Good Waiting and Hard Waiting

Posted simultaneously at Soulation's Sturdy Answers.

Last night I wheeled a cart through Michael’s and perused the festive aisles looking for craft supplies to deck my apartment with Christmas cheer. I stopped in the floral section, wondering whether I could turn a few wintery branches into an Advent tree.

When I was a little girl, I’d bound out of bed every morning in December, delighted to put another ornament on the Advent tree. As its branches grew fuller, my wait grew shorter. Christmas morning, with its stuffed stockings, piles of presents, and sticky cinnamon rolls, was just a string of frosty mornings away.

Waiting is exciting when you can measure progress, and the reward you’re waiting for is within reach. Otherwise, waiting can feel downright unbearable.

When I turned 19, I started waiting for my adult life to start. College, I knew, was a sheltered training ground. When it was over, I had grand plans to use my post-college 20s to outpace the inexorable whirring of the clock’s hands. I’d work hard, like I always had. I’d shoot for the moon, like I’m prone to do. And by the time I was 30, I’d own my own home, be established in a lifelong career, and be married, or close to it. But life wasn’t keen on cooperating with my ambitions, and I’ve spent the greater part of my 20s in bed, sick, and then fighting relapse after relapse. I’ve weathered a broken engagement, and have dated a lot with little success.

Life has begun to feel like one long season of waiting.

For a while after I first got sick, I waited for my life to get easier. But the losses of the last few years have taught me that nothing’s guaranteed. It’s not a guarantee that I’ll return to complete health or find a life partner. I oughtn’t sit around wishing and waiting for things to change, because God never promised my life would look the way I want it to.

I am learning, though, to wait for God to keep the promises he has made. He’s promised he’s making all things new. He’s promised he’ll work all things together for good for those who love him. He’s promised heaven as a reward for those who live for him.

Most days, though, it feels like God’s doing his mysterious redemptive work behind a curtain, and I don't have a backstage pass.

I wonder if this is a taste of what Joseph felt when he was thrown, bloodied and betrayed, into a pit by his brothers, then maligned by his best friend’s wife, then thrown into jail, where the years slipped quietly by.

I wonder if it’s how Abraham felt when, 25 years after God’s promise of a son, his very old wife still wasn’t pregnant.

I wonder it it’s how David felt when, 15 years after he was anointed as the future king of Israel, he still spent his days tending a bunch of stinky, bleating sheep, then running for his life from King Saul.

Reading the Old Testament makes me wonder whether waiting is one of the greatest Christian virtues.

The person who waits patiently for God’s promises — who hopes in the things they can’t see — is the kind of person who ends up in a biblical hall of fame, like the Hall of Faith in Hebrews 11.

These famous, faithful men and women never received the things God promised the Israelites. Instead, they greeted them from afar, and then turned their hearts toward their heavenly home. The hope of heaven can sustain us when the reward we are waiting for seems elusive. Not just because there will be mansions, crowns, and streets of gold in heaven. And not just because in heaven there will be no more pain or loss. In heaven, we get Jesus — all of him in all his glory. We will know him fully, even as we are fully known. And as the apostle Paul reminds us,

“All of God’s promises have been fulfilled in Christ with a resounding ‘Yes!’ And through Christ, our ‘Amen’ (which means 'Yes') ascends to God for his glory.”

This month my family will gather to continue the Advent tradition I loved as a little girl, as we count the days to Christmas.

The word “advent” is from the Latin word meaning “coming.” For 400 years after the last Old Testament prophet foretold the coming Messiah, God’s people waited for the Messiah to appear. And now, two thousand years later, we continue to wait because he’s told us he’ll come again. We wait because we know he keeps his promises. We saw his greatest promise fulfilled in the baby in the manger, the man on the cross, and the empty tomb.

And so, this Advent, when our lives may not look the way we hoped, we wait for the day when we will be united, once and for all, with the One in whom all God’s promises are fulfilled.

 ____________________

Image credit: catholicstyle.typepad.com; www.99centbibleskits.com

© by scj

Waiting for Aslan to Move

Posted simultaneously at Sturdy Answers.

