Janet Benlien Reeves

Roadside Rest: a Creative Nonfiction Cameo

noreply@blogger.com (Janet Benlien Reeves) — Sat, 17 Oct 2026 22:27:22 +0000

From the cabin of my Freelander, I watched as the F-150 pulled its silver bullet through the gas station parking lot and onto the dirt-paved lot beside it. A tall woman in a basic blue shell and floral skirt suitable for travel emerged from the passenger side of the argon-blue truck. She was physically able but moved with the care of an octogenarian; my guess at her age was confirmed in my mind by the white of her long, straight hair. She moved with ageless grace, royalty on a road trip.

Carrying an insulated water bottle by its handle, the woman stepped carefully to the back entrance of the Airstream. She opened the door and leaned in to set the bottle on the top step, freeing her hands to grasp the grab bars on either side and pull herself up into the vehicle. She took her time climbing three steps, placing both feet firmly on each before moving on up. At the top, she carefully removed one sturdy shoe and then the other, tucking both neatly out of the way but still accessible for departure. She turned to pick up her water bottle, then advanced into the RV and out of my sight.

But as she negotiated the transfer from one vehicle to another, a stocky gentleman with a fringe of hair as white as hers emerged from the driver’s side of the F-150, coolly rounded the front of the truck, and followed her to the back entrance of the Airstream. He held the door as his wife, I presumed, climbed into the trailer. He waited with patience, his eyes measuring her every move. Octogenarian or not, she wasn’t likely to fall. Still, he was there just in case.

Once she moved out of my sight into her little home on wheels, the man entered behind her. I imagined they planned to enjoy a roadside lunch. However, as the man turned to pull the door closed, he looked straight at me—and winked.

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Photo by Mario Scheibl on Unsplash

Center Stage

noreply@blogger.com (Janet Benlien Reeves) — Sat, 29 Aug 2026 22:10:24 +0000

Fog descends like a stage curtain
Hiding all but the main characters,
The closest hemlock, cedar, vine maple,
From view,
Creating for these a lightbox
For stand-out photography
Or perfect imprint on mind’s
Silver halide.

As the fog rolls in further,
embracing my home, suddenly
I exist within its lightbox,
Centerstage nearly unaware:
Just my room,
Varied leaves outside my window,
The chickadee perched on closest branch,
And me—

Centerstage in a bounded world
No one can see.

***

Photo by Studio Pizza on Unsplash

What If the Work Continues?

noreply@blogger.com (Janet Benlien Reeves) — Tue, 11 Aug 2026 21:17:16 +0000

When my husband and I pastored a small church in Maine years ago, a sweet lady in her 90s was a member of our congregation. May Duplisea had lived in that small papermill town her whole life. She had never married nor had children, and I don’t know what she did for work in the days before her retirement. But she had attended the church we were privileged to pastor for a time from the first Sunday her parents brought her as a baby.

May knew more about the Bible than anyone we knew and didn’t hesitate to correct my husband if he got a detail wrong during a Sunday school lesson or sermon. Sometimes he had me run fact checks before he taught or preached just to be sure his work would pass May’s scrutiny. Even in her 90s, May could quote lengthy Bible passages by heart, and sometimes my husband invited her to do so both to keep her sharp and to let her set an example for the younger generations.

May’s favorite ministry, however, was her art. During the week, May would trace pictures of little birds she found in books onto blank notepaper. She would color her tracings and write Bible verses underneath or beside her pictures. Then she would bring these pictures to church and give them to people whom she wanted to have them. I know for a fact that my husband and I both still have some of her pictures stored with cards, letters, and keepsakes too dear to part with just yet. If I come across one, I’ll take a picture and post it with a link to this post. For now, I’ll let you imagine May’s work.

May’s pictures were simple, but they were her way of expressing her love to God’s people and encouraging her fellow church members with God’s Word. Though retired and living alone in an apartment above a friend’s house across the street from her church, May found ways to reach out to others, serving her heavenly Father in the best way that she could.

May has been gone for many years now, but as I was remembering her the other day, an image popped into my head. I imagined May in heaven, no longer an old woman, but ageless and healthy. She was drawing birds freehand, birds that she pictured in her mind—hodgepodges of birds she’d traced during her life. God had given her a new box of art supplies that would never run out with colors and textures unlike anything we know on earth. He was beside her in spirit, taking delight in her work.

May finished one of her creations and held it up for God to see. He cradled her hand in His, and together they blew life into the bird, which flew away, circling people along its way to get their attention and bring them joy. May looked into God’s face, her eyes as big as they could be, and then they both laughed in the wonder of the moment. May immediately went to work on her next bird.

I wonder if that’s just a glimpse of what heaven will be like. What if our current interests and hobbies, now only a vapor that will dissipate with time, become the basis of the meaningful work we’ll do for God’s glory throughout eternity? Most of my hobbies, for example, center around chronicling the wonders of this world: genealogy, photography, poetry, storytelling, journals, and memory books. What if God lets me listen to people’s stories to create works that reveal His glorious work in various lives? Maybe God will let me and others like me prove the truth of the third verse of the hymn, The Love of God Is Greater Far:

Could we with ink the ocean fill,
  And were the skies of parchment made;
Were every stalk on earth a quill,
  And every man a scribe by trade;
To write the love of God above
  Would drain the ocean dry;
Nor could the scroll contain the whole,
  Though stretched from sky to sky.

This is only wild speculation, but I believe there’s a hint of hope and truth in it. First Corinthians 2:9 says, “But, as it is written, ‘What no eye has seen, nor ear heard, nor the heart of man imagined, what God has prepared for those who love him’” (ESV). God created each of us with talents and interests. We’re drawn to activities we love throughout our lives. What if what we do with these during our time on earth is only the beginning? What if we’ll get to love God and others through them throughout eternity?

Thanks for taking time today to imagine heaven with me.

Works Cited

English Standard Version. Crossway, 2001. https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=1%20corinthians%202%3A9&version=ESV

The Love of God Is Greater Far. www.hymnal.net/en/hymn/h/28.

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Photo by The New York Public Library on Unsplash

But If Not

noreply@blogger.com (Janet Benlien Reeves) — Tue, 28 Jul 2026 22:32:43 +0000

I am trusting God to provide

the money, the time, the health—
every resource I find so essential,
but if He does not,
He is enough.
He will always be enough
because He is the reason for my being.

He created me
for Him,
to worship Him through all eternity
which begins right now,
which began when I first knew Him
back then at six.

But for now, I am here

at sixty asking

for needs to be met—
trusting, waiting, trying, working—
all in His presence.
If nothing comes of it,
He is here.
He is there.
He is God,
and I’m His child.

All is well.

* * *

Photo by Priscilla Du Preez 🇨🇦 on Unsplash

Raging at Death's Destruction

noreply@blogger.com (Janet Benlien Reeves) — Sat, 18 Jul 2026 16:15:12 +0000

It’s been six months since my father died. In a way, I am experiencing the grieving process for the first time. Yes. I have grieved for others—grandparents, pets, relationships lost to distance and time. But grieving for my father is different; the pain of his loss cuts deeper.

I’ve been writing out this cutting pain through poems, essays, and remembrances. I sometimes feel I’m observing myself from outside of myself, attempting to make sense of what I’m feeling. I’m not yet ready to share most of these thoughts. Just revisiting them in my journal can cause me to close my eyes and shut them out, shut the book, grasp for something, almost anything else. Someday I’ll be ready to face them and to savor their sacred beauty. Encountering them now still takes my breath away.

But this most recent observation is ready to be released into the world—or so I believe. If you are experiencing a season of grief, I pray you’ll find some solace here.

A few weeks ago, I realized that every death notice was stirring up an angry reaction within me—like pouring vinegar on baking soda. I saw on the internet that a politician died and felt agitation swell up in every limb. I read on Facebook that a friend lost a spouse and scrunched my face and hands. I watched a television show where a celebrity who died a few years back made a guest appearance and shook my head. “Yep. Death got him, too. Stupid Death.” I realized I was starting to feel as if Death were lurking around every corner, gleefully snatching our loved ones right out of this world.

