I’m not much of a daredevil. I’ll ride a few roller coasters in the summer and maybe glide on a sled once a year if we get enough snow, but other than trying a new recipe from time to time with ingredients I have to google, I’m not big on taking risks. So imagine my profound reluctance when I found myself teetering on the edge of a drop-off where I was supposed to move through a ropes course of varying levels. Along with the rest of my family and much like the Armor of God, I was fitted with a helmet on my head and a harness on my chest and Velcro-strapped shoes on my feet. Our preparation for this derring-do consisted of a brief informational video and instructions on how to attach the specialized clips to the cables throughout the course. During our practice session, we stayed on the ground, so that was easy-peasy. I kept telling myself, “I got this. No big deal!” as I fastened and unfastened and refastened the clips along the line. Then we got to that first step… If I had taken the time to really read the pamphlet for the adventure park, I would have seen the following description under a picture of a smiling, helmet-clad girl: Look up! Your best friend is at the top of an obstacle course in the air with different levels. Reach the last one at 118 ft high! But, alas, I didn’t do much research before strapping in. Back to that first step—nothing to hold on to, just one wooden square tied with white ropes to another wooden square and over and over until you made it to the next platform. My brain told me that I might slip, but I wouldn’t fall since I was tethered to a thick overhead cable. But all my other organs—heart, lungs, eyes, and bladder (gulp)—told a different story. I turned to look at my daughters standing behind me, waiting for me to go so they could go next. Then I looked at the park employee and said, Nope. The twenty-something staff girl replied with a Why? Then she proceeded to quickly leap across the wooden squares with the grace of a gazelle. After she returned to my side, she encouraged me to try it. I glanced at my daughters again and read the doubt written on their faces. Doubt that any of us should do something so reckless. Then I grabbed my harness with both hands, took a deep breath, and stepped out into the air. Spoiler alert: I am not writing this from my hospital bed where I lay helpless in a full body cast using the one finger that didn’t have a broken bone to painstakingly type this out, one letter at a time. We made it all the way through the course without more than a blister or two. As we worked through the course, I began to realize that my fears lessened a little more each time I completed another section. By the end of the hour or so it took us to finish, I would even say it was fun. Looking back on that high-up adventure, I wonder at the notion of facing fears and attempting difficult quests. I would never say “Try everything.” Common sense and cautionary tales charge us to be smart. Besides, you don’t have to eat fire to know it’s hot. But there is something about getting accustomed to and even comfortable with what initially scares us. It’s like spreading fresh mulch. When I start, I try to use the shovel and the rake to move the strong-smelling clumps where they need to go without getting myself too dirty. But, after a while, I’m covered in the stuff—it’s inside my shoes and on my knees and all over my arms. You get past those early feelings of disgust and just get to work. For me it was more than just facing my fears of falling from such a height. It was also about those dear daughters standing behind me, watching me as I showed them what could be done. I realized at that moment that I’ve been doing that very thing in one way or another for the more than 20 years since I first became a mother. I haven’t always succeeded but I’ve tried to look at the sometimes frightened faces of all four of my beloved children and say, “Okay. This is scary, but I’ll be right there with you. Watch me and then let’s do this together.” My movements aren’t often as graceful as a gazelle, but they’re packed with honesty and a hope that my kids will eventually do it better than me.

