Before a recent soccer game, I overheard a conversation between two of my 6-year old son’s teammates. “Where have you been?” a little boy asked his tardy teammate as she walked up to the group. “The game is starting.” “I was eating some hard candy so I would be ready,” she answered. Though I had a difficult time connecting the hard candy to any pregame regimen, her response was apparently satisfying for her friends so the game began. I feel like the two words I say most frequently around my house (other than GOOD NIGHT and LOVE YOU and GREAT JOB, of course…I’m not a monster) are GET READY. There may be some nuances to the phrase like: “Why aren’t you ready?” and “Not until you’re all the way ready.” and “Is that enough time for you to get ready?” So what am I getting them ready for, anyway? As in any job, it’s helpful to take a moment and evaluate how I’m doing as a parent, and this end-of-the-schoolyear time seems like a perfect opportunity. As a part of my self-assessment, I’ll ask the question: Are they ready for what’s next? My twin daughters just finished their freshman year in high school (which is weird because I pretty much just graduated from high school myself, right?). When I see what’s just around the corner—dating, college, jobs—I’m excited for them but also anxious to walk through it with them and tell them every step of the way where to set their feet next. I want to hold their hands like I did that first day of kindergarten, a daughter on either side, Barbie backpacks and monogrammed lunchboxes and new back-to-school clothes. But I know that’s not reasonable or healthy or appropriate (or allowed by high school administrators). I know that at some point I have to let go and hope that they are prepared to make the right choices to be safe and sound. And I have to be okay with the fact that I can’t protect them from everything. (Yuck.) I pray that they are ready. My nearly 7th grade son is teetering at the edge of his teen years. He’s been marching uphill to this next chapter where there’s more freedom and more responsibility. Less hovering by me and more expected of him. I worry about what he’s exposed to and who he spends time with. I pray that the values we have underlined over and over in our family play book will stand out to him when the time is right. I pray that he is ready. My youngest, our baby from Congo, will go to kindergarten in August. He hasn’t been away from one of us, someone who lives in his house, for more than a few hours at a time, and I wonder if he’s ready to fly the coop. Is he ready to go to school 5 days a week for 10 months? He still struggles with his English—his color words, letters, numbers. We’re trying to remind him how to ask for what he needs. He’s holding on to a handful of words from his birth language: bango means them, mingi means lots, biso means us. We tell him to pick another word. We tell him this will help others understand him. I pray that he is ready. As parents we make so many deposits in our kid’s integrity account, hoping it will add up to an exceptional character with strong convictions and valuable common sense. But, regardless, we eventually have to let go. We have to adapt to the idea that there’s never enough time for preparation. So after I’ve prayed that they are ready, my next prayer is for myself. I pray that I am ready to change my 2 most frequently used words from GET READY to GO TIME. #parenthood #time

The following is a recent conversation with my 6-year old son, a newcomer to the English language: Ezra (from the backseat): Mom, konk konk. Me: Um… Ezra (a little louder): Konk! Konk! Me: Okay. (feeling defensive) Ezra: No. You talk “what?” Me: What? Ezra: Hamburger. Me: Hamburger. Ezra: Hamburger stinky on a bus. Ha, ha, ha. Now, you turn. Me: Oh! (just beginning to figure out what he’s talking about) Knock, knock. Ezra: What? Me: No. You say “who’s there?” Ezra: Who there? Me: Boo. Ezra: Boo what? Me: No. You say “boo who?” Ezra: Boo who? Me: Boo hoo? Hey, why are you crying? Ezra: Me not crying. Me not laughing either. Boo Who not funny. Stinky Hamburger is funny. I’ve never been all that great at remembering jokes. Usually, if someone puts me on the spot and asks me to tell a joke, I draw a blank. And anyway, who really laughs that hard at a knock-knock joke or a posing of the eternal question about the chicken who crossed the road? To me funniest material is anecdotal. True (and probably exaggerated) stories about people in familiar but absurd situations. Anecdotes just close enough to my own reality to be applicable delivered by a true storyteller are comedy gold. I don’t mean to give the idea that my brand of humor is overly highbrow and intellectual. Years ago, my husband, sister, brother-in-law and I laughed like lunatics for half an hour just by blowing into our hands to make tooting noises in their living room. It was a magical recipe of exhaustion, late night, funny sounds, and adults acting like kids. We’ve never attempted to recreate the situation again. A