Category Archives: Devotionals

It’s so very easy to see all that’s wrong with life. Maybe this is my condition as a sensitive realist, or maybe it’s just my condition as a human. My natural bent does not seem to be to practice gratitude. I try to look for silver linings in life. I try to see the bright side. At times that’s difficult, when I get inside my own head, when I fix my eyes on all that’s broken around me. Why do those wrong things draw my eye so much more easily than all the things that are right?

Granted, we’ve had some difficult blows in the past few years. By now I’m beginning to wonder if life is ever without difficult blows…. They seem to be around every bend. Is this adulting? Maybe I should pass. Ah, but that’s not an option. Reminds me of Micah when I tell him it’s time to do something. For instance:

“Micah it’s time to go to bed.”

“No, I don’t want to go to bed.”

“Well, you have to. So you can either choose to come over to the chair and we’ll read and sing and then go to bed, or I can just put you right in bed and leave. Your choice.”

“I don’t want either choice.”

“Well, you have to choose one. The choice is yours.”

The choice is yours. How are we going to do this? Usually he makes a good choice. And, as it turns out, living through the broken places in this world isn’t really a choice either. But how we do it, that’s our choice.

In spite of the many broken places in my life, I’m going to choose to believe that God has already intervened on my behalf countless times. He has already answered my prayers, in ways seen and unseen. He has already saved me in so many ways. It’s much easier to see the brokenness that remains. Much of it is in my face daily. But I want to choose instead to see the ways he has saved me.

I’ve had a stroke, which has altered my health, sometimes my daily function, and the future forecast for my once growing family. But I’m still breathing, walking, talking, caring for my family. not incapacitated, not impaired, not in the ground. My son, whom I was carrying at the time of this minor stroke, is perfectly healthy. Not only was my life at stake, but his was too, depending on my health as he grew. And here we are. Thank you, God.

My daughter still struggles with developmental delays and a speech disorder. There are times where I can cope well with this reality. Other times my heart bleeds, and bleeds, and bleeds. But lately it occurs to me what life for her could have been like. When she was four months old, we knew nothing of what her future might hold. So I choose to believe that God touched her body when we began to pray. I choose to believe that her life is different because God has been good to her. I choose to see what her life could have been, or that it could have even ceased to be. But here she is. Thank you, God.

There will always be many things wrong with life. But there are still so many things that are RIGHT. RIGHT. I want to see what’s right. Instead of focusing on what’s wrong, I want to be aware of the ways that God has blessed my life, saved my life. But, even if he didn’t, he has still saved me for eternity. Even if I lost it all like Job, I can know that “my Redeemer lives and in the end he will stand up on the earth. After my skin has been destroyed, yet in my flesh I will see God, I myself will see him with my own eyes — I and not another!” Thank you, God.

There’s nothing quite so devastating as feeling like you are giving your all to the Lord, following him, trusting him, serving him, only to feel like he’s snatching away your happiness and asking you to move in a direction you would never have chosen for yourself. Trials feel that way, whether it’s an unexpected diagnosis, the end of a relationship, the loss of a job, the passing of a loved one, an unforeseen bend in the path of life. These trials set us reeling, our hearts bleed.

If I’m being honest, which I like to do here in my “candid” writing, as many folks call it, this was definitely one of the biggest contributors to the hardness of my heart, to my missing heartbeat. I have felt like I have been faithful to the Lord, and he has asked me to lay down my desires and walk a completely different path than the one I wanted to choose. As if our good works entitle us to anything… I have grappled with acceptance for many months now. And I’m not sure I’m there yet. May was to be the month that we would begin trying for our third child, but with all that has unfolded with my health, and with the many unanswered questions we have, that dream is on hold, perhaps indefinitely. It has been heartbreaking to lay down that dream and continue trusting in God’s goodness. I have known from the moment I had my final neurology appointment that this was going to be an exercise in obedience.

As I have pleaded with the Lord and fought a deep discouragement in my heart, particularly in my ministry of writing, I started feeling a gentle nudge in my soul to kneel before the Lord in worship. This is more than a little outside of my wheelhouse for a typical Sunday morning. My heart, I am sad to say, was too prideful to kneel before my Maker. It is literally painful to write that. What’s more painful to expose is that I continued to feel that nudge, week after week, and I brushed it aside. In hindsight, I think this small choice is perhaps the largest reason that the Lord has allowed so many trials to persist for so many months. It’s been the breaking of Catherine Burleigh. My heart needed to be humbled to the point that I was willing to kneel, to relinquish my own desires and dreams to his will and his desires for my life. I have fought this for many months.

