Episodi

  • Finding Your Voice

    Finding Your Voice

    · Dearest Daughters
    A New Song in the Wind“From whom the whole body, joined and knit together by what every joint supplies, according to the effective working by which every part does its share, causes growth of the body for the edifying of itself in love.” (Eph. 4:16)Dearest Daughters,

    Today I’m going to take a little different route with my letter.

    It’s nearly Christmas time, and during this season we remember all kinds of stories that have made it special for us, not just stories of this season, but the relationships that have made us who we are. Those relationships often come together again at Christmas, like a tapestry—threads returning, crossing over and under, making the fabric of our lives complete.

    Today I’m thinking of one that shaped me, and I want to share one with you.

    The fair was over, and a blasting cold front charged through Texas with the zeal and strength of a soldier. The last pecan leaves shook free from the limbs shading our yard, leaving us exposed to the low winter sun and the strong northern wind. You older children tumbled and played in the yard.

    This fair had been different than some of the previous ones. Some of you came down with the flu during the fair, and I rushed back and forth between music, my booth, and tending to you over at Grandma’s house next door to the fairgrounds, where you lay shivering and feverish.

    One of you cried, “Mommy, I can’t be here. I’ve got to be at the fair!”

    I cried with you. After months of waiting, of sanding wooden spoons and preparing, you were missing your favorite time of year—and worse, you weren’t getting to sing in the choir.

    Music was the highlight of our family life. Singing together, especially with Daddy, was a joy. Daddy and I first got to know each other through music, singing together on my parents’ front porch or gathered around his parents’ living room piano. Josiah, Uncle Philip, Daddy, and I began singing together when I was sixteen. We never knew where that journey would take us, but I loved to sing.

    I had never been more honored than the day Josiah asked me to join his little band. It had been him, Daddy, and Philip, and he wanted Philip to play the piano and me to be part of the vocal group. We sang in various places—first just for fun, then for relatives, friends, nursing homes, senior groups. It grew and grew.

    We all ended up getting married. More joined the group. Life moved on. I married your dad, and that common ground of music grew into a shared life of love, relationships, and children.

    As the years went by, Regina joined our music group. I knew right away that she was more gifted than I was. I marveled at her voice, but clung fiercely to my own place as well. She was an alto; I was a soprano. That should have worked. I didn’t need to be jealous.

    But voices aren’t that neatly divided. There was overlap.

    I loved Regina, so it was hard to feel anything but admiration for her. When she sang, it melted my heart. Still, over time, some of the songs I sang became songs Regina sang. No one could deny it—she did them better. And yet, in my heart, I always thought, With a little more practice, a little more time, I could have gotten it right. It wouldn’t have sounded like her, but it would have had its own touch.

    Those silent battles went on in my mind more often than I like to admit.

    You see, while I had a nice voice, I had a problem: I did not have natural rhythm. While Regina could throw herself into the feeling of a song, I was counting measures. Tapping my toe. Watching for cues. I did fine in orchestra and choir where there was direction, but solos often filled me with tension.

    So I worked harder. Practiced more. Labored over music, trying to overcome what didn’t come naturally, hoping there wouldn’t be a need for someone else to take my place.

    But the one place music was always...

  • Sing It into Their Bones

    Sing It into Their Bones

    · Dearest Daughters
    That they should set their hope in God, and not forget the works of God
 (Psalm 78:7)My Dearest Daughters,

    As we rolled out the tubs, trunks, and boxes of holiday decorations this year, my thoughts returned, as they usually do, to the days when all of my children were little. The day fell, as it always does, on the Monday after our Homestead Fair. We come home tired and happy, the children all a little disappointed that the fair is over, yet filled with great anticipation—because now it is time to set up Christmas.

    This year, a real cold front blew in on that very day, and suddenly it all felt wonderfully authentic. Four-year-old Ari warmed the softest places in my heart with his jubilation as we opened each box. Out came the nativity set, the manger, the wise men, a simple bell, a box full of pinecones—and with every piece he squealed with delight, leaped up and down, and recounted an entire story connected to that object from the year before, a story I had long forgotten.

    But I remembered, too—only my memories traveled much farther back than last year.

    I remembered you, Helen, setting up the tiny people in the Christmas village. I remembered Blair helping me untangle the cords of lights. With every decoration in my hands, I felt so close to each of you, held together by a day that has stayed nearly the same, year after year (except for one Christmas lost to the flu—but that was a memory, too). Each piece stitched us back together again.

    I have been thinking a great deal about memory these past months, and I feel as though the Lord has been speaking to me about it. I want to share these thoughts with you, because I believe they matter—not only for this holiday season, but for every season of life.

    Making memories with your children is not an insignificant thing. It is a shaping force—of their development, their identity, the trajectory of their lives, and the soul of your family as a whole. I have come to see this more clearly with every year I mother.

    Our friend and psychotherapist, Rita Jreijiri, once said that memory is not a camera—it is an editor. Memory is fed by emotion. If our emotions are bitter, we will carry bitter memories, edited and replayed through those same lenses. But if our emotions are loving, joyful, and steady, those memories will expand and multiply, like the loaves and fishes in Jesus’ hands.

    That realization is both humbling and weighty. Our children will carry what we build.

    A shared experience becomes a memory because it is bound to meaning and relationship, and what is bound that way tends to endure.

