The Water Before Us

The Water Before Us

by | Jul 13, 2023 | Thoughtful Thursdays

Last week, the story of Hagar and Ishmael made its way into my reading. Like most other tales from Genesis, it’s so familiar that my eyes sometimes glaze over when I get to it. “Yeah, yeah,” I think to myself. “I know. They got kicked out, ran out of water, angel shows her a well…”

Which is why I stared at those familiar words a good long time last week when something jumped out at me that never had before, despite the dozens of times I’ve read this story.

So she put the child down under a shrub, and then went and sat down opposite him, about a bowshot away; for she said to herself, “Let me not watch to see the child die.” As she sat opposite Ishmael, he began to cry.

God heard the boy’s cry, and God’s messenger called to Hagar from heaven: “What is the matter, Hagar? Don’t be afraid; God has heard the boy’s cry in this plight of his. Arise, lift up the boy, and hold him by the hand; for I will make of him a great nation.”

Then God opened her eyes, and she saw a well of water. She went and filled the skin with water, and then she let the boy drink.

Genesis 21:15-19 (emphasis mine)

You can tell from the bold words here what jumped out at me this time. God opened her eyes, and SHE SAW A WELL OF WATER. He didn’t send that angel to touch a rock or the earth and make water spring up where there had been none before. She didn’t discover a hidden stream. She suddenly saw a WELL–as in, access to water dug by men. Something that would have been there all along.

Her salvation, her child’s salvation was always right there in front of her. She just couldn’t see it.

This isn’t recounted to us like the story of Pharaoh or even Paul–God didn’t harden her heart or blind her first, then reveal it all to her. She was just a scared mother, tossed out of her home with her son. She’d given him the last of their supplies. They were wandering in the wilderness of Beersheba.

Did she even bother looking around? Or did she just assume, “This is it. Sarah wanted us gone, and we’re gone. Done for. There’s no help for us out here.”

She was defeated. Utterly, totally defeated. So defeated that she didn’t even bother calling out to the God of Abraham for help. Why should she? Abraham was the one who had sent her out here. He had to have known that one skin of water wouldn’t be enough. Maybe she was angry with him. Maybe she was hurt. Or maybe none of that had a chance of lodging in her heart, because it was too full of impending grief.

She didn’t want to watch her child suffer and die.

Think about this for a minute. If I was out in the desert with my child and we were out of water, I’m pretty sure this wouldn’t be my reaction. I would hold him close. I would suffer right there with him. But maybe I’m judging too harshly, actually.

She put him under a bush. The only shade she could find–but bushes aren’t large. Probably not big enough for both of them. My first thought was, “Wow, Hagar, that was selfish–leaving him to die alone while you go away because you can’t stand to watch.” But you know, I could have it all wrong. I think it’s just as likely, more likely, that she gave him the last scrap of mercy she could find in that wasteland. She gave him the last of their water. She gave him the only sliver of shade. She did every last thing she could do.

And then she was out of ideas. Out of power. Out of resources. She knew–she KNEW–that this was it. They were both going to die. And that heartache did her in.

Then Ishmael did something very simple.

He started crying.

Now, let’s take a step back. This narrative reads like she’s toting around a toddler, but we know that Ishmael was ten years older than Isaac, who was himself three or four by now. This isn’t a child. This is a teenager.

A teenager, so weakened by their plight that his mother has to all but carry him. A teenager, a teenage boy who just watched his mother give him their last bit of hope and walk away to die. A teenager whose father had just cast him out of the only home he’d ever known.

He cried. He cried not in the confusion of a toddler, but with the desperation of a fully reasonable near-adult who knew, just as his mother did, that this was the end. He was too weak to crawl out from under that bush. He’d been too weak to crawl under it, she’d had to put him there. He cried. No words. Just the last of his water reserves, dripping from his eyes.

And God heard him. Neither he nor Hagar had cried out to God. But He heard him anyway. He heard him, because He’d never taken his attention off that abandoned mother and son. He’d told Abraham to obey Sarah’s wishes, knowing full well that He had great things in store for Ishmael too.