When my husband was in kindergarten, his class took a field trip to The Cross-Eyed Cricket, a catfish farm 20 or so minutes from his school. From what he can remember, the outing mostly consisted of the kids dangling a bamboo pole over a pond stocked with fish which would automatically jump out of the water to bite the chunk of chicken liver on the fishhook. It only took a few seconds to catch one. Much to the delight of all the parents, the dead fish were put in plastic bags and sent home with the kids so that they could either be a) cooked for dinner or b) thrown away in an outside trashcan. (By the way, had I been a mom of one of these students, I would’ve chosen B. The 1970’s were a strange time.) I don’t know who to feel most sorry for in this story: the 5-year old who thinks this what fishing is or the catfish who never knows the joy of swimming in a real, not-so-crowded pond or the teachers who had to pass out bags of dead fish at the end of a long day of teaching. However you look at it, something just seems off about this field trip. My profound sympathy for those oblivious catfish may be due to my own lack of understanding. At times, am I actually living in the human equivalent of the ponds at The Cross-Eyed Cricket? Am I swimming around thinking that everyone must have the same opportunities, dreams, and challenges that I do? Sometimes we call it First World Problems: The WiFi stops working, and we want to call it a catastrophe. My Amazon delivery is late, and I am outraged. It’s not just a matter of being grateful, although that’s always a good place to start. I mean, Jesus told a story about a man who considered himself godly when he prayed prayers of thankfulness that he wasn’t like other men, and Christ said he wasn’t in good standing with God. So being thankful isn’t the end-all solution. It’s also about being aware, then letting that awareness make me uncomfortable. And hopefully, I’ll get uncomfortable enough to act. Because, after all, comfort is over-rated. Those catfish were probably pretty fat and happy right up until the moment after they bit into that chunk of chicken liver. If they had been created with human intellect, they may have questioned the brevity of their short lives. With their last breaths, as they flopped aimlessly, waiting for death, the thought may have crossed their teeny tiny brains: Is this it? In 2023, expand your understanding about those around you. Get uncomfortable. Ask questions. And when the awareness of pain hurts you, invite Jesus into the conversation. I can’t say for sure what He’ll say, but it may be similar to what He told His friends when He bent down to wash their feet. “You do not realize now what I am doing, but later you will understand.”

Scottish-born author Robert Louis Stevenson was no stranger to being stuck at home. Although he was an acclaimed travel writer and author of some of the 19th century’s most exciting works of fiction—Kidnapped,Treasure Island, and Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde—almost all of his 44 years were spent suffering through sickness. Just like his mother and his grandfather, Stevenson continually nursed a weak chest and a persistent cough. He nearly died several times, barely surviving particularly cold winters or after making long voyages. In his poem “The Land of Counterpane,” it’s easy to imagine Stevenson as a weak, sickly boy as he writes: “When I was sick and lay a-bed/I had two pillows at my head/And all my toys beside me lay/To keep me happy all the day.” He had to learn how to find contentment and entertainment while confined to his bed. Though Stevenson was raised by devout Protestant parents, he later proclaimed as a young adult that he was an atheist, telling his father that he couldn’t continue to live a lie. In his final years, Stevenson retired to a Samoan island where he hoped the warmer climate would improve his health. During those last four years, his feelings about religion seemed to change. Stevenson wrote Prayers Written at Vailima, a collection of devotions meant to be read at various times of the day. One of these prayers is simply called, “For Success.” “Give us grace and strength to forbear and to persevere. Give us courage and gaiety, and the quiet mind. Spare to us our friends, soften to us our enemies. Bless us, if it may be, in all our innocent endeavors. If it may not, give us the strength to encounter that which is to come, that we may be brave in peril, constant in tribulation, temperate in wrath, and in all changes of fortune, and down to the gates of death, loyal and loving to one another.” In spite of how his late-19th century wording might fall on modern ears, something about this prayer especially resonates now. This man with all his unfortunate flaws and unique talents and the tragedy of his battles with sickness and seclusion, can speak to us in these extraordinary times. One word in particular stood out to me—forbearance. It’s not a word I use in regular conversation, but desperate times calls for descriptive vocabulary. I’m already in the practice of daily praying for patience, but now I pray for forbearance. It’s a word with more weight, like the thud of two feet being planted in place to prepare for the attack of an opponent. To forebear is to abstain, to bear up against, to control one’s feelings. There’s a sense of delaying, of waiting, and in the waiting, an endurance. I can imagine a young Robert, lying in bed with toy soldiers and books carelessly thrown around him on the sheets. He looks out the window and sees a world he misses. He wonders what lies beyond what he can see, both down the street and in his future years. A century and a half later, these are my thoughts, too.

