“And these things write we unto you, that your joy may be full.” 1 John 1:4

It was late afternoon, and the twin boys were done! They played blocks, rolled balls, and read books. While shaking wooden maracas to music, they explored the nursery through crawling and attempting to walk. They had already had their first nap, ate lunch, and were hydrated. Nothing in the room or in their toy bag was satisfying their curiosity or capturing their attention. One wore a slightly grumpy expression as if to say, “Come on, is this all you have?”, while the other’s constant smile started to sag. They wanted mom, who still had a few things left to do in the office, and I was the less appealing substitute. So, I broke out what all preschool and Sunday School teachers know to be the antidote to toddler crabbiness: the miracle bubble wand. Immediately, as the first iridescent spheres floated across the room into view, grumpiness left, and smiles widened. Soon, the boys were squealing with delight, hands reaching out to capture a bubble or two. These magic bubbles enchanted them for the next fifteen minutes, until mom could finish her tasks.

Ingrid Fetell Lee wrote Joyful, a delightful book exploring the concept of how “ordinary things create extraordinary happiness”. She interviewed people and found universally that different objects or ideas brought joy to different people, things like glitter, bright colors, nature, patterns, and of course, bubbles. She then explored how various artists, designers, and architects incorporated these ideas into their work, making space for more joy in our daily lives. One of my favorite ideas that she highlighted was the Brooklyn artist Magda Sayeg who knitted sleeves for parking meters, adding a bit of surprise on the busy gray concrete New York sidewalks.

Throughout the course of writing this blog, I have shared with readers a window into what brings me joy, including my love of citrus, fresh produce, and plants. But for me, joy is more than the yellow gnome that sits on my floating shelf. It’s more than the egg chair on my patio that encompasses me on balmy summer evenings. It’s even more than the sweet laughter from my beautiful grandchildren.

It is not something I experienced as a child. While I did have fleeting moments of happiness, they were swallowed by the secrets I harbored concerning my sexual trauma. It felt as if someone else was holding a remote on my childhood where Campfire girls, cupcakes, and Cabbage Patch dolls are fast forwarded while hearing steps in the stairwell as I sob silently in my bedroom are in slow motion. I remember some holidays where we put on the pretense of a normal family, unwrapping presents under a tree. These moments were quickly superseded with drunken outbursts and more secrets. Yes, I had happy moments but never joy.

My first experience of joy came at the altar where I invited Jesus into my life. I initially felt peace, but joy soon followed. I no longer felt hopeless, but instead, felt secure in knowing that God was good and good to me. As I grew in my relationship with Jesus, I realized that this sovereign, majestic God not only cared for and loved me, but had plans for me. Along with God’s word, I delighted in observing His reflection in the world around me. Soon, joy started bubbling up within me. It wasn’t based on my circumstances, where I lived, or what I had. It was solely based on my relationship with Jesus. And as I grew in God, I realized I didn’t have to earn points to keep this joy. It was always available when I rested in His arms.

Like Ingrid Fetell Lee, I want to explore joy over the next few weeks. As delightful as confetti and treehouses are, I want to explore this concept of joy in four women my age and older who exemplify joy to me. Some of these women might be described as bubbly in nature, while others have a more serene state of joy. One I have known for over thirty years, while the others, my relationship with them is more recent. But what they all have in common is that when I spend time with or think about these women, I am inspired to be more joyful in all areas of my life. In their own individual ways, they each reflect the image of God in how they express joy. So, my hope is to interview these women, highlighting some of their wisdom and how they reflect joy in their lives. I want to learn the secret sauce to what makes each of them joyful. My last post will be highlighting three younger women who bring me joy. These dynamic young women choose joy by pursuing creative endeavors. When I am around them, I look at the world with fresh eyes, and see all the possibilities of a life in God!

I hope you join me in this series of “Joy” posts. My prayer is that despite whatever “hard” you may be going through, you will see joy is possible. I hope that you don’t chase happiness, but instead chase joy that is fulfilling and long-lasting. Finally, I hope you are as inspired as I am by these amazing women who choose joy!

“For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.” Ecclesiastes 3:1

I was excited to be a mother. I had read the “What to Expect” books concerning both pregnancy and the first year. I researched baby items, carefully selecting the right furniture for our nursery. My brother-in-law painted our room a sunny yellow, with a blue ceiling. My Aunt Brenda followed up by faux painting the ceiling with streaks of purple, yellow and pink, making the nursery look like a Venetian sky. I had clothes washed and ready for the baby’s impending arrival. I felt prepared. I put my hand on my stomach often, talking to the baby in soft tones, telling him how excited I was for his arrival.

But then, I was past my due date, uncomfortable and unable to sleep. By the time my son was born, and they laid him on my chest, I didn’t have the instant warm feeling of maternal bonding flooding my heart. I was exhausted and in a bit of shock from the whole ordeal of childbirth. That maternal instinct kicked in the next morning, when I held my son in my arms, marveling at his features and God’s goodness. Fourteen months later, my daughter was born in a whirlwind of activity. Again, the maternal hormones didn’t kick in immediately. They flooded my heart later that night when I was alone with my blue-eyed daughter, again aware of God’s goodness.

I kept those thoughts to myself for years, feeling ashamed of my perceived lack.  I thought there was something wrong with me. But then I began to hear of other women struggling with the same feelings. A woman’s body is dealing with major hormonal fluctuations before, during, and after birth. It’s quite common for women to not feel initially present or bonded with their baby. And for some, this lack of bonding takes on the form of something more serious, postpartum depression, which may need the help of professionals. So, I shared my story with others to help remove some of the stigma.

Twenty-four years later, “We are empty nesters!” became my mantra accompanied by a little jig for the first six months after Maggie got married. It wasn’t that I didn’t miss my daughter, I did.  But for the first time in 24 years, Terry and I were living alone, responsible only for ourselves. This change coincided with the time I was no longer doing childcare in my home on a regular basis. It was a new way of living, and I was looking forward to the adventure!

