I sat upright instantly, startled awake by the sound of the wind-hurled rain hitting the windows so hard I thought they might break. Last night’s storm seemed to echo the chaos that I and many others have been experiencing this year. It was loud and disorienting, as if determined to disrupt the calm quiet of night.
Today I was reminded that no storm lasts forever. As Isaiah and I stepped onto the sand to join in communion with others in celebration of Jesus’s birth, this is the sky that greeted us. Its beauty would not be ignored, calling us to keep our gaze toward the Prince of Peace. The One who came not to condemn, but to save – not to point fingers but to welcome with open arms. The One who invites us to trade confusion for clarity.
These gifts of peace and clarity are for you and I. They tell of a Savior who never promised an absence of storms, but assures His faithful presence in the midst of them.
This is Christmas. This is Jesus, the greatest gift the world has ever known.
I was a seventeen-year-old freshman in college, away from home for the first time in my life, when I found out that our dorms would be shut down for Thanksgiving. It was just a few days before the holiday and to be honest I wasn’t initially alarmed because I didn’t understand what this meant. “Shut down” as in the cafeteria would be closed? No access to the computer lab or laundry facilities? “No problem,” my roommate and I thought to ourselves. We figured we’d stock up on enough pre-packaged food to get us through the four-day weekend and watch the Macy’s parade together on the television set propped up by our mini-fridge.
It turned out that “shut down” meant something far more problematic. Like, everyone has to leave, and the building gets locked up. “You’re not allowed to stay,” I remember one of the other students on our floor saying. He was a local and apparently far more up to speed than we were on how this whole college thing worked. That’s when my heart began to beat faster and I felt a knot in my stomach. Neither my roommate nor I could afford to fly home to Los Angeles from Boston, especially on such short notice. There was no money for a hotel either. We hadn’t gotten to know anyone in the city all that well yet. Suddenly the place that had come to represent freedom and independence left me feeling small and helpless.
After some anxious, tear-filled phone calls home and to university administration, we shamefully walked to the end of the hall and knocked on the door of our Resident Assistant Ana, hoping she could give us a name or the phone number to somebody who could help us find a place to stay for a few nights. She listened patiently to our story and without thinking twice said, “Why don’t you come home to my Mom’s place in Rhode Island?” She could tell I felt embarrassed to be in this situation and I certainly did not want to impose on her family. But before I knew it, Ana had given us all the details about which bus to take and graciously arranged to pick us up from the station. Within minutes she had effortlessly created space for us.
My roommate and I spent that Thanksgiving huddled up in a tiny apartment in Pawtucket, Rhode Island with Ana, her brother, and their mother who spoke very little English. We sat literally knee-to-knee around a makeshift table sharing stories, laughing, and feasting on the family’s native Portuguese foods. For three nights we slept peaceful and warm on piles of blankets haphazardly placed on the couch and the floor, three thousand miles away from the comforts of home and our loved ones. And to this day that holiday stands out as one of the most meaningful to me because strangers who didn’t have to, lovingly created space for me.
Scripture reminds us in Matthew 18:20 that where two are gathered in God’s name, He is there. The beauty of Thanksgiving is God’s presence. That He chooses to be close to us is the gift. For five strangers in a tiny apartment, huge families around beautifully decorated formal dining tables, worried loved ones in hospital rooms, single parents, grieving spouses, and employees who can’t get the day off from work, He is there. He creates space for our hearts to be near His own, and in doing so exemplifies how we can do the same for others. This Thanksgiving, may we honor the Maker over all He has made and offer thanks for the Giver above all that He has given.
Warrior women are overlooked, neglected, and dismissed, but press forward in acceptance of their innate value.
Warrior women know abuse, loss, and grief intimately, but they pursue joy with a supernatural strength.
Warrior women learn that to say no is not rude, to speak your mind is not a strike against humility. They set boundaries not only to protect themselves, but to empower others.
Warrior women stand steadfast on their knees. They listen for God’s voice and look for His face in the simple and mundane.
I am blessed to know the mightiest of these warriors, and to be gratefully awakened to my own becoming.
In a box tucked away with some of my most precious memories is my very first copy of Charlotte’s Web by E.B. White. I’m not even sure it holds the shape of a book anymore. It’s more like a haphazard pile of pages without a spine under a tattered front cover. I still remember how excited I was to buy this specific copy of the book through the Scholastic book sale at school. That day, eight-year-old me rushed to class, eager to turn in the white envelope with jingling coins inside in exchange for a story I could hold and take home to keep forever.
