Author: Jisca

It was a blustery evening in late February. The kind that sends a permanent chill into your bones and makes you want to disappear under a warm wool blanket with a cup of hot tea. I was working up energy and inspiration to commence bedtime-routine with the girls, a collection of little rituals that had slowly snowballed over time to become a full-blown production. Brushing teeth, putting on jammies, creating an original story, improvising an original song, praying, giving bedtime cuddles, and providing a prescribed number of kisses. It was in this moment, while I was sitting on the couch and digging deep for will-power and creative inspiration, that the cheetacorn was born. 

My four-year old daughter Ana bounded upstairs wearing a unicorn blanket over her cheetah-print pajamas for extra warmth. She was just thrilled, not just because she had found a way to stay toasty warm, but because she had also found a way to combine her two favorite creatures. From that moment on, the cheetacorn took on a full life of its own. Whenever she donned the magical pajama-blanket combination, Ana did not merely act like a cheetacorn. She BECAME a cheetacorn, embodying a bewildering mix of speed, magic, spots, and sparkles. This creature did not just give her hours of entertainment, but actually seemed to temporarily change the way she viewed herself. When in cheetacorn disguise, Ana discovered that she could complete chores with an ingenuity and speed previously assumed to be impossible.

Ana managed to create a new species full of confusing possibilities. She also accidentally stumbled on a fascinating paradox. Language and identity are constantly shaping each other. The way we see ourselves determines the words we use and create, and in turn our language constantly influences our self image. 

In the Psalms, David also captures two sides of human reality. He marvels the breathtaking and intricate way that God put him together, writing these words:

“You made all the delicate, inner parts of my body and knit me together in my mother’s womb. Thank you for making me so wonderfully complex! Your workmanship is marvelous- how well I know it” (Psalms 139:13-14, NLT).

We are put together in a way that is endlessly fascinating and elaborate. As research has uncovered little pieces this mystery, we have slowly embraced a growing vocabulary to reflect our many facets and nuances. Personality words like introvert, extrovert, narcissist, empath, analyst, conformist, and rebel. Cognitive words like genius and neurodivergent. Words that capture human beauty and strength like gifted, idealist, reformer, resilient, and innovator. Words that give colour to human pain and brokenness like  traumatized, depressed, anxious, and abused. And a plethora of words for culture, gender, and sexuality. 

The way we each bear the image of God is absolutely breathtaking. When I meet a child for the first time in a therapy room and catch little glimpses of the things that make her unique, I often experience the same kind of wonder and magic that I imagine Ana feels when she dons her unicorn blanket. When I look at my own children, I often marvel that I have been with them for the majority of their time on this planet, and yet I can continue to learn something new about them every single day. Although existing words that describe human complexity could likely fill a mini dictionary, sometimes I suspect we have only covered the tip of the iceberg. 

Yet, David reminds us that this is not the whole picture. He writes Psalms 51 after slipping down a rabbit hole of increasingly detrimental decisions. He finally is forced to face himself in a mirror and absorbs the full reality of his choices. David reacts by turning to God and describing both himself and his actions with a simple three-letter word. 

Sin.

What is your gut reaction when you see this word alone on a page? Do you have an urge to soften it with italics, add slightly milder adjectives, or contextualize it in a full sentence? If the answer to any of these is yes, you are not alone. Our culture finds many ways to hide the cheetah spots by pulling the unicorn blanket a little tighter. We tend to use words that describe our individual complexities far more than words that describe our universal sin nature.

Perhaps David could have softened his confession by qualifying that he had been triggered by loneliness, raised by a narcissistic parent, or was dealing with PTSD from years at war. This is just conjecture, but I am sure he could have created at least a few excuses to land him just short of sin. Instead of using language to sugarcoat his confession, he uses it to more fully capture its gravity. He adds ‘transgression’ to paint the picture of a rebel bulldozing a boundary, and ‘iniquity’ to capture something good being distorted. In addition to confessing his actions as sin, David identifies himself as sinful and adds that his sin is fundamentally against God (Psalms 51:3-5).

Words cannot adequately capture our magnificence, and conversely they can never express the full devastation of our sin. Our stories are not merely dotted with occasional mistakes or errors. Like David, sin has distorted every part of our minds, wills, and affections. It has blinded our very ability to see its true nature. Our very best attempts to erase it are invariably as successful as a cheetah trying to shed its spots. The prophet Jeremiah writes:

“The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure. Who can understand it?”(Jeremiah 17:9, NIV).

After spending countless hours observing human nature as a Secret Service Agent, Evy Pompuras echoed Jeremiah with her claim: “Anyone is capable of doing anything at any particular time.”

Like little Ana, we all combine two realities: the beautifully intricate image of God and the heartbreaking distortion of sin. As we approach Good Friday, what could it look like to revive a dying vocabulary to evoke our sin? How would it change the way we see Jesus? Jone Erickson Tata eloquently describes how an accurate view of sin transforms the Cross from a sentimental symbol into a powerful reality. She writes: “Jesus was about to drown in raw, liquid sin as God’s stored-up rage against humankind exploded in a single direction- at him on the hill of Calvary” (The Practice of the Presence of Jesus).

When I name and confess my identity as a sinner, my heart can begin to grasp the magnitude of the love Jesus poured out to forgive me. The more I see myself as fully loved and completely forgiven, the more I discover a freedom that redeems all of my intricate inner parts to function in harmony. At the end of Psalms 139, after spending some time marveling at his own complexity, David pulls back the unicorn blanket and concludes with this beautiful prayer:

“Search me, God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting” (Psalms 139:23-24, NIV).

“Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of human freedoms- to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances.”

-Viktor E, Frankl

I have often viewed November and February as dreary placeholder months. Both are dark and cold, but somehow feel distinctly different. November is a fog-covered bridge connecting autumn and Christmas; the lingering smell of fallen leaves and distant haze of Christmas lights add a touch of warmth and nostalgia to the gloom. February on the other hand, is a gradual icy slope, slowly meandering from winter to early spring. It is entirely possible to feel that progress is slowly being made, and then slide suddenly backwards into a blizzard or polar vortex. At times it becomes difficult to see the top and easy to lose faith that the hill will ever end. 

Have you ever walked through a February season, the kind where clouds obscured the sun, not just for an hour or even a day, but for a string of days, weeks or even months? Maybe it was an external life circumstance that you didn’t choose and couldn’t foresee. Or perhaps an internal battle, so persistent and difficult that it almost felt tangible. Over the past month, I have sat with several clients and dear friends that described deeply challenging life circumstances that just would not change, no matter how much prayer, discipline, or passion they employed. 

One friend described her situation using the Greek Titan Prometheus. As the myth goes, he defied Zeus by stealing fire from Olympus and giving it to humans. As punishment, he was bound to a rock to have an eagle eat his liver every single day for eternity. Overnight it would regenerate and grow back, only to be eaten again the next day. How do we keep “regenerating” or holding on to hope when suffering doesn’t come with a clear finish line? Whether it’s chronic illness or chronic heartbreak, how do we navigate a kind of darkness that just seems to linger? Is it inevitable to eventually reach the same conclusion as The Beatles, that “happiness is a warm gun?” 

