Sunflowers

Published on by Hope WebsterLeave a comment

IMG_0436I feel it.
Fall looms.
It’s not the weather. I’m still wearing tank tops and donning a sweaty glow.
It’s the sunflowers.
Towering overhead, they face the sun and slouch toward the ground announcing that summer ebbs and fall flows.
The calendar confirms the message of the sunflowers. It’s about to flip to September and our family rhythms are morphing into school routines.
All good things must come to an end….

DSCF8673Just as the trees dressed themselves in spring, we planted our sunflowers, my baby and I. Methodically, we set single seeds in starter pots, covered them with soil and water then sprinkled them with the fairy dust of patience and hope. That night around the dinner table we imagined forward anticipating beach days and gardening, lawn mowing and picnics, exercise routines and bonfires, friends visiting from the four winds.

Every day after that, we watched and watered and wondered when our seeds would sprout. First, they peeked out as tiny green shoots. Then they outgrew their small containers and we transplanted them into neat rows in the big garden.
As we tucked their immature root system in the soil, I worried aloud that the deer might trample them but they didn’t. And pretty soon, with the late spring rains, they grew quicker than weeds and danced in the wind waving “Hello Summer”.
While they grew, we drove and flew.
We attended a wedding, and a funeral.
We buried a dog and adopted a puppy.
We mowed and grilled, walked and swam.
We picnicked on the lawn and at the beach.
And eventually our sunflowers outgrew my baby and then me. Some bent over after hard pelting rains or gusty southwest winds. A few even snapped at the base of the stem. The rest stretched for the sun and last week, after a nourishing rain,  finally bloomed all sunshine.IMG_0324

So why am I ambivalent, I wonder?
When I walk out to the garden to admire them, it’s melancholy I feel.
A whole summer of fresh, new mercies one day at a time.
And now it’s almost gone…..

It’s like playing a board game with an hourglass. You glance over and see there are only a few grains of sand left. And you feel the pressure to make your move—quick. Before it’s too late.

So I gather up the family and make my pitch at dinner. How about a family beach day? Last chance before school starts. All together this time, except for the one who’s not here anymore. And we can take the new puppy.

The sands of time, they can’t be flipped for a restart. In real, we don’t get to turn the hourglass over. We only get to ride this summer once and it’s almost in the history books.

So we’re intentional about finishing well.
We celebrate all of the sweetness, the surprises, the adventures.
The people who came from near and far to sleep and eat and play with us.
The food and flowers that grew as we kept our commitment to water them.
The places we went to serve and help.
All the blueberries we picked.
All of the waves we watched lap onto the shore.

And we make space to feel sadness about what we lost.
An aunt.
A pet.
Some innocence.

And we reflect on what we hoped for but didn’t happen.
The people we wanted to be with but weren’t.
The moments we could have been enjoying each other but sat in front of our devices instead.

IMG_1878This year, it’s the sunflowers instead of Rubbermaid bins that serve as a tangible reminder that the season’s changing.
So, I take my scissors out to the garden and cut the blooms with broken stems, arranging them in vases with fresh water. They drop bright yellow pollen on the kitchen table and I am reminded that fall has it’s own fairy dust of anticipation just beyond the transition.

We’re All Strangers Here

Published on by Hope WebsterLeave a comment

I feel it most when I travel. We’re just passing through. We’re strangers here.

I board a jet in pitch black darkness and fly over the Great Lake as the sun peeks out and illuminates the Chicago skyline. On my downtime in the airport, I imbibe on popcorn for breakfast then load the flight to Minneapolis.
I buckle my seatbelt and wait. Passengers board, filing down a crowded aisle. People watching, I begin to feel that familiar melancholy ache. I wonder how and where I fit in this sea of humanity—there’s the guy reading the paper in the seat next to me, the stewardess flying on to San Fransisco, the ancy toddler behind, his nervous mother wondering when he will blow, dreading the judgmental glances shot her direction, and there’s the lady who can’t speak English. She knows for sure she’s not home.
I select Spotify on my iPhone and choose a Tenth Avenue North playlist on automatic shuffle.
They sing to me,

“If this is not the homeland, we can see the lights from here.
He’s making us a city where there are no fears and it’s drawing near.
Until then we’re all strangers here.”

And I marvel at God’s mysterious crafting of this holy moment, a sacred connection transmitted through wireless earbuds.
Every time I fly, I have a ritual to manage my anxiety. As the motor revs and the noise and speed collide on take off, I open my hand asking God to take it, to accompany me on my journey. He doesn’t need to be wooed, He’s omnipresent but I’m intentionally acknowledging it and inviting Him to be my companion.
Someday, He’ll take my hand and lead me home and when I fly into bumpy air, I always wonder if it will be today. As I’m bouncing around and my stomach flips out, I pray for my loves, worry about their futures and remind God what they will need to get along without me– as if He doesn’t already know.

And I try to practice coping strategies like speaking truth to my runaway emotions and adrenalin. “Planes fly safely through turbulence all the time without crashing. It’s not likely we will crash.”
And I breathe deep, flexing and relaxing muscles methodically.
And I wish I wasn’t a teetottler and could order a mixed drink.
But mostly, I wish my Xanax, specially prescribed for just such occasions wasn’t in my bag in the overhead compartment.
In these moment, I feel like a stranger, for sure.

