Early this morning I woke up to all that delightful snow melted away.

Rain.

Again.

And my soul felt as heavy as the skies outside, dripping with too much dreariness. I wasn’t depressed, not even sad. Just not happy.

And since it’s normal for me to wake up happy and full of energy and zest for the day I was kind of concerned.

What’s wrong with me?

The Lord had been speaking to me recently about how serious I am all the time.  After over a year of mind-boggling drama in my extended family, I’ve lost some of that hope-filled part of me that keeps me seeing every glass filled more than half full.

And so this morning I asked God how. How do I lighten up?

Ignoring the problems that persist doesn’t work; every phone call and visit brings it all back.

And I’m not really much inclined to what most people consider fun. I’m a pretty boring kind of person. I racked my brain for something fun I could do to help me lighten up a little, but couldn’t come up with anything.

Well, at least anything that wouldn’t cost money...

My idea of fun can’t be done in an afternoon. I love to hike high in the Sierras, lounge by a lake, take off on a road trip with Phil in his mini— top down of course!

Not much chance of any of those things today.

So what God whispered to my listening this morning surprised me:

Sing.

Sing? Really? Me?

But I’m deaf. I sound terrible. Toneless.

You want me to sing?

Mmh-hmm.

Well I waited until my son, Matt, left the house to get us both a treat of really good coffee from Peets. Even lightened up enough to order myself a cappuccino. Nonfat of course.

As soon as he left I started to sing. As quietly as I could and still call it singing, I tried.

It’s hard for me to remember songs since I really don’t hear them very well, but one old hymn kept coming to my mind and so I sang it over and over again.

Great is Thy faithfulness

New every morning…

Dah dee dee dah, dah dah dum dee dee dee….

Great is Thy faithfulness Lord unto me.

Strength for today

And bright hope for tomorrow

Thine own great Presence

To cheer and to guide…

My breath caught.

I’d forgotten… again. He is my strength for today. He is my bright hope for tomorrow.

Not my solutions to what everyone ought to do to straighten out the mess they’ve made.

Not the elusive dream of having every cupboard clean and organized, a pristine garage, and all my photos neatly ordered on discs.

It’s Him!

His Presence.

He is the One who cheers me despite real life stuff going on all around me.

He is my guide.

I am not a victim of other’s choices.

I’m following Jesus.

By now I was singing louder.  At least I think I was. Without my cochlear devices on, I can’t hear a thing… including me. (and that, dear friends, can be a good thing at times!)

There I was, folding laundry, belting out His faithfulness and believing every word.

I felt as light as those doves that feed every morning on our back deck.

Dancing a little now, I sashayed out into the hallway… and ran smack into Matthew.

Opps.

If you’ve ever sat next to me in church you’ll know that when I “sing” during worship I keep my voice very, very soft. Oh yes, I’ve seen those stares. I have a good idea of exactly how a deaf girl singing must sound.

But Matthew swooped me into his arms and said, “Mom, that’s beautiful! I’ve been out here listening. So beautiful, it’s made me cry.”

And sure enough, tears had gathered in my almost twenty-year-old son’s eyes.

And of course, tears started spilling from mine. Happy tears of pain conquered and hope tinkling bells of sweet sounds that I hear.

I can sing. I will sing. Loud and free and with a little dancing thrown in! Because It’s not about me…

Great is His faithfulness… new every morning… Lord, unto me.

Will you sing with me… no matter how you sound?

From a heart that’s feeling lighter with every note,

Diane

What I love about following Jesus is that nothing is random or without hope, not even a house flooded by the upstairs toilet. He can take the most seemingly difficult, challenging circumstances and use it as an occasion to change your life. I know this to be so because that is where my love story begins.

I did not grow up knowing Jesus. I got saved in a bookstore in Chapel Hill, North Carolina at the age of 20. I committed my life to him at the age of 22, when, in a series of very pointed and intimate ways, Jesus showed me that I was not forgotten, that in all the world, He knew my name and loved me. The question that ultimately brought me to my knees was whether I would ever know love in my lifetime. His response to my query was, “Even if you never marry, will you trust me enough to follow me wherever I lead you?” At that moment, I knew that if I said yes, I would have to mean it.

I did say, “Yes.” Through the next several years, pattern by pattern, the Lord began showing me a more excellent way. He was an exceedingly patient Gardener, tending to some very overgrown and untamed shrubs and vines that grew thick around my heart. At times, the pruning was intimately painful and very humbling but I learned, and grace was so fulfilling to a heart that had already wandered.

In that season, the blessing of my life was Jesus Himself. Through rich teaching and fellowship with other believers, He was faithful to build a strong foundation and to clear away the wood, hay, and stubble of my own efforts. As the years passed, Jesus loved me too much to stop challenging me. Instead, He allowed the feelings of rejection that began to isolate me from others to become the fire through which He would prove Himself, skimming off the impurities that had found root deep inside.

Part of the rejection that I felt from other believers seemed based on my marital status. While my contemporaries were in community with each other, I felt very much on the outside of a social club to which I did not have what I needed to belong. I had never really felt compelled to apologize or wave the banner of “singleness,” it was just the fact of my life and all I had ever been. I confess I struggled with bitterness and hostility at having been left out. I also experienced waves of intense and paralyzing loneliness. I’m sure from the outside I looked a bit like a beggar.

I was in my late thirties at this time and had never married, never had children, and never had even a boyfriend. Oh, I had crushes! But in His immense and (probably, at times, exasperated!) patience, He kept His hand of protection closely over me. My way of dealing with this was to roam the earth and look for places to be useful in His name. I learned much about judging outward appearance and how off the mark it can be from what is going on inside a person’s heart. I loved my time with Him in those places. I felt like He was saying, “I can use your life for My glory. Are you willing?”

Toward the end of these years, Jesus taught me to allow Him alone to define me, and in doing so, brought peace and deeper love for my own family.

I stood on the edge of my fortieth year with mixed excitement, relief, and grief, knowing that for me, the question of the hubby, 2.5 kids and picket fence was answered. Honestly, I felt in part like the pressure was off. I was so grateful for the gift that my life had been to that point; the ministry tending to broken bodies and hearts, of traveling to amazing places, of living with forgotten people and the total flexibility of being an unmarried woman loving Jesus. I lived it to the best of my ability and now, I would be free to live it with even more abandon because part of me was not going to be wondering “if” and “when.” And yet, you see, I had never signed up to miss the family, to miss the husband, to miss the kids in all their moments of mess and wonder. All those years, I confess that I hoped but I didn’t live there. In those times, I found Him still loving, still asking, “Will you follow me and trust me?”

As a way to mark the passage of this year and to step out of the boat I decided to do something crazy; this girl from the suburbs of D.C. started climbing mountains. They were breathtakingly beautiful but not easy to reach, becoming a place of transition and the only thing big enough to occupy the complex space in my heart. Every trail, every skill, every step, He met me there. He put me in a community of people who loved me and looked like the church, only they weren’t the church. In a season outside its walls, He showed me what being healthy in the church looked like. Climbing mountains with Jesus changed my life.

Late that summer I found myself on the doorstep of Solid Rock, obeying the Lord’s direction to look for Him there, in the fellowship of believers. In doing so, He gave this weary heart brothers and sisters to enjoy and a family in which to belong. I met some great people at events like First Thursday. I love when people just show up and are willing to pray and be with others, no pretension, no expectation, just “real.” Through the months of showing up, faces became more familiar and those faces became friends of mine.

One of those faces belonged to a man whom I had met at a First Thursday in a small prayer circle. His life had been very different and, in the last several years, he had his own story of faith, survival, and hope. We sat at a hockey game one night with others and talked and then would see each other from Sunday to Sunday. I remember thinking that God had done a good job with him and that he seemed like a nice man. That’s it. Through my learning in those months, I began to realize that one of the most powerful resources that unmarried people have for support and fellowship is other unmarried’s. Satan picks off people the way wolves pick off sheep. He looks for the ones who are weak and alone. He waits and stalks them but there is strength in numbers. When one plus one plus one come together, their strength is in His presence as they gather.

It was this understanding that was the thinking behind an email I sent to this hockey-watching brother one night. It was a short prayer request asking for prayer because I had flooded my home the night before. He wrote back and said he would definitely pray for me. I stayed in the house, living in the upstairs bedroom, eating cereal and carry-out, as my kitchen was down to the studs. (It was kind of fun actually, when I put it in the context of living as a missionary in a foreign land!)

Days passed and a couple of weeks later, we randomly ended up chatting on Facebook. He asked if I knew of anyone who would be interested in going to a concert because he had an extra ticket. Being passed the “dating age” and not worried about what people thought anymore, I said, “Sure. I’ll go.” I went to his home for a hot lunch and we headed to the concert together. As the music blared, we stood together jumping around, screaming, and generally whoopin’ it up. It was a blast! Three weeks later, he invited me to a gathering of friends and kids at his house for New Year’s Eve. We played cards and talked until I left at 11:30. The next day, he invited me over to watch football and we talked and watched “Bolt.” The next day, we drove to the coast to run away and he saved me from a rogue wave that drenched my feet. The next day, he and his son sat on one side of the table at the yogurt place and I looked at them knowing that I was open to whatever the Lord would have in it, or not. There was about a week and a handful of next days and from the outside I’m sure it looked alittle…fast. But at 41 and having prayed and walked, I knew that any list that I might have made up for what I desired in a husband had seriously been blown to bits. Through direct and diverse testing and confirmation, we came to understand that the Lord was doing a work here in our lives and that the sum of our lives together would be greater than each life separately.

What did I see in him? Most importantly, he’d loved Jesus even when it might have been easier not to trust Him. Through His story, I found him to be faithful, exceedingly kind, patient, supportive, and filled with integrity. This man’s testimony is also proven by fire and yet he trusted Jesus in the midst of that fire. I confess that God’s handiwork didn’t hurt and that I find him to be quite handsome, and not least of all, he plays like a kid! Six months and thirteen days later, we married.

Our wedding day was amazing! We shared it with everyone we knew; family, friends, and acquaintances who had walked through the dark seasons with us. We wanted them to know that we love them and that He is faithful and able to do exceedingly abundantly above all that we ask or think. I’m sure my dad is still in shock.

In the time since that day, I am coming to know more each day of this friend, brother, husband and lover of mine. I imagine the learning will last a lifetime, Lord willing. I know that I am taking each day in its fullness and not taking for granted one of them. My goal as a wife is for my husband to go to bed at night grateful that I’m his wife and that we are together. I love his company so much. When I don’t know what to do, I just imagine that I’m a missionary plopped into a strange land and I ask God why He put me there.

People I know have said, “When you’re ready, God will bring your spouse.” I don’t know that agree with this. I am convinced that any marriage does not come because the bride or groom deserves it but because it is just what God’s grace looks like for them. For some people, their story is that they married young and grew together over a lifetime.  For others, the story is different but no less glorious if it is embraced as God’s gift of a good thing. It’s not that He is scandalized by the questions, but rather, He wants us to bring those questions to Him, spend time with Him, press into Him, and find our worth and value in who He says we are alone.

He was and still is my Boaz and Beloved. Looking back now, I can say is I am so glad that our story is what it is. So many times I wanted to take the pen out of His hands and scribble down the chicken scratch of what I wanted instead of what was His will. I am glad I waited.  God’s story in you of grace and love is His to write on the canvas of your life; in timing, mission, and marital status. Be faithful and let go of the pen. Let Him write it. It will be so much “other” than you can imagine!

Andrea

(source)

Once upon a time I taught my daughters to cook.

