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Moldy Divisions

“Let your steadfast love, O Lord, be upon us, even as we hope in you.” Psalm 33:22 ESV

Black mold leached across the inside of the wooden lid of my floral painted glass tumbler. I scrubbed and scrubbed but was unable even with brushes to eradicate the mold underneath the rubber seal. There was nothing to do but throw the lid away. I was devastated; my thoughtful daughter, Maggie, had purchased this tumbler for my birthday. One of the best gift givers I know, she picked out something that was both cheerful and sustainable with a glass straw. For a solid month, I used the glass regularly. But one night, after an exciting book club meeting on Zoom, I left the glass, with water in it, on my desk, and forgot about it for about a week. And over the course of that week, mold developed and ruined the lid.

For the past few years, I have struggled with finding where my faith intersects with my political views. For years, I believed that my party held high moral ground when it came to supporting candidates. We took a strong stance when one president had an inappropriate relationship with an intern, and even moved to impeach him (I struggle with using the words “inappropriate relationship” when power dynamics are involved). But then came 2016 and the Hollywood Access tapes, and all the same issues that plagued former President Bill Clinton seemed to be ignored when dealing with Donald Trump. I heard again and again, vote for the one who supports causes Christians believe in, it doesn’t matter what his character has been. I watched while fellow Christians who voted for Donald Trump, and as he gained office and passed legislation, they seemed to put him on the same pedestal as Jesus.

Four years later, when protestors stormed the Capitol, these same Christians justified his actions. As more allegations have come against him, including credible sexual assault, Christians have chosen to align themselves even closer to former President Trump. They ignore all the hate speech, white supremacy connections, and belittling comments he makes. Instead, they focus on his candidates for the Supreme Court, some of his policies, and create memes where angels and Jesus are watching over his candidacy.

I have found some Christian community that doesn’t support Trump. Russell Moore, David and Nancy French, Tim Alberta and others take a strong and EDUCATED stance against Trump because of their faith. They articulate their views on various podcasts, op-eds in different newspapers, and have even written some books that explain how we as Evangelicals have gotten to the Trump era. They don’t profess that as Christians we have to be perfect. But they do believe that as Christians, we need to be ethical in who we support in politics.

By now, we have all heard of the assassination attempt on former President Donald Trump. As much as I oppose Donald Trump and have major concerns if he is elected, I am thankful that the assassination was not a success. Russell Moore stated on the social medial platform X that “Political violence is evil to the core and is an attack on everything this nation represents. Attempted murder is an attack on the image of God.” David French commented on Threads, “In moments like this, it’s imperative to condemn political violence, full stop. Don’t what-about. Don’t measure which side is worse. Just say it’s wrong, loudly and clearly.” They are the middle of the road voices that believe in God, rule of law, and decency.

Unfortunately, on both sides of the political spectrum, there are extremely loud voices that don’t hold themselves to these same standards. Instead, conspiracy theories are running amok in social media, wild assumptions about the hand of God and where the bullet should have gone are also being articulated, and more memes are shared about the wings of angels guarding certain individuals.

The mold on my lid spread because it had the perfect environment. Our air conditioning was on the fritz for the past few weeks. Therefore, the hotter temperatures in that room were causing the water to condense on the inside of the lid. It probably only took a few days before the mold developed, and within that few days my lid was ruined.

A week after the assassination attempt, President Biden has chosen not to seek reelection. With this new election drama, just like the mold, hyperbole is spreading from extremists on both sides. They each claim that democracy is at stake and accuse the other side of being fascist or socialist.

A few Sundays ago, my husband spoke boldly when leading prayer in our church. He asked the church at large to truly follow Jesus, instead of making certain hot button issues our religion or a certain politician our messiah. When I reflect on Terry’s focused prayer, I pause to consider what my personal rhetoric endorses.

As a Christian, I have asked myself some hard questions in the last few years. I continue to wrestle with these questions amid a divided nation, assassination attempts, and suspended campaigns. Do I follow Jesus, or do I follow a political party? Do I recognize the Bible as truth, including its consistent advocacy for the marginalized groups, or do I continue to vote in a way that further marginalize these groups? Finally, do I educate myself on these issues, instead of just accepting the views from certain perspectives, whether right or left?

This has been a journey for me, and in my community, I often feel alone with some of my views. I struggle with the urge to persuade others to take this journey with me. I try to hide my expressions as I cringe when Christians share a belief that I find contrary to my faith. I know my reactions, both verbal and nonverbal, should reflect Christ.

Where does this leave me in this upcoming election? First, local elections are far more important than I have ever believed. I am going to take the time to educate myself on who is running for school boards, council positions, and state offices. I think these positions can have a more direct impact than I initially believed on some of the causes I support. I also recently heard on a few podcasts a theme of hope, no matter who wins this election. This hope is not in a particular party, platform, or agenda. My hope needs to rest in Christ. Therefore, the outcome of the November election is not going to determine my joy or my peace. I am going to place my hope in the only place that sustains—in the arms of a just and gracious God, the only place I can find peace.