Because yes. Death is doing that. And suddenly it’s painfully real.

But I know that Death has been defeated. Jesus conquered death once and for all when He died and rose from the dead. Death could not hold Him. As a result, Death cannot hold us either. My dad and my grandparents and anyone else who dies having accepted Jesus as Savior is alive in heaven with God right now—and for eternity. I’ve heard I’m supposed to be celebrating.

And yet, all I felt was anger.

And so, I asked God to help me understand. I started watching for His reply.

It came to me quietly while I was reading The Silver Chair by C.S. Lewis for the second time in my life. This book is the fourth book in Lewis’ Chronicles of Narnia series. I can’t say that it was anything specific that Lewis wrote that helped me find my answer. It was more about the feelings and thoughts that came into my head as I was reading one of the book’s final scenes.

[Spoiler Alert] Near the end of the book, Aslan resurrects Prince Caspian from the dead in front of Eustice and Jill. They realize Aslan has taken them all to “the end of the world” (213). With such a revelation, they of course want to stay.

But Aslan says, “When you meet me here again, you will have come to stay. But not now. You must go back to your own world for a while” (214).

This is the now and not yet of the Gospel. Jesus has defeated death. His work on our behalf is finished now. But we still live in this world where death has not yet been banished for all time.

· Death is still active in this world.

· Death is still taking our loved ones away from us, one at a time in random fashion.

· Death reminds us of the consequences of our sin and of our need for Jesus, the Savior.

· Death has been defeated; its reign on earth will end. Just not yet.

The Parable of the Weeds in Matthew 13:24-30 and 36-43 also helped me understand. This parable explains the now and not yet of salvation, giving us hope for “the end of the world.” For now, for reasons only God in His perfect wisdom can understand, the weeds of sin and death are still growing. In God’s time, they will be destroyed. Yet the parable clearly names the one responsible for the weeds “the enemy.”

The enemy. Enemies hurt us. Enemies work against us. Enemies want to cause harm and to destroy. I should be angry when I see the results of the enemy’s work. My anger is justified. Satan and Death are wreaking havoc on people and places I love, on people and places God created and loves. The enemy is at fault. God promises us the enemy will be destroyed.

For this reason, I can take my anger to God and know that He’s still at work in this world, growing a harvest of people who live for Him. Like Jill and Eustice, I can remain in the land of the living until God calls me home, serving God with all my heart, loving His Creation back to Him. I still am grieving the loss of my dad. But my Heavenly Father is taking care of him.

Works Cited

Lewis, C. S. The Silver Chair. 1953. United States of America, Collier Books, 1970.

New International Version. Biblica, 1983, https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Matthew%2013&version=NIV

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Photo by Polina M on Unsplash

Potential Examined

noreply@blogger.com (Janet Benlien Reeves) — Sat, 11 Jul 2026 21:53:52 +0000

As I enter the Autumn of my life—Autumn, not Winter, Autumn—I’m beginning to realize that a lot of the things I once had the potential for, I no longer have the potential for. For instance, a professor of mine once told me I could be our denomination’s first female professor in one of our denomination’s universities’ religion departments. (This was the same professor who gave a whole lecture with my shoe in his pocket when one of my classmates stole it off my foot before class and slipped it to him by sleight of hand. Being one of only two female religion majors had its perils.)

That nonsense aside, my professor’s compliment still means something to me, but teaching wasn’t my calling. The potential was there. Now that potential has passed. Our denomination now has several female religion department professors teaching in its universities.

This example shows how our lives are built on choices: some that we make for ourselves, some that others make for us, and some that are determined by circumstance. Every choice entails a decision to pursue one path of potential while rejecting others. Sometimes we find opportunities to pursue rejected paths at a later date; sometimes we do not.

Limitations

My mother recently told me something about her dad, my grandfather. His father was much older than his mother and was ready to retire from work when my grandfather was still in high school. But the family needed a source of income to replace what my great-grandfather had been earning. To solve the problem, my great-grandfather forced my grandfather to drop out of school and go to work.

But my grandfather’s hobbies reveal he had a lot of potential that could have been cultivated with further education. He loved chess and other games of strategy. (He taught me to play checkers but refused to let me win.) He collected, memorized, and recited poetry. He saved historic headlines from newspapers and taught his grandchildren the history that he had experienced firsthand. He was a master gardener, too. I have no doubt my grandfather could have been a college professor or a writer or a scientist or anything else he may have wanted to be had he been allowed to complete his education.

My grandfather also loved running. Before he dropped out of school, he was on the high school track team. He loved to tell stories of racing Louis Zamperini at district events. He always lost, but he bragged that when Zamperini was the fastest man alive, he was the second fastest because he only ever lost to Zamperini. Grandpa had potential as a runner, but someone else had more potential. Grandpa’s potential could only take him so far.

My potential as a runner went untested. Before I knew about my grandfather’s track history, I participated in a track meet in my P.E. class in junior high. No one had ever coached me, so I took off running as fast as I could go. I was way ahead until the very end of the race when my body forced me to slow down, allowing two classmates to pass me at the last moment. My teacher, the high school track coach, yelled at me and told me I should have known to pace myself. I had to ask someone else what that meant.

Looking back on that day, I wonder if I may have had the potential to follow in my grandfather’s footsteps. I also think that if my teacher had known about my grandfather racing Zamperini, he might have paid more attention to my potential instead of scaring me away. To this day, I love running for fun and keeping in shape, but any potential I may have had to become a track star is long gone. What potential was there went unrealized because no one knew to look for it.

Life Lived

As I think about all of this, however, I know that what matters is not what potential has gone unrealized, but what’s been accomplished with potential we nurtured and grew. My grandfather did not become a scholar or world-class runner, but he did raise a family. He did pass on his love of poetry, physical activity, and gardening. His descendants are teachers, writers, gardeners, and athletes. Grandpa’s legacy is alive. He would be proud. I’m proud of him.

Future Hope

Furthermore, his descendants love to imagine him gardening in heaven, maybe even working side by side with the Savior Himself. Maybe he goes on morning runs with Zamperini or collaborates with Gerard Manley Hopkins on new poems for their King. Our God-given potential on this earth may be limited by time, choice, and circumstance, but thanks to Jesus, we have all of eternity in God’s Presence to explore all the wonders God has for us there. Death is not the end. It’s the beginning of so much more.

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Photo by Wilson K. on Unsplash

Remembering the Bicentennial on This Semiquincentennial

noreply@blogger.com (Janet Benlien Reeves) — Sat, 04 Jul 2026 16:00:20 +0000

I was just a kid when our country celebrated its bicentennial—a few years older than my oldest grandchildren are now. This means they’ll be almost my current age when our country celebrates its tricentennial. I wonder if they’ll look back on today’s semiquincentennial (half of five hundred years) as something magical in the same way I look back on the bicentennial.

I don’t remember how my family celebrated that year. I’m sure there were fireworks, whether we drove twenty minutes to watch them over Disneyland or in the other direction to watch them at the beach. I do remember the bicentennial quarters and two-dollar bills; I still have a few of each, keepsakes more than currency.

But our class field trip to Disneyland is my stand-out memory. In honor of the bicentennial, the amusement park invited elementary school students from all over Orange County to spend a school day at Disneyland. This was before Disneyland offered unlimited access to rides with admission. Guests purchased ticket books. If they wanted to ride more rides, they had to purchase more ticket books. If they had tickets left over when they went home, they could save them for their next visit. My dad stored ours in the valet on his dresser, but we never had any E tickets left over. E tickets were for the most exciting rides.

If I remember correctly, Disneyland had special ticket books printed for the field trip event. They gave students access to eleven attractions, I think, that Disneyland or maybe the school administrators or individual teachers deemed historical and educational. We also witnessed America on Parade, a spectacle created for the bicentennial celebration.