While struggling through some of these questions, I found inspiration from Henrik Ibsen, a Norwegian playwright that spent many months literally living in the dark. In 1850, he popularized the term friluftsliv, or literally “open-air living.” In modern Nordic culture, this has simply come to mean creating every opportunity to be outside regardless of the season. Throughout the dark and cold months of winter, friluftsliv enthusiasts continue to enjoy nature by biking to work, going for a jog through the forest, or relaxing in a lakeside sauna. Apparently there is a Swedish saying that claims: “there’s no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothes.”

If the term friluftsliv had been invented in 1000 B.C.E, I imagine that David could have used it as a heading for Psalm 143. He certainly walked through several prolonged February seasons. Instead of travelling or pursuing an elite education, he spent a good part of his 20s either on the run or fighting for his life. He does not hold back when expressing his internal struggle:

“He has crushed my life to the ground; He has made me dwell in darkness, Like those who have long been dead. Therefore my spirit is overwhelmed within me; My heart is distressed.” (Psalm 143:3-4)

In the following verses, David uses striking language to describe his posture as he turns to God:

“I spread out my hands to You” (vv. 6) and “I lift up my soul to You” (vv. 8). The most instinctive response to pain is to retreat, to go downward and inward. We adopt this posture to protect ourselves from more pain by any means possible. When reading the psalms, I wonder if David practiced walking with God through so many dark seasons, that it became almost automatic to adopt the most open and vulnerable posture imaginable in times of pain. He knew, in a deeply experiential way, that he would be met with a lovingkindness that was better than life (Psalms 63:3) and a steadfast love that endures forever (Psalms 136:2). 

We naturally like to label experiences and seasons as good or bad, positive or negative. I wonder how David viewed these February seasons in hindsight. Were they defined by darkness, uncertainty and pain? Or by a posture of surrender that kept leading him back to the greatest love and security he would ever know? In his book The Way of Beatitude, Franciscan Priest Casey Cole highlights the distinction between conditions that people encounter and the way people respond to them: “Sorrow has the ability to deaden the mind and extinguish the spirit.” He goes on to write that it can also foster “vulnerability, empathy, sorrow, tears; [things] that make us more relatable to others and far more like God.” Perhaps a reframe of the Swedish saying could be: There is no such thing as wasted pain, only wasted perspective. 

The highest, most transformative act of love in the history of the world transpired in a place of utter darkness, excruciating pain, and complete loneliness. When we walk through even a shadow of these things over time, we have a unique ability to know Jesus in a more intimate way. Although challenging seasons rarely come with a plot synopsis or spoiler alert, they always provide a guide that can lead us directly back to the foot of the cross. Joni Eareckson Tada writes these words: “learn to view your pain as your private meeting place- a hard but personal space where you will know Christ’s most amazing love for you beyond a doubt.” (The Practice of the Presence of Jesus). 

During Covid, a coworker introduced me to a youtube channel run by a train engineer that featured many hours of live train footage through the fields and mountains of Nordic regions. I would play it in the background while I read, wrote and cooked. During weeks that I was not able to see my family and friends, I’d imagine what it would be like to travel the world. Thinking back to the ruggedly breathtaking landscape, I can imagine why so many people adopt frilufsiv. The comfort of retreating into a warm home simply cannot compete with the magnificence of the mountains and the beauty of the northern lights. It can certainly feel hard to do anything but retreat in a dark season. But I wonder how many ways a change of posture could display the beautiful, breathtaking, and eternal love of Christ.

Genesis 32:22-29

For the first time in many months, he finds himself longing for chaos. Deliberately picking up a smooth round pebble, he hurls it at the stream with a touch of vengeance. He watches the granite reflect the last few rays of sun as it skids over the dark water and finds himself laughing at the absurdity of it all. Just yesterday he had voluntarily taken the night watch, although he could have easily ordered any one of his servants to do it. His wives were fighting again. Although he is accustomed to leading with an air of unfaltering confidence, in times like these he cannot escape the whispered conviction that he is merely a pawn in the hands of these women. He does know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he would rather risk a band of raiders or a pack of wolves than face another night of passive-aggressive wordplay, or worse, stone-cold silent treatment. 

With a resigned sigh, he tosses another jagged pebble. It only hits the water one time and cuts through the eerie silence like a knife. It’s funny, the whole journey he was constantly immersed in a sea of sounds: trampling hooves, relentless chatter, shrill laughter, creaky saddles, howling wind, endless bickering. But he has never so keenly felt the impact of a single sound, a small shiver running down his spine as the almost imperceptible ripples reach the shore.

Watching the quarter-moon slowly illuminate in the sky above, he remembers another clear night about twenty years ago. The corner of his mouth turns up as he recollects his younger self. He had slept under the stars with his head propped up on a rock. If he tried that now he would absolutely pay with at least a week of shooting back pain. At that time he had so much unfounded arrogance and so many untested ideals. He had no conception of the blissful agony of falling in love or the painful agony of heartbreak. And yet, strangely in this moment, he feels that no time has passed. Questions that have been buried and muted under two decades of activity and noise resurface with crystal-like clarity. 

Who am I? 

Where do I belong?

What is the meaning of my life?

************************************************************************

I really hate voids. Whenever I encounter one, I have a deeply rooted instinct to either run in the opposite direction or attempt to fill it up by any means possible. After talking to many mentors, clients and friends, I strongly suspect that this is more of a human condition than just a personal aversion. When the conversation dies for more than ten seconds at a dinner party, our minds begin to anxiously sort through the pictures on the wall, the last weather report, and the latest mildly juicy gossip for something engaging to say. If we have to wait alone for more than ten minutes at a bus step, it takes a herculean effort to not automatically reach for a smartphone.

Have you ever had a season that felt like peering down a void? Or maybe you lost your balance completely and tumbled down into it like Alice in Wonderland. Periods of loss and change have a way of exposing voids: being laid off from a 20-year job, losing a loved one, graduating from school, the breakdown of a relationship, moving to a new country. Something important shifts, disintegrates, or disappears, leaving a gaping hole. The questions this creates can be so uncomfortable and painful that our beings easily turn into magnets, frantically attracting anything that might fill, cover or obscure the void. This can range from seemingly harmless distractions like compulsive instagram scrolling to more destructive patterns like substance use and abusive relationships. 

A void is often a place of intense struggle. There was a reason that Jacob spent the whole night wrestling with God. When something we depended upon for love, worth, and/or belonging suddenly proves to be temporary, it often exposes core beliefs about ourselves and the world that we have long carried, sometimes since childhood. “I don’t have a place in the world.” “I must be unlovable.” “Maybe I’m defective.” No wonder that voids seem to come with fluorescent warning lights. 

