“Let us not grow weary while doing good, for in due season we shall reap if we do not lose heart.” (Gal. 6:9)

Dearest daughters,

Today, Dad and I are celebrating twenty-nine years of marriage.

I remember this day vividly, twenty-nine years ago, the awe, the fear, even the trembling I felt in my soul as I prepared to make such a momentous, lifelong decision. Was my perspective truly right? Was my love what it needed to be? Above all, I did not want to let Dad or God down.

I knew Dad saw more in me than I even believed myself to be. And I knew God was counting on me to be a reflection of His love.

My mom was busy preparing my little sister for the wedding in my bedroom, so I spent that morning in my brother’s bedroom, praying, pacing the floor, getting down on my knees.

“God, help me to do this,” I prayed. “Help me to bring glory to You in this marriage. Don’t let my shortfalls change the trajectory You have for my life.”

There was such a weighty feeling that morning. But the moment I made that commitment with my mouth—“I do take this man to be my husband, for better, for worse, in sickness and in health”—it was as if those words cut through the cloud of heaviness, and I saw the light of love like never before.

Now, twenty-nine years later, I realize I was only barely seeing a glimmer of the shine our love would become. It has only grown brighter.

Not one single day has gone by that I have not repeatedly declared my love to your father, and he to me. And it is my wish and prayer that each of you will have a marriage like Dad and I have had.

Our marriage has far exceeded my expectations, and I owe this in part to my own father, who told me from the beginning, “Marriage will not be about you. If you go into it to see what you can get out of it, you will be disappointed. Marriage will be about God being made more visible through your union, through your overcoming, through the way you work through your trials. And it will take a lot of work.”

So I came into marriage expecting a challenge. And because of that, I found the challenges to be part of the adventure.

Let me give you an analogy.

If I go down to the car to leave, running late for church, and realize I have left my keys upstairs in the bedroom of our large farmhouse, I resent every step back through that house. I resent that my bedroom is upstairs. I resent every step back down. It all takes longer. It’s all an inconvenience to me getting on my way. The stairs and the house itself become adversaries to my purpose.

But if I am preparing to take a beautiful alpine mountain hike with your father in a month, I count every step. I am thrilled that my bedroom is upstairs and that our house sits at the top of a hill. I take every step as preparation, as a challenge making me more fit for my goal.

This is the attitude that will shape your marriage.

If our attitude is that everything is a hindrance to our own purposes, then every request, every difference of viewpoint, every need in our spouse or children will begin to feel like they’re in the way of our life and our agenda. And little by little, we will begin to resent our marriage.

But if we believe marriage is a chance to prove to the enemy that love triumphs, then every difference of opinion, every inconvenience, every sorrow becomes a chance, an exercise. It becomes a stairway to climb in preparation for standing on the mountain that declares love will triumph over hate, life over death, and that we are part of the winning team.

So may you view each day of your marriage as steps preparing you for the mountain view, not as inconveniences keeping you from the journey of your own independent life.

May you be blessed with a marriage like mine.

May you hear love from your spouse every day, and may you give it every hour, so that on your twenty-ninth anniversary, you can say with me:

I would do it all over again!

And though I was head over heels in love on day one, I barely knew what love was compared to what I feel today.

With all my love,
Mom

But we all, with unveiled face, beholding as in a mirror the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from glory to glory. (2 Cor. 3:18)

Dearest Daughters,

I recently had a conversation with an Alaskan man that got my attention. He was talking about the constant problem people in Alaska, and in many northern countries, face with vitamin D deficiency.

Vitamin D is the vitamin our bodies get through exposure to sunlight. It’s absorbed through watching a sunset or sunrise, and through simply living in the sun. This vitamin helps the body absorb calcium, strengthening bones, muscles, and teeth, and even contributing to emotional well-being. But after months of winter and near darkness, where the sun barely peeks above the horizon for an hour or two each day, many people emerge from winter feeling depressed, weak, fatigued, and physically depleted. Some even develop bone disorders and increased fragility.

What struck me was that even many people who are health conscious and faithfully take vitamin D supplements still discover, through bloodwork, that they are deficient.

And interestingly, vitamin D deficiency is becoming increasingly common even in places filled with sunshine, simply because so many people spend enormous amounts of time indoors, disconnected from natural light.

But it especially affects the far north after long winters. This got me thinking about spiritual life. Because we need light both naturally and spiritually.

Naturally, light strengthens us. It lifts mood, strengthens muscles and bones, and keeps us from becoming brittle and injury-prone. Without enough light, people weaken.

Spiritually, I believe the same thing can happen.

Jesus so often used physical realities to describe spiritual truths: light, bread, water, the body, ligaments, joints, sight, blindness, fruit, seed.

So what is “light” according to Scripture? One of the primary ways we receive light is through the Word of God. “Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path.” (Ps. 119:105)

The Word of God brings light into dark places. And I don’t believe this refers only to reading Scripture privately, though that is essential. I also believe it includes the living Word preached through those whom God sends to us.

As Romans says:

“The word is near you, in your mouth and in your heart” (that is, the word of faith which we preach). (Rom. 10:8)

Faith is ignited when the Word comes alive through those God sends us, then enters our hearts, and begins to live in our mouths also.

This is why it matters so much where we situate ourselves spiritually. We need to be in places where the Word of God is living, active, spoken, embodied, and believed.

Another way light comes to us is through the unveiled faces of our brothers and sisters.

But we all, with unveiled face, beholding as in a mirror the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from glory to glory. (2 Cor. 3:18)

When believers walk honestly and transparently before God and one another, they begin reflecting His light back upon each other. We become, in a sense, beams of reflected glory, mirrors catching the light of Christ and shining it into one another’s lives. This is why fellowship and community are so vital.

We need to be in the presence of people whose lives shine the presence of God on us and to us. And we ourselves are called to become that kind of light for others.

When we walk in the presence of His people, we are also walking in the atmosphere of His presence.

And then there is the matter of our own transparency before God. Light cannot penetrate tinted windows. If we layer our lives with distraction, manipulation, hiddenness, dishonesty, bitterness, pride, or self-protection, we slowly become opaque and stop seeing clearly. We stop receiving light clearly.

True honesty is more than merely abstaining from a direct lie. It is a vulnerable openness before God and His people. It is living with untinted windows.

I remember seasons in my own life when I didn’t even realize how little light I was receiving until I stepped back into the light again. Everything had become dim and distorted. Relationships became confusing. Problems became exaggerated and frightening. A shadowy stump in the yard begins to look like a bear on a dark Alaskan winter evening, and spiritually, that same thing can happen.

Without enough light, we begin seeing our brothers, our circumstances, and even ourselves through distortion, judgment, and fear. But a moment in the presence of God and His people can cast out the dark distortions, and everything becomes clear again.

And what are the “muscles” and “bones” of spiritual life that can become weakened without light?

They are the inner strength and flexibility that allow us to move with grace, humility, courage, forgiveness, wisdom, and endurance in every capacity God has called us to walk in. When those spiritual bones become weak and brittle, fractures begin appearing in relationships, churches, families, and hearts.

Ephesians says that the whole body is joined and strengthened by “that which every joint supplies” (Eph. 4:16).

When ligaments tear apart, when relationships lose grace, when fellowship breaks down, perhaps one of the first questions we should ask ourselves is this: Am I getting enough light?

Am I receiving the Word of God, in Scripture and through the living voice of faith-filled believers whom God sends to me?

Am I walking in fellowship where His face shines upon me through my brothers and sisters?

And am I keeping my own heart transparent before Him, without tinted windows?

Because God desires vibrant, joyful, healthy Christians—people strong in spirit, supple in love, and radiant with His presence.

So step into the light in every way you can. The winter doesn’t have to last forever. Even in the far north, the sun eventually rises again. And in Christ, that summer Sun can shine even at midnight.

With all my love,

Mom

Dearest Daughters,

Lots of people talk about agricultural sustainability, but very few are talking about sustainable relationships, sustainable marriages, and sustainable generations. And that is the most important sustainability of all.

I was recently in a meeting where I heard a man say that he personally knew twenty-four people whose adult children had “canceled” them. Until the last few years, I’d never even heard that term used this way, and I find it deeply grievous. It is the sign of a failing culture. If there’s no sustainability in relationships, if there’s no continuity between generations, then we have lost life itself.

So what does it take to create that kind of durability?

First, I believe it’s a question of identity.

Second, it’s a recognition of our place in eternity and in history.

We were never meant to be the whole picture. We were meant to be connected. We’re connected to the roots, the trunk, and to the preceding branches. If we sever this connection, how can there be fruit? Only God is all in all, and each generation is one step closer to the harvest He desires.

Let me begin with identity.

I’ve often heard people ask, “Was it hard for you to give up your career, your dreams, or your previous life to become a mother?”

For me, no. Once I understood motherhood to be my calling, I couldn’t imagine anything more important in the world. Motherhood was not a detour from the future. It was the future.

This was how the kingdom of God would continue coming again and again upon the earth, generation after generation.

To stand in the place of motherhood was, to me, to take hold of a story stretching from the faith of Abraham, through whom all the families of the earth would be blessed, to the returning of the Lord and the question of whether He would still find faith upon the earth.

We know the kingdoms of self-centeredness, broken families, dissolved relationships, and fragmentation are flourishing. I wanted to see the kingdom of heaven flourish also—the kingdom of love, faithfulness, sacrifice, and thriving life. Motherhood was my opportunity to participate in that work.

So if motherhood is your calling, don’t view it as an isolated or temporary identity. View it as part of the future itself. The future of whether there will still be a people of faith upon the earth when your grandchildren are born . . . and when your great-grandchildren are born.

We must think long-term.

We’ve been trained by a culture of “click here,” “swipe there” to think in short-term, immediate, narrow fragments. But you must learn to think generationally.

Look back into the past:

Why did my ancestors come to this country?

What were they longing for?

What sacrifices did they make?

Then look forward:

What will I leave behind for my grandchildren’s children?

What kind of inheritance—spiritual, relational, and cultural—will remain after I’m gone?

If you think this way, your parenting will be grounded in vision rather than reaction, and your family will have roots deep enough to endure storms.

And this brings me to generations. No generation in and of itself, and certainly no individual—is meant to be all in all. That’s who Christ is. He alone fills all in all. He was before time began, and He will remain after time ends.

I think of history like a tree planted from a seed. The roots go deep into the earth, carrying out their hidden work. Without them, the tree would die. Yet we don’t look at the roots expecting fruit. Neither do we find fruit in the trunk, or even in the earliest branches.

So it’s futile to look back at your parents or grandparents and complain that they didn’t bear the fruit that perhaps your generation was meant to bear. When we compare one generation to another in this way, we misunderstand what God is doing across history.

Every time we sever ourselves from the generation before us, we cut ourselves off from the roots. And when branches lose connection to the roots, the leaves begin to wither.

I believe much of this rejection of previous generations comes from a loss of vision and identity. People no longer understand that humanity itself was meant to be on a journey back toward God, back toward the wholeness we lost in the Garden when mankind chose autonomy over surrender.

Every act of severing becomes, in some way, a participation in fragmentation, death, and entropy, another bite from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, deciding for ourselves rather than surrendering to the Tree of Life.

And yet it is those ancient roots, however tangled, scarred, or gnarled they may appear, that still nourish us. It is that old trunk, no matter how imperfect, gnarled or weathered, that still supports us.

May God help us to give thanks for the generations that came before us. No matter their failures, we would not exist without them.

That honor for one’s roots is something I always admired about my father.

His own father was a deeply broken man who tragically eventually ended his own life, and yet my father still spoke of him with kindness and honor. I never heard him speak with bitterness, though he certainly did not condone the things he had done.

My father believed that his father had given him life. He had ridden the rails and eventually settled in Texas, where my father would one day encounter God. And to my father, that was enough reason to give thanks and honor his memory.

Do not sever yourself from the roots, my daughters, or you may one day find your own branches barren.

“When the Son of man comes, shall He find faith on the earth?” (Luke 18:8)

With all my love,

Mom

“My little children, of whom I travail in birth again until Christ be formed in you…”
— Galatians 4:19

Dearest Daughters,

As Mother’s Day approached, I could not help but think of all the blessings of being a mother.

Being a mother expanded my heart. The moment I laid eyes on you, Helen, for the first time, I understood a dimension of love I had not even known I needed to understand. It was like discovering clouds existed after having seen nothing but blue sky.

Motherhood taught me how to sacrifice—not only to sacrifice, but how to sacrifice with love and even joy. Getting up at night was never a drudgery to me. I loved looking at your little faces. As I fed you in the quiet darkness, I didn’t want to cut it short. I cherished every moment.

Then, as you became toddlers and grew from there, motherhood taught me patience. I didn’t know I was impatient until I had children. And when I became frustrated, it was not truly with you, but with myself—because I wanted so deeply to impart to you the things that would make you happy, whole, obedient, and free.

Motherhood taught me to be a teacher. I had always thought of myself as a student, but I came to realize that learning and teaching walk hand in hand. As I longed to reveal to you all the beautiful things I was discovering about life, I became a teacher.

It taught me to be a nurturer. As I made your favorite foods, puzzled over health problems, worried over infant weight gain, and learned what strengthened and nourished you, I became invested in good food, good habits, and healing.

It taught me to be a healthcare provider as I faced each sickness and injury, as I sought to understand and get to the bottom of them.