I pray a quiet “Thanks” as the plane kisses the ground and slows to a stop at the jet bridge.
I get picked up outside baggage claim by a stranger. Literally. Family by marriage. She drives me to the home that my mother in law was raised in. More than 80 years ago, my husband’s grandpa built it to put a roof over the heads of his loves. The kids grew up and moved away except for one who stayed back and tended it lovingly until ravenous cancer took her to her real home earlier this summer.


The garden is meticoulously nurtured and resembles a floral patchwork quilt. The bulbs and perennials will re-emerge for years, maybe decades to the next residents delight and they will whisper the reality that we are strangers here.
While we leave an imprint on our place and people, we aren’t here to stay.
Anywhere. Michigan. Cincinnati, Dallas. Minneapolis.
I open the garage, get behind the wheel of the car that Auntie drove and depart due east toward Michigan by way of Wheaton, Illinois.

I embrace this day, the road trip, the long conversation over Bluetooth with a kindred spirit, the landscape, mostly farms dotting the tree covered hills and acres of corn stalks mature and swaying in the breeze, waving “Hello—Goodbye, Stranger”. Then, reaching today’s final destination, I dine around a table with my girl and the friends she loves.
Tomorrow, I’ll help her move into her campus apartment one last time.
The gran finale.
Because in the end, she’s a stranger too. Just passing through.IMG_0348

This year, like all the others, she’ll have unpredictable weather events, a mix of sunshine and storm clouds. She’ll get caught in random pop up thunderstorms and race for shelter but undoubtedly find herself cold and wet—physically, emotionally and spiritually. And sometimes it’ll be her tears rather than the rain that leaves her soggy. The ache of the now and the not yet, the brokenness resulting from the residual effects of the Fall. That’s what makes this temporary journey through life so beautiful-terrible. And God invites us to cry about it. It’s all a part of the epic story He is writing in her life. My life. Everybody’s life.

And I’m reminded again of that song on the airplane,

“This is not how it’s going to be.
Your pain is temporary.
We’re all strangers here.
So it’s alright, if you can’t stop the tears that you cry.
‘Cause someday we’ll touch the face of our God and the sorrow will disappear.
Until then, we’re all strangers here.”

IMG_0369After the last box is lugged up a flight of stairs, I’ll hug her goodbye and keep driving all the way to Michigan where I’ll park this car in our driveway and hand over the keys to a different girl, another love of my life, who will drive it to a different college where she will live and learn and love this fresh new school year. And we will wait and watch and trust in the tender mercies of God, surprising and new each morning to carry her through it. Three years will fly by and in the twinkle of an eye, she’ll move on and become a stranger too.

And I hold loosely to this day because I know that someday, maybe even today, God will reach for my hand, grasping it securely yet ever so gently and take me on my biggest trip ever, its destination a mystery even to google maps. And when I arrive, then I’ll be home.

But until then We’re All Strangers Here.

50+ Musings

Published on by Hope WebsterLeave a comment

20341All the greatest holidays have a prequel.
Mine was written in the sky last night. A cloudless expanse as black as midnight, like the puppy Brian and I walked next to, and stars more numerous than the birthday candles I’m qualified to blow out this year. There I was, a speck of sand in the sea of humanity and God gave me a personal lightshow, evidence of common grace and personal love.

DSCF9048My birthday list always looks the same. I write the number 1 in large print and circle it for emphasis. Next come the words, “Trip to Lake Michigan to watch the sunset.” It’s a rich family tradition, walking in the sand, waves lapping at our toes methodically, the sun kissing the past goodbye but teasing a fresh hello if we wait for it and lean in the direction it promises to rise.

I turned 50 today.
And started fresh with new adventures, mercies to set a trajectory for the next decade, inviting me into its mystery. Instead of trekking out to the beach, I went to a wedding.
Actually, I hosted a wedding, a sweet, simple ceremony, right here in our living room. My guy solemnized the event with a translator standing beside him. There were vows, a blessing, and signatures sealing the deal in the eyes of the State. Then there was kissing, so much kissing. But not between the bride and the groom. Instead, the small group of witnesses swapped cheeks, three pecks a person according to Middle East custom.
In God’s sovereignty, our lives intersected with these Kurdish friends last year when they relocated here from Syria. On my 49th birthday, our friendship was merely a sprouting seedling but over time and shared experiences, it’s blossomed because we’ve embraced the beauty in our similarities and differences. We have eaten Kurdish food and taken dancing lessons. They’ve shared our holiday celebrations, gone fruit picking and learned to play Uno from us.

IMG_4190Tonight, we donned our party wear for the wedding reception and danced the night away. Literally. A menagerie of people from all over God’s great big world, immigrants needing a fresh start who found it here and lily skinned Americans who welcomed them to our community and into our hearts. I couldn’t understand a word of the music blaring over the speakers, but I grabbed the pinky of the person on either side of me and let my feet do the talking, stopping only for an occasional rest and one more bite of baklava.

For me, birthdays are fodder for reflection. My thoughts amble to deep introspective places. This year, there’s less musing about the past and more wondering at the next chapter.

I tend to dream big. Why not? I don’t always get what I’m hoping for and I expect that on the front end, but if I suffocate desire, there’s little hope I’ll ever celebrate the dreams that might actually come true.

So in my story, the next decade includes exploring cathedrals in Europe with my big girl.
Helping another one build a tiny house for she and her puppy.
Sipping Frappuccinos all day long on some exotic beach with my princess who is a water magnet.
Admiring God’s creative design for animals in the African safari with my biggest little.