Still, He let them wander. He let them get to the end of their ropes. He let them try every…last…thing they could think of. He’d let them use up the last of their resources. He’d let them give up.

Maybe (though I don’t pretend to know the mind of God here!), He waited that extra moment, just to see if they would look beyond their despair to what was there before them the whole time. Or maybe He waited until the last vestiges of pride had fallen away. Maybe they had to be just that desperate before they were ready to hear the voice of an angel. Before they were ready to accept help from the hand of a God they hadn’t even petitioned directly.

The well was there the whole time. There. Just there. It was waiting, right there, as they stumbled to that bush, curled themselves into a ball, and gave up. It was there, right there, when they resigned themselves. It was there when Ishmael let himself cry.

It was there–but it took an act of God for Hagar to see it. It was there–and it was not only the direct answer to the wordless prayer of Ishmael’s cry, it was also the key to that promise, that command, the angel spoke just beforehand. “Arise, lift up the boy, and hold him by the hand; for I will make of him a great nation.”

The words, spoken to a woman blind with despair, could have sounded mocking. They could have sounded impossible. They probably felt unreachable. But then God opened her eyes, and she saw her salvation. She saw how they could take that next step toward a future worth chasing.

If I thought Hagar a little selfish at that abandonment on first glance, the last words of the passage I quoted should have corrected me. She did exactly what any mother would do, after she filled that skin–she gave the water to her son. She filled the skin and brought it directly to him.

How often are we like Hagar and Ishmael in this life? How often do we feel rejected by those who should love and protect us? How often do we feel like we’ve used up the last of our reserves? The last of our ideas? How often does life feel like a wilderness with a glaring, punishing sun and not enough shade?

How often do we do all we possibly can for our children, or our friends, or our spouses, or even ourselves, and KNOW that it isn’t enough? That we can’t save them?

How often does our own despair blind us to the help just a few steps away?

There aren’t always happy endings to our stories, or at least to our chapters. There are tragedies. There is loss. There is grief. There is pain. Sometimes, there really is no well in the wilderness–nothing that will stave off the horrible reality we dread most.

But there is always a God who hears our cries, even when we don’t have the words to direct them to Him. There is always a God watching us, ready to keep His covenant and fulfill His promise.

That doesn’t mean that He will “make a great nation” of each of us. We aren’t all promised prosperity and good health and long life.

But we’re all promised the best reward imaginable when we let Him take us by the hand: being in His presence. And when we’re there, by His side, it isn’t even about relief from the pain and sorrow and tears anymore–it’s about HIM. All about Him. It’s about trusting Him so much that pain and sorrow are understood. Unfathomable to us as finite humans…inescapable in the presence of the divine.

In a sermon I’ll never forget, our pastor said, of heaven, “I don’t want to be there because I’ll be free of pain or reunited with my family. Those are just happy side-effects. I want to be there BECAUSE THAT’S WHERE JESUS IS.” When we’re in His presence, that’s why the other pains and fears fall away. They can’t exist in the light of His face. They’re cast away. Forgotten.

Hagar’s pain, her hopes, her fears, and her entire existence revolved around that boy she tucked under the bush. The boy whose hand the angel instructed her to take. Her son. Her future. Her hope.

Our existence ought to revolve around the Son too. And when we take Him by the hand, we can cling to Him just as He clings to us. Because He is our future. Our hope.

And the wellspring of living water is right before us…if only we open our eyes to see it.

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Throwback Thursday – Being Good

Throwback Thursday – Being Good

by | Jun 29, 2023 | Thoughtful Thursdays, Throwback Thursdays


Be good. It’s a familiar refrain, one we probably say to our children a gazillion times. Whenever we send them off to a friend’s house, or on those days when The Sibling Wars are especially fierce. It’s understood that there are the good things to do and the bad. That those are, to a point, what define us. That it’s by what we’re judged by the people around us, at the least.

And in my ongoing quest to figure out how to be who God wants me to be in this world that seems more intent upon pursuing all the bad things rather than the good, I came across this verse.

