”You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives.”-Genesis 50:20

In February, on my blog we’ll be talking about marriage.  I believe God’s heart beats for healthy marriages, where unity, compassion, kindness,  support, and forgiveness flow freely. Marriage is two coming together as one to impact the world.  Apart from Christ, we can’t have a healthy marriage. The best marriages create an environment which fosters movement towards God and each other.

As a ministry team, my husband and I meet with couples struggling in their marriage.  Often couples are wrestling with how to forgive their spouse about something.  I lean in close with a grin and say, “Let me tell you my parent’s story.”

About seven years ago, I was in my usual place of morning reflection and time with God, and I was reading a book on spiritual formation; the topic of longing came up. I sat in my chair, thinking about this word—longing. What does it mean? Why haven’t I given it any thought? A longing is a yearning desire. Its synonyms are pining, craving, thirst, itch, urge, need, and zeal.

Ruth Haley Barton wrote this in her book, Sacred Rhythms, “When was the last time you felt it—your own longing that is? Your longing for love, your longing for God, your longing to live your life as it is meant to be lived in God? When was the last time you felt a longing for healing and fundamental change groaning in you?”

As I sat with this thoughts, the tears poured out. I’d been too busy, too fragmented, too focused on the daily demands of a large family and ministering beside my husband in the church. I was exhausted physically, emotionally, and spiritually. I knew there was more to life. I longed for deeper connection with God, more impact on reaching others for Christ, and the desire to do something significant with my life.

As I sat there in God’s Presence, I recognized my longings were never given a place to grow. I pushed them aside, buried them, and suffocated them with my constant motion. Was it because deep inside I didn’t think they would happen? Had disappointment made me a little jaded? Was it easier not to address my longing? Had I learned to settle?

“Trust in him at all times, you people; pour out your hearts to him, for God is our refuge.”—Psalm 62:8

I arise each morning, toss on my fluffy robe, grab a cup of coffee, and head to my “Jesus Chair”, as my friend, Karen, calls it. It’s a pretty chair in my parlor where I meet each morning with God, journal in hand, devotional book, and Bible.

Sleep didn’t come easily last night as I tossed and turned. There’s so much to think about, worry about, figure out: the kids, our ministry, our future, my goals and dreams. I knew Papa and I would have a lot to talk about.

I start with my journal and write, “Dear Papa”. It’s my name for God. It’s a term of endearment which represents security, comfort, unconditional love, and intimacy. Someone taught me long ago the power of keeping a journal and the discipline of getting all the feelings out. It’s something I’ve practiced for over two decades. I start with all the things on my heart and I pour it all out: My honest fears; Papa listens. My temper tantrum; Papa doesn’t mind. My furrowed, angry brow: Papa understands. My pitfall sin and shortcomings; Papa still loves me. My wasted worry and doubt; Papa knows I trust Him.

“I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint. My heart has turned to wax; it has melted within me. My mouth is dried up like potsherd and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth; you lay me in the dust of death. Dogs surround me, a pack of villains encircle me; they pierce my hands and my feet. All my bones are on display; people stare and gloat over me. They divide my clothes among them and cast lots for my garment. But you, Lord, do not be far from me. You are my strength; come quickly to help me.” Psalm 22:14-19

I had just spent six weeks on bed rest waiting for our third child’s safe arrival. Church family brought meals and helped with our two preschoolers along with my mom, who lived two hours away. Those six weeks were emotionally exhausting. The probable causes of the preterm labor were dire. We had so many questions; would our baby be healthy? Would we make it full-term? If he came early, what medical issues would we face? Sadly, abortion was offered as an option. I stayed in bed, prayed, and read the Word as each hour I’d count the contractions to make sure I wasn’t having too many. My days were long and the weeks seemed to stretch on forever.

At 37 weeks I got out of bed, did my Target run to get ready for baby, and he arrived the next day — 9 lb 1 oz of complete perfection. Relief and rejoicing flowed freely. It was short-lived as two months later my husband was diagnosed with Chronic Progressive Multiple Sclerosis, and it would become the hardest years of my life.

“Surely you desire truth in the inner parts, you teach me wisdom in the inmost place.” -Psalm 51:6

It’s the time of year where we all assess where we’re at and look forward to the New Year anticipating personal changes. A fresh start usually inspires us to try some new disciplines. We resolve to eat better, exercise more, get organized, call home more often, work less, worry less, put down our phones to be present, and so on.

