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I listened to an interview with English Gardner recently. If you are unfamiliar with the name, I will give you a quick bio. English Gardner is a runner, and specifically, a 100-meter specialist. She is an Olympic gold medalist, and her fastest time for the 100-meter dash is 10.74 seconds…seconds. This young lady is fast.

Over the course of her career, she has experienced successes and setbacks alike. The interviewer asked Gardner what lessons she has gleaned from the highs and lows of her running career. She answered that she sees all of these—each success and setback—as just another brick.

The good and the bad are both formative in developing her as a person. They are building a better her.

As I listened, I thought to myself how poignant this metaphor was. Brick by brick, our lives are being built, and it takes both the successes and the setbacks to become the people we are meant to be.

When I was in high school, I constantly compared my life to the lives of all the other girls in my school, and especially my close friends. Everyone else seemed to have idyllic lives, and they pretty much got whatever they wanted (at least, from my perspective). I never saw any of my friends suffer the great challenges that I seemed to face regularly. And while this may sound a bit overly inflated (teenagers are rarely objective on emotional matters), indeed, I never observed my closest friends bear the weight of being called names like “airhead” and “parrot nose”—names that haunted me through high school.

I was teased often, and my confidence was pretty much squashed to smithereens by the time I graduated from high school. I would spend many evenings talking through my feelings with my mom, and she would do her best to comfort me. She would also tell me that all the challenges I was facing were building character in me. Character. I didn’t want character. I wanted a boyfriend. I would whine with tears in my eyes, “But what about my friends? Where’s their character development?” My mom would patiently advise me that I do not know everything everyone faces in life, and I can’t base my judgment on my perceptions.

She was right.

Thirty-four years after graduating from high school, my girlfriends and I still stay in close contact with each other. We have a monthly Zoom call, and we are currently planning a “squishabout,”—which is an entirely made-up word by one of my friends that describes our next in-person reunion. Over the past thirty-four years, as our relationships have deepened and matured, I have discovered that each one of us has had a fair number of setbacks, heartaches, and failures—enough for a lifetime of character development.

Brick by brick, God has been forming and forging me, my girlfriends, and most likely you, into becoming the people he created us to be. Not for the things that we will do, although he has equipped and gifted each of us to fulfill all sorts of unique and wonderful callings. But more importantly, he is forming in us inner strength, character, and Christlikeness, which are the foundation for all the rest.

Failure. Failure is a huge part of the building process. It is not what we might consider a traditional setback. What I mean by this is that typically, we see setbacks as things that happen to us. Our health declines, which causes us to pause our ordinary life routines so that we can focus on being well. Or we experience job loss, which ripples into our standard of living, our finances, and our view of the future. In our case, it could show up as our host country’s government declining our long-term visas (thankfully, that hasn’t happened, but we are always considering what we would do if this became our reality). These are setbacks that come to us, and we have little or no control over them.

Failure creates a kind of setback, but we are the ones who have, most often, brought it upon ourselves. Sometimes we fail out of our own pride, impatience, or lack of skill. Other times, our failures are simply that we tried something and it didn’t work. And that can really sting.

When we fail because we lack character and integrity, I hope we can accept the disappointment with humility. These bricks we are adding to the building of our lives are painful and oftentimes costly, but they are good for us. In fact, they are necessary. As I mentioned earlier, God is not so concerned about our doing as he is about our being.

When we fail because we tried and it didn’t work, well, that’s a whole lot of heartbreak. We most definitely learn from failing this way, but it hurts like the dickens. These failures build the character and resiliency of the heart and mind. It would be tempting to hide these bricks and try to leave them out of the building project altogether, but our lives would be incomplete without them. They are as much a part of who we are as all the wins we have accumulated through the years. While I hate failing, I would never want to lose the growth in my life that came with the pain.

Brick by brick, the failures, the setbacks, the successes, and the “this is the best day of my life” moments, God is working. He doesn’t get distracted, and he doesn’t waste a single speck of life experience.

If you were to ask me who my audience is as I write this, I would tell you it’s my kids. In fact, each article I post is an open letter to my young adult children. This picture of building one’s life brick by brick is a message I want to share with them because it will serve them well as they enter this great big life. The temptation is always to compare where we are, what we have, and how far along we are in our careers, our love lives, and our family planning. But the reality is that God is building my life, my kids’ lives, and your life, brick by brick, in his way and in his time.

I thought my girlfriends in high school suffered no struggle and no hard days. I assumed I was the only one who was enrolled in the university course on character development. I was wrong. Their character development just looked different than mine. The bricks were stacking, whether we liked it or not.

And they keep on stacking.

This is really good news. As long as we are living, there will be more life for God to build upon. There will be setbacks and successes alike, to be sure. But the building continues!

I would say to Sydney, Brooklyn, and Jackson, try not to hyper-focus on the setback bricks. This is usually where our attention drifts, but rather, try to look at the bigger picture of the life God is forming and forging in you. Take time to appreciate your successes. You made it! You did it! And never miss the opportunity to learn from your setbacks. Those bricks are defining. And when you feel uncertain with the process, try to take a deep breath and simply appreciate the life God is building in you today.

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I have three young adult children. We have had many conversations over the course of their lives, but as of late, there is one conversation we seem to return to often, and it is that of contentment. They are at that pivotal stage of life where they are always looking ahead at what comes next.

What classes will I be taking next semester?

Who is going to be my roommate/flatmate?

Where am I going to live?

Is this the right career path for me?

Will this job offer pay me enough to live?

Who am I going to marry?

When will we start a family?

The questions are endless, and always looking ahead toward the next thing.

Perhaps because the university years are short and are an understood transitory season of life, it is difficult to be fully present in the right now. There is always a next semester, a next year, and a next in life they are aspiring to. But I often walk away from the “what’s next” conversations, deeply desiring that they will find joy here.

Because every age and stage has the potential to give us something wonderful and precious if we are willing to be where our feet are.

It all comes down to contentment.

Several months ago, I was out on my morning run. My mind was filled with distractions and, full disclosure, I was trying to run out my frustrations over a situation I was dealing with. I found myself spending copious amounts of my attention and focus on things that were “later” issues. With my mind in a funk, I heard the voice of the coach on my running app in my ear. The voice was telling me to be present in the run; that all the things going on in life will try to steal focus and hinder performance. My coach was calling me back to the run and coaching me to be present in my run.

For the few years that I’ve been consistently running, my initial belief about the sport was that it was my chance to either run away from my problems for a few miles or it was an opportunity to run toward my problems and run them to the ground. But my approach to running changed when my coach encouraged me to be present in my run.

Being here, being fully in this moment, whether in running or in life, has shifted my perspective on so many things. Being in the moment, appreciating what that moment can be for me, and accepting the presence of now brings enormous peace and contentment. I am learning daily how to be where my feet are.

Paul refers to this kind of contentment in his letter to the Philippians. He says in chapter four, verse twelve, “I have learned the secret to being content in any and every situation” (NIV). In this context, Paul expressed his gratitude for the gifts the Philippians had sent him. He was further expressing that the mystery of contentment had been revealed to him; that in all circumstances, he knew and understood true peace of mind and heart. Earlier in the chapter, he was exhorting the readers of this letter to rejoice in all things. To come to God with thanksgiving and present their requests, and to keep their minds and hearts on the things of God.

When Paul wrote about the secret to being content in verse twelve, he was drawing from a very pagan idea that there were secrets and mysteries in the spirit world that only a few chosen could unlock. The Greek word for the phrase, “learned the secret,” means “to initiate.” He intentionally used this specific word because of its cultural implications, but in this context, he was directing the reader to the sufficiency of Christ.

Strong’s concordance provides a very clear understanding of this “initiation.” It explains that the secret revealed to Paul is a secret that is “simultaneously open to every believer: the sufficiency of Christ.” This access to contentment was available to all believers. There was no hierarchy. The Gospel was available to all.[1]

Paul had learned through hardship and persecution, through times of plenty and times of want, through the good and the bad, how to be where his feet were. He wasn’t pining for the next thing. He was settled in the here and now. He knew that knowing Christ and having Christ were sufficient for him.

From offering up thanksgiving, to rejoicing in all things, to dwelling upon the nature and characteristics of God, to discovering true soul contentment, Paul’s words from the beginning to the end of chapter four were reminding the Philippians of where true peace abides.

