What Happened in the Township & "Easter Uproot"

 (Two of the leaders who made this conference happen. Amazing women!)

(Two of the leaders who made this conference happen. Amazing women!)

Happy Holy Week, dear friends. Forgive my silence. This last week in South Africa has been run-around crazy, and in the midst of it sickness and fatigue. But I owe you something. You prayed for me, for that errant train stuck in the desert, and for the conference in the township. And you need to know what happened!  

(But apologies first. I have only two photos of the event, these taken after the conference. It felt rude to go around taking photos. I simply needed to be fully present.)

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But here’s part of what happened. This 40-hour-train-trip woman with little sleep for three days went to the Township outside of Cape Town. And went filled with energy and excitement as if she had slept all week. (Supernatural strength given!)

But------would anyone come to this first-time event? It’s scary to go to a township of a million, where many good people live, but where there is violence as well. Some township dwellers do not welcome "settlers"--and who would after the evils of apartheid? There is a deep sad history here.

But they went. Women from the city came who had never been in the township before. Women from the township came to meet them. We sat around circular tables together. We prayed together. We sang praise songs in English and in Xhosa, the tribal language, our voices blending perfectly. We ate lunch together, women in beautiful head wraps and women in flowing dresses. We talked together about the deepest things in our lives as  women and mothers.

In the midst of my two hour presentations on parenting, I asked them to share with one another four different times.

 “What were your expectations of motherhood before you had children?” 

“What do you feel most guilty about as a mother?”

“What are your hopes and dreams for your children?”

 “What can we do to be faithful mothers?”  

These were the most glorious moments, as women of all colors, ages, languages and history opened their hearts to one another. Women who had been separated by apartheid, literally fenced off from one another for generations. In those long beautiful moments, with heads bent toward one another as stories and burdens poured out, the sanctuary was a picture of the reality of resurrection.   What man worked so hard to maim, fracture and divide, God is joining together. 

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This is why Christ died and rose again: to unite his many people around the world into one people, who sing His praises in many tongues, but in one glorious song.

God has so much work in my own life still to do .... but your prayers helped make this happen this day. (And there is yet more to be shared another day.)  Please KNOW I am on-the-floor grateful for your partnership in the gospel this way.                       

And---one more thing?  

For this Holy Week, may I share one more time the Easter poem written last year? That Christ was not buried, He was planted . .. 


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Lord, help us to live and move and root our being in your resurrection power every blessed day of life that you give us!

Torment on An African Train--and Why I Bless It

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In South Africa, we have survived a 24 hour train ride that warped into 40. I will not lie. It was tortuous. When we embarked on the Shoshaloza Meyl train, the purple and teal train that looks like an 80's birthday party train, other South African riders asked us, "What are you doing on this train?" This train had a reputation. This train was always late. This train company, on another route, had collided with two vehicles 6 weeks before, exploding and killing 19 people, injuring hundreds. (We didn't know this until halfway through the trip.) But this was the train we could afford. 


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Was it really "torment"? You decide. It was 90 degrees when the trip began. No air conditioning. We had a sleeper---YES! But the double-decker 5'x6' space was tight and claustrophobic for four bodies. The train moved at a glacial pace, and stopped and slowed every 10 minutes with a shrieking grinding of the brakes that lasted for minutes each time. Nails-on-chalkboard that even my earplugs could not drown out. I did not sleep.

 1 a.m.  Working in my "office" on the presentations.

1 a.m.  Working in my "office" on the presentations.

The train moved at half speed when it managed to move at all. Why so slowly? The signal equipment and the rails had been vandalized and looted so often, trains have crashed. With other trains. With cars. So the trains go slowly to be safer, to anticipate danger. 

Twenty-four hours in, we broke down. In the middle of the karoo (desert). An engine was sent from Cape Town to rescue us. We rejoiced. Then that engine broke down. No one knew for how long. 

I cried for help. Using my phone for internet, I posted our plight to Facebook and begged for prayer. "Our train is broken down and I have to be in Cape Town to give a conference on Saturday." I tried to explain: This conference is not just any conference. It's a conference in a township, for the first time bringing black, white, brown, African, Alaskan, Afrikaaner, Asian together. To break down the walls between us. To unite us in Christ. It's risky. It's scary. It's kingdom work. 

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And now I am stuck on a train in the desert? Now, I am sleepless for 2 nights? Now, if I get there, I am dehydrated, dirty, cramped, exhausted, weepy? If I arrive at all, this is how I must arrive and speak at this all day conference?

And God's answer is yes. And I bless Him for it. Here's why. 

  He answered all those prayers. Those prayers moved mountains---and that train. We shrieked and ground our way into the pitch dark station in downtown Cape Town after 3 a.m. Yes, fourteen hours late, but there. An hour long uber ride later, we crawled into beds at 4 am.  

 There are 100 other things that happened on this train, but this is what I must say now. I am here readying for this conference tomorrow  because of you. Because of all of who prayed.  Because not only does God not leave us alone, not only is He with us always, even in a broken-down train,  but my brothers and sisters from around the world were with us as well. Dozens and dozens of you prayed. This is the miracle of Christianity. When we were stuck in the Istanbul airport trying to get into this country, and then stuck on the train getting to the conference, I knew and felt a cloud of witnesses around us interceding on our behalf.  

This is the concrete world of the kingdom of God which is not a fairy tale world or some spirited realm of ether. It is a world of real hands, of spoken words going heavenward; it is people with feet that walk to your doors, fingers that send emails. This is the new world that Jesus began when he lived among us.

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 I am not a satan-watcher but I do believe satan wanted to thwart me going to the conference. He wanted to wear me out, to wear me down. To suck out all my juice and energy. 

And he has. He did. But it won't work.  I live on an island in Alaska, so I am always coming from far away---from a place where the storms freeze planes to the ground. Where fog hides the skies and planes hunker low. And even then, even when my plane is stopped and I must wait and then fly all night and I arrive exhausted, even then, if I stand and speak and in my fatigue, if I should even weep before them, he inhabits those tears. What was meant for defeat becomes strength. For doesn't God shine all the more through our frail trembling bodies?


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It was true for all the disciples. For the apostle Paul. For Jesus himself. And for me, just one tiny shadow of those men. And it is true for you too, is it not?  

This is a love letter written to you. Written with shaking hands. Written in awe of our God. Written with anticipation of what He will do tomorrow. Through my weakness and your prayers.

SO gratefully,




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An African Safari, and Surviving a Wild Woman Attack


Tonight we are staying on the Crocodile River in Kruger National Park, in eastern South Africa. We arrived just before dark, and found our thatched-roof bungalow delightfully near the river.  We dumped our backpacks, unpacked our bag of food, then heard a roar, a splash, a growl from the river. Hippos, likely. Maybe a crocodile as well? 

(Let me show you, but apologies! These are not Nat Geo photos. These are mostly from my iPhone ‘cause that’s all I’ve got.)


In the hour before, we crawled the earthen roads on another wildlife drive. What would we see today? Ten minutes in, we rounded a corner and STOP! The biggest bull elephant I’ve ever seen was walking the dirt road, just feet in front of us.  Was it safe to pass him? I’ve been told multiple stories of marauding bulls who charged cars, even overturning them. We passed, holding our breath, clicking our cameras at his massive head. He flapped his ears at us, lowered his head, and just when I thought he would charge, we were gone.

Minutes later, in the early evening dusk----GIRAFFES! Two of them calmly in the road while I gestured wildly at the boys. (For those who doubt the existence of God, I have a one-word apologetic for you: “Giraffe.”) And how can I tell of the flocks of impala, waterbuck, zebras, white rhinos, on and on?  All wild beasts carrying on their untamed lives in more than 7000 square miles of national park land.  This is their world, not ours. We are the ones in cages not allowed to get out of our cars, while they roam free. Just as it should be.


I know that feeling of being caged, trapped. I felt it in church last Sunday. Not knowing where to go, we chose the church nearest our B+B. Just as we entered the building, the pastor, in t-shirt and jeans said, with a smile, “I hope you like worship that’s totally free!?”

“Sure,” I smiled back confidently.

Then it began. The fifty congregants, of all colors and ages, stood and swayed and clapped and danced to the worship band’s pulsing beat. The band sounded like they had dropped in from K-Love radio: perfect, professional contemporary Christian music. And so loud I couldn’t hear my own voice.  

We joined in enthusiastically. Between songs, the leader began a tiger-like pacing of the platform, exhorting us in the tones and movements of an American televangelist. It got hot. We kept going. One praise chorus about God's love for us lasted for 20 minutes. Another for 15.  More than an hour later, we were still singing about how much Jesus loves us. 

I realized that every word spoken in those 80 minutes was about us. About Jesus’ love for us. That he could never ever love us any more. His love was unconditional. God didn’t need anything from us so our job was to take from him. (Where is that in the scriptures?) God was there just for us. To pour out his love upon us. . . . .

It was 95 degrees. I had given two keynotes at a Writing Conference just the day before. I had poured it all out. And now, this message and music which was exactly like a church we had visited a few weeks before, whose 3 hours were spent sending people into ecstatic visions . . .  I felt cloyed and sick.  I sat down.

Suddenly a woman appeared beside me, the well-dressed woman originally from England who had greeted us with a too-hard hug when we first came in. She clapped her hands on my shoulders and began praying, loudly, over the throbbing music. She prayed.

“God, Abba, set your daughter free. Set her free from whatever is holding her back!  Demolish whatever strongholds are erected against you. Release her from disappointments. Refresh her with your love. Reach down and cleanse her from whatever is troubling her . ..

And at this point she placed her hand on my stomach and pushed hard as she prayed (she’s so right about my stomach being a stronghold!! I’d love a few pounds of fat to be released in Jesus’ name!).

Then, she moved her hand to my breastbone, pressing and praying again,

“Lord, we pray against Satan. That you would destroy any ground that’s his. That you would tear down anything that stands between you and your daughter. Set her free, Lord Jesus! Set her free!”