My heart broke the week before my knee did, but the process felt like one fell swoop. I cried out to the Lord, “Do. Whatever. It. Takes. I can’t live like this. I will take your path.” Once I chose obedience, once I began the attempt to accept what he has for me, my heart turned toward him and his words began to flood my heart again. He reminded me that in him there is always hope. His plans are good. He fulfills the desires of my heart. Life may look different than I have planned, but his goodness will never fail. It was the beginning of a heartbeat.

In some ways, I still feel like I am in the breaking process. My will still contends with his; I still battle to daily choose his path over mine. There is still a part of my heart that is fiercely clinging to my own dreams. Through everything we’ve experienced with Sophie, I have learned that acceptance is a process. It’s not something that happens overnight. And I can only trust that the Lord will be patient with me, continue to speak to me, as I wrestle with all this. I am thankful for his kindness, his gentleness, his grace, as I walk through yet another path of acceptance in my life. Some days are easy; I feel content with life as it is, and I’m ready to move forward with what’s next. Other days I spend fighting the tears moment by moment. But my heart is set on obedience.

I realize that our own obedience is not a magical chant or spell that we can use to obtain what we desire. That’s not the point. God is my Master, and he deserves my obedience for that alone. Obedience acknowledges his wisdom and that his plan is far superior to my own. Neither is disobedience necessarily the root of all hardheartedness, of all our heartbreak, of all our trials. But for me, it was a contributing factor. And I suspect if we all look closely, we may see areas where God has been nudging us, but we’ve been too stubborn to take the steps he’s asking us to take. He will wait. He will continue to refine us until we are ready. It has taken me a long time to act in obedience, far too long, I must admit. But the results are breathtaking.

My heart is starting to beat again. There is still pain from the trials we have walked, still walk. There are still dreams that I don’t want to die. But there is peace. And a heartbeat. A blessed heartbeat.

As I’ve been processing this difficult place in life where God seems silent, mountains seem immovable, and the course is challenging, God has brought back to my mind the words of Psalm 66:10-12.

“For you, O God, tested us;
You refined us like silver.
You brought us into prison
and laid burdens on our backs.
You let men ride over our heads;
we went through fire and water,
but you brought us to a place of abundance.” (emphasis added)

I shared these verses with my husband as we talked about the mire we feel like we’re struggling to walk through in life right now. Even though our literal circumstances may differ from his, the Psalmist certainly hits on how we feel in our trials — imprisoned, carrying heavy burdens, trampled upon, enslaved, surrounded by intensity, treading through deep water. Yeah, I’d say that about sums it up.

This Psalm speaks of the Refiner’s fire, so I did some searching on the process for refining precious metals in order to increase my understanding. I was blown away by the parallels. I’ll share just a few from what I learned.

Step 1: Breaking — The refiner had to break apart the natural ore, which is the chunk of all the metals mixed together, containing the silver. If the ore wasn’t broken, the refiner would not be able to see inside to what precious metals were contained. And he would never be able to remove the lesser metals and refine the precious metals into their desirable pure form.

Maybe in my brokenness, God is looking inside of me to see what beautiful qualities he wants to bring to the front of my person. Breaking is necessary in the refinement process. It must happen. If God wants to refine me, then he must first allow me to be broken. But he always has the greater good in sight. He won’t allow me to be broken simply for the sake of breaking. The breaking is for a greater purpose.

Step 2: The Crucible — The refiner would then place the chunk of ore into a fireproof melting pot called a crucible. This crucible was placed inside a fiery furnace where the ore would begin to melt so that the impurities could be removed. As the ore heated within the crucible in the fiery furnace, a layer called the dross rose to the top; these were the imperfections that the refiner was trying to remove.

I can definitely identify with the image of life being one giant fire-cooker. It’s too much; it’s too intense. But the heat is needed. Without it, the impurities can’t come to the surface in order for the Refiner to remove them. And isn’t that the truth… Nothing makes our true colors show like a little bit of heat and pressure. I see God looking down at me as my impurities surface left and right, saying, “Aha, yes, there it is. Let me just get that out of you.” As the heat of suffering increases, God has more and more opportunity to remove the lesser qualities that I possess.

