Every six months or so, depending on what’s going on in my life, I have a Knock-Down. If you’re not familiar with the concept, it’s kind of like a melt-down. Though it may involve a grown-up version of a temper tantrum, it mostly looks like me trying to carry too many things—burdens that are both my own and others’—and I finally get knocked down to the floor, pinned under the figurative weight. In this particular case, the “floor” was the backseat of my car which was not running but parked in the garage with all the lights off. I just needed a few minutes. The problem with me is that I forget that I can’t do everything. I take on the troubles and tribulations of my kids and friends and whatever other hot mess is brewing around me, forgetting that I’m not equipped to fix it all. When I fail to repair what’s broken, I beat myself up. I tell myself, “You are not enough,” and that’s actually true. My issue is that I don’t like that reality—the reality of being inadequate. When I had my most recent Knock-Down, I received a word there on the floor of that dark backseat. It was the same thing the Apostle Paul heard from the Lord when he asked God three times to take away his “thorn in the flesh,” some sickness or temptation or persecution which plagued him. God told Paul, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” When those words cropped up in my mind, I was frustrated and bereft, so I questioned them. “Sufficient?” I asked God. “What kind of word is that? That sounds like it’s barely enough…just adequate. Where’s the abundance?” Then I heard the word that scared me—enough. Maybe it was God saying, “That’s enough of your whining, young lady.” Or maybe He was saying “Daughter, you can never do enough. You can never be perfect enough for your kids or be perfect enough as a Christ-follower. You are not enough, which is why I sent my Son. This is about My grace, not your competency.” It’s a popular notion to say “I’m enough,” but what about when you’re feeling 100 miles shy of the mark. When I say that I’m enough, then it’s all about me. It implies that I can almost make it there on my own. So all I have to do is just admit the slight discrepancy in reaching my goal this time and learn how to fake my aptitude the other 364 days of the year. But the problem with this plan is that I’ll forget how much I need Him. At least I’ll forget until I’m forced to remember. Until the walls of my own self-reliance come crashing down around me, broken bricks and debris hitting my arms as I shield my face and run out of the wreckage. And I’ll wonder where I’ve gone wrong. How did someone so efficient and capable allow these cracks to develop? That’s when I realize that it’s way past time to run up the white flag. I surrender. It’s time to say that I don’t just need God to plug up the holes in the dam I’ve built. I need Him to part the waters. I don’t just need God to clean the smudges on my glasses. I need Him to heal me of my blindness. I don’t just need God to cut up my meat into bite-sized pieces and butter my bread for me. I need Him to make manna rain from the sky. I’m not enough. It’s true. “Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.” (2 Corinthians 12:9-10) Or as the old hymn says it: “I need Thee every hour, Most gracious Lord; No tender voice like Thine can peace afford. I need Thee, oh, I need Thee; Every hour I need Thee. Oh, bless me now, My Savior! I come to Thee.”