keyword search of “laugh” in the Bible reveals a mostly not-so-funny picture. Several references are from Abraham and Sarah’s exchange about the improbability of them becoming parents at such an old age. Then there are the “We’ll become laughingstocks” references in the Old Testament made by the Israelites questioning their obedience to God in all things. Surprisingly, the overall depressing book of Job has a sizable share of laugh verses along with Ecclesiastes’ “a time to weep and a time to laugh.” All in all, it doesn’t reveal that God has a particular fondness for laughing. In other words, we may not have Open Mic Nights in Heaven for rising comedians. In spite of the lack of comedic evidence in the Bible, just knowing that we’re made in His image makes me believe that God loves a good chuckle. (Plus He makes us go through puberty. Surely He cracked up when He first invented that one.) There’s nothing quite like a hearty, tear-producing laugh. One that makes you have to cross your legs so you don’t wet your pants. One that lasts longer due to your company of fellow laughers. One that makes your abs hurt like you’ve been doing 100 sit-ups. One that makes you sigh satisfactorily when you’re finished, wiping your eyes and rubbing your sore cheeks. We may not find humor in all the same things, but I feel pretty confident in saying that all of us love a good laugh. My favorite stand up comedian taking a bow. #funny #joy #laugh

I’m not sure if I have a superpower, but I’m pretty certain among my superflaws—like Kryptonite to Superman—would be my abysmal lack of direction skills. I think the politically correct term is directionally-challenged. Many a time has a friend given me directions containing the words: north, south, east, or west and received my signature blank stare and perfunctory nod. What do I look like, a compass? I want to say in response. Do I have to go and look at a tree now to find which side is growing moss so I’ll know which way is north? Give me information I can use, for Heaven’s sake! Left? Right? Drive towards the water tower? Anything!! Please tell me this has happened to you before: You use the restroom in a restaurant. After you’ve finished and you’re doing that awkward dance to open the door with a paper towel then wedging your foot in the door while throwing away the paper towel in the trashcan, you then step out the door and walk towards the restaurant kitchen, the opposite direction from your table in the dining area. Or how about this one: When we spend the night away from home, I can never remember which side of the bed is mine and which is my husband Brent’s. I have to pretend I’m back in our bedroom, closing my eyes and attempting to orient myself to the unfamiliar bed that is in a different position. Sad but true. The parietal lobe of the brain, the part that handles spatial reasoning, just seems to take a nap when it’s time for me to drive somewhere out of my daily routine. My husband, a whiz when it comes to directions—Thank the Lord!—thinks of the world around him like a map connected by a variety of routes. He’s all about shortcuts and “Let’s see what’s down this street,” and other nonsense that never crosses my mind. Conversely, I think of the world as a series of snapshots: Point A (my house), Point B (my church). There are numerous ways to get from Point A to Point B but I don’t think about those imaginary dotted lines highlighting possible routes. I start up the engine and drive the same way every time. Don’t confuse me with variety! I so wish my parietal lobe was better at revealing the spatial connections around me but connections go beyond driving skills and not getting lost in restaurants. If we can see the world as a connected space, history as a continual wave of time, and each person as a twig on the giant tree of humanity, we could more quickly make relationships and establish networks. Associations reveal context which creates empathy and discourages isolation and exclusion. If given the chance and a willingness to put in the work necessary to find common ground, we can find a Point A (me) to every Point B (each person on God’s green earth). #community

In the second chapter of the Book of Ruth, we see the two widows, Naomi and her daughter-in-law Ruth, after they’ve traveled from Moab to Bethlehem. Ruth is anxious to find ways to help out, so she asked Naomi if she could go out into the barley and wheat fields to pick up what was left behind by the harvesters. Long before Ruth and Naomi were born, the Lord had put provisions in the law to take care of people just like them. God had charged the Israelites to be messy harvesters, instructing them to drop plenty of good stuff so that the poor and the widows could gather the left-overs, removing the stigma of begging for food and replacing it with the opportunity to work. (God always seems to be reminding us to be generous.) Without realizing who the field belonged to (although God, our generous and gracious Father, knew all along), Ruth