The Birth of a Mother

I didn’t think I would write my birth story. But as I lay in bed that Thursday morning, listening to the sweet breaths of my baby drifting back to sleep, my mind wandered back. Six weeks ago… I checked my watch. 1:45. I was struggling to push my little guy out amidst the encouragement of a loving birth team. They could see his head. I didn’t want to look, because I was pretty sure they were only seeing that first little peak of hair that appears during the contraction and then vanishes away. I would wait to see something more substantial.

I felt a bit like an observer of my own birth. After assisting with close to a hundred births as a student, I knew the routine fairly well. First those miniscule contractions that everyone celebrates as the beginning of labor. I almost felt like I was making them up as my midwife gleefully timed their duration and intervals. To me, it felt like she was grasping for evidence that she’d been successful in getting my body started. After having tried all the do-it-yourself methods at home without success, I was skeptical that this natural induction would work. First of all, I wasn’t sure I was ever actually going to have this baby. Second, if this was labor, I had a long journey ahead. I thought back to those other first-time moms who would call and tell us their labor was beginning. “I’m having a strong contraction right now!” they would say, joy ringing in their voices. Oh hunny, I would think, you haven’t seen anything close to strong yet. No, there would be no celebrations from me. Not until I felt pain—real, concentrated pain.

When my midwife released us to go to town and run errands, I left without a fear. No doubt I would return in a couple of hours for more membrane stripping, still hoping for labor. I fiddled with the GPS, looking for the Department of Licensing so we could let the state know that we’d recently moved. Was it just the car making things less comfortable, or was labor really going to start sometime today? A cramp set in, then a warm burst. “Oh!” This was definitely a surprise. “Casey, turn around.”

“Why, are you in labor?” Casey flipped on the turn signal.

“You probably missed your turn,” Mom volunteered from the back seat.

There could be no doubt now—I was definitely wet. I flipped through my phone till I found the right contact. “Hi Beth? I think my water just broke.”

So instead of the Department of Licensing, as Casey later joked, we entered the Department of Labor.

With the cushy water bag out of the way, it didn’t take long for the pain to begin. Yes, this was more like the labors I’d seen. Still, I knew things were going to get worse—way worse. For now, I practiced focusing, breathing, relaxing. Mom reminded me of body parts I hadn’t thought to relax—my arms, my hands. Michelle squeezed my hands and rubbed my feet. Beth made sure the baby and I were healthy and coping well. Casey supported and loved me through every contraction. Our baby was coming.

My labor had started in mid-afternoon. Beth made optimistic projections of having a delivery before midnight. Her predictions really did encourage me—maybe she would be right. Of all the days in October he could have been born—friends’ and relatives’ birthdays and other cool numbers I had hoped for as the days came and went—October 18 was the only one I had specifically hoped he would not arrive on. That day had been someone else’s birthday 99 years before…someone whose footsteps I did not wish him to follow.

In my heart, though I smiled at my midwife’s encouraging predictions, I knew my son would not come on October 17. I had a long journey ahead, with lots of opening to do. Somehow, though in pain, I made peace with the day I knew would be his birthday. Through the ministry of mothering God was giving to me, my son would reclaim October 18. He would live to be a much better man than his unfortunate ancestor.

I gained about a centimeter every two hours—twice as slow as “average.” As evening came, I wanted some rest, so we all found places in the bedroom—me on my side with Casey behind me, holding my heating pad on my back. Michelle at my feet, Mom at my hands. Beth keeping watch. In between contractions, I rested. The setting was quiet and peaceful.

Shortly after I reached 6 cm, I started to feel myself fighting my contractions. I threw up—not the first time that day, but perhaps the strongest. It felt like transition, except I wasn’t 7 cm. To help myself relax and calm down, I got in the tub. It certainly felt like things were picking up.

When I got out about an hour later, Beth checked me again. Not until the end of a contraction did she announce my dilation: 8 cm. Then she divulged that I had been 7 when it started—but as midwives often do, she helped me along. She also proudly showed me her bloody glove. For the first time, I worried that something might be wrong. “Is it too much?” I don’t remember her answer, because that’s when things really intensified. I found myself wanting to push, but having to pant it off. In her wisdom, Beth guessed I wasn’t fully dilated, and she put off rechecking me. When she did, I was only at 9—but once again, she helped me along. A few contractions later, with both of us working, triumph rang in Beth’s voice. “Complete!”

It felt good to be moving on to stage two, but I felt so tired. Not only that, but I doubted my abilities in this department. Labor had been passive—all I had to do was breathe and let my body do its work. Now the success of my labor depended on me. I had to push. Mom told me this was the fun part, because I would get to do something. The problem was, I did not feel convinced I could do it.

I pushed on the bed until Beth had me try squatting, a loved one supporting me on either side. This was definitely hard work, but my mind felt clearer than it had before. We all talked softly in between contractions.

Then I began feeling too tired to go on. So tired that I asked Beth if I had to stay squatting. She gave me a number of contractions to complete. With the goal finished, I went back to the bed so I could sleep between pushes.

Stage two (the pushing) went on for two hours. Beth had said the average was one hour, but I felt thankful I didn’t drag on as long as some other first-time moms my age I had helped. I distinctly remembered those women in their early thirties who pushed for four hours. Two hours was plenty long, for sure, and things got a little urgent at the end. Beth informed me I had to push out his head on this contraction. When his body didn’t come flying out (as they often do), I had to finish pushing him out without a contraction, while Beth pulled as much as she dared. Those last three minutes felt like fifteen because of the worry in Beth’s voice. Finally, at 2:20, our son was born. The half minute before his first cry felt so long. “Oh Jesus,” I prayed out loud, “please just let him cry.” I knew Beth was rubbing his back and feet, wiping his face, doing everything right. Then it came. My baby’s first vocalization. That newborn cry brought me a surge of joy and thankfulness. Then, a slippery, wriggling little infant up on my chest. Beth had me feel the cord—completely done pulsing. Since it wasn’t a big deal to Casey, Michelle got to cut it. While Beth collected our baby’s cord blood, I talked to him about what she was doing. His eyes were open wide. He was sweet and quiet as he searched my face.

The rest of that early morning was a bit of a blur. He nursed, Beth examined him, I got a shot of Pitocin and Methergine. I was sore, very sore. I needed help to get up and go anywhere. My blood pressure was low and Beth wouldn’t let me take a shower. But I had given birth. I had a healthy baby. I hadn’t torn. I had so much to thank God for.

