“I remember the huge driveway and when you came out to play with me. We colored the entire driveway with chalk. You drew mermaids in the waves and we skinned our knuckles with the last bits of the chalk because we used it all up. Do you remember that, Mom?”

Yeah. I do. I remember I physically came out, but my mind was racing with all the things I needed to do inside to take care of you girls. I had to keep diverting my attention back to the moment. Back to the chalk.

Back to the feel of the grit and the powder and skrissssh of the blue hunk disintegrating in my hand as I swished it back and forth, back and forth. We did skin our knuckles. But somehow that was satisfying.

Inside were sleeping babies. One of them with no words and low muscle tone and a new diagnosis every three months. A husband working long hours. The low rumble of the stress and pressures of life.

But here we were. You and I, swish, skrish, scrape across the driveway. Which was not huge, but it was to you. Chatting about what to draw next. A normal, lovely moment we both remember.

Maybe that’s life. Maybe being present with your kids is just that. Hauling your baggage of pains and fears and unknowns and stress outside to scrape brilliance into their memory. Sure, I wished I could put all the burdens down. Maybe now, I can. That’s growth.

But then? Before I knew how? Maybe that’s all I could do — just haul it out, set it beside us, and draw on the sidewalk while the wind blew and the cars whizzed by and the clouds gathered. And listen. Listen to the little voice full of questions and plans. And be there for her. Imperfectly. But there.

I had no idea — that was enough.

The Lord of hosts is with us;
The God of Jacob is our refuge (Psalm 46:7).

Brick by brick, we’re laying it down,
First floor then second,
It’s life that we’ve lived,
The journey we’ve built.

I look over at you
And you’re plumbing the line.
You look over at me
And I’m spreading the glue.

Side by side, it’s a journey we’re on.
At times, careful and cautious,
At times, confident and bold.
Little by little, we’re building, we’re told.

The weary grind,
It wears on our souls.
What is the purpose?
For what do we strive?

Is it the Kingdom eternal
Or a home on the sand?
Is it shored up by unseen,
The lasting and long?

Or is it transient and thin,
Beautiful but grim.
Though it looks like we win,
It will fall on a whim.

We can’t see the bricks
Or the mortar or walls
That we’re building up there
Until faith becomes sight.

The unseen is eternal,
More real than the seen.
The fact is we’re building
With bricks we can’t see.

For he was looking forward to the city that has foundations, whose designer and builder is God (Hebrews 11:10).

I was pulling out of the school parking lot at a crawl. It was a good day. We were there a few minutes early, so my three younger ones took off across the playground to find their friends during the pre-bell recess that happens every morning (usually without us, because we’re still on the way).

And I thought I saw something in my memory of my kids tearing across the playground. Did one of them get out without a coat? And why did my subconscious thoughts keep warning me that she had? Not being sure, I wheeled around and waited through the line of drop-off cars again to see. Sure enough, there she was with no coat, now hugging her arms with a concerned teacher standing nearby.

I parked and got out. As I walked over, I took off my coat, passing it over the fence to her. She willingly accepted. It would have been a sweet story — but she ended up breaking the zipper. And her own zipper the next day, and two more pairs of boots in the next week.

“And if anyone forces you to go one mile, go with him two miles” (Matthew 5:41).

Friends, I have to be honest, I didn’t understand this verse until I became a mom. Who asks me for my coat? Who asks me to walk another mile? Who strikes me and I turn quietly to receive more?

Now, I understand. And so do you. And yes, we want our children to grow up to not take advantage of people — to be givers themselves. And yes, please teach your kids to not hit. This is not about parenting, this is about a weary momma’s heart that needs to quietly give — again.

Remember Jesus.

Here’s what I heard in teaching a few Sundays ago: When they asked Him to walk a mile, He walked up Golgotha. When they asked for (took) His cloak, He let them strip Him naked. When they struck His face, He turned and let them strike it again and again with mocking fists and laughter. Then rip out the beard. When they hung Him on a cross — asked for His very life — He turned and said, “Father, forgive them,” and gave it.