Terry was right to challenge me to follow Jesus; only He can save and lead!!

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Rip Van Winkle and My New Job

“I can do all things through him who strengthens me.” Philippians 4:13

Once again, I submitted my resume for a part-time position with a non-profit where I would be coordinating volunteers and connecting with the community. It was also for a cause I believed in: helping the unhoused in various ways. I knew it was a long shot, but I was hoping the part-time nature would limit the prospective applicant field, increasing my chances. To my surprise, I had a phone interview which led to an in-person interview. I grew excited and really hoped I would receive an offer. So, I waited, and on my way to Rhode Island I was offered and accepted the position. For the first time in 27 years, I was entering the work force on a professional level.

My husband and I made the decision for me to stay home with our children and later home educate them as well. My life was busy, creating lesson plans, writing some of my own curriculum, and researching the best methods to give my children a solid education. To make ends meet in our budget, I occasionally took on part-time jobs, including working as a direct seller for Pampered Chef, cleaning an office building, and working at Target. But most of my supplementary income came in the form of childcare, and in those 27 years, I have taken care of over sixty children, fifteen of which were long term stints. But lesson plans, church volunteering, and working retail 15 years ago don’t fill a resume with eye-catching work experience or marketable skills.

My first week of work, I packed my lunch, wore professional clothing, and left my house early in the morning. I was excited and nervous, but confident that I could do the job. But my confidence quickly dissipated when I started filling out forms and having conversations about drives, CRMs, mastering Outlook, and creating an email signature. For the first time, I felt exactly what I looked look like to the world: Rip Van Winkle (aka domestic servant and home educator) wakes up after having slept away the last twenty-seven years.

I don’t want to minimize the work I did at home. For many years, I successfully budgeted, meal planned, and prepared three meals a day for a family of four, including a few extras on a consistent basis. I was the master scheduler: organizing family events, managing activities, and doctor appointments, while making sure that all of us had clean underwear on a regular basis. Additionally, I taught my children how to read, write, and do arithmetic. I exposed them to art and music, explored nature and science, and made history come alive for them. I successfully prepared them for college, and both are still lifelong learners. I was busy leading a full life and still found time to be a Sunday School teacher, VBS coordinator, Bible Quizzing coach, and lead a girl’s group.

But all decisions have costs, and although my decision to stay home was best for our family, it led to a thin resume. When I last worked professionally, email was just starting to become a form of communication. I had a basic program I used for logging my activities, but it didn’t connect with the rest of my staff, and we only used one drive. My foray into the professional world made me feel unprepared and unqualified.

I have felt this way before: as I entered college, after I got married, bringing my first child home, picking a phonics program for my children, starting a blog, and writing my book. With each of these challenges, I felt inadequate and unsure. Those feelings are not bad, they position you to take the necessary steps in the right direction. I researched, asked a lot of questions, pivoted when I took a wrong step, and continued to work towards my goal. I wanted to be successful in college, marriage, parenting, home educating, and writing, and that meant taking risks. Just like in the past, I couldn’t let my Rip Van Winkle persona stop me from attempting to do my best in this new position.

It’s been a huge adjustment these last few weeks. I still feel like I am immersing myself in new skills: creating events for my Outlook calendar, formatting Excel databases to fit my needs, and creating procedures for me to do my work more effectively. My husband quietly smirks as I ask him about Excel spreadsheets, which I used to refer to as “my nemesis” (Terry is an Excel groupie and looks for coffee mugs or T-shirts to display his undying love). But at the same time, I feel like I am getting into a groove. I have had some insightful conversations with volunteers about what motivates them to sacrifice their time for our organization.

 What has surprised me the most is all the support I have been given by women who have been professionals all their adult lives. They offered technical support, a safe place to share my insecurities, and, most of all, encouragement. I have heard consistently from these women that they believe that I will succeed and that the position sounds perfect for me.

 For so many years, there seemed to be a divide between women who stayed at home and women who worked. Both sides felt like their side was being slighted, and competition ensued for whose job was the hardest. Today, it seems like we have turned a corner, and instead of working hard to validate our choices, more women are cheering each other on in their choices. And for someone who needed some extra reinforcement when insecurities flared, it was refreshing that so many successful, professional women were there to cheer me on!

By the way, for the first time in my life, I am going to get business cards…I am so excited!!!

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Weight Based on Grace

But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me. 2 Corinthians 12:9

I loved social studies throughout elementary school and junior high school. I read Laura Ingalls Wilder as a child, wishing I lived in a log cabin in the Wisconsin forest. I relished maps, carefully labeling the states and their capitals. I enjoyed creating the Wisconsin State project in fourth grade, learning about fur traders, German immigrants, and French missionaries. I even kept my 1984 election scrapbook until a few years ago, when I argued with Mr.Bemis that Mondale may still pull off the election. I dreamed of becoming a congressional aide or lobbyist, living in a brownstone in the heart of Washington DC.

