This week we are at the beach, a place where I breathe a little deeper and grab a few minutes of quiet between bike rides and ice cream runs. And here I finally feel just enough wind in my sails to open the iPad and cautiously, wearily write words again. 

Last June we went dream-chasing and it didn’t go quite as planned. In summary, we moved from Tennessee to Alabama and back to Tennessee in the span of 12 months. After many years of being home with our kids, I re-entered the workforce and started a full-time marketing job in March. Kendrick has worked three hours away from us for the past 7 months, and we miss him during the week. Candidly, I miss his help with the girls—as a dad, a driver, and a diffuser of our drama—the most. We are still reeling from all the shuffling and trying to figure out the details of our next steps.  

I strive to be honest in this space, even when it’s embarrassing to do so. And so I should admit that when life is frustrating or difficult or demands any sort of patience or stamina from me, I tend toward bitterness and envy and discouragement, if not hopelessness. 

I crave comfort and ease. I like plans and productivity. And this past year has been lacking in those categories. It has felt more like a backwards or downward slide than a journey forward and upward. We prayerfully and carefully tried something new and it didn’t work out. It feels like defeat, and I’m not quite sure what to do with that or how to write about it. 

Earlier this week I read a powerful line from Scott Sauls’ new book, Beautiful People Don’t Just Happen: 

“Sometimes the deepest, truest faith feels more like defeat than it does victory.” 

That resonates loudly with me in this season. And I think it’s true even if it’s an uncomfortable truth. Our society has so conditioned us to equate victory with success and happiness with ease. This is glamorous, but I’m not sure it’s biblical. 

~~~~~~~~~~

A few weeks ago when I was taking a shower, long after I had put my youngest one to sleep, she came into the bathroom and through tears said, “I was just laying in bed thinking about how much I still miss my brown bear that we lost last summer.” 

I had forgotten about that loss since we have a back-up brown bear she has used ever since we misplaced the original in an AirBnB last June. But apparently, she has not forgotten. 

When I consoled her by reminding her that she still has a brown bear, who at first glance appears identical to the other one, she said: “But he doesn’t have that scar where I accidentally set him on a lamp and he got burned.” 

No, he does not. 

Her longing for her original bear reminds me of Margery Williams great lines in The Velveteen Rabbit: 

“You become. It takes a long time… Generally by the time you are real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are real you can’t be ugly. Except to people who don’t understand.” 

Isn’t it interesting that many of our favorite things and maybe even our favorite people  are “real.” They carry a few scars and might even be considered shabby. A velveteen rabbit. A brown bear with a burn. For some reason, I find this to be an especially comforting thought right now. 

We can be ragged and still not be rubbish. We can fail and still not be failures. We can be defeated and still not be despairing.

And so here we are. Back home. Weary and more worn than one short year ago. But also more thankful for family and friends who don’t judge us by our victories or our gains, but who love us for who we are, as we are, wherever we are.

What a gift it is to be real. 

The post Ragged and real appeared first on Suburban Shalom.

Yesterday afternoon I dropped my 7th Grader off at her piano lesson at the local music academy. Less than five minutes later, as I was pulling out onto the busy parkway, my phone rang and I answered to hear her saying in an urgent, hushed tone: 

Her: Momma. There’s an alive lizard here. It’s bright green and super creepy.
Me: Where is the lizard?
Her: In the hallway.
Me: Where are you?
Her: In the practice room.
Me: OK. There’s a door between you. Help me understand why this is an emergency. 
Her: Because I need to go to the bathroom, but there is an ALIVE LIZARD in the hallway!!

I’ll spare you the rest of our transcript, but suffice it to say that she didn’t like my chill response to her predicament. And she didn’t dare attempt to go to the bathroom for fear that the lizard would attack. 

Soon enough her fearless piano teacher, John, arrived and decided they should catch and release the lizard back into the wild. And amidst the commotion, the secretary of the academy came out and shared that she should be relieved it was only a lizard because “one time a snake got into the building.” 

To be sure, if a snake had been in that building yesterday, then February 23, 2022, would have been the day the music died—quite literally—for my middle child. So we’re all thankful for the peaceful resolution to the lizard situation. 

