Author: Stephanie Rollins

 

A few months ago I posted about the Bible’s Old Testament books.  Here is the post I promised for the New Testament.

Included is a cheat sheet listing the books, summarizing them, and describing the hand motions we came up with to help us memorize: Books of New Testament.

In case my descriptions need a little help, here’s a video of my girls going through the books with the hand motions: Girls Recite NT Books.

We had a lot of fun with these.  My original hand motion for the book of Acts was one hand on top of your head, fingers extended upward and waving, like the flames of a fire.  This was meant to represent the Holy Spirit falling on the disciples in the Upper Room, and appearing as tongues of fire on their heads.  The girls, in hysteria, kept shouting “chicken!” when we got to this one, because to them it looked like a rooster.  So we had to change it.  A memory I’ll keep for life.

Praying you and yours find it every bit as fun and meaningful.

 

 

 

I have a confession.  It’s been days since my last post, and the reason is that I have spent these days binge-watching Poldark.  

When I say “binge-watch,” I wish I meant something only slightly off-balance and mostly self-controlled, like a responsible adult would mean.  I don’t. 

I neglected basic household chores.  I reduced my mothering objectives from “teach them books of the Bible” to “keep them alive.”  I cooked only once, and even then it was a shepherd’s pie to enjoy while in 1790’s Cornwall.  And, as embarrassing as this is to admit, I became so obsessed that I consumed the first three seasons in not many more days.  Then, when I ran out of episodes but my heart was still in England, I started Downton Abbey again from the beginning.  It’s how I’ve been easing back to normal.     

I got a bit lost; I can’t deny it.  Which reminded me of the Mirror of Erised.  In the movie Harry Potter and the Sorceror’s Stone, Harry found a magical mirror that reflected one’s deepest desire.  When Harry looked into it, he saw his dead parents lovingly beside him, and he began to spend too much time tucked away in front of the mirror.  Finally, Professor Dumbledore intervened and warned Harry: “This mirror gives us neither knowledge nor truth.  Men have wasted away in front of it… It does not do to dwell on dreams, Harry, and forget to live.” 

It is easy for me to wrap myself up in a make-believe world while forgetting my own.  And yet, as I come back to center, God is kind to remind me that there is nothing more powerful than our everyday lives.  No matter how ordinary or insignificant they may seem. 

Many years ago I read and loved a book called Waking the Dead.  The author John Eldredge wrote that the reason we feel connected to great stories is because they all borrow from God’s original Story in which good and evil fight over our hearts.  When we feel moved watching a young Luke train as a Jedi, or watching Arya Stark take up her sword, Eldredge wrote, “deep is calling unto deep”— our spirits are responding to a very real calling as warriors and royal heirs in a global war.  He argued that waking up to this spiritual reality is crucial for us to live our fullest, most glorious lives:  

“Either we wake to tackle our ‘to do’ list, get things done, guided by our morals and whatever clarity we may at the moment have…Or we wake in the midst of a dangerous Story, as God’s intimate ally, following him into the unknown.”

It is very easy to dismiss our small, everyday encounters with each other as inconvenient, rather than as divine appointments.  To consider our chores void of eternal consequence.  To focus so much on our current annoyance, that we lose sight of our true purpose as prayer-warriors, change-bringers, good-news-tellers, encouragers and friends.  

In 2 Kings 6, the prophet Elisha and his servant found themselves surrounded on all sides by a powerful army.  The servant began to panic, and asked Elisha what they should do.  But Elisha told him not to fear.  He said, “For those who are with us are more than those who are with them.”  He then prayed, and asked the Lord to open the servant’s eyes to the unseen.  God answered, and the servant looked around to find the mountain covered in angel armies— horses and chariots of fire— fighting with them.  

As far from everyday life as it may seem, if we truly believe the Bible— if we see the unseen— then we are the Creator’s allies in a daily world war.  There is a very real enemy prowling around to kidnap our children and our loved ones as prisoners-of-war, and there are real angel armies at our side.  There is a great cloud of witnesses seated in the stadium of heaven to watch us run the race, and the game is played for keeps.  

Certainly, we can choose to waste away in fantasies and distractions, or to believe the lie that our own stories aren’t nearly as grand as all that.  Or like King Saul, we can hide ourselves in the supplies closet and pretend we aren’t being tapped to play.  But it doesn’t change the truth that our story— no matter who we are— is better than any story ever told.  Better even than that of Ross Poldark, or the gladiator Maximus.  It is the true one, the one playing out right now, in which we are the protagonists. 

The glory of our lives, and that of our loved ones, hangs in the balance.  There are hostages waiting for us to realize our destinies, and there are plot conflicts waiting for us to resolve them: will forgiveness be extended?  Will the relationship make it?  Will the time be invested?  Will the moment be lost?  And only we decide how it goes.  

I love to picture it.  Me turning down a grocery store aisle only to realize someone I know is at the other end.  Someone from the past, someone who reminds me of things I’d rather forget.  And I look like a mess, and this isn’t good timing, and so I have every inclination to cast my eyes down and turn around.  But wait.  What if this was all arranged?  What if I am here, now, for such a time as this?  What if it has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with God?  What if I set down my vanity or insecurity, and took up His banner and His war cry?  And then as I think it, a great crowd draws and holds its breath, and an archangel beside me steadies his horse and waits for my command.  Nana, my grandmother, seated somewhere in the stands, leans forward a bit in her chair and studies my face, and then, as I take a step forward her eyes squint into a warm smile.  My grandfather whom I never met reaches over and squeezes her hand, and as I walk toward the person at the other end of the aisle, the horse beside me keeps my pace and his rider draws his sword.  