The prophet Elijah sat next to a brook, watching the water level lower and waiting for his next meal delivery. Ever since he told King Ahab that there would be no rain and God sent him to the brook to await further instructions, Elijah had been fed by ravens each morning and evening with bread and meat hanging from their beaks. I can only imagine the waiting and wondering as he sat next to that shrinking brook. Left to the solitude of his camp, did he replay what he had said to ruthless King Ahab over and over in his mind? Did he continually pinch himself to wake up from the strangest dream he’d ever had? Once the brook was completely dry, God gave Elijah instructions to move on to the village of Zarephath. He was told to find a widow there who would feed him. He found her gathering sticks to light a fire and cook her last bit of flour and oil. She told Elijah her plans to make her final meal for herself and her son, and then they would die of hunger. But Elijah urged her to give him the last loaf of bread and trust that God would provide. No doubt he still had the taste of the raven-delivered bread on his own lips as he told the woman that she could trust God. Then he promised her that the oil and flour wouldn’t run out until the rains returned. Elijah went on to Mount Carmel and called for a showdown with the 450 priests of Baal. He built an altar and had them do the same. Then, in the presence of King Ahab, he told the priests that only the True God would be able to send down fire to light it. The priests of Baal cried and screamed and cut themselves, but nothing happened. Elijah, the lone Prophet of God, mocked them and called for everyone to gather around to see what a Real God could do. He asked for water to be poured on the altar, soaking the wood and flowing into the deep trench that had been dug around it. Then he prayed to God. He said, “Lord, please act so that these people will know what I know about You.” God sent fire, and it consumed the sacrificed bull, the wood, and the stones. It even licked up the water in the trench. The people turned on the priests of Baal and slaughtered them. When King Ahab reported to his wife, the cruel Queen Jezebel, what had happened, she sent a message to Elijah that she would kill him. Elijah was afraid and ran. Hopeless and miserable, he plopped down in the desert, ready to die. God sent an angel to feed him and sent him on to Mount Sinai, a 40-day journey. Once there, he found a cave and spent the night. Then God asked him, “What are you doing here?” Elijah explained that he had served the Lord faithfully, but he had nothing to show for it. The people still broke all of the covenants God had made with them. He was the only prophet left, and they were trying to kill him, too. Then God sent him to stand on the mountain. “And as Elijah stood there, the Lord passed by, and a mighty windstorm hit the mountain. It was such a terrible blast that the rocks were torn loose, but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake. And after the earthquake there was a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire there was the sound of a gentle whisper. When Elijah heard it, he wrapped his face in his cloak and went out and stood at the entrance of the cave.” (NLT) Then God asked him again, “What are you doing here, Elijah?” I can’t say why God asked Elijah this question two times in one chapter. I do know that when God asks a question he already knows the answer. Is it rhetorical? Is God saying, “You ran away because you were afraid for your life, but do you remember what I did on top of Mount Carmel? Do you remember the flour and oil that replenished itself from thin air and the angel that brought you food in the desert? And how about those ravens?” This is my time to remember when I’ve been fed by ravens. I need to focus on the times when God has provided for me. When Elijah had a belly-full of God’s provisions, he was able to stand up to 450 angry pagan priests. I may not get an answer like he did on that mountain—mighty fire sent to burn an altar—but I may get the response he got on a different mountain. Heaven knows I have the time to listen now, Lord, so open my ears to hear your gentle whisper.

