potholders

I scoffed at the raggedy old potholder you could see through, “Mom why in the world do you still use this?”

“It was my moms,” she said.

I teased her. “Does getting burned every time you use the oven help you honor grandma somehow? I’ll buy you a new potholder, for heaven’s sake.”

I didn’t get it, but I'm starting to. 

I feel small these days, with these blooming young adults around me,  all healthy and beautiful, eyes looking outside of this house where all the life is…

the anticipation of launching is just so loud, the futures are so bright

I don’t want to add even a little gray cloud with my unspoken question 

(what about me?)

so I cheer them and i smile

and I feel a little threadbare, 

like a used up old dish towel

(Am I still precious? in this state even?)

and l know in my teenage life

I’d walk past my mom like she was a potted plant 

with my eyes out towards the future

and one day as I’m folding socks and heavy with thoughts of change and shifting seasons of laundry I suddenly understand why the see-through potholder kept its place of honor in the drawer.

we love our people

and time gets used up

and we miss so much of it while we live our own lives

so we keep the potholder

and we hold it tenderly when we can’t hold them

because worn out, worn through 

any little thread of connection 

any tangible memory we can hold

is loved, 

precious, 

because they still are

and they always were

Lorraine has that silly picture I painted years ago hanging in her living room. And this year I hung up their old thanksgiving decorations in the hallway, construction paper crafts and finger paintings, remembering when they were bursting with pride over these offerings. They roll their eyes now, and that’s ok. 

Seth wanted to go to coffee with me and as he talked I couldn’t stop seeing the way his jacket brings out the green in his eyes full of hope, and the way he’s nervous and ready and asking “do I have what it takes?” and he let me see the fear and the weight for just a tiny beautiful second. I want to pause this whole thing before I have to see those eyes cry when he says goodbye to a grandparent (or to me.)

and today everything is lit up with glowing preciousness, 

every human around me

the new and the shiny ones with the future all ahead

and the quieter threadbare ones too

I saved the box with grandpa's handwriting for as long as i could, 

and I still have grandma’s tea set.

The teacup burns my hand when I use it 

but I use it anyway. 

--------

Will the potholders and the people be made new, reborn in the way of Jesus?
Is there hope down this way, down through the tunnel of stripping and letting go and getting smaller? 

Is there more life down here, down this way that feels like death?

Could it be that these joys, released with tears, are like seeds planted that will grow into more beautiful fruit than we can imagine?

I hold both memory and hope in my burning hands.

For now, we wait. 

No Mere Idea

I am not equipped for this-- for this month of marches to the cemetery. I do not have the words to soothe my children when grief and fear strikes in the night. I cannot explain “why,” not to them, and not to myself. I can only hold them close, and it doesn’t seem like enough.

Yes, daddy is with one of the sad families again. Ask me your question. Wait, never mind, don’t ask, because I don't know. Let's crawl under blankets together instead.Life in this broken world often seems like a war of ideas. And circumstances conspire, and speak loud words into our hearts, and we hear “God is not good. He doesn't care. He's not in control.”

We fight back, of course. We soak up God's Word; we breathe in His grace and promises.

A child sings his memory verse: “The Lord your God is with you wherever you go,” and I wonder if the words will inoculate him from all the attacks on his faith. It feels a little bit like feeding him a salad and hoping that it will keep him healthy for the rest of his life.

Our efforts would be futile if this were a mere war of ideas. But Jesus is not an idea, He’s a person.

This is the only reason I dare hope for my children, for myself.

We dare not hope in our righteousness, because we have seen it fail time and again. We dare not hope in our circumstances, or our intelligence, because these things are as fragile as our health. I cannot even guarantee that my arms will be there to embrace them in the night when the fears strike. I am not enough.

But Jesus is not an idea, He is a Person, and He is enough. I cannot be their Jesus, but with the help of God I can point them to Him. I carried each of my children to their Baptismal waters, and there, God adopted them, and gave them new life with Him. He nurtures that life through His Word and in His church. Parents and children alike are invited to come and drink and live; to seek and find and be found.

Christianity is not an idea. Christ is a Person, a God-man who has died and risen and overcome death and the grave. The promise is for us and our children.

Let us take the hands of our friends and our children who suffer, and let us go to together to meet Him in His Word and Sacraments. Let us go together to Him, who binds up the brokenhearted, who heals our wounds, and who renews our hope.