Winding our way through Dale and Jonalyn's "White Woods"

A few autumns ago, the Gold Gathering group and I were hiking through the splendor of the Colorado Mountains when, on Jonalyn's cue, we stopped walking, ceased our talking and listened. I hardly dared to breath, straining to hear what she heard. A few seconds passed and then I discerned the far-off, almost imperceptible burbling of a brook. It was the last of winter's melted snow winding its way down the mountain. As we stood and wondered at the tinkling music of melted ice, I thought of C.S. Lewis’ The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, in which it is always winter but never Christmas.

In The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, the wicked White Witch has cast a wintery enchantment across the land of Narnia. For centuries snow suffocates the once-living land, and fierce, freezing winds send living creatures scurrying into hiding. Fauns, beavers, wood nymphs and dwarves ache to escape the icy jowls of winter, or to at least have freedom to celebrate Christmas. Oh, to have a reason to celebrate the towering snow-covered pines and knolls frosted with fresh powder!

And then, one glorious day, the fierce whip of icy wind and silence of falling snow are replaced with the sound of far-off liquid laughter. Icicles begin to shrink and wink in the sun's warm light. Droplets cascade down snow-burdened boughs like tears of thanksgiving.

The White Witch sees the changes to the world she’s kept a wintery prison and shudders. But good Mr. Beaver lifts his head, and joyfully announces to his friends,  “Aslan is on the move.”

Aslan, the great Lion, is the rightful king of Narnia. For centuries Narnia’s inhabits have waited for him to come and banish winter. And now, he’s prowling the land, melting ice and snow so the land can live again, and freeing Narnia’s inhabitants from the Witch’s rule.

The highest of High Kings may be called Aslan in Narnia, but here we call him Immanuel, God with us. We called him that 2,000 years ago when he came to live among us, die for us, and rise again to show us that winter's death will not have the last word. Two thousand years later we continue to call him Immanuel. The Lion of the Tribe of Judah is not sitting somewhere far off watching his followers sweat, heave, and weep as we struggle to love him and live well. He is in us, among us, fighting for us. He is on the move.

Over the years I have come to know well the cold darkness of winter. And so I have begun to learn to listen close for far-off gurgles of melting snow — for sounds of life in a wintery world. My listening begins with asking Immanuel to show me what He is currently doing, unseen, for his glory and my good. He always shows me.

He shifts my attention from the darkness of winter to the tart zing of fresh cherries and the warmth of the sunlight falling through the window. He shows me that the recently reduced medical bill and the discount at the doctor are signs he’s on the move, working for my good. He reminds me that the Facebook message from a long-lost friend, the cookies fresh from a neighbor’s oven, and the belly laugh I had with the grocery clerk are signs of unexpected life sprouting.

But even as I learn to listen for sounds of spring, there are days when it seems like spring cannot be found. There are weeks when all I can see is icy gray. There are seasons when all I can hear is my heart creaking from the weight of the snow. During these seasons I am learning to hope, for my heart’s loud groaning is not a sign of its imminent wintery death. Groaning is the sound of ice that thaws: my heart's gradual softening, in spite of suffering, yet another sign of Aslan on the move.

 ____________________

Image credits: www.snowbombing.com; farm3.staticflickr.com

© by scj

My hungers keep me fed

Posted simultaneously at Sturdy Answers.

Last month my landlord told me I needed to move so she could have my apartment available for family. The news was overwhelming.

I am worried because this is the hardest time of the semester to find housing in my college town; but more significantly, I’m thinking about how I've spent the last 2 ½ years fighting to heal from chronic invisible illness. My apartment has been a quiet cocoon keeping me warm and safe from the heartbreaking world in this time; and deep down I’m afraid that moving from my peaceful place of healing will catapult me back into the worst of the illness from which I’m still recovering.

My landlord's eviction reinforces my sense of being so utterly, wildly out of control of my life; and I've found myself spinning into a storm of health-threatening “what ifs.”

What if my new place has mold? What if the walls have lead paint? What if my new landlord is untrustworthy?

After a few weeks of pushing through anxiety over potential “what ifs,” I decide to watch the sunset from my new backyard nestled high in the hills over Los Angeles.

A barren tree to my left stretches its spindly fingers wide, reaching for more of the fading sky. A squirrel chases away a nut-stealing nemesis. As the hungry horizon begins to swallow the sun, I’m aware of dozens of unsatisfied hungers — for home, health, marriage, and vocational opportunity — rumbling in my chest. Suddenly I realize that the fear of losing control is rooted in a fear of living with hungers that remain unsatisfied.

