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.

A crucifixion.

The events of Good Friday were filled with a kind of drama that we cannot fully comprehend. It was ugly. The worst of human nature spilled out into every street and every corner of the city. Jealousy and envy had blossomed into hate, and hate burned hot. All of life, nature, and the whole world collided with goodness, mercy, and love, and everything stood still.

He was despised and rejected by mankind,
a man of suffering, and familiar with pain.
Like one from whom people hide their faces
he was despised, and we held him in low esteem.

Isaiah 53:3

Despised and rejected.

The suffering he bore made him familiar with our own suffering and pain.

It was so hideous that we had to turn our faces away. This kind of suffering, we cannot truly grasp.

Surely he took up our pain
and bore our suffering,
yet we considered him punished by God,
stricken by him, and afflicted.
But he was pierced for our transgressions,
he was crushed for our iniquities;
the punishment that brought us peace was on him,
and by his wounds we are healed. We all, like sheep, have gone astray,
each of us has turned to our own way;
and the Lord has laid on him
the iniquity of us all.

Isaiah 53:4-6

Did he see my face as he hung on the cross? As he was pierced through and his body hung crushed, were my sins and my failures and my pride and my transgressions on his mind? Was he thinking about me as he took his last breath?

When the angel visited Mary and gave her the exciting news that she would conceive a baby through the Holy Spirit who would be God’s Son…the Messiah…and to her question, “How can this be?”…the angel’s reply was, “Nothing is impossible for God.” I do believe that Jesus, the Son of God – God in the flesh – could see the face of every human life – past, present, and future – as he hung dying for the forgiveness of all mankind. Because nothing is impossible for God.

His punishment…the horror of his death…brought you and me the peace we long for and the healing of every wound. Forgiveness, grace, restoration, and completeness became ours through Christ’s brutal death.

The Lord has laid on him the iniquity of us all.

Thank you, Jesus, for the cross on which you died…where you saw my face and you bore my sin.

He was oppressed and afflicted,
yet he did not open his mouth;
he was led like a lamb to the slaughter,
and as a sheep before its shearers is silent,
so he did not open his mouth. By oppression and judgment he was taken away.
Yet who of his generation protested?
For he was cut off from the land of the living;
for the transgression of my people he was punished.
He was assigned a grave with the wicked,
and with the rich in his death,
though he had done no violence,
nor was any deceit in his mouth.

Isaiah 53:7-9

Innocent, he walked the path of death.

Jesus, sinless and pure, took the grave of the wicked for the redemption of the world.

And he did so in silence…without a cry of “not guilty”…without a word of self-justification.

So many misunderstand the necessity of this part of the Easter story. They would rather bask in the resurrection than pause and reflect on the gravitas of the cross. Were it not for this poignant moment of mourning, we could not truly rejoice in the victory three days later.

Death was not the finale of this story, but it cannot be brushed over. God allowed his Son to suffer…and his Son, Jesus, chose the way of suffering. God so loved the world that He gave…and Jesus so loved the world that He gave.

Yet it was the Lord’s will to crush him and cause him to suffer,
and though the Lord makes his life an offering for sin,
he will see his offspring and prolong his days,
and the will of the Lord will prosper in his hand.
After he has suffered,
he will see the light of life and be satisfied;
by his knowledge, my righteous servant will justify many,
and he will bear their iniquities.
Therefore I will give him a portion among the great,
and he will divide the spoils with the strong,
because he poured out his life unto death,
and was numbered with the transgressors.
For he bore the sin of many,
and made intercession for the transgressors.

Isaiah 53:10-12

He made intercession for the transgressors.

Those transgressors are you and me. Those transgressors are any human that has ever lived, is currently living, and will live in the future. Jesus made intercession for us all.

Because Christ poured out his life unto death, and because he continues to intercede on our behalf, we have hope…we have redemption.

Good Friday is not just another date on the calendar to fill with another service, another gathering, or another ritual to observe. No. It is a sobering moment to pause and reflect on the suffering of Christ on behalf of you and me.

I do believe that He saw my face and yours as he hung, dying, broken, abandoned, and alone.

And when he said, “It is finished.” (John 19:30), he was declaring the end of striving…the end of fear…the end of hopelessness…the end of shame, and the end of death. He took our iniquity and he bore our sin…once…for all…upon the cross.

Words do not suffice for the enormity of gratitude I feel. But with words, frail and broken…limited and simple…I say to Jesus from the depths of this sinful heart, “Thank you, Jesus.”