Throughout those years, earning good grades in social studies came easy. I was so passionate about the subject; I soaked up the information like a sponge. I didn’t have to study as hard as I did in math or science, until Bob. St. Pierre’s World History class my sophomore year. I absolutely loved his class; he made ancient and medieval history come alive. My mind was filled with the treasures of the Library of Alexandria, the Code of Charlemagne, and the impact Robespierre had on the Reign of Terror during the French Revolution. Despite my love for his class, I had a rude awakening when my first test grade was a C-. With the audacity only a teenager can have, I asked him if there was some sort of mistake. He kindly told me he could tell that I hadn’t studied the material. He encouraged me to work harder next time and was sure my grades would improve. He held my lackluster grade in one hand and the possibility of a better future grade in the other hand. And he was right, with a little studying, soon I was earning higher grades.

A high school classmate of mine was featured on a podcast recently regarding her sobriety journey. After a season of hard things, Melissa admitted to her doctor that she had a problem with drinking. When the test results came back indicating that her liver was not functioning optimally, she was borderline diabetic, and had high cholesterol, Melissa knew she needed to make some drastic changes to live her best life. Within nine months of eliminating alcohol, choosing healthier foods and exercise, Melissa saw the results of her hard work. All her numbers shifted to normal, healthy levels and, more importantly, she felt better. She is sharing her journey both on Instagram and a new podcast as The Sober New Yorker. What struck me the most, despite her relationship with alcohol, Melissa, without hesitation and with total confidence, declared she was a great mom. She had no doubt that she had raised healthy, confident children.

In the last few years, I have realized how my childhood trauma informed some of my parenting. I took normal feedback from my children too personally, letting it paralyze me, instead of filtering it and making changes where needed. Additionally, my own desire to have a great family often came at the price of my children’s ability to safely express their emotions or challenges they were facing. I have asked them for forgiveness, but often the weight of these mistakes has clouded my conclusions about my parenting. It’s as if I put my evaluation of me being a mother on a scale, and more often I have tipped it towards the negative side, leaning towards the place of not being a great mom.

My husband made some of the same mistakes I made, and yet if you asked me about his parenting, I would not hesitate to tell you that he was a great dad. He worked a full-time job and was in school during most of their formative years. Yet, he chose to sacrifice his sleep so he could spend quality time with his children. He played with them, sang silly songs, and used different voices when reading The Trumpet of the Swan and The Hobbit. Once, he took them rock hunting and carried a backpack of treasured rocks for a half mile back to our car. He was affectionate and made Christmas magical for them. He used his artistic talents to help me carry out their birthday party extravaganzas. And he faithfully tucked them in at night and prayed over them.

This is a problem we face throughout our lives. We weigh something as either good or bad. And in some cases, some things are truly bad. My childhood was awful, and to heal, I needed to acknowledge the weight of that. If you have been raised by abusive parents, that is bad, and there is no good in it. But more often, there are a lot of us who are doing our best to be good parents, and we need to properly evaluate our parenting skills. We will make mistakes; we will not respond to our children perfectly calmly and be attuned to their emotions one hundred percent of the time. But if we are striving to be intentional, working on our own responses, and making our children a priority, we are doing a great job. We were never meant to be perfect, because we are human. And in our imperfections, we allow God to fill in the places in our children’s lives where we come up short.

This negative judgment creeps into all areas of my life: how I evaluate my finances, how I look at my body, and how I determine success in both my work and ministry. It’s so easy to look at things and see where I have perceived failure: I don’t own my home and I weigh more than I did two years ago. And it would be easy to take my life as a whole, put it on the scale of success, and weigh it as unsuccessful.

A few weeks ago, I had conversations with two women whom I had helped with childcare for a season. One mother was in the process of becoming a single mother and working hard to provide for her family. The other woman, along with her husband, chose to foster and later adopt two children who desperately needed a forever home. Yes, I was compensated for my time, but no one does childcare to become wealthy. Both women thanked me for the impact I have had on their families.  And the weight of that gratitude tips my scale towards success in the eyes of God.

I have a lot of exciting things happening in my life. I was just featured on a podcast, Woman Redeemed, my book is about to be published in October, and I have started a new position with a local non-profit organization. I have two incredible adult children who are married to spouses I adore, and three little grandchildren who call me Mimi. I have an amazing group of friends and I am about to celebrate 28 years of marriage to my favorite human. And I have an abiding relationship with God. My life is full and complete. So why do I continue to weigh things?

My scale has been sitting in my closet for the last year. I am still working on creating a healthy relationship with food, and weighing myself daily or even weekly became an obsession and a roller coaster ride of highs and lows. Maybe it’s time to throw out the scale completely. Not just the physical scale that gives me a number, but maybe I need to throw out the mental scale that I use to decide if I am good or bad. Maybe it’s time to show myself the same grace that God shows me and just continue to abide in Him!

