On the days I remember and make myself sit down to read the Bible, I use the Book of  Common Prayer as my guide, typically reading a Psalm, an Old Testament passage and a Gospel passage. For the past couple of weeks, the Old Testament reading was from Job.

I’m guessing that even if you don’t read the Old Testament and don’t believe a word of the Bible you might still know Job–the guy who had it all and then lost it all in what seems like a cruel wager between God and the devil. It’s a dramatic story. I think we forget sometimes how dramatic. This guy was living not just the good life but the best life. He had everything he ever wanted and more. And then God let it all be taken away so Job could discover the true source of his security and faith.

I love the book of Job because it is full of colorful characters and deep questions and proclamations of faith. But whenever I read it, I wonder if I could do what Job did. Could I lose it all and still praise God?

How would I respond to the kind of deep tragedy Job experiences? Loss of children, home, vocation, health, reputation. About the only things he has left are a bitter wife and unhelpful friends. (Those people I can relate to, unfortunately.)

I read Job with interest but also with a silent plea to never, ever be in that position. I don’t think I could handle it.

People amaze me, especially the ones whose lives have been altered by tragedy. I don’t know if I would even get out of bed if I faced what they’ve faced. And sometimes I find myself staring, not because I want to make them uncomfortable but because I want to sear on my mind a picture of survival. This, I tell myself, this is what strength looks like. Some days, I’m brave enough to say it out loud. Other days, I just sit back and watch.

There’s this quote by Ernest Hemingway I wasn’t aware of until recently. (Although I’m a book lover, my retention of classic works of literature is embarrassing.)

The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places.

The context of the paragraph is not particularly hopeful, but I’m drawn to this idea that the places where we break, where we’re broken, can be strong.

And have you seen the pictures and descriptions of the Japanese art form of fixing broken pottery with gold? If you look it up on Pinterest, you’ll find these words attached to the photos of this art: “understanding the piece is more beautiful for having been broken.”

I confess: I seldom think something broken is beautiful nor do I see my own brokenness as beautiful. I’m more like, “Ew, Lisa. That’s ugly.”

But thanks be to God who sees beauty in the broken and who is even now making all things new.

There’s a killer on the loose in the Pocono Mountains, a man who waited in the bushes for a shift change at a state police barracks and shot two troopers, killing one of them. His picture gives me that creepy feeling and two nights ago, I couldn’t sleep because I was thinking: What would I do? What if he somehow made his way here, to our town? Would I be aware enough to notice? And would I be able to do the courageous thing and make a call?

I’m living in a state of fear these days, imagining all sorts of horrible things happening to our family. I’m overwhelmed and stressed and I think some past experiences are finally catching up with me emotionally. It’s hard to see good when you’re thinking like this. Everything becomes scary or a potential disaster and the words I speak have little encouragement. And a scan through my Facebook “news” feed doesn’t help. There’s fear multiplied. Bad news all around.

And I wonder if it’s only a matter of time before some kind of tragedy touches a little closer to home.

For the past year, I’ve called life “good.” Surely it’s time for that to end, right? Surely there’s a limit to the good times, the feelings of security and fullness.

Everything has a season. We’re rushing on toward fall, the season when the visible signs of life begin their descent and decay. When green turns brilliant red and orange and yellow before ending on brown. When the harvest is brought in and the fields are barren once again.

There is life on the other side, we know. Fall, winter, they don’t last forever, just their allotted time. Still, the shift from long days of light to long nights of darkness takes some getting used to.

Most transitions do.

“How did those get there?” flower surprise closeup

We noticed the flowers growing in front of our house from under our porch. We didn’t plant flowers this year. We didn’t plant anything this year. Still getting used to our new surroundings, we focused more on pruning and cleaning the land we’d been given as part of our rental property.

These flowers were a surprise. They’re still a mystery.

They make me think of the adage “you reap what you sow.” We did not sow flowers this year and yet we are reaping their beauty.