I am a logophile, a lover of words. When I’m attempting to write something—fiction or non-fiction—I work diligently to dig up the most perfect word from the disorganized quarry that is my mind (especially lately). When I find that prized word, an amazing feeling washes over me. Instead of a runner’s high, I get a writer’s high. My heart pops and stutters. My breath catches in my chest. On average, the words I love the most aren’t necessarily long ones with complicated origins. Not often choosing lengthy words like perspicacious and parsimonious and preantepenultimate (which, by the way, means third from the end), my preferred words could be easily understood by kindergarteners. Though my favorite words are often only constructed of one or two syllables, they evoke feelings and clearly conjure up a scene for the reader. I love fanciful words that remind me of the magic of nature, like wind and whisper. I think of invisible, curly threads wafting up and down with a backdrop of a brilliant, blue sky. Ungraspable, no matter how many times you reach out, but you smile broadly as you chase after them. I love welcoming words that remind me of rocking my babies, like near and held. There’s a warmth to these words, an invited closeness, a safety. When my husband holds me with his strong arms and I bury my face in his chest, I can feel the tenseness in my shoulders relax and a giant sigh escape from deep inside me. I love lonely words that remind me of ripples in a still pond, like echo and shadow. These words have sound and shape, while holding a certain degree of melancholy. They conjure a vision of a lone hiker on a cliff, shouting his name into an empty canyon as he stares down into the darkness made from the imposing rock faces surrounding it. But the interpretations of these words are based on my own experiences. You could ask a hundred other people what connections these words make for them, and you’d get a hundred different replies. This is the power of words, and what makes them both life-giving and dangerous. It’s impossible to remove ourselves from our own experiences as we look out at the world, and yet it’s a task we must exercise daily. The word wind might mean a pleasant, gentle beachside breeze to me, but if you mention it to someone who’s lost everything in a tornado, that person would have a different reaction. The word shadow might remind me of walking my son to school as we discuss the lengths of our silhouettes, while someone else might interpret shadows to be the presence of overbearing figures in his life. The word held imparts happiness as I am often the giver and receiver of welcomed embraces, but the idea of being restrained evokes only pain for someone who’s freedom and safety is frequently restricted. This is why language is so important. We must find the words to build up and empower others, not destroy them so that we seem elevated. Whether it be a voice shouted in peaceful protest echoing off the boarded-up windows of a business or a whisper of encouragement to those near us, the words must be intentional and designed to edify. As author and Holocaust survivor Elie Wiesel once said, “When language fails, violence becomes a language.” So now it’s my turn to listen.

My older son was a horrible sleeper for his entire first year. He was remarkably pleasant when he was awake during the day, basically flirting with everyone we encountered as he smiled at strangers and happily amused himself with any toy or book I offered him. But something dramatic happened when it was bedtime. He would fall asleep, at first, but then he would wake up just after midnight, squalling and screaming, and the only thing that would calm him down was me. We tried to let him learn to soothe himself, but he just wouldn’t have it. Our 3-year old twin daughters slept in the room across the hall from him, so I was on high alert to get to him before he woke them up. After sprinting to the nursery, I would feed him or change his diaper or do whatever my sleep-deprived brain thought he needed at the time. Then we would rock and rock and rock. And I would wait for morning. As a mom living through a difficult parenting season, I would sit in my rocking chair in the wee hours of the morning and hope that things would get better, that he would eventually sleep through the night so I could, too. It was such a challenging time for us, but at least we had the advantage of experience. We had already endured the newborn phase with twins, so we were living proof of the Persian phrase: “this too shall pass.” It's similar to the sentiment reflected in Psalm 130. Here we see a song of hope. “I am counting on the Lord;yes, I am counting on him. I have put my hope in his word. I long for the Lord more than sentries long for the dawn, yes, more than sentries long for the dawn.” (NLT) We can almost see those soldiers standing on the high city wall, maybe holding a spear or a ram’s horn they could blow in case an enemy appeared. Perhaps a lit torch was flickering nearby, casting shadows across their exhausted faces. They scan the area assigned to them, squinting into the darkness, but every so often they cast their eyes toward the east, checking to see if any rays from the sun have begun creeping into view, signaling the end to the night shift. They long for relief and the safety that daytime will bring the city. At the start of the Psalm the author asks “Lord, if you kept a record of our sins, who, O Lord, could ever survive?” He acknowledges the despair we all encounter from time to time, but then he answers his own question. “But you offer forgiveness, that we might learn to fear you.” He knows this from Scripture, but most likely from his experiences, too. He knows that the sun will rise again, and the Lord will make it happen as He always has. Then the psalmist ends his song with advice for his listeners, “O Israel, hope in the Lord; for with the Lord there is unfailing love. His redemption overflows. He himself will redeem Israel from every kind of sin.” Hope is powerful.