It taught me how to hear from God, because I so desperately needed wisdom and words to help you overcome. It gave me spiritual gifts—words of knowledge when I needed to know truth from a lie. It even made me a kind of prophetess in my own home when I needed to proclaim the word of God and the word of faith to you.

But most of all, motherhood humbled me. It made me more dependent on God, because I discovered I couldn’t do it without Him. Ultimately, only He could bring you to Himself. I could only point the way, and hope to live a life that inspired you to want to do so also.

Nothing has given me more joy than seeing you, my daughters, become mothers yourselves—watching you enter that holy process of surrender, transformation, and love.

The apostle Paul wrote to Timothy that a woman will be saved through childbirth (1 Tim. 2:15). We often understand this to mean that she will not die due to childbirth, and perhaps it does mean that. But the words that follow, continuing in faith, love, and holiness, suggest something even more ongoing: that we ourselves are saved, shaped, and sanctified as we surrender ourselves to bringing children into the world, and then labor again to birth them into the kingdom of God.

No work has worked a deeper work in my heart than motherhood.

May God bless you as mothers. May you surrender yourselves to receive all the gifts that come through motherhood. May you be transformed into the image of our Lord, and may this calling fill every dream in your heart.

All my dreams, and I believe yours can be can be encompassed in the word:

Mother.

I love you.

Love,
Mom

“We know that we have passed out of death into life, because we love the brothers.” (1 John 3:14)

Dearest daughters,

Love truly overcomes all, but how do we know if we’re walking in that love—if we’re truly serving our Lord and our neighbor as we ought?

We know, according to Scripture, that we have passed out of death and into life because we love the brothers. So the question arises: what is this death we’re to come out of?

Of course, it includes death in the ultimate sense of physical dying. But it’s also something more immediate; it’s the entropy we experience each day in the weight of troubled thoughts, in our own despondent attitudes, in the inward struggles, and even in our physical battles and failures. It is that inward decay that spirals us back upon ourselves.

But there is a clear path out of this death and into life, into living fully. That way is love.

Let me explain what I mean in the ordinary, daily sense. There’s a simple measure I’ve learned to use in my own life to know if I’m walking in this love for my brothers and sisters that will bring me from dying to living. God alone is the true judge of all things, but this measure has often served as a faithful guide to my heart.

When I find myself weighed down and consumed with my own problems—my emotions, my temptations, my failures—I take it as a sign that I’ve turned inward, and that I’m no longer loving as fully as I have been called to love.

I know there are certainly seasons in life that are difficult, and burdens that must be borne with patience and prayer. But I’ve also known another kind of burden that we are not called to live under.

I first noticed this when I was a teenager. Just before our Thanksgiving Fair each year, life would become very full. There were crafts to finish, schoolwork to complete, nightly music practices, and long afternoons spent preparing the fairgrounds or bringing in the last of the harvest. My days were poured out from morning until night.

And I began to notice that temptations that had often troubled me—distraction, wasted time, idle talk—all seemed to dissipate in that season. I realized that it wasn’t that I’d conquered them by consciously striving against them—it was simply that no room was left for them, because my life was full of giving.

And later, when we became involved in ministry, and I began to feel compassion for the struggles of others, I saw this even more clearly. As I gave myself to the needs around me, my own needs seemed to shrivel up—sometimes even my physical ones.

Then I discovered something even more interesting when I first began working in women’s health. I was part of a home group with many young, single women. One after another came to me, concerned about physical problems—especially related to their “unusually difficult cycles.” By the time the ninth young woman had come, I realized something: These were not rare or unusual problems! This was a Lake Woebegone malady, where all the women were above average.

And this caused me to wonder whether sometimes, when we’re left alone too much with ourselves, if our difficulties—both physical and spiritual—do not become magnified. I don’t mean to dismiss real struggles. We must never presume or diminish another’s pain. But it does give us pause. Is it possible that both real and imagined problems germinate and thrive in loneliness and inward focus?

But I’ve seen another way. When we’re wholly given to the work of the Lord—to loving our children, to serving our husbands, to caring for our neighbors—those problems that once loomed so large begin to shrink. Some even disappear altogether.

And so, again, this has become, for me, a kind of measure. If I find myself returning again and again—month after month, year after year—to the same struggles, the same discouragements, the same inward battles, I don’t begin trying to fix the problem by focusing on it. Instead, I begin by turning outward. I remember the instruction of Scripture: “Let no one seek his own good, but the good of his neighbor.” — 1 Corinthians 10:24

And I ask: Whom can I love today?

When you feel the pull toward distraction, toward self-pity, toward discouragement, answer it with love. Make a meal for someone. Serve in your home. Clean that closet that’s been waiting, do the job that would bless your husband or lighten another’s load. Look for the need, and meet it. You may find, as I have, that these small acts carry power far greater than you imagined.

For in the end, it’s not by wrestling endlessly with ourselves that we overcome the world—it’s by faith working through love. Give yourselves to love!

With all my love,
Mom

Dearest Daughters,

A number of years ago, I had a pivotal moment that gave me a key in learning how to relate to people in a way that is more effective and helpful.

We were trying to help a young woman who was walking through a very difficult family crisis that involved unbelievers connected to her life before she came to the Lord. She was fearful for her children and their safety, and, as is fitting for a mother, her heart was fixed almost entirely on them. Every attempt she made to move the situation toward resolution was undermined by her own fear, expressed through defensive words and actions.

After multiple counseling sessions with her and others who were helping, I found myself unsure of what to do. I felt a deep compassion for her, yet everything seemed to circle back into the same self-defeating pattern.

One night, before bed, I began to pray. I asked God to please speak something to me that might help bring light into the situation.

That night, I had a dream.

In the dream, your dad and I were speaking with others who were also trying to help this young woman, and suddenly I said, “The Lord has told me that empathy is the key and the message.” I woke with those words still resounding in my mind, and with a strong sense of the Spirit of God surrounding me.

As I lay there and prayed, I felt the Lord impress again on my heart: “This is exactly what I did.” And immediately, my thoughts turned to Jesus—

“And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us . . .” — (John 1:14)

Empathy is, in essence, what Jesus did. He clothed Himself in our humanity, our thoughts, our frailty, our suffering, even our capacity to die. He did not love us from a distance, but from within the very limitations we carry. I felt the Lord showing me that I must, in some small way, do the same.

I needed to step inside this woman’s world—to feel as though her children were my own. How would I think? How would I respond? What fears would grip my heart?

Over the next day or two, I practiced this. I knew I could never fully carry the weight she bore, but even the attempt began to reshape my thoughts and soften my responses. It governed the way I saw her, and, more importantly, how I would speak to her.

When we met again, I shared this same truth with her: that if she truly wanted to move toward resolution, she would need to step into the hearts of those who were hurting her and to understand their fears, their wounds, their perspectives.

This is the way of Christ.

“Let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others.” (Phil. 2:4)

So often, we are wounded by others, sometimes even those we love, and who love us. And when we are hurt, we naturally retreat into our own perspective. We see only our angle, our pain, our justification. But if we remain there, we lose, and everyone loses.

Christ offers us another way. His love becomes a bridge that allows us to cross over into another’s experience. In a very real sense, He takes on flesh again through us when we allow His love to move within our hearts. We begin to clothe ourselves in another’s fears, another’s hurts, and from that place, we can speak truth with gentleness, and love with power.

This is the key to understanding. It is the key to your marriage. You are female; he is male. There are differences that will, at times, feel like barriers But in those moments, ask God to help you step inside your husband’s thoughts—his pressures, his concerns, his silent burdens.

With your teenagers—ask Him again.
With your neighbors—ask Him again.
With those who wound you—ask Him especially.

This is what will make you an effective vessel of love. This is what makes the love of Christ visible again on the earth—His body still living, still moving, still reaching through His people.

May God help us all to become expressions of His love, even in the midst of our human weakness.

With all my love,
Mom

My dearest daughters,

I’ve often pondered why faith, hope and love remain when all else fades. But this much I know—if these are eternal, then every time we practice them, we are investing in eternity itself. As for me, I want to invest in what will not pass away.

So how do we make those investments here on earth? We’re commanded by God to love—to love our neighbor as ourselves, and even to love our enemies. But what does that truly mean?

Mere Christianity, by C.S. Lewis, offers helpful clarity. Loving our neighbor does not mean that we like everything about them. We may strongly dislike their actions, their attitudes, even their patterns of behavior, and yet we are still called to love them.

So how do we love our neighbor as ourselves?

Think of your own life. Do you always like yourself? Are there not nights when you lie awake and grieve over your own words or attitudes? Perhaps you’ve thought, I hate how I spoke today. I regret how I treated my child, or my husband. And yet, most don’t entirely lose hope for transformation. You don’t say, I’m beyond change.

Instead, you turn to God and say, You are faithful. You can change me. You can make me into who I long to be. I believe in You, so I will change!

This is also how we love our neighbor as ourselves. We hold that same faith for them and reach for the same hope that we have for our own souls. We look beyond what they are today and fix our eyes on who God created them to be, and who He is still able to make them into.

I remember a time when, as a young woman, I struggled deeply to love another woman. It was early in my marriage, and all I could see was how she was doing things wrong. I didn’t think she treated other sisters well. She seemed nitpicky. I didn’t like the way she interacted with her children, and it began to consume my thoughts.

To be fair, some of what I observed may have been true. But truth, when filtered through a wrong spirit, becomes a blinding monster far from love.

One day, I brought all of my grievances to your dad, carefully cataloging what I had seen and felt. He listened quietly for a time and then said something piercing: “I don’t know if that’s accurate or not. But I do not feel the Holy Spirit or a spirit of love in your attitude toward her. I think the first step is to repent.”

Feeling the deep conviction of God, I went into our bedroom, found the little striped chair, and knelt beside it to pray. But I didn’t even know how to begin. The thoughts I had entertained had so shaped my vision that I could hardly see her any other way.

Finally, I prayed, God, deliver me from my perspective. Help me to see her through Your eyes. And in a moment, my view shifted so that I saw her fears, her insecurities, her love, small and fragile, but real. I beheld her tentative efforts to give what she herself was still learning to receive. I was grieved with myself more deeply than I had been in a long time.

That very evening at a church service, the Word of God came with power. And though neither I nor my husband had said a word to anyone about my concerns, that woman went to the altar and knelt to ask for prayer.

As I watched her, I sensed the Lord speaking to my own heart. Could it be that my judgment, even though unspoken, had been a hindrance to this step? Could it be that my step of repentance for holding her in condemnation had released something in the Spirit that had long held her back? It was a sobering thought.

Our attitudes toward others matter more than we often understand. They do not remain contained within us, but either hinder or help the work of God in another’s life.

If we would walk in hope, believing for others, our faith would spread like water over a dry, unsprouted field of corn, until the small, hardened seeds begin to break open and reach toward the light of the sun.

But what do you do when you have a neighbor—perhaps a sister-in-law, a mother-in-law, or another woman in your life—whose behavior you find yourself recoiling from? How do you continue to love them?

We must first understand something: Having affection for someone is not the same as truly loving them. Affection can be fickle. As Mere Christianity illustrates, a mother may feel great affection for her child, and yet that very affection may lead her to indulge him in ways that are not for his ultimate good. In this case, affection is actually overriding true love. Affection and liking someone can certainly facilitate love—but they are not its foundation.

True love is a choice of the will and of the heart. We choose to love. And when we practice the commandment to love, something remarkable happens: affection can begin to grow. But it follows, it doesn’t lead. This is actually a relief, because it means that if you don’t feel affection for someone—if you don’t enjoy their personality, their habits, or their behavior—you aren’t disqualified from loving them. You can still love them fully. And over time, affection itself may grow.

So how do we do this? We practice love—especially toward those we have trouble liking and for whom we feel little to no natural affection. When you’re struggling to love someone you know you’re commanded to love, you must begin with action. You look for opportunities to be kind. You look for a compliment to share. You train your eyes to see what is worthy of honor. Ask yourself: What would I do for this person if I truly loved and liked them? Then do that thing at once. And you’ll find that your love and affection immediately begin to grow.

This concept becomes especially important in close relationships, such as with your children—particularly in their teenage years, when much of what they do may not feel especially likable. In those moments, you must set them up to succeed. Find one thing they do well. Create a place for it, and then call it out and praise it.

The very act of offering a compliment, of giving a service, of making a meal for someone you’re struggling to love—these things expand love and even affection, because love is a living, growing thing. When you feed it and water it, it grows.

If you practice the works of love, even when your heart lags behind, your love will increase, and often, affection will follow.

But the opposite is also true. If you practice criticism, if you rehearse faults, if you speak about someone’s weaknesses and dwell on what you dislike, your dislike will grow. Your love will diminish. You will have fed into the destructive work of the accuser.

You’re always cultivating something. So I plead with you—invest in love.

“Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.” (Philippians 4:8)

Think on these things. Speak of these things. Dwell on these things. In doing so, you’re making an investment, not only in the love you will experience here on earth, but in heaven itself.

You’re preparing a home, and home is where love thrives, where peace expands, where hope continues, and where faith is ever-present. So build your home in eternity—by building your faith, your hope, and your love, not only for yourself, but for your neighbor. Believe for them. Hope for them. Love them for eternity.

Love is not static but living.

And it grows where it’s cultivated. So cultivate love, that in the light of the face of the Son, it will sprout and bloom.

