"I long to accomplish a great and noble task, but it is my chief duty to accomplish small tasks as if they were great and noble." – Helen Keller
Confession isn’t the end of the story. Here’s why repentance matters—and what it means.
Here’s a little story about how you can teach a new word to five-year-olds so that they remember what it means. I guarantee that after you read and visualize this scene, you will also remember what it means.
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All it takes is one little picture. One little comment. One fleeting glimpse of another person’s:
appearance
home
car
vacation
purchases
accomplishments
income
position
giftings
spouse
children
family
—any aspect of their life that appears to be better than yours. That knotted-up, burning feeling of envy might begin in your heart, your stomach, or your head … along with a familiar mantra of: look what they have that I don’t. Look what they have that I never will. Look at the multiple blessings they get from God when I do without so many.
I could pretend that this post came about because I observed envy in another person, or that someone came to me asking for counsel about it, or that I had been reading a book on it and wanted to share some new insight. But none of that is true. This post was written because I’ve fallen into the trap of envy many times in my life. I’m intimately familiar with what triggers it, what it feels like, how to wallow in it, and (thank you, God) the best ways to overcome it.
Can you relate?
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Strange but true: I have a personal earworm tradition that’s tied to the U.S. election cycle. This earworm took up residence in my head in October of 2016 and lasted about a month; it repeated this exact time frame in 2020, and is back again in 2024. Thankfully, it’s a hymn I love and don’t mind it being on constant repeat inside my head. It’s also the hymn that gets me through a difficult and contentious election cycle—in one piece, spiritually, mentally, and emotionally—with friendships and family relationships intact, with neighbors and communities that I still love, and with hope and peace instead of anger and despair.
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Statistically, my life ought to be a serious mess right about now.
It’s true that much of my ’70s and ’80s childhood was a fairly typical American suburban experience. But there was a lot going on behind the scenes, and before I was ten years old, I had learned two survival skills used by many children living in a highly unstable environment: how to lie about my family situation and how to hide things from others.
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I didn’t like turning fifty.
Turning thirty didn’t bother me at all. Turning forty I barely remember because I was so busy with young children, work, homeschooling, and church. But turning fifty was a little worrisome because it was the first decade that sounded even remotely “old” to me. It was hard to believe that I had been alive for half a century.
And now soon, very soon, I’ll be turning fifty-nine, which, if you’re counting, gives me just one more year before I turn sixty. When my husband turned sixty a few years ago, I remember saying breezily to him, “Aww, it’s fine! Sixty is the new forty!” But now the shoe is on the other foot and I’m finding myself clinging fondly to my fifties because they’re actually looking pretty good to me right now, and that decade sounds quite young, especially when it’s mostly in the rearview mirror.
Probably my sixties will eventually feel as comfortable as my fifties do now—and I’m sure a few encouraging minutes of conversation with a woman who is older than I am would confirm that fact—but right here, right now, knocking at the door of almost-sixty, it’s a little hard to swallow.
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My granddaughter and I had a conversation recently about family while cooking together in my kitchen—a narrow galley kitchen in a house of less than 1500 square feet:
Me: “Papa and I used to have lots of children living with us in this house. We had your daddy first, and then his sister, and then two more brothers! I wonder how many people that is all together who used to live here?”
My granddaughter, a spirited, math-loving three-year-old, is now intensely interested in how this conversation is going. Her attention is momentarily diverted from stirring the eggs. “How many?” she asks breathlessly, eyes wide. She holds up her fingers to count as I say the family names one by one.
“Six!” she shrieks in disbelief. “Six people in this house?” This cracks me up because that’s the exact response I got from certain people when we announced 18 years ago that we were having a fourth child, and that no, we were not planning to move.
“Yes, six!” I smile at her, and I’m overcome, as I so often am these days, at the memories in those two little words.
Because after 30 years of marriage, of raising four children who all started very small but quickly (so quickly) grew into full-sized humans who did indeed take up a lot of space in our small house … after all those years, this somewhat crowded nest is almost empty.
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Here is God’s plan for us when we begin families of our own: that we would raise up children—human beings made in his image—all the way to adulthood, even though we ourselves are far from perfect and in need of forgiveness every day. That we would be in charge of small, vulnerable, impressionable people 24/7, despite our fairly serious character flaws. That we would provide for them in every way throughout every life stage, even when our own sinful natures are in frequent conflict with theirs. When you think of the enormity of this task that God has set before parents, imperfect and ill-equipped as we are, it’s hard not to wonder, what was he thinking?
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When I set out on the six-minute drive to pick my son up from work, I had an urgent issue on my mind. I wanted to make the most of my limited time to talk out loud to God, and I do that sometimes when I’m alone in the car.
My prayer went something like this (also, there might have been a few tears involved, along with a fumbling grasp for glove compartment fast food napkins at the stoplight):
“Lord, this is a big decision. I don’t know what to do. It affects not just me, but other people, too, and I’m scared of all of this change. Dear God, please help me. Can you …” (hesitating now) “… and you know I hardly ever ask you for this, Lord … I’m actually not sure I ought to be asking it at all, and I’m sorry if this is wrong to ask … but can you possibly give me a sign so I know what to do?”
Even as I said the words, my mind flew to the book of Judges, when Gideon put God to the test with a sheep’s fleece, asking for a specific sign to confirm what God had clearly called him to do. This scene has never sat well with me, yet Gideon received an answer exactly when he asked for it, and without reproof from God. So (I told myself) maybe my asking God for a sign wasn’t so bad after all?
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When my son was in the Marines, the culmination of his recruit training was a 54-hour ordeal called The Crucible. The Crucible is designed to challenge recruits both mentally and physically, consisting of food and sleep deprivation along with a combat assault course, a casualty evacuation, a night infiltration course, and much more. I prayed my 18-year-old son through it from 2,000 miles away, knowing that he must complete this challenge in order to attain his dream of becoming a Marine.
The word “crucible” comes from the Latin word crux, meaning “cross” or “trial,” and it’s often used to describe any very difficult test or trial. In a literal sense, a crucible is a container used for melting or testing metal or other substances at a very high temperature. A crucible must be made of the right material in order to maintain its structural properties without being damaged from the intense heat within. The contents inside are transformed, but the container itself remains undamaged.
And so it is with a Christian marriage of many years. After decades together, you and your spouse are transformed, but the container of your marriage, Lord willing, remains undamaged.
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Have you ever thought to yourself, “I wonder how many mammals go through menopause?” I certainly hadn’t—up until last week.
It turns out that only a handful of mammals are known to experience menopause: humans, chimpanzees, and five species of toothed whales (short-finned pilot whales, false killer whales, killer whales, narwhals, and beluga whales). All other mammals (5,000+ species in all) retain their ability to reproduce throughout their lifespan. And as difficult and unpredictable as human menopause can be, I imagine that the alternative of never-ending fertility is not something most women would be jumping at the chance to experience, either.
In God’s good design, we humans share this somewhat rare life stage with only six other species on earth. Humans, however, are the only creatures who are able to reflect upon the experience of menopause, and even (stay with me here) thank God for it.
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Back when my husband and I first became Christians, one of the passages that we most loved in our brand-new Bibles was this one: “Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths” (Proverbs 3:5-6).
For two people who had been leaning very much on our own understanding, the idea of trusting in God was both a welcome challenge and a restful change. We spoke often of this new concept and we frequently reminded each other to trust God in difficult situations. Throughout our 30 years of marriage, I suppose I had always thought that we were fully on the same page when it came to trusting God … but a chance conversation recently made me realize that trusting God doesn’t always look the same for everyone.
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Great and Noble Tasks 