“For this is the will of God, that by doing good you may put to silence the ignorance of foolish men— 16 as free, yet not using liberty as a cloak for vice, but as bondservants of God. 17 Honor all people. Love the brotherhood. Fear God. Honor the king.”
~ I Peter 2:15-17 

 
In this section, Peter is cautioning people to live a Godly life before the world, abstaining from lusts of the flush and sinful things. Obeying the government. Then these verses above. I’ve no doubt read them quite a few times, but they really struck me the last time I did. Look closely.
 
By doing good you my put to silence the ignorance of foolish men.
 
What does that mean? It means that our actions speak louder than the words of our enemies, of our detractors. It means that by doing good, doing the will of God, we point to Him, and in the face of it, no one can really say anything bad about us. It means that by being/doing good, we force the other side to bite their tongues. Because how can they argue with what is universally acknowledged as good?
 
But then it goes on. Let’s examine verse 16. …as free, yet not using liberty as a cloak for vice…
This reminds me of the part in I Corinthians where Paul says, “Look, guys. You’re free from the law. That means all things are lawful for you. But don’t be stupid. It doesn’t mean all things are good for you, that all things are helpful. Act like they are and you’re just going to become a slave to them.” (That’s the Roseanna paraphrase.)
 
We are free. Yes, absolutely. Faith in Jesus frees us from law, from religion. But we’re still responsible for our actions in the world. And what’s more, people are still watching us. So we don’t want to use freedom as an excuse to do bad things. That’s just stupid. We have to find the balance to strike–embracing the freedom without abusing it. Rejecting the chains of the law, be it the ancient ones that Jesus was arguing with or the ones the church was pretty quick to develop within the first couple hundred years of Christianity–but not betraying the spirit behind all those constricting rules.
 
And here’s the clincher. …as bondservants of God.
 
I’ve talked before about what it really means to be a bondservant of God. (Read that post here. It’s one I go back to frequently.) In a nutshell, it means we freely turn our will over to Him. We swear to serve Him for all our lives, and in return we become part of His family, part of His household. A servant, yes, but one beloved by our master and even able to inherit. So if we’re living out our liberty as bondservants of God, then that means EVERYTHING WE DO is for Him. In His interests. What He asks of us.
 
It means we’re going to show respect to those in authority. We’re going to love our brethren in Christ. We’re going to be good citizens. We’re never going to forget what God can do. We’re going to be good. And because we are, others will see and respect us and love us and seek God. It means that the worst thing people will be able to say about us is that we follow a strange God who doesn’t do the things that the world does, doesn’t worship what the world worships, and leads others to this same God. 
 
Now that’s a criticism we should all seek to have lobbed at us!

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Throwback Thursday – Capability

Throwback Thursday – Capability

by | Jun 22, 2023 | Thoughtful Thursdays, Throwback Thursdays

Originally Published April 2018. It’s amazing to look back over the last 5 years and see how things have shifted and changed. Yet the truth of this message remains. I hope you find some refreshing today.

I’m busy.