Wilderness at the Smokies Facebook page My family and I visited an indoor water park for spring break this year. It turned out to be a momentous experience for us. We conquered fears—Lucy: hydrotachophobia (fear of water at an amusement park…I just made that up) and Me: leukodermatophobia (fear of wearing a bathing suit in the middle of March in front of hundreds of strangers…also made up). We rode enough water slides to give us wedgies for a year. We ate at our kids’ favorite kind of restaurant—the all-you-can-eat buffet. Brent and I hit a parenting milestone in that we felt comfortable having our kids look out for each other at a public place where there’s a risk of drowning. (I should say that there are TONS of lifeguards.) Another thing that made it an important trip was because I made a realization about myself and about God. It’s so tempting to look at the wide variety of people who come to places like amusement parks and question their choices. Whether it’s parenting techniques or bathing suit designs, you sometimes have to scratch your head and wonder. (Side note: I am never comfortable wearing a bathing suit, and I wear the belly-covering and skirted mom-suit, a.k.a. the Tankini. If you take a step back and think about it—maybe from the perspective of the family we saw that dressed their daughters in the modesty swimwear worn by TLC’s Duggar family or the Muslim women who rode the tide in the wave pool in their heavy, black hijabs—we’re really standing in lines, carrying cumbersome inner tubes, and plunging down dark, slippery tunnels in our underwear.) It’s also hard to miss the tattoos. I started feeling like I’m the only person age 18-45 without one. I saw a dad with his daughter’s baby footprint, name, weight, length and birth date tattooed across his back. There was a guy with the Chanel logo on his elbow. (ouch) We saw a twenty-something guy with the word LEPRECHAUN inked across his chest in tight, bold letters. In fact, it seems like font style is a big deal for the tattooee. One man had a really pretty script on his arm that said: “For all your advice I am forever grateful. I will never be able to repay you.” I’m not joking. That would be a little wordy on a greeting card, buddy, so how about written with a NEEDLE ON YOUR SKIN?! In some cases, I wouldn’t be surprised if people look to bumper stickers for inspiration at the tattoo parlor. I found myself searching for “Honk if you like ice cream” in a fancy Old English font. It’s just a matter of time. I have to confess when I see these people I want to judge. I want to shake my head, tsk, tsk-ing their clothes and behavior and general demeanor. I hate this compulsion I have. What a jerk! Because…light bulb…Jesus died for each and every one of them. It’s so Sunday school basic but it’s something I have to remind myself of everyday. No matter if they live in a mansion or a trailer, have straight white teeth or a mouth full of gold caps, wear a Miller Time t-shirt or shop at Talbots—they’re wanted and loved and important to Christ. If I can learn to love my fellow man—tattoos, obnoxious behavior and all—standing in a line in my (gulp) underwear at a water park, I step a little closer into the light of my Savior. Maybe I conquered another fear last week: Jerkanthropophobia. (Fear of being a jerk to people) Well, I suppose I may not have conquered it yet but admitting I have a problem is the first step.

I am known by my family and most friends for being a “cry baby.” I tear up during baptisms, weddings, funerals, and half of the sermons I hear. I cry when someone comes forward during the invitation song even if he/she is a total stranger. (It sounds like I can’t make it through a Sunday without completely losing it.) I cry in movies—even bad ones—and commercials where soldiers come home from fighting overseas. In most any case, if I see someone tearing up, I just can’t hold back from joining in. The thing that really gets me even more than something sad is human kindness. At Kroger this week, I saw a college-age guy go out of his way to get an empty cart from an elderly lady so she wouldn’t have to roll it back to the cart corral. Sniff, sniff. Inside, I saw a middle-aged female shopper complimenting a mentally challenged teen who is bused to the store to practice real world skills like stocking shelves. The shy teen smiled up at her with so much pride. My eyes brimmed over at this small, unexpected gift. At times, it’s embarrassing to have this disorder. I think it’s genetic. My mom is the exact same way. Surely we have over-productive tear ducts or something. There have been times when I’ve watched a movie with friends and I’ve destroyed the tiny theater napkins by wiping my nose and eyes just to see my friends looking back at me through dry eyes. “Are you made of stone?!” I want to scream. They just answer back, “Yeah, it was sad but you know…” In other words: “We’re in public, so stop with the snotty tears, would ya?” I want to know their secret. How do they keep from crying when actors (in movies) or even real people (at church or over lunch) reveal their innermost sins and fears and struggles? How can you see that kind of suffering and not be utterly devastated by the inhumanities we have to deal with everyday? I’m not assuming that they don’t feel that anguish too. I would never equate the liquid volume of tears with sincerity and compassion. I just honestly want to know how they keep their emotions from pouring out of their faces. I don’t think I was designed with an “off” switch to keep it in check. I was happy to see Bubba Watson, the newest champion of the PGA, unable to keep it together. In every interview since his win last weekend, he has broken down on camera. That’s got to be worse than just crying in front of your friends. I read one interview that quoted a sports psychologist who said Bubba’s tears may actually help him. She said that holding in these strong emotions could have “a negative impact on his game.” Well, I don’t know much about golf but I’m an expert in crying. (I did beat Brent at putt-putt that one time…there maybe something to it after all!)