I have a reason for sharing this silly story. Lizards and snakes are one thing. But I think many of us are walking around with some very real, less tangible fears in our heads and hearts these days. And I think it’s important to be transparent about the kind of anxieties we’re carrying because they tend to multiply when we try to ignore them or carry them alone. Here are some of mine… 

Is this pandemic ever going to end? 
What is happening in Ukraine and what does it mean? 
Is this crazy housing market going to crash? 
Are my kids doing OK? 
Has this move ruined their friendships?
Am I healthy?

We’re in a unique and unprecedented season where my husband works out of town all week, every week. And I feel like this has upped our general anxiety levels. We feel off-kilter, and a little less stable when we’re apart. I’m in full-time manager mode most of the time, and it looks more controlling than it does efficient. 

I’ve been ruminating on this quote all winter from the theologian, Jurgen Moltmann: 

“Anxiety is anticipated terror. Hope is anticipated joy.”  

I will admit that I’m pretty skilled at anticipating terror. Truthfully, I know how to flip out about a lizard… or a news story… or a rash… or a weather report. I have much less practice anticipating joy. When my thoughts run wild, as they often do, I have to stop myself and name what is going on. 

We have one drawer in our refrigerator that squeaks every time we open it. And it’s the drawer where we keep the cheese, be it shredded cheese, string cheese, cubed cheese, etc. Our dog, Rosie, loves cheese. She would eat herself sick on it. So anytime she hears that cheese drawer open, even if she’s several rooms away, she comes bounding into the kitchen. Why? Because she is anticipating cheese, which equates to great joy! 

I want to live a little more like my dog rather than always anticipating terror or bad news or pain or discomfort around every corner. I want to anticipate some joy because I think it might do wonders for my anxiety, maybe even for our collective anxiety as a family.

When I feel the warmth of the sun on a late February afternoon, I want to anticipate the joys of spring with its longer days and blooming flowers. When I see my oldest daughter express excitement about getting her driver’s permit, I want to anticipate the joys of watching her grow in independence and maturity. 

Yes, the world is dark and scary. We live amidst real terrors. Not all the lizards are harmless. BUT… 

As Jonathan Edwards, the famed revivalist preacher, said: “Essential to our present joy is the anticipation of greater joy to come.” 

If we can believe that the opening words of the simple mealtime prayer are true: God is Great, God is good…, we’re better equipped to step into the hallway. Lizards may be out there, but joy might be just around the corner as well. 

“I remain confident of this:
I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.” 
Psalm 27:13

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We’ve had a couple of long weeks around here due to school and pandemic stresses and a series of unfortunate events. I won’t detail those, but the biggest source of physical frustration is our temperamental hot water heater. It went out last Monday evening and again this past Tuesday evening. For whatever reason, the pilot light periodically shuts off and has to be re-ignited to start working again.

Most unfortunately, our hot water heater is housed in the crawl space under our 54-year-old house.

I managed to live 44 years of life without ever having to go into a creepy crawl space. But my husband has been out of town for work during the week, and since turning 44 in November, I’ve been under this house three scary times. I would like to say that I get braver every time I go, but that would be a lie. I only get madder.

This past Tuesday it was 9:00 PM when the girls and I realized the heater was out again and there would be no hot showers unless I went under there to relight the pilot. One daughter sat in the kitchen crying, another daughter went to the window eager to watch this scene unfold, and with her flannel pajama pants and her hair in a towel after an icy shower, my oldest and most dutiful daughter volunteered to go stand outside the door with a flashlight and be my assistant. So I threw my coat on and angrily marched around the side of the house to the scary entrance of the crawl space.

Every time I get to the door I pause and ask myself. What will I do if there’s an animal in there?

14-year-old (reassuringly): It’s winter. All the animals are hibernating.

Me: How do you know that for sure? What about snakes?

14-year-old: It’s fine. You’re going to be fine. Do you want me to play a Christian song?

Me: What??

14-year-old: Do you want me to play some Christian music? That’s what I do when I’m scared.

Me: No. I do not want a soundtrack for this. (Thinking… if I did want a soundtrack it would be something more like “Eye of the Tiger”)

14-year-old: I smell gas.