Recently, I read a comment string about the most important things you would want to tell someone about entering the empty nest stage. As I read the comments, I was surprised to see how sad and depressed a lot of women felt. Once again, I started to feel like I lacked some maternal instincts, not having the same experience that they did. But I stopped that train of thought immediately! I can love my adult children well, miss them, and still enjoy the empty nest stage. And I am sure I am not the only one who feels this way. What could I add to this conversation about my first year of experience as an empty nester?

• It’s hard to cook for two people. For twenty years, I have been cooking for at least four people. Now, I only need to make two chicken thighs, not six. I need two servings of pasta, not the whole box. And as much as I love soup, I don’t want it for five days in a row. Additionally, I find myself wanting to cook more ethnic dishes. Trying to balance this with Terry’s favorite dishes is hard. But I am up for the challenge and am finding new ways to meet our dietary needs.
• I leave the cupboard doors open and my shoes are all over the house. For years, I assumed that if the cupboard doors were open, that one of the children carelessly left it open. Also, my shoes were amongst the pile of theirs, so it didn’t seem as much of a problem. But now that they are gone, I clearly see the messes I make and the ones my husband doesn’t make. Every so often, I work on closing cupboard doors, but all too often, I get distracted with a new activity, and the door stays open. And as far as my shoes are concerned, I put them away when I expect company. And I am okay with this.
• We sit in the living room to eat dinner most nights. I felt guilty about this for a long time. It’s not like we are watching television while eating dinner, usually we are engaged in a lively conversation. But my beautiful table is so big that when we sit at it, it feels empty. And honestly, some nights we are tired, and want to sit somewhere more comfortably. I love my table when my whole family is gathered around it. But on ordinary nights, I like the intimacy of our living room when we eat dinner.
•  As an extrovert, I surprisingly enjoy the quietness of my home. My life is busy, with me leaving the house at least two days a week for outside obligations. But the times I am home alone, I really enjoy my time with God and myself. I spend time reading, listening to podcasts, and writing. I am finding myself engaged in more creative pursuits and exploring new worlds. It is also giving me space to address hard things in my life and move towards more wholeness.
• I am discovering new reasons why I love my husband. The last five years have been filled with a lot of changes for both of us. With this growth, we are finding new ways to connect with one another. Terry is not only my husband and the father of our children, but also my best friend. He works hard to keep up with my rabbit trail conversation style and pays attention to the new culinary artist I have discovered. He gets me, quirks, and all. And he’s forever patiently closing my cupboard doors.

There have been a few hard moments during this season. I remember when Maggie’s final box was moved out, how empty her room felt. And with that last box, the chapter of our children living with us was closed. I reflected how much this room had changed in the eleven years she had lived in it. As a 12-year-old, she decorated her room with touches of Parisian chic. In her mid-teens, she read “Moby Dick” and fell in love with all things nautical, changing her room once again. Now, she was embarking on a new decorating adventure as a newlywed with her first apartment.

Like Maggie’s changing style, Terry and I have had to adapt to new changes in this season. Holidays look different because of work schedules and distance. I can choose to be stuck in the past of how we have always done things or move forward and look to the future. For me, embracing the changes seems more beneficial to my life. And unlike some of the more sarcastic comments on the string, I don’t need to change my locks.

“And we know that those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose.” Romans 8:28

My great-grandmother, Emma Holtzman, was a stern woman, stingy with smiles and laughter. Instead, she embodied industriousness with her rapid use of a paring knife when peeling potatoes and her skillfulness in rolling out the perfect sugar cookies. Always working, she prided herself on keeping the house neat and clean. Most of her grandchildren, including my mom, found her intimidating. My mother kept her room loosely organized (aka a bit messy), not meeting the standards of Grandma Holtzman. On some occasions, Grandma Holtzman would come over to visit and “organize” my mom’s half of the room. She would gather all the items lying on the floor, including my mom’s prized Nancy Drew books, and throw them into the burn barrel. Returning from school, my mother would be distraught at the missing items, only to find out her own mom had rescued the items from incineration.

My mom has never liked coffee, preferring Coke instead. As a generous hostess, she offers everyone something to drink, but cheekily reminds her guests to leave her the last can of Coke. She keeps a coffee maker on hand for her guests and, last week, it died. On her behalf, Terry took a quick trip to Target to replace her coffee maker. Later, while making coffee, my mom shared a new story about Grandma Holtzman. As her grandmother was pinning the hem of my mother’s dress, she said, “You will always get taller, you will get use to scalding water, and you will learn to like coffee.” My mom chuckled as she told us this, because she never got taller, topping out at 5’1”. Additionally, she never got used to scalding water or developed a taste for coffee. But her grandmother thought she knew best, leaving my mom to go to school with three-inch hems, never letting them out because of a growth spurt.

Many years ago, a tragic story of a local woman impacted my life. In one car accident, this woman lost her husband and two sons, while her oldest son survived with serious injuries. I didn’t know this woman, but my heart ached for her. Along with a group of friends, I put together a care basket filled with candles, lotion, a book on grief, a journal, and some gift cards for local restaurants. We fully recognized that this basket wouldn’t make a dent in her sorrow, praying only that it would be a small reminder to her of God’s unfailing love.

With the intent of just dropping off the basket, the woman invited me into her home. What followed was a holy moment for me. She began to share with me the details of the accident, including that her children and husband were in two different hospitals with life threatening injuries. She had to make a terrible choice, the choice of being with her children or her husband, as they all were facing possible surgeries and/or death. She made the choice any mother would make and was with her sons as they took their last breath. Minutes later, she received a phone call that her husband had also passed away. She knew God was with her although recognizing she had a long grief journey ahead. She, along with her oldest son, had to build a new life. She contemplated selling their home and moving back to where their family lived for support. I feebly tried to utter words of hope and encouragement, but the words came out stilted and unwieldy. Quickly, I felt God nudge me to just listen. She continued to talk about her boys and their passions. One was a budding artist while the other created with Legos. She smiled as she talked about the whirlwind romance with her husband that led to this beautiful family. Already feeling this family’s pain, her last story shook me to my core. While she was in college, her identical twin sister had also been killed in an accident. At the time, she believed that this was the worst thing she would ever face in her life. Now, she believed God used that incident to build and strengthen her faith to survive her current tragedy.