With all my love,

Mom

We will not hide them from their children,

but tell to the coming generation the glorious deeds of the Lord,

and His might, and the wonders that He has done…

that the next generation might know them,

the children yet unborn,

and arise and tell them to their children. (Ps. 78:4-6)

Dearest Daughters,

Every child is given two gifts: roots to hold them, and wings to carry them. But the wings only grow strong when the roots run deep.

I cannot impress upon you strongly enough how important intergenerational connectedness is, the connection of parents to children, children to parents, and grandparents to grandchildren. As much as we’re able to tie the generations together, we inherit the love, the wisdom, the experience, the stories, and even the joy of those who came before us. It’s a kind of birthright, passed down, shaping who we are long before we even realize it.

In our society today, as people marry later and later in life, I see a troubling pattern emerging. More and more children will grow up without truly knowing their grandparents. If a generation waits until nearly forty to marry and have children, it only takes two such generations for grandchildren to be born to eighty-year-old grandparents. Much of the time that could have been spent weaving those relationships together is simply gone. The thread that was meant to bind three generations begins to fray, and finally is irreplaceably is lost.

I feel, more and more as the years go on, what a privilege it has been to live differently. As you know, I live within sight of two of you married children, with the third just two miles up the road. For years now, I’ve lived a short walk through the cedar woods to my own mother, and also within walking distance of her parents until they passed last year. That kind of closeness has shaped our lives in ways both seen and unseen. It has meant shared meals, quick visits, borrowed tools, stories told and retold, tips and recipes passed along, children running freely between homes, and a constant reinforcement that we belong to one another.

I truly believe this kind of interconnectedness is vital not only to family life, but to sustainable communities, to enduring love, and to the passing on of what matters most.

Yesterday, as I was reading with your little brother Ari, I came across a story that deeply stirred something in me. It was about the Whooping Cranes once found in the tens of thousands across North America, their fluted voices marking the changing of seasons. But by the 1940s, due to hunting, urban expansion, and difficult seasons, their population had dwindled to only fifteen birds.

A small group of people set out to save them. They collected eggs, hatched them in safe environments, and began raising a new generation. But their goal was not simply to preserve the cranes in captivity; they wanted to see them fly again, and to fill the skies in the fall and return again on the fresh breeze of spring.

The first challenge was that these young cranes, having been hatched by humans, didn’t know how to migrate. They had lost that knowledge. Then someone discovered that Canadian goslings had imprinted to a fisherman in his boat as to a parent figure! There’s very strong imprint instinct among many migratory birds. So with this knowledge, a man then experimented using an ultralight plane and young birds, and, remarkably, they followed! As they grew, they took to the skies behind the plane and were led along a new migration route. Even more remarkable, they returned to their hatching grounds the following year.

It seemed they had found the solution. The cranes could now be taught to migrate, and the population could recover. So they led them on their migration with ultralight planes, and all seemed well—at first.

But after several years, something went wrong. The population not only wasn’t growing; it was dwindling. Though the cranes could fly and migrate, they weren’t raising their young successfully. These birds raised in captivity rarely tended their eggs. They didn’t protect or nurture their offspring and never guarded their young from predators. Of all the cranes raised in captivity and taught to migrate, only ten chicks survived.

In time, the realization came: these cranes had lost their connection to the previous generation. They had learned to migrate, but they had never had the imprint training to learn how to parent. That knowledge had not been passed on through relationship, through example, through presence.

So the effort changed. Eggs were placed with the few remaining, older, wild cranes, and the young birds were raised by those who still carried the instincts and habits of good parenting. And with that restored connection, the cycle of life could continue.

I’ve not yet fully put words to all that I feel in this story, but something in it has spoken deeply to my heart. It’s not enough to teach our children to “fly”—to succeed, to function, to find their way in the world. They must also remain connected to their roots and to those who can show them how—how to live, how to love, how to nurture, how to stand. We, as parents, must do the same. We must cling to those physical or spiritual “parents” who’ve successfully nurtured and protected others, whose relationships have survived.

There’s something about that early “imprinting” in children that is far more powerful than we often realize. In their earliest years, they’re watching, absorbing, modeling. They will take on our habits, our attitudes, our work ethic, our responses to hardship, and our way of loving others. These things are not only or even primarily taught through explicit instruction but are passed on through lived demonstration and close connections.

As you know, your grandparents had an enormous impact on your lives when you were young, and they continue to shape you even now. Helen, besides regular visits, you exchanged letters with your grandmother every weak through your formative years. I see that same blessing of interaction continuing all the way down to Ari. He spends part of each week with each of his grandparents. He’s being formed in ways that will bear fruit for the rest of his life.

These relationships don’t happen by accident. They must be cultivated. They must be protected. They must be valued highly enough that we make decisions around them.

So my encouragement to you, my daughters, is this: don’t lose sight of the generations, and don’t make light of “imprint training.” Draw near to the generations that went before you. Honor them. Make space for them in your daily lives. And as you build your own families, think not only about what you’re creating in your own home, but how it connects to what came before—and what will come after.

May God help us all to raise children who can both soar and sustain, who are not only capable in the world, but deeply rooted in a culture of love that will endure.

With all my love,

Mom

“Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility, value others above yourselves, not looking to your own interests, but each of you to the interests of others.” (Phil. 2:3-4)

My Dearest Daughters,

From the moment we make Jesus the Lord of our lives, we’re saying that we will no longer be lord. We step off the throne of our own hearts, our minds, our desires; we remove our crown, and place it upon His head.

And when we say that He is Lord, we’re choosing to live now for His kingdom, for His glory—that His desires may come to pass, that His dreams for our lives, and for the lives of many, might be fulfilled through us.

So whenever something becomes all about me, I know that I’ve somehow slipped back onto that throne, and Jesus has been displaced.

In my previous letter, I spoke to you about relationships between women. In my experience, this is one of the most common places where the lordship of Jesus begins to break down and we slip back into ruling over our own ambitions and desires. I want to speak a little further into this with you.

In Philippians 2 we are told:

“Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility, value others above yourselves, not looking to your own interests, but each of you to the interests of others.”

This is a challenging command—to stop living with our own advancement at the center, and instead begin to make room for others to flourish.

I recognize, as I’ve shared with you before, that much of my early life was spent simply growing up. Then, in my twenties, I was trying to figure out who I was. And during that process, ambition was a constant struggle, and competition a persistent adversary.

But as I moved through each decade of my life, I began to notice that the deepest joy and fulfillment I’ve ever known has come not from establishing my own place but from helping others step into theirs.

I think often of my father. He founded the church community that we’re now part of, a community that has grown and spread far beyond what any of us could have imagined. And yet, he never built his life around himself. He could have remained a single, prominent pastor, earning a large salary with a large congregation. He could have held tightly to influence, but he didn’t. He lived simply, even in a mobile home until just a few years before he passed.

He believed that all the saints were called to the work of the ministry, and he shared what he’d been given.

But even more than that, there was something in his heart that marked him. I remember coming home from a service while he was ill and telling him how another brother had brought a powerful word, a word that brought victory and life to many. My father lifted his hands, weeping, rejoicing that the Word of God had come so powerfully through someone else. And this was not unusual for him.

It was only later in life that I realized that this is not common.

We must learn to rejoice when others take their place.

One of the clearest ways to know whether the Lord is on the throne or we are sitting on the throne of our own hearts is to ask yourself this: Can I rejoice when someone else does something better than I did or steps into a place I once held?

In recent years, I’ve experienced this myself. I have watched some of you begin to fill places I once filled—for example, Helen, in music. I see younger midwives rising up, and I know that one day I will step aside and no longer fill that role. And to my own surprise and delight, this brings me joy, because it means that what was sown was not planted into myself—but into the kingdom.

When we plant the seeds of our calling only into the soil of our own ambitions, they become like annual plants—springing up quickly, blooming for a moment, and then passing away with us.

But when we plant into others, into our children, whether natural or spiritual, into the lives entrusted to us, those seeds become perennial, sustainable. They endure and carry on long after we’re gone.

This is the nature of the Body of Christ. It is vast, interconnected, and full of many parts. And when someone greater comes along, we must, like John the Baptist, say:

“I must decrease, that He might increase.”

I’ve seen this in music ministry. I’ve seen it in ministry of the word. Those who are truly used by God must be willing to make room for even greater expressions than their own so that the kingdom advances, not their personal story.

Does this mean we stop growing? Stop trying? Stop offering what we have? No, not at all! We continue to learn. We continue to give. We continue to become faithful with what is ours to carry.

But we must also learn to rejoice, deeply and sincerely, when others succeed, because His kingdom is coming!

Women, especially, can be tempted toward comparison and competition. We may feel threatened when another woman shines. But this is simply a clear sign that something in us has stepped back onto the throne, that we have begun, again, to live for ourselves and think, it’s all about me.

But when you can truly rejoice in the success of your sisters, your children, and the people of God—when their victories bring you as much joy, or even more, than your own—then He is reigning!

Then you’re no longer building your own kingdom. You are participating in His.

So rejoice—always.

Rejoice when others succeed.

Rejoice even when they succeed in the very thing you once did or longed to do—because it was never about you. It was always about His kingdom.

With all my love,

Mom

Dearest Daughters,

I would like to speak to you about the relationships between women—woman to woman.

How should we relate to one another? And more specifically, what do we do when we see a need in a sister, a neighbor, or a friend? Do we feel threatened by other women?

Inevitably, we are human. We are broken and see only in part, so we will all notice weaknesses, failures, and faults in one another. But what we do in those moments, when we see, is what reveals whether we are truly walking as Christians.

There are few things I have witnessed that are more harmful to the body of Christ, to His image that we are meant to represent, than the ways women sometimes treat one another. This grieves me deeply. May God help us all.

Let us begin with perspective. God made us as mothers to be mothers, to nurture and raise children. Children need a specific type of guidance. Scripture tells us, “Now I say, that the heir, as long as he is a child, differs nothing from a servant . . . but is under tutors and governors until the time appointed of the father” (Gal. 4:1-2).

In the home, we understand this more personally: for a time, we become that governing tutor. Our “do this” and “do not do that” shape our children’s days. We watch their behavior, their habits, their responsibilities, closely, guiding them toward maturity and, ultimately, toward Christ. We might say they live under “the law” of “do’s” and “don’t’s” until they come to Christ and to adulthood.

But the difficulty arises when we carry that same “tutoring” “under the law” posture beyond its rightful place.

When our children grow into adulthood, or when we begin to treat other women as though they are under our instruction, correcting and managing them—we step into something that was never given to us. This kind of micromanaging is a form of legalism and can be deeply harmful.

God has given us authority within our own households. He has not given us that same authority over the souls of other women.

Yes, Scripture tells us that older women should teach the younger women (Tit. 2:3-5). But it specifies this instruction is to help them love their husbands and children, to walk in godliness—not to scrutinize, judge, and attempt to control one another’s every step.

If you have not been given permission to plow another woman’s garden, then to do so is trespassing.

So how, then, should we live among one another? A woman should live an exemplary life. Let her demonstrate her faith in God through her actions, her attitudes, and her prayers. Let her show others how to love by loving her own husband through service, kindness, honor, and affection. Let her demonstrate stewardship of her home with care—through the tending of her children, the order of her household, and the thoughtfulness of her provision. Let her exemplify perseverance with her prayers, in faithfulness, in serving and loving the body of Christ. When a woman lives this way, others will begin to ask her how.

And when they ask, when they invite her in, then she may speak, gently and humbly. She must teach through her own story, not as a ruler, but as one who has received grace.

If a woman says, “Please help me. Speak into my life. I am struggling,” then you have been released to help her—but always with meekness and kindness.

But apart from that invitation, do not criticize your neighbor! To do so is to trespass upon another soul.

Even more harmful than direct, uninvited nitpicking, is this: to pick apart your neighbor in conversation with others. Scripture warns us plainly, “A talebearer reveals secrets: but he that is of a faithful spirit conceals the matter” (Prov. 11:13). And again, “Where there is no talebearer, the strife ceases” (Prov. 26:20).

This, unfortunately, is a common and grievous pitfall. I have seen it both in the world and, sadly, within the church.

When I was in medical training, I noticed a pattern at the nurse’s stations. Conversations among women mainly revolved around two things: tearing down their husbands and dissecting other women. The only consistently positive thread was something as trite as beauty tips. It grieved me. There was a kind of unhealthy camaraderie formed in shared criticism and complaining.

But a godly woman does not build relationships this way. Gossip tears down not only the one being spoken of, but the one who speaks, and the very fabric of trust between them. Even those who listen, contribute and laugh, will never trust you, because they know you will one day speak of them in the same way.

There is a dynamic, sometimes subtle and hidden, that often provokes this destructive behavior between women. When any woman flourishes—whether in motherhood, education, skill, beauty, or calling—other women attempt to demean and tear her down.

In the world, this is often loud and visible on social media. You can pretty much count on it. As soon as anyone has success, the vultures gather to pick it apart. But in the church, it should not be this way! However, it sometimes does appear, typically in a quieter and more insinuated form. You’ve heard it:

“I’m not sure her approach is best…”

“I’ve heard others question it…”

“There are studies that say otherwise…”

“I think she doesn’t really get you..”

“I can help you with a much better route…”

And slowly, like a cancer, confidence is eroded, trust is weakened, and the work of God through the individual being attacked is undermined. This spirit is not from God. It echoes the accuser of the brethren. It mirrors Absalom at the gate, drawing hearts away—not for righteousness, but for his own elevation.