And now, risen, He asks us to take up our humble cross of motherhood. Someday, maybe, they will be thankful to us. But momma, it doesn’t matter. He saw you make their lunches in the grey dawn. He felt your sore feet as you slipped out of bed. He forgave your impatience and saw you work hard all day remembering all the things. Then He knew your weariness when you laid back down — and if you haven’t heard it today, hear it now: He quietly says, “Thank you.”

Thank you for carrying this load, serving these growing people. Thank you for living out His mission in the world on a tiny one, two, or three-kid scale. Because He's always with you. Every single extra mile. Even to the end of the time and beyond.

"And the King will answer them, ‘Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me’" (Matthew 25:40).

It’s the bass note.
A note on life’s score.
The note we avoid,
The note He employs.

It’s the shouldered cross,
The staggering loss,
The ill got from good,
The time when you stood.

The prognosis grim,
The broken sung hymn,
The “even if” moment,
The doubts and the torment.

It’s the bass note.
It’s out of the boat
That fills us with fears
And drags out our tears.

Really, Lord?
Will you crush what you grew?
Will you take what you gave?
Will you fold to the grave?

“Yes,” He said.

“I will prune branches with fruit
And give trial to suit.
I will take what I gave
To purge silver of dross.

I will leave tombs sealed,
Days tarry for love.
If I’d come when you called
And everything solved,

I’d never have raised
A man from the grave
Or brought Easter morn
Or peopled bright yonder shore.

Though deep is the note,
And alone sounds forlorn,
It’s part of the score
And heralds far more.

More glory, more meaning,
More grounding than lightness,
More foundations beaming,
More faith in the darkness.

So, pray for the ear
To hear what I hear:
A complete heaven’s song
Sung for eternity long.

It’s the bass note.
And you sing it faithful for Me.”

I’m mom.
And I’m here.

I’m here for the mess and I’m here with the lunch.
I’m here for the tears and I’m here to soothe fears.

I’m here looking for lost glasses
and hoping she just passes.

I’m here for OT and the dentist and waitlist,
For ortho and blood draws and at the ER when sick and listless.

I’m here with the fees and the plans for the worries and needs.
I’m here with decisions and listening to her read.

“Mom, I need you,” she says in the middle of the night.
“I’m here,” I mumble, but maybe, as I crumble.

Lord, who helps the helpers? Who comes alongside?
Who comes and holds me up in the dark when I cry?
Who shores me up and builds steel into my soul?
Who helps me be strong for these little souls learning life?
He says, “Come. I help the helpers. In the quiet, in the soft.

Come to me all who are weary and worn,
I give not a treadmill, but a place to lie down.
I give strength and hold up the faint,
I give rest to the sore mother’s soul.”

He’s in the whirlwind of schedules and calls.
He’s in the earthquake of the morning meltdowns.
He’s not looking for resolve, or a plan, or Advil, or advice.
He’s heard in the stillness, the quiet, the cleft.

He’s God
And He’s here.

So hear what He says:
“If I was hungry, you wouldn’t know.
I wouldn’t ask you - just so you know.

Because I have it all,
I need nothing from you.

Because I have it all,
And it’s all for you.

I ask for your call, then I ask for your thanks,
I just want to hear your soft sigh of relief.

I’m here.

It was a list. A list of goals unmet. A list of delays unacknowledged. It was a list of shortcomings compassionately, carefully, gently, laid out. One. By. One.

The doctor made sure we understood. All the assumptions and expectations of age appropriateness. All the things I took for granted in my other children, all the things I never saw until we didn’t see them in her.

Fixations - that's stubbornness, right?
Missing social cues - that's enthusiasm, right?
Eye contact is weird - that's personality, right?

No more.

They lined the reasons up like a tiny row of soldiers armed with tiny guns. They were loaded - there is research, there are behaviors or lack there of, symptoms. Not one was lethal. They were miniature, tiny toy soldiers after all. But with a pop they all fired at once:

Autism. “She’s on the spectrum. We’re sure.”

And suddenly, tiny symptoms became a wound.

I thought of my beautiful little girl. With her love of life and huge smile. She’s not on a spectrum, right? A spectrum of unmet expectations. She’s exceeded mine. I didn’t know if she would come home from the NICU, if she would walk or talk. And here she is, loving, living, embracing.