  I sat there, captured. Helpless for 3-4 minutes. Feeling preyed upon by her prayer. Duncan, who was still standing, was next.

She pressed herself against him, this stranger, putting her hands on his belly, his chest, while Duncan stood frozen as she cried out to God over him. Micah was next. And before the next attack, Abraham decided wisely and conveniently that he needed to go to the bathroom, so he was spared.

We escaped church before the closing song.

I am sure she is a kind woman who truly loves Jesus and wants everyone to experience him as she does. But there’s so much I wanted to say to this wild woman. Jesus has set me free. I may be exhausted right now, with a headache, but I am totally set free. I’ve been freed to worship Jesus with my mind as well as my heart and soul. I am set free for a purpose: not just to dance in the aisle at church, but to serve and love God and our neighbors with all that we are and have. (And when God says “love” he means more than a feeling.)  

Maybe that’s what she was trying to do. Maybe I missed it.

And maybe I am making too much of what was intended as love. But I visited another church much like this one a few weeks back. It was a 3 hour service where the pastor urged the congregants, through the music, to find "ecstasy" and to "take from God whatever you need." There was no scripture. There was no sermon.

Listen, I’m worried about us. I’m worried about the Church. I’m worried about our narcissism. I'm worried that we've created a fenced-in fairy godfather god.

The beasts of these African fields remind me who God is, a wild God, a Maker God we cannot tame. We exist for Him; He does not exist for us. And this is real freedom: to be freed from our tiny caged hearts, to be freed from worshipping a small god of our own making. 

Lord, truly, set us free! Show us your wildness and your glory!



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Petting Cheetahs & Chasing Racism

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Will you come with me today? It won't take long, but I must show you what I saw today, or else my heart will collapse or explode. Or worse yet, I will turn away, and blithely return to my nice little life, keeping blinders firmly in place.

But first, the Cheetahs. I confess, I am not a cat person---I have always loved dogs and their bounding enthusiasm for life. Cats seem more like our alter egos, the darker cunning selves we hide. But this day, in Bloemfontain, South Africa, maybe I was converted? 


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We spent 2 1/2 hours with these magnificent animals, who had all been rescued from various circumstances of neglect or sickness. The fastest creature on earth, who is all legs and lithe length, lay and put his head in Micah's lap. Sat still for a chin scratch.


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These cats don't belong on this farm. They should be wild, pursuing their prey, living their slinking beautiful lives in the long grasses of open plains. But they are dying. Their gene pool is dangerously small, leading to disease and premature death; They've lost 91% of their habitat.Only 7100 remain in the wild. They're dangerously close to extinction.

When you sit inches from their gorgeous faces, you get it. You feel it. The coming loss. 




We left Bloemfontein a few days ago and are now in Johannesburg. Today, we are back from another prison: Constitution Hill, in the heart of this city of 20 million. Why should you go into one more prison with me? For the same reason I went: to crack the door yet wider on the human heart---into its depths and into its brilliant light. There is hope coming soon, but first, you must know this:

The prison was built in 1893, This is the prison where Gandhi was held for 8 months. Nelson Mandela was here too. It's most egregious years were the years when the prison was crammed with black and "non-white" men and women who wittingly or unwittingly had violated the inhuman Apartheid laws. Between 1947 and 1948, in a single year---more than 90,000 men and women spent time in this horrifically overcrowded, brutal place. Yes, there were criminals here, but for many, their crime---they weren't white. 


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Others were political activists, mine strikers, prisoners of war . . .. Hundreds of thousands of men, women and children of all colors were held here, and some died here. 

Solitary confinement in rooms with barely room to lie down----where men spent weeks, months, even up to a year, with no food but rice water. 

Constant purposeful degradations.

Tiny cells where the windows were covered to keep a perpetual night. 

I'll stop there and let the photos tell the rest:

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 The men's solitary cells, which are no more than 10 ' by 4'.

The men's solitary cells, which are no more than 10 ' by 4'.

60  men held in deliberately blacked-out rooms built for 30. Two toilets. Barely enough food, and the food often vile and even rotten.


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It's a sad, broken upside down world. Yet this is not the end. There is brilliant light out of this dark:

*That the bricks of this prison that treated women and men like brute beasts for 100 years were torn down and used to build the Constitutional Court in 1996.  A court that protects the rights, freedoms and dignities of all South Africans.  A court that is open to all. (Yes, we walked right in to court, while on a break.)




*And this light: that we who enter the prison complex choke as we stand in the solitary cells,  cringe at the stories of the survivors, fight tears as we view the torture devices. We recognize evil. We name it. Recoil from it. We determine to expose and end racism wherever we find it, starting with ourselves.


In the name of Jesus. A name so powerful, so filled with hope a desperate man carved this altar into his solitary cell.

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I don't know if he made it out alive or not. I don't know how many hundreds of black men endured the hell of that cell.  But I do know Jesus was there.  Just as He is here, ready to free us all from our own racism and prejudice against those who are different than us.

We don't want Cheetahs to go extinct, but we need racism to go extinct, don't we? We need brutality and hatred to go extinct. We need Love to grow long lean legs on us like the Cheetah's to race, fierce, swift across the cities and plains chasing injustice, hatred, brutality far from our borders. Far from our hearts. 

May it be so. 

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Can Heaven be Found in Hell? Inside the most notorious prison in South Africa

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I cannot keep up with God, I just cannot. Nor can I keep up with this blog.  I have not space to write about being stuck in Istanbul for 48 hours because we were missing a document we didn't know we needed. I have not time to speak of the writers' workshop here in Cape Town, where we all, yes, saw miracles happen among us. Or the days at George Whitefield College where hearts were knit together, or the visit to a township of a million souls, and. ...so much more. Let me write just about today. 

But first, may I complain a bit? It must be 95 degrees here in Cape Town today, like most of the days we've been here. Sweat is rivering down my back. And there is an ongoing devastating drought which makes everything hotter. We are more than complying with the water restrictions, we Alaska bush people, who can nurse a cup of water into an entire head-to-toe bath, with enough left over to boil for a tea party for twelve. But in this dry heat this far-north woman is half-melted and dehydrated and limp with fatigue.  But I am resting this evening. Resting from a trip to someplace unimaginable. Somewhere I did not expect to go. 


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 I went to Pollsmoor Prison. It's a facility in Cape Town, South Africa  built for 1500 during the days of Apartheid. Built, as some have written, "to break the spirit of the black man." Nelson Mandela was held here. Now, it houses more than 4,000. It is 300% over capacity. Gangs rule. HIV, Tuberculosis and other diseases are rampant. Even the prison guards call it "inhumane."   In 2016, CNN snagged an exclusive look behind the walls of Pollsmoor. The headline and the video here:

Exclusive: Inside the Hellish Prison Where Nelson Mandela Was Held


This was my outing today. 

I shouldn't have gone. There's no way I should have gotten in. One of the directors of Hope Prison Ministries asked me to come last week. The chances of me getting clearance into a maximum security prison on such short notice were slim. So many hoops and circuits and stamps to run. But somehow----there it was. Yes. I can go.

And what shall I do there, this woman from Alaska? Hope Prison Ministries has an incredible ministry among the inmates that focuses on restorative justice. People who could have brilliant huge salary professions are here instead, giving their lives to these men and women many consider hopeless, unworthy. What can I add to their amazing program? I went to talk about forgiveness. 

I did not know anything before it started. To whom I would be speaking, to how many, or where we would be gathering. In a cell? In a hall? in the cafeteria? In a closet? Then the news: I would be speaking to young women outside in the courtyard.

I joined the Hope team as we walked through hallways grimy with peeling paint and cracking ceilings. Stood in line to be frisked one by one behind a curtain, then passing through one iron gate after another, ending up outside in a long narrow concrete courtyard, where laundry hung on a line and tumbleweeds of black spiraling hair swept across our feet. Then they came, these women, dressed in neon yellow prison uniforms.  They were not there by choice. 

We sat in a giant circle. Some glowered at me as I sat among them. Of course. Who is the white woman coming to speak to us? She can talk and then leave back to her privileged white life." I would feel the same.  How do I start? "Thank you for coming! How is your day going so far?" No. I don't remember how I started, it's something of a blur, but this is what I can tell you about those 90 minutes:

I told them of God's love for them. That his forgiveness was available to all of them. That when we are forgiven by God we stand perfect, holy, clean, pure before Him. I told them my stories of forgiveness. How hard it can be, but how God makes it possible. How we can break generational cycles. And----they listened. And----I told them to write something. I made them do an exercise, an empathy exercise, and they did it. I couldn't believe it. And they had questions. Near the end, we stood in a circle, the sun beating down and I am wondering how I get to be here holding the hand of a young South African woman whose life is already in tatters. And I get to call upon the Lord of the Sky and the Heavens on behalf of those women who have hijacked cars, committed armed robbery, broken into houses, sold drugs, sold themselves for drugs. Women who were given little chance in life and who may go straight back to it. Or not. But women beloved by God.

Some of them know Jesus. One woman told me she found Jesus there in Pollsmoor last month. She had a Bible now. We sat knee to knee and talked, talked deep and stood and prayed in a long hug. I am thinking of her now and praying for her. She has so much against her. But she has Jesus. 

One woman just lost her remaining parent. She was alone in the world now. I prayed with her that God would bring her mothers and fathers, that she would be embraced by the family of God that is everywhere.

At the last we broke into small circles.  The others in the team led sharing and prayer. Hands were held tight, heads were low. And I knew: We were not alone in that courtyard, that ugly harsh courtyard inside one of the worst prisons in the world. God was with us. We knew it. We saw it. We saw Him there.

The Hope Team, who is there nearly every day said, 'This day was special. Was very special. God was at work."