Since the task of feeding our family of 6 falls to me, I spend a lot of time in grocery stores. For the most part, I’m a Kroger girl and always have been. Other than a few years when my mom tried shopping at Mega Market (the place in 100 Oaks Mall where you had to bag your own groceries), I was raised on Kroger—smiley face stickers and “let’s go krogering” jingle and all. I will sometimes venture into other stores if necessary, but I like knowing where things are in my regular place—start with produce, move on to soups, then pastas, etc. Last week, after dropping my youngest son off at soccer practice, I needed to do my weekly grocery shopping. I was going to pass a Publix to get to a Kroger, so I decided to get crazy and go inside a different store. Sometimes I even surprise myself. Nothing was in the same place. I kept walking past things on my list, and then I had to backtrack (which was made even more difficult by the “do not enter” and “enter here” stickers on the floor). As a rule, I only go to Publix if we’re in Florida, so I kept reminding myself I wasn’t on vacation. To make things even more confusing, when I was finally done shopping and the cashier was ringing up my items, the friendly bagger boy posed a puzzling question through his face mask. “Got big plans for the weekend?” he asked. I paused before answering. So many thoughts swirled in my head. “The weekend?” I stammered through my own face mask. “I have been thinking today was Monday all day. What day is it?” “It is Monday,” he responded. “I just like planning ahead.” I told him that I had no idea what I was doing in five days, but I liked his initiative. As I drove home with my van full of groceries, I thought about my shopping experience and how it’s possible to feel like a stranger even when you’re just a few minutes from home. It can be an unsettling feeling. It’s a good reminder to be on the lookout for actual strangers (not just Kroger shoppers who’ve wandered into Publix) who might need a little help. At the end of the Book of Hebrews, we see a final list of exhortations: “Keep on loving one another as brothers and sisters. Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it. Continue to remember those in prison as if you were together with them in prison, and those who are mistreated as if you yourselves were suffering.” The author is reminding the readers that the best way to love is to share, share their successes and sufferings and suppers. To love each other like we’re family, even if we aren’t related. I can’t imagine a better reward for showing hospitality than to be treated to dinner with an angel.

Like many sports-loving, competitive 9-year olds, my son Ezra loves to talk about rivals. While watching a football or basketball or soccer game on TV, he’ll point to the two teams and ask his daddy, “Are they big rivals?” He wants to know the stakes for that game, how important it is to the players and the fans. And it doesn’t just apply to sports. He recently asked me about other rivalries. “Who’s Chick-Fil-A’s rival?” he asked. I guessed Kentucky Fried Chicken. Then he asked, “Who’s orange juice’s rival?” That one threw me. I thought a minute, then I answered that I thought it should be toothpaste because of what happens when a freshly brushed mouth takes a sip of orange juice. He rolled his eyes and said, “No, Mom, it’s apple juice.” I asked him to explain his answer. He opened up the refrigerator and pointed to the spot where the orange juice and apple juice sat, side-by-side. “Daddy said rivals live close together,” he declared as he shut the refrigerator door and strutted away, proud of his profound analysis. I’ve been thinking a lot about rivalry lately. It’s not necessarily a bad thing. Watching Auburn play Alabama on a fall day is exciting. And when the game is over, fans from both sides go on with their weekends, (mostly) without hating each other. There are rivalries in business: Coke vs. Pepsi, Microsoft vs. Apple, McDonald’s vs. Burger King. These rivalries create a strong market where businesses are encouraged to compete for consumers’ cash with better products and prices. But there are rivalries that shouldn’t exist, mostly created by a fear of being replaced or forgotten. A certain amount of sibling rivalry is to be expected, but when jealousy and mistreatment changes brothers and sisters from friends to enemies, it’s gone too far. Neighbors might compete for a “Best Yard” award, but beyond that they should be first and foremost neighbors—people on the same street and the same team. The word rival shouldn’t be synonymous with enemy, a philosophy my 9-year old may have understood before I did. Ezra may be looking for rivalries because he loves the thrill of competition, but he isn’t looking for enmities, groups in an active state of hostility toward another. Though his competitive streak is often exhausting for me, I kind of love that he’s looking for orange juice vs. apple juice battles right now. Still, it breaks my heart to know his future won’t always be filled with well-meaning, carefree rivals. I know he’ll have his share of orange juice vs. toothpaste battles ahead, so I pray that we all get better at loving each other.