I have never been considered graceful. Growing up, I didn't create dance routines in front of a full-length mirror to a Debbie Gibson song. (I was more of a look-thoughtfully-out-the-car-window-as-I-sing-like-Cyndi-Lauper-in-the-“Time After Time”-video kind of girl.) My hands and feet are disproportionately large for my frame and I am not the exception that proves the rule about white people and their lack of rhythm. So it should come as no surprise that I am clumsy, but yesterday was especially bad. I found myself in a constant hurry and for me that equals bruises. I did one of those quick neck twists to check on something in the backseat of the van that resulted in a sore neck for the rest of the day. (You know you’re getting old when backing out of the garage is hazardous to your health.) Later, I ran into the house to change out of a sweaty t-shirt before a parent/teacher conference. I was trying to navigate through the doorway of our bathroom with my shirt halfway off and my sight wholly obstructed. I was trapped inside my shirt like a bad Houdini escape attempt when I slammed my elbow on the doorframe. I couldn’t straighten out my arm for hours. It was swollen like Fred Flinstone hit it with a Stone Age hammer. It’s still sore today. Why are some people so graceful and others have the physical presence of Quasimodo? Can gracefulness be taught? Think of Scarlett O’Hara gliding down the red velvet steps of her grand foyer when Rhett has finally decided to leave her. It’s like she’s riding a really fast escalator. Now imagine me doing that. I’d have tripped on my dressing gown and landed in a crumpled heap at Rhett’s feet faster than he could say, “Frankly, I don’t give a…” I do have one fleeting period of gracefulness that I will cling to until I am tripping fellow old people with my walker at the nursing home: When I was in high school, a boy once wrote a song about me. It was completely based on his fictional analysis of me but it said (in sweet poetic language) that my movements were lovely and I walked as if no one was watching. (It also said I had honey-colored hair.) Maybe gracefulness is in the eye of the beholder. If it can’t be taught at least clumsiness can be overlooked.

With the following post I may lose a couple of friends or at the very least disappoint some, but blogs are supposed to be controversial, right? Right. So… I don’t believe in Santa Claus. It’s true. I don’t believe in his chimney forays or his over-indulgent cookie-eating or his magic reindeer. Now you know more about me then you’d ever want to. Like finding out that I’m a chain smoker. I am the bad guy in every Christmas special. I’m the one that needs to find “Christmas in my heart.” I’m the one who makes saving Christmas a necessity. (In my opinion, anything that needs saving that frequently is pretty lame to begin with. Is Christmas just too big too fail?) In your mind, I am now one of the following fictional characters: Professor Hinkle from Frosty the Snowman: (So selfish…He only believed in the magic that could benefit him. Kind of how I feel about couponing. It’s stupid unless I remember to do it and get a really good deal on cereal.) I’m more than happy to record these shows for my kids and even watch them myself, but I can’t get into the “Santa’s bringing presents to good little girls and boys…” I can’t think of many creepier things than having this in my house: There’s also the subterfuge required to keep the Santa ruse going. You’re constantly checking everything you say about Christmas gifting. And if they ask a question that you can’t answer (like: “But we don’t have a chimney?”) you have to practice some creative lying. How exhausting! We tell kids all the time that Christmas isn’t about presents. We tell them it’s about spending time with your loved ones and general good will toward men. But what’s the first comment out of everyone’s mouth when they’ve seen my kids since Christmas Day? “Did Santa visit you? What did you get? Were you naughty or nice this year?” Kids are smart but mixed messages abound. “Please” is not really a magic word, green vegetables won’t actually put hair on your chest, and they won’t actually receive an appropriate amount of toys compared to the preceeding year’s behavior. They’ll get an amount equivalent to their siblings’–no more, no less. I’m not proposing a Christmas Coup d’état. I think the big guy has a lot of value. I’m just saying that if I choose to skip over some of the Santa stuff like putting out cookies but you pay a fat actor in a red suit to “ho, ho, ho” your child awake on Christmas morning, we can still be friends. I mean, we don’t look down on the Dutch just because they put out wooden shoes instead of stockings, right? Look, this is the one time every year that you can walk into a store and hear a song straight from the gospel blaring over the PA system. It’s the time when people are looking for ways to give to the less fortunate. It’s the time when you hug every friend and speak kindnesses to every stranger. I want to revel in that. I don’t want to water down the birth of the greatest man to ever walk this earth with a story about a fictional character. There’s just no comparison. I love traditions. I love Christmas. I promise to try to find Christmas in my heart and keep it there even after I take down the tree. #Christmas

