Monday is usually my transition day, like a bridge between full weekend and equally full week. The house is still relatively clean from Saturday’s chores, routines are back in place, and it’s time to tidy up loose ends. Mondays are my ‘admin’ day, the day to write a grocery list, open emails, pay bills, and put the budget in order. I don’t mind Mondays.

But there are no Mondays when school is out, no more relatively clean house, and no routines, unless it’s the one summer week every young child (and parent) waits for: the week of vacation Bible school. It happened to be Monday of that epic week when my daughters, niece, and I juggled shoes and bags, coffee and happiness out the door and into the car. The girls – two VBS leaders and one participant – were brimming with fresh energy for the week ahead. I was not. I was about to brave morning traffic for a meeting far from home, the quiet home where loose ends and unopened emails were left waiting for my return. No admin Monday for me. There were places to go and schedules to keep.

Full disclosure: I may not have the best driving record. Shocking, I know. It’s quite unintentional, and I readily claim the disadvantages of being a female whose smaller stature isn’t considered by vehicle manufacturers. I also admit being a writer with an often cluttered mind and the type of personality that very much values the mental soothing of an admin Monday. These handicaps add up, particularly when tardiness is involved, coupled with the clamor of three sunny girls singing with the radio, but it was all over when my daughter noticed our neighbor beside us. I rolled down my window and waved ‘good morning’, flailing my arm like a good neighbor would, forgetting a good driver would take notice of the high speed on the odometer. A cop took notice for me.

Cue the lights, the elevated pulse, and the sinking disappointment. I was busted.

When I’m sitting at the side of the road with an officer behind me (I’d rather say, ‘That one time when I sat at the side of the road’, but this is a truth blog), anything on my mind prior to the lights and the 200 beats per minute instantly becomes ancient history. New thoughts churn like the contents in my stomach, usually beginning with, ‘how could I have been so stupid?’ Followed by, ’what will this cost?’ And naturally, ‘why doesn’t my lead foot husband ever get pulled?’

But there were two unique concerns this particular day that pressed on me with suffocating heaviness: 1) My detected speed was the kind that carries extra charges. 2) I’d been a terrible example for the precious girls sitting with me in silence. Disadvantages and excuses were of no use to me now, so I did the only thing I could think to do, the one thing that could calm my breath and alleviate my shame – I prayed out loud. I asked God for forgiveness, thanked Him for being there with us, for loving me in spite of my faults, and for keeping us safe on the road. And yes, I asked Him for the mercy of the lesser ticket. Because I was definitely getting a ticket – there was no fixing that. I was guilty. The end.

The officer returned with papers in hand, and peering through the window, floated words into my noiseless car I could barely comprehend. “Ma’am, I’ve written you a warning.” Sure, I had prayed for mercy, but I hadn’t expected the gift of overwhelming grace. I hadn’t earned it, I didn’t deserve it, and yet it had been given freely, no strings attached. I promise I was more flabbergasted pulling from the side of the road than I was when pulled over.

Grace changes things.

Four girls recounted the story several times over the next few days, each one adding the details they remembered, painting the scene in the style and emotion unique to the individual. Four descriptions of the same story, each one bearing the touch of personal experience, each one ending with the same undeserved kindness – just like the Gospels. Except grace isn’t the ending to the Gospel stories, grace IS the Good News story. Grace is the message of the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus, the Savior in whom the undeserving encounter compassion and the guilty are healed by forgiveness.

Guilt ends the story; grace writes a new beginning. Mistakes suffocate; grace revives. Teaching moments miss the mark; grace inspires a new lesson. It’s unexpected. Grace always is.

But grace is an incomplete story when we don’t allow it to change us. Imagine if the officer’s warning changed my consequence, but it didn’t change me and I continued in my speeding, inattentive ways. Imagine if I willingly accepted his kindness that morning and spent the rest of the day withholding kindness from everyone I met. Would my story of grace affect you? Would it make any impression at all?