Me: No, you don’t. You’re imagining that.

14-year-old: No, Momma. I definitely smell gas.

After finally convincing ourselves that the creatures were hibernating and the smell of gas was in our heads and not in the actual air, I fussed and said a few ugly words as I pushed dusty buttons and finally got the pilot light to start blinking again. So we cheered, ran back inside, and eagerly waited for the water to warm back up. After an hour it was still only lukewarm but sufficient enough for taking a few quick showers and getting to bed.

Yesterday morning the water was icy cold again, and I had to return to the crawl space one more time to relight the pilot until a plumber can get here to examine the situation today.

I’ve done a little Google research, and I think I’ve diagnosed the problem. I have no idea how to fix it, but I’m crossing my fingers that we don’t need a new unit. In the meantime, I’ve decided I could market my services to inspect crawlspaces for safety hazards and re-ignite pilot lights in underground places. My rate is $1000/hour not because I’m skilled or knowledgeable. But because I will do it scared while a 14-year-old assistant who is braver and better than I am at dealing with life’s frustrations plays calming music in the background. We will travel.

Coincidentally (or not?) I received two different sets of Scripture cards to display on miniature easels for Christmas. I set one up in our kitchen, and the other is on my nightstand. When I went to bed last night I glanced over to see this:

“The joy of the Lord is my strength.” Nehemiah 8:10

And when I walked by the one in the kitchen today I noticed it reads:

”Strength and dignity are her clothing, and she laughs at the time to come.” Proverbs 31:25

I see what you’re doing here, Lord. I don’t like it, but I can see what you’re doing.

Life is full of frustrations, big and small. It may take a Scripture easel in every room to keep my perspective in check. But frustration and faith can co-exist. I’m still learning how to lean more into the latter.

May I never take hot showers for granted. May my plumber (and any service providers you have to employ this winter) be a bearer of good news. And no matter what and most importantly—may the joy of the Lord be our strength today.

I feel a little less angry already.

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When I hear others talk about their circumstances and concerns as we round out another year, I think many of us are feeling anxious and weary these days.

Even still, I don’t want my feelings to define Christmas 2021. As the familiar words of “O Holy Night” remind us every Christmas Eve:

A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices, for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.

I came across this quote from Jessica Connolly last week, and I’m still thinking about it: “Hope is a gift FOR us. Not something God needs from us.”

What if hope isn’t something we do but something we receive? What a relief! And, isn’t this what Christmas is? A gift we can choose to reject or receive—of a God who chooses to be with us in our weariness.

Henri Nouwen says it beautifully here:

“Somehow I realized that songs, music, good feelings, beautiful liturgies, nice presents, big dinners, and many sweet words do not make Christmas. Christmas is saying “yes” to something beyond all emotions and feelings. Christmas is saying “yes” to a hope based on God’s initiative, which has nothing to do with what I think or feel. Christmas is believing that the salvation of the world is God’s work and not mine. Things will never look just right or feel  just right. If they did, someone would be lying… But it is into this broken world that a child is born who is called Son of the Most High, Prince of Peace, Savior.”

A thrill of hope, the weary world [still] rejoices…

Thanks be to God for the indescribable gift of himself.

Merry Christmas from all of us to you and yours!

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Have you noticed that shopping for lightbulbs now is a major ordeal? There are no less than a thousand options on the bulb aisle. I don’t understand wattage or LED technology. I just want the lights to match and to come on when I flip the switch. I need light in all the dark places. How hard can this be?!

A few years ago we had a faulty Christmas tree. It was a live tree, so we carefully hung multiple strands of white lights on it only to discover the middle strand had an electrical short in it. So while the top and bottom of the tree lit up beautifully, the mid-section would intermittently go dim. It was maddeningly difficult to fix.

Whether we’re dealing with an old house or an uncooperative tree, it’s hard to keep the lights on. And I’m learning that when you’re living in the Central Time Zone, you need ALL the lights to come on at 4:00 PM when the sun starts setting! What in the world? I will need a light therapy lamp by mid-month because there is so much darkness before bedtime.

Darkness and light. Darkness and light. We can’t escape the tension between the two. It’s all around us… and even within us.