SO many of you were praying. Your prayers were heard. Your prayers help me go inside that prison. Your prayers helped me plead and coax and love my heart out to each one of them. And God was pleased to use all those offerings. 

(And there will be follow-up with these women next week. this is not hit-and-run ministry. I too must continue to pray for them.)

I send this out to you, these raw words that I do not have time to make beautiful. I send them because I want you to know not about me, but about Hope Prison Ministries and the 100 people who spend their time volunteering in a place that everyone else runs from. They inspire me.

But you inspire me as well. You bless me so much by your prayers. I could not have done it without them. And I want to encourage all of you---do not be afraid to go into new places with the gospel. Do not be afraid of photos and news stories and words like "hellish," even when they're true.  Because Jesus reigns. And He has work for you to do in hard places that won't feel hard when you're there. Because you will only see people who need him, beautiful broken people who need love and Jesus. And you've got both. That's all that is needed to enter even hell, holding out a piece of heaven. 

This week, be brave. Dare to love. Bring someone a piece of heaven.  

Love to you all,


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Dear Holy Patmos and What Can Prayer Do?

 On Patmos, windmills rigged with sails. From the 16th century.   

On Patmos, windmills rigged with sails. From the 16th century.



So  much happens every day, I cannot keep up. We are in Cape Town now, after a 48 hour ordeal in Istanbul. There's SO much I want to share with you.  About the terror of driving in Athens. About Istanbul. About arriving in Cape Town yesterday. About Patmos. 

For now, just Patmos. And something incredible that happened there because of one woman's prayers. 

Ten days ago, Duncan and I took an 8 hour ferry to the island of Patmos, very close to the coast of Turkey. Patmos, you remember, is where John was exiled and where he was given the visions and words of the last book of the Bible, Revelations.

Patmos is lovely and very small, just seven miles by three miles. Only 2,000 people live here year round.. Every day I spent the morning in the Cave of the Apocalypse, (more on that later) but the most exciting day was at the monastery. 


The Monastery of St. John the Theologian, dating back to 1088 sits atop this tiny island as both a fortress and a beacon. But I wasn't that keen on going. My real focus was the Cave. But people kept asking, "Have you been to the monastery yet?" So we had to go. 


That morning the massive doors were open, but no one was around. We tiptoed inside the massive walls, hushed, respectful. We began to explore its twisted tunneling stairs and rooms, feeling like children stealing cookies. Finally we saw someone: an elderly man coming out of a room, a library, it looked like. To our surprise, he motioned us in.

We tried valiantly to communicate. After 30 minutes, through Google translate and a lot of mistranslated phrases that sound like bad Found Poetry  ("I would like to  milk the cat for Christmas. Do you know how fences interrogate Why do broken shoes follow ugly astronauts?) Duncan told him I was a writer doing research on John. , and then he offered to let us into the inner library in one hour.  

We were excited and said yes. But we didn't know what we were saying yes to. 

In the intervening hour, we went back to the car and I got out my Biblical Sites book. And discovered what I should have known: that this monastery had a spectacular library that housed 3,000 ancient manuscripts, including several very special manuscripts. And----no one was allowed in this library except scholars doing research. (And you're inviting us?)

An hour later we tentatively followed our host down three sets of arched tunneling stairs---down down down, emerging into a room surprising for its size and light, with walls of ancient scrolls and books. He showed us one volume after another . ...works by the Church Fathers, Greek philosphers,  hand-bound volumes, scrolls, parchments . . . . 

Just as we entered a sign read, in bold lettering, "No Photos Allowed." But I was dying to record this moment. "Photos?" I asked, waving my iPhone.. To my shock, he nodded yes, with a smile. (Really? How is any of this happening?)


And then, the biggest prize of all:


The monastery holds 33 pages of the Codex Petropolitanus Purpureus. It's the gospel of Mark dating back to the 6th century. (Can you comprehend that?  The Sixth Century!) This rare manuscript is written in silver ink on purple-dyed vellum (calf skin) and is considered "a work of immense historical, archaeological, theological and artistic value."  

We were not touching the actual vellum, of course, but rather, the entire manuscript photocopied and bound. Even that was a treasure. There are only a few of these complete copies. What mystery and wonder to see the words of God about the life of Jesus painstakingly and perfectly rendered on this specially treated calf-skin, then hidden and protected for more than a thousand years from raiding anti-Christian armies. As I touched the pages, it was breathtaking to consider.


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But this is not what impressed me most.

Wherever we went in the little village below, people asked, "Did you go to the monastery?" And when I told them we saw the library their eyes went wide in disbelief: "No! Only a few are allowed into the library!"

But we were. Because of one woman's prayer. And this is the rest of the story.

Michelle is a dear friend who lived in Kodiak briefly 20 years ago, and we have corresponded since then, through disasters, deaths, joys, everything. She is younger than me but has become disabled these last few years. Some days she can barely move. But she is with me on this trip. I am going places she has always wanted to go but cannot. She studies God's Word (in the original languages) and sends me the best research she can find. She looks at maps of where I am going. holds my arms up when they are tired. She prays for me.

This day she felt the urge to pray a special prayer that God would lift and encourage me in some way, especially as I was laboring so hard for this book.  I did not know it. I did not get her email until that night. At the end of her email she wrote, "Tell me, how did God answer this prayer today? Were you in trouble and needed help? Or were you blessed in some way?"

Yes, I wrote back. This day, the doors to the sacred library opened. And we saw a gospel manuscript I didn't even know about----the Codex Petropolitanus Purpureus.

And she was even more shocked and joyous than me. (She knew more about the ms. than I did!)  

This is the best part of this story. This happened because someone prayed. Because the words of that Codex are not just ancient words inked on purple calf skin. they are living, breathing words inhabited by the Holy Spirit who originally gave them. And Jesus' words in the gospel of Mark that I held in my hands urges us to pray fearlessly, confidently:

If anyone says to this mountain, ‘Be lifted up and thrown into the sea,’ and does not doubt in his heart, but believes that what he says will happen, it will be done for him. Therefore I tell you, all the things you pray and ask for—believe that you have received them, and you will have them.

My friend Michelle did this. 

Praise God for His undying word.

Praise God for the men and women who have devoted their lives to preserving His word.

Praise God for the women and men who live by those words.

Praise God for listening and responding so powerfully to our feeble words.

 Praise Him.



"Hanging from Nowhere" with the Monks


No one wanted to climb the rock but me. It was getting dark, and everyone was tired. But, really? Didn’t they see how glorious it was, how compelling? The pyramid shape, the rocky ledges, the ancient crumbling fort on its summit? Finally, I won. We tied on our sneakers and set off.

It was indeed magically majestic, and worthy of our efforts.


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Who can resist a mountain? For the ancients, mountain tops meant protection, domination, victory, safety.

For others, mountain summits evoke worship.  Never have I seen so many crosses atop mountains as I have in Greece.



This week, we stayed in Meteora, surrounded by a bowl of mountains and monoliths laid bare. It’s a holy place, say all the books. And so say the generations of monks and nuns who have made these rocks their perch and their home since the 11th century. Their impossible home. But chosen, for many, to be closer to God.




Meteora monastery of transfiguration.jpg

At one time there were thirty monasteries here in Meteora, (which means “hanged from nowhere”). Some were only accessible by rope ladder, by net (hauled up by a giant hook). The very presence of these buildings and the monks and nuns who inhabit them is miraculous.


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Greece Meteora Hanging in There. FredBoissonnas.rsz-709616.jpg



The day we hiked from the village to the summit of one monastery, I admit it. As I climbed the switchbacks for an hour, wending high and higher, until emerging into the stone steps chisled out of a massive monolith, as I ascended a steep half tunnel and suddenly emerged in a stone house among the clouds, heaven felt near.  The icons in the chapel were stunning. The quiet, overwhelming. The reverence, palpable. I lit a candle. I prayed. I envied the two monks who call this home. I wanted to stay.




I wanted to step away from the buzzing human hive and hang from the sky this way, suspended in prayer. Imagine. No braying news hounds. no politicians, no freeways. No internet. no noise. Just me. And God.







But I know the truth about myself, and maybe everyone else. All of us, even the inhabitants of high castles and underground caves are a confusing blend of God-hunger and self-satisfaction, purity and jealousy, holiness and selfishness.


 I live every summer on a far north island Alaskan island off an island.  I know the truth about it, that ultimately retreat from the world is retreat from others.


And I know too If my own soul state is my sole concern, and if I think I will be holier, purer for my remove from people, I am in error. I am as polluted as anyone else, and the cure is not isolation but God and neighbor-immersion.

 When we let the world shrink to one, we can believe that in caring for ourselves we are caring for the  world . ..



In Paul’s Mars Hill address to the Athenians he spoke the truth, that God’s desire is that men and women

“would seek him and perhaps reach out for him and find him, though he is not far from any one of us. For in him we live and move and have our being.”


He is not far from any of us. We don’t have to chisel stone steps up a thousand foot monolith. We don’t have to be hoisted to a cloister in the clouds to find him. He is here, in the world he created and still reigns over. He has come down to us.

Close your eyes right now, or open them, and you will find him.


meteora--cobbled path to mountains-beautiful.JPG

After the Tsunami, Guarding Our Treasure

OR---A god No One Could Make Up


We are in Meteora, Greece. Today, we were ready to go out and explore these holy monoliths and monasteries when we got word of the 7.9 earthquake off Kodiak, Alaska (our home sweet home). The Tsunami sirens went off all around town, waking people from their beds. All of the town in low-lying areas evacuated to higher ground.

I wanted to be there. Our house sits on a cliff over the ocean. Last week a window blew out in 100 mph winds. This week, a major quake a full minute long shook and rattled our home. What about our treasures? The only thing I care about is the dozens of albums of babies smeared with spaghetti and the journals and scrapbooks filled with decades of memories. What would happen to my treasures?



I am learning a lot about riches and treasure here in Greece. I had forgotten that the most famous structure in the world was built to house one particular treasure. 