I left an hour later than I expected, giving her a hug, and promising to pray for her. As I got into my car, all my choked-back tears gushed out. I came expecting to minister, instead, her story ministered to me. I kept my promise for many years, but then life got busy, and soon I forgot her name. I still can see her house, and the pictures of her boys, and occasionally I still call out to God, praying for her and her son. I hope that this woman has created a new life for herself, and I pray that she had found some joy again.

But her story speaks to a truth that we don’t always want to hear. Life is hard and it doesn’t mean we will have happy endings to all our stories in life. No matter whether this woman has chosen to remarry or lead a fulfilled life as a single woman, she will always feel the loss of her sister, husband, and sons. Her oldest son is probably starting his own family now, maybe even has children, but he will never forget the accident that changed his life. And although I have forgotten their names, God has not, and is still writing their story.

I want to repeat what I said in the last paragraph, life is hard. I don’t say this flippantly, but with a heavy heart. Cancer and unexpected accidents have changed the trajectory of my life, and what I expected to be a happy ending now looks very different. For example, cancer robbed my children of having their beloved grandmother attend their weddings. Her absence was felt, despite the joy of those days. Life is hard and I see this truth not only in my life but played out again and again in the lives of my friends and family.

Despite life being hard, I also believe that God works out everything for our good. This doesn’t mean the hard things don’t happen, it just means that there is peace and hope on the other side. But saying those words to a person in the middle of tragedy seems trite and uncompassionate. How do I love someone well in the middle of their hard, without coming across as dismissive and insincere? How do I convey God’s words as hope and peace for the other side?

I recently finished a Louise Penny novel where a likeable character from Three Pines was convicted of murder. It bothered me, even though the honorable Armand Gamache, the Chief Inspector, found all the evidence pointing to this character. Yes, this person was a bit greedy, and yes, he moved a dead body, but murder seemed farfetched. And if this was true, could I trust Louise Penny in the future to end the stories well without destroying my faith in the characters? Spoiler alert: I looked online and read the synopsis of the next book in the series and found out that the character was innocent. Instantly, I felt relieved. The ending of this book was unhappy, but I had faith in the future book to reconcile my angst.

I came across a quote recently that helped me reconcile the reality of life being hard with my faith that God is good. Orson Welles said, “If you want a happy ending, that depends, of course, on where you stop your story.” That woman chose not to end her story when her sister died. Instead, she built a beautiful life with her husband and three children. And once again, I saw that woman actively choose not to end her story at the funerals of her family. Instead, she was looking to the future of building a new life on the other side of tragedy. She chose not to stop at the hard points in her life but went on letting God finish her story.

I can’t guarantee my grandchildren will be tall. I doubt anyone likes scalding water. I sure do hope they like coffee because I want to take them to some of my favorite coffee shops. But if they don’t, we will find other places to have adventures. And I can’t promise them that hard things won’t happen in their life. But I can promise that if they allow God to write their story, He will help them find hope, peace, and joy!

“Grandchildren are the crowning glory of the aged;” Proverbs 17:6a

“Daddy, can Mimi read me a story?” Joel asked his dad as he was getting him into his pajamas. Ethan replied yes, and Joel ran into the living room saying, “Mimi is going to read a big book.” As much as Joel loves for me to read to him, I am aware the length of the book was his tactic for stalling bedtime. Not being called out by Mimi, he picked a longer picture book from his library basket. We cuddled together on the couch and read about duck, cow, and sheep’s tractor ride through town while his little sister, Eva, crawled around at my feet. As I read, my heart swelled, savoring this moment with my grandchildren. And all too soon the long book was finished, just as our long weekend was wrapping up as well. And soon, once again, I would be 422 miles away from my two favorite little people.

Timothy Keller passed away on May 19, 2023. For those who don’t know this name, Keller was an influential preacher of the gospel in the evangelical world. Although he has been around for a while, my first introduction came two years ago when one of my pastors played a recording of Tim Keller explaining the gospel. His intellectual pursuit of God along with his compassionate delivery resonated with me. I began regularly listening to his Gospel in Life podcast, where recordings of his past messages are shared. He wasn’t charismatic with a delivery full of pomp and flash. Instead, his voice was calm, wise, and confident. He presented scripture from the premise that everything pointed back to the gospel. He believed “the gospel says you are simultaneously more sinful and flawed than you ever dared believe, yet more loved and accepted than you ever dared hope.” He pointed out that “the irony of the gospel is that the only way to be worthy of it is to admit that you’re completely unworthy of it.”

Keller was different than a lot of megachurch pastors that have become instant celebrities only to crash later due to either moral failures or narcissism. Instead, he quietly raised a congregation of size in the heart of New York City. In the beginning of his ministry, he didn’t start publishing books pontificating about how he planted his church. Instead, his first book was published when he was close to sixty years old, articulating his answers to others’ questions about God. His influence is not measured by the books he wrote, or the messages he preached, but more by the relationships he developed and people he mentored. After receiving his cancer diagnosis, he was asked how he wanted to be remembered. Tim Keller never cared about legacy or his reputation, it was all about pointing back to the God who had saved him. But he did answer that question in an interview with these words: “I hope my grandchildren remember me.”

This same thought has echoed through my world from a few different sources. In my final MOPS meeting of the year, we watched a video of an older mom reminding younger moms to keep their inner circle of relationships a priority. Next, I started reading Jean Stoffer’s memoir Establishing Home where she echoed the importance of prioritizing her role as a mother over her growing business. And then, on another podcast, I heard the concept “live your eulogy, not your resume.”

I’ve been wrestling with life choices we made in the past and how they impact our future. I grappled when putting together a job resume, and my experience was limited to childcare. I imagine the possibilities of having made different choices. Maybe if I had chosen a career over being a home-educator, I could be going to Italy next year. Maybe if I had chosen to start graduate school ten years ago, the possibility would seem more cost effective. These “what if’s” have left me feeling disillusioned and unsatisfied.

Tim Keller’s words, along with the persistent voices of others, reminded me of the truth in my life. Like most mothers, I prioritized the little ones in my home. For me, that looked like choosing to stay home and educate my children. It looked like welcoming countless children into my home, providing a safe and nurturing environment for them while their parents worked. And these decisions along with countless others lead to the life I live today.