Upon arrival, our class was divided into groups of five or six, each group assigned to a chaperone. My mom led our group from attraction to attraction. I remember watching Mr. Lincoln speak, paddling a canoe to Tom Sawyer’s Island, riding the Mark Twain, and watching America Sings, an attraction that no longer exists. I’m not 100% certain that the canoe was part of that field trip, though I think it was. (I practically grew up at Disneyland, so one visit blurs into another.)

I can’t remember what other rides were included in the field trip ticket book, but I do remember my classmates, mom, and I enjoyed the best school day ever thanks to our country’s big birthday. Should my grandchildren be privileged to enjoy the tricentennial as I am privileged to enjoy this semiquincentennial, and I pray they will be, I wonder what memories of today will stand out in their minds. May their memories be magical, too.

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Photo by Winston Chen on Unsplash

On Risk: Two Poems

noreply@blogger.com (Janet Benlien Reeves) — Mon, 29 Jun 2026 23:52:15 +0000

Risk Averse

Resist the inclination to
Invite potential friends over.
Stay indoors alone, and
Kill the urge to explore.

Avoid touching surfaces, even skin, or
Vanquish germs with disinfectant.
Exercise caution when breathing.
Restrain desire for delectable, but deadly dishes.
Save yourself until death’s day,
Enjoying nothing while you wait.

Risk Assessment

Love requires risk,
results in rapture
or unrequited
romance.

Let go of the trapeze.
No net—only
hands to hold
or deadly freefall.

Come out of the shadows
of self-preservation.
Introduce your authentic
to find those who relate
to you.

Rejection reveals
relations not for you.
Risk it to move past it
until love comes.

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Top Photo by Taiyou on Unsplash

Bottom Photo by Camden & Hailey George on Unsplash

The Hawk and the Seagull

noreply@blogger.com (Janet Benlien Reeves) — Thu, 25 Jun 2026 17:43:47 +0000

Observation

While driving home from the grocery store the other day, I saw the most curious drama playing out in the sky just above the road before me. Just below where a seagull was circling, a hawk circled, too. They were turning in sync as if they were participating in a Regency era dance where partners keep each other at arm’s length. Every now and then, though, the gull would dive, the hawk would block its descent, and the gull would rise to circle again, the hawk mirroring its movements just below, an ongoing part of their dance. As they circled, they followed the path of the road before me, so I found myself following them until they reached the open field of an intermediate school near my home, where we parted ways.

Speculation

Because our town recently hired a young man with two trained birds of prey to teach the seagulls in our coastal hamlet to stay away from shopping areas, I wondered if the hawk was his. I have been wanting to see this spectacle since I read about it. Seagull herding! I didn’t know such a job existed.

Imagine having people pay you to travel from one coastal town to another to train troublesome seagulls to stay away. My mom once made the unfortunate decision to park her car under a tower of shoebox lights in the grocery store parking lot. The seagulls, perched on top of the tower, decorated the top and all four sides of her Rav4. In fact, when she opened the driver’s side door to get in, they decorated the car’s interior, too. Mom was just thankful they didn’t decorate her. I know she’s in favor of having seagull trainers in town.

Thinking that the hawk I saw circling below the seagull might be one of the seagull trainers, I pictured it herding the seagull to some imaginary boundary, placing its wings on its hips, and saying, “And stay out! You belong over there!”

Investigation

But I didn’t see the hawk’s trainer, and the birds were already several blocks from the shopping area by the time I saw them. When I got home, I did some research online.

I learned of two possible explanations beyond seagull training:

First, because hawks are birds of prey, they take what they want. If the seagull had something in its mouth that the hawk wanted to eat, it would circle below to force the seagull to keep flying until it got tired and surrendered its meal.

Second, if the hawk was hungry enough, it would circle below to force the seagull to keep flying until it became too tired to get away. Because sometimes seagulls are hawk prey.

My husband once witnessed a hawk eating another bird in the street just outside our home. The bird was crying, but it was also beyond saving. Hawks, who are predators, must eat to survive. The circle of life can be brutal.

Application

Once I had this information, the truth of the dance of the birds, I tried to imagine ways the seagull could have gotten away. In the first case scenario, the answer was obvious. If hanging on to something is going to end your life, you let it go. You give the hawk what it wants and trust that what you’ll need will become available from another source. You may have to scrounge along the seashore, but you’ll live to do so.

The second case scenario is more complicated. In that case, the hawk wants you. Since landing wasn’t an option for the seagull, I wondered if it could have sought shelter in a nearby tall tree. Perhaps dive into it to keep the trunk and branches between itself and its enemy. When a predator blocks the path to safety, you seek something or someone stronger for help. Refuge. Defender. Shelter. Friend.

I don’t know how things turned out for that seagull, but I hope it got away.

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Photo by Zeki Binici on Unsplash

What's a Girl to Do?

noreply@blogger.com (Janet Benlien Reeves) — Sun, 21 Jun 2026 13:52:11 +0000

I don’t think I understood the assignment. I only wish I could remember the story behind the picture, but I’m guessing my expression is somehow related to the flowery headband. Today’s expression captured in pictures or forced frills will be the same. What’s a girl to do on Father’s Day when she no longer has a living dad?

One clear snapshot has impressed itself on my mind today, one that now only exists in my mind. I wonder if Dad carried the memory, too—he and I were the only ones in the foreground of this image, a moment that only belonged to us. I don’t know how old I was—older than three because we lived on Gamma Street. Not so old as five. I suspect events leading up to this moment had something to do with sibling jealousy over my brother’s arrival and the resulting demands on my mother’s time, but that is unclear.

I was going through a mommy phase. I wanted Mommy to tuck me in at night. I wanted Mommy to carry me around. I wanted Mommy, just Mommy. I wanted nothing to do with the strange human being she let into the house for dinner each night and out again in the morning, the person I knew as Dad. I can only hope now that he understood the fickle nature of young children still figuring out their place in the family, along with everyone else’s, and forgave me for my shunning-Daddy phase. I think he did. We never spoke of it.

The phase ended forever in a moment at our front door one Sunday morning when Dad simply scooped me up onto his arm and looked me in the eye just before he opened the door to carry me out to the car to go to church. We shared a smile, and in that split-second, I thought, “Well, maybe this guy isn’t so bad.” I suspect God’s Spirit planted that thought, perhaps in answer to someone’s prayers. The change in my opinion of my dad happened just that fast.

From that day on, I was Daddy’s girl. Even if I failed to smile for the Father’s Day photo. And even as I miss him today.

What’s a girl to do on Father’s Day when she no longer has a living dad? This girl will remember hers with gratitude. For his life. To the One who chose him to raise me. I’ll savor memories sweet, now bittersweet, and sometimes desperate to be lived again. I’ll look forward to seeing Dad again someday as he leads me to Jesus in a whole new, literal, and eternal kind of way. As we worship our shared heavenly Father together.

Happy first Father’s Day in Heaven, Dad. I love and miss you.

Inspiration: an Acrostic

noreply@blogger.com (Janet Benlien Reeves) — Thu, 11 Jun 2026 21:27:57 +0000

I question my perception,

Never certain of Your

Sovereign will, specific

Purpose ordained for my life.

I waffle one way, then another—

Reaching for defined direction

All while Your Spirit speaks

Through nature, news, fellowship, Word.

I stop. See You in action, summoning

Only as You, my beloved Abba, can.

Nebulous struggle recedes.

* * *

Photo by Ana Municio on Unsplash

The Author

noreply@blogger.com (Janet Benlien Reeves) — Thu, 28 May 2026 21:01:45 +0000

Lord, this is not

how I would write this story

were it mine.

I acknowledge

you’re the Author, yet

you gave creative license

to one who flounders,

finding the pen too heavy

to hold, making scribbles

where clear cursive

lettering should be—

according to me.

Please spotlight your hand

hovering under his,

waiting too long,

in my opinion,

for him to return

writing right to you.

