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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.

photo by jonny gios on unsplash

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 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.

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.

When God starts chopping away at the branches of my life, I can’t say that I am full of joyful surrender. I typically resist the spiritual machete that starts swinging in my direction. I don’t want it. “God, you can keep your machete to yourself. I’ll happily live with overgrown branches and dead limbs.” But the reality is that life in the Spirit – life in sync with Christ – requires a life surrendered to the pruning seasons.

There is a natural ebb and flow to the life of a Christ-follower: Pruning and Fruit-bearing.

When there are too many dead branches or the limbs are hanging low, they will no longer produce fruit, or, the fruit will not be as sweet. A good farmer knows about pruning.

We had rose bushes galore in our garden in Malawi. They were absolutely breathtaking. The family that lived in the house before us had planted this rose garden. As I poured my morning cup of coffee, I would look out of the kitchen window and gaze on the rich and colorful roses…

…Until the fully blossomed roses dried up and fell to the ground…one petal at time. Eventually, as the weeks progressed, the thorny branches of the rose bushes started growing in all kinds of directions. And they rarely produced any roses.

I’m not a gardener. I, honestly, have no idea how to keep any type of plant alive. As was confirmed in the case of our roses, I was clueless to the fact that the branches needed to be pruned in order for the roses to come back to life. I thought “the bigger the better”, but apparently that is not true…not true at all.

Our day guard came to me one day and asked me if I would mind if he cut the branches down. Kindly, he explained that the reason the roses were not blooming was because they needed to be pruned. No fruit could be produced until pruning had taken place. I gave him the go ahead to do whatever needed to be done to bring the roses back to life. After cutting them back, to what looked like baby bushes, and after some rain and cultivating of the soil, the rose bushes blossomed in full once again.

Pruning is a gift in the wilderness season of transition.

The empty nothingness of the in-between is often the perfect time for God to get into our lives and start pruning out the old and dead branches. This pruning is deep and, often, painful work.

“I feel like I got shot out of a cannon and straight into a plate glass window. I’m still pulling out shards of glass. I’m not sure how long it is going to take to heal.”

Joel shared this with me during one of our weekly breakfast dates. Still reeling from the pain and hurt he experienced in Malawi, it seemed like the process of healing was taking its sweet time. God wasn’t/isn’t done with the pruning.

When we are looking out upon the wilderness of transition it is not merely a vast nothingness that doesn’t make sense, but it is purposeful in the shedding of the old identity and claiming the new one. Part of the shedding process is pruning the old away so that the new can grow. It is imperative for this to happen. And so, we feel pain in the in-between, but that pain is a gift from God.

In John chapter 15 Jesus is challenging us to surrender to the pruning process. He is comforting us, even though it is painful, with the profound truth that in order to grow, in order to produce lasting and rich fruit, we must give ourselves completely to the pruning process:

“I am the vine, and my Father is the gardener. He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit…”

John 15:1

There are branches in our lives that are not fruit bearing branches. It is God’s grace that offers to cut them out so that we are no longer enslaved to the superfluous materials and waste that clutter up our hearts, minds, focus and purposes. He cuts off every branch – every distraction and hidden issue – that does not bear fruit. What an incredible gift.

The in-between season in transition is probably the most vulnerable of stages in the process. Everything is laid bare. We can’t hide our dead and fruitless branches from anyone. While we may have been able to block out those hidden things behind our old identities and our old successes, when we step out of that place of comfort every single part of our souls become exposed.

And God graciously uses this time to cut off the dead branches.

“…while every branch that does bear fruit, he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful.”

John 15:1

Guess what…not every branch and every limb needs to be chopped. This is good news! In spite of ourselves, if we are walking with Christ and abiding in Christ, we will produce fruit. This is encouraging to me. However, like my rose bushes in Malawi, in order for the plant to continue to grow and become even more fruitful, it had to be pruned.

In his book, “Building a Discipling Culture”, Mike Breen discusses the natural rhythms of life in our spiritual journey. Like a pendulum that moves from one side to the other in a focused rhythm and steady speed, so our lives move from pruning to growing. Both seasons are necessary for ongoing growth and fruitfulness. He also likens this process to the balance of rest and work. These seasons of pruning – that we surmise as punishment or discipline or something painful to be avoided – are actually seasons of rest.