A few days before we took our twin daughters to different cities to move into their respective college dorm rooms, I found myself in a parking lot sitting in my van at our older son’s soccer practice attempting to concentrate enough to read a book. Though it was mid-August, it was especially breezy and almost pleasant. I looked up and noticed a strange cloud in the evening sky. It looked like a ginormous, fluffy donut with the sun shining through the hole. I snapped a picture of it with my phone and tried to get back to my detective novel and the page I had already read ten times without comprehension or any idea of who the murderer was. Seconds later, I glanced back up at the sky again and saw that the donut cloud had disappeared, blown away by the gusty wind. The moment was gone, and I suddenly found myself crying. It didn’t help that I was also watching a dad heft two pink bikes which belonged to his young daughters into the back of his pickup truck. One of the girls was pouting because she didn’t want to leave, but the dad barely registered her disappointment. As he continued to load up, the girl grouchily made her way to the back seat of the truck, moving in that way that kids do when they want to show their resistance to a command while simultaneously obeying you. Her arms hung limply at her sides and her feet moved forward an inch at a time without bending her knees. I knew that my tears weren’t really about clouds or even hot pink bicycles. I knew I was feeling the weight of my daughters’ approaching departure from home, just as I knew they were ready to go and on their way to great things. Over the weekend before they moved out, I’ll admit I was pretty teary-eyed. It got so bad that our 9-year old noticed. One day he warily approached me and said, “Hey, mom. That’s a nice shirt. Where did you get it?” I looked down and saw I was wearing the $5 gray Old Navy flag shirt which we each owned an identical version of. I could tell it was time to get myself together. I needed some strategies to survive this new phase. I was already planning to avoid going in my girls’ shared bedroom. I wasn’t going to sit on their beds and stroke their bedspreads and smell the clothes they left behind. Uh-uh. No way. That’s a suicide mission. Instead, I started praying. I began a dialogue with God about what I was feeling and fearing. I told him I was blessed and beholden. I asked him to protect them and point them in the right direction. And I consistently received the same 4-word sentences: “Your world is expanding” and “God is big enough”. Additionally, a couple of Scriptures have begun a rotation in my thoughts: “Stop and consider the wonderful miracles of God! Do you know how God controls the storm and causes the lightning to flash from his clouds? Do you understand how he moves the clouds with wonderful perfection and skill?” (Job 37) “I am the Lord, the God of all the peoples of the world. Is anything too hard for me?” (Jeremiah 32) Nearly a week after the donut cloud, my girls were all moved into their new rooms—curtains and pictures were hung, throw pillows were fluffed and area rugs were unfurled. (I’m guessing this will be a really different process with my next kids…two boys) Now I can see why my heart is feeling this heaviness. What I’m realizing is that it’s not just that I’ll miss them—their help with their younger brothers, their stories after school and before bedtime, their general presence in the kitchen while I’m cooking or on the sofa while I’m watching TV—it’s an acknowledgement that things will never quite be the same. It’s like that fleeting moment with the donut cloud. The new cloud arrangement wasn’t bad, in fact it was doing just what clouds are supposed to do—move and change and re-form. I’m just happy I looked up from my book in time to see it.