She’s on the spectrum, and in my heart. Everyone’s heart, that knows her. She brings joy everywhere. Simple, brimming innocence that we crave and lack in this dark world. She prays and simply waits for God to answer her. And He does, every time!

She is on the spectrum…and being on a spectrum does not mean she doesn’t have what matters. Purpose from God. A place in my heart. And everyone’s.

Maybe, just maybe, she doesn’t pick up on our sarcasm and impatience so that she can teach us that it’s not necessary or kind.

Maybe, maybe she was made by His hands to remind me that souls don’t need to be perfect to be loved.

Maybe, just maybe, her list of delays is a list for us to serve her with. And in so doing find ourselves less focused on ourselves and more like the Servant that formed her with His very hands.

Maybe, maybe, autism is a chance for us to lay aside our work and goals, and share in His. No matter how small. Or “insignificant” in our eyes. Because none of it is insignificant.

And praise God, no one is insignificant to Him.

Where He had given thanks

Other boats from Tiberias came near the place where they had eaten the bread after the Lord had given thanks (John 6:23 ESV).

That is not how I describe it. I call it “the feeding of the 5,000” or “the loaves and the fish.” But when John refers it, just telling the reader the setting as he usually does, describes a stunning miracle as “the place where they had eaten…” When? After He did a miracle, right? No. “After He had given thanks.”

That was the most important part of that miracle for John. The place they ate after Jesus had given thanks.

We moved to Toronto in 2024. I can hardly believe it’s been a year and a half. We came with no jobs, no school, and no home. It was what God had been pressing on our hearts for years. Especially after moving to inner city Detroit. So we did.

Honestly it was much harder to move to Toronto with all the financial concerns than it was to move to Detroit — a city with a bad reputation, but where we had worked and gone to school for 12 years already. Toronto was much, much scarier. But I’m so glad we just obeyed even though we were afraid. It’s ok to be scared and do it anyway.

We’ve learned so much. So much about fear and obedience in the middle of it. How to trust Him more than our own understanding or anyone else’s. How the Kingdom is so much more important and real than our bank accounts.

Today we are settled in a home that meets our needs beautifully. The girls attend a school we shouldn’t afford. Joel has been offered a full-time position. I have a thriving business and am leading a non-profit ESL school that serves almost 70 people, mostly immigrants from China. There are so many opportunities to speak Chinese and I am surrounded by people from all over the world, including those from unreached people groups of the world.

Who did this? He did. We came with nothing. And He multiplied it. But that’s not the point. The point is we had Him. He’s the real treasure. The real food. This is the place where we have eaten after giving thanks.

And when we taste Him, we can’t help but share Him.

I live and work among people that don’t know it’s a miracle I’m here. But I do. This thought brings me to my knees over and over again — He taught me to thank Him for Him. He lifted those loaves on a windswept hillside and thanked God for them. Thanked God that He had provided the tiny amount that was used to feed at least 4,999 more than it should have.

Because there was one day, on a hill enveloped in darkness, He would be lifted up and broken to provide for millions to be fed with the living bread. He broke the loaves and taught us that they were a picture of His body broken for us. And that Living, Loving Bread is still being passed out.

May I be daily, hourly filled with the stunning knowledge that He was broken and poured out so that I might live. Let it sink into my soul that He took my place and gave what I never could.

So that as I stand on my own hill this new year, this city full of teeming millions that He loves, I lift Him up for all to see.

And thank God for His Son. Before passing Him out piece by piece to the hungry thousands that will be fed…by Him.

Lord, plant me here,
Where hope star of Bethlehem
Soaks the dark all year round.

Lord, plant me here,
In the light of Your courts
In love of a different sort.

Lord, plant me here,
Let me live all my days
Fully know your ways.

Lord, plant me here,
Beside the still waters
Filled with what matters.

Lord, plant me here,
With all that I need,
With gratitude a seed.

Lord, plant me here,
Sown in soils of lack,
To harvest hundredfold back.

Lord, plant me here,
Where even sparrows are home,
Where I never need roam.

Lord, plant me here,
And teach me to love
All you’ve given, enough.