In another example from the Bible, when David gained victory over Goliath and the Philistines, Saul, who had once loved him and desired him as a son-in-law, began to hate him. He spent the remainder of his life seeking to kill David and destroy his reputation. Scripture tells us that a distressing spirit came upon Saul.

This same spirit can be seen in Cain when he rose up against Abel, and in Esau when he burned with anger toward Jacob. It is a spirit that can come upon any of us when we feel threatened by the success of another.

We must recognize it for what it is—envy. This distressing spirit increases anxiety, breeds insecurity, and subtly moves us to undermine our sisters or brothers. It is not from God; it is from the accuser of the brethren. It is the motive that caused the Pharisees to turn over Jesus Himself to death.

Sometimes women yield to this kind of subversion knowingly. But often, they do not. They are simply moved by their own insecurity, by a desire to be seen, or perhaps by wounds not yet healed. So they feel threatened by the security, visibility, and purpose in others.

I plead with you, and I pray this for myself as well: Do not participate in gossip. Do not engage in subtle undermining. Do not use words, either small or great, to diminish another in order to elevate yourself.

For “every wise woman builds her house: but the foolish plucks it down with her hands” (Prov. 14:1).

This is how a woman tears down her house and God’s house. Instead, choose a better way. Speak words of kindness. Guard the reputations of others as you would your own. Commit yourself to speak good, and only good, of your companions! And when you cannot truthfully speak good, remain silent.

Mind your own household.

Tend the garden God has given you.

And in doing so, you will be known as a woman of honor—one who can be trusted, one whose presence brings peace rather than division. If you do these things, the Proverbs tell us you will be respected in the gates (Prov. 31).

With all my love,

Mom

Dearest Daughters,

In my previous letter, I spoke to you about one of the primary ways the lifeblood of Christ comes to our hearts and nourishes us, sustains us, and cleanses us. That was prayer.

But there is a second source that keeps this lifeblood flowing to us as well. That is our fellowship with the other members of Christ’s body—the church.

We might think of these two things like the cardiovascular system and the pulmonary system. We need both the heart and the lungs working together to bring us oxygen and blood. We cannot say, “The heart is more important; I will do without the lungs.” And neither can we say, “The lungs bring the breath of life; I will do without the heart.”

We must have both. In the same way, we must have a direct and personal relationship with God, and also a lively, healthy relationship with His body, which is the church.

1 John 1:7 tells us, “If we walk in the light as He is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus cleanses us from all sin.”

This scripture is unique in that it links our fellowship in the church with the cleansing from sin. It links our fellowship with the very flow of the blood of Christ. And blood is a powerful and essential part of life. It carries oxygen. It carries water. It carries nutrients. And it cleanses the body.

Scripture also tells us that we, with unveiled faces, reflect the Lord to one another (2 Cor. 3:18). So it’s in the faces of our brothers and sisters that we see the reflection of Christ. We see through the glass of humanity, yes—but we still see Him. So we must step into the light of the countenance of the faces of His people.

And it’s there that we receive the nourishment and strength we need to be sustained. We receive inspiration—like oxygen—that clears and refreshes our muddled emotions and thoughts.

Now this element of communication with fellow believers shouldn’t be taken lightly. We need to enter into real communication with our brothers and sisters. Let them see us in our weaknesses and in our strengths, in our joys and in our sorrows. That’s been one enormous blessing I’ve found in being a midwife.

Every Saturday when I give prenatal exams to the mothers, I try to give words of encouragement, but I also try to listen. And I cannot tell you how many answers I’ve heard from God simply by stepping outside of myself.

Sometimes it’s outside my home, taking a walk with my children and entering into conversation along the dirt road to the river. Sometimes it’s during a checkup with a mother who shares a story of God’s faithfulness. Sometimes it’s a gentle word spoken at just the right moment, but I’m always listening. Listening for strength from God. Listening for an answer. Listening for a story of victory, whether with a toddler or a teenager.

At times, one small word from a brother or sister can make all the difference, actually becoming the lifeblood that nourishes you. It can thwart the enemy, and it can bolster your spiritual immune system.

You see, God has designed His body so that His life often flows to us not only directly from the Head, but also through the other members of the Body.

This is one reason why serving in midwifery has been a one of the sources of life to me. Not only has it given me a place to love my brothers and sisters as I help bring their babies into the world, but the fellowship ministers deeply to my own soul. I go to prenatal visits expecting two things: to share encouragement that I’ve received from the Lord, and to receive something in return. And often what is shared has nothing to do with midwifery itself, but may be a small victory in potty training a toddler! Or perhaps it’s a struggle with a teenager. Sometimes that lifeblood looks like a humorous testimony of God’s faithfulness in an ordinary moment.

But together, as we enter into these relationships, we find the blood of Christ flowing back to us—bringing life, strength, nourishment, refreshment, and a new perspective. This is communion!

When we enter into true relationship, we become participants in Christ’s body. When we break bread together, we’re not only remembering His body—we are, in a sense, becoming it. When we share our sorrows, the load is lightened. When we share our joys, the joy is multiplied.

Human beings were never meant to live alone. We were made for interaction, and it’s in that togetherness that we begin to see the reflection of our Lord more clearly.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been struggling and groping to understand something, reaching for victory in my own soul or in one of your lives, and when I turned outward to serve Christ’s body in some small way, He met my need.

I remember a prenatal visit about a year ago. A mother with several small children burst into tears as I embraced her and asked how she was doing.

“I’m having such struggles with my two-year-old,” she said through her tears. “What do I do? I’m about to have another baby, and he isn’t where he needs to be.”

As I began to share experiences that had brought victory in my own life, I felt the love of God flowing to her. Then, across the room, my assistant spoke up and began to share about a completely different victory in her life.

She ended by saying, “Sometimes it’s good to just reach out and say, ‘I need help.’ Others are just as blessed by serving you as you are by being served—actually, even more so.”

And in that moment, I felt God speaking directly to my own heart. He was asking me to release the reins of control that I so often hold tightly—to allow others to see my weaknesses as well as my strengths. And I knew that in that place, I would find the strength I needed.

So do not neglect the gathering of yourselves, as Scripture says (Heb. 10:25). Break the bread of life together. Be nourished by the blood of Christ. Look into the faces of your sisters, no matter how busy life becomes, and you will see Christ looking back at you. Find your own unique place of service to Christ’s body, where you can nourish and be nourished.

Sometimes we imagine that we must carry everything alone, or that the strength we need must come from inside ourselves. But God did not design us that way. He designed us to live in a continual exchange of life: receiving from Him, and receiving from one another.

And so remember that we were never meant to live on a single stream. We live by two streams. One flows between our hearts and God in prayer. The other flows through the fellowship of His people. And when both are open, the life of Christ moves through us, like blood through a living body, cleansing, nourishing, strengthening, and sustaining us. Remain in that flow, and you will always have the life you need to give to others.

With all my love,

Mom

“My soul, wait silently for God alone, for my expectation is from Him.” (Psalm 62:5)

Dearest Daughters,

You will not have the nourishment that you need for your children and for your family if you don’t feed yourself with the spiritual bread of prayer and fellowship with God. Communication with God is vital to our own thriving and to our repentance.

The apostle John tells us, “If we walk in the light as He is in the light… the blood of Jesus will cleanse us from all sin” (1 John 1:7).

When I look at that scripture, I see many layers of meaning. But what speaks to me most is that somehow, in walking in the light of His presence, the lifeblood of Christ flows to me.

Everyone knows that if you cut off circulation to a finger or a limb, death comes quickly to that body part. In the same way, we must have the blood of Jesus flowing to us—not only for the cleansing of sin, but even for survival. The blood is a feeder. It nourishes the body. It fights infection and bacteria. It cleanses and restores.

And somehow, this blood comes to us when we walk in the light of His countenance. In that place, the blood flows to us—nourishing, cleansing, fighting off infection, depression, and every evil thing.

So let’s talk about this communication with God. First, how should we pray?

Jesus gave us the structure of our prayers. It begins with hallowing His name, lifting Him up in honor and gratitude. Prayer should always begin by entering His gates and presence with thanksgiving and praise.

Don’t start your prayers with your own failures, or the failures of others, or the needs of your children. Begin with gratitude. If you start at any other gate, you haven’t entered the gate into His presence, which can only be entered with thanksgiving.

Once you’ve fully invited the presence of God and been embraced by His love—once you know that He surrounds you and fills you—then you’ll know which needs to bring before Him.

As a mother, I’ve often found it challenging to find undistracted places and times in which to pray. But I’ve realized that, while there are many ways to pray, only a few ingredients are absolutely necessary: thanksgiving and humility.

If those two ingredients are present, prayer can take various forms in different seasons. Sometimes prayers are loud. Sometimes they’re joyful. Sometimes prayers are tears. And sometimes prayers are silence in the presence of God.

I really discovered this when your dad and I went to Brazil. We shared two walls of our home with neighbors who were not believers. There were times when we didn’t feel it was right, whether they were believers or not, to impose loud cries to God upon their sleep or their family time, so I learned to seek God in more ways than one.

Certainly when I had time to go down to the church and cry out to the Lord at the top of my voice with hands raised, I did that, and what a liberating feeling it was!

But I also learned that sometimes just stilling my soul in thanksgiving and gratitude could bring me into the presence of God and give me an ear to hear Him.

All the elements of Biblical prayer—whether loud cries, kneeling, raising hands—are meant to get us outside of ourselves, to humble us, and to move our own thoughts, pride, and images out of the way when they stand between us and God. It is not God who needs these expressions. We need them.

If we can bring ourselves into a place of love, humility, and thanksgiving with God, sometimes a prayer can be as simple as stepping out under the stars, lifting your eyes to the heavens, and threading the magnitude of all your problems and needs through that tiny pinpoint of light, allowing its power to infuse you with strength, with the knowledge of eternity, and with the presence of God.

I remember a time when I was in a very difficult battle, and I learned something about prayer and the presence of God.

I had been in the agony of a kidney stone for many days and was in terrible turmoil about how to deal with it. Should I go through with a surgery? Should I take narcotics for the pain? I had a three-month-old baby whom I was breastfeeding and didn’t know what to do or how to handle the situation in a way that would not harm my baby, and all the while the acute pain was mind-numbing.

Your dad said he would support and confirm whatever decision I made, but he felt I needed to initiate the direction in a matter that so seriously affected my own body. I was in such turmoil trying to decide—take the medication or not take it? Go in for the surgery or not? Then suddenly your granddaddy, my father, showed up at the door. He laid his hands on me and began to weep and pray for my strength, for my peace, and for my healing. The pain didn’t go away, but I felt the presence of God all around me.

After that prayer, he told me something that became a compass for me. He said, “Your first priority is not to decide whether you should take the medicine or not. You just need to find that place where you feel the presence of God and focus on staying there. Do whatever it takes to remain in that space, and there you will know the will of God.”

I realized then that I was not supposed to be looking for an answer about medications or surgery. I was supposed to be looking for God. And that revelation simplified everything.

When he left the room, I reached over to the CD player and pushed the play button, not even knowing what was in it. The song came on:

I can see clearly now that the rain is gone.

I can see all obstacles in my way.

Gone are the dark clouds that had me down.

It’s gonna be a bright, sunshiny day.

As I listened, I dropped my head back against the couch and closed my eyes. Tears rolled into my ears—not tears of pain or sorrow, but tears of gratitude that God was with me. I could see the obstacles in my way, and strangely that was a joyful thing. I wasn’t going to stumble over what I could see!

I focused on only one thing: to stay in that place, like balancing on one toe, shifting slightly this way and that to keep that awareness of His presence. And the remarkable thing was that the pain began to recede! It was almost like I was observing the pain from a distance.

I stopped worrying about the medicine or the surgery. I simply focused on the feeling of God’s love and His hands wrapped around me. And to tell you the truth, I never thought about it again. Five days later the stone passed. But those were five incredible days of learning the ways of God—learning the wisdom of the Spirit, the Almighty Comforter and Healer. It was such a victory in my life that I began to try it more often. If I could just live there.

And as a mother, this is the answer. There will be days when you need to cry out with all your voice. There will be days when you may need to dance before the Lord and lift your hands in surrender. There will be days when you need to kneel quietly with your head resting on the bed. There will be days when you need to take a walk beneath the stars and gaze at the heavens and feel the awesome greatness of God. But all you truly need is to be in His presence, and your gratitude and humility will bring you there. So let that be your focus.

If you need to cry to be in His presence, then cry. If you need to rejoice, then sing, clap, and dance. If you need to humble yourself, then fall on your face. If you need to quiet your soul, then be still and listen. But learning to cultivate that awareness, that fully certain knowledge that you are in His presence, in His arms, with His breath breathing upon you, is absolutely imperative. And when you have done that, you will know the power of prayer.

But as a mother, there’s something else you must remember. You will need to find times when you can be alone with the Lord—whether early in the morning or late at night when the house is quiet and your heart can turn fully toward Him. But you must also pray in the presence of your children. They learn to pray by seeing you pray.

I often made my prayers with you twofold. One kind of prayer was very clear and spoken for your benefit so that you could hear what it sounds like to bring the ordinary details of life before God.

“Lord, order our steps today. Help us honor You in the way we eat, in the way we clean, in the way we speak to each other. Bless Granddaddy and strengthen him in his illness.”

These were simple, specific prayers you could hear and understand—prayers you could join in with nothing more than an amen in your heart.