And while I’m praying,

Lord, here’s my pen, too.

* * *

Photo by Stephen Tettey Atsu on Unsplash

Faith: the Ultimate Wager

noreply@blogger.com (Janet Benlien Reeves) — Mon, 25 May 2026 20:30:34 +0000

When I was in college, one of my professors used to say something to the effect that faith is going out on a limb with all your eggs in one basket. My classmates and I would laugh while looking at each other in alarm and shifting uncomfortably in our seats. We were ministry students set on following Jesus and leading others to do the same. Still, the metaphors made us think.

There was more to it, though. As I remember it, my professor said that if there was any uncertainty, he liked the outcome he faced if he was wrong better than the outcome unbelievers face if they are wrong. We couldn’t argue with that logic.

I learned just yesterday that this argument for faith has a name: prudential apologetics (Phillips 347). Essentially, the person trying to convince an unbeliever to believe argues that it’s prudent to believe because they have a lot less to lose by believing than they risk by refusing to believe. This is also known as Pascal’s Wager, named for Blaise Pascal, a French philosopher and mathematician of the 17^th century.

My professor wasn’t using this argument to convince ministry students to believe. He was illustrating why faith is called faith. God gives us all the evidence we need to belief, but He doesn’t give absolute proof. He wants us to live by faith. Faith means building a relationship with Him, getting to know Him a little bit better every day through prayer and Bible study, and learning to live His way, knowing that His way is the best way.

Even Pascal realized, however, that his wager was only a starting point for faith (Pascal’s Wager (Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy)). This qualification is what I was thinking about yesterday when I read about prudential apologetics and remembered my professor’s metaphors.

Deciding to believe because you don’t want to risk the consequences if you’re wrong is not enough. It is not the same as trusting in Christ for your salvation. But it is a start because realizing that you may be wrong about Jesus is enough to motivate you to dig more deeply into what you and others believe. It’s enough to challenge you to consider the lives of believers who clearly have gone out on a limb with all their eggs in one basket and ask yourself, “Why would someone put themselves in this precarious position? What do they know that maybe I need to know, too?”

· Why would Rachel Scott answer yes and take a bullet when a fellow student put a gun to her head and asked her if she believed in Jesus? (You can read the story in Rachel’s Tears by Beth Nimmo and Darrell Scott.)

· Why would Corrie ten Boom and her family hide God’s people in their clock shop instead of barring the door to avoid being arrested and taken to a concentration camp? (You can read this story in The Hiding Place by Corrie ten Boom.)

· Why would the apostle Paul leave a comfortable and prestigious life to endure shipwrecks, beatings, arrests, imprisonment, and martyrdom? (You can read this story in the Bible’s book of Acts, starting with chapter 9.)

· Why do the Christians you know personally make some of the daily sacrifices they do—financially, socially, culturally? Why do they claim that an eternal relationship with Jesus Christ is worth more than anything they might be tempted to exalt in His place?

If you don’t know the answers, investigate. Ask the God whom you aren’t sure you believe in to help you find truth. Read His Word, the Bible. Talk with His people. Visit a church. Seek until you find the answer. You won’t regret it. I promise you.

The view from the trees is lovely. There’s no wager involved once you’ve climbed.

Bibliography

New International Version. Bible Gateway, https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=acts%209-28&version=NIV.

Nimmo, Beth, and Darrell Scott. Rachel’s Tears. 10th Anniversary, Tommy Nelson, 2009.

Pascal’s Wager (Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy). 11 Sept. 2022, plato.stanford.edu/entries/pascal-wager/#:~:text=%E2%80%9CPascal's%20Wager%E2%80%9D%20is%20the%20name,steps%20to%20believe%2C%20in%20God.

Phillips, W. Gary. "An Introduction to Apologetics." The Portable Seminary: A Master’s Level Overview in One Volume, edited by David Horton, Bethany House Publishers, 2006, 340-348.

Ten Boom, Corrie. The Hiding Place. Bantam Books, 1974.

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Photo by Major Wang on Unsplash

Resource Review: Breaking Free from Insecurity by Marji Broce

noreply@blogger.com (Janet Benlien Reeves) — Wed, 06 May 2026 22:41:00 +0000

I’m not usually a podcast person. My husband and I listen to true crime on road trips, but that’s about it. I’m a visual learner; I like reading books.

But when Marji, a friend from college and former prayer partner, asked me to listen to her new podcast, Breaking Free from Insecurity, I was excited to give it a try. I’ve been listening for five weeks now. Whenever a new episode appears in my Spotify library, I go for a walk with Marji and listen to what she has to say.

(The podcast is available in Apple Music, too.)

Episodes are short and succinct, ranging from thirteen to twenty-three minutes. I appreciate the way Marji has broken her points down into easily processed bits. She gives her listeners one new idea each week, then builds on that teaching week by week.

At the start of each episode, Marji introduces the new concept and illustrates it with Scripture, life experience, and simple analogies. In the episode I listened to this morning, she introduced core beliefs and talked about learning to change them. She’s easy to listen to, easy to understand. She closes each episode with a simple application for greater understanding and walks her listeners through it right then.

Marji calls herself “a teacher, mindset mentor, and lover of God’s truth.” She says, “I used to strive and perform for acceptance, while my mind replayed conversations over and over.” But Marji has gradually learned how to confront the lies she told herself about God, about herself, and about other people. Now she’s helping her listeners to do the same thing.

Marji starts by helping her listeners grow in their relationship with God and knowledge of His love. From there, she shows her listeners how this primary relationship is the key to growing confidence and building self-esteem. Marji says, “If you’re ready to feel secure, trust your decisions, and hear God more clearly—this podcast is for you.”

I’m enjoying my walks with Marji. Perhaps you’ll enjoy her podcast, too.

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Photo by sunnie on Unsplash

My First Memories of Earth Day

noreply@blogger.com (Janet Benlien Reeves) — Wed, 22 Apr 2026 21:24:00 +0000

I don’t remember the first Earth Day, April 22, 1970, but I was alive for it. When I was in elementary school, the teachers would give us magnets and send us door-to-door to collect aluminum cans to be recycled and save the world. The magnets, in case you were wondering, helped us distinguish between aluminum and tin. Recycling aluminum was essential because, my teachers taught, the world had almost used it all up. Tin, I guess, could still be tossed. I don’t remember recycling that before the 90’s. But using the magnets to collect aluminum is my earliest memory of environmental action.

I didn’t know on that first Earth Day that special interest groups across the nation united their efforts for the first time ever or that college students, politicians, business leaders, and activists spent that day learning, teaching, and making others aware of issues regarding the health of our world’s environment.

Our world has come a long way since then. Those who use up are taught to give back. Natural habitats are being protected and restored. Endangered species are being protected. Development is being limited so as not to overwhelm. Consequences are more often considered before building starts. People are learning to appreciate this earth and to take care of it, so it will continue to take care of us.

Earth Day isn’t simply a day to be thankful God gave us a planet to live on—though I am thankful for that. Earth Day is a day to learn what needs to be done to heal our planet and to consider ways to do our part.

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Photo by Luke Smith on Unsplash

Hope for a Summer Librarian

noreply@blogger.com (Janet Benlien Reeves) — Sat, 18 Apr 2026 17:50:00 +0000

This week I started reading The Reading List by Sara Nisha Adams, and I am entranced with it. I can’t write a review because I am only on chapter 3, but I can’t wait to see what happens to Mukesh, Aleisha, and others introduced, but yet to be identified. And though I have already read most of the books on the reading list contained in this particular book, I have added those new to me to my own TBR pile.

I am writing about this now because one of the main characters, Aleisha, has my dream job. She is a librarian. However, she is a teenage librarian working only for the summer. (How did this happen?!) Library patrons annoy her if they need help. She attempts to ignore them, hoping they’ll find what they need without bothering her. If they cannot, she is impatient and rude. She admits that she doesn’t know much about books and, therefore, can’t make recommendations. She can only help people find books if they know what books they want, and even then, she directs them to the computer instead of looking up the titles herself or showing them how to do so.