For many years I thought of Advent mostly as a countdown to Christmas Day and a good opportunity to eat a tiny piece of chocolate with my breakfast for 25 days in a row. There is truth in the notion that it’s an expectant time, but the word “advent” literally means “coming.” This season reminds us to look back at that coming of Jesus as a prophecy fulfilled and to look forward to the second coming of Jesus when all will be made right as it is brought into His perfect light.

Advent is about waiting in this uncomfortable space between darkness and light. But part of our great hope and reason for joy in this season is that the Light of Christ didn’t leave when he ascended. Until he returns and in the meantime of the here and now, we are the chosen bearers of it.

Maybe that’s what this season primarily asks of us: that we keep working to keep our lights on and our trees lit up… looking for light and finding ways to pierce dark places with hopeful flickers of it.

There is no shortage of dark places all around us: lonely people, dead-end jobs, miserable marriages, broken families, diseased bodies, empty wombs and abandoned rooms. There are places and seasons where the darkness is so heavy, so pervasive that it takes our breath away. It’s naive at best and negligent at worst to pretend that darkness is not an ever-present reality in our hearts and our homes. Our world is full of hurts and horrors, sin and sadness.

BUT, Jesus.

The people who walk in darkness will see a great light. 
For those who live in a land of deep darkness, a light will shine. 

Isaiah 9:2

A poorly lit bathroom or a half-lit tree is proof of the difference even a few lights can make. Every watt counts.

This busy Christmas, this dreary winter, this coming year… we have a choice. We can be people who let the darkness take hold, or we can be people who don’t give up trying to keep the lights on.

And no one needs that reminder more than I need it myself this season.

”The burden God places on each of us is to become who we are meant to be. We are most fully ourselves when Christ most fully lives in us and through us. The mother shines brightest with her child in her arms, the father when he forgives his wandering son, and the artist when he or she is drawing attention to grace, by showing the pinprick of light overcoming the darkness in the painting, or the story, or the song. The world knows darkness. Christ came into the world to show us light. I have seen it, have been blinded by it, invaded by it. I will tell its story.”

Andrew Peterson

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After a brief stay in an AirBnB, followed by four months in a rental, we scrapped all of our original plans and have moved into an older house across town near my brother and sister-in-law. Not only have we moved our bodies and our belongings into this house. We’ve also moved my husband’s pet supplement business into a “workshop” here. So a good portion of our home now smells like hickory bacon dog treats. And I am not exaggerating the situation.

It’s fine. We’re fine. Everything is fine. But it all feels a bit tumultuous.

Transition and disorder disorient me. I want to crawl into a hole and go off the grid completely until I can regain some sense of control over my life. Or at least I’d like some control over my stuff, which is still largely in a state of disarray… or in boxes… or in storage.

I can acknowledge that we do make a little progress each day. We locate another lamp, hang another picture, find a favorite coffee mug. With every box we unpack and every cabinet I organize, this old house starts to feel a little more like a home. It’s just a painfully slow process.

My 4th grader is working on some fitness challenges in PE at school, and one of her goals is to become more flexible. Much like me, this child lives with a sense of urgency about most everything. So after exactly two nights of light stretching she asks, “Is my back straight yet?”

Um, no. Of course it’s not because she’s only been stretching it for two days. “Building flexibility takes time,” I say like the sage that I am in theory but not in practice.

Lord, help me take my own words to heart. Building flexibility takes time indeed. So does building a home. Building community. Growing a business. Growing a child up. It simply takes time to build or grow anything at all of real worth.

We, the people of 2021, don’t like slow. We prefer fast lanes, fast food, fast passes, quick fixes, and high-speed internet. And I am the worst offender of all. I want my house to look like a magazine today… my kids to have good friends and be happy in school today… our business to succeed today… our relational and spiritual lives to flourish today. But this is not how the Lord works or how the best things come to be.

And so I’m here in late October, uncomfortably admitting we do not have things together today. Our house is a mess, our vocational future is uncertain, and our girls are still finding their way in a new setting. It’s going to be awhile before we see or taste—let alone produce—any fruit. We are growing, but it’s slow.