When Jesus died for the guilty – you, me, everyone – His gift of salvation changed things by erasing our guilt and offering us a different eternal outcome, but His gift of grace was intended to change us every moment in between. Accepting God’s grace makes our lives the Good News story, a sweet message of grace for everyone around us, a message we can’t take credit for, but we should be eager to share.

Receiving the undeserved grace of Jesus Christ means gladly extending grace. Experiencing His incomprehensible kindness means responding with kindness and gratitude. Accepting His astounding forgiveness means generously forgiving. Imagine if Christ followers lived this way in a world so starved for grace and desperate for Good News. It might just be completely and wonderfully unexpected.

 

Read more about grace in my guest post for ProGrace!

It was a last minute invite to a housewarming party, a night to enjoy the warm breeze and mingle with people we’d never met. We said we’d come and I whipped up a batch of peanut butter fudge. As expected, we knew no one, which didn’t bother us in the least. We made chit chat and toured the brand new house – beautiful and fresh as a newborn baby. The layout, the countertops, and every light fixture were the latest and greatest. The baseboards had never known dust, other than the dust of contractors. Walls and floors were smudge-free. The white tile backsplash was completely clean, not because it had been vigorously scrubbed, but because it had never before seen grease or spaghetti sauce. For every woman in attendance, seeing an immaculate house in real life felt much like spotting a unicorn. We were bewildered, overwhelmed, and impressed.

I’m a bit like a unicorn myself, I suppose. I’m a female who can’t relate with the typical lady tribe who scroll pinterest, speak the home improvement language of HGTV, and tour model homes on weekends just for fun. It’s not that these things couldn’t possibly be fun, it’s just that they’re not fun for me, mostly because there’s nothing thrilling about looking at perfectly situated things and imagining a perfect life. I already have a life, an imperfect one, but it’s mine and I own it, 100%. My house gets lived in, it accumulates dust and windows get streaked, but you know what? Spotless houses don’t have a lifespan longer than 24 hours, unless no one lives there. I know this because I aim for spotless every Saturday, and by Monday, that ship has sailed. My home is full of people I love, we have everything we need and then some, and I’m satisfied. And I like it that way.

The things you put in front of your eyeballs on the daily are the things you’ll eventually envy. That’s my spin on a line from a movie I can’t condone watching, but the statement was so profoundly true and Biblically accurate, I’ve remembered it all these years. Satisfaction isn’t a natural mindset, it has to be nurtured. I want to want my life, and in order to continue wanting an imperfect life with things that break, get old, sag, and look less than pinteresty, I have to keep some things out of my face. If I want to stay satisfied with my stuff, my relationships, my physical composition, or my life in general, I can’t be perpetually staring at what else is out there. I need a better focus.

When Paul wrote his God-inspired thoughts on joy in a letter to his friends, he wasn’t writing it from a sunlit room in his comfortable home, tucked in the safety of the desert suburbs. (Ouch.) Paul wrote his sincere ode to joy from prison. Paul had justifiable reason to seethe in disgust – he had lived in affluence until he started preaching Jesus. But he suffered the loss, and instead spoke encouragement without one word of cleverly disguised bitterness or deep-seated jealousy, even though his friends were comfortably enjoying freedom. How is it that Paul could remain content with prison walls right in front of his eyeballs on the daily? How did he exude genuine joy without one shred of envy for a better life?

Paul knew what was true: nothing in this world is built to last. All of it can and will be lost – status, stuff, situations – making all of it worthless. Garbage. It’s all going to burn. So Paul looked beyond his prison, beyond this life, and this world. He focused every thought on the truth, on things worth considering, things that matter, beautiful things, Jesus things. His faith wasn’t shaken. Knowing Jesus was infinitely more valuable than anything else. He knew his source of genuine joy and it continued to bubble from a place that circumstance couldn’t touch. He was free. The chains that held him didn’t hold his mind and didn’t hold him down – he was good.