“It seemed as if hell were put into His cup; He seized it, and at one tremendous draught of love, He drank damnation dry.”
Charles Spurgeon

The seventy-two returned with joy and said, “Lord, even the demons submit to us in your name.” He replied, “I saw Satan fall like lightning from heaven. I have given you authority to trample on snakes and scorpions and to overcome all the power of the enemy; nothing will harm you. However, do not rejoice that the spirits submit to you, but rejoice that your names are written in heaven.”

Luke 10:17-20

However…

That one word – however – pulling the attention of the listener away from the events that just occurred, and even Christ’s acknowledgment, support, and affirmation is the paradox once again observed in Christ’s kingdom.

Luke chapter 10 opens with the story of Jesus sending out seventy-two disciples to go into every town and proclaim the kingdom of God. His instructions were simple but direct. Their main objective was to preach the kingdom of God and heal the sick. He knew there would be challenges and hardships – “I am sending you out like lambs among wolves.” vs.3 – but he encouraged them and gave them the assurances they needed, “He who listens to you listens to me; he who rejects you rejects me…” vs.16.

And off they went, entering towns, proclaiming God’s kingdom, healing the sick, and casting out demons. When they returned, they were elated! They were so excited to report back to Jesus everything that had happened. I imagine their feelings were much like the excitement and joy we feel after we have just returned from a missions trip. We have stories and photos and slide shows and testimonies, and we just can’t wait to share all the things with all the people. We want others to share in our joy; to see what we saw and acknowledge that God powerfully used us. We want to celebrate the good that God did. We also tend to shine a light on the part we played in the story.

When the seventy-two returned there was much joy and much celebration because of what had happened.

“Lord, even the demons submit to us in your name.” vs.17

This is typically the moment when the audience jumps to their feet with applause. Instead, Jesus turned this moment into a teachable moment…a very important moment for the seventy-two, and for us today.

He replied, “I saw Satan fall like lightning from heaven.” vs.18

What was Jesus saying here? There are two different thoughts on the meaning of this particular phrase. According to William Barclay, it can mean that while the disciples were out proclaiming the kingdom of God and seeing miraculous signs and wonders, Christ could see in the spirit what was happening to Satan; that his power had taken quite a blow.

Another thought is that this statement was warning the disciples against pride. It is understood that it was because of pride and arrogance in his heart that, once the most beautiful of all the angels, Satan was cast out of heaven. Pride was his destruction. And in this statement, Jesus was calling the seventy-two to pause and reflect.

It may be that Jesus was saying to the Seventy, “You have had your triumphs; keep yourselves from pride, for once the chief of all the angels fell to pride and was cast from heaven.”

William Barclay

Jesus spoke a great deal about pride throughout his ministry, so it would not be difficult to believe that rather than hoisting the seventy-two up on his shoulders as great champions of faith, he was warning them to guard their hearts against pride.

The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure. Who can understand it?

Jeremiah 17:9

Jesus knows our hearts better than we know our hearts. He sees our motivations that are often hidden behind even the best of intentions. As Jeremiah inquired, “Who can understand it?” We certainly cannot, but Jesus can…and he did. He wasn’t trying to squash their victories or shame them for feeling joyful, nor was he downplaying the incredible good that had been done, but his greatest concern was that the hearts of the seventy-two remained grounded in humility and surrender to God.

“I have given you authority to trample on snakes and scorpions and to overcome all the power of the enemy; nothing will harm you.” vs.19

The work that took place in each town and village wherein the seventy-two ministered was good that came directly from the power and authority of Jesus Christ. And it was after he acknowledged the miraculous deeds that had happened through those individuals that he switched the focus to what was truly worth rejoicing about.

“However, do not rejoice that the spirits submit to you, but rejoice that your names are written in heaven.” vs.20

The perspective is convicting.

As missionaries, we carry genuine and perceived expectations on our shoulders. We struggle with how to articulate what we are doing, how we are approaching ministry, and how to communicate our work in such a way that will cause others to be proud of us, to choose to support us, or keep people from choosing not to support us. It’s a tricky balance of telling our stories and sharing our victories without creating a small, but very real, platform of celebrity for ourselves. The truth is, I think we all struggle with this. Our wicked hearts get in the way, and while we do things in the Name of Jesus, we also do things to receive the pat on the back, the thumbs up, and the applause from the audience.

Jesus wasn’t just speaking to the seventy-two in this story. He was speaking to you and me. And while it is not a story that prohibits sharing, rejoicing, and celebrating the victories – on the contrary – it is a story reminding us that our greatest source of joy, and purpose for celebrating, is the fact that our names are written in heaven. That is truly a reason to rejoice! Our salvation is secure…our hope is eternity with Jesus. Our greatest earthly accomplishments are not nearly as miraculous as the forgiveness of our sins and the redemption of our souls. There is nothing we do – the greatest or the smallest things – that can outshine our salvation.

