Category Archives: peace

the year of deep and wide

Posted on by October 12, 2016

The little brown library is right in downtown Wasilla, and Finnegan was tucked in the babywrap while we wandered the aisles, just us. We have some kiddos at home who have been testing the limits of my sanity lately and any chance to get some time away is cold water to the thirsty. I ended up in the same section I always do – and nope, it wasn’t parenting, self-help, psychology, or substance abuse.

It’s literature. The classics, the poetry and essays, the biographies of authors and their collections in an aisle four feet wide and full of rest; and I stood in the middle of it, swaying Finn to sleep as the old floor creaked under my left foot.

the year of deep and wide: making 2016 about the call to pray, educate, and change the atmosphere through worship

I was among friends here: Twain, Dickens, Alcott, Wilder. Even without reading all of their histories, I know the people by their works and we are kindred. They have stared down blank sheets of paper without having all the answers, and won.

Their biographies, autobiographies, and memoirs were right in front of me. I wondered how hard it must be to come up with a title for these — what phrase sums up a person’s life? What few words do you choose?

And He started speaking to me about 2016, this blank sheet right in front of us. It is a decisive year for our family, our church, and our community. It’s also a pivotal year for our nation.

What am I doing as a mom to influence the Kingdom? What is our mission as parents? As adoptive and special needs parents? We can’t make choices for our kids, determine their course, or ensure that they will follow Jesus, change the world, thrive in life, or even brush their teeth. These are all choices they have to make.

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But our reach is deep and wide. We have the great leverage of influence, both at home and in our culture. We educate ourselves and our children. We create the atmosphere of our homes and communities, and sometimes, we have to fight to maintain that atmosphere against sabotage. And we intercede as though every prayer is water to the thirsty, filling an ever-broadening lake for the lost and wandering.

What phrase sums up a person’s life? What few words do you choose?

In fact, because Christ said we could only get into His world by being like children, many Christians have the idea that, provided you are “good,” it does not matter being a fool. But that is a misunderstanding….Christ never meant that we were to remain children in intelligence: on the contrary, He told us to be not only “as harmless as doves,” but also “as wise as serpents.” He wants a child’s heart, but a grown up’s head. He wants us to be simple, single-minded, affectionate, and teachable, as good children are; but He also wants every bit of intelligence we have to be alert at its job, and in first-class fighting trim.

– C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity

This is the year of deep and wide for us: stretching further down and reaching further out than we’re used to, submitting to expansion and trusting for big things.

This is the year we fill the blank sheet in front of us with three focused objectives in a greater measure than ever before: The calling to pray, educate ourselves, and change the atmosphere around us through worship.

By wisdom a house is built,
and by understanding it is established;
by knowledge the rooms are filled
with all precious and pleasant riches.
A wise man is full of strength,
and a man of knowledge enhances his might,
for by wise guidance you can wage your war,
and in abundance of counselors there is victory.

– Proverbs 24:3-6, ESV

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They read from the Book of the Law of God, making it clear and giving the meaning so that the people understood what was being read.

Nehemiah 8:8, NIV

What if this is the year that shows that no election or ruling, no circumstance or special need, no loss or persecution separates us from the One who made us more than conquerors? What if this is the year that takes the deeps and shallows of our history, and shows us how He flips them for His glory? Because the nails went deep and the arms stretched wide, and the shredded body that the enemy thought was defeated actually brought life, redemption, and power. Dunamis.

This is the year that trains us to dig deep and wide into His presence, conveying the atmosphere of heaven to earth, because we are not overpowered by the blankness. We are bringing life to it.

stay with me

Posted on by December 22, 2025

Five months old, his first Christmas. Finnegan watches eight people constantly buzz around him, and all he can do is scoot backwards.

stay with me: when the star shone on our circumstances and showed us the Savior

He’s almost crawling, but so far only his reverse gear works and he ends up pushing himself farther away from what he’s trying to reach. I can tell he wants to go places, to keep up with everyone and get things for himself. Sometimes he fusses about it. But he’s patient, usually, and waits.