Christ holy vine, Christ living tree
be praise for this blessed mystery
that word and water thus revive
and join us to your tree of life.

(LBS 595)

originally posted 10/2014

plaster it everywhere.

I should be in bed, but I need silence more than sleep.

I need to sit heavy, to dwell in my Dwelling place. Has has been our dwelling place in all generations.  Surely he did not leave us as orphans in this place. Surely God is no stranger to suffering, and surely He is present in this place, even when I know it not, even when I forget or ignore Him.

He meets us where He promises: in His Word. I want to wrap myself up in it, to build a house made of Him, to take refuge under the shadow of His wings, and to pull everyone I love into safety with me.

And what I need has been commanded.  Where I want to go, I have been invited.  Truly, this is grace.

Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God, the Lord is one. You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your might. And these words that I command you today shall be on your heart. You shall teach them diligently to your children, and shall talk of them when you sit in your house, and when you walk by the way, and when you lie down, and when you rise. You shall bind them as a sign on your hand, and they shall be as frontlets between your eyes. You shall write them on the doorposts of your house and on your gates. (Deut 6:4-9)

These words of God: they are your life. Carry them with you, plaster them on your walls and keep them before your eyes and in your heart.

This morning, we added imperfect, papery decoration to our hallways, our mirrors, and even the front porch.  We will not win any Better Homes contenst.   But God will remain before our eyes in the days to come. When we walk from bathroom to bedroom and drop our hope along the way, His Word will fill us up again.

Plaster it everywhere, friends in Christ, and remember that you dwell in Him even as His word richly dwells in you.

 The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. 

But thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.

Therefore, my beloved brothers, stand firm, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that in the Lord your labor is not in vain. (1 Cor 15:56-58)

Psalm 90 English Standard Version (ESV)

A Prayer of Moses, the man of God.

Lord, you have been our dwelling place
    in all generations.
Before the mountains were brought forth,
    or ever you had formed the earth and the world,
    from everlasting to everlasting you are God.
You return man to dust
    and say, “Return, O children of man!”
For a thousand years in your sight
    are but as yesterday when it is past,
    or as a watch in the night.
You sweep them away as with a flood; they are like a dream,
    like grass that is renewed in the morning:
in the morning it flourishes and is renewed;
    in the evening it fades and withers.
For we are brought to an end by your anger;
    by your wrath we are dismayed.
You have set our iniquities before you,
    our secret sins in the light of your presence.
For all our days pass away under your wrath;
    we bring our years to an end like a sigh.
The years of our life are seventy,
    or even by reason of strength eighty;
yet their span is but toil and trouble;
    they are soon gone, and we fly away.
Who considers the power of your anger,
    and your wrath according to the fear of you?
So teach us to number our days
    that we may get a heart of wisdom.
Return, O Lord! How long?
    Have pity on your servants!
Satisfy us in the morning with your steadfast love,
    that we may rejoice and be glad all our days.
Make us glad for as many days as you have afflicted us,
    and for as many years as we have seen evil.
Let your work be shown to your servants,
    and your glorious power to their children.
Let the favor of the Lord our God be upon us,
    and establish the work of our hands upon us;
    yes, establish the work of our hands!

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In what Words do you like to dwell?
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Held in Peace

 "And the peace of God, which passes all understanding, 

will guard and keep your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus." 

Philippians 4:7

Doesn’t it seem strange to talk about “peace” in this place where tornadoes destroy and babies die? What is this peace that we have in Christ? Does the peace of God somehow lift us above the fear and grief that is part of the human condition?

Christians suffer, in body and in spirit in this place.

We are not given the peace of the Stoic. We are not told smile when all is well, and smile when the cancer is terminal. We are not told to close our hearts to that which could disturb our peace. We do not experience a mystical inner collection with God that allows us to weather the storms of this life like immovable statues. No, we flip and fly with the winds, much like the rest of the world.

In our experience, we who have peace with Christ often do not feel very peaceful at all, not in this place.

Christians suffer, and yet there is peace in Christ.

Those who are not in Christ are like a kite unfettered; free-wheeling through the sky; vulnerable to the winds and the elements. The crash is inevitable. The flight is terrifying.

We who have Christ are like the kite held by the strong father.

We have peace with God, and yet we live in this fallen world for a little while longer. 

We are still assaulted by the winds.

The rain falls, and some of the turns make our stomachs lurch. 

We may even feel as if we are careening out of control, and we brace for impact. 

But even in the worst of storms, we are tethered to a Rock.