Pride bars from heaven; humility is the passport to the presence of God.

William Barclay

This is what Jesus wants us to grasp. It is by Jesus, for Jesus, and through Jesus that our stories and our testimonies and those miraculous moments were done. Through him, and him alone. Our salvation – this gift from God – is our treasure…and our true joy.

At that time Jesus, full of joy through the Holy Spirit, said “I praise you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and learned, and revealed them to little children. Yes, Father, for this was your good pleasure.” vs.21

I appreciate how Luke’s narrative of this story has captured the emotion Jesus was feeling at this moment. Jesus was feeling good! He rejoiced in the souls that had been open to the message of salvation. He was full of joy through the Holy Spirit. The testimonies and the miracles that the seventy-two brought to him were good and wonderful stories that brought joy to Jesus’ heart, and he said it was for God’s pleasure! If we, at any point in this story, only see Jesus as a joy killer, then we have misunderstood the whole thing. The simple truths were received by those with childlike faith. Again, the paradox of God’s kingdom. The greatest in the kingdom will be like children. Not because Jesus favors youth over maturity, but because those with open and childlike hearts are more receptive to Christ’s message. Jesus was happy. And therefore we, too, can be happy when God’s message is received. Yes, we can absolutely celebrate that!

As we approach the work that God has put in our hands, may we remember by whose power and authority we have been commissioned. May we celebrate the victories, but with humility, knowing that each soul redeemed, and each life transformed has been done only through the power of Jesus Christ. We are simply the stewards of his work. Pride is sneaky. Our hearts rarely detect it. This is why it is imperative for us to continuously lay our pride and our weaknesses at the foot of the cross. If we think that one act of surrender and sacrifice is sufficient, then we are lying to ourselves.

May I never boast except in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, through which the world has been crucified to me, and I to the world.

Galatians 6:14

Remember your true joy. Boast in the work of Christ and seek humility at the foot of the cross.

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.

Ordinary is highly under-rated.

It seems the sincere longing for significance has pushed past contentment in doing a job well done, to that of being a world changer…influencer…and platform-creator. It is not enough, anymore, to do the hard and consistent daily work of investing our lives into meaningful, yet oftentimes, ordinary endeavors. Today, we are driven to be seen…to be heard…to position ourselves for greater significance and greater influence. Ordinary is boring and old-school, and it certainly doesn’t illicit the kind of attention that so many of us are seeking today.

And yet, there is something extraordinary about the ordinary.

My days are not so impressive on the outside. In this season of life, I am in the throes of child-rearing, home-managing and integrating culture into the impressionable minds and hearts of our children. I grocery shop, do the laundry, plan meals for the week, cook, clean, pack lunches, help with homework, create schedules, maintain order, educate my children on the importance of table manners and etiquette (this is never-ending work!), balance the checkbook, keep the budget, go on coffee dates with Joel and the kids, and oversee the day-in/day-out lives of my family, while developing relationships and ongoing connections with the people in our sphere.  It’s not all that exciting.

It is very ordinary.

And while my calendar boasts of a very ordinary life, there is something quite extraordinary happening between the lines and the dates, the appointments and the pen strokes. The lives of our children are being shaped, formed, developed, and discipled. Within the ordinary, God is doing extraordinary work. It is tempting to want to create for myself a profile that makes me look special and significant, but in doing so, it minimizes the good work that is taking place within the constraints of the ordinary. Ordinary is highly under-rated. Ordinary invites the time and space for deeper relationships, honest conversations, and focused attention.

Maybe I am feeling inspired to write this because I need to remind myself of these timeless truths, and maybe there is someone out there that needs to read it too. Maybe we both need the gentle reminder that our significance is not written in the headlines, but rooted in the ordinary work we are doing right now…in this moment…at the dinner table…in the bedtime prayers…in the middle of the meltdown…during those car ride conversations and marathon Lego days…in the tone of that email…or the slow pace of the project we’ve been overseeing. We need that little voice pulling us out of the drive for external significance and back into the precious gift of these ordinary days.

While the world craves more hype, more incentives to participate, more flash, more enticements and rewards, my heart is craving a more quiet and ordinary life. The world is temperamental…it shifts too quickly and too impulsively. The world (and this includes the church/ministry world) is becoming more and more addicted to performance – lights, cameras, action. Trying to keep up with it all creates instability, insecurity and a frenetic pace that eventually leads to burn out. I am, quite bluntly, less impressed with all the hype, glam and glitz, and more drawn to the daily and consistent rhythms of the ordinary.

The world is saying, “Speed up!” and my heart is saying, “Slow down!”.