 (The advantage of traveling Greece in the winter: there's hardly anyone else here!)

(The advantage of traveling Greece in the winter: there's hardly anyone else here!)

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 This marvel of human engineering that has withstood more than two millennia was constructed to house the goddess Athena, the goddess of wisdom, of military victory and the patron deity of Athens. At one end of the colossal interior stood a 36 foot statue of Athena set atop a 12 foot pedestal. The statue was fashioned from a core of wood then covered in ivory and gold. Anyone who stood before her size and splendor would have felt as small and insignificant as a gnat.


goddess athena.jpg

She was their treasure! But no one was allowed inside this monumental structure to see her. Only the priest was allowed to enter the sanctuary of the Parthenon to offer sacrifices, and then only once a year.

The Parthenon was built not only to inspire devotion from Athenians, but as a warning to potential enemies: “Don’t mess with us. We’re guarded by the goddess of war and victory!”

athena--goddess of war.jpg

The gods that man imagined and fashioned were gilt, remote, violent, inapproachable, selfish, demanding sacrifices and constant obeisance, inspiring fear.

Four hundred years later, the Apostle Paul stood in the mighty shadow of the Parthenon, on Mars Hill, speaking of another kind of God, a god

who does not dwell in temples made with hands;  nor is He served by human hands, as though He needed anything, since He Himself gives to all people life and breath and all things."


Who is THIS God? He is a God no one could dream up, who came as the most vulnerable creature possible----an infant, birthed through the body of an obscure teenage girl in a barn among beasts of burden. A baby who mewled, puked, cried, and soiled himself.  The Greeks nor the Romans could not have conceived of such an entrance for any god, let alone the God of All Things.



And this God came not to be served or feared. He did not ask people to bow down to him. He did not require a pedestal, the highest hill in the city, a throne. He did not ask that people come to him. He went to them. He went where the people lived and worked.

And showed he was God not by his power in war or his ability to intimidate, but by his ability to love, a love so powerful it brought freedom from sickness, hunger, disease, loneliness, guilt, ignorance, even death.  

But there is more. Something that almost couldn’t be believed.

This God not only dared to come as a baby, and dared to serve rather than to be served; he chose to come yet nearer: he chose in live not inside massive unapproachable monuments of marble, but inside     



Perhaps Paul was thinking of the thousands of shrines and temples that housed the Greeks gilt gods when he wrote,

"But we have this treasure in jars of clay  . .. "


That's us, ordinary jars of clay, the most common of household articles: disposable, susceptible to cracking and shattering  


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 yet, we carry within us a treasure that can't be weighed or measured: "the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ." 


Broken clay pot with tree growing out of it.JPG













"We have this treasure in jars of clay . ... the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ."  St. Paul, 2 Cor. 4



I have more ancient cities to tour this week: Thessaloniki and Phillippi. But I will remember as I survey the temples and ruins,

This is the kind of God we serve: one who has chosen US as His temple.

He is our treasure.

And---we are His. 


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Athens--group ohoto.jpg

Shipwrecked on Malta

We stumbled into Malta this last week, tripping over ourselves after 30 hours of transport through 10 time zones. Among the lost: a night and a half of sleep, mental clarity, familial affection, two blogs and a hair dryer, scorched by the very first jolt of European electricity. But Malta has been so worth it:





While here, we missed a massive storm in Kodiak, where it blew over 100 mph. (Our house is on one of these cliffs. We hope it's still there!)

Kodiak Storm---Judy Heller photographer.jpg

I've been thinking of storms all this week in Malta, this tiny island nation in the middle of the Mediterranean. I'm here because of the storm that shipwrecked the Apostle Paul nearly 2000 years ago. 


St Paul shipwreck.jpg

Soon after landing here, we spent the evening with Mark Gatt, the man who made an astonishing discovery in 2005. He is a rescue diver, and on one of his dives he found the massive stock of an ancient anchor barely protruding from the sandy bottom of a bay. Other anchors have been found, but this one was special. It was inscribed with  "Isis" and "Serapis," two Egyptian gods.


Many scholars believe Paul was on board an Egyptian grain ship filled with corn or wheat, with 275 other souls on board as well, many of them slaves.  This was no luxury cruise for him; he was a prisoner being taken to Rome for trial. He was committing the unspeakable crime of teaching the good news that freed the guilty, fed the hungry, uplifted women, empowered slaves, teachings that upset all the usual tyrants and powers.

This morning, Mark took us out in his little red Zodiak. We bounced and skimmed the waters off Malta to St. Paul's island, where a statue commemorates his presence.



(The historic news is that the ship foundered not in St. Paul's Bay or on St. Paul's Island, as tradition places it, but rather one bay east of there, in Salinas Bay.)  After this visit, directed by his depth-finder, Mark drove us to the next bay to the spot where he had found the anchor in 2005. It's just another quadrant of water, but the sand bottom beneath this bay has told another story. It is there and there only where numerous artifacts have been found:  all from the same era, and likely all from the same ship. There is ample evidence by scholars and others to suggest this is indeed wreckage from Paul's ship. 


Mr. Gatt has even spoken to the Pope about his remarkable find.

mark gatt with pope.jpg

(Mark has written a compelling account here of the findings and has also produced a DVD that tells of the discoveries and their significance:


Malta has never been the same since Paul's swim to shore. He spent 3 months here teaching the gospel and healing the sick nearly 2000 years ago and because of it, there are more than 360 churches here, many of them dedicated to the Apostle. Paul is the patron saint of this unique  island nation, still considered the "most religious country in Europe."

And I, us, what of us?  Is my faith stronger because I have touched this ancient anchor?


leslie with st pauls anchor.JPG
 (Do you see the lettering, "ISIS"?)

(Do you see the lettering, "ISIS"?)

I'm thankful for Mark's passion and faith and his great generosity in sharing his knowledge with us. I get excited over Biblical archeology and am unspeakably grateful to be traveling around the MIddle East for months this year following Paul's tracks. Honestly, I am still trying to process the presence of this anchor.  One thing I know: being here paradoxically reminds me that my faith does not depend on the ruins, on the cities, on the artifacts I see and even touch. Yes, the archeological evidence supports the historical veracity of the Scriptures.  If we claim something is true, it helps to have visible evidence.

 But I also know I believe not in what is dead, inert, wrecked, ruined. I believe in the Living Spirit that raised Jesus from the dead, that impelled Paul and all the apostles to carry the good news of freedom and forgiveness around the world . .. the same Spirit that brought me these many thousands of miles to this very place. Even, remarkably, to the man who found the anchor.

There is so much I want to praise here, but this one piece is all my travel-rattled mind can grasp:  The Christ that Paul joyfully served in chains and in shipwreck 2000 years ago is the same living Christ that I serve today. (Do I really get to serve Him?) 

In this ancient walled city  I know more than ever,

     Our God is alive      still

freeing and forgiving,

filling and compelling,

loving and empowering.

This is our anchor. 


 (A facsimile of the massive anchor) 

(A facsimile of the massive anchor) 

cross on St Paul island.JPG

Can God Really Be Trusted in this New Year?


We've been tucked up into the Colorado Rockies this entire week. A whole gathering of us: children, beautiful in-laws, new family. Though I am often deeply conflicted about Christmas, each year I am astonished at the overflow of love and undeserved goodness.


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This year has been no different. But the day after I received a Christmas card and letter that broke my heart. It was from a man I will call Bill. His daughter was my assistant for two summers out at our fishcamp. We loved her. She loved us. She was part of our family. Eight months after leaving us, she took her own life. This year, Bill sent us this beautiful Christmas card


Christmas card--Love came down at Christmas.jpg


Inside his letter told another story: in the spring, his wife of many years died of a rare disease. And a few months later his other daughter took her own life.

What do we do with this as we stand at the brink of another year? Can we trust God with 2018? Every New Year we laugh and eat and pray at our parties at church or in our homes that this next year will be filled with peace, joy and prosperity. We ALL at least secretly hope for this, no matter how sophisticated or reformed our theology. And yet for some, like Bill, the year brings death and death.


What do we do with this? At the start of this new year,  we fly out of the country for four months of constant travel around Europe and Southern Africa. Here in the last three months of travel in the States, one son received death threats with a gun and an attack dog trained on him (in Louisiana), I was nearly run over by a car while crossing the street, an out-of-control semi-truck missed our motorhome by inches. Of course. This is our everyday life, all of us.

In 2018, I hope and pray we'll return home to Kodiak safely. In this new year, I hope and pray for peace, joy and prosperity to ALL of you, my dear friends. But maybe our lives will go like Bill’s this year. I don’t know. 

And though I stand shaking before the uncertainties and obstacles ahead of all of us, I have to tell the whole truth. The whole truth of Bill’s letter and story. The whole truth about God and the year ahead of us all.  Here is how Bill's letter ended:


Bills letter.jpg

This is almost too much for me. That a man who has suffered so much loss still trusts and clings to God, still calls Him "the Father of mercies and the God of all comfort"?   And he believes that his afflictions will be used for the good of others? Yes.  Some day. 

There is more. I posted a part of Bill's story on my Facebook page, and within hours more than fifty people, none of whom know Bill, were pouring out their hearts before our God of mercies on Bill's behalf:

        **"I cannot imagine the pain of loss that this man bears each day and yet he turns to God each day with praise. Thank you for sharing Bills story and it will be a privilege to lift him up to the Father."


    *"Will be challenged to pray that my faith can match his as God continues to hold him close."


    *"Lord, I lift this man up to you right now. Please give him comfort and joy in such a dark time in his life."


"May God increase Bill's trust and faith exponentially. And thank God for the Comforter."


Bill is not alone. 

The same day a dear friend who has endured many losses in her life texted me: "I am so thankful for the beautiful friendship we have. Arm in arm, through many trials, we are together navigating the path to the Celestial City."