Why would I ever willingly stay or even linger in this kind of place? Is it even possible when everything inside of me screams to “avoid at all costs?” Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a pastor who is known for both his writings and resistance to the Nazi dictatorship, explored this from a prison cell. As he processed the loss of freedom, human companionship and autonomy, Bonhoeffer struggled deeply with his personal identity. He wrote a poem entitled “Who Am I?” He described a sharp conflict between the confident and wise persona he showed to the world, and the anxious and self-absorbed person he often felt like inside. He captured the inner turmoil this created:

 “Who am I? This one or that one? Am I then this one today and tomorrow another?”

 After wrestling through these questions with God, Bonhoeffer arrived a place of calm assurance, captured by his concluding statement:

 “Who am I? The solitary query mocks me. Whoever I am, You know me. I am Yours, O God.” (Bonhoeffer, Letters and Papers) 

Bonhoeffer allowed himself to look squarely into the face of the void and invited God into the resulting struggle. 

And instead of a black hole, he discovered a portal, connecting him to his true identity. 

Human relationships can mirror God’s love in a million beautiful ways. But we were ultimately created to be loved by God. Jobs and vocations can bring a great deal of meaning and purpose. But we are fully seen and known only by God. Communities can provide support, comfort and a sense of belonging. But the only place that we can fully and eternally belong exists in God’s kingdom. If we never encountered voids, would we ever reach a place of complete security and deep satisfaction? Or would we remain just satiated enough with temporary substitutes and fail to look further? 

Back to Jacob…

***********************************************************************

Genesis 32:30-32

The rising sun paints the stream with pink and purple ribbons. He sits motionless on the bank, not even glancing at the pebbles lying by his feet. As he absently studies water, he is almost surprised to see the same familiar face reflecting back at him. Although everything appears much the same, a deep part of him knows that it has somehow changed, perhaps because he has changed. 

Reflecting on the long night of intense struggle, he is so thankful he did not follow his first impulse to bolt across the stream in search of noise and chaos. Or his second impulse to curl into a tight ball and wish the world away. He takes one more moment to soak in the quiet, realizing that it has somehow become profoundly peaceful, and then limps slowly towards the rising sun. 

Luke 10: 38-39 

The pungent smell of roasting lamb mixes with the subtle notes of earth and sweat, such as comes from a group of men who have spent the last few hours walking in the intense summer heat. A casual observer might wonder what brought such an eclectic group together. Several are dressed in simple and rugged attire, such as might fit a humble fisherman. One member of this category compulsively taps his right foot against the dirt floor. The relentless movement evidently irritates his neighbour, a short man with a slight perpetual scowl. Although his dress is also relatively simple, a confident demeanor set off by the flash of two golden rings on his right hand suggests a more ludicrous profession- perhaps a lawyer or even a tax collector. Two men bearing a close resemblance sit side by side in the corner of the room. Even if they did not share common features, the way they constantly bicker suggests a kind of close rivalry typically shared by siblings. Although the space is small, it hosts a multitude of diverting details and interactions. However, all of this is completely lost on one lone figure, anchored silently to the floor directly in front of the Teacher. The circus of activity settles into a profound stillness as she absorbs His presence. The chorus of sounds fades into obscurity as she fixes her complete attention on His every word.

What does it look like to be fully immersed? Are there any memories or images that come to mind when you read this word? Perhaps a deep conversation with a soul friend, a really good book that temporarily transported you to another universe, or a clear starry night far away from city lights. When I reflected on my focus word for 2026, I came back to Luke’s depiction of Mary sitting at the feet of Jesus. This passage has always had a very special place in my heart. I remember as a young girl, my dad holding me on his lap and explaining that my two names Jisca (to behold) and Maria (Mary) were inspired by this encounter. He would often pray that wherever life would bring me, I would always find my home at the feet of Jesus. This passage has become a kind of anchor for me through many seasons, but has taken on a new meaning as I step in a new year. 

I think I have a little more empathy for Martha than I used to. Life with two-year-old Aurora and four-year-old Ana is a deeply challenging, refining, rewarding, and sometimes chaotic ride. Between putting paw patrol bandaids on little mosquito bites, finding creative ways to promote eating vegetables, washing ketchup stains out of clothes, and trying to find answers for every “why” question under the sun, many days I do not find much time to eat or drink, much less immerse myself in anything. 

Add in the world of social media, where everything comes in shiny bite-sized packages, encouraging quick consumption much more than mindful digestion. In five minutes of mindless scrolling, I could easily watch a collection of reels on mindful running, how to build a ukulele from scratch, the importance of active listening, and a flash mob choir singing out of apartment windows downtown Madrid. And yet, curiously when I put my phone down I find myself feeling no more mindful, creatively inspired, or connected. If you are anything like me, you may have moments or seasons where the word “immerse” automatically brings underlying feelings of defeat, guilt, or annoyance. 

Being fully present is hard. Full stop. Actively listening to a friend without mentally checking out or jumping ahead. Regularly sitting with God in prayer. These things are not automatic, and can take a great deal of intentionality. And yet, as I read reflections by individuals who learned to foster meaningful lives and deep relationships, I am increasingly convinced that this practice is essential. Living in a world where we constantly juggle many things like Martha, and yet learning to sit immersed in the presence of Jesus and others like Mary. 

Psychologist Carl Rogers left a wealth of research on the value of simply being present with another person. He once wrote these words: 

“When a person realizes he has been deeply heard, his eyes moisten. I think in some  real sense he is weeping for joy. It is as though he were saying, ‘Thank God, somebody heard me. Someone knows what it’s like to be me.’”

There is a time for advice and for relating personal experience. However, I think it is so easy to underestimate the power of simply experiencing another person with undivided attention. Mitch Albom highlights this when recounting his final memories of sitting with his dying professor Morrie Schwartz:

“Those who sat with him saw his eyes go moist when they spoke about something   horrible, or crinkle in delight when they told him a really bad joke… I believe many visitors in the last few months of Morrie’s life were drawn not because of the attention they wanted to pay to him but because of the attention he paid to them. Despite his personal pain and decay, this little old man listened the way they always wanted someone to listen.” (Tuesdays with Morrie)

I am often reminded of this simple truth as a parent. The best instagram pictures might come from trips to the safari or the beach. But the best real-life moments are often utterly ordinary. Times when I am fully present with the girls- traveling with Ana through her imaginary mermaid kingdoms and delighting in the way Aurora kinkles up her nose every time she gets into mischief.

The experience of being seen, heard and known by another can be deeply moving and healing. But all humans are limited and biased. As a therapist and as a mother, I am often reminded that even with my very best effort, I can only partially know and understand another person. This makes me wonder, what would it be like to regularly sit in the presence of the only One who fully sees, hears and knows me? David often explored this question in the Psalms, expressing a deep longing to be immersed in the presence of God in passages like Psalm 27:4:

“One thing I have desired of the Lord/ That will I seek/ That I may dwell in the house of the Lord/ All the days of my life/ To behold the beauty of the Lord/ And to inquire in His temple.”