Embracing this mystery of contentment today may look like fully living in the moment, feet planted in the soil of the place we inhabit, whether good or bad, and trusting that God is present and sufficient. In our time of need or our time of plenty, God is here with us.

Proverbs tells us that the prudent look ahead and plan accordingly, while fools just keep moving along in the wrong direction (Proverbs 22:3). I am not advocating for foolishness, by any means. But I do believe we lose track of God’s presence in our in-this-very-moment lives when our gaze is constantly fixed on the next thing. God is present today. God will be with us tomorrow. But God only asks us to focus on right here, right now.

We gain nothing from worrying (Matthew 6:25-34). Anxiety weighs the heart down (Proverbs 12:25), and we are commanded to relinquish anxiety and trust in God (I Peter 5:7). James reminds us that we have no idea what tomorrow holds. Life is a mist, a vapor, quickly vanishing (James 4:14).

These scriptures are not meant to promote irresponsibility, but to serve as reminders that God has given us today. God has brought us here—to this place, this job, this home, this ministry. And while life is full of never-ending challenges and transitions, we can settle in and breathe contentment into our lungs and let our feet sink deep into the soil beneath our feet. Today, here is where we are meant to be.

Every season and every circumstance lends itself to us as an opportunity. We can lean in closer to our Heavenly Father, or we can do what I am often tempted to do, run away from or run toward in an effort to run down whatever life has handed me. But this beautiful image of feet planted in the place God has brought us to brings me a supernatural appreciation of the sufficiency of Christ. When the days are good, God is faithful. When the days are difficult, God is faithful. When here feels warm and fuzzy, God is good. When here feels like a prickly porcupine, God is still good. And until the next thing comes, I desire to be where my feet are.

Here is good.

Here is pleasant.

Here sometimes has its challenges.

But God is here, and so I choose to remain here until he moves me on.

And this is not simply about place. This is more importantly about heart. Where is your heart today? Is it pining for the next? Is it looking beyond what you have in your hands for something that promises greater satisfaction? Is it disrupted with restlessness and envy?

Are you feeling fear and anxiety about what’s next? Has your focus drifted from the path of today, longing for the path of tomorrow?

Paul’s secret to contentment is really no mystery at all. It is free to anyone who chooses to seek after God. Christ is all we need. And Christ is enough.

Wherever your foot falls today, may you be present in each moment. May your heart once again find joy in being here.

photo by saad chaudhry on unsplash

In her book, Little Women, Louisa May Alcott describes a scene in chapter fifteen, where a “telegraph” is received by Mrs. March regarding her husband, who has been fighting in the Civil War. Its contents inform her of his great illness and that she should come at once. Her four daughters surround her, feeling the fears and concerns of what might have happened to the beloved husband and father. After a brief moment of sorrow, the women all jump into action to prepare Mrs. March for the journey to the hospital in Washington, where her injured husband awaits.

Jo, the unconventional and daring daughter, is sent to request money from their Aunt March, who is very well-to-do. When Jo reappears some time later, she hands her mother twenty-five dollars. Today, this would be equivalent to $700, or up to $1,000. In fact, twenty-five dollars in the mid-to-late eighteen hundreds was the average salary for a schoolteacher. So, when Mrs. March and all those present see Jo plopping twenty-five dollars into her mother’s hands, all are rightfully shocked. Where and how did she get that kind of money?

When she takes off her bonnet, the answer is clear. She had cut her hair and sold it, and the responses to her short hair are numerous.

“Your hair! Your beautiful hair!” “O Jo, how could you? Your one beauty.” “She doesn’t look like my Jo anymore, but I love her dearly for it!”[1]

Later that night, when everyone is in bed, Meg hears crying. Thinking that Jo is distraught over the news of their father, she comes to comfort her sister. She asks if she is crying over father. Jo’s reply is honest and sincere, “No, not now.” When Meg follows up with “What then?” Jo bursts out, “My—my hair!”[2]

Even our wonderful and creative character, Jo, could feel the weight of vanity.

Beauty.

From century to century, decade to decade, beauty standards evolve, either shaping culture or being shaped by culture, the pursuit of which stares back at us from the reflection in the mirror. We are bombarded on repeat with messages of what is beautiful, what is not beautiful, how to attain beauty, and what is hindering us from being beautiful.

In 1868, when Little Women was first published, long hair on women was considered beautiful. And in the case of Jo, it was, sadly, her one beauty. Unbeknownst to these little women, in less than fifty years, women would be chopping their hair off into what was eventually known as the flapper bob.

Beauty has forever been complex and hard to nail down. And even if we think we’ve hit the mark, we quickly discover the goal post has been moved. Beauty standards created by our culture are impossible.

In ninth grade, by far the most unpleasant year of my academic life, a girl shouted the worst insult I could have imagined from across the din of noisy teenagers, “Parrot-nose Hayburn!” I died.

In the late eighties, I had a nose that did not fit the beauty standards of the day. It probably still doesn’t, but I reached a point in my second decade of life when I decided to accept the nose God gave me. Still, in ninth grade, I had yet to reach that level of maturity, and I absolutely did not accept my nose. And apparently, no one else did either. I lived feeling ugly and less than for years. All on account of my nose.

In high school, I dreamed of the day when I would most certainly have lots of money and I would get a nose job—oh, bless my heart, if she could see me now (I do not have lots of money). I was determined to fix the flaw and find true happiness and contentment. In this, I would be beautiful.

What I discovered in my twenties was the futility of chasing after beauty. It changes constantly, and it will eventually fade completely.

I was at the grocery store yesterday. I have been going to this particular shop since we moved to Umhlanga almost six years ago. Most of the ladies who work there are familiar to me, and I to them. We smile and chat at the checkout lane. I am a regular customer. Yesterday, however, I had a new experience during checkout. After the young lady scanned my groceries, she looked at me and asked me if I got “the pensioner’s discount.” I was stunned.

To qualify for the pensioner’s discount, one would have to be sixty years old. Sixty. I am nowhere near sixty (not that there is anything wrong with being sixty). I chuckled and replied, “No.” I paid, and I left, feeling a little self-conscious as I walked to my car.

The reality of age and aging hit me pretty hard. And I think that, perhaps, there are other middle-aged women out there who might feel similar feelings.

My dermatologist was telling me about a procedure that can lift my eyelids and open my eyes to give my face a brighter look. I didn’t ask for my eyes to be lifted or how to give my face a brighter look. I didn’t realize I needed that. But clearly, I’m at an age where skin is sagging into my eyes, and my cheeks are sliding down toward my neck. And there are procedures to fix this. And, if I were to be one hundred percent honest with you, I can’t say I am completely opposed to the idea of brightening any part of my face by any means necessary. But, once again, such things will have to wait until I have lots of money.

We worship youth as if it were the fourth member of the Trinity. We discount gray hairs and roll our eyes at wrinkly hands—ours and others alike. We tuck women with the greatest wisdom and life experience out of sight and then platform smooth-skinned beauties who lack the weight of experience in their words. Age becomes a red flag on a resume, a perceived impediment toward progress. The unspoken message is, “the older you get, the less value you hold.”

But age is a gift! Where I am today, and the fact that my body is strong and capable and my mind is alert (minus the occasional brain fog), is an absolute gift from God. And the same goes for you. Just because you took a left turn into your forties or fifties or sixties and beyond, does not suddenly disqualify you because you don’t enter the room with the same youthful glow and firm body you had thirty years ago. You are more qualified now than you ever were!

Beauty is fleeting. It loves you today and will walk out on you tomorrow. The belief that you can only be loved, eligible, and accepted if the world deems you pretty enough or young enough is a conviction that will lead you to despair over and over again. There are no happy endings for those lost in the ever-elusive search for inimitable beauty.

But what if beauty was a who and not a what?

What if beauty were the rare and precious person sitting in your skin right now? That’s right, the person inside your skin!

The book of Proverbs gives us a couple of hints about the measure of beauty in God’s eyes.

Proverbs, chapter 31, verses 30 and 31 say, “Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting; but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised. Honor her for all that her hands have done, and let her works bring her praise at the city gate.”

Proverbs, chapter 16, verses 21 and 31 say, “The wise in heart are called discerning, and gracious words promote instruction. Gray hair is a crown of splendor; it is attained in the way of righteousness.”