Christ’s life was, in many regards, ordinary. He talked to his followers, not about how to build a platform or create a movement, but about bearing the weight of the cross. His invitation was to pick up their cross and follow him, and through the New Testament Scriptures, we know where that path led them…not to fame, fortune or a flashy title, but to suffering, marginalization, and death. The ordinary means – producing extraordinary fruit – of walking with people, listening, daily discipleship and the cross of suffering was, and still is, the way of Christ.

Obedience to God’s ways of bringing about the kingdom is the only way, even when those ways seem small, obscure, and weak. Even when no one notices. Even when our kingdom work can’t be captured and packaged for a ready-made inspirational social media update. Someone earnestly desiring to do great things for God can have all the right motives but all the wrong mechanisms. Jesus’ obedience tells us that mechanisms matter – if godly ends are pursued by ungodly means, the whole project will be ruined.

– Katelyn Beaty, Celebrities for Jesus

I have thought a lot about the cost of obedience and the return to the ordinary.

Obedience is, in the very truest sense, letting go of our own will and surrendering it to Jesus. There is nothing very glamourous about that. We step off of platforms rather than hoist ourselves up to be seen.

There are men and women caught up in the fast running current of trying to find significance through extraordinary means. There are a great number, I can only imagine, that want to do great things for God, and wrestle with the ordinary days in which they are living. There is an altruistic desire to please God, while at the same time a fear that a hidden life in Christ will amount to being forgotten by the world.

And yet, if we really want to get down to it…to the reality of what following and serving Christ is all about it comes to this:

He must become greater; I must become less.

John 3:30

That statement: I must become less, is not a directive to become less than who God has created you to be; that somehow wallowing in the dirt and lowering oneself to nothingness is the key to pleasing God. But rather, becoming less is putting ourselves in the right order and right place with God. It is releasing the striving and driving towards worldly acceptance and acknowledgement into God’s hands, and taking the ordinary tasks that he gives us each day and carrying them out to the best of our ability so that God gets the glory…God gets the greatness…so that God is seen above our talents, gifts and charisma.

In my ordinary days I find such encouragement when I see that God is using me to disciple and shape our children to follow Christ. That’s a big deal. It’s not always visible to the outside world. This is a slow and weighty work.

Your ordinary will look different than mine, but it is incredibly significant. It is the means by which God will do extraordinary things. It may never make the headlines, and it may never evoke a rush on social media, but if your ordinary work points the world to Christ and brings Him glory, then it is extraordinary.

The significance of the ordinary is not how amazingly we can do it, or how creatively we can brand it; the significance is that this is how God chooses to do his most astounding work; His quiet, steady, and world-changing work. He uses you and me. He takes the materials in our hands, the season of our lives, our brokenness and all of our flaws, and says, “Follow me.”

Stop striving.

Slow down.

Let the God do the extraordinary through our ordinariness.

It is God who makes us significant, not all the kingdoms we create.

Rest in that.

And rest in the precious gift of these ordinary days.

One of my favorite Christmas songs is “I’ll Be Home for Christmas”. One variation of this song begins with this line: “I’m dreaming tonight of a place I love even more than I usually do…”. Every time I hear this, my thoughts are instantly transported to my grandparents’ old farmhouse in Wellston, Ohio at Christmastime. I can see the tree in the corner of the living room, and I can smell my grandmother’s baking in her little farmhouse kitchen. It’s like time stands still for a moment. Christmas at Nanny and Ba’s house- some of the most precious childhood memories I have. It makes me feel homesick, not just for that old house, and my grandma’s baking, and my grandpa’s endless teasing, but homesick for a moment in time that felt warm and cozy and safe. Homesick for a feeling. A feeling of “home.”

The topic of “home” has been a recurring theme in my life over the past few months. Where is home? What is home? Is home a place, an idea, or a feeling? What is it?

If you were my son, Jasper, your connection to home might be family. He had to do a little project for school about all the different kinds of homes there are in the world. We brainstormed, and he came up with a long list of all the various types of homes that are possible: wood homes, stone homes, brick homes, glass homes, ice homes, etc.. His list was long. The next part of the project was to talk about his own home. Once he described what he believed his home was made of – brick and wood – he then went on to explain what he loved about his home- what makes it special to him. Interestingly, he didn’t talk about specific features, but rather, it was his family that made his home so special to him. For Jasper, it was family that defined home, more so than wood and brick.

As a missionary, I often find myself wrestling with this idea of “home.” It feels uncertain because of the unstable nature of this kind of life. I try my best to plant roots and dig in deep wherever I am, but there is always this reality – way back in my mind – that all of this is temporary. Even now, as we look ahead to itineration in approximately six months, “home” is already being disrupted by the anticipation of our upcoming transition.