There are days when my heart’s hungers shoot through me with painful force. Desperate to make the pain stop, I grasp for control. If I can’t dam the flow of desires, then I’ll do what I can to satisfy them. But when control, or the illusion of it, is wrested from my clenched fists, I’m left to endure and make sense of the gnawing ache.

But my new apartment is no place to consider the role of unsatisfied desire. It’s still cluttered with piles of belongings that don’t have a place, and makes me hunger for rest and order. I’ve got to get out, to go find something that brings me peace. That’s when I walk toward the front door, determined to catch the sunset.

My stomach rumbles, so I stop in the kitchen. There’s a steaming pot of bean and sausage soup on the stovetop. I ladle up a bowl and head to the backyard.

Slowly, I savor my soup while drinking in the evening view. The soup is rich and comforting. It revitalizes my tired body and renews my verve. And it was my hunger that drove me toward this life-giving soup.

I watch the sinking autumn sun finger-paint the sky with amber light. After awhile it feels like her fiery fingers are reaching inside of me, stirring up gratitude and hope. And I realize it was my hunger for peace that drove me toward this life-giving sunset.

My phone buzzes. An out-of-town friend has texted me about a phone-date we’ll have later in the evening. I skim through other texts. There are dozens from friends who wanted to touch base with me this week.

When I moved to this town three years ago I didn’t know a soul, and was hungry for community and belonging. This hunger drove me to meet new people and experience new things. They have given me fresh, uncontained, unexpected life.

I remember with dawning understanding something a colleague recently said: “Life uses hunger to ensure more life.” Our hungers drive us toward goodness, truth, and beauty we’d otherwise not seek.

My bowl is empty now, and the sun is almost out of sight. In the distance I can see downtown Los Angeles, its skyscrapers a gray silhouette against the honeyed horizon.

It looks like Oz, beckoning me to come with my “If only’s” to have my deepest desires granted.

I remember the scarecrow’s refrain, “If only I had a brain,” the Cowardly Lion’s hope for courage, the tin man’s desire for a heart, and Dorothy’s longing for home.

Those hungers impelled them on a journey that helped them discover their truest selves and experience belonging. Had they not experienced deep hunger, their lives would have had no movement. Their growth would have been stagnant.

In the Christian classic The Pilgrim’s Progress, Paul Bunyan writes about the Christian journey:

This hill, though high, I covet to ascend;
The difficulty will not me offend;
For I perceive the way to life lies here.

The same hungers that lead me toward friends and satisfying work ultimately lead me toward the Bread of Life. They daily push me out of the disorienting thickets of distraction back onto the winding way of Jesus. Without fierce, unsatisfied hungers, I’d hardly dare to ascend the high, difficult hill that leads to the life-giving cross of Christ.

The sun has sunk into the sea now and the crickets have cued their evening song, so I head inside. My hungers, for peace and sustenance, have been satisfied, for now. Tomorrow they will growl again, joined by a chorus of others. With each aching rumble, I hope I can surrender to the goodness of hungers that daily teach me to live.

© by scj

Embodying Beauty

This article is the second of a 2-part series on beauty, originally posted at Sturdy Answers (check out part 1 here).

I have often struggled with feeling like my body is my enemy.

My college track career was riddled with inconvenient injuries that interfered with my athletic ambitions. My post-college body rarely looked as lean and sleek as I wanted it to. And, as I wrote last month, I spent much of early adulthood lamenting the ugliness in my soul as much as, if not more than, I lamented the inadequacy of my body. Then, after years of trying to make my body and soul beautiful, I got sick, and was bedridden for the better part of two years. It was during those years of suffering that the Holy Sprit changed the way I understood beauty.

When I was sickest, I’d spend every day in the Gospels, reading and re-reading the stories of Jesus healing the lame and the sick.

I loved Mark’s story of the paralytic who is lowered through the roof of the house where Jesus is teaching.

“Your sins are forgiven,” Jesus tells him when he sees him.

The teachers of the law are appalled. Who is Jesus to forgive what only God can forgive?

And Jesus, knowing what they are thinking, says, “’Which is easier: to say to this paralyzed man, ‘Your sins are forgiven,’ or to say, ‘Get up, take your mat and walk’? But I want you to know that the Son of Man has authority on earth to forgive sins.’ So he said to the man, ‘I tell you, get up, take your mat and go home.’”