    I have not done this perfectly, but I have tried, intentionally, to anchor our lives in shared rhythms. Daily story time from the very beginning. Scripture memory. Prayer. Always family meals. And the longer I have mothered, the more intentional I have become. I even laugh sometimes and say reading aloud has become my near-religion—morning school reading, toddler reading, and nightly story reading. Again and again and again.

    Family dinner has always been paramount. We gather around the table for shared food and shared joy: fresh warm bread, a set table, napkins and silverware, sometimes a candle or a sprig from the garden. A meal served as a gift of love, prepared with intention, offered with a prayer that this, too, will become a memory that shapes my child’s future.

    As your father and I have grown older, our appetites have grown smaller, and for a season I let breakfast, for myself, fade. But after hearing Ruth Ann Zimmerman speak about the sacredness of family meals, I felt called to bring family breakfast back as a regular feature that included me. And so we did. The children now wake to warm smells, to a set table, to music in the kitchen, and I see again how deeply these simple things matter.

    Another memory-anchor you know well is family devotion time—gathered

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  • Owned by Love

    Owned by Love

    · Dearest Daughters
    You are not your own
 therefore glorify God. (1 Corinthians 6:19–20)My Dearest Daughters,

    There is a kind of weariness that comes not from work, but from striving. Striving is what a soul does when she’s not yet sure who she is or where she belongs. A woman who knows she’s loved and placed—rooted, named, and claimed—can work very hard without becoming overwhelmed. But the woman who has not yet accepted her God-given identity keeps grasping for it, trying to prove her worth through achievement, performance, or admiration. Striving is often the sign of a heart that doesn’t feel at rest in fully embracing the definitions and parameters of her place.

    Where do we belong? In our culture, people are proud to say,

    “I’m a doctor, and I belong to Ascension Medical Group,” or,

    “I’m an attorney, and I belong to this law firm.”

    And there is nothing wrong with that. God calls men and women into many vocations—to heal, to teach, to build. These callings can be holy when they are received as a service and stewardship of the kingdom of God.

    But to say with the same confidence,

    “I am a wife, and I belong to my family”—that often feels improper. Too simple. Too dependent. Too unaccomplished.

    Why?

    I believe it is because the human heart, broken by the Fall, has a tendency to seek identity in what it can achieve rather than who it belongs to and the gifts it has been given. We are much more comfortable belonging to institutions we choose than to relationships that choose us. We are tempted to anchor our worth in titles we earn instead of in covenants we keep.

    And that is where the deeper danger lies—not in vocation itself, but in locating our identity outside of relationships ordered according to God’s transcendent design.

    The ancient temptation is not merely to work—it is to self-define. The quest to define oneself apart from God-given belonging is, at its root, a quest for godhood. It is the same sin that caused Lucifer to fall. He was created with perfect beauty and wisdom—yet the place he was given was not large enough for him. Coveting the place of God, he fell, and became the driving force behind every human attempt to author identity apart from submission to God’s design.

    Without me realizing it, that same impulse once lived in me.

    The moment I came to see it, years ago, was perhaps the most liberating experience of my life, a moment that freed me from aimless striving and frustration. After the birth of my third child, I felt I had reached the breaking point. Three children three and under—and two hands. Before that, I prided myself in being put-together, punctual, scheduled, and organized. Suddenly there was chaos everywhere, and I was embarrassed. I tried to hide from your daddy that things were falling apart.

    One evening he left the house to take care of something. All three babies ended up screaming in my lap, and I was crying with them. And then Dad walked back in; he’d forgotten something. He took one look and asked, “What’s wrong?”

    I blurted out, “I’m failing in everything, and everybody is unhappy about it!”

    He was in a hurry. He grabbed what he came for and opened the door to leave. But then he paused, turned around, and said:

    “Honey, there’s a big difference between doing ‘the mothering thing’ and being a mother.”

    And he left.

    But God stayed, and in that moment, I felt Him speak to my heart:

    “There’s a big difference between doing ‘the Christian thing’ and being a Christian. You have to be owned by this—possessed by it. You cannot live in a capsule of self, full of your own ambitions, and serve from there with joy. This is where I test how much the kingdom matters to you: right here with these little ones who are yours but really Mine.”

    I looked at my children crying in my arms and suddenly felt that Helen,...

  • The First Image of God They Ever See

    The First Image of God They Ever See

    · Dearest Daughters
    He tends His flock like a shepherd. He gathers the lambs in His arms and carries them close to His heart; He gently leads those that have young. — Isaiah 40:11Dearest Daughters,

    Especially in the early years, we teach our children not just by what we say, but by who we are. Children are mirrors. But they do not simply imitate—they absorb. Their earliest sense of safety, identity, and worth comes from reflection—how we reflect love, how we carry ourselves, how we live. Your child will reflect your love, imitate your surrender, and mirror your nurture. He will be joyful if you are joyful. She will be secure if you are grounded. They will be strong if you are strong—or fearful if you are anxious.

    And they will not only mirror our strengths—they will mirror our weaknesses. A cynical tone toward your husband will become the tone they later use toward you. A sigh of overwhelm at the duties of life will teach them that life is “too much,” instead of a privilege to be embraced with gratitude. A distracted heart—always half-present, half-elsewhere—will teach them to disconnect from you, from their father, and from God.

    Children do not only copy what we hope they’ll remember; they absorb what we never intended to teach. But take heart—because the power of repentance, tenderness, and beginning again shapes them just as deeply as our failures do. Even our imperfections can become teachers when grace finishes the lesson.

    Just as we are made in the image of God, our children pour themselves into the mold of our example.