I was listening to a speaker recently unpack this topic of “home” to a group of fellow missionary women. She shared about a time when she was attending a high school graduation in Nairobi, Kenya. The graduation speaker, who was a third culture kid, asked the question, “What is home?” Later, she answered the question by saying, “God is home.”

This really struck me.

God is home.

Brooklyn and I were out for one of our coffee dates, and she opened up to me about some of the things she’s been processing lately. She is a senior in high school and is looking ahead at a lot of big transitions in her life. Like I mentioned earlier, itineration is just around the corner for our family, but even more startling is the reality that Brooklyn’s transition doesn’t end when she leaves South Africa. She will be in an ongoing state of transition as she begins university in August of next year. For her, this feeling of unsettledness is profound. There is so much uncertainty. And she made a comment to me that nowhere feels like home.

South Africa, while it is her current address, doesn’t feel like home to her. She doesn’t feel as connected to it as she did to our home in Portland, Oregon. And yet, Portland doesn’t feel like home either. It is has changed. Everything that made it “home” to her has completely flipped upside-down, and her connection to a place that would seemingly be home to her feels very foreign.

As we were talking ,two things came to my mind: First, I remembered the message I listened to that encouraged us that “God is home,” and second, thankfully we can say that our “family is home.”

Nothing is constant, except God. And while I am grateful that I have a family that is secure, stable, authentic, and a safe place to land, I realize that rooting myself/ourselves in family can’t always meet that need for “home”, but God can. Because God is constant. When we are rooted in him, we are secure. He keeps us and he holds us. He anchors us when life threatens to blow us over. He is faithful.

I don’t think this concept applies only to missionaries and third-culture kids. I think it is universal to all Christ-followers. How often do we look around at the world, or even the city we live in, and feel so very foreign? How often do we wonder where exactly we fit in? And how many times do we struggle to find a place that feels right and whole and “home?” My guess is that we don’t feel these things very often. Maybe you are fortunate enough to be a part of a body of believers that gives you a living picture of safety and security and fulfills that longing for home. Like my family, it is a place of rest and peace and trust. Or maybe the body you have been connected to has been dysfunctional, and it has disappointed you, and you are thinking to yourself, “Is there really such a thing as a healthy church family?” Regardless, I would guess that many of us, whether in healthy or unhealthy environments, feel very foreign in this world. And those feelings are very valid.

Earth is not our home; Heaven is our home. This is not to say we don’t get planted and rooted where we are, but we do so with the awareness that this is not our forever home.

In Hebrews chapter 11, the writer is drawing our attention to those who trusted and lived by faith, waiting and believing in the promise to come. Even as they passed from this earth, they were still living by faith.

All these people were still living by faith when they died. They did not receive the things promised; they only saw them and welcomed them from a distance, admitting that they were foreigners and strangers on earth. People who say such things show that they are looking for a country of their own. If they had been thinking of the country they had left, they would have had opportunity to return. Instead, they were longing for a better country – a heavenly one. Therefore, God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them.

Hebrews 11:13-16

Are you longing for a better country? Are you reminiscing about a time gone by that felt warm and secure, but doesn’t exist anymore? Do you feel like a stranger here on earth? If yes, then you are in good company. Those who lived by faith and are acknowledged as those who put faith in action in the Scriptures, also felt those same feelings. This broken world, these dysfunctional systems we try so hard to control, are not our home. God is our home.

And our mandate from Christ is to bring as many other people home as we possibly can. Our purpose is not to live so secluded and insulated that our light grows dim. Our purpose isn’t to create better systems or even to make better leaders. As we live as strangers in this world, our responsibility is to bring people to Christ; to bring them home with God. Making disciples who make disciples. Because God’s home is not for a select few, but we know that he longs for all to come and dwell.

God is our home.

I am so grateful for that promise and assurance today. This Thanksgiving more than any other, this truth feels even more comforting to me.

Tim Keller likens our typical Christian approach to forgiveness as a type of “therapeutically- motivated culture” of forgiveness. We forgive in order to feel better – to attain inner peace – and so to also ensure forgiveness from God. Without embracing the reality of what forgiveness costs, we tend to take action for personal relief, healing, and mental rest. However, how often do we count the actual cost of forgiveness? Truly? We feel that cost deep, deep down, but we struggle to articulate the negative feelings because it doesn’t always sound Christlike and selfless. It can sound very self-preserving and, perhaps, angry.

Our Christian faith sets us apart from other religions in that we are called to forgive, and to extend love and grace, even in the face of hostility. However, we often fall short in our approach to true forgiveness. We tend to stay on the superficial level of releasing our wounds from others in order to feel better. But that is not the full picture of forgiveness. That is only a part of the process of forgiveness.