Birth had been pretty much what I expected. The thing that actually surprised me most was how routine it felt. After helping so many other mothers, my own birth didn’t take my breath away as much as lore would have it—as much as it had seemed to do for those other women. Casey, too, seemed to take it all calmly and in stride, as if this were normal. Perhaps emergency medicine had already taught him so much about dealing with bodily fluids and drama that this seemed like just another medical event. The miracle moment had already happened for us the first time we felt our fetus kick. But now that he was born, we loved our baby as much as we knew we would. I loved gazing into his little face, and I loved watching Casey holding his son.

The real challenges, the real miracles, I soon discovered, were in the day-to-day struggles of nurturing and raising a baby. The night feedings. The soreness. The overwhelming sense of everything I expected myself to do, and not being able to do any of it because I had to keep a baby fed, changed, and sleeping. The desperation when I didn’t understand the reason for his cries. The first couple of weeks were magical, but emotional and crazy. As the days went on, the realization set in that parenting would not be convenient. That I would not be able to “accomplish” as much as I had thought. That I would often not know what I should do. That I would love this baby with all of my heart, but I would also feel frustrated. That I would need God to save me from my selfishness, my love of ease. That I would need to give every ounce of myself to this sometimes inconsolable child and not expect anything in return. That too often my husband and I would have to bear separate burdens, that we could encourage and thank one another, but hardly even lighten one another’s loads. That sometimes I would feel too tired to pray, but that I would need prayer more than ever before.

These were discoveries no one had prepared me for. Perhaps I hadn’t been listening. Perhaps I’d never paid attention to how much support, help, and encouragement the new moms around me had always needed. Or perhaps, like me, they hadn’t been talking. Could it be that we all hide these trials within ourselves, ashamed to admit that the bliss of motherhood is not without its sorrows? With all the education, preparation, excitement, support, and attention devoted to pregnancy and birth, who would be there to offer the corresponding education and support for me in new motherhood?

As Selkirk grew, I delighted in his smiles, his cuddles, his discovery of the world. In his own way, I could see, this little one loved me, too. Those smiles were his way of repaying me for the life I was pouring into him. Those were the moments I began to live for—along with the quiet of peaceful baby sleep, and the comfort of my husband coming home from work. There could be no doubt about it—I loved this boy, and although I would do some things differently if I could rewind, I would also do it all again. He will always be worth it, no matter how messy, how real this journey may be.

Lying in bed one morning, looking into my little boy’s face, a voice spoke softly in my heart. “This is how much God loves every one of His children.” As much love and life and me as I pour into my infant, God pours even more into me. Later, a verse: “Beloved, if God so loved us, we ought also to love one another” (1 John 4:11).

Because God loves me the way I love Selkirk, and because He loves others that way too, I ought to love them. It made sense like it never had before. Over and over, in my quiet moments with God—often nursing, often walking, often kneeling next to the crib offering comfort to a tired baby—thoughts of God giving us His Son have come to my heart. Thoughts of God giving His Son to be taken care of by a human—a scared, self-doubting, clueless girl like me. Who is this God, and how could He possibly love us that much?

October 18 is my son’s birthday. As it turns out, October 18 also became my birthday. That day, although at times it still seems surreal, a mother was born. The years ahead stretch out long before me (although everyone tells me they will fly by). They will be years of trial, difficulty, and joy. My patience will be tried, and I will make mistakes. But I will do my best. And whatever else happens, one thing is certain: I will love.

Selkirk Israel Reiswig

10-18-2018

7 lb. 5 oz.

20 ¾ inches

Selkirk means “manor church,” and is the name of a mountain range near our home. To me, it represents the church in the wilderness…God’s cathedral. Israel means “God prevails,” and is the name God gave to an overcoming Jacob, renaming him “the prince of God.” May God’s grace prevail in our little prince’s life, and may this little mountain man be a rock of strength among God’s faithful people!

How to Tame a Kitten (Or, How to Cure a Kitten of Ear Mites...We Hope)

Don't get me wrong. I love our new kitten, and I'm not sure how I got along without him. It's just that this week his predator instinct has kicked in, and naturally, my hands and other appendages make excellent prey. So let's just say that (between cuddling and gushing over his cuteness), we're working on boundaries. Sometimes (when I can't get him distracted with inanimate playthings), catnaps are so welcome. That's why ear mites became a blessing to me.

The book on natural healthcare for pets said that the cure was to smother the microscopic creatures with olive oil. And so, our little patient has been getting daily treatments. Here's the routine.

1. Don leather gloves.

2. Captivate the kitten.

3. Pull back kitten's ear, and keep open.

4. Squirt one eye-dropper of olive oil into kitten's ear.

5. Close ear flap before kitten can shake, and hold.

6. Repeat with second ear.

7. Hold both ears shut for several seconds, allowing oil to soak in.

         7a. Giggle at kitten's silly appearance.

8. Massage kitten's ear canals. Wait, how do you do that? Oh, forget it.

9. Release ears and allow kitten to shake.

10. Hold ears open and swab with q-tips to remove mite debris.

11. Release kitten.

12. Enjoy a peaceful afternoon while the now docile animal obsessively licks himself between naps.

Of course, Riley hasn't exactly been a willing patient. But, since he's just a kitten, we can control him for at least a few minutes (with the help of leather gloves).

What he doesn't know is that we actually have his happiness in mind. He may not enjoy his current greasiness, but he will enjoy his freedom from those itchy mites. If he had logic and rational intelligence, we might not need those leather gloves for the treatments.

He's only a kitten, so I don't expect any more out of him. But I do expect more from myself. When I find myself in the midst of a trying, frustrating experience, I hope I'll remember Riley's ear treatments and thank God for the cure from sin He's working within. Then, instead of attacking my Best Friend, I'll spend the time afterward being a sweet, quiet child...just like my little snoochum after his oil bath.

Open Wide

The first time I heard the song, the words gripped me:


They say I am a dreamer, blind and cannot see. . . . 
They say I am an idealist, blind and cannot see 
that the principles I cling to won't stand reality.
Well, if that's what I am, Lord, won't you care for me? . . . 


I haven't met too many people who can't identify with that. In one way or another, we're all dreaming "impossible" dreams. We're all trying to beat the odds of reality and be or accomplish or feel something exceptional. We're all a little bit blind to the way things are, and trying to live something better—or at least different. And it's a good thing, since those dreams often help us find better realities!


I grappled with dreams and reality this week. Dreams of how fast I'd like to finish college, reality of how fast I can pay for it. Dreams of people and places I want to visit, reality of how that affects school and finances. Dreams of being in a healthy, intimate relationship, reality of being single. Dreams of being like Jesus, reality of being like me. 


I struggled, too, against temptations. Temptations to indulge in passing little pleasures that Jesus didn't endorse. Temptations to covet gifts He hasn't given. Temptations to feel like I'm being cheated if I don't get them.