And what a story it was. Charlotte’s Web was the first book that prompted me to see the world through eyes that weren’t my own. The first time I read it I became Fern Arable, walking down the dusty road to Uncle Homer’s barn to meet the pig that would change my view of dirty barnyard animals. The words on the pages became so alive to me that I swore I could see and smell the farm. I laughed at the junk-collecting antics of Templeton the rat, beamed with pride when Wilbur went to the fair, and cried heavy tears when Wilbur said goodbye to his trusted friend Charlotte. It was an experience that captured my heart and brought me back to those pages again and again, pages that must have been made of magic to make me long for a loving friendship with a spider. I didn’t know how exponentially the magic would be multiplied decades later as I read the book to my son, and he developed his own unique relationship with that same spider and her beloved pig.
Books are so much more than objects on a shelf. They are treasure boxes filled with words that are key to discovering the world through other eyes. Books give us adventure, exploration, reflection, perspective, and the opportunity to understand and feel understood. They are the voice of another that helps us find our own. And when we read with our children, we give them access to the discovery of who they are.
Reading in our current culture tends to put the emphasis on convenient data and opinions that can be presented in bullet points, images, and 280-character Tweets. This approach encourages consumption of information, while reading a book is all about engagement and relationship. When you sit down to read with your children, they’ve begun to connect and learn before you even get to the first word. Your intentional focus immediately conveys that there is something special about them, and about the book you hold in your hands.
In my years managing the children’s department of a local bookstore, I observed that parents sometimes speed through the books and miss much of their magic in the process. Every part of a book has something to say, from the title and author’s name on the front cover, to the design of the endpapers, to the way they introduce the concept that stories have a beginning, middle, and end. Books also liberate us to think and to feel by giving the chance to go back to the words over and over and receive them in new ways each time that we do.
One of the things I love most about books is that you can carry the words and stories with you anywhere, and dive back in to be inspired wherever you find yourself. This probably explains the well-worn condition of my copy of Charlotte’s Web. It exemplifies how meaningful it is to me that someone can pour their heart out on paper, bind it into a compact form, and send it out into the world for other hearts to hold, soak in, contemplate, and share time and again. And maybe even feel encouraged to pour their own hearts on paper too.
I’ve often joked that I’m better on paper than in person. Half-joked, I guess I should say, because I believe there is some truth to this. Words run through my head all day long but they don’t help me to understand myself until I see them pressed firmly into paper.
On the eve of eleventh grade for my boy there were things I needed to say, words that needed to hit the page before hopefully taking up residence in his heart. It’s different now. He’s different now, and so am I. Thankfully so. I’m not the mom that misses baby giggles and chubby cheeks. I like being in relationship with this person, not simply parenting him.
Tomorrow begins a new chapter for spreading wings and pursuing wisdom. I pray that he does so with confidence, empathy, and love.
The words aren’t showing up for me today, not like they usually do. I tried to look up words or phrases associated with “19” but came up short on anything unrelated to COVID. That’s what I get for trying to Google my feelings.
Your brother just wrapped up his first week of employment. Like, an actual job with pay that doesn’t come from my bank account. In just a few short days I’ve witnessed a new maturity in him, a sense of responsibility and autonomy that wasn’t there before. I truly love that guy, you know? Not just because he’s my son, I mean, I love who he is as a human. We talk a lot and the conversations are more like heart revelations. He looks me in the eye and says sometimes hilarious, sometimes thought-provoking, sometimes profoundly deep yet simple things that show me who he is.
I guess that’s what I’m missing most today, the opportunity to sit and talk with nineteen-year-old you. I long for the space to sit face to face and hear your heart. It’s odd that I’m struggling to find words today because there’s so much to say. If I could just look at you, look you straight in those beautiful brown eyes, the ones I never got to see, I’m sure the words would flow to the point that I’d be unable to stop them.
Maybe I rely too much on words. Maybe God is trying to show me that I don’t always need them. You know the depth of my love for you without my speaking or even thinking a single word. You know me. As it is said, you’re one of only two people in this world who know the sound of my heart from the inside. This truth releases me from the need to find the right words today.
So this is nineteen. Each year I learn more about myself and how much you are a part of me. I wonder about the person you would be, then realize that I already know. I miss you, but understand and feel that you’re always here.