And it’s a good life. It’s a life where I can write a memoir that I am hoping will impact others. It’s a life where I can use some of my gifts to minister to others in my community. And it’s spent with my two favorite little humans sitting on my lap, listening to me read stories about ducks and pigs.

Italy is still a goal and graduate school is still a possibility. But at the end of the day, my grandchildren won’t remember the magnificent artwork Mimi saw in Florence. They won’t remember that she went for her master’s degree in counseling in her fifties. They will remember the time she spent with them, reading, exploring, and sharing with them the goodness of God.

Timothy Keller left behind seven grandchildren. No doubt, some day they will Google their grandfather’s name and read all the wonderful accolades about him. They will see the list of books he wrote and see places where he is quoted. But I am confident that they will have their own special memories of times spent with their grandfather. And these memories are what will help them see the Gospel in a life well lived. My wish, is that Joel and Eva, and any future grandchildren, will see that reflected in my life as well.

“We should help others do what is right and build them up in the Lord.” Romans 15:3

Five years ago, I planted my first peony bush, a Mother’s Day gift from my children. I faithfully watered it, patiently waiting until the following spring to see it bloom. The next year, the peony came up with a few beautiful blush pink ruffled flowers, so I decided to plant another one. I chose a soft white peony with delicate yellow centers. A year later, that one also produced a few blooms, while its older sister’s pink blooms arrived a bit taller and more numerous. This spring, both have exploded with buds cloaked in lush foliage. Every time I step outside, I visit the peonies, delighted with the elegant flowers flanking the side of my home. Mary Oliver’s poem, Peonies, echoes in my brain when she says, “This morning the green fists of the peonies are getting ready to break my heart as the sun rises, as the sun strokes with his old, buttery fingers, and they open – pools of lace, white and pink—.” I cut a few buds, filling vases with peony magic throughout my home.

When I share with others the joy my peonies bring me, I get two contrasting responses. One matches my joy with long oohs and gushes about how much they too love peonies. The other has been a curt response, “You do know that peonies are covered with ants, don’t you?” The person may or may not go on with a story about ant-filled peonies in their home and how it invaded their food pantry. I leave the conversation a bit dejected, as if my balloon of joy has been pricked with a tiny needle, and the air is slowly leaking out, leaving behind only wilted peony petals.

I have heard the tale of ants and peonies from at least ten people. Even Mary Oliver continues her poetic imagery with the next line in her poem, “and all day the black ants climb over them,”. I half expected an ant invasion of my delicate peonies only to be pleasantly surprised to find only one or two strolling aimlessly across the petals. When I share that fact with the naysayers, they are astounded. Some have suggested that I must use a pesticide to prevent the ants, but my negative reply sends them away shaking their heads in disbelief.

Some of the stories about the ants have been relayed in a less negative manner, sharing with me that ants are necessary for peonies to propagate. But my peonies remain relatively “ant-less” and still manage to explode. I did some research on ants and peonies to get to the bottom of the mystery. It is a myth that ants are needed for peonies to bloom. People with rooftop gardens can successfully plant peonies that will bloom without needing to transplant an ant farm as well. But ants do have a special relationship with peonies. They are attracted to the sugary nectar, and once a scout finds a peony, he will inform other ants to join in the feast. These ants are beneficial to the peony bush, because they help ward off aphids, thrips, and other pests that will destroy the buds. Scientists refer to this relationship as biological mutualism, each benefiting from the presence of the other.

Biological mutualism happens throughout the natural world. We see oxpeckers, a bird riding on large mammals, eating parasites like ticks. This provides an easy meal for the bird and helps reduce disease in the mammals. The Disney movie “Finding Nemo” helped educate us on the relationship between clownfish and anemones. Botanists are finding that trees can communicate with one another through the presence of fungi who thrive near their roots. The key to biological mutualism is that both species benefit from the relationship.

While this may benefit the natural world, I wonder how often this idea of biological mutualism shapes the paradigm of how I interact with others. Do I look at relationships with others through the lens of what I receive? And most importantly, how does Christ want us to treat others?

These are hard questions, convoluted with a lot of different nuances. It’s important to have healthy relationships in your life, where you are both giver and receiver. These relationships fill you, allowing you to be vulnerable and transparent. They also help nourish you, providing you with a healthy foundation. For me, these relationships include my husband, family, and close friends.

But not every relationship will be that mutually beneficial. Does this lack of mutual benefit give us a pass on being in a relationship? The Message Bible answers this question by paraphrasing Paul’s words in Romans 15. It says “Those of us who are strong and able in the faith need to step in and lend a hand to those who falter, and not just do what is most convenient for us. Strength is for service, not for status. Each one of us needs to look after the good of the people around us, asking ourselves how can I help.” Different translations of the Bible affirm that we need to help others. They do not ask us to assess how much we are going to receive back from helping. They don’t ask us to do a cost benefit analysis, asking what their responsibility is and what is just enabling. The scriptures simply state that if we are strong, we are called to help those who are weak.

I have not always done this well. There are times I have been frustrated in helping others, annoyed with what seemed like ingratitude. Other times I have counted the cost and set boundaries because I felt others were taking advantage of me. And even worse, I have grumbled while helping, making my good deeds ugly in the eyes of God.

I agree, we need to set healthy boundaries in life. We can’t give from an empty well. Just this week, I recognized that my RA was affecting my body in such a way that I needed extra rest. I had to let my dear friend know that I couldn’t watch her sweet twin boys on Monday. This was a wise decision not based on convenience. But how often have I used excuses in the past to only do what is convenient?

I am called to sacrifice, and this includes both time and resources. Only I know, through prayer and honesty, when I am truly sacrificing. There are some questions I need to ask myself. Am I helping in a visible way so I can receive accolades? Am I only reaching out within my circle, or am I stepping outside of my circle to help? Am I being close-fisted or open-handed with what God has entrusted to me? Am I grumbling while helping?