Is this not true?  Together, we  are navigating the path to the Celestial City.

You in your church family---together.

You in the Body of Christ---together.

Us, here----together.

The Holy Spirit who indwells us----together. 

We can trust Him in 2018.

We are not alone. 


These last three months in our odyssey around the country God has shown us this truth again and again: (Please listen to the song as you watch.)  


"I will never leave you nor forsake you."



 How can I pray for you this coming year? (You are not alone.)

Do you know someone who needs this message? Please send it on to them that they may join us here. Together. 


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Fixing Christmas: A Gut-honest Guide to the Holidays

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Are you ready? No, I don’t mean are your packages wrapped and is your house lit up green and red. I mean for some truth-telling and heart-opening about the holidays. We are still on the road, somewhere between Oklahoma and Denver, where we'll meet up with all our kids (minus one) for Christmas. I am full of joy-----and also, this.  (Maybe you too?)


Every Christmas, I fail. In all these ways:

** I reject the consumerism of our culture, wanting to replace super-materialism with super-spirituality, but

I am never spiritual enough.

I don’t pray enough.

I don’t wait on my knees and light an advent candle each week.

I only occasionally meditate through a holier-than-usual advent devotional each day.

I am not still, I am busier than any other time of year.

Christmas blog==Isaac with beanie.jpeg

 **I am busy worrying about the economics: am I buying enough or too much for my family?  Am I giving enough away to those who don't have much? (No, it never feels like enough!)




** I want to be crafty and earthy and make at least a couple of homemade gifts, but I always run out of time and end up buying everything, which makes me feel materialistic.


** I feel guilty for what I have, so I give my time and energy to compensate and assign myself impossible tasks to serve as many as possible. And I am exhausted.

Christmas blog--lavish table-no people.jpeg



** I have created a host of family traditions to fill the vacuum of my joyless anti-Christmas childhood, but struggle to fulfill them all. And I’m not always happy when I do them.



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Christmas--full dinner table.jpeg

**I am impatient. Do I really have to go to another Chinese Auctions (or the Yankee Swap, the White Elephant gift exchange, whatever it goes by in your neighborhood)? Could we all maybe just talk to one another, sing songs and tell stories?

**I hate all the Christmas waste and wrapping so I fanatically recycle everything I can, but I still see the mounds of holiday garbage stuffing our dumpsters and land fills. I feel wasteful.

** Sometimes I think I am going to scream if I hear “the Christmas story” read from Luke one more time, as if these are the only inspired words of God. If God wanted us to spend two months of our lives on this fragment of His story surely He would have given us more than 20 verses?


** I'm a party-pooper, because I wonder, Must we be so relentlessly happy these weeks? Maybe we could do with a little less cheer and a little more fear. Isn’t this baby the one who grew up saying things like, "Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me”? Am I just be

**I’m frustrated by the ongoing “Merry Christmas” wars. If anyone wants to take Christ out of Christmas, they’re free to do so. And they likely already have. We’re not going to make America a Christian nation again by fighting over the meaning of the holidays. (In fact, we’re probably not going to make America a Christian nation again. Ever. We’ve been called to “make disciples” not convert nations.)

**I'm trapped. When New Years is over, I thank God, collapse and feel like a survivor of the season (which also includes 3 birthdays, an open house and an anniversary). But then, I feel so guilty that I feel so relieved.

And so the season ends.


Christmas--dying little tree.jpg


There it is. My failures, complaints, and guilt hang from my Christmas tree like tacky tinsel and twine throughout the season like plastic garland. But finally I understand:

I try harder every year to be purer, better, less wasteful, less judgmental----

but I'm not.

I will never get it right.

We will never get it right. 

Our bumbling fraught over-anxious celebrations

will continue year after year,  if we don’t give up.

And it’s okay, because this season finally

is not about what I do or you do or about how any of us feel.

It’s not about what we get right and what we get wrong.

It’s about what God has done.

And what He's ready to do again this week, this very moment:

Are you ready? (O Lord, I am so ready!)

“For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior who is Christ the Lord.”

(For unto US is born this day our Savior, who is Christ the Lord!!”)----thank God.

Let THIS be the day!


(But I’m totally skipping the Chinese Auction.)

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Christmas--abraham happy with a shirt.jpeg


And one more thing: THANK YOU dearest friends and readers for hanging with me in this space all year. I treasure each one of you! So many of YOU have ministered to ME through your thoughtful comments. I hope these words bring hope, relief and maybe even a moment of worship and joy this week.

With much love,



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Christmas--naphtali and Elisha laughing.jpeg

Of Swamp Monsters, Men and a Baby God: A Christmas Story


I am shocked to discover it is already the Christmas season. We have managed to avoid it thus far in our long far travels. While most are deluged with the relentless avalanche of Rudolf and Frosty, we've been underwater swamped---In the Louisiana swamps, beyond the reach of Christmas cheer, where holiday ads don’t play and Santa cannot sleigh, thank God.

We took a boat, five of us, into the Honey Island Swamp for an afternoon. It was creepy, haunting and beautiful, this swamp, twenty miles long and seven miles wide, considered the least altered river swamp in the U.S.  The labyrinth of cuts, bayous, ditches and rivers was astounding, circling us ever deeper into an eerie world. Alligators abound here, and herons, ducks, nutria, deer, raccoons, And people. As we chugged past their stilted houses, I imagined them with soggy webbed feet, with bedraggled hair and scraggly beards like Spanish moss. 




A monster also lives here--the Honey Island Swamp Monster. Reports and sightings date back to 1963. There's even film footage and casts of footprints. He is reported to be a two-legged seven foot tall, extraordinarily hairy creature with yellow eyes and a four-toed foot who wafts the disgusting smell of rotting flesh everywhere he slumps. One of the origin stories, my favorite, is of a turn-of-the-century traveling circus riding a train that derailed in the swamp. All the animals escaped. The Chimpanzees mated with the alligators and somewhere along this fleet evolutionary tale some homo sapien got mixed in. 

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Image--hairy man in swamp.png




Ahhh, don't we love our monsters? We want them: Bigfoot, Yeti, King Kong, The Fouke monster, the Loch Ness monster, the Swamp monster.

We want something big, hairy, scary, wild.

We want something beyond us, wiser, stronger, native

                   who slinkily  instinctively navigates the swamps and fields.

We want a creature we can't kill off, who has survived us, our guns and human wasteful ways.

We want a creature lurking in the dark. We want to be afraid; we don’t want to be alone.

We want to know we don’t know all there is to know.

 We must have mystery. We must have monsters. 


Maybe it’s easier to believe in them than Christmas. What is this story?

An unknown girl in a backward town played host to the holy ghost?

The fierce untamable God came near, came tame and mild, as an infant child?

That God squalled for his mothers’ milk, wore diapers and a peasant’s rag?

That he grew and healed the dying, wholed the sick, sang the mute, taught the truth?

And all this story to end in a gory death on a cross to take our place? 

God born for all to die for all to set all free, at no cost?


Jesus born to mary and joseph from movie.jpg
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 So many won't believe it. They say instead,

"Who can bear or believe such a myth, such luck, such a god, such light?

Give us back our swamp,  our night, our glorious fear. 

 We’re more at home here."   

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 "Light came into the world, but people loved darkness instead of the light . .."

But I do not give up hope, that some even this Christmas will see the light that shines for them . . ..


Breaking Silence: Let Me Now Praise Good Men

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This week, I’m breaking silence with my own expose of men: A tale of three heroes.


Hero #1

I was stuck in the sand. No, not quite this:


RV stuck in rising tide.jpg

But this behemoth we’ve named Benson, our 32 foot home-on-wheels was stuck in the sand near a beach. I just wanted a spot for the night that wasn’t a truck stop, a Walmart, or a movie theatre parking lot, our usual (free) haunts the last two months as we’ve bounced and toiled from Washington across the northern states to the Midwest and now down to the Deep South. 

Micah warned me: “Mom, you’re going to get stuck.” I waved him off, imagining our sleeping bodies being smashed in the night by an only slightly errant car. I had to move further off the road.

I took precautions. I’m not a complete novice. Years ago, I helped push an expedition truck across the Sahara, using sand mats and shovels when we sunk to our rims. But despite my sand mats and boards under the wheels, in 3 seconds the beast was heaving and groaning. Stuck.

Out of the dark, just at that moment, a man appeared at my window, “Oh wow, you’re really stuck. Here, I can pull you out!” I blinked. How could he just appear like that? I was stuck for literally one second!

He had a black 4 wheel drive truck. He was wearing a blue t-shirt and beige shorts. “You’re in luck cause I’ve got a pull rope!” He seemed very happy. He sprang to the back of his truck and came out with a thick yellow strap. He dropped to the pavement, first on his back then on his belly under the carriage while I squirmed to be in such need as to require this kind of grovel. In the dark. On a road. By a stranger.

Then he popped out and called behind him, as he rushed to his truck, “Turn your wheels slightly, not too hard.”

I got in the drivers seat. Ignition on. His truck pulled, our wheels spun, something crunched, our little house swayed---and in a few grinding seconds, Benson was free!


Hero #2

We spent that night in a little dog park beside the beach. The next morning I saw a woman picking up trash. I watched her for nearly an hour as she pulled a wagon, down on the beach, beside the road. I gathered my courage and went to speak to her. Her name was Karon. She told me this:

“I have a good retirement, so this is my job. I spend an hour or two every day, however long it takes to fill up my wagon. The plastics are the worst. The turtles try to eat the plastic bags and it kills them. The straws too. That’s why I do this.”

When I drove away from that brilliant white beach, I saw her in my rear view mirror still  bending tover a pile of trash.