went to the field that was owned by a man named Boaz. He was a good man and a relative of Naomi’s dead husband. So Ruth walked along, stooping down to grab the stalks just like the other women who worked for Boaz. She nervously watched their movements and stayed near them, trying to blend in. Well, Boaz came out to the fields to check the progress of his harvesters and noticed a woman he’d never seen before. He asked one of his servants who the woman was. You can imagine the servant leaning toward his boss to deliver the information in a gossipy whisper reserved for sharing a tidbit of tasty, yet tragic news: “Surely you’ve heard of Ruth. She’s that woman from Moab whose husband died. Tsk…tsk…tsk. Isn’t that sad?” Boaz was moved by Ruth’s kindness to her mother-in-law. He spoke to her and said that Ruth should visit his fields exclusively so that she’d be protected. Boaz would also make sure that she’d have access to the water his servants drank whenever she got thirsty. In fact, he even invited her to take a break and sit down for lunch with him and his servants right then and there. Ruth couldn’t believe her ears. This was the first good thing that had happen to her in so long. Boaz, a man of honor and integrity had not only noticed her—a foreigner and a poor widow—but he was also planning to look out for her. Just when she was beginning to think that her luck would never turn around, here she was with a belly full of lunch and a whopping 26 quarts of barley to bring home to Naomi. For the first time in a long time, Ruth felt useful and noticed. And it all came from kindness—kindness from her mother-in-law Naomi and kindness from Boaz. From these acts of benevolence and generosity, she got fed, got work and got to rest. Never underestimate the power of kindness.

When my twin daughters were 3-years old, I walked in the dining room (though we called it the “yellow room” because, obviously, it was painted yellow and seeing as how there were no table or chairs, there was also no dining happening in there) and found them standing by the low, open windows taking turns punching through the mesh of the window screen. After I pulled their tiny fists out, my next move was to say, “Why are you doing that?!” Their response was: “You never told us not to.” That’s when I knew I was in trouble. How could I ever think ahead enough to give them the rules and guidelines for every situation before they come up? It was an impossible task. I had never dreamed that it would be necessary to sit my sweet cherubs down and say, “Listen up, girls. It’s a beautiful day so mommy wants to open the windows. This metal screen is here to keep the bugs out. No matter how fun it might seem, don’t start punching it. Got it? Great.” Now that I’ve been a mother a bit longer I see that specifics aren’t always required. My girls have been with me for nearly 15 years, so even though we don’t have rules for every scenario, they know my basic feelings and they can speculate what I might say or think or feel on the matter. Over time, they have discovered the essence of my parenting just as I have learned so much of their strengths and predilections. When all else fails, the whole idea of “When in doubt, don’t” comes to mind in these instances or at least “When in doubt, ask mom or dad.” Of course, that’s not to say they always do just as I would have them do. They aren’t robots. But I am fairly certain that they have a twinge of guilt when they do something that doesn’t line up with our family philosophies. At that moment, I want them to pay attention to that slight to painful spasm so it doesn’t become commonplace and calloused. This is how I feel about reading ancient texts from God’s Word. I wish God gave Moses “Ten Commandments for Your Teen and Her Cell Phone” along with the other Ten. I wish God had inspired Paul to write a postscript to his letter to the Ephesians stating exactly what to do when the only people running for political office are yahoos you wouldn’t hire as a babysitter. I wish we had specific rules for when these specific issues arise, but that would make the Bible so large and cumbersome to study that no one would be able to get through it all. Let’s face it, it’s hard enough to get through ONE book of Leviticus. In place of step-by-step instructions, I want to humbly learn the character of God. What does it mean that God is love while at the same time He is a consuming fire? He is unchanging yet we can come to Him looking for mercy. He is perfect and just and faithful. Even when I don’t know for sure what to do, I can look at God’s reputation and His preference for righteousness. I can listen to that soft voice of the Holy Spirit whispering to me of God’s direction for my life. I can hear it saying, “This is the way; walk in it.” #Godscharacter #learning #lifelessons

