photo by gowtham agm on unsplash

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.

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.

The Least.

Jesus sat down opposite the place where the offerings were put and watched the crowd putting their money into the temple treasury. Many rich people threw in large amounts. But a poor widow came and put in two very small copper coins, worth only a few cents. Calling his disciples to him, Jesus said, “Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put more into the treasury than all the others.”

Mark 12:41-43

She didn’t have much. In fact, she didn’t have anything of significant monetary value.

She was a widow, and she was poor.

And she was among the crowd of people coming to the temple to give their offerings. The wealthy made a big show of it, tossing their large sums of money into the temple treasury. She, on the other hand, made no demonstrative display of her gift when she dropped two small copper coins – such a coin was called a lepton, meaning “thin one” – into the treasury. This was not a fat offering. It was, literally, a very lean gift.

Perhaps, as Jesus and his disciples sat on the other side of this scene, nothing looked out-of-the-ordinary. I imagine there were a number of people, walking through the queue, waiting their turn to submit their offerings. This poor widow, most likely obscure in the hustle and bustle of the crowd around her, elicited no extra attention or admiration. She dropped her coins and moved along in the river of humanity.

But Jesus saw her. He didn’t just see her; he pointed her out. He paid significant attention to this woman, invisible to the world.

Jesus does that.

He sees the hidden treasures around us, and he redirects our focus. His heart is drawn to the least of these. He doesn’t praise them because of their lowly status, but he acknowledges and affirms their actions despite their status.

The widow woman, holding her entire earthly wealth in her hands, tossed it all into the offering.

She gave out of her poverty – the least of everyone.

Yet, Jesus said she gave the most.

The kingdom that Jesus taught about throughout his ministry was an upside-down – paradox to the human understanding of greatness – kind of kingdom.

If you want to be great, then you must become a servant – the least of these.

Sitting down, Jesus called the Twelve and said, “Anyone who wants to be first must be the very last, and the servant of all.”

Mark 9:35

When he made this statement to the disciples, he didn’t leave anything out. He was clear and direct. This wasn’t a coaching session on how to become a great leader. It was a difficult conversation speaking to the condition of the disciples’ hearts (the condition of our hearts as well) and expressing this hard-to-swallow kingdom mindset of lowering ourselves to title-less servants of Christ. He gave them no false promises that if they become the very last that they will be servant leaders of all. No. Jesus was very serious about this issue. In fact, rather than teach and express this significant kingdom principle by walking and talking, he sat them down. It was as if he was saying to them, “This is a lesson I don’t want you to miss. If you miss this, you miss everything.” He plainly and intentionally communicated that the greatest, in God’s sight, are the least: the ones who serve, and whose highest ambition is to serve like Christ.

And then he told them that if they sought for greatness in his Kingdom they must find it, not by being first, but by being last; not by being masters, but by being servants of all. It was not that Jesus abolished ambition. Rather, he recreated and sublimated ambition. For the ambition to rule, he substituted the ambition to serve. For the ambition to have things done for us, he substituted the ambition to do things for others.

William Barclay

This way of Jesus shoots straight to the heart. While the disciples were arguing over who would be the greatest, Jesus was always – always- redirecting their gaze…their attention…to the least. We cannot hold on to our self-righteousness when we sit this close to Jesus. His ways are so far beyond ours- the complete and utter opposite of our natural inclinations.

“They all gave out of their wealth; but she, out of her poverty, put in everything—all she had to live on.”

Mark 12:44

The widow woman…who gave her “thin one” to God, gave more than any person who showed up to church that day. The wealthy gave out of their wealth. It is not a sacrifice when there is a deep reservoir to continue to draw from. She, on the other hand, gave all that she had…what might have been useful for oil, or flour, or some form of shelter. Her gift that day was a treasure far weightier than any sack of money poured into the temple bucket. In Christ’s upside-down kingdom, she would be considered “greatest”.

But I don’t think that this kind of greatness is a title that many of us are keen on snatching up. How many of us are truly prepared to be the least- to give an offering that won’t gain us significant earthly approval? How many of us are honestly willing to become servants without promise of promotion?

These are big questions.

This was what Jesus wanted his disciples to grasp.

It is what he wants us to internalize and hold firmly to today.

The greatest is Jesus.

We recognize that not one of us can carry the weight that he carried, so why do we attempt to place man on a scale of greatness when Jesus is part of the equation? Are any one of us prepared to take on the sin of the world and sacrifice our lives on a cross for the redemption of all mankind? It is difficult for me to lay down my life for my husband and family…I’m selfish, and I get tired and irritated and struggle with feelings of entitlement. Can you relate? Even when I do surrender and push aside my selfish will, I find I have to continuously lay my ambitions at the foot of the cross. This act of surrender is a daily act of obedience.