    If your child is to understand the church—the Bride of Christ—let them first see it in you. When you demonstrate what it means to be a bride to your husband, your children begin to understand what it means for the church to belong to Christ. The attentiveness with which you listen to your spouse becomes the attentiveness they’ll learn to offer others—and to God.

    The beauty with which you prepare a meal shows them how to prepare their hearts for the Lord.

    The surrender with which you lay down your own agenda to come under your husband’s mission teaches them what it means to yield to Christ.

    The transparency with which you speak in love shows them how we relate to God—with honesty, reverence, and trust.

    Your willingness to offer yourself as a living sacrifice—holding nothing back, without reluctance—makes Christ’s sacrifice real to them.

    I saw this growing up.

    At night, I would lie in bed and hear my father pray. He would walk the floor, whispering, rejoicing, at times groaning or weeping—words I couldn’t always understand, but a presence I could feel. The Spirit of God passed through the wall and into my room, and I knew—without anyone explaining—that God was real. He was near.

    And I learned how to listen by watching my mother, in the way she paused. The way she answered. The way she touched the hearts of those who reached out. She didn’t dismiss or rush. She leaned in. And because she listened, I learned how to reach out.

    Then came a time in my own mothering when I had to learn all this again.

    Your brother, still small, had already been diagnosed with autism. For many years, it felt nearly impossible to find even a square inch of common ground—to understand how he thought, what frightened him, or how he made sense of the world. His responses baffled me. His silence sometimes broke me. But through that long, humbling journey, I began to learn a deeper dimension of love.

    In our efforts to connect with him, I began looking for even the smallest thread that could bind us together. I had once read that mirroring your child—literally copying their actions—might draw their attention. So when he sorted blocks, I sorted blocks. When he crawled on the floor, I crawled too, hoping for even a glance.

    One of the few things that brought him comfort was crawling inside a pillow sham—pillow and all—and...

  • When Love Becomes a Life

    When Love Becomes a Life

    · Dearest Daughters
    He tends His flock like a shepherd. He gathers the lambs in His arms and carries them close to His heart; He gently leads those that have young. — Isaiah 40:11Dearest Daughters,

    If we are called to be our children’s first windows to God, reflections of His love, then how do we mother in a way that shows them His face?

    If God is love, and we are made in His image, then we, too, must become love. Not a vague feeling, but a living, breathing presence in our children’s daily lives. They must not only be loved by us; they must see that love radiating through us in how we speak, how we serve, how we forgive, and how we endure.

    If they are to understand the comfort of God, they must first feel it rocking in our arms.

    In Isaiah 66, the Lord says, “As a mother comforts her child, so will I comfort you.” God Himself compares His tenderness to the way a mother carries her baby on her hip and bounces him on her knees (Isa. 66:12-13).

    If our children are to experience God’s attentiveness, they must see it in how we listen. The Psalms say the Lord bends low to hear our cries (Ps. 116:2). Do they see us do the same?

    We must be His hands—clothing, feeding, holding, comforting.

    If God is holy, then holiness must be more than rules or rituals. It must shape how we live: how we carry ourselves in unnoticed places, how we speak when no one is listening, how we repent when God deals with us, how we show reverence in the hidden parts of the day.

    If God is powerful, let our children see His strength most clearly in our weakness. In how we keep showing up. In how we rise with joy even when we’re tired. In how we lift our heads after He reproves us. A mother who leans on God allows His strength to become visible. Anointing takes the place of exhaustion. Faith steadies fear. Grace rises again after failure.

    If God is mighty to save, then we reflect that might when we stand firm, when we go to war against every thought, every attitude, every distraction that seeks to harm our children’s hearts. This is how they begin to know that God is a rescuer.

    Even science confirms what Scripture has always said: a mother’s presence in the early years is not sentimental, it is essential. God created the brain as surely as He created the soul, and everything in its design echoes what we know in our spirit—that children need closeness, stability, and responsiveness in order to thrive.

    During the first three years of life, the brain forms more than a million neural connections per second. Those early interactions shape not just emotion, but learning, language, resilience, even identity. A mother’s presence is not a luxury. It is how God made the human soul to grow.

    This calling is sacred. It is not only spiritual, but physiological. And it begins with you.

    I want to tell you a story I can’t forget.

    Years ago, your dad and I were driving home late one night down Halbert Lane. Just ahead of us, the car in front hit a raccoon cub, one of three trailing behind their mother. It didn’t yet die, but it was wounded and immobilized, crying on the pavement.

    We slammed the brakes, trying not to hit the others, and watched as the scene unfolded in our headlights.

    The mother had already crossed the road with her two surviving babies. But when she saw our headlights, she paused.

    Then she did something that moved me to tears.

    She ran back into the oncoming traffic.

    She darted into the road, grabbed the injured cub, still crying, still writhing, and dragged it to the side of the road where she huddled with all three little ones.

    I lay awake that night thinking about her. Not because I’m sentimental about raccoons (they’ve raided our eggs enough times, as you well know), but because I couldn’t stop thinking about that mothering instinct, that single-minded, God-given drive to preserve life no matter the...

  • Through the Window of a Mother’s Love

    Through the Window of a Mother’s Love

    · Dearest Daughters
    “Can a woman forget her nursing child, that she should have no compassion on the son of her womb? Even these may forget, yet I will not forget you.” — Isaiah 49:15Dearest Daughters,

    For most people, their first experience of God comes through their mother. If He is love, then a child’s first taste of that love comes through her arms.