I taught them that cooking is a way of loving well…

that feeding friends and family delicious food nourishes their bodies and delights their souls…

that creating all those inviting scents in the kitchen lures those you love the most right into the heart of your home.

Only I left out a few essential ingredients in all my teaching and cooking and showing…

Things like cooking foods that are healthy and made by God to be good for you and not wreck havoc on your body.

Those kinds of things.

And so now my daughters are teaching me!

And since this place has become a sort of home for me, with lots of friends and women whose hearts are so like mine, I’d like to invite you into my learning.

Once a week my daughter, Elizabeth, is going to share with us her love for feeding her family good, nutritious, wholesome, delicious meals.

She’ll show us how she does it and why.

She’ll help us with our grocery lists and food budgets and how-to-make-meals-in-a-hurry and how to plan ahead… but mostly she’s going to give us her recipes for the really good stuff.

And sometimes we’re going to have guests on this page— and take a peek at food blogs Elizabeth loves, and maybe even set up a contest or two… because I still believe that cooking is a beautiful way of loving well.

So come along with me starting next Saturday as we listen and learn from Elizabeth.

From my heart,

Diane

Today is the two-year anniversary of an earthquake that rocked the entire world. The devastation was unfathomable and yet in the midst of what Satan clearly meant for evil, there are many beautiful stories of what God used and continues to use for good.

Pastor Elizabeth Guelis has one of those stories.

(Anne and Pastor Elizabeth)

When Ann Menke and I met Pastor Elizabeth, the first thing I noticed about her was her beautiful, infectious, joy-filled smile that lit up her face and eyes like the Haitian sunrise. In her face, you could see the glory of God.

The second thing I noticed was her right leg. It was prosthetic.

Elizabeth’s smile grew even larger when I asked about her leg. Hers, you see, is a story like no other. Instead of bitterness about her loss, the prosthetic leg is a testimony to her of God’s love and grace.

Until the earth shook Haiti two years ago, Elizabeth told me that she and most Haitians didn’t know what an earthquake was. Hurricanes had threatened their country for many years so the buildings were often built with concrete to withstand the terrible winds. The concrete worked well to protect people from the hurricanes, but it was devastating when the earthquake hit.

On that Tuesday afternoon in January, Elizabeth had an appointment to meet an American friend at the woman’s two-story home. The women sat down in the corner of the concrete house to pray, but they hadn’t even begun to talk when the walls began to tremble. Dust filled the house and in an instant, it became so dark that Elizabeth couldn’t see.

Elizabeth tried to get outside, but she’d never visited this woman’s home before. In the darkness, and the dust, she didn’t know which way to go, and she couldn’t see or hear her friend. When she finally made it to the front gate, it was locked. She was trapped inside the compound.

Then the unthinkable happened. A wall collapsed over Elizabeth, pinning her legs. With the lower part of her body under the concrete, the upper half of her body facing the street, she drifted in and out of consciousness for hours.

When Haitians finally broke down the concrete wall around her, her legs were badly cut. Help had not yet arrived in the country so someone put her legs into bleach and then wrapped plastic around them, leaving her to die. Her legs smelled terrible, she told me. I can’t imagine…

Three days later, Americans set up tent hospitals in the streets. She was the first one to be operated on at one of these hospitals. As the people in her church prayed, the Americans amputated her leg.

“I passed out when the American doctor began cutting my leg. I thought I was in heaven because I saw angels all around me.” Her husband had died seven years ago, and when the doctors told her family she was dead, her three children mourned for her.

But Pastor Elizabeth wasn’t dead. When she woke, there were people crying all around her. She was weak and dizzy, her leg gone, but she was alive. “God would not let me die,” she explained.

For nine months, Elizabeth was in the hospital. God had told several members of her church that she would live, and they continued to pray for her every day. “I made a promise to God in the hospital. If He would let me live, I would serve Him the rest of my life.”

When she got out of the hospital, Elizabeth went to Bible school. She was glowing when she pulled out a picture from her Bible to show Ann and I. It was a photo of her on her graduation day. June 25, 2011. Elizabeth Guelis is now Pastor Elizabeth.  She shares the Word of God with the people in her country and dreams of one day spreading His Word around the world.

“A lot of people criticize me,” she said. “They say I don’t deserve to be a minister since I never finished my high school education. Ministry is difficult, but God is with me.”

People criticize her because of her ministry, but there is also a stigma in having a prosthetic leg in Haiti. The handicapped are often treated with disrespect in this country, and some have questioned why God would allow her to lose a leg.

Elizabeth’s children are now 23, 18, and 12, and before our time together ended, she asked that the “lady mamas of Solid Rock” pray for her and her family. I promised her that I would share her story and requests with all of you and that we would pray with her that:

• God would give her strength to continue her church when people criticize her and tell her she can’t do it.
• She would hold the Word of God close and continue to do His work.
• God would give her the power and opportunity to share her testimony with thousands of people around the world.

The last day of our conference, Pastor Elizabeth found me in the crowd. She showed me her graduation picture again, pointing out the prosthetic leg with a sense of triumph. It is her testimony to what God has done and continues to do in her life. Then she held out the picture to me, signaling for me to take it.

“I can’t,” I said, shaking my hands and head. This picture meant so much to her, and I knew it was probably the only one she had. I couldn’t possibly take it from her.

But she held it out again, insisting that I keep it. It was her gift to me.

With humility and tears, I took her picture. And I continue to cry today when I think about her gift.

I wanted to give something to her in return, but I didn’t know what could even come close to equaling what she’d given me. Then I remembered that I had brought a picture with me to show the Haitian women. It was a photo of me, my husband, and my daughter when Karly was a baby. It seemed like nothing compared to Elizabeth’s gift—I can make another copy of it at any time—but it was all I had at that moment. I rushed to get it, and she gave me a precious hug in return. We’re sisters, you see, for now and eternity.

On that October afternoon, Elizabeth gave me her picture and her friendship. She reminded me of God’s love for His children, that even through terrible adversity and hardship He sees and loves each one of us. Not once did she complain to me about what had happened. Instead of being angry at God, she poured out her love for Him.

(Diane, Pastor Elizabeth, and Zebby

As we remember what happened in Haiti two years ago, I pray we will also remember the stories of God’s goodness in the midst of tragedy, of the beauty He made and continues to make from the ashes. And I hope that we as a church can pray for women like Pastor Elizabeth who’ve devoted their life to spreading God’s love and grace in Haiti.

Blessed beyond words,

Melanie Dobson

Because so many of the questions that have come flooding in have to do with finding the “right one”, and because I sense so much confusion about God’s purpose in marriage, and because God’s purpose in marriage has everything to do with who the “One” for you ought to be…I went back to listen to what is the best basic teaching on marriage I have ever heard. It was a message preached by John Mark  entitled “Better To Marry Than To Burn” from I Corinthians 7:7-9. For the next few weeks I am going to expand on the Four Reasons God Created Marriage as outlined in John Mark’s message. But first, let’s take a look at John Mark’s conclusions as to why so many marriages do not end in happiness ever after…

Here’s the problem— I would argue the vast majority of people (including myself) get married to be happy. You may want kids, you may want sex, you may want friendship, but really, the driving purpose is happiness.

You want to be happy.

Now, as docile and innocuous as that sounds, that is actually a travesty. That mindset, that agenda (to be happy) primes marriages for disillusionment at best and divorce at worst.

Here’s what you have to understand: happiness in love is the result of a healthy marriage, not the purpose for marriage.

God creates marriage for friendship, mission, sexuality, and family, and the result is Adam sings! Romance. Love. Emotions! And read The Song of Songs! God celebrates romance!

But you need to get it’s the by-product. The after-clap of the marriage is happiness in love. But it’s not the reason for marriage!

That is why so many marriages never get off the ground. People are going into marriage searching for something that isn’t there. Or is there for a while, but then goes away.

People go from one marriage to the next, to the next (or one relationship, or one experience...) searching for happiness, but it’s not there, or it’s there for a fleeting moment, and then it goes away!

I think Hollywood really puts a finger on the pulse of how people think... “This isn’t working. I’m not happy. I want a divorce.”

But what if the goal of marriage is to be holy, not be happy?

And that, my dear friends, is a whole new conversation.

So for the next few weeks we’re going to be taking a fresh look at FOUR REASONS for marriage… and FOUR QUESTIONS to ask yourself while looking for The One… and FOUR AREAS which must align in your relationship in order to make a marriage great.

Of course I’m not a preacher like my son...

I’m a woman… and a mom… and I’ve raised two daughters whose burning questions for so long evolved around guys and The One and is he him?

And I’ve raised two sons too, whose questions were much the same and yet so different… and one of those sons found his One and the other is still searching…

And perhaps most important of all, I am a wife who has found unbelievable purpose and passion and yes, even happiness, in 33 years of being married to my husband, Phil.

So stay tuned…because next up on the Q&A of Love Stories I’ll be answering questions about the first vital aspect of God’s purpose in marriage: friendship.

If you’re wondering how two people can be friends for a life time, even knowing each other in the worst moments… and what to look for in a friendship that can stand up to real life forever…why don’t you email me your questions?

From my heart,

Diane

I got up this morning all uptight. The sink is full of dishes and the dishwasher needs emptying. Our Christmas tree is sagging and when in the world will I have time to take it down? The kitchen floor is sticky and there’s dog hair everywhere and laundry piled up and I haven’t exercised in who knows how long.

Of course I’m tense... this day holds too much too do already.

Yet downstairs in the guest room my daughter sleeps. Curled up next to her husband is the girl I hardly ever get to see. Today I’ll bask in that smile and feel that sparkle and hear those words.

For just a few more hours she’ll be here with me in my home, a part of my life.

So why am I worried about laundry?

And up the stairs are two little grandboys, sleeping away. In just a moment or two they’ll wake up so excited to be at Amma and Pop’s house. Fresh with joy and full of affection, they’ll jostle for room on my lap. Jude will tell me all about his plans for the day while Moses interjects his ideas.

Legos will be built, tummies will growl for good grandma food, a book will get pulled out of the pile that must be read right now.

And after a while my son-on-break-from-college will roll out of bed all bleary eyed from staying up late. He’ll tell me what that pile of Bibles on the table is all about and what they talked about so late into the night and how they’re changing this world of theirs.

And I’m obsessed with dog hair?

I don’t know how I get it so wrong still. Or why I worry about things that don’t matter. And sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever learn…

That people are more important than all I have to do.

That moments like these can’t be brought back.

That memories are made in the midst of messes. And that no one remembers the messes anyway.

That all those messes are worth the memories of these moments.

And that all I really have to do today is relish the people I love.

From the heart of a woman who’s learning…

Diane

I was twelve when my dad died. He was the safety under which I knew freedom and light heartedness. After his second battle with Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma and a successful bone marrow transplant, he succumbed to a stroke resulting in a coma. We waited. We prayed. We let go. I will forever remember that day.

It was a cold, foggy morning in November when we turned the life support off. Later when we returned home, I remember waiting long after the house fell silent to slip outside. We lived in a log house in the country, tucked away on seven acres of woods. All I can recall was a desperate need for the sharp cold air on my skin and in my lungs. Finding a private spot, I sat in the light of the full moon and stared up at it blankly. The moon was a symbol of my childhood, innocence, holding all sorts of magic. That night, I prayed it would finally answer a wish, hoping its beams really did possess something magical and supernatural.

As sharp as the air around, so was my awareness. From where I sat, I looked out at the blackness surrounding me. I was tucked in such a small portion of the moon’s protective light. Like a switch, that blackness became darker and alive. The mantel of protection I’d never recognized, the priestly head that had presided over me, evaporated. Fear started to fill the gaps in my chest. Any sense of safety, of security that I had once felt as a child was gone and the darkness crept ever closer.