It would be an understatement to say that our 6-year old son Ezra loves soccer. His pet fish is named “Messi” after the Argentinian soccer star Lionel Messi. His favorite thing to wear is a soccer jersey. He thinks that the best possible scenario for fun is the combination of him, his brother, his father, and a soccer ball. Seeing that Ezra has only lived with us for just a little more than a year, we know that this love of soccer can’t be wholly attributed to our prompting. It started way before we met him. Though soccer ranks somewhere around 6th place in popularity in America, it’s #1 in the world. All you have to do is take an international trip to experience this. My husband and I saw this firsthand when we traveled to the Democratic Republic of the Congo, Ezra’s birth country. Ezra was 3-years old at the time. He was shy and uncertain of these American strangers (us) who were so foreign to him in speech, appearance, and pretty much every other way. Bouncing a small soccer ball, we persuaded him to come outside to a gravel parking area near our hotel room. Once outside, I videoed Ezra timidly playing a game of catch with Brent. Then, without warning, instead of just catching and tossing, Ezra stuck out his head to make contact with the ball and bounce it back to Brent. For the next 4:37 minutes of video footage, Ezra expertly headed the ball as Brent happily realized that this was a soccer-loving, little boy. Fast forward to present time. Ezra is on a soccer team with 5 other kids. Chanting like a cloistered monk, he prays the night before a game or practice: “Please no rain. Please no rain. Please no rain.” He cheers for his team’s victories—large or small—and empathizes with the opposing team’s defeat (which is tricky because it’s always anyone’s guess who actually wins these free-for-alls). This past Saturday his enthusiasm may have exceeded his sportsmanship. When he stole the ball from an opponent and dribbled it down the field in an uncontested breakaway, he mockingly waved to the players as he passed them, saying: “Goodbye everyone.” Then he took a shot and hit the post. Pride goeth before a fall. Speaking as a completely unbiased observer, Ezra is the best 6-year old soccer player in the universe. As I watch him play now, I think about the countless hours he and his Congolese friends played soccer in the dry dirt of the lots surrounding his orphanage. This was a game meant to engage a variety of ages and sizes. They only needed a soccer ball—or something homemade resembling a ball—and rocks or sticks to designate the goals. They didn’t wear fancy cleats or shin guards or uniforms. They were barefoot in hand-me-downs and the best thing they wore was the smiles on their faces. Who’s to say if Ezra will continue to play soccer or if this is just a passing fancy? Time will tell if his love for this game will diminish and he will make room for other sports and activities in its place. What I can tell you is that his experiences playing soccer as a small child has made him the player he is today—fast, skilled, fearless. It has shaped and equipped him. When I’m in an especially introspective mood and I think of my past, I can see how I was being prepared for my present situation. Relationships, jobs, events, heartbreaks all work together to give me a piece of what I might need now, just like Ezra’s early Congolese soccer experiences combine to create the soccer enthusiast I see each time he runs out onto the field. #Congo #identity #soccer #talents

Soon after my husband Brent and I were married, my in-laws treated us to a trip to California. We toured the coast and visited all kinds of amazing, glamorous places. One of my favorite memories was a tour of Hearst Castle in San Simeon. It’s a beautiful palace built over several years during the first half of the 20th century by a wealthy newspaperman named William Randolph Hearst. Every inch of the “castle” was dripping with over-the-top grandeur. Driving up to the estate, we were even greeted by zebras grazing in the fields nearby. There were turrets and ornate vaulted ceilings and a dining room table fit for a king and his 20 best friends. It was almost too much for us broke newlyweds to take in. The four of us were joined by a host of other tourists as we followed a tour guide in and out of many rooms (though not all—there are 56 bedrooms) and through various parts of the grounds. When we came to the Roman Pool (an indoor swimming pool), I was left speechless. Millions of tiny blue, orange, and gold tiles covered nearly every surface. The water from the pool reflected the blue tiles in an infinite echo of serenity and brilliance. To drive home the ancient Rome theme, there were statues of Roman gods and goddesses placed along the edge of the pool. It was stunning. Not everyone in our group shared my opinion. A fellow tourist, a man in cargo shorts and a white, sleeveless t-shirt, held his camcorder aloft his shoulder, narrating his videography. “Indoor swimming pool,” he droned, sarcastically. “Whoop-de-doo.” He was unimpressed. Brent and I thought this was enormously funny. During Hearst’s lifetime, this guy probably wouldn’t have been allowed to clean the pool, let alone