The sign hangs in the living room, a constant reminder of the call to choose joy anyway. I couldn’t have known when I put it up months ago that I would need it so much this year.
And now, Advent is near, inviting us to participate in a season of longing for the deliverance only Christ can bring, reminding us that there can be no true hope, joy, peace or love without our beautiful Saviour.
Can I see Him in all things?
The recycling truck rumbles down the street in the slow light of dawn. Kids work on various projects, inspired after a good night’s sleep. I can hear one’s pencil on her paper, bringing characters to life and crafting wild adventures for them, page after page. The other three bring me piece after piece made of felt and pompoms, carefully fashioned as Christmas surprises.
“Mom, look at this!”
The excitement of this season is still palpable in our home. Although things are different now in many respects, some things remain the same, grounding us in the familiar, reminding us of who God is in the midst of it all.
Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail.
They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.
I say to myself, “The Lord is my portion; therefore I will wait for him.”
The Lord is good to those whose hope is in him, to the one who seeks him;
it is good to wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord.
Lamentations 3:22-26 (NIV)
Lord, may these words wash over me in this season. Give me eyes to see Your new mercies every morning. May I remember that You are my portion, that You are good, and that it is good that I wait quietly for Your salvation.
We enjoyed a lingering fall with brilliant colours and warm weather long into the month that typically turns cold rather quickly. Flowers stood tall and even re-bloomed with the warmth of fall sunshine!
Then, as if on cue, the first big snowfall of the season blew in and with it, a mix of excitement from the kids and moods from the grownups. It’s always a bit of an adjustment to the extra time it takes to get up early, shovel a path to the vehicle, scrape a layer of ice off the windshield and then get on roads like glass to get where you need to go safely.
Sometimes it snows in the morning and melts by the afternoon, but this particular snowfall has stuck around thanks to the arctic air that settled in behind it. The skies are still grey and lifeless, bringing the realization that winter is on its way and in short order.
With it, the darkness. Last year I decided that whenever I felt the heaviness of the shorter days of November and December, I’d light a candle and enjoy that cosy atmosphere only winter can bring, but this year feels much heavier. As a family, we have loved deeply and lost significantly in the past several months, so grief mingles with joy in nearly all aspects of our life.
Will the dim flicker of a small candle on a cold, dark November evening help me rediscover the beauty of a soft glow?
Whether or not it does, I will choose to light the darkness with a simple flame of hope because we are not alone.
“Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God. For just as we share abundantly in the sufferings of Christ, so also our comfort abounds through Christ. If we are distressed, it is for your comfort and salvation; if we are comforted, it is for your comfort, which produces in you patient endurance of the same sufferings we suffer. And our hope for you is firm, because we know that just as you share in our sufferings, so also you share in our comfort.”
To our complete amazement, round and glowing orange, it quickly ascended from behind the blue clouds of dusk to reveal its fullness.
“It’s the REAL Harvest Moon!” A small voice shouted with glee. “Just like in the books!”
I lifted my youngest up so he could see over the fence. Next year, he’ll be tall enough to see it without my help.
His face lit up with complete astonishment. “It’s like a pumpkin! An actual pumpkin!”
We’ve been talking about this moment all week long, watching the waxing gibbous moon with images of a cantaloupe moon above a field full of ripe wheat dancing in our minds.
This year’s Harvest Moon did not disappoint. The size was impressive, the colour was just right, the brightness was astounding. After a few more oohs and ahhs, my small crowd dispersed and darkness brought an end to our day.
We’ve seen that old moon year after year, haven’t we? And as the decades roll by the wonder is lost on us. Other things capture our attention, like to-do lists, projects and responsibilities. Oh look there’s the moon, we might think to ourselves, if our minds aren’t already chock-full as we drive from one end of the city to another to accomplish our task list of programs, plans and errands.
And then we encounter the world through the eyes of a child and their gift of noticing. At around 12 months, they begin to point, drawing our eyes to things we otherwise would have overlooked. Then words form, and as they grow up they begin to notice more of the world around them. With eyes to the dusky sky, mouths agape with amazement, they declare, “Oh LOOK! There’s the MOON!”, as if they’ve only ever seen it in books. It’s a celebrity of sorts.
They marvel at the zinnias in bloom, the sunflower finally opening its petals, a bumblebee lazily humming about the yard, a small grey bunny hopping in the dim morning light, a dark chocolate-coloured moose standing on the edge of a small wood with its golden trees reflecting in the still pond below.