    God arranged the world with windows into eternity—prototypes and shadows scattered like signposts, drawing our eyes and hearts toward Him. We glimpse His majesty in creation, in mountains and oceans, stars and storms, but we encounter His nature in relationship.

    Every bond on earth was designed to show us something of His shape, His form, His essence. And the very first of those bonds—the very first place a person comes to know His warmth, His nourishment, His comfort—is through a mother. Though not the only stage in a child’s journey, it is the first. And if they are ever to come to know the strength of fatherhood, and the love of the Father above, it begins with the embrace of a mother.

    Helen, when I think of that truth, my heart returns to the day you were born. I wrote about that moment years later in my book, A Time to Be Born, because it marked the beginning of my understanding of what motherhood truly meant.

    Excerpts from A Time to Be Born:

    Before I’d become a mother, my dreams for myself had been lofty. I’d envisioned bustling foreign cities, the music of other languages, the spicy scents of exotic markets as I served in mission work. These “important” things dominated my thoughts. Motherhood? That was simply life’s background music, peripheral to the “important” things—that is, until Helen. But now, holding my first baby in my arms, her milky scent sweet and her chubby warm body’s weight pressed against mine made me feel as if I’d been let in on a profound secret.My first birth proportioned my world differently than ever before, shifting the weight of my thoughts and dreams from inside to outside of myself. My memories drifted to that life-changing day of March 30, 1998 . . .When, at last, our little wet baby Helen slipped from my body and passed from my mother’s hands into my own trembling ones, I clutched her to myself in gratitude and disbelief. She opened one eye, gazing at me as if seeing me from another world. Her tiny red fingers clutched mine, and in that moment, a light seemed to ignite in my life that cast the whole of my world in a new glow.The reduction and triumph of birth had conveyed something to me I’d never seen before. Every time I looked into her deep, black eyes or touched her velvet skin, I thought, What could be more wonderful than holding in my hands the precious, moldable clay of a human soul? What could be more important than nurturing the seeds of eternal love in a human life? What if God gave me this child to raise to become a Sarah or an Esther?I knew my dream had come true all in that one night; I had become a missionary, and my mission field began right there in my own bedroom. In that moment I had also become a teacher, a nurse: a mother. Something unfurled like the wet wings of a butterfly inside of me, the beginning of a transformation that would affect my view of the world, of those I loved and would come to love. In this birth, I had been reborn—as a mother.

    That night was the first time I realized that a mother is not merely raising children—she is shaping souls. She is building God’s kingdom.

    Scripture tells us in 1 John 4:8, “God is love.” And if our children are to learn who God is, then they must experience that love—not only in word, but in form. In our hands. In our voices. In our presence. In our being present.

    Until you have taken on the full identity of what

  • Covetousness—The Thief of Contentment

    Covetousness—The Thief of Contentment

    · Dearest Daughters
    “I have learned in whatever situation I am to be content. . . . In any and every circumstance, I have learned the secret of facing plenty and hunger, abundance and need.” —Philippians 4:11–12Dearest Daughters,

    There is a lurking danger that sometimes tiptoes into a woman’s heart, so subtle we may not notice it at first. Suspicion and coveting were the first sins to enter the world. After conversing with the serpent, Eve allowed suspicion toward God to take root, and then she began to covet what did not belong to her. Suspicion always brings us into conversation with the accuser, and covetousness leads us away from trust in God and into idolatry, for “covetousness . . . is idolatry” (Eph. 5:5).

    The tenth commandment tells us we must not covet anything belonging to our neighbor. Wherever coveting begins, Christ’s lordship in the heart begins to fade, and something else takes His place. Many don’t seem to recognize that for a woman to covet the place God has given to a man (or vice versa) is sin. But this coveting of another’s place puts us in the same posture as Eve—choosing for ourselves rather than trusting God, and therefore stepping away from His covering and His peace.

    This same coveting can seep into other relationships as well, particularly between women. The thoughts sound harmless at first:

    She only gets to sing a solo because she knows the right people.

    She gets to function in that capacity because of family connections.

    They were invited because of their wealth.

    Everyone thinks she’s so intelligent—but if they knew . . .

    These whisperings of the accuser tear down love, strain relationships, and weaken the witness of Christ’s body. But Scripture reminds us, “in Christ we, though many, form one body, and each member belongs to all the others” (Rom. 12:5, NIV). We belong to each other, and we honor Christ by honoring His design and His placement.

    In an orchestra, it would be foolish for the first-chair violinist to covet the drummer’s place, saying, “I could keep the rhythm better!” Or for the drummer to demand the delicate melodies of the violin. We would say, “Your part is beautiful. It was given to you for a reason.” Each instrument has its own role, and the harmony depends on differences working together, not competing.

    And yet in family life, in church life, and in friendship, we sometimes lose sight of the larger “orchestra.” A narrow, individualistic view focuses on what we lack, while overlooking the privilege of being called into something larger than ourselves. To take our place is not confinement—it is belonging. It is stewardship. And it is peace.

    Paul said, “I have learned in whatever situation I am to be content” (Phil. 4:11). Contentment is not passive—it is a practiced trust. It sees that God, in His wisdom, has assigned each of us a part to play, and that His purposes for us are good.

    Let us always guard our hearts from suspicion, refuse the quiet invitations to compare, and take joy in the place God has given each of His children. Rejoice also in the gifts and callings of others, knowing we are members of one body, each needed, each cherished, each placed by God’s own hand.

