Full Circle: My Denver Story

Who knows what will become of us?

As children, we dream our dreams -- astronaut, famous singer, missionary, scientist. Our parents are wise enough to let us imagine the future without the wet blanket of reality. They may have ideas of their own, but no one can be sure how things will turn out. They watch and wait with us.

Denver, Colorado, was the cradle of my childhood, the fertile ground for growing up and dreaming dreams. I spent the first 18 years of my life in the same zip code, longing to travel to the ends of the earth. I remember the children's sermon one Sunday morning. Rev. Kok asked us what we wanted to be when we grew up. I don't remember what I wanted to be at that age. I just remember how his offhand comment hit me. "Of course, none of you want to have my job when you grow up." I was floored. Was he serious? Who wouldn't want his job?! I knew no female pastors then, and I don't think I even dared to imagine myself in his shoes, but I couldn't think of a better job in the whole wide world than to preach the Word of God.

I probably said I wanted to be a missionary. In fact, I imagined I could be a missionary-astronaut-famous singer all at once, with space missions and singing tours during furlough. What I didn't want to be was a teacher, which seemed way too boring. Where I didn't want to live was America, because people already had plenty of opportunities to hear the gospel in English.

In the decades since my childhood I've changed zip codes so often I would be hard pressed to come up with a list of them all. West Coast, Southeast Asia, East Coast, Midwest, West Coast, and now the True North. In November, I boarded a plane in Calgary bound for Denver. Usually, going home means stepping away from my work, embracing rest with family. This time my parents picked me up from the airport in my suit jacket with a conference name badge ready to wear. I was home to work.

View of the Mountains from Downtown Denver, 2018
(Photo: C Imes)

It was my 10th year of academic meetings, but the first to be held in my home town. First item on the agenda? Family time. We headed to the retirement home in my old neighborhood to visit my grandparents. On our way to grandma's room, we bumped into Rev. Kok. He's long retired now and driving a motorized wheelchair, but there is nothing wrong "upstairs." We found him in the library studying for his Sunday School class on the Psalms. (A kindred spirit!)

His face lit up when he saw us, incredulous to see me after nearly 30 years -- elementary school student turned college professor. I lost no time in reminding him of his children's sermon and how I had aspired to be like him.

"Do you ever preach?" he asked, eyebrows raised in expectation. Time stood still as I considered the irony of his question and what might be at stake in my reply. Women didn't preach in our church growing up. It wasn't allowed. For most of my childhood, they couldn't even collect the offering. I realized in that moment that church practices are complicated, and that I probably didn't know Rev. Kok as well as I thought, or that he might have changed while I was changing, too.

"Yes!" I replied, the clock ticking again. "A few times a year in local churches or in chapel."

His response was immediate, affirming, "Good for you!"

It's a mystery how old aches can heal or unfinished chapters can be written in a moment's time. That conversation was balm to my soul. There he was, my childhood pastor, looking at the grown up me and saying, "well done!" All these years I had imagined his displeasure at the ways I'd come to disagree with him on theology or on church polity -- especially on the topic of women in ministry. And here we were, colleagues. He made sure I knew that.

Map of Palestine in Jesus' Day
from the NIV Study Bible
Photo: C Imes

I reminded Rev. Kok of another conversation we had some 33 years ago. At the time, it may have seemed insignificant. But in retrospect, it likely shaped who I've become. It was a Sunday morning. The sermon failed to capture my interest, so I was studying the maps in the back of the pew Bible. I might have been 8 or 9 years old. I was looking at the map labeled "New Testament in the Time of Jesus." But something was wrong with that map! Jericho should not have been there. The Old Testament said the walls fell down! I was puzzled (and, if I'm honest, probably felt a bit smug about finding a typo in the Bible).

I brought the Bible with me to the back of the sanctuary afterward, where Rev. Kok was shaking hands with everyone as they filed out. When he was finished, he turned to hear my question. I remember his giant frame bending down to look at the map. He didn't know the answer, but said he would investigate. (I had stumped the pastor!) One week later I could hardly wait for the sermon to finish. I was nervous that he had forgotten my question, but also eager to know if he'd found an answer. He asked me to wait until he was done shaking hands. Then he bent down beside me to explain.

His answer matters less than the fact that he had an answer. He had taken my question seriously, researched it, and brought me a response. A whole book on Jericho?! A reason for its re-appearance on the NT map?! I came away with a healthy respect for scholarship and an appreciation for libraries and the confidence to keep asking questions. Is it any wonder I ended up as an Old Testament professor?

The next day I headed downtown for six days of professional development, networking, academic papers, board meetings, and conversations with publishers. But the most significant work had already been accomplished at the retirement home. I'd come full circle.

And so I went home. Home to my roots. Home to the people who shaped my future. Home as the grown-up me, so grateful for the grace of God that takes our dreams and makes them something better than we knew to wish for. A missionary? Yes, but not in the way I'd imagined. A teacher, which was a much better fit for my personality than an astronaut. A ministry that includes preaching as well as writing the sorts of books that address Bible questions shared by children and adults.

It truly is the #bestjobintheworld, because it's what I was born (in Denver) to do. Who knew?

Should you consider going back to school?

You've been thinking about going back to school, but you're not sure. Are you too old? Is this too random? Here are three factors that might mean it's time to enroll:

1. You have unanswered questions.
        You're no longer satisfied by pat answers. You want to dig deeper. You know there's more out there than what you've been taught. You want to find out what you think for yourself.