Finding my resistance mostly ineffective, I prayed and studied the Word. He gave me a verse:


"I am the Lord your God,
    who brought you up out of Egypt. 
Open wide your mouth and I will fill it" (Psalm 81:10).


A wonderful cure-all, diverting my mind, my longings to the truth. Need something? Want something? Feeling empty without something? Open wide! 


One of those too-good-to-be-true-unless-God-is talking (because then it is true) types of claims. And yet, it takes faith, because there's no guarantee that God's going to "fill it" with my felt need. He's going to fill me with my actual need...which is, ultimately, Him.


Hmm. What about what I want? Another verse. "And He gave them their request, But sent leanness into their soul" (Psalm 106:15).


OK, never mind! (What I want is not worth that!) Lord, teach me to trust You, that what You fill me with will be best. (Several times during the week, I actually stretched my mouth open in prayer.)


And He did, every time I claimed the verse and chose to trust Him.


Today, a disappointment. Wasn't a big deal, shouldn't have been a big deal. Except that it brought up painful memories from the past. Except that it gave me more to worry about for the future. Except that I'd been looking forward to this all week. Except that it put a cherished dream back in jeopardy. Except that my hurt reaction made me disappointed in myself.


Again, the verse. . . . I am the Lord your God, who helped you with your struggles all week. Open  your mouth wide and I will fill it.


But I'd wanted to talk to somebody else. I'd saved up stories all week to tell. I'd already talked to God about those things. How could God fill this hole?


And then a text from a friend reminded me that God cherishes me and His plan is perfect.


Even His plan for today was perfect.


Even the things I didn't enjoy, He can use.


Any part of me that is empty, He can fill. If I will open wide. If I'll let Him fill the compartment in my heart I was saving for someone else.


This week will be a new journey, because tonight I'm making a choice. No more "compartments" will be saved for something else. My whole heart will be open for God to fill. And if He's the only one that does any filling, I can be sure that my "cup" will still be running over (Psalm 23:5).


I'm stretching my mouth open wide in commitment.

Laughter's Return

Last week I was naughty. Did you notice?

I know one person noticed, because he told me. Actually, two. But one was my mom, and moms always notice naughtiness, whether or not they comment on it. This time, though, she gave me license for it.

You see, last week I preached the sermon at church, and when I was done with that, I spent a big chunk of time catching up with a couple of friends with whom I'd fallen out of touch. By the end of the weekend, I felt like I'd "used up" my blogging energy. And I didn't post. (It's a sorry excuse, I know. But it's all I've got.)

And so I went on with my study-filled week, with Midwest spring daily offering me contentment and satisfaction. Gone are the lonely brown days that drive wistfulness and repining into the soul. Here, instead, are blooming flowers, leafy trees, growing garden shoots, flitting songbirds, and peeping frogs. I putter through busy days with a smile, and go to bed feeling that all is well.

Still, I've been missing something. Yet, until Monday morning, I wasn't even quite sure what it was.

Monday morning, when my nieces woke me up via pre-recorded cell phone alarm, I began my day with a grateful prayer. I thanked the Lover of my soul for contentment, quietness, and inner peace. "But Lord, there's something missing," I said.

Then I knew what it was.

Laughter.

Not just chuckles. I mean laughing hard. Irrepressible laughter. Contagious laughter. Convulsions. (You know: Cheyenne laughter.)

"To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven. . . . A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance" (Ecclesiastes 3:1, 4).

Yes Lord, that's it! I've enjoyed the time of contemplation and quietness; introspection is refreshing. But could You maybe send me back my spirit of laughter, and let me giggle my way through life again? Or is that not who You are calling me to be? 

I wasn't sure how God would answer. Maybe He wanted to teach me to be the sober, quiet type, like the picture-perfect model of a good-old fashioned, feminine woman. Still, I could hope. Maybe He would swirl the two: regal femininity with spunk and humor.

A few hours later, at lunch, my dad teased my mom about her comment that the leftovers had come back to "haunt" us. I giggled.

As the meal continued, we got into a conversation about potatoes. The potato plants in our garden had been frosted on, and they'd been looking a little sick. Still, my parents were confident they would recover.

"Yeah, I guess they are a cold-weather crop," I said. (I'm definitely not a potato expert, but I think Northerners and mountain tribes depend on them.)

"I think it gets pretty hot in the Boise valley," Papa remarked.

"Well, I'm talking about Russia," I blurted.

My dad's eyes twinkled and teased as he replied: "Well, I'm talking about Idaho."

That did it. Mom and I burst out laughing at the ridiculousness of my Russia comment. I laughed so hard I had to put down my fork as my nose dove for my plate.

And then it hit me: God had answered my prayer, and fast. I laughed even harder, reveling in my Master's goodness.

That wasn't even the end of it. The incident tickled me all day. I kept convulsing with giggles I couldn't keep down. I even giggled myself to sleep. And I found plenty more things to laugh at throughout the week.

Can you really beat a God who cares so much He even answers prayers about details such as laughter? Can you really do better seeking fun in the world? Can you doubt that His plans for you will be fun and rewarding—not just in a sober, religious way, but even humanly, in a deeply satisfying, personal way?

I can't. My God is so awesome, He makes me laugh.

Strands of Thought

Blue skies and clouds, sunshine and rain, wintry frost and summery breezes. Baby blessing, church dedication, laughing with friends, shedding worried tears. Cold night shivering under the covers, warm nights listening to peeping frogs. Dreaming of the future, reminiscing of the past. Working, studying, praying, reflecting.

What happens when I don't have an exciting week? When "notable" doesn't write itself on the calendar?

I still live in my deep world of thought. I awake wondering what I should talk to God about first, and decide to thank Him for contentment, connection, quietness, and fulfillment. I go through my days contemplating and exploring my Master's love, and pondering and examining the thoughts and behavior of others. I look for little lessons along the journey.

A tufted titmouse chirped in at us all week. The first day it bombarded our windows, my mom decided that since the nights had been frosty and the mornings chilly, the bird must be asking us to fill up the bird feeder. But the birds hardly noticed the return of their easy meals, and the titmouse kept coming. He found us wherever we were: my dad in his studio, my mom in her office or at the kitchen window, me at my desk, and all of us at our dining room table. He flitted up and down our windows, as if going through a ritual dance, staring in at us and chirping all the while. His nickname changed from "honey" early in the week to "deranged bird" by its close. For all we could tell, that little titmouse surely acted like it wanted to enter our home. But what would it have done if we'd let it in? Freak out, no doubt. Artificial human residences are no home for wild birds.

And what of me? I certainly act like I want to go to Heaven. But would I freak out if God were to translate me there? Would I be like a wild bird in a human house, or would I find Heaven to be my true home? How I spend my time on Earth determines the answer.