    With all my love,

    Mom

  • Exposing Excuses

    Exposing Excuses

    · Dearest Daughters
    “It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery.” â€” Galatians 5:1 (NIV)Dearest Daughters,

    Making excuses padlocks the gate to true repentance and overcoming.

    In the Bible, Aaron created a golden calf for the Israelites when they became impatient while waiting for Moses to come down from the mountain where he was speaking with God. But when Aaron saw how indignant Moses became upon seeing the idolatry, fear crept into his heart. Instead of owning his part in the sin that had just desecrated Israel’s covenant with God, he grasped for the nearest defense: “You know the people—that they are set on evil.” And then, almost absurdly, he claimed the golden calf had simply “come out” of the fire.

    It’s uncomfortable to look at Aaron in this light, but it’s also familiar. That same instinct to defend ourselves, to shift blame, to soften guilt with an excuse, still whispers to each of us when the light of truth begins to pierce the shadows.

    Blame shifting and excuse making are two of the most common ways that our sinful nature tries to preserve itself when God’s light begins to shine. Whenever His light reaches into the corners of our hearts, we face a question that determines everything:

    Will I take full responsibility for my choices, for my sin, for the outcomes of my actions, in order to be free?

    There are always reasons and rationalizations waiting at hand. We all have them. But even the faintest trace of an excuse blocks the door to repentance. And when repentance stops short, so does transformation. We remain trapped in the same habits, circling the same mountains, wondering why we can’t move forward.

    Our modern world even encourages this bondage. “Don’t be too hard on yourself,” it says. “You’re only human.” “It’s not your fault—you were wounded.” “You’re just reacting.” Of course, compassion has its place. But self-pity disguised as compassion can become the soft cushion that keeps us from the bedrock of truth—the only place where real freedom begins.

    And because we live in an age that prizes comfort over correction, excuse-making often slips in unnoticed, wearing a sympathetic face. It doesn’t usually shout—it whispers. You’ve done enough. You deserve a break.

    So what does this excuse-making look like? Where does it pop up? Its subtle influence and temptation are hiding around every corner and slinking behind each curtain.

    Perhaps we haven’t spent adequate time tending to the needs—whether character or physical—in our children, and we excuse ourselves first in our own minds: Well, I’ve been so busy, and my husband has a demanding job, which also makes requirements of me, so I haven’t gotten to that.

    Our schooling is falling behind, and we excuse it because of the garden. Our garden is weedy, and we excuse it because of the schooling. Our spouse comes home and questions us about the lateness of dinner, and we blame it on the children’s needs in school. A grandmother offers insight about a demanding toddler, and we excuse the toddler by saying they’ve been sick or missed a nap.

    All these excuses keep us forever chained to our own habitual problems. We go round and round the same mountain, wondering why we can’t seem to move forward, when the truth is that every excuse we make becomes a link in the chain that binds us.

    When we decide to face the whole truth about ourselves, without dilution, without justification, the power of God meets us there. His grace isn’t found in the self-protective shadows; it waits in the light, where we stand bare before Him.

    Israel had lived as slaves for generations. Slaves do not take responsibility for the course of their actions; they simply obey commands. God wanted His people not just freed from Egypt, but freed from the slave mindset—the bondage of...

  • A Place to Belong

    A Place to Belong

    · Dearest Daughters
    “For just as each of us has one body with many members, and these members do not all have the same function, so in Christ we, though many, form one body, and each member belongs to all the others.” —Romans 12:4–5Dearest Daughters,

    When one ceases to belong, she drifts like a planet with no orbit, like a note without a song.

    A single note blown through a clarinet or played on the piano is absolutely meaningless. You cannot tell if it’s in tune or out of tune, if it’s in rhythm or out of sync—because it has no context. It takes the presence of other notes to form a song. Any note will do as long as there is no song being played. But when the song begins, suddenly intonation and rhythm matter. The placement of that one note within the song becomes the difference between harmony and chaos.

    So it is with belonging.

    In this generation of loneliness and depression, radical individualism has robbed people of the context of relationship that gives life its meaning and purpose. They drift. They feel lost. They seek to define themselves by their careers or accomplishments, yet these are fragile identities that crumble without love and belonging.

    I’ve often met people who imagine that life was peaceful and untroubled until they entered a marriage, a family, or the fellowship of Christ’s body. They think that only after these relationships began did life suddenly become difficult—as though they were now being “picked on” or singled out for hardship. But this is not so at all. Before belonging, they were simply that wandering note, alone and ignorant that they were untuned. It is only in relationship that God begins to bring their note into the harmony of His song. When the melody begins, tuning becomes necessary; rhythm must be learned.

    So do not fall into self-pity when God corrects or refines you. Recognize that He is fitting you into His song—and that you were only “right” before inasmuch as you stood all alone.

    “So then you are no longer strangers and foreigners, but fellow citizens with the saints and members of the household of God
 in whom the whole structure, being joined together, grows into a holy temple in the Lord.” —Ephesians 2:19–22

    Belonging to God has always marked a distinction between His people and the world around them. From the beginning, those who bear His name have lived by a different rhythm, a different song, than the culture surrounding them.

    When God heard the groaning of His people in bondage in Egypt, He purposed to set them free. Pharaoh, the ruler of the greatest empire on earth, feared their fruitfulness. So he struck at the heart of the family, commanding the death of every baby boy. But the midwives feared God more than Pharaoh. When questioned, they replied, “Hebrew women are not like Egyptian women. They are vigorous and give birth before the midwives arrive” (Exod. 1:19).