And the crowd goes wild. 

 

It is five in the morning and I can’t sleep.  I thought I’d have a cup of coffee and write.  Both are proving difficult because my giant bear of a dog, Penny, keeps knocking my elbows with her nose.  She wants love.  If you’re up, I’m up, so let’s be together, she seems to say.  

Our Penny, or Penelope Mae, is a Bernese Mountain Dog— a hundred-pound Swiss working dog with a long, tri-color coat in black, white and brown.  Her breed is the shaggy mascot of many a vacuum or allergen medication commercial, or of Christmas in the Alps.  For the latter, they are often pictured pulling a red sleigh or a freshly-cut Christmas tree through the snow, usually on a greeting card or dish towel or coffee mug. 

Occasionally, I endure criticism about my choice of dog.  For one thing, our Alpine farm hand lives in Austin, Texas.  For another, she sheds.  A lot.  I work very hard at sweeping and mopping our floors, and I never win.  Thirdly, everything she does is BIG.  How does she greet someone at the door?  She knocks them over.  How does she jump into a chair?  She moves it back four feet.  How many doggy waste bags should you take when you walk her?  You get the idea.

And yes, I see all of these well-reasoned points against my dog.  But I made my choice of dog knowing these things, and I chose her anyway.  Twice.  

My first Berner, Bree, was Derek’s and my first love.  She was our pre-baby pet, and the object of all the overflow of our newlywed hearts.  In my early career days when I was green at the courthouse, she calmed my pre-trial nerves every Sunday night.  On days Derek travelled for work, she filled his spot in bed.  On days I returned home deflated, she met me at the door with tail wagging, bringing with her hope and healing.  She saw the lives of Camden and Ellie enter and fill our family, and she turned three different houses in two different cities into our “home.”  The day she died, a warm light left our house, and a dark hole replaced it.  

Until Penny.  Who every day diminishes the darkness, bit by bit, and steadily heals our family by being unapologetically her own dog, worthy of our whole hearts in this our next chapter of life.

You’d think when we got our second one, most people would realize we were serious about Berners.  I mean, we’d done the entire life span of one, and signed up for the second.  But no.  Still they say, “Goodness, I don’t know how you deal with all that ____ (cost).” 

My college roommate used to say, “You make time for those things you truly want,” on her way out the door to the gym.  And from the couch over my bowl of Easy Mac, this struck me as wise.  For the purposes of this post I might adapt it slightly to say: “You make allowances for those things you truly love.”  And there’s the deeper magic that the critic misses and the dog owner knows.  The critic can’t possibly assess the cost-benefit ratio.  They aren’t in love with this dog.  You can measure the dog hair in the dust pan, but you can’t measure the joy and love in the home. 

We as people love to question each other’s choices.  We think things like, “why does that parent continue to do what they do for that child, because (cost, cost, cost).”  But isn’t the answer to “why that price?” always, “Yes but, love.” 

I know for me, when asked why I brought Bree home all those years ago knowing I’d lose her nine or ten years later, my answer is “yes, but I loved her.”  And when asked why, knowing how badly it hurt to lose her, I brought Penny home with all the same costs and requirements, my answer is “yes, but I love her.”  

This must be true for God, too.  If you asked Him whether or not He really cares about you, or whether or not you matter to this expansive world, or whether every mess you’ve made finally does mean that you cost too much, I am certain I know His answer.  He made his choice about you knowing the end from the beginning, and every moment in between, and made the choice anyway.  Twice.  

The sun is rising now.  My dog is still at my side.  And God loves us anyway, despite the cost.  It makes me want to nudge Him on the elbow and say: You’re up, so I’m up.  Let’s be together. 

In my last post about quitting, I wrote “When we refuse to be talked off our rock, He waits until we’re ready.”  This expression— “talked off our rock”— is personal.  It comes from my trip with the National Outdoor Leadership School  which I mentioned in the same post.  

I hesitate to share the story at all.  I recognize that there are harder circumstances than the one I experienced.  I’m even embarrassed to share it with my husband because he endures misery so well, and occasionally climbs mountains for fun.  Most recently he climbed Mt. Rainier with his sister and my brother, both of whom are the types to run marathons with little effort and with all their toenails intact in the end.  

But I remind myself it isn’t about how difficult the circumstance, but about whatever circumstance it is that brings you, the individual, to the end of yourself.  And so, I choose to share it.

NOLS is similar to Outward Bound, but I believe more technical and arduous.  The U.S. Naval Academy sends trainees to NOLS.  You can see a quick video on that here: USNA to NOLS .

Everything you need goes in a pack on your back.  You share cooking and camping responsibilities with a small group of four or five.  You learn compass and map reading, along with first aid.  On a typical day, you wake up at 5:30 A.M. and cook breakfast on a camp stove.  Then you clean the pan with snow or water from the nearest river, and break down camp.  You practice “Leave No Trace” ethics, packing out every article of trash and returning the campsite to the way it was before you arrived.  Once packed up, you set out in small groups for the day’s hike or activity, keeping to your TCP, or time control plan.  You eat leftovers for lunch during a short break, and then move out again.  Once you reach your “X”, you set up camp, cook dinner, clean pots, write the next day’s TCP, and do it all again.  And as the group faces the challenges, responsibilities, and exhaustion together, leadership is also taught.  