This October feels different and a bit more difficult. But I’m hoping I can breathe in the crisp air of the mornings and look around at the changing leaves in the afternoon sunlight and know that this beautiful month still holds the same hope and glory it always has.

“October had tremendous possibility.
The summer’s oppressive heat was a distant memory,
and the golden leaves promised a world full of beautiful adventures.
They made me believe in miracles.”

Sarah Guilford, Reclaimed

Here’s to an autumn of slowing down and surrendering. And here’s to still believing in the beauty of October and the presence and goodness of the Lord in every season and every celebration.

The post Hello from October appeared first on Suburban Shalom.

Over the holiday weekend we went to the beach for the first time in quite awhile. Maybe it is insensible to drive seven hours there and back for a two-day stay, but I don’t regret it. We needed to get away, and something about seeing the ocean is life-giving and re-centering. Salty air, the rhythm of the waves, and miles of sand remind me of the hugeness of creation in contrast to my smallness and the smallness of my problems. Ever so often, I need that sort of check on my perspective.

I also appreciate how the ocean turns every sunset into a wonder.

Even though my dad has been gone for almost sixteen years, I can still feel his presence most vividly at his favorite place—the South Carolina coast. As we sorted through his things in the weeks after he passed away we discovered one of his last Google searches on his office computer: “medical practices… Hilton Head Island.” Dad once referred to Google as Goggle, and we never let him forget it. He may not have known how to pronounce the name of his search engine, but he knew where he wanted to land some day.

Wendell Berry writes, “There are no unsacred places; there are only sacred places and desecrated places.”

I’m not a mystic, but I think memory is powerful and the physical places we know and love matter. Every time I see and hear the ocean for the first time in awhile, I have to swallow hard to keep from tearing up. For me, and I’m assuming for my dad as well, the beach is a sacred place. Though we were very different in our personalities and our passions, I feel most like him there. And the older I get the more I like thinking about why that is.

There is an old store by the marina that sells gifts, jewelry, and little toys. We popped in on Saturday, and my 9-year-old convinced me that she needed to purchase a $5 mood ring. On the way back to our place she almost rode her bike completely off the path and into the woods when she noticed her ring color (and thus, her mood) had changed to “romantic.” Oh, to have an ounce of her zeal for the small things!

At my age I don’t need a ring to help me identify my mood. But sometimes I need to revisit a place and notice a feeling to help me better identify who I am and who I want to be.

Frederick Buechner says this about tears:

You never know what may cause them. The sight of the Atlantic Ocean can do it, or a piece of music, or a face you’ve never seen before. A pair of somebody’s old shoes can do it… a horse cantering across the meadow, the high school basketball team running out onto the gym floor at the start of a game. You can never be sure. But of this you can be sure. Whenever you find tears in your eyes, especially unexpected tears, it is well to pay the closest attention.

They are not only telling you something about the secret of who you are, but more often than not God is speaking to you through them of the mystery of where you have come from and is summoning you to where, if your soul is to be saved, you should go to next.

From Whistling in the Dark

I love that reminder to pay attention, not only to what makes our throat swell up—but also to the people and the sacred places that make us feel the most deeply. Because in a mysterious way, they are a part of us wherever we go.

The post Sacred Places appeared first on Suburban Shalom.

A few weeks ago we went to Disney World to wrap up what has been a stressful summer. It was crowded, hot, and stormy. The Delta variant was beginning to pick up speed and concern loomed in the air. Many moments of our four days there were logistically difficult. 

And yet this morning when I pull out the souvenir coffee mug we brought home with symbols of the parks on it, I am nostalgic for the trip. My mind immediately conjures up images of the highlights of our most recent trip there and all the other happy memories I’ve made there in the past rather than the challenges and absurdities of Disney in late July.  

Nostalgia is a strange and powerful thing. The word itself comes from the Greek words ‘nostos’, for ‘homecoming’, and ‘algos’, for pain. 

In the 1600’s doctors and psychologists thought of nostalgia as a brain disease or mental illness plaguing people who were stuck in childhood. But in recent decades, psychologists have been studying nostalgia and noticing how people use it in positive ways to self-regulate. And they are also noticing how when we are lonely or stressed or anxious, we often become more nostalgic because things from the past comfort and reassure us. 