And with the guy who wears a gold ring on his left hand matching mine, I’d like to save our pennies for a 2 person jet ski and feel the rush and spray of the Great Lake on our faces as we ride into the sunset.
….And drive a 3- wheeled motorcycle along the Pacific coast through the towering redwoods of Yosemite and next to the pounding surf of the ocean.IMG_0232

My hopes are more closely tethered to reality. Our girls are growing up and mothering is morphing into something different creating new spaces in my life to direct my passions and service. I’d like to retool, to increase my knowledge and marry it to my giftings and experience in order to contribute to the Kingdom and society in meaningful, productive and profitable ways.
And who knows, maybe I’ll be loving on grandchildren before my fifties meld into sixties.

While dreams and goals may escape me as illusively as dandelion seeds, sprouting new hopes and dreams in unexpected places, reality is guaranteed.
And reality has it’s own gifts.
They aren’t all pretty packages—like achy joints and a thickening midline.
And honestly, a few of the gifts I wanted most, like relational reconstruction in broken places, I didn’t get.
But this is the story I am living in real and it’s a great story regardless.
It’s Kurdish dancing and a new puppy and my first iPhone.
And a Michigan address with a big bountiful garden.
It’s transitioning my second sweetheart into college and new friends funneling through my front door and at my dinner table.
And homeschooling my two littles.
It’s partnering with my husband as he runs this crazy professional race he’s running in order to secure place for his family.
And coming alongside our oldest as she launches into home and career.
It’s sponsoring refugees and shaping their formative experiences in my community.
And mentoring high school girls.
It’s investing my time, talent and treasure within my faith community.
And growing older with the friends, near and far, I love best.

Who would have guessed all the adventures God has in every season? Fresh, new mercies, each day, month and year. Decade after decade He continues to lengthen the story of his faithfulness written in my life, one chapter at a time. And, if today is a barometer for the future, I still have a lot to look forward to.

Epilogue:
Great stories often have an encore and my celebration didn’t end when the carriage became a pumpkin. I dragged my achy joints out of bed and into church the next morning, headache pulsing and tears swelling in my ducts.
Maybe an adrenalin crash. Maybe mixed emotions demanding expression.
I feasted on steak grilled to perfection eating with our “You Are Loved” birthday plate and a hand crafted “Happy Birthday” place card for lunch. All of my loves plus a bonus gathered around the table gifting me with words—affirming that my life touches theirs with sweetness and making space for a few of those tears, not to be explained, only experienced. Then, the buds who know almost all of my secrets, surprised me with dessert.
Hours around the kitchen table.
Easy conversation.
Bathing me in love.
What can I say but….Grateful.

Dear Erin, Happy 50th Birthday.

Published on by Hope WebsterLeave a comment

Dear Erin,

Ours is a rich history.
Back in the day, nobody but you could consume as many ice cream sandwiches in one sitting as me.
And those terrifyingly exhilarating tandem rides we took down Terry Trail were about as thrilling as a roller coaster.
The waves slapped unrelentingly against the shore, all those hours we sat on driftwood daydreaming together aloud about our futures and the boys who would share them.
It’s been different in real than we imagined.Screen Shot 2016-07-26 at 4.01.01 PM
Our lives.
Our futures.
Each of us took our own unique path and it shaped us.
I love our annual reunions. Recounting stories.
Our stories of becoming.
Now here we are on the cusp of 50.
Yes, 50. That really will be the number that matches our age in August.

We were fifteen when our lives intersected.
Extroverted, gregarious, uninhibited, confidently insecure, high energy,
you breathed life and laughter into my soul.
You still do.
I remember the day after death struck me a blow. My faith hit a wall and my tool kit for coping was missing key components.
We were seniors in high school and I was broken, fragile and depressed.
After every class, a surprise waited for me in my locker—cards, candy, even a flower. You sat with me in the dark so I didn’t feel as alone. Thank you.

Now we’re, turning 50 and it’s unnerving you—bearing down hard, leaving you fragile with panic breathing down your neck.
Let’s sit together again across the miles.
We’ll pretend we’re back on the beach musing, wondering and imagining…
Gifting each other with love and trust and hope because that’s what friends are for.High School Friends 1

I’ll be honest, sometimes I look in the mirror and am tempted to cry. Who is this person with wiry gray hair and saggy, wrinkly skin? My hands with bulging veins, they look like my mothers.DSCF2782
And my weight….. I don’t even want to go there.
I ache when I change position and move stiffly.
My teeth are starting to chip.
My screening mammograms are abnormal.
I’m entirely reliant on reading glasses.
I have almost constant brain fog.
And my memory is going to pot too.
Sometimes, I behave like a toddler unable to control her frustration when she doesn’t get her way. I just can’t make my body cooperate.
Truth be told, aging tests my mettle.