After reading an article about shyness recently, I came to an astounding revelation: I’m an introvert! I know that some people would doubt this claim, but allow me to prove my point… 1. I frequently have to force myself to answer the phone even if the person calling is someone I like talking to. Once answered, I will have to: a) stop what I’m doing, b) pay attention, c) say something relevant, d) eventually end the conversation in a natural way, not just with “Well…bye…” I also don’t like making phone calls. I’ve needed to call my dermatologist’s office for over a week now to ask about a prescription for something other than the $700 cream he prescribed that my insurance won’t cover. Apparently, I’d rather have acne than talk to a receptionist for three minutes. 2. I get nervous talking to 98% of people I encounter daily. I start sweating profusely and talk too much. I say fifty words when two would be sufficient. When I went in for my annual GYN exam Monday I found myself asking my doctor questions just to fill the silence. (I don’t really want to know how an IUD works) And take it from me, when your doctor asks: “Is intercourse painful?” she doesn’t want anecdotal data to support your claim that everything’s working like clock-work in that area. She’s willing to take your word for it. 3. I’m exhausted by big groups. I prefer to spend most of my time alone or with a small group of people. When I came home from volunteering at school today I did a Mr. Rogers. I took off my jacket and shoes and put on a cardigan and slippers. I reveled in the solitude of my house. I was thrilled with the opportunity to iron Brent’s shirts and mend Knox’s jeans. I am officially the Most Boring Person in Murfreesboro. One of the bright spots to the article was that many people are “ambiverts”–they can switch between introvert and extrovert. I guess that’s me. I can use which ever “vert” best suits the circumstance. Which led me to wonder if I was “ambi” in other ways. I know I’m not ambidextrous. Maybe I’m ambi-dessertous: I can both create and eat desserts with equal expertise. I’m not ambi-cleanbedous: I will faithfully wash all the bed sheets in the house every Saturday but just don’t look under the bed. I guess it just goes to show you that you can’t put anyone in a box. Our intricately crafted personalities defy simplified labels and I like this about us. In an un-introverted way, I enjoy that surprise!

Saturday, I drove to a Hyatt in Brentwood to pitch my novel to a new publishing house. (I guess I should explain that I wrote a book a few years ago and I have had zero success getting anyone to publish it. I would actually settle for getting a literary professional to read it at this point.) I sat across a small table from three lovely ladies. I had my book proposal in hand and only my wits to keep me from shaking apart into tiny bite-sized pieces. Here’s the unnerving part: I had to “sell” my story. “Who would want to read it? Why? What’s the marketing plan? (I totally gave up on that one.) What experience have you had?” I’d forgotten what it’s like to sit through an interview, seeing as how I have been unemployed for ten years. I’m unaccustomed to lauding my accomplishments and talents. Sure, I fantasize that the produce manager at Kroger will approach me after he’s seen how carefully I select my cantaloupes and compliment my expertise. But praise for stay-at-home moms is few and far between. If we get a “good supper, mom” we’re ecstatic! I propose that we should begin an evaluation system similar to when I was teaching. Three or four times a year, I can sit down with Brent and the kids and they can tell me how I’m doing. Maybe they can fill out a sheet with specifics and numbers one to five. (I came across an old evaluation form from when I was teaching recently. I got fives–the highest number–on everything but grooming. What?! That must have been when I started casting off my apple-themed jumpers.) Now that I think of it, I may be better off the way it is. Do I really want to know if Ella finds the scent of my fabric softener choice too strong? Will Lucy give me a poor grade for “frequency of vacuuming”? What would Knox say about my treat-to-vegetable ratio? Never mind the evaluation. I take it back. If my family isn’t going to toot for me, I’ll have to just learn to do my own tooting. Hmm...poor word choice but you get the idea.