And the man gets up, picks up his mat, and walks.

Jesus proves the sufficiency of his power to make the man’s soul beautiful by demonstrating his power to restore the man’s body.

If God’s grace is sufficient for our bodies, then his grace is sufficient for our souls.

Grace is what makes us beautiful; and, as I discovered in Matthew 18, humility, or a right understanding of who we are in relation to God, is what opens us to grace.

Last month I shared my realization that we cannot make ourselves humble — only God can clothe us in humility. So how do we open ourselves to the power of the Spirit of God, who can make us humble and grow us in grace and beauty? How do we let him teach us to see ourselves the way he does?

Throughout my illness, I discovered several practices, in addition to reading and meditating on God’s Word, which have helped me to grow in humility, grace, and ultimately beauty. Today I’ll share seven of them with you.

1. Pray honestly; Invite the Holy Spirit’s power into your weakness.

When I was sickest, I’d often lie in bed weeping and talking to Jesus. In the early stages of my illness I’d ask Jesus to come and be with me. But with time, my prayers became more raw and honest.

I’d tell him I hated lying in bed. I’d tell him that, on top of feeling angry and depressed about my illness, I was insecure about my flabby triceps and pants that were too tight. I’d tell him I was anxious about the way I’d recently hurt my loved one’s feelings. I’d tell him I felt utterly unlovable.

And then I’d ask him: “Please come into this place with me, Jesus, and give me humility so that I embrace your Truth, rather than my feelings of inadequacy and failure. Help me to walk in obedience to you, in your power.”

Sometimes, though, I didn’t care to have the Spirit of God change me, so I’d pray, “I feel resistant to the work of your Spirit because I feel angry. Come into this, Jesus, and change me.”

This daily practice of praying honestly can help us open and reorient our hearts. Instead of fixating on our inadequacy and trying to make ourselves beautiful in our own power, we turn again and again to the power of God.

This turns into praying without ceasing.

And prayer makes us humble because it reminds us of our utter dependence on God to do for us what we cannot for ourselves.

2. Read fairy tales.

3. Notice the God-given beauty in your inner person.

My sister has an extraordinary ability to express herself with wildly creative and poetic imagery. One of my friends can add up a list of long figures in his head, and another can walk into a room and envision how it could be decorated.

When my friends’ minds conjure up creativity and quick calculating, I hope they notice the ways God wired their minds so beautifully.

What are you naturally good at? Can you nurse people in a way that makes them feel cared for? Can you build new things and fix old things?

Begin to observe yourself, asking God to help you notice the goodness and beauty he has put in your soul. You will begin to see yourself the way God does.

4. Notice the God-given beauty in your body.

When you’re tempted to think of the things you could be, should be, aren’t, and don’t have, notice how your body opens you up to pleasure and grace.

One afternoon, when I still was quite sick, I managed to crawl out of bed long enough to pick an orange from our tree. As I walked, I noticed how my feet carried me across the grass, and my skin soaked up the sun’s warmth. I noticed how my nimble fingers peeled the orange’s fleshy skin, and my nose inhaled the sharp smell of citrus. I noticed how my tongue tasted the burst of sweet orange juice in my mouth, and my chin felt the cool dribble of runaway juice.

The joy in this woman’s soul has etched beauty across her face

Our bodies, even when they are weak and disfigured, enable us to experience the world’s goodness and beauty. If only we would notice.

Miraculously, our bodies can also act as a canvas displaying the beauty God is growing in our souls. Do your eyes reveal joy? Do your dimples convey mirth? Are you inclined to use your vocal cords to express praise to our Creator? Notice how your body reflects your soul’s beauty.

5. Practice gratitude.

Ingratitude fosters pride. We see this in the Garden of Eden: “I could have a better life than the one I live,” thought ungrateful Eve.

And within minutes she was acting as if she knew better than God — in prideful rebellion.

Gratitude is an antidote to pride and the poison of idolatry — of valuing culture’s definition of beauty over God’s.

Practicing gratitude for the goodness in our bodies and souls reminds us we are indebted to God. It reminds us of our utter dependence on him for all good things. It helps us to have a right understanding of who we are in relation to God.

Gratitude fosters humility; humility opens us to grace; and grace makes us beautiful.