This is indisputable fact. I’m writing 6 books in 18 months, I homeschool my kids, I do much of the day-to-day running of WhiteFire Publishing, I design book covers and interior layouts, I cook, I (occasionally) clean, I knit, I’m pianist at my church, I’m a ballet mom, and I teach a class pretty much every semester at our homeschool association. There are days when I’m just so exhausted it’s all I can do to think.
But it’s funny, right? I look back at where I was, say, seven years ago. Only one of my kids needed to be taught. I was working on my first book that would be published by someone else. WhiteFire was only two or three authors other than me. I did no design work. Xoe had just started ballet, so it was only one night a week (now it’s two). We didn’t do Bible study yet at our church. I had no responsibilities in our homeschool group. My house was more of a mess than it is now, and we more often ate canned soup for dinner.
And I felt so overwhelmed. I’m talking, break down in tears because I felt like I couldn’t do it all overwhelmed. My constant prayer was that God would expand my time. That He’d refresh me because I was so drained. That somehow He would do it all for me, because I didn’t think I could.
That’s a familiar refrain in the world. I can’t tell you how many times I hear someone say, “Oh, I could never ______.” Fill in the blank.
I could never homeschool.
I could never write a book.
I could never work from home.
I could never work outside the home.
I could never go into foreign missions.
I could never give that up.
I could never take that on.
I could never . . .
And it’s true, you know? We can’t just do everything. Especially not on our own. But with friends, with family, with our churches, and most importantly, with God, we can be equipped to do exactly what He calls us to do. No more…but no less.
But how often do we let our fears, insecurities, and laziness interfere with that call? How often do we give up on or not even attempt to do that thing God has whispered in our ear because we don’t think we can?
Back when Xoe was in kindergarten, I was seriously considering giving up on this whole homeschool thing. I didn’t think I could anymore. I couldn’t write and teach and take care of a toddler all at the same time. That was that time of overwhelming, when it was all so much, so heavy, that I was just exhausted by it.
Around that time, we had a healing service at our church, led by a Spirit-filled couple visiting from another church in our association. I remember slipping into a pew at the back of the church–so I could slip out again with my toddler if necessary. There weren’t a lot of people there–maybe 15 or 20. I didn’t want to draw attention. But I knew I needed something. I wasn’t sick, but I was tired. Still, I didn’t want to take the time of these guests when there were people there so desperate for a healing touch and me…I was okay. I was fine. I was getting along.
But the husband of the couple came back and slid into the pew in front of me and turned to face me. I’ll never forget what he said. “You don’t need a healing. But you need…something. Right? Refreshing?”
I’m not one for tears, but they filled my eyes at that moment, and I nodded. “I feel so overwhelmed,” I said.
So he prayed for me. He prayed that God would shore me up, that He’d be my strength, that He’d breathe new life into my spirit and refresh me. He sat there for probably ten minutes and talked to me about putting on that Spiritual armor every day–and told me that sometimes wearing it isn’t so we can be on the offensive, but on the defensive. That sometimes he imagines curling up into that armor and hiding in it, as if it’s a turtle shell.
Because when we hide in Him, He takes care of it all.
That evening, something shifted. Maybe I didn’t have a physical illness that needed to be healed, but my spirit needed it. And my spirit received it.
Never, in the intervening seven years, have I ever again felt like I did back then. Oh, I get tired. Exhausted. Frustrated. Overwhelmed. But only physically and mentally. Never spiritually. Thanks to that shift, I kept on homeschooling…and man. I know my kids would have been fine wherever they got their education, but I can’t even count all the amazing moments we would have missed out on had I given it up when it really wasn’t the time for me to step aside from it!
I didn’t feel capable. And maybe I wasn’t. But He was. He is.
With God fighting our battles for us, we can do whatever He asks. It isn’t easy, but it isn’t supposed to be. The thing is, it’s possible. We become capable, in Him, of doing the things we are not capable of doing by ourselves.
I really can’t tell you what changed that day in that back pew of my church. I can just tell you that the things that exhausted me then are but a portion of my daily tasks now. We get used to burdens until they don’t feel like burdens anymore–that’s part of it. The weight that it took all our effort to lift when we first started our training becomes easy over time if we keep working our muscles, right? The same goes in life. In our tasks. In our callings. In our spiritual lives.
I’m not saying busy is the best state to always be in. And I’m not saying there aren’t still plenty of things that I have to say “No” to or delegate to someone else. I’m certainly no Superwoman.
But we’re never asked to do the things He calls us to alone. We’re just asked to step up, be willing, and follow in His footsteps.

Do you ever struggle with feeling capable of doing what you need or want to do?

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When We’re Seen

When We’re Seen

by | Jun 8, 2023 | Thoughtful Thursdays

I was in fourth grade. I can still see the classroom, I still remember where my desk was. It was recess time, but it was too cold (or maybe rainy?) to go outside, so we were playing an indoor game. Only, I didn’t feel like it. So I sat down at my desk and put my head on my arms. I remember my teacher, Mrs. Canon, coming over to me and pressing a hand to my forehead. “Are you not feeling well, sweetie?”