I broke the bracelet my husband gave me for Christmas. It survived about 35 days before the slender gold chain got hung on the corner of a filing cabinet and snapped. Once I realized what had happened, I crumpled onto the floor and cried. I told myself, “This is why we can’t have nice things, Abby.” I tried to see if I could fix it, but the links are too small for me to open, hook together, and bend back. It was just too broken. I slipped the ruined bracelet with the initials of our four kids into my purse. Even though I felt defeated, I couldn’t just toss it. So a few days later, when I spied the thin line of jewelry in the zipper pocket of my bag, I thought about a song that’s been playing on the radio a lot lately. It’s called “Never,” and it’s by Tasha Layton. The chorus goes like this: Never forgotten Never forsaken Never abandoned Not for a second I am safe in Your hands Always and forever You’re never not working My heart is the proof There’s not a broken too broken for You Will there ever come a day when You’re not holding me together? You say “never” I thought about that line—There’s not a broken too broken for You—and what that means for those of us who follow Christ. Colossians 1 says it better than I ever could: “The Son is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn over all creation. For in him all things were created: things in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or powers or rulers or authorities; all things have been created through him and for him. He is before all things, and in him all things hold together.” When I break something other than jewelry—whether it’s a promise to a friend or a rule I’ve ignored or a perfect moment I’ve ruined with selfishness—whenever I’ve been on the destructive end of throwing mud on God’s goodness, I’m at a loss. It’s like I’m tasked with repairing the Colosseum, armed only with a half-roll of duct tape. I fool myself into thinking I can fix whatever I’ve broken, but I’ve come to see that I can’t do it alone. Once I shed that undeserved job title of Solitary Queen of the Universe, I can relax in the arms of a Creator who can repair creation where we’ve broken it. Even when we’re unreliable, He’s constant. We can trust Him, because there’s never been a time—past, present, or future—that He hasn’t already visited. And He’s holding all things together. Or as a different song likes to say, “He’s got the whole world in His hands.”

I’m trying to decide how to properly cherish my husband for Valentine’s Day. It seems like the holiday is more geared to shower gifts on women than men. Brent could give me a number of things: jewelry, flowers, candy. What to give to him? I could cook a nice meal but how’s that much different than what I (attempt) to do most every night of the week? Picking out a Valentine’s greeting card is as much fun as going to the dentist, especially if I have my kids with me. “Why’s that man only wearing tiny undies and why’s he so greasy and why does the card come with paper one dollar bills?” are not a questions I want to answer when they check out a birthday card for a woman celebrating her fortieth. Brent and I are both painfully practical most of the time. You’re never going to see a picture of us hugging in front of a Lexus trimmed with a giant bow posted on facebook. We don’t live extravagantly so we don’t gift extravagantly either–at least not to each other. It may be a popular notion that women are focused on diamonds and roses and we’ll pout if we don’t get them but that stereotype isn’t very flattering. Brent will recognize Valentine’s Day with something special because he’s thoughtful of my feelings and his mission is to build me up, but it’s not necessarily going to be a balloon ride or a trip to Venice. The thing about Brent is he spends the other 364 days of the year bestowing small gifts on me. When we’re watching TV at night, he’ll ask if I need something to drink and get it for me. On Monday nights, he helps me sort the dirty clothes and on Tuesdays, he helps fold them. He always leaves me with the understanding that he is here to serve and care for me. That’s better than a million diamond tennis bracelets. When he listens to my tediously detailed stories about that day’s grocery shopping or my frustrations with the most recent episode of a Sister vs. Sister Cage Match, he’s giving me the most amazing gift of all–his attention. It reminds me of the 90’s movie Singles. Bridget Fonda’s character is just looking for a boyfriend who says "Gesundheit" when she sneezes. (Although she prefers “bless you.” It’s nicer.) She realizes that good looks, lots of money, and charm is nice but it’s the little consistencies and considerations that make a difference. So here’s my gift to Brent: Gesundheit, Baby and Happy Valentine’s Day!