The pruning season allows us to rest in submission to the purposeful work God is longing to do in us spiritually. He prunes back the fruitful branches. Yes, we had experienced a great season of fruitfulness in our previous ministry and identities. We can point to specific victories that bolster our faith and give us the confidence to move forward. But to move forward and into an increased season of fruit bearing, even those past victories must be pruned. And the best way to walk through this process is to surrender to it and rest in it.

Breathe.

Take a Sabbath rest.

Inventory the areas that God is pruning, and let them go. Allow him access to every single fruit bearing branch.

Because, the next season to come is growth.

How do we do this? How do we allow this pruning process to take over?

Simple:

“Remain in me, as I also remain in you. No branch can bear fruit by itself; it must remain in the vine. Neither can you bear fruit unless you remain in me. I am the vine; you are the branches. If you remain in me and I in you, you will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing (emphasis mine).”

John 15:5

The first gift we receive from the wilderness of transition is pruning. The way to allow God full access to work out this process is by abiding and remaining in him. The fruit we bore in the past, and the fruit we will bear in the future, are not harvests we can manufacture on our own. This fruit is from God. Apart from him we bear nothing but dried up dead branches.

I don’t want leftover fruit. I want fresh fruit to grow out of my life and the only way to accomplish that is to remain steadfast in Christ. He is the vine…he is the source and the resource…apart from him I can do nothing.

Recognizing this and embracing this process will set you up to move into your new identity and your new beginning with humility and grace.

The wilderness is not a final destination, and neither is the pruning season. We were not meant to live in either of these stages forever. There will be many more in-between seasons to navigate throughout our lives, just as there will be regular seasons of pruning. Walk slowly and rest in the gift of the pruning zone.  Allow God’s work to be accomplished, and keep your eyes focused on Jesus.

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.

The activity of Jesus, from the location of where he was teaching to the content he was teaching, to the miracles he performed, was always intentional and multidimensional.

On the Sabbath Jesus was teaching in one of the synagogues…

Luke 13:10

Jesus was teaching on the Sabbath, which hardly seems out of the ordinary, but it is a critical component of this story as this would be no ordinary Sabbath. There was a bigger plan – a greater purpose for those in attendance that day – and Christ, positioning himself in the synagogue to teach, understood and could see the critical nature of this timing.

…and a woman was there who had been crippled by a spirit for eighteen years. She was bent over and could not straighten up at all.

Luke 13:11

This crippled woman was not possessed by a demon. Her affliction was a result of an oppressive spirit, crippling her from the outside. This spirit could not, and did not, possess her. She was bound up physically. The pain and the anguish she felt – and it should be noted, not because of some hidden sin in her life – was evidenced in her broken body. To shame her for her condition is likened to that of shaming an individual dealing with the crushing weight of depression or a physical illness that has plagued them for years. We tend to fault the depressed and call out their behavior as a character issue- that somehow, they are the maker of their own despair. We have no compassion, no grace, no place in our systems for those crippled by the physiological and psychological constraints of depression. We overanalyze the chronically ill. We can’t figure out why they are dealing with this disease, and why it cannot be remedied, so we accuse. We find a solution that fits our paradigm: “this person must be filled with the sin of bitterness or unforgiveness or addiction”, and we marginalize the wounded and broken that are desperately searching for grace and healing.

This woman, so bent over and so bound up physically, Christ called a “daughter of Abraham” (vs. 16). She was not an outsider. She followed the laws. She was chosen, but she could not claim her position. The enemy was tormenting her. For eighteen years, she was crippled by a despair that few of us can truly relate to. Imagine if your body took on the nature of your depression, anxiety, insecurity, and fear. Imagine the tangled mess of your internal life exposed to the outside world. Imagine the stares and raised brows when you entered a room. Or, perhaps, like this woman, your torment would cripple you to the point of being hidden and invisible. Imagine that feeling for a moment. Put yourself in her shoes.

The blessed assurance of Christ that was, and still is, our hope and security, was his awareness of all things…every detail. While this crumpled-up, tormented woman was invisible to the crowd, she was not invisible to Christ. He saw her…just like he sees you and me. He saw her in her torment; and rather than try to explain it away, or pile on more shame that somehow, she was the maker of this trouble, he had compassion on her. Jesus always had his eye on the marginalized, the unlovely, and the weak.

And his eye is ever upon on our torment, our pain, and our troubled hearts. While the crowd marginalizes, Christ draws out and redeems the broken.

When Jesus saw her, he called her forward and said to her, “Woman, you are set free from your infirmity.” Then he put his hands on her, and immediately she straightened up and praised God.