Faith isn’t about having a perfect life, and joy isn’t about thanking God for the imperfect, but joyful faith is about keeping a perfectly confident focus. Because no matter what we see in front of us, Jesus is there, we belong to Him, He loves us, and no one can take Him from us. We can be certain of that, and that’s something to be glad about. The faith we’re building is going to last. That’s pure joy.

Our part in building unshakable faith is finding the joy in everything. God’s part in perfecting our unshakable faith is guarding our minds with His peace. Equal parts joy and peace. That’s the secret to satisfaction, my friends.

 

Last week my dear Grandpa, a man who had always been so full of life, let out his final breath with peace and dignity. It was probably the quietest day he had ever lived. My Grandpa was an enthusiast, and being such, he sang loudly, made audible sounds of approval during meals and throughout his morning coffee, laughed with body-shaking exuberance, and talked as often and to as many people as possible. He even slept loudly, snoring from the bedroom he and Grandma shared downstairs, a clamor that floated easily on the summer air, up the stairs, and onto the ears of my sisters and me. His big personality was easy to spot in a crowd and his presence was always known without his trying. I don’t doubt that when his presence left the hospital room last week, his absence was immediately felt by my extended family waiting beside him, lovingly encouraging him to go home.

My Grandpa had always been on the other side of encouragement. He had 7 granddaughters and never let on that a grandson would have made the family complete – an encouragement in itself. Grandpa could give a pep talk like no other. It was always a long pep talk because Grandpa could talk the leg off a horse, but you’d walk on air afterward, not so much convinced you were the world’s most special snowflake, but confident you could acquire the strength and knowledge necessary to one day become what you hoped. As far as Grandpa was concerned, his granddaughters were going to change the world for the better. He believed we could, and he encouraged us to be individually awesome.

Grandpa had built his family’s house and instinctively knew how to fix anything. I’d bring him my broken, damaged somethings and he’d say, “Grandpa fix.” And he would. His basement workshop had every tool imaginable, all of them organized and stored with care, oiled, cords carefully wrapped, and ready for the next project. I was not allowed in the workshop – it was not a place for a child – and I only remember looking inside from the doorway, eyes carefully surveying the secret room of mystery and metal. I knew my wooden sandbox and tiny dollhouse furniture had been crafted in that workshop.

Toys, playing, and the easy enjoyment of youth was important to Grandma and Grandpa, and their house had plenty to do. Depending on the season, the backyard had a plastic kiddie pool to splash in, a stomach-dropping hill for sledding, or plenty of room for chasing lightning bugs. If the Ohio weather wasn’t conducive to outdoor play, which it often wasn’t, there was a piano in the living room (but no pounding the keys), a collection of old records, and a drawer of antique games. There were dusty stacks of National Geographics – saved with the intention of sparking wanderlust in each granddaughter – and shelves of classics, biographies, Golden Books, and comic books. Grandpa and Grandma’s house was unrushed and easy like a library or a museum: Content today; inspired for tomorrow.

I wonder if Grandpa’s satisfaction with today steadied him all those years when Grandma’s hands, crumpled with arthritis and rendered quite useless, required Grandpa to be Grandma’s hands. Little Grandma, a quiet, mild-mannered sweetheart and retired elementary school teacher, a loving wife who had taken care of Grandpa for many decades, needed his help for the simplest of things. He never complained. Even without Grandma, Grandpa remained upbeat and life was good. For real good. “Well, I can’t complain,” he would often say, followed by, “But what I want to know is, how are you?” That was Grandpa. He wanted to hear all about you, about something you’d learned or something you read, about a skill you’d honed, or a place you’d been, or the exquisite dinner you had last night. And of course, he wanted to hear about his great-grandkids. He wanted to know anything and everything, if at all possible. Grandpa loved learning almost as much as he loved people.