The assisted living center where my grandfather lives called this morning to ask my parents to take him to the Emergency Room. He'd been complaining of terrible pains in his face, jaw, and neck—and not a stationary ache, but a fluctuating, changeable throb. After a couple of hours checking in on different body systems and functions, the doctor had the diagnosis: blocked salivary glands. The prescription: lemon drops.

It's the small things, isn't it, that make life painful or joyful? Who ever thinks about their salivary glands' contribution to their well-being? In 26 years, I've rarely given them a thought; but I have now been made aware of their importance to my comfort. And what about the little courtesies: the gentle tone of voice as we speak with family; cheerful, genuine greetings; hugs, smiles; little acts of service; happy little texts; a few moments to share someone else's pain, joy, or confusion. If these little kind acts get blocked up, life becomes painful.

We had almost arrived at church yesterday when something started flapping under the hood. When Mom turned into the church driveway, she found the power steering had failed. In the parking lot, the elders checked out the situation. A couple of belts had come off. After the church service, we called roadside assistance to tow the car, and then hitched a ride home with friends. We got so involved in conversation that the driver missed our exit and drove 20 miles past...and none of us noticed.

Do I ever get so caught up in the social realm or the demands of everyday life that I fail to take into account where my life is headed long-term? To make sure I don't lose miles going the wrong direction, am I carefully guarding my health, my character, my relationships, my time?

I tracked my blog hits throughout the week, watching Kodiak's story rise to most popular post in a matter of days...even though I didn't post it at the optimum time. How do readers so quickly know when I've bared my raw emotions, shared deep, sensitive feelings...written posts truly worth their click? And given that not every day can be so dramatic, how can I make my normal life an intriguing, open book for all to read the story of God's love?

Ordinary, everyday experiences. Without a pause for contemplation, they and their lessons could easily be lost. And yet, all these weave together as strands of thought, collectively forming the tapestry of my worldview. Each experience, with my responses, changes my character in its own subtle way, making me more or less like the deranged bird: more or less a true subject of God's Kingdom.

Thank God that it isn't only in the big, startling, powerful revelations that He manifests Himself. Thank Him for each strand of thought in the weaving.

Canine Devotion—and Divine Love

I could talk for hours about that dog. How he used to "knock" on the door to let me know it was time for our jog. How he knew the difference between friend and stranger, greeting my friends with affectionate enthusiasm yet barking protectively at anyone potentially threatening. Of his love for hiking with me in the wilderness, and how he frolicked, dashed, and danced through the meadows. About the time he foolishly charged at a moose, and the time we lost him on the trail. How he delighted in a fresh snowfall, springing joyfully through the drifts. How he loved car rides, and would stand in the console on his front paws to nuzzle and cuddle me as we drove. About his floppy ear, and how everyone adored him, not only for his overwhelming handsomeness, but for his pure and golden heart.

I'd never really been a "dog person." Much to the contrary: I favored cats. Anyway, cat or dog, I didn't have time for a pet. I took long trips away from home and often went away for the weekend.

And then a stray dog showed up in our neighborhood. Everyone else had enough pets already. My landlords were trying to decide whether to feed him or take him to the shelter. I'm still not really quite sure how it happened, because I wasn't interested in animal adoption. But somehow, the neighborhood kids prevailed upon me to keep him, promising to look after him when I was away. Looking at the canine tied outside my screen door, I shook my head, not believing that I had just adopted a DOG of all pets. Still, I had to admit he was pretty cute. With his thick, long coat, he looked like a bear. I knew his name instantly: He was Kodiak.

He had come at an emotionally trying time in my life. Six days previously, I had called it off with a guy I had been casually seeing for a few months. Now, I felt lonely and unwanted. Then came the dog, and he did have one good quality: He wanted my attention. We started jogging together every day—sometimes twice. In the evenings, I'd sit in my yard and stroke his fur and just hug him. He seemed to understand and hug back, leaning against my chest and resting his head on my shoulder. After all (Heaven only knows why), he too had been abandoned...alone and unwanted. It didn't take long to fall in love with this angel dog. He had a darling personality, and I knew God had sent him. Through him, God reassured and encouraged my hurting heart—and let love and happiness return to my world.

That first summer I was so paranoid of losing him that I kept him on a leash or chain almost perpetually—even out in the wilderness. Nobody was going to wrench that lifesaver from me! He tolerated my protectiveness, but I knew he'd be happier off his chain. He had such a free spirit, and he wanted nothing more than to be exploring or else right next to me. When I had to chain him several feet away, he howled and wined till I tied him up closer.

The first backpacking trip we took together, my dad slowly taught me to let him be free to run in the wilderness. Dogs like Kodiak, he told me, were meant to run free and wild. I soon discovered that when I let him off the leash, Kodiak still wouldn't stray far—and when he did, he'd be back to check on me. I grew to love watching him bound freely through the woods and meadows, nothing to hold him back—no damper to his joy. Off his leash, Kodiak nearly burst with bubbly, exuberant energy.

We spent three wonderful years together...almost. I took him everywhere I could, and felt terrible when I had to leave him behind. As I cherished him, I learned to like other dogs, too. Still, none of them could compare to my Kodiak. He was the best dog in the world, and I depended on him to always be there and love me.

And then the day came. A girlfriend and I had a planned a snowshoeing "date," and of course Kodiak would be coming along. He could hardly contain himself that day, so excited to be heading into the mountains with me. As Jessica and I got our backpacks ready, he whined in the car, wanting the adventure to begin. Then, he jumped into the front seat and out the open door.

Once outside the car, he explored the little parking area, totally uninterested in the vehicles trickling past. Finally, we set out down the road to pick up the trail. I had his leash, but the highway didn't seem busy, and we didn't have far to go. Besides, Kodiak was being obedient and staying on the side of the road.

Then one of us stooped to retie a shoe, and I took my eyes off him. He bounded across the road, to the snow drifts. As he jumped from drift to drift, I couldn't remember ever seeing him happier. He made me grin. So much energy and joy.

Then in one fated moment, he plunged down the snowbank to cross back over to me. Just then, a truck rounded the corner.

That scene has haunted me now for a year. Even as I write, I have tears streaming down my cheeks. I just couldn't believe it. No, not now, not my precious Kodiak. I had just broken up with my (much more serious) boyfriend a month before. I needed my doggie hugs and jogs. Oh, why hadn't I put him on the leash? I felt like a murderer.

Then something unthinkable happened. At the sound of my voice, Kodiak raised his head and scooted over to me on broken legs. He would cross that road and be next to me if it was the last thing he did.