These tiny yellow blooms are a delight in a season when few things are blooming. This is why I love spring, everything pops with color, though I’m learning that it doesn’t have to end with spring.

Still, I look at these flowers and I see a message of hope.

Beauty shows up in the unlikeliest places, sometimes, at the unlikeliest times. There is no time limit, no boundary on joy or beauty or love or hope, no matter what the circumstances might try to tell us.

In Job, I read that God who began the world is keeping it together, that our very lives are a gift and we don’t have to fear loss. In other books of the Old Testament I read that God makes living water flow where only deserts persist. He feeds and fills and pursues and protects, all in the name of love.

And when I can’t see what He’s up to, He gives me just a hint.

See that, there. I’m breaking through. Don’t give up. Don’t despair.

So, I look for it, the glimpses of God breaking through. The beauty in the broken. The hope hanging on when fear is all around.

Are you looking for it, too?

Annie Downs doesn’t consider herself brave, but she’s done the next right thing in her life, even if it’s scary. Her latest book, Let’s All Be Brave, is a call to all of us to be courageous in whatever our lives require. (Disclaimer: I received a free copy of the book in exchange for my review.)

braveDowns doesn’t demand that everyone pack up and move across the world. Bravery doesn’t require everyone to do the same thing, and what looks brave in one person’s life will look different in someone else’s. That’s one of the highlights of this book for me: that the brave thing is individual. Downs doesn’t offer specifics for being brave but principles and stories of what bravery has looked like in her life.

She tells great stories about the leaps she’s made in her life and encourages readers to take those kinds of leaps in their own lives. Her brave moments have included a move to Nashville when she knew no one, a move to Edinburgh, Scotland after she’d found community in Nashville, accepting her singleness in this stage of life. I was challenged by the idea that bravery isn’t always saying “yes” to something but sometimes it’s saying “no.” I hadn’t considered that before.

I appreciate the overall message of this book, but on complaint I have is that the chapters felt disconnected from each other. I didn’t get a sense of one flowing into the next. It was easy to read a chapter and walk away for a while, which meant it took me longer than I expected to read this book.

That said, if you’re feeling stuck or like you don’t know what’s next (or you do but you’re too afraid to say it or do something about it), then this book might be the nudge you need to go for it.


And in case you need another nudge, I have a copy to give away! Leave a comment here on the blog about why you want to read this book, what bravery means to you or anything else you’d like to say, and I’ll enter you in a drawing. I’ll pick a winner on Monday, Sept. 22, so you have through the weekend to enter.

Want to know more about the author? Check out her website and blog:  http://www.anniefdowns.com/

And you can preview two chapters here.


Once a faithful fan of Food Network shows, I’m in a bit of a drought. I got a little burnt out on the drama. Or maybe I just needed a break. Lucky for me, though, there are novels that take the idea of cooking competitions and give you a backstage look at the people participating.

All’s Fair in Love and Cupcakes is one such book. (Disclaimer: I received a free e-copy of the book in exchange for my review.)

The book’s author, Betsy St. Amant, is a woman I’ve heard a lot about from other authors of her genre, and her writing is just as fun and witty and romantic as the hype. All’s Fair in Love and Cupcakes is a sweet (ha ha!) story of two friends, Kat Varland and Lucas Brennan, who have so much more between them than friendship but who are afraid to risk losing what they have for finding something more.

Kat dreams of opening her own bakery. Meanwhile, she’s stuck working at her aunt’s bakery making the same cupcakes day after day: chocolate, vanilla, strawberry. Kat likes to experiment with flavors, and it seems her baking is riskier than her life. Her best friend Lucas is the high school football coach and a willing participant in Kat’s baking escapades. Because he believes in her abilities, Lucas signs Kat up for a spot on a cupcake competition reality show. When she wins a spot on the show, Kat convinces Lucas to come with her to Los Angeles. And the baking isn’t the only thing that heats up.

As their feelings for each other deepen and blossom, each of them must decide what it is they really want from life, and they’re each faced with a decision about their dreams.

