Celebrating 25 Years!

Twenty-five years ago today, I was surprised that I didn't float down the aisle. A wedding seemed like it ought to be the dreamiest day, but when the time came, my Dad and I simply put one foot in front of the other as we made our way toward the front of the church, toward the man who would soon become my life partner. Walking felt so ordinary.

Our Wedding at Third Christian Reformed Church
in Denver, Colorado. June 27, 1998

Don't get me wrong -- the dress and the music and the flowers and the dear friends and family who had gathered were nothing but ordinary. It was our wedding! But as I look back, that ordinary walk down the aisle toward a life filled with ordinary moments seems fitting.

In the classic film, Fiddler on the Roof, when Tevye and Golde reached this milestone, Tevye's urgent question to his wife of 25 years was "Do you love me?" After all, their marriage was arranged, so the question of affection had been irrelevant on their wedding day. But now he wonders..."Do you love me?"

Golde's answer canvases the ordinary days they have shared, wondering whether the question is even relevant:

For twenty-five years I've washed your clothes
Cooked your meals, cleaned your house
Given you children, milked the cow
After twenty-five years, why talk about love right now?

For twenty-five years I've lived with him
Fought him, starved with him
Twenty-five years my bed is his
If that's not love, what is?

But that's the thing about love. It proves itself in ordinary ways. Golde is right -- cooking and cleaning and childbearing and gathering food -- these are the building blocks of a life together. Love is not just a feeling of affection but a commitment to someone else's flourishing.

Our marriage has not been ordinary in the sense of typical. We have moved fifteen times, lived in three countries, raised three children, and earned a certificate and four degrees between the two of us. Much of the love we've shared has come in the form of packing and unpacking and learning to pay bills in a new city or taxes in a new country. 

Our roles may seem unconventional. At the beginning of our marriage I did the laundry, the cooking, the shopping, and most of the childcare. Now our roles are reversed; I vacuum and help with dinner clean up while Daniel manages almost everything else, including most of the taxi-driving for our teenagers.

But I know this: Our partnership in life and ministry has been such a generous gift from God!

Do I love him? Absolutely! 

Does he love me? When I get home from work, I'm greeted by the smell of love: a healthy dinner cooking.

Dinner may seem ordinary, but it's the stuff of legend and of romance. Every day that I find clean socks in my drawers and milk in the fridge or flowers on the table, I don't even have to ask.

I know.

University of British Colombia

Ordinary faithfulness is what we signed up for. We celebrated 25 years of ordinary moments with an extra-ordinary cruise to Alaska. The stunning scenery and delicious food and quality service could hardly compare to the joy of experiencing it all together. 

Glacier Bay National Park

So now we go from glaciers and bears and mountain goats and sea otters back to ordinary -- doctor's appointments and bills to pay and emails to answer and dishes to wash.

Happy 25th Anniversary, Honey! I'm so glad to be spending my life with you. 

Here's to 25 more years of ordinary days ... together.

Rethinking Disability in the Church

It was 1991 or thereabouts. My Dad's cousin had come for a visit, and we had the glorious opportunity of bringing Jane to church with us. We had recently made a major church transition -- from Christian Reformed to (wildly) charismatic. Our new church had lively worship, dancing in the aisles, prophetic words, and (cue dramatic music) healing prayer. The latter was of particular interest to us because Jane had been in a car accident as a teenager and become a quadriplegic. 

Everyone loved Jane. She was the glue that held the extended family together. Her penmanship was stellar, even without the use of her hands. She carefully held her pens in her mouth to write letters that were pages long. She drew incredible art with her mouth -- beautiful enough to print and sell as greeting cards. Jane was keeper of memories, planner of reunions, and our family's favorite destination in Southern California (ok, Disney was fun, too, and if Aunt Jane came along, you could get to the front of every line!). 

Traveling with a wheelchair was not easy, so her visit to Colorado to see our family was highly anticipated. Her parents drove out with their wheelchair-accessible van for a visit. My grandfather built a ramp so that she could easily access the house. Jane's parents and my grandparents were not interested in visiting our church. (They were convinced we had fallen off the deep end!) But my Dad was allowed to borrow the van to bring Jane with us to church.