The wonder of creation is not lost on them. I pray it remains long into their adult years, remembering their mom sharing glimpses of flowers and bugs, trees and skies, drawing hearts and eyes up toward the One who made it all.
In years past, we’ve spent the three weeks before Thanksgiving intentionally making time to count our blessings in some tangible way with handprint leaves on the wall and a thanksgiving tree of sorts. I often felt as if Thanksgiving was a drive-by turkey dinner and a slice of pie sandwiched in the middle of a busy school season and the onset of the inevitable illnesses of colder months, so I intentionally made a way for our family to participate in activities that would orient us toward gratitude and in praise of the One who gave us everything. Three Weeks of Thanks has been a wonderful way to make sure that our Thanksgiving meal isn’t just a blip on the calendar on the way to a candy-saturated holiday.
As our stage of life shifts, I’m finding new ways of intentionally creating space for gratitude and thanks in our home. Every Thursday for over a year, we’ve taken time at the breakfast table to share something we’re feeling thankful for that morning and I’ve noticed a pattern even in this practice. Most of the things are tangible blessings like home, food, family and friends, but from time to time they’ll venture into the intangible and hit on something that stirs me.
“Thank you for that hard thing we had to go through as a family because it brought us closer together”.
It brought 2 Corinthians to my mind:
But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed.
2 Corinthians 4:7-10 (NIV)
Are we listening to our children? Are we discovering what makes them who they are? Are we delighting in them? Granted, alongside the listening, discovering and delight there may be an equal or greater amount of difficulty or discipline, but we cover all in prayer, confident that the Lord is at work in our homes.
As we prepare for Thanksgiving in the next week, may we continue the good, hard work of learning to love our kids well and point them to the One whose goodness knows no bounds.
Golden shades of autumn kiss green treetops as we sail down the open road.
A last-minute weekend away took us through the hot, dry prairies and up into craggy mountains and lush valleys, along turquoise lakes, bubbling creeks and shady, tree-lined highways.
At night, the frogs and crickets sang with the sound of the river running far down below. In the morning, the bees began their busy work flitting from flower to flower and squirrels chattered in branches high above.
So much beauty in such a short time.
Isn’t summer just like that? Maybe life is too, in some ways. Raising four littles, I’ve often heard the saying, “The days are long but the years are short”. No kidding. Heading into a new school year with these four, I can see that we’re well into the next season of life. Cute sayings and silly happenings, spills and fights, laughter and tears — they happen differently now than they used to, and that’s okay.
We find ourselves entering the dance with big kids and young teenagers. I’m learning as I go, and sometimes it feels like I’m flying blind. More often than I’d like to admit, I’m clumsy and don’t always get the steps right but praise the Lord for His grace in each moment as I learn the lifelong lesson of letting go.
Shades of autumn will give way to the silvery touch of winter. I can see the edges of it in my eyes and in my hair. What will become of the home we once had? What will become of the relationships forged in the fires of this family? Will they grow together or apart? Will they remain deeply rooted and established in the love of Christ? Or will they forget their first love after all?
As we begin a new school year, my prayers are going far beyond friends and schoolwork to the growing-up of these young people God has placed within our care. So many things in life are beyond my control, but I know the One who holds it all together, so I turn to Him with my heart’s cry:
Lord, in Your mercy, hear my prayer.
Tend to my sweet children today. Protect them in every way. Remind them of Your deep love for them. Draw them in to take hold of life’s true treasure, and cover them with Your grace. Give them courage and wisdom as they learn from their own mistakes and the mistakes of others. Open their ears to good counsel, and help them discern the lies that entangle. May they find their strength in You. Jesus, be near each one today. Bless them and keep them, make Your face shine upon them and be gracious to them. Lord, give them peace. Help me to love them well, the way You have loved me. And when suffering comes, remind them of who You are, and who they are because of You.
The zinnias are coming up and the sunflowers are standing at attention. Blush pink, bright red and orange-yellow roses are in bloom. We’ve enjoyed more than a few handfuls of Saskatoons and our sweet little strawberry plants have given us about three beautiful ripe berries altogether this summer. They’ve found refuge from hungry birds under the shade of the hollyhocks, which is probably why we’ve found any at all! Deep purple pansies nod their heads in the wind, grateful for the bit of sunshine cast their way for part of the afternoon.