Other times, I take a deep breath and inhale the sweet aroma of growing older, the rich and lovely facets of personhood that can’t be secured through any other means than life experience. These are the jewels of aging.
And I am learning to lean into those common graces. To open my hand and take the One who will walk with me until He carries me straight into His presence where all of the fallout of the brokenness we face today and tomorrow will be transformed into His image.
We will be made new.DSCF3578

In the meantime, like Ann Voskamp, we can count out gifts, past, present and future…

We have a wealth of experience and with it, wisdom to share, mentoring to offer.
We’ve invested in people and boast a long resume of beautiful relationships.
Some of our friendships have gone the distance. Others have been blips on our radar screen but both recipients got our lavish affection.
Our marriages have been stamped by commitment, pruned by hardships and refined by longsuffering.
We have practiced forgiving and being forgiven.
We invest in the future through mothering and hopefully someday grandmothering.
We’ve ventured out into society with kingdom focused contributions of time, treasure and talent.
We’ve watch trends come and go in cyclical rhythms and the pressure to conform has assauged.
Our hope no longer lies in political solutions offered by miscreant candidates. We aren’t surprised by anything, especially after this election cycle.
We’ve delighted in the advances that make our lives more comfortable and connected.
We’ve travelled to faraway places and have indelible images of God’s creative artistry in this world and it’s population imprinted on our souls.
We’ve consumed the American dream with all of its extravagant bounty– lovely homes, good food, every need met plus a regular trip through the Starbucks drive through as a bonus.
We’ve weathered so many storms that like the Velveteen Rabbit, we’re starting to look shabby on the outside while our insides are becoming beautifully real.DSCF4771

There’s a lot that I don’t know.
The older I get, the more I realize how much I don’t know.
But this I do know– that the steadfast love of the Lord never ceases, His mercies they never come to an end. They are new every morning.
That means they are new every day that we are 49 and they are new every day after we turn 50.

Our eyes may have diminishing clarity but our spiritual vision is growing sharper.
We can look back and see the faithfulness of God, day after day, His fresh mercies enough, even abundant for our need.
And we can look forward with confidence because of our past, confidence in the God who’s never left us, who’s carried us in His arms, close to His heart. We can anticipate when He’ll take our broken bodies and fragmented emotions and perfect them in His presence.
And we can live in today with gratitude for all that has been and all that will be.
And one of the best gifts of all is that we can do it together.
Happy Birthday to us!

Love You, Dolly

Girl’s Best Friend

Published on by Hope WebsterLeave a comment

There are lots of dog stories in our family history.
Rushie was first, an overachieving poodle that won a blue ribbon in obedience class. Then Autumn, our “perfect” golden retriever. After that, we fostered Mitch, the tick infested mutt who made a dog parent look bad with his ferocious walking manners but kid friendly disposition. Then we fostered Isabelle, the sad looking basset hound with floppy ears. Next was Goldie, the not so kid friendly puppy we surrendered after Starla was born. And the girls all tease me about a multitude of strays that I’ve “rescued” presuming they were estranged from their owners only to find out they were neighbor dogs wandering beyond their borders. But on this day, we pay tribute to Gracie, the Golden we adopted for Lily and the sweet companionship between a girl and her dog and the family who lived and loved into this beautiful story.

We said goodbye to her today.
And frankly, goodbyes stink.
This morning I stepped over Gracie, laying near the back door, on my way outside to water the plants. Tonight, she’s out in the yard, not quite three feet under, with Starla’s hand picked daisy marking her grave. And the wound in our hearts is as fresh as the unpacked dirt lying on top of her.
Our family rhythms are disrupted. I didn’t hear the sound of dog food plinking against the metal bowl at dinner time or Lily saying, “Come on Gracie, Go Outside,” followed by the back door opening and closing again just before bedtime. When we played out in the yard tonight, she wasn’t sniffing around or laying in the shade of one our mature trees. And when I peeked in at Lily breathing methodically in her sleep, Gracie’s pillow in the corner of the room lay empty.
Never again will we she beg for our popcorn.
Or snore when she sleeps.
We won’t catch a whiff of her awful breath when she pants anxiously either.
And Brian and I will now take our late night walks unaccompanied.

Her quirky disposition was endearing.
A watchdog she wasn’t since she never met a human she didn’t adore.
And her table manners defied southern charm.
But her longsuffering when manhandled and her playful participation in the girls’ childish adventures, delighted them.
And her quintessential listening skills, riveted attention and physical presence comforted us all.
She was companion to Lily during the dark night of the soul.
And she was confidante to Brian and I over thousands of miles of walks. She heard all our secrets and was privy to our most private prayers.

So grief and gratitude intermingle in a puddle of tears.
Thank you Gracie for gifting our family with your presence.
Thank you God. All good gifts come from You.

DSCF9023

Old Fashioned Patriotism

Published on by Hope WebsterLeave a comment

I positioned our lawn chair and laid out our beach blanket along Main St. USA. We took our annual obligatory parade photo that always includes plastic Meijer bags and the hope of countless tootsie rolls and other bounty to fill them. We mark time with these iconic photos. Our girls have grown up celebrating the birthday of this great land from the curb.

The parade begins with a sea of children dressed by Midwestern mommies in carefully selected holiday attire as they parade down the street on bicycles, in strollers and wagons all decorated red, white and blue. There are adorable rescue dogs on leashes, some miniature horses, political candidates attracting voters parents with popsicles for their children, a long string of floats from local businesses, sports cars and antiques. Sirens blare as the fire trucks, ambulances and police cruisers file past. We wave at these public servants who protect our health and safety day after day and year after year. Then everyone stands respectfully as a line of military personnel representing each of our armed forces and carrying their respective flags come into view. It feels like doing the wave with clapping as hands communicate appreciation. It’s one of my favorite patriotic moments of the year.

Few things incite my patriotism as much as that hometown parade and Cincinnati Reds baseball games.
They’re magical!
Brian and I have sweated against many a nosebleed seat on hot summer nights. The stadium overlooks the Ohio River, sparkling like diamonds in the setting sun, the northern Kentucky skyline in the distance. There’s anticipation in the air for 9 innings of play with all of the atmosphere’s intoxicating sights, smells and sounds. The moment I love best is right at the beginning. Thousands of people stand, place their hands over their hearts and sing. The anthem builds excitement and apexes on the final phrase,

“O say does that star spangled banner yet wave. O’er the land of the free. And the home of the brave.”