I knew he couldn't last long. Stooping next to him, I stroked his beautiful fur and told him I loved him and was so sorry, that it wasn't his fault. Then we loaded him into the back seat and headed for the vet. Trembling, I listened for his belabored breaths.

Then my angel raised himself up, struggled forward, and rested his front paws and his head on the console, looking up at me with loving, hurting, yet unaccusing eyes. "Oh buddy," I choked. "No, no." I didn't want him to use up his strength. I wanted the vet to be able to fix him. But he insisted on being there with me. Weeping, I patted his head and told him I loved him.

He stayed there a few moments. Then he crawled into the back seat, nestled onto the floor, and breathed his last. Only then did I realize what he had just done. In one of the most loving gestures I have ever witnessed, Kodiak had told me of his devotion to his undeserving master. One last time, he had told me he loved me.

That night I couldn't sleep for anything. The darkness was too still and quiet without his barking lullabies. I didn't know how I would ever face the neighbors. If only I would be the only one to suffer from the loss of my treasure...but Kodiak had been everyone's dog. All my friends loved him. They would all be devastated. Ashamed, I kept thinking of that poor wounded dog I thought had already died lifting his head and crawling over to me. Looking up at me with those big trusting eyes, not accusing me of my horrific negligence. Struggling to get close to me to say his last good-bye, his eyes saying nothing but "I love you, sweet master." I couldn't understand it. Why did he love me so much?

Suddenly, as I gazed in imagination into those riveting eyes, the picture changed. Now it was Jesus dying on the cross, with the same big brown loving eyes. Only, He knew I was the one killing Him. He threw Himself in the road for me. And even though He understood it all, He just wanted me to know that He loved me anyway.

A transcendent moment.

Awestruck, I let the mini vision soak in. The death that I've caused 10,000 times over is so much more heinous than the foolish yet unwitting failure to keep my dog from harm's way. But Jesus loves me anyway, and He's willing to bear the brunt of all my sorrows, even the ones that I cause. I couldn't understand it, but I found myself in awe of that love.

I still miss my buddy terribly, but I've clung to that vision of divine love. And, though I tremble to admit it, I dare say it has been a fair trade.

Broken Screws

"You've had an Iowa license before, right?" The lady in the DMV office compared my birth certificate, Social Security card, Washington driver's license, and Iowa bank statement.

I nodded. My first driver's license had come from Iowa. When I traded it in for my Washington license at age 18, the friendly DOL man had punched a W-shaped hole in my Iowa license and given it back to me. I glued it fondly into my scrapbook, expecting it to be my last Iowa-issued form of ID.

Now I found myself in the county courthouse, trading in my Washington license. Not only that, but this time, I had license plates to swap, as well. So, $91 later, I walked out of the office with my temporary driver's license, Iowa vehicle title, registration paper, and license plates.

Washington license plates stay with the vehicle, even when sold—for as long as it remains registered in The Evergreen State. Apparently, every 7 years, the state issues new license plates to make sure they're still reflective. However, because of my history with vehicles (think: snowy, muddy, deer-infested mountains), that never happened to me. Hence, I've never had to change the plates on any of my vehicles.

Until Thursday.

I had a busy week, between work deadlines, college deadlines, and midwifery appointments. Although I actually brought the plates home on Wednesday, I put the job off until Thursday evening—and I only did it then because I needed to drive the vehicle on Friday. I expected this to be a quick job, that even a mechanically disinclined, domestic and desk trained little woman could accomplish. After all, I know how to use a screwdriver.

But Queen Vashti proved quite unwilling to change her identity.

The front plate unscrewed without too much hassle. When it came time to replace the grand sketch of Mount Rainier with a peaceful, pastoral farm scene, though, I had to take a cue from the previous owner and get a bit creative with duct tape. (Nothing fraudulent here, mind you. The tape held the washers and nuts in place long enough for the screws to bite in.)

The plastic screws in the back, however, spun and spun and spun—in both directions—to no avail.

So now Queen Vashti had divided allegiance. I could just picture myself explaining these incorrigible screws to an officer.

I must have twisted those screws 10 minutes before my parents came back from their evening walk. Just the opportunity I'd awaited. Giving my distress call, I perched on my heels and waited for Papa to come and show me the easy, obvious solution.

Instead, he walked me through a difficult process: sticking our hands into a cramped space up behind the bumper, grasping the nut, and unscrewing. Well, that worked for the bottom two—but there was no getting even my little hand up to grasp the nuts behind the top two screws.

So he broke the heads off.

Next came the most difficult portion: again wiggling my hand up behind the bumper—but this time hanging onto the nut all the way. Finagling it into position, and keeping it steady while he screwed the Iowa plate on. By the end of the evening, I had tiny fiberglass splinters in my hand.

For the top right corner, Pa found a screw in his workbench that bit in just right without any nut behind it. The top left...well, it's true. My car now has a missing screw. But let's be optimistic. After 50+ miles, the license plate is still on and doesn't appear to be loose. Vashti has been forced into Iowa citizenship.

She's just a car, and doesn't have a choice. And yet at the time, it surely seemed she was putting up a fight. "No! Take me back!" she screamed through her unwilling screws. "I am a Washington car, and I want to stay that way!"

I've heard a few other screams like that, this week—coming from within. Sorry Northwesterners, but I'm not actually talking about wistfulness to move back to the mountains. I'm thinking more of my eternal citizenship.

By birth and by choice, I became a citizen of Earth. But I have an invitation to immigrate, and I'm working on my "papers." I've told the Master that I want to be a citizen of Heaven.

Sometimes, though, when He turns the screws, so to speak, without even realizing it I start resisting. I freeze up and say, "Nope, this screw doesn't come out, Sir. I have this way of thinking, this desire. I really want it, and it's not changing. Sure, go ahead and put in Your new screws. I want to integrate them, but I'm sure that You'll see they don't fit in the hole where You're trying to place them."

The Master pauses. "I thought you wanted to be a citizen of Heaven."

"Well, hmm. I thought so too. But are you sure about this screw? It wouldn't budge even if I wanted it to."

Maybe I should be specific, since this week I encountered a very specific "unwilling screw." I've been hung up on the concept in this brief thought: "There is no love greater than Mine in earth or heaven. [Your] greatest happiness will be found in loving Me."*

Really? But I really want an exclusive love. God has six billion other people plus millions of angels. Doesn't that make me less special? After all, I'm one of many, many daughters.

I wrestled with it, grappled with it, turned it around and looked at all the sides I could find.

In the end, I realized I had a simple choice: Believe Him that His love was the greatest I could ever find, and that I would never be happier than when worshiping and loving Him. Or keep insisting on a specific kind of love I want—and if God isn't lying, never be satisfied.

