he knew of a closer relative who needed to be asked first. That unnamed kinsman redeemer declined, and Ruth and Boaz got married. Then we get our happy ending at the end of chapter 4: So Boaz married Ruth, and when he slept with her, the Lord gave her a son. And the women of the city said to Naomi, “Bless the Lord who has given you this little grandson; may he be famous in Israel. May he restore your youth and take care of you in your old age; for he is the son of your daughter-in-law who loves you so much, and who has been kinder to you than seven sons!” Naomi took care of the baby…And they named him Obed. He was the father of Jesse and grandfather of King David. We see a thread of redemption running throughout this story. Over and over, God delivers the women in the Book of Ruth, because this is what God does. He produces something magnificent with what we see as a complete mess, he “bestows on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes.” And, when we read to the very end of this story and see the genealogy of Boaz and Ruth which leads to David and ultimately to Christ, we see our redeeming Heavenly Father who took a widowed woman from Moab and made her the great-grandmother of a king. We see that in so many ways, all the characters are on the road to Bethlehem: Ruth and Naomi, King David’s hometown…then Mary and Joseph are sent there for the census and that’s where Jesus is born. Don’t let the world tell you these things happen by accident! This was God’s marvelous plan to redeem the world!

“They don’t know that it isn’t real.” This was the reply from Rodrigo, the man who took our family snorkeling on his little boat, the ship’s name painted in blue letters on the side: Flaquita. I had asked him about the artificial reefs we’d seen on the ocean floor, dome-like concrete structures covered with round holes where the fish blissfully swam in and out of. We had seen a few natural reefs down there, too, but these concrete versions were all over the place, and I was curious about them. I figured Rodrigo might be able to answer my questions. Short and round and wearing a tank top and shorts, he would slide off the boat and into the water gracefully in spite of those awkward flippers. Then he would dive down deep, his back nearly resting on the sandy ocean floor so that he could take pictures of us as we mostly hovered at the surface with our snorkel staying above the water, each breath coming out forcefully and noisily. Considering the amazing length he could hold his breath, I began to wonder if he was actually part fish. At the end of our underwater adventure, the six of us sat across a makeshift table constructed from a foam boogie board and ate the ceviche prepared by Rodrigo’s friend, the man who drove the boat and therefore was just referred to as Capitán. We drank sugary Mexican sodas and used homemade tortilla chips to scoop up chunks of the tender pieces of Mahi-Mahi cured in lime juice and tossed with cucumbers, red onions, and tomatoes. As we ate, I asked Rodrigo about the artificial reefs. “Do the fish like them right away, do you think? Or do they see them as something that doesn’t belong down there?” “They don’t know that it isn’t real,” he answered. Maybe he thought my question was silly. They’re only fish, after all. One fish identical to the next one, their only goal to survive another day and avoid being a tasty lunch. But we humans at least claim that we crave authenticity. We scorn the pretenders, expose the counterfeit, mock the phonies. I’d like to think that if I were one of those striped beauties swimming in the clear water, I’d see those artificial reefs and know they weren’t the real thing. I’d recognize that they were out of place and go looking for the natural ones not made from concrete. Oh, no. They wouldn’t fool me! With all that’s troubling around us, I think we’re all looking for shelter from something trusted and real. Real relationships. Real information. Something and somebody we can count on and understand when the craziness swimming past us in a blur seems unrecognizable and often pretty scary. The sand is shifting beneath our feet, so we crave something sturdy, something real. At that moment, it’s time to be reminded of our Great God. There’s nothing artificial about Him. “God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea, though its waters roar and foam and the mountains quake with their surging….The Lord Almighty is with us.” (Psalm 46)

When our girls were little, one of their favorite games to play was hide-and-seek. They would tell me or my husband Brent to hide our eyes and count to 30, then they would scurry off to hide, giggling and tripping over each other. Nearly every time, the girls would hide in the same spot over and over again—behind the sofa, in their bedroom closet, under a blanket on the floor of the bonus room. Though we knew just where they were hidden, Brent or I would play along. We’d say in a loud, exaggerated voice, “Where could Ella be?” or “I can’t find Lucy anywhere!” After a few minutes, we’d find them. “A-ha! There you are!” we’d shout, triumphantly. When we would switch places, with mom and dad doing the hiding and the girls doing the seeking, they would count to 30, then start their search. I can remember many times when we’d be hiding in our spots, waiting to be found. Then we’d hear a little voice squeak out a plaintive cry, “Mommy…Daddy…” Even though we had only been concealed from sight for less than five minutes, they would begin to get nervous. We’d know they were really about to go berserk and notify the authorities when they’d call out, “Mommy, say yoo-hoo!” They’d want us to reveal our complex hiding locations—under the kitchen table or behind a door—with the comforting call of two, simple syllables. They needed to hear our voices and follow the sound to discover where we were. So we would call out yoo-hoo. Then they would scurry to us, relief and victory displayed on their sweet, little faces. As we enter a new year, I see so many of us searching for something which seems completely hidden. Often our search is futile and aimless, so we desperately want to hear a voice directing us where to look. It’s like the prayer of the afflicted person in Psalm 102: “Lord, hear my prayer! Listen to my plea! Don’t turn away from me in my time of distress. Bend down to listen, and answer me quickly when I call to you.” As we begin 2022, let’s all tune our ears for the yoo-hoos of Scripture and the Author of words like: “Seek and you will find…” and “But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.” There are also you-hoos which tell us we’re neither alone not forgotten, whether we’re deliberately hiding in a seemingly inaccessible spot of our own choosing or one where we find ourselves by surprise. Either way, we are being pursued by a loving Father who is revealing His location multiple times every day, if only we are willing to listen and seek Him out.