For example, since the onset of the pandemic, there has been an uptick of interest in old music and old shows. Or on a much more personal level, since we moved I have a special affinity for anything that reminds me of where we lived before. 

“Nostalgia is a way for you to generate meaning in life… it allows you to use it as a resource where you reach back in time to where you felt meaningful, when you felt deeply connected to others, perhaps, or when you felt like you had real direction in your life.” (Clay Rutledge, Psychologist) 

In a mysterious way, nostalgia is a place where sadness and joy co-exist. I see my girls being especially nostalgic now as they struggle with their newness in this town and their feelings of loneliness. All of us want to cling to anything that reminds us of the friendships or the community and sense of belonging we felt in the past. Nostalgia can be healthy in moderation but toxic if we camp out there or fail to realize its blind spots and limitations.  

So how can we use our own feelings of nostalgia for good? How can we properly and healthily enjoy our 80’s music, our old photo albums, or our souvenir mugs without thinking the present or the future pales in comparison to the “good ‘ole days” of the past? 

In The Weight of Glory C.S. Lewis wrote about the longing we all have for beauty and wholeness and deep joy. 

“These things—the beauty, the memory of our own past—are good images of what we really desire; but if they are mistaken for the thing itself they turn into dumb idols, breaking the hearts of their worshipers. For they are not the thing itself; they are only the scent of a flower we have not found, the echo of a tune we have not heard, news from a country we have never visited.” 

Basically Lewis reminds us that our longings (or our nostalgia?) can point us toward something even better than our memories. They can point us toward the only One who can completely fulfill and comfort and satisfy us. 

So the next time I pick up my Disney coffee mug, I hope to practice feeling gratitude as much as nostalgia. And not just gratitude for a park that claims to be “the happiest place on earth,” but gratitude for the reminder that we have a God who is the source of all the creativity and imagination and joy of which Disney World—even on its best day—is merely an echo.

Our memories can be a gift and a comfort when the present is hard. But our hope is always in knowing that the best is yet to come. 

The post The power of nostalgia appeared first on Suburban Shalom.

I’m not proud to admit it, but the only book I’ve read these past few months is a re-read of a children’s classic. My youngest child missed out on getting to do Charlotte’s Web as a 3rd grade novel study this past year due to the pandemic and some curriculum changes, but I knew she’d love the story. So without much thought concerning its heaviness, I started reading it out loud to her this summer.

We’re nearing the end of the book now. And a few nights ago as Charlotte began foreshadowing her own death, my squirmy but intently interested listener threw her hand up and said: “Now wait a minute! Charlotte’s not going to die, is she??”

I evaded the question for fear it would ruin the whole story. Spoiler alert: in the unlikely event you haven’t read the book, Charlotte does, in fact, die in the end. And it’s terribly sad. But ultimately this book isn’t about her death; it’s about the power and beauty of friendship. It’s about loyalty and kindness.

As I prepare to send three girls into the deep waters of a new school system this week where they will walk into big buildings on the first day knowing literally not a soul, I’m clinging to any reminders of the hope of friendship and kindness. Thank goodness children are grittier and more resilient than adults because I need to breathe into a paper bag just thinking about it.

My favorite counselor and writer on the topic of girls and mental health, Sissy Goff, says: “Bravery exists in the presence of fear, not the absence of it.” So I pray the Lord will grant them, and all the other kids stepping into unknown and fearful situations, much bravery in these next few days and weeks.

And I also pray—for my own daughters and for your daughters (and sons, as well)—that the Lord will grant each of them a friend or two like Charlotte.

E.B. White wrote what are arguably some of the most moving lines about friendship in all of children’s literature with these closing words:

Wilbur never forgot Charlotte. Although he loved her children and grandchildren dearly, none of the new spiders ever quite took her place in his heart. She was in a class by herself. It is not often that someone comes along who is a true friend and a good writer. Charlotte was both.

I think the goal I have for my girls is that they not only meet a Charlotte, but that they become more like her as well. Of course I’ll be delighted if they become good writers, but even more so, if they become the kind of people who seek and sustain beautiful friendships.