David frequently expressed the deep joy, healing and peace he discovered in this place:

“You have put gladness in my heart/ More than in the season that their grain and wine increased. I will both lie down in peace and sleep/ For you alone, O Lord, make me dwell in safety.” (Psalms 4:7-8)

During His life on earth Jesus was the perfect teacher, imparting many transformative words of truth. But He was also the perfect therapist, taking the time to see, hear, and fully know the people He came in contact with. Before teaching the woman at the well about living water, He explored her failed marriages and painful attempts to find love (John 4:1-42). Before speaking the words that would bring Lazerus back to life, Jesus took time to deeply mourn and grieve with his family (John 11:33). I wonder if at some point these individuals wept for joy as they internalized some form of Carl Roger’s words: “Someone knows what it’s like to be me.” 

In his book The Ruthless Elimination of Hurry, John Mark Comer writes “Hurry and love are incompatible.” Take a moment to read this sentence again. The act of being actively present with God and others is not a disposable luxury. It is not a noble concept created for another time. It is the currency of love. Sometimes I wonder what happened next, when Mary got up and resumed normal life. Maybe she had young children to care for. Or maybe she went back to cooking lamb, washing dirty feet,  and sweeping the floor. Either way, I imagine that nothing appeared quite the same after being immersed in the presence of Jesus.  

The sound of mingled voices floating around the table is suddenly disrupted by the sharp sound of breaking pottery. You could pierce the silence with a knife. She remembers a few other profound moments of silence: standing beside her brother’s lifeless body in wordless agony, sitting at her Lord’s feet in peaceful adoration. But this silence feels markedly different. It is so saturated with judgement that for a long moment it is nearly impossible to breathe. The potent wave of expensive perfume seems to wake everyone out of their temporary stupor. The silence gives way a current of disapproval, and she instantly feels incredibly exposed and vulnerable. “Wasteful.” “Thoughtless.” “Selfish.” “Probably more than a year’s wages.” The words feel like acid seeping into old wounds, and she desperately wishes she could disappear into thin air like the perfume did just moments ago. 

While reflecting on a year of blogging, I considered many things I could write about for my final post: The value of having brutally honest cheerleaders. The surprisingly difficult art of achieving simplicity. The danger of trying to write anything substantial after 1 a.m. But in the end my mind kept going back to Mary’s encounter with Jesus and His disciples in Mark 14:3-9. Although the practice of putting my writing out into the world exposed many things, the most revealing may have been my personal value system. 

Nearly every month, the start of my blog would look something like this: I would put the girls to bed, curl on the couch under my favourite blanket, and inhale the smell of warm spice cinnamon tea. I would open my laptop, stare at the screen in silence for a moment… and that’s when the voices would inevitably begin. Although my critics were not visible like Mary’s, they certainly felt real.  “Is this a waste of time?” “You should be doing something productive like folding the mountain laundry downstairs.” “What if people disagree?” “WORSE, what if no one bothers to read it?” “Wait, why not just post an incredibly stupid video of a schnauzer dog dancing around in a tutu? It would take a fraction of the time and you would instantly get ten times as many views.” I wish I could say that the voices disappeared over time. Although they were certainly annoying and unwelcome, my inner critics constantly challenged me to examine my motivations and ultimately brought me back to the question: “Where do I pour my most valuable resources?” 

I remember first falling in love with writing as a young child. The pen unlocked a world of limitless possibilities, and I could spend hours filling notebooks  with dramas, romances, mysteries, tragedies, and confusing combinations of all of the above. I rarely considered how much time I was wasting, how little money I would make, or what other people would think. I found a pure and simple joy in discovering and sharing a gift God put inside me. Over the course of writing hundreds of academic papers, thousands of case notes, and millions of emails my relationship to writing slowly changed. Unconsciously, like the guests sitting with Jesus, I began to ask “Why?” If I was going to pour out something as valuable as time and creativity, I needed to see a concrete reward like a grade, paycheck, or sign of approval. 

One day this past summer as I was fighting through significant writer’s block, I went for a walk on my favourite trail through the woods. As if for the first time, I noticed a spider’s web suspended at eye level. As the sun illuminated the delicate strands of silk, it looked like a miniature cathedral, a masterpiece both in engineering and artist design. And suddenly I felt sad that it would likely only last a few hours before being brutally torn apart by a bird or beaten down by a walking stick. And then it hit me. God displays his intelligence, love and creativity in a million ways every day. He knows that countless flowers will get trampled before a single human takes the time to notice them. Millions of beautiful sea creatures will die pointlessly because of human greed.  And yet He continues to POUR love onto the world with His extravagant, intricate and breathtaking creation. 

In his book Garden City, John Mark Comer writes: 

“All of creation’s excellence is an act of generous, creative, self-giving love for the world. A genuine, authentic love of excellence isn’t rooted in greed or narcissism or materialism. It’s rooted in love, for God and others. A desire to serve God and His world well.” 

When I travelled to Belgium, I had the opportunity to explore some old cathedrals that took generations to build. One thing that struck me was how every square inch was covered in ornate detailing, even small sections of the high ceiling that no one would ever see. I sometimes wonder if the medieval craftsmen had to battle their own inner critics. Why spend hours on an intricate mosaic pattern that no one would ever be able to fully appreciate? 

Maybe because God would see it. 

What could it look like to make a regular practice of simply pouring out the gifts God has uniquely put inside each one of us? Would it transform the way we worship, view our time, and spend our energy? My personal experience blogging for just a year was incredibly humbling. I had no idea how much value I put into things like human affirmation and material returns. But it also turned out to be rewarding in many surprising and unexpected ways: Meaningful conversations, a renewed passion to read, deep healing through difficult seasons. Best of all, I rediscovered what it felt like to be that eight year old girl with a pen and paper, completely lost in a magical world of words full of endless possibilities. 

Back to Mary. Standing in the centre of the room, head hung low, surrounded by harsh voices. A year’s wages, literally gone into thin air. What would the King of the universe think of such a temporary and wasteful gift? As He so often does, Jesus meets the words of the critics with a mix of authority and tenderness:

 “Leave her alone. Why are you bothering her? She has done a beautiful thing to me.” (Mark 14:6)

As she hears His voice and slowly absorbs His words, the words of the critics completely lose their power and the silence that follows is profoundly peaceful. 

In 1884, Anglican Priest Edwin Abbott published a delightfully quirky novel about a world of two dimensions named Flatland. He described a universe where all occupants can only perceive their environment in two-dimensional shapes like triangles, squares, pentagons and circles. Citizens of Flatland create a complex system of laws and expectations based entirely on the limits of the dimensions in which they operate. At one point, the main character, A. Square, encounters someone from Spaceland, a three-dimensional universe. After he gradually comprehends and absorbs the wonders of three-dimensional shapes like spheres and cubes, A. Square bursts with enthusiasm to share this experience with his family and friends. When he tries to describe the magic of the third-dimension with a great deal of thought and detail, the Flatlanders meet him with laughter and ridicule. His own grandson exclaims: “How could a thing move upward, and not Northward? Even if I were a baby, I could not be so absurd as that. How silly it is!” 