Greatness in God’s eyes is not the pursuit of greatness, but the pursuit of the cross-bearing life; choosing to lay our lives down for others and serving them with the willingness to sacrifice any hope of earthly greatness in the act of giving. It is about our hearts.

In both of these stories, we see that Jesus is shifting the paradigm. It has nothing to do with wealth and poverty in the natural sense, but about the wealth and poverty of the soul. How much are we willing to sacrifice and surrender to God? Greatness has nothing to do with titles and hierarchy, but about laying down our lives for the sake of others; becoming servants of all. Period.

There was a profound difference between a servant and a slave in biblical times. A slave was one who was owned by another person, taken against their will and forced into servitude. A servant, on the other hand, was a person who voluntarily chose to serve. Jesus came, not to be a slave, but he came on his own free will to serve…to give his life. And Jesus exhorted his disciples, and exhorts us today, not to live as slaves but to live as servants; freely giving our lives and our treasure, our gifts and our ambition to Jesus and his purposes.

When we place ourselves in proper alignment to Jesus Christ, we see that we really are the least. That even the greatest accomplishments and skills, gifts, and offerings we offer are like the widow woman’s lepton, “thin one”. While we can never match the sacrifice that Christ made for the world, we can take our two small copper coins – the little we do have – and give it all in service to Jesus. We can humble ourselves to the status of servants.

God honors the least. It doesn’t make sense. None of it does. The math will never add up…it will never equal the greatness that we so often seek. But it is the way of Jesus. It is the way of good. It is the hope this world has. I am so inspired to give my “thin one” to Jesus- to be counted as the least. If it draws me closer to Jesus – to his heart…to his character…to deeper intimacy – then let me be a servant of all.

Humility is the mark of Christ. It is the way of power used rightly. It is Godlike to serve in humility. He who sits on the throne was the servant of all while here, and on the throne he continues to serve us by his Spirit. We must know him well and deeply if his work is to be accomplished.

Diane Langberg, Redeeming Power: Understanding Authority and Abuse in the Church

Self-care in a season of chaos.

When we moved to South Africa, I had come out of a very challenging season in Malawi. It was hard on all fronts – from helping our children transition, to navigating life in a foreign country, the ever-precarious visa process, the insurgence of Covid-19, to understanding a new organization and all of the intricate policies, procedures, and bureaucracy. It was hard. But, like I have said before, we were able to find creative ways to establish stability.

Still, when we arrived in South Africa, I felt like I had run a marathon and was standing at the starting line of yet another marathon. The decision for our move was, primarily, to get help for Jasper. We knew he had some significant developmental issues, and South Africa provided the much-needed resources to help him.

As I sat in our Airbnb one afternoon, completely exhausted and weary, I remember thinking: “Can one lose resiliency? Is it possible that I am not able to bounce back from challenges like I used to?” A friend of mine called me. She and I have known each other since high school, and we are both Third Culture Kids. She said to me, as I was thinking out loud, that the question of resiliency cannot be answered when one is in the middle of transition. She encouraged me to walk slowly and take it one day at a time.

I was beginning to feel like, perhaps, God was disciplining me- that all of this hard stuff we were facing and working through was because I had, somehow, upset and disappointed God. I was stressed out trying to determine if my own frustration and anger at some of the things we had experience had been a result of me not being a good enough Christian, missionary, wife, mother, etc. While I was grateful- deeply grateful- that God had brought us to a place where we could help Jasper, and we had even found incredible resources for him, and for our family, I couldn’t shake this feeling that I was somehow responsible for how hard the past year had been. And I was worried that I might not bounce back from it.

A few months later, I was on a Zoom call with a mentor of mine, sharing with her my fears, my worries, and doubts, and she said to me, in the most empathetic and kind way, “Amy, I think you need to walk in God’s love. His yoke is easy, and his burden is light. He is not disciplining you. He wants you to know that he loves you, and he is with you.” I can’t begin to explain how the combination of my friend’s words and this mentor’s words spoke life to me. They still do. I have a small sign that I received as a gift from this mentor before we moved overseas. It says, “You are loved”, and it is a gentle reminder of this truth that I see each day when I sit at my desk.

Walk in God’s love.

Be gentle with yourself.

Breathe.

Release these burdens and cares and rest in God’s presence.

Take it one day at a time.