A woman who fears the Lord is going to approach the full-length mirror in her closet with respect and admiration. Instead of observing all that is wrong, according to current beauty standards, she will see the hands that have held her babies, written dissertations, performed surgeries, and fed the poor. She will see legs that have given her freedom to move and run and be active, a smile that warms rooms and hearts, the stretch marks and soft curves she has earned through childbearing, and the flaws that make her uniquely her and one hundred percent human.

Gray hair sitting atop the head of an older woman is her crown of splendor. She has earned it. She can embrace it because it proclaims to the world, “This woman has a story or two to share!” And her stories instruct us, caution us, guide us, and inspire us.

These mirror reflections may not win a beauty contest, but they come with grace. They have discovered their voice. They are lovely for simply being.

I get outside and go for a run five out of seven days a week.

I avoid sugar Monday through Friday, and I enjoy dessert on the weekends.

I get my roots touched up every six weeks.

I wear a red-tinted lip balm…always…even when I am running.

I like to wear dresses, and I feel my best when I’m wearing make-up and I’ve done my hair.

I love getting pedicures, although I’m never consistent in my efforts.

And I have a serious skincare regimen that I do religiously.

All of the above may make me sound like a hypocrite. I am a firm believer in learning to love and accept the fleshly shell God has given me, and as much as I am convinced that true beauty and worth are intrinsic qualities of every woman, I still like to feel beautiful.

I’m not a hard-nose when it comes to doing things that add beauty and confidence. But what concerns me today is the relentless overdrive—by young and old alike—to attain youthful perfection. As Solomon states often throughout Ecclesiastes, “All of it is meaningless, a chasing after the wind” Ecclesiastes 1:14, NIV).

Ladies, let’s face it: one face-brightening procedure will only lead to another one, because time is going to keep marching all across our faces. Chasing youth and beauty is like chasing the wind.

I wonder, can we finally accept the parrot-nose? Can we come to grips with the ticking clock and embrace the beauty of each fine line and wrinkle that represents all the seasons we’ve passed through? Can we drown out the barrage of messages the world is screaming at us and replace them with a grounded perspective of the beauty of life all around us? Can we appreciate the sounds of birds chirping in the trees and the ocean waves crashing on the shore, and just for a moment, find deep soul-refreshing peace in living?

I hope so. Because, my friend, God says we are “fearfully and wonderfully made!” (Psalm 139). And I absolutely believe that!

[2] Alcott, Louisa May. Little Women. United States of America, Barnes and Noble, 1994, pp. 191.

photo by mae mu on unsplash

They call us the “Sandwich Generation”, and I feel it.

Let’s break down this metaphor.

The first piece of bread: Our parents.

They are aging. Both sets of parents, mine and Joel’s. And while they are still active and living happily independent lives, we have observed the sands of time running more quickly through the hourglass. The biggest shift took place when they turned seventy. They are all in their mid-to-late seventies now, and it is like the hour hand on the clock of life ticked into a completely different time zone. Eighty is right around the corner. The aging process has accelerated.

And while I expect they will be around for a decent amount of time, the changes have been noticeable.

Noticeable enough to open up conversations with them and with our siblings about the future needs and care of our parents.

Noticeable enough that seeing them after being apart for a period of time causes an inner gasp at first glance.

Noticeable enough that we hear ourselves saying, “Mom and Dad have really aged.”

Noticeable enough that we feel a slight lump in our throats as we anticipate the changes that will take place between now and the next time we are together.

Noticeable enough that saying goodbye is becoming more difficult.

Living overseas compounds the heavy emotions. The gap between visits falls in the realm of years. Sometimes, one year, as in the case with my parents. We have been able to see them more frequently, which has given us more time to absorb the aging process. We saw Joel’s parents this past May at our daughter, Sydney’s, university graduation. It had been over two years. And we were taken aback. There have been all kinds of medical updates from both sets of parents regularly, but nothing could really prepare us to see the physical changes in real life.

Our parents are not at the point where they need us to be at arm’s length, paying bills, and ensuring they are being shuffled to and from appointments. Yet, we know that day is coming soon. Joel’s brother lives in the same area as their parents, and my sister, while not in the same city or state, is, at least, in the same country. We all know that when the day comes when my parents need more supervision and care, my sister will likely be the one moving close by. Joel and his brother have their own conversations about one day. And while I don’t see that day coming any time soon, wisdom tells us to be prepared.

The second piece of bread: Our children.

This piece of bread is not the same as the other (we are a very eclectic kind of sandwich). Where I would easily call our parents a nice slice of your run-of-the-mill white Wonder Bread™, our kids are more of a Dave’s Killer Bread™.

We have a twenty-three-year-old starting her career, a twenty-one-year-old in her final year of university and preparing to get married next year, a nineteen-year-old who is in his second year of university, and we have a ten-year-old gutting it out in grade five. We have nuts, seeds, grains, and all kinds of textures in this slice of bread.

Having older children who are beginning to enter the portal of independence has been more emotional than I expected. I am proud of them. Joel and I are their biggest cheerleaders. We believe in them, and we see greatness, even in its raw form, in each one of them. Parenting older children is rewarding in a totally different way. We have become their coaches. And while I love this season tremendously, I hate feeling so far away when life sideswipes them. I want to be there. I want to fix. I want to throw off my coach hat and jump into a helicopter so I can swoop down and rescue them.

I worked hard not to be a helicopter parent when they were young, but I find myself wanting to slip into that often. I think, in part, it is because their challenges are more complicated and grown-up. We are not talking about forgetting lunch boxes and permission slips. We are spectators of our children making big decisions, and praying they make them with wisdom and not with emotion. We try to be good listeners, but I know my opinion has overstepped, which has prompted a necessary apology.

The letting go phase is both amazing and messy. I love having young adult children to hang out with and talk to. They are fun, insightful, and truly enjoyable. The messy parts come with learning to keep my coach hat on and avoid the helicopter.

Had God not given us one of the most wonderful and precious surprises ten years ago, Joel and I would be empty nesters right now. But God knows me better than I know myself, and Lord knows, I am not ready to be an empty nester quite yet.

Part of that nutty, grain goodness of this second slice of bread is our son, Jasper. Having a ten-year-old in our fifties keeps us active and young at heart. Having a ten-year-old on the autism spectrum pushes us to keep learning and discovering all the unique facets of parenting.

Jasper still needs us in a very practical way, day in and day out. His siblings do not. Joel and I have one foot in the young adult world and one foot in grade school. Our parenting role is on a broad spectrum, which I would not trade for anything in the world.

The insides of the sandwich: Joel and me.

PB and J, a BLT, Turkey and Mayo, Philly Cheesesteak, Meatball and Mozzarella, you can take your pick on the insides of this sandwich. It really doesn’t matter. The point is, Joel and I are one or all of the above squeezed between these two pieces of bread.

And it’s not like our personal lives are perfectly sane and in order.

My hormones are in constant chaos. I’m perimenopausal—like, for real—with body changes I’m trying to come to grips with. My skin and my bones are betraying me, and I am the proud owner of an AM and PM weekly pill organizer (I have supplements and HRT [Hormone Replacement Therapy] to keep in order). When I’m not fighting brain fog, I’m asking myself big life questions, like “What do I want to be when I grow up?” One would assume I had already discovered the answer to that question a long time ago, but I’m still pondering. I think the crux of the issue here is not so much figuring out what I want to be as who I want to become. And how am I doing with all of that?

I honestly don’t have much time to sit around and think about big questions like this. There is too much to do in the twenty-four-hour day to gaze out of the window and ponder such things. Every now and then (like two o’clock in the morning), my brain will buzz with deep soul-searching questions, but then that train of thought quickly derails into the needs of our kids and the needs of our parents.

Joel and I are still young enough and have the physical and emotional margin to carry the responsibilities in our hands. While stretched from one piece of bread to the other in this sandwich of ours, we have capacity. While we are not youngins anymore, we are nowhere near retirement. We believe our greatest days are ahead of us, and we keep pushing forward.

I don’t have any answers or solutions to the “Sandwich Generation” dilemma. This is reality. This is the stuff many of us grapple with on an ongoing basis. We can’t rewrite the past to circumvent the present, and we can’t hide our heads in the sand either. We have to live in this moment…this day…this sandwich.