I think this story serves as a beautiful analogy for the interaction between the physical and spiritual realms, the kingdom of this world and the Kingdom of Heaven. If you are anything like me, you may sometimes find yourself sharing A. Square’s feeling of wonder and excitement. A clear night sky glittering with a million stars. An old stone church filtering sunlight through stained-glass windows and echoing with the sound of two-hundred souls joined together in worship. A crib holding a peaceful sleeping newborn baby. In spaces like this, you may tangibly feel the presence of God and clearly see His very fingerprint on the physical world. 

Other times, you might feel more like the grandson. A tiny fluorescent cubical with a large pile of tax files. A messy playroom featuring a fussy teething toddler. A pristine lawyer’s office, full of opulence and yet somehow devoid of taste. You may find it much more difficult to believe that God actively interacts with these spaces. In a society that has a DSM with a diagnosis for every psychological disorder and a scientific method to test all physical phenomena, I think it can be extremely easy to designate large areas of life as Flatland zones. Places that we come to believe God either ignores or does not care to touch. Spaceland is reserved for specific zones like Sunday church. 

Does God truly desire to build His Kingdom in every part of the physical realm? Why do some spaces feel so disconnected from His presence and influence? Is it possible to become a “Spacelander” in every area of my life? In the process of asking these questions over and over, I have discovered I am not alone. While wrestling through this with wise friends, mentors, and writers, I have noticed a few themes that seem to keep reappearing. 

1.Look Far

The problem with dark spaces is that they have a way of trapping our gaze and freezing our imagination. One way that the Psalmists regularly approached this issue was by engaging in a kind of time travel. For example, in Psalm 77 Asaph provided a raw description of a painful place and asked very tough and honest questions about God. (“Has his unfailing love vanished forever? Has his promise failed for all time?” (Ps. 77:8)) But immediately he followed it up with a detailed reflection of past places that proved God’s character and power. (“Your ways, God, are holy… You are the God who performs miracles” (Ps. 77:13-14). This practice of constant looking back directs focus from temporary disillusionment towards eternal hope. 

Looking far can apply to space as well as time. In his book “How (not) to be secular,” James K. Smith compares many Western Christians to fans watching a baseball game in the SkyDome. When the roof closes, obscuring all the stars, most fans do not even notice because they are so focused on the field. In North America, we might be more prone to overlook the spiritual realm than in some majority countries, simply because our eyes spend more time fixed on the natural world. We stand to learn so much by engaging with individuals and cultures that operate in spaces where the spiritual is seen as constantly intertwining with the physical. Where God is seen to be intimately involved with small matters of work, finance, and family, as well as redeeming lost souls.

2.Look Close

In his essay “Miracles,” C.S Lewis points out how easy it can be to miss a miracle literally right in front of us:

“God creates the vine and teaches it to draw up water by its roots and, with the aid of the sun, to turn that water into a juice which will ferment and take on certain qualities. Thus every year, from Noah’s time till ours, God turns water into wine. That, men fail to see… They attribute real and ultimate causality to the chemical and other material phonemena which are all that our sense can discover in it. But when Christ at Cana makes water into wine, the mask is off. The miracle has only half its effect if it only convinces us that Christ is God: it will have its full effect if whenever we see a vineyard or drink a glass of wine we remember that here works He who sat at the wedding party in Cana.”

In other words, wine is a miracle whether God takes four seconds or four years to produce it. Breathing is a miracle whether God resurrects the dead lungs of Lazarus or constantly moves hundreds of muscles to keep mine alive. Maybe the real issue is not that miracles have ceased to exist. Rather, our lives are so saturated that we have learned to overlook them.

3. Look Hard

A dear friend recently introduced me to a simple practice that has challenged my perception of God’s direct involvement in my life. In the morning she writes down her prayer, leaving space to jot down a follow-up in the evening. She described both witnessing direct answers to prayer during the day, and long term answers as she revisited prayers from past seasons. After just a few weeks of exploring practice, I have noticed a few things.

My prayers have become more specific. I am more aware of God’s involvement in the mundane moments of my life. When I come back to each written prayer in the evening, I always discover at least one direct answer. And sometimes I find a little more hope for prayers that seem to go unanswered over weeks, months and years. In the words of John Piper, I begin to believe that God is “always doing ten-thousand things in my life, even when I am only aware of three of them.”

Philosopher Charles Taylor once wrote: “The world is enchanted by the triune God.” I don’t know what kind of week you are stepping out of. Maybe it was packed full with beautiful, inspiring, soul-filling kind of moments. Maybe you had to dig deep just to find the willpower to plant your feet on the floor and drag them to a repetitive job or a toxic workplace. Or maybe you were up most nights with a sick baby and didn’t have time to consider much besides survival. I imagine even if you mostly fit into the first category, you can identify a least a few spaces that were mundane, tough, or even painful. The good news is that these kinds of spaces are not inherently disenchanted. In fact, the more I read the gospels, the more I suspect Jesus would more likely be found sitting in a tasteless office conversing with a cynical divorce lawyer or soothing a fussy toddler than stargazing at a spiritual retreat. Unlike A. Square, we do not have to cross a universe to discover Spaceland. We just have to open our eyes. 

For two unforgettable summers, I had the luxury of working at a summer camp in Nova Scotia situated right beside the ocean. The days were packed full with laughter, ice cream on the beach, water games in the ocean, and heart-to-heart chats in the small wooden chapel. The nights passed by quickly with campfire songs, roasted marshmallows, whispered conversations about camp romances after curfew, and a few precious hours of sleep. 

Every new week brought so many moments of beauty and connection. However, my most cherished times always came after the campers left on Friday night. By this time, my introverted side was begging (sometimes screaming) for attention, and I would hike out to the beach in time to watch the sunset over the ocean. As I watched the bright yellows, warm oranges, soft pinks and deep purples paint an evolving masterpiece over the gentle rhythm of the waves, I would feel my soul slowly come back into my body. I have a few vivid memories of evenings when the ocean was completely still, like a giant mirror suspended under the atmosphere. In these moments, it was almost impossible to decipher the skyline. The ocean stretched out like an inverted extension of the sunset above. Every ordinary seagull and hermit crab became a majestic silhouette against the brilliant palette of water and sky. 

This memory recently came back while I was reflecting on Paul’s words to the Ephesians: 

“I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the Lord’s holy people, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge- that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God” (Ephesians 3:17-19). 

I imagine the embodiment of Paul’s prayer- a being that is securely and completely loved- to be somewhat like a calm and clear body of water. It is fully able to reflect and radiate the evolving beauty bestowed upon it, and subsequently highlights the unique wonder of everything in its environment. 