The answers to these questions don’t always show me as a stellar example of Christianity. Instead, my actions often lead me to repentance. And I keep moving forward, trying to live out Romans 15 in a way that aligns me with the example of Jesus. When I think about how Jesus would answer these questions, I see a man who ministered to others even when no one else was around. He ministered continuously to the marginalized of society. He regularly gave so fully of himself that he was exhausted to the point of sleeping through a storm at sea. Finally, although in his flesh He asked for the cup to pass, He walked willingly to the cross without complaint.

Mary Oliver continues her poem by asking a question, “Do you also hurry, half dressed, and barefoot, into the garden, and softly, and exclaiming of their dearness, fill your arms with the white and pink flowers, with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling, their eagerness to be wild and perfect for a moment before they are nothing, forever?” My peonies may have another week or so of blooms before they fall silent for the rest of the summer. It’s a few fleeting weeks of joy for me, where I gather the blooms with delight. I also have a few fleeting moments to gather with and bless those around me with the love of Jesus. Will I run to do His not-always-convenient will, or will I shrink away from the ants on my peonies?

“Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.” Philippians 4:8

In the 1990s, Mary Engelbreit’s artwork appeared on cards, calendars, and even fabrics. Her designs included cherries on a black background speckled with white polka dots that captured the hearts of many Americans. Her cards had witty sayings, leading to her illustrating a few children’s books as well. Terry read a book about her design aesthetic, which was a collected, curated look. She believed in the motto of William Morris, leader of the British Arts and Craft movement. He said, “Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be beautiful or believe to be useful.”

Once a week, Terry and I indulge in a few shows on the Magnolia Network. We love story-themed shows about food, home décor, and gardening. This differs from the fast-paced competition shows where a few chefs receive a box of food and are expected to create an incredible meal. It also differs from the house flipping episodes where predictably the foundation is slipping or there is something wrong with the plumbing. There is nothing wrong with these shows, and we still occasionally watch those as well. But we love the stories behind artisans and farmers who create and produce unique products.

Recently, Jean Stoffer from The Established Home talked about the importance of a well-designed room. She believed that three elements were needed: something old with patina, something alive such as a plant, and a piece of art. In this episode she highlighted the work of a local painter who captured still life in oil. Stoffer used a few small pieces of her art to decorate a large kitchen she was remodeling.

Her comment in conjunction with William Morris’s quote made me think about the importance of art and my relationship to art. I didn’t grow up appreciating fine art. Instead, my elementary art class reinforced my lack of coordination when I struggled to color within lines or draw simple objects. I never went to an art museum, believing that art didn’t speak to the masses, but was only for the wealthy who lived in big cities. And although I knew some of the main artists, I didn’t understand the different schools of art or how major artists influenced the art world and beyond.

This started to change when I was exposed to art in college by my favorite professor, Dr Hans Bader. In 1991, Dr. Bader turned off the classroom lights to show us slides of Russian art. My college experience happened in the ancient days before the caffeinated latte craze. Thus, my afternoon slump left me struggling, pinching myself every so often to stay awake. I knew that he would ask us to describe a few of these art pieces and their importance for a future test. Dr. Bader described the paintings, sculptures, and architecture in ways that made it all come alive. And as the class went on, I found myself no longer pinching, but awake and listening with wonder.

Around this time, my Aunt Brenda started painting and teaching some of my friends to paint. They created beautiful pieces and I saw how art was a form of expression for these budding artists. When I moved to the Chicago area, I remember hearing that The Art Institute of Chicago was a premier museum housing original pieces by Monet, Seurat, and Van Gogh. I took advantage of my location and visited this museum several times, including during the largest touring Monet Exhibition. And then I had children and was intentional in making art accessible to them through museum visits and learning art history. Eventually, I realized that art was not limited to a certain socio-economic status but was for everyone to enjoy. More importantly, art became important to me.

Art, like beauty, is often believed to be in the eye of the beholder. I love the fuzzy images of impressionists; it makes me feel like I have stepped into an imaginary land where anything is possible. I love how Van Gogh’s use of color expresses his evolving emotions. I have even discovered some modern artists like Makoto Fujimura who collaborates with Japanese artisans to use materials to layer and paint images of the gospel. I also love the finger painting my grandson made me, especially when he specifically told his mom he was painting this one for Mimi! I have even tried my hand at art, sketching flowers, and plants.

Russ Ramsey, author of Rembrandt Is in the Wind, Learning to Love Art through the Eyes of Faith, argues that “The pursuit of goodness, the pursuit of truth, and the pursuit of beauty are, in fact, foundational to the health of any community.” As a Christian, I started my faith journey by pursuing truth. I viewed every sermon, every reading of the Bible, and every experience with the task of exposing the truth of who God was and how I should live my life. This view narrowed my world, hyper focusing on truth and principles. And then a few years ago, my faith hit a major crisis, and I needed to rest in the goodness of God. I recognized that mercy and grace were fundamental to the Christian faith. Without them, my faith would have long since collapsed in a pile of legalistic rubbish!

Now, I am focused on the pursuit of beauty. Elaine Scarry, author of On Beauty and Being Just, says, “Beauty quickens. It adrenalizes. It makes the heart beat faster. It makes life more vivid, animated, living worth living.” I have purposed to have art on my walls, believing it adds beauty to my home. But all too often, I move around my home, focused on the tasks of life. I see the shelves that need to be dusted, the floor that needs to be vacuumed, and the pile of papers that needs to be organized. These tasks are important; clean, organized spaces allow art to shine. But are my art pieces just accessories, or do they help make living worth living?

And this is where I pause to focus on the art in my home. I have two prints from a Pennsylvania artist that Terry and I discovered on a trip to the Brandywine Art Museum. These landscapes prints flank a window in my living room, adding color, beauty, and peace to my space. I can look out my window and see bunnies hopping around in my yard, or a bird resting in the grass. And then my eyes can bounce to my pictures, expanding my view of the outside world. I am also privileged to have some original artwork from my Aunt Brenda. These pieces meet me every day when I climb the stairs at bedtime. Again, I can pause and gaze on the cypress trees against the Italian sky she drew for my husband and remind myself of dreams I still hope to live.