In his breakdown of the story of the wicked servant found in the book of Matthew, Tim Keller writes this in his book “Forgive”:

The request by the servant for “patience” – makrothumeo, a Greek word that literally means ‘to be slow to boil or melt’ – hints at the cost of forgiveness. The older English translation for makrothumeo was ‘long-suffering’. Patience is the ability to bear suffering rather than give in to it. To forgive someone’s debt to you is to absorb the debt yourself. If a friend borrows your car, totals it through reckless driving, and hasn’t any ability to remunerate you financially, you may say, “I forgive you,” but the price of the wrong does not evaporate into the air. You either find the money to buy a new car or you go without one. Either way, forgiveness means the cost of the wrong moves from the perpetrator to you, and you bear it.

Forgiveness, then, is a form of voluntary suffering. In forgiving, rather than retaliation, you make a choice to bear the cost.

True forgiveness is bearing the cost.

Jesus’ example to us of bearing the cost is the price he paid on the cross. Forgiveness is identifying with Christ’s sacrifice. We, thankfully, will never know the pain and suffering he experienced as he took on the sin of the world and paid the debt (our debt) of sin and evil. There is no earthly experience, not even the worst we can imagine, that can compare to the experience of Christ’s death on the cross. It was more than the physical act of suffering. It was the separation from God and the weight of sin. It is more than any of us could ever bear, and he voluntarily suffered on our behalf.

Christ is our example.

I find it fascinating that Christ, as he was praying in the Garden of Gethsemane prior to his arrest, requested that God would “take this cup” from him.

“Abba, Father,” he said, “everything is possible for you. Take this cup from me. Yet not what I will, but what you will.” Mark 14:36

In his human form, he sought some relief from the price to pay. He cried out to God, “everything is possible for you (God, find another way to do this), please take it away.” But then he committed his will to God and stated, “Not my will, but yours be done.”

What this says to me is that when we feel that pang of hurt, grief, and hesitation to forgive the one who has wronged us, we are not feeling bad or non-Christian-like feelings. We are feeling very real and normal feelings. Who truly relishes in voluntary suffering?

And yet…in spite of the cost, Christ submitted himself to the will of God. Quite bluntly, if we want to follow after Christ- to identify with him in every way- then we, too, must surrender. We must choose to suffer and bear the cost.

This, I believe, is why forgiveness – true forgiveness – is so hard. I recognize this process is often missing in our Christian worldview. We seek, as even the world does, for inner healing and the personal satisfaction that comes from “letting go”, but there comes a point when this kind of forgiveness just isn’t enough or isn’t working for us anymore. We are seeing the ramifications of this approach in our world today. It is not enough to simply say “forgive and let go.” I believe this is due to the fact that that cost must be counted. We must allow ourselves permission to identify and accept what forgiveness is costing us.

But if we stop here we are still cutting the process of forgiveness short. There is more. We must look upward. We must look to Jesus.

It is when we do this that we also recognize forgiveness cannot take place without the supernatural grace extended to us through Jesus Christ. We cannot bear the cost without that. We are too human and too selfish. True forgiveness requires both the recognition of the cost and the dependence upon Christ’s supernatural empowerment to then bear the cost.

For those who are led by the Spirit of God are the children of God. The Spirit you received does not make you slaves, so that you live in fear again; rather, the Spirit you received brought about your adoption to sonship. And by him we cry, “Abba, Father.”

The Spirit himself testifies with our spirit that we are God’s children. Now if we are children, then we are heirs – heirs of God and co-heirs with Christ, if indeed we share in his sufferings in order that we may also share in his glory.

Romans 8:14-17

When we choose this voluntary suffering, we are sharing in Christ’s sufferings. Much of the work is internal as we choose to release our pain and our hurt into the hands of Jesus. And oftentimes this internal work is never known. Not very often do we see the kind of justice that we would prefer. We do this act of forgiving without fanfare and without a cheering squad. But we are not alone; Christ is with us, and he is holding us.

This is not to say that justice should be neglected. But the pursuit of justice without true forgiveness often becomes retaliation, and that should never be our motive.  We need clear discernment between the two.

To conclude my thoughts on the cost of forgiveness, I just want to add one thing. When we truly grasp the depth of Christ’s love for us when he chose to suffer on the cross for the redemption and forgiveness of mankind, it is difficult to stand in our justification of withholding forgiveness from others. I am not excusing the acts done against any person or persons, but I can only speak personally; when I encounter this transformative power of grace, love and forgiveness from God, there is nothing left in me but incredible awe and fear. Not terror or anxiety, but amazement at God’s goodness to me. And, from that goodness, I find my heart more inclined to forgive. It is a process, for sure, but a process that draws us closer to the heart of God, and deeper in identifying with his suffering. This is precious to me.