Then thunderous applause communicates a wordless expression of gratitude.

There’s a trend in academia and pop culture these days to bash the USA, to disparage our proud history and to minimize our influence in the world. My girls are at risk of being stripped of their national pride and their gratitude squelched.
Are there legitimate concerns, frustrations and disappointments about the history, function, process and direction of this nation? Absolutely. But this is not the weekend to park there. There’s a time for everything and this is our weekend to celebrate good, old fashioned patriotism.

Dear daughters, Consider this.
We didn’t choose where we would be born or the place of our citizenship. It’s what God sovereignly chose for us.
We are the recipients of the privileges of living in its freedoms,
And we have been offered a share in its prosperity.
It’s a gift. Celebrate it.
Let’s choose to count our blessings this 240th birthday weekend.

I took those musings to the dinner table and invited dialogue from my people. Yesterday, lively banter amongst family and friends yielded this list of gifts intermingled with food and friendship on the occasion of our holiday picnic on the front lawn.

DSCF8791

My Question: What are five things you are grateful for as an American citizen?
-We can worship.
-We can homeschool.
-Traditional slavery is over and prejudice is declining.
-There is a court system to oversee justice.
-Our country’s foundation and principles are influenced by Christian faith and values.
-We’re not socialists or communists.
-We have a nice flag.
-We have Chick-Fil-A.
-I am thankful for Thanksgiving holiday.
-We have enjoyed freedom of religion.
-Michigan is in the United States.
-Men and women can get an education, vote and drive.
-Our press isn’t controlled by the government.
-We can choose our religion.
-There’s equality for everyone.
-We’ve preserved many natural places, like parks, for the enjoyment of our citizens.
-We have freedom to obey our conscience according to the Bible.
-There are people who serve our country in the army and police officers who keep our laws.
-We’re not forced to be in the army. People volunteer.
-We can earn money and make our own decisions about what to buy.
-No ongoing wars are being fought on our land.
-We have hot dogs. (Starla interjected, “Actually, the French invented those.”)
-We have freedom of Speech.
-We have freedom of Press.
-We have freedom of Peaceful Assembly.
-We have libraries and unrestricted access to written material.
-We are a country of multicultural influences.
-We have relative ease of travel to diverse natural habitats.
-We get lots of options.
-There is generally a spirit of philanthropy and generosity amongst our citizens.
-We have choices about all sorts of things.
-We travel freely between states.
-Our tradition respects Christian faith.
-We benefit from quality medical care.
-Our country abounds in natural beauty—lakes, oceans, mountains, fields. One of my favorite places is Lake Michigan. (Guess who said that one?)
-I’m grateful for a heritage of people who left everything with a vision for something new.
-I’m grateful for brave, committed men who fought and struggled to draft a document that would create a framework for democracy to flourish.
-I’m grateful for liberty, order and a free society.
-I’m thankful for the men and women who have courageously sacrificed their life to keep it that way.
-I’m grateful that if I wanted to own or carry a weapon, after legally obtaining a permit, I could.
-I walk into church every Sunday and hear God’s words read and described without fear.
-I’m not in the middle of unrelenting chaos and war, fearing for my life.
-By in large, we can trust our law enforcement.
-We live in a democracy with the right to vote (though I admit that doesn’t feel like much to celebrate this year).
-We’ve provided a safe place to land and make a fresh start for countless immigrants and refugees.
-We work and our effort produces personal profit.
-We have rest and recreational opportunities.
-We live amongst great and generous people.

Counting the gifts fuels gratitude. Gratitude propels us toward greater ownership, responsibility and citizenship.
A commitment to love what we have and to preserve it.
Not to abandon it for some fantasy that somewhere else is better.
Not to fall prey to the illusion of the grass being greener in someone else’s yard.
Every nation is inhabited by people.
People are broken and sinful by birth, choice, practice and generational influence.
We’ve all got garbage in our personal lives.
Why would we expect that our country would not also reflect our own personal duplicity?
By the grace of God, in our fallen state, we cry out for mercy, grace and blessing.
And our Heavenly Father is so kind, slow to anger and abounding in love. His mercies are new and fresh every morning.
If that’s how He responds to us personally, can we not ask for the same gracious help on behalf of this land that we love?
And can we not commit to being agents of peace, love and change where our passport calls home?

It’s almost time for the grand finale. I’ll lie on my picnic blanket next to the ones I love best, gaze up into the night sky and watch it light up in amazing colors and designs. I’ll hear and speak involuntary “oohs” and “aahs” of awe and admiration.DSCF3200

Thanks America for another year of celebration.
Happy Birthday to you!

To The Man Our Girls Call Daddy

Published on by Hope WebsterLeave a comment

mothers day favNot every man lives your story.
Surrounded by PMS and feminine accoutrements,  not to mention long hair clogging up the drains. Yup. Five females and a girl dog to boot. That’s what God gave you.

It’s not been intuitive.
Or easy.
It’s not quiet.
And never straightforward.

But it’s compellingly mysterious.
Rewardingly laborious.
Melodiously noisy.
And intriguingly complex.

While there’s no step by step instruction manual for loving a house full of girls, you’ve leaned hard on Jesus and dived into the adventure.
Thanks for doing that…for them and for me.