Step 3: The Purification — After the refiner scraped off the layer of dross, get this, guys, he put the ore back into the fiery furnace again! And he raised the heat! Because new layers of dross arose each time the ore was heated to certain temperatures. More and more impurities came to the surface and the refiner could remove them. Over this process, he gradually purified the ore until he had only the precious metal that he desired. History tells us that refiners could put the ore back in the furnace up to seven times to complete the purification.

Some days, some seasons, I feel like I’ve had all the fiery furnace I can take. And the heat just pours on anyways. I have shaken my figurative fists and cried out “Enough! It’s enough!” I’ve probably done it literally too. I feel like I’ve had all I can take, and then God allows more trials to pour into my life, raising the heat a few more degrees. It’s the refiner’s fire. He puts me right back into that fiery furnace and turns the heat up even more, because he wants those impurities out.

Step 4: The Reflection — I love this part. Do you know what the refiner was looking for as he removed each layer of dross and surveyed the molten metal inside the crucible? He was looking for his reflection. Once he could see his reflection in the pool of melted metal, he knew that the purification was complete.

Our Refiner is looking for his reflection, too. He is purifying us so that he might see his reflection more clearly in our hearts and lives. Our trials give us an opportunity, if we choose to accept it, to grow in the qualities which reflect God’s heart. They give us an opportunity to have more of our impurities removed so that we look more like Jesus.

(Steps in the refining process from hopefortheheart.org)

Understanding what the Psalmist was referring to in those few words about the refiner helped me take a completely new look at my trials. Yes, they are hard. Yes, they are burdensome. But they are not without purpose. They are not wasted. Perhaps I have forgotten in this season of life that I serve a God who wastes nothing. One of my favorite components of the miraculous feeding of the 5,000 in the gospels is that after the supper Jesus instructs his disciples “Gather the pieces that are left over. Let nothing be wasted” (John 6:12).

Let nothing be wasted. Jesus wastes nothing. No one. No trial. No broken heart. No burden. Nothing. It is all useful to him.

In addition, the final promise of this Psalm also restores my hope. Although the people of Israel went through many trials, the Psalmist remembers of the Lord, “you brought us to a place of abundance.” A place of abundance. All that Israel went through, which was so, so terrible, ended with a fulfillment of God’s promise, a place of abundance. Although my life has felt like the crucible for God’s refinement lately, I know that he is bringing me to a place of abundance. I know that my God keeps his promises. And I pray with all my heart that he will see his reflection as he gazes into my heart and into my life, not just so that I can get out of this hot hole, but because I want him to be pleased with me. If I can look more like Jesus because of all this fire in my life, then it’s all worth it. I can’t waste that opportunity in anger and depression and fear and worry. That’s not the purpose for my trials. I can’t sit in that if I want to look more like Jesus.

I want to say that it’s time for me to get up and do something about myself, but the other truly beautiful part of the refining process is that the metal does nothing but sit there, while the refiner scrapes off the dross. So I will sit here, and I will open my heart to my Refiner, and I will ask him to remove that dross. I want a heart beat again.

Have you ever asked God to explain himself? Have you ever moved through a period of life, pleading with him for answers, only to hear silence? I’ve been in this difficult season for several months now. Yes, we’ve been physically ill most of the past eight weeks. Yes, my husband has just finished an overseas trip for a job he’s had some difficulties with, and he travels to another country in just two weeks for another trip. Yeah, we’ve had financial stressors and upsetting physical diagnoses. Yeah, circumstances have been crappy. But that’s not been my biggest issue.

My biggest issue has been this heart inside of me that feels like a stone.

Because when God doesn’t change things that it seems he could change, my heart hurts, I feel betrayed. I don’t understand why he hasn’t moved the mountains, parted the seas, given the opportunities and the answers we’ve sought. He can do anything. But he hasn’t.

In my heart of hearts, I’ve continued to wait and to trust. Because I know that he’s good. I know that he’s faithful. But discouragement sneaks in as the tough stuff continues to roll in, month in and month out. Eventually, it’s become easier just not to feel rather than to feel hurt and discouraged. It’s become easier to go through the motions, pushing myself on physically to meet the demands of life, even though my heart feels hard. I reached this point a couple of weeks ago. It’s that point where your soul is completely desperate for something, anything, any small change, a whisper of a word from the Lord.

The whisper began in a conversation that I shared with my husband just before he left on his work trip.

“I hate how hard these trips are on you and the kids,” Andrew said.

“I know, but we will be alright,” I replied.

“How can a father do that to his kids? They don’t understand,” he countered.