2. You have time on your hands.
         You've reached a stage in life where (unlike most people you know) you are a bit bored. You look at your calendar and wonder, "What should I be doing?" or "What's next?"

3. You're considering a career change for the next season of your life.
         You know yourself better now than you did when you finished school and entered the world of adulthood. If you had it all to do over, you'd choose differently. Why not do that now?

One of the joys of my job is to invest in students who are coming back to school after a long time away -- the military veteran training for a new line of work, the stay-at-home mom whose kids are now grown, the retired missionary still hungry to learn, the relatively new believer who feels a tug to pastoral ministry after a career in oil.

One of my students discovered the difference a caring nurse can make when he and his wife lost their third baby in a row. He enrolled in our nursing program, hoping to be there for others in difficult times.

I'm no spring chicken myself. I finished my PhD at 39 years old, a decade older than most of my classmates. I suppose it runs in the family. My Dad went back to school for a degree in counseling in the middle of a career as a remodeling contractor. He graduated with his MA the year after I graduated with my BA. And though counseling did not become his bread-and-butter, it better equipped him for lay ministry in the church and on the job.

When people find out you're heading back to school, they may be surprised. They may try to talk you out of it. It's a sad reality that those whose dreams have never been realized often become naysayers to the dreams of others. Don't let their pessimism dampen your enthusiasm. On the other hand, you'll want to make sure that those most affected by your decision are on board. It will make the journey much more joyful if you're pulling in the same direction.

At the end of the day, this is between you and God. If he's called you to do it, he'll provide the strength to do it.

Many schools offer Adult Degree Completion programs for those with life experience going back to school to finish a degree. Lots of schools offer courses online so you can learn without relocating. Others allow community members to audit classes for a reduced price. At Prairie College, if you're 55 or older, you can audit a course for just $25. What are you itching to learn?

Christmas in October

It's mid October, but in a certain corner of Bend, Oregon, it's already Christmas. The whole neighborhood has put up Christmas lights. You may see carolers drop by. The mail carrier has delivered handfuls of Christmas cards. God is totally on board. He even sent snow this weekend.

Did you get the memo?

Chris is dying. Dying soon. And he wanted one last Christmas with his wife and children.

This morning he upped his pain meds in order to make it through the day. He doesn't want to miss the turkey, ham and cornbread stuffing or the sweet potato casserole. So as the train makes loops around the early Christmas tree and the cooks are busy in the kitchen, Chris soaks it all in.

Eat, drink, and be merry, he thinks. For tomorrow . . . 
tomorrow he stops treatment.

After more than a decade of chronic, debilitating migraines, doctors discovered that Chris had an (unrelated) inoperable brain tumor.

While the rest of us gasped at the news and fought back tears, Chris celebrated! His pain would soon be over. He would soon see his Savior! His joy welled up to overflowing.

The Chambers Family

It has continued to overflow in the 6 or so months since he announced on Facebook that he was dying. Social media has its down sides, but this is not one of them. A whole community has gathered around as Chris has faced death wide open, inviting everyone to walk this journey with him. We've watched in amazement as Chris has reached out to encourage every one of us - extending words of blessing, wisdom, and grace. His humor and transparency and his deep care for Sarah and the children have been unwavering.

Since doctors are no longer worried about Chris developing a drug addiction, they've given him whatever he's needed to kill the pain. So ironically, since he found out he was dying, he's been able to live a much fuller and richer life -- church services, his kids' sporting events, Facebook, even Disneyland! But in the past month it became clear he wouldn't make it until Christmas.

So Christmas came early in Bend.

This morning I worshiped at an Anglican church. Gazing at a stained glass window of Joseph, Mary, and the Christ Child, I thought about Chris and Sarah's early Christmas. At Christmas the Word became flesh.

Flesh.

Flesh that is subject to pain and disease, migraines, and even brain tumors. As Chris feels his own flesh wasting away, how appropriate to celebrate the moment when God took on human weakness.  Yes, Chris' body will return to the dust, but because Jesus conquered death, he can count on a resurrection body. We do not anticipate a disembodied bliss. Jesus ushered in the new creation, in which we can experience the fullness of life that God intended forever, in our resurrected bodies.

And so in the mix of powerful emotions on this early Christmas Day, we grieve, but not as those who have no hope. This is not the grief of despair, but a grief laced with resurrection anticipation.

Thank you, Chris. In your dying you have showed us how to live.

quilted hearts: mentoring for the long haul

Dear Hazel,

I wasn't ready yet for you to go.
In your own unassuming way, you "held the ropes" for us.

It's not just that I loved you. You loved me back, too.

I bumbled into your sewing circle in the church basement, a young mom full of zeal. Mentoring was what I wanted most, advice for how to raise children, how to make my way in the world. Since I was 40 years younger than the next youngest member of the group, I thought it an ideal place to learn. I prodded, asking questions, seeking wisdom. The women hunched over the quilt looked at each other and shrugged. I think you answered first, Hazel. You said something like "Don't ask us! We're no experts!"

It bothered me then, your reticence to pass along what you had learned. I didn't realize that your answer really was an answer, the answer I needed most—that all of us muddle through the best we can and figure things out as we go, and that what we discover along the way is that there's no single right way of doing things, and no guarantees that what worked for you will work for me.