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Woman of Worth

“I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well.” Psalm 139:14

Dear Charlotte,

You arrived two weeks ago, forever changing the lives of those around you. With chubby cheeks, looking a bit like your big brother Joel, you have already enchanted us. We can’t wait to see your personality unfold, your interests develop, and your heart grow towards God.

I offer this letter as a prayer for you, sweet baby Charlotte. Not raised as Christians, both your Nana and I came to our faith as teenagers and young adults. Already shaped by our environments, we embodied inaccurate and wounding messages about our worth. We have submitted to the Holy Spirit, allowing God to change us, but this is a process. Unfortunately, some of those messages stuck hard, shaping us as wives, mothers, and friends. They influenced how we viewed ourselves in relation to God. And through the Holy Spirit, we are still dismantling those messages.

This world has a lot to say about how a young girl should measure her worth. Some measure her worth by her appearance: how she looks and what she wears. Some measure her worth by what she accomplishes: what her grades are like or what talents she develops. Still others measure her worth by their opinions, motivating a young woman to seek the approval of others. But God doesn’t measure your worth through your appearance, accomplishments, or approval of others. These are cheap imitations that lead to an unhealthy self-image, competition, and unfulfillment!

Charlotte Anne was born on June 4, 2024. Image captured by her mother, Rachel.

Charlotte, you are precious in the sight of the Lord, because God created you in His image. You reflect the image of God, and this reflection will be as distinctive as your very fingerprints. David, in Psalms 139: 13, records that God knitted you together while still in your mother’s womb. This majestic being took the time to craft you together. In the next verse, David goes on to say that wonderful are the works of God.

Someday, you will go to see a valuable piece of art in a museum. They carefully display these pieces in rooms under supervision, temperature control, and limited lighting. Irreplaceable, they preserve these artworks for future generations to enjoy their beauty. Any necessary preservation work is done carefully with state-of-the-art materials to keep the essence of the original artist’s creation.

Charlotte, just like those art pieces, you are valuable to God. Your parents are responsible for raising you in a safe environment where you can display the glory of God in your life. They will also share with you the gospel and how God’s light will lead you to comfort, peace, and joy. I pray this environment, in harmony with the gospel, will help you develop into a godly woman who is confident, compassionate, and seeks collaboration. I pray you will be confident, knowing who you are in God. I pray you will be compassionate, knowing that God is more interested in what kind of person you are than in what you do. I pray you will collaborate with the body of Christ, knowing that as you work with others, you are working together for the kingdom.

I pray you will be a strong woman like those depicted in the Bible. Be a Ruth, choosing to serve the one true God despite her mother-in-law’s despair, changing her lineage forever. Be an Abigail, choosing to be a gracious hostess, soothing a future king from making a fatal mistake. Be an Esther, courageously coming before a king on behalf of her people, declaring if she perished, she perished. Be a Mary, who declared definitively, “Be it unto me, according to your word” despite facing possible rejection and death from her future husband. Most importantly, be the woman God has called you to be!

Charlotte, strong women surround you, including your mama, your Nana, your Aunt Maggie, your older sister Eva, and myself. I hope that, despite our woundings, you also see the different ways God’s image is reflected in us as individual women of worth. But ultimately, I pray that we always point you back to the creator, who is the ultimate source of your worth!

       Love,  Mimi

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Grumpy Old Woman

“He shall be to you a restorer of life and nourisher of your old age.” Ruth 4:15 ESV

In our quest to be healthier, Terry and I made some sourdough morning glory muffins. Instead of refined sugar, we used honey and blackstrap molasses. Following the recipe, we filled the batter with fresh pineapple, grated carrots and zucchini, walnuts, and coconut. Next, we decided to add our own flair: orange zest. I love orange zest! It brightens pasta dishes and adds fresh notes to a salad dressing. It balances desserts and the pop of color is delightful. But in this muffin, after fermenting for the prescribed 24 hours, the zest gave the muffins a bitter aftertaste. I don’t know if the zest reacted badly to the fermentation or contrasted badly with the molasses. I do know I won’t be adding zest the next time.

I turned fifty-two a few weeks ago, and aging is happening before my eyes. My daughter showed me a picture of my husband and I from seven years ago. She remarked about how young we looked, and as much as I wanted to deny it, I could clearly see the difference. Our hair is a little grayer, and our fine lines a little more obvious. Along with the aches and pains of aging, I have read articles on aging that indicate that I should expect my olfactory senses to dull as my taste buds shrink. In the next few decades, food may taste less flavorful and require more salt. By the time I hit my late 70’s, I might like the zest in my morning muffin.

As a young child, the oldest people I knew were my great-grandmother and her sisters. I was forced to endure their presence at major holiday events and celebrations. Scrawny with permed hairdos, they wore polyester pants and patterned blouses. Their sour expressions were accentuated with bright red lipstick. Their penchant for cannibal sandwiches (ground beef tartar and raw onions) was as unpleasant as their complaints about relatives that were not in the room. They were judgmental, often remarking how misbehaved I and my siblings were. They prided themselves on being frank, sharing unwanted advice and opinions. It was one of these ladies who humiliated me by saying I was too fat to wear leg warmers. I clearly remember saying to myself I never want to be a grumpy, crotchety old lady.