Although it was 30 years ago, I can still vividly remember our drive to church. My anticipation soared. I had seen a person in a wheelchair go forward for prayer, and I had watched them get up and walk. I was utterly convinced that Jane would leave church walking on her own two feet. All the way to church my brother and I gushed about what the Holy Spirit would do. We couldn't wait to witness a miracle!

Photo by Hans Moerman on Unsplash

I was only 14 or so at the time. Chalk it up to immaturity, but I never once considered how our effusive faith might have felt to Jane. It never occurred to me that our excitement might have been painful or awkward to her. We never asked whether she wanted healing prayer. We just assumed. I never wondered what would happen to her faith or to ours if she didn't walk out of that service on her own two feet.

I don't clearly remember the service or the drive home, but we were sober. Quiet. Disappointed. I wonder how Jane felt. A few days later we went on an outing to a park. A group of Christians approached and surrounded her wheelchair and asked if they could pray for healing. That was the first time I realized how awkward it must be to have so much attention from well-meaning people--even strangers--who wanted to "fix" her broken body.

During those years in a charismatic context, I mainly thought about disability as a physical problem that needed medical or miraculous healing. While I still believe that Jesus can and does heal, I 've begun thinking differently about disability. Perhaps the places where healing is most urgently needed are our attitudes and our communities.

Twenty years after that "unsuccessful" healing service, I was in seminary. Gordon-Conwell offered seminars each semester on special topics. One was on disability in the church. Our focus was on accessibility and inclusion. One assignment was to interview someone with a disability to find out what barriers prevented their full participation in the life of the church. It was eye-opening to think for the first time about how much body strain a wheelchair user may experience when their wheelchair is parked on a slope or when conversation partners are standing. I learned that churches rarely have accessible platforms and that sometimes the fellowship hall or classrooms are impossible to reach. I learned that I should always ask first before pushing someone's wheelchair.

When someone using a wheelchair or walker enters our community, if we're paying attention, we quickly discover ways we have failed to make our institutions accessible to all. Thankfully, building codes ensure accessibility for new construction projects, but churches and schools often have older buildings. We were so blessed to have a student in a wheelchair a few years ago at Prairie College. She had a can-do attitude about participating in the community, so I didn't hear her complain that the only bathroom she could access was on a different floor of the dorm than her bedroom, or that a couple of guys had to carry her upstairs in her wheelchair to reach the campus social events, or that the wheelchair ramps weren't always shoveled after snowstorms. Most classrooms could not be reached by elevator, so the registrar had to schedule hers in the the rooms she could access. Her presence gave us eyes to see where we needed to prioritize renovations. 

Bethany McKinney Fox does not consider herself disabled, but she has offered a similar gift to the church by opening our eyes to the ways we cause unintentional hurt or fail to remove barriers to inclusion. Her book, Disability and the Way of Jesus: Holistic Healing in the Gospels and the Church investigates Jesus' healing stories from the perspective of disability. By sharing her experiences as a friend of those with disabilities, Fox has helped me to see areas where I need to grow. 

For one, I had never considered how the healing stories in the Gospels might be painful or awkward for people with disabilities. Even more, the way we teach these stories can cause harm. Fox walks readers through biblical stories from various points of view -- medical practitioners, people with disabilities, pastors and church leaders -- showing how what we see depends on who we are. She demonstrates how Jesus' healing ministry involves far more than bodily restoration. Jesus's healing addresses the whole person and their community. It says as much or more about who he is than about the disabled person.

Her last chapter casts a vision for church communities that include a wide range of people from able to disabled, participating fully. She challenges churches to think not only about providing access but also reshaping corporate worship to better meet the needs of the entire congregation. In a recent article for Christianity Today magazine, Fox and Rosalba Rios consider how the pandemic has expanded our vision of what is possible. They suggest, "Now that we are in an extended season of adaptation, churches that have been less flexible or unwilling to change their structures may be called to a new sense of imagination."

Improving accessibility for people with obvious disabilities yields benefits for so many others whose disabilities are less obvious. This is true in schools as well as the church. For example, at Biola University, when we post a scanned book chapter for students, it must be an accessible pdf (one page at a time, rather than a 2-page spread, with extra space trimmed away and optical character recognition so that e-readers can successfully read them). This obviously benefits blind students, but it also benefits the significant percentage of students we serve with dyslexia, whose reading comprehension is much higher when they can hear the text. 