But there’s another part you needed to see as well. You needed to see me humble myself before God. You needed to see me grateful. You needed to see me weep. To pray with my heart and not just with my mind. You needed to see me rejoice in the Lord.

Children learn prayer not only by instruction, but by witness. They watch their parents turn their hearts toward God, and slowly they begin to understand that they can do the same.

And so remember this: remain in that place of communion with Him. When you live there—continually returning to His presence—the life of Christ will flow to you like blood through a living body—cleansing, nourishing, strengthening, and sustaining you.

Remain in that flow, and you’ll always have the life you need to give to others.

With all my love,

Mom

Dearest daughters,

The role of intimacy in marriage is vital, and therefore our perspective of it shapes everything.

If intimacy is only about procreation, then it becomes a duty. If it’s only about personal pleasure, we become self-centered and hedonistic. But if intimacy is an essential element of uniting a husband and wife—body, soul, and spirit—then we begin to see it rightly: essential to love, to unity—and yes, meant to be mutually pleasurable.

To experience the fullness of love, and even creativity, human beings need spaces where guarded self-awareness ceases, where the rational mind becomes silent, places where we can freely give and receive without calculation. We may enter such spaces standing before the waves of the ocean, or in surrendered prayer, or in the wordless babble exchanged between a mother and baby. And we should enter such a place in the deepest connection between husband and wife. I would like to explore how intimacy can be one of these sacred “spaces” and how it plays this unifying role within marriage.

From the very beginning God treated physical union as something sacred. Before sin ever entered the world, He designed marriage and said the two would become one flesh. And then Scripture adds that they were naked and were not ashamed. From these passages we may infer that physical union existed in paradise before the Fall. It was not an afterthought, a concession to human weakness. It was an original component of wholeness and life.

I think many Christians avoid this topic because the world has distorted it so badly. But if we allow the world to do all the talking, then the world will do all the teaching, and our children will learn the world’s viewpoint whether we intend it or not. Sexuality and the sexualization of the body, divorced from any God-given design, is everywhere today: billboards, checkout aisles, social media feeds. So to counterbalance that, we must actively inform our children and ourselves about what a Christ-centered physical relationship looks like.

As you may remember, I spoke with each of you about beginning elements of this even when you were young. And the more children I had, the more I did that. My goal was not to burden you, but to open a door early for conversation in the appropriate place. I wanted you to know where to go with your questions before someone or something else answered them poorly.

I told you that the physical dimension of love is like a fire, and I asked you:

Is fire good or bad?

You agreed that it could be either. Fire gives life—the sun on our gardens, the warmth of a hearth, cooked food. But outside its place, it destroys, leaving homes in ashes and rubble in its wake. It can decimate a forest or cause a nuclear explosion.

Scripture says, “Let marriage be held in honor among all, and let the marriage bed be undefiled” (Heb. 13:4). Not ignored, not worshiped, but honored, inside its design—and marriage is all about design. It is one of the strongest bonds on earth when it is patterned after the biblical model.

So let’s be clear. As Christians, we believe sexual intimacy belongs in only one place: within a committed, lifelong covenant between an adult man and an adult woman. But once that bond exists, what then? Does God’s word further define the design for how we should approach marital intimacy? It certainly does. The heart of that design is perhaps best summed up in the Golden Rule and in the second great commandment: our deepest joy and security are found not in grasping for our own needs, but in seeking the good of the other.

Male and Female

The beauty of the male and female relationship lies in difference, not sameness. God said male and female He created them, in His image (Gen. 1:27). It is the two together that reflect Him most completely. Differences expand empathy, layer dimensions and bring texture to care. They teach us to love someone who doesn’t experience the world in the exact way we do.

Now, the following observation is general, not absolute, but it is common enough to be worth noting: Men tend to have a steadier physical drive toward physical union and climax. Women tend to experience desire more in an ebb and flow, in seasons affected by cycle, pregnancy, nursing, exhaustion, or emotional climate. For many women, this same ebb and flow often applies even within a single encounter; desire builds gradually, in waves.

Both patterns are normal and have their benefits and drawbacks. These different responses to physical need and attraction are another way of adding dimension to the relationship and teaching us to understand outside of our personal sphere of experience.

Without understanding each other, men may feel constantly rejected and women may feel constantly pressured.

How to approach these differences is addressed in Scripture with a principle that must be applied to intimacy just as to the other facets of Christian living: “Do not merely look out for your own personal interests, but also for the interests of others” (Phil. 2:4). Scripture also tells us, “The husband should give to his wife her conjugal rights, and the wife to her husband” (1 Cor. 7:3). Paul goes on to say that the body of each belongs to the other. This giving ought to be viewed as an adventure of discovery!

Marriage becomes the place where selfishness either dies or lives miserably. The healthiest marriages keep asking the questions:

What brings you joy? What is your need? What can I do to give you love? When both parties adopt this attitude, the warmth of love will flow naturally and joyfully.

Knowing—Yada

There’s something beautiful in the Bible’s language on this topic.

The Hebrew word yada means “to know.” But it doesn’t mean intellectual or analytical knowledge—it means relational knowing, experiential knowing.

God says He “knew” (yada) Abraham (Gen. 18:19). This relationship was obviously not physical since God is a spirit, but this word implies that it was nonetheless deeply, intimately personal. For Scripture also tells us that Adam “knew” Eve his wife, and as a result, she conceived. This is the same word—yada.

So physical intimacy in marriage is meant to express a kind of knowing that goes deeper than thoughts, words or compatibility points. It is a knowing that involves the whole person—body, soul and spirit.

Many women (and men) live very much in their headspace—thinking, analyzing, worrying, organizing. But intimacy pulls you out of analysis and into presence, nudging you into the world of the heart by acts of love. If you try to think your way through lovemaking, nothing works! But if you respond, give, receive, laugh, and learn—true unity unfolds.

Scientifically, the hormone oxytocin is sometimes called the “love cocktail.” It’s released during intimacy, when we feel warm, bonded, safe, and at peace. It’s also the hormone flowing through a mother’s body as she breastfeeds her baby. And remarkably, it’s also the very hormone that initiates and sustains labor—the same hormone that brings a baby into the world and then helps the uterus contract to prevent hemorrhage afterward. So the same hormone present in the ecstasy of lovemaking is the hormone that brings new life to birth.

But an equally fascinating fact is that the antagonist to oxytocin is adrenaline. Adrenaline is the hormone of anxiety, fear, and stress—the “fight-or-flight” response. When adrenaline rises, oxytocin is suppressed. Labor can stall. Milk struggles to flow. Emotional and physical connection can feel distant. But love casts out fear, anxiety, and worry, just as fear drives away love and bonding. Not only our minds but also our bodies are designed so that love, safety, and peace open us up, and fear shuts us down.

It is in love that we bring new life to birth, whether that’s the life of a baby in the womb or the life of intimacy within a marriage. Fear constricts. Love releases. Biologically, spiritually, and relationally, we were designed to flourish in love.

Especially at the beginning of marriage, don’t try to be professionals. Awkwardness can be part of bonding. No checklist ever made a marriage warm. Laugh at your blunderings; it is the medicine that heals, and the stories that you’ll remember together forever.

Beyond Words

I once learned about a study involving nonverbal autistic young adults and a dance instructor. They communicated only through mirrored movement and shared rhythm while brain activity was being monitored by electrodes. As their bodies moved together, their brain patterns began to align—rising and falling in emotional harmony without a single word being spoken. This dance became unspoken communication and shared emotions. The dance became a form of communication unavailable to them through verbal language. It revealed something deeper than speech, a shared communication and emotional rhythm carried through the body itself.

Out of Headspace and into the Heart

The body can communicate what the mind cannot. This dynamic is key to understanding what intimacy in marriage can be. In affectionate touch—initiating, reflecting, responding—and most of all, in getting outside of the rational, self-aware headspace, a husband and wife begin to move beyond guarded self-awareness and into shared rhythm of the heart. Physical closeness fosters emotional and spiritual alignment—a connection deeper than words. Over time, this shared rhythm unites not only body, but heart and mind.

What some call “sweet nothings” are not nothing at all. They are the small murmurs, nonsensical phrases and gestures that hold whole worlds of meaning, a squeeze of a hand, a breath, a turning toward or away. This is the language of two hearts babbling feelings too deep for ordinary words, endlessly communicating from within. Sometimes a “sweet nothing” can mean everything!

The two become one flesh in ways that thought and conversation alone cannot accomplish. Intimacy plays a vital role in this part of God’s design!

What It Points To

Scripture tells us that marriage itself is but a picture of a greater reality. It reflects Christ and the church, self-giving love freely received and returned (Eph. 5:22-33). So intimacy trains the heart to forsake selfishness. It’s not performance or technique but mutual giving, both in the ways that come naturally and in the ways we discover from our different counterpart. It’s in the times that we crave it, but also in the seasons where we allow love to be awakened for the pleasure of another.

Love often.

Love from the heart.

Look for the other’s joy.

It is the hearth that warms a marriage, the sunlight in its garden, the warmth that awakens yet to be discovered seeds buried in the soil of your soul.

So don’t neglect it. Scripture even gently warns married couples not to withdraw from one another for long, because this bond protects tenderness and unity and guards against temptation (1 Cor. 7:5). Let it remain an adventure, early and late in marriage, full of laughter, gentleness, and learning one another. Let it lead you out of mere connection of the mind and into love that communicates through body, soul, and heart.

With all my love,

Mom

Dearest Daughters,

Today I will finish the story I began last week regarding our evacuation from Israel during this crisis.

The curry was almost finished when the siren began to scream.

I was standing at the stove adding the last garnishes to a Thai curry for the families we were staying with and the neighbors when the alarm went off.

We all dash into the safe room, the heavy door closing behind us. And suddenly I realize:

“Did we turn the burner off?”

“Yes, yes, I got it,” Ahavah says quickly.

But I can’t help picturing smoke rising from the kitchen.

When people tell you of war, no one tells you about reading the Psalms huddled together in a small room full of sweaty feet and morning breath—and yet somehow breathing in fresh air through words spoken thousands of years ago that feel new every morning.

The media tells you a lot about war-ridden countries. They gather like vultures on every gory scene, but it doesn’t give you a very accurate portrayal. On the one hand, it over-dramatizes, but on the other, it leaves out the constant painful realities that relate to everyone. You are left with the impression that every village is burning, that everyone is running and screaming, wounded and desperate. The most dramatic scenes are always chosen. But I found that the most moving, the most painful, and the most touching moments were not the dramatic ones. They were the small and mundane ones. The ordinary corners of life that are suddenly overturned by war.

No one tells you about your neighbor trying to drive to your house with a meal—hoping to bring comfort and food—when the sirens go off. They debate whether to go or stay. After all, a car is a kind of time bomb; a full tank of gasoline is explosive. So they stuff the food into the car and run back into the house to wait. The all-clear sounds. They and their children run back out, start the car, and the siren goes off again.

Back into the house.

Then out again.

Then back again.

Until finally they get onto the road, only to have another siren send them pulling into a roadside shelter. But they still show up. They arrive with ice chests full of half-prepared food and sheepishly ask to use your kitchen.

“Sorry for the inconvenience,” they say, “but we figured we’d better get over here during the lull.”

No one tells you about the unity that comes, but that is the part that got to me the most.

No one knows just how they and the ones they love will show up in the hour of trouble, but everyone will be measured and asked to stretch.

I’ve had a curiosity about wars since I was a child, as long as I can remember. When I was eleven years old I read The Hiding Place. I read it twenty-seven times before I left home. I wanted to be like those people—thinking of others, giving them shelter, becoming a hiding place.

After that I read many more books about people who lived through war, especially World War II. I wondered what the war itself brought out in them. How did they behave before that? Who did they become in that season?

Last week I stood on the fringe of those experiences and felt measured—measured by God, measured by my circumstances, and measured by the kindness I saw in others. And I found myself looking for a growth spurt.

I already told you in my last letter how it began, but let me tell you how the trip to the wedding in Israel ended for us—though sadly it is still ongoing for many in the Middle East.

As a midwife, I needed to get home. I could send mothers to the hospital if necessary, and I had backup, but six babies were due soon, and I had told the mothers I would be there.

More than that, nearly all of our children were home. Only Carri Beth was with us. We felt a deep pull to get back. There is nothing like a crisis to make you desperate to gather your family.

All day Dad sat cross-legged on the floor outside the safe room with Jake, Granddad Jerry, Butch, and Brother Tsafrir, trying to figure out if evacuation was possible. The U.S. government offered little clarity.

The announcements went something like this:

“Americans are urged to evacuate as soon as possible.”

And two lines later:

“Americans are advised to shelter in place.”

“What are they trying to say?” I asked Dad.

So, inch by inch, he began building an evacuation plan through a tiny airport in Taba, Egypt. These flights weren’t on Kayak, so he had to search through obscure channels to find them. It seemed like a minor miracle when he suddenly found twelve open seats on a newly scheduled flight. Meanwhile we held our original non-refundable tickets home. After calling the airline and explaining the situation, they said nothing could be done. Thousands of dollars would be lost, not only for us but also for Dad’s parents and the entire Tindell family, who had already faced financial setbacks after difficulties surrounding their Mexico mission trip.

But that wasn’t the real question.

The real question was this: What was the will of God?

After working on the plan all day, Dad sought counsel from Uncle Asi and several of the brothers both in Texas and in Israel. Then he prayed through the night. We both had never felt more agitated.