I sit with him on the floor, watching him as he watches everyone else: brothers coming and going, sisters stopping to coo over him before moving on. Even the cats, those lazy things, run circles around us. He looks at me with those blue eyes and I can tell he’s asking, Stay with me? And I tell him, It’s okay, buddy. I’ll stay with you. I have a book to read, he has some plastic keys to shake. And we sit in each other’s company, watching the laundry and dishes pile up as the afternoon goes by.

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What all this means is the tree is probably safe from getting knocked over this year. Next year will be a different story.

Next year will be a milestone, because I turned the big 3-9 last week. My grandma, that brave lady who started 2015 in the emergency room, called me on my birthday and asked how old I was again. And I told her, again.

“Really!” she said, feigning disbelief. “Are you sure you’re not just 21?” (Don’t you love her?)

“Pretty sure. I could go buy something scandalous though, and see if they card me for it. Vince has been wanting some bourbon to cook with.”

“Ha! What would you do if your pastor saw you at the liquor store?” Grandma is Baptist, don’t you know.

“Well, I guess…I’d ask what he was buying.” Ha, yourself.

(Side note: The kids have been wanting to make homemade vanilla for about a year and we bought a bottle of alcohol for that purpose. We finally got around to reading the super-easy instructions last weekend, and I confess it was more than a little disturbing to hear Afton calmly say, “I’ll go get the vodka.” But I digress.)

Our conversations are usually all over the place, coming back to touch on a few things more than once because of her memory loss. She always asks what we’re having for dinner (twice this time) and I told her I was all out of sorts because Vin took all the kids with him (all! the! kids!) to run errands so I could have a few hours to myself. They got home around naptime, but I’d been totally irresponsible and forgot to make lunch. She said she does that too, only she does it on purpose.

But she’d been extra responsible that day, because dinner was well on its way at her house, even though it was still afternoon. She starts making it at sunset, which is around 3 pm here lately. Her vision has deteriorated and she doesn’t like the dark. She no longer drives, reading and writing are no picnic, and she is more dependent than she’d like. Sometimes she fusses about it. But she’s patient, usually, and waits.

She can’t tell that Finnegan’s eyes are blue, and she can’t see the dimple in his left cheek that he inherited from her. She could not have known what this year held for her twelve months ago.

Quiet minds cannot be perplexed or frightened but go on in fortune or misfortune at their own private pace like the ticking of a clock during a thunderstorm.

– Robert Louis Stevenson, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

Most of us have had to adjust one way or another this year, and we’re all facing unknowns that we don’t have answers for. We had no idea what this year would look like. If we’re honest, we’ll admit that we don’t know what Christmas will look like, and it’s only days away.

We’ve sat in one place when we wanted to move. We’ve moved when we wanted to dig our heels in and stay still. We’ve been restless for the next big thing, and anxious about getting what we’ve asked for. We’ve wanted to go places, to keep up with everyone, and get things for ourselves. We’ve watched things darken around us, and wondered if anyone else notices.

We’ve been Joseph, feeling unprepared and out of options. Or we’ve been Mary, holding onto promise in a pregnancy she didn’t plan, and seeing its fulfillment in the most unlikely of places.

Wherever we’ve been, He’s said, It’s okay, Love. I’ll stay with you.

A year ago we faced our own unplanned pregnancy. The Sunday before we told anyone, I remember singing You make me brave, but I was wiping my eyes and feeling anything but brave. But we sang it again recently, and I was holding our fair blond Finnegan — all baby curves and chubby cheeks and sleepy, sweepy eyelashes – and I know more than ever that He delivers on His promise. He is the God-With-Us who delivers us from the unknown, and from the dark outside and in us.

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For our family, by God’s grace, next year we will be moving to a house with more than three bedrooms. More woods, and less homeowner restrictions. There are a lot of unknowns at play and we’re not totally sure what He’s moving us into. We have no idea how the adjustment is going to affect two of our kiddos who are just learning to handle the upheaval of a four-day weekend.

This is the season that transforms darkness to light, when the star shone on our circumstances and showed us the Savior: we celebrate the baby who was kept warm in burial wrappings because He was the lamb of God, and laid in a food trough because He was also the bread of life.