    Hebrew women—women of God’s kingdom—have never been like the women of Egypt. Our vitality, our strength, our very DNA are meant to be different. We are quick to perceive the purpose of God and to bring it forth with vigor.

    Yet the identity of the Hebrew woman still comes under attack. The world calls the life of a wife and mother small. It says our world is narrow, our calling restrictive. It teaches that to serve, to nurture, to cultivate life is to be in bondage. And tragically, even the church has sometimes echoed the world’s voice, forgetting the dignity and power in the unapplauded places of faithfulness.

    But God does not see it this way.

    He made the woman not a lesser being, but a vital facilitator of His purpose. He entrusted the deliverer of Israel into the arms of Jochebed, knowing she would guard and guide the seed of His promise. And when He sent His own Son into the world, He entrusted Him to a young woman named Mary—one who did not despise the seeming smallness of her task, but rejoiced...

  • The Yielded Heart

    The Yielded Heart

    · Dearest Daughters
    “Let this mind be in you which was also in Christ Jesus: who, being in the form of God, thought it not robbery to be equal with God, but made Himself of no reputation, and took upon Him the form of a servant.” — Philippians 2:5–7Dearest Daughters,

    Jesus showed us what true submission looks like. He laid aside His godhood, stepped into our weakness, and served us from within our human frailty. He didn’t remain above our suffering—He entered it. He took on our limitations, felt our temptations, and loved us from that place of shared humanity. In the end, He submitted to the greatest reduction of all: death itself. And yet, in that surrender, He revealed the deepest power of love.

    There is, however, yet another counterfeit version of this kind of true submission. It’s not rebellion in the obvious sense; it’s subtler and more deceptive. It is the flurry of “good works” we choose for ourselves. We fill our days with “this for the Lord” and “that thing for the Lord,” but underneath, we are driven by our own will rather than obedience. These are works of the flesh rather than the fruit of the Spirit. On the surface, they may look admirable—busy hands, charitable deeds, impressive devotion—but God is not looking for the appearance of labor. He’s looking for the surrender of love.

    Every person is given a place to experience His lordship, a setting in which to lay down her own works and receive His. That place is always love. It’s not about doing everything; it’s about yielding everything—our time, our work, our thoughts, our dreams, our homes, even our identity—back to Him so that He might reign again over what is already His. That is the beauty of the Body: each one of us, a member under the same Head, offering up our small part of creation to be made holy through obedience.

    Jesus Himself modeled this perfectly. He laid down all His rights as God, clothed Himself in our weakness, and served us from the inside of our limitations. That is the path He set before us. Those are the steps we are asked to walk in, the cross we are called to carry. True submission begins when we can say, “I will get inside this situation and love the way God would love. I will do here what the Lord Himself would do.” When we live that way, submission becomes a mission.

    Yet when we resist that design—when we decide that what God has given us to do is too small, too hidden, or too demanding—we often begin to see Him as harsh, distant, or unreasonable. We may not say it outright, but we begin to feel as though God is an austere master, reaping where He has not sown and asking more than we can give. This feeling usually comes when we have not invested where He asked us to invest.

    Jesus told a story about a master who entrusted his servants with talents—sums of money to care for in his absence. Two of them invested and multiplied what they were given. But one servant refused. To him, the task seemed too small and unworthy of his energy. He buried it, waiting to hand it back, and when the master returned, he said, “I knew you were an austere man.” But the truth was, his view of the master had become twisted because he hadn’t entered into the joy of the work.

    This happens to us, too. When our work, in our small-mindedness, feels invisible—raising children, tending a home, serving a husband, encouraging a weary friend—it seems insignificant in the world’s eyes. But when we neglect those sacred callings, they become heavy burdens rather than holy gifts. When we fully invest our love, however, those same tasks become joy. What once felt like bondage becomes abundance. The small things we thought didn’t matter become treasures when done in obedience and faith.

    If you want to know what really matters, think of someone who’s just learned she has a short time to live. If she’s a dental hygienist, she doesn’t suddenly wish she’d cleaned more teeth. The accountant doesn’t regret not...

  • At the Gate of Trust

    At the Gate of Trust

    · Dearest Daughters
    “Blessed is the man who trusts in the Lord, whose confidence is in Him. He will be like a tree planted by the water
 It does not fear when heat comes; its leaves are always green.” (Jeremiah 17:7–8)Dearest Daughters,

    The cynic never tastes the fruit of God’s goodness, but withers in a desert of unbelief.

    When Israel was starving during a great famine, and the king went to kill Elisha for not intervening, the prophet gave him a startling prophecy: “By this time tomorrow,” he said, “food will be flowing freely through the gates of the city.” But the officer on whom the king leaned scoffed: “Even if the windows of heaven were opened, could this thing really be?”

    Elisha replied, “You will see it with your eyes, but you will not eat of it.”

    And that’s exactly what happened. The next day, the miracle came. The siege was broken. The famine ended. Food poured into the city in abundance. But that man—the one who had scoffed—was trampled in the gate by the crowd and died. He saw what God could do . . . but he did not partake of the blessing.

    His cynicism cost him everything.

    The Scripture says, “Cursed is the one who trusts in man, who draws strength from mere flesh and whose heart turns away from the LORD. That person will be like a bush in the wastelands; they will not see prosperity when it comes. They will dwell in the parched places of the desert, in a salt land where no one lives. But blessed is the man who trusts in the Lord, whose confidence is in Him. He will be like a tree planted by the water. . . . It does not fear when heat comes; its leaves are always green” (Jer. 17:5–8).