On my best days I believe God created us for community and knows exactly the friends we need and those who need us. I don’t think it’s ever too late to be a better one or pray a few into existence. And I think it’s possible God even delights in answering our prayers for true friends—for ourselves and our children. But it takes a lot of faith for me to believe this on my most anxious days.

I recently came across a verse in Proverbs that I’ve never noticed before. Maybe it always gets overshadowed by the more famous verses that follow it. But this one is so significant on its own, most especially as it relates to friendship and character. Tucked into the first part of Proverbs 3 are these words:

“Never let loyalty and kindness leave you! Tie them around your neck as a reminder. Write them deep within your heart.” Proverbs 3:3

The footnote at the bottom of my New Living Translation says this: “Loyalty and kindness are important character qualities. Both involve actions as well as attitudes. A loyal person acts responsibly. A kind person works for justice for others. Thoughts and words are not enough—our life reveals whether we are truly loyal and kind. Do your actions measure up to your attitudes?”

I think E.B. White’s protagonist could, of course, answer a resounding, “Yes,” to that question. But could I? Could my kids?

I want the security and blessing of friendship for my girls. But I think it starts and grows with character. So my specific prayer for us this school year is borrowed from Proverbs 3.

Never let loyalty and kindness leave you!
Tie them around your neck.
Write them deep within your heart.
And may you find favor with both God and people.

What a wonderful world it would be if we all wore loyalty and kindness around our necks. May it be so—in our schools, in our homes, and wherever life takes us this new week.

The post A friend like Charlotte appeared first on Suburban Shalom.

I enjoyed this car conversation with my youngest on the way home from the grocery store yesterday:

9-year-old: When I grow up I just want two kids. I don’t think I can handle three kids.
Me: I understand your concern.
9-year-old: Well, do you think there’s a man out there who’s kind, a Christian, and who likes to talk a lot?
Me: I imagine there is.
9-year-old: Good. I just need to find him.

I don’t think we’re in any hurry to find him! But this child likes to plan ahead to more exciting days.

While my youngest is thinking about her future spouse and family, I’ve been thinking a lot about joy and how we could infuse more of it into our present days. In this season where we feel so unsettled and uncertain about how our next steps will play out, I default to either being a ball of stress or being completely numbed out and apathetic. And neither of those extremes is healthy. So I’ve been paying attention to verses and poems and thoughts on this topic of grounding ourselves in joy.

John Piper says one of the most important tactics in our fight for joy (and I think it is indeed a fight) is this:

“Learn to preach to yourself rather than listen to yourself.”

This distinction in what sort of thoughts consume my days is important, especially in seasons when the voices in my head are loud and doubtful:

But what if…
But what about…
But how will…
But when will…

There are far too many “buts” and worries for joy to survive. I have to preach loudly to myself—in the way of what I look at, listen to, and simmer on—to focus on things like Psalm 16:8:

I know the Lord is always with me. I will not be shaken, for he is right beside me.

Or truths like these:

“It is not your grip on Jesus that keeps you secure in God’s care. To the contrary, it is Jesus’s grip on you.” —Scott Sauls

“We have to choose joy and keep choosing it every day.” —Henri Nouwen

Or lyrics like these that I’m trying to sing softly as I walk around a new neighborhood:

Joyful, joyful, we adore Thee,
God of glory, Lord of love;
Hearts unfold like flow’rs before Thee,
Op’ning to the sun above.

Melt the clouds of sin and sadness;
Drive the dark of doubt away;
Giver of immortal gladness,
Fill us with the light of day!

Listening to myself, especially at night, usually means doubting and spiraling. Preaching to myself means replacing the musings in my head and heart with better content. It means singing and saying things out loud even when my feelings don’t align with them. And it means acknowledging that there are ideas more true (and more helpful) than those things I naturally default to thinking.

So I’m telling myself today (and you as well if you can relate to battling worrisome and wayward thoughts), that left to our own devices we can’t be trusted to speak truth and reap joy. But any one of us can preach a better sermon to ourselves when we dwell more on the Word and the wise and beautiful words of others who keep pointing us back toward the light.

It’s a fight and a choice, but there is joy to be seen and seized—even in the midst of change!

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