Luke 13:12, 13

This miracle is saturated with warmth, beauty, hope, justice, and indescribable love. It is a beautiful story of our Savior’s beautiful heart. Christ is always moved to compassion toward the suffering. His word and his touch are a promise of restoration, healing and redemption.

Indignant because Jesus had healed on the Sabbath, the synagogue ruler said to the people, “There are six days for work. So come and be healed on those days, not on the Sabbath.”

Luke 13:14

The synagogue ruler passive aggressively spoke to the people crowding in to see Jesus and to be touched by their Savior. Rather than speak to Jesus directly he told the people that their needs held very little value in light of the Sabbath…the holy day. He set the day over the need. He was bound to the system, giving it far greater authority and honor than the One who was the giver of the Sabbath. People became objects, stripped of their humanity, serving the system, rather than the system serving their needs.

There is nothing new under the sun (Ecclesiastes 1:9). From this ancient context – this miraculous event in a synagogue – to today, we see that history repeats itself over and over. Manmade systems will all eventually follow the same trajectory. What may have, at one time, been implemented with sincerity and faith, will eventually become a burden too heavy to bear. The wisdom of man cannot hold the brokenness of this world. It takes the wisdom of Christ, and the redemption of the cross, to carry with compassion, grace and mercy, the weight of the crippled believer. True Christianity places the person- the individual- above the system.

And that is exactly what Christ did for this woman.

The Lord answered him, “You hypocrites! Doesn’t each of you on the Sabbath untie his ox or donkey from the stall and lead it out to give it water? Then should not this woman, a daughter of Abraham, whom Satan has kept bound for eighteen years, be set free on the Sabbath day from what bound her?”

Luke 13:15, 16

Jesus responded directly to the synagogue ruler. He didn’t speak to the crowd as the ruler did. Jesus wasn’t going to triangulate and turn this into a match of wits with the crowd playing the intermediary. He took up this case with the one who was making the accusation, and he made it clear that the system, meant to bring hope and rest to the weary, was abusively broken.

In the world and in the church we are constantly in peril of loving systems more than we love God and more than we love men.

William Barclay

It was actually legal to allow animals who are typically bound up, to be led from their stalls to water on the Sabbath. Jesus rebuked this whole paradigm. At what point did these rulers subordinate the freedom and restoration of a human life under that of these animals used for work? When did an animal hold more value than a human?

Jesus made it clear that, even though he could have waited until the following day to heal this woman, it was unthinkable to allow her to suffer one more minute…especially in the presence of the Messiah.

Jesus Christ came for moments just like this one. He came for individuals just like this crippled woman. He didn’t come to impress the high and mighty. He wasn’t on the lookout for the influencers and the beautiful people. He came for the broken – both internally and externally – the marginalized, the hopeless, the dying, the dead and diseased. He came for the wealthy and the poor, the hungry and the well-fed. He came for the hearts desperate for truth, for peace, for hope, for a Savior.

Jesus always looked for the cast-offs and the marginalized. He sought them out. Even when a poor woman touched his garment and received healing, he knew. His eyes and his ears were dialed in to the sights and sounds of the least of these. And he called them to himself. His compassion and his deep love brought them healing, and most importantly, redemption.

He has called us to do the same. He has called us to seek out the lost, the dying, and the lame. He has commissioned every believer to “Go…and make disciples.” (Matthew 28:19). Regardless of whatever title we may or may not carry, we are all commissioned to bring the lost to Jesus…to help untie the ropes and the constraints that have bound them up and lead them to the living water.

And for those who are bound up, crumpled over and distressed, Christ hears you and sees you. If you have been marginalized, shoved to the side, forgotten or made invisible by an impossible system, I know that Jesus is sitting right in the middle of it, and he knows where you are. He is not unaware. His heart is moved to compassion, and his hands are ready to touch you and heal you. After Christ put his hands on the crippled woman, she immediately straightened up. Immediately. His power to redeem the broken spaces of your life is immediate. And it is complete.

Rest assured that Christ’s power is enough to untie the ropes and set us free. He doesn’t waste time.

When he said this, all his opponents were humiliated, but the people were delighted with all the wonderful things he was doing.

Luke 13:17

The people…that crowd in the synagogue…were delighted. I find myself delighted in picturing this moment. And I find myself walking in delight, knowing that Christ is still redeeming the crippled and doing it in the most unconventional ways.