We are held fast by Him who loves us.

As we flip and fly in this life, we know that nothing that assaults us can force us out of his hands.

He will hold us fast.

And one day He will reel us in, to Himself. 

He will bring us to our home of forever peace, in perfect safety.

Until then, even as we flip and fly, His grip is our peace.

photo credit

His grip is our peace.

You may also enjoy: Devotions by Emily and My Weakness/His Strength

lizard love

I’m up at 5am, crying over a lizard.

It’s not really over a lizard, of course. These are tears over death and disappointment and all that is broken in the world; over the way a heart can open up to love and joy and let life in and then death comes and crushes a little spirit, only 9 years old.  He’s too sweet to sit there, hunched shouldered, over a shriveled pet who can’t hold up his head.  He’s too young to hold a box of remains by the side of a hole in the ground. He’s too little to wonder why God didn’t answer his prayer for help when he prayed it. He’s too little to sleep alone after something like this. (So am I.)

Eldon was so excited to be a pet owner.  He bought his gecko with his own birthday money and has cared for him diligently. Just last weekend he wanted to put Mr. Crawley in a box to take to the hotel to show Nana the second she got to town- it’s been months, and he still acts like a proud daddy. He’d build him houses out of Jenga blocks, and he’d carry him on his shoulder. Mr Crawley was his choice for “free time” during homeschool every time.  I remember the proud way he paid for the crickets with his own money; how having Mr. Crawley taught him to love all the reptiles in the world (except the big ones that eat geckos).

And then that night, I knew it was coming. My words to soothe his worry fell flat on my own heart, and I ended up sleeping next to Eldon that night. And I laid there with anxiety about a shriveled gecko and heard to carriage of death rolling by.  In the depths of the night it felt like the carriage was coming for Eldon himself, the little gecko-like boy in my arms. It was coming for a piece of his heart.


After Mr. Crawley died, a  we decorated a box, and we had a little funeral. There were more tears than one would expect for a reptile… many of them were tears for Eldon, really.  “The whole creation groans” daddy reminded us, and we felt it then. “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.”  And I marvel at how the loss of a tiny reptile reminds us that we stand on the edge of eternity, powerless.

Pastor-daddy can’t help but make use of these teachable moments, when the children’s hearts are tender. “Someday you’ll be putting mommy and daddy in the ground, and then … you’ll have each other.. and the hope of Jesus.” And we cry by the reptile grave, clinging hard to each other, and to those promises.


I want to skip this part Jesus; I want you to just come back and make all things new now, just like Marcus said (in muffled words from deep under the covers.)  I am bad at this waiting, this travelling in the valley with the shadows and trusting that the promised land is where you say it is.  And now the dog is snoring; it’s because she’s getting old.  I want to not like her any more, not see her, just close my heart because I know what’s coming. But I also want to go buy another lizard.

The next day Eldon kept holding my hand, pulling me aside with a “Can I talk to you?” and whispering to me about how sad his heart was. “Can we just pray?” he asked. “Will I see Mr. Crawley again?” “Are you sure he was dead? What if he’s under there in the box trying to get out?” Oh baby, didn’t you see his still form and the unnatural way that the life had gone out of him?  

Cry with him, self, and keep breathing. Just love him, and give him Jesus. Where else can we go?

It was not meant to be this way. And we will be limping foreigners here until God makes all things new. But what to do in the meantime? Try to protect a heart , close it off and just survive as long as you can? Or do you keep it open, raw, noticing and loving life in all its forms despite the sucker puch that just came and the other ones that will come?

Oh God restore Eldon’s joy again.
And keep our hearts tender.

The battle is too big for you. Be still.

"The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still." Exodus 14:14

What does this mean?  Is this one we can apply to ourselves or only the specific biblical context situation?  Or maybe ourselves sometimes?

I got this question from a friend, and I jokingly replied, “I think I’m just going to be still and let God answer that question for me.”

Honestly, I would love the permission to use this one whenever I felt like it. Political conversation that makes me uncomfortable? Sorry, I’m too busy being still to engage.  Laundry needs to be done? Nope, I need to be still.  Kids screaming at each other?  I’ll let God sort it out while I read my Bible.

Alas, this Scripture is not meant to be a trump card to use in the battles we’d rather not fight.

---

It is never wise to pull one verse out of Scripture and examine it alone. So what’s the context?