Transition in a season of chaos brings a kind of weariness that is difficult to describe. It overwhelms and saturates so much of our lives. Too often we brush it off, or we blame ourselves for not being strong enough or resilient enough to handle the chaos, rather than recognize that we have limits. And it is okay to have limits. It is okay to say, “I’ve reached my capacity.”

Self-care in a season of chaos, for me, looks like:

1.     Waking up in the morning and reminding myself that I am loved by God.

2.     Loving my husband.

3.     Prioritizing my family.

4.     Homecooked meals.

5.     Handing over the things that are out of my control to God.

6.     Laughter with my family.

7.     Reading books that help me understand the process I am working through.

8.     Regulating social media.

9.     Speaking kind words to myself.

10.  Letting go of guilt when saying “no” to something is the healthy thing to do.

Transition is a season. It is not a lifestyle. The missionary life tends to be more transitory in nature than a regular occupation, but constant transition is not the norm, even for missionary life. It is a season; these seasons pass.

It’s not so much that we’re afraid of change or so in love with the old ways, but it’s that place in between that we fear…It’s like being between trapezes. It’s Linus when his blanket is in the dryer. There’s nothing to hold on to.

Marilyn Ferguson, American Futurist

Transition is the in-between. It’s the letting go and the reaching out with no clear sight of the new beginning. I would add to Marilyn Ferguson’s thought that we, as Christ followers, do have something – Someone – to hold on to. The season of transition breeds all kinds of internal restlessness, and it feels overwhelming when we are in the thick of it. However, we are not alone. As we learn to pivot in the chaos, we have someone in the storm keeping the boat from sinking. Jesus never leaves us. He promises that he has gone before us, and he is also in the middle of all the mess with us…standing strong.

Resting in his love and allowing his presence to carry us through the seas of the in-between, will give us the resilience we need to keep pressing on and moving forward.

It is okay to take care of yourself in these seasons of chaos. It is okay to hit “pause” and remind yourself that you are loved by God. Rather than try to figure out if you are doing it right, or doing it well, give yourself the gift of care – whatever that might look like for you. This is not a race…you don’t lose points for those moments you pause…stop…recalibrate. One of the greatest gifts you can give to yourself- and your family- through periods of transition is self-care. Eventually, you will find yourself on the other side of the trapeze.

He tends his flock like a shepherd: He gathers the lambs in his arms and carries them close to his heart; he gently leads those that have young.

Isaiah 40:11

I’ve been a little obsessed with the animal kingdom lately. We were at a game reserve last year, and there seemed to have been a baby boom across the northeastern part of South Africa. We saw so many mamas and babies. What struck me, and what I have not been able to stop thinking about, was how naturally and instinctively these mamas watched over and protected their young, while simultaneously, the babies sought after and stayed within close proximity to their mamas.

Elephants are highly protective of their young. A mama elephant will charge anything that she perceives to be a threat to her baby. Elephants stick together in family units, and for increased security, they will join with other elephant families to form clans. Many of these family units and clans are comprised of females and their offspring. Lots of mamas protecting their little ones.

Touch is an important communication tool among elephants, especially between mother and calf. Wherever the calf and mother may be, they will be touching. And if the baby is behind the mama, she will reach out and touch her young with her tail. It is a beautiful picture of care, protection, and love.

On the other side of the size scale, sea otters are another fascinating creature! Because of their dense fur, they can sleep in the ocean floating on their backs, but they do not float alone. Sea otters will float in groups called rafts. These rafts can range from two sea otters up to hundreds of otters. They stay close, holding hands in order not to lose each other and to protect themselves from drifting away and becoming vulnerable to predators. Sea otter mamas hold their pups on their tummies and will spend hours fluffing their fur. This is more than just a fussy mom trait, but it is a necessary instinct they do in order to ensure the pup’s fur is prepped well for floating. A mama sea otter will carry her baby through rough waters and hostile environments in order to ensure the safety of the little one.

This picture, illustrated in living color, of intuitive care and motherly instinct is powerful.

Our older three children loved to be held when they were little. Sometimes, if they were feeling exceptionally affectionate, they would run and try to jump into my lap for a quick hug and kiss. Sometimes they would reach their hands up to the sky, a clear message to me to pick them up and hold them in my arms, simply because they wanted to be close to me. Even Jasper, who is not naturally an affectionate little guy, will lay his hand on my lap, or hold my hand close to his chest, when I am singing to him at bedtime. There is something very warm, comforting and affirming when we find ourselves being held by those we love, and who love us.

To be held.

There are so many images and Scriptures throughout the Bible that encourage us to hold on…persevere…cling to Jesus. We can find, in moments of exhaustion, mentally exhorting ourselves to just keep pressing on- and holding on to Jesus.