I loved this story. Maybe because I like to cook and bake with my husband. Maybe because we were friends before we were more. Maybe because it was just a good story about love and sacrifice and dreams.

I’m adding Betsy St. Amant to my list of must-read authors. And I’ve got another foodie favorite novel to add to my growing list.

Here’s more about the author: BStAmant-257

Betsy St. Amant lives in Louisiana with her young daughter and has a heart for sharing the amazing news of God’s grace through her novels. A freelance journalist, Betsy is a member of American Christian Fiction Writers. When she’s not reading, writing, or singing along to a Disney soundtrack with her daughter, Betsy enjoys inspirational speaking and teaching on the craft of writing.

Find out more about Betsy at http://www.betsystamant.com/

And here’s how she’s celebrating the release of her book!

Don’t miss Betsy St. Amant’s latest fiction release, All’s Fair in Love and Cupcakes. A “sweet” tale of two best friends and the choices they make between dreams and a possible “sure thing,” St. Amant’s novel is sure to satisfy your romantic-fiction craving.


Betsy is celebrating with a fun Kindle giveaway and a Love & Cupcakes Facebook party!
One winner will receive:

  • A brand new Kindle
  • All’s Fair in Love and Cupcakes by Betsy St. Amant

Enter today by clicking one of the icons below. But hurry, the giveaway ends on September 18th. Winner will be announced at the Love & Cupcakes” Author Chat Party on 9/18. Betsy will be hosting a “sweet” book chat, giving away prizes, and answering questions from readers. She will also share an exclusive sneak peek at her next book project!

So grab your copy of All’s Fair in Love and Cupcakes and join Betsy on the evening of September 18th for a chance to connect and make some new friends. (If you haven’t read the book, don’t let that stop you from coming!)

Don’t miss a moment of the fun; RSVP todayTell your friends via FACEBOOK or TWITTER and increase your chances of winning. Hope to see you on the 18th!


We went home again this weekend, to the home where Phil and I were born and raised, not the place we now call home, which is always confusing, even to me. I don’t know at what point Pennsylvania becomes our home. We’ve lived here six years, which is all the home our kids have ever known, the majority of our married lives. And yet, the people we are here are just a fraction of our whole selves. We have decades of life behind us in Illinois and so, it seems, that will always be home.

I still refer to them both as “home,” which can get confusing. I was talking to a woman from church about the nursery schedule a few weeks ago, and our Christmas plans, and I’m pretty sure in the same sentence I said something like, “We won’t be leaving for home until (this date) but we’ll already be home by (that date).” I think I eventually explained myself, but it’s just as muddled in my mind.

Because home, though small, is a complicated word.

Home is this city, our address, the place the post office sends our mail. It’s this state, the one on our driver’s licenses and license plates. It’s where we live, and yet I still find myself telling people that though we live here we aren’t from here. And it’s not that I think it’s bad if you’re from here, but I just have to make the distinction known. I will always and forever be “from Illinois.” It might seem like a trivial distinction, but it’s not. Not to me.

Last year at this time, I was attending my first MOPS meeting. My son was upstairs in a church not far from the house we had recently moved into, and I was downstairs getting to know people, which is like, an introvert’s worst nightmare. There was this getting-to-know you exercise where if you like one thing you go to one side of the room and if you like another thing you go to the other side of the room–a way to show a little about yourself and find others with similar tastes.

I clearly remember one of the “preferences” was between beach weekend or city weekend. At the time, I didn’t know how much I would love hanging out at the beach, so I chose city weekend. And then we were asked which city we would go to. And because I get awkward and a little obnoxious when I’m insecure and nervous, when it was my turn I blurted out: “Chicago–the greatest city in the world.” It was an attempt at humor a la Saturday Night Live’s Superfans (Think: Da Bears. And if you have no idea what I’m talking about, then I’m pretty sure it’s your loss. Oops. There I go again.)

I’m sure no one else remembers it the way I do, but when I look back on it, I think, geez, Lisa, were you trying to not make any friends? Because sometimes that’s how I feel when I talk about my Illinois home. Like I’m trying to separate or distance myself from people.