As I cringed from an invisible force, I felt a pause in the atmosphere and something open. More clearly than I could ever describe, a question probed at my mind.

“What happens to the fatherless girl?”

As if a movie reel in my mind’s eye, I saw a fatherless girl whose heart ached to fill the gap with crude interpretations of love and in the process shattering anything else that remained of her.

I thought, “No. That is not me! I don’t choose that! I don’t want that! Is there another option?”

Then another clip played. Another fatherless girl who removed her heart from any viewing eye, locking it behind thick stonewalls. Her protective shields prevented her from experiencing love to its fullest, causing a stagnation and decay that ate away at her slowly.

Again,

“No! I don’t choose that either.” Hopelessness clutched at my fate, believing that only two options lay before me. “There has to be another,” I pleaded.

“There is,” the answer echoed in my head. “You can choose Me.”

Timidly I wondered, “Well, what does that look like?”

“I can’t show you. You just have to choose. Choose Me and I’ll show you along the way.”

Every day since, I wake up and say, “I surrender. I choose You,” and Jesus has kept His word. I’ve never been alone or abandoned. That night when I made my choice, the darkness died and I stared at the moon with a new kind of promise and purpose in my heart. A promise of His true love and a purpose to learn what true love really is.

Here are a few things He’s shown me, so far, from “along the way”.

I’m twenty-four now. God is more tangibly my father than my memories of my earthly one are. There are so many lessons where He’s stepped in to teach me and challenge me to learn the things my dad wasn’t here to show me. Together, God has taken me on many adventures that have allowed me to travel a bit, accomplish some, see a little and change me a lot.  Most of that has been just the two of us. Some might call that being “single”. “Single” denotes isolation, wanting, aimlessness.  However, that word has a lonely connotation which simply doesn’t suit a daughter of God.

It wasn’t until I was twenty-one that I went on a real date. The few experiences I’ve had of that nature since have shown me a certain value in being purposeful in my singleness.  As the vast majority of us ladies, I too desire to be married with a family. Truth is though, at the moment, I’m not. So what are we told to do in the mean time?

Wait.

Problem is, we take that word and don’t know what to do with it

When I hear, “wait”, I immediately conjure images of standing in line, arms crossed, sighing and checking the clock every thirty seconds only to see it move counterclockwise. But we stand there, in line, waiting, because we believe there is something at the end of it. We practice faith here. In faith, I know God has someone for me and I trust that He will prepare us and bring us together. Faith, though, will always give you something to do and trust takes action.

When we watch a chick-flick, ooh and aah over a romantic story, daydream about perfect moments, our hearts flutter over long looks and tender words. The feelings that we associate with this would make us feel cherished and beautiful. We’re building expectations of how we want to BE loved.  Yet, how often do we daydream about how TO love? I had a lot of ideas on how to appreciate me, but not on how to appreciate someone else. Several of us have a list of qualities we appreciate in a man. (Side note of wisdom: Remember to keep that list as things you appreciate, not expectations.) It’s time though, to start working on our lists of what kind of wives we want to be and the loving homes we want to make. Let me show you where I began with this list.

Remember the two images of a fatherless daughter? One clutched for love, the other cringed from it. All along, it’s never been about searching for love, nor hiding from it. It is about choosing TO love every day. Since the Bible says, “…for God so loved the world, He gave…” (John 3:16), then by learning to give is how I will learn to love.

So I ask myself, do I really have the capacity to give inexhaustibly and unconditionally as God has? That’s a big “no”. In pursing Jesus and exercising that kind of generosity in my daily interactions and relationships, however, I will learn. This is where I came up with what I call a new kind of Hope Chest.

Most might recall what a hope chest is if you’ve ever watched period piece movies. A hope chest was a trunk in which a young hopeful woman would collect things for her future home. The day she’d leave her parents’ home and move to her husband’s house, from her trunk she’d unpack carefully crafted and embroidered things to decorate her house, making it a home, warm and inviting. Prayers, dreams, and hopes went into that chest. Still, it also represented the skills she mastered and the time she invested.

The fashion of the day doesn’t necessarily call for embroidered cushions and crocheted doilies, but the intent of preparing for our homes is still a prevalent need. In fact, God gave us the Proverbs 31 woman as an illuminator to treasures in a well stocked Hope Chest. Check out Proverbs 31 and dissect it for yourself. For now, here’s an abbreviate version of a few things I found in this treasure chest.

Practical things include learning how to cook. Cook for two, cook for twenty. How to plan a meal ahead and always have something for you family to eat. Learn how to host and be a gracious hostess.  There are many basic things like how to clean, do laundry, iron, mend clothing. Then take all these things and learn how to do these them regularly, working them into a routine. Don’t forget the kids. We need to learn how to care for and teach children of various ages.  Care for our health and bodies, dressing in way that honors and glorifies God. How about learning how to handle finances- make payments, budget, save money, save coupons, pre-plan shopping, to bargain shop and so on.

That list goes on. It wasn’t enough that she knew how to do certain things, but she knew how to manage and run a household. Where do we gather these things from? We have a wealth of wonderful godly woman at church, in your family, in your community as guides and examples.  There is some rich wisdom and many skills hidden an arm’s reach away from you.  Ask. Seek. It wouldn’t be treasure if you didn’t have the courage to hunt and work for it. Then listen, listen, listen and practice, practice, practice.

This Hope Chest doesn’t just stop with the practical though. Interlaced with the accomplishment of Proverbs 31 woman, are many less obvious traits that take longer to cultivate.

Learning how to be engaged and engaging, how to be an encourager, discerning, gracious, peaceable, diligent, self-disciplined, judicious, modest, trustworthy, grateful, compassionate, servant hearted, wise; have respect and fear of the Lord; how to respond to and follow authority; to be faithful and loving. (See Proverbs 11:16, 22: 21:9, Act 9:36, 1 Corinthians 11:10, 1 Timothy 2:9-11, 3:11, Titus 2:2-5)

It can seem daunting, in fact, impossible.  Having this list is not an absolute mandate, but more of a guide. We work on these things our entire lives (Remember that your Prince Charming will not be perfect either or have a completed list and will be continuing to grow. I put graciousness on that list, right?). Rarely is something of great value ever attained overnight. The point is not to check off lists. Instead, single or not, right now we’re fulfilling God’s purpose for us as women, as life givers.

In the meantime, here’s a picture of what you are working towards by investing in this Hope Chest and how to use it in the mean time.

In Singleness Purpose: Recipient(s)- Everyone you will ever encounter. Problem with the Hope Chest idea is we might get stuck in thinking it is solely reserved for marriage. Truth is though, as much as we continue to add to it, we also give from it. That’s how it grows. My entire life I will always be pouring into this trunk. I hope, when I am old and gray, its latches are as worn out as the pages of my Bible. The handy thing about it too, is that neither moths nor rust will destroy its contents (Matthew 6:20). Right now I get to practice these things with my friends, my family, the stranger in the coffee shop, the kid on the curb, at work, at school, at play. I will continue to practice long after wedding bells have rang too, because I keep in mind that marriage isn’t my ultimate goal. Marriage will one day impact how I travel on my journey, but it is not my destination.

Marital Purpose: Recipient(s)- You, your husband, and children. When the honeymoon ends and marital bliss flies out the window, you’re exhausted and your husband comes home about to take his bad day at work out on you, you press the pause button and reach into your Hope Chest. From inside, you retrieve empathy, a listening ear and heart, encouragement, prayer, and comfort. You don’t have to learn it on the fly because you’ve practiced it and stored it securely with care. You’ve also made a home that is a place of safety and rest, an oasis, which you both can retreat to after long days and crazy lives. When you are unable to give of yourself, you have a treasure of strength to draw from in order to love selflessly.

One of the things I remember about my dad is how he was both a dreamer and a doer. Being the first in his family to not only graduate high school, he also went on to put himself through Civil Engineering school at O.S.U. with a wife and child. I watched him dream and do with my mom, and how they rose and fell when they tried them out. He would set his mind on something and worked away at it. Some of that, I hope, transpired to me. Per his example and Proverbs 31 woman, take what is important to you, are your passions and interests, and pursue them. For example, going to college without loans was a priority for me, so this March, after five years of study and hard work, I'll finish my undergrad from P.S.U., debt free. Using that education and experiences abroad, I've been a private foreign language teacher during the last two and a half years. Even being at Solid Rock and all the amazing opportunities here have challenged me and touched my love to serve. There are a handful of various things that I enjoy and dream of, but the point is that I try to explore and invest in them.

Waiting isn't stationary, as we might believe. Have you ever heard, "you'll meet the man while you are doing what you are passionate about"? I have heard it too. Regardless of his arrival though, life is waiting to show us all its hidden treasures and the woman we can become, along the way, as we serve and fall in love with our Creator. Follow God's pulse in your heart. Proverbs 31 woman was a passionate woman, an adventurer who tested her limits and explored her talents. God designed and created talents, gifts and interests in you to discover, enjoy and learn to know Him through. We are made to be life givers, but it takes being full of life first. Pursue Jesus. Challenge your interests. Develop your skills. Invest in your character. Edify others before yourself. Discover a great and true love.

Our journeys will look different from one another. We are all traveling towards one Man, though. His heart is the one I want to capture.  “Along the way” He may have someone for me to travel with. In the meantime, every day I will wake up to surrender to Jesus and to choose Him. Each day I do this is a day He will use to cultivate things in my Hope Chest. When I loose myself and am distracted away from Him, He meets me, sometimes beneath that same moon, where Jesus reminds me of how He’s been my ever present, faithful Father, constant Companion and the Lover of my whole being. In the winter of my life, I will be able to look back and see the fullness of true love from my life as a single woman.

The truest Love you will ever know already resides with you.

Jamee

Misty Edwards sings “Arms Wide Open” that really resonates with this story. I hope you enjoy.

09 - Arms Wide Open

Several weeks ago twenty women from Solid Rock flew to Haiti to put on a conference for women in leadership in Haitian churches.

Most of the women were pastor’s wives, while another handful were themselves serving as pastors in congregations. Each and every one of these women impressed us with their stalwart faith and enviable strength.

Over the course of several days, these women shared their stories with us and agreed to allow us to share their stories with all of you.  Melanie Dobson, a writer who went with us, has collected and condensed these stories so we can post them here every few weeks.

It is our hope that you will be as encouraged as we were— and that the faith and faithfulness of the Haitian women will inspire you as it inspired us.

From my heart,

Diane

Sister Jeanne Modesda: emmanuel

by: Melanie Dobson

Sister Jeanne Modesda was standing on the rooftop of her home the night her world collapsed. Workers were building a third story for their growing family. Thirteen of her children—seven of them adopted—and her husband were in the rooms below.

Sister Jeanne is a mother, a pastor’s wife, a ministry leader, and a businesswoman in Carrefour. In Haiti, most churches don’t have enough money to pay a pastor’s salary so his wife provides income for their family while he cares for the congregation. Before the earthquake, Sister Jeanne owned a successful shop on the first level of her home where she and her older children sold furniture, appliances, electronics, and mattresses.

When Sister Jeanne wasn’t working, she and her oldest daughter, Aelbellona, traveled into the Haitian mountains and talked to unmarried women about God, encouraging them to marry the man they lived with. Many of these couples didn’t marry because they couldn’t afford a wedding so Sister Jeanne and Aelbellona helped choose a wedding date. Then they would return with a wedding dress, clothes for the groom, a wedding ring, a piano player, and a preacher to perform the ceremony.