“There are many fathers who do far worse things to their kids,” I offered.

“True, but that doesn’t make it right,” he persisted.

“No, but it doesn’t make it wrong either. You are doing what you have to do. Your job requires you to travel. You are not making a conscious choice to abandon your family for frivolous or selfish reasons. This is what you have to do and there’s no way around it,” I replied.

“I know, but they don’t understand that. They can’t understand why daddy is hurting them,” he said.

“It’s true, but that still doesn’t make it wrong for you to go. No amount of explaining would help their little minds to understand why Daddy is doing what he’s doing. They can’t see the big picture. It’s simply above their understanding.”

It’s simply above their understanding. (Did you see that light go on?)

How many things are simply above my understanding? The Bible teaches in many places that God’s thoughts are higher than our thoughts (Is 55:8-9), and that no one can understand the mind of the Lord (Rom 11:34 ), nor fathom his understanding (Is 40:28).

My stoney heart has railed against the Lord, anger rising up that he’s not moving, that he’s not enlightening me, that he’s not explaining himself. But God has not answered with explanations, for he owes me NO explanations. Instead, my soul hears a gentle answer, perhaps the best and only answer that I can fully understand: Because I love you. What an unexpected answer to my angry tirade of WHY this, and WHY that… Because I love you.

After all, it is because he loves us that my husband is faithful to his job, including the travel it requires. He is about the business of providing for his family, even if this aspect of his provision is painful and strains us to the breaking point some days.

In the same way that my children must trust that their daddy still loves them and is only doing what he knows he must do, which is ultimately for our benefit (we like food and clothing!), I must trust that my Father loves me and is doing what he knows is best, that which is truly for my benefit, and more so, for his glory. There may be aspects of God’s plan that are painful and strain us to the breaking point. But he is the Father; he sees the big picture; it may simply be beyond our understanding. But trust is not above our understanding, nor is his love for us. Even in the midst of trials, my heart has softened to hear those words, Because I love you…

We’ve been in a season recently of mountains not moved, waters not parted, prayers not answered. I know that sounds kind of negative, but it’s real life. It’s how we feel. We would have liked to have been spared so much illness this winter. We would have liked to hear that I did not have a stroke for real. We would have liked things to go better with issues at my husband’s job. We would have liked for our extended family members not to deal with difficult health problems. I’ve asked; I’ve pleaded; I’ve prayed. But the no’s have kept on comin’.

Hidden away in my house full of sickness, it was easy for me to get inside my own head, to feel sorry for myself. My isolation has allowed the enemy a lot of room to whisper lies to me, and, unfortunately, I’ve allowed it. Invisible. Unimportant. Dispensable. Overlooked. Failure. Sad, sad, sad.

But here comes Easter, and all I can think about is the cross.

Particularly as Good Friday came and went, my mind dwelt on how final the cross must have seemed to Jesus’ followers. Talk about a sea not parted! Jesus’ followers were anticipating him entering Jerusalem to overthrow the government, to become the king. Instead, he was crucified. To say it felt like a loss is, I’m sure, an extreme understatement.

But then came Sunday, the resurrection. Even as the disciples found Jesus’ tomb empty and saw his resurrected body, I wonder if they fully understood the implications of what had happened. What appeared to be the darkest hour was actually the working out of our salvation. When things looked worst, God was actually going about saving the world. It’s astounding! And it brings perspective. Maybe in these dark moments, God is about the business of saving my soul.

One of my all-time favorite worship songs is “Lead Me to the Cross” because it fixes my mind’s eye back on that cross, even when we’re not in the Easter season. It reminds me that all those sad, sad feelings I so often give in to, they’re not where I’m meant to live. Instead my heart beats: “Lead me to the cross, where your love poured out. Bring me to my knees, Lord, I lay me down. Rid me of myself, I belong to you.”

Bring me to my knees … Rid me of myself, I belong to you. None of this is about me. It’s about God, his kingdom, his glory, his plan. Compared to the cross, my darker moments seem like nothing. Because of the cross, my darker moments are actually nothing. In truth, because of what Jesus did, my soul is secure, and nothing that happens on this earth can change that.