Because of this, gratitude is essential. Gratitude for time. Gratitude for presence. Gratitude for each and every phone call, WhatsApp message, school project, and opportunity, regardless of length, we get to spend with each part of this crazy sandwich. Because time, right now, is a gift. It is precious. It is fleeting. And it is the giver of moments we will cherish forever.

The sandwich may feel overwhelming at times. Balancing the emotional tug of war on the inside can become a lot, but remember…time. Time is the giver. God holds time in his hands. He is the giver of every moment we get. Let us not take for granted any of these best days of our lives.

I took a break from social media in January. While this is not the first time I have pulled away from the “likes,” the “comments,” and the endless scrolling, this time felt a little different. I spent the inaugural weeks of 2026 pondering the insatiable hunger I have felt for quite some time. “What, exactly, am I hungering for?” The answer to this question was one I could not seem to grasp.

As the slow days of January moved along, peace of mind and spirit resurfaced, and I finally began to recognize the source of the hunger that so eluded me earlier. It was this feeling of dissatisfaction with what is and the constant need to improve everything: my home, my clothes, the way I wear my clothes, my health, all the life hacks, and so forth. According to every influencer on the planet…

My kitchen is outdated,

My floors could use a refresh,

Amazon has all the things to simplify my life (click on the link and they will shoot you the deets),

My skincare routine is not adequately servicing my middle-aged skin,

I need to ditch my microwave because of gamma rays,

And I am wearing my t-shirts and jeans all wrong!

The list is endless.

The overwhelm of discontent was astounding to me. The barrage of messages that nothing of what I have or who I am is good enough created a hunger for living in a perpetual state of “I need to refresh this, renovate that, stop doing this, and start doing that.” I don’t take everything to heart that these influencers throw out there, but it was more the urgency and the push to excess that was burdening me.

What if I can’t change my kitchen? What if these t-shirts and jeans are going to have to suffice right now? What if my current skincare products fit my budget? When beauty becomes a heavy financial burden, then I think we have a problem. Can my house, my clothes, and my skin—as is—be enough for me? Do I really need to give up my microwave?

In the world of social media, there will always be a lamp you can add to a space that you didn’t realize was inadequate until the influencer pointed it out, and there will be clothing hauls until the end of days that neither you nor I really need. Experts on everything will leave our heads spinning with all the toxins we are exposed to in our daily living. Social media never sleeps. It spins in perpetuity, taxing our weary brains and burdening our tired souls.

When we look to the world to determine our enough, we will always come out empty and discontented.

When we take the time to appreciate all the blessings we do have, contentment recalibrates us. We discover that what we have is more than enough—it is everything.

I don’t have a state-of-the-art kitchen. Yet, I can still prepare delicious meals for my family.

Our dining room table and chairs are basic. No frills. But the lingering at the table long after our plates are empty, lost in conversation, makes our dining room table one of the most cherished pieces of furniture in our home.

There are Legos everywhere. We find them under couch cushions, on tabletops, and hiding in the fibers of our rugs. As much as I tidy and try to maintain order in the house, I am in constant battle with Lego. But those tiny pieces of plastic are a reminder that people actually live in this home. It is a refuge for each one of us, and for our son; those Legos reflect his freedom to live and play here.

All the imperfections are what make our home perfect.

And that goes for my skin, my clothes, my health, my effort to balance hyper-vigilance and a laissez-faire attitude about toxins in our food, appliances, clothes, and beyond. Keeping a tight rein on the voices that try to convince me that settling for imperfect is not good enough is a challenge worth the effort. Contentment will never come by way of perfection. But when we can push away from the outside commentators, find gratitude for the life God has provided for us, contentment finds its way back into our souls.

Jesus gave us some really good counsel on striving. In Matthew, chapter six, verse twenty-four, He tells us to: “Seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.”

What are all these things he is referring to? They are all the things that you and I need. Everything. Jesus tells us that we do not need to worry about our clothes, our food, our shelter, or whether or not we will have enough. He promises that he will ensure we have all that we need. The craving that controls us is often our flesh demanding these provisions on our terms. And those cravings turn into dissatisfaction when we start comparing our provision to everyone else’s. When we turn away from the world’s definition of enough, we quickly discover that all these things given to us by God are more than enough.

In Philippians, chapter four, verses six and seven, Paul exhorted the church in Philippi to, “Be anxious for nothing, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”

We can get wrapped up in anxiety and worry so quickly over things that just don’t matter. We can also fret to oblivion over the things that do. But the promise of peace comes when we stop, pray, submit our requests, our needs, our hopes, and our fears to God. I love this promise because it covers the heart and the mind. It tells me that my thinking parts will rest and my feeling parts will breathe again.

We will forever be in a battle with the world regarding what is enough. The world keeps us bound up—striving for the next best thing, which creates stressed-out people who can’t sleep and can’t find an ending to the madness.

But God’s enough, truly is enough. God’s enough fills us with peace and refreshes our souls. God’s enough may not be the picture we see on our social media feed, but it fosters contentment. It stills the hunger and feeds the spirit. It is a deep, satisfying, joyful-in-all-things contentment. And this kind of peace transcends all understanding.

I did just that.

When they called her name, my focus zeroed in on Sydney. I prayed a silent prayer that she wouldn’t trip and fall (this was her biggest fear, and I promised to pray). And I took it all in, that sweet inkling of time. I smiled. I clapped. I cheered in delight.

In fact, sitting here, less than a week since we landed back in South Africa, I am still savoring all the many moments of Sydney’s graduation, as well as all the precious minutes we spent with our family back in the States.

I find myself amazed—really amazed—at how our older children are thriving in life. When Sydney, Brooklyn, and Jackson were little, and we were in the trenches of hands-on parenting day in and day out, I had many moments of wondering if these kids were going to survive us. I imagine most parents wonder if they will survive parenting littles, but we, on the other hand, worried that we had already saddled our children with more baggage than they could ever carry by the ages of one, three, and five. As much as I had always dreamed of being a mother, it did not take me very long to realize that mothering was the hardest role on the planet, and I was not nearly as good at it as I thought I would be.

Despite our frailties and flaws, Joel and I rolled up our sleeves and worked hard to love, discipline, nurture, and cultivate deep and rich relationships with our children. Our humanness got the best of us many times, but the grace of God enabled us to continue pursuing the greatest calling of our lives: the ministry to our family.

And maybe, perchance, this is why Sydney, Brooklyn, and Jackson are becoming the kind of adults we hoped and dreamed they would be. Maybe it’s not about perfection, but the very humanness that we have wrestled with for the past almost twenty-three years. And most certainly, it is a testimony of God’s goodness, faithfulness, and grace to us through all of the ups, downs, and in-betweens of this parenting journey.

Sydney, Brooklyn, and Jackson have not yet reached the pinnacle of life achievement. And they have many more years of growth ahead. But I feel pretty confident in ascertaining that we have launched them well. Sydney is a full-fledged adult with a bright future ahead. She is a force to be reckoned with, with a heart of compassion. She is strength and warmth, conviction and grace. Brooklyn will be graduating from university and getting married this time next year. We’ve always said that every family needs a Brooklyn, and now she will be starting her own family. Elisha is a very blessed young man. Like her older sister, Brooklyn will do well in life.

And while Jackson just completed his first year of university, I see bottomless potential in that young man. His life is marked with challenge, and yet he does not balk at adversity but has learned to lean into it. He is an overcomer who continues to learn how to overcome. Joel and I watch in amazement and immense gratitude to God for the character we see developing in Jackson, forged through physical disability.

This is not to say that these three young adults have mastered life and will never make mistakes. For goodness sake, I’m fifty-two years old, and I’m still making mistakes! There will, no doubt, be experiences in their lives that will challenge their beliefs, their hopes, and their core values. Crises of faith come and go in and out of our lives for our entire lives. We never get to a point where we’ve figured it all out, and from experience (the hard-won, “I’ve lived long enough to know” experience), there will be many faith wrestling moments in their lives.

Because I know this, I never stop praying for them. Mothering them has taken on a different dimension.

And while our parenting role is shifting with our older children, this is not the time for us to rest on our laurels. Joel and I still have a child at home who is in the thick of grade school. Jasper is ten years old, and we are smack dab in the middle of high-stakes parenting. And I still find myself worrying if I’m going to mess him up. I question my parenting skills in the wee hours of the morning when I should be sleeping (per the instructions of every perimenopausal influencer on social media). I wonder—once again—if I’ve saddled Jasper with more baggage than he can manage.