Before I went, my brother Trey gave me a letter.  It changed my outlook and experience.  I am convinced that had I not had his NOLS Letter, I would’ve entirely missed the point.

There are so many stories to share from NOLS, and I may tell more of them over time.  But if I had to pick just one, it’s this.

The Boulder Field 

This is it.  This is where I quit, I thought. 

My brother, a NOLS grad several times over, had warned me that I would hit my wall.  That I would meet myself.  And this was it, the day before my twenty-first birthday in the Wind River Range of Wyoming, as the wind picked up and thunder rolled into a cold drizzle against my face.  

I was standing on a rock just large enough for me and my pack, looking at the backs of my small group moving away from me and farther apart from one another.  No one was within earshot, and even if they had been, the wind would have carried my voice away with it.  No, I was alone, and I was alone in that moment whether surrounded by tent mates or not. 

If I just sit here, my instructor will have to come back for me, I thought.  This is where I will be, because I cannot go any farther.  And she will realize I have stopped moving, and she will come back for me.  

I was a third of the way through the boulder field that seemed never to end.  

Earlier we had gazed down and out over it from the top of the pass, and our hearts had broken.  Our fifth day on the course, this was the most difficult boulder field yet, and unexpected.  Our instructor had misread our location three times, and three times we had reached the summit of a pass only to learn that we were not where we thought we were and would need to keep moving.  With bodies aching, spirits sinking, we had pushed ourselves past the lines we had drawn for ourselves, working our way up steep elevation gains to finally reach our “X.”  

“It’s just up here at the top of this ridge,” she had said.  And we had fought to hit it.  But studying her face at the top, I quickly realized we were still lost.  I searched her expression, knowing in my gut we wouldn’t set up camp there on that ridge.  I looked out over the boulder drainage, the largest one I’d seen, and told myself there was no way that she would ask us to go down that way.  Not after everything we’d been through.  Desperately I had watched her, waiting. 

“We’re not where we’re supposed to be.  We need to push through this boulder field.  We’ll make camp down in that valley on the other side.  We’ll find the rest of the group in the morning,” she said.  

No one spoke.  Usually at NOLS, tent mates talk while they hike.  They chat, complain,  encourage, tell jokes and tell stories.  But NOLS also has those silent moments, when the circumstances, or the view, or the shared gravity of conquering or being conquered claims your collective breath like a vacuum.  And nothing is spoken or needs to be.  

The instructor then started off, moving at a quick pace, navigating up and over and around boulders ranging in size from half a foot to eight feet in diameter.  And we all set out behind her, growing farther apart from one another as each and every rock took uneven amounts of time to scale.  

In some places, the rock was loose and gave beneath your foot with your weight.  I watched as Jon, the strongest and most burly of us, scraped up his leg as it disappeared inside a crumbling bed of rock.  I remember the smell of heated stone from the friction as it gave way, the dust billowing out in a cloud around his waist, and the look of fear that gripped his face.  

The sixty-pound pack made it difficult to move on small and large rocks.  At that moment, I had just shimmied around one boulder and stepped onto another one, only to find a four-foot gap separating me from the next boulder.  I was on an island, and I was done. 

What will she say when she gets to me? I asked myself.  

I assessed my surroundings.  I am on an island of rock, in the center of a boulder field, on the side of a ridge, with a storm blowing in and the sun going down. 

The rain was picking up, each drop heavy and deliberate, slapping my skin and coating my eyelashes.  A helicopter won’t pick me up off of this rock, and even if it could, I’m not injured.  The pack horse won’t pick me up off of this rock, and even if it could, re-ration isn’t at this location and it isn’t for three days.  She will know this, and she will talk me off this rock.  If I refuse, she will continue to talk, and offer me an arm, but either way, she has to talk me off this rock. 

And then it came, the realization:  I can make my instructor come back to talk me off this rock, or I can talk myself off this rock.  Either way, I have to walk off this rock.  Quitting the way I wanted wasn’t really an option.  There was only taking another step.

And that was my moment— the moment when I took ownership of my story.  I knew I didn’t want my story to be the one where my instructor had to come back for me.  But the story I wanted to write couldn’t live alongside my feelings, so as I watched, my storyteller put a chokehold on how I felt.  I was no longer quitting, I was taking another step.  

It took minutes.  I talked to myself a lot before I made a move, and I didn’t shut up.  I don’t remember what all I said, I only know that eventually I took that next step, and the next one, and the next one, until I was to the end of that boulder field.  

I watched Jon ahead of me when he reached the end himself, watched him drop his pack, hit his knees, and start crying.  And then it was my turn to step off the last rock into the valley beyond it.  

That night we made camp, and briskly ate, and went to bed.  Around midnight our instructor woke us up and asked us to assume “lightning position” until the thunderstorm above us passed.  It was torturous to get up and out of our sleeping bags.  We huddled up within our tent, balanced on our beat and tender toes, hugging our knees, listening to the thunder shake overhead and rip at the sides of our shelter.  And we woke again at 5:30 A.M. to another day of pushing hard.  We were not done.

But for me, I was no longer the same person.  At the end of that day I knew— not hoped, but knew— that I would finish the remaining twenty-three days of the course.  I had acquired a skill— an ability to talk myself— that fortified me the rest of that trip, and the rest of my life.  It got me through a marathon and law school and the bar exam, and a career as a criminal prosecutor frequently in trial.  It got me through three childbirths and the continued sacrifice that came with parenting.  And it got me through a thousand small, everyday moments when taking that next step meant talking myself off the spot I currently occupied.  