Joe took this photo. He and his wife Debbie were the only two people besides Isaiah and I who had ventured out to the end of the Cayucos Pier just then. Isaiah’s long arm was holding my phone out in front of us in an attempt to honor my request to capture the moment when we heard a man’s kind voice ask, “Would you like me to take your picture?”
I turned to find a lovely older couple smiling at us. “Sure!” I said, and I thanked the gentleman while handing my phone to him. We laughed together as he fumbled to take a few shots and admitted he wasn’t sure what he was doing. “You’ll probably have bunch of pictures now,” he chuckled.
A few minutes later they were gone, walking slowly hand-in-hand back toward the bustling shoreline. Isaiah and I hung out for awhile longer, admiring the ocean and clouds. I wouldn’t know the names of these two people had we not caught up with them as we walked back.
I came alongside them and thanked the man again for taking our photo. That’s when we learned it was their wedding anniversary. They were in town for a few days from up north, enjoying the milder weather, but would be going back home soon to see their six-year-old grandson, their miracle. His mother was 29 years old and pregnant with him when she was diagnosed with cancer. She chose life, his life over her own, and died shortly after childbirth. With my teary eyes hidden behind my sunglasses, I asked if I could hug them and they happily obliged. We went on laughing and crying together as we shared life with each other before saying our goodbyes.
My son and I walked back to the car feeling renewed and grateful that we decided to walk the pier on a whim that day. Though we knew it only seemed like a whim. It was really God’s leading, and a reminder of how powerful kindness and gratitude can be.
“For our citizenship is in heaven, from which we also eagerly wait for the Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ.” – Philippians 3:20
America.
You are the epitome of the human experience. Your history is both tragic and triumphant, painful and beautiful, broken and building. Your struggle fills me with both anguish and hope. Even the idea of you is ambitious, considering the fallibility of the citizens who serve as your building blocks as well as the land that we build upon.
At our best we are a mess with the motivation to be better. We desire to love others while serving self. We are quick to shine the light on our neighbor’s mistakes while carefully and quietly tucking our own sins away underneath the red, white, and blue banners, balloons, and streamers brought out today from that honored space in the hall closet to display in celebration of you.
It is in our nature to finger point and pass the blame. How else can we draw attention away from our own misdeeds long enough to feel valuable and worthwhile? Our heads know better, but our hearts speak and act impulsively in pursuit of preservation and achieving some false sense of success concocted long ago from someone else’s insecurities.
So we walk forward conveniently allocating our desires, dreams, experiences, beliefs, and engagement into an either/or category of our own design. We consider it necessary that we either believe in God or science, either practice patriotism or treason, either love or hate. And anyone who does not align with our own choices must be wrong, because naturally WE are doing this thing right. Right?
This tendency speaks volumes about our immaturity, both as individual people and as a nation. Two hundred forty-five tumultuous and prosperous years is not enough to know as much as we think we do about our identity. The truth is that no amount of years ever will be, especially if we continue to see ourselves and our future through the lens of either/or.
I honor you today and every day, America. As I look at you I see myself – both tragic and triumphant, both pain-filled and beautiful, both broken and building. I look around and I see the same characteristics in every one of my fellow humans, American or not. We are a nation of both/and, as our history always will be.
God does bless you America, and He blesses other nations too. Which is how those of us who profess to know and love Him should want it to be, as we are commanded to love our fellow man (friend or foe), not just our fellow American. The love that He created, so graciously bestows upon us, and charges us to share is where true freedom begins.
When I was four years old he gave me a beer filled RC Cola can, which taught me to pay attention.
When I was ten he chaperoned my 6th grade class beach trip, much to my chagrin, until I noticed that all of my friends loved him, which taught me not to be so self-centered.
When I was 25 he donned a tuxedo, battled his nerves and swept me across the dance floor at my wedding reception to the warm voice of Randy Travis singing “Forever and Ever Amen,” teaching me to treasure the moment.
When I was 27 he arrived after hopping on a plane at a moment’s notice to meet my daughter, who was already gone. He quietly stayed, held me up, soaked her in as he knelt beside her casket and was the last one to see her before she was buried.
He has taught me to be practical, to accept, to work hard, to love without losing yourself. And of course, he has bestowed upon me his wicked sense of humor, which I’d be lost without.
In June of 2021, I was asked to be the speaker at our homeschool academy graduation ceremony. Following are the thoughts that I shared that day.