The stereotype of being a grumpy old man and a crotchety old lady is illustrated in literature, movies, and TV shows. Archie Bunker embodied grumpiness with his wry remarks to his son-in-law. Ruth Zardo, the fictional poet in Louise Penny’s Three Pines series, frustrates her neighbors but shows unusual affection for her duck. Although these are stereotypes, I do see evidence of growing prickliness in people my age and older. Sometime, much to my dismay, I even see evidence of it creeping into my own life.

It starts with minor complaining: remarking that young moms should be stricter with their toddlers, passing judgment on someone’s Starbucks budget, or sarcastic comments made about the newest fashions. Soon, these comments morph into conclusions about a whole generation, assuming the motivations for their behavior and choices. They might see the younger generation as being disrespectful, distracted, and lazy. I have fallen down this slippery slope, and it’s just a matter of time before this judgmental attitude will potentially transform me into one of those dreadful old great-great aunts, sans the cannibal sandwiches!

Although I can do nothing about my aging taste buds, I can keep from becoming a grumpy old lady. It starts with being more open to new ideas and opinions. Yes, I have more life experiences and, hopefully, a little more wisdom than a twenty-year-old, but I have not arrived. If I remain in a posture of humility, I can maintain curiosity as I invest in my relationships with younger generations. This position has helped me change my assumptions. I’ve learned that my children’s generation believe in working hard, but also value a better work/life balance than previous generations. They don’t see working excessive amounts of overtime as the pinnacle of success. They also value mutual respect and will set healthy boundaries with people when their respect is violated. My generation struggled with boundaries, often partaking in events with cantankerous family members, then leaving frustrated and diminished. Finally, many of the younger generation value authentic relationships, and they see us as being just as attached to our devices as they are.

These are some of the ladies I have served with in MOMCo!

Recently, I saw a post on Jen Hatmaker’s Instagram page about the trend of wearing crocs or tennis shoes with dressier clothes. Her thread went on with comments about how comfortable the young women were in their fashion decisions at major events like proms. They purchase fancy dresses with sequins and tulle. They embrace getting their hair done and nails manicured. But they draw the line when it comes to wearing uncomfortable heels. They wear their fancy dresses and corsages with gym shoes or with crocs and socks, and they wear it proudly. It brought back a painful memory of being in New York City with my sister Cheryl. We dressed up and had dinner at the famous 21. We then went to see the musical Wicked with the original cast, ending the night with a carriage ride in Central Park. I wore heels that night, and they were fine for the first 5 hours. But by the end of the night, my feet pinched, and my toes were crunched. At one point, I took off my shoes and walked in my tights along Broadway for a few minutes, relieved of the pain. I wish I had had as much confidence as those young women have, choosing to wear more sensible shoes in New York City.

Along with being humble, I have chosen to actively connect with some younger women. I volunteer with a group of incredible older women as mentors for MOMCo (formally MOPS). As a mentor, we connect with younger moms who are parenting infants, toddlers, and preschoolers. Our role is to listen, encourage, validate, and occasionally offer a bit of wisdom. As much as I am volunteering my time, I find myself learning from these moms about how difficult parenting is in our current world. These new moms have the same desires I did: to raise their children to love God and to be healthy and whole. They have the added difficulty of sifting through information overload on what’s the best method for raising children. If I keep their same desires in perspective, it doesn’t matter if they co-sleep and or use baby-led weaning when feeding their babies. What matters is that they need a bit of encouragement and authenticity on my part, recognizing that motherhood is hard.

Finally, the last part is probably the hardest: I need to curb my criticism. My grandbabies love fruit/vegetable pouches for snacks. I love that they are getting kale, beets, and berries, even if it’s in a puree form. But I wasn’t as open-minded about it. Prior to being a grandparent, I voiced my criticism of what I perceived as overuse of pouches. My daughter defended the mothers who used the pouches for snacks, remarking that it was convenient, and was a way to get extra fruits and vegetables into their toddlers. After thinking about what she had said, I realized how critical I had been. Although I wasn’t saying this directly to the mothers, my criticism was just as ugly as a thought as the voiced opinion about my leg warmers.

As a Christian, I am called to speak truth. But too often, we forget the second part of Paul’s admonishment. He says in Ephesians 4:15, “speaking the truth in love.” Additionally, if you read the whole chapter, he has some other qualifiers about walking in unity with other believers. He encourages us to position ourselves with “all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love, eager to maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace.” (Ephesians 4:2-3 ESV). I don’t think this approach should be just with believers, but with everyone. If I speak the truth critically, without Paul’s guidelines, I am hurting those around me. But if I foster a relationship based on love, I may be able to speak truth that will help guide someone to make better decisions.

