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The favorite bowl slipped from my hand and landed with a crash on the tile floor. “Oh no,” I moaned as I stared at the many pieces around my feet. What a waste, a beautiful dish; now nothing but rubbish. I grabbed the broom and swept the remains into a pile, dumping the useless pieces into the trash.

Several years after this incident I read a story about a Japanese belief, that immediately took me back to my broken bowl and the shattered pieces I had thrown away. I discovered that the Japanese have a very different take on what to do with these broken items, especially pottery. Instead of discarding them as I did, they meticulously mend the pieces back together, using silver or gold dust. In this way, they are highlighting the brokenness. They celebrate the cracks and display it with pride – it is now a piece made beautiful by its brokenness. Some people look at it as a metaphor of embracing their own flaws and imperfections. They call this practice kintsukuroi or kintsugi, meaning golden repair or golden joinery. You can check out the amazing process on YouTube.

As I went through a difficult time and my heart felt literally broken, I was so grateful that I knew about this Japanese custom. It brought me much comfort to think I might become stronger and more beautiful in my brokenness – just as the pieces of kintsugi pottery do in the hands of the artists. I could see God as the artist, meticulously putting me back together with highlights of gold and silver. I meditated on Isaiah 43:19. The Lord said – forget all that (the past) – it is nothing compared to what I’m going to do. For I am about to do something new. See, I have already begun! Do you not see it?

And I did see it. There was evidence that He was doing just that. Just as he had knitted me together in my mother’s womb, He was now knitting my wounded heart back together with His golden threads of love, compassion, grace, and meaningful words. Special qualities within myself that had lain dormant surfaced and I experienced personal growth in areas that had never been tapped before.

I’m not one to buy things for myself, but when I found a kintsugi necklace in the shape of a heart, I felt an urge to purchase it. I wear it nearly every day to remind me that brokenness is – not only repairable – but capable of making one better than before.

If you’ve experienced traumatic heartache, brokenness, or devastation of any kind, I encourage you to adopt this Japanese thought process and let God work to make you better than you were. By his mighty power at work within us, He is able to accomplish infinitely more than we would ever dare to ask or hope. Ephesians 3:20.

Until next month – keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

I know that it’s not always popular to talk about death, but, it’s quite certain and we probably should talk about it more often than we do. And if we look, we can often find blessings in the midst of it.

Since writing my last blog, my dear mother has passed away. We had watched as her quality of life had slipped slowly away over the past six months. At 93 years old, we are very grateful for all the years we had with her. But, oh…how we would miss her sense of humor and her special laugh!

The family gathered around her hospital bed at the home of my sister. Mom had not been responsive for several days and now her breathing was changing with longer pauses and more shallow breaths dominating the rhythm. It seemed inevitable that she would breathe her last before the hour was up. Her daughters and granddaughter stroked her pallid cheeks and held her hands, hoping it was comforting to her. We bent down and whispered our last heartfelt goodbyes, telling her it was okay to go to Jesus. Our words were spoken in earnest, but that didn’t make it easier for us to let go. The oldest great grandchild who just lived down the road and saw Grandma Great often, clung to her aunt for comfort. The three men in the room – men who usually don’t struggle with words -had little to say. Tears wound their way down cheeks as each one thought of their own special memories and absorbed themselves into their own personal grief.

As self absorbed as we were, there was one that looked beyond himself. An angel it seemed, disguised in the body of a child. As if anointed, seven year old Micah with glassy eyes of his own, made himself as tall as possible (or maybe that’s how I saw him) and powerfully began singing “Jesus Loves Me.” The quietness was broken and gentle smiles replaced tears. What began as a solo turned into a choir. The peace of celebration had begun! How could we not rejoice when Mom was about to enter into the greatest kingdom ever? With childlike faith, Micah understood this quicker than us, perhaps.