Delivering and providing are what He does, so it doesn’t matter too much that we have no idea what next year will look like. Next year will be a different story.

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related: go bravely: learning to see in the dark

the day of small things

Posted on by October 15, 2021

Our oldest is now a big fifteen-year-old. He reaches things off the high shelves, opens tight jars for me, and chops wood. He even (gasp) shaves. He was our smallest baby — now he wears Vince’s shirts that have shrunk in the wash.

the day of small things - Copperlight Wood

On his big day, Vin took him and four of his siblings on a birthday outing and left me at home with the other two kids and the task of making clam chowder for lunch. Piece of cake.

The two boys who stayed home played close by while I chopped potatoes and onions. They spun gears in the dining room, wearing the varnish off the table. Maybe I should’ve stopped them. Maybe I should’ve told them to simmer down, just a little. But I didn’t – it was a beautiful moment, them playing together like normal kids, making noise and messes and laughing memories. We need more of this.

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The music was loud and the sun streamed in, and the house was completely still except for the shrieking activity around the table and the flames under the soup pot. Maybe that doesn’t describe stillness to you, but to me it was like our house was in a coma.

What to do, what to do…I was at a loss once the soup was simmering. It’s astonishing how inspired you can be with three shots of espresso and only two kids in the house.

I could read. I could turn on the computer and open that file of 60,000 words I’m working on. I could wash the kitchen windows. I could re-pot the rootbound plant on the counter. I could do almost anything short of flying to the moon — but no, I only had a few minutes before they all came back home, and I needed to keep an eye on the stove to keep what was simmering from scorching.

I scrubbed the grime and grungus off the sink dropper – such a little thing. The hot water ran and the steam rose, and stainless steel started to shine again. The sun hit it and sparkled, and I realized this was the first day of blue skies after a week of dreary, smeary grey in the weary early winter.

We had our first frost last night – this morning the lawns are all grey, with a pale, bright sunshine on them: wonderfully beautiful. And somehow exciting. The first beginning of winter always excites me; it makes me want adventures.

– C. S. Lewis, Letters to Children

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The big boy and crew came back hungry for chowder and full of news about the new Lego store. This kid got his first Lego set when he was three years old. That was only ten minutes ago, and now he builds them into robots. Little things into big things.

…but who dare despise the day of small things, if it has proved to be the dawn of mighty ones?

– Charles Kingsley, Westward Ho!

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I’ve been working on this blanket for years – you can tell, because the color scheme dates it back to the sixties (kidding, but not kidding…) – and it’s finally down to just two squares and trimming left. In this day of imported department store specials, it feels both trivial and sacred to spend time on it compared to everything else going on in and around us. There’s always more to be learned, taught, cooked, written, cleaned, hugged, and disciplined; the dishes and laundry are never done. There are pages to read, and pages to write. And there is always more stitching to do – but the difference with stitching is that you can see exactly what progress has been made.

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A finished book can go on a shelf, but there’s no way to measure what was really absorbed in the reading. The hamper will be full again tomorrow. And you can teach and lecture and assign consequences till the cows come home but those kids are still going to tie fake spiders to the tail of their little brother’s favorite stuffed animal, and try to get the cat to walk on his front legs wheelbarrow style, and color their own body parts with green marker. I’ve, um, heard it happens. In some families.

But with this blanket, I can see exactly what’s been achieved. This row, that round of colors – done. And that is incredibly satisfying in the midst of all the other intangibles.

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Our kids are big and little, busy and slow, high school and infant, and life right now is full of their needs and their changes and their noise. These days I often feel rootbound, spinning gears. I typed most of this one handed while holding this almost-four-month-old, who will be a big fifteen-year-old in about ten minutes. There are a million things I could do, but I don’t regret holding him. I don’t regret keeping an eye on these kids to keep what is simmering in them from scorching.

The dirty socks, the worn-down pencils, the minutes that fill long and short days – small things, baby steps, leading to mighty movements. It is the sacred monotony of these early days that write history.

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This is an excerpt from Work That God Sees, available here.