At the end of my NOLS course, when small groups hike for several days without instructors, I was selected to be our group’s leader.  I tried to lead from behind, to solicit input and foster a spirit of equality and teamwork.  But whatever leadership role I practiced, be it designated leader or active follower or peer leader, none has had a greater influence on my life than the self leadership I learned on that boulder field.  To act as my own instructor, my own advocate, my own story teller.   

Nine strangers began that NOLS course together, and eight finished, one girl quitting within that first week.  I remember trying to talk to her, to talk her off her rock.  But every mosquito and every blister seemed to drive her more deeply into her own misery.  I remember watching her leave on a pack horse, the lazy rocking back and forth of that horse’s backside with her on it, as they made their awkwardly slow exit toward headquarters.  I remember feeling embarrassed for her, as she so publicly admitted defeat.   But more importantly, I was sad for her story.  

She, like all of us, had the power to tell it the way she wanted.  I wanted her to write about the part where we reached the top of the Continental Divide, dropped our packs in victory and felt the glamorous relief of wind hitting our sweaty backs where the packs had been.  I wanted her to write about how we found a cairn there at the top with a thermos buried inside filled with notes from hikers who had come that way, and how we read so many and added ones ourselves and sang together there.  I wanted her to write about the time the guys intentionally shot the bear spray inside the tent to see what it was like, and then came tumbling out like bees from a hive crying and yelling, and how hours later when all recovered how we laughed and laughed and laughed about it.  But she wasn’t there for that.  In her great face-off, it was her storyteller that drew its final breath. 

For me, NOLS is about the story you tell, and the larger one that is written when each individual’s different story of endurance and self-sacrifice comes together to create an entirely new, unique, and incredibly powerful experience.  Each and every course that goes out and comes back writes their own, and each is filled with tears and laughter and accomplishment and growth.  For me nothing has been the same since NOLS, and I’m forever grateful for that boulder field where I met myself, where I gave voice to my feelings and watched them fall lifeless from the grips of an adventure writer who stepped over them and off that rock, and never looked back.  

My brother has also written about NOLS.  Here is his piece: Star Gazing from the Gutter.

 

 September was not my best month.  It was a bumpy, inefficient take-off into the school year.  Days on days of getting less done than I planned, feeling over-committed and under-fueled, and every day adding much-needed items to my self-care wishlist that rarely gets checked.

In months such as these, I sometimes engage in protests.  Personal, silent ones, that in the end serve only to punish me.  It makes no sense, and it’s incredibly childish, but I do it all the same.  For example, I have more than once staged a revolt on the dishes.  They have the audacity to be dirty, again!  So I refuse to wash them before bed.  Just.  Not.  Gonna.  I make them wait until the morning.  You know, until all the food is stuck on and the job is twice as hard.  Take that, dishes!  Or, I refuse to fold the laundry.  It will have to wait until tomorrow when all the wrinkles are set.  Take that, clothes!

Once I staged a walkout (with Derek’s help and blessing) and checked into a hotel room for one night— all by myself.  I enjoyed the quiet solitude until I filled up once more with gratitude for the noises of home.  I was the person who visited the hotel bar in her pajamas to order wine and cheesecake.     

About all of this, I’m a little embarrassed.  I’d like to think I can do it all, all the time, without a break or breakdown.  To do that though I would need to act preventatively, as Jesus did.  He frequently retreated to be alone with the Lord, and in this way, stayed ahead of it, ensuring He had enough of God’s heart and vision to survive the demands of the world.  Or at least, modeled that method for us, whether He needed it or not.  But sometimes, I just get too busy and distracted.  

I am not alone.  Some of the Bible’s heaviest hitters threw fits.  Including Elijah, one of God’s greatest prophets.  Elijah was a miracle-working powerhouse who, in 1 Kings 18, challenged the many prophets of Baal to a face off at Mount Carmel, fearlessly confronting them and King Ahab in a movie-worthy scene.  The chapter began with Elijah single-handedly taking on the sin of a nation, and ended with him dramatically praying both fire and rain down from heaven, and then outrunning the king’s chariot in the spirit of the Lord. 

But then in chapter 19, the Elijah of the previous chapter is gone.  Instead of standing strong when threatened as he’d done before, he ran for his life into the wilderness.  He sat down under a broom tree and gave up.  He then told the Lord that he’d had enough— enough prophesying, and obeying, and self-sacrifice.  He was done, and he asked the Lord to kill him.

In yet another demonstration of His grace, God’s response to this was kind.  He heard him out, and let him sleep.  He served him, sending an angel to feed and nourish him.  God drew him to Himself, and then showed him both His might and His tenderness.  He took his complaint, and gave him direction, and encouraged him, lovingly and firmly.  

And just like with Adam, God didn’t shame Elijah in order to change his mind.  He asked only a simple question:  “What are you doing here?”  God seems to know what great examiners know: let a man talk, and his excuses will do the heavy lifting of conviction.     

But at the end of the day, as kind as God was, there are two hard truths here.  (1) God still asked Elijah to keep going, at least a little farther.  Dying under a broom tree was not an option.  He had to dust it off, take the next step, and play the man.  (2)  It is here, after this encounter, that God arranged for Elijah’s replacement.  A similar scenario to that of Moses.  Or Gideon.  Or the people of Israel requesting a king in 1 Samuel.  At a certain point you get what you ask for, even if that means God carries on without you.  God’s book is very much a “choose your own adventure,” even though He tells you which page He hopes you pick.  