A good librarian can always recommend books, point people in the right direction to find the kinds of books they are looking for, and find lists of books like others for those who are seeking more of the same. A good librarian can also teach people how to use the library’s technology and resources. Aleisha does not have these skills.

But there is hope for her. There is always hope. I believe Mukesh, the other characters, and the reading list are going to help Aleisha to gain a fresh appreciation for the library she works in even as she learns how to help the people she meets there.

I think the best librarians love books, love people, and love connecting people with books and other sources of information. Librarians are matchmakers of the best kind. I hope the patrons of Harrow Road Library will help Aleisha to become that kind of librarian.

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Photo by Trnava University on Unsplash

Thankfulness and Gratitude

noreply@blogger.com (Janet Benlien Reeves) — Wed, 11 Mar 2026 20:07:00 +0000

I’ve been meaning to look up the difference between thankfulness and gratitude for some time now. The other day, however, I stumbled across the information in a book called Up, Down, or Sideways by Mark Sanborn. In chapter 10, he explains that thankfulness is what you feel when someone does something nice for you or gives you something you need or want. Gratitude is your response to that feeling.

So, when someone pays you a compliment, you feel thankful and show your gratitude by saying, “Thank you.” When someone brings you a meal because you’ve been sick, you feel thankful and show your gratitude by writing a thank-you note or returning their dish with a home-baked treat. Other responses to feeling thankful include holding someone in higher esteem, returning the favor, or paying the action forward. John said, “Dear friends, since God so loved us, we also ought to love one another” (1 John 4:11, NIV). We are thankful for God’s love, and so we show love to each other.

Technically, Thanksgiving is a day for showing gratitude; we feel thankful, so we give thanks. Maybe this is why the words seem interchangeable even though they’re slightly different. Feeling thankful when people are kind and generous is important. Responding to that feeling with gratitude in any form shows people how you feel, allows the feeling to linger in your heart, and helps those to whom you offered gratitude to feel thankfulness, too. Our thankfulness is complete when we offer a gracious response.

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Work Cited

Sanborn, Mark. Up, Down, and Sideways. Tyndale House Publishers, 2011.

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Photo by Ina Ramos on Unsplash

Writing Out God's Word

noreply@blogger.com (Janet Benlien Reeves) — Wed, 25 Feb 2026 23:48:00 +0000

“When [the king] takes the throne of his kingdom, he is to write for himself on a scroll a copy of this law, taken from that of the Levitical priests. It is to be with him, and he is to read it all the days of his life so that he may learn to revere the Lord his God and follow carefully all the words of this law and these decrees and not consider himself better than his fellow Israelites and turn from the law to the right or to the left. Then he and his descendants will reign a long time over his kingdom in Israel.” –Deuteronomy 17:18-20, NIV

Deuteronomy 17 contains instructions from God to Moses for the newly founded nation of Israel, God’s own people descended from Abraham and rescued from Egypt. Some of the instructions in this passage are specifically for Israel's king. However, at the time of this instruction, Israel didn’t have a king. In fact, Israel wouldn’t have a king for approximately 350 to 400 more years. At that time, the people asked for a king against the prophet Samuel’s advice and were given Saul in answer. (See 1 Samuel 10.) Yet 350 to 400 years before Saul was anointed the first king of Israel, God knew that Israel would someday want a king and gave that king some instructions.

The instruction that caught my eye was God’s direction for the king to write out for himself a copy of the law that God was giving to Moses at that time. Can you imagine putting quill to scroll to handwrite a copy of the entire Levitical law (that is, laws given by God to Moses to establish the nation of Israel as His people)? God didn’t tell the king to hire a scribe either. He really meant for the king to write out the law for himself. After that, he was to read it all the days of his life.

The evidence presented in the books of 1 & 2 Samuel, 1 & 2 Kings, and 1 & 2 Chronicles suggests that 350 to 400 years later, the kings probably didn’t do this. David, for example, one of the best kings as far as the kings went, didn’t know the proper way to transport the ark. Uzzah paid for that lack of knowledge with his life. (See 2 Samuel 6:1-15.) Had David written out the law for himself so that he knew it inside and out, this tragedy might have been prevented. Of course, I am assuming David didn't know the law. If he did and chose to ignore it, that's a whole different problem. But David was known as a man after God's own heart, so I'm thinking he didn't know the laws for transporting the ark.

In 2 Kings 22:1-13, Hilkiah finds the Book of the Law while having the Temple repaired and has it delivered to Josiah, who has been king for 18 years. Josiah is distraught, tears his robes, and sets about making things right between the people and God. It appears the Book of the Law had been missing for many years. Throughout that time, none of the kings of Judah or Israel, originally the single nation of Israel, had hand-copied the law for themselves.

I wonder what difference it would have made for God’s people and for the people all around them had the kings followed God’s instructions and written out God’s Word for themselves. I believe all of history would have been quite different. Instead of leading God’s people down a path of destruction, the kings could have lead the people to point the world to God’s goodness, providence, protection, and grace. They would have taught the world to bow before the One true King.

* * *

I also wonder what difference writing out Scripture could make for God’s people and for the people all around them today. Like Josiah, there are a lot of people in this world who don’t really know what the Bible really says. They let other people tell them instead of reading for themselves. But even those who do read their Bibles regularly can benefit from writing out the words for themselves. Writing it out helps you remember. It also slows down your thinking, so you catch the deeper meanings of the words. It gives the Holy Spirit more time to impress the words on your heart and into your mind.

I recommend starting small. When you read God’s Word, write out any verses that stand out to you. Then reflect on them and journal your thoughts. Once you get used to doing that, choose a small passage or book to write out over the course of a week: the “Sermon on the Mount” (Matthew 5-7), Psalm 139, Philippians, or First John. When you find value in doing that, you may want to tackle something larger like Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John. Writing out the entire Bible seems incredibly ambitious, and yet, if you can read the whole Bible in a year by reading four chapters a day, you could write the whole Bible in four years by writing one chapter a day. (There are 1,189 chapters in the Bible, so one chapter a day would take about 3.25 years.)

I’m not suggesting we all pressure each other into doing this. It's just one idea for finding our way deeper into God's Word, so we can get to know Him better. I wonder what difference it would make in our lives, in our families, in our communities, in our world, if people tried this. If God told the kings to do it so they would learn to revere Him and follow His way carefully, I think the practice could benefit us, too.

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Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

What My Ancestors Left Behind:

noreply@blogger.com (Janet Benlien Reeves) — Fri, 06 Feb 2026 21:33:00 +0000

What, Therefore, I Hope I'm Leaving

So few so far of mine have left the world I know for heaven. Three grandparents plus one great. Two babies who gave up heart-beating before they had the chance to breathe.

It’s only a matter of time before death begins its grim, but hopeful transfer of yet another older-than-me generation. I will see them again. Or maybe they’ll see me. Who can say?

Our times are in God’s hands.

But those who’ve gone already left treasures:

Grandpa, for instance, always had a story to tell, embellished with humor, his take on events. According to Grandpa, for example, the Japanese surrendered in World War II because they heard the draft had finally captured my grandfather, who was on a ship, on his way. No coincidence of timing in Grandpa’s account of history: the war ended when he showed up. To me, he left his appreciation for poetry, imagination, a well-told story, and the deepest truth.

His wife, on the other hand, always had a list of sights to see. Nobody sat in her house (from which smartphones surely would have been banned.) Grandma’s grandchildren went on outdoor adventures, explored museums, experienced the circus and ballet, and greeted people. If anyone had ever told her of stranger danger, she’d have furrowed her brow, confused. Strangers were mythological. People, however, were friends in the making — some made, some yet to be. I did not inherit this from her, but the ability to tag along on adventures has served me well. She left me this.

Nana always had new greeting cards to show. As a child, I thought she collected them for the pretty pictures and started a collection of favorites I received. Now I know she treasured the senders they represented and their messages. Nana loved her people and longed to keep in touch. She left this longing to me.