I fret to obsession, and then I snap back into the reality that God is the same God who sustained me with our older children, and he will continue to equip me through Jasper’s most impressionable years. I can’t control the fact that Jasper’s life will always be unique in comparison to his older siblings, and the way I engage with him has taken a hard pivot due to the neurodiversity he brings into our home, and in all of this, I am learning to trust God in a new way as I continue on my own motherhood journey.

And that’s kind of what motherhood is, isn’t it? It’s a journey. The terrain changes, and it changes quickly. We are in a constant race with time to accomplish a million and one most important things with our children when they are young. Once we’ve conquered the mountain before us, another one greets us at the foothill. We hope we’ve imparted every last ounce of wisdom onto them before they leave us. We pray we haven’t left anything out, that our brains and bodies have squeezed our everything into their minds and hearts.

The journey never ends, but it does change. There are seasons when the physical demand will steal sleep, zap strength, and slap you with a perpetual runny nose, compliments of preschool and every play date they’ve ever had, ever. In other seasons, the battle with culture over your child’s soul will keep you on your knees in prayer. And in later seasons, you will wrestle with both the joy and the heartache of seeing your children leave home. I told Joel one time, as we were preparing to say goodbye to our older children, “This feels unnatural.” It still feels unnatural. I’m grateful that our nest is not empty yet.

When I was younger, I put a limit on the number of children we would have. Joel and I agreed on three. When I was forty-one, we were preparing for our fourth child. At fifty-two, I look back, and I wish we had had more. I wish we hadn’t felt constrained by cultural norms but had been more open to an unconventional life. Because parenting, while immensely challenging, has been the most beautiful part of my life. Being a wife and a mother has truly been the most cherished part of being human—aside from my identity in Christ—that I’ve ever had. Hard, emotional, sometimes painful, fun, exhausting, and refining, this journey has been a great teacher; one that I will be learning from for my entire life.

To all the young ones out there, keep having babies. Fill your quiver. Embrace the chaos. I wish we had.

I am grateful for a husband who partners with me in this journey. And I am also grateful—dare I say it—for all our imperfections. All these flaws, these quarks, these mess-ups, and head-shaking moments keep us aware of our shortcomings and dependent upon God. There is nothing more precious than traversing this landscape with someone who leans on God while holding your hand. I have that, and I am grateful for it.

Sydney graduated sixteen days ago. We were somewhere in the sky six days ago, on Mother’s Day. This entire week I’ve been fighting the brain fog of jet lag, and today I am deep in reflection. This Mother’s Day post is running behind, kind of like my life in general, but the heart is fully present.

The motherhood journey is a gift. And while those goodbyes feel unnatural (and most likely always will), the journey will continue. Even after I’m gone, my children will remember me. And I want them to remember me well. The legacy I leave with them will always hold greater weight than what any person in this whole wide world thinks of me. I want to travel this time and these pathways well. Even with all these human imperfections.

Today, we have a guest post written by my husband, Joel Slater. Raising boys with special needs is not a one-parent job. Joel and I each bring our own perspectives, gifts, abilities, and experiences into this parenting journey. We are both being refined through the process, but it oftentimes looks and feels a little different. I hope you will enjoy.

Have you ever had this experience? It’s the experience where, after something suddenly becomes important or relevant to you, you start noticing it everywhere—far more often than you ever did before. It can feel almost spooky or conspiratorial (some people even joke it’s “the universe sending signs” or “the simulation glitching”). Well, sorry to disappoint you, conspiracy theorists, but it’s not. It’s simply a quirk of human cognition called “frequency illusion.” There are two main reasons: selective attention and confirmation bias. Selective attention occurs because your brain has a built-in filter called the reticular activating system (RAS). When does this filter kick in? Once something gains emotional or practical significance, your RAS flags it as “important” and prioritizes it in your perception.

I have personally experienced this when it comes to our sons, Jackson and Jasper.

Few things have as much emotional or practical significance as when we discovered Jackson had been losing his eyesight his whole life. He has Dominant Optic Atrophy. He was declared legally blind in 2023. I never consciously realized how much we learn through our sense of sight: how we learn social interaction, how we learn what is trending, how we pick up nonverbal cues, and many other things that have practical significance. My heart broke when we got his diagnosis. I grieved for him when I thought of all the challenges facing him and all the experiences I imagined him missing. I also grieved for myself as, not only recalling that I would not be able to teach him to drive a car, along with other rites of passage so common to young men, but what might be required of me in the long run. To be honest, I didn’t believe I either had the talent or the temperament to parent a child with special needs. Little did I realize that more was expected of me.

In addition, our youngest son, Jasper, is autistic. If you casually observe him, you couldn’t tell the difference. But when you know Jasper—really know him—you see it. And seeing it changes you. The emotional significance of learning you have a child who may struggle in ways you are not prepared for, such as adapting to new situations, smelling common types of food, or being in a noisy room, heightens your awareness of how both the internal and external forces will impact everyone. I was overwhelmed with the idea of a fourth child, coming when Amy and I were in our early forties. I didn’t think I could do it again. So much has changed since then.

Increasingly learning about autism has changed my perception of Jasper, of families with autistic children, of families in general, and life in general. I now see a child who perceives the world in a way I do not, but he sees beauty, humor, and opportunities everywhere. I now, with more patience and compassion, see parents who are hypersensitive to not only their child’s perception of the world but also how that world perceives both the child and the parent. I no longer focus only on my struggles, but I see families who have far greater struggles helping their child than I do with mine. I see situations that will not change, so the families facing those situations must do the changing. I think I’ve moved in that direction.

When you know someone who has a disability like Jackson’s eyesight or has a child, like Jasper with autism, you can either live in a world of perpetual frustration or admit you have no choice but to begin to see the world through their eyes, to learn how they perceive the world. That can—and should—change your perception. I used to place a premium on responding quickly, getting things done, accomplishing tasks, “making it happen,” and ensuring anything and everything happened seamlessly. Having children with special needs demanded that I change.

And that’s the key—it does change you. I can’t make the miracle happen. We can’t heal or treat Jackson; we can’t change Jasper. I once wished we could. I once wished they were “normal.” I think our whole family has either said this or at least thought this. But if we believe what we really say we believe, that each child is “made in the image of God,” then Jackson and Jasper are the way they are supposed to be. And that is one perception that has changed in me. I have had to learn how Jasper sees the world, how he hears sounds, how different smells affect him, and how he handles change. I am more sensitive to the fact that, despite these things not bothering me, they bother my son, so it should (and does) matter to me. I see Jackson enthusiastically engaging life. I see him find humor in his hardship. I see him adapt so that he may live life to the fullest. In other words, I have been the one who adapts.

So, I have embraced the phrase “perspective and process.”  This phrase is inspired by a story in Mark 8:22-26, which describes the miracle Jesus performs in healing a blind man.

We have prayed constantly for Jackson to receive his sight. Missionaries have prayed for him. Africans have prayed for him. And yet, no miracle. This is not to discourage or doubt the power of prayer. When I want to stop praying, I’m reminded of what Nicky Gumble at Holy Trinity Brompton Church in London, UK, said: “We used to never pray, and nothing would happen; now, we pray all the time, and sometimes things happen!”

Before someone chastises me for lacking faith, Mark points out that those who walked most closely with Jesus struggled to maintain their faith for miracles. Mark 8:14-21 tells us that further down the road, the disciples had forgotten some of that leftover miracle loaf they had received. Jesus used this as a teaching moment, and all the disciples could worry about was not having bread. He asks, “Do you have eyes but fail to see, and ears but fail to hear? And don’t you remember…” Ouch.  In other words, hasn’t experience taught us that we don’t need to worry, that our perspective ought to be changed in light of what God has already done and is already doing?

The point is: we so often expect God only in the supernatural when, if I change my perspective, I see God working often in the natural. Thanks to his teachers, therapists, and resources through the Oregon Commission for the Blind, Jackson is loving life, making friends, and graduated second in his class from an online school!

Because of early intervention, a fantastic neurodevelopmental pediatrician, and consistent speech/occupational therapy, Jasper has made amazing progress: he is beloved by all at his school; he has friends. He is smart as a whip, really good at sports, and is a talented artist. All these attributes are miracles, but none of these were seemingly supernatural, and none of these were instantaneous, which leads me to the other part of the lesson: the process.