I look back on the Sander sisters, my old great-great-aunts, and wonder what brought them to that place of being crotchety. I know my great-grandmother lost her toddler son after he fell into a bucket of hot lye, later dying of pneumonia. I heard rumors that one of the great-great-aunts had a back-alley abortion that ruined her chances of ever having children. I have heard they warned others about staying away from some “touchy-feely” male family members, implying that there were potential pedophiles in their midst. Looking back, I have more compassion for them, wishing I knew their stories. But despite their stories, we all make choices regarding how we treat younger generations.

At fifty-two, I am choosing to listen to the stories of the older women in my life, for inspiration and for wisdom. I am also choosing to be actively interested in those women younger than me who inspire me. I hope others perceive me as a colorful, encouraging older woman who eats a lot of humus.

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Chili Crisp and Jackson Pollock

“He has made everything beautiful in its time. Also, He has put eternity in their hearts, except that no one can find out the work that God does from beginning to end.” Ecclesiastes 3:11 NKJV

Despite being a resident of Pennsylvania for the last 13 years, I still identify as a Wisconsinite, and more specifically, a Sheboyganite. My hometown is famous for its picturesque lakeshore, championship golf courses, award winning bratwursts, and hard rolls. The city and its greater community are also home to some world-renowned businesses, including Kohler Company, Sargento Cheese, Johnsonville Sausage, and Acuity Insurance. Sheboygan is no stranger to pop culture, including references in the movies Some Like It Hot and Home Alone, reinforcing the popularity of polka! Even in Fall River, Massachusetts, a nurse shared with my son her own familiarity of Sheboygan. On the day my grandson was born, the nurse chuckled when my son reported that he was born in Sheboygan. As a child, her mom had threatened that someone would take her to Sheboygan if she misbehaved.

Like all areas, Sheboygan has its own folklore, idiosyncrasies, and even its own dialect. When we go to bakeries, we also eat bakery, aka donuts and pastries. We are super polite at four-way stops where everyone waves to everyone else to go first, even if everyone sits there for a minute or two. We don’t grill out, we fry out, and brat frys are the major fundraisers for local charities. We eat brats on a hard roll, which are not in the shape of a hot dog bun, but rather a hamburger bun. We also call the drinking water fountains bubblers after a local company that made them.

Like bubblers, certain products are identified by brand name. We no longer mop our floors, we swiffer them. I call tissues Kleenex, although I only buy Puffs. I never refer to my phone as my cell phone, but instead my I-Phone. Some brands elicit a strong feeling of loyalty. I once tried to use generic toasted corn flakes in place of Kellog’s Corn Flakes in one of our family’s favorite Christmas cookies. My husband’s discerning taste buds recognized the difference immediately, and since then, we only use the name brand.

Companies protect the names of their product by submitting a trademark with the United States Patent and Trademark office. A trademark is a type of intellectual property consisting of a recognizable sign, design, or expression. The application itself is straightforward, but the process of getting something trademarked can take time. Trademarks can’t be used on something general, like ice cream or ketchup or tissues. But it can be used on specific brands, like Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey, Heinz Ketchup and even the swish on Nike athletic shoes. Once something is trademarked, that intellectual property belongs to an individual or company and can’t be used by any other person or company.

Recently, the food world was in uproar over a company’s trademark on chili crunch, otherwise known as chili crisp. This popular condiment adds a finishing touch over dumplings, noodles, eggs, and avocado toast. The crunchy, oily, spicy condiment is made of dried chili flakes, crispy fried garlic, or shallots, and sometimes sesame seeds. Some cookbooks and websites are dedicated to finding more ways to use the condiment, including as an ice cream topping. Self-proclaimed foodies have multiple jars of different chili crisps in their refrigerators. Terry and I discovered the joy of chili crisp, adding it to stir fries and spaghetti.

The controversy came when Momofuku, a company started by celebrity chef David Chang, decided to trademark his brand of the condiment with the name “chili crunch.” Soon small businesses who used chili crunch in their product name were sent cease-and-desist letters by Momofuku’s legal representation. These small companies, many of whom are using family recipes, had ninety days to rebrand their products. Many food writers and chefs opposed Momofuku’s right to trademark the name “chili crunch”, arguing that the term was ubiquitous for a cultural product.

As a Christian, I have acted like Momofuku, thinking that Christians owned the trademark on truth, love, beauty, and righteousness. As a home educator, I surrounded myself with history books from Christian educators. If a musical artist was not explicitly Christian, I concluded that the music didn’t glorify God. If an artist or writer had any moral failures in their life, I wrote off their painting or book as not important. I thought only Christian organizations were doing important and worthwhile charitable work. I also thought that Christians hit the mark on righteousness and held themselves above reproach.

