My daughter asked me what Good Friday was and I explained it was the day Jesus was crucified; the Friday before Easter Sunday. “Oh,” she said somberly. “That was a really sad day. Why do we call it Good Friday? What was so good about it?” It’s a fair question. We all know the “good” part came on Sunday. We get dressed up for Sunday. We bake a ham for Sunday. We color eggs for Sunday. Sunday is worth celebrating. But what was so good about Friday?

I almost said ‘no’ to a mission trip in high school because I thought my youth pastor said it was going to be in tents. Turns out he said it was going to be “intense,” so I’m glad I clarified. I’ll not camp for Jesus any day.

I realized how often I say “No.” Like it’s just my default response. I don’t know why I do that. Maybe I think that’s what good parents are supposed to do. We’re not supposed to let our kids be spontaneous, impulsive, or (God forbid), irresponsible. But how much do they miss out on because I don’t feel like dealing with the mess, the inconvenience, or the consequences?

My mind had taken me back to the third grade. My body had not. My equilibrium was completely thrown off and waves of nausea rolled through my stomach. I pointed my feet toward the ground and let them drag in the dirt to slow me down. Once my swing came to a stop I had to sit and collect my bearings before standing upright. The reality hit me like a slap in the face; I was too old for swinging.

Our adoption agency was just as perplexed as we were. They’d never seen any waiting couple go through such repeated loss as ours. It became a joke that we should at least get our names on a plaque in their office when all was said and done, (or a very big discount should we ever attempt to adopt again).

I swore I’d never do it again, yet there I was, standing over the toilet looking down at a perfectly healthy fish swimming in happy little circles, unaware he was about to take the ride of his life. I really thought my fish killing days were over, but apparently the slope from one-time offender to serial-killer is quite slippery. But before you call PETA, let me explain.

We have all lived through seasons in which the concept of love has dumbfounded us, carried us, or left us curled in the fetal position, crying into a tub of Ben & Jerry’s. So what is love? Everyone answers that differently. I can’t define it for you, but here’s what I know to be true of love in my life.

Now that I’m the mother of a middle school girl, I’ve been forced to unearth the memories long buried. I’ve blown the dust off the boxes of photos featuring my cringe-worthy haircuts and makeup mishaps. As I sift through them I’m asking God to fill me with empathy and grace abundant. I pray He doesn’t let me forget, as much as I want to, what it was like to be thirteen.

No matter our personality infrastructure, may we sit in this freeing truth: we are exactly who we are meant to be. Nothing about us is a mistake. (No matter what your siblings told you growing up.) God does not make design flaws. In fact, He is incapable of such things. He doesn’t shake His head and sigh heavily when He sees our weaknesses, like we often do. He looks at each item on our categorized list of test results and He loves every single one. Every. Single. One.

Are there things in your past (or still in your present), in which you look to God and yell, “Where were You in that?” It’s okay if you do. Questioning God, venting your anger and frustration, and pouring your heart out to Him, doesn’t make you less of a Christian. It only makes you human.

As I jotted down a list of things I’d like to improve upon, accomplish, and refrain from in the next twelve months, (I don’t call them resolutions. They’re more like “potentials,” so I don’t hate myself when I fall short.), I realized all of it could be summed up with one word: less.

When I first met Zach, we were taking a Youth Ministry class together in college. I liked him instantly, but when I found out he was a junior high youth pastor, I headed straight for the door.

Sometimes you have to look hard, at just the right time, to see the blooms among the thorns. The outlook may look bleak, dangerous even, but rest assured, buried underneath is a world of color just waiting to burst forth. If you hang in there long enough, it’s worth waiting for. We desert dwellers know this so well. Yes, the summers are scorching and long, but we know spring is coming. Living here, you take the good with the bad. Looking back at 2020, we need to do that too.

All month long we pray for God to help us stay focused on the real reason for the season. “Help us remember who Christmas is really about,” we say with heads bowed. Yet we load every hour with tasks, crafts, and activities. We don’t leave space to have our prayer answered. We want to hear God’s voice through the noise, but He can’t reach a moving target.

May we all settle in and resign ourselves to the likelihood that we’re heading into another year of at-home entertainment. Best wishes for a New Year that meets your lowest expectations.

As we count down these last few weeks until Christmas, I constantly hear my children say, “I just CAN’T WAIT ‘til Christmas!” Their excitement is contagious. We open the advent calendar each day as we inch closer to Christmas morning, arguably the best day of the year. But waiting, whether we’re children or adults, is never easy.

An entire club dedicated to banana splits? How could I resist? I followed him after school one day, my mouth watering in anticipating of the ice cream sundae I was sure to be offered. Upon my arrival I noticed a small circle of chairs in a very plain office. We were in the school counselor’s office. It seemed like a weird place for an ice cream social. I scanned the room. No ice cream buffet in sight.

I’ve often wondered why I’ve had to work so hard to have a connection with my brother, my own flesh and blood. It should come more naturally, shouldn’t it? But the connection is already there. It’s woven into the tapestry of our past, our childhood, our family home. It’s in the sideways glances, the recollection of stories, the keeping of traditions.

It’s been several years since I attempted to celebrate Thanksgiving in the traditional way. The short explanation is simply that I haven’t had a good Thanksgiving in a very long time. But if you’re reading my blog, you’re not interested in the short explanation.

I snuggled in next to my daughter. What could’ve been a quick reassuring hug and a, “Go back to sleep,” turned into a 45 minute girl talk. We laid side by side in her bed, ignoring the time on the clock. I chose to be present, and I’ll never regret it.