Lord, plant me here,
For I’d rather hold the door
For others much more,
Than hold all the treasures
Of the world and its pleasures.
For You can’t be measured!

Lord, plant me here.

For a day in your courts is better
   than a thousand elsewhere.
I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God
   than dwell in the tents of wickedness.
For the Lord God is a sun and shield;
   the Lord bestows favor and honor.
No good thing does he withhold
   from those who walk uprightly.
O Lord of hosts,
   blessed is the one who trusts in you! (Psalm 84:1-12).

A mother, she walked
To give birth in a stall.
A Savior, He walked
To give life on a hill.

A father, he led
A mother, burdened with child.
The Father, He led
The Lamb, burdened with wood. 

The angels, they sang,
“Glory to God,”
The crowd, they jeered,
“Take Him away.”  

No room in the inn
To tender lay down,
A place on a cross 
To be lifted up.

Received by creation, 
Revered by the waves, 
Rejected by those 
That He’d come to save. 

Exhausted, He sighed, 
“It is finished!” He cried. 
Exalted, He rose, 
The King in repose. 

Rejected no more 
King eternal He reigns. 
We remember the babe 
Who’ll soon come again.

Look up. Look at the thousands that are hungry. Look and hear them. How they need Him. Mothers, fathers, children, teachers, elders, church members. Bitter gossips and over-workers and seekers and the young and the old.

“You feed them.” We always hear this call. We’re mothers. “What’s for dinner Mom?” You feed them, you feed them, you feed them. Like a repeated call that crushes our reserves. Especially during the holidays - when we feel that we’re the pie cut into too many slivers.

“With what, Lord?! I’m charred and empty!” The honest soul cries.

“What do you have? Go and see.”

“This what I have, Lord. What is that for so many?”

“Bring it here. Your faith, small as it is. Bring it here.”

Looking up to heaven, He gave thanks. Before the miracle. Before what they brought was broken down again and again, and given out over and over again. He paused.

Then, then He broke the bread and fish and they distributed it to the people. There were leftovers. Plenty, a bounty of leftovers. They had lack — He brought abundance.

In the middle of the need, the grinding hard days of work and weariness and kids fighting and people needing. The loneliness, the isolation, and the rush. In the middle of all the thousands of needs, He paused to give thanks for what they had. God gave thanks for the little the disciples had. He gives thanks for what you have too.

Oh Lord, help me lift my eyes today. To see the fields ready for harvest, to see what little I have. You are here with me. Thanking the Father for what I have. Help me raise my hands and give thanks with You for the little I have. Help me bring it here and give thanks for:

sun in the windows.

foaming soap tabs in lovely scents.

steaming sweet potato and fried eggs.

a man that partners with me — whatever you bring, he’s game.

physical health. I can run, run down my street!

that friend that fills my soul — what would I do without her?

a house full of people that I love that drive me nuts.

a house full of people I love.

a house full of people.

a house.

Oh, a home.

And on and on. Tiny treasures. Big blessings. Crumbly, salty, tender morsels from Your hand. Fish and loaves. We don’t have enough to feed the thousands, but we have our hands full. Lift it up — and thank Him today. A moment to jot down a list. A quiet breath prayer of gratitude on the commute.

Lord, let me enter Your gates with praise today. I’ll tell You what I have. I’ll bring it here. Arms full of wonder for what You have given me. And when I see all the needs — the hunger around me —- and You say, “You feed them”, and when I, shaking and bewildered, confess — “With what??”

Let me, broken, bring it. Feel You take what fills my hands. Let me hear the “thank yous” slip from my mouth one by one as I hand them over. Breaking my heart — I don’t have enough. I know.

Soon, I am on my knees. Here’s another thing. Thank you. Cracked, weary, worn. Gratitude that costs. Gratitude that chips away at my fear. Gratitude like water from the rock. Gratitude that breaks me open to wonder.

I’m breaking thanks. Breaking through all the fear and doubt. Slow, seeping, and building, it is a flood.

How You have blessed! How did I forget?

Oh and this…and this…and this. Handing it over to the hands that hold it all. He will break it down. He will pass it out. He will fill me up and burden me with leftovers. Twelve baskets full of thanks.

Abundance.