In my life, I have quit things I wish I hadn’t.  As a girl I quit ballet the year I would have played Clara in The Nutcracker.  I quit cheerleading my final year of high school.  I quit some good relationships.  With all of these— though God ultimately blessed it— I made the decision out of fear, fatigue, or complacency, even though I knew it was not God’s highest or best for me.  

I have also not quit things.  I didn’t quit on the month-long backpacking course I took with National Outdoor Leadership School.  I am proud of that.  I did not quit the marathon I committed to finish in 2005, though I vomitted twice, lost a toe nail, walked half of it, and only barely hobbled across the line.  And I’ve not yet ever considered quitting on God or my marriage or my kids, despite my periodic hissy fits.    

God is kind to us.  He joins us right where we sit down, and begins a conversation.  And He works with whatever we have left that’s workable.  But when we stop listening, He stops speaking.  When we harden up, He gives us over.  When we refuse to be talked off our rock, He waits until we’re ready.  Even if we never are.  And this terrifies me. 

I am certain there will be more times ahead when I enter too much into the telling of my own story.  Or when, like Mitchell does to me, I try to turn the page on God even when He’s mid-sentence.  But oh, Lord, let me not screw it up too much!  I hunger to see the fullness of Your glory as You meant for me to see it.  

And when life drives me, or my children, under a broom tree, may we always be willing to stand up once more, walk out to the entrance of the cave and listen— through the mighty wind and the shattering cliffs and the earthquake and the fire— for Your still, small voice on the back end of the passing storms.  

And so with that, goodbye, September.  And hello there, October.      

 

Several months ago, a video went around social media of a boy, barely old enough to know the alphabet, quoting a Bible verse for each letter of the alphabet.  It was super impressive.  In case you missed it, here is the link:

Little Boy Quotes Bible Verses For Each Letter Of Alphabet

He really inspired me.  He inspired my kids.  If this little boy could do it, why couldn’t we?  So I played it slowly, and wrote them all out.  And then over the next several weeks, we learned them.  My girls, ages 9 and 6, got super into it.  And most of all, they loved to be quizzed on it.  They were proud of themselves.  [If you’d like to have the verses, click here: A-Z Bible Verses]

It reminded me of being a kid with my Dad.  He loved to study the Bible, and he made it super fun.  As a child, we enjoyed trivia games, “find that book in the Bible” races, and good, old fashioned sibling competition.  At a very young age, we memorized the books of the Bible in order.  It was knowledge that I was always so grateful to have learned, and it proved quite useful throughout my life.

So, when the kids finished the A-Z verses, we started in on the Old Testament books.  To help us memorize, and to remember what the books were mostly about, we made up a hand gesture for each one.  Camden and Ellie had so much fun, and now they are really proud of themselves!  And we’ve inspired some of our family to learn them, too.

Certainly, no one needs to memorize the books of the Bible.  And if this post makes you feel as though you or your kids should know this already, please dismiss that condemning voice.  But in the hope that it inspires you, I share it.  (That, and to preserve it.  In this, my vault).

Here is our cheat sheet explaining each book and its hand gesture: Old Testament Books Cheat Sheet

And here is a home video of my girls demonstrating them: Cam & Ellie recite OT books

We are looking forward to doing the same for the New Testament.  The girls also wanted new verses to memorize beyond the A-Z list, so I have plans for us to learn a memory verse from each of the Old Testament books next.  If I can pick a summarizing verse from each, that will also help them to hold an overview in their minds.  Look for these in future posts!

If you’ve always wanted a good overview of the Old Testament, but have found it overwhelming, Melton Short wrote a wonderful book called The Bible Made Simple.  You can find it here: WorldImpactMinistries.Org

I realize that if you are following this blog, I must sound to you like a broken record.  Everything seems to be about God, and about how I see His love letter everywhere.  I know, I know.  Blah.  But I really struggle to write about anything else.  It’s the thing that moves me to write.  I love to read about all kinds of things, but when I try to write on other topics, I end up looking like Tom Hanks in You’ve Got Mail: delete, delete, delete, delete, delete.  Backspace.

So, at the risk of sounding redundant, I saw another kind of love letter when I started summarizing the books of the Bible for my kids.  If you open my cheat sheet, and just read the column titled “God’s message,” there is such a lovely note there to us.  If you never plan to crack the spine on your Bible, or the idea of diving into Scripture overwhelms you, just read that column.  You’ll hear His voice.  And should you land on a sentence that particularly moves you, don’t ignore that prompting.  Find your Bible, open it up to that book, and just start.  It’s never too late to just start.  The most beautiful love letter, from the most incredible Person, is waiting.

 

This past Saturday, my family watched the Texas Longhorns beat USC in a highly entertaining game of football.  Our kids put on their longhorn shirts even though we stayed home, and we all sang the fight song following touchdowns.  And throughout the game, I enjoyed seeing photos of friends wearing burnt orange at the stadium only ten miles away from our house.  

My heart has always belonged to UT.  My Dad went to Texas.  I remember making the trip to Austin for a game as young as four years old.  I remember the first time I heard the band’s drums, the way the sound shot an electrical current through me that reverberated and grew as we followed the band to the field.  I remember the announcer’s voice, and the energy in the air.  I remember Dad buying me a plastic pom pom, and a beautiful cheerleader drawing horns on my cheek.   