Our mind is willing to try new things, but we inevitably find ourselves in mid-February stuck in our old routines. A 2007 study by Richard Wiseman from the University of Bristol involving 3,000 people showed that 88% of those who set New Years Resolutions fail, despite the fact that 52% were confident of success at the beginning.

Why are resolutions so hard? I think it has to do with understanding ourselves. Most of us aren’t self-aware. We don’t understand why we do what we do.

“The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it.”- John 1:5

We lost my step-dad, Al, a few days before Thanksgiving 2001, he was 62 years young. He battled cancer for six years, and after a record-breaking eighteen months of hospice care, he passed away. He was a strong, funny, hard-working, stubborn Texan with broad shoulders and hands the size of baseball mitts. He loved country music, cowboy hats, jalapeno peppers straight from the garden, playing practical jokes, and Jesus. He came into my life at age twelve. I wasn’t too impressed when he thought I was a boy (perhaps it was my pixie haircut and my skinny undeveloped body.) We had a rocky relationship, at best, but, years later, we came to know Jesus together, and our relationship was miraculously restored. We had wonderful conversations about God. He loved me like a daughter, and I adored him.

When he passed the week of Thanksgiving, I felt nothing but relief. We prayed for months for his transition to heaven. Hospice volunteers and nurses attended our family vigilantly while Al wasted away in the rented hospital bed, set up in our living room. My mom cared for his every need. It’s how they wanted it. Nothing was left unsaid in our relationship. The day of his funeral we had 26 inches of snow in west central Minnesota. We stood in the cemetery under the flimsy awning laughing at how absurd all the snow was, and how Al would be laughing with us, if he were there.

“Behold, the Virgin shall be with child and shall bear a son, and they shall call his name Immanuel, which translated means, ‘God with us.’”-Matthew 1:23

I was five years old when I was asked to play the role of Mary in our small, rural church’s Sunday school Christmas program. The stinky church basement room with the upright piano and the cold, waxed linoleum floor was where I rehearsed the little song I would sing. We spent all day Saturday going over our memorized lines and practicing the many songs. There was an excitement in the air as moms scurried about to keep kids in line and performing perfectly. My Mary costume was a white tunic with a piece a twine tied at my waist, and a blue veil for my head; the veil was my favorite. As I stood in front of the full church, singing a sweet song, it’s as if God was smiling down on me. I felt great peace and thought God must love me to allow me to play Mary. It was the first time I sensed God nearness—Immanuel, God with us.

“Rest in the Lord and wait patiently for Him.” Psalm 37:7a

There’s nothing like the beauty of a frosty winter morning. Everything is frozen and still, resting, waiting—waiting for the warmth, waiting for the sun. The frozen vegetation is beautiful and captivating; it’s not striving. It’s simply still.

I’ve never been good at resting. I have ran full-speed ahead since my college days. It’s where I first learned to juggle classes, activities, work in the residents hall and a part-time job. After marriage, I transitioned to the busyness of raising five kids and building healthy churches with my husband. I’ve been in non-stop motion for most of my life. Let’s not get started on the busyness of the Christmas season. I placed unrealistic demands on myself with the shopping, cooking and decorating. The past few years I’ve realized it’s not a healthy way to exist.

“Behold children are a gift of the Lord. The fruit of the womb is a reward.” Psalm 127:3

We marked a major milestone with our five kids as our youngest daughter, Keziah, celebrated her eighteenth birthday last month. Bob and I are shocked our offspring are all adults, as their age range is 18 to 29. We enjoyed a quiet evening at home, just the two of us, as we talked about this phase of parenthood.

When life was full with busy, small children, we looked forward to when they were all grown. Since Bob and I are quite tall, we imagined they would be too. We were correct with our prediction. We ranged from 5’11” to 6’6” and it’s the one notable characteristic of our family .

Last night my hubby says, “I just wish they were all little and I could tuck them into the Suburban.” It’s a funny thought because lest you think our times in the Suburban were peaceful, happy times— they were anything but. Our kids were notoriously, horrible travelers. We were rarely more than an one to two hours car ride from family, but you would have thought it took days to travel . Dramatic plea’s from the backseats and much lamenting were part of each trip. We always had to stop for restroom breaks and let’s not forget the trip home from Mall of America when we all puked. Now we’re living in three different states and five separate cities, where the car trips are extra long.