Hero #3

The next day I woke up sick. The temperature dropped to the forties. It began to pour. We packed up and I drove through the rain to Biloxi, Mississippi, grumpy, tired and chest-achy. I decided to splurge and stayed in a park with actual plug-ins. Except our electricity didn't work. Again? I just wanted to sleep. I just wanted a little power. A little light. A little warmth. Maybe I wanted even to be back home in Kodiak without all the daily stresses of traveling. I did’n’t want to deal with this again. I sat slumped on the seat, too tired to move or even to care.

Then Patrick showed up. I didn’t ask for help. When he discovered I didn’t have power, he spent the next two hours tooling and poking and checking, all narrated in a thick Mississippi accent, until our lights were on. Until everything worked. 



When this trip started, I called it a pilgrimage toward praise.  Praise is easy to write. Praise is easy to give to my children. But to speak praise to strangers? Even to God? When I was growing up, praise—for man, child or God---was a foreign language no one spoke. A language I didn’t know existed. I am still learning to find my tongue.

That night when the man pulled me out of the sand, just as we parted, he looked up at me in my cockpit seat and said, ‘Now that’s what I call luck, me being here. “

It was Sunday. I had taken communion at church that morning. I had sung songs about the coming of Jesus, had cried at the altar up front. And now out on this beach, this man who pulled me out of the miry sand was pulling me toward luck, away from God, toward silence.


woman-lips in foggy mirror.jpg

I took a breath, then: “No, not luck. Providence. God was with us. I thank you and I thank God,” I said as lightly as I could.

The man laughed a bit nervously while coiling the yellow line. “Oh of course. Yes, Him, of course. Always that,” he said in a way that I knew it was probably never that. But he was a brilliant angel anyway.

I almost didn’t speak to Karon.

I almost didn't say thank you to Patrick. When I pulled out of the park in Biloxi, I almost snuck away in silence. But something tugged. I parked and went into the office.

“I just wanted to thank you and to thank Patrick for all his help. He didn’t have to help me. But I’m so glad he did. We’ve been having trouble with our power for awhile. Just thank you so much.”   

I left amid hugs, talk of God, kind goodbyes.


 Now, so many women are speaking. They're breaking their silence to expose corrupt men---just as they should. Let truth be heard. Let all wicked men fall. But I need to speak too. I am breaking my silence here to praise good men and women who keep appearing everywhere I go around this country. Don't let the headlines distract you from all the praiseworthy women and men around us. 

And I am breaking a longer silence: to praise the God who gives each of them breath, strength, and love for the stranger.

Behold, God is my helper;
    the Lord is the upholder of my life. . . .

I will give thanks to your name, O Lord, for it is good.
For He has delivered me from every trouble.”


Who do you need to thank and praise?


Turning 60: Hear Me Roar (and whimper)!


I had a birthday this last week. On Thanksgiving Day, actually. And my son did as well. Long-time friends in Georgia invited us in off the unending road to a long table wide and high with feasting food and more love than can be counted. And a cake. A chocolate cake, my favorite. It was a big birthday, one of the ones with a zero in it. Since you already know the number let me dispense with the drama.                           (But I'm still practicing this number. I am----gulp. 60.)

This is a coming-out for me. I have not told my age in this space before, let alone using the number in the title. I know what I’m supposed to say here: that I love being this number. That I embrace my new wrinkles, the thickening waist, that I’ve earned every spot, wrinkle, roll and varicose vein, so hear me roar, you dewy-faced wasp-waisted superficial babes----I got wisdom! I got sage! I’ve got 94 year old Iris Apfel on my stage!

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I know the message well because I’ve been reading and consulting many others on this whole aging thing (I’ll have a book out on it in the spring.) I’ve heard some of the over-forty crowd crow, triumphantly, as they jam another candle in the cake, “I don’t care what anyone thinks anymore! I’m free!”

When Oprah turned 60 she announced, “I’ve earned the right to be just who I am.” Another guru pronounced the high duty of loving herself “purely and truly” every day. A TV star who hit the ripe age of 44 dispensed her life’s body of wisdom by saying, “I’ve come to love my body just as it is---curves and all.” One woman in church told me, laughing,  “Watch out for me, ‘cuz I’ve paid my dues, honey. I’m gonna say whatever I darn well please.” 


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She was turning 50. And she leads a ministry in her home church.

Hooray for self-acceptance rather than diets and plastic surgery, but the rest of this? Now that I’m a card-carrying 60 year old with a license to say whatever-the-hell I want (see, like that phrase right there! My 59 year old self would never have said that!), here’s my truth. Here’s my rant:

Can we women-of-a-certain-age just grow up?

Do we see the irony here?  When we’re raising our kids, we knock ourselves out to grow them past the squawling infant, the demanding self-centered toddler. We teach them share your toys, play well with others, apologize, be kind to strangers, say you’re sorry, let others go first. As soon as our kids launch, on their way to “responsible adult,” we throw ourselves a party, speak our truths, quit teaching Sunday School and go play golf all week.

How is it that we raise our children to become responsible, kind adults, and as soon as they do, we become kids again?


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But I’m not really mystified. I’m starting my third decade of raising kids. That's an exhausting parade of serving and loving. And by the time we get to this point in our lives, we’ve weathered huge storms---probably some we did not expect to survive. We’re tired of being nice to everyone. Here we are, still standing, with who know how much time remains so let’s Carpe Diem the heck out of what’s left! Just do it! Leave your husband, galavant and rant, Be angry! BE HAPPY! Speak your Truth! And most of all, love yourself unconditionally. (If you’re having trouble doing that, you can take a course by Deepak Chopra on Oprah’s channel, “How to Love Yourself Unconditionally.”)

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Yes, love yourself, do, but do we really think so little of ourselves, I wonder. Do we really believe this is the best we can do----that the image of God in us, and the eternity in our hearts will be satisfied with the tiny shards of a single self when all the world and God is offered to us if we would just reach for it?

 We imagine freedom and happiness lies in serving ourselves rather than everyone else. But haven’t we learned by now that the self is a smiling beguiling despot? We are our own worst tyrants. If I had to get up every morning with the dictum “I’m going to love myself unconditionally all day long,” I think I would kill myself (metaphorically) after a week.  I am my own worst enemy at times, but I am never my own best friend. Because I have actual friends who are smarter and far more interesting and helpful than I am. Not to mention Jesus, whom mostly I can’t see, but who keeps showing up in the most astonishing ways.

Like this. The day before I turned 60, I get an email from a stranger. Someone who has survived a traumatic childhood, who met Jesus last year and who has decided to get baptized because of a book I wrote. And who now has hope that God will heal her of her past. I spent two years writing that book, giving up most of my free time. I cried when I read her email. I am wildly and deeply happy.  Still.

Today I go to visit a couple in their mid 80's who, instead of playing golf,  fly to developing countries teaching pastors and building libraries.

At 60 I don't know much, but this I know for sure: 

All we have is one little life that passes too fast. We can guard the contents of our own tiny thimble or fling it out joyfully, recklessly, filling a hundred, a thousand other cups.

I choose to fling.

May all our cups run over. 


(Thank you for reading! If this resonates with you, would you consider sharing?)

Road Warrior Thanksgiving

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It's been 7 weeks since I left Kodiak. I write this now on the road, in the midst of a bonzai from Ohio to Atlanta where dear friends we haven’t seen in a long time have opened their doors to us. We are thrilled to give thanks together this week. (Yes! Thank you that we’re not eating alone in a restaurant!)

But one of the best Thanksgiving feasts I ever had was in a restaurant just a few years ago. I need to remember this now.

The restaurant was tiny, just one room, with sparse wooden chairs and tables. My new friend Ben brought out one more dish to my table, and the two of us sat there with the Sea of Galilee sunlit beside us. We were the only ones there. He had prepared Shakshuka, a Middle Eastern dish of eggs poached in a spicy tomato sauce. Cumin taunted my nose. Fresh flatbread and tahini, a carrot salad, a dish of various olives, pickled fish, and espresso completed the spread.  We were about to start eating when a white-haired man in wild pajama pants sailed through the door.

“David!” Ben shouted. “You are just in time for our feast. Come, sit down.” In five minutes I learned that David was a man of great enthusiasm who cursed as often as he laughed and both were done at high volume. I loved his love of life. Now we were three. We ate and talked and laughed. A half-hour later, another man and his dog entered to the delight of both men: “Aaron!” They shouted, and somehow we made space for one more plate, one more chair.

The four of us, a middle-aged woman from Alaska and three Israeli men, ate the same way we talked: hungrily and eagerly. As we piled the food on our plates, creating a riot of deep colors and flavors, we discussed food, our families, politics and God.


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I sat in wonderment. I stumbled through these doors two hours ago, sweat-drenched and weary from hours of hiking and longing for a cold can of Coke. I had been hiking alone for days. It was not long before Ben was serving me coffee from his new espresso machine and telling me I was staying for lunch.

The day before I went out on a fishing boat on the Sea of Galilee. Just before I left, the crew presented me with a gift: five fish, the biggest ones of the day, carefully laid out on the deck before me. I protested.

“Thank you, but I can’t take these. I’ve got five miles left to hike tonight.”

“Oh no, these are good fish. You must take them!”

“What will I do with them?”

“You just take them and give them to whoever you are staying with. They’ll cook them for you.”

I was about to remonstrate again, and suddenly, I got it. “Thank you! I’d love these fish,” and in the next minute they were wrapped carefully in newspaper and handed to me. 

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The rest of that day, I carried five fish in my backpack, thinking of the miraculous feeding of the 5,000. That evening, weary from the long day, I arrived at the Golan Heights, where I had arranged to stay at a bed and breakfast.that night the hosts invited me to their son’s home for Hanukkah. Another feast around the table of others I did not know.

While I was there, Ezra drove me around his orange groves, showing off the fruit that had just turned ripe. I ate four whole oranges before we were done. As I prepared to leave, he filled a bag with 10 pounds of fruit and handed it over to me. I




At home, on a typical Thanksgiving, my house is full. The turkey is huge, the table long and wide. But that particular year, I was the stranger, and they invited me in. I was hungry, and they fed me shakshuka and oranges. I was thirsty, and they gave me espresso and Diet Coke. And as I left, they gave me fish and grapefruit for the road, though I had nothing to give in return.