When I was silent long enough, swallowing my questions and slowing my pace, the conversation drifted back to its natural cadences—TV shows and recipes, small town news and medical reports and silences. These conversations held no instant magic, but I see now that each was another quilting thread, connecting hearts as thread joins layers of fabric stitch after stitch.

Hazel (center), the last time I saw her (photo: C Imes)

Now that you're gone, the fabric is torn and so is my heart.

Quilting is slow work, and so are relationships. Your faithfulness over the long haul created something beautiful. We could always count on you to keep the conversation moving. Although you stopped short of giving advice, you gave me something even more important—you genuinely cared about me and my journey. I know because your face would light up when I entered the room. This, too, was a kind of mentoring.

You were there when Eliana cruised around underneath the quilt frame, her bald head a traveling bump. You were there when we sold our things and said our farewells, headed to the Philippines. You were there when we returned, broken and bleeding. You said farewell again when we moved across the country. And you were always there when we came home and I showed up unannounced at sewing. Every time the group was smaller, as friends went on ahead -- Elizabeth, Vesta, Edna, Ruth, Bertha, Alice -- but I could count on you to be there.

How I wish your chair didn't stand empty now! I'm afraid if I take my place around the quilt again my tears will make a mess of it. I didn't realize how much you meant to me until it was too late to tell you.

I'd like to know how many quilts you stitched, how many dollars they fetched for the cause of world mission, how many lives were changed as a result. As meticulous as they are, the minutes of the Women's Missionary Society won't be able to tell me that. But I know that your faithful giving and serving has brought light and life to many others around the world, including mine.

So Thank You, Hazel.
You'll be sorely missed.

lasting impressions and do-overs

Is it possible to retire from retirement? Last week my grandparents moved from their retirement home in the mountains to a retirement facility just one block away from my childhood home. This time it's for real -- downsizing, purging, relinquishing memories and positioning themselves closer to medical care, meals, and household assistance.

This move to Denver brings my grandparents back into the orbit of those who made such a mark on my childhood. Men and women who filled the pews on Sunday morning, and whose names filled the address book we kept by the phone. Our perpetual problem was that address books never allowed enough pages for the letter "V": VanderVeen, Vermeer, Veenstra, Verstraate, VanderHorst, VanHeukelem, Van Stelle, Vander Ploeg, Van Dusseldorp, and on it went. We managed to surround ourselves almost entirely with other Dutch families -- our Christian Reformed Church, the Christian school started by CRC families where my brother and I attended, the businesses run by CRC families, and even Dutch neighbors who, like us, had settled close to all these things.

We lived just 4 doors down from Third CRC. Stepping out the front door in the morning, we could see the brick corner of the church, with windows to the nursery where we began our childhood (and the mural our mom painted of Noah's Ark), the library where we filled our arms with Christian books, Sunday school rooms, and the consistory room where Dad participate in deacon's meetings and where I sat nervously at the big oval council table, being interviewed by a dozen men in suits before my public profession of faith. Now the men and women who used to shake our hands and pat our heads shuffle down hallways one block to the East, in that brick building that was once new, heading to meals, their frames bent and their skin too loose. Among them is our pastor from so long ago. My grandparents are their newest neighbors.

I remember Reverend Kok as tall and broad, with a booming voice. I knocked on his door once, hands trembling and gasping for breath. I had run to the parsonage with an urgent confession. While playing in the church yard mid-week, as we often did, I had broken a basement window. Looking back, I would like to give Reverend Kok a "do-over." What he ought to have said was, "Don't be afraid, Carmen. It can be fixed. It took a lot of courage to come tell me the truth. Thank you for your honesty. Well done. This mistake doesn't define you, your integrity does." What he really said was, "I hope you have plenty of money in your piggy bank." This terrified me. He didn't intend to be mean, but by the time my 10 year old feet had pounded the pavement all the way to my house almost a block away, I was a mess. The tears burst and I blubbered my confession to Dad, who told me not to worry. He could fix it, and I didn't need to pay for it. After that we didn't skateboard on the wheelchair ramp any more.

Two other memories of Reverend Kok cast him in a different light. The first showed his insecurity, perhaps. I don't remember the context of his sermon, but I remember him suggesting that none of us young people would want to become pastors when we grew up. It was almost a rhetorical question, I think. "None of you wants to be like me when you grow up. (Right?)" He meant that we probably didn't want to go into pastoral ministry. Unbidden, and without any hesitation an unspoken response welled up inside me. "Oh, but I do!" I'm not sure that I thought it was actually possible. After all, I was a little girl, not a little boy, so pastoral ministry was not an option. But I couldn't think of anything more wonderful to do with my life. Reverend Kok represented the pinnacle of vocational excellence to me. I'll never forget his angst the Sunday after televangelist Jimmy Swaggart was caught with a prostitute (mostly I remember it because he said the word "butt" from the pulpit, as in, "today we [Christians] are the butt of every joke." I still feel the shock of hearing that, almost 30 years later.).