Mark 8:22-26 touches me personally—probably another instance of “frequency illusion” because of the emotional connection. Only Mark records this miracle. Jesus comes to Bethsaida, and some people bring him a blind man, begging Him to touch him.  Jesus’s approach to this need is what caught my attention. First, verse 23 says, “He took the blind man by the hand and led him outside the village.”  While we always want to see a miracle or have a front-row seat to what God is doing, Jesus does this miracle in private. Second, verse 23 also reveals that Jesus spits on the man’s eyes. Our cultural conditioning would think this is rude, insensitive, and downright unsanitary. But the culture in which this miracle takes place sees spit as a familiar remedy. Third, when Jesus put his hands on the man, he asked him what he saw, and this is where the story stands out: “He looked up and said, ‘I see people; they look like trees walking around.’” Jesus placed His hands on the man a second time, and it was only then that the man’s eyes were opened, his sight was restored, and he saw everything clearly (Mark 8:25). In other words, Jesus healed him gradually. It was a process.

But it still counts.

What do I take away from this story? First, I learn that Jesus has far more love and compassion for my boys than even I do! He loves them unconditionally. And yet, He has entrusted me to both have compassion for them and be involved in showing that compassion.

I catch myself just staring at these boys and marveling at the works of art they are. I am constantly startled by the people that Jackson has impacted: from the young Zulu server at our favorite coffee place who constantly asks about Jackson to the elderly couple who stopped me on the walking path asking about “the delightful young man we met a few weeks ago.” And I listen to how Jasper’s Zulu, Xhosa, Indian, and Afrikaner friends speak to him and about him.

Second, while I long for a supernatural way of seeing them healed, my perspective of what constitutes a miracle has changed. Aside from his physical sight, Jackson has stated personally that he has, in a way, been healed. He used his journey through pain and grief of losing his eyesight to illustrate how God actually healed his heart. His rage, his resentment, his sorrow, have been replaced by joy, peace, and expectation of what God can continue to do. I whisper to myself, “That’s a miracle!”

Jasper, despite being on the spectrum, lives life to the full: he loves LEGO, he can draw almost anything, he seems to play sports like he was designed for it, and he has friends, lots of friends.  There are some simple things he has struggled with for more years than he was supposed to, but through the process, he has overcome them. I once thought, “He will never master this.” Now, I remind myself that “anything is possible, given enough time.”

While I used to want things to happen “now,” I find myself embracing the truth that healing sometimes comes through a process. It happens in stages. It happens through natural methods. While we await and expect the supernatural, God is working in the natural. My boys are living testimonies to that.

Perspective and process: these are the lessons I’ve learned parenting two boys with special needs. Earlier, I referred to Jackson and Jasper as works of art. Any work of art, especially masterpieces, can only truly be appreciated if we recognize the original artist’s perspective and learn to appreciate their process. I humbly believe that, today, I’m able to appreciate the masterpieces of Jackson and Jasper more because of a change in my perspective and a greater appreciation for God’s process. Perhaps, as you hear our story, you can think about what you can change your perspective on and what the process may be that God wants to take you through, so that you may see things differently.

Hot and dry. A thick orangey-red haze coated the landscape as I stepped out of the Lilongwe International Airport. I pushed the heavy cart loaded with maybe three or four suitcases and a large trunk wrapped with luggage straps to keep them from busting open. Brooklyn and Jackson, my siblings, pushed their own carts piled high with luggage as well. With one arm, we all struggled to push the heavy carts through the small airport, while using the other arm to hold the top suitcase in order to keep them from falling. Our mom followed close by, holding Jasper, our youngest brother, by the hand, who was clutching his favorite stuffed bunny and lion. Our dad led the way pushing another cart as we crossed through the doors and into the late afternoon heat.

Up until that moment, never in the sixteen years of my life, had I spent more than five hours on a plane, and I had just finished the longest trip of my life: 30 hours later, from the cushy, clean, and green suburbs of Portland, Oregon, arriving in Lilongwe, Malawi, Africa which was not cushy, clean, or green.

“Takulandirani!” an old man smiled, his wide grin revealing missing teeth.

“Muli bwanji!” a couple of African mamas said, walking past with their babies strapped to their backs with colorful fabrics called kitenges.

People were everywhere, walking in and out of the airport, waiting for the bus, leaning on the sides of their taxis. I looked past the sea of people to see our missionary team. “Welcome to Malawi!” they cheered.

I felt so excited. Finally, we are here! But almost immediately, I felt overstimulated. My ears were filled with words that I never heard of before, the sounds of airplanes taking off, laughter, and motorcycles called tuk tuks tooting their horns. My nose was overwhelmed with the many interesting smells like smoke from the fires that burned the maize fields and body odor. Lots of body odor. People everywhere, some yelling, asking if we needed a taxi, others chatting while waiting for the bus, and then our missionary team waving and smiling and welcoming us to our new home.

After we said our hellos and gave hugs to the welcoming group, we packed all of our luggage into the dirty Toyota Fortuners and headed off to the missionary compound where we would be living for the next few years.

I looked out the dusty window and saw the orange sun begin to set over the Malawian landscape. A herd of skinny goats pranced along the side of the road. Small, stick-like trees sat still in the middle of the maize fields. Long trails of white smoke danced up into the sky. As we travelled down the bumpy red dirt road, the driver swerved to the left and right to avoid potholes and people and asked us how the trip went. I couldn’t believe that we were finally here.

We were “home.”

As much as I would like to share how idyllic, wonderful, and adventurous life was after that day we arrived in sunny, hot Malawi, it unfortunately was not.

From the first night onward, this city girl had no idea what she had gotten herself into. I had heard of culture shock but thought of it as a myth. There’s no way I will deal with culture shock like some people. Maybe it’s because they’re weak? Those were my honest thoughts.

I was wrong.

I lived in perpetual culture shock, whenever I opened my eyes in the morning, to when I closed them to go to sleep. Everywhere I looked and went, there was something new to learn and understand. It felt like I had to learn how to live all over again.

Over the next few weeks, our team members would tell us, “Don’t drink the tap water! The power goes out all the time! We will run out of water! Watch out for the mosquitoes! Lock your doors!” I know they were trying to be helpful, but honestly, it was far from helpful. My already overwhelmed brain was trying to understand all of this new and unfamiliar information.

As I dealt with the shock of being in a third-world country, I started to feel the overwhelming realization that I was living there, and that this was my new reality. I missed my grandparents and my friends. I missed my house and my room. I missed my church and my school. I even missed the little things like brushing my teeth with the sink water, and when the leaves change colors in the fall.

I wanted to go back home to America.

Each day, I started to feel like God was farther and farther away. I wondered where God was. Each night before I would fall asleep, I would think to myself, “Why would God allow this to happen? Why would He take away every single thing I loved so much? Why did my family have to go?” I did not get an answer.

I believed the fact that my family and I were “stuck” in Malawi. I did not have a good attitude about my new life in Africa. Life seemed to be getting harder and harder and my friends and family stateside began to grow farther and farther away. Going to school in Malawi was a horrible experience, and I started to feel so alone. The days turned into months and suddenly the start of a new year began and I was the loneliest I have ever been.

Whispers of a thing called “the coronavirus” started to circulate, and I will never forget the day that the Malawian government shut down the schools. When the government told the country to quarantine, we began a new routine of waking up early, doing school online, and then finding things to do on the compound since we couldn’t leave. As the weeks went by, we heard news via Instagram and Facebook and from concerned family members about how serious the COVID pandemic was getting.

The U.S. Embassy contacted the American expats living in the city to inform about a flight leaving Malawi and going back to the States before the government shut down the airport. Deep down I prayed that my family would leave. I would rather sit in an uncomfortable seat for 12 hours in economy than stay in Malawi.

My wonderful, prayerful parents wanted to leave, too. But to this day, they will say that they did not feel released from God to leave. Soon before the flight’s departure date, my parents sat me and my siblings down after dinner and said: “We have been praying about what to do next, and we feel like we need to stay in Malawi.”

I felt like I was punched in the gut.