When our twin daughters were born, we were living in a different city, away from family. Even with the generous and loving community we had developed, there were still times when I felt lonely and a bit like a pioneer on the frontier of some wild and savage land. My husband’s work schedule kept him busy as he paid the bills for all those diapers, which meant that most of the time I was solely in charge of those tiny lives who depended upon me for everything. In the first few weeks, we had help from our visiting moms. First, my mom stayed for a week, then my mother-in-law. By the third week of that very hot June, my husband’s grandmother came to stay with us. One of her granddaughters drove her to our house and came back to retrieve her at the end of the week. Memaw, that’s what we called this precious soul, brought with her a 13x9 metal pan filled to the brim with chocolate cake slathered with a layer of chocolate frosting. It’s called “Coca-Cola Cake,” and I’ve included the recipe, because the world would be a happier place if everyone ate a piece of this moist cake with its thick frosting and mini-marshmallows dissolved into the batter. I’m not saying sharing slices of the cake would ensure world peace, but it’s worth a try. My husband and I ate all of Memaw’s cake the week that she visited us, so she went out and bought more ingredients to make another one to leave for us when she went back home. I told her we could bake the cake in a different pan, but she insisted on leaving the pan with us, saying that she had plenty more. I still have the pan with its matching lid. Both are warped from age and use, but I can’t part with the set. When I look at that pan, I think of a grandmother’s love. I think of how Memaw was so concerned with our daughters’ tiny toes, that they were cold without socks and a heavy blanket. (Believe me…No one was complaining of being cold. Summers in Memphis can be sweltering.) I also think of how we make do with tough situations. The origin of the Coca-Cola cake is disputed, but it’s mostly assumed that women used carbonated beverages in their recipes due to sugar rationing during the war, or maybe it was because sugary soda makes the cake light and airy without adding a lot of leavening. Either way, who doesn’t love a creative way to make desserts taste better? The sweet sequel to our family’s connection to this cake came in May, when I made several dozen cupcakes using Memaw’s recipe for the wedding reception of one of our daughters, the owner of ten of those tiny toes she had been so worried over all those years ago. That’s the beauty of family recipes, passed down to future generations. They don’t just nourish stomachs and delight taste buds. They also tell stories. Photo by Rachael Shannon Photography COCA-COLA CAKE 2 cups sugar 2 cups flour ¾ cup butter 3 Tablespoons unsweetened cocoa 1 cup Coke 1 teaspoon baking soda ½ cup buttermilk 2 eggs, beaten 1 teaspoon vanilla 1 ½ cups mini-marshmallows Sift sugar and flour together. Boil butter, cocoa, and Coke. Let cool slightly, then pour over flour/sugar mixture. Dissolve baking soda in buttermilk and add to bowl. Add eggs, vanilla, and marshmallows. Pour into greased 13x9 pan. Bake at 350 for 40 minutes. Icing: ½ cup butter 3 Tablespoons unsweetened cocoa 6 Tablespoons Coke 3-4 cups powdered sugar 1 teaspoon vanilla Bring butter, cocoa, and Coke to boil. Add vanilla and 3 cups powdered sugar and mix with mixer. Add more powdered sugar until the icing stiffens just until it’s less runny. Pour over cake in pan while icing is still warm. Photo by Rachael Shannon Photography

With the cold weather in full swing, now is the perfect time for me to spend my evenings crocheting. There’s not much that makes me happier in the wintertime than rolling yarn into balls and then turning those fluffy orbs into something usable. I don’t do a lot of fancy projects, mostly just throws and scarves, but sitting on my spot on the sofa with a glowing lamp on one side and my husband on the other while I crochet lines of chains and stitches is my idea of fun. There’s something so satisfying about creating a crocheted product. I’ve never built a brick wall (unless you count Legos), but I wonder if it’s a similar experience. In crocheting, you have to start by making a chain. This looks like a braided piece of yarn, but it’s actually the foundation for what comes next. Once the chain is complete, you turn the braid and make another row, building into what’s below. You keep building and turning and checking that you’re still making the desired shape. (My first few attempts always looked like a trapezoid with the sides unintentionally increasing or decreasing.) You learn to discern the criss-crossing of yarn—the tiny diagonal, horizontal, and vertical lines—to locate the exact opening where your crochet hook should go to make each stitch. It becomes automatic, and before you know it, your hands have made a rectangle or a square (hopefully