My grandma from the other side of the family always had a crochet hook in hand, a project in play. She did not leave this skill to me, but she did leave me a love for making lasting things, sometimes just for the sake of creating. My grandma longed to fill the world with beauty. So do I.

Finally, my great-great-grandfather, whom I never met, left his journals which his longest-surviving child left to me. A daily record in several volumes. Where he worked. Who he saw. What he read. His assessment of each day was almost always a concise, “A good day.” He left his penchant for chronicling to me.

When I go, I wonder, what will I leave?

Here are a few possibilities:

Bookshelves of books. These, I hope, will represent my insatiable curiosity. The desire to learn and keep learning is something I want my descendants to inherit. Making daily discoveries broadens the awe of existence — and of the Creator who makes it possible.

Pens, papers, screens, and keyboards. Just as I inherited Grandpa’s story-telling bent, I hope to pass this on. The world needs embellishments, humor, and fun subtly woven into stories, poems, and essays that present truth palatably.

Meaningful hugs. My best friend in high school, still alive yet missing from my life due to time and distance, was known for her ever-present smile. I cannot offer that and maintain integrity as she could. My heart has experienced too many hurts. Yet, hugs give empathy, understanding, and acceptance. I can offer that. Perhaps the essence will linger as something useful I’ve left.

The peace of a listening ear. For those who find hugs traumatic, as some do — not me, but some — I can listen, and let them unburden. I can hear their stories, treasure their tears, and take some of their trauma with me when I go, leaving, I pray, a measure of relief in my wake.

Not my literal wake, of course, but the wake of my life slowly dissipating as my descendants grow up, raise families, and start new generations who will never meet me, as I never met my great, great grandfather. Perhaps even now, I’m offering them something unrecognized and unintended like the journals my great, great left behind that found their way to me. As I’m living, I’m leaving what I’m leaving. I pray it will add some value to the lives that follow after me.

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I wrote this essay one year ago this month in answer to a writing prompt. Last month, though, my father passed away, and so I am posting this essay here now. I'm just beginning to process this new loss: analyzing, journaling, feeling. I've written three poems so far. And a eulogy. I'm not ready to add my dad to this particular list, but someday I'll chronicle his gifts. He left me more than I can write about. I pray I'll pass it all on.

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Photo by Julia Joppien on Unsplash

Tea Party Blues and Grass-Stained Ballet Shoes

noreply@blogger.com (Janet Benlien Reeves) — Wed, 14 Jan 2026 22:36:00 +0000

It’s my day to play with the grandchildren while their daddy works at the Lighthouse Mission and their mommy runs errands, then teaches a class on ministry to the unhoused. Both have arrived home for a quick lunch. Bridget, my daughter-in-law, has brought Aspen, my four-year-old granddaughter, home from a ballet lesson. Aspen looks entirely too grown up in her pink tutu. Her blonde hair in a ponytail that reaches her shoulder blades swings back and forth as she walks.

Aspen wants peanut butter and jelly for lunch. She gives me step-by-step instructions: “First, you spread the peanut butter on one side of the bread, Memaw. Then you put the jelly on the other and smush it together.” She demonstrates. I smush. Then I put the sandwich on a plate and cut it diagonally in half at her command. She peels the two pieces of bread apart, licks off the peanut butter and jelly, and leaves the bread.

Griffin, my youngest grandson, is napping. He won’t even know he missed his parents’ brief visit home. Kashjen, the middle child, is learning to stay in his seat during snack time at preschool. I will get to see him for only a few minutes before I go home, but I will make the most of them. I’ll read him a story; we’ll snuggle. He’ll tell me that nothing happened at his school today.

My son finishes his microwaved burrito and steps out onto the back porch to survey his domain: a fenced yard for the kids to play in, his workshop once a garage, a chicken coop housing three laying hens, and an assortment of plants native to the area: lavender, crocosmia, peonies. It’s too early in the year for blooms, but they are coming! Beyond the fence is a quarter acre of lawn surrounded by blackberry vines and climbing trees. A fire pit for enjoying Smore’s and Storytime sits at the farthest point from the house.

Aspen follows Justin out onto the porch as she always does. But Bridget calls to Aspen: “Change out of your ballet shoes if you’re going out into the yard. Let’s keep them clean!”

“I will, Mommy,” says Aspen.

Bridget waves to her husband and daughter, gives me a quick, one-armed hug goodbye, and leaves through the front door. Justin, who has crossed the backyard to examine the area around the chicken coop, calls to Aspen: “Come, see the dead rat!” She doesn’t hesitate; she jumps off the porch and into the grass. She’s still wearing her ballet shoes.

In that moment, I am slightly younger than my granddaughter, bending over a just-my-size table and chairs on the concrete slab in my family’s backyard. Grandma is coming to visit, and I am preparing to host a tea party for her. The table is set. I just need something to serve.

“Can I fill my teapot with water, Mom?”

Her eyes widen, anxious, then turn squinty hard. “Why?” she asks.

“So that Grandma and I can pretend it’s tea.”

“Since you’re pretending, just pretend there’s something in the teapot. You don’t need to use water, Janet.”

I look inside the empty metal teapot and sigh. Pretending is more fun with water than air. But Mommy said no.

Now Grandma is sitting at my table. I am preparing to pour the tea when she looks toward the faucet on the side of the house. “Why don’t you fill the teapot with water, Janet? Wouldn’t that be fun?”

I peer into the teapot and mumble, “Mommy said no.”

Grandma’s eyes open wide. “Why would your mommy say no? A little water never hurt anything. Go ahead and get some for our tea.” She doesn’t have to command me twice. I only spill a little water on the ground, a little on the table.

Grandma and I are laughing together over something silly when Mom joins us. She sees the spill. “Why are you using water, Janet? I said no.” Grandma stays silent; she does not explain. She does not tell my mom that she told me to get the water. I am in trouble. The tea party is over.

Watching Aspen caught by accident between two grown-ups, I can’t remember what consequence I faced for my disobedience so long ago. I only remember feeling that Mom had treated me unfairly and that Grandma, with her silence, had betrayed me. She had let me take the blame and receive the punishment instead of defending me. So now I feel protective of my granddaughter. I cross the yard to be close to her. She’s studying the rat.

Justin has been setting snap traps since he discovered, a month ago, that the rats were terrorizing the chickens, trying to steal their food. This rat is the fourth he’s caught. Not sure that I want to see a dead creature in a trap, I peek over Aspen’s shoulder. She is my shield. What I see is not so bad, though: a glossy, black-furred rodent taking a nap — with a metal bar clamped across his neck. I wrinkle my nose, then lean over to whisper in Aspen’s ear, “Go change your shoes.”

Her eyes widen, and she scampers back into the house, leaving the back door open. I glance back at the rat. Had he been bred for such, he might have made a cute pet. Now Justin just needs to dispose of him fast. I hear the backdoor slam and turn toward it as Aspen jumps off the porch in sparkly pink and lavender swirled, knee-high rainboots, her ballet shoes safely ensconced inside. She found a way to keep them on her feet. Clever girl.

You wouldn’t expect a tiny ballerina all pink and glitter to be excited to see a dead rat, but Aspen is curious about everything life and death and bodily function in between. She’s going to be a surgeon someday — and a mommy. She told her daddy she has to hurry to grow up before the sick people die. She told her mommy she prays every night that God will give her babies when she grows up. Neither parent is eager for her to grow up fast. Neither am I.

I wonder what I wanted to be when I grew up when I was her age. I can only remember wanting to be a missionary, a writer, and a mommy. There was also a world-class figure skater phase. Mom wouldn’t let me take lessons, so the world missed out on what I had to offer there. God found a way to let me enjoy all three of the other occupations, though. I wonder which of Aspen’s dreams for adulthood will become reality someday.