Weary friend, may you break thanks today.

(See Mark 6:30–44)

The air feels so brittle 
And the wind has a bite. 
The night’s a tad longer, 
The days are so bright.  

Wind moaning low 
Of sin, suffering, and loss,
"Long lay the world" 
Waiting oncoming frost. 

Like leaves falling, 
The old story’s calling: 
The one of the babe, 
Of manger to grave. 

Of feet worn and weary, 
Of face set like flint, 
Of heart soft and teary, 
Of will never bent,

Of strength set aside, 
Of humanity put on, 
Of deity in stride, 
Of the cross where He died. 

Of the grave burst apart,
Of the light pouring out, 
Of freedom the song, 
And salvation the shout!

But for now…

Just the moaning 
Of the wind in the trees 
And my quiet knowing 
That He’s coming…

For me.

He shouldered a cross.

I shouldered my dread.

And walked.

Soft and tenuous, down the dark hall. I didn’t need the lights. My feet knew the worn path down cheap carpet.

She had slept eight hours. Eight. My gratitude, my full chest, my deep fear, wrestled for dominance in my mind. My pulse thudded and my breathing couldn’t quite flow. Panic warred.

I opened the door and sank onto the rumpled guest bed that I slept in more often than not. Soft sheets and prickly legs. I sat there, watching her squirming body slowly wake through the bars of the crib. Listening to her snuffling, my fear unraveled into brief relief and melted into stinging embarrassment. It then poured, pounding through my ears.

I sat there, drenched in its intensity. Why do I fear so much? Why do I fear the worst and struggle to get back to reality?

I knew. I knew being a mother would be hard work. That did not scare me at all. I knew it would be painful, but she was so worth it. I knew I would be more exhausted than I could have imagined. I knew.

But where had my mind gone? That’s what I didn’t expect. To discover that the person who looked out my eyes would suddenly be flung on an endless roller coaster of fear, relief, then shame at my weakness. All the while my “sane” self struggling to keep a rein on it all.

Some of you never struggled with this. And that’s a blessing. But many do. And many more did. Whatever your double scoop sundae of genetics, upbringing, fallenness, and personality is — the sauce all over it and the cherry on top is this: “I shouldn’t be like this.”

And that “shouldn’t” drenched me as the morning seeped through the windows and bloomed up the walls. As my healthy baby lifted her tussled head and turned to grin at me with blurry eyes. I lifted her soggy, babbling self up and took her to the change table, wondering what on earth was wrong with me. I could see she was fine. I was fine. Everything is fine. So why did I wake in panic every day?

This was the encouragement that I held onto when my kids were babies:

“But the Lord GOD helps me; therefore I have not been disgraced; therefore I have set my face like a flint, and I know that I shall not be put to shame” (Isaiah 50:7).

Not exactly a popular embroidery subject to put on the wall, but it reminded me of two things.

My help is from God. To bear these children, to feed and raise and love them, He is my help. My strength, my defender, my comfort. He will be with me as I walk down that worn hallway in the wee hours of the morning.

Second, there is no shame in anxiety. There is no “shouldn’t be anxious,” only that I am, at times, anxious. It is not a disgrace, it is part of being human and some of us struggle with it more than others. Maybe the overachievers like me meet the complex and mostly-not-controllable thing that is motherhood and we spiral more often.

This verse is Jesus Himself speaking prophetically about His goal of the cross. He knew the horror and abandonment and suffering it would mean and still, He set His face like a flint and went anyway. For the joy (you) that was set before Him, he bore His cross and went all the way into the worst. And that’s why we can face our worst - because he’s already been there before us.

What is “all the way” for you? This is different for each mother, each moment, but maybe you’re afraid of illness or death or not taking care of their basic needs. Whatever it is, you don’t know it like Jesus knew — but you can trust Him with it. Whatever the fear is, tell the Lord, “I trust you with even that — all the way.”

For moms struggling with anxiety, that hallway is the valley of death. “But even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.” Why? “For You are with me” (Psalm 23:4).

And you know what? Most of the time He takes you down that hallway and leads you right back out without ever living through what you fear. But trusting Him — even with the greatest fear — trains your mind and heart to not fear. Because over and over, He is faithful in the fear. He’s with you until your nervous system calms down and calibrates itself, and He’s still with you when the next challenge of motherhood comes.

