Faith

When you are 22, you underestimate the post office man. High on the aurora of your independence, you don’t realize you’re forging a lifelong bond with an elderly man who calls his office “The Pickle Jar.” Roger ran the post office at my seminary. I had arrived in love with Martin Luther and Dietrich Bonhoeffer, young in Jesus’ unconditional arms, confidently expecting the three best years of my life. I was correct. But I had no concept of great littleness, of God’s preference for bread over flourish. I had imagined that moments came in vestments and goblets, hymns and heights. They did, of course, and they filled my table until the legs collapsed in laughter. Lectures lit my canyon. Conversations flooded my […]

Each day, we wake up and set out to do some sort of work. For many, we spend from 8ish to 5ish doing our assigned duties to earn a living. Some may find a deeper purpose and a calling in the position that they are in than others. Upon exiting college and entering a full-time position, I thought I had scored my dream job working administratively for a Christian missions organization. As I experienced the office culture and breakdown of what I wanted adult life to look like, a sort of sadness came from losing my expectations. I wanted to have more time with my friends. I wanted to enjoy my job and co-workers. I wanted to feel like I belonged there

A few years ago, my husband joined a men’s group called “F3.” The “Fs” stand for faith, fellowship and fitness. Each time a new guy joins the group, the rest of the men ask some questions to get to know him a bit, and then they give him a fun nickname. The name choice usually reflects something that they have learned about him. It might sound a little like a fraternity, but I promise it’s not. From that point on, the guys go by their nicknames when they work out together. So much so, that when Dan refers to his F3 friends, I don’t even know their real names. He may be talking about Macaroni, Ragnar, Fulcrum, Crosscheck, Straightedge, Overeasy, Goetta or

My father sold space when I was small. I couldn’t comprehend pharmaceutical advertising, and I told my little friends he was a “space man.” What mattered was that his calling carried him great distances. He came home with love offerings: a San Diego Zoo sweatshirt with a bear that squeaked when squeezed, or an otter mother-and-baby made from the ash of Mt. St. Helens. No bauble was more exotic than Turtle Bull. A Lifelong Love for Turtle Bull Crossing the universe in Dad’s pocket, Turtle Bull was an ivory individual the size of a walnut, all the more exquisite for arriving in a red silk pouch. Dad found him in Chinatown and chose him for his smile, a gaudy grin familiar to

Whoever said a watched pot never boils has no clue about the world of making Chai tea. No matter how I watch the pot, it has a way of turning from a few bubbles forming along the rim of the cup to an active volcano in seconds—well, probably not even that long. It happens fast, leaving me with the golden liquid covering the cooktop and forming little charred blobs on the burner. I’m telling you, I stand at the stove watching for that very first bubble, hand ready to turn off the burner, and wham, tea spews from the pot to the stove. Believe me when I tell you I was watching it. Well, except for that split second when I turned

Sometimes you’ve got to tell yourself what you’re made for. Because you forgot. Or it got lost in the loads of unfolded laundry, dishes stacked in the sink, papers from school in a messy stack of come-back-to-it-later. If you’re like me, you forget that your roles aren’t you. Sure, you’re part mom, part wife, part daughter and sister, aunt and writer. But the way you fill your roles and the way they expose your lack says what you do, not who you are. They define you in relation to others. Tell you how to show up. Who to love best. They’re important. Who Am I? You’re More Than a Title But your biggest purpose isn’t a title, a label, or a role.

It happens at the end of every day. She hears him before I do, stands at the door, and stares with fixed concentration. By the time I hear his footsteps, her body shutters with anticipation. It’s as if every day is Christmas and he is Santa. He enters with a big hello and a handsome smile. We hug, we kiss, and we make room for her, our (coming-undone-with-love-for-her-man) pup, our Willow. Her front feet jump up onto him, body wagging, and then she leans. Every inch of her being releases and every ounce of her weight presses into his chest. It’s as if she was carrying the whole weight of this big world while he was away. As she surrenders to his