One of my former students, Caity, who passed away at just 17 years old had a favorite quote that went like this: “It will all be ok in the end. If it’s not ok, then it’s not the end.” She was wise beyond her years. And she was so right. Life is pretty messed up sometimes, but that doesn’t change our ending. And when it is truly the end, it will truly all be ok. I have thought about that quote so many times since her passing nearly 5 years ago, and like “Lead Me to the Cross,” it restores my perspective. Everything on this earth is temporary. There’s another kingdom that I’m living for. And it’s all because of the cross. I’m so thankful this Easter for the truth that puts it all in perspective, that kicks me out of my sad, sad sorry place, and reminds me of the end, my hope, my future.

I’ve been crushed in recent weeks under the weighty baggage of self-judgment. I’d like to imagine that I’m not the only one hearing that gavel pounding in my mind: Not a good enough mom; not a good enough wife; not a good enough friend. The reasons for these judgments go on and on, but I won’t take the time to vent them all here. Suffice it to say, in my own eyes, I have been constantly falling short. I have been hating every moment of feeling like a failure. Sure, I’ve made legitimate mistakes every day in the past few weeks. But this weight of judgment has been something to be reckoned with. It’s deeper than just a short upset over a wrong choice or a harsh word. The Bible teaches that there is a good guilt, which leads to repentance, but there is also another guilt that comes from the pit of hell. It tries to tie you up in chains. It tells you you’re a failure. It steals your hope. It steals your joy. This is the guilt of self-judgment.

Partly I know that, for me, this season of motherhood is just so consuming; it’s easy to feel like a failure because I took 15 minutes to wash the dishes so that we’d have plates and silverware to eat off of, rather than spend those 15 minutes frolicking with my children. (Do you hear that logic there? It’s solid, right? Right.) Mom guilt is just everywhere. I have no Christmas crafts from Pinterest to post to my Facebook. I hear my own angry tone reflected in my son’s echoes. I see the tears that I caused by my overreaction. Sigh.

Yes, mistakes happen. But they are not meant to weigh us down like heavy baggage.

In Romans 14, Paul is talking about how the Christians were judging each other for their differences — it began with Jew and Gentile, but it moved on to things like which foods were acceptable to eat, and which holidays were important to celebrate. (I wonder what Paul would have to say about our current holiday debates???) Tucked in this discussion is a verse that brought me so much freedom from my own harsh judgments. Verse 4 declares, “Who are you to judge someone else’s servant? To his own master he stands or falls. And he will stand, for the Lord is able to make him stand.”

To my soul I heard the soft voice of the Lord: You ARE SOMEONE ELSE’S servant. You are NOT your own master. You do not judge yourself. You stand before me, the Lord, and I AM ABLE to make you stand.

What a sweet relief.

Even if we are displeased with our own efforts and see room for improvement, this verse clearly shows me that I am not even to be my own judge (let alone someone else’s).

Even if I’m falling short in my own eyes, I know that I stand before a loving Father who is able to make me stand.

Even if I am not enough, his grace is enough. His strength is enough. He is enough.

No matter how you find your own self falling short these days, know that your master is able to make you stand. He alone is your judge, and he has spoken grace over your life.

While driving through the countryside to church on Sunday, I admired the fall colors and thought to myself, there’s beauty, even in death. Reality is the leaves are dying; they are aging, and they are wasting away; the end, for them, is near. Yet they are stunning.

We’ve had a particularly glorious array of color in our fall leaves recently this month. It has been breathtaking against the beauty of a clear blue sky. These leaves are teaching me lessons.

On our family walk one night this week, I said of the fall colors, “Nobody paints like God does. No matter how we try to recreate his handiwork, we just can’t do it.” No paintings measure up, though beautiful. No colors of clothing can compare. No beauty compares to that which God creates.

In my mind, these thoughts of the beautiful fall colors join together to form one truth: As the leaves, we are wasting away, but God is doing something tremendously beautiful with our lives. The truth is that all of us are wasting away in our physical bodies. Yet, God is painting something so beautiful in each of us. Our time here, no matter how “long” it may seem, is, as the Bible tells us, but a breath. We are, like the leaves, near the end. But there is still so much beauty that we can display even with our broken lives.

I find this particularly true for some of the aging folks in my own life: You are stunning. God is doing beautiful things, even as your roles change, your life slows. Some of the most beautiful people I know are entering the final portion of this earthly race. Your beauty is inspiring. Never lose sight of how beautiful your life is.

This truth of beauty in brokenness also reassures me that God is doing beautiful things even though my daughter experiences physical brokenness in more severity than most. Her sweet life is a beautiful thing for all who encounter her. My mom (above) once told me that Sophie, with all she is going through, is surely favored by God. We know that God’s favor doesn’t necessarily appear how we think it might, and so I’d like to think she’s right. I see that God is doing something so beautiful with Sophie’s life, regardless of any brokenness she carries.