Fox's congregation includes people with physical and intellectual disabilities on staff. They've reshaped their services around shared meals and community. Multisensory experiences and interpersonal interaction are essential to effective teaching in her context. Fox's vision presents new possibilities for the full participation of all its members. The result is messy, but beautiful.

Fox describes able-bodied people as "temporarily abled." We're all dependent as babies, and we'll be dependent again at the end of life. Any of us could be just moments away from some debilitating injury or disease. Rather than thinking of the able-bodied as normative, we could think along a spectrum of abilities. Many people who appear able-bodied carry hidden disabilities such as chronic pain, learning disabilities, or social anxiety.

Some people with disabilities long for healing. Others embrace their embodied limitations as part of their identity -- whether blind or Downs syndrome or wheelchair bound. Yes, Jesus could heal their bodies, but he hasn't chosen to do so. Perhaps Jesus' greater hope is to heal the community from our inattention to the ways we have made it difficult for others to fully participate. One treasure in Fox's book is the stories she includes, told in first-person by disabled friends about their experiences in the church. This is one reason I've shared Jane's story.

Being God's Image:
Why Creation Still Matters
Coming May 2023 from IVP

In 2018, Jane went home to be with Jesus after 45 years after her accident. At the time she was the longest surviving quadriplegic in California history. Maybe that was the miracle? She, her parents, and her other caregivers figured out the right routines to keep her hydrated and nourished and to ensure that she didn't get bed sores. The community of care gathered around her was rich in love. She often told us that she didn't feel like she belonged in her broken body, like she was trapped. Maybe today she's walking streets of gold. But maybe, just maybe, Jesus is pushing Jane's wheelchair and feeding her manna and Jane finally feels fully at home in her own skin. I don't know exactly how these things work in the new creation, but I'm open to a wider range of possibilities than before.

I explore this and many other aspects of what it means to be human in my forthcoming book, Being God's Image: Why Creation Still Matters (IVP, May 2023). I learned so much while researching and writing this book. I hope it helps others the way it helped me!

Finding Home: Retrospect and Prospect

From my plane window the trees crowded in on each other like memories in old haunts. This would be the first time in almost a decade that I would drive these North Carolina streets and breathe this muggy air. Much has changed. I have changed.

Every place we love, and even those we don’t, holds memories like bubbles trapped in sea grass. Some rise to the surface and disappear forever, while others wait. We move on, but the memories stay, holding space for our past should we ever return. Remembrances throng around me here, reawakened. They ambush me with longing.

Street names, restaurants and stores, park swings and trees—taller now—mysteriously open to worlds I had forgotten. They say the stronger the emotion, the stronger the memory. Is that why my throat is choked and tears pool unbidden?

Those were happy years, full of diapers and fingernail clippings, homemade cookies and celery sticks, neighborhood games of kickball, school buses and permission slips and piles of picture books. My tears are not regret, but knowing. I couldn’t see ahead then, though sometimes I wanted just a glimpse. Now I have more than a glimpse, and the truth is much better and much harder than I knew. This tightness in my chest is compassion for my younger self, who will have hard roads to walk and who is worried unnecessarily about things that will turn out just fine.

With children the minutes seem like hours and the years fly by. I can still hear the lilt of my toddler’s voice asking to “go wee” on the neighbor’s backyard swing; now his eyes are nearly level with mine. He and the trees never stopped growing. That early entrance to kindergarten we fought for makes this the last year of high school for his older sister. How time flies! And as for the oldest? I can hear her planning her next elaborate birthday. Ten feels so recent, though twenty has passed.

In these day-long years some dreams have turned sour while others are much sweeter than I dared hope.

Every parent you know carries heartaches hidden from public view, the hardness that won’t receive love, the seeds planted that never bloomed, and the weeds that choked them. It goes both ways, I’m sure, for I am a daughter, too. I’ve reaped the bitter fruit of trees I did not plant and felt the frustration of generational differences.

What would I tell that younger me—that young mother in Charlotte with her future ahead of her?

I’d tell her doors will open. Just learn what you need to while you can. Be faithful with little.