If you are anything like me, this image may sometimes feel more like it belongs in an art museum rather than in the real world. Because the real world seems to bring constant hurricane winds in the form of hurtful actions, covert rejections, and open insults that tell us that we are not loveable. The strongest gales can come from the people closest to us: mothers, fathers, spouses, partners and friends who we desperately look to for security and acceptance. My work with foster children often reminds me of the devastating pain caused by this kind of rejection. These winds can so quickly create waves of anxiety and depression, and over time can create deep currents of shame and self-loathing.

Over the past century, there has been a wealth of research and writing on the significant impact that secure and loving attachments have on all areas of life. People who are securely attached tend to have a more positive sense of self, better emotional regulation, higher communication skills, and better coping under stress. John Bowlby, the pioneer of Attachment Theory, wrote “Life is best organized as a series of daring adventures from a secure base.” In other words, the more I am securely loved, the more freedom I claim to love, explore, create and learn. 

Another very different kind of pioneer named Augustine once wrote: “My soul is restless until it rests in You O God.” Long before Bowlby penned his Attachment Theory, Augustine came to this conclusion: even the very best kind of human attachment cannot create a fully secure being, because ultimately we were made to be loved by God. Dutch priest Henri Nouwen articulates this beautifully in his book Life of the Beloved: 

“Long before any human saw us, we are seen by God’s loving eyes. Long before anyone heard us cry or laugh, we are heard by God who is all ears for us. Long before any person spoke to us in this world, we are spoken to by the voice of eternal love. Our preciousness, uniqueness, and individuality are not given to us by those who meet us in clock time- but by the One who has chosen us with an everlasting love, a love that existed from all eternity and will last through all eternity.”  

What does it look like for a soul that has been battered and bruised to find rest? Is it possible to truly believe in the deepest places of my heart that God could fully see me and infinitely love me when the humans closest to me seem to tell me exactly the opposite? The pain of rejection by a figure like a father, mother, spouse or close friend can be so deep and hurt in so many ways that the prospect of actually trusting this kind of love could feel terrifying, even impossible. Nouwen writes about this process: “Becoming the Beloved means letting the truth of our Belovedness become enfleshed in everything we think, say, or do. It entails a long and painful process of appropriation or, better, incarnation.”

Paul examines this process of becoming fully beloved, emphasizing the importance of perseverance in response to suffering (Romans 5:3-5). Perseverance is a huge word, and could apply to so many areas. I just want to touch on two practices that have profoundly impacted my own concept of God’s love: prayer and gratitude. 

When prayer becomes a practice of laying myself open before God over days, seasons, and years, I come to know a Friend who cares deeply about small and temporary details of my life; a Father who collects all of my angry, confused, sad and heartbroken tears; a Lover who is jealous for my affections and wants to be intimately known, and a Saviour who fully entered into every painful feeling I could ever experience because of unconditional love for me. 

I have come to view the practice of gratitude as the act of intentionally slowing down long enough to absorb how much I am being blessed. From all the ordinary miracles like the smell of a warm rain in late summer and the coos of a newborn baby, to specific miracles like an answered prayer and an encouraging text message at the perfect time. Over time, these blessings quickly add up to provide overwhelming evidence of a Love that is faithful, extravagant, and deeply personal.

 What could it look like to believe that I am eternally loved by the only One who fully sees me? Is it possible that waves of fear could gradually subside into ripples of hope and eventually dissipate into a deep, quiet love? I wonder how many ways this kind of secure attachment could reflect the goodness and beauty of God?  I love how writer Anne Voskamp articulates her own journey towards grasping the love of Christ. I would like to end with a quote from her book Waymaker:

“I begin to know how to say it out loud: The worst case scenario is that all the worst things happen and I am still fully loved.”  

A few weeks ago while listening to a podcast, I was mildly horrified to discover that experts recommend chewing each bite of food thirty-two times before swallowing. Have you ever tried counting? I have far too much pride to disclose my average number. However, I will say that I grew up with five constantly hungry brothers, and chewing more than ten times meant risking all the good food being gone and being stuck with carrots and peas. Even now, if I am honest, I generally chew distractedly while engaging all of my creativity to get the girls to eat more than crackers and cheese.

However, I have vivid memories of beautiful food moments where I was able to take the time to slowly savour and appreciate each glorious bite. A paper-thin crepe filled with warm goat cheese, spinach and apple at a small farm restaurant in Utrecht, Holland. A perfectly soft and crunchy cookie with warm spices and a hint of salt at the Halifax Public Library. The act of deeply savouring and slowly digesting each bite did not just make the food much more enjoyable, but imprinted the experience as a whole in my memory. I can still picture the cows grazing in a nearby field in Utrecht, and recall the glorious smell of a million books while slowly meandering through the isles with my friend. 

I imagine deeply reading a book to be remarkably similar to mindfully chewing and savoring a meal. Literary critic Hugh Mcguire beautifully described this type of reading:

“Books, in ways that are different from visual arts, music, the radio, or even love, force us to walk through another’s thoughts one word at a time over hours and days.”

From this perspective, the act of deep reading requires things that are incredibly valuable and even scarce in modern culture. Things like time, patience, and focused attention. Which begs a pertinent question: Why continue to engage in a practice that demands so much, when I can seemingly achieve many of the same benefits at a much lower cost? Why read a newspaper from front to back when I can instantly access a thousand online news sources that give key content in bite-sized summaries? Why sacrifice hours and days to read a literary novel when Netflix neatly reduces the plot to ninety minutes of riveting camera angles and special effects? Why read a hard copy of the Bible from cover to cover when an app on my phone can send me a daily inspirational verse with a quietly aesthetic background? Why spend hours articulating and organizing my thoughts in a monthly blog post when AI could produce an article that sounds quite similar in a mere two seconds? With so much information available at the click of a button, perhaps it is inevitable that modern society is becoming post literate. As Nicholas Carr predicted fifteen years ago in his brilliant book The Shallows, people’s brains are literally losing the ability to read slowly and deeply.

It is not that we don’t read. In fact, the average person in Canada reads all day long, glancing at road signs, menus, twitter posts and advertisements. This is typically a shallow form of reading; in terms of digestion, we only chew each bite three or four times before swallowing. Shallow reading is not inherently wrong. It can be extremely helpful in managing and processing large amounts of information. However, we can lose so much when we begin to automatically approach a quality work of literature this way. When I take the time to slowly absorb the words of a book, I not only gain information, but actually enter the world of the author and temporarily merge it with my own. 

I absolutely love this poem by Wallace Stevens:

The house was quiet and the world was calm

The reader became the book; and summer night

Was like the conscious being of the book.

The house was quiet and the world was calm.

The words were spoken as if there was no book,

Except that the reader leaned above the page,

Wanted to lean, wanted much most to be 

The scholar to whom his book is true, to whom

The summer night is like a perfection of thought

The house was quiet because it had to be.