I am currently looking to redo the décor on the walls in my kitchen. I know on one wall; we want a white board calendar to help us get a better handle on our busy schedule. Not only will it record our responsibilities, but it will be a space where we can be intentional in carving out time for beauty. On the other wall, I want a piece of art to reflect my growing awareness of the importance of beauty in my relationship with God. I haven’t found the right pieces but am on the hunt for something that draws me closer to God.

Seeking beauty is just as important to me as seeking truth and goodness. It reminds me that my hope is not in this world, especially when ordinary living feels challenging. I have been struggling with my Rheumatoid Arthritis and all the other disorders I have in conjunction with it. Most days, I struggle just to get out of bed. And most evenings, I struggle to find a position in bed that doesn’t hurt one or more of my joints. It would be easy for me to wallow in my pain. But I believe that lifting my gaze to beauty that God has created, or endowed an artist to create, helps me see past my pain. As Makato Fujimura writes in his book Culture Care, “Beauty is a gratuitous gift of the creator God, it finds its source and its purpose in God’s character.” And in looking at art, I find the peace and hope that I know is in my God.

“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is an new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come.” 2 Corinthians 5:17

I have a new plant. I took a picture of it and sent it to my grandson, asking if the name “Spencer” was suitable. I know asking an almost-three-year-old to help you name a plant seems a bit ridiculous. But there is a history of us naming plants. Before Joel could talk, we cautioned him to be careful around Phoebe, a big floor plant next to my white shaggy ottoman. He then would go towards Phoebe and pet her. I bought a new plant a month ago, and Joel was on FaceTime when I showed it to him. We threw out a few names, and he had definite opinions of what he liked and didn’t like. So, we settled on “Camilla.” And now my newest plant is waiting to be christened.

Names are important. They are our identity, both legally and relationally. They are what we respond to when called, and often we have strong associations with names. I have a friend who worked as a prison guard in a county jail. In anticipation of becoming a father, he had a difficult time picking a name because he didn’t want the names of his children to be associated with anyone he had dealt with in the context of his job.

It’s interesting to me how names come and go. In my generation, Jennifer, Michelle, and Lisa were popular. Now, I see girls named Olivia, Emma, and Ava. Popular books, singers, and TV shows can also influence or “make” a name. Right after Prince William married Kate, there was a surge in popularity of the names Kate and Catherine. Even the pandemic had an influence on names, with people choosing names that had to do with the outdoors, like Forrest and Willow. In large part, however, the names are decided based on what the parents like. I know that, for us, having an Irish link in the names for our children was important.

My mother-in-law was named Eva Jane Easley, after both of her grandmothers. She never loved her first name, partially because it was the name of the grandmother that she didn’t like as much. Additionally, her temper elicited teasing by her siblings with yells of “Evil Eva!” So, she went by Jane most of her life. She enjoyed the commonality of the name and associated it with the kind grandmother she loved. But at the time of her death, due to all the medical procedures, she ended up going by Eva, because that was her legal name. The name on her birth certificate stuck until her death, and her obituary was entitled “Eva Jane Edmonds.” Despite her dislike of it, my son and daughter-in-law love the name, and their first daughter is named Eva after her great-grandmother.

Although the name Sherry was on my birth certificate, who I am as a person can evolve and grow. And this growth is contingent not only on how much effort I put towards it, but also how much I submit to God in humility. And sometimes this growth is painful and challenging.

In the past few months, I realized how much of my identity was tied up in not fitting the fat person stereotype: lazy, dirty, and dumb. Not to appear lazy, I kept an exhausting schedule, filling my day with lots of activities. I kept my house clean so that I would not appear dirty. I was also self-conscious when meeting people who had professional titles, making sure I engaged in conversations that highlighted my intellectual interests, not wanting to appear uneducated. I was all about portraying the image of a smart, tidy, industrious woman!

But then I lost weight, and who was this new Sherry? For a while, I was the exercise-obsessed person who lived and breathed my jaunts to the gym, Pilates routines, and daily walking adventures. I was also very conscious of what I put into my mouth and often not-so-subtly shared this information with family and friends. This new Sherry wanted desperately to be accepted as what I deemed normal.

Now, I have put some weight back on and who am I now? And the bigger question is why did I let these stereotypes loom so large in my life? I would never let others label people based on their race, age, or gender. But for some reason, I have bought into the belief of what a fat person is and have worked hard to dispel the stereotype. Why haven’t I spoken up for those whom society calls fat? Many of us are productive members of society. We care about our communities. We have interests that are not food related. Many of us may be genetically predisposed to a higher number on the scale even though we are moving. And many are disciplined people whose weight may have nothing to do with a lack of discipline.

I am plugging along with my memoir, currently writing the part on restoring the kitchen, which centers on my obesity. I did a deep dive into my childhood and some suppressed memories have come to the surface. Based on pictures, my rapid weight gain was in direct proportion to my trauma. I remembered stuffing cupcakes and brownies into my mouth to deal with shame, anger, and despair. As I moved from a healthy weight to obesity, I hoped that my rolls and cellulite would cushion the pain from the weekly assaults. Food protected, numbed, and became my closest companion during those hard years.

Today, I realize that my ultimate protection lies in my faith in a good God. And my closest companion was never those sugar-addicting snacks, but Jesus who was there all along. And the hard emotions that I continued to cover up as an adult, I can take them to Jesus. There have been some repercussions from these hard emotions. It has taken a considerable amount of time to process when and why I feel certain feelings. And then, I need to be honest with others about those feelings and occasionally set some healthy boundaries. I wish I could say I have always done this well, but honestly, it has been messy. However, I keep moving toward being a healthier person, owning my mistakes, and repairing relationships as needed.

Recently, I shared with someone that I was considering graduate school for counseling. Immediately, she cautioned me that I might have a hard time finding a job due to my age. I finished the conversation feeling deflated, less than, and disappointed. I sat down for a few minutes, analyzed why I was feeling this way, and called her back. I shared my feelings, and immediately she recognized that, although it wasn’t her intention, her response came off as discouraging. We talked about some other hard things that I had been feeling, and I believe it helped us both understand each other better and move towards healing. Moments like this have me convinced that all those years of stuffing have never left me satisfied or fulfilled. They have left me feeling hurt, misunderstood, and have added to the difficulties I have felt in relationships.