Twenty years ago I had the shock of my life. After a year of unsuccessful attempts to have a baby, I had finally seen the coveted two lines on a pregnancy test. A few weeks after the positive test, I started having issues which made me think I was losing the baby. I made an appointment, and my husband and I went to see the doctor. As I lay on the examining table and the tech rubbed the gooey gel on my stomach to prepare me for the ultrasound, I felt so sure we were having a miscarriage. I held up my shirt and stared at the dark ceiling. Not daring to peek at what was on the monitor—not that I could’ve even deciphered all those streaks of light and gray-white blobs anyway—I just let the tears slide into my ears and concentrated on breathing. Brent held my hand while the woman moved the wand around my abdomen. Suddenly I heard Brent gasp. He had spotted something on the monitor. “Am I seeing…” he began to ask before his voice trailed off in bewilderment. “I’m not supposed to tell you anything,” the tech revealed in an almost whisper, “but there are two of them.” My mind was whirring with what complications they had seen in the ultrasound. Did my baby have two heads? The tears were coming in torrents now. Then Brent breathed the word: twins. It had never occurred to me in all my fantasies about becoming a mother—and let me say, I am a world-class daydreamer—that I would have twins. They didn’t “run in my family” (most everyone’s first question) and I hadn’t used fertility drugs. Twins just weren’t on my radar. It was such a gob-smack of a surprise. After our appointment was finished, Brent and I went to eat lunch. We decided on the drive to a Mexican restaurant that we would wait until I was farther along to tell anyone our news. Yes…absolutely. We should wait. Then I went in the restroom to wash my hands before we ate, and I noticed a woman also washing her hands at the sink next to me. She was a complete stranger, but I turned to her and said, “I’m pregnant with twins.” I’m sure I had the kookiest grin on my face at that moment. She nodded and backed out of the room as if I had just escaped from the looney bin. I confessed my transgression to Brent as soon as I returned to our table. I told him I just had to get it out of my system, and now I would be good. I kept my promise, and we told family and friends the big news over Thanksgiving. The following May, I gave birth to twin daughters. A lot of that day seems like a dream now. Our twin daughters, who I consider to be sisters who just happened to have the same birthday, continue to surprise and delight me with every passing year. It’s been two decades since I knew they were sharing the same little room inside me, but their existence still strikes me as just as wonderfully miraculous as it did so many Octobers ago.

I enjoy being outside in the summer, especially in the morning before the sun sends down the full force of its intensity. One of my favorite tasks is watering the potted plants on our front porch. I like a variety of colors and textures in these pots—stalks of purple salvia, fuchsia trumpets of million bells, and petit bouquets of pink and yellow lantana. But one of the easiest flowers to care for and find at the store is petunias. They’re so simple and cheerful. And they come with an added bonus for people who like fussing with things, like peeling off labels and picking at stickers. I get to deadhead the petunia blooms nearly every day. It’s amazing what a difference it makes to pinch away these shriveled, brown blooms! In the space of just a few days, my petunias can go from looking like they’re ready for the compost pile to full and lush and beautiful. Even the most unassuming plants are more complex than they may seem. Little Petunia is constantly trying to keep itself alive by passing water and nutrients throughout its maze of roots and stems. When I take away those dead blooms, Petunia can concentrate on its healthier parts. It can conserve energy. It can send out new blooms. I see a similar reward when I deadhead bitterness from my life. I can wake up early, before the heat of another busy day has worn me out, and choose to do what Ephesians 4 instructs: “Get rid of all bitterness, rage and anger, brawling and slander, along with every form of malice. Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.” This may look like cutting back on social media or being open to the Spirit’s nudges to serve in a particular way or limiting my exposure to people who radiate bitterness like the sun on a hot afternoon in July. Then I can put my energy into doing some more of what I read in Ephesians: “…put off your old self…put on the new self, created to be like God in true righteousness and holiness.” I can receive the reward of fresh, new blooms. Oh boy! I can feel the contented sigh rising up through me already! Why does it too often take so long to cast off that yucky burden and exchange it for something so much better? When I’m done deadheading my petunias, I look down at the handful of sticky, brown flowers. I wad them up into a smooshed ball and throw them out into the yard. They’re gone, on their way to transforming into the dirt where my grass is growing. There’s no reason to hold on to them, not with better than bitter alternatives waiting for me. See ya later, old self!