take a guided tour through it, and yet there he was, belittling the beauty and splendor of this place. I told my 11-year old son that story just the other day and it got me thinking: How often do I devalue the miraculous and the splendid with no other excuse than my own self-centered ignorance? When was the last time I really appreciated a sunset? They happen every day but how often do I stop and take note of them? Especially those cloudy evenings when the streaks and smudges made by the clouds are lit up by the sun’s dying rays and magnified in brilliant pinks and purples and oranges. How long has it been since I held a tiny baby? Wrinkled fingers and toes. Paper-thin eyelids. Infant yawns and sleepy grins. Like all of us, this child began from something microscopic. What’s more miraculous than that? Lord, let my “whoop-de-doo” moments be sincere and frequent. Thank you for all of the changing seasons but especially springtime with its feats of beauty around every corner. Help me to stop and enjoy your everyday magnificent displays! #appreciation

Going on a cruise for Spring Break sounded like such a good idea. Just think of all the places you can go and all the things you can see! Everyone tells you about the all-day access to food and the fun excursions and the swimming pool on the ship but no one tells you about the post-cruise misery. I’m not talking about the piles of laundry or the unavoidability of going back-to-work/school. Nor am I discussing the fact that now that we’re home, no one is coming in my room while I’m at supper to turn down my bed and leave cute animals made from hand towels and washcloths. No, my problem is something else. Days after the cruise has ended, my brain still thinks I’m on a boat. Though on dry land, the floor still slopes and slants. I have to reach out and lean against the wall to steady myself when I walk down the hallway at home. My head feels heavy and my feet shuffle slowly. My own mixed-up body betrays me. I’ve been told that I’m waiting for the motion sickness medicine I used throughout the trip to wear off. Ironically, the medicine that kept me from feeling nauseated on the boat is now making me feel nauseated on land. Go figure. This seasickness has got me thinking about what’s underneath me, where I find my footing, and what gives me the most stability. I think of Jesus’ parable about the wise man who built his house upon a firm foundation. Jesus tells this story at the end of his famous 3-chapter long sermon in Matthew. He tells the people how to be blessed in Matthew 5. Then He continues with practical rules about how to treat others and how to live a holy, fulfilling life in Matthew 6. By the end of Matthew 7, I wonder if the minds of the people were swimming in all these instructions. It’s hard to remember that this may have been brand new, unprecedented information for Jesus’ audience. So in His wisdom, Jesus gives the people an object lesson. He tells them that all of these practices He has given them can be like the foundation of a house. When (not if) the bad times come, the house will stand because the foundation is solid. On the contrary, hearing what Jesus teaches but not authentically living them out loud leaves them with shifting sand beneath them. Somewhere in our mixed-up brains, we say that freedom in Christ is the permission to live any old way we want. The teachings that made our salvation possible look irrelevant or old-fashioned. But Jesus offers a practical guide to home-building. He says, “Give to the needy. Don’t worry. Love your enemies. Store up your treasures in heaven.” Make these the bedrock for your life so that the storms won’t topple you. #foundation #teaching #understanding

It was April 2, 2016 when Ezra, our Congolese-born son, first stepped foot on American soil. Ezra, my husband Brent, and I were beyond tired but when that final plane landed on that final runway after so many hours (or was it days?) in the air, I had enough energy to push the plane to the terminal, if necessary. Although we had waited so long for him to join our family, Ezra had lived in our hearts for years and in my imagination even before he was born. One year just doesn’t seem long enough. In spite of this supposed emotional discrepancy, we will mark the anniversary because it’s been quite a year! It’s been a year of togetherness. Vacations together and watching TV together and going on walks together and riding in the car together and sitting on a church pew together and just generally being together. It’s been a year of sharing. One year of sharing big steps and little victories. Sharing meals and sharing stories and sharing bathrooms with sisters who often remind a little brother about toilet etiquette. One year of taking turns and learning what it means to have five other people whose opinions also figure into the equation. It’s been a year of choices. Choosing books to read, choosing DVDs to watch, choosing clothes to wear, choosing which breakfast cereal to eat. Who knew there could