The challenge is that sometimes we wear out. We let go. Or we wander and get disoriented by the trials and heavy burdens we bear. Our intentions are good and pure…we are doing our best. We are holding on!

He gathers the lambs in his arms and carries them close to his heart…

Thankfully, the burden of our security and our preservation does not lie solely in our hands. Yes, we must hold on, but while we are holding – and in those moments when our grip releases – we are also being held.

We are held in Christ’s hands- gathered up in his strong and capable arms.

He holds us close to his heart.

Like a mother elephant, or the sea otter, he is always near…finding us…touching us with his presence…holding our hands so that we do not drift out to sea.

He will gather them in when they wander, gather them up when they fall, gather them together when they are dispersed, and gather them home to himself at last; and all this with his own arm, out of which none shall be able to pluck them. He will carry them in the bosom of his love and cherish them there. When they tire or are weary, are sick and faint, when they meet with foul ways, he will carry them on, and take care they are not left behind. He will gently lead them.

Matthew Henry’s Commentary

What a reminder of the constant care of God.

Our relationship with God is reciprocal. We reach out to Him and He is reaching out to us. It is not just us holding on to Him, holding His hand, reaching out to Him, but it is also Jesus holding us, leading us, finding us and carrying us. He keeps us safe in rough waters. He is ready to charge when predators come near.

We are safe.

We are loved.

We are His.

How comforting and encouraging.

Wherever we are, whatever we do…in our daily work or our evening rest…as we are holding on to Jesus, He is holding on to us.

Transitioning with littles and special needs.

I’ve shared our experience with transitioning with our older children. What about younger children? What does this process of transition look like with a three-year-old? Or a five-year-old? And, even more so, what about a child who has special needs- who, perhaps, cannot articulate their feelings verbally?

Jasper was three years old when we landed in Malawi. What we did not know at the time was that he is on the autism spectrum. If I had known that, it might have helped me a lot in navigating the transition with him. Without that knowledge, we did the best we could.

Jasper’s “speaking up” looked more like massive meltdowns (up to two-plus-hours of meltdown), as well as erratic and repetitive behavior. He was an unregulated little boy plopped into the middle of an unregulated and chaotic setting. From the smells to the language to the sounds and sights, he was overstimulated and out of control. I look back on that year in Malawi, and I can only say that it was God’s grace that brought us through. Sundays were a nightmare. He had no place to go that was a safe space. He was overwhelmed, and he could not string the words or thoughts together to express how he was feeling and what he needed. His language skills were delayed which compounded the emotional strain. I’ve often compared Jasper’s behavior to that of a pinball machine. The triggering stimulus or event would be likened to pulling the lever on a pinball machine that shoots the ball out of the corner. In similar fashion, Jasper would be shot out of his corner in the morning, and he would literally bounce all over the place, directionless and erratically throughout the day.

Picture this: our house in Malawi had five doors that all led to the outside. It is common for people to open up doors and windows of their homes- and keep them open- throughout the day in order to allow the breeze to flow through the house. We did this, initially, until we realized that these open doors created enormous stress for Jasper. He would run like a person on speed, in and out of the house, out one door and in through the next, circling the house over and over again. The running didn’t calm him down or wear him out. It actually revved him up and set him into a physical and emotional tailspin. When we recognized how the open doors were creating an atmosphere of stress for him- and for us- we decided to close all the doors except one. There would be only one open door for coming and going.

It really breaks my heart when I think of how hard that transition must have been for him. I tear up when I think about it because I know I didn’t always handle myself well in those high stress moments.

I can’t go back in time and fix all the mistakes I made in helping Jasper through the transition, but I can take what I’ve learned – and am continuing to learn – and apply it in our current transition and future transitions, and hopefully spark some creativity and hope to those who are also going through something similar to this.

With younger children, we have to slow down. We have to get on pace with them and their emotional process. I’ve heard it said multiple times that moving overseas is much easier with little ones than it is with older children. Speaking from my own experience, I would say that I disagree. It is not easier, just different.

Little ones explode in behavior. They meltdown, and they wear out easily. Fatigue creates a tired and angry little tyrant. They verbally can’t tell us, “Hey, I feel uncomfortable in this situation.” Or “I am scared, and I don’t understand what is happening.” We have to interpret their emotions, feelings, and grief through the negative behaviors we observe.