But my favorite memory begins one Sunday morning when I was distracted during the sermon, studying the maps in the back of the pew Bibles, because they were the only pictures available. It was a New Testament map that grabbed my attention -- a New Testament map that included the city of Jericho. My little brain couldn't quite wrap itself around that one. Didn't the walls fall down? Wasn't it destroyed? At the end of the service all the grown ups filed out of the sanctuary, shaking Rev Kok's hand. I carried the pew Bible along with me, open to the map, and planted myself right beside him. Craning my little neck (I told you he was tall!), I asked if I could ask him a question. His attention divided, he kept shaking hands and nodding at folks while he listened to my question about Jericho. Then he gave me an answer I didn't expect. "I don't know, but I'll try to find out."

The next Sunday I waited impatiently until the end of the sermon. I filed out with everyone else and planted myself beside him again, intensely curious. When there were no more hands to shake he turned to me. "Well, I looked at a book on Jericho this big [here he held out a bent finger and thumb probably 3 inches apart, thoroughly impressing me], and here's what I learned. After Jericho was destroyed, it wasn't supposed to be rebuilt, but somebody did it anyway. He lost both of his sons for disobeying God, but the city has been there ever since." (See 1 Kings 16:34 for the story)

I went away with a full heart and a dawning appreciation for biblical scholarship. Rev. Kok had taken me seriously. My questions mattered. And they had answers. There were books full of them.

I wonder how instrumental that conversation was in setting me on the trajectory that led me to Wheaton. My insatiable fascination with the Bible has only grown with time. What if Rev. Kok had waved me aside and told me my question was silly? Where would I be?

My Dad spoke with Rev. Kok last week, when my grandparents were signing papers on their new apartment. Rev. Kok wanted to know if I was still a good Calvinist. (I've forgiven Dad for lying in response, as he was answering the more important question that Rev. Kok ought to have asked.) I'd like to give Rev. Kok a do-over when I make it to Denver to see my grandparents in their new home. I'd like to hear him ask, "Do you still love Jesus? Are you walking faithfully with him?" For that, my answer is a resounding "YES!"

a scholar grows up

A paradigm shift. A coming-of-age of sorts.

In one week, three milestones:

1. A senior professor at Wheaton, known around the world, told me to call him by his first name.
2. A Wheaton student invited me to "Dine with a Mind." (This is Wheaton's meal benefit that encourages students to share a meal with their professors. Normally I am the student. That time, I was the "Mind.")
3. A Wheaton student asked me to fill our a reference form for a mission trip.

These milestones marked the beginning of my transition from student to teacher, a transition that is still not complete, though at least 2 years have elapsed since these events. But this week, more milestones:

1. A student at George Fox asks me to fill out a reference form for a summer job.
2. Two recently-published authors ask me to help them get the word out about their books.
3. A pastor asks me to go head to head with him in his Sunday School class, talking about Romans, ethnic Israel's future, and the nature of biblical theology.

Clearly, it's a new season. And I'm grateful!

four things I inherited from Oma

Today would have been my paternal grandmother's 95th birthday. Oma was a strong, stubborn, and independent woman, yet wholly convinced of her need for a Savior. Because her death in 2014 coincided precisely with our family's move to Oregon, many of her possessions found a place in our new home. From teacups to cabinets and doilies to delft, most rooms in our house hold a piece of her legacy. In honor of her birthday, here are a few of the most valuable gifts she bequeathed to me:

1. The Quest for Information

My library on Oma's shelves (Photo: C. Imes)

Oma was not a scholar, but her coffee table was always stacked with books, magazines, and newspapers in English and Dutch. Her TV was always set to an international news channel. These shelves, now filled with my own books, once held hers. Though she immigrated from Holland to Canada as an adult and never lost her thick, Dutch brogue, Oma learned English so well that she could beat any native speaker at a game of Scrabble.

2. The Rhythm of Hospitality 

Oma's well-used teacups (Photo: C. Imes)

Having people over was no big "to-do" for Oma, it was simply a part of life. I spent many a Sunday afternoon at Oma and Opa's house, having tea and cookies before the noon meal and visiting with out-of-town guests. The meals were not exotic, and I don't recall ever seeing Oma flustered in the kitchen. The solid predictability of the menu (meat, potatoes, gravy, beans, cauliflower, and apricot sauce) matched the steadiness of her demeanor. Mealtime was not a culinary exhibition, but a time to gather for conversation and to read the daily devotional and pray.

John and Barbara (Brinkman)
Camfferman, 1949

3. The Determination to Stand for what's Right

Naturally, I knew Oma only in the last half of her life, when the settled rhythms of gardening, housework, volunteering, and Sunday services defined her week. Her early years were half a world away, on a farm in the Netherlands lovingly known as "Kalf 20." She walked to school over bridges and past windmills, milked cows, biked everywhere on top of the dikes, and in the winter ice-skated on frozen canals. By the time World War 2 erupted, she was in her 20's. Her mother had already died, so she kept house for her father and siblings. The rest of her energies she devoted to the Dutch Resistance. I doubt she felt brave. She just did what had to be done — carrying messages past Nazi soldiers by hiding them, rolled up in the handlebars of her bicycle. When stopped and questioned, she lied, heart pounding inside her chest. By the grace of God, she was never caught. After the war ended, she helped with relief efforts, proudly wearing the orange arm band that identified her as a member of the Dutch Resistance. (The royal "house" in the Netherlands is known as the "House of Orange," which explains both the color and the word embroidered on the band. It's a patriotic symbol.)