Trust Him that He's God and can love me like there is no one else, even though there are plenty of others—that He can love me and His others better simultaneously than anybody could love me with their complete, undistracted focus. Or keep searching.

Rest in Him. Or keep striving and wearing myself out.

Keep myself in the immigration process—or drop out and remain subject of Earth.

"OK, Father. Go ahead and break the screw."

* The Desire of Ages, page 57.

Mice

The mittens in my trunk supplied all the evidence needed for the indictment. Their warm layers, from the soft Thinsulate inner lining to the weather-resistant nylon shell, had been shredded to bite-sized crumbs that now littered the floor. Annoyed, I snatched up my down jacket for an inspection. Phew! The mouse hadn't munched on it.

My dad advised me to haul in everything chewable from my car...and I thought I had. Still, each time I got into my car after that, I found more evidence of the unwanted resident. Papers from my trash bag shredded on the floor. Scat underneath the driver's seat. More holes in cloth items I hadn't noticed when I cleaned out the trunk.

The first time I set traps, I found the peanut butter licked off clean, the trigger still set and ready to fire. The second time it happened, I brought the traps in for inspection. My dad and I played around with them for awhile to see how to work around the poor, hard-to-trip design (a "safety" feature?). I didn't reset them right away...and then, well...I guess I forgot about it.

The kitchen at church belies the presence of mice, too. Last month we came in to find one of the ladies wiping the counters with bleach. We have to wash out the dishes before we use them to serve the fellowship meal. The deaconesses keep saying they're going to get some traps or poison and dispatch the church mice.

Curled up on the couch in the youth room yesterday after lunch, I thought I detected a slight movement on the floor. Not feeling well, I didn't really want to sit up and check it out. No problem—I still got a good viewing. The mouse scurried into the middle of the room, looked around, then arced back toward the other couch and sat looking at me from the safety of the shadows. His perfect little profile made me smile: big, funneled ears; plump body; long, slender tail; and pointy nose twitching as he looked sweetly on.

Then I remembered who he was. Dragging myself up, I shuffled out to the kitchen to tell the ladies about the sighting. "Why didn't you catch it?" they laughed.

Nestled again on the comfy couch, I got another good sighting of my little friend. I don't know why I went to tell the other women again. When I saw them involved in conversation, I simply turned and went back to my hideout. This time, the mouse kept hidden, too.

Stretched out on my own bed later that evening, I thought again about the mice. When I remembered the damage to my mittens, the evasion of the traps, and the troubles they caused in the church, I felt silly for my affection for the cute mouse in the youth room. A more stereotypical response would have been a shriek; a more appropriate emotion, disgust. But that mouse, I liked. If he could promise not to do any damage, I'd want him to stay.

But of course he can't promise that. He's a mouse! Mice belong outside my car, outside of buildings, and certainly outside the church—the way sin belongs outside my heart. If either one is caught inside, they've got to be exterminated.

And then it hit me. Just this week I'd been admiring a cute little sin. I let it stick around awhile, just looking and thinking how it didn't seem to be hurting anything. Most sin, I agree, is raunchy. But this? I shamefully admit it—I found this little sin rather sweet.

I'd had a talk with God about it, told Him I didn't understand what could be wrong with what I wanted permission to do. When He didn't seem to answer, I realized I needed to take His written Word for it. Wrong is what God defines as wrong—not what I see as hurtful. And then, once I repented and surrendered, He let me see how my cute little sin really did hurt people.

A few days later, as an extra reminder, He sent a cute mouse to reinforce the lesson.

I found the mouse traps again today, and set them out in my car. I've been too laid back about these critters, but now I'm ready to take them on. Once I dispatch the car mouse, I'll take the traps to church, as well.

More importantly, I'm going to restock my spiritual defenses with prayer, watchfulness, and memorization. I've been too lackadaisical there too, or else I wouldn't have found my sin the slightest bit cute. Mice chew up fabric and dirty up buildings. Sin tears and smudges the human soul. I can't afford to let it stick around my heart!

Hidden Grime

Company: the kind of people you clean your house for. Prestigious company: the kind who motivate you to scour it. When I got out the long-armed feather duster on Friday, Mom thanked me but said she intended to dust properly today. So, putting away the "quick 'n' dirty" tool, I got out the rags and oil soap.

Although it had been awhile since we'd formally dusted, the house really looked fine to me. After all, we don't burn wood for heat, and the snow and mud haven't given the road a chance to kick up plumes of dust. Never mind. We had company tomorrow.

Maybe it's because we always keep the dishes washed and the rooms picked up and tidy; or perhaps I don't notice the grime my mom sees because the place doesn't belong to me. Still, I think it's more than that. In the absence of grandkids, our house is a never mess, because Mom doesn't give it the chance to get truly dirty. But for company, of course, we'd make it perfect.

I expected to fly through Friday's dusting and be on to the next task; but today, of course, I had to be extra thorough. The first rag collected more filth than I'd expected to find in all the house! The crevices in the wooden furniture had actually accumulated thick layers. The feather duster hadn't gotten up close underneath the candles and other knickknacks. The lampshades had a thin film I'd never noticed before I started cleaning.

Most shocking of all were the corners. Behind the draping leaves of a viney houseplant I found cobwebs, dog hair, dead ladybugs, and wads of dust caked onto the legs of the plant stand. How could such grime be hidden in our cleanly dining room? Why had I never even partially noticed it? The ordinary film on the horizontal surfaces I'd seen and intended to whisk away—but this was no typical accumulation of dust. This was filth.

Hidden grime, obscured behind the beautiful, trailing leaves of a plant I've often admired. Even the best of housekeepers could miss it—till the leaves were drawn aside. It probably would have stayed hidden longer, if it hadn't been for the company, because no one would have investigated behind those lovely leaves.

It felt like an insult, finding that hidden grime in our clean house. Insult? Hmm...maybe a rebuke. Not that we'd put the plant there to hide the filthy corner; we'd simply forgotten to clean the corner because the plant had it covered so well. Neglect, all the same.

This time, I lingered in that corner, carefully cleaning away the grime. I didn't mind the work, because it inspired deeper thoughts. How many corners hide filth in my mind, my character, my soul? Behind the traits that others admire, what grime have I stashed away? Bitterness, resentment, egotism, jealousy, lust, pride, distrust, unbelief? Do I even know myself what's there—or have I been satisfied with my good housekeeping?

It takes extra investigation to find dust in the soul I've always tried to keep tidy. It's not intuitive to peek behind my strong points and check for ghastly faults and sin-inflicted wounds. Still, it's worth the probing. After all, a prestigious Visitor wants to be my guest. "Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears My voice, and open the door, I will come in to him and dine with him, and he with Me" (Revelation 3:20).