The quiet was part of the meaning, part of the mind:

The access of perfection to the page.

Not only does this work describe deep reading, but its composition demands that the reader engage in it. 

I believe that the all-time bestselling book in the world, the Bible, was designed to be read like this. Not casually sampled alongside other servings of news, gossip, and positive psychology. But rather chewed, savoured and deeply absorbed. In the words of Hugh Mcguire, walking through the thoughts of God, one word at a time, through every season of life. Or as put by Wallace Stevens, entering the world of God’s Kingdom. King David describes this kind of reader:

“His delight is in the law of the Lord, And in his law he meditates day and night” (Psalm 1:2). 

Jesus Himself showed an incredibly deep and comprehensive knowledge of scripture, quoting Old Testament writings not only in moments of teaching, but in moments of intense pressure. Our automatic response to a personal attack often exposes something deep within ourselves. These moments can feel revealing and at times humbling. Satan attacked Jesus at a time that he was hungry, thirsty, and alone. He targeted all the key parts of His identity. Remarkably, Jesus did not defend Himself or throw insults, but rather automatically responded by quoting scripture. This showed a deeply rooted knowledge and intimate acquaintance with words of the Old Testament writers.  

What does it look like to foster a love of deep reading? If you made it to this point in the blog, you likely value this kind of focused and intentional practice. If you are anything like me, you might often feel the struggle of trying to hone a skill that the world no longer seems to value. Although social media and AI platforms can pose challenges, I am certainly do not want to paint them as entirely negative or dangerous.

Sometimes the most simple consistent practices can have a big impact over time. Like setting aside twenty minutes in a day to read a hardcopy book without technology present. My old black Bible is old and worn and cannot  instantly compare other versions or provide commentary like the Bible app on my phone. But several pages in the book of Romans have salt water stains from the summer I read beside the ocean. Other pages in the Psalms have salt water stains from tears during a dark season. And many of the margins have words and thoughts scrawled in blue pen that come back to greet me like forgotten friends whenever I revisit them. There is something deeply beautiful in the physicality of a book that has been loved and revisited over time.

 Another way to slow down and digest each individual word is through memorization. Learning phrases and embedding them into your mind and body through repetition. The word “memorization” might instantly bring you back to reciting cringe-worthy poems in front of your fifth grade class. Unfortunately in Western society, we tend to relegate it to childhood. In his book The Insanity of God, Nik Ripken writes about a secret Christian Youth conference that took place in Communist Russia in the early 1950s. Over the course of the conference, seven hundred young people between ages eighteen and thirty risked imprisonment to meet and encourage each other. During the conference, these young people were challenged to reconstruct the four New Testament Gospels- Matthew, Mark, Luke and John from memory. Remarkably, by the end of the conference, they had recreated all four books from memory with only a half-dozen mistakes. I find this love and passion for the Word of God in the midst of intense opposition deeply inspiring. Understandably, the mere thought of memorizing all four gospels might be completely overwhelming. But I wonder what the simple practice of memorizing even one verse every week could build in a year. 

There is a time and place for speed and efficiency. Sometimes we simply have limited time to chew. And resources like AI can be incredibly helpful in these times. However, I believe that skill of deep reading is absolutely worth fighting for, and that no quantity of information can ever substitute for the quality of focused attention. I would like to sincerely thank you for showing that you value this fight by  taking the time to read all the way to the very. last. word. 

Last summer, a gang of deranged squirrels decided to make themselves at home in my yard. If you are imagining cute little nests and acorns hidden under the porch, you are radically mistaken. The critters dug giant holes in the front lawn for no apparent reason. They chewed clean through my brand-new porch lights. I think I could have found a way to forgive these wrongs had they had not decided to go one step further and decimate all my climbing sweet pea plants. I battled the delinquents for most of the summer, planting and replanting seeds in a score of hidden and creative locations. Some were brutally ejected from the soil before they even had a chance to grow. Others managed to sprout tender green vines. I would carefully water them for a few days, invariably to find that the squirrel gang had snapped and left them dead on the ground in an act of senseless violence.

The struggle became deeply personal and every bone in my body hated having to concede defeat. I had to grieve my sweet peas, not just because they faced blatant discrimination, but also because I derive a lot of joy from a climbing plant. I just love the way it highlights the beauty of a simple boundary like a fence, and conversely how the fence gives the plant a stage to display its full glory. We cannot fully appreciate one without the other.

In Psalm 16:6, David writes: “The boundary lines have fallen to me in pleasant places; surely I have a delightful inheritance.” I have always been intrigued by these words. David not only took the time to become personally acquainted with his boundaries and limits, but actually seemed to take delight in them. If human limits were a stone wall, I imagine David sitting and admiring the way the grey and brown stones highlighted the surrounding greenery rather than looking for ways to escape or break it down.

Does it feel foreign to imagine a limit as beautiful? I have a complicated relationship with the word. In the past I certainly viewed it in a negative light; at best an inconvenience and at worst a sin. I grew up in a culture where limits were constantly painted as something to be conquered. Nike was constantly popping up on shirts and sweaters, telling me to “Just Do It.” Bruce Lee reminded me that “there are no limits, there are only plateaus.” The year I graduated from school, Katy Perry came out with Eye of the Tiger. Every time I heard her belt out the words “Rising up straight to the top/ Went the distance now I’m not gonna stop,” it suddenly felt possible to conquer every academic paper, essay and exam.

Throw into the mix a type A personality and healthy dose of Dutch stubbornness, I spent a wealth of time and energy trying to be the first person in the history of the world to prove human limits irrelevant. Obviously, I failed. I used every tool I could think of to try to blast, hammer and chip away at the fence. Sometimes I blatantly denied that it existed, usually ending up bruised and battered. However, in His grace God has slowly started to open my eyes to the beauty that unfolds when a limit is acknowledged and respected.

One limit that seems to be incredibly easy to bulldoze over is a weekly Sabbath. From the very beginning of time, God set a pattern in motion of working for six days and resting on the seventh. This limit can feel like a massive inconvenience. The world around us keeps moving at a dizzying place, a hundred things demand our attention at any given moment, and life is increasingly hard to pay for. There are so many reasons to argue that regular weekly rest is a luxury we currently cannot afford. However, if we are truly formed in the image of God, perhaps we cannot afford NOT to sabbath. We were made to work, sweat, run, explore, design, teach, think, and create. And we were also made to rest. To pause, enjoy and refresh.

In my experience, beautiful things grow when I respect this God-given limit. I realize that I am not God. It is incredibly freeing to realize that the world can keep spinning without me. That I can pause from fixing problems and putting out fires to appreciate beauty for the sake of beauty. John Mark Comer has a beautiful way of articulating this in his book Garden City: “For six days we wrestle with the world of space-the hard work of building civilization. But on the Sabbath, we savour the world of time. We slow down, take a deep breath, and drink it all in.”