4. The Impulse to Write

Letter from Oma to her family back home in Holland
shortly after her move to Canada, 1949

It wasn't until after her death that I recognized what should have been as plain as the Dutch nose on Oma's face: she was a writer. My parents unearthed box after box of letters she had received over the years from siblings and cousins and in-laws across Canada and back in Holland — letters written in response to her own. A niece of hers began assembling the correspondence between the Brinkman siblings during the years just after WW2. Oma married a dashing Dutch soldier who had been stationed in England and they quickly immigrated to Canada where they could start a new life together. Letters flew from one side of the ocean to the other with regularity. In addition to letters, year after year Oma kept a diary, with brief notes about each day (the weather, visitors, anything unusual). During the war she wrote more extensively, leaving behind a treasure of information about life in the Netherlands under the Nazi regime as well as Brinkman family history. In the last two years of Oma's life, she felt the growing urgency of getting her story down in writing. Dozens of drafts of her life story, highlighting the war years, were tucked in boxes and drawers.

---

Oma would have been the first to tell you that she and I are very different. She was not an academic, and other than a brief stint as a school bus driver and a house cleaner, she was never employed outside the home. I have never been through a war, and I am no longer a member of the [Dutch/Christian/United] Reformed Church that was her spiritual home throughout her 93 years of life.

All the same, if you look through the "house" that is my life, you'll see her influence in almost every room. I'm sure I inherited more than my fair share of her stubbornness, and I plan to keep filling her shelves with books and her teacups with tea, to stand for justice and truth in the face of evil in my generation, and to keep writing. For writing is the most tangible legacy we can leave to our children. Thank you, Oma, for leaving me yours.

looking back, taking stock

Plans for my 20th high school class reunion are underway. Gulp. Could it be??

I remember going to my Mom's 20th reunion from Denver Christian High School. I was, um, the age of our oldest daughter now (13 or 14), which I guess makes sense. We met at a park. I was old enough to appreciate the very interesting social dynamics which are peculiar to reunions. Posturing. Bragging. Catching up. The litany of questions -- where did you go to school? how long have you been married? are your kids running around here somewhere? where do you work? Mom says it went better than her 10th. Still, while some of her classmates were genuine and warm, a few seemed stiff, intent on maintaining the boundaries of old cliques. Perhaps it was really shyness. Who knows?

And now it's my turn.
How does one summarize 20 years of life in a few minutes for an old classmate?
Is it possible to cultivate conversations that invite genuine sharing rather than one-upping?
What exactly is gained by reconnecting with dozens of people half a lifetime and half a continent away? -- people whose lives are as busy as mine and who do not have time to "keep in touch!"?

And if that's true, then how can I explain the thrill it gives me just to think about going?!

I understand that some people hate reunions. I get that. There is something inherently weird about them. But I guess I have reunion written in my genes.

Of our graduating class of 63 students, over half of us had been together since preschool, and many of us had the same teachers our parents had had before us. We built memories to last a lifetime. Want me to prove it? Ask my kids what I did in third grade, trying to be funny, that got me sent to the principal's office. Ask them which boy I tackled during recess in 5th grade playing pom-pom polo-way in the snow (I'll make sure he remembers). Ask them about my rocky middle school years, when I scarcely went a day without getting into a fight with my best friend. Ask them what I wore to school the first day of high school that prompted people in the hall to stop and salute me or say the pledge of allegiance (what was I thinking???). Ask them whose ice cream I ate on stage during our high school production of 'The Matchmaker.' Ask them about the time when my friends and I tried to get a detention my senior year for the first time by climbing out a classroom window onto the roof during lunch (it didn't work). Ask them how close I was to being Valedictorian, and who beat me. Ask them about my high school Bible teacher, Mr. N., whose inspiration propelled me into biblical studies. These are the stories that shaped my childhood. They shaped me. 

Is that why Facebook made me cry today? Seeing old friends. Seeing their children. Seeing their faith. Seeing who they've become. Scrolling through years of losses and gains and just plain living, I realized something. I love these people.

I had hoped to have finished my doctorate before the reunion. But why? So that I wouldn't have to say that I'm still in school some 20 years later? Each of us is on a journey. The important thing is not so much what we have achieved, but what kind of people we've become along the way. My earnest prayer is that I am more like Jesus today than I was when I walked across the platform 20 years ago. If that's the case, then it will be a happy reunion, indeed.

"all grown up"

This was a big week at our house. And I mean BIG.

I taught a FULL week of classes at Multnomah University and Western Seminary, subbing 14 hours for one of my mentors while he was out of the country and beginning my own class on the Gospels and Acts. I taught Exodus, Leviticus, New Testament Biblical Theology, Hermeneutics (for Heb-Rev), Bible Study Methods, and Gospels.

One of the best parts of teaching this week was sharing the experience with Eliana (age 13). In November, I paid her a dollar to read through my syllabus and look for typos. She thought the class sounded so cool that she wanted to sit in on it, too. Since she's doing high school online through a public charter school, she has a flexible enough schedule for that to work. I'm delighted to have her rubbing shoulders with such a great group of students and experiencing the campus that was so formative for me and Danny.

One morning I came down to breakfast dressed for teaching. Eliana did a double-take and said, "Mom, you look all grown up today!" Um . . . as opposed to . . . yesterday? (when she said I looked very "professional") This is the same daughter who told me recently that I really need to look into getting a refund for the wrinkle cream I'm using. Gotta love having a teenager in the house!