Since I went to SMU for my undergraduate degree, law school was my last chance at UT.  My last chance to make it mine.  

When it was time for me to apply, I applied to five law schools across Texas: one to which I thought for certain I’d be admitted, three to which I wasn’t sure, and then one dream school I was fairly confident would not accept me.  That one was UT.  When letters came back, I had only two options: my “for certain” school, and one of the three.  I was outright rejected from the rest, including Texas.  

It was no surprise.  

I spent several months settling into the idea of attending my “for certain” school.  My brother was there; my boyfriend was there.  It was a fun city, and it had a great church.  It would be great.  I said that over and over, but somewhere deep down in my heart, I was disappointed.  I knew my dream of UT was crazy, but it was real.  And so was my sadness.  

One day, I was bummed enough that I had to tell God about it.  I went into my bedroom in the apartment I shared with my best friend, and I shut the door.  I got down on my knees, and I prayed.  I even cried.  

I told the Lord how sad I was.  I told Him that I knew that I didn’t deserve to go to UT, but I wanted to all the same.  I needed Him to know how heartbroken I felt.  I knew that I sounded ridiculous, and I promised Him that once I finished praying I wouldn’t whine or be sad anymore.  I just needed to tell Him where my heart was, and I had nowhere else to turn.  

I left it all there.  With Him.

When I finally got up, I went out to the living room where my best friend sat watching T.V.  “Have you checked the mail today?” she asked.  I hadn’t, and I welcomed the excuse to take a walk.  Slowly I made my way to the mail room and opened up our tiny tin box.  Inside I found a letter from the University of Texas School of Law.  But why?  I received my rejection letter weeks ago, and it had been conclusive— no wait list, no “let’s wait and see.”  It was just a NO, and it was sitting back home on my desk. 

My hands started to shake.  I clumsily opened the letter, and read the first line: “Upon reconsideration of your application, you have been accepted to the University of Texas School of Law.”

Now, here is where the unbeliever would say something like: “Well clearly they mailed that letter before you started praying, so the prayer couldn’t have been why you were accepted.”  Or, “surely you got in because of your connections,” or something along those lines.  But I’m not interested in all that.  What I know is that I didn’t get in, but God.  

In John chapter 9 when Jesus healed the man born blind, the Pharisees quizzed that poor man repeatedly about how he got his sight.  With all their knowledge and learning, they wanted to get to the bottom of how something like that could ever have happened.  They asked him over and over again about the teacher who’d done it, but the poor man was so simple and certain in his response.  How he did it, he answered, he didn’t know.  But, he said, “one thing I do know, that though I was blind, now I see.”  

 The blind man wasn’t all that concerned with where the teacher came from, whether or not he was a sinner, or on what day he performed the healing.  What mattered to him was that his life was changed.

God’s people used to stack stones in remembrance.  Whenever God showed up in a noteworthy way, they would make a memorial.  It was by God’s design.  It was important to Him that we tell future generations about the meaning of it all.  He wanted our kids to ask, “What do these stones mean to you?”, and for our answer to be the stories of His faithfulness.  Why? Because real stories, our stories, inform our faith in the face of fear.  They make Him real.  They make Him not just an in-theory God, but an active-in-my-life God.

People who don’t know Him like to think that He’s too busy with important stuff to answer prayers like mine.  “Why should He care what law school you went to?” they ask.  But these daily grinds— the dreams, fears, and real life heartbreaks— are exactly what He cares about.  That blind man.  A people hiding out in a desert.  Me.  He really does love us, just the way we are, like a parent would.   

It wasn’t a no name person who heard me that day; it was the God of the living— of Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob.  The God of the creation, and the parted Red Sea, and of Jericho.  The same God who showed up for David’s lions, bears, and then giants, also showed up for mine.

Derek and I have a brick at the law school.  In 2013, we took our girls to a football game, and to the school, and to our brick.  For me, that brick is so much more than my name at a school I attended.  It’s a memorial, and it comes with a story.  And when Camden asked, “why is this here?”, I had an answer.  It began, “Once, I didn’t get into UT.  But now, I am an alumna.”   

 

The world has many voices.  Regarding food and diet, they can be rather confusing.  One day butter is in, then it is out.  The next day, it’s carbs.  Or sugar.  Or protein.  One study proves a result, and then another study disproves it.  And every week, a new diet promises to be the real deal– the way to live the healthier, leaner, better version of yourself than you are today.

In the midst of all that noise, what do you believe?

I, myself, can become entangled.  A few years ago, I watched the documentary “What the Health?”.   It totally freaked me out about the meat and dairy industries, so then I read The China Study, a long and detailed breakdown of the evidence supporting a whole food, plant-based diet.  Then I cut meat out of most weekday meals, and you (my children) started asking questions like, “Do these meatballs have meat in them?”, something I never dreamed my kids would think to ask.  After all, I am a Texan hunter.

I became a little stressed.  I’d stand in the Lunchables aisle at the grocery store and think, “These would make my life so much easier, but deli meat will poison my kids!”  It was not a place of peace.

The many voices may come, in time, to steal your peace, too.

In the midst of my “whole food” revolution, I studied Finding I Am by Lysa Terkeurst.  An entire week of that study was dedicated to Jesus’ statement: “I am the bread of life.”  I wondered how bread could ever be bad for us, if Jesus called Himself the Bread of Life.  So I started reading about bread.