I also wonder, for the first time, if my tragic tea party memory is as accurate as I have always believed. Just last year, I experienced the unreliability of memory while reminiscing with my younger brother on the phone. Our conversation went something like this:

“You’ll never believe this, Steve. A friend of mine has a daughter who just lost her two front teeth the same way you did. Do you remember that day?”

“You mean when your weight on the teeter-totter caused my side of it to rise and hit me in the mouth?”

“I mean when you jumped off while I was still up in the air and got yourself smacked in the face.” We laugh. We can do that now. “I remember sitting in Grandma’s gold Chevy Impala, holding tissues from Grandma’s purse against your mouth while Mom and Grandma tried to decide whether or not to take you to the ER.”

Silence.

“Mom wasn’t there, Janet.”

More silence.

“Of course, she was. She and Grandma decided they couldn’t wait for a dentist appointment and took you to the ER.” As I speak, I picture the car pulling up to the curb. Two pillars hold up an extension of the roof and frame the hospital entrance. I can’t see anyone getting out of the car to go into the hospital, though. I just know it happened. I don’t remember anyone moving the car to a parking space either. At this point, all I know is what I believe must have happened: “I had to wait with . . . somebody . . . in the Impala because children weren’t allowed inside of hospitals unless they were patients.” I hesitate, twisting my mouth to the side while thinking. “I can’t picture who waited with me. It must have been Grandma, though. Mom would have taken you inside.”

“That’s not how I remember it, Sis. Our mom was not there.”

A phone call to my mom confirms the truth of this. She didn’t learn about the accident until later. None of us knows who was with us that day, whom Grandma would have been talking to. Perhaps it was her sister Aunt Dorothy or her mom, my Nana North. I know that the discussion about taking my brother to the hospital happened, but Grandma wasn’t talking to my mom.

My theory about this flawed memory is that the event was so traumatic that I wanted my mom to be there. My little brother was hurt. My seven-year-old self felt responsible. I needed my mom. My memory tells me she was there, but she and my brother agree she was not.

So maybe my tea party memory is skewed a bit, too. What if I only thought I mumbled to Grandma that Mommy said no? What if I only thought those words? What if I only wondered why Mom would say no, instead of hearing Grandma ask? I may have joyfully and without thought accepted Grandma’s invitation to go ahead and get water just as Aspen accepted her daddy’s invitation to go see the rat without first changing her shoes. How easy would it have been for Aspen to grow up believing that her dad had betrayed her had Bridget caught her outside in her ballet shoes? –had Justin raised his eyebrows in surprise to learn of Aspen’s disobedience and kept quiet to support his wife?

Or what if Grandma wasn’t even at my tea party? What if she was my pretend guest? What if I only imagined her giving me permission to get real water for tea? That would certainly explain her silence when Mom confronted me. Will Aspen remember I corrected her, or will I even exist in her mind’s account of the ballet shoe memory? Was a whisper in her ear enough to keep me in the picture, or will she believe she just suddenly remembered that she forgot to change her shoes? Will she remember the moment at all?

I will never know the answers to any of these questions. But I know my family loved me just as Aspen’s parents and I love her. Sometimes adults fail to communicate with each other. Sometimes children, on a whim, obey the authority figure immediately in charge regardless of another’s instructions. Sometimes kids get in trouble because they get confused. In both my tea party memory and the current event, everyone was at fault, and no one was at fault. It all just happened like gravity just happened when my brother climbed off the teeter-totter too soon — but not in the same way that the rat got his neck broken trying to steal chicken food. Gravity didn’t intend to harm. But the rat with no sense of morality still did intend to steal.

We’ve all messed up, mismanaged, and misunderstood, and so, we all must forgive each other as God chooses to forgive us and keep on forgiving for life. That’s the gracious way we all get along. Without grace for each other, memories become accusations become rats stuck in traps in our minds. “That was unfair” becomes “You are unfair,” even if, maybe, you were not. Grace says, “You loved me and did your best to raise me right, and I like the way I turned out, so thank you. I forgive any mistakes you happened to make along the way.” Grace says, “Because I love you, because we’re both fallible, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.”

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Photo of ballet shoes by Haley Parson on Unsplash

Tyrant vs. True King:

noreply@blogger.com (Janet Benlien Reeves) — Fri, 19 Dec 2025 23:55:00 +0000

The Life King Herod Missed

King Herod was a mentally unstable tyrant whose paranoia led him to murder anyone he viewed as a threat to his throne. He not only murdered all the baby boys of Bethlehem under the age of two in his attempt to kill Baby Jesus (Matthew 2:16), but he also murdered one of his wives, her sons, and other members of her extended family. In his later years, he even killed his own firstborn son, Antipater (Perowne). King Herod was not a fictional character, yet writers will recognize that his life fits the character arc of a Tyrant, one of the shadow arcs of the King, perfectly.

In her book, Writing Archetypal Character Arcs: The Hero’s Journey and Beyond, K.M. Weiland says, “Because the King Arc is all about surrendering power and prestige as a preparation for the descent into the underworld of elderhood (and, eventually, the end of life), the Tyrant’s rejection of this arc is ultimately an attempt to reject his own mortality” (133). If we apply this to King Herod, we see that he rejected his own mortality by destroying his living legacy, thereby descending ever more deeply into madness as he did.

Rather than groom the next generation to follow in his footsteps, he tried to ensure that no one would ever succeed him on the throne. Perhaps this is why he tried to take his own life just before his death. I wonder if he finally realized he wouldn’t live forever and attempted to leave this world on his own terms. I don’t know this to be a fact, of course. Still, I wonder.

I also find it interesting that Jesus entered the world as a newborn baby during the reign of this troubled tyrant king. Note the contrast: rather than fight for his throne, Jesus left it behind to become one of us.

He entered the world as a vulnerable baby who had to be nurtured and protected. He had to grow up—"in wisdom and stature, and in favor with God and man” (Luke 2:52). Jesus is God become man: fully human, fully God, humbly identifying with us in our human weakness and yet our only hope for salvation from our sin.

Jesus did not deny his mortality. Rather, he embraced it so that He could conquer death once and for all.

That’s why He now reigns as our eternal king.

Herod wasn’t the only tyrant in the Bible. Rulers such as Pharaoh (Exodus 1-14), Saul (1 Samuel 15), and Hezekiah (2 Kings 20:12-19) all lost their legacies to selfish concerns. None of them won their battle against death.

But Jesus did.

He came to love and to serve the people He came to save. When we follow His example, we nurture others into His Kingdom. We participate with God in building Jesus’ legacy. Paul says such a life makes his joy complete (Philippians 2:1-4). It will make our lives complete as well.

* * *

^“In your relationships with one another, have the same mindset as Christ Jesus:

Who, being in very nature God,
    did not consider equality with God something to be used to his own advantage;
rather, he made himself nothing
    by taking the very nature of a servant,
    being made in human likeness.
And being found in appearance as a man,
    he humbled himself
    by becoming obedient to death—
        even death on a cross!” –Philippians 2:5-8, NIV

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Works Cited

New International Version. Biblica, 2011, https://www.biblegateway.com/versions/New-International-Version-NIV-Bible/.

Perowne, Stewart Henry. “Herod: King of Judaea.” Britannica, 4 Dec. 2025, www.britannica.com/biography/Herod-king-of-Judaea. Accessed 19 Dec. 2025.

Weiland, K. M. Writing Archetypal Character Arcs: The Hero’s Journey and Beyond. PenForASword, 2023.

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Photo by Jon Carlson on Unsplash

Peace on Earth Made Possible Now

noreply@blogger.com (Janet Benlien Reeves) — Mon, 08 Dec 2025 22:50:00 +0000

In many Christian traditions, peace is the focus of the second week of Advent. As we reflect on this prompt, we may think of Jesus, the Prince of Peace (Isaiah 9:6), and look forward to the day when He’ll make peace our permanent state of existence. No conflict. No worry. No confusion. No frustration. No anger. No heartbreak. No pain.