DSCF9066Today we celebrate you—the man our girls call Daddy, the man who made me a Mama.
We celebrate all that you have given—time, talents and resources.
All that you are.
And all the ways that you love well.

For your lavish gift of time.
From diaper changing ditties,
And bedtime stories of Hobbits, Jungle animals and Narnia read then re-read,
Dancing to DC Talk then Waltzing Matilda,
Building with Legos and blocks and in sand along the beach,
Playing board games and card games and computer games,
Leading and volunteering in youth group and on missions trips,
Riding your bicycle 300 miles for orphans,
Thank you.

For your amazing generosity.
Twenty three years ago, we put a down payment on our little Montrose starter house.
Every day,
every month,
every year since then you’ve taught and written and translated and edited to provide for all our needs and so many of our wants.
You’ve funded books and lessons, classes and college.
You’ve provided reliable transportation that’s taken us about a million miles back and forth between Texas and Michigan….and beyond.
Our bellies are full with yummy food and tasty treats that we pay for at the grocery store with the money you’ve earned.
Thank you.

For the unique skill set and talents that you’ve stewarded so responsibly:
Teaching our girls practical skills like riding a bike and driving a car,
Tutoring in math and science and Greek and Hebrew,
Training in logical thinking and problem solving.
Talking about God’s story in ways that infuse respect, honor and trust for His character expressed through His Word.
“What’s that, Daddy?” came first but later morphed into “Why?” about doctrine and theology, politics and ethics, evil and suffering, justice and mercy.
You’ve invited their questions at every age and stage, engaging them respectfully and giving them wise answers to consider.
Thank you.

You are so much more than what you do.

You are practical.
Never too proud to do dirty work.

When we’re all coming apart at the seams, you’re strong and stable. Hard stuff does not undo you.

You think out of the box.
It was your vision that set us on our crazy beautiful home schooling journey.

And you crafted a proposal, developed a curriculum and patiently worked the steps to strategize an unprecedented plan for moving back home to Michigan. You did so at significant personal and professional cost, focusing instead on love and mission.

You’ve dreamed of alpaca farms and apple orchards, magnetic inventions and interactive online Hebrew curriculums.
Some of your dreams came true. Some didn’t.

Most of all, thanks for the ways you have loved us.

For taking relational risks.
For defending and protecting us.
For making sacrifices on our behalf.
For engaging the hard redemptive work of learning to live with a delicate balance of gentleness and strength.

Love is more than what you do or who you are, it is intentionally marrying courage, humility, kindness and teachability to sincere affection.DSCF8729

What I admire most about you is that you’re trading in the image of competence for the humility of brokenness.
You’re modeling for the girls that they don’t have to pretend they are perfect or all put together.
That God loves a broken heart and a contrite spirit.
That He often reveals our brokenness in the context of family, which is where He also delights to do repair.
You are offering them the freedom to live authentically in relationship to you.
To take risks.
To fail.
To find an ear and a shoulder when they do.

We’re learning together that parenting isn’t a checklist, doesn’t get mastered and never really ends.
We just keep trying to figure out what it looks like in the next phase.
Leaning into friendship and influence.
Supporting.
Helping.
Praying.

When God gives a man your story, it says something about His confidence in you.
God chose you to be Angela, Lily, Robyn and Starla’s Daddy.
He didn’t make a mistake.
He knew you were the right guy for the job.
I know it too.
Thank you.Scan 111460002

Blessing Lily

Published on by Hope WebsterLeave a comment

_MG_3938They arrived in flip flops, about a hundred friends and our petite but precious extended family.
Summer flirted and we liked it.
It all felt so familiar, like the smell of home. Here we were again at the place where we’ve made the dearest memories over the past decade of summers.
Big sister graduated here too. Three years ago but it seemed like yesterday. And it felt like déjà vu except it was real. And beautiful.ed-8

_MG_4002The colored paper lanterns hanging from the tall pine trees swayed gently contributing to the festive vibe.
The sidewalk was grafittied with celebratory greetings in chalk.
Down the hall, images of Lily’s story hung with clothespins on twine.
People sat together munching on finger foods talking and laughing, the music of friendship.

Then we invited them to join us in recounting the faithfulness of God in Lily’s life.
And with the exchange of a well earned diploma and these words, one chapter of her story ended and another began.

Lily, like other young adults on the cusp of forever, you wonder what it looks like to embrace God’s calling on your life.
You’ve glimpsed yourself in the mirror and seen a young woman shaped by mission, deeply influenced by the story of Lillian Trasher, your heroine of the faith, who served God in Egypt for over 50 years as an angel of mercy to orphans, widows and the blind.
You’ve assessed your competencies in math and science and your fascination with cells and the human body.
You’ve reflected on your relational style, an excellent match for kinesthetic caregiving.
And you’ve decided that the next step in your journey is to pursue nursing.

Dan Allender answers the question “What is my calling?” with these words,
“It is to make known something about God that is bound to my unique face, name and story.”

So tonight, your dad and I gift you with a first aid kit and bless you on your own unique journey of mercy. These tools of the trade represent more than their tangible application for acute care, they symbolize instruments to tend the deeper needs of hurting people.
And, truth is, we’re all hurting people.

Let’s consider a few items in the kit together:

The Kit comes with an Instruction book.
Know the book well enough that you don’t have to stop and search it every time something comes up. But never think of yourself as beyond instruction. Read the Bible often. And also learn to read the story that God is writing in your life; for that is instructive too.

Hand cleanser and gloves. These are for your own protection. But they assume that you are getting involved in the messiness of wounds. Caring involves wise risk taking.