    Trust, not suspicion, is the soil in which life and love grow.

    When we draw strength only from our own flesh, we begin to wither inside. Suspicion drains the life from our relationships; self-reliance hardens the heart until it can no longer feel the gentle rain of grace. But the one who lifts their eyes in hope, who leans on the Lord and believes that He will bring goodness in His time, becomes like that tree by the water: steadfast, fruitful, and unafraid when the heat of testing comes. Their roots sink deep into the soil of God’s goodness.

    Trust is a core element in a godly marriage. And yes—it takes risk to trust. We risk ourselves again and again if we are truly going to live. It was a risk to fall in love. A risk to marry. It’s a risk to have a child. To start a new job. To open our hearts. Something could always go wrong. But life without risk is no life at all.

    What matters is not avoiding risk, but choosing the right people to risk with. Because when one falls, the other can lift him up. So you must have trust. And I don’t mean trust in the fallibility of human flesh—I mean trust in the design—the design God created for relationships. For marriage. For family. For church. For community.

    It is not the perfection of people that gives us confidence, but the perfect wisdom of God’s structure. We trust that He designed a net to catch us when we fall, if we will stay in it. And as much as the individuals within that design cling to it, and to Christ, we can trust them, too, fallible as they are. We can trust that they are being changed from day to day, from faith to faith, from glory to glory, just as we are.

    The world does everything it can to destroy this trust. It feeds us cynicism. Suspicion. Irony. As an adult encountering so much of the world’s literature, entertainment, and media, I’ve often marveled at how steeped it all is in mistrust. It constantly follows the same storyline: the protective father is revealed as the abuser. The noble pastor turns out to be a hypocrite. The sanctuary of church ends up as a cover for crime. The nurturing mother is really just a cold machine. Becoming a traditional wife is a gateway to dangerous alt right cults. And on and on.

    Why? Because Satan is the accuser of the...

  • Capitulation—The Counterfeit of True Submission

    Capitulation—The Counterfeit of True Submission

    · Dearest Daughters
    “Do you not know that if you present yourselves to anyone as obedient slaves, you are slaves of the one whom you obey—either of sin, which leads to death, or of obedience, which leads to righteousness?” — Romans 6:16Dearest Daughters,

    There is a counterfeit of submission that’s important to see clearly, because it often disguises itself as obedience. It’s called capitulation.

    In the military, capitulation refers to what happens in a battle when the weaker side admits that a particular skirmish has been lost. The enemy was stronger or smarter in that moment, and so the fight is conceded. But the war itself is not over. Capitulation is not surrender of the heart—it is only a reluctant nod to the immediate outcome, while still holding on to one’s own lordship. This will ultimately lead to guerrilla warfare.

    True surrender is different. In surrender, a nation lays down its arms and confesses that it has been conquered. No longer fighting under its own banner, it comes under the government and authority of a new king. That’s what real submission looks like—not just losing arguments or conceding battles, but acknowledging that Jesus Christ is Lord over your whole life, and that His kingdom is now your country.

    Capitulation in the relationships of God’s design, however, is an insidious form of rebellion. It looks harmless, but it hides self-rule. Think of a nation that signs a peace treaty but secretly hides weapons in barns and cellars, ready to rise up again when the moment is right. On the outside, they look like they’ve submitted. In reality, they are only waiting for their chance to resist again.

    Or imagine a child or wife who avoids doing the one thing their parent or husband asks by filling the day with ten other “good” tasks. Outwardly she looks busy and devoted, but in truth she has resisted the one obedience that mattered in that moment. That is capitulation disguised as diligence or sacrifice. And the nature of this type of “guerrilla warfare” is that it nibbles away at God’s purpose and every relationship He would build.

    The Lord has already spoken about this kind of heart: “Hypocrites! Well did Isaiah prophesy about you, saying: ‘These people draw near to Me with their mouth, and honor Me with their lips, but their heart is far from Me’” (Matt. 15:7-8). He does not want mere outward compliance, but a heart bowed to Him in sincere love.

    Jesus showed us the opposite. He did not merely concede a skirmish. He laid aside His glory, stepped into our weakness and mortality, and surrendered Himself fully to the Father’s will—even to the point of the cross. His submission was not begrudging; it was the ultimate expression of love.

    You will have opportunities every day to decide whether you are merely conceding a moment or truly surrendering to the King. Capitulation clings to self and wears the mask of obedience. True submission bows the heart, lays down every hidden weapon, and says, “Not my will, but Yours be done.”

    With all my love,

    Mom

  • Submission: The Channel to Divine Power

    Submission: The Channel to Divine Power

    · Dearest Daughters
    “In your relationships with one another, have the same mindset as Christ Jesus: who, being in very nature God
 made Himself nothing by taking the very nature of a servant.” (Phil. 2:5–7 )Dearest Daughters,

    When it comes to women’s roles, especially in marriage, few words carry more discomfort in today’s world than the word, submission (Eph. 5:22; Col. 3:18; 1 Pet. 3:1). I understand why. The fear is that submission means giving up your dignity, your voice, or perhaps even your safety. But in the kingdom of God, submission is none of the above. It’s not oppression—it is liberation. It is not weakness; it is strength channeled into God’s purposes.

    Submission, as God designed it, is death only to the flesh, but it is life to the Spirit. Imagine the flow of water through a hose: narrowing the aperture doesn’t diminish the power—it concentrates it. In the same way, submission doesn’t silence who we are in God; it focuses the flow of His Spirit through us. It places us under the mission of Christ.