be so many choices? It’s been a year of searching. Searching for the right words to say to make them understand. Searching for the meaning behind his behavior. Searching for a little more patience, a little more forgiveness, a little more grace. It’s been a year of promises. One year for him to go from saying “Promise?” in a threatening way with a slashing mark across his throat to saying “Promise?” in a gentle, questioning voice while pointing to his heart. It’s been a year of tears. One hundred tears shed in frustration. Why is this so hard? One hundred tears shed in laughter. How are you this funny? One hundred tears shed in anger. If only you had come home sooner. One hundred tears shed in gratitude. But you are home. #adoption #anniversary #family

When my daughter was around 4-years old, I got her a pair of light-up shoes. They were brown leather Mary-Janes with Velcro straps and pink stitching. Hidden lights embedded in the rubbed soles would flash each time her foot made contact with the floor. She loved them but, over time, I noticed that she never wore them. One day, I asked her, “Why aren’t you wearing your new shoes?” as I pointed to the shoes on the floor of her closet. “I don’t want to run down the battery,” she answered. I told her, “Oh, honey, I don’t think you have to worry about that.” But my words didn’t seem to make a difference. She still wouldn’t put them on. I was too busy running after her twin sister and baby brother to remind her to wear them so the inevitable happened—she outgrew the shoes. I’m fairly certain that Jesus never had to teach about the perils of buying light-up shoes for slightly OCD 4-year olds, but he did preach this: “And why worry about your clothing? Look at the lilies of the field and how they grow. They don’t work or make their clothing, yet Solomon in all his glory was not dressed as beautifully as they are. And if God cares so wonderfully for wildflowers that are here today and thrown into the fire tomorrow, he will certainly care for you.” (NLT) Though I’m trying to do better, I confess that I am a frequent worrier. You could probably even call me a Worrier Warrior. When Jesus goes on to say: “So don’t worry about these things, saying, ‘What will we eat? What will we drink? What will we wear?’” I am convicted of my weakness in this area but I’m also a bit defensive. I want to ask Jesus, “If I don’t worry about it, then who will?” When my husband and I divide up the duties for our family, it falls to me to be sure we have food to eat and clean clothes to wear. It’s my job to take care of this, right? To back up my defense, I scan my memory for an instance when Jesus seemed worried or stressed-out. Others around Him might have lost their cool, but He seemed to stay focused on His mission and on the present moment. When He was in the garden just hours before His arrest and eventual crucifixion, Jesus had plenty of reasons to be stressed out. Instead, He took His concerns to His Father. He asked if it was possible to prevent the imminent suffering and death but was willing to follow His Father’s Master Plan, regardless. Then came the betrayer and the crowds and the soldiers. Jesus calmly followed. So here’s my new plan: Take it to the Garden. Lay it out. Pray it out. Ask, seek, knock. Then calmly follow God’s Will. I won’t always follow my own advice—in fact I know I’ll frequently forget the plan—but I’ll attempt to have faith that all of the pieces will fall into place. I’ll try to heed Jesus’ advice: “Don’t worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring its own worries. Today’s trouble is enough for today.” Because it’s possible that all of that worrying will make me miss out on something fantastic, like the coolest light-up shoes ever. #faith #prayer #worry

When I was growing up, my mom’s answer to a good 50% of our questions was: “Look it up!” Of course, this was long before we could ask our phones questions, like “Hey, Siri, what’s the best way to fix kale?” or “Hey, Siri, is Willie Nelson still alive?” or “Hey, Siri, what’s an electric pressure cooker?” We had to struggle and work for answers. We had to open actual books and thumb through actual pages to figure out the capitol of Luxembourg. It seems like a lifetime since I cracked open an encyclopedia and only 5 minutes since I looked at Wikipedia. (How else was I going to find out what mincemeat was?) Back in the day, next to our set of World Book Encyclopedias sat our 15+ volumes of Childcraft books, illustrated reference books published in the early 1970’s that taught my sisters and me everything—from planets to poems, from pumas to Purim. We poured over each one, fascinated by the pictures and the text. One of the many facts I learned from the Childcraft books was how to clean coins. For some reason, this was a fascinating task for us. We would gather the pennies from all over the house and pile them on the kitchen table. Then we would mix a solution of vinegar and salt together in a bowl and drop the pennies in, one