Antiseptic ointment cleans wounds and kills germs to prevent infection. Applying salve requires a delicate balance of resolve and gentleness. Your patient may recoil or cry, “Ouch, that hurts!” And you will need to remember that stinging often precedes healing.

Care givers need Bandages of all shapes and sizes. As physical wounds are distinct and diverse, so are spiritual and emotional ones. Some are big; some are small. Some are in awkward places – private and deeply personal. Others need butterfly closures to minimize scarring. You’ll need God’s word, the Holy Spirit’s discernment, and a commitment to prayer to help you bandage those wounds, providing protection that promotes healing.

There is an appropriate role for pain relievers and we hope that you help relieve others’ pains. While pain meds may mask symptons, they are not cures. For the soul, “we want a cure, not a medication.” To hear the soul, we can’t just “numb the pain.” We need each other’s hurt and pain. “It’s not love any other way.”

Tissues. These are not in the kit, but you remember Louie’s illustration from Matthew 7:4 where Jesus talks about the log and the speck, and Louie illustrates with the chainsaw, sword and the tissue. Stock up on tissues, preferably the kind with lotion. To gift another with a most tender act of compassion is to not just to wipe away their tears that result from physical pain, but to share tissues and tears, for you to practice empathy by giving them a safe place to hurt, to expose the soul wounds that are oozing, to sit quietly with them in it and suffer too. And perhaps harder yet, is to learn to give yourself that same tenderness when your own contusions are seeping.

Over the course of a life, you just keep washing your hands and dirtying them up again with the next person God places on your path to serve. And therein, you become an extension of the hands of Christ to a wounded world full of broken, busted up people.

It’s not glam and ultimately you won’t be able to fix them or yourself. You’ll have to reconcile with that reality and content yourself with urgent care this side of heaven.

It’s not a winner’s story– this life in a fallen world.
When you love well and serve humbly, you’ll be broken too.
It will hurt.
And you will groan.
You will grapple with the mystery of this melancholy story you are living in.
You’ll wonder about the character of a God whose sovereignty allows so much chaos on a massive scale. You’ll get tired of looking at suffering and death, physically, emotionally and spiritually.
Satan will tempt you to despise your story and look for a prettier one, a cleaner one, a more Facebook worthy one. When he does, remember these words expressed as only Ann Voskamp can do.

“There’s a reason I am not writing the story of my life and God is. He knows how it all works out, where it all leads, what it all means. I don’t. So, I will let God blow His wind, His trials, oxygen for joy’s fire. I will leave the hand open and be. Be at peace. I will bend the knee and be small and let God give what God chooses to give because He only gives love. And, I will whisper a surprise thanks. This the fuel for joy’s flame.”

And there it is, the greatest tool you will ever add to your first aid kit.
It is gratitude.
It’s waking up every morning, no matter what your story was yesterday and reminding yourself of the truth.
This is the truth.

The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; His mercies never come to an end. They are new every morning. Great is your faithfulness. (Lamentations 3:22-23)

And so you get out of bed anticipating his fresh mercies, abundant for each new day.
And as you count your blessings, day after day, year after year, you find yourself a long way down life’s road a lot sooner that you expected and looking back through the rear view mirror your story is broken beautiful, and you wouldn’t trade it for a photo edited version because the real one looks a bit like Jesus who bloodied himself up cleaning the lacerations on your infected heart with His nail scarred hands.
And you realize that it’s actually your scars that make you beautiful.
And that is the essence of joy and foundation for hope.

So, on this night, Lily, your father and I bless you with these words from Romans 15:13

May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that by the power of the Holy Spirit you may abound in hope.

We prayed over Lily, then circled the room and took hands.
All of us.
A beautiful menagerie of people representing the creative color palette of God.
From Syria to Haiti and Ethiopia and China and Korea to Grand Rapids, Michigan.
Everybody with their own broken beautiful story connected to each other.
And God was right there in the middle of it.
Smiling.
So we sang a benediction acknowledging where all our stories ultimately start and end.
To the glory of God.
Great things He has done.

Lewis Meets the Lion

Published on by Hope WebsterLeave a comment

Be Happy!   The last card has been played and it’s the ace of hearts.–Jesus

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Every night this week, the routine’s been the same. We slip on our cotton tent dresses, tie them at the waist, cover our heads with scarves and rush out the door. It’s been fourteen years since I played a biblical character in our church’s traditional Easter drama. Last time, I held one little girl in my arms, with another grasping the left side of my robe and the biggest one close on my right. The “baby” was a beautiful surprise yet to be discovered.
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We waved our palm branches shouting “Hosanna” to Jesus who smiled lovingly at the mass of children reaching for him and held the tiniest ones in his arms. More than a decade later, the story of Jesus remains unchanged but the contemporary narrative that parallels the gospel account switches out every annum to highlight a person with a God shaped hole in their heart that gets filled at the cross.
This year, the modern figure features CS Lewis, author, philosopher and storyteller extraordinaire.

I can’t count how many times we’ve read his Chronicles of Narnia or listened to the audiobooks. I can hear the British reader in my sleep. And I remember the year we lived in the story when Lily and Robyn were cast as Susan and Lucy in the play based on the book, “The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe”.