Then again, I need His help to find and eliminate my hidden grime. I think I'll just let Him in "as is," and we can work on those corners together.

Tears of the Soul

"Your Aunt Janis is in the newspaper!" Mom handed me the Saturday issue of the Des Moines Register.

From the headline, I knew why my aunt had made the state news. Aunt Janis heads up the annual Suicide Survivors' Walk in Des Moines, Iowa each year, and she speaks regularly on suicide and drug abuse at churches, schools, and special events. I scanned the article, looking for a quote with my aunt's name behind it.

Instead, I found a whole page full of the stories of teen suicides. Not a line or two, but several paragraphs had been devoted to Neil Linquist. I tried to distract myself by reading other stories, but my cousin's name in bold type drew my eyes back. My throat constricted and my stomach tightened. It was like seeing his obituary all over again. As I read the column of print, I marveled at my aunt's courage to travel around the state telling his story in unashamed detail. Forcing down the last few bites of breakfast, I fled to my room.

Falling to my knees, I burrowed my head in my elbow and leaned against my the bed. Bitter tears and sobs shook my torso as memories of my little cousin played in my mind's theater. Would it ever be possible to "get over" this pain? Other hurts I have grieved over, forgiven, and nearly forgotten—others I am still working through. But more than six years since the day I got the horrific phone call, I found myself weeping as though it had been last month.

My mind drifted back to the days, weeks, and months following my trip to the funeral. The first few days, my friends had been sympathetic and freely asked how well I'd been coping. But all too soon I had found myself alone to deal with my pain—states away from my family, surrounded by an environment that felt too awkward to rehash the pain. I could understand. I wouldn't have known what to say to me either. Still, my ragged heart yearned for someone to listen and not act self-conscious about my family's dark sorrow.

I wanted to be able to share the tears of my soul. Instead, I cried them into my bottled heart and sealed the lid.

I'm not alone. Those few special people who share their hearts with me tell me of deep chasms of pain, anger, and confusion that go unspoken to the world. In the lives of many who don't tell me, I can read the story of neglect, abuse, disappointment, and bitterness—tears of the soul bottled up so well that often even their possessors don't know they exist. We buck up and bear it before our friends and colleagues, but inside we're ravished with pain, unfulfilled longings, and shame.

And yet, knowing this, I'm still guilty. I treat people as though they aren't hurting and longing for a deeper life. I let misdirected expressions of someone else's own pain offend me. I build walls around my heart and shut out those whose own stinging chronicle of woes prevents them from being able to understand mine.

To all of these troubles, there is one shining solution: Understanding my worth to God. For in doing so, I find One who will listen to every sad tale I could tell. In Him I have a Friend who doesn't feel awkward about my recital of the shame of my past or the ache in my heart. His love soothes the pain and fills the emptiness. And through His eyes of love for me, I begin to understand how He sees those who hurt and neglect me—how He loves them—how they, too, are suffering deep wounds.

"Blessed be God, Who has not turned away my prayer, nor His mercy from me!" (Psalm 66:20)

"A father of the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God" (Psalm 68:5).

"Surely He has borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows" (Isaiah 53:4). "In all their affliction He was afflicted" (Isaiah 63:9).

" 'With everlasting kindness I will have mercy on you,' says the Lord, your Redeemer. . . . For the mountains shall depart, and the hills be removed, but My kindness shall not depart from you" (Isaiah 54:7, 10).

"Thus says the Lord . . . I have called you by your name; you are Mine. . . . Since you were precious in My sight, you have been honored, and I have loved you" (Isaiah 43:1, 4).

"He heals the brokenhearted, and binds up their wounds" (Psalm 147:3).

"You hold me by my right hand" (Psalm 73:23).

"Beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness" (Isaiah 61:3).

"The Lord delights in you" (Isaiah 62:4).

"For great is Your mercy toward me, and You have delivered my soul from the depths. . . . You, O Lord, are a God full of compassion, and gracious, longsuffering and abundant in mercy and truth. Oh, turn to me, and have mercy on me!" (Psalm 86:13, 15, 16).

"Because Your lovingkindness is better than life" (Psalm 63:3).

Comforted in the realest love the universe knows, I find strength to continue my day. Challenged and humbled by that love, I join in a new resolution with a dear friend: "A friendship that dreams up ways to help and bless others instead of laughing at them or gossiping about petty annoyances." Stirred by the pain of unnumbered hurting treasures, I purpose to be a comforting, safe, encouraging friend—unashamed to hear, cry, and feel the tears of the soul.

Wilderness Peace

I haven't always been in love with the wilderness; the passion developed along with my ability to reason logically. As a young child out hiking with my family, I infamously stated that I'd rather be staring down the hole of an outhouse than walking this (spectacularly scenic Yellowstone) trail. My childish sarcasm gained me nothing but teasing from my siblings and a story I'll never live down. The family continued to drag me out hiking. Step by step, my appreciation for the wild outdoors grew, until by my teens, I had developed the family addiction.

The best kind of wilderness begins a whole day's hike in from the trail head, where the expanse of mountains, prairie, lakeshore, or desert land spreads out untainted and seemingly endless. The sunset's flaming colors paint soul-stirring magic on the wild countryside. Only the campfire, moon, and stars light up the black night. Only coyotes and owls, the crackling fire and the whispering wind break the stillness of your humbled, inspired thoughts.

Threads of thought tangled by the stresses and trauma of life begin to uncoil that first night in. Perplexing problems start finding solutions. The soul relaxes from its daily strain and hears more clearly its own voice and that of its Lord.

God used the wilderness to shape many of His human heroes. Before Moses confronted the king of Egypt and led Israel to the Promised Land, he spent 40 years in the wilderness communing with God and herding sheep. Before beginning his mission to the Gentiles, Paul spent time alone in the Arabian desert studying, meditating, and praying. John the Baptist spent most of his life in the wilderness, and it was there that he received his education for his life calling to announce Jesus as Messiah. Jesus Himself spent 40 days in the wilderness, to be alone to contemplate His mission, to fast and pray and brace Himself for His work—and be tempted and overcome sin on our behalf.

Time in the wilderness isn't wasted. Though no goods are produced, no words spoken, nobody influenced and no "good deeds" accomplished, time apart establishes clarity within one's thoughts, strengthens faith, and cements one's goals and life purpose. It gives the soul space to see and hear and understand God.

Out in the woods of the back 40 acres, the Iowa wilderness stirred my soul. White tailed does scampered out of my way as owls hooted and songbirds twittered. The wind rustled in the fallen leaves, and chattering squirrels scurried up regal old oaks. And the voice of the Spirit whispered inside my soul.