6. Surrender to suffering.

If you let him, God will use it to make you beautiful.

7.  Celebrate the people in your life.

When I was in fifth grade a friend looked me in the eyes while we chatted in the church bathroom. “You are ugly,” she said. Her words pierced deep, and sent the poison of self-doubt and self-deprecation coursing through me.

In subsequent years other people occasionally echoed my fifth grade friend. These friends acted as distorted mirrors, like the mirrors in carnival funhouses. They convinced me I was strange and unlovely. I became ashamed of my imperfections and idiosyncrasies, and as I entered adulthood, my self-talk about my body and soul began to mimic the talk of these unkind people.

But there have been other people who have held up mirrors — mirrors that reflect back to me the ways my body and soul uniquely reflect our Creator. These friends have identified my God-given beauty, and have celebrated the gracious work of God in me.

I want to be a mirror like this for the people in my life. I want to help them see themselves the way I see them. I want to help them believe the things God tells them about the beauty in their body and soul.

And so I search for their beauty, and I try to tell them what I see. And with every celebratory word, I feel Grace cultivating the soil of humility in my heart, so that beauty can grow there.

Image credit: bibleseo.com, travel.nationalgeographic.com, images.ih3.redbubble.net

© by scj

A world that works like magic

Posted simultaneously at Sturdy Answers.

Every once in awhile I get a little too caught up in the books I read.

About 50 pages into a good book, I become the main characters. My adrenaline pumps when they're in danger. I cry when they experience growth or grace. I find myself praying for them when they're in dire need of divine intervention. But these tendencies are not the problem.

The problem is that sometimes I finish a book series, go about my day, and have moments when I  forget I'm not the main character in the book anymore.

Case in point: Not too long ago I finished re-reading the Harry Potter series. For ten glorious days I was immersed in the world of Hogwarts. I went to sleep under an enchanted starry ceiling, and woke up to House Elves bustling about to prepare my breakfast. I used my magic wand to fetch distant objects and make nearby objects invisible. I was Harry Potter fighting dementors one day, and Hermione Granger outsmarting Death Eaters the next. I was swept up in something bigger than myself. No big deal.

But then, I finished the series and had to return to work. It was a particularly wet and gloomy day, and in the middle of teaching college freshmen I got a hankering for a steaming cup of tea. But the coffee cart was miles away, and class wouldn't be over for another hour. So what did I do? I reached for the magic wand I had stashed in my robe. Naturally, I planned to summon a cup of tea. And then I remembered that I wasn't Harry Potter. Or Hermione Granger. Or Ron Weasely.

My disappointment got me thinking. Wouldn't it have been lovely if God had made a world full of magic, like Narnia, or Hogwarts, or the Shire?!

Then, several days later, while on a walk, I saw this:

A magic wand. Long and slender, sturdy at the base and narrow at the tip, surrounded by dozens of other magic wands.

And magic of all magic, something was shooting out of its tip. Something unexpected. Something so different from the wand's soft, sappy core, you'd have to see it to believe it:

Leaves. Waxy, vibrant, and green.

And blossoms. Fragrant and delicate, in shades of pink, white, and yellow.

What makes this magic?

I'll tell you, but you won't believe me.

It's light. And water. And air. They are stirred together in the great blue sky cauldron, and they make wooden wands shoot out magic:

Berries.

Pods.

Prickle balls.

And cotton ball clusters.

All wooden wands, all imbibing the same sky-cauldron's potion, each wand's magic just a little different.

J.K. Rowling and C.S. Lewis couldn't have dreamt up this kind of magic. A stick absorbs sun, air, and water, making leaves sprout, followed by buds. The buds unfold into blossoms and the blossoms turn into fruit. Juicy, tart fruit with seeds. Smooth, fleshy fruit with pits. Vitamin-packed fruit in shades of brilliant orange, green, yellow, red, blue, purple — all the colors of the sun's magical light.

How can it be that the fruit from these magic wands powers our dusty bodies to produce millions of cells daily, and keeps blood pumping through our 60,000 miles of blood vessels?!

Magic for us to see. Magic for us to smell. Magic for us to touch. Magic for us to taste.

Magic to teach us at winter's end that death does not have the last word. For light, air and water are mixed together and make a barren tree sprout life.

