Perhaps you can imagine yourself, when you were young, coming home from school. Tired and hungry, you were wondering what you could possibly find to eat in the fridge. Stepping into the kitchen, you find your mom (or grandma) taking a pan of freshly baked oatmeal chocolate chip cookies out of the oven.

Recently I found a handwritten note in our home mailbox. Personal mail is quite unusual these days so I excitedly brought it inside. The return address showed me that it was from a woman who attends our church. I tore it open to find that she wanted me to know that she had prayed for me that day.

I remember way back when I first learned to ride my bicycle. I had a few mishaps. I’ll share one.

It was difficult to get out of bed this morning. Two of our bedroom walls and ceilings are being renovated so we were sleeping in the guest room. We got to bed late. Oh, I’m not sure why. Could have been the ball game, or the book I was reading, or quite possibly because we were trying to find our pajamas in the drawers that had been moved from their usual spot and piled in the back room. But the alarm let me know it was time to get up.

You and I have been given unexpected circumstances this past year. Perhaps you lost a loved one, or you became a teacher! Or maybe you had property damage or you lost your job. It could be that you got sick or had an accident. I know that we all received the unexpected and the unwanted.

What are we to do?

I have a tendency to want to hide away, get out my Bible and journal, and proceed to scribble out whatever truths and reassurances I can find.

But today I found Wendell Barry. Here he writes about a way that he faces fears that gather around in times like these…

So why do I write about Agatha Christie?

Well, last week I realized I want to be like her.

No, I don’t want to be a prolific well-known author of many published books, although that would be nice.

I spent a lot of years with an unhealthy habit of self-criticism. Seeing a trait that I admired in another person, I would quietly wish it was mine. I would shame myself, of course, thinking I was lacking in value because of it. I found myself whispering things like: I want to be pretty like Eunice. I want to be outgoing and friendly like Beth. I want to have a lovely voice like Onalee. I want to be confident like my roommate Kaitlyn. I want to be deep and mature like Becky. I want to be smart like Lisa. These are not healthy thoughts and they drip thickly with not-enough-ness and comparison, a deadly combination for self-worth.

I met Sabina and now I want to be like Sabina.

This book opened a way for me to take a fresh look at my own faith, my own prayers, my own feelings of safety, and my own deeply felt compassion for the world.

If I was Sabina, how might I live out my faith?

I have a recipe.

You may have heard of it. You might already have it! You might have even used it. It’s been around for a while.

My Aunt Alice’s Oatmeal Roll recipe has a story that I’d love for you to know. It is more than just a recipe. There’s something deeper than words and measurements on a card. But we’ll get to that part in a bit.

The other day I found our son, Joel, singing to his littlest, two-year-old Elsie,

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,

you make me happy when skies are gray.

You’ll never know dear how much I love you,

please don’t take my sunshine away.”

I smiled as a foggy memory came to mind. I told Joel that I thought my dad sang that to me when I was Elsie’s age. I think he was milking our cow and singing away with his very blue eyes dancing, his smile wide and endearing. But I had to add, as much as I love that memory, I’m not sure if it was really a memory or if I just wanted it to be. But I hold it close to my heart, choosing to trust the memory of my little two-year-old self.

And this much I know. I cannot carry my own heart. It is too full, heavy, broken, and complex. I need Someone bigger than I am to take care of it…to take care of me.

A few weeks ago one of our adult kids had some questions that required me to open a long-closed and mostly forgotten journal. Pulling it off the top shelf of the tall antique bookcase, I didn’t fully understand the slight hesitation I felt for the project. Eager to please though, I gingerly opened the small blue cover and started scanning the pages for the sought-after information.

I wonder what I might find if I would only stop for a minute and be curious about my own reflection. What might I see? How would I feel about what I see? Would there be a nudge that something needs to change? What about God?

I know this all sounds mysterious, but isn’t that the way of grief? Doesn’t it sneak in quietly and just when you think it’s been dealt with, there it is with a powerful surge of remembrance and pain?

Chanting this nursery rhyme as a child, I never imagined that all these years later I would, in the middle of a cold dark morning, be blessed one more time by the God who hung that moon, keeps it on schedule, and (as a bonus) gives us unique ways to not take it for granted.

I can DRAW NEAR to him when I see that beautiful moon shining brightly in the dark blue early morning sky. I want to DRAW NEAR to him when I find myself worried about many things. When my feelings have been hurt or I have felt offended, I find him inviting me to run to him, to DRAW NEAR. I know he welcomes me when I feel angry or when anxieties threaten to overwhelm me.

How we think and how we talk to ourselves has everything to do with the house (the life) in which we reside. Our thoughts affect how we view ourselves and the world we live in, how we feel, interact and react. The "walls" of our interior life can be plastered with wallpaper made of thankfulness and joy, or, in contrast, posters of anger, fear, and bitterness.

I marvel at the power of a bowl of homemade soup, especially when the weather is cold. I try to keep my latest soup-creation in our refrigerator, always ready to be warmed up for lunch or a quick dinner. My mother made a delicious vegetable beef soup which was always ready for us when we walked in the door after our long drive to see her. Even when they were in their eighties, Brian’s parents used to stir up the same Lipton Noodle Soup almost every day for lunch. I guess we come by our love of soup naturally.

Three years old, I found myself awake in the middle of the night. Not in my own room, I wanted to leave. But after walking around and around the room, searching with my little arms outstretched, the door just couldn’t be found! So I cried out. Immediately the hallway light came on and as I hurried to the top of the stairs, I discovered my dad running up the stairs to rescue me from the darkness.

Some days the box contained large round golden melons, the kind that just melt in your mouth with a sweetness not found anywhere but straight from the garden. Being a summer joy, we’d eat them for breakfast everyday for weeks.