Sister Jeanne also ministered to the women in her church. Every Tuesday afternoon the women met for prayer, but the prayer meeting on January 12th was different. One of the women stood up and told Sister Jeanne and the other women about a dream she’d had. In her dream, the people of Haiti were running. Screaming. There was chaos all around her, but in the midst of it, the woman heard a voice say: “Don’t be afraid. I will give you what you need to fly.” And so the woman flew, every member of their congregation flying behind her.

Now on her rooftop, less than an hour after the prayer meeting, Sister Jeanne’s house began to shake. It stopped for a moment and then it shook again. As she stood on the rooftop, she knew her house was going to fall down. In those seconds, she begged God to save her children.

Two stories of concrete and bricks pancaked under her feet—her thirteen children and husband inside. “God save them.” She screamed as she searched for a way through the rubble. “God save them.”

The people in her neighborhood, even people who had been enemies to her family, began to mourn her loss. Everyone thought they were dead. But she kept praying even as she cried out, “Why all my children, God? I don’t understand.”

In the midst of the mourning, Sister Jeanne heard a voice in the rubble, the voice of her 21-year-old son. “Mommy. Mommy,” her son called. “We’re not dying. God don’t let that happen to us.”

There was no basement in the house for the children to fall into. The house was completely collapsed. It seemed impossible that even one of her children was alive, but then another child spoke. And another.

“God will get us out,” her son said.

God would have to help them, because there was no visible way out of the rubble. So Sister Jeanne continued to pray until she saw the oldest son in her house emerge. Her son had helped the youngest child crawl on his belly, moving brick by brick until they dug a tunnel out of the house.  More children came through a window—five of them, squeezed through by another brother.

One of her daughters had been lying on a bed. She should have died instantly but she was thrown into a hamper. Then a brick wall fell on the hamper. Miraculously, the hamper and wall protected her daughter from death.

Over the next three hours all of the children and Sister Jeanne’s husband crawled or climbed out of the rubble except the daughter trapped in the hamper. Sister Jeanne’s husband—the girl’s daddy—heard the girl’s voice from the street but she was stuck under the wall. He rushed back inside the house, and she told her daddy to get out before the earth shook again. He refused to leave her, screaming until enough men came to help him lift the wall.

Not one of the children in Sister Jeanne’s house died that day. They had bruises and broken limbs, but no permanent injuries. Even as their enemies spent hours digging out their daughter, they recognized God’s power in saving this family.

Sister Jeanne rushed to the university next to find Aelbellona. She was devastated at what she found. Her oldest daughter had died in the classroom building. With tears in her eyes, this dear sister described how she and her family dug Aelbellona’s battered body out of the rubble and carried her back to Carrefour to bury her.

The Modesda family home is now gone. Their business is gone. Their oldest daughter is with the Lord. Currently they are living with Sister Jeanne’s parents until they can rebuild their home and their lives.

“Everything in our house is gone,” Sister Jeanne said. “There wasn’t even a cup left for us to take.”

And yet Sister Jeanne remains filled with joy that can only come from Christ. “It doesn’t matter that we lost everything,” she said. “God gave thirteen of my children their lives, He gave me my life, and my husband his life. God is our provider and He will give us what we need.”

Sister Jeanne misses Aelbellona terribly, but she still travels to the mountains with her other daughters. They’ve set the dates for eight more weddings and are gathering the dresses and rings. “That’s the job God has given me,” she said.

Many people in her neighborhood decided to follow Christ after watching God rescue her family from the rubble. And just like the woman at the prayer meeting dreamed, God rescued every one of the 150 members of their congregation.

The name that God gave Sister Jeanne at the His Name in Haiti conference?

She smiled as she told us. Emmanuel. God with us.

God indeed continues to be with this beautiful woman and her family as they serve Him and share His many names with people across their country.

With joy,

Melanie Dobson

Note: This story was told to Beth Viducich, Jodi Stilp, and I by Sister Jeanne, through an amazing translator named Frankie. Any errors are my fault.

How can the women of Solid Rock pray for Sister Jeanne:

1) That she and her family would “stay in church.” That her thirteen children would follow Christ into adulthood and share His love and grace with the people of their country.

2) That God would continue to give Sister Jeanne the passion and love to spread His word.

3) For perseverance. “Being a Christian in Haiti is hard,” she said.

4) For finances to continue traveling to the mountains to spread the work and word of God.

5) That God would provide wedding supplies for the impoverished men and women in the mountains to marry.

A couple of weeks ago I wrote my take on the concept I hear bantered around quite a bit: The One. And since my answer rambled around quite a bit, with no iron-clad-chapter-and-verse-verification that what I’m saying is RIGHT!! I think I frustrated a few black and white thinkers. Some of the questions I encountered via email the following week revealed lots and lots of misunderstanding of this whole idea— and all the worries and pressures a lot of people are feeling in the midst of trying to figure it all out.

There seem to be two sides:

On the one hand, those free thinking folks who believe that God is gracious enough to give us generous room to choose for ourselves. This group generally views God’s will as less specific and more conceptual. Their advice tends to be somewhere along the lines of “just pick one” and go for it. Their only clear guidelines would have to do with overtly biblical mandates such as a shared faith and good character.

And I agree… sort of.

The other side of the compendum is much more mystical about the whole thing. Soul mates and perfect fits and “just knowing” when you meet him/her and other such nebulous ideas. These folks are constantly asking the question, “Is this The One?” The danger here is that whole game of trying too hard to be a perfect fit instead of relaxing into the rest that comes when we fully trust God to use even marriage to shape us into His image.

But I don’t think either view is quite right.

Most of us, when we “fall in love”, are so ferocious about our feelings that we’ll do about anything to convince God and everyone else that THIS IS GOD’S WILL FOR MY LIFE!! We believe that first and foremost, God’s will is to make us happy. Very happy. And so if this one makes us happy, then of course, he/she is most certainly the one for me. So help me God.

But since after years and years of delving into the stories of Scripture and God’s commentary on those stories, I just cannot quite see God’s will as a the Happiest Place on Earth, that theory just doesn’t work for me.

I don’t think marriage is actually so much about me being happy as it is about me serving my Savior in His unique role for me in His story.

And maybe that’s why opposites so often attract. Because what he lacks is the very thing I bring into the relationship to make him better equipped for carrying out his part of God’s story.

And visa versa.

Just this week both Phil and I had encounters with a couple in our church. Their marriage caused no small amount of controversy and conflict within their extended families just because these two couldn’t be more opposite. He’s driven and scholastic and intense. And so is his mom- an amazing woman who rose to the top of her career by determination and drive. But the woman he married is neither driven nor intense. Her education didn’t extend beyond high school. Her goal in life is to make her husband successful by creating a home that is a place of refuge- and by giving him full freedom to pursue his dreams even if they cost her. She has no intention of making a name for herself or impressing anybody.

The family finally gave their consent, if not their wholehearted blessing, and now a couple of years have passed.

What Phil and I both saw when we talked to them was an unusual and delightful sense of rightness about this pair. They laugh and tease and look at each other with that secret “I know what you’re thinking” sort of snicker. They know exactly where they’re headed- together. There is this sense when they’re talking that they have learned to pull in the same direction without insisting that they be the same. So right.

It is their very differences that make oneness possible.

Their personalities and giftings are vastly different, but their goals are the same.

And that, I believe, is the key to this whole THE ONE question. Finding a person who shares your goals, or whose goals you share (and yes there is a difference) is vital to making a marriage work the way God originally intended.

Two people pulling in tandem is a beautiful and rare sight.

The One, then becomes the person you can embark on this journey towards oneness with. And for most of us, that journey involves no small amount of hard work and effort to achieve- and will most certainly take the rest of our lives.

From my heart,

Diane

Christmas At My House:

Sunday night the grand-boys spent the night at our house.

(Mo, Jude and Duke)

Tammy needed a few hours in which to wax her floors (they live in a recently remodeled mid-century modern home with smooth cement floors which need waxing from time to time) and I was feeling all nostalgic about cookie baking and gingerbread men and memories from long ago.

Somewhere back in the stuffed down recesses of my mind I remember promising myself never to do the glitter/silver balls/ colored frosting mess again… but that was years ago and now it seems fun again. I think.

Duke came over in the morning to join with “JuJu-Mo”, his contracted name for the cousins he thinks are the coolest guys in all the world. His mom escaped as fast as she could— home to do her own cleaning and fluffing and wiping away boy messes.

I’d already made the gingerbread men and cutout Christmas cookies from recipes I’ve used over and over again. The Cream Cheese Sugar Cookies are most certainly the best in the world… and the gingerbread cookies are okay too, though not likely to win any awards.

Before we got started, I sat the boys down in front of the tree and we read The Gingerbread Boy. It’s the story of a deliciously feisty boy who runs away from the people who’d baked him. A classic tale.

But somehow I’d forgotten about the sudden and violent ending— the part where the fox tricks the naughty boy and eats him with relish! The boys, never exposed to graphic violence or bad endings… loved it!

They laughed and laughed and seemed to understand that he was a cookie, after all, meant to be caught and eaten and swallowed whole.

They swarmed the table, exclaiming over the wonder of candies in bowls and bright colored goo and sparkly things and lots and lots of choices.

I’d already decided to have as few rules as reasonably feasible, and so told them to eat away… after all, their mamas would come to get them by the time the sugar high turned to blood sugar low.

What fun we had! Eating and licking and giggling over beaded eyes and curly beards.

Jude scorned the angels, letting all of us know in no uncertain terms that angels aren’t sissies, but mighty Warriors with swords and guns sent to protect us and get the bad guys.

A theologian like his daddy.

All three boys conspired to make a snowman for Uncle Matt.

I didn’t even attempt to try to make anything covertly spiritual about our morning. I can never seem to remember what holly leaves are supposed to symbolize anyway, or why we do a tree and stockings and mistletoe and all that fun. We just do.

And somehow just loving each other and laughing loud and feeling free to have some fun seems almost like worship to this woman surrounded by these boys.

My Father gave these gifts to me and I see Him in their smiles. And I think He’s smiling too, loving every minute of this gift He calls life.

And I hope they’re tucking all these times away. I hope someday they’ll pull them up and tell their kids about messes they made and the Amma they loved and the way she loved Jesus and so do they…

And I hope they’ll worship Him then… by playing with their boys and laughing hard and reading stories and loving every moment.

From my heart,

Diane (aka Amma)

The sugar high led to some wild wrestling matches between cousins.

Cream Cheese Sugar Cookie Recipe:

3 1/2 C flour

1t. baking pwd

¼ t. salt

¼ t. nutmeg

½ C butter

½ C shortening

8 oz. cream cheese

11/2 C sugar

1 egg

½ t. vanilla

1. Combine dry ingredients, mixing well

2. In mixing bowl, beat butter and shortening until smooth

3. Add cream cheese and sugar, beat until well blended and fluffy

4. Add egg, vanilla, beat well

5. At low speed, gradually beat in flour mixture until well mixed

6. Divide dough in half

7. Refrigerate 2 hours or more

8. Roll dough on floured surface- about ¼ inch thick. Cut into shapes

9. Bake 375 for 7 minutes.

These cookies are soft and absolutely delicious, but they must have frosting! Lots of frosting! I usually mix up some butter with powdered sugar and vanilla and a bit of cream. Add a few drops of food coloring for the kids… or keep them creamy and add silver sprinkles and white sugar for a charming presentation.

The gifts are wrapped (well, most of them anyway),

cookies are baking as we speak,

my tree has survived all my forgetting to water it,

and everyone has presents under the tree.