My wilderness isn't far from civilization, but that makes little difference. What matters is the delicious hollowness in my heart—emptiness, silence, openness; a quiet, undemanding readiness to be filled.

For at its core, my zest for the wilderness is a lifelong quest for peace.

Bruises

The big purple blotch on the top of my foot spread from toe to toe, and halfway back to the base of my ankle. It looked like it ought to hurt—and yet, I couldn't remember incurring the injury. I pressed on the bruise with a finger. Sure enough! It felt tender and sensitive. How had I hurt myself? Had I tripped, fallen, dropped my suitcase on my foot . . . ? I could only guess.

Although this bruise did rival others in size and ugliness, it didn't alarm me. Ever since I was small, I've been accruing scrapes and bruises, wounds and scars by various klutzy maneuvers. I promptly forget the ouchy incidents—after all, they're too numerous and minor to save in long-term memory. And yet, the reminders remain. Under my skin, broken blood vessels regenerate their walls and clean up the damaged cells. Burns blister and scab over. Broken skin knits itself back together, often leaving faint scars as records of pain I can't even recall. My quick dismissal of my little accidents doesn't lessen the labor my cells must go through for healing.

Another kind of wound surprises and concerns me more than bruises and broken skin. Sometimes I find hurts buried inside my heart, ignored and neglected so long that I can't even remember who or what inflicted them. In fact, I often don't know these "bruises" exist until—whoops—I've found myself reacting to life and relationships in unhealthy ways. When I stop to notice, I find unresolved bitterness, pride, pain, and resentment.

Unlike superficial injuries, this sort of wound can't be healed by busy cells without my conscious effort. It takes careful examination and a trip to the Divine Doctor to truly resolve these internal issues. His love and His instructions can soothe and heal any hurt. Frequently, though, the healing process intensifies the pain for a time, and that can sometimes be hard to enjoy. Too often I'm tempted to cover my hurts back up and ignore the root issues; it seems much more convenient to remain in "ignorance" of my wounds and their origins. Unfortunately, this only increases my sinful responses—and the bitter ache.

I'd be concerned if that bruise on my foot hadn't healed by now. Thankfully, it has. And now to tend the ones inside. Guess what? I'm finding it's worth it!

Limestone, Lentils, and a Life Lesson

The water from my parents' shallow well could win a contest for limestone content. I've never tasted a more bitter clear liquid. When we moved into the house, my parents shopped for water softeners—but were told that the hard water would quickly corrode and destroy any softener. And so, the shiny stainless steel kitchen sink soon acquired a white crust, despite frequent vinegar treatments. The kettles, faucets, porcelain surfaces—any fixture that had frequent contact with the water—soon had distinctive limestone deposits. Not only that, but we girls had to learn that every shower here creates a bad hair day—and there's only so much we can do to improve it.

I've been away from home for some time, living with a well of average mineral content—tame compared to what comes out of taps here. Because (thankfully) we haul in soft water to drink, I'd forgotten how much the hard stuff can affect everyday life—forgotten the tricks we use to foil it. Enter the mystery of the uncooked lentils.

I like lentil stew. It tastes good, it's nutritious, and it's quick and easy to make: just throw water, lentils, carrots, onions, and potatoes in a Crockpot overnight and season it in the morning. When I woke up Thursday morning, however, I was surprised to find the lentils as chewy as ever. I took my stew to the midwives' potluck, anyway, turning up the temperature. Thankfully, I don't think anyone tried to eat them, because after cooking 5-6 more hours on high, the lentils still weren't done.

This morning Mom put the Crockpot on so we could eat the lentil stew for lunch. After a couple of hours, I went to check on them. Still hard. I put them in a pot to boil.

For three hours.

Mom and I began discussing what could be the matter. Had my Crockpot worn out? That wouldn't explain why the boiling did nothing. Was it the salt I added before instead of after cooking? I couldn't remember ever having to worry about that with lentils the way I do with beans.

Suddenly, Mom remembered. "OH!" she exclaimed. "Did you use the hard water?"

I blinked. "Yes." Could we not cook with tap water, here?

Mom chuckled. "I've been using soft water to cook beans," she said. "They never seem to get soft with the hard water."

The stew soon found its new home in the compost—not much hope for legumes brewed in limestone, it seems. We could have continued to boil them indefinitely, and they would have stayed as hard as ever.

I grew up with something else just as hard, ugly, distasteful, and destructive as the Francis tap water: my own sinful heart. No matter how long and determinedly I try, I can't make my heart soft, warm, tender, and inviting. Years of training can't change its rocky core. Left to itself, it wounds others, gives me grief, and leaves a legacy of pain and dysfunction behind.

Thankfully, God doesn't relegate me to the compost. Instead, He makes an incredible promise: "A new heart also will I give you, and a new spirit will I put within you: and I will take away the stony heart out of your flesh, and I will give you an heart of flesh. And I will put My spirit within you, and cause you to walk in My statutes" (Ezekiel 36:26, 27).

With an offer of such a beautiful existence, who would want to keep their old chunk of limestone?

Birth Pains

Twenty-six years ago today, Mom and I finished a hard day's work together. I don't remember it, but she does. She did most of the work, of course, but I think I did some of it, too: not just in being born, but in learning how to breathe and nurse and cry and recognize people and understand the world.

Incredible changes happened in my circulation that day, thanks to an ingenious design. All of a sudden, my bloodstream switched from a gentle, low-pressure system with all its needs supplied by my mom to a pulsating, high-pressure stream of blood that had to be oxygenated by my very own lungs and fed by my tummy. In a matter of minutes, arteries and veins that had shunted blood to and from my umbilical cord suddenly constricted, soon to become ligaments. The pressure difference between the atria in my heart caused my foramen ovale to swish closed, separating the left and right atria so the blood could no longer course freely through, bypassing my little lungs. I didn't have to work at that. God had it all planned out ahead of time, and He made sure it worked for me.

Mom and Pa made all my decisions back then, and they chose the kind of birth that gave me the healthiest start in life, completely alert and unmedicated. It helped us bond closely in those first few hours, and it made my job of breathing and nursing and adjusting to the world much easier. Mom chose to work hard and feel the pain because she knew it would be best for us in the long run.

Today I make my own decisions, but I appreciate the choices Mom made back then. She got me off to a robust start. As a new year of life begins, I want to emulate those choices that benefited my first day of life. I want to choose daily to work hard for what's worthwhile. More than that, I want to choose to feel the pain that brings deep personal growth, and not try to dull it. After all, just as Mom's pain brought me into life, my own pain brings me back to the Author of Life.

And He works miracles in my heart that outdo even the transformation from fetal to neonatal circulation...every time I let Him.