In a way, I am. Because connecting with people and then later leaving them is hard.

I’m not a part of that MOPS group this year because my son is in preschool and there’s a women’s group associated with that. And though my introduction there this morning was less awkward and obnoxious, I still feel like an outsider at times.

For us, home seems to be nowhere and everywhere, and I don’t know if that’s good, bad or neutral.

I tend to think of “home” as a place. The place you’re born or raised or spend your life. The house you raise your kids in, or the city where you finally “settle down” to raise a family. We have some of each of those in our life.

For me, home is a little blue house on Fargo Avenue with a creek in the backyard where I grew up and had space to dream and imagine and be by myself.

And it’s a turn-of-the-century home on the corner of Morgan and Jefferson where my grandparents raised their family and hosted us all for holidays. And even though it’s gone now, the fire that destroyed it can’t take away the memories.

Home is my first apartment and the roommates who came and went. It’s the college apartment that gave me my first taste of independent living.

There are dozens of addresses that I called “home” at one time and all of them left their mark.

There’s a one-bedroom apartment in a college town in central Illinois where two people learned to live as one and brought a baby girl into the world.

And there’s a little house in Amish country where that family grew from three to four and stayed for five years. The place where our family was broken. The place where we started over and began being made whole again.

And there’s the farmhouse where we live now, where we’re finding ourselves again and starting new chapters and leaning in to who we are: the good, the bad and the ugly.


All of these places will pass away. They will deteriorate, or be destroyed, or we’ll move on from them. And it’s no so much the structures that made it “home” but what happened inside the walls (and sometimes outside them.)

But there’s more to “home,” I think.

Because home is also watching your cousin (whom you used to babysit) marry a man who loves her deeply. And it’s watching that cousin dance with her daddy, who almost wasn’t here to see it happen. lew and ashley

And it’s watching your other cousin dance with your kids and wrestle and giggle with them when in years past she couldn’t because of her health.


It’s hugging a groomsman from your wedding and listening to him talk about his grown-up job.

It’s long and meaningful talks with the brother you don’t see often enough.

It’s celebrating with the people you love, the people who’ve known you since you were a baby or who haven’t seen you since you were a flower girl 31 years ago.

It’s laughter and tears and the best never-ending hugs.

It’s lunch with your grandparents where dessert isn’t even a question (at least not one you can answer “no” to) and lunch with your in-laws at your favorite local restaurant (and watching your kids devour the soups and sandwiches you crave from 800 miles away).

And it’s a 4:30 a.m. phone call from a woman from church while you’re driving the 800 miles overnight, just to check in.

It’s the invitations to play dates, the Facebook messages that check in to see how you’re doing with life. It’s the offers of shared childcare and coffees out and companionship.

The more I write, the more I’m believing that home is not a small word at all.

It might be the biggest word.

And maybe it’s okay that I have more than one place to call “home.”

Maybe home is wherever we are, wherever memories are made and lives are shared and love is plentiful.

What makes a place “home” for you?

It has taken me a decade to pick up a book by Deborah Raney, despite glowing recommendations from trusted friends.  Ten years ago, I attended a writers’ conference where she was on faculty and in my ignorance of the industry back then, I’d never heard of her or her books. Times have changed for the better, and even though I follow her on Facebook, I still hadn’t read anything by her until now.

Home-to-Chicory-Lane-PKWhen an author has been writing books for a long time, I often don’t know where to start. Should I read their early works so I get feel for their style or just start with something new? I took the plunge on Raney’s latest, Home to Chicory Lane, when it was offered for review by Litfuse Publicity Group. (I received a free copy of the book.)

And it’s just as delightful as I might have expected. Raney has an approachable charm to her Facebook posts and I find her writing to be the same. Home to Chicory Lane is the first in a new series focusing on the Whitman family. In this one, we meet the cast of characters, led by parents Audrey and Grant who have recently turned their family home into a bed-and-breakfast. On the opening weekend of the inn, their newly wed youngest daughter shows up unexpectedly, without her husband, and her parents suspect trouble.