I’d tell her she chose well. Attempting seminary while bearing children was a risk, but it was worth every naptime spent researching and every weekend spent reading. All those seeds sown would bear abundant fruit.

I’d tell her she’s not in charge of her children and their choices and that she can’t spare them heartache. Her job is simply to love well.

I’d tell her most of all that Jesus is everything and that God will be faithful. I’d say the path watered with tears leads to sweetness and light. Why should we fear the sorrow when it wraps so many precious gifts?

As my plane lifted off a week later the chapter closed again, but this time gilded with recollections, like aged wine. We flew westward three time zones, over mountains and plains, deserts and canyons, toward the new place I call home.

On our descent I gazed over smoggy Los Angeles, crammed with houses and businesses, but empty of trees and, more poignantly, empty of memories. Like a book with blank pages, those streets meant nothing to me. I could not feel their pulse. They held nothing of my heart.

Not yet, anyway.

It won’t always be like this. In ten or twenty years the descent into LAX will grip my chest and catch in my throat. Faces and stories will crowd the smoggy air with meaning. I trust it will be so.

Right now it doesn’t happen—that homey feeling—until I’m a mile from home. My world is small here, traversed on sandaled foot—home to work and back, home to church and back, home to park and back. The memories here are thin, like a winter sunset lacking warmth. It feels right to be here, but the stories are too young to cherish, too new to offer substance. If we left now we'd soon forget.

What would future me want me to know today?

I think she’d tell me to cling to Jesus, who’s been with me in every zip code I’ve called mine. He’s the constant and the depth I’m longing for.

She’d say to treasure old friendships and make time to nurture new ones, so the years ahead will hold twice the celebration and half the despair.

And I expect she’d say to savor this beautiful life. After all, the story is only partly written. The sorrows will give way to joy in the end (perhaps sooner?). When some is lost, not all is lost, and what seems the worst is probably not.

I already know well that what seems permanent may not be, and what feels tenuous may prove to endure. So as the strong California sun drops behind palm trees in the evening sky, I am thankful. However fragile it is, I am home.

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?

What Do You Expect This Christmas? (Part 1)

Expectations. The holiday season can be a minefield of emotions, can it not? So many hopes. So many fears. So many disappointments. So much to get done. So little time.

Sometimes I catch myself wondering, “Why can’t things be like they used to?”

It’s true that life was simpler way back when -- smaller social circles, fewer distractions, more stability. But do you remember how things really were? 

Photo: C Imes

You’ve watched children open presents. They’re too young to have a well-developed filter. Their faces show everything. “Thanks, Grandma,” through clenched teeth with sidelong glances at Mom and raised eyebrows. “Wow! How did you know?!” with squeals of delight. “Oh. I have this one already” (trying not to cry).

We have all been the child who didn’t get what she really wanted for Christmas. And many of us have been the parent who tried our darndest to select the right gift, only to have our child give us “that look” or melt into tears.

I was “that child” when I was about 10 years old. Mom was in the dining room wrapping presents. When I walked into the room she scrambled to hide something under some loose wrapping paper. But it was too late. I had seen it. A big bag of … bird seed. I remember being puzzled. Bird seed? Why is mom hiding bird seed? It didn’t take long to conclude that I must be getting a bird feeder. And in the time between Mom’s wrapping day and my opening presents, I became obsessed with birds. I read about them. I watched for them outside. I thought about where to put the bird feeder in the back yard so I could see it out my window. Birds had never been on my radar before, but now they dominated my thinking. And then the big day came – time to open presents. I eyed the pile of gifts until I found the one that was sure to be my bird feeder. They had saved it until last. I ripped open the paper with a twinkle in my eye. They couldn’t fool me. I had figured it out. I opened the box . . . and sat there, stunned. It was a sleeping bag. I think I cried. I was so confused. “Mom, what about the bird seed?” Now it was her turn to be surprised. “Bird seed? That was for Grandpa and Grandma’s bird feeder.” She never imagined that her little trick to throw me off course would be so effective. The sleeping bag was beautiful, covered with rainbows and sailboats and puffy clouds. But I was devastated.