As if having a high schooler was not enough to make me feel old, our "baby" had his last day of first grade yesterday. Easton's teachers and principal decided that he should move up to second grade. Effective immediately. Which means that this fall I'll have a 3rd grader, a 5th grader, and a 10th grader. In three years we'll be sending our oldest off to college and in 10 we'll be empty nesting. Where has the time gone? Before you know they'll all be grown up!

all things now living

It all happened so fast.
A hand on my arm. Mom's soft voice rousing me from my slumber. "It's Oma." She was somber. Whatever I was dreaming vanished in a heartbeat. It was 5:00am. Too early for casual news.
"Is she gone?" I asked haltingly.
"Not yet, but soon."

The morning was calm, but laden with significance. Measured. Decisive. My parents had already been up for hours, checking for flights, speaking with nurses long-distance, and considering options. They caught us up and we helped them with the decisions. How does one pack or plan for a journey of unknown duration? Just in case, should one bring funeral clothes? Dad looked through his files trying to find the instructions for his mother's funeral, just in case. They weren't there.

It was Father's Day, and this was not the plan. We were supposed to have a family breakfast with the whole crew. Then Danny and I and the kids would continue our journey westward to meet our moving truck at our new home in Oregon, leaving my parents, my brother and his family behind. A new plan emerged: we would drive my parents to the airport on our way out of town. They would fly to Bellingham, rent a car, and hope to make it to the hospital in time. Meanwhile we would drive as fast as we could to Oregon, unload our truck, and head north, either to see Oma, or . . ..

We ate breakfast together as planned, and prayed and cried (in that order). It was a precious time. Then we loaded up and left, with our hearts in our throats. I called the hospital on the way and asked the nurse to bring Oma the phone. She struggled to breathe and to talk, but sounded grateful to hear my voice, as I was to hear hers. I tried to calm her agitation by telling her that she could just rest; there was nothing left for her to do. Nothing for either of us to do, really, but rest and receive what was given. It was Wyoming, hours later, when the tears started flowing and wouldn't stop.

My dear Oma. My strong, independent, and witty grandmother. She was one of the bravest people I knew, and yet how I wanted to stand beside her and squeeze her hand and help her be brave one last time.

My parents enter the memorial service for Dad's Mom

It didn't take long. The next morning I awoke in our trailer somewhere in western Wyoming to the sound of my cell phone buzzing. Oma had slipped away in the night. The next days were a whirlwind. We finished our drive "home" in one day. While we waited for our truck to arrive the next morning, I prepared a slide show for Oma's funeral and gathered my thoughts. Dad asked for ideas of hymns Oma liked, because he couldn't find her list of favorites. Neither could I.

Oma's brother, nieces, and nephew sing
 "Great is Thy Faithfulness"

With the help of friends, we unloaded the truck in just a few hours, and in a few more hours I had located all of our funeral clothes. Early the next morning we drove the 6 hours to Bellingham and reconvened with my parents and my brother, who had flown in with his family. A few hours later the service was underway, ready or not. The next morning we loaded all of Oma's things on another moving truck and drove it back to our new home, exhausted. Oma had died late scarcely 3 1/2 days earlier, and now my own home was filled with memories of her.

It was a few days or even weeks later that I opened one of Oma's boxes and found her hymnal. Inside the back cover, as I might have guessed, was a list of hymns she wanted to have sung at her funeral (you think about things like this when you're 93). We looked them up, but none were songs we actually sang at the service. Then came the inspiration -- wouldn't Oma be honored if we taught those hymns to her great-grandchildren? And so we began.

Each evening after dinner we read a Psalm and then sing our hymn together. I don't know how these things work, but if Oma can see us now, I'm sure her heart swells at the sight of Easton (age 6) singing with gusto. These hymns may have been picked out for Oma's funeral, but they were written for the living, not the dead. In this new home, gathered around my grandparents' table, our faith is being formed verse by verse.

Let all things now living, a song of thanksgiving 
to God the creator triumphantly raise,
who fashioned and made us, protected and stayed us,
who guides us and leads to the end of our days.
His banners are o'er us; his light goes before us,
a pillar of fire shining forth in the night.
'Til shadows have vanished and darkness is banished 
as forward we travel from light into light.

His law he enforces, the stars in their courses,
the sun in its orbit obediently shine.
The hills and the mountains, the rivers and fountains, 
the deeps of the ocean proclaim him divine.
We still should be voicing our love and rejoicing
with glad adoration our song let us raise
'Til all things now living unite in thanksgiving, 
to God in the Highest, Hosanna and praise!

-by Katherine K. Davis, 1939

Today would have been Oma's 94th birthday, but I would not wish her back. Her creator guided her gently until the end of her days. No shadows darken her path now. As we hold her memory in our hearts, we turn to face life head on, joining the growing chorus of those singing God's praise.

why go back to school?

Why enroll in school when you've passed the age where someone make you . . . and there's no guarantee (or perhaps even hope) of gainful employment related to the degree you earn? Why go through all the time and expense, not to mention stress?

Maggie looking out into the Galilee from Nimrod's Fortress
on our trip to Israel earlier this year.