    Throughout history, and especially in the modern era, this word has been twisted into something sinister. The world has crafted counterfeits, versions of submission rooted in fear, domination, or force. But that is not the way of Jesus. His authority flows only through love, never coercion. Jesus said, “If you love Me, you will keep My commandments” (John 14:15). Even in His greatest act of submission—laying down His life—He did so not because He was forced, but because He loved.

    True submission is always born out of love. It is choosing to come under the same mission as another: first Christ, and then those we walk beside in family and community. In the kingdom, every person has a place of submission. God wasn’t singling out women; He was building a body where no flesh could glory, where egos and agendas dissolve into the love of Christ.

    I know the question that lingers in many hearts: “But what if I submit, and the one I submit to misuses their authority?” This is why God created a design in which all are accountable in submission. Individuals are placed in families, families in the church of which Christ is the head. Each relationship of submission is orchestrated to connect all to that head—that lordship of Jesus. So as long as we stay connected to the whole, God can reach us and those we are submitted to with His love and guidance.

    I’m often asked, “If Scripture tells me to obey and submit to my husband, does that mean I must trust that everything he says is God’s perfect will—even when I don’t feel it is?”

    No. Your husband is human, just as you are, and not every word he speaks will always perfectly reflect God’s will. Submission is not about assuming who is most accurate; it is about whether both of you are seeking to fit into God’s design.

    There will be times when mistakes are made. Yet as long as you’re not being asked to sin against the Lord or another person, you can submit in faith, trusting that in the larger picture God sees and guides all things.

    What we ultimately trust is not a man, but God and God’s design. We trust our husbands insofar as they too are submitted to that design, but we submit to them because it aligns us in obedience to God. Ultimately our full surrender and obedience belong to God, who knows all things. And trust between husband and wife deepens as both grow in their own submission to Him and to those He sends to each.

    Jesus said, “The greatest among you must be the servant of all.” (Mark 10:43–45) In God’s order, the one entrusted with authority also bears the greatest responsibility to serve, to lay down their life in love. And each, in His design, must have a place to submit, to be guided.

    So when we ask, “Are men and women equal?”—we must be...

  • Transformed by the Renewing of the Mind

    Transformed by the Renewing of the Mind

    · Dearest Daughters
    “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God” (Matt. 5:9)“Dear children, let us not love with words or speech but with actions and in truth. This is how we know that we belong to the truth and how we set our hearts at rest in his presence: If our hearts condemn us, we know that God is greater than our hearts, and he knows everything.” (1 John 3:18–20)Dearest Daughters,

    How do we calm our anxious, restless hearts and enter into the peace that makes us children of God? How does one climb out of the downward spiral of worthlessness, depression, anxiety, and loneliness that so many fall into during seasons of life? Scripture points the way:

    “And do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind, that you may prove what is that good and acceptable and perfect will of God.” (Romans 12:2)

    So learning how to renew our minds is a key.

    Our society is experiencing an unprecedented rise in depression, anxiety, loneliness, and fear. And sadly, the church has not been spared. These battles seem to press particularly hard on women. If the renewal of our how minds is the answer, how do we truly do that?

    Did you know that our minds are connected to every cell in our bodies? Because of the brain’s incredible plasticity, we actually have the capacity to redirect our physical, emotional, and spiritual wellbeing through our thoughts and attitudes. The mindset with which we meet any circumstance sends signals that tell our very cells how to respond—what hormones to release, what proteins to create. In short, our thoughts and perspectives literally become a physical part of who we are!

    Dr. Caroline Leaf, a neuroscientist, has studied this extensively, and I have enjoyed reading some of her work. She explains that as much as 85% of disease is stress-related, and that negative emotions can actually twist and constrict DNA, shutting down healthy cell function. But she also found that joy, gratitude, love, and appreciation reverse the effect, restoring health—even increasing resistance to disease by hundreds of thousands of times! Science has simply proven what Scripture has declared all along: “Perfect love casts out fear.” (1 John 4:18)

    Some of you remember when your autistic brother Christopher was small and so easily overwhelmed. The smallest thing could send him into a storm of tears and fear. There were days when nothing seemed to reach him. But slowly we learned to notice early on the little signs that told us when a storm was coming. And when we saw them, we’d gently gather him up and carry him into a new space. Because he loved water, we gave him little missions: filling glasses at the table, watering the plants, splashing the ducks, filling the dog bowls, turning on the garden sprinkler. Something about those small acts calmed him. What began as panic slowly turned into peace, even delight.

    In time, he began to do it himself. When fear rose, he would pour water for the family or go outside to the animals. The meltdowns faded, and the good habit remained. That is the essence of taking thoughts captive—not arguing endlessly with fear, but redirecting it into gratitude, into prayer, into love, into service.

    None of us can do this alone. God has placed us in relationship so that our weaknesses can be filled by the strengths of others. If we were able to perfect ourselves alone, would we not be gods?

    Your Uncle Asi once gave this picture: when a diabetic suffers an insulin crash, their perception of the world is distorted; they feel panic and despair. But the solution is not to debate those feelings. It is to give insulin. In the same way, when depression or fear clouds our mind, we must not endlessly argue with the dark narrative it presents. Instead, we must receive the equivalent of an “insulin shot”—a word of truth, a...

  • Blessed Are The Peacemakers

    Blessed Are The Peacemakers

    · Dearest Daughters
    