Moses is leading the Israelites away from the Egyptians. All looks to be lost: their backs are up against the Red Sea, they are outnumbered, vulnerable, and they see no way out.

There have been battles that simply end at this point; sometimes, God does allow the enemy temporal victories, and the Christian is called to simply be slaughtered and yet still trust.  Sometimes, we must actively fight evil to stop its spread, and God is pleased with those who defend the weak.  (Thank you, veterans, police officers, brave souls of all kinds who God uses to stem the flood of evil in this place).

But in this case, God did something different.  God brought His people to the end of themselves: to that place where it was obvious there was NO hope in salvation coming from their own two hands.  And then, God did a miracle. He intervened when it was impossible, and He rescued His people.

Surely there was a moment when that word of hope from Moses seemed too incredible to believe. Those are nice sounding words Moses, but do you see their chariots? Look how sharp are the swords! Do you see the rage in the eyes of our enemies? They will delight in tearing us apart! They are coming, and we are defenseless!

And then, the miracle. God parted the seas, and they walked through on dry ground.

Feet stepping on dry ground where water had been only moments before... can you imagine the wonder they felt? The amazement and fear, the utter certainty that this rescue was NOT of their own doing but a work of the God of the universe!

And after God did this thing, His people rejoiced and sang. Hear the words of Moses:

“I will sing to the Lord, for he has triumphed gloriously;
   the horse and his rider he has thrown into the sea.
The Lord is my strength and my song,
   and he has become my salvation;
this is my God, and I will praise him,
   my father's God, and I will exalt him.” (Exodus 15)

Salvation at the hand of God- truly this is a marvelous thing! And the glory of God is brighter in our eyes  when we have seen our own helplessness, when we have despaired of creating safety with our own two hands. This miraculous rescue of God’s people from the Egyptians is meant to give us cause for rejoicing and trust as well, because it is a foreshadowing of the same work that God is doing for us today.

Be still. The battle is too big for you. The Lord will fight for you in the most important battle you wage: the battle with sin, death, and the devil.  Have you tried fighting this battle on your own? Have you seen the futility of your own efforts? Despair of your resources and look to Jesus! Without the miraculous intervention of our God, we would be surrounded and overcome; slaughtered with glee by our enemies.   But our God does not leave us in this place.

He has delivered us from the domain of darkness and transferred us to the kingdom of his beloved Son, in whom we have redemption, the forgiveness of sins. (Col 1:13)

He has won for us the biggest and most impossible battle in His death and resurrection.   We are in-between times: we hear the word of promise and victory, and yet we see the glint of the sword, we feel the gunshot wounds from the enemy.   We come up against our own powerlessness and we have reason to fear.   But even today, in the fight against the evil our God invites us to be still.

Stillness is not necessarily inactivity. The Israelites had to walk across the dry ground!  But the spirit with which they walked must have been so different than the spirit with which they sharpened their own swords in fearful defiance of the enemy they still hoped to defeat.  They no longer cried out in terror to Moses, but they walked forward in wonder and in trust, confident in the mighty hand of God, strong to save.

It’s is the word of God’s miraculous hand that gives us stillness of heart, even as the battle still rages.  Step forward, hold fast to His Word, and Let God make your heart still.

The Lord will rescue me from every evil deed and bring me safely into his heavenly kingdom. To him be the glory forever and ever. Amen. (2 Tim 4:18)

Rejoice with Zecharaiah:

“Blessed be the Lord God of Israel,
   for he has visited and redeemed his people... to grant us
 that we, being delivered from the hand of our enemies,
might serve him without fear,
   in holiness and righteousness before him all our days.
And you, child, will be called the prophet of the Most High;
   for you will go before the Lord to prepare his ways,
to give knowledge of salvation to his people
   in the forgiveness of their sins,
because of the tender mercy of our God,
   whereby the sunrise shall visit us from on high
to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death,
   to guide our feet into the way of peace.”

A gust of icy wind (on Depression)

I (re)learned something this week. Maybe if I write it down I will remember it forever.

The energy to clean my kitchen and smile at my children

can vanish in an instant.

The energy to clean my kitchen and smile at my children

is not a given.

The energy to clean my kitchen and smile at my children

is precious when I have it.

The energy to clean my kitchen and smile at my children

is not the reason I am loved.

Fall. My favorite tree is bright red and I can see it out of our kitchen window.

Lovely, deep red predominates, but the second glance reveals orange, yellow, and even green toward the middle.   The blue October sky as a backdrop-- it is a breathtaking sight.