Limits can also come in the form of perspective. As a therapist, I am regularly reminded of my limited experience and view of the world. I hear stories filled with joy, pain, confusion, hope, and heartbreak. Although I can relate and connect to the emotions, I have no idea what it is to live through these unique experiences of loss, trauma, injustice and discrimination. The more I recognize and acknowledge this limit, the more I am able listen with openness, curiosity and empathy. We can gain so much from taking the time to deeply listen to each other’s stories without instantly jumping to our own perspectives.

Novelist Frederick Buechner wrote: “Work is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.” Humans have an incredible capacity to learn and do a wide variety of things. However, I believe that God gave us all unique and limited gifting, that place where we can pour out something that gives us joy in a way that benefits the rest of the world. I could spend my life behind a computer analyzing tax files and conceivably be half decent at it after a LOT of time and effort. But I am convinced it would never bring me a fraction of the joy that I get from sitting on the floor, hands covered in homemade slime, having a heart conversation with a 12 year old client. Because in this moment I am using and fostering something unique that God put inside of me.

When I recognize and embrace my unique gifting, I give myself the permission to say no to things that fall outside of that. I also have greater capacity to appreciate other gifts that are uniquely different than mine. In his book You’re Only Human, Kelly Kapic highlights the beauty of this mindset in the context of the church: “Today I am caring for prisoners in jail; I am evangelizing the disenfranchised in Nepal; I am praying over the sick child in the hospital; I am serving the recovering victims of sex trafficking; I am standing against racial injustice; and I am caring for widows. And I am doing so much more. How? I am doing all of this because I am part of the living body of Christ.” Somehow, when many flawed and limited followers of Jesus come together over time and space and join their unique gifts, they form a body that is as whole as it is beautiful.

In a world that is moving at a frantic pace, it is so easy to approach human limits with annoyance or even shame. We tend to picture ugly “No Enter” signs, barbed wire, and yellow tape. However, I wonder how these images might transform if like David, we took the time to become acquainted and even friendly with our God given limits. Could it be that these “boundary lines” give space for some of the most beautiful things to grow?

Last month my dad gifted my three-year-old daughter Ana her first plant. She carefully placed it in a sunny window and then faithfully watered it every morning. Her excitement was uncontainable when finally one morning, a small green bud parted to reveal a sliver of bright red geranium. After carefully examining this little miracle, she began to gently touch the little bud, and I soon realized that she was trying to figure out a way to open it to fully let the flower out. Thankfully I was able to intervene in time to save the little guy, and the next few days became an exercise in self control. It was so beautiful to see Ana’s impatience transform to joy and wonder as the flower slowly unfolded to display delicate ruby red petals.

Ana was learning to cultivate something that in therapy I refer to as a “sunset mode of mind.” The act of laying down and gazing in wordless wonder at a night sky illuminated by a million stars. Digging your toes in the sand and watching as bright yellows and oranges slowly morph into deep pinks and purples as the sun sets over the ocean; disappearing into the magical world of a good book or a classical symphony, hanging on to each word or note. In a world that demands a problem solving mode of mind a great deal of the time, it can take some intentionality to fully enter into these moments. We can problem-solve math equations, toddler tantrums, broken cupboards, and relationship conflicts. However, we cannot problem-solve galaxies, sunsets, or symphonies. Ironically the harder we try, the less space we leave for the beauty to unfold.

Until recently, I had always associated a sunset mode of mind with feelings like awe and wonder. However, as I have worked through the book of Lamentations in the Bible, I have begun to wonder if it can also translate to feelings of grief and sadness. Perhaps lament is the equivalent of taking time to sit in the middle of a pile of ruins and deeply feel the tragedy of the destruction of something that used to be beautiful. In the same way that we can habitually race past sunsets and fast forward symphonies, we can also become accustomed to automatically clean up the rubble of a broken building and try to salvage something new.

In his Lamentations, Ezekiel spends time sitting in the midst of a broken city and deeply mourning. He uses many metaphors to attempt to capture the level of devastation he sees: “She who was once great among the nations now sits alone like a widow” (Lam 1:1). “Her princes are like starving deer searching for pasture. They are too weak to run from the pursuing enemy” (Lam 1:6). He also uses descriptive language to evoke the pain he feels: “He has sent fire from heaven that burns in my bones’’ (Lam 1:13). “For all these things I weep; tears flow down my cheeks” (Lam 1:16). In this moment of defeat, Ezekiel could have chosen to stay in his room and shut out the world. He could have immediately run around trying to raise a building committee, or started brainstorming ways to build himself a new life somewhere else. Instead, he sat in the middle of the ruins and took an raw and honest inventory of the damage. He allowed himself to grieve until his insides hurt and cry until there were no tears left.

It is so easy to jump to problem solving mode when faced with pain and brokenness. Instantly offering advice and hope to a heartbroken friend. Immediately rebounding after a broken relationship. Frantically engaging in work and activity after a major loss. Not problem solving in these moments means exposing your heart to pain, opening up difficult questions, and sometime feeling out of control. We want to pry open the flowers of healing and restoration because frankly, the thought of waiting in a broken place is brutal.

C.S Lewis paints another vivid picture of lament in The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe. Lucy and Susan hide in the woods and watch in horror as the witch and her army kill Asian on the stone table. Lewis describes what follows:  “As soon as the wood was silent again Susan and Lucy crept out onto the open hill-top. The moon was getting low and thin clouds were passing across her, but still they could see the shape of the lion lying dead in his bonds. And they both knelt in the wet grass and kissed his cold face and stroked his beautiful fur- what was left of it- and cried till they could cry no more. And then they looked at each other and held each other’s hands for mere loneliness and cried again; and then again were silent.”

And YET, had they not stayed and lamented for the night, Susan’s and Lucy would not have witnessed what followed:  “The Stone Table was broken into two pieces by a great crack that ran down it from end to end… They looked round. There, shining in the sunrise, larger than they had seen him before, shaking his mane stood Aslan himself.”

Ezekiel’s laments also gradually unfold to reveal some of the most beautiful statements of hope and faith found in the Bible: “The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases, his mercies never come to an end. They are new every morning, great is your faithfulness” (Lam 3:22-23). “When I begged you to listen to my cry, you heard. You answered me and told me not to be afraid. You came to my rescue Lord and saved my life.” (Lam 3:56-58). Through many tears, complaints and honest questions, Ezekiel landed on eternal truths that could withstand any army, weapon, or siege.

We live in a world where chatGTP can instantly tell us every useless fact about a jellyfish, we can order a new dresser with the click of a button, and it is unacceptable to wait for longer than two minutes in the McDonalds drive through for a cheeseburger. It can be so easy to forget that the most beautiful things take time and require waiting. It is not my intention to minimize skills like problem solving and efficiency, but I wonder what it could look like to take regular moments to join Ana and wait, in both places of beauty and places of brokenness. After many of these kind of moments, Ezekiel landed on this insight: “The Lord is good to those who wait for him, to the soul who seeks him” (Lam 3:25).