“I’m okay,” I said. “I’m just tired. When I get tired, I start to feel sick.”

Mrs. Canon smiled. “In this case, I think you’re tired because you’re sick. You feel a little warm. Let’s go to the office and call your mom, okay?”

I remember the emotions that surged in my little 9-year-old heart at that. At realizing that maybe it was something real, maybe I needed more than a good night’s sleep. I remember being so grateful that this teacher I loved had taken time out to check on me, to walk me down to the office of our primary school while the other kids threw the beanbag around the circle. I remember the compassion in the receptionist’s eyes as she dialed my home phone number for me and handed me the phone.

And I remember breaking to pieces when I heard my mom’s voice. She asked me what was wrong. I told her I was sick. And I started crying. Not because I was that sick–it was just the flu, gone in a few days. No, I wasn’t crying because of how I felt in my body. I was crying because of how I felt in my heart.

These women, these women who took care of me day and night, cared. They saw the truth of me, even when I didn’t. And they helped. My mom was at the school in a matter of minutes, taking me home and tucking me onto the couch with a movie and a blanket. I don’t actually remember that particularly, I just know it’s what she always did. Because that’s what love does. And that’s what our hearts always need.

A couple weeks ago, I was having a bad week. Though usually I’m an ace at leaving the worry to God and putting my nose to the grindstone, that week it just wasn’t working for me. It all felt like too much. Or rather, like not enough. Like no matter how hard we worked, we were always going to come up short. I spent hours that week walking or jogging or swinging and just pouring my heart out to God. And I know He heard me, because I know He always does. I just didn’t feel it.

I’m a bit of a stoic. I can admit that. Sharing my feelings doesn’t come naturally to me when I’m in the grip of them, even with my husband. One of the reasons I knew we were meant for each other was that he seemed to understand, even when we were teens, that if he let me hold my silence, I’d hold it indefinitely. Instead, he made me talk. Open up. Share what I was feeling, even–especially–when I didn’t want to. But if left to my own devices, I just button my lips to anyone but God and adopt the “suck it up, Buttercup” mentality.

I don’t know why. It’s just who I am. Who I’ve always been. I would rather put my head down on my arms at my desk and suffer in silence than let anyone know I’m not feeling well.

When I was a kid, I could count on someone noticing. My teachers, my mom, my grandmother. They always knew. They always asked.

As an adult, it’s different. Sure, my husband will notice, but sometimes he’s right there in the same storm with me. So if I need to talk about it with someone who isn’t, that’s on me. And, for me, that’s hard.

It was Thursday by the time I finally reached out to my best friend–having been in this particular funk since the previous Friday night. A week of just crying out to God and feeling like I was banging my head against a wall. So finally, I answered her “How’s your day going?” question with the truth. “Not great. I’m stuck in my head…”

I talked it through with her (on chat, so typed it through, I guess). And she saw me. She understood. She’s been there. And just having that conversation broke through the dam.

My teacher, my mom back in fourth grade…they didn’t make it better. Their attention and love didn’t make the flu go away. But it made me better, in my heart. And the same is true now. Being seen and understood by a friend doesn’t solve the problem of circumstances–but it solves the problem of my heart.

And it reminded me of why I’d felt like God wasn’t doing anything: Because He moves through His Church. He shows His love not just through the familiar Words of Scripture (though He uses that, without question!), not just through mental reminders. He shows His love through the people who love Him. Through His family. When kids snuggle up in their parents’ laps for comfort, it’s an echo of what we’re always called to do. To curl up in the security of God’s loving family, knowing that we’ll help each other, see each other, understand each other because He loves us.

But we have to take that step. We have to open up. Be vulnerable. We have to cry out to each other, not only to the Lord. He hears us, yes. He will answer. But many, many times His answer comes through His people. And while He nudges them to reach out to us, often that comes as a question. “Hey, how are you doing? How’s your day?” And we have to be brave enough, vulnerable enough, to answer.