As the week went on and we prepared for Mom’s service, I knew that the one thing I would always remember about this time was the boldness and faithfulness Young Micah portrayed that day. It was stamped in permanent ink on my heart.

In the light of fellowship following the service, I asked Micah what he wanted to be when he grew up. “I want to be a team roper like my uncles,” he said without hesitation. I suppressed a grin behind my hand. Proverbs 16:9 tells us – We can make our plans, but the Lord determines our steps. It could be that Micah will become a team roper, but as Micah walks with the Lord, it might not happen that way at all. God may have other plans, but whatever those plans are, we can be assured they are the best plans possible because God loves His creation (us) and desires to complete us with what He knows will most fulfill us. In my mind I can see him as Pastor Micah – after all, he did a topnotch job of ministering to a family that needed it.

Until next month, keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

The boys and I were clashing heads. I don’t remember what about and neither do they. Many many seasons have passed since that summer day. I have a feeling the two young instigators had employed the “push Mama” button one too many times. My exasperation tank was full to the point that I had stepped out back to regroup. This was long enough for seven-year-old Daniel to write a detailed note on the back of a used envelope before he and his five-year-old brother, Caleb, would run away. They cautiously escaped through the front doors with their plastic grocery sack of supplies before I reentered the house from the back.

The first thing I noticed after crossing the threshold was that the house was as quiet as a church sanctuary on Monday. A welcome change, but not necessarily a good sign. I spied the note on the kitchen counter and thought it odd that Daniel didn’t just holler out the patio door if he wanted to tell me something. (The length of the note that covered the entire back of the legal sized envelope would have required some effort from a boy his age.) Once I stepped close enough to read it, it became evident why he had chosen to write his message rather than speak it. Caleb and I are moving to JC’s (Daniel’s friend down the country road) until you are happy with us again. Oh dear, those boys were adept at two things – pushing their Mama’s buttons and melting her heart – all in the course of the same morning. What a precious note! He even provided the four digit phone number to JC’s house. I would later tuck the note into a safe page of my scrapbook (where it still resides.)

I peeked outside and noticed that both bikes were gone. These boys had wasted no time to get down to business. Traffic was minimal on our road and the boys were conscientious bike operators so I didn’t worry about them that way. It would take them a bit to ride the two miles to JC’s and using up some of that excess energy might be good for all of us. I called the number Daniel had left me and let JC’s mom know she could expect the boys soon. “Let the boys stay awhile and play,” she said. “JC needs a distraction, too.”

The desire to run away doesn’t always stop once we’ve reached adulthood. I’ve considered that sort of solution just about every time a very difficult crisis occurs. Unlike Daniel, I would make sure I left no destination and no phone number.

Ahhh…if it was only that simple to leave our responsibilities behind and isolate in our miseries. Somehow, we have to find refuge another way. I’ve never taken to drugs or alcohol, shopping or gambling to numb the pain; which by the way leaves us with only a worsened headache or broke. But I have taken to the sweet words of the LORD that loves us. God is my refuge and strength, always ready to help in times of trouble. So I will not fear, even if earthquakes come and the mountains crumble into the sea. Psalms 46:1-2.

He can be your refuge, too, no matter what you are going through. He’s a big enough God to handle it – the same Big God that created the world in seven days is patiently waiting to hear from your heart.

Until next month – keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

My sixteen year old son and I heaved the big black trash bags into the back of the pickup. We had already loaded the wooden chair with the broken leg and the fallen branches of the cottonwood tree. After I was content that we had collected every last piece of castaways from the garage and house, we were ready to take the load to “the pit.”

We lived on a sugar beet farm and “the pit” was just that – a deep dirt pit. It reminded me of the buffalo jumps the natives utilized in the 1800’s to secure their food. Instead of bison, this pit was the final destination of anything not wanted on the farm. Worn out furniture as well as appliances, tree limbs, rusted wire, general garbage – you name it…went into the pit. It was our rural version of the city dump.