This week I'll be doing the fun stuff:

decorating gingerbread men with the grandkids,

writing loving notes to everyone who will share the day with me,

making up that clam chowder we've had every Christmas since the days we lived in Santa Cruz (with the recipe the guys at Stagnaros on the wharf gave me)

And telling you about it with pictures and all.

Keep checking in for our favorite recipes and crazy Comer traditions... and for a beautifully designed printable version of the Christmas Story to read to your friends and family this weekend.

Love Stories will continue next Monday with part 2 of The One.

From my heart,

Diane

BOOKS AND STORIES AND OTHER WORLDS...

One of my earliest memories is of my mom reading to me. She’d tuck me safe into that soft spot every mama has, and I’d feel the rhythm of her words blow across my cheek in singsong cadence.

In her arms magical worlds opened, filling my mind with delightful imaginings of dragons and damsels and Dr. Seuss. I remember smoothing my hand over the pictures as if to transport myself into the story, and my mother’s assuring words that yes, I do dare turn the page; everything works out by the end.

Without ever saying so, she taught me that stories tell truths, that the ending is worth the wait, that real life is more than what we see… and in all that unspoken teaching, my mother gave me a great gift— a love for books.

And so, this Christmas, I’ve purchased stacks and stacks of books. Bekah gets some for her Modern Library collection. John Mark’s are heady stories about real things like famous men and innovative design. My entrepreneurial son-in-law, Steve, will delve into books about how business and theology meld together. Phil’s interests lie in all those stories of World War II he grew up with; books about B-24 Bombers and Zeros and Winston Churchill line his shelves. I’m still looking for something really special for Matt. Ever since we both caught the Brian Jacques bug, it’s been difficult to find stories that compare.

And since I love books and I’ve enticed my own children to love books, now I’m campaigning for my grand kids. When Jude and Moses and Duke come to my house to play… I read them books. And when I tuck them tight into that mama-spot and place my hands over theirs on the sides of whichever books we’ve chosen, we step into those mystical worlds of magic and wonder together.

But I need some ideas. We’ve read my books too many times and we’re overdue for something new, or maybe something old… and new to us.

And so I send out an urgent plea:

What were your favorite books as a child? What did you read over and over again? What stories and pictures fill your mind still? Have you discovered something new and beautiful that you’re sure every child should read?

Would you send me your list?

Waiting for your ideas…

From my heart,

Diane

If I were to write a Christmas card this year what would I write?

Would I boast about my kids? About what John Mark is doing and little Duke is saying and by-the-way, Matthew has turned out to be an amazing man?

Would I paint a picture of perfection that everyone knows can’t be true—though that’s the way I see them all?

Would I dare admit that this family of mine is flawed?

That we don’t always agree, sometimes argue, and don’t know if and when and how to say those things we’re not sure we ought to say at all?

Or would I just pretend… again?

That life is perfect and if only everyone would be like me, they’d be happy too.

And would I write my worth in deeds I’m doing?

Rushing here and doing that and making sure my right hand knows my left is busy blowing trumpets of glory-be-to-me?

Or would I tell of deeds not done, of flaws untouched, of people mad and me the same? Would I admit that marriages died and I couldn’t help and I made a mess when I tried?

Dare I recount the struggles and the failures, and all those doubts?

Or boring days of sameness?

Or mornings I slept in and didn’t listen to what I needed so much to hear?

And maybe that’s why I can’t write Christmas cards anymore.

Because real life isn’t pretty… and the beauty I’ve found in all these ashes can’t be pictured in accomplishments and accolades.

And yet there are people I love and haven’t told enough of why.

Grown kids and husbands and wives and little ones and Mom and Dad and sisters too; friends and brothers whose lives have mingled long with mine.

Could I craft my letters just for them?

Tell them who they are to me and why I love them so and sprinkle just a bit of courage back to those who’ve shown me more than most?

Would I take the time to write it down, to point it out, to let them know I noticed too?

Dare I do just a few? Thought-filled words of loving hope of things I see about their hearts?

Might this be what Christmas cards could be about?

Dearest Daughter,

This Christmas I just wanted

to take some time to write

what I love about you…

From my heart,

Diane

Would you join me this year in writing just a few cards of encouragement to those who need to know? Those who need the courage that comes when someone sees them through the lenses of the One whose story started all this celebration?

I guarantee you that those letters won’t be tossed in the trash. They’ll be read and reread and tucked away to read again.

What greater gift to give the King than words of love to those He loves?

Would you share with all of us how it goes?

“That their hearts may be encouraged…”

Colossians 2:2

“Therefore encourage one another, and build up one another…and we urge you, brethren…encourage the fainthearted…”

I Thessalonians 5:11,14

“Encourage one another day after day…”

Hebrews 3:13

When I was thirteen, God told me I was going to marry Ian.

That was also when God began speaking to me through dreams. I hadn’t originally asked God to show me who my husband would be, but I woke up one morning after having an incredibly vivid dream of my wedding day. When my groom turned around to greet me, I saw his face.

It was Ian Nelson’s face.

That's a lot of information for a thirteen-year-old to keep inside--for five illegal years. Although I had doubtful “Gideon moments” (Judges 6:36-40), I tested, waited, and trusted that God knew what He was doing (brilliant idea, I know).

As an eighteen year-old worship leader in my youth group and a close friend of my big sister’s, Ian and I were nothing more than “pals”. He was my guitar teacher. He took my sister to his senior prom. We don’t remember the moment we met. And he was five years older than me! Even though we were just friends (and not only because it would’ve been creepy if we were more…) there was obviously an unusual connection between the two of us. I’m pretty sure everyone saw it, but no one understood it. We didn’t either.

I remember conversations that took place in my parent’s living room between us friends—OK, so maybe I was the tagalong—about the kind of person we wanted to marry someday. Ian was part of that group and I was sneaky. I’d compare what he said in those groups to qualities he’d already pointed out to be some of my strengths. I paid such close attention to him because, in the back of my mind, I was testing what I thought God had spoken to me.

(Ian, 18 Me, 13)

Ian went away that summer and we wrote each other letters in order to maintain our friendship. But when he came home in August, things began to change. We decided that since I was going to be in high school now, the stage in life where the once innocently significant age gap between us began to shrink and things would start to look weird.

Ian started dating someone and so did I.

[Enter the three-year period of awkwardness]

I was embarrassed that I was so quick to believe that a couple of meaningless dreams revealed my future. I was embarrassed that I’d confided this to my mom. I was embarrassed at the thought of Ian finding out.

Somewhere though, in the deepest crevices of my heart, I was certain that it was God who had spoken to me

“Let us hold tightly to the hope we profess, for He who has promised is faithful.”—(Hebrews 10:23)

and that in the end, I would end up spending my life with Ian. Things had changed so much though, it was going to take a miracle!

Sure enough, two years later, during the summer before my senior year of high school, we began connecting a bit more over the death of a mutual friend. We talked to each other about everything and saw each other regularly. During that time, I remember sitting outside on the curb next to him. He asked me “At what point do you think we’ll no longer be in each other’s life?” I responded with a long pause and then an “I just can’t picture that ever happening.” He agreed.

In December 2007 I started getting signs that Ian was interested in me. It was easy to tell since he paid so much attention to me! I didn’t dare say anything though, and I didn’t let him treat me like his girlfriend (hanging out every time he wanted to/sit by him/let him pay for my coffee, etc.)

Two months later, in February 2008, during my last year of High School, we both went on a church trip to Israel. We sat by each other on the plane, and then on the bus. I was embarrassed that he was being so obvious in front of everyone without having talked to me about it first, but it didn’t bother me enough to reject his company on a long bus ride : )

We stayed up late, walking and talking, and on about the third night of the trip, on the beach overlooking the Sea of Galilee, he finally admitted that he had “big boy feelings” for me. Yes, those were his actual words. Then he sat me down and listed all the things he loved about me and the reasons he knew his feelings were real. (He says now that at that point his mindset was “if this girl will have me, I’m going to marry her.”)

I acted surprised and tried to hide my smile.

Even though I was nervous to finally be faced with my dream in the form of reality, and even though things had changed so much over the years, God helped me desire what He desired for me--the very thing He’d promised me five years prior.

After that conversation we planned to date as soon as I was done with high school.

That was in February and in April I started getting cold feet selfish.

I was barely eighteen and not even done with high school.

I was two months away from starting a dating relationship with the guy I knew I was going to marry.

Do you know what that feels like?

I knew that once our relationship started, that was it.

Us dating = us together forever.

I told Ian everything and he was heartbroken, but we still had two months until we made things official so it was not yet a public upset.

As soon as I got over myself we were able to move forward (funny how that works).

And on my last morning of school, I walked out to my car to find three dozen pink roses and hundreds of gold-foiled chocolates sprinkled all over the seats. On the driver’s seat was a little picture of our heads glued onto a picture of a male model carrying a female model on his back. At the top of the picture were the words “Will you be my girlfriend?”

I called him later that day and [obviously] said yes!

He came to my graduation with a bouquet of flowers. I think we were both giddy…

We dated for another nine months (June 2008-February 2009) and on February 27th he proposed! He got down on his knee at our favorite park in Corvallis and then we rode off to the beach in a limo!

(Right after he proposed)

On a rainy day in September 2009, the clouds parted and the sun shone down on us as we made our vows to God and each other in front of all of our friends and family. We just celebrated our two-year anniversary and we still love life together!

Looking back on our relationship used to make me feel funny, but now I think of it as “special”. I am so glad everything evolved the way it did and that we get to spend forever together!

Journal entry to my future husband 11/11/03 (age thirteen):

I wonder if I know you right now, at age thirteen. That would be so weird to look back and see what our relationship was like at this age. I may not even know you until college.

January 21, 2004:

I had a dream the other night. It was abut my wedding day. I saw everyone’s face. Including yours!

January 25, 2004 (three days after I turned fourteen):

I think that God has revealed who you are to me. It is hard to think of getting married to you if you are who I think you are. But I think that God is molding my heart to first love you as a brother and a friend so that one day I can best love you as my husband.

July 26, 2005:

Ian, you broke up with your girlfriend a couple of days ago and I was completely shocked! During the time that you two were dating, the Lord was doing an incredible work in me regarding my faith and trust in Him. When you guys first started dating, I was beginning to doubt that God had truly spoken to me. Then I finally came to the realization that He is in control and He can do whatever He wants and if what He wants is for you to get a girlfriend to see if I still trust Him, than He will do so. Since I have to come to the realization that it is OK for God to work this way, He has broken you two up.

June 23, 2008:

We just went on our first date and you kissed me and told me you were in love with me. Instead of returning the compliment, I asked how you knew and your answer was “Because I can’t imagine living life without you.”

September 3, 2009 (two days before our wedding):

I can’t believe that I’m already here—writing a real letter to my real husband-to-be! You are the love of my life and I am so grateful that the Lord brought us together!

I think the moral of our story is to trust God and let Him work out the timing. We’ve all tried to get ahead of God at one point or another, and not just when we think it is “of Him”. Whether you know, or you don’t know, or you wish you did or didn’t know; ask, listen, and then trust God. I was so certain and yet still worried about this for five whole years of my emotional teenage life! It’s not worth it. God designs the most beautiful scenarios and then we spoil them with our impatience. Just don’t do it.

Sarah

Just a few days after Christmas twenty years ago, I plopped exhausted into our big blue naugahyde recliner, appalled at the angry words that had just spilled from my lips.

What was the matter with me? Why did I keep giving into my frustrations and taking it out on my children?

I wanted everything to be perfect- my house, my kids, my marriage, myself. And nothing ever was- not me, not them, and certainly not my house.