This is something I struggle with, time and again. I think I inherited my English ancestors’ stiff upper lip to a rather debilitating degree, LOL. It’s part of my nature–a part that can be helpful in the short run, when it’s a passing thing, but which I’m still learning to overcome too. Because I need to be seen and understood, as surely now as when I was nine.

I shy away from it because it breaks me a little, and I don’t like to break. I feel weak when I break. But that’s how I’m made stronger too–through those relationships, and through the faith that reminds me that it’s only in my weakness that I can let God be strong for me.

It’s only when we let others really see us that our hearts can receive His healing touch.

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Onward and Upward

Onward and Upward

by | Jun 1, 2023 | Thoughtful Thursdays

I’ve been blogging for a lot of years. As in, since my second child, Rowyn, was a baby. I’ve written about the things God has whispered to my heart as I rocked my kids to sleep, as I took them to Story Time, as I watched my two little ones grow and become who they are. I’ve shared reflections on their birthdays and about the different seasons of life.

On my podcast intro, I say that I muse “at the crossroads of faith, family, and fiction.” Well, today we’re meandering a bit down that Family path. Because this weekend, my firstborn baby graduates from high school.

It’s something most families face, right? The age of Littles gives way to the age of Bigs, and then those kids do crazy things like get jobs and boy/girlfriends and start looking at colleges and planning out the rest of their lives. As in, the parts of their lives that will take them away from these four walls we’ve raised them in.

Cue all the emotions. The pride, the joy, the excitement…the disbelief, the sadness, the missing-them.

I remember many, many years ago I wrote on here about how to build independence in our kids, even as we hold them close. Because, I observed, the goal with kids isn’t to keep them kids forever. It’s to help them grow into adults. When I wrote that, I believe Xoe was, maybe, six. And here we are, on the cusp of legal adulthood, and I at once don’t know where the time went and can track its every drip through the hourglass. As the old saying goes, the days were long, but the years were short.

Xoe will graduate on Saturday with her homeschool group. She’ll stand in the front of a church with, I believe, 8-10 other seniors. She’ll receive her diploma. They’ll read the write-up we create, about all she’s accomplished and where she’s heading. As a homeschooler, she was competing with no one but herself. No valedictorians or salutatorians here. Nope. Just a handful of kids having accomplished what we, their families, set out for them to do.

There were some bumps in our road. Xoe has always been a perfectionist–she had to really teach herself over the years that it’s okay if she gets one answer wrong on a test. That it isn’t an indictment of her as a person. That blame doesn’t need to be cast. Even so, that doesn’t come easy. We’ve never stressed grades, but she stresses over grades. Which got a bit debilitating as ADHD dug its claws into her. She can’t focus, she can’t recall things much of the time, she can’t make herself sit and pay attention. That nearly tore my perfectionist daughter apart as the symptoms increased. But she sought help. She insisted on trying different things. She was honest and vulnerable about it. We tried diet, supplements, medication, and strict scheduling and found, eventually, what worked.

I’m so proud of her for that. For being so self-aware, for asking for help when she needed it. She worked harder for this diploma than I ever had to, and having seen the struggle, having witnessed the defeats and the victories, I have to blink back tears. She never let herself settle for “good enough.” She strove for excellence, even when it meant wrestling a bear out of the way each day.

She applied to two colleges and was accepted at both. Berea in Kentucky and St. John’s in Annapolis (where David and I went). Honestly, I expected her to choose Berea. On paper, it ticked all the boxed, even if it’s a 7-hour drive. I thought she’d enjoy the classes in art and English and writing. I thought that was the focus she wanted, and maybe some Asian studies too. Yet when we got back from that visit, her stress was through the roof. She was intimidated, she wasn’t convinced it was right for her, she saw all the things she didn’t want to do, and she didn’t know what to do about it.

So we visited St. John’s. Honestly, though she’d said since she was eight that that’s where she wanted to go, just like us, I thought she’d grow out of it. As ADHD made it harder for her to read, I thought she gave up on the dream of the college whose primary task is reading for four years–and some BORING stuff, too. I thought she applied mostly as a tip of the hat to that old dream. I didn’t think she really wanted it.