What do you mean “stay in Malawi?” All by ourselves? The rest of the team is leaving! What will we do now? I was so disappointed. I did not understand why we had to stay in Malawi when it seemed like this was our ticket out of Malawi for good. Our time in Malawi had been difficult for each one of us, and it was not what we expected. Again, I wondered where God was in all of this. Little did I know that staying would actually be the best thing to ever happen to me and my family.

One by one, the families on our compound left Malawi and went back to the U.S. while my family stayed confined in the red brick walls of our compound. At first, I was mad. Then I felt relieved. Maybe this isn’t such a bad thing. Maybe there is a reason for all of this. Soon, it was just my little family alone on the compound.

My family had always been a close family, at least closer than most of my friends’. We had family dinners and had movie nights on Fridays and had little traditions throughout the year. But when COVID came to Malawi, everything changed. It forced my family and me to spend lots and lots of time together: watching Lost and Alias, baking from-scratch chocolate cakes, and even celebrating Christmas in July (because it got “cold”). We had so much time to be with each other which we now reflect on as the best time in our lives and laugh at all of the memories we made together.

In the midst of wondering where God was, and whether He abandoned me or not, I decided to turn to Jesus during what was the hardest season of my life. In my room during quarantine, after months and months of asking God why and where He was, I realized that God never left me. He never left my family. Even through difficulty, frustration, and pain, that is where I found Jesus. At 16 years old in the middle of the COVID 19 pandemic, in Malawi, I re-dedicated my life to Jesus. It took moving across the ocean to a foreign land (that I honestly did not know existed) for me to start my own relationship with Him.

When I first got to Malawi, I wondered where God was and what He was doing. Now, years after that first day stepping out of that small airport, I know that God was with me the whole time. I do not know exactly why God sent my family to Malawi specifically. But I believe that it was to change me, draw me closer to Him, and draw me closer to my family. Moving there at 16 years old, prepared me for living a life with God. What I have learned is this: Wherever you are going, wherever God has placed you, He has a purpose and plan. He will use the good, the bad, and the painful to bring us closer to Him and for His glory.

We find his story in the book of Genesis. Anyone who grew up going to church will be quite up to speed with this story. I can still see the flannel graph pictures of Joseph surrounded by bales of wheat bowing in his direction during those early morning Sunday school lessons. It is a story most of us have heard many times. But for those of you reading this who are not familiar with Joseph’s story, I want to quickly give you a recap of his life.

Joseph’s story is found in the book of Genesis, chapters 35-50.

He was the firstborn son of Rachel and Jacob (Jacob, who was later renamed Israel after wrestling with God). Joseph had ten older brothers. These were the sons of Leah (Rachel’s sister), Bilhah (Rachel’s maidservant), and Zilpah (Leah’s maidservant).

Israel, his father, loved Joseph more than any of his brothers. This created jealousy and spite toward Joseph. It did not help matters when Joseph had a dream where all of their sheaves of grain bowed down to his. And again, another dream which he shared with great enthusiasm, where the sun, moon, and eleven stars all bowed down to him.

Infuriated by Joseph’s audacity to imply that they would bow down to him, and even further provoked by their father’s preference for him, the brothers devised a plan to get rid of Joseph forever.

Initially, they intended to kill him, but Reuben—the oldest of all the brothers—convinced the others to throw Joseph into a cistern. (He planned to return later and help Joseph escape.) The brothers agreed to this new plan, and when Joseph arrived, they stripped him of his beautiful robe—a treasured gift from Jacob, and a sign of his favoritism—and tossed The Dreamer into the cistern.

A caravan of Ishmaelites was passing by. Seeing this caravan, Judah (one of the brothers) had the bright idea of selling Joseph into slavery as opposed to killing him, which would leave his blood on their hands. The brothers agreed, and they sold Joseph for twenty shekels of silver.

Realizing that their father would be expecting Joseph to return home at some point, the brothers slaughtered a goat, ripped Joseph’s robe apart, and then dipped the pieces into the goat’s blood. They presented the bloodied robe to their father. Jacob was grief-stricken and tore his clothes. He mourned over the loss of Joseph for many days.

The caravan of Ishmaelites made their way to Egypt, where they sold Joseph to Potiphar, one of Pharaoh’s officials. Joseph worked hard and with great integrity, gaining much favor in the sight of Potiphar. Because of his strong character, much was entrusted to Joseph.

Potiphar’s wife took a liking to Joseph, and she tried to seduce him. She was not a woman who took no for an answer, and she repeatedly invited him into bed with her. Each time Joseph declined. One day, when Joseph and Potiphar’s wife were alone in the house, she grabbed his cloak and pulled it off. Joseph ran away. Potiphar’s wife was humiliated and resented Joseph. She retaliated by accusing him of trying to take advantage of her. Enraged with anger, Potiphar threw Joseph into prison.

I want to pause here.

Joseph, throughout this entire exchange, remained upright and honest. He held on to his character and integrity, and he worked diligently to honor his master. Joseph’s crime against his brothers was simply his own immaturity, and yet he was hated and sold into a life of slavery. Joseph maintained his integrity amidst the ongoing seductions of his master’s wife.

His dreams were shattered, and his good behavior landed him in prison. I wonder if he felt an ounce of confusion or worry, or depression?

How could a person do everything right and still end up in a dungeon?

Have you ever asked the same question regarding your own life? God, how did I end up here after doing everything the right way—the way you asked of me? How?

Back to Joseph’s story…

It did not take long before Joseph won the heart and favor of the prison warden. Once again, Joseph proved himself to be trustworthy and reliable. Genesis, chapter 39, verse 23 says, “The Lord was with Joseph and gave him success in whatever he did.”

There came a moment of significant hope for Joseph. The king’s cupbearer and baker were both thrown into prison. During that time, each of these men had a dream. They were perplexed as no one could interpret their dreams. When Joseph approached them, he asked them to share their dreams with him, and they did. God gave Joseph the interpretation of these dreams. The baker would be executed, and the cupbearer would return to his position. To the cupbearer, Joseph made one request: that the cupbearer would mention him to Pharaoh and get him out of prison.

Everything that Joseph said to these men proved true, but when the cupbearer returned to his duties, he completely forgot about Joseph.

Two years went by.

Let’s pause again lest we rush through the weightiness of this part of the story.

The cupbearer, who promised to speak on Joseph’s behalf once released from prison, completely forgot about Joseph. Can you picture Joseph sitting in prison waiting for rescue, for reprieve, for freedom? And then waiting for two years? Disheartening. Devastating. Crushing and heartbreaking. These are the words that come to mind when I picture this scene. And yet, what we know is that Joseph continued to live uprightly and with honor.

Two years later, Pharaoh had two disturbing dreams. He called for all the magicians and wise men to come and interpret his dreams. They were unable to do so. It was at this time that the cupbearer remembered Joseph (good for you, cupbearer!), and he told Pharaoh about the prisoner who had interpreted his dream.

Pharaoh called for Joseph. He told him his dreams, and once again, God gave Joseph the interpretation. The news was not favorable. Seven years of abundance would be followed by a seven-year famine that would ravage the land. Pharaoh found himself in need of a wise and discerning man to prepare Egypt for this severe famine to come. Joseph laid out a plan that would prepare Egypt for this great crisis. God’s favor was upon Joseph, and Pharaoh put him in charge of everything. Pharaoh placed his signet ring upon Joseph’s finger and made it clear that nothing could be done without Joseph’s command.

The seven years of abundance came and went. And then the famine set in. The famine spread throughout the world, and people—far and wide—journeyed to Egypt to buy food.

Joseph’s family, still living in Canaan, was one of those many families who traveled to find food.

Joseph was now the governor of Egypt, and he was the one who sold grain to the people who came in search of food. When his brothers arrived, they bowed before Joseph.

This is where the story really kicks into gear. There has been a lot of waiting, of hoping, of wondering about long-lost dreams and deferred hope. And suddenly, in walked Joseph’s brothers.

Joseph, somewhere around twenty years before this moment, had a dream. In this dream, his brothers bowed down to him. He was despised, sold into slavery, and presumed dead because of the jealous rage his brothers had for him. For twenty years, it appeared that this dream had died—that somehow Joseph had misinterpreted the meaning of the bowing sheaves of grain, and the bowing sun, moon, and stars.

The dream was dead.

And yet, here—twenty years later—Joseph stood with his brothers bowing at his feet.

What is incredibly precious about this moment, and cannot be overlooked, is Joseph’s response to his brothers.