The book is equally balanced between the two storylines: Landyn and Chase, the newlyweds, and Audrey and Grant, the new business owners. Other family members make appearances and it will be fun to find out what further antics are in store for this family.

I’m more and more fond of these family saga type of stories and the focus on individual characters in separate books. In this one, particularly, I enjoyed the banter between siblings and the real-life emotions that surface in families during times of stress and trial. This is not a picture-perfect family that makes you want to puke. The Whitmans are pursuing dreams and struggling financially and facing hardships, and though their love for each other is apparent, there is no shortage of angry outbursts or words spoken in stress.

This was just a realistic family that drew me in to their lives. (And the Midwestern setting didn’t hurt. I’m a bit homesick for the Midwest these days.)

So, don’t be like me: Don’t wait 10 years to read a book by Deborah Raney! You’ll be missing out on some enjoyable fiction.

Also not to miss: this $200 B&B giveaway as part of the book’s launch. Read on for the details about how you can win!

The first book in Deborah Raney‘s new Chicory Inn series, Home to Chicory Lane, introduces us to Audrey Whitman, a mother who has launched all her children into life and now looks forward to fulfilling some of her own dreams during her empty-nest years. However, not all of her children are ready to stay out of the nest quite yet.

Deborah is celebrating the release of her new series with a $200 B&B Weekend Getaway and a Facebook author chat party.


One winner will receive:

  • A B&B Weekend Getaway (via a $200 Visa cash card)
  • Home to Chicory Lane by Deborah Raney

Enter today by clicking one of the icons below. But hurry, the giveaway ends on September 9th. Winner will be announced at the Home to Chicory Lane Author Chat Party on 9/9. Deborah will be hosting a heartfelt book chat, giving away prizes, and answering questions from readers. She will also share an exclusive sneak peek at the next book in the Chicory Inn series!

So grab your copy of Home to Chicory Lane and join Deborah on the evening of September 9th for a chance to connect and make some new friends. (If you haven’t read the book, don’t let that stop you from coming!)

Don’t miss a moment of the fun; RSVP todayTell your friends via FACEBOOK or TWITTER and increase your chances of winning. Hope to see you on the 9th!



What waiting reveals

“No waiting on lane 7! No waiting on lane 7!”

The Target employee at the end of the checkout lanes called out like a carnival barker, enticing shoppers to leave their lines for the lanes, soon to open.

“Ma’am, do you want to move to this lane?”

The customer behind me had to repeat himself because I didn’t realize he was talking to me. I’d been standing in our line for literally less than a minute. I hadn’t had time to even be frustrated by the waiting and here was an offer of immediate relief from having to wait in line.

I appreciated the gesture but declined his offer and let him head to the newly open lane. I wasn’t in a hurry, but even if I was, I hadn’t been waiting that long.

And it wasn’t that long before it was my turn in my lane.

I wondered as I waited: When did waiting become a crime against humanity? When did not waiting become the expectation?

Not that I’m always so chill about the waiting.

Most of the time I’m more like:

hate waiting

And even when I resign myself to a long line, I’m still hopeful for another lane to open soon.

When I’m waiting, I’m on the lookout for an end to the waiting.

“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”

We’d been standing in line for the Sky Ride at Dutch Wonderland, a family amusement park where we live, and I was having second thoughts, even though I was the one who suggested it. The Sky Ride, in case it isn’t obvious, is a ski-lift style ride that takes you across the park, high above the treetops. The last time we went to Dutch Wonderland, I thought it seemed fun but we had limited time and couldn’t do it. So, this time, it was first on our list.

My husband and our daughter were ahead of us and as they settled into their seats and were carried away, I nearly threw up. I clutched our 4-year-old son’s hand as our turn came. It was now or never.

I was sure that once we were on the ride, my fears would dissipate and I would enjoy myself.