This fantasy story, a brainchild of Lewis imagination, describes a group of siblings who embark on a magical journey through a clothes wardrobe into a mystical land called Narnia where the evil but deceitfully charming and beautiful White Witch has cast a spell on the land making it always winter but never Christmas. She dupes one of the siblings called Edmund and he becomes enchanted after eating some of her candy. He betrays his siblings for treats and the witch’s promise of power, unaware that she intends to kill him in order to interrupt an ancient prophecy foretelling an end to her rule.
Enter Aslan, the great lion and hero of the story. He is the real king of Narnia. And he is good. He privately arranges an exchange with the White Witch and trades places with Edmund. A life for a life. And so the witch giddy with evil delight, convinced that murdering Aslan cements her reign forever, binds her victim, lays him on a stone table and stabs him in the heart.
She has forgotten, however, that the spell will be broken if an innocent victim sacrifices life on behalf of another. As Narnia melts to spring, she remembers. Aslan resurrects and the children fight together against the witch’s minions in a battle for the sake of Aslan’s kingship. Ultimately evil gets defeated and Aslan entrusts the rule of His kingdom to the children until he returns to Narnia.

Lewis’ personal story has LOSS written large all over it with a Sharpie.
At only eight years old, he lost his mother to cancer and was sent to boarding school by his devastated father.
World War 1 bombarded Europe during his teen years so he shipped off to war, where he lost his entire platoon in battle and his best friend to a bullet.
Later, his father died unexpectedly still unreconciled to Lewis.
He married late in life. Found a kindred spirit in his wife, Joy, and four years later ravenous cancer snatched her away too.
Death dogged him.
Abandonment shaped him.
Loneliness pummeled him.
Brilliant. Yes.
Successful. Yes.
Respected. Yes.
But broken, emptied and reluctant to believe in a God bigger than his pain.

He carried his own little White Witch around on his shoulder whispering lies into his pain at his most vulnerable moments.
If God is all loving and caring, why would he do this to you?
You’re alone.
No one is coming to save you.

I commiserate with Lewis.
I have my own little demons dancing around in my head.
My story of rescue is different than his.
A compliant, fearful child, my Sunday School teacher’s description of hell petrified me so I repeated her spoon fed words as if salvation was a mathematical equation, the sum equaling a quick fix for a scary eternal problem. I repeated that mantra countless times like a kid practicing math facts just to be sure I wouldn’t forget them.
Then as concrete reasoning turned abstract, I realized that the God who makes a nice room for me in his Grand Hotel wants more than my reservation. He actually intends to accompany me all the way to my destination. He offers his services as tour guide for the journey too. But there’s a catch. He gets to decide the route, my arrival time and all the stops along the way.
And that’s been the rub because while I want his companionship, I don’t like his GPS system.
And so like Lewis, I struggle to trust Him, to concur with his plans for me, to let Him log my travel journal because I think I can write a better one.

In Act Two of the Easter drama, Jesus comes before political leader, Pontius Pilate. The Jewish religious bigwigs called Pharisees have made false accusations to shame and disparage him. They are frustrated by his unconventional leadership style, intimidated by his popularity and offended because he won’t fit into their box so they just want to get rid of him.
I’m in the scene where the angry crowd shouts “Crucify Him!” But I find that my mouth is full of cotton ever time I attempt to yell out the words. And the tears swell in the corners of my eyes and then overflow.

It’s not that I’m too spiritual to act the part.
Rather, I’m faced with my duplicity.
And it’s overwhelming.
I am the mocking, jeering, haughty spectator at the crucifixion and the weeping, humbled, grateful one too.
And the tension of the paradox disturbs me.

Truth is, I want my way but my way isn’t fully aligned with Jesus way this side of heaven.
So my own little witch feeds me a steady diet of lies every day questioning His goodness, His trustworthiness.
And the lies are unrelenting, like a song on repeat.
Even if you don’t like it, it gets stuck in your head.
And I complain to God,
“I don’t like your plan.”
“This isn’t the way I imagined my life.”
“Why won’t you do what I ask?”
“You disappoint me.”
And it’s really no different than yelling “Crucify Him”.

Fickly, like a pinball ricocheting off the posts, my soul alternates between complaints and gratitude. In my broken hallelujah moments, I glimpse the God-man stripped, bloodied, tormented and dying. His cross says I am held in His arms and carried close to his heart. I see lavish love in His nail scars. My fist opens and I transfer my life map into the wounded hands of my most ardent pursuer. There, humility meets holiness in worship.

After the crucifixion scene in the drama, Jesus exits the tomb to a peel of thunder and the roar of a Lion. He walks over to little boy Lewis, then young man Lewis and finally to older Lewis. With each Lewis, he places an arm around him and looks tenderly into his hurting eyes.
And like Lewis, I see myself
A little girl with irrational fears and excessive anxieties,
And a teenager who had no idea what to do with her losses,
That young wife disillusioned about love- and disappointed,
An insecure mom second guessing her skill and stamina,
The friend fearing rejection and abandonment,
And when I lean into the tender embrace of Jesus I hear Him whisper, Peace. Be Still.

I recently saw a facebook prompt that invited me to “Write the Happiest Story in 4 Words”.
So on this Easter Sunday, mine goes like this:
She embraced God’s love.

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Childlike Faith at Easter

Published on by Hope WebsterLeave a comment

I found this treasure buried in the archives.
Starla was five back then.
There’s something magical about childlike faith.
Maybe that’s why God puts it on display saying,
“I tell you the truth, anyone who doesn’t receive the Kingdom of God like a child will never enter it.” (Mark 10:15)
From the mouth of a babe, this is all we really need to know about Easter.
Starla and the Resurrection Eggs