During recent storms (or threats of storms), I found myself looking at the weather app on my phone several times a day. Knowing that my sons were scheduled to have soccer practice that evening, I would check the predictions of bad weather even though I saw only blue skies and innocent-looking, white wisps of clouds above. On the radar, I saw our fair city sitting clear as a bell in the middle of our state. Nothing to fear, right? Then I would zoom out on the map and see ominous, swirling reds and yellows and menacing blobs of green. These storms were crowding around us, just out of view. That visual was a perfect representation of 2020. Destruction seems to be crouching at the door, waiting to pounce. At the grocery store today, I found myself singing a hymn I hadn’t sung or even thought of in years. (This is one advantage of wearing masks in public—I can sing or whisper to myself but no one knows!) I was singing the song “Farther Along” as I picked out my produce and chose the right bag of shredded cheese. I was singing “Cheer up, my brother, live in the sunshine…” while I waited on my deli turkey to get sliced. I was telling myself, “Farther along, we’ll understand why.” And I needed this hymn today. Because of my faith, I know those spinning blobs of scariness swirling around me are temporary, but that doesn’t always make me feel less scared. The history and authorship of the hymn “Farther Along” is uncertain. Some attribute the lyrics to a preacher named W.A. Fletcher, a man who allegedly wrote it while traveling in the Indian Territories in 1911. Apparently, he was sad that he was away from home for the birth of his first child. Whether the story is true or not, you can imagine Mr. Fletcher, sitting lonely and discouraged on a train, trying to cheer himself up. He was attempting to remind himself that there was a greater purpose for struggles and a reward waiting for him after all his “toils of the road.” I need this kind of reminder, too. I need to know that what I see as unfair or illogical or frightening will make sense eventually. Over the more than 100 years since its first publication, there were some who objected to the chorus of the song. They took offense at the notion that “we’ll understand it all, by and by,” as if we would ultimately know everything that God knows when we get to heaven. But I think there’s a difference between knowing what God knows (just typing those words might make my brain explode) and understanding why. Maybe we don’t have to get all the way to heaven’s pearly gates to understand why the wicked sometimes prosper and the good are liable to be oppressed. The Scriptures hold plenty of clues as to what suffering is for. The Apostle Paul suffered more than I’m sure I ever will, and he comforted others with these words: “I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us.” (Romans 8) So if you’re in the midst of suffering, comfort yourself with the promises of future glory. If you’re in that “clear as a bell” zone of the weather map with only sunny skies as far as the eye can see, bolster your faith with Paul’s words like a team filling sandbags before a hurricane. Then cheer up, my brother, and live in the sunshine.

This morning, while I was walking my 3rd grade son to school, he asked me the question which I hear nearly every morning: “Why do we have to walk to school when we have a car to drive?” Like many questions, this one can’t only be taken at face value. I have given him plenty reasons for walking, such as the fresh air, the opportunity to chat, not wanting to add to the pollution from cars. He knows these answers, and normally he will begrudgingly agree with them, but he doesn’t like them because he just doesn’t want to walk. He will point to his sore knee or how much his coach worked him at practice the night before or how it’s too cold/too hot/too windy/too cloudy. His excuses have no effect on me, for I am Drill Sargent Mom and he’s my fourth elementary kid to walk to school. I told him that when he’s a dad, he’ll have to make his kids do difficult things, too. He disagreed and informed me that he’ll always let them take the easy way. He said, “I won’t make them walk to school. I won’t make them put away their laundry or clean their rooms. And I will do their homework for them.” Though I adore these imaginary, future grandchildren, I’m afraid they will be really miserable to babysit. I asked him, “If you want to get big muscles, do you lift a feather a bunch of times or a heavy weight?” Too smart to be entrapped and too cranky about walking to play along, he said, “I would pick the feather. I am already strong, so it doesn’t really matter what I use.” When Moses wrote the Book of Deuteronomy, he knew that we parents have to continually explain things to our children, including why we sometimes take the more difficult path. He said, “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength. These commandments that I give you today are to be on your hearts. Impress them on your children. Talk about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up.” (NIV) He said that the Lord was about to give them a beautiful Promised