Then I saw her there. I saw the way she smiled, how excited she got about the classes and the intramural sports (she wants to take up sword-fighting!), how she connected with the other incoming students. I browsed with her through the bookstore as she decided which T-shirt she wanted. I saw how her eyes lit up when her welcome packet had an SJC window sticker in it. And in my heart, I knew. I knew that this was where she’d go.

Still, we made sure she thought about it long and hard. We had hours-long conversations. We discovered that if she went to Berea, she intended to try to recreate the SJC program by studying philosophy and history and religion–that she had no intention of taking classes on those other things. “Why?” her father asked her. “Because,” she replied, “I know I’ll learn that stuff, just because it interests me. I can do that on my own. It’s the other things I need direction on.”

That impressed me to no end. In part because it was the same thing I’d said at her age, though I never told her that. “Why should I go to a college that has a creative writing program?” I’d said. “I know how to write, or can learn what I don’t know. I need to learn what great books are. I need to learn how to think.”

When our Deadline for Decision Day arrived, I hailed her as she ran by in the morning and said, “So? Have you decided, or you do need the rest of the day?”

She replied, “I mean…I want to go to St. John’s. And it’s all your fault, you know. You raised me this way. How could I not love it?”

She has a point, LOL. (Though her brother shows no such inclinations, and I raised him the same way!) And it’s exciting, I admit, to have “a legacy Johnnie,” as the school calls second-generation students. But more than that–more than what it means to me–is what it means to her. It will stretch her. It will be difficult. There will be things she doesn’t like. But she’ll grow. She’ll meet new people. She’ll have amazing conversations. She’ll learn more about herself, about God, about the world, about humanity.

As a mom, I don’t really like thinking about the hole she’ll leave in our house when she goes. I mean, sure, I have plans to take over her desk and get out of the kitchen for my work while she’s away, but that certainly won’t make up for the absence of her delightful sarcasm, witty observations, and sweet nature. I will likely forget my phone every time I walk out the door, without her here to remind me to grab it.

But at the same time, I’m so excited for her. So excited to see what she discovers, who she meets, and what future begins to unfold before her. I know we’re standing in the same place in life that most families stand at some point. I know so, so many moms have felt this same jumble of emotions. And I take comfort in that, in knowing that others understand–or will understand in a few years. In knowing that this particular season of life is one familiar to so many.

It wasn’t all that long ago that my author bio said “she homeschools her two small children.” Xoe was the one who told me when it was time to take out that “small” bit, LOL. And now I’ll have to tweak it again. She’ll be flying out of my nest, though she’ll come back plenty. I’ll be down to one homeschooled teen. Then he’ll be off too, out discovering his own life. Am I ready? Um…LOL. In a way, of course not. But you  know, in another way, yes. Because I can’t wait to see how they keep on growing, stretching their wings, and exploring. I can’t wait to see where they go.

Onward and upward, class of 2023. The whole world awaits.

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Life-Giving and True

Life-Giving and True

by | May 25, 2023 | Thoughtful Thursdays

 “I am the true vine, and My Father is the vinedresser. 2 Every branch in Me that does not bear fruit, He takes away; and every branch that bears fruit, He prunes it so that it may bear more fruit. 3 You are already clean because of the word which I have spoken to you. 4 Remain in Me, and I in you. Just as the branch cannot bear fruit of itself but must remain in the vine, so neither can you unless you remain in Me. 5 I am the vine, you are the branches; the one who remains in Me, and I in him bears much fruit, for apart from Me you can do nothing. 6 If anyone does not remain in Me, he is thrown away like a branch and dries up; and they gather them and throw them into the fire, and they are burned. 7 If you remain in Me, and My words remain in you, ask whatever you wish, and it will be done for you. 8 My Father is glorified by this, that you bear much fruit, and so prove to be My disciples.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve read that passage from John 15. Countless. Dozens. Lots. 😉 It’s one of those that I’ve contemplated before, and I had my takeaway that I always recall when I read it.