Slowing down means just that: slowing down. We want to take our new life by the horns and run, but our little ones need us to take them by the hand and adjust our pace to theirs. Jasper’s three-year-old legs were, and still are, significantly shorter than mine and Joel’s. If he was physically so much smaller than Joel and me, try to imagine the emotional equivalent of this disparity. We had to modify our pace both physically and emotionally to meet Jasper’s needs. It comes down to recognizing that the mountain we are so determined to conquer in one, two, or even four years, may take two, four-year terms instead of one. And we have to accept that and be okay with it. It’s not that the mountain will never be conquered; we will get to the top, but maybe not as quickly and heroically (from the perspective of the world) as we had anticipated. But to be very honest, I don’t want to make it to the top of the mountain by myself…a wise parent/leader wants to get there with their people. And so, we slow down.

Walking through the daily routines, creating visual schedules, and becoming intentional observers of our little ones helps them to feel more regulated and gives everyone a sense of control. Talking to them pre-event, rehearsing and play-acting on what a new experience might be like, also alleviates some of the internal stress. Pictures of places, people and possible sights that they will experience also prepares the child mentally for what is to come. They now have a frame of reference for the “new thing”.

The visual schedule, while not a miracle-working resource, was a huge help in regulating Jasper. I found pictures online that would match his daily routines and printed them out. He and I went over them together multiple times before we started implementing them. For him to “see” the process of his day was incredibly regulating.

Creating visual stories also became a part of his life and has helped him significantly with all manner of transitions. From starting a new school year, to toilet training, to preparing to fly on an airplane, visual stories have helped give him a picture of what is coming up and what he can expect.

Just as routine and structure have been good for me and our older kids, it is of utmost priority for our little guy on the autism spectrum (and I would add that it is critical for any young child, on or off of the spectrum). Routine regulates. Structure creates security. When chaos abounds, the little ones need a place of refuge, and that refuge is home. This is not a critique on working moms. I’m not pushing an agenda. I am speaking directly to helping a child process transition in a season of chaos, and home is their refuge. It takes incredible focus and intentionality to create a place of stability in a complex situation. If a caretaker is sidetracked with work and meetings and the demands of a job, then the child is not going to get the focused attention that he, or she, needs. Meltdowns will intensify, and the family will live in an elongated season of chaos. This, I guarantee.

This pathway to adjustment is a slow path and also requires keen discernment on what to say “yes” to and what to say “no” to. I have found that in our current transition, I am saying “no” to things that I normally wouldn’t say “no” to. I am doing this because I see the ripple effect of each of those choices, and I have had to get really selfish with my time and my energy. The ripple effect is real. One decision impacts a million other areas of our lives. Some of those decisions are good, and the ripple effect is beneficial. Some of those decisions are necessary, and we have to learn to roll with the punches (and be really aware of how this unavoidable stress will affect our little ones). Some of the decisions we are faced with are not necessarily wrong or bad, but unnecessary. They can wait. If it can wait, then wait on it. Wait until life is more regulated. Because eventually, it will settle down, and everyone will be in a place of strength, and not constantly pulling from a tapped-out reservoir.

In addition to this thought, little ones- specifically little ones on the spectrum- are going to struggle with smells, sounds, tastes, and textures. They lack, especially without adequate resources, the internal fortitude to “handle” uncomfortable situations. From temperature to the volume of music, singing, talking, to the smell of new foods, Jasper was a walking time bomb. While I wanted to show respect in our new home/country, I also recognized that forcing Jasper to eat these strange foods, or force him stay in the church during service, was futile. The quickest way to completely unhinge that little boy was to force him into compliance. I had to let go of trying to please all the people. I had to say “no” to a lot of things. Those decisions to let my expectations fall were the best (and wisest considering I had no idea what I was doing) I have ever made.

Get the professional help and resources you need as quickly as possible. If you have a clear and professional diagnosis for your child before the major move, then you are well on your way to a “smoother” transition. I think it is most ideal if you are able to locate the necessary resources before you land at your new destination. If not, finding the appropriate doctors, therapists, and schooling options should be a priority upon arrival.

We came to South Africa, not with a formal diagnosis, but with a high recommendation from two doctors of what kind of help Jasper would need. We were referred to a Pediatric Developmental Psychologist in Durban, where we live, and as soon as the December holiday was over, we began the process of getting a formal diagnosis for Jasper. From that point on, we were thrust into a beautiful community of support, therapists, and resources for Jasper and our family. Having access to these tools has been- and continues to be- a blessing for all of us.

I believe the key to navigating transition with a child on the spectrum is formulating a plan of action well before the transition, ensuring that where you are landing will have the adequate resources you need, and adjusting your expectations on how it is all going to unfold.