I learned that today’s manufactured bread has dozens and dozens of ingredients, while the ancient bread required only flour and water.  I watched the “Air” episode of Cooked on Netflix about real, slow rise bread, and bought a “real bread” cookbook.

Bread is a miracle.  When you take ground wheat from the earth and add water and air, those three things come together and transform into something new and alive that, when you add fire to bake, becomes bread.  A gift from Heaven.  Like manna.  A miracle by which the seed (full of vitamins, minerals and potential) becomes something digestible, healthy, satisfying and delicious.  Real bread is a gift from God.

So what else, I wondered, could the Bible tell me about food?

What I found silenced the many voices.  What I found was a love letter of freedom.

God says in the Bible that all food is intended for His glory, and it’s all there to be enjoyed and savored, to satisfy our hearts.  Meat, green plants, fish, honey, quail, bread, and even wine.  Food doesn’t commend us to God, or make us better or worse in His sight.  God welcomes us to eat and be filled, and to praise Him in it.

He cautions that not all food is profitable, and that we shouldn’t allow it to master us.  He says definitively to never eat or drink if it causes another to stumble.  But we shouldn’t obsess over it, worry about it, or let it steal our joy.

He points out that dieting is of only limited profit, and He begs us to set our sights on godliness instead.  He says a beautiful woman who lacks discretion is like a gold ring in a pig’s snout, and a truly beautiful woman is the one who fears Him.

I encourage you, my daughters, to go to Him with your own questions.  He knows what worries you.  He anticipated it, and spoke into it.  The message is one of freedom, love, and grace.

Our families always want to feed us.  Moms, aunts, grandmothers.  They say, “Eat something,” or “Let’s put some meat on those bones,” as they pull out a pot and ladle it up.  I do this for you.  You will do it to your children.  But the Father of all families– He “from whom every family in heaven and on earth gets its name” (Eph 3:15)– does it, too.  He says, “Eat, drink, and be merry.  Let me make you some food.  Tell Me, what do you think?  It’s good, isn’t it?  And it’s all for you.”

 

[I wrote down all the Bible verses about food that I found and have shared them with you here.]

 

My nine-year-old daughter, Camden, hates to make mistakes.  She wants to tear out the paper and begin anew as soon as there’s a blemish on the page.  She is harder on herself than I could ever be, often inflicting her own punishment and dwelling in her disappointment.  Yesterday she forgot her school lunch in her Dad’s truck, so during the lunch hour she decided to suffer the consequence and go hungry.  Her friends convinced her she needed to eat something, so she bought a breadstick from the cafeteria.  As in, a single breadstick.  That was all she would allow herself after her error.    

She has always been this way.  It sounds like the cruel result of an overbearing parent, but I promise you that’s not the case.  It is simply who she is.  In my defense, look no farther than Ellie.  We parent Ellie the exact same way, and she does NOT suffer from this issue.  She has plenty of her own shortcomings, none of which affect her sleep.  Or her appetite.  If Ellie had discovered a missing lunch, she would have shrugged her shoulders, sauntered up to the lunch lady and declared: “One of each, please!” 

Last week I came across (and fell in love with) a painting at The Art Institute of Chicago.  It was an oil painting by Jusepe de Ribera called Penitent Saint Peter.  It depicts the disciple praying, presumably after his denial of Christ.  One hand is stretched toward heaven, the other is pressed to his chest.  His face is earnest and remorseful, but he is bathed in light.    

I never realized how similar Peter’s story was to that of his fellow disciple, Judas, until Lisa-Jo Baker pointed it out in her book We Saved You A Seat.  Both Peter and Judas were Jesus’ followers and friends, both betrayed him, and afterward both felt intense regret and wept bitterly.  Where they differ, she noted, is how they handled their failure.  

Sadly, Judas committed suicide.  Whereas, the next time we hear about Peter he is the only one of the disciples who, after hearing about Jesus being raised from the dead, took off running toward the tomb.   

Not away from, but toward. 

Then later while fishing, he saw Jesus standing on the shore.  Realizing it was Him, Peter plunged into the sea toward Jesus while the others remained in the boat.  Baker wrote:

“…the more I study, the more convinced I am that each of their unique plot twists hinge on whether or not they believed Jesus could and would forgive them… Judas was crushed by the weight of his own guilt, and it killed him.  But Peter, oh Peter.  He went running and splashing, guilt and all, to Jesus.”

That’s what I see when I look at Ribera’s painting.  Or similar ones by  Caravaggio.  In the contrast of light and dark, in the weathered faces and worn out robes, I see both the human— trembling, frail, dirty, limited— and the spirit.  The former submitting, sin and all, however clumsily, to the latter.

It breaks my heart when I sit with a crying, disappointed Camden.  The sight of her quivering chin and watery eyes is a knife to my heart.  What I desperately want her to learn is that the best place for her after a fall is not the shadows, but the light.  I want her to insist on hurdling the voice of condemnation and sprinting for God’s presence.  

After Peter showed up sopping wet on the shore before Jesus, you know what he found?  A charcoal fire, fresh fish on the grill, and bread.  Jesus had made him breakfast.  

   Camden, baby, next time you forget your lunch, be it tomorrow or thirty years from now, don’t let that be the end of you.  Just come home.  If I’m around, I’ll make you breakfast.  If I’m not, I know your Father will.  

 

When I met your father, something about him stuck with me.  I had the strangest thought: I want to meet his kids. 