I’m grown up now. I don’t cry about presents any more. But that doesn’t make Christmas any easier. Not only do I have my own expectations to manage, but I’m also affected by the expectations of everyone in the family. The grown-up side of Christmas can be intense – the cooking and planning and shopping and decorating and fitting extra parties and Secret Santa and evening programs into a schedule that was full to begin with – the extra family time with its range of dynamics and loss of routine. I don’t get to do as I see fit because half a dozen other adults are in on the decisions and multiple calendars have to be considered.

Our Christmas holiday doesn’t take place on an empty stage. It shows up in the middle of Act 2 in this drama that is life with a whole cast of human characters with all their foibles – the addict, the perfectionist, the narcissist, the chronically anxious, the workaholic, the loner, the argumentative, the jokester. Most of us can identify ourselves (and our relatives!) somewhere on that list. And the way we imagine the ideal Christmas is often far from what actually plays out.

Those two family members refuse to celebrate together, forcing us to choose sides. This one is likely to be in a foul mood. I’ll be high strung. She’ll be withdrawn. He won’t offer to help. They’ll be picky eaters. She’ll drink too much. He’ll complain loudly. My feet will hurt. We’ll spend too much. They’ll raise their eyebrows.

Is it any wonder why some of us dread the holidays?

Photo: Virginia Howard

Christmas doesn’t take place on an empty stage. It shows up in the middle of life at full throttle.

This shouldn't surprise us. Even the first Christmas was no different. Sweep away that image of a peaceful nativity. We know better. Is life with a newborn ever a “silent night”? And giving birth in a crowded house with distant relatives and their livestock is hardly a picture of “peace on earth.”

The first Christmas had more than its fair share of disappointments and unmet expectations. I'll talk about those in Part 2 of this Advent series. In the meantime, ask yourself this question: What am I expecting this Christmas?

Under Our Noses

We were in the mood to explore. Up for something new. Felt like we needed to get "out." But where?

Falls in Downtown Oregon City
(Photo: C Imes)

Then I had an idea. I doubted it would be anything dramatic, but there was a waterfall nearby that we'd only passed by and never seen up close.

We've lived in our small, historic town on the Willamette River nearly three years now. This waterfall was right smack dab in the downtown area. We pass it multiple times each week. It's about time.

I tried to make it a secret adventure but our resident teenager and pre-teen insisted on knowing where we were going. I told them. Their response: "Seriously?" They opted out, so Danny, Easton and I piled in the car. (This post is my "I told you so!")

Oregon City 7th Street Elevator
(photo: C Imes)

Hardly more than five minutes from home, we parked and walked a half block to the top of the stone stairs. Our unique community has an elevator that doubles as a public street linking upper downtown to lower downtown. But it was closed for the evening, so we took the stairs. And that's where I wanted to be anyway, because I had never climbed them. I didn't realize that the waterfall went right beneath them. What a pretty spot! Leafy green trees created a tunnel of shade for our descent.

Taking the Stairs in Oregon City
(photo: C Imes)

In the mood to meander, we headed past shops and restaurants and across the highway to the edge of the Willamette River to see what could be seen. We've driven by that spot hundreds of times in three years. Other than a few fishing boats and kayaks, we had never noticed anything worth writing home about. But we were in for such a surprise!

Our Surprise Visitor: A Sea Lion! (photo: C Imes)

We stared at the water, foam still swirling from the Willamette Falls. Danny noticed the river seemed almost alive in places. Then suddenly the surface broke—two sea lions! We're more than an hour drive from the coast. How can this be? But it was.

I-205 Bridge over the Willamette
(photo: C Imes)

We watched the sea lions for quite some time, following one fellow as he lazed his way down the river, poking his head up for air now and then. (It turns out the local fishermen are deeply concerned. There are at least 30 sea lions this year, and they're eating too many salmon!)

West Linn-Oregon City Bridge
(photo: C Imes)

By the time we headed back to the stairs and up to the car, I was all the more convinced: You never know what you'll discover if you slow down. Linger longer. Park and walk. Take it all in.