I was seventeen years old when I boarded the plane that would take me three thousand miles from home to begin the first chapter of my adulthood. At the time I believed that childhood was simply the foundation for becoming an adult. I looked at my life as though each passing year had been just a step toward finding my identity. I was convinced that college would be the place where I would learn what I was meant to do and who I was meant to be. I was well acquainted with God, His goodness, faithfulness, and authority, but I thought of Him as separate from myself. Boston University was my destination, and He was just along for the ride.
What I didn’t know was that the next year would indeed prove defining for me, but not at all in the way that I imagined. The truth was that I had left home motivated more by the leaving than by what I was entering into. I was well stocked with enthusiasm and excitement but severely lacking a plan. My academics and some funding from my grandmother got me in the door and I figured the rest of it would work itself out. When I found myself back home within my freshman year, I couldn’t see past the disappointment. I was supposed to be the first in my family to graduate from university. I was supposed to have a successful career as a journalist. I was supposed to prove myself. That was the plan – my plan. Instead, I felt lost and shied away from friends and family to avoid uncomfortable conversations about why I had failed.
In the years that followed, I continued my education, worked meaningful jobs, got married, had two children, started a non-profit organization, produced a powerful documentary short-film, managed a handful of small businesses, advocated for literacy, volunteered in children’s ministry, jumped into homeschooling my son, and pursued a handful of other endeavors, each resulting in its fair share of learning, stretching, stumbling, doubts, mistakes, and growth. But what I learned along the way is that this is simply a list of things that I’ve done. None of these things defines who I am.
Genesis 1:27 tells us that we are created in the image of God. Romans 8:17 says that we are His children and heirs. Isaiah 64:8 describes us as the clay, lovingly shaped by the Heavenly potter. John 15:25 tells us that we are His friends. In Romans 15:7 we are welcomed by Christ. Romans 8:37 says that we are more than conquerors. Matthew 5:14 invites us to be the light of the world. In 1 Peter 2:9 we are described as chosen, royalty, holy, and called to live in light. This is not just a list of what we’ve done or will do. These words define our identity.
I can’t fully express how honored I am to stand here today to encourage each one of you with this truth – that regardless of where your next steps may lead you, what will matter most is not who you are but whose you are. You are created, sculpted, befriended, welcomed, empowered, invited, chosen, and overwhelmingly loved by the One who is above all things. This means that as you walk forward into new choices, relationships, and experiences, there will be thrills and disappointments. There will be challenges and achievements. There will be fears and victories. There will be times when you aren’t sure how you ended up where you’re standing. There will be moments when you wish you could go back and do things differently. And through it all the God who purposefully created you will be there, His gaze always in your direction and His arms eternally outstretched to you. Nothing you can do will ever change that.
As we celebrate you today along with all those who have helped you to arrive at this milestone of high school graduation, I want to leave you with what may be a bit of a different perspective on your parents. One week ago today, I was sitting in the building next door with about thirty other parents attending a conference related to home education. The speaker said something that may have seemed obvious to others in the room, but her words struck me as powerful. She said that our job as parents is not to produce little mini versions of ourselves but to introduce you to the One in whose image you are made so that you can become who He created you to be.
I can say from experience, that this approach is often hard for parents. Not because we don’t want to see you fly, or develop your own unique identity, but because our paths are shaped by our own experiences. We spend most of our energy trying to protect you and lead you away from the mistakes that we’ve made. We want to prevent pain and heartache. We want to control outcomes. We strive to do all the right things, make all the right choices. But there’s no magic that happens in adulthood to prepare us for parenting. The truth is that we don’t do all the right things or make all the right choices. Every day we call upon the same grace and forgiveness from the Lord that you do.
I thought about this at a graduation ceremony a few years ago as I listened to the parents share their hearts with their children. At that time, I began to think through what things I would want my son to hear from his father and I when he graduates. And I think some of those thoughts apply here to you and your families as well. I want him to know that he is the greatest gift I’ve ever received. I want him to know that I’m thankful for his grace toward me in my less than stellar moments. And I hope that he understands when he takes this stage, it will be just as much in spite of his parents as it is because of us.
When you leave this place today and walk forward into your next chapter, I pray that you do so with the confidence that you are not where you’ve been, what you’ve done, or who surrounds you. You are not defined by the standards of this world, nor the mistakes you will make in it. You are daughters and sons of the King, fearfully and wonderfully made to impact the world for Christ as only you can. And each one of us in this room is fortunate to stand with you today in witness of your new beginning.
Carrie Joy(ful) 