In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I am deeply grateful for the price that Christ paid for the forgiveness of my sins. Where I fail, he brings redemption. Where I fall short, he fills in the gaps. And I am thankful for the example he set for me.

While the price of forgiveness almost seems too high at times, he showed us how to do it. And he promises his grace to see us through.

Jasper struggles with the concept of time. It is too abstract for him. This challenge is most noticeable when it comes to meals and snacks. He can sit down for breakfast, eat a bowl of oatmeal and fruit, walk away from the table, and five minutes later come to me ready for snack time. I have learned that setting a timer between activities in our morning, afternoon and evening routines helps – to some degree – with keeping him from eating us out of house and home. It also gives him small increments of time to process rather than big chunks of time.

If we didn’t have a schedule, and if there was no structure in our home, Jasper would easily eat his way through the day. He knows he gets to eat five times during the day, but what he cannot seem to put together in his mind is that there is a proper time for each of those meals. And we, his family, will take care to ensure that he is fed at breakfast, lunch and dinner, and the snacks in between. Jasper resists this regularly, but the timer gives him the security that the next mealtime is coming. Jasper’s eye is on the timer and on me. He is waiting, and anticipating, because he knows that as soon as the ring of the timer goes off, I will give him his food.

The eyes of all look to you, and you give them their food at the proper time. You open your hand and satisfy the desires of every living thing.

Psalm 145:15,16

At the proper time.

A couple of things that I find comforting and encouraging in this verse is that there is a proper time for God’s provision, and he satisfies our desires.

Time is an abstract concept, and Jasper wrestles with comprehending the difference between five minutes and five hours. They are the same in his mind. He gets frustrated much the same way you and I get frustrated when it seems that God’s timing doesn’t make sense. His delays feel like no’s, five minutes feels like five hours, and we want to argue and negotiate our will into God’s heart. But he knows the proper time.

The eyes of all look to you…

What if we were to stop fighting for our time and our way and began to look to Jesus – to set our gaze upon him? Not just today, but tomorrow, and the day after that? What if we were to wait with our eyes on the one who is our Provider and rest knowing that the proper time is coming?

I think we might find more of that peace and rest we are so often longing for. I think that the deep internal work of keeping our eyes on Jesus would shift the trajectory of our desires and our expectation of the outcome.

…and you give them their food at the proper time.

Joel and I would never let Jasper starve. While we don’t give him food on demand, we do provide meals and snacks for him…at the proper time. If he leaves the dinner table hungry it is not because there has been a shortage of food. We supply everything he needs for each and every meal, and it is available to him at the proper time.

God will never forsake us or starve us. He may not give us what we ask for right away, but we can be confident that he will provide for us at the proper time. We can find peace, confidence and assurance in that promise. He knows our needs, and he knows our hearts. He cares for us like a parent cares for a child. He loves us.

You open your hand and satisfy the desires of every living thing.

At the proper time God’s hand opens up and graciously satisfies the desires of every living thing.

But here is the thing about desire…

Our desires reveal the intentions of our hearts. Our hearts could be surrendered to God and our desires in alignment with his character, but they may also be clouded with self-seeking ambitions and pride.

Merriam Webster defines desire as: “to long or hope for: to express a wish for”.

We are not always the most impartial when it comes to discerning the true motivations of our hearts. We have to honestly ask ourselves, is what I am longing for, or wishing for, truly God’s best for me? Is this desire in alignment with God’s heart?

It is during that period of waiting on God, keeping our eyes on our Provider, that something incredible happens inside of us. Our hearts become more connected to God’s heart. Our dreams become more focused, and clear, and our desires begin to take on the form of God’s desires. We shed the self-seeking, self-gratifying parts of our wants and start coming into alignment with God’s wants and God’s desires.

I am grateful for the assurance that God is aware of me and that he is prepared to feed me and provide for me. I am thankful for a loving Father whose hand holds what I need, and that he promises to satisfy my desires. Even in the seasons of waiting, I can trust that God is working internally and externally on my behalf, and all that is required of me is to keep my eyes on Him.

That is something to be thankful for.

God is faithful and good…and he satisfies our desires…

At the proper time.

I’m grateful.

The beauty of painful seasons and hard things is the gratitude that blossoms in the middle of the chaos.

We don’t see it immediately, or even perhaps feel it, but if our hearts are open and tender and expecting, thankfulness will push its way to the surface at its proper time.

Winter soil is barren, hard, and cold. We don’t see all of the activity going on below the layer of frozen fields and dusty, dry ground. Just like a farmer looking out on a field of nothingness, it seems that, when we look inside, there is an internal void when we’ve hit a hard winter.