I no longer feel a need to dispel any stereotypes. And I no longer define myself by the numbers on a scale. I am no longer “fat Sherry” or “thin Sherry”.  I am not even “in-between Sherry”.  I am the Sherry who is learning to define herself by the principles laid out in the Bible, not by the past messages I have received and internalized. This Sherry is so much more than my past trauma, my roles, and status. She is an ever-evolving person committed to Jesus!

Sherry Ann Walter was the name on my birth certificate. Someday, my obituary will read Sherry Ann Collins. But neither name really matters, it is who I am in between that makes all the difference. And I want to see who this Sherry becomes!

“When you reap the harvest of your land, you shall not wholly reap the corners of your field, no shall you gather the gleanings of your harvest. And you shall not glean your vineyard, no shall you gather every grape of your vineyard; you shall leave them for the poor and the stranger:” Leviticus 19:10

My brother-in-law handed me “Braiding Sweetgrass” on my first day in Nebraska. I had heard of the title before, believing it was already on my TBR list. I paged through the chapters, read the back cover, and was instantly intrigued. Written by an indigenous botanist, the author examines her relationship to the earth through her culture and science. I had carried with me on the plane some other books which I hoped to finish. These books had due dates, stories in which I already had invested time. Yet, this white paperback beckoned me, moving me to take every spare moment to read while I was in Nebraska. Enraptured, I reread beautiful lines of prose that challenged my way of thinking. And in seven days, I finished the book, feeling like something within me had changed.

The book came at a time when I have been examining my own relationship to my culture, being one-quarter Native American. My biological father deserted me as an infant, leaving me with questions about my heritage. I knew that I had a grandmother with the maiden name of Whitefeather. My dark hair, high cheek bones, and olive skin tone always made me feel slightly out of place in my homogeneous hometown. I knew I was partly Native American, but I felt like an impostor, since I had no stories or connection to this part of my heritage. In the last few months, I have discovered I have more siblings, some of whom have been officially enrolled in the tribe to which my family belongs. I asked a question of Howie, my brother: “When did you identify with your Native American culture?” He replied that he was at a young age, when a teacher recognized his heritage, and encouraged him to be proud of his indigenous ancestry.

My favorite farmers’ markets will be opening soon, along with the abundance of vegetables and fruits. I have managed to curb my impulse buying in the dollar section of Target. But when it comes to a bundle of ramps, Swiss Chard, or radishes, I get dizzy with delight. I see the basket of nectarines next to the pint of plums, and think to myself, I can totally eat these this week. I forget about the other berries I also have sitting at home. I grab bags of fresh greens, tomatoes, and imagine the salads I will have for lunch, forgetting that on three of those days I will have leftovers that also shouldn’t go to waste. The reality is that I buy more food than the two of us can eat. And I end up wasting some of it.

Food waste is a national problem, and one that we are totally unaware of, or maybe we are in denial. It is estimated that a family of four throws away about 31.9 % of their food. We buy too much, over-consume, and then waste. But with food prices going up, I think more of us are becoming aware of how food affects our budgets, making us more conscientious of waste. But “Braiding Sweetgrass” made me aware of a deeper issue. I realized that I as a consumer, regularly take and waste with little consideration for the producers or my community.

Native American cultures, likely because of their hunting and gathering lifestyles, were keenly aware of their food and its sources. They believed in the principle of honorable harvest. This means they took only what they needed for their family, and left the rest, so that future generations would also be able to harvest. Robin Wall Kimmerer, the author of “Braiding Sweetgrass” encourages us to learn from indigenous people and their way of harvesting. Their practices kept the earth healthy, full of nutrients necessary for plants to grow, animals to eat, and life to flourish. She continues these ancient practices when she sees wild leeks growing. She harvests in the center of the leeks patch. This is where leeks are over-crowded, and the thinning of the patch will allow it to spread and grow. Kimmerer also takes the time to carefully dig for the leeks, and if they seem plentiful, easy to harvest, she continues, but only taking what she needs.

Kimmerer also reminds readers of the importance of sharing. When she forages, she often uses what she finds in the wild to nourish others. If she makes a bowl of soup from the wild leeks, she makes it a practice to share the soup with others. She recognizes that this food, some of which she did nothing to produce, is a gift, and that it’s her responsibility to share that gift with others.

Finally, Kimmerer writes about the concept of reciprocity. She says, “One of our responsibilities as human people is to find ways to enter into reciprocity with the more-than-human world. We can do it through gratitude, through ceremony, through land stewardship, science, art and in everyday acts of practical reverence.” This may at first seem contradictory to my Christian world point of view, but when I think about God giving us dominion over the earth, it wasn’t to destroy it or over-consume it. It was to keep the earth flourishing with the good gifts our God gave us in the way of clean water, food, and nature to enjoy.

When I think about how God is sovereign, and His goal is to help me live life abundantly, I must model his style of ruling in how I take care of the earth. My dominion should take the form of helping the earth flourish abundantly. He even gives us models of how to do this with his gleaning principle. Mosaic law encouraged landowners to leave some produce in their fields for widows and other marginalized people to harvest. In this same way, Ruth gleaned wheat, catching the interest of Boaz. And later, this foreign woman became a central figure in the lineage of both King David and Jesus. God’s principle of “honorable harvest” can benefit my world and future generations.

Where do I start? How do I engage in honorable harvest practices? It seems overwhelming: our overuse of plastic, waste food, soil depletion, clean water issues, and use of pollutants. For me, it starts in small steps. And one of those steps involves food waste. I have been thinking about my current food shopping habits. I am trying to be realistic about how much fresh fruit I buy, and whether I can consume all of it before it goes bad. Would it be better to limit myself to two or three different types of fruit before I purchase more? It seems reasonable. Also, I am really thinking about menu planning. If I purchase a vegetable that will be used for one recipe, but will have some of the vegetable left over, how can I incorporate that unused veggie in another dish? Finally, when I make a pot of soup or a main dish that is meant for more than two people, I can be more intentional in inviting someone over to share the meal with us or set aside a portion to take to them.