My dear friend, Maggie, who recently completed a Masters degree in Biblical Studies at Wheaton College, beautifully explains what drives her. You can read her post here. Oh, by the way, Maggie turned 60 last year. In addition to being a pastor's wife, she already has a great full-time job working for Tyndale Publishing House. Neither the church nor her employer asked her to go back to school.

So why did she do it?

on the lighter side

Eliana (standing by my dresser, holding a bottle quizzically): What is this, Mom? Some sort of hairspray?
Me: No, it's wrinkle cream.
Eliana (a bit startled): Wrinkle cream?! But it's too late!

So true. :) May I age with grace ...

"You who are young, be happy while you are young,
and let your heart give you joy in the days of your youth."
Ecclesiastes 11:9

"Even to old age and gray hairs, O God, do not forsake me,
until I proclaim your might to all the generations to come."
Psalm 71:18 

remembering Dr. Reeve

Dr. Pamela Reeve, age 96

A giant of a lady entered into glory last Saturday.

Dr. Pamela Reeve couldn't have been more than 5 feet tall, but she exuded strength and compassion more than twice her size. She had the special gift of making people feel completely at ease. Nothing you said could shock or dismay her. With Dr. Reeve you felt safe to share anything. She treated everything you said as a treasure — something truly precious.

Danny and I had the privilege of taking Dr. Reeve's "Intro to Counseling" class during the semester we were engaged to be married. What better time to work on interpersonal relationships! Dr. Reeve supplied us with the perspective and the tools we needed to build a healthy foundation for our marriage. Fifteen years later, we're still thinking about the lessons we learned in that class—lessons about brokenness, suffering, faith, respect and caring.

Dr. Reeve pioneered the first ever women's ministry program in the nation and mentored generations of  men and women during her 49 years of service at our alma mater, Multnomah University. I count it a privilege to have been one of them. All praise to our God for Dr. Reeve's lifetime of ministry!

this summer by the numbers

I realize the irony of writing this post after the last one, but rest assured that none of these numbers define who I am. They just give you a picture of what I've been up to this summer!

0 - landlords on the planet who are better than ours
1 - core dissertation chapter left to write

2 - new cousins our kids gained this summer (wahoo!)
3 - VBS programs our kids participated in this year

4 - total number of core chapters in my dissertation

5 - years since Easton was born
5 - live paintings I did on stage during VBS

6 - hour drive to Honey Rock to pick up Eliana

10 - days Emma and Easton had swimming lessons

12 - total days Eliana will spend at Honey Rock

15 - years Danny and I have been married
16 - years old our oldest neice is - old enough to come visit us!

17 - days' notice we had before Danny's brother got married

18 - days until school starts
27 - number of camp scholarships raised by VBS kids

32 - books left on my comprehensive reading list

36 - years since I was born (as of today)

43 - days until my next chapter is due

45 - weeks until our lease is up in Wheaton

48 - months this blog has been running
91 - pages in my latest dissertation chapter
125 - kids in our church's VBS program

188 - books I have finished on my comps list
189 - approximate gallons of latex seal coating Danny applied to driveways with our landlord

207 - days until my defense draft is due
235 - total pages I have written so far

273 - pictures I took at Danny's brother's wedding
280 - days until graduation
315 - total number of blog posts I have published
1,349 - dollars the kids brought during VBS to help fund camp scholarships through Sports Friends

2,589 - pages left to read carefully for comps

15,232 - total pages to read carefully for comps

26,171 - words in the chapter I turned in yesterday
34,182 - pageviews on my blog to date

73,080 - words I have written for my dissertation

100,000 - dissertation words I am allowed to write

limitless - grace of God that has carried us through another season!

embracing the ordinary

If you're one of those radicals who intended to change the world . . . but ended up changing diapers instead, this post over at The Well is for you.





May God give each of us courage to do the hard work of loving when life is ordinary.

feed your brain in 2013

This is not a food blog, and I don't plan to make it one, but I simply have to tell you about the PTA meeting that is changing my life. Ok, so I didn't actually go to the PTA meeting, but I showed up in time for a seminar afterward on what to feed your kids to make them smarter.

Some kids (and grown-ups!) are born smart, but spend a lot of time feeling tired, moody, unmotivated, or just plain foggy-headed. Food is often the culprit. In just one hour, Leslie gave us some great tips about what to feed our families (and what not to feed them) so that our kids' brains can be well-nourished and ready to learn.

In a word, eat whole foods.

Here are the foods that are especially helpful for clear thinking and improved memory. These foods actually fight dementia, Alzheimers, cancer, and other ...

Blueberries (enhance memory)
Blackberries (zap inflammation)
Avocado (regulates blood sugar, helps you absorb nutrients, reduces inflammation)
Spinach/Kale (improves alertness)
Broccoli (keeps your body from rusting and kills cancer)
Oranges (are antioxident and anti-inflammatory)
Black Beans, Garbanzo Beans, Lentils, etc. (offer fiber, potassium, and magnesium)
Wild-caught Salmon (lower blood pressure, speed thinking, improve mood)
Olive Oil (builds healthy brain cells)
Walnuts (enhance memory, critical thinking, and inferential thinking)
Plain Yogurt (improves alertness, nutrition absorption)
Cinnamon (anti-inflammatory, controls blood sugar, improves eye-hand coordination)

I won't try to reproduce the scientific research behind this, but Leslie (the certified nutritionist who spoke to us) is as nerdy about nutrition research as I am about biblical research. She knows her stuff and had lots of great reasons to support what she was saying. I was motivated enough to take a special trip with Emma to Trader Joe's yesterday in search of "brain foods." She helped me read labels, and we found lots of great new foods to try!