And give yourself a lot of grace. It’s going to be messy. It’s going to be hard. There are going to be good days and bad days. That’s okay. Breathe deeply, and rest in grace.

How to Transition Well in a Season of Chaos

1. Give your people space to speak up and process.

Silence is not always a good sign. We often misread silent cooperation as a sign of compliance and agreement, when, in fact, what is going on internally is the complete opposite. The silent follower will eventually silently walk away.

I would much rather have a very vocal response to transition and change in the people I am leading – whether family or team – because then, I know exactly what is going on in their minds and hearts. A vocal dissent can be addressed. Knowing where the pain point is, or where the frustration lies, allows me to know how to better walk with someone through the transition. Silence seems golden, but it can be very costly. Navigating through unhappy and frustrated discussions is much more likely to turn into authentic support and authentic compliance.

When we moved to Malawi with our four children, there was a great deal of negative discourse on the whole matter.

Our oldest daughter was sixteen years old and knew exactly all of the amazing experiences she would be missing during the course of our first term. She was extremely vocal in expressing her anger and grief. I had no question in my mind where Sydney stood regarding our move to Malawi. She was very clear, even to the point of emphatically declaring, “I hate Africa!” There was no confusion. Her honest and verbal expression of her feelings gave us all the raw material we needed to walk alongside her through the process of transition.

Our older son, Jackson, was 12, on the verge of turning 13. He, too, was highly expressive with his negative feelings about living in Malawi. He was also dealing with severe anxiety, which began to surface the year prior to our move. He was struggling both overtly and internally with this transition. As difficult as it was to hear and receive all of Jackson’s negativity, we allowed him the space he needed to explode and process. It tore at our hearts, but at least we knew what was going on in that head of his. Even when he went silent, the physical manifestation of his anxiety gave him away. These outward and inward expressions of upset allowed us to know where he was and how to walk him through each phase of the transition process.

Our second daughter, aged 14, was our silent follower. Brooklyn is a peacemaker. She longs for harmony and will sacrifice her own needs in order to keep everyone happy. Her biggest fear in all of this transition was being an additional “burden” (her perception) on her parents. And so, she quietly went along, while feeling all the same emotions and fears as her siblings. I had a sense that she wasn’t doing as well as she was trying to portray, but oftentimes, due to the very loud and negative voices echoing through our home, her quiet struggles were buried.

Brooklyn wasn’t just wrestling with the grief of losing her life in the United States; of all of our older three children, she experienced, what I would refer to as, the most “trauma” at their new school. She was unjustly, and inappropriately, reprimanded by the headmistress for something she did not do; she was the target of ongoing teasing by the boys in her class, while simultaneously the girls in her class ignored her and marginalized her; and when she was struggling to understand a concept in math, her teacher yelled at her for asking questions (thankfully, he apologized to both Brooklyn and us, quickly recognizing his out-of-bounds behavior). It was awful. Brooklyn, our easy-going, life-loving girl, went deeply inward. She pretended to be sick in order to miss school and walked around in a state of apathy for the greater part of those first six months.

It took Covid-19 and a quarantine to give us a chance to dig deep into the heart of what Brooklyn was going through. I often reflect on what a gift Covid-19 was for our family. While Brooklyn followed along and didn’t rock the boat, out of our three older children, she was the one that was probably at the most critical place of brokenness by the time we were able to address her pain. I remember doing a Bible study with her and Sydney during our quarantine, and she shared with me that she was angry at God. Her pain was deep. Her grief was intense. Those precious months of processing with her opened up a tremendous opportunity for healing.

As difficult as it is as a parent, or a leader, to hear dissent, to hear the irritation and frustration of those we are leading through change, we have to challenge ourselves to see it as a gift, not a burden. Like I said at the beginning, I would much rather hear, and know, how my people are feeling – the good, the bad, and the ugly – than to think that because everyone is smiling and going along with everything without complaint that all is well. I can guarantee one thing for sure, no matter what the change or transition, there will always be internal struggles, fears, and negative feelings at some point. It is inevitable, and perhaps why there are so many books written on leading through change (Managing Transitions, by William Bridges; Tempered Resilience, by Tod E. Bolsinger; The Grief Tower, by Lauren Wells…to name a few).

Let the vocal dissent become your friend. Let it guide you as you walk with those you lead. An empathetic and listening ear will open up the heart of those who follow you and create trust. Dismissing authentic feelings as “difficult” or “bothersome” will inevitably create anger and hostility, and a lack of trust.