As I cried out to God, confessing my shame to Him, He gave me the clearest, most soul wrenching vision of what would happen if I kept on that path to perfection. I felt transported to another time. I saw myself as an old, embittered, disappointed woman.

And I wrote down what I saw.

These are the words from my journal on December 28^th, 1991— from a vision that changed the way I live.

Christmas morning.

No footsteps running down the hall. No stiffeled giggles coming from the children’s rooms. No one wakes me before dawn; yet awake I lie, listening for what I will not hear.

My house will stay clean all day.

No one will spill milk or leave toothpaste smeared all over the sink. I’ll not trip over anyone’s hastily thrown shoes.

My scissors will stay where I put them.

Christmas morning… and I am all alone.

Memories keep cold company on a day such as this. Regrets weigh my heart with shame and remorse as I remember Christmases past.

Sharp words, impatient gestures. Too much shopping, too little playing. Hurrying and scurrying instead of sitting and listening. Cleaning when I should have sat and watched.

Oh how I wish I hadn’t frittered away those precious years— those priceless, irretrievable years!

Mother’s, wives, listen for a moment to a lonely old woman. Hear with your heart these words I have to share.

My life, too, was once busy like yours. Meetings to attend, phone calls to return, a never-ending pile of clothes to wash and a million errands to run.

The work seemed limitless. My energy was not.

I meant to play with my kids, to read them good books, to listen to their sorrows and share their joys. I never intended to yell at them or say those things I wish I’d never said.

I loved my children!

Life just got overwhelming at times. Pressures mounted, anger flared. I was too busy for another mess. I had better things to do than solve another argument or play a silly game.

But now those years are gone. And I am sorry, oh so sorry. If only I could do it all over again.

If only I’d said no more to others and yes more to my little ones.

If only I’d…

slowed down,

done less,

played more,

listened longer.

What a fool I was! If only I hadn’t worried about what didn’t matter: clean floors and uncluttered rooms, a perfectly put together life and every pressing need crossed off my list. If you’ll listen to my mistakes, you’ll let some things slide, let a lot of things slide— you’ll have years and years for all of that and just a few countable days with the ones you love the most.

If only I’d known then what I know now- that nothing, sbsolutely nothing, is more important than creating a home- a haven- for my family.

My regrets won’t bring the years back to be relived, but perhaps, if you’ll really listen, they’ll save yours.

And so I’ll say it again:

Listen mothers, hear with your hearts.

Slow down. Play. Laugh. Treasure the gifts of God that grace your home this Christmas.

From an old woman’s heart…

And so I pass my passion on to all of you. In the ensuing seasons I did slow down. My house was rarely really clean. I stopped sending Christmas cards and trying to match wrapping paper. I even stopped subscribing to magazines that fed my penchant for perfection. And (gasp!) I declined countless invitations to women’s bible studies so that I could stay home and play house.

My four children are all grown now, with children of their own. Somehow they survived my way-too-picky-about-things-that-don’t-matter years. In fact, they seem to hardly remember my meltdowns, instead covering all my missteps with a grace I do not deserve.

And so this Christmas I will not be alone, in fact they’ll all be here, crowding every corner of our home, making noise and messes and laughing loud- and probably arguing a time or two as well.

And I’ll be loving every minute of it!

From my heart,

Diane

Over and over I get asked the same question: how will I find the one? And as if that isn’t worrisome enough, a whole host of queries come tumbling all over the unknown.

What if I miss him?

What if I marry the wrong guy?

I don’t think I’m worthy of THE ONE anymore, now that I’ve messed up with that one who is so obviously not it. What now?

Don’t I need to go ahead and marry this guy now that I’ve given him all of me?

What if THE ONE marries someone else? Am I destined to singleness for the rest of my life?

I’ve met my SOUL MATE but he is unhappily married to someone else… doesn’t God want me (us) happy?

THE ONE has been elevated to superhero status in many of our minds. He’s the romantic hero, the spiritual giant, the perfect specimen of physical beauty.

Confusion and unrest reign in this realm of fairy tales and happily-ever-after endings.

And so women create their lists and cross men off at an alarmingly confident rate. They turn down coffee dates because he certainly couldn’t be THE ONE. They snub young-men-in-the-process before knowing much more than the unfortunate fit of their not-skinny-enough jeans.

He doesn’t have style… he’s too awkward… gross, he has acne!

I wonder sometimes if THE ONE eludes these idealistic romantics simply because of bumpy skin and unfortunate taste in clothes.

And so I’ll attempt to give my answer to the question every girl seems to be secretly wondering: is there really THE ONE?

Yes… and No.

Yes, I do believe that the Bible indicates that God has so pre-written your story that He’s got a plan for even such events as the rest of your life.

Take the story of Rebekah and Isaac.

Isaac’s dad (that would be Abraham) sends his best friend/faithful servant off to do a little bit of pre-internet searching for a soul mate for his son. He doesn’t need to fill out questionaires to know what kind of woman the boy-man needs— the guy has known Isaac since he was in diapers. He knows all about the career Isaac is being trained for, the calling on his life, the complexities of his personality.

So he sets about to find THE ONE, confidently believing that “the God of Abraham” has this fully arranged already.

Abraham has given his friend scant criteria for finding a wife for Isaac. Basically two things: 1. Not a woman of a different faith. 2. Not a woman who will divert Isaac from his calling. (see Genesis 24:1-9)

This matchmaking man stumbles upon a well somewhere in the vicinity of what he believes will be a likely spot to find Isaac a bride. And then he prays a crazy-let’s-get-this-over-with-quickly prayer. (So like a man! A woman would have let the search go on and on, adding all sorts of romantic tension to the story…)

Yet his prayer is curiously insightful. This servant knows that Isaac’s career and calling is far from the ordinary house in the suburbs kind of life.  He’s going to need a woman willing to work hard alongside him, someone with initiative and drive who sees what needs to be done and hops to it without a lot of prodding.

Bingo! Rebekah comes along and “she’s very beautiful” and obviously available (vs. 16) and she fits the profile perfectly. The next thing you know, she’s on her way to Isaac’s honeymoon suite (actually his deceased mother’s tent!) with this blessing ringing in her ears,

“This matter comes from the LORD…

Behold, Rebekah is before you, take her and go

and let her be the wife of my master’s son,

as the LORD has spoken.”

And the story just keeps getting better and better…

“Then Isaac brought her to his mother Sarah’s tent,

and he took Rebekah,

and she became his wife;

and he loved her…”

(and that, for all my naïve young friends, is Scripture-speak for saying they had a humdinger of a honeymoon!)

So… what’s all this have to do with THE ONE?

Take a look at one easily overlooked phrase in the story: “let her be the woman whom my LORD has appointed for my master’s son.” (vs. 44)

The woman whom my LORD has appointed for my master’s son can mean only one thing:

She’s THE ONE.

And so, yes, I do believe that there is ONE appointed to be the wife/help meet/counterpart for a man.

And of course, the opposite must also be true.

Every Rebekah has an Isaac in the wings, ready to sweep her off of that camel and into his tent when the time is right.

HOWEVER… I also believe that most women and a whole lot of men have some pretty messed up notions about how that story is supposed to play out in their post-camel lives.

I do not believe in soul mates or happily-ever-after endings or perfect fits.

I believe that God brings two people together in order to show the world what it looks like to be loved well despite unfortunate flaws and a life time of failures.

I believe that God brings two people together who will rub up against each other, filing away sharp angles and re-forming both into beautiful and usable souls.

I believe that God brings two people together for the express purpose of advancing His Kingdom plans through their union.

I believe that God brings two people together with the clear intent to make each of them holy… but not necessarily to make either of them happy.

And yet with all of that I remain a hopeless romantic!

Thirty-three years ago, Phil swept me into his world and offered a life unlike anything I’d ever imagined. At times it has been hard. And lonely. And choked with people’s needs. At other times it has been exhilarating and satisfying.

But over the years God has carved a unique oneness out of two stubbornly individualistic people. We are headed in the same direction, we have the same goals, and the same spirit.

Phil has pushed me way beyond my comfort zone. He’s widened my world and led me compellingly. He’s created for me a rich life in which to grow and flourish. In turn, I have calmed Phil down, brought a semblance of order and beauty into his sometimes frantic lifestyle. I’ve made a safe place for him to rest.

We have both had to choose to lay aside our selfish ambitions and idealizations in order to get to this place in our lives.  We do not “fit” perfectly together. In fact, we clash and rub each other wrong and hurt each other’s feelings. We work hard to understand each other’s viewpoint… and we fail frequently.

Does that sound like soul-mates? Or more like two people fully committed to the LORD and to bringing Him glory by loving each other well at some very real cost to ourselves?

Phil and I could have had a terrible marriage. We could have dominated and dug in our heels, grown bitter and apart. And at times, we’ve done all those things. Yet there is this One whom we call our Redeemer who, when invited and listened to and obeyed, creates oneness and beauty out of the thousands of fragments of brokenness we bring at His feet. His name is Jesus, and when it all comes down to the nuts and bolts of real-life romance…

He and He alone is…. THE ONE.

From my heart,

Diane

(source)

Christmas at our house was never a low-key affair.

My mom set the stage by decorating every nook and cranny of our home. By melting our crayons in a coffee can over the stove, she made candles that looked like chimneys with Santa peeking down. She poked beaded pins in soap and embroidered all of our favorite things on stockings. On mine, a library of books, ice skates, flowers. On my brother’s, soccer balls, baseballs, basketballs…

And she baked. Oh how she baked! No need for scented candles in our home- we had the real thing! Apple strudel, cookies galore, the best sweet rolls in the entire universe… Mom filled our home with all the delights of the season.

But it was Dad who gave me my favorite gift ever.

One year when I was 6 or 7 I was banned from the garage for the entire month of December. If I even got close to that door outside, I’d be inundated with warnings and wagging fingers— threatened with all manner of evil if I dared peek.

Every night, my dad came home from his job at G.E., sat on the edge of his bed to trade his wingtips for work boots, grabbed a taste or two from mom’s busy kitchen, and headed for the garage.

For the next few hours I’d hear pounding and whirring and swooshing on the other side of the forbidden door. No amount of begging or cajoling elicited so much as a hint of what was taking place out there.

But I knew it was for me.

And something about that knowing opened up a space in my heart that still echos with the sounds of significance. My dad was making something for me.

On Christmas Eve I could hardly sleep. I couldn’t imagine what might be out there in Dad’s garage turned workshop. When the time finally came for the three D’s (David, Diane, and Darnice) to parade into the family room, I caught my breath in wonder.

The most magnificent Barbie dollhouse I’d ever seen!

Three stories tall, with a light up stove, carpet and curtains, a soaring veranda and cathedral ceilings— and the crowning piece: an elevator!

I don’t remember much more about that day, but the rest of my childhood years were spent kneeling in front of that structure, pretending to be Barbie.

I was an international stewardess with a fine suit and cocky hat. I was the belle of the ball in my sweeping gown of emerald damask. I married G.I. Joe on the veranda and drove my pink sports car into the garage.

Bliss and beauty defined my worth.

My dad has made me many things over the years: a kitchen set with red coffee lids for burners and switches and lights and buttons to push. Shelves for knickknacks, a playhouse for my kids.

On my 30^th birthday he made me a beautiful bookshelf as if to say, “I know you, Diane, and I like who you are.”

And on my 50^th, he crafted a writing desk out of thick pine planks and marked it with this message: To my daughter, Di…

And with everything he’s crafted just for me, a message has been sent:

You matter to me.

I know you and like you and enjoy who you are.

And I’ve carried that message with me through all the ups and downs of life in this sometimes less than encouraging world. Through my awkwardly unfeminine transition from girlhood into womanliness. While I was figuring out what it meant to be a follower of Jesus. When I’ve been rejected by the status quo and misunderstood by those who ought to know me better.