The Sky Ride is a slow journey of panic and torture. I gripped the bar with my free hand while holding my son’s hand with my other hand and prayed that it would be over soon. I don’t know how long the ride actually is but it felt like forever and the higher our contraption rose, the more panicked I became. I was as close as I’ll probably ever be to having a full-blown panic attack that makes me pass out. I could feel my blood pressure rising. (Probably I should not have been on the ride.)

I looked around at the other people riding and none of them seemed as concerned as I was. My husband even turned a bit in his seat and waved at us. I wanted to yell at him to HOLD ON WITH BOTH HANDS but didn’t want to draw attention

I was never happier to be with two feet on the ground than when we reached the other side.

I’ve been in and on higher places without the same feelings, so I was a little confused by my reaction. Turns out I’d prefer my feet be on something than just dangling in mid-air, and I think I wanted it to be over more quickly. (I’ve told myself that I probably could have handled a zip line because it would have been over faster. I think I’m actually delusional.)

The journey across the park on the Sky Ride was slow and scary and totally out of my control. Had we fallen, there would have been nothing–not one thing–I could have done to prevent it or make it hurt less. And once we were strapped in, there was no turning back.

Sometimes waiting feels the same way, and even though I signed up for the journey, I start to doubt and fear.

The chug-chug of the motors and the smell of whatever was powering them blasted our senses as we wound our way through the barriers of the Sunoco Turnpike ride, also at Dutch Wonderland. Again in pairs, we were waiting our turn for two cars to drive around the new island exhibit at the park. While we were waiting, one of the cars broke down and held up the line while the two ride operators waited for help. Then when the path was clear, we waited some more while those ahead of us got their chances to ride.

At one point, a grandparent couple squished into one of the cars to follow their family members around the track. A woman ahead of us made a sound of disgust as she questioned why two adults should be allowed to ride when they can drive real cars. (As if adults aren’t allowed to have fun.)

On the next ride, a woman with two children was bumped to the front of the line because they had a special-needs pass that allowed them front-of-the-line access to the rides. The family ahead of us looked less than pleased, even though we all were guaranteed a spot on the next boat.

I’m so tempted to judge and condemn those who less-than-patiently wait their turn.

Then, I remember.

I’m guilty too.

Our family is still waiting to find our place. In the world. In God’s plans. And it is ever so hard to watch others pursue their dreams and live their passions before us, especially when we feel like we’ve been waiting longer, and we’re still wondering what our dreams and passions are.

In the waiting, I am jealous and selfish for my turn to come.

So maybe I hate waiting but maybe I need waiting. I need to be reminded that I’m not as good as I think I am, not as patient as I’d like to be, not as content or secure. In a world where I can have anything I want rightnowthisinstant with just a click, maybe it’s good to step back and pause before buying or pursuing or setting my heart on something I think I want.

I do hate waiting.

I want it all figured out right now. All of it. Life, people, relationships, calling. There are days I want to skip to the end, whatever that means, so I can find out how it all turns out. Did my marriage thrive for the duration? Did I raise my kids well enough to make good decisions? What did they decide to do with their lives? What will this tiny seed of an idea grow into? Was all the struggle, the hard times, the waiting worth it?

The end is my favorite part of most stories. But it wouldn’t mean anything without the middle part, the part where I’m not sure how it’s all going to work out, the part where the characters aren’t sure how it’s going to work out.

The middle–where there’s doubt and fear and misunderstanding and conflict and trial.

That’s where we’re all at right now, one way or another. We’re smack dab in the middle. And we’re waiting. For something. For one thing. Or a person or lots of things.

And even when it’s hard to see and believe, this is what I know is true: the waiting is worth it.

In the waiting, I learn to deny myself, to put others’ needs ahead of mine, to give myself space to be still and not keep rushing past my surroundings.

In the waiting, I take notice of people: the girl having a rough start to her work day, and I offer a smile, a word of encouragement. In the waiting, I remember the feel of my son’s hand as I gripped it for dear life and his tiny-voiced question: “Momma, are we in the trees?” In the waiting, I remember how precious life is and how I don’t want it to end.