This year, we are road-weary and stressed. We have had near-misses, high winds have blown us all over the highway, our home is a box on wheels, the bed is hard, and we have nothing to give back but we have been invited in.

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We often ask God to “give us this day our daily bread.” And He does. Our cupboards are full. Our tables are heaping. So much so that I often feel guilty for all I have. But the pure generosity given in Israel---and soon in Georgia---reminds me that there are hungry people walking and driving by our doors every day. And the hungers we carry most are not just for food but the need to be seen, to be known.

God answers our hungers and our prayers for daily bread not just for our own needs and appetites, but for others as well. We can be the answer to their prayers, even those who don’t yet know how to ask. I know this because our friends this year are the answer to our prayers . . . 

So put the extra leaf in your table, go to the door of the cranky lonely man down the road, invite the woman and her children whose husband just left them, ask the whole row of widows in your church to come over. Tell them you’re having a party and it won’t be fun without them.

Do especially this week what we've been charged to do our lifelong lives: 

Feed my sheep.!

And have a blast while you're at it!

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Have you ever been the stranger who was invited in? Could you tell us about that??


So thankful for every one of you,






When SPAM Saved an Alaskan Pilot's Life


We are near Chicago now. En route from the West, highway dazed, we spied the SPAM Museum in Minnesota and stopped. Not because we are frivolous people, and decidedly not because I am on a pilgrimage of praise. If I were to praise SPAM it would go something like this: "I thank you Spam that your global ad campaigns have not penetrated the walls of my kitchen---beyond breakfast." 




Or---I thank you Spam for feeding our troops during WW2 (but your time is up, Bub!)

The stats on this meat-ish canned contrivance are astonishing. And, their global reach.

 Did you know there are more than a dozen flavors of spam? Cheese Spam, anyone? Garlic Spam?

Did you know there are more than a dozen flavors of spam? Cheese Spam, anyone? Garlic Spam?


Let me state my feelings straight out: I hate SPAM. I scorn SPAM. Despite my subtle feelings,  I have been related to SPAM now for almost 40 years. I am related to it through my husband, a true SPAM fan, who serves it occasionally to his family for breakfast, and secondly, among the 50 states, Alaska and Hawaii, per capita, are the highest consumers of SPAM. (Because many Alaskan villages and fish camps had no refrigeration.)

AND---I have my own SPAM story to share.

Years ago, I was flying from Anchorage to Seattle and sat by a friendly man.  He was the Pacific NW sales rep for Hormel meats (the maker of, you know . .. ). He had been at the Alaska State Fair in Palmer manning the SPAM booth and presiding over the Alaska SPAM bake-off. While sharing this fascinating information, to my surprise, he reached under the seat and pulled out a SPAM cookbook and gave it to me. Clearly he had no idea who  he was sitting next to: a woman raised on whole wheat flour, soybeans, blackstrap molasses and goat milk. And someone who could have rattled off all that was seriously wrong with SPAM at age 11. But I am not a total snob. I took the cookbook graciously (also recognizing a possible opportunity for satire at some future date.) 


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But the real meat of our conversation was a story, a testimony, actually. At that state fair, a man had approached his booth with a gleam in his eye: “SPAM saved my life,” he started. The story went something like this. He was a bush pilot in the interior of Alaska. That winter he was flying between remote villages when his plane malfunctioned. He crash-landed on the tundra, in the middle of forty-below zero God-forsaken nowhere.


What would he do? How would he survive? He did have a survival box, and in it was-you know what. But you can’t eat meat at forty below. Forty below turns meat into rock-ice. But----


“I opened that can, and would’ja believe at forty below I could slice that stuff? Yep! Forty below and SPAM still slices!  It saved my life!”  the sales rep said that he said.


I joined in my seatmate’s excitement, mentally filling in the rest of the story, which was, of course, that SPAM slices at forty below precisely because----it’s not meat. It’s mostly lard.


But I’m happy for that pilot. I’m happy for that sales rep who probably secretly longed to “make a difference” in the world, and maybe now he had, in some remote, tangential way.


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This is my story this week from life on the road. But I want to feed you more than SPAM. I want to end with a blessing. I want to bless you as I was blessed this week after teaching two intensive writing workshops in Wisconsin. A beautiful writer from our group sent this Psalm (150):


Thank God! Pray to Him by name! 

Tell everyone you meet what he has done!

Sing him songs, belt out hymns,

translate his wonders into music!

Honor His holy name with Hallelujahs,

You who seek God. Live a happy life!


Can we do this---Dare a "Hallelujah"!  "Tell everyone you meet what He has done"? Can we Dare to live a happy life!!??

I'll be filling my mouth with SPAM this week (Duncan bought 5 cans of it!!) ----AND with Praise! 

 BOTH will save our lives----even at forty below. 



Worshipping at the Church for Dogs

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I had never been to a church for dogs. I was expecting something else when we went to church this Sunday. It was a tiny little community church Out West, in a village tucked into a steep valley. But when we got there at 11 and the parking lot was nearly empty, we heard those little “Uh-oh” bells chiming in our heads. Should we run?

I’ve visited a lot of Uh-oh churches all over the States. Ten years ago, we traveled around the States and Central America for nine months (seven of us then, including five boys) and visited a different church every Sunday. There were high church churches and basement churches, movie theatre churches, store front churches and everything in between.

         On this trip, the last two Sundays we were in my daughter’s new church, an African Methodist-Episcopal church where I got to stand and clap and praise and move just as the Holy Spirit in me wanted to move. (Amen, thank you brothers and sisters for that freedom and joy!)

            And this Sunday. Yes, to my story. A very nice woman greeted us at the door closely attended by----two dogs. Two labs in blue collars who seemed quite happy we were there. The greeter introduced one of the dogs as Beetle. I glanced at Duncan with eyebrows raised and considered turning back, but I decided to have an open mind. Why not welcome parishioners with the extra enthusiasm of wagging tails and wet noses pressed into your hands? It’s not like the dogs are in church or anything.


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            But then they were in church. They came in with her as she ushered us into the sanctuary. (Maybe they were service dogs?) But there were bigger problems. Three minutes before the service was supposed to start, the sanctuary was empty. Well, there were three people in the pews. We made seven. And of course the dogs made nine. We took seats in the back row in that hesitant way church visitors always sit, with their haunches slightly raised and one eye on the back door.

            Soon a pleasant looking middle-aged man in jeans came and stuck out his hand with “Welcome folks!” to each one of us.  But I was looking at who came in behind him----a massive Bassett hound. I tried not to gape but I couldn’t help nudging my sons who were taking this far better than I was. “This is going to be the dog church from now on,” I whispered to Abraham, who shushed me immediately.


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After the nice man shook all our hands he strode to the raised platform, Hound close behind. He motioned for Hound to lay down on his blanket up on the podium.  What next? Church for eleven, counting the third dog?

A few minutes later I heard voices---phew! Seven more straggled in, people that is, to my relief. But no more dogs, to my disappointment. Now I was all about the dogs. We began.

The worship leader’s Bassett hound presided on the podium with his tragic eyes, occasionally looking back lovingly on his master, while the woman who met us at the door, a large elderly woman, not only was the drummer in this “band,” but she played with her two pups beside her. Well, just part of the time. Sometimes they roamed the aisles and while singing “Come Thou Fount” I got to pet Beetle as he passed.

            Yes, this church was odd. The guitar-playing worship leader couldn’t carry a tune. At all.  He didn’t even seem to know the songs. The elderly drummer tinked her sticks off beat. No one moved a muscle during this worship. Not even in their faces. I couldn’t hear anyone else singing besides me and my family. And don’t forget the dogs. 

(Note: Not the actual praise band.)

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(Note: Not the actual praise band.)

At first, I wanted to run out screaming or plan B was to grab the mic from the leader and take over. But we stayed. And here’s what happened. The pastor preached from Ecclesiastes, one of my favorite books. And he had studied. He moved us. He challenged us. He prayed with his whole heart. And at the end, I discovered this handful of people serve at a food bank, and a dozen other places in their tiny community and the world at large. And they’re going to pack and send 500 Operation Christmas Child boxes. Yes, 500.


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            This wasn’t a dog and pony show. This wasn’t a show at all. It was real---a handful of people coming together for hours on a Sunday offering giving what they had to each other, to God. Yes, it was ridiculous and pathetic, all of us, trying to praise God with little talent, bringing dogs to church. I felt sorry for God for a few moments, thinking of Him as a kind of lordly teacher having to endure his kindergarteners bumbling through their first show and tell. But then, in the midst of singing “God of wonders beyond the galaxies”  I looked out the church windows.  I saw the elk grazing on the brown lawn and the snowed mountains hulking over us in brilliant sunlight.

Two hours later I stood 50 feet above a waterfall that plunged 200 feet into a 1000 foot canyon. With the roar and force of the water, I could hardly walk to the edge, overwhelmed, knowing if I got too close I would be swept away.

And later, after the river and canyon, the sun wrapped a scarlet scarf around the neck of the Tetons as it departed.


Grand Tetons.JPG

It’s outrageous. It’s absurd. You have to be crazy out-of-your mind to believe that the God who designed and lovingly tends this kind of world sees us. Hears us. Loves us. Is delighted with us. Attends to us. Died for us. Little ragged-voiced stumbling awkward stiff off-beat dog-loving us.

But He does.

That river thundering into the 1,000 foot canyon that I knew would sweep me away. It has.


That’s His mercy. His mercy. All mercy. For us. 


(Praise God from Whom All Blessings Flow!)


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Waking Up Sore in Butte, Montana (and my film debut)

 At Garnet ghost town, Montana. 

At Garnet ghost town, Montana. 