But the image I’ve recalled most over the years is the memory of Grandpa and Grandma at the kitchen table after breakfast, Bibles open, united in prayer. Those prayers were loooonnng. My sister and I would respectfully stay hushed and out of the kitchen for that sacred hour, wondering if Grandpa and Grandma were going to pray the entire day away. We couldn’t understand how prayer could take so long. As children, we didn’t understand the immeasurable value of those prayers, that those specific prayers for each of us were love in action. We understood love in physical action – our grandparents had that down – but what we would come to understand as we grew older was that those wonderfully selfless prayers, with eyes closed and nothing moving but mouths, were a beautiful picture of the heart in action. Every morning the words of Scripture were being written deep on the hearts of my grandparents, so that encouragement and patience, satisfaction and gratitude, joy and love were genuine and pumping through every vein. Daily prayers for their children and grandchildren were a discipline not for the sake of discipline, but for the sake of love. They were building a legacy; something that would last. For each of us.

My grandparents loved us in the right now moments, they hoped for our futures, and they prayed passionately for our faith – a distinct family trait of faith for generations, a faith so strong it would join us all in forever. My grandparents understood what we all know, but don’t dare think much about: Grandparents aren’t with us long enough.

The legacy and lives of every one of my grandparents continue to encourage me and remind me that for all our efforts here, all that will remain is faith, hope, and love. Life is a treasure, people are a treasure, and our best investment is prayer. Let’s continue the legacy together.

 

 

Just before Christmas break, my daughter asked me the difference between desire and determination. It was a good question, a question she probably wouldn’t have thought to ask had it not been for her English teacher assigning a paper on the contrasting elements of desire and determination. It was the kind of good question that requires a good answer. I gave an example she would understand and defined the difference as this: desire is want and determination is the work behind the want.

The next morning, when the printer – with its incessant error codes and empty ink cartridges – refused to print her paper, we found ourselves wanting a final draft. We wanted it badly enough to work for it. We gave up on attempting printer repair, drove to Staples, paid a printing fee, and quickly scurried to the school. Desire and determination had joined in holy union, a mind-body connection of wanting something and doing something, resulting in results. Our goal was met.

This whole desire/determination thing was solid stuff, so useful in fact, I decided to write about it. What better way to encourage endurance in keeping New Year’s resolutions than to offer useful knowledge about the merits of staying determined?! Forget desire. Who needs it? Just set goals, store knowledge, stay determined, do the work, get results. Easy.

But it was horse crap. Most of it anyway. My observations read like the scientific method – informative and about as inspiring as the instruction manual for my printer. As if we can troubleshoot our way to the good life. As if knowing what to do and doing it are the keys to living well. Let me tell you, when my brain is overloaded with input, and my body is overworked and my ink cartridges are empty, any memory of previous desires is quickly erased by error codes. I have to get to the heart of the problem. Which is exactly what my goal meeting guide was missing – some heart.

God created me with a heart and I’m not a whole person without it. When it’s properly cared for by my Creator, in healthy harmony with every part of me, it’s my driving force – my motivator – not for function, for more. God designed me with purpose and for purpose: to love Him with all my heart, mind, and strength. Desire God, know Him, and obey Him. 

How do we live with big purpose and fewer malfunctions? Well, my friends, we can’t settle for a quick troubleshoot. Those cutesy woodblocks at Target, with their copious glitter and scrolly words of positivity, reminding you to “Never stop dreaming!” or “Just keep swimming” or “Coffee, cats, rainbows, smile” might encourage you to take a deep breath, but fluffy words aren’t worth a darn when it’s time to roll up the sleeves and push the pile. Loving God with every part of our being requires dedication more than determination.

So make these your goals: Let God care for your heart and guide your desires. Pray His prayers instead of your own. Read His wisdom rather than random advice. Rely on His promises and His strength in your weakness. Speak the truth and find a friend willing to do the same.

And desire Him above all else – that’s purpose defined.