In the morning, we lay in the dark talking, and I told him, “It’s not that I’m against leaving. And it’s not that I’m for it. I just want to hear God. I want to know that rush of the Spirit that says, ‘This is the way.’ If we can feel that, I can get behind it in faith.” Through all the strain, it had been hard to hear.

But this decision couldn’t be because of money.

It couldn’t only be because of safety.

It couldn’t be for the births.

It couldn’t even be because of our children.

You can give your children everything and still rob them if you’re not in the will of God.

So we prayed. The brothers gathered downstairs seeking a word from the Lord. I knelt upstairs by the bed. Then I paced the hall. Then I knelt again. Finally, in frustration, I cried out to God:

“Where are You, God? I’ve heard Your voice before. Why can’t I hear You now?”

I was waiting for a clear answer: Evacuate. Or Stay.

But instead I heard something else. Go check on Ahavah.

Ahavah was there with four of her children, including a newborn baby only a month old. Her two-year-old, five-year-old, and fifteen-year-old were still back home.

Suddenly my heart squeezed with compassion. I knew immediately that this love, this feeling, was the voice of God, so I got up and walked toward the stairs just as she was coming up them. A look of strain creased her face. I put my arm around her.

“How’re you doing, Hav?”

She burst into tears.

“Did we miss God?” she asked. “Is this happening because we missed Him?”

I knew immediately that it wasn’t true.

“No,” I said firmly. “Don’t even go there. The glory of God wants to be revealed—and we can reveal it through this.”

Something lifted from my heart.

Then she said, “You know what popped up in my Bible verse today? Joshua 1:9: “Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.”

A chill ran down my arms, and in that moment I knew we were going to evacuate.

How like God that His voice came through when I went to love my neighbor! All the people bringing us food, popcorn, and encouragement had already discovered the secret that God speaks where love is practiced.

We often think we must hear God first and then love, but the truth is the opposite. We love first, and there we find God, and He begins to speak.

Less than five minutes later Dad came upstairs.

“We’re going,” he said. “We’ve heard from God.”

He read the scriptures the brothers had received, and described the faith they’d felt. I told him what Ahavah had shared. The faith that rose in the room was palpable, and we looked at each other with wet, red-rimmed eyes. “Here we go,” Dad said with a small smile. Dragging our baggage down the stairs, we readied and gathered to pray, and at 9:30 Tuesday morning we pulled out on the beginning of an unknown, risky evacuation that would take us three days.

We needed to drop our rental car in Tel Aviv before driving south to Eilat. We stopped at a gas station, and as we checked the van tires for the long desert drive, the sirens went off again. We all scrambled into a concrete bunker that just happened to be right beside the air pump. Inside we were pressed shoulder to shoulder with strangers. Carri Beth, who is sixteen, began to giggle, but I could hear a hint of hysteria beneath it.

Booms echoed outside. I was straddling a stack of tiles and began to feel a cramp in my hip, so I climbed up onto them and looked down into the wall-to-wall people and took a photo.

Silence. Then someone cracked a joke. I’ve discovered that human beings have an incredible ability to lighten unbearable moments with humor. I believe it is a gift from God.

We drove through the Negev for hours. The land grew more and more austere, but magnificent—canyons dropping away from the road, cliffs and mesas rising under the desert sun. At last we came to Eilat on the Red Sea, the border of the Sinai—the place where God spoke to Moses from the mountain, and it was breathtaking.

We found a hotel to try to get a few hours of sleep before beginning our journey at four in the morning, but at 12:30 a.m. the wail of the sirens—accompanied by the shrill scream of my phone—pulled me out of sleep. My heart was already pounding with such violence that I could taste the adrenaline on my tongue. I sat upright and threw the covers aside. Another air raid, just as we had fallen asleep.

We hurried down the hall, down the hotel stairs and into the basement bunker with the other hotel guests, the familiar choreography already unfolding in the dim light. As we settled against the wall, waiting for the minutes to pass, I leaned close to Dad and whispered, “There ought to be a law against your heart pounding before you even wake up. It seems like you should be allowed to wake up first, and then get your heart pounding.”

Even there, in the bunker, he gave a small chuckle. And somehow that small sound, of humor, of courage, made the room feel a little less tight.

There were hundreds of people down there with children—even puppies. And I noticed something.

Normally in crowds there is a competition you feel in the air. But here it was completely absent.

No women were competing in their appearance. No one was subtly demonstrating how “together” they were as they ushered their children into the bunker. No one compared anything. We were simply all in it together.

“Here, sit here.”

“How’s your baby?”

“You can have that corner.”

People shifted to make space for the aged, for mothers with infants, for anyone who needed a little more room. And there was an incredible alertness in everyone’s eyes.

Fatigue, yes—but no distraction.

A listening.

A waiting.

A watching.

I felt it in myself. If I could listen this well forever… if I could watch this closely… who would I see? What would I hear? What might I understand?

There is no distraction in war, only a united alertness, a tuning to need and to alarm. When the all-clear sounded, we all scrambled back to our beds.

Then Dad checked his email—thank God—and noticed that our flight out of Taba had been moved an hour earlier. Instead of getting up at four, we would need to get up at three. We realized that if there hadn’t been a missile alert, he wouldn’t have seen that email in time and we might have missed our flight. So we spent the next few minutes trying to contact everyone. And that was when we realized how much more acclimated Israelis are to war than Americans. All the Americans who had been in the bomb shelter with us answered immediately. But the two Israeli families—the Ephraths and the Yardens—had already gone back to sleep.

Dad laughed and said, “It’s amazing that an Israeli can be asleep ten minutes after being in a bomb shelter!”

He eventually got through to them, and in the dark of the morning we gathered in a circle out in front of the hotel. With arms linked, we prayed for God’s shadow of His wings to cover us—for His pillar of fire to go behind us and before us. We embraced one another. Not many words were spoken; we all knew the risks, the dangers, and knew also that only God could truly see and keep us safe.

Then we set out for the border into Egypt and Sinai. When we arrived at the border, I was surprised by how many people were walking down the pothole-riddled road dragging suitcases toward Egypt at 4:00am. But what surprised me even more was how many were coming the other direction. Israelis were returning home to be with their families in a time of war. This was as far as the vehicles were allowed to go, so there under the shadow of Sinai, we embraced our Israeli brothers, said our goodbyes and set out beneath the stars for Egypt.

We passed through several Israeli checkpoints on foot, and then we entered Egypt.

At the first podium Egyptian agents wrote down our names and passport numbers by hand. Then they rubbed their fingers together and asked, “Teeps, Teeps.” So we handed over tips. This would become a repeating pattern. Thankfully, Dad had anticipated this and we had brought cash.

I lost track of how many times we stopped to have our passports inspected, our names copied down again, and our information written once more as we moved from one checkpoint to another.

Then a taxi service manager approached us, trying to sell rides to get from the border to the airport. This had been one of our biggest concerns—we had no idea how we were going to travel the twenty-five miles from the border to the airport. After some bargaining and haggling, Dad secured two vans that would take us there.

We stepped outside and I thought, Okay, this must be it.

There was a “Welcome to Egypt” sign.

But beyond it stood yet another mass of people. Another checkpoint.

Another twenty-five dollars cash per person. It was the waiting—before we even knew what we were waiting for—that was the most tense. People huddled in the dark, restless and alert, standing on tiptoes to try to see down the line.

“What are we waiting for?”

“Has anyone gone through?” These questions reverberated like a gong in all of our chests.

I told Dad, “When we’re moving I feel less tense. But when we’re standing still and I don’t know why—we’re just waiting—I don’t like it.”

At last, we passed through the gates.

Turbaned men in robes tried to sell us rides. Stray dogs panted between the legs of an emaciated camel while he ate from a dumpster. And the minaret sounded a haunting call to prayer. We were in Egypt.

We climbed into the vans. Our driver was friendly, and I took a moment to look into his eyes, searching for something human, something connected. I determined not to go with anyone in whom I couldn’t sense that.

With toot of the horn and puff of exhaust, we began the hour-long ride through the rugged Sinai wilderness.

We passed hundreds of trucks stalled in traffic jams along the mountain roads. One had overturned, spilling oranges everywhere across the asphalt.

At last we arrived at the Taba airport, standing like a lonely sentinel on the desert sand. Hundreds of people were already gathered outside the tiny building, trying to get in. We stood in the cold for an hour, stamping our feet and jumping up and down to stay warm. Pulling random garments out of my suitcase, I wrapped them around my shoulders and head.

Strangers gave Ahavah shawls and blankets for her baby. And everyone pressed toward the door, anxiously watching to see if anyone was being allowed inside, and if so, what was happening in there. When we finally entered, the airport was utter mayhem.

There were full-body pat-downs, x-ray scanners, crowds pressing in every direction—but no PA system. No signs. No clear communication. It was just a huge square building with individuals running through the crowd shouting:

“TUS airline!”

“BlueBird airline!”

“This way!”

“That way!”

And the crowd would shift en mass toward whichever voice we heard, trusting that whoever was shouting actually knew what they were talking about. The man behind the counter asked Dad to check our names off of a paper passenger list. All the boarding passes were handwritten. All the baggage tags were handwritten.

We moved through one inspection after another while officials carefully copied each letter of our names into their records, clearly unfamiliar with the English letters.

We were all hungry and thirsty, as there had been no food or drinks available for hours, and you couldn’t bring anything in.

At last we were gathered in the departure area when someone shouted again:

“TUS airline!”

The crowd surged toward the door, through one more passport check, and out into the desert sunlight where the jet was waiting. Climbing the stairs to the roaring jet, we finally were on board!

Inside, people tried to sit in the seats printed on their original tickets—only to find those seats already occupied.

“My seat is taken!” someone called. The flight attendant finally announced over the speaker: “Don’t panic! We have enough seats for everyone. Just sit down wherever you can, so we can count you.”

People dropped into whatever seat they could find, but a few still had no seats. I watched one lady racing up and down the center isle, her eyes wide and wet with fear. The flight attendant gave their seat to her. Then they began calling out names, asking people to raise their hands if they were on board. There was a tension in the air. The sky felt exposed with no Iron Dome in Egypt. Egypt was considered a Level Two security risk by the U.S. State Department, and the northern and middle Sinai had been upgraded to Level Four—“Do Not Travel.”

Would danger come from the sky? Would it come from a terrorist? We didn’t know. But we believed we were still in the shelter of His wings, and I felt that shelter.

The plane creaked backward, then began to roll forward, gathering speed until we lifted off into the air toward Athens.

From Athens we went to Frankfurt.

From Frankfurt to Madrid.

From Madrid to home.

People ask how unity comes, how rivalry and envy cease.

Unity comes when we realize that we are all in the bunker of life together against the enemies of goodness, love, and peace.

If we became as alert to envy, selfishness, and jealousy as people are to bombs, we would find true unity.

If we learn to love our neighbor first, we will hear God.

And perhaps the real evacuation is this: leaving the enemy territory of competing selfishness and taking flight toward the land of unity and love.

Dearest Daughters,

Well, I’m going to truly divert from my typical letters to you. But somehow, on this day, it feels more appropriate to write a different kind of letter.

As you know, I’m in Israel. And I’m learning what it means to be a mother in a bomb shelter while missiles fall.

Your dad and I have been involved with Israel for many years now. We have so many friends here, so much shared life with this community. This is your dad’s seventeenth trip to Israel, and my thirteenth, if I’m remembering correctly. I dreamed of coming here long before I ever stepped on a plane, from the time I was a young girl making my first stumbling attempts at Hebrew, longing to see the land of the Bible, to stand at the walls of Jerusalem.

This time, a young couple in our church community, who are very dear to us, asked your dad to perform their wedding ceremony. The weeks leading up to the trip were chaotic—a month of mission work in Chihuahua, then twelve short days at home filled with preparing high school classes, planning for the new year, prenatals for all the mommies soon to deliver, and celebrating my fiftieth birthday. It almost felt like a relief to finally board the plane.

We brought Dad’s parents—your grandparents—and three generations of the Tindell family. Thirteen of us traveling together.

Our trip went smoothly. We had a layover in Madrid, where we squeezed in a meal at the oldest restaurant in the world, still operated by the same family for over three hundred years. And when we arrived in Israel, it was a joy to watch the awe in the eyes of those who had never been before—standing where Jesus walked, where David fought, where Saul fell, where Peter dropped his nets and followed.

The first few days we toured more than usual so everyone could see the land. But the last two days were consumed with wedding preparations.

As the bride and groom stood waiting to take their vows, your dad preached on living “in the shadow of His wings.” He spoke of covenant, of Ruth and Boaz, of the covering wing, symbolic of that covenant spread in protection and love. He read scripture after scripture about the wing of the Almighty.

He mentioned six passages from Psalms that refer to the shelter of His wings:

Psalm 17:8-9
Keep me as the apple of Your eye;
Hide me under the shadow of Your wings,
From the wicked who oppress me,
From my deadly enemies who surround me.

Psalm 36:7
How precious is Your lovingkindness, O God!
Therefore the children of men put their trust under the shadow of Your wings.

Psalm 57:1
Be merciful to me, O God, be merciful to me!
For my soul trusts in You;
And in the shadow of Your wings I will make my refuge,
Until these calamities have passed by.

Psalm 61:3-4
For You have been a shelter for me,
A strong tower from the enemy.
I will abide in Your tabernacle forever;
I will trust in the shelter of Your wings.