But peace is more than something to look forward to. It’s also something we can learn to practice now. Throughout His life on this earth, Jesus showed the way. We learn that way by studying the Gospels. Through our determination, with the help of God’s Spirit, our practice of peace can help make this world more harmonious now.

This is true because Jesus is our peace. Ephesians 2:14 tells us this. In the passage containing this statement, Paul is addressing hostility between Jews and Gentiles. He says that Jesus reconciled, that is, made peace between, the two groups through His death on the cross (v. 16) and that through Jesus, all people, not one group or another, now have access to the Father (v. 18). Jesus taught peace. Jesus lived peace. Now Jesus lives in us, enabling us to carry His peace into every situation.

According to Romans 15:4-6, it is our focus on Christ that unifies us as His people. In these verses, Paul describes a progression:

The Bible teaches us about the endurance of those who came before us. They did not have it easy, but they kept following God.
As we follow in their footsteps, persevering no matter what, we discover hope. Our hope is in the promises of God that we know He will keep. Our hope is in Jesus Christ.
Shared hope helps us develop a Christ-like attitude toward each other. We’re all serving Christ together. All sincere believers are striving to live His way, enduring by the encouragement of God’s Word.
This Christ-like attitude toward one another brings us together to praise God. One unified voice. Harmonic peace.
We begin to experience life as it is in heaven here on earth (Matthew 6:9), God’s will being done as we wait for heaven.

In Charles Dickens’ classic A Christmas Carol, Ebenezer Scrooge had to look at his past to understand its upcoming impact on his future before he could find the motivation, that is, the sincere desire, to live right: to treat people with loving kindness, compassion, and equity. In doing so, Scrooge found peace.

Similarly, at Christmas, we look at the Baby who came to give us a future in heaven. As we come to understand that Baby is now and forevermore will be our king, we find the motivation, the sincere desire, to live God’s way. Without Baby Jesus, we’re no better off than Dickens’ Jacob Marley.

Jesus is our king. He is not our future king. He is our king now. As we rely on His Spirit to direct us, He will bring our thoughts and actions into harmony both with God and with each other. By focusing on Him, we will experience His peace.

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“The wolf will live with the lamb,
the leopard will lie down with the goat,
the calf and the lion and the yearling together;
and a little child will lead them.” –Isaiah 11:6, NIV

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Photo by Phil Robson on Unsplash

The Hope of Christmas

noreply@blogger.com (Janet Benlien Reeves) — Tue, 02 Dec 2025 23:51:00 +0000

At Christmastime, we celebrate Jesus’ birth—

as we live the life made possible through His death and resurrection—

while we look forward with hope to His return.

We focus on His Nativity, but we know that event has already happened. Christ’s birth is in the past, not something we hope for now. We celebrate Jesus’ birth at Christmas the way we celebrate birthdays, anniversaries, adoptions, and other annual celebrations of one-time events.

But Christmas is more than a birthday celebration. Christmas is a remembrance of hope. We no longer hope for the promised Christ child. He has already come. Instead, we hope—look forward to—the second coming of our grown-up, mission-fulfilled, crucified, resurrected, and glorified Savior and King for eternity. The remembrance and reality of the first event is our hope for the second. We live in this hope every day.

Just as God was and is and is to come (Revelation 1:8), through Advent, we celebrate what happened in the past, what is happening in us now by the work of God’s Spirit, and the future God has promised will come. How perfect that the first Advent—a baby in a manger—is also the analogy for our hope.

Left to nature, babies come when they come. We hope. We anticipate. We study the signs. We become impatient and think the baby will never be born—and then the baby is here. We celebrate the child’s birth. In John 16:21-22, Jesus Himself compares this experience to what His disciples will experience when He returns. Verse 22 says, “Now is your time of grief, but I will see you again and you will rejoice, and no one will take away your joy.”

Long ago, Jesus came.

Now, Jesus lives in us as we live in His light.

Someday, Jesus will return.

He’ll come, as before, not as a baby but at just the right time.

Christmas is a time to celebrate God’s promise kept while anticipating His promise of Christ’s return fulfilled. Romans 13:11 says, “And do this, understanding the present time: The hour has already come for you to wake up from your slumber, because our salvation is nearer now than when we first believed.” Every year we celebrate Christmas brings us another year closer to the day of Christ’s return.

* * *

“There’s a day coming
    when the mountain of God’s House
Will be The Mountain—
    solid, towering over all mountains.
All nations will river toward it,
    people from all over set out for it.
They’ll say, ‘Come,
    let’s climb God’s Mountain,
    go to the House of the God of Jacob.
He’ll show us the way he works
    so we can live the way we’re made.’”

--Isaiah 2:2-3, The Message

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Photo by Philippa Lowe on Unsplash

Book Review: The Sacred Art of Slowing Down

noreply@blogger.com (Janet Benlien Reeves) — Mon, 17 Nov 2025 18:30:00 +0000

More than once, I have told my husband something like: “My head knows that this current experience is not like that experience from years ago, but it can’t convince the rest of me.” At these times, my head has declared the situation safe and my status secure while my body and emotions have reacted with anxiety, stress, and a need to control. I respond with panic and a desire to fight (not literally), take flight, or freeze. My body and emotions work together, demanding a quick solution to a problem that doesn’t exist. My head throws up its figurative hands and says, “There is no reasoning with them!” Thankfully, this occurrence is rare.

But if you understand this (IYKYK), The Sacred Art of Slowing Down by A. C. Seiple can be a useful tool as you work to bring your thoughts, emotions, spirit, and physical reactions together. It is a tool that God can use to help you heal what’s broken, so that you can move forward in a healthy way.

As I read Seiple’s book, I especially appreciated her gift for making complicated concepts clear to readers who may not have studied therapeutic theories and techniques as extensively as she has. Her personal stories give her words credibility, and her on-target analogies also help the reader understand. Yet her footnotes and lists of resources can lead interested readers to sources for deeper study.

I also appreciated Seiple’s “Pause and Play” exercises intended to help readers slow down and pay attention to what’s going on inside of themselves. These made reading the book feel like working with a personal therapist who assigns practice exercises between sessions.

This year, I have been specifically praying the following verses for a few people I know, myself included: “May God himself, the God who makes everything holy and whole, make you holy and whole, put you together—spirit, soul, and body—and keep you fit for the coming of our Master, Jesus Christ. The One who called you is completely dependable. If he said it, he’ll do it!” –1 Thessalonians 5:23-24. From what I’ve read in Seiple’s book, I believe she also prays this prayer or something like it for her readers. This is the overarching message of her book. I encourage you to read The Sacred Art of Slowing Down.

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I did not receive compensation of any kind for writing this review. I borrowed the book from the library, read it, and reviewed it because I wanted to.

It Happened in the Sunshine

noreply@blogger.com (Janet Benlien Reeves) — Tue, 14 Oct 2025 23:19:00 +0000

. . . When I Closed My Eyes

The mid-afternoon sun fell through the upstairs window onto the comfy chair. Finding the invitation irresistible, I sat down, leaned back, and closed my eyes. Blanketed in sunshine, I fell into a false sleep through which I could hear the pitter-patter of production all around.

When the little girl with golden hair shrieked and fell from the top of the garage, landing with a thump, I considered opening my eyes. Instead, I scrunched them tighter. The clanging of the firetruck assured me help was coming. The girl would pull through fine as ever as she always did, perhaps with a new scratch or two.

The clatter of cars lining up was the next sound to invade my not-quite-nap. The orange-haired girl with freckles would be manning the red open-wheel racer. The boy with the orange ball cap and permanent smirk would drive the yellow prototype. Owners who never left their assets would drive those remaining cars. I didn’t have to look to know. The engines rumbled. The race was on. I turned my face into the sun.

Then, there was only silence until the floor creaked in front of my feet. Two hands planted themselves on my knees, and I opened my eyes to see my favorite three-year-old face searing his intensity.

“Grandma, come play with me now.”

I came.

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Photo by Courtney Chestnut on Unsplash