I have realized my thinking set Christians, me included, above others. Only God has the trademark on truth, love, beauty, and righteousness. All truth, love, beauty, and righteousness reflect the glory of God, no matter the source. This shift in perspective has opened me to more empathy and humility. As a Christian, it helps me validate the importance of the work others are contributing to science, history, medicine, art, music, and writing. I can read Robin Wall Kimmerer’s Braiding Sweetgrass, a book built on her indigenous spiritual worldview, and find some principles, like honorable harvest, rooted in the Bible. I can listen to a Taylor Swift song and see in her music her longing for a lasting love, a desire in all of us only fulfilled by Christ. I can follow Jasmine L. Holme’s Instagram page and find resources that explain how Southern confederate biases influenced some of the homeschooling material I used. I can read poetry by Mary Oliver that speaks beauty into my life.

This trademark belief was also evident when Christian apologists believed that abstract art reflected a post-modern world. I held on to that view for many years, denigrating modern art. Like all my self-righteous thinking, my views on modern art began to change. It started when my sister brought a modern art piece for her kitchen, and it surprised me how much I was drawn to this piece. It added a touch of color to her kitchen, anchoring it with a sense of calmness and warmth. After discovering that I liked that piece, I started looking at more modern art, finding some pieces that inspired joy in me.

French Port by Laurie Anne Gonzalez available on Juniperprintshop.com
French Port by Laurie Anne Gonzalez available on juniperprintshop.com

Later, I discovered Makoto Fujimura, an abstract artist who is a leader in the slow art movement. He uses a Japanese technique called Nihonga. This style involves the artist grinding colored minerals in a fine powder and layering them onto his art piece. Each layer takes time to dry, and some of his pieces have sixty layers. His Walking on Water series started off as an elegy to the victims of the 2011 Tsunami, and has evolved to pieces addressing climate change. At the end of his book Art + Faith: A Theology of Making, Fujimura writes a Benediction for Makers: “May we steward well what the Creator King has given us and accept God’s invitation to sanctify our imagination and creativity, even as we labor hard on this side of eternity.”

Based on his writings, Fujimura makes a difference between being an artist who is a Christian and being a Christian artist. He warns that art should not be a tool to evangelize and disciple others, instead it should glorify God. By glorifying God, we open the door for conversations with others. Even artists who are not Christians can glorify God in their works by reflecting the beauty of the created world. None of this is more evident than artist Jackson Pollock. Like Ian Falconer’s children’s book character Olivia, I believed I could splatter paint like Jackson Pollock and call it art. How naive and prideful I was, again believing I knew and understood the trademark of beauty.

Jackson Pollock painted his famous artwork by using a “drip” technique. He involved his whole body to paint and used force to cover the whole canvas, almost like dancing. For some, his pieces looked unpredictable and shocking. But again and again, people were drawn to his art. In 1999, physicist and artist Richard Taylor became interested in Pollock’s work in relation to fractals. Fractals are the repeating patterns found in nature starting at a large scale moving to the smallest scale. Imagine a tree, and it starts to fork out into big branches, and then eventually into smaller branches, and this same pattern is repeated down to the veining in a leaf. This pattern is a fractal, and research demonstrates that we find these fractals reassuring and harmonious. Using computer analysis, Taylor discovered that what others had determined to be random drip marks were actually fractals. Pollock referred to his painting style as “I am nature”, but his artwork tapped into God’s creative design in nature. This same computer analysis was used to determine that some recently discovered works thought to be Pollock’s were fakes, later confirmed by paint analysis. I am looking forward to my next visit to MOMA and viewing Pollock’s work with new eyes.

Because of the backlash, Momofuku has dropped the trademark disputes. It’s not clear if they are going to exercise their legal trademark rights in the future, but right now, they seem to have taken a break from owning “chili crunch” as intellectual property. I am a Christian, but I no longer believe that I hold the trademark on truth, love, beauty, and righteousness. I need to keep my eyes on God, who holds all truth, reflects all love and beauty, and is truly righteous. I can also look at both my fellow believers and those who don’t believe and discover how the image of God is reflected in their lives. This curiosity for discovery can help bridge the gap in a divided world.

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Reclaimed & Restored

“I will seek the lost, and I will bring back the strayed, and I will bind up the injured, and I will strengthen the weak, and the fat and the strong I will destroy. I will feed them in justice.” Ezekiel 34:16

Eleven years ago, my children gave me a lilac bush for Mother’s Day. Lilacs remind me of my own childhood when three lilac bushes framed the living room picture window. Despite all the dark things happening within our home, every spring those bushes would drip with white, lavender, and deep purple blooms. The heady, sweet scent was always a welcome relief from the odor of cigarettes and alcohol. This annual display of beauty gave little Sherry some hope.

My Mother’s Day bush has grown and filled out. Each spring, it seems to be covered with more and more blooms. For a week or two, the scent of lilacs transports me back to a few bright moments in my childhood where hope and beauty collided with despair and darkness. This spring, the lilac bush reminds me again of beauty despite brokenness.