Through it all, the theme my dad engraved on my life has pulled me through.

And what’s more, somewhere along the way I discovered another Father with the same heart. A Father just like my dad, who cherishes who I am and delights my days with gifts carved out of His creation just for me.

My dad led me to my Father. And he did it just by loving me well.

From a grateful heart made strong by a father’s love,

Diane

Nine Things My Dad Did Right:

1. He paid attention to what made me tick.
2. He saw the me no one else saw.
3. He accepted me for who I was without trying to change me.
4. He believed in me.
5. He showed me how much he loved me.
6. He brought his own interests and gifts into my world.
7. He taught me the value of excellence by producing beauty.
8. He stamped stand-alone strength into my character by applauding my value.
9. He let me be me.

And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God... Romans 8:28

To preface this, let me just say I grew up far from the church. So this is not the story of one protected by the guardrails God intended. I made several-- dozens, actually-- mistakes before I found the one man I was always meant for, my husband Ronnie Cecil.  But what I hope you get from what I share is this: if you, like me, have a less than pure past in the realm of love, God can still redeem your story. I adore Romans 8:28 because it has been so true in my own life: The Lord can truly work all the things for good...all things, including a divorce; including getting pregnant outside of marriage...

It was Christmas day, 2007. I sent him a poem. We were not close enough friends for me to share all that was on my heart, but in the poem I hoped he would here me saying: “I get you; I get where you’ve been.”

His Christmas letter, sent out in an email, confessed the pain of his divorce and the chaotic experience of wandering through life unsure of who you are. It also shared a hint of Spring returning- a deep gratitude for days spent less miserable than before.  I had never been divorced because I had never been married. But, I knew the dark pit he was talking about, because I had landed there too, my womb full of unexpected life by a man who had no intention of loving me or fathering the life within me. I also knew the glory, the relief, and the great gratitude of days not confined to pain and misery anymore.  Single motherhood is awkward, the way divorce is akward: no one knows how to talk to you about it, especially religious people. But in living life as a pariah, after you go through a season of incredible darkness and self-destruction, you gain a certain character strength, humility, and intimate awareness of your own deep brokenness, and the reality that despite all the muck and mire of your life, some beauty within still remains.

In our shared social imperfections we soon found comfort and freedom in a rekindled friendship. We also saw glimpses of God’s mercy.

The poem I sent was from T.S Eliot’s East Cocker, with the infamous last line that says, “In the end is my beginning.”  I didn’t know that T.S. Eliot was a Christian or that later I would become one too, or that what he was pointing to in his poem was the miracle of God’s redemptive work; that when we come to the end of ourselves, God can and does act to work all things for good.

I also was wonderfully unaware that indeed a new beginning was unfolding in both our lives: the beginning of us.

Flash back to 2004: We met on a blue-sky morning near a building made of adobe in Santa Fe, New Mexico. I was starting my year as a Grad student in the Eastern Classics Master’s program. My hair was strawberry blonde, and in a few shorts weeks I would experiment with dying it barbie doll white. I was 24, six years away from knowing God, ready to learn Sankskrit and drink a lot of beer with interesting, worldly, and good-looking people.

Ronnie was the husband of a girl he had met at church camp when he was 19 years old. He wasn’t a student at St. Johns, but his wife was, and all of us became part of the same dear circle of friends.

A year later, as soon as I had graduated, I moved to California. Ronnie and I gradually lost touch.  My life started to unravel when I found out I was pregnant and the father of the child was heavily into drugs. I didn’t know his life had begun to unravel too. The very first love of his life, his wife of 6 years, didn’t want to be married anymore.

Flash to 2007: When Ronnie and I reconnected, thanks to a rouge invite email from Linked-In, life had dramatically reshaped us both. He, who along with his wife used to drag me to church and read me the bible, had now lost his religion and his trust in God’s goodness and was desperately seeking to regain some faith while climbing the corporate ladder in Birmingham, England. The bottle blonde he once knew, the one who bubbled and bounced and lived for the party, had grown out her roots and was now managing life as a single mother in Portland, Oregon.

As imperfect people painfully aware of the folly of being human and hungry for God, we bonded. Immediately we knew each other as kindred spirits, both having been thrown crazy curve balls by life.

Despite the 4,287 miles of continent and ocean between us, our connection and friendship grew. We began to notice something dear in one another we had not noticed before, and then one day—on opposite sides of the globe—we both woke-up, utterly in love.

In the time between that poem I sent him in December of 2007, to his response of a simple ‘thank you’ 4 months later, in April of 2008, God was patiently preparing in each of our heart’s room for the other. Both of us had experienced the end of “life as we knew it”. In that great desert, in that Land Between, we walked side by side, unaware of how our paths were colliding. As if overnight, our lonely deserts merged and came to their end in each other, at the fertile soil of a shared, new beginning.

That Spring, the whirlwind began. Falling in love long distance was very literally a poetic experience: nearly every hour we spent awake and without one another, a love note was written. From May 2008 until September we exchanged more than 1,500 e-mails, hitting “send” 500 times a month, 125 times per week, 17.5 times per day. When we were married less than a year later at a bar in Kentucky, it seemed long overdue.

Even though married life started out quite unideal (we were poor, without family or community, thrust into a new house in a new state, suddenly parents trying our best to raise a 2 year old together, just beginning to learn each other’s intimacies and love languages, inching closer, but still far, from God) we were doing okay.

At the beginning of our marriage, we were consumed by the goodness of an abstract God through our burning love for one another. Both of us recognized personally we had been given amazing grace, but neither of us knew or lived to follow Jesus. For sure in the the way our hearts broke with gratitude for the redemptive love we now shared, we felt the power of redemption. But standing near the Lord of Redemption-- even being immensely blessed by Him--is not the same as surrendering your life to Him. And a marriage without Jesus, even when two people are ridiculously in love and devoted to one another as we were, is not a marriage that stays strong for long.

As quickly as our love ignited, our marriage began to crumble. I say a deep thank you now for just how horrible our 1 year anniversary was. The conditions in our life in those days made our need for Jesus as newlyweds undeniably plain. Mercy it was that we could not lean entirely on our fairytale love to make it. Mercy it was that my husband’s start-up business failed magnificently and we could not afford the distraction of material comforts. Mercy it was we had no family to run home too and take shelter in. And mercy perhaps even it was that the depression I had struggled with on and off for years, began to return.  The hopelessness of our poverty, our loneliness, and my husband’s joblessness, compiled with my own darkness within, brought to light the biggest obstacle we faced in our relationship.

Neither of us knew the absolute, the protective, the all-things-are-possible love of God. We worshipped each other until we learned that human love in and of itself was never meant to be worshipped.

Fear crept in that life was too much; that our love, our marriage, would eventually break under the relentless weight of being human. Deep down I feared that I was too much. The baggage of all my past brokenness-- the sexual abuse that held my body in shame, the seasons of drug addiction and eating disorders that still terrorized my mind, my unshakable bent toward self-destruction-- the residue of all of it began to show up at the door of our marriage and the lies the Enemy fed me on who I was and what I was worth, I believed. Instead of trusting in my husband and the vow he gave me to love me for better or for worse, I shut him out and pulled away.

The hardest part about marriage for me was not learning how to pour love out, but learning how to receive love being poured in; to let myself be loved not just for a theoretical brokenness, but for an actual brokenness. The learning how to let my husband sit with me when I am consumed by an inner ugliness, the darkest hallow: this was my needed education. We have been married now 2 and half years...and here I am still learning how not to resist him when he dares to pick the mess of me up and hold me in his arms.

To let go and let yourself be loved in the midst of stomaching a present and vulnerable brokenness, is extremely difficult. But God on the cross calls us to this. When we stand painfully undeserving in the presence of so much grace, our most natural reaction is to run. He begs us, though, to stay. As a woman deeply afraid of the scandalous love of God and the reflection of that love in her husband, I also wanted to run. But He and he has taught me to remain.

The hardest part of marriage, at first, was allowing myself to experience God’s love through my spouse. This, though, is now what I find to be the absolute best part of marriage. It is bewildering and magnifiscent to be someone’s wife and to experience daily the truth that we can never be perfect, but we can, in fact, be loved. This is the profound gift of matrimony and christianity: to arrive at the holy place of surrendering all to be rescued by someone who sees my flaws and wants me anyways....this is what I am learning it means to be both a child of God, and a wife.

My life today, two and half years into marriage is incredibly blessed. In February of 2010, my husband and I both gave our life to Christ.  Two Septembers ago my husband officially adopted my son Lucca, so he is now truly ours. This past September we learned we are pregnant with a baby girl, due January, 2012.  In one another my husband and I found amazing grace from God, and the story of His redemption in our lives continues to unfold...

My one piece of advice for you who are falling in love and dream of marriage is this... Seek, know, and let the gift of God’s love be real to you now. Stop trying to fix yourself into the perfect person and stop trying to hide your flaws. Accept that broken and lovable are two traits that are intimately yours as a human being. Jesus does not see them as mutually exclusive and neither should you.  Love your man in the fullness of his imperfection and let him love you in yours. All of it is made perfect at the foot of the cross.  Remember: No matter what your past history, all things can be made good, for those that love the Lord.

Morgan

Morgan Day Cecil and her growing family live in Portland, Oregon. She is a monthly contributor to Transformed Magazine, an online Christian’s women’s magazine. Right now some of her favorite things are ice-cream dates with her son and eating breakfast burritos with her husband. She is currently writing her first book, a guide for single moms on how to create a beautiful life. You can connect with her via Twitter and Facebook or (her new favorite) Pinterest.

souce

For some of us, the joy of the holidays is tempered by sorrow.

Someone somewhere has wounded us deeply, let us down, rejected and abused us. We’re staggering still under the shock of loss.

A relationship lost, a friend turned away, all the memories of a lifetime tainted by the shadows of bitterness.

And so we redouble our efforts. Cards and gifts and messages meant to soothe the brokenness. We try to understand, imagine what it must be like, living through all that awfulness. We justify the ugly words and hang on to any sign of hope.

But still, the silence stretches.

And after a while our hearts grow cold. My heart grows cold. Resentment sets in, a sort of callused indifference, It’s her problem, what do I care?

And then the holidays come, with pictures of families laughing, of gifts and memories, of celebrated histories and shared loves.

And it hurts all over again.

David— psalmist, father, shepherd, king— knew all about that deepest grief.

At times his anger spilled recklessly from his pen, “They repay me with evil for the good I do. I am sick with despair.” (Psalm 35:12)

At other times he graciously consented to yield his pain to the One who has the wherewithal to make things right. “Don’t be impatient for the LORD to act, travel steadily along His path. He will honor you…” (Psalm 37:34)

The one thing he didn’t do was pretend it didn’t hurt.

When someone hurts us deeply, we have a couple of choices: retaliate or retreat.

The retaliators get most of the bad press. They’re the insistent ones who go on the attack. Needing an explanation, they throw out a volley of accusations intended to knock some sense into the situation.

Others are more the retreating types. Loathe to expose themselves to more pain, they withdraw into the safety of silence. Indifference masks their mourning— coldness that could chill a glacier.

But for those of us who are honestly trying to be followers of Jesus, neither option is the way of the Kingdom. If we want Him fully involved in our lives, we’re going to have to make a different choice.

A difficult choice.

Because Jesus knows all about rejection and abandonment.

He knows about spitters and abusers and mean men and accusers. He knows what its like to be mocked and humiliated, underappreciated and cast aside.