Today I sit in a lawnchair by this tree.

The wind is gentle, but a strong burst comes, and it begins.

The stripping.

Red leaves cascade around me. Lovely, for a moment, but I see what is happening.

The stripping.

I think of this stripping, and how I have felt it in my own heart.

My patience, my energy, my zeal for life-- it is shocking how it can all just vanish. When the cold hands of depression reach up and grab me by the ankles, what else can I do?  I fall on my face, and all of my beautiful leaves fell off into the grass. There in the pit, I am left with nothing but my own filthy rags.

I cannot get up and clean the kitchen. I have no sincere smile for my children.

They are unsettled, and I am unsettled, and bare.  And so very cold.

A leaf lands on my computer. What was glorious and red from a distance now reveals to me its imperfections. Rotting spots. Discoloration.  

The stripping continues.

Unlike the tree, I do not stand still and accept the gusts of wind.  It hurts too much, so I question God’s work, His presence. I do not know whether to repent or fight or cower or quit, so I try to do everything at once, until I collapse, exhausted.

And then, the seasons change, orchestrated by the loving hand of my Father.  

The climate changes, and suddenly, I can feel the sun again.

I did not make the season change again. I cannot call up the sun. But today, it shines, and as it shines God fills in the coldest parts of my heart, sending the truth of His love that I already know down deeper, deeper.

As for me, I am poor and needy

but the Lord takes thought for me

He is my help and my deliverer 

(Psalm 40:17)

He who directs the seasons also directs my ways, even when I do not understand them.

In this, I can rest.

Weak and Loved.

Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.

Hide us in Your Word, in Christ, that we may weather all seasons. Amen.

If you know exactly what I'm talking about, read all of Psalm 40.
Click here for more of my thoughts on depression

re-posted from 11/2013
re-lived often.

a sunset song (in loving memory of Uncle Tom)

Before we went to Lake Michigan for vacation this year, we spent a few days on the cliff, at edge of eternity.

In hospital waiting rooms, crying openly, embracing frequently, we journeyed to the end of life in this life with my uncle. He was taken from us with such speed, it seems; given only three days to three weeks to live from the moment they said “cancer.”

Family came, fresh from the beach, with burned skin and red eyes. The air was thick with their warmth, their love, like summer humidity. As that harsh light on the cliff of eternity burned away so much that doesn't matter, we talked more freely about the things that do.

His wife would not leave his side. Those who love them both kept vigil with her. My dad stood with his arms crossed at the end of the bed, wet eyes. I went up next to him and leaned in heavy, and my sister did the same on the other side. We watched the horrible sunset of a life, together.

His wife wet his lips with a sponge; she held his hand; she moved the tubes and climbed into bed and held him close while she still could. Whether he had the strength to return the embrace or not, it didn't matter; she was breaking, too, but she gave what she had to her broken husband. He loved her, and she loved him, and they loved until the end.

During the last evening of the last day of his life on this dying earth, when goodbyes had been spoken, and there was nothing to do but wait, my sister sat at his bedside and did something ridiculous: s
he sang. She sang a cheerful song, a song of victory, and it didn't match the oppressive sadness in that dark room, it didn't line up with the suffering there. It was not a song inspired by the grim scene unfolding there... it was a song from beyond the cliff.

O victory in Jesus,
My Savior, forever.
He sought me and bought me
With His redeeming blood;
He loved me ere I knew Him
And all my love is due Him,
He plunged me to victory,
Beneath the cleansing flood.

Oh, the emotions I felt as I stood and watched the ridiculous concert, the nearly insane words of light spoken in one of the darkest rooms possible! “Victory in Jesus,” sung over one who was losing the battle to cancer! Victory? Really? If anything in this world is defeat, is it not this, a man taken in his strength down to nothing, cancer in every cell of his bone marrow? Even as she sang, he groaned, then fell into deep morphine snores, only to be woken again by more pain. How can this, even this, be made into victory? And yet my sister, there singing, declared by her presence itself exactly how. That sister, who for years sought her own death in the dark rooms of addiction and rebellion, is now made alive in Christ, and here, on a deathbed, declaring his works of light in the darkness. Here is a girl who knows the works of the Lord, and knows there is no hopeless situation if His hand is at work.

When she finished, he gave a faint smile and a weary “yaaaaay!” Not many hours later, he was finished, too; finished with all work on this earth, finished with the days he'd been given here. He is now finished with breath, finished with cancer, finished with his motorcycle and projects and mowing his own lawn.