The last area of intentionality will be addressed later this summer. I love making jam and fruit butter with produce I pick or gather throughout the summer. But again, I tend to make more than the two of us can consume. The solution is to give some away, and this simple act of sharing can be a blessing to others, sharing the goodness of God.

Currently, I am looking into whether I can be enrolled in the Red Lake Nation, my family’s tribe. The draw for me is to find ways I can connect with my heritage. Unfortunately, it looks like a longshot due to a couple of reasons. But God finds ways to answer out heart’s desire. The lessons from “Braiding Sweetgrass” have made me proud of how my ancestors lived and treated the earth. Now, it’s my job to continue some of their practices.

“One thing I have desired of the Lord, that will I seek; that I may dwell in the house of the Lord, All the days of my life, to behold the beauty of the Lord, and to inquire in His temple.” Psalms 27:4

It’s full-blown spring in south central PA, no more hints or snippets. Cheerful daffodils are popping out of flower beds, while purple and pink hyacinths display their splendor. Cherry and dogwood trees are in full bloom, while other trees are starting to put out glimpses of spring green foliage. The birds’ morning conversations are loud and melodious, making it easier to crawl out of bed. Delighted, bouncy, and energetic seem the perfect adjectives to capture my mood and mobility.

In January, a lot of people claim a word as their motto for the year. This word, whether it be “intentional” or “cultivate” sets a tone for the upcoming year. It might appear on their refrigerator, mood boards, or social media posts. The purpose behind the word is to help set direction for the year, to keep this word at the forefront. Sometimes, I jump on the bandwagon and come up with a word. And some years it impacts my plans, but other years I can’t quite remember what the word was.

This year, my mind was blank, something that doesn’t happen often. I always seem to have ideas or thoughts swirling around in my head. I did set some goals for myself for the upcoming year but had no overarching theme and I felt a little directionless. I know my seasonal slump probably contributed to this, but it seemed to drag, making my vision for the future cloudy. My post about confetto was the beginning of coming out of the slump, but I still felt a little like a slug, having a hard time moving and making my way forward. I had no momentum or bounce. In the world of the Hundred Acre Wood, for the first time in my life I would describe myself as a little Eeyore-ish, less like my normal Pooh or Tigger demeanor.

My sister sent a post from a conference she attended; it was exactly what I needed to move forward. It said, “Stop thinking so much, you’re breaking your own heart.” I realize, although I have been doing hard work, I have been fixated on my trauma, and not fixated on the healer of my trauma. I had been spending time in my past, which is good, but not spending as much time in the present with God, where I can receive strength when things are hard. I had gotten things completely out of balance. And in looking so much inward, I forgot the beauty of looking up.

I recently heard about an amazing project called “The Growing Kindness Project”.  Deanna Kitchen started growing flowers and had an abundance of sweet peas in bloom. She cut her flowers, put them in vases, and along with her children, delivered them to a senior center. She knew that flowers brought beauty and joy to her life and wanted to spread the happiness. This simple act became a mission for her family, where now she gives away dahlia tubers, so that others can spread the kindness. The testimonies are beautiful of how the lives of both the givers and the receivers have been changed.

She could sell the flowers to raise money, a tangible way to help the community. One could argue that she could have grown vegetables and given away some of the produce. This would have been a tangible way to fight hunger in her community. But that is discounting the importance of beauty and why it is so valuable to our souls.

Studies have shown that when we gaze upon something beautiful, it lowers our anxiety and depression. It calms our busy brains and activates our creativity. Some studies indicate that when feasting on something beautiful, whether its art, music, or nature, it opens space for us to come up with solutions. Beauty changes the way we process information and is essential to our well-being. But often it is the one thing we forget.

The past few years have been hard for our nation: a global pandemic, political and social upheaval, threats of war, school shootings, and growing inflation. I have been transparent how my life has been in transition for the past few years as well, from an unexpected job loss, some physical challenges, empty nest, and a change in where we worship. Some of these changes have been good, but with all the changes, I have experienced some anxiety and stress. And I think it has reduced my capacity to bounce back from each change. Some days, I have found myself endlessly scrolling or listening to podcasts, sitting in a chair, without any movement forward, just kind of stuck.

I am currently reading a book “The Natural World of Winnie-the-Pooh.” Kathryn Aalto, the author, explores the forests in England where A.A. Milne and E. H. Shepherd were inspired to write and illustrate the characters of the Hundred Acre Wood. The book reminds me that getting unstuck requires intentionality. One of my favorite Pooh stories is how his love for honey gets him stuck in Rabbit’s hole. For a few weeks, Pooh stays stuck until his tummy thins out. He’s intentional about avoiding honey even when he just wants to taste it.

My answer lies in the word God gave me this week to get unstuck: beauty. Currently, my favorite verse in the Bible is Psalms 27:4, “One thing I have desired of the Lord, that will I see, that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to behold the beauty of the Lord and to inquire in his temple.” I need to focus on the beauty that God has created for me to enjoy. And as I look for beauty, I find myself filled, inspired, and propelled.

This beauty can be found in the nature poems my husband and I read each night. It can be found in my yard, looking at my magnolia bush blooming out. It’s captured in a picture of Eva’s sweet smile sent to me by Rachel. It is heard when I listen to the violins in Vivaldi’s “Spring.” I taste beauty as I bite into fresh asparagus. And it is felt when I spend time with God, sharing with Him my gratitude for the beauty He has given me.

I should have seen this word coming already on January 2 when Terry and I were prompted to become members of Winterthur Gardens. Despite the rainy wintry day, we both felt peace and tranquility as we explored the gardens. We heard the tour guide describe how the garden would enfold in the upcoming seasons. We felt this anticipation of the beauty, and membership seemed the best way to explore the garden in the upcoming year. I have already planned an outing with a friend later this week, and Terry and I are planning to explore the gardens at the end of this month.

Spring is here, and along with it are opportunities for me to capture beauty. This means less time scrolling and more time looking up and around. And I believe that even though the word came late to me, I still have eight solid months to focus on the beauty of the Lord!