Psalm 63:6–8
When I remember You on my bed,
I meditate on You in the night watches.
Because You have been my help,
Therefore in the shadow of Your wings I will rejoice.
My soul follows close behind You;
Your right hand upholds me.

And finally:

Psalm 91:4–7
He shall cover you with His feathers,
And under His wings you shall take refuge;
His truth shall be your shield and buckler.
Your shall not be afraid of the terror by night,
Nor of the arrow that flies by day,
Nor of the pestilence that walks in darkness,
Nor of the destruction that lays waste at noonday.
A thousand may fall at your side,
And ten thousand at your right hand;
But it shall not come near you.

The ceremony ended in singing; Germans, Israelis, Arabs, Hungarians, Canadians, Africans, North and South Americans, all joining in ancient Israeli dance of celebration, circling in joy.

We went to bed expecting to have a church service the next day, followed by a tour of Jerusalem in the following days.

Instead, as I stood in the bathroom combing my hair the next morning, I heard a sound I’ve only heard a handful of times in my life—air raid sirens. The kind that make your heart pound. I’d heard them at home when a tornado was nearby. Then my phone began sounding an alarm I had never heard before.

In Israel, every newer home is required by law to have a reinforced safe room. The girls had been sleeping there. I went in and woke them.

“I think we’re all about to be in here,” I said.

Your dad checked his phone. The alert said an Iranian strike had begun. Fifteen minutes later, the sirens sounded again. This time, Home Command ordered us into the shelter. The roar of military jets shook the air.

We checked the news. Borders closed. Airport shut down. Iranian missiles incoming.

And immediately my heart turned homeward.

To you.

To Helen and your precious boys and Isaac.

To Blair and his dear wife and little girls.

To Andrew and Aurora and Aaron—and the baby coming that I was supposed to deliver.

To tall, quiet Zach, up in Idaho.

To Christopher, whose special needs require his mommy in ways few understand.

To Nicolas, thirteen, on the edge of becoming a man, waiting for help with his writing.

To my dear little four-year-old Ari, who may have his birthday without me if I cannot return.

I could not dwell there long. The thoughts were too overwhelming. I was thankful that at least Carri Beth is with us this time.

When we were allowed out briefly, we stood on the porch and watched anti-missile systems rip open the sky. Then the house would shake with the boom of interception.

Fifteen times the sirens sent us back into that small room.

We looked at each other differently in those tight quarters. It’s a strange thing. We prayed. Your dad read aloud the above scriptures about the shadow of His wings, and they became more than poetic. They were literal and immediate.

But we also laughed. We joked about brushing our teeth and improving our hygiene in such close quarters. Dad and I sitting together joked about being so close to each other.

Between alarms, Sheyar and Evie rushed over with their family—seven more people—as their home has no built in shelter. They brought us a Tex-Mex dinner! When the sirens went off, all wenty of us crowded into that small shelter. Naomi, seven years old, bounced and said, “I like alarms! This is fun!”

Julia, nine, curled silently under the bed.

We texted endlessly with others in the community.

“Are you okay?”

“Do you have enough food?”

“We’re making memories over here!”

Pictures came in—children under beds, toys scattered, sisters huddled together. No personal space. Only shared danger, shared love, shared life. Togetherness is all that matters.

We live or die together.

Sister Batyah brought a bag of popcorn; “For your bunker,” she said.

Grandma hurried up with glass bottles of water.

Leora brought playing cards “in case we get bored.”

We never quite brought ourselves to play the cards in the shelter, but downstairs between sirens we did. We checked the news. We made FaceTime calls to home.

It was all I could do not to weep when I saw Ari’s face.

“I wish I could give you some slobber kisses!” he said.

“I’ll give them to the phone . . .”

He kissed the screen.

I kissed it back.

That night we slept in our clothes. The alarms came again.

One missile was intercepted before we went into the shelter. We stepped onto the balcony and watched the sky over Mount Gilboa and the Jezreel Valley. Orange streaks tore across the darkness. When an interception happened overhead, the sky flashed and turned an eerie green. The air smelled metallic and strange. Windows rattled. The tiles trembled beneath our feet. Yet people still waved from the street.

This is Israel.

At 1:30 a.m., another alarm. Then another message.

Our nephew and your cousin, back home in the States had fallen into an icy river. He was not breathing. He had been resuscitated but was unresponsive. As Granddad stood on the back patio, tears on his face over his grandson, he raised his eyes toward the city of Nazareth across the valley—the city where Jesus grew up and said, “Jesus loved the little children.” He’s in the hospital, showing some hopeful signs of life as I write this.

Life and death. Bombs and babies. Wedding vows and hospital rooms.

This is life, my dearest daughters.

And we must learn to love one another—near and far.

I must learn to trust the Creator who holds each of you in His hands, who loves you more than even I ever could. After all, we are all ultimately His children, in His tender care. And in the end, that’s all that matters.

Whether the sun is kissing us with light and grace, or the sky is flashing green with missiles overhead—

I love you with all my heart.

Mom

Dearest Daughters,

This week is a significant one for me—my fiftieth birthday. Whenever I reach a landmark year, I naturally step back and ask:

What has my life meant?

To God… to my family… to my friends… to the church. And perhaps most importantly: has it meant what it was supposed to mean? Looking back, I can now see that each decade had a different emphasis and focus for me.

My childhood was devoted mostly to growth—physical growth and mental growth, learning how the world works.

My twenties were the years of striving to find my place: marriage, babies, relationships, and a great deal of striving. I was always trying to figure out where I fit and what I was meant to be.

My thirties were similar, but the striving shifted. I spent much of those years trying to become what I believed others needed or expected me to be.

But my forties changed me perhaps more than all the years before. Instead of asking, Who am I supposed to be? I began asking, Who do others need to become, and how can I help them get there? And that’s when I finally became most effective at being who I was meant to be.

Let me tell you about something that happened on my fortieth birthday.

I was honestly dreading turning forty. Forty sounded much older than thirty, and since I’m nine months older than your dad, I had to live in my forties alone for nine whole months while he enjoyed teasing me about it!

When introducing us, he would say with a delighted grin, “This is my wife, Amanda; she’s in her forties and I’m in my thirties.”

Later, after he finally turned forty, he would introduce us as, “I’m forty, and she’s forty, too.”

Except he always said it in a way that sounded exactly like forty-two. I would immediately insert, “He means forty also!” (My reaction was, of course, exactly what he was hoping for.)

But the damage was always already done, which he found extremely satisfying.

Anyway, that February day, my dear friend Karen Borman hosted a birthday brunch in her little cedar-woods home. The tables were full of sweet and savory breakfast foods and a fizzy punch with sorbet floating in it.

But the real gift came when she stood and said: “For your fortieth birthday, forty people wrote letters about what you’ve meant to them.”

She read a few aloud and sent the rest home with me in a large folder. That night I lay in bed with the folder in my hands and began reading. As I read, a sort of trembling grew inside of me.

They were the kindest, most heartfelt letters I’d ever received. But not one mentioned the things I would have thought mattered most, the things I considered my gifts and callings, the things I’d given my life to.

Not my writing.

Not my teaching.

Not a testimony in a church service.

Not my inspirational speaking.

Not my singing.

Not even a birth of the hundreds I’d attended.

Instead, every single letter described tiny moments, most of which I did not even remember.

One said:

“I was walking past your house in the dark one night and you were watering your flowers. You looked at me and asked how I was doing, then invited me onto your porch and listened to my heart. I had never felt so heard or encouraged.”

Another:

“We were both in the back room nursing our babies. You listened and spoke the simplest words to me, but they changed my life.”

Another:

“I stopped by just to drop off cinnamon rolls while you were teaching school. You invited me in, and those few minutes changed the direction of my life.”

Forty letters—all like that. After reading them, I felt a real fear inside me. If these were the moments that truly mattered . . . how easily could they be missed?

That night I had to get back out of bed and pray. I asked God to forgive sins I didn’t even know were there—the moments I’d been too busy to see.

I remembered Jesus’ words: “Whatever you did for the least of these, you did for Me.”

And He said the people who did those things often didn’t know they had, and those who didn’t also didn’t know they hadn’t.

I realized my calling was not the visible work. The calling was for me to truly see people. From that point forward I began to try asking a different question:

Not: What is my calling?

But: What does this person need? Who are they in God’s eyes?

And this change brought clarity in my own work and life. Ironically, that was the decade when my outward fruit increased the most—writing books, mentoring midwives, teaching more effectively, and becoming a better mother.

I truly believe it is because productivity does not come from focusing on your purpose. It comes from loving people well.

So my prayer for you is this:

That you learn earlier than I did that the greatest moments of your life will rarely look important while they are happening. They will look like interruptions. They will be in ordinary conversations. They grow out of listening and allowing yourself to really see others.

But these are the very places where people meet God—through you.

When you reach my age, I believe you’ll find what I’ve found: that the deepest fulfillment comes when you live not for your own purpose, but for the good of another.

I love you all deeply,

Mom

Dearest Daughters,

Scripture tells us that perfect love casts out all fear (1 John 4:18). I’ve seen this demonstrated both in the lives of others and in my own. And I would add this: if perfect love casts out fear, then absolute fear also casts out love. The two cannot cohabit. Where one reigns, the other fades.

Let me tell you a story.

Fear of heights runs strongly in my family. I remember being about thirteen, living in a canyon in Colorado, when your great-grandparents came to visit. The road down to our home was steep and winding. My grandmother sat on the floorboards of the car the entire way, shaking from head to toe. When she arrived, she said adamantly, “I will not go back out on that road until the day we leave!”

And she didn’t. No rides, no picnics, no outings—she stayed at the bottom of the canyon the entire visit, simply to avoid the road. Such was her fear of heights.

I was never like that. I loved mountain roads and rope swings and scrambling over rocks. But once I had children of my own, something shifted. I began to fear edges, not at first for myself, but for you kids. Helen, you will remember this clearly. That feeling has only grown stronger as I’ve grown older. I still love to hike and climb, but I don’t enjoy edges. Some people would laugh because my definition of an edge and theirs may differ, but the feeling is real all the same.

Now to the day I discovered how love can overcome fear.

It was a hot day in August at Arches National Park. We decided to take an eight-mile hike with the four youngest children as we traveled toward the Idaho community. We started early, with a nip in the air that melted away as soon as the desert sun crested the red rocks and began to bake the cracked earth. The wild beauty of the place—towering stone, narrow passages—made you feel as though you had stepped into Petra or an ancient temple. We craved every scrap of shade the trail offered and paused frequently for drinks under the meager shade of any jutting rock.

As the day wore on, the trail proved longer than we expected. Somehow eight miles grew and stretched.

Several of you kids have also inherited a fear of heights, Christopher and Carri Beth most strongly. Christopher, especially, has other needs that can amplify fear. At one point we reached a long, narrow fin of rock. It dropped off on both sides. The top itself was fairly wide, three to five feet, but the drop was ominous.

Daddy had Ari and was guiding Nicolas and Carri Beth, so Christopher latched onto me. He is quite big now, bigger than me, but his lack of self-consciousness allowed him to clutch my shoulder and then my hand. I told him, “Just don’t take your eyes off the back of my head.” I led him across the fin.

“You can do it. You’re doing great. Don’t look down. Look straight ahead,” I encouraged as he wobbled along clutching me with a sweaty grip.

He encouraged himself aloud the whole way. I can do it. I can do it. When we reached solid ground, we thought the worst was behind us. But about six and a half miles into the loop trail, we reached a cliff.

The trail simply sloped away and dropped into a narrow chasm. There was no way down except to cling to the rock face, turning your feet sideways as you descended. The stone was rough enough to grip, but it was enough to turn my stomach.

I told all the children to sit down and took Ari’s three-year-old hand. “Now what are we going to do?” I asked Dad.

He climbed up and down among the junipers, releasing their sharp scent in the heat, searching for another route. Other hikers passed us, who’d been down before, and confirmed this was the only way down.

Turning back would mean hiking in darkness. And Christopher did not want to cross the fin again.

Dad said, “Let me try it first.”

He climbed down and came back up with a calm, faith-filled report: It’s doable.

We made a plan that Dad would carry Ari down, with Nicolas—our least afraid—and I would follow. Then Dad would climb back up for Carri Beth and then Kippy. Just before I started down, I turned to Carri Beth and Kippy.

“Now I’m going to do this,” I said, as calmly as I could. “And I want you to watch me and see how easy it is.”

As soon as I began, I was acutely aware that they were watching—not just to see if I would make it, but how I would move and how steady my steps were. They would note whether my voice shook or whether I hesitated. So I didn’t.

I fixed my eyes on Daddy’s back and followed my own advice. Don’t look down.

“I trust him,” I prayed, watching him with Ari. “Lord, don’t let his feet slip.”

And something strange happened. I didn’t think about my own feet at all. Left. Right. Left. Right. One hand on the rock, the other out for balance. I wasn’t climbing for myself; I was climbing for them. We reached the bottom, and I’d felt absolutely no fear, no trembling, sweating or nausea, things I typically feel on an edge like that.

Then Dad climbed back up for the others. From below, I could hear their cries of fear spilling out as they clung to him with both arms while he backed his way along the cliff.

“You can do it!” I shouted.

Without realizing it, I began jumping in place.

“Left foot! Right foot! One more step! That’s it—you’ve got this!” I shouted, my voice echoing off the stone.