I woke up this morning in an 8'x 30' space with a cranked neck and sore throat. It was 25 degrees last night in Butte Montana and we're having heating issues with our just purchased (old) motorhome. Every time one of my sons rolls over, our new house shakes. "Earthquake" my Kodiak brain assumes---then I remember where I am. Where we are----On a magical mystery tour of Many Places Around the World for 8 months. We'll be here in this motorhome for 10 weeks before flying overseas. (Will I ever sleep in these 10 weeks?)     I have already thought nostalgically of my bed in Kodiak---its comfort, the heating system that always works, the shush of the ocean beneath the windows.

And then this morning my sister-in-law sent me these photos of Harvester Island, the place my heart lives. This is what I'm missing right now on our fish camp island:

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I cannot be homesick yet! We've only just started! 

We are traveling perhaps 25,000 miles this year. My vagabond soul is happy----but I will pine as well---for the spruce trees, the cold ocean, the whales, the sweet community spirit of Kodiak. But I have learned long ago that when our heart is given to God, we can live in many places. Our feet straddle earth and heaven and everywhere in between. We do not have one home: we have many.

Wherever God's people are: this is home.

The gospel stories and the wild watery world of healings and feasts: this is home.

The islands I live on in Alaska, where God displays His outrageous passion for beauty: this is home.

Wherever my family is: this is home.

Wherever two or three gather to pray and praise God: this is home.

Wherever my eyes and ears are opened and I glimpse the world beyond this one: this is home.

Butte,  Montana, where we are about to tour an underground mine: this is home.

Spokane, Washington, where we rode the river currents on paddleboards and sang praises to God in a leaf-blizzard: this is home.

My restless heart has indeed found its rest in God, and He lives everywhere. May I show you what I have seen of Him out on our Alaskan waters?  (And Here, finally! is what I and the RIghtNow Media film crew were doing this summer:)

I AM inviting you all to travel. Yes, to travel with me this year, but also, to come to my island through 6 video teaching sessions that also tour us all through the gospels---a destination that can utterly save your life. Meaning---your heart and soul and mind and strength!! (For church or small group or individual use,  More info here)


Is there anyplace I can go to avoid your Spirit?
    to be out of your sight?
If I climb to the sky, you’re there!
    If I go underground, you’re there!
If I flew on morning’s wings
    to the far western horizon,
You’d find me in a minute—
    you’re already there waiting!
Then I said to myself, “Oh, he even sees me in the dark!
    At night I’m immersed in the light!”
It’s a fact: darkness isn’t dark to you;
    night and day, darkness and light, they’re all the same to you.

                                                         ---Psalm 139


My wandering soul has found its home in God, and everywhere He is, (everywhere!) thank God---is Home. 

 Even underground?

Even underground?


Giving Up Your Child (and Measuring Presidential Grief)

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We are in Spokane, Washington this week, Abraham and Micah and I, staying with my daughter. After work each day, we get outside and move. One day we hiked in the snowy mountains. Today we paddle boarded down a river beneath orange elms and yellow oaks. The wind beat us backward, and sent the leaves spinning and wheeling like gulls around us. Abraham caught a leaf on his tongue.

 It is too soon for the leaves to leave. But in such wind, the trees have no choice but to let go of their flaming clothes, their brilliant robes. All that is most beautiful is taken, scattered.


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Here, in the company of three of my children, I think of parents whose children were taken from them, by fire, by bombs, by war. This week we face headlines about fallen soldiers and presidential phone calls. Boastings and accusations abound, proving that nothing, nothing in this country is now safe from politicization, competition and denunciation. Even grief will be tallied and wound into a political club. Have we lost sight of the reality that sons and daughters have died?

My reading this week takes me to Hannah, to a woman who lost a child, but not quite. She gave up her child entirely, willingly. How can this be? 

Remember her story? Hannah was infertile for many years, while her husband's other wife bore him many children. Bereft, she asked God with deep sobs for a son. And she promised that if He gave her a son, she would give him back to God to serve Him in the Temple all his life. When God does indeed give her a son, she does it.


Mother comforting son.png

Can you see the child crying there as she gives one final hug, prying his fingers from her shawl as she sets him down? “Samuel, all will be well,” she comforts even as her own eyes well over and her body shakes. Then she turns away, her son’s voice behind her, “Mama! No! Mama!” and she keeps walking, for days, until she arrives home, childless again.


But something truly strange happens in this story. When she leaves Samuel in the Temple, she sings a song of praise. What? Praise---not lament?

Here are some of the words she sings and prays:

“My heart exults in the Lord;
“There is no one holy like the Lord,
“The Lord kills and makes alive;
He brings down to Sheol and raises up.
“He raises the poor from the dust,
To make them sit with nobles,

The Lord will judge the ends of the earth;
And He will give strength to His king,
And will exalt the horn of His anointed.”

Who is this holier-than-moi mother who gave up her only child and then sings joyously to God because of it? I have only had a taste of infertility. My husband and I waited 8 years before trying for a child, and when we finally felt ready to begin-----nothing. When our daughter finally arrived years later, after much fervent prayer, I am pretty sure I wouldn’t have left her at a church. Or anywhere.

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But maybe I am beginning to understand. Hannah’s heartbreak was achingly personal and deep, but I believe Hannah had the entire nation of Israel in mind when she prayed for a son and vowed to give him to the Lord. In those days, “there was no king and everyone did what was right in his own eyes.”  Eli the priest was little better. He had two wastrel sons who violated God’s temple daily and he did nothing about it.

I believe Hannah was so distressed by the rebellion of God’s people she was ready to do everything to counter it. And she did. She gave all she had. That son, Samuel, grew up to be a righteous priest who heard God, who chose and anointed Israel’s greatest King, David. Her words looked forward, even, to the coming of a Messiah “the anointed one.”

Yes, Samuel sobbed as she left. And her own heart cracked and bled. But her pain was swallowed up in praise. How?  Hannah so filled her eyes with God, she wanted most to join His redeeming work in the world. And she did. At great cost, but with great joy.

  It seems we are living in days like those, when everyone does what is right in their own eyes. What do we do? The story is too rich for simple cliche's but surely this is true:

Give your pain to God--your personal pain and our national pain---as Hannah did that day she emptied her heart before Him. 

And whatever you ask for, be ready to receive it and to give it back to God----for the good of the country. For the good of the world. For the good of God's kingdom.


When we join God's redeeming work in the world, our pain can be turned to praise. I believe it.  Do you?



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Crossing the Bottom of the Sea


I left my beloved island in Alaska last week. I miss it already.



This morning I woke up in Denver. I’m not supposed to be here. I’m not supposed to be sleeping on the couch of my beloved son Noah and his new wife Lizzie. I’m supposed to be reunited with my family in Spokane, Washington. But a delayed flight from Grand Rapids (Thank you, United Airlines!) delivered this 24 hour gift. I haven’t seen Noah and Lizzie for almost a year, since their wedding.

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This will be my family’s life these next 8 months, every day setting off in a car, train, boat or plane, and ending up somewhere else at the end of the day. Maybe somewhere completely unexpected. But isn’t this the simple truth: whether we’re on a year long journey or simply swinging our legs over the edge of our bed to plant our feet on the cold floor of a new day----Every day is a trek into the unknown. And that can be scary. Especially now.

We now know the truth:

we can stay home most of our lives cause we’re afraid of flying;

we can avoid subways and trains because of the bombings;

we can keep our kids home from school to protect them from armed intruders  

(today the Kodiak High School was in complete lockdown after a threat);

              and one day,  to reward ourselves for our safe but claustrophobic life, we take our kids to a music festival for a few fun hours of country music and . . . . a man is waiting by the window with an arsenal of guns.


So we go out into the wide world because we must. And, because of something that happened thousands of years ago----------the spectacular defeat of Pharoah’s army and the march across the dray-as-bones bottom of the sea. That day, God defeated the most powerful army on the face of the earth on behalf of a ragged horde of helpless slaves. That day God set all the captives free.

 The Hebrews were ecstatic. This god was nothing like the Egyptian gods they had known about for 400 years. Slaves win? The mighty are drowned? The imprisoned are freed? They could do nothing less than writethe first praise song recorded in the Scriptures. Can you see the glad riot it must have been? Half a million women following Miriam, dancing with tambourines, with feet kicking high and voices laughing and loud:

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“I will sing to the Lord, for he has triumphed gloriously;
    the horse and his rider[a] he has thrown into the sea!

They sing and shout and dance all the way to the ending: 
“You have led in your steadfast love the people whom you have redeemed;
    you have guided them by your strength to your holy abode.
 You will bring them in and plant them on your own mountain . . .
 The Lord will reign forever and ever."

And on it goes today. Our rescue from slavery to freedom is already accomplished. And still, deliverances come to us every day! Have you seen them? Sometimes you can’t miss them—you and your family are saved through a devastating cyclone and flood. Just before the rent was due, an envelope came with just the amount needed. The bullet missed the vital organs by an inch.

And so many times they are tiny and tender: Today my lunch with my faraway son. The Uber driver who took me to the airport---our conversation about forgiveness, this heartbreak she has just endured. Yes of course SHE was the one that came to pick me up.  At the Breathe Writer’s conference this weekend, a friend surprised me with my favorite candy and a card with a quote exactly for this year:

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I have no tambourine right now, but I have a pen. So I write this:

Every morning we are all travelers (and secretaries), waking and treading a trail into hours and moments, valleys and places we’ve never been before. We don't have to be afraid. Every day our God leads “in steadfast love the people He has redeemed.”

And even when the bullet doesn't miss,

                      and the flood sweeps us away,

we’ll wake on that mountain, God’s holy house,

          now ours as well,

a tambourine in one hand and a pen in the other:

And we will sing to the Lord, for He has triumphed gloriously!

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Your turn with the pen! (Either that or post a video of you dancing with a tambourine?)

One tiny or huge deliverance that came to you this week?