When others see my life, see Sophie’s life, I hope that they are breathless. I hope our lives are a blaze of color which causes others to think, “Nobody paints like God does.” Nobody crafts a life the way he does. In spite of our brokenness, he makes beautiful things out of us.

“You have heard it said, ‘Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I tell you: Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you that you may be sons of your Father in heaven.” (Matt 5:43-45)

My next door neighbor (to my left) has been less than lovable in the 6 years that we’ve lived in our house. She had this major issue with our trees — silver and sugar maples are soft trees, and they drop a lot of limbs. Before we moved in, our other neighbors (on the right) lost their large sugar maple during a wind storm — it fell across the driveway of the house we now own and crushed the pickup truck sitting in the drive. The owner, fortunately, had just exited his vehicle. So, I can, to some degree, see her concern. Without a trust in our loving Father, she was left to her own devices to protect herself from our trees. So she harassed and harangued us until we had our back tree cut down. You can imagine my horror when a storm was raging outside at 10 pm, and I heard my neighbor screaming like a mad woman, pounding on my door, yelling profanities, all because a small limb grazed her garage roof and took out three shingles. Yeah, it was not a pretty sight. After that, we finally agreed to remove our tree. In hindsight, I can see what she feared might happen with the tree there, but at the time I was deeply wounded by her actions.

Just months later, while I struggled with morning sickness during my first pregnancy, Andrew traveled to China, and I went home to my parents to receive help while he was gone. When I returned, prior to Andrew’s return, and much to my chagrin, the tree in my front yard had likewise been removed. While we were out of town, she called and harassed the city, called in some favors, and had our tree removed. This was the final nail in the coffin. We avoided her as best we could, we put up a fence to allow ourselves some privacy, bought a new tree, and hunkered down to avoid her angry storms in the future.

This was four years ago this past summer. Four years. I have barely spoken to my neighbor in four years. We did have some confrontations where we voiced our reasons for withdrawing from the relationship with her. I calmly and clearly explained that no amount of anger a person might feel, in my mind, ever justified her actions. People simply shouldn’t treat others in that way no matter what. I was so grieved over the loss of our beautiful hundred year old trees. I blamed her for all of it. (And truly, it is her fault.)

But I have come to see over these four years that she truly needs the love of Jesus like no other. It has taken me a long time to come to the point where I can once again feel compassion for her instead of anger. The anger, thank Jesus, did vanish some time ago, but I still felt the need to maintain a safe distance. I would not consider my feelings of the past towards her anywhere near the camp of compassion.

In recent months our town has begun a “love your neighbor” crusade. My friend even wrote a book about loving your neighbor. The message has been blasted in my face as clearly as anything. And I have still felt resistance. I have not wanted to reach out to this woman. She is my neighbor, but I have not wanted to love her, and I, to my own fault, have resisted doing so.

But, a few weeks ago, she had surgery on her eardrum. She’s alone with her teenage daughter (who I am sure is not super helpful), and I felt moved to do something for her. The song that kept running through my head, the one line that says, “It’s your kindness, Lord, that leads us to repentance.” This is all at a time when the kindness of the Lord is resonating so deeply in my heart (from all the support we have received over Sophie’s need for speech and with my recent health issues). He has been so kind to me. How hard is it for me to be kind to someone else? Well, sometimes very hard. But the urge persisted, and so finally I bit the bullet, summoned my compassion and courage, and took her some muffins and a card. I’m embarrassed to admit that I was somewhat relieved when she didn’t come to the door. But I left my gift on her doorstep.

In the few weeks since I took her that package, I have had more meaningful conversations with my neighbor than I’ve had in four years. It’s been astounding. I never realized the impact that a small kindness of muffins and a card could do for my neighbor. She’s like a dry sponge, soaking in any drop of love that comes her way. I hope that the kindness of the Lord reaches her through our conversations, through my card, the muffins. I hope that in showing kindness to her, she will see the grace of Jesus in my life. Because it’s not about me being the bigger person or doing some great thing or wow, look at what I overcame. No. It’s about the reality that God has shown me so much kindness. I am mandated to give it away.

You see, we were all enemies of God at one point. Yet he loved us. He chose us. He wooed us with his kindness. He is the example of loving your enemy. I must love my enemy because I was the enemy, and he loved me.