At one point Ari looked up at me and asked, “Mommy, why are you jumping?”

When they reached the bottom, we all had tears in our eyes. Not just because we were safe—we had trusted that we would be—but because they had overcome themselves. Left foot. Right foot. Step by step.

The hike ended well, and everyone talked triumphantly about scaling a cliff. But what stood out to me was this: I never felt fear on that descent. Not even a hint. Normally, a rock like that would have made me want to lose my lunch. Why didn’t it?

Because they needed courage more than I did. Because I had just a shred more faith than they had, and I gave it to them.

When you love someone deeply, when they need faith even more than you do, your own fears loosen their grip. You find yourself doing things you never thought you could do—scaling mountains you never imagined climbing.

So when fear overwhelms you, look for someone to love, to give courage. Give them faith, and watch your own fear disappear.

With all my love,

Mom

Dearest Daughters,

In the spaces where our own noise quiets, we begin to hear the voice of the Creator. And when we hear Him, our hearts begin to reflect Him and to create.

We had just begun the long journey home after nearly a month in Chihuahua with the four youngest children. We had greatly missed the three oldest boys, who were not able to come this time. But Helen, we could not have been happier to have you and Isaac along—and of course, we will miss sharing daily life with you and your two wonderful babies!

After a long day of traveling through the Chihuahuan desert mountains, so stark, so wild, and truly beautiful in their own right, we arrived in West Texas. Kippy’s birthday had been two days before, and we had promised him we would do something special on the way home. So we decided to stop at the Guadalupe Mountains and go for a hike.

Evening was just setting in when we arrived, and a crisp chill settled over the high desert, drawing a frosty fragrance from the earth as we began to climb the rocky trail to a narrow canyon called Devil’s Hall.

Dad gave me the keys to the car in case Ari couldn’t make the full length of the trail. Then he and the three older children moved ahead at a quicker pace, racing the setting sun, while Ari and I clambered behind, getting derailed by every pretty rock, bug or unusual plant.

To Ari’s great delight, there was still snow on the trail—just patches, but some fairly big ones. He poked his little hiking pole into every one, experimenting with the crunch, the flake and the crack of snow already iced over. He shrieked with laughter at each new discovery.

“Do you know why this snow is here, Mommy?” he asked.

“Why?” I wondered.

“Because Jesus likes people to be happy,” he said, “and He put it here so we would be happy!”

That seemed like a perfect explanation to me.

He wanted his picture in the snow, so we took one. Meanwhile, your dad and the other children grew farther and farther ahead. Ari and I carved our names in the icy patches and poked holes as we went.

I showed him the yucca plants and explained how Native Americans had once woven baskets from their fibers.

“How did they do that?” he wondered.

I peeled back the green outer layer and showed him the beautiful white fibers underneath.

“Wow,” he said, “it already looks like a basket!”

Then we passed a dead yucca, and he frowned.

“Look what the Indians did to that one,” he said solemnly.

“No, winter did that,” I explained.

The trail grew steeper. Ari, gallant as a little gentleman, kept offering to help me up and down the rocks. I remembered how he’d melted my heart when he told me the day before, “If Daddy gets too far away, I will help you if you need help on the trail.”

But today he needed quite a bit of help himself. He was wearing cowboy boots, and the trail had grown slick with ice where the melted snow had refrozen. At times he crawled on his belly while I gently pushed him along like a little sled.

The sun began to dance across the rocky crags—deep purple shadows below, golden light on their peaks.

“Look where the sun has kissed the mountain,” I told him.

“Can a sun really do that?” he asked.

“Well,” I said, pointing with my hiking pole, “it looks like it to me.”

Just above us was a dark cave. “What’s in there?” he wondered.

“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s a mystery.”

He absorbed that with a nod.

Beneath the dance of the lengthening juniper shadows, the snow turned lavender, and the trail grew steeper still.

“Do you know if we’re on the right trail?” he asked.

“I do,” I said.

“How do you know?”

I knew he wasn’t asking about the interspersed sign posts. He wanted to know if this was the trail Daddy had taken.

So I pointed to a boot print in the snow.

“What do you think that is?”

With puckered brow, he stooped to study it. “I’m not sure.”

I placed my boot beside it and lifted it away.

“What did my boot just do?”

“It made a mark.”

“Now see those up ahead? Those are Daddy’s footprints.”

His eyes lit up. And he began stepping carefully into each one.

“I’m following the trail,” he said. “I still see his footprints!”

Then I noticed a small hole darkening the snow.

“What do you think that’s from?” I asked.

He stared—and then shrieked with delight.

“Daddy’s hiking pole!”

So we followed the marks of his boots and the points of his pole.

Eventually the trail became too steep for me to manage him and our gear, and the light faded more, so we decided to turn back. He was disappointed, but as we crested a ridge, the valley opened before us. Fifty miles of undulating desert lay bathed in pink light, like wine melting into the earth.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” I said.

Quietly, he gazed out over valley far below.

Then he asked, “Mommy . . . why is it so quiet out here?”

And it was quiet. There is nothing like the desert to make you notice silence.

“It’s quiet,” I said, “because God makes places like this so people can hear Him.”

“I can hear God?” he asked.

“Yes, if you listen closely.”

He paused. “I don’t think I’m hearing Him.”

“Well, someday you will.”

“Like in a second?” he wondered.

“Maybe.”

Pulling his hood off his ears, he lifted his chin toward the crimson sunset.

“Let’s be quiet and see,” he whispered.

And standing there, motionless, he listened—far longer than I thought this lively four-year-old could.

Then breathlessly, eyes widening, he whispered:

“I think I hear Him . . . just a tiny little sound.”

“Do you?” I asked.

“Yes—but it’s not God. It’s Jesus.”

“That’s the same, son,” I said.

He nodded, pulled his hood back up and marched on with confidence, as if this were the most natural truth in the world.

As we neared the car, the sun slipped beneath the horizon, carrying the last color with it. The hike was over, but far more had been learned in those short hours than I could ever teach in a month of classroom lessons.

On the way up, he’d stepped on every icy patch, landing on his rear because he’d not known how slick it would be. But on the way back, he knew where to place his feet, avoiding ice, choosing broken snow or rocks. He knew when to slow down, when to move carefully.

The earth, the silence, and the quiet voice had taught him.

Don’t ever forget to listen. Don’t avoid the quiet places.

There is a voice waiting to be heard—and lessons that can be learned in one evening that might otherwise take a lifetime. There are footprints visible on those rocky ridges where the silence speaks.

Whisper in the Wind

I didn’t feel you there

‘til you caressed my hair.

You stirred up on the breeze

these dry and crumpled leaves

Whisked them up in play

And lofted them away.

I didn’t see your form

til you purged the sky of storm—

...a movement in the wind

that caused the dark to end.

And after you breezed past,

You left your print upon the grass.

I didn’t hear Your voice

above my heart’s own noise,

‘til your lamenting moan

matched up to my own,

...in the rattle of my pane

Until the morning came.

And then I knew You’d been

that whisper in the wind.

Love,

Mom

My Dearest Daughters,

When you plant a gourd, you cannot expect to harvest a pineapple. You will always reap what you sow, and marriage is no different. Whatever you take time to plant into your marriage will spring forth, and you will harvest far more than you planted, whether those seeds were good or harmful.

When we plant a single grape seed, we gather clusters and clusters of grapes. Such is the nature of our investment into marriage. So let’s take a closer look at this process.

I would like to begin with a quote I love from Mike Mason. My father read this at my own wedding:

I love this quote because if we truly want to become selfless as God is selfless, then by all means, get married, expecting the bomb of marriage to explode on your selfishness.

Your marriage will be miserable if you spend all your time trying to preserve yourself. But it will be beautiful if your desire is to break out of those confines, the bars and chains of selfishness, and explode into the world, the heavenly world of love, joy, and peace.

I have experienced love, joy, and peace in my marriage beyond anything I ever dreamed possible—but it has certainly waged war on my self-centeredness. Sometimes it nibbles away at it. Other times, it explodes like dynamite.

Every time a crying baby wakes you in the night, say, Thank You, God, for another arrow in the flesh of my selfishness.

Every time your husband needs your presence, say, Thank You, God, for another chain broken—another link falling away in the chains of loneliness.

It’s not comfortable as long as we’re living for self, but it’s euphoric when we’re escaping that bondage.

So every day, invest in what you hope to harvest in your marriage.

When you wake up feeling gloomy and overwhelmed, don’t say so. Say, I love you. What would you like for breakfast?

When you’re frustrated with messy children and fingerprinted windows, plant a small seed of patience and say, Would you like to learn how to wash windows today? It’s a fun job!

When you feel unnoticed or taken for granted, plant a seed of generosity and say, How can I serve you today? Even a small offering of the heart invites a harvest of love.

When words feel painful and your heart braces for battle, plant a seed of humility and say, I trust you. Help me better understand. That one seed can disarm a war.

Thus, sowing patience and love into your morning will reap peace in your evening—and love and patience will spring forth in your children, your friends, and in your spouse.

Love,

Mom

Dearest Daughters,

The Scriptures tell us to taste and see that the Lord is good, and that we will be blessed if we trust in Him. From this, we conclude that if we are not blessed, then we have not truly tasted the goodness of the Lord or fully trusted in Him. The promise is that blessing follows trust. But does this mean that everything in our lives will be easy, pleasant, or free from suffering? Certainly not. If that were true, then Paul, David, the disciples, and even Jesus Himself could not have been blessed, for they certainly endured trials, persecution, and even death. So what does this blessing truly mean?

It has everything to do with our angle and our perspective, both toward the goodness of God and toward the trials we suffer. We can be blessed in trials if we are actually sitting at the table of the Lord and eating from His goodness.

Imagine a banquet spread on a table before you—a golden roasted chicken, steaming crusty bread, carrots glistening with butter, a sprig of parsley for beauty, and ears of corn with butter dripping down their sides. Now imagine that every time you came to the table, you crawled underneath it and sat on the floor. You would have a very different perspective about the meal. You would notice the darkness and the shadows, the scratched table legs, the dirty floor and the crumbs. All you would talk about would be the lack, the mess, and what you do not have. Why? Because you chose to live under the table instead of sitting at it.

This is how we so often approach God in our lives.

I remember an incident that Sister Janet shared years ago in a Sunday meeting. We were gathered together worshiping the Lord, and she told about a trial she had gone through where she felt pressed on every side. One morning her husband had asked her, “How are you doing, Janet?” She began her answer, “Well . . . under the circumstances—” and he stopped her immediately.

“Under the circumstances? What are you doing under there?! We’re called to rise above and be overcomers!”

To be an overcomer does not mean the circumstances disappear. It means we stand on top of them, using them as stepping stones forward, upward, and higher.

So how do we end up living under our circumstances instead of over them? One of the primary ways is by focusing on those situations rather than on our Lord. When Peter fixed his eyes on the wind and the waves, he began to sink beneath them. But when he kept his gaze on Jesus, he walked right across his circumstances.

Another Scripture speaks directly to this same reality. The Lord says:

What is the most common “man” we trust in? Often, it is not someone else, but the “man” inside our own head. Our own natural reasoning, our own fears, our own fleshly perspective is usually the first thing we lean on. And when we trust in that, Scripture says we will not even recognize the miracles and the goodness of God when they come our way.

It’s like living under the table with the crumbs and in the shadows, where the feast isn’t visible. According to Scripture, that person becomes like a lonely shrub in a dry wasteland rather than a tree planted by streams of water. They miss the refreshment, the fruitfulness, and even the miracles that pass right by them.

However, when we turn our hearts back toward God, when we choose to trust Him rather than our own fearful understanding, our perspective changes. We rise up from under the table, sit in our proper place, and begin to taste His goodness again.

I’ve experienced this many times in my life. While dwelling on everything that feels impossible—how difficult dinner will be, how far behind we are in school, how much a child is struggling—everything becomes heavier and darker. But when I lift my head and look forward at the goal, a beautiful dinner on the table and happy faces around it, the meal becomes a joy. When I see a child grown, able to read and speak articulately, we both begin to walk on the water of our circumstances.

I often see this clearly as a midwife assisting a mother in labor. You must never let a woman sink beneath the stormy waves of her contractions. You keep her eyes fixed on her baby, on her husband, on the one supporting her. When her focus stays forward, she can ride those waves and bring forth new life.

Even in small, ordinary things, perspective shapes our lives. Each morning, we have our children express gratitude. Initially this was only in prayer time, but now we also do it at the table together. I have given them permission to share one thing they are sad or unhappy about, but they must also give thanks to God for whatever they can think of. Over time, gratitude has grown larger in their hearts and their sorrows have grown smaller. Many mornings they now say, “I can’t actually think of anything I’m sad about, Mommy,” even when I remember something they were upset about the day before.

This is the perspective we are called to live in.

Even science affirms that our thoughts shape our bodies. What we dwell on releases hormones that move through every cell. If we continually entertain stress, fear, and anxiety, our bodies are flooded with stress hormones that weaken us and make us more susceptible to illness. But when we fix our minds on hope, gratitude, and love, our bodies are bathed in life-giving “joy hormones” that strengthen us and build resilience.

So, may you walk out on the stormy waves of your circumstances with Jesus filling your vision. Do not live under the table among the crumbs and shadows, but sit at His banquet. Taste and see that the Lord is good! Blessed is the one who trusts in Him!

With all my love,

Mom