But is God finished? Or is there reason for hope, even now, even when he is gone over the cliff and we see him no more? We will keep singing, in hope, as we live out our own days until our final sunset. We will sing of this God who makes dry bones live, whose Jesus died for us and rose for us, and who promises to raise us, too. And it will sound ridiculous, and our feelings will sometimes be unable to join the song, but what does it matter? Our feeble flesh and our fickle feelings will not stop His hand in its gracious work.

I heard about a mansion
He has built for me in glory.
And I heard about the streets of gold
Beyond the crystal sea;
About the angels singing,
And the old redemption story,
And some sweet day I'll sing up there
The song of victory.

O victory in Jesus,
My Savior, forever.
He sought me and bought me
With His redeeming blood;
He loved me ere I knew Him
And all my love is due Him,
He plunged me to victory,
Beneath the cleansing flood.

Father,
Victory seems so far off, and it is hard to wait, hard to believe while we wait and do not see. Gently turn our eyes to Jesus as we grieve. Gently comfort us in Your Words of promise. Let the harsh light we feel at the edge of the cliff burn away all that does not please you, and those things that do not matter. Fill us with faith towards you, and fervent love for each other, as we wait in hope for your coming in victory.


Especially uphold my dear uncle's family as they continue life in this broken place, now with the hole where he once was. Gently, Lord, help and comfort them and all who grieve.

In Jesus' Name, Amen.

view from the edge of eternity
(hospital window)

originally published 7/28/15

Gathering Acorns: Remembering and Looking Forward

Here comes an opportunity to talk to kids about death!
All saints day, coming soon! Are you ready?

I'm not. I'd rather just make a costume, and I am not a fan of sewing, so that's saying something. But the church year has brought this holiday along again already, as it does every year, and I find that it is actually good for me.

It is a time to think of those who have already finished the race, those who are done with sadness and trials and now live a life of joy in presence of God.

It is the time of year for remembering, and for looking-forward. 

I have an "All Saints" scrapbook, and I make sure that the children and I look through it together at least once a year.  Of course, life being what it is, we tend to look at it a bit more often... every time we add a beloved family member or church member to the book.  

Don't assume that this is something I am actually comfortable with.  It is definitely not, but I do it anyway.

Why a scrapbook?

I started it for myself, actually.  At first, I did not want to share it with the kids.  Yet, I was sure I would have to, and I thought I would have to do it soon, which is why I started the scrapbook in the first place.

I was pretty sure that my dear Aggie was going to die.  And I knew that if her eyes closed one last time, I would have four other sets of  little eyes, staring at me with questions.

And what if Aggie knew?  What if there came time for Hospice and preparing and Aggie's own questions?  What would I say to her?  How in the world would I be able to say anything, or do anything at all, other than try to merely function under the weight of my own grief?

I did not trust myself.  I had to prepare. I had to organize the Truth and have it at hand, sitting there in black and white, ready to strengthen weak faith and heavy hearts...  just in case.

So I started a scrapbook.  Like a squirrel gathering acorns, I gathered promises.  I stored away Words of hope and truth.

I read those Words, I cut them out, and I clung to them.  I put them in a scrapbook right next to pictures of those who have gone before, and I imagined those promises fulfilled.

I am a terrible scrapbooker. I do not own a pair of those scissors with fancy edges, nor do I know how to mat and place things so they look pretty. I can't even cut a straight edge (seriously, it drives my husband and one son crazy.)  For this reason, you will see few photos of my book. It is definitely not pinterest worthy!

Dearest Christian friends, I encourage you to take time this fall to gather promises.  Grab an old photobook, or even a three ring binder, and make for yourself a place to store those precious words and promises of God that encourage you in the valley of the shadow of death.

Remember, rejoice, and look forward with me.

baby me, and grandma, and grandpa

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This week I am sharing pieces of my All Saints Scrapbook.

Why not make your own?

It can be as simple as this:

Need help getting started?

For a text file of my favorite Scriptures, quotes and articles click here.

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Who are you remembering this week?

Share a photo and (if you like) some words with me (via facebook or email or in the comments) .

Then, I'll randomly choose one of you to win a free copy of my book, 

Between Seasons: Devotions for those who wait for Spring.  

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It is also available for purchase on Amazon, along with my other books: Tend to Me: Devotions for Mothers, and Weak and Loved: A Mother-Daughter Love Story.