There's a whole lot of life happening right under our noses.

a granddaughter of immigrants speaks up



In 1949, my Oma and Opa were among the first European immigrants to fly to the Americas after WWII. They left behind a country ravaged by war, where the land had been raped and pillaged by years of fear and poverty. They determined to put as many miles as possible between themselves and the memory of war. They were not well educated. They were not highly skilled workers. They were young farmers, newly married, who hated farming and wanted to begin a new life. They were not "white"; they were Dutch, and their only ticket to Canada was (ironically) through the sponsorship of a Canadian farmer who gave them work. The little English they spoke was hampered by a thick brogue. They brought little wealth to contribute to the economy. Just two pair of calloused hands and a willingness to try again to build a better life for themselves and the son they would bear.

They looked no different than Germans. I wonder whether their accents ever aroused suspicion among their new neighbors. They had been victims of war brutality, risking life and limb to subvert the German advance, but only a thin border separated them from Nazi headquarters. With the same light skin and big noses, did people wonder? Did all Europeans look the same? After all, they shared a religion with Nazi Germany — Protestant Christianity.

How soon we forget.

My father crossed the Canadian border into the United States to attend Calvin College. He met and married my mother in Grand Rapids, Michigan, beginning life as a U.S. Citizen.

That makes me the granddaughter of immigrants — immigrants who fled a war-torn country to make a new beginning. They followed their married son to Colorado so they could watch me grow up. I was nurtured and raised in a close-knit Denver community whose shared origins defined us (even today, the children of my Dutch cousins and Dutch classmates are dropping off their children at Calvin Camp, the same camp we attended almost 30 years ago, and my other grandparents are living out the remainder of their years in a retirement home populated mostly by people of Dutch descent). My community successfully integrated. No one my age that I know of actually spoke Dutch. We were Americans.

But roll back the clock just a few generations and most of our families were not in the United States.

How grateful I am that my grandparents were allowed to move here — that they were not turned back at the border on the outside chance that they were Nazi sympathizers.

I'd like to extend that opportunity to others fleeing war-torn lands.
Every human being deserves a place to live and raise a family without fear for their safety.
Let's work together to make it happen.
There's a sea of refugees out there who are just as afraid of ISIS as we are.
We can start by opening our hearts to them.

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!"

another beautiful thing

I sat in the Denver airport on my way home from Atlanta, waiting to board my plane with all the other travelers. Most stared at their phones. A few had books. Some sipped Starbucks.

An ambulance escorted by police vehicles arrived and parked outside the concourse, lights flashing, a reminder that all was not well in the world. People looked up. Stared. We watched as a woman was taken by stretcher to the ambulance. Long minutes passed before she was whisked away to the hospital. The drama over, I turned to check the screens. Why aren't we boarding yet? It's past time. The line of people exiting the jetway answered my question. Our plane had only just arrived. I settled in for a longer wait.

It was then that a quiet scene in the corner caught my eye. I had seen the pair arrive earlier, noticed the matter-of-fact way the father conversed with his young son, telling him that although their final destination was Sacramento, they would first land in Portland. The boy took it all in, asking questions until he was satisfied that he understood.

Now the father knelt on the carpet, facing his son. The boy was 4 or 5, and I soon realized the rest of us were invisible. He was alone with his Dad on the open sea, watching for land.

"Captain Qwibbles, has the fog lifted? Can you see anything?"
"I'll check right away, sir."

At this the boy went to the window and peered out into the depths, scanning for threats, looking for land. (When his breath steamed up the glass, he licked away the fog. I took a sharp breath, wondering what Dad would do. He must have seen it, but he never broke out of character.)

"Well?"
"There's a giant octopus coming toward us!"
"Prepare the men for action." At this the boy turned away from the window and got very busy. His preparations were urgent. Pointing, lifting, moving large objects through the air. His father stayed calm and engaged. If he had a phone, I never saw it. If he was stressed traveling alone with a child, he never let on. Now and then he would check the monitor to see if it was their turn to board. But the boy seemed entirely oblivious to his real surroundings (and therefore not at all restless because of the long wait).

The young couple sitting beside me were equally enthralled by this most unusual theater. The man turned to me and remarked, "I doubt anyone has ever had this much fun in the airport before."

I saw no bargaining, no bribes, no placating or pleading with the child to behave. There was no impatience, no temper on display. No boredom. No bravado. No superior and knowing glances at other grown ups in the room to validate his behavior. No "look at what a good parent I am." Simply a man, secure in himself, empty handed and calm, engaged with the imaginary world of his son. The boy had no need of an audience and had no idea we were there. Dad was his whole world, and he had his whole dad.