These magic wands make it easy for me to believe in the magic the ancients taught. An apple is eaten and life with God is lost. A stick hits a rock and water gushes out. Trumpets are blown and city walls tumble. A leper bathes in the river and he is healed. God's son dies on a cross, and takes our sin upon himself. Three days pass, and he teaches us that death will not have the last word.

Magic.

Life-giving, fruit-growing magic.



Revised and reposted from the archives.

© by scj

Love lost and found

We step into my studio after our date, and I hurry to my closet to get a sweater. He walks over with me and peers into the dark, cluttered space.

“What’s in that box?” He points to a white moving box on the top shelf next to a basket of blankets. I blush, and my heart thumps nervously.

“Oh, it’s nothing. Just stuff from when I planned my wedding.” I say it casually — carelessly — but he knows. “It’s not nothing,” he says, his voice full of understanding. “That box is full of significant things.”

We’re silent for a bit. I’m remembering how I would often take the box down in the months following my broken engagement. I would slowly unpack it, looking through receipts, lists, and a few wedding gifts that were somehow never returned. I would hold each item and remember how I had said yes to the man who had asked for my love, and how God had said, “No.” No, to a husband; no, to a family; no, to a home of my own.

And in the following years he had said no to good health — to traveling, working full time, and continuing my seminary education. I often didn’t have the heart to ask for anything specific from God.

I sigh deeply and look over at my date. He smiles.

After he leaves, I ask God to direct our relationship. And then, timidly, I ask him to give me a husband one day.

For months my prayers are courageous and risky.

And then, one night, I’m driving home alone, and I’m single again. My date and I have broken up. I’m relieved because God has answered my prayers for direction, but my shoulders are sagging. God has said no, again, to my boldest, most vulnerable prayer for a husband and family of my own.

The next day I’m reading the Sermon on the Mount, and I’m struck by Jesus’ words:

“Which of you,” he asks, “will give your son a stone when he asks for bread? Or will give him a snake when he asks for fish? “If you, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, then how much more will your heavenly Father give good things to those who ask?!”

I lean back in my chair, and I think about the ways God has shown us he keeps his word.

I think of the rains that flooded the earth, just like God said they would. I think of the baby that kicked in Sarah’s womb, just like God said it would.

I think of the water that gushed from a rock, the walls that crumbled from the blast of trumpets, the ravens that fed Elijah in the wilderness, and the Messiah who came to save the world.

It’s true: God is a promise-keeper. And in his Sermon on the Mount, he promises to give his children good gifts — the best gifts. And I’m his child, and here I am nearing thirty and still single, and could it be that this alone-ness is … one of the best gifts?

But a husband, a family, a home — didn’t God create me to want these things? Would it be so bad for him to satisfy the wanting?

Now my mind is racing to the rhythm of David Crowder Band’s How He Loves. That one line is still in my head after a week of trying to sing something else:

“He is jealous for me.”

The Old Testament affirms it: Yahweh has established a permanent, exclusive covenant with his people, and compared it to a marriage. He is the husband to his people; we are his bride.

He’s not insecure, or abusive, or envious for something that doesn’t belong to him. He wants relational faithfulness. He’s jealous for our love, the way a lover is jealous for his wife’s undivided affection.

He wants our whole hearts because he’s ultimately jealous for his glory. And the God of Israel is most glorified when his people are most fully alive — when we experience truest intimacy, pleasure, belonging and wholeness, because this is what he intended for us. He knows we can only experience these things in him. So the best gift he gives us is Himself. But he cannot give Himself to us if our hearts are not alive to him, for a Lover never forces himself on his beloved.

And I think I know that marriage and a family would be the best possible way he could teach me to love him with my whole heart, so that I can have more of his heart.

But the God of Israel is a God who sees. He sees every thought we think, and step we take. And he knows what will prompt our hearts to push further up and further in to his heart. He knows when marriage, children, health, and financial stability will push us toward him. He knows when singleness, barrenness, illness, and poverty will push us closer still. He knows that, often, it’s our wanting that leads our wandering hearts back to him.

And this knowing pulls me back. 

I close my bible, let my lips pick up the words of How He Loves, and then it hits me that my wedding box, and my recent break-up, and the loneliness that visits when the table is set for one are all proof of God’s jealous guardianship of me. And in my secret heart, I find myself smiling — a child quietly delighting in good gifts from her father.

© by scj