We’ve had more rain this July than in years past so things are still looking quite well but the long, dry, hot days of summer are upon us and soon shades of yellow and brown will fill the horizon.
The dust is settling in our world, but not the way we had hoped. May and June surprised us with some deeply sad and extremely hard things, and now we are left with the pieces that remain.
“Dear Lord, thank you for today. Thank you for this food. And please help us because we don’t have a grandpa anymore. Amen.”
Our six year old son prays this daily as we gather around our old dining set. We are wading through the thick reeds of grief and loss, but like catching a glimpse of a stunning marsh bird in flight, or hearing its song, our experience has been peppered with the heart-lifting joy of a child’s perspective.
What a gift.
Tomorrow would have been my father-in-law’s 71st birthday. We wanted more time. We planned for more time. We knew the sudden diagnosis meant less time in the long run, but four weeks felt much too fast.
He loved good ice cream.
Tomorrow, we will eat the best of the best, and we will remember.
“Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider him who endured such opposition from sinners, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.”
I’ve written these posts for years with the hope that one day my children will be grown and interested enough to read them. So this, my dear children, is for you.
When a whirlwind of grief descends upon you, upending the life you once knew, put your hope in the Lord. His love never fails, even when suffering surprises you with its coldness.
I remember my affliction and my wandering, the bitterness and the gall.
I well remember them, and my soul is downcast within me.
Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope:
Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail.
They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.
I say to myself, “The Lord is my portion; therefore I will wait for him.”
The Lord is good to those whose hope is in him, to the one who seeks him;
it is good to wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord.
It is good for a man to bear the yoke while he is young.
Let him sit alone in silence, for the Lord has laid it on him.
Let him bury his face in the dust— there may yet be hope.
Let him offer his cheek to one who would strike him, and let him be filled with disgrace.
For no one is cast off by the Lord forever.
Though he brings grief, he will show compassion, so great is his unfailing love.
For he does not willingly bring affliction or grief to anyone.
The frozen fingers of a cold spring have finally released, and early summer heat has breathed new life into the neighbourhood.
We’ve witnessed the return of nearly all the winged migrants in the past few weeks, flying back and forth over our backyard as they build their nests and prepare for another season of fledglings. The unseasonable temperatures have coaxed the leaves from the trees and the early-blooming flowers up out of the ground to bob their heads in the warm wind.
My irises stand tall in full bloom, two weeks early. The strawberries are coming up, the Saskatoons and apples are full of blossoms and the hollyhocks I sowed last year are returning with great enthusiasm.
My life feels tied to the rhythm of the seasons. Maybe it’s because I spent the first part of my life in an agricultural community centred around seeding and harvest. You can take the girl out of the country…
I don’t mind. In fact, I welcome the week in May where we prepare the ground and plant the garden. As I was turning soil and pulling weeds in the front bed last night, a sense of calm came over me. The job felt insurmountable, but with my two helpers, we made quick work of the quack grass and mixed the soil for some new perennials. I’ve often joked that after fifteen years of trial and error, I should just read a book about gardening and learn how to do it right, but trial and error seems to be my gardening style and I’m making peace with it.
My arms bear the marks of weeding under the rose bushes that I planted one year just to see if they’d take. They’re my favourite addition to our yard. They bloom from June to the first snowfall without fail, and their ruby red rose hips bring a cheerful pop of colour in the late days of fall. Our Saskatoons have barely ever given us enough berries to make a pie, but we enjoy daily handfuls in late July. The apple tree is a saga in itself, and after eight years we’re seeing enough fruit to have a taste. It’s more of a hobby garden than anything else, but it’s lovely. I battle critters all season long, so I guess we can consider it a pretty good year if we get anything out of it at all!
So many times I’ve wondered if I’m wasting my time and energy trying to grow things in less-than-ideal conditions on a shoestring budget, but I’m amazed at the beauty I’ve witnessed in this humble hobby garden. I’m even more amazed at the things the Lord is teaching me through this simple summer pastime, and at how good it is for my soul. Every year is different, and every year I’m changed by it.
I wonder if there are other areas of life that I am pouring into, areas that feel like they are a waste of time, areas of costly investment that one day will reveal fruit I cannot even imagine!
“So then, just as you received Christ Jesus as Lord, continue to live your lives in him, rooted and built up in him, strengthened in the faith as you were taught, and overflowing with thankfulness.”