2. Walk your people through the transition.

What does it look like to walk people through transition? Every person has different needs in the transition process. For some, they need to understand the plan and to feel like they can get a handle on the part they play in all of it. Some just need to their feelings to be validated and noticed. Some need to take the transition in bite-size pieces.

First, as best as you can in the chaos of transition, create structure. Brooklyn needed to walk through the transition one step at a time. We have always created routines and rhythms in our home, regardless of where in the world we live. I function at my best in routine and structure, and so does our family. They need to know that there are consistent benchmarks that guide our days/weeks/months. For all of our kids, the daily structure we set in place gave them security, especially for Brooklyn. Taking life day-by-day, rather than event-by-event, gave her breathing room and a sense of normality that her new life in a very complex context did not always give to her.

Sydney has often shared with me that the effort we put into creating “normal” in her daily life helped her to feel safe and regulated. We told our kids that they were to pick an after-school activity to participate in (this was both when we were living in Malawi and before we transitioned to an online school). This was a non-negotiable. It turns out, even though there was some initial push back on this, that having an activity in their lives ended up being a huge part of what helped them settle into our “new normal”.

Second, create an atmosphere for processing. Regular and consistent family meetings that allowed our kids to open up and share, times for listening to music and worshiping together, prayer and laughter,  gave them a firm spiritual foundation in the chaos. We never pressured our children or told them, “You must love Africa.” Or, “You need to get on board and love this.” Giving them the freedom to not love any of it was the catalyst for changing their hearts. Those evening family times saved our family and relieved the pressure to feel feelings that they were not ready to feel.

Third, a very important part of this process is having a sense of humor. Laughter is therapeutic. Transition is so serious and stressful. It zaps us of our energy. Finding times to play and laugh and just pull out of the heaviness of the moment brings rest, hope and cohesiveness.

By the end of March, 2020 Covid-19 had shut everything down, and while Malawi never imposed a formal lockdown, most businesses were closed, and life came to a screeching halt. School migrated to an online format, which brought on a whole new kind of stress, and our routine and structure had to pivot quickly. By July, we were beginning to feel a little stir-crazy. And so, we decided to do “Christmas in July.” We put up our Christmas decorations, baked Christmas cookies, set up our video projector to watch Christmas movies, and even did our traditional “Secret Santa” gift exchange. For a week, we escaped the mundane and the heaviness of the pandemic and played. It was marvelous, and our children will tell you it is one of their favorite memories.

3. Validate. Don’t alienate.

In chaos, none of us are functioning at our best. I will forget side conversations, and sometimes the bigger vision gets buried in all of the chaos of transition. And so, I like to ask questions. I have learned that not everyone likes or appreciates questions. In chaos, I also will reach out for clarity or even request structure to help me along the process. I have also learned that this, too, is not always appreciated. The sad thing is, the more those questions, efforts at clarity-seeking, and requests go ignored, the less I feel compelled to continue following along, and it feels alienating. In seasons of chaos and transition, when we want our people close, our dismissive behaviors actually push our people away.

I noticed this a lot with our kids during transition. I think I’ve made myself clear. I’ve answered the same questions and explained the plan a dozen times, and then someone comes and asks for clarification. I can get frustrated and irritated because in my mind, I’ve already answered those questions. Why do I need to repeat myself one.more.time?

The reality is, when we are in transition, when the chaos is all around us, our brains can’t hold on to all the information, and we struggle to keep the facts in order. Therefore, we continue to ask questions.

It is somewhat like we revert to our preschool selves. Have you ever watched a group of preschoolers play at recess? Their play is often a representation of something they are trying to internalize. For instance, when I taught preschool, there was a little girl in my class who wanted to play “funeral” every single day at recess. She would gather her friends and they would reenact a funeral over and over again. I thought to myself, “why on earth would a bunch of three-year-olds want to play such a dark game of pretend?” Then, when this little girl’s mom came to pick her up from school, she briefly mentioned that they had been to a funeral over the weekend, and it had been a heavy week for their family. This little girl was processing all that she experienced and observed over the course of the previous weekend. She used play to solidify the experience. It was how she made sense of something so enormous. And here is the key…she didn’t just play “funeral” one time. She played “funeral” for a solid week until she understood her experience.

I believe this same concept can be appropriated to life transition. We keep asking questions in order to grasp what is happening. Questions should NEVER be seen as a threat. As the leader/parent, we should really be proactive in repeating the vision, the purpose, the plan, and the daily goals over and over again, no matter how repetitive it may seem. The repetition will bring ownership and peace. When we think we’ve made ourselves clear, we need to repeat all of the above again (and again, and again).

New year. New word. New focus.

This year my word is “Recalibrate”.