We typically use words like “dead” or “barren” when referring to winter.

But what if we were to reframe the way in which we see our winter seasons – how we would describe them?

Instead of looking at winter as a time of death and barrenness- which may be the case as often things do die and there are very few signs of life on the surface- perhaps we can try and view this wilderness time differently? Rather than lifeless, what if we shifted toward a perspective of rest?

Elijah, when he was running from Jezebel, was despondent. He was at his very lowest. Depressed, overwhelmed, weary and burned out, Elijah ran until his body quit on him. He had nothing left. All around him, it looked like a dark winter season. After seeing God do the miraculous, it is difficult to understand this angst. And yet, his despair was unquestionable.

What was God’s response? How did God engage Elijah at this very moment in his life?

Did he chastise him and tell him to get back up on his feet? Did he rebuke him for running away? Did God try to get him worked up into a frenzy with a big “you can do it” speech? Did God ignore or marginalize Elijah?

No.

Rather, like a tender parent to a hurting child, God nurtured and cared for Elijah.

He came to a broom bush, sat down under it and prayed that he might die. “I have had enough, Lord,” he said. “Take my life; I am no better than my ancestors.” Then he lay down under the bush and fell asleep.

All at once an angel touched him and said, “Get up and eat.” He looked around, and there by his head was some bread baked over hot coals, and a jar of water. He ate and drank and then lay down again.

The angel of the Lord came back a second time and touched him and said, “Get up and eat, for the journey is too much for you.” So he got up and ate and drank.

1 Kings 19:3-8

God fed him. He provided water to drink, and he gave him the gift of sweet sleep. He even sent an angel to care for him. Elijah ate, drank, and slept. The mercy that God extended to Elijah is the same mercy I believe he extends to us when we are in the darkness of a winter season.

Winter seasons are seasons of rest if we allow ourselves to receive it. If we can surrender to the rest, I believe we will find the peace, the resilience…and the gratitude…to move forward.

This is so contradictory to our way of living. We are pushers. We charge straight through in spite of our exhaustion. And when we hit that heaviness of depression or grief or disillusionment, we either hide it away so no one can see it, or we expose ourselves and risk marginalization. We don’t often show each other the kind of grace that God extended to Elijah. We care more about results than the person. Perhaps we fear our own winter seasons are coming, and it drives us to run away…to isolate…to push hard and farther.

But…

God is so gracious.

It is his grace and mercy through these harsh winters that brings me tremendous gratitude.

Simplistically explained, even in its most vulnerable stage of development, a tiny seed germinates into a sprout. The germination process is all done underground, hard at work to produce that initial sign of life.

Underneath the surface of our painful and hard seasons is a process of germination that will eventually produce a sprout. Winter is for rest. While we rest, God is feeding us and providing water for us to drink. We eat, drink, and sleep, and God does the work.

So he got up and ate and drank. Strengthened by that food, he traveled forty days and forty nights until he reached Horeb, the mountain of God.

1 Kings 19:8

God’s provision of rest and nourishment when we are in those broken and barren seasons gives us the strength to make the next journey and to take the next step forward. After Elijah had rested, and after he had sufficiently been fed and his thirst quenched, he was strong enough for a forty-day and forty-night journey to the mountain of God. I find this nothing short of a beautiful illustration of how sufficient God’s provision and his care is for us. Seasons of rest are not the end of the story. In fact, seasons of rest…those winters in our lives…are the precursor for hearing God’s voice…for approaching the mountain of God. We are not prepared for that next step until we have adequately rested in God’s grace and mercy.

I’m grateful.

Joel and I have been walking through a winter season. It has felt like a long one, too. Typically, we get to enjoy the beauty of fall as the seasons change, but ours has felt more like a swift jump from summer sunshine to the bitter cold of winter, with no pretty foliage to prepare us in between. And while we’ve asked God a number of times “why?”, we are slowly beginning to see that God is even here in the winter. That maybe he is calling us to rest. That perhaps this time is an opportunity to receive his grace and his mercy. I don’t love hard seasons. I’m not crazy. But the older I get, the more I am recognizing that it is through these hard seasons that we encounter God in a deeper and more meaningful way.

This season is producing the small and tender sprouts of thankfulness in our lives.  Thankful, not for pain and hurt and disappointment, but thankful for God’s presence and faithfulness through the pain and hurt and disappointment.

Winter is for rest.

And my heart is overwhelmed with gratitude…for God’s precious hand…for his mercy and grace.

The Lord is faithful to all his promises and loving toward all he has made. The Lord upholds all those who fall and lifts up all who are bowed down. The eyes of all look to you, and you give them their food at the proper time. You open your hand and satisfy the desires of every living thing.

Psalm 145:13-15