I’ve got to be honest here. Lately, I’ve been wondering how to do something I’ve always thought I was good at. But it turns out, if I pay attention, I’m not as good as I thought. I’ve been watching, or maybe my good friend Jesus is asking me to attend to my heart. The question is: How do I act or react in a loving way in the midst of some kind of conflict?

What does it mean, I mean, really mean, to walk in love?

The angel knew it. The prophets knew it. What you name a child is important.

Names and their meanings still matter today. Here’s the story of how I found a way to show children how they can be like Jesus simply by celebrating and living out the name they have been given.

As we sang How Great Thou Art, I thought of that scene and enjoyed it for a moment before remembering that this was worship and it was God I was singing to. So I thanked him for that memory and pulled my mind back to worshiping him instead of thinking about my childhood. Ah. Yes.

What is it like to be a father? It is fatherlike to be a responsible and faithful provider. Being fun-loving, smart, and wise are qualities we want in a dad. We want our fathers to be strong and stable and safe and approachable and present and dependable and able to connect and fair and brave and loving and kind. Whew…what a list! But indeed all these qualities are fatherlike.

As I grieve the many losses of the past couple of weeks all around the globe, I hang on to this part: Remember, I am with you all the way to the end. And I realize that this is why Jesus showed his disciples how to pray. He knew what terrible events awaited him but he always remembered. He never forgot that His Father was with him, always.

Perhaps you can imagine yourself, when you were young, coming home from school. Tired and hungry, you were wondering what you could possibly find to eat in the fridge. Stepping into the kitchen, you find your mom (or grandma) taking a pan of freshly baked oatmeal chocolate chip cookies out of the oven.

Recently I found a handwritten note in our home mailbox. Personal mail is quite unusual these days so I excitedly brought it inside. The return address showed me that it was from a woman who attends our church. I tore it open to find that she wanted me to know that she had prayed for me that day.

I remember way back when I first learned to ride my bicycle. I had a few mishaps. I’ll share one.

It was difficult to get out of bed this morning. Two of our bedroom walls and ceilings are being renovated so we were sleeping in the guest room. We got to bed late. Oh, I’m not sure why. Could have been the ball game, or the book I was reading, or quite possibly because we were trying to find our pajamas in the drawers that had been moved from their usual spot and piled in the back room. But the alarm let me know it was time to get up.

You and I have been given unexpected circumstances this past year. Perhaps you lost a loved one, or you became a teacher! Or maybe you had property damage or you lost your job. It could be that you got sick or had an accident. I know that we all received the unexpected and the unwanted.

What are we to do?

I have a tendency to want to hide away, get out my Bible and journal, and proceed to scribble out whatever truths and reassurances I can find.

But today I found Wendell Barry. Here he writes about a way that he faces fears that gather around in times like these…

So why do I write about Agatha Christie?

Well, last week I realized I want to be like her.

No, I don’t want to be a prolific well-known author of many published books, although that would be nice.

I spent a lot of years with an unhealthy habit of self-criticism. Seeing a trait that I admired in another person, I would quietly wish it was mine. I would shame myself, of course, thinking I was lacking in value because of it. I found myself whispering things like: I want to be pretty like Eunice. I want to be outgoing and friendly like Beth. I want to have a lovely voice like Onalee. I want to be confident like my roommate Kaitlyn. I want to be deep and mature like Becky. I want to be smart like Lisa. These are not healthy thoughts and they drip thickly with not-enough-ness and comparison, a deadly combination for self-worth.

I met Sabina and now I want to be like Sabina.

This book opened a way for me to take a fresh look at my own faith, my own prayers, my own feelings of safety, and my own deeply felt compassion for the world.

If I was Sabina, how might I live out my faith?

I have a recipe.

You may have heard of it. You might already have it! You might have even used it. It’s been around for a while.

My Aunt Alice’s Oatmeal Roll recipe has a story that I’d love for you to know. It is more than just a recipe. There’s something deeper than words and measurements on a card. But we’ll get to that part in a bit.

The other day I found our son, Joel, singing to his littlest, two-year-old Elsie,

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,

you make me happy when skies are gray.

You’ll never know dear how much I love you,

please don’t take my sunshine away.”

I smiled as a foggy memory came to mind. I told Joel that I thought my dad sang that to me when I was Elsie’s age. I think he was milking our cow and singing away with his very blue eyes dancing, his smile wide and endearing. But I had to add, as much as I love that memory, I’m not sure if it was really a memory or if I just wanted it to be. But I hold it close to my heart, choosing to trust the memory of my little two-year-old self.

And this much I know. I cannot carry my own heart. It is too full, heavy, broken, and complex. I need Someone bigger than I am to take care of it…to take care of me.

A few weeks ago one of our adult kids had some questions that required me to open a long-closed and mostly forgotten journal. Pulling it off the top shelf of the tall antique bookcase, I didn’t fully understand the slight hesitation I felt for the project. Eager to please though, I gingerly opened the small blue cover and started scanning the pages for the sought-after information.

I wonder what I might find if I would only stop for a minute and be curious about my own reflection. What might I see? How would I feel about what I see? Would there be a nudge that something needs to change? What about God?

I know this all sounds mysterious, but isn’t that the way of grief? Doesn’t it sneak in quietly and just when you think it’s been dealt with, there it is with a powerful surge of remembrance and pain?

Chanting this nursery rhyme as a child, I never imagined that all these years later I would, in the middle of a cold dark morning, be blessed one more time by the God who hung that moon, keeps it on schedule, and (as a bonus) gives us unique ways to not take it for granted.