Colossians 2:6-7 NIV
Every gardening year I’m reminded that sending my roots down deeper into Christ is the only way to truly thrive.
“No family will always be there. No talent will always be there. Your looks will certainly not always be there. Whatever it is you put your anchor down into, if it’s a circumstance, it’s like putting it into the water. Everything but the promise of God is water.” – Tim Keller
In the late days of fall, I received a beautiful little gift of red blooms to brighten my days. It was lovely for the first week or two, and with some watering I prolonged its life. But a short while later, it withered away to almost nothing. The stems were black and death hovered above its roots.
In years past I’ve simply tossed a plant like this into the compost with a shrug, but this year I wondered if it could be brought back to life. I cut it back, re-potted it, watered what was left and then waited. Nothing seemed to be happening, but I gave it a spot in the pale winter sunshine and watered it when needed. The Christmas season came and went and once the tree was down and the decorations were away, there stood the little plant, a slight bit of green poking through the dirt.
Amazed at its resilience, I faithfully cared for it and watched it grow and expand into a pretty little burst of green on the top of the piano. One day, half the plant died! So I cut it back again and nurtured what was left. As the weeks went by and spring crept closer, it was joined on the top of the piano by pans of vegetable seedlings, a pretty little succulent, some sunlight-hungry hollyhock sprouts, a mini-rose bush on a plant stand and an experiment that has us attempting to grow sunflowers in a small zip-top bag.
After already watering it once this week, I noticed this morning that it was shrivelled and sad. To my surprise, the leaves dropped at my touch. Disappointment set in. I had a plan for this little plant and we were nearly at the finish line! I was hoping that if I could keep it alive another month, I might be able to transplant it to the front planter outside and watch it bloom in the summer sunshine.
Can this little November plant be saved yet another time? I got to work pruning the sections that were definitely dead, gave it deep drink and found it a new home with more direct sunlight away from all the other plants. Only time will tell if my plant CPR will work, but the consistent work of checking, watering, re-potting and pruning was a necessity to give the two remaining stems a chance to survive.
After over a decade of trying my hand at growing things, I still have so much to learn, not only in plant care but in lessons that transfer beyond the soil to my heart.
Jesus’ words in John 15 come to mind (John 15:1-8 NIV):
“I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener. He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful. You are already clean because of the word I have spoken to you. Remain in me, as I also remain in you. No branch can bear fruit by itself; it must remain in the vine. Neither can you bear fruit unless you remain in me.
I am the vine; you are the branches. If you remain in me and I in you, you will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing. If you do not remain in me, you are like a branch that is thrown away and withers; such branches are picked up, thrown into the fire and burned. If you remain in me and my words remain in you, ask whatever you wish, and it will be done for you. This is to my Father’s glory, that you bear much fruit, showing yourselves to be my disciples.”
In springtimes past, a blast of warmth would settle in like an early alarm and in mere hours winter faded into memory. The natural world was instantly alive with tiny rivers rolling through the neighbourhood while golden rays raised new blades of grass and nudged the bearded irises awake. Bumble bees began to bumble and ants poked their heads out to see what all the fuss was about.
This year our late freeze is reluctant to relinquish its dominance. Crunchy deep snow remains in shadows where the temperature remains barely above freezing even when the sun is shining. The melt feels more methodical and calculated, with stubbornly chilly overnight temperatures keeping the ice and snow in place and modest daytime sunshine slowly shrinking the piles in the places it can reach.
We went for a walk near sunset yesterday and watched thin layers of ice form on the surface of the daytime puddles as the temperature dipped below freezing. Frozen diamonds stretched across the surface of the water, settling in for the night. We knew that in the morning we’d hear the water run again, but for now the world goes back to sleep when darkness falls.
We’re winter-weary, but we live in a place where spring snow brings the moisture we need for our growing season. It’s a mixed blessing, really, when March flurries begin to fly. We know the snow won’t stay, so we sigh and pull on our boots and hats one more time before heading out into the spring chill. One last round of tobogganing, one last cup of hot chocolate, one last winter memory before the muddy season.
Hope remains, though. The days are getting warmer and the spring sun is doing its annual work of revelation, displaying what’s been laying under layers and layers of late February snow. Rocks that need to be removed from the grass. Trash that blew into the yard before the snow flew. Decomposing pinecones and leaves from fall.