For me, the emphasis was always on how we must be pruned by the Father to bear fruit in the Son. That we have to let Him cut away not just what’s dead–sins, bad habits, flaws–but also what will detract from the fruit He wants us to bear. In pruning, perfectly healthy branches are trimmed and cut back, because that’s how the branch can bear bigger, healthier fruit–by focusing all the goodness into a few places instead of many.

That’s a valid lesson, and one I’m dwelling on even now as I contemplate it anew. Because you know, sometimes it feels like God cuts us back to the quick. Sometimes it feels like He’s gone a little overboard on the pruning, right? And regardless, it hurts. Not an easy process! At least, not when it’s in process. No one likes to have something cut from their lives or from their person or from their heart.

But when the fruit begins to grow, we can see how it was necessary. We can rejoice in what we bear for Him. We can appreciate the careful work He’s done.

All that’s just bonus insight today. Because today, I want to focus instead on another side of the passage. It isn’t just about how we are made into healthy branches–it’s about the miracle and archetype of being grafted into Christ. Through our relationship with Him, we not only gain access to, come under the care of the Vinedresser, let’s say…we receive LIFE.

What is a branch before it’s grafted onto the vine? That’s an interesting question. We, as Christians, tend to say, “It’s dead wood! Useless! Worthless! Without the vine, you’re nothing!” Which is sort of true…but not totally. Because you don’t graft a dead branch onto a vine. You graft a healthy, living one FROM ANOTHER VINE. That is what happens when we become Christians–we cut our branch off from the world, which is its own vine, though I’ll go ahead and say an inferior one, and graft it into Christ. This is how we become reborn. Re. We were already born. We existed. We were alive. But if we want to live forever, we need the vine that is eternal. That’s Christ.

And then…He nourishes us. That’s pretty amazing, right? Honestly, it’s amazing just in a horticultural sense. How in the world does it work to take a branch from one vine or tree, attach it to another one, and have it GROW? How does that work?

Interesting question. I’m not an expert, but I know it involves cutting the host tree/vine too, so that all the life inside it can get into the new graft.

We feel only our own pain when God takes the pruners to us. But Jesus was cut so that He could receive us. He bled. He died. So that His precious lifeblood could become our own. We partake of Communion so that His flesh and blood can become our flesh and blood. Because that’s how a graft works–the branch must take on the “blood” (obviously not blood in a plant, but the equivalent) of the vine. If it doesn’t, it dies. It’s pruned away. It’s cast off, into the fire. Jesus feeds us the good things we need to sustain us, and that’s how we flourish. That’s how we grow. That’s how we bear fruit. Through Him and with Him and in Him. He literally gives us life.

This sort of relationship should be pretty natural for us to understand–because it’s also what defines the best earthly ones. Think of your parents…your children…your best friends. The people dearest to us aren’t just there. There aren’t just pleasant. They’re life-giving. Sometimes literally, when you consider parents and children. Sometime spiritually. Emotionally. Mentally.

My family gives me life. They sustain me, body and soul. They give me a reason to be. My best friend does the same. I know that when I need support, encouragement, advice, I can go to her, and she’ll have it. That’s what the Patrons & Peers group has become, and why we all love it so much.

I also know that these Most Important People in my life aren’t just letting me grow wild. They’re checking me. Pruning me. Letting me know when I’m taking on more than I can handle, when I’m losing my focus on what God has really called me to, when I need to cut back on even good things to make room for the Best Things.

In a way, we’re all part of many vines. Our families, our communities. We give life to them, we take it in return. That’s the beauty of the plant analogy. Each branch is working not just to produce fruit, but to return its portion of sunlight and rain to the vine, the trunk, the roots. A tree can survive without any one branch, but not without any. We all play a role, we TOGETHER play a role, in making healthy that to which we belong. This is true in our families, our groups of friends, and the Church itself.

That ought to make us stop and think. What vines are we part of? From what do we take our nourishment and give back to it? Are we planted where we should be, or are we partaking of things that aren’t ultimately good for us? And of course, the truest test:

Are all our little vines rooted in Christ, the True Vine? Because apart from Him, we can do nothing that counts for eternity…and in eternity, that’s all that counts.

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