by one. We would watch expectantly as they were scrubbed clean. Impatiently, we would pull them out too soon to inspect their progress, and, seeing that they still held on to the dullness of age and abundant use, we would drop them back in. There were times when we forgot all about them and left them to soak for hours. When we finally remembered, we were rewarded with shiny copper coins, gleaming at the bottom of the bowl. We would fish them out and lay them on paper towels to dry. Our fingers would hold the sharp smell of vinegar and metal for the rest of the day. Like that acidic solution we used to clean pennies, there are times when my heart requires some pretty abrasive scrubbing. I think of King David as he wrote Psalm 51. He had committed adultery and murder and he had been found out. He was weighed down by his grave mistakes. Purify me from my sins, and I will be clean; wash me, and I will be whiter than snow. Oh, give me back my joy again; you have broken me—now let me rejoice. Don’t keep looking at my sins. Remove the stain of my guilt. Create in me a clean heart, O God. Renew a loyal spirit within me. Why is it that we often have to be taken so low before we see the need for a good scrubbing? How many times do I have to die to myself before I can fully realize the blessings available to the unselfish? But that is what the Lord desires for us—to forgive us and to instruct us and to cleanse us. I’m so thankful for His never-ending supply of grace. #grace

I get such satisfaction from a full tank of gas. At the gas pump, I see the numbers whizzing higher, each click tells me that I’ve added another gallon of driving my kids around town. After replacing the gasoline nozzle, I start up the engine and watch the needle slide to the FULL position. One less thing to think about. One less thing on my to-do list. I feel a similar satisfaction after a bulk-buying trip to Sam’s Club. I stock up on paper products—cumbersome packages of toilet paper, paper towels, and tissues—that I cram into our hall closet. I buy enormous containers of laundry detergent and fabric softener and other household items we use every day. It feels good knowing they are there and they are full. When I disconnect my cell phone from the charger in the morning after it’s charged all night, I notice that tiny battery icon in the corner. I like seeing that it’s all black and accompanied by a miniature 100%. There’s just something comforting about knowing that the things we need are in abundant supply. It’s a relief. There was a woman in the Bible who must’ve known that kind of relief or at least a desire for it. We call her the Samaritan Woman because we don’t know her name, only where she lived. She was going to the well to draw water and she met Jesus. He asked her for a drink and they started talking. They spoke about wells and husbands and where’s the best mountain for worship. Some scholars say that the woman was there at noon instead of early in the morning because she was shunned by all the other women of the town. This woman had a bad reputation. She had been married 5 times and now lived with another man who wasn’t her husband. I suppose she was worn down by the time she met Jesus. Life hadn’t turned out like she had hoped. Love hadn’t lasted. Memories were painful. Her future didn’t look much better. But still she had to draw water. She needed it to drink and cook and clean. She needed it to survive. So she grabbed a robe and wrapped a scarf around her head and went out into the midday heat. When she questioned Jesus’ boldness in speaking to a woman alone in public, He tells her that she’s asking the wrong question. Instead she should be asking Him for Living Water. Like I often do, the woman was only thinking about the immediate, physical needs. She asked Jesus how He’d get the water without a bucket and where this living water came from and why did He think His water would be better than this well—the one Jacob gave them? So many questions but still not the right ones. Then Jesus said, “Anyone who drinks this water will soon become thirsty again. But those who drink the water I give will never be thirsty again. It becomes a fresh, bubbling spring within them, giving them eternal life.” (NLT) Her mind must have been spinning. An endless supply? Water for eternity? Never to thirst again? Sign me up! She pleaded for Jesus to give her this water. Then Jesus told her that He knows—knows about her past and her present. He knew all about all of it and yet He still told her the big secret that was meant to be told to everyone. Jesus was the One, the Messiah.  He had come to be the never-ending, overflowing source of Life. In spite of my prayer life or Bible study methods or my own righteousness, I can look at the gauge indicating how much He’s willing to pour into me and see the needle pointing to FULL. I will eventually run out of laundry detergent and toilet paper, but there will always be an infinite stockpile of His love for me. #unconditionallove #water #worth