Daniel, having recently obtained his driver’s license, took on the job of driving whenever feasible – or not. He slid into the driver’s seat as I resigned myself to the passenger seat. We rounded the grove of trees that hid the pit. My son maneuvered the pickup around to face the road and began backing it up into unloading position.

Quicker than “two shakes of a dead lamb’s tail” (as my father would say), an overwhelming dread and uncontrollable feeling of fear came over me. I dove for the passenger floor board; curled into fetal position, hands and arms covering my head. But, the crash never came.

“Mom, what are you doing?” Daniel implored, in a concerned, yet perplexed voice he seldom used. It was the first moment of realizing I had a fear of unprotected edges. I climbed sheepishly onto the seat, my eyes moist with relieved tears. Daniel was still staring at me like I had lost my mind and I wasn’t so sure I hadn’t.

“You were scared we were going to go off backwards – into the pit, weren’t you, Mom?”

Still speechless, I nodded. Daniel reassured me that we were still several feet from the edge and when I got my sea legs beneath me and checked – he was right. I had had no reason to worry.

A few deep breaths later, I attempted to refocus on the job at hand. I looked down into that pit. So much trash! Had we really crashed and lived to tell about it, we would have had to climb through all “the muck and mire” to get out.

There are all kinds of pits we can get stuck in. Pits that are hard to climb out of – maybe addictions, depression, relationship battles, a financial crisis, health issues, spiritual warfare, and so many more. Is there anyone that can help when we are desperate? Yes, there is! Take a look at Psalms 40:2. He also brought me up out of a horrible pit, out of the miry clay. And set my feet upon a rock. And established my steps. No one knows this better than a recovered addict, a convicted criminal, an abandoned spouse, a rejected child, a bankrupt CEO, or a dying parent, that has put their trust in Jesus.

With Jesus, there is always hope. It’s never too late to let Him be your guide. Take His hand and let Him lift you up, out of whatever pit you might be in. If you’re not sure how to do this, find a Christian friend or pastor to help you. Planting your feet upon the Rock of Jesus is the first step to walking away from that pit of despair.

Until next month – keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

It was an especially windy night on the Wyoming prairie. We had secured our lawn chairs on the patio, taken down our swinging bird feeders, and double checked the latches on the gates. It was reported that gusts could reach 75- 80 mph through the night. I slipped into bed, earplugs in place, and snuggled in, after my husband assured me everything was secure and would be fine.

In the morning, we found that the things we had secured were still safe, but an entire army of strangers were now corralled in our back yard. Hundreds and hundreds of tumbleweeds! Huge ones, small ones, in between ones. They were falling over each other – stacked higher than the fence and spread thirty feet deep across the yard. We couldn’t imagine what part of the country they had all come from , but were quite sure they were using our yard as a command center.

The tumbleweed, also known as the Russian thistle, immigrated to the United States in 1873 as a stow away in a bag of flax seed from Russia. Each winter after the plant dries, the bushy part breaks off above the roots. It now becomes a rolling, tumbling mass of prickly branches and thousands of seeds at the mercy of the wind.

Observing tumbleweeds as they bounce and roll across the roadways and prairie, makes me cognizant of the many people that are blown to and fro by other people’s opinions, or by misinformation, or even by the latest trend. This is so prevalent in our current state of affairs in the United States. Ephesians 4:14 speaks of this. We are blown here and there by every wind of teaching and by the cunning and craftiness of people in their deceitful scheming. How often do we stop to consider if these ideas are consistent with the Word of God – the one source of absolute truth? Nine out of ten households in the United States own a Bible; the average household has three. This tells me that the majority of us believe the Bible is important, yet I’m afraid we do not consult it nearly enough.

I encourage you to put down deep roots into the Word of God. Stand firm on His teachings. We can be confident that His way is the right way and that He wants what is best for us. Don’t be blown hither and yon like the dried tumbleweed. (By the way, they are considered a noxious weed.)

Until next month, keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.