In the waiting, I don’t just look; I see.

In the waiting, I don’t just hear; I listen.

In the waiting, I don’t just assume and judge; I seek to understand.

Yes, the waiting is worth it.

And I’ll tell myself that again and again.

Until I believe it or the waiting ends.

What are you waiting for? And what happens to you when you wait?

I swept the porch this week.

I know: stop the presses. Alert the local media. Breaking news, right here.

But my son wanted to play outside and I was tired of the clutter and feeling like I was just sitting around recovering from stressful days or waiting for stressful days to happen, so I took charge of the day and my attitude and decided it was past time to clean.

For a few months, our porch has been accumulating the toys we want to give away. Getting them out of the house was a first step. But they couldn’t live on the porch forever. So, I moved them to the yard, took some pictures, posted to Facebook and hoped I’d have a some takers before needing to haul the treasures to a thrift store.

In the meantime, I moved everything on the porch away from the house and I took a broom to the dirt that had also piled up. And I swept away the grime. I rearranged the furniture. I rounded up the toys we were keeping and tried to contain them in a bin. I trashed the garbage and set a boundary: no more stick piles on the porch.

As I cleaned, our son reminded me of the springtime cleaning we did, wiping the grit off the windows so we could throw them open and feel the breeze after a stuffy winter.

These are not earth-shattering activities by any means, but they represent a shift in my thinking.

See, we don’t own this home. We’re just renting it. And even though my continues to wander to the houses for sale in our neighborhood, my husband reminds me that we need to settle in to this house. For real. We’ve been here a year and we still have piles of things that need to be trashed or sorted or dealt with. Stuff that has followed us through three moves in two states and seven years of marriage.

And though we’ve never owned a home, this space is the first one we’ve wanted to take care of like it is ours. I’ve told you how my husband likes to take care of the yard. He doesn’t have to. We don’t have to. But we want to. (And if we live here long enough, I might actually get around to planting flowers or gardening.)

It’s no secret that I’ve struggled to be content lately. Even with the summer of fun behind us and a fulfilling first year in our new community, I am still floundering a bit, wondering what’s next, what we’re doing here, and if it’s ever going to change.

In those times, it’s easy to find fault. With our community. With our house. With my family. With me.

So that sweeping of the porch, it became a sort of holy moment. As the dirt swirled at my feet and floated off the porch, it was like my mind was clearing out the cobwebs, too.

Anne Lamott said this and when I read it this week, I knew exactly what she meant:

“My only hope was to plug into something bigger than my pulsing mind, to flail around outside rather than within me. God can’t clean the house of you when you’re still in it.” (Grace, Eventually, 235)

The more I cared for the physical space we occupied, the more I cared about it.

When I keep it clean and tidy, when I seek to improve our living space, leaving it better than we found it, something happens in my heart and I love it more. The faults are less and I am more at peace with the way things are.

And just as my love for our home increases with care, so does my love for people.

It is easy to find fault with people when I am not caring for them. It is easy to convince myself they are not worth my time, that I can find other people better suited to my life.


When I care for and love and serve these same people, I find I love them more. (I think our pastor said something similar to this in his sermon last week. I’ll have to re-listen. I was a little preoccupied.)

I could choose to not care about our house because we’re just renting it. But isn’t everything in life temporary? Aren’t we technically just leasing our lives, our relationships, our talents and gifts and time from the God who gave them to us?

If my throwaway attitude transferred to all of those areas, then I’d be wholly unsatisfied with my life all the time.

When I care for my relationships, I care more about the people in my life, even when they aren’t perfect.

When I’m purposeful with my time, I spend it better.

When I exercise my talents and gifts, when I cultivate them and use them in ways that serve others, I’m more satisfied with my place in the world and less concerned with the gifts other people have that I don’t.

All I did was sweep the porch.

But it was so much more than that.

I cleaned out my heart, too.


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