not a trapezoid). Recently, my husband and I have enjoyed watching the National Geographic TV show First Alaskans while I crochet in the evenings. The show follows several families in different areas of Alaska as they use time-tested techniques and customs to survive in challenging conditions. Other than the extreme temperatures and the hardiness and resourcefulness of the people, the most remarkable part of the show for me is to see how they take care of each other. In one episode, a family with young sons go out to hunt a walrus so they can provide for the older members of their village, people who physically are no longer able to track, shoot, and butcher these giant animals. Without their help, these “elders” would go hungry. I watched how the people on the show chopped wood for older relatives and shared their catch of fish. They didn’t just fill up their own freezers. They considered the needs of others, as it says in Romans 15:2 “Each of us should please our neighbors for their good, to build them up.” And as I watched the show and crocheted my rectangle, I thought about how we are called to take care of each other, even if we don’t live in Alaska. Jesus had plenty to say about loving our neighbors. When He was prompted by a request from a man in the middle of an inheritance squabble with his brother, Jesus reminded the crowd, “Beware! Guard against every kind of greed. Life is not measured by how much you own.” Then Jesus told the people a story about a man who looked at the abundance of his crops. Instead of seeing the surfeit of grain and thinking of all the people he could bless with it, the man decided to build bigger barns to keep it all for himself. Jesus concluded the story by saying, “A person is a fool to store up earthly wealth but not have a rich relationship with God.” We have the opportunity to build something—bigger barns to stand as monuments to our own importance and self-reliance or better communities. But healthy communities don’t happen overnight. They are built, selfless deed by selfless deed and kind word by kind word. This kind of construction will stand the test of time, effecting generations to come.

My New Year’s resolution this year was to drink more water. This is one of those goals that is laughably obvious and somehow difficult at the same time. If our great-grandparents saw the list of resolutions I found on the internet, they would think that humans of the future are bananas. Aside from the popular “drink more water,” I found that some of the other top goals for 2024 are exercise more, improve sleep, and cook meals at home. Upon hearing those, Great Grandma and Great Grandpa would’ve said, “Stop your whining, you whipper-snappers!” (I don’t actually know if they would speak that way, but stay with me.) “How ‘bout you plow the fields all day and see if that’ll fix what ails you!” But back to drinking more water…now that I’ve been meeting my goal of drinking 64-ounces of water a day for a couple weeks, I can safely say that I feel better. My mid-afternoon headaches are mostly gone. I think it also helps with those mid-afternoon snack cravings. It turns out I was more thirsty than hungry. The thing that has helped me the most with my resolution has been my water bottle. On one side of the green, plastic jug, there are lines and numbers with 32 at the top. If I fill it up and drink two of these, I’m done! It’s measurable, which makes meeting my goal a lot easier. I know if I’ve accomplished my water-drinking for the day, and I also know if I haven’t. Maybe it’s part of my personality, but I like quantifiable targets. I like boxes to check and lists to cross off. And being a ruler-follower (another part of my personality), I like to know if I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing. If you look at Jesus’ ministry, you see Him giving His followers goals and standards. Sure, there were times when He taught with stories and riddles, but by the end of His time on earth, Jesus made it plain for His disciples. “My children, I will be with you only a little longer…” Jesus says in John 13. “A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.” Jesus offers both the goal and the test to judge if the goal is met. He tells us to be His disciples. Then he says to love each other with feet-washing, little-child-receiving, wholeness-restoring, cross-dying love. The measurement to know if we are Christ-followers isn’t how insightful our arguments are or how many degrees we have hanging on the wall. It’s how we treat each other. In Mark 9:41, Jesus gives us the baseline action for showing that we belong to Him. “Truly I tell you, anyone who gives you a cup of water in my name because you belong to the Messiah will certainly not lose their reward.” So now when I’m chugging my 64-ounces of water, I can remember His words. I can be reminded that showing up and showing love all begins with something as simple as meeting a need of another person.