How. rare.

This ought to be normal, but I'm afraid it's not. And we all noticed.
That Dad was an inspiration.

He reminded me of Kameel, though they shared neither race nor occupation. Both men were fully present. Fully available. Fully secure in themselves. Both saw the immense value in another person, looked them in the eye, and let them know. Kameel was boisterous and loud, while this nameless father was calm and quiet, with no desire to attract attention. I saw Kameel at work in a successful career. I saw the other man between here and there, doing an ordinary job for which he'll never be paid. But both were right where they belonged, making the very most of the moment. Doing the most important thing in the world.

And believe me, it was beautiful.

life in the middle of nowhere

Does life have you doing circles in the desert?

If so, you're not alone. And God hasn't given up on you.

Last week, the summer edition of the Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary Alumni Magazine, Contact, was released. It includes the devotional I gave at the Gordon-Conwell Alumni Breakfast at SBL last November, as well as a write-up of Anne Doll's phone interview with me, where we talked about how to make it in grad school as a family of five.

For those of you who are "in between," waiting to step into a season of fulfillment, this devotional is my gift to you, the fruit of my own desert wanderings. Here's a snippet:

In those "in-between" places, we are faced with many questions. We are no longer certain about who we are. We are not sure how God is leading, or even if he's leading. In our desperation to restore a sense of order to our lives, we're always in danger of adopting the wrong narrative. But God has us right where He wants us. He has lessons to teach us that can only be learned in a state of dislocation. Lessons about who we are. About who He is. And how He's calling us to be in the world. 

Read the rest here. You can find my contribution on pages 30–33.

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.

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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.

a lot of hops

It was Easton's idea. 

We had about an hour before the kids' bedtime and wanted to go outside.

"Let's make a hopscotch of the books of the Bible!"

We grabbed the sidewalk chalk and headed into the quiet street to get started.

"We could just do the Old Testament," he suggested. "How many books is that?"

"39," I reported.

"And how many in the New Testament?"

"27." [This has nothing to do with a PhD in Biblical Theology. What you memorize as a child sticks!]

"And how many is that all together?"

"66."

"Wow," he said. "That's a lot of hopping."

No kidding.

We drew and drew, using just the first letter of each book, and then hopped and hopped, trying to hop to the rhythm of the books-of-the-Bible songs we know (which is not easy—you try it!). Then we tried silly hops, jazzy hops, backward hops, dribbling hops, jump-roping hops, and any other way we could think of to traverse our longest hopscotch yet.

When we fell into bed, we were all hopped out, but all practiced up on the books of the Bible, which is a very handy thing to know.

Thanks, Easton.

now is the time for no

I'm coming up on the one-year anniversary of some of the hardest news I've ever received: my dissertation was inadequate. After 3 years of pouring my heart and soul into graduate school, giving it everything I had, this was really disappointing. For a year now I've been processing that news and trying to find my footing so that I can attack the project again and win this time. It's hard to do that when you're exhausted. And even harder when the little voice inside says you don't have what it takes.

Add to the mix a two-week trip to Israel, a cross-country move with a family of five, settling in to a new community, and beginning to teach adjunct for the first time . . . and it will make sense why my blog has lain fallow lately. All five of us have had challenges adjusting to life in Oregon (and frankly, recovering from Wheaton). And while the external pressures on our schedule are less than what we faced in Wheaton, we find ourselves more stretched and more exhausted than we've ever been. Day after day the hours erode while the to-do swells and grows more impossible.

That's why I found this post over at The Well so encouraging this morning. Like me, Kindra has discovered that she's not superwoman. She can't do it all. And like me, she's learning to be okay with that. (Ironically, two of my own posts at The Well came up as "related articles." I guess that makes sense.)

In this twilight zone where we live -- not yet finished with what we started in Wheaton but trying to put down roots in a new community -- I have spread myself too thin. I have said "yes" to lots of good, small things, things I believe are worth doing, which have crowded my calendar until I have nothing left to give to the one thing I need to do -- finish the dissertation.