In my next post, I'll talk about "Brain Busters" to avoid. But first, here are a few ideas for how to incorporate these foods in your family's diet:

• Have a "brainy breakfast" of plain yogurt, blueberries, walnuts and cinnamon or oatmeal, blueberries, and cinnamon
• Add finely-chopped kale to a fresh salad
• Stock your freezer with frozen berries to add to cereal, oatmeal, smoothies, and ice cream
• Make a snack schedule so that the kids expect to see fresh fruits and veggies on the table
• Make smoothies regularly (we use plain yogurt, frozen berries or mangos, frozen bananas, cold water, powdered milk, OJ concentrate, and a tablespoon of ground flax seed)
• Go on a "brain foods" shopping trip with your child and let them help you hunt for healthy whole foods
• Let your children make their own food or prepare their own lunches. Kids are much more likely to try new foods that they helped prepare.
• Fill a small muffin tin with cut veggies and healthy dips (salsa, hummus, and guacamole)
• Eat soup. You can fill a thermos with leftover soup to take to school for lunch.
• Make a meal plan. It's much easier to eat healthy when you plan ahead and have the right kind of foods on hand.

Eliana came with me to the seminar, so she's been especially motivated to try foods she hasn't liked before (like avocado) and eat more fruits and veggies. Eating healthy takes time and energy, but if you take it one step at a time, it can reward your efforts with more energy than you had to begin with! What whole foods will you add to your menu this week? 

dutch treat

I haven't fallen off the face of the earth . . . I just hopped over to another time zone for a few days. My parents, brother, and I spent the past 5 days in Lynden, Washington, where we moved my Oma (Dutch for Grandma) into a retirement home.

The guys moved the heavy stuff, while Mom and I got
things settled just the way they had been in her old home

Danny and I have moved 11 times in our 14 years of marriage, but this was the quickest move I have ever seen. John and I arrived Thursday before noon, and by bedtime the whole house was packed. Friends showed up with a truck at 8am the next day and by noon she was all moved in her new place. By bedtime on Friday her boxes were all unpacked, beds made, and pictures up on the walls. It looked just like home. That left Saturday and Sunday to help Oma find things in her new apartment and get into a new routine. At first she kept saying she felt "like a cat in a strange warehouse" but by the time I left she was settling in and said she would like it there.


Along the way we discovered lots of treasures: photos, memories, friends old and new, and humor. Inviting my brother along to help guaranteed that humor would be on the menu. My kids call him "Uncle Hilarious" and know him for his tickling. Tickle he does, in spite of my protests. He and I flew the Denver-to-Bellingham leg of my trip together, and collected our first jointly owned barf bag. I add a bag to his collection almost every time I fly (he has a whole box of them in his basement -- it's an inside joke). We commemorated this trip by writing on the barf bag about our first flight together (that one we had when he was still a baby doesn't count).

Humor turned out to be an essential element to an otherwise difficult transition. Oma liked living on her own and didn't see any need to move. But at 91 years old, with a very unreliable memory, dizziness, diabetes, and incontinence, we all agreed that we couldn't wait any longer. The residents of her new home were more than welcoming, inviting us into their apartments and into their hearts. We soon figured out that "all the cool kids" had rolling walkers with a place for a meal tray, and that most of them took a good month to figure out the floor plan of the building. If Oma forgets her room number or how long she's lived there or what her husband did for a living she'll be in good company. Peer pressure already persuaded her to put her keys on a bracelet and a name tag on her cane. We're hoping that she'll soon realize she doesn't need to drive.

A sketch of Oma I made a few months ago

I love it that I had 4 days to eat meals in the dining hall and get to know all of Oma's new neighbors. John, Winifred, Elaine, Liz, Francis, Anne, Jack, Bob, Catherine, Loretta, Berdita, Janice, and the others are dear, dear people with stories to tell and smiles to share. I loved the way they lit up when I remembered their names. The staff who work there are so friendly. I hate it that I can't drop in every week to see them all.  If I didn't already have a career in mind, I would seriously consider something in geriatrics. It was an absolute treat to stay there with Oma.


A dutch treat, that is. Only in Lynden is the "V" section of the phone book longer than any other letter. There are enough Van- and Vander-something-or-others to populate a small planet. Nowhere else do people reply to "What's your name?" with their last name and then their maiden name before they divulge their first name (as an afterthought). I met one lady who groaned when I asked her her last name. "Jones," she sighed, and we all laughed. To fit in all she'd need to do is add "Vander" to the front of it! Dutch coffee flows freely in the dining hall, and you can even pick up Dutch conversations at times. When I left for the airport, Oma was singing hymns in the lobby with other residents.

Oma's new home overlooks a golf course and she can see
Mt. Baker from her living room window

I'm thankful to be home again with Danny and the kids, but really grateful to have been part of this important transition for Oma. Given some time, I'm confident that she'll be happy in her new home. The new apartments being constructed across the street will obstruct her view of Mt. Baker somewhat, but I reminded her that the best view is yet to come. While she wasn't too excited about this move, she's very much looking forward to that one. Meanwhile, she's in good company.