Weird, I know.  But I couldn’t shake that thought.  I was too sensible, maybe, or too cautious to say “I want to HAVE his kids.”  But to meet them, that was something I turned over and over in my mind.  It was odd, and I couldn’t explain it, but I thought it all the same. 

I did marry him and have his kids.  Your sisters.  First came Camden, and after her came Ellie.  All was perfect.  We fit comfortably into a compact car.  Or at a table for four.  Or in a single hotel room.  We, as parents, were not outnumbered.  There was more than plenty.  And neither of us needed a boy.   

But your Dad wanted one more.  Inexplicably and against reason.  One.  More.  Child.

Of course not, I said.  

I didn’t enjoy pregnancy, or labor and delivery.  I didn’t like hospitals.  I felt firmly set on our two and no more.  Normally I come around to your Dad, but this time I was so certain— so against it— I didn’t give in.  I held my ground.  For a long, long time.  

Every now and then, he’d bring it up.  And when he did I’d put up all my resistance— list all my reasons why not— and hope with all I had in me that he’d decide I was right.  

Then one day, while soaking in my bubble bath (where I do lots of my thinking and pondering), I argued my case to God.  I laid it all out for Him.  I was certain He’d agree with me, and then when He did, I’d make my case for changing Derek’s heart.  I delivered my last line, rested my case, and sighed.  

Then in my mind, I heard His answer: 

FEAR.  FEAR.  FEAR.  FEAR.  FEAR.   

Just like that, He saw about each of my reasons what even I didn’t have eyes to see.  As soon as He said it, I knew He was right.  I knew what He wanted me to do. 

I knew if I waited to finish my bath, I’d talk myself out of it.  So, dripping wet and wrapped in a bath towel I padded across the house to your father.  I said: “I feel that I’ve heard from God, and if I don’t tell you now I’ll take it back.  Whether we have another child is your decision to make.  Whatever you decide, that is what we’ll do.”

Even though he knew what he wanted, he waited six more months for the right time.  (That’s the kind of guy your father is.  You will never rush him.).  

I remember the moment I told him I was pregnant.  

I remember the moment I found out you were a boy.  

And I remember countless nights, sitting in my bathtub, praying fervently against the fear I still felt.  About another c-section, another epidural.  I’d had two already, I knew there was no way to have a pleasant one.  No way to feel joyful about  lying on a surgery table beside a tray of instruments, feeling your lower half swallowed by paralysis, feeling so numb you can’t tell if you’re breathing, while they strap you down and the panic sets in… 

I could feel the fear, even taste it.  The only way I fought it was to pray.  

I prayed His promises over me.  I prayed things I didn’t even really have the faith to believe but I wanted them to be true.  So I said them over and over in the dark.  You have not given me a spirit of fear.  I will not fear, for You are with me.  Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.  

I even prayed specifics.  For reasons I can’t explain, I prayed that you’d be born before September.  Something to do with when you’d start Kindergarten I thought. Or maybe not getting in the way of the holidays.  (But then we learned your due date was September 20^th and there was no way to answer that one.)  

I prayed about the hospital, and the doctors, and the staff, and the experience, and your health.  I prayed that God would find a way— a risk-free, scare-free  way— to surprise me with the date and time.  I knew if it was a scheduled surgery (as it was destined to be) that I would spend the entire night before it gripped by anxiety.  I prayed that somehow, I’d see a miracle of the Lord and find my delivery pleasant.  I prayed that you’d be an easy baby, because my third child would have to be easy for me to be okay.

Then one day, around my 37^th week, I went for my regular check up.  Your Dad happened to be with me because work just happened to be kind of clear for him that day, and we had plans to eat lunch together.  I’d had a great night’s sleep, and I was excited for Mexican food with your Dad.  This was turning into such a great day!  

The doctor listened to your heartbeat and very casually suggested that while there was no concern, she’d like to listen more closely at the hospital.  Would we mind heading over there?  

At the hospital, while I chatted it up with your father about upcoming queso, the doctor suggested we go ahead and deliver you, just to play it all safe.  And in that moment, I knew.

I smiled from ear to ear.  I knew what this was!  God had done it!  This was it, the answer to prayer: I’d SKIPPED the night of stress and nerves, I’d skipped it ALL!  

And…(drum roll)… it was August 31, 2016.  (He answered that one, too, just in case I had any doubt.)  

My delivery was dreamy.  I actually enjoyed it.  The anesthesiologist was so handsome and attentive, and kept rolling into my view to ask if I needed more drugs.  (I only have eyes for your father; I’m just relaying facts here.  Wonderful, wonderful facts.)  For recovery time they let me stay with your Dad unlike any time before, and those moments were simply magic.  

Our three days at the hospital were delightful.  Your Dad and I joke that it was the best overnight date we’d had in a while: nurses took you away when I was tired, we ate delicious food in a quiet, cold room and talked and laughed and watched T.V. together while family kept your sisters.  

And Mitch, YOU. WERE. PERFECT.  Easy.  Sweet.  Healthy.  Gorgeous.  All boy.    

Every bit, from top to bottom, an answered prayer.  Every bit a gift I didn’t know I wanted.  You were an entire plot line— written into your father’s life about redemption and fathers and sons, and one written into mine about trust and faith and hope and prayer— that a masterful Story Teller wove into our lives.  You were, in my arms, the greatest reward I’ve yet known.  You were your father’s hope, and God’s plan, and my SON.

Mitchell McLean Rollins, you are the third of your father’s kids.  And I am so honored to meet you.