A heavy, late winter snow fell this year, covering the dead brown earth with a fresh white blanket. I sat in my house, enjoying a cup of coffee, marveling as the intricate snowflakes drifted to the ground. Everything looked beautiful and dreamy. The snow coated the branches of every tree and bush in our yard. My privet bushes bowed to the ground with the weight of the snow, while my lilac bush remained sturdy, despite piles of snow coating the branches. Later the temperatures rose, and the snow turned into icy rain. By night, the tree branches glistened with icicles and my whole yard glittered. I went to bed, dreaming of my magical snow globe world.

I was a little worried about the privet bushes. They were so bowed down that I wondered if they would survive the weight of the ice and snow. But when I came downstairs the next morning, they had perked back up, lifting their branches to the bright sun. I went into the kitchen and opened my patio blinds. The sun reflected my snow-covered yard, blinding me for a few seconds when something caught my eye. I noticed two main branches of the lilac bush lying down on the snow. They looked forlorn, and upon closer inspection, I realized they had partially snapped off from the base of the bush. My beautiful snow globe world had cracked, breaking something that was beautiful.

Three weeks ago, I posted on Facebook that I had finished my book. This book has been a labor of love and grace. I had always dreamed of writing a book, perhaps to tell my own story. But I never imagined the journey that it would take for me to get to that place. It started with a series of events that left me wondering who I was, and who I wanted to be. Some of these events were ordinary life transitions like dealing with an empty nest while others were unexpected losses and crises. But through all of it, I felt God was inviting me into a deeper healing process not only from what was going on in my life then, but what had gone on in the past as well.

Instead of jumping to get a job after my children left home, I invested the time to do some internal work. And for this first time in my life, this extrovert craved space and solitude! I wasn’t totally alone; I spent hours communing with God through His word and in prayer. I also spent a lot of time reading and listening to any material that offered me perspective, care, and support such as blogs, books, and podcasts. Finally, I found community, in my Life Groups at church, friends, family, and mostly my husband. These safe places allowed me to share some of the ugly, crushing, shame-filled experiences, as well as the beauty I was now discovering.

We forgot about the bush this past spring in the midst of editing and finishing my book. Before we knew it, the broken branches were budding with both leaves and blooms. We decided to wait before severing it from the rest of the bush. Why not let it bloom once more before we cut it down? And bloom it did. Soon the branch was saturated with purple flowers, filling vases throughout my home. But something else happened unexpectedly, my peony bush also bloomed at the same time. And it too was covered with vibrant pink flowers. Wanting to capture this moment, I filled the house with vases of lilacs and peonies.

I discovered peonies later in life. They seem more sophisticated than my lilacs. When they first bloom, they open as soon as the sun peaks over the horizon, and close as dusk falls. At the height of their short life, they flash their vivid pink petals for the world to see, displaying delicate yellow stamens and pistils. In the short five years since I planted them, another Mother’s Day gift, my peony bushes now also drip with blooms. These little bushes, if cared for, will continue to bloom throughout my life and beyond. Peonies have been known to bloom for up to 100 years.

These flowering bushes represent my lifelong need for beauty. Even what they symbolize illustrates my past and present. Both the white and lavender lilacs of my childhood embody innocence and spirituality. It should have been a time in my life where childhood innocence was celebrated, and my spiritual formation developed. Peonies represent compassion, healing, and renewal. Since planting my peonies, I have begun learning self-compassion and healing.

The fact that the two different flowers bloomed simultaneously is not lost on me. I had just sent out my book to friends I trust to offer valuable feedback. I want this book to be the best version of itself, so I’m inviting others to critique it before I publish it. Yet, the book had no title. People have offered some great suggestions, but nothing seemed to connect with me. For a while, I had thought about titling it My Ugly House Restored. But for too long, the ugly of my life held sway over the beauty I desired. It defined my living nightmares as a child, the names I was called, and how I saw myself even as an adult. The book has some ugly moments in it, but I am not defined by the ugliness that was perpetrated on me.

My friend Michele sent me another suggestion for the title, the word “Reclaimed”. I looked up the definition of that word along with restored, and although the words are often used synonymously, they have different meanings and applications. I felt my book was both, and that’s when the title hit me. Reclaimed & Restored will be released in October of this year. God reclaimed my life from fourteen years of sexual abuse and has lovingly led me on a thirty-five-years-and-counting restoration journey. After settling on that title, both my lilacs and peonies bloomed together. I can place the lilac blooms from my broken branch into the same vase as the peonies to create a beautiful centerpiece on my table; a centerpiece that integrates my past and present into something beautiful.

Yesterday, Terry cut off the broken branches of the lilac bush. And in a week or two, my peony bush will be devoid of blooms. But right now, I will bask in the goodness of God as their blooms fill my home. And I know that next spring they will bloom again. I have no illusions that I will make the New York Times Best Seller List with my little book. I am self-publishing, so I don’t have a PR team hyping my book. But I do know I have faithfully embarked on a healing journey with God from my days of seeing lilac bushes in the yard to discovering peonies as an adult. If my words impact just one reader, I have done what God has called me to do. And as disturbing as the sexual abuse was, my deepest desire is that the readers will see the beauty God has given me, time and time again!