Land, full of crops they didn’t plant and cities they didn’t build and wells they didn’t dig. It was going to be great, but there was work involved and commitment. Moses went on to say that in the future your children will ask, “Why do we have all these laws and commandments?” They will do the thing children are supposed to do—ask questions. Then the adults should explain the reasons: how living in this land is better than being a slave in Egypt, how the journey was difficult but the promised reward was greater, how having a covenant with the One and Only God was a relationship worth pursuing. Moses knew that having children ask questions is so important that he also mentioned it as he explains the details about the first Passover feast. More than 2,000 years ago, Jewish rabbis included such questions in the Haggadah, or the program for the Passover meal. The youngest child asks questions about the meal, such as, why do we eat unleavened bread and bitter herbs on this night? If you’ve ever chomped down on a mouthful of grated horseradish or prefer a fluffy yeast roll over a chunk of matzah, these are good questions. So I’ll keep on answering my son’s questions and pushing him to do difficult things. He doesn’t understand the power of pushing ourselves and finding our weaknesses. But it’s not like I’ve got it all figured out either. I’m trying to get to the place where I can say what the Apostle Paul said about doing difficult things: “That’s why I take pleasure in my weaknesses, and in the insults, hardships, persecutions, and troubles that I suffer for Christ. For when I am weak, then I am strong.” (NLT)

I can’t think of anything more confusing than suddenly being awakened from a deep sleep in the middle of the night, unless it’s suddenly being awakened from a deep sleep in the middle of the night while you’re away from home, sleeping on a pull-out sofa in a strange hotel and the fire alarm is blaring up and down the halls. This was my recent experience, and I’m still recovering from it. Our 9-year old’s first response was “I didn’t do anything! It wasn’t my fault!” which it wasn’t, but I sure would like to know what he was dreaming about at 1:45 am. This information might be very revealing. My husband, our two sons and I hopped up and threw on shoes before shuffling down the stairwell with the rest of the hotel’s sleepy occupants. We all stood in the parking lot, huddled in groups and waiting for the fire trucks to arrive. To entertain myself, I played a favorite game of mine which I call “Look How Everybody Thinks Differently.” Though it was a chilly 40-something degrees, several people were wearing only shorts and t-shirts, and some were even bare-footed. Others had jackets or blankets draped over their shoulders. One couple emerged outside fully dressed and pulling wheeled suitcases toward their car. They are my first suspects in The Case of Someone Pulled the Fire Alarm. Some joked, others fumed, but most seemed to assume the alarm signified no real threat to any of us. The fire truck arrived with only lights flashing and no siren, a sign that this was going to be speedily resolved and we’d be happily snoozing away in no time. But moments after the alarm was turned off and we were back in our room, the alarm started back up again. Beeeeep, beeeep, beep it repeated every 25 seconds, followed by a 4 second break, a more clipped beeep, beep, and then it started all over again. (I know this because I counted.) More than an hour after it began, the alarm finally stopped and, if we could also stop the residual ringing in our heads, we could fall asleep. It seems we’ve become overly comfortable with alarms. More often than not, we ignore the warnings because they come way too frequently, or we find that it’s easier to assume that it’s just a drill. Murder hornets and melting icecaps. Wildfires raging in California and derechos blowing through the Tennessee Valley. Widespread racism, harassment in the workplace, child abuse, identity theft…I could go on and on, but it’s too depressing and I might have to curl up in a ball, making it really difficult to type. Reading the Bible gives me insight about being watchful but in a way which won’t drive me to the fetal position. 1 Peter 5 says, “Humble yourselves, therefore, under God’s mighty hand, that he may lift you up in due time. Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you. Be alert and of sober mind. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour. Resist him, standing firm in the faith, because you know that the family of believers throughout the world is undergoing the same kind of sufferings.” (NIV) I see four steps to follow as I attempt to up my Watchfulness Game: 1) From a place of extreme humility, acknowledge that God is in control. 2) With the knowledge that this All-Powerful God cares for me, transfer my worry to His mighty and capable shoulders. 3) Realizing that the devil is watching and ready to pounce, be equally as alert. 4) Sustained by my faith and backed by an army of fellow believers, refuse to follow the devil. With God’s help, I can be prepared and watchful without giving up the peace He promises.