My good friend Anna Moseley Gissing is giving up "yes" for Lent. She writes,

"Saying 'no' requires trust. Saying no to more commitments, more responsibilities, and more busyness means trusting that other opportunities will come at other times. There is a time for everything, and now is the time for no. Now is the time to remember that God made me with limits, and these limits remind me that I’m the creature, not the Creator. God knows my desires, my passions, and my anxiety.

Saying no creates space for God here and now. When I clear out some space in my mind and my life, I am more present to God and to those around me. And the commitments I have already made get the better part of me.

For the record, I'm glad I said yes to teaching at Multnomah University this semester. It's taken every ounce of my energy, but I have loved every minute. Still, I don't have what it takes to finish the dissertation when I'm spread this thin. My dissertation needs the better part of me. And that makes this the time for "no."

Anything But Dissertation?

Enough time has elapsed since I've talked about my dissertation that some of you have probably begun to wonder . . . has she quit? or is she stuck in the quicksand that threatens every doctoral student who is "ABD"? 

ABD technically indicates that a student has completed "All But Dissertation." Perhaps "Anything But Dissertation" is more accurate for most of us. It's a strange season in academic life that requires a tremendous amount of self-motivation. Many enter it . . . and far fewer emerge with a degree in hand. It's so easy to let all sorts of other things crowd out productivity in research and writing (um, like this blog post, which is interrupting dissertation work. sigh.).

I've done all sorts of things since moving to Oregon that might be interpreted as an avoidance strategy. I bought a grain mill, studied and experimented with breads and grains, started making my own yogurt and chicken broth, and signed up for a class at the local community college entitled "Backyard Chickens" (really!). I've planted trees and painted trim, hemmed curtains and played with my children. We've camped and hiked and driven to the beach. None of these activities appear on the list of what one must do if one is to succeed in academia. But academics are real people, too (at least some of us try to be!). This has been an important season of slowing down, settling into our new home, and developing healthier eating habits.

Meanwhile, I have continued to work on my dissertation. It started off slowly over the summer, but since the kids started school this fall I've been carefully reading a 300-page German monograph on my topic, diagramming a dozen chapters of Exodus in Hebrew, and reading up on cognitive metaphor theory. I sit at my desk (or at Multnomah's library) working at least 6 hours every day. Since you can't see me sitting here, I thought I'd reassure you ... I haven't quit. It's just a long process. And I trust the end product will be worth the wait (and all the hard work).

Tomorrow I'm heading to San Diego to reconnect with colleagues and meet with my advisers. As usual, the annual conferences of the Evangelical Theological Society, the Institute of Biblical Research, and the Society of Biblical Literature are being held back-to-back in the same city. Thousands of professors and students of the Bible from across the country and around the world meet under one roof every November to reconnect and learn from each other. Academically speaking, these conferences are always the highlight of my year. This conference will be especially significant since I have been working remotely. My days will be packed with one-on-one meetings, attending sessions, networking, and browsing book tables. When I arrive home next week my brain will be so full it hurts. It happens every year. But I can't think of a better way to invigorate my research and writing than to spend 6 days with a community devoted to the study and teaching of God's Word.

When the shelves of my fridge are filled with leftover turkey and stuffing, you'll find me back at my desk cranking away on the biggest project I've ever attempted. With God's help, one day those three letters - ABD - will become PhD.

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.

back to school panic

InterVarsity published a short piece I wrote for their blog for Women in the Academy and Professions. It went live this morning. Here's a preview . . .

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Photo: C. Imes

It’s that time of year. I can feel it in my bones. In just a handful of days we’ll all be climbing back on the hamster wheel, our arms loaded with books, our schedule packed to the gills. Open days on the calendar are slipping through my fingers; my ambitious summer to-do list barely dented. Panic sets in. I like “back to school” season. But I need more time! What do I have to show for these long summer hours with no classes, no assignments, no grading, no committee meetings?

I meant to be productive. I really did. This was my chance to get ahead. To knock out a chapter, an essay, a conference paper, a book review. This was the ideal time to breeze through all those books on my desk, waiting to be read. And what do I have to show for it? Nothing. At least nothing that “counts” on my C.V.

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To read the rest of this piece, visit The Well . . .