He didn’t gloat over their circumstances.

He didn’t smear their hateful behavior in their faces.

He didn’t punish them by withholding food from them and their families.

Rather, through the course of this story, Joseph embraced his brothers. After twenty years, he saw his dreams from a different perspective. Yes, his brothers—and eventually his father—did bow down to him, but not for his own selfish gain or pride.

Joseph’s dreams at the age of seventeen were a partial view of the grander story God was writing upon the life of Joseph. They were true, but they didn’t hold the weight of the responsibility and pain that Joseph would experience to get to that point. Joseph’s recognition of God’s sovereignty and goodness throughout this entire story is most evident in his response to his brothers when he revealed his true identity to them.

“I am your brother Joseph, the one you sold into Egypt! And now, do not be distressed and do not be angry with yourselves for selling me here, because it was to save lives that God sent me ahead of you. For two years now there has been famine in the land, and for the next five years there will not be plowing and reaping. But God sent me ahead of you to preserve for you a remnant on earth and to save your lives by a great deliverance.

So then, it was not you who sent me here, but God” (Genesis 45:4-8).

Joseph’s dreams were not completely rewritten, but they went through a refining, a reshaping, and a reframing. Joseph’s response to his brothers reveals the work that God was doing in his life throughout the loss, the suffering, the loneliness, and being forgotten.

God was refining Joseph. He was removing the impurities and unwanted elements from Joseph’s heart. He was sifting Joseph.

God was reshaping the dream. Rather than the dream being about Joseph, God was reshaping it into a form that exalted and glorified God.

God was reframing the story. For twenty years, God used every experience, every hardship, and every moment of Joseph’s life to reframe the purpose of the dream. He filled in the gaps and created a solid structure for the dream to be realized.

And from this refining, reshaping, and reframing, we hear the resurrected hope, joy, and praise in Joseph’s voice. “God sent me here.” This was Joseph’s declaration of God’s hand upon his life, and the purpose of the dream God put in his heart.

***

Two years ago, nestled in the safety and comfort of my counselor’s office, she (my counselor) instructed me to close my eyes. I obeyed. For the following thirty minutes, she quietly walked me through a step-by-step exercise that pinpointed the deeper emotions I was wrestling with. I faced the disappointments, fears, insecurities, and pain that I had been working on throughout our sessions together, but this time with the objective of working my way up from them.

During this exercise, with my eyes closed in the quiet of the office, a picture came to my mind.

I was in a small wooden fishing boat floating out in the middle of the ocean. It was dark. The color of the sky, a midnight blue. Off in the distance, there were dark shadows of mountains or hills. I couldn’t see them clearly, but I knew they were there. The water around me was dark—a rippled blackness. I was standing at the helm of this small wooden boat, the wind blowing in my face, causing a chill through my body. I was weary. I couldn’t see where I was going, and I felt the weight of disappointment as I had no idea what to do next. Without any backstory as to how I ended up in this boat, I seemed to know—intuitively—that this boat represented my life.

Slowly, I turned away from the helm of the boat and lowered my body down to take a break. From the corner of my eye, I could see movement at the other end of the small vessel. While I could not make out the face of this person, I knew it was Jesus. As I was lying down, He was making His way to the front of the boat. It rocked side-to-side as my head rested on the bottom. He laid a hand on my arm as if to say, “It is okay, Amy. You can rest now. I will take care of everything.” He then stood at the helm and began to direct the boat.

Opening my eyes after seeing this picture so vividly in my mind, the profound message that I sensed in my heart was this: while my life was moving in a direction that I couldn’t understand, and dreams that I had dreamed for so long were lost in the misty fog of a nighttime sea, Jesus was still in control.

The reality hit me that God will never let our boats sink or float off into oblivion. He has a purpose for each one of us, and His desire is to use us—our gifts, our abilities, and our experiences—to bring glory to His name. He will not waste anyone or anything. My boat was in safe hands. If Jesus was at the helm, then I knew my boat was headed somewhere. I may not know exactly where, but He would carry it to a place that would bring me the greatest satisfaction.

I prayed a prayer in that moment, “God, give me a new dream. Plant new desires in my heart. Show me a new way.”

Some dreams die, and it is a permanent death.

Some dreams die in order to be resurrected.

And some dreams die so that God can breathe new life, new hope, and new purposes into them.

When we returned to South Africa in January 2024, I asked Emma Fogleman, the daughter of our colleagues, if she would be willing to create a painting of the boat picture I had in mind (I would, of course, pay her). She is a very gifted artist, and as I shared with her the meaning of this picture and how it tied into hopes and dreams and God’s sovereignty, she agreed to take the job. Emma proceeded to create the most beautiful watercolor painting of which I have named “Dream Big, Sweet Girl.” It hangs in my office.

I baked a chocolate cake today. It’s not a holiday. It’s nobody’s birthday. There is nothing of great significance to celebrate today. Sometimes we just need cake. Sometimes we need a little special something to remind us that while the mundane ordinariness of life may roll along, whipping us into step with to-do lists and obligations, there is still hope and still joy and still a little something cake-worthy.

What we can celebrate is that even in this moment, God is doing something. He doesn’t waste any part of our lives or our stories. Joseph bears witness to the powerful and redemptive work God does with our dreams. This is a cake with frosting moment. Our dreams are in His hands. And we can trust the path He has laid out for us.

So, dream big, my sweet friends.

The Comrades Marathon

Today, over 20,000 individuals from all over the world have converged upon Durban, South Africa, to participate in the prestigious Comrades Marathon.

The race was conceptualized by a South African World War I veteran, Vic Clapham. After enduring a 2,700 kilometer walk through German, East Africa—witnessing the physical and mental challenges that he and his fellow soldiers faced—Vic’s goal was to create a way for the average person to experience that same sense of overcoming hardship and adversity. The first race was held on May 24, 1921.

The Comrades Marathon is considered an ultramarathon. It runs from Durban to Pietermaritzburg in the Kwa Zulu Natal province of South Africa. Each year the race alternates between uphill and downhill. It is about 88 kilometers from start to finish. This year runners are tackling the uphill race.

Eighty-eight kilometers all uphill.

When I woke up this morning, I was thinking about the fierce determination each of these runners must have in order to start and complete this ultramarathon. And then I was thinking about the premise of the Comrades Marathon—to endure with one another through intense adversity.

The fundamental goal for Vic Clapham when he developed the race was not for the soul purpose of one individual winning the prize, although that does happen, but for the collective to endure and face the challenging course together. Pushing each other along to win the day.

It made me think about this Christian race we are running. The Comrades Marathon is a picture of what our faith journey should look like.

I Thessalonians 2:11 & 12 says: “For you know that we dealt with each of you as a father deals with his own children, encouraging, comforting and urging you to live lives worthy of God, who calls you into his kingdom and glory.”

Hebrews 10:24 exhorts us to “consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds.”

The Acts 2 church met with one another, broke bread, shared a table, and their hearts were glad.

We are running the “Ekklesia Marathon.”

As a body of believers, we are the Church—the Ekklesia.

And yet, rather than cheer each other on and hold each other up when we feel too weak and weary to take the next step, we smack each other down. We create silos in our ministries. We marginalize fellow laborers and build platforms for ourselves rather than slowing down our pace to lift each other up.

It saddens my heart that we as the Church—the Hope of the world—are more interested in reflecting the values of the world—competition, financial and numerical success, leadership and position, platform and influence—than we are in running this ultramarathon with grace, humility, kindness, and love.

What might our testimonies look like to the world if we, the Church, came alongside each other and ran this faith marathon as brothers and sisters—as comrades?

What if we cared more about how our fellow believers were managing through the hardships this life throws at us instead of beating each other up?

What negative accusation could be hurled at us if we were the first to offer hope, love, and encouragement to those who are struggling, hurting, and lost?

What kind of beauty might we see if we held each other up during days of joy and days of sorrow?

This marathon is hard to run alone.

Church, we need each other, and we need to be kind. We need to be humble. We need to shed our egos and we need to remember to Whom we have been called.

Let us be ones who run together through adversity.

Christ expects that.

He is returning for His bride, not for individual achievers.

“Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus” (Hebrews 12:1,2).

This morning, my thoughts were on the Comrades Marathon. And more specifically, my thoughts have turned toward the Church.

I want to run this race well, but I don’t want to run alone.