So let’s take His hand and walk all the way there, and all the way back.

Sometimes I stand in front of my closet and feel paralyzed about what to wear.

That patch of carpet in front of my closet? It’s a battle ground. It's the stage for the expectations, limitations, judgments, and disappointments of all it means to be a woman, let alone a mom - showing up with all the changes of carrying and birthing children, or just being alive in a fallen world with gravity.

“That’s too tight. I’ve gained weight.”
“That’s too loud for me.”
“Those jeans are the best but they are starting to fall apart.”
“What would people think?”
“Why am I so pale?”

It’s noisy and draining and feels like slavery and it is not even 8am.

So I pause. And I spread the questions and accusations before Him in my heart. “Lord, what would abundance choose?” I ask. It comes from desperation and need in the face of all I fear, mainly people. It comes from a soul-deep knowing that He has called me into freedom, abundance, and contentment. So I want to live it. Every. Single. Day.

I’m acknowledging that this is hard. And I won’t look like I want to - or I used to. I will carry this extra weight and I will feel conspicuous when I don’t wear what is expected. And that’s ok. I can show up gently. Abundantly. Softly trusting the One that has set me free.

Often, the next outfit combination that comes to mind is what abundance would choose. So I wear it. But really, I am putting on the garments of praise because He’s the one that fights for me.

A gentle spirit shines, Momma. So for your closet battle today, what would abundance wear?

“For freedom Christ has set us free; stand firm therefore, and do not submit again to a yoke of slavery” (Galatians 5:1).

Let your heart be knit to that man before you. The one that rushes you out the door and forgets his keys and asks what's for dinner and just drives you crazy.

For all the soft moments that you look over and find that without a word, yes, he knows. For all memories of children or trips or homes or sunsets. And all the painful ones too – the hospital stays and the tears in the night and the exhaustion and wondering and worrying and waiting times.

And all the harsh words and careless critique that needed ripe regret to bring the fruit of repentance. Tender words to wash it away, but oh, you know there is a stain. He’s hurt you, but what deep stain isn’t washed in the blood of Christ? Sometimes the yarn knots fiercely and you need to pause and work it out before you go on.

For all the days he got up without a word and did what he does and worked as he could and came home and supported and loved and cheered you on in all that you do. And for all the times he forgot to thank you – because he’s so used to the work you do he forgets, and so you forget his.

Choose to let your heart be knit to him. To all that he is, for you know what he isn’t. (Whatever things are true, lovely, admirable… think on these things about him.) Take care of all that he longs to be. Be the carrier of his dreams and never let him forget the dreamer he was – the man you met so long ago. Remind him that as his muscles shrink and his back aches, he is ever growing in your soul. Remind him there is nothing, nothing he can try and fail at that will make you stop loving him. So he is free to risk and work and dream for you both.

In all these things, let your heart continue knitting – to him. He’s so surprising, so flawed, so normal and so yours. He’s the only one in so many millions where your heart can find its home – so knit yourself to him warm and well.

Loop by loop, click by click, good or bad, day by day, just as they say – until you’re one in body AND in soul.

It’s a choice. Over and over. So let your heart be knit to him and no one else.

A doorkeeper
To swing the home open wide. 
To usher us in 
with soft smile inside.

A doorkeeper
Is exactly our need. 
To welcome the weary 
and close out the dreary. 

A doorkeeper
For the great house of God 
A tender refrain, 
Come in, for you're spent. 

Come into His rest 
And find that He's best. 
Come in and let go 
of all the works that you know. 

Come in for He said
He's tender and low
Close to the sinner 
and easy to know. 

Come in said the keeper 
the meal is ready inside 
Come in, 
it was for you that He died. 

And so we soft entered, 
Through blood on the door
We sat scared at the table. 

We thought of our lack
And felt -
we wouldn't be welcome. 

But just like outside, 
we found grace too, inside 
For the welcoming Savior 
Had sent His doorkeeper. 

Thank God for the keepers 
that stand out in the rain 
To bid us come in 
And find rest from our pain.