“Recalibrate” is not a word that I particularly like. It doesn’t immediately jump out to me or inspire me. It’s the kind of word that Joel would choose, or my dad. To me, it sounds very masculine, not very poetic (and I love poetic words!).

Still, at the beginning of December, when my thoughts turned to the anticipation of a new year, this word kept coming to mind. I couldn’t shake it. And when I slowed down long enough to look a little more intentionally at the word “recalibrate”, I started to see its significance for my life.

In order to appreciate the meaning of “recalibrate”, we have to take a look its root word: “calibrate”.

Calibrate is a verb. It indicates the act of measuring something. Merriam-Webster defines “calibrate” as “to make standard (as a measuring instrument) by finding out and correcting for the differences from an accepted or ideal value”.

In other words, when we calibrate something, we are looking at an accepted value and then correcting what we have in order to fit that ideal. When this something begins to slip off track, when it drifts off course, we do the act of recalibrating…getting it back on track.

I think the most significant part of the definition is looking at the “ideal value”. I have to ask myself, what is the “ideal value” that I am recalibrating myself to? This is something to ponder.

In our noisy world, polluted with opinions, self-help books and podcasts all declaring their own ideal value, it is critical to pull away from it all in order to gain clarity. The true picture of what is ideal can get fuzzy if we are looking into our culture for direction. The ideal value will never be found in a program or a person. Man-made ideals will continuously leave us fractured and inadequate. Cultures and systems and structures built around personalities and preferences will only lead to discouragement, fallout and failure. People get hurt in personality-driven ideals.

So, where do we find this “ideal value”? To what are we calibrating and recalibrating ourselves? We have definitely drifted off course, so what do we do and where do we go from here?

In the process of growing up…getting older (and hopefully wiser), I am more and more convinced that the simplicity of God’s word is the compass that keeps us on the trajectory of our true north…our true path…our ideal value. Even as a Christ-follower, it is easy to veer off and into ideals that are not truly God’s ideal. They may not be bad, but they are not the best.

To find the “ideal value” we look to the “ideal”, and that is Jesus Christ. If you are a Christ- follower, like me, then the Holy Spirit dwells within us. We are image bearers of our Savior. The Bible tells us that the world will know us by our fruit. The outpouring of our lives should be the fruit of the Spirit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, gentleness, goodness and self-control (Galatians 5:22). Christ embodied each one of these…he was a living picture of the fruit of the Spirit. Our “ideal value” is to be the same…to pursue a life that models Christ, and Christ alone.

We must re-calibrate to Christ’s “ideal value”.

In addition to this, Christ has given us the priceless gift of discernment: the Holy Spirit. I worry that this gift has gotten shoved into a corner and is becoming more and more obsolete in our fast-paced world that yearns for instant gratification and celebrity platforms. Discernment calls us to pause, pray, and consider. We can’t rush wisdom and discernment. We have to be willing to patiently wait as God brings clarity and peace.

But when he, the Spirit of truth, comes, he will guide you into all the truth.

John 16:13

The gift of discernment is the act of listening to that still, small voice inside of us (the Holy Spirit) that warns us when something is off, that brings conviction when we have veered off course, and leads us gently along the path that God has prepared for us – it is the gift of truth. The Holy Spirit guides us in all truth, which sets us free as we follow Christ. This discernment ensures that we are calibrated to the “ideal value”; it is the “measuring instrument” that keeps us on course. We cannot do this life, this God-honoring work of discipleship, without it.

And this is where, and to what, I feel driven to recalibrate. This obedience – a long obedience in the same direction (Eugene Peterson) – to the leading, prompting, directing and ministry of the Holy Spirit within me. This is not some super-spooky-natural new age practice. It is, frankly, the fundamentals of living the Christian life. And this is where I sense the Lord leading me. Recalibrate to the “ideal value”, which is Jesus Christ. No more people pleasing, no more playing a role that doesn’t fit, and no more living outside my values. This year will be about listening more intentionally to the still, small voice inside of me, and recalibrating my attention and my life to God’s ideal value.

And, my hope and sincere desire, is to open up my heart and share very transparently my journey here. If you have been broken, my prayer is that, in this space, you will find a safe place to land. If you have been hurt, may you find refuge and healing through Jesus Christ, and in the safety of this community. And if you, too, feel the urgency to recalibrate, may grace abound as you seek to follow and obey, to set your eyes on the ideal value, and allow the Holy Spirit to do His ongoing work of aligning you to the truth. This year promises blessings and challenges. And it also promises God’s faithfulness and goodness each step of the way.

Recalibrating in 2023.