And He chose a different way:

“This suffering is all part of what God has called you to.

Christ, who suffered for you, is your example.

Follow in His steps.

He never sinned, and he never deceived anyone.

He did not retaliate when he was insulted.

When He suffered, he did not threaten to get even.

He left His case in the hands of God, who always judges fairly.”

And He offers some advice to aching hearts who suffer in much the same way:

“ It is God’s will that your good lives should silence

those who make foolish accusations against you…

Show respect to everyone…

Love your Christian brothers and sisters…

Fear God…

Don’t repay evil for evil.

Don’t retaliate when people say unkind things about you…

Instead, pay them back with a blessing.”

I Peter 2,3

Pretty clear, isn’t it?

We PRAY…

Entrusting our pride and our problems and our aching hearts to God. He is neither powerless nor passive. Just as Jesus called out to His Father on the Cross, we cry out to Him in our loss. We give over our indignities to Him who judges righteously, laying all our shredded souls before the One whose love makes us whole.

We WAIT…

Because waiting is the way to trust. And trust is the way to faith. And faith pleases God.

By choosing to wait on God, we forfeit our right to retaliate, our right to act the way we feel, our right to savagely attack our attackers.

We BLESS…

It is the secret strategy of a beautiful woman, the potent weapon of a strong man, to bring a blessing where curses echo.

To smile a soft kiss of whispered love.

To give.

To help.

To reach forward.

To do it again.

And so for all of us who bear the burden of loved ones lost, let us together choose the way of the Cross.

Let us pray… entrusting our lost ones to Him.

Let us wait… for His Spirit to work and weave peace where sin has caused chaos.

And let us bless… whether we feel like it or not, leaving a waft of His beauty to soothe ravaged souls.

“That is what God wants you to do, and He will bless you for it.”

I Peter 3:9

From a heart who knows,

Diane

P.S. All this year I have watched a young woman choose this way of beauty in the aftermath of a tragedy thrust upon her by others. With wisdom she has navigated through turbulence that would have sunk most of us. She is wise. She is strong. She is beautiful.

I love you!

Today I’d like to introduce you to my friend, Joy Eggerichs. I met her many months ago in a little coffee shop on the eastside. Over oatmeal and scrambled eggs and way too many cups of coffee, Joy and her mother (Sarah) and me and my daughter (Elizabeth) enjoyed one of those rare moments of recognized alikeness. Something just clicked in that cozy corner of Portland and a friendship was born. Maybe it was Joy’s uninhibited laughter, along with her mom’s ladylike gestures and startling normalness. We talked about all the things women always talk about: boys and men and why we’re so proud of them and how they worry and perplex us.

And so today, I’ve asked Joy to tell her story. Its not finished yet— no “and they lived happily after” tagged on at the end. Instead you’ll hear a story just starting. A story of a woman who has decided to do her life well. And I think you’ll agree with me that Joy’s story is unfolding just the way the Father wants it… all mixed up with Joy’s quirky sense of humor (unicorns?) and solid rock faith in the rightness of God.

And since I know you’re going to love this, click on over to her fabulous blog to learn and laugh and see why I like her so much.

From my heart,

Diane

My Love Story: Waiting with a Purpose

Spoiler alert: this love story doesn’t end like the movies! Roger Ebert has vowed never to watch it again.

On that note...

I almost got married. I had said yes. My love story was written—or so it seemed.

When the final chapter of “us” came far more quickly than I had imagined, I went to a place of waiting and have remained ever since.

One might immediately think that I have been waiting for a husband this whole time. Sadly, that is not the case. After “we” ended, I couldn’t fathom becoming an “us” with anyone else. The idea repulsed me. And I knew it could never be the “we” of before.

My waiting is on the transformation of my heart.

Sometimes that kind of transformation feels like your heart is a ball of dough and God is a very large Italian man kneading your heart on a woodblock and throwing it up in the air. All the while, you fear that when the heart is perfectly prepared, baked, and ready, some man is going to come along and bite off that valve that allows you to breathe.

Transformation of the heart was scary because I had given my heart away and made a deep emotional commitment. I knew I had some work to do. I realized what “felt” like love was actually an unhealthy type of love. I couldn’t put into words the different styles of love I had experienced until I read C.S. Lewis’s Till We Have Faces. Before reading that, all I knew of the love from before was that it wasn’t right.

And I knew I wanted a different kind of love moving forward.

But even though I can look back and see the transformation God has done, feelings are strong and fear can creep in and say, “Joy, you will never know real, healthy love because of all the attachments you made to unhealthy love.”

This is when I have to stop and cling to truth. And remember I believe in a God who transforms and redeems.

But I want to know answers today! I don’t want to wait anymore! (Insert the stamping and pouting skills of Veruca Salt from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.) At the core of my temper tantrums, the true question of my heart is this:

Lord, will I be loved and able to love well?

Yes. Have patience. There is a purpose.

When I choose to listen and have patience, trusting in a bigger purpose, I find my view of waiting changes. It seems to me that an awareness of purpose constitutes some level of belief. And, as my belief grows, I realize waiting has more to do with my heart toward God than my heart toward a man.

Joy, do you really believe in my purpose for you?

Uhhh, I’m trying!

If I do, then my earthly love story is secondary to the perfect love from my heavenly father. And if I am in relationship with Him, the Lord, then I can have patience knowing that if an earthly love story happens (and I am believing it will), my healthy relationship with God will be the thing that transforms my ability to receive and give healthy love to a man.

Pain of a broken engagement caused me to question my relationship with this “Good God”—His timing, His love, and His purpose for me.

But Scripture talks about suffering. It gives me a heads-up that this will happen because of the brokenness that is in our world. So my desire is that my suffering or questions will not become an idol or obsession that keeps me from waiting well.

Because I know this type of waiting that I have described will be part of married life, too.

While the seasons of my life will change, the character of God will not. And, as I said before, I believe in a God who wants to transform and redeem. A God who will transform and redeem, when I ask. In sorrow, in joy, in wonder, and in wait, He is at work on our stories of love.

Waiting with a purpose,

Joy

“Not only that, but we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.” –Romans 5

“The Lord redeems the life of his servants; none of those who take refuge in him will be condemned.” –Psalm 34

“Take heart, daughter; your faith has made you well.” –Jesus

“Do you believe that I am able to do this?” –Jesus

P.S. I wanted to throw something out to all the readers who might want to participate in my earthly love story. Just in case you know any men who may fit the bill, this is my very serious deal-breaker list. If he doesn’t fit these requirements then you can forget setting us up.

To hear more of my story click here.

PRINT AND KEEP WITH YOU AT ALL TIMES.

- Believer in unicorns

- Beard

- Slightly dirty looking (you know, the “I shower once a week” look)

- Taller than I am

- Passionate about something (God is a given)

- The ability to give me piggyback rides

- Willing to promise daily foot rubs in our wedding vows

- Orphan (so we can spend every Christmas in the Michigan snow with my parents)

Those are just a few things to get you started on your hunt for my new “us” or “we.”

Thanks!

RUTH SCHROEDEL COMER

May 10, 1925 - November 14, 2011

(Mom C, Phil and Matt)

Yesterday Phil’s mom died and for a long while we will grieve.

Her passing was not unexpected, in fact, we’d prayed for the Father to mercifully take her before the pain got too great.  Yet still, the searing agony of losing someone who loved each of us so well is staggering.

We are sad and we should be sad. No amount of convincing platitudes erases the fact that she’s gone from our lives. Even the Library of Congress sized mental files of love-filled memories won’t lessen this very real loss.

We wanted her to live forever… and we know she does… but we want her here.

And so today we travel back to relish the woman we’ve lost: Mom, Grammy, Ruth, Mom C. My family pauses to remember, I pause to remember…

I first met the woman I came to call Mom C when I was the painfully shy girlfriend of her middle son. The day Phil took me home to meet his mom, I wore an off-white ensemble that made me feel as confident as I possibly could while meeting this one whose son revered her. We picked up Chinese food on the way, which promptly leaked brown greasy sauce all over my pants. I was mortified!

Ruth never even noticed.

Instead, she saw me for who I was: the woman her son loved. And on that basis alone, she took me into her heart and let me be myself.

For our wedding, Ruth did the flowers, gifting me with a fairy-tale like setting in which to pledge my heart to her son. When I walked into that warehouse turned wedding chapel, the beauty of her craftsmanship took my breath away! A “few roses” had become a bower of unbelievable artistry… just the first of many loving gifts to start our story together.

Over the years Ruth became my friend. I could say anything to her without fear of censure or disapproval. I trusted her to believe the best about me, even when she knew the worst. Her advice always made so much sense, even when she mixed it up with old wives tales and mid-west traditions.

I remember ignoring her advice when it came to my firstborn son and schedules. The “new research” favored demand feeding and let-the-baby-decide sleep arrangements. My mother teamed up with my mother-in-law to let me know they thought all I’d get for all that “new research” would be an appallingly demanding baby. They were right! It took months to undo the damage done with all that permissive nonsense… yet neither mother once gave me that I-told-you-so pursing of the lips. My mom and Mom C just loved me and laughed when I complained.

The boys (Jack, Phil, and Mark, along with husband, Bill) were her world. She loved them by feeding them delicious meat-laden meals and by baking cakes and pies and the best coffee cake I’ve ever tasted. She’d iron shirts on demand, made their beds way too late in their lives (!), and let their rock band practice in the family room. There she’d be, beaming at their music, opening the windows so her neighbors could hear, whipping up a batch of fudge to “give them energy”.

(Phil on the drums with his band)

How does a young bride compete with that?

Early on, I just jumped in and joined the worshipers-of-mom… and copied every recipe I could. She made it so easy to love her because she loved me regardless of the glaring evidence that I’d never possibly reach her level of revered womanhood. She’d just laugh her little chuckle as if to say, “Oh well, it doesn’t really matter much, does it?”

Mom C never had any daughters of her own; neither did she have a sister. So when the granddaughters came along, her innermost girliness came alive! She bought them frilly dresses and shiny shoes, and a pink satin penoir set that made little Elizabeth feel like a princess. She delighted in Rebekah’s thick thatch of curly dark hair, buying ribbons and trying everything to keep her not-so-girly granddaughter from pulling them out. My girls followed her around the house in their aprons, begging to “help” cook, making a mess and loving every minute of it.

Once when we came for a visit to their retirement home, she called me a week after we’d left to let me know that she’d finally washed Matt’s fingerprints off the mirrored door… she’d just loved seeing those little hands in her home.

(Mom C and John Mark)

Do you see why I loved her?

I know you’d find it hard to believe that a woman like this came from a terribly dysfunctional home. An alcoholic father who’d disappear for months at a time, a mother who got too sick to take care of her, spinster aunts who took over for a while… she never knew a safe, solid home life. Yet she would have scoffed at the idea of using her broken family as an excuse to be demanding or manipulative or even sad. Instead, she determined to build a family that would thrive on the love she dished out with all those homemade meals.

And she loved her “boys” (every one of them over 6 feet tall, and Ruth reaching barely over 5 feet!) no matter what. When they made mistakes, she just loved them. When they made life style choices that worried her, she just loved them. When they became successful, she loved them. And when they suffered she loved them still. It was her way, to love those boy-men no matter what.

Just a few friends and a smattering of family will be at Ruth’s graveside Monday morning. Yet the impact of her love lives on in uncountable lives. She changed a family by her love and then her family changed their families and now a new generation of families is growing up to change their own families… and isn’t that the way a whole world gets changed?

By one woman who chose to love… no matter what?

I miss you, Mom C

From my heart,

Diane

LOVE STORIES will resume on Tuesday this week with another story. Check back then!