The ugly things.
One afternoon, after basking in the glorious sunshine pouring into our front room, I looked out the window to see an old coffee cup lid laying on the flat, brown lawn. Clearly it had been there for weeks, buried under the snow. The sun had melted the snow away, leaving it behind.
It was ugly.
Easter is near now. With a yawn and a stretch, the world is slowly waking. Is my heart waking too? Do I find that I am moved by the things of God? Or is there a layer of icy self-protection? Is sin hardening my heart and weighing me down?
What ugliness will the warmth of the Holy Spirit reveal in me?
“Not everything has to be a life lesson,” a friend joked to me several weeks ago.
“I can’t help it! It’s how I see the world,” I laughed in return.
Ordinary everyday life pricks my heart with parallels to the spiritual. I learn lessons from garbage laying on the lawn. Like a dirty, discarded coffee cup lid, sin lies hidden from view until the Holy Spirit does His revealing work in our hearts, melting away the denial and self-deception that prevents us from growing and thriving in His image.
Lord, do your work in me. Though it is painful, I surrender to Your gentle formation of my heart. Break the chains that bind me and the banish pride that blinds me.
This Easter season, wake me up to the truth that the cross isn’t just for everyone else – it’s for me.
Wake me up to your grace and goodness. Wake me up to your deep, incomparable love. Wake me up to the forgiveness and freedom You bring by Your death and resurrection. Wake me up, Lord, not only so that I benefit, but so that those You have placed in my life will bask in the glow of Your love poured out through me.
Soften my heart so that I might love others the way You have first loved me.
1 John 4:9-11 NIV
“This is how God showed his love among us: He sent his one and only Son into the world that we might live through him. This is love: not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins. Dear friends, since God so loved us, we also ought to love one another.”
A young woman sitting on the summer grass in a white strapless party dress with a black stripe, legs hidden under her large skirt. Her dark hair was swept back in a classic early 50s style, dark lips curved into a slight smile.
The first time I ever saw the faded black and white photo I couldn’t believe it was the same sturdy woman who served me the best homemade perogies fried in onions and butter and always had ice cream in her freezer. I peered closer. It was definitely her, just not the way I knew her.
Our grandmothers weren’t always grandmothers, were they?
Decades after the party dress was gone and only the family album remained, a gaggle of grandchildren ate carrots straight out of her garden, dipped fresh rhubarb in a dish of white sugar from her kitchen and clambered up into the dusty hayloft while she mucked out stables in her tall rubber boots, jeans and t-shirt, cropped bleached blonde hair blowing in the prairie wind.
A stark contrast to the figure on the lawn.
Strong childhood memories are tied to pickled beets, beet borscht and finely crafted doilies, and her signature classic fragrance was Estee Lauder Youth Dew. She moved away when I was still young and distance kept her from the day to day of my life, but I still wrap my family in blankets made with the crochet skills I learned from her strong, well-manicured hands.
Hardy and hardworking, sharp as a tack, quiet but feisty, she loved classic country music, Scrabble and her “Story”, a particular soap opera with a 50-year run. She was a bit of a dish fairy with a penchant for abandoned coffee mugs. At least, she thought they were abandoned. Every time you’d put down your coffee mug for more than a few minutes, regardless of how full it was, you’d blink and she had whisked it away to the sink full of warm, soapy water for a scrub. “Where’s my coffee mug?” you’d say and she’d chuckle and shrug in her way.
Despite a remarkably challenging life, her faith formed her and held her. She rarely spoke of the difficulties but the lines in her face revealed more than words ever could. In recent years, she found herself in a more restful season living closer to family, and I’m so thankful my children came to know and love her, sharing Christmases together in our home. Over the past nine years we visited her at the seniors lodge, then in long-term care and finally, her hospice room where we sang her favourite song while and my eldest daughter played violin, like her great-grandfather had so many years before.
Tears would slip down those finely etched cheeks, her words barely intelligible as she sang along.
This weekend, she passed into the loving arms of Jesus, finding the true rest and peace she so longed for. On my final visit, I leaned close, kissed her cheek and told her I loved her and that I would see her again. Although her speech was muffled by her illness, I could still hear her say, “I love you too”.
I come from a long line of determined women.
Some would say stubborn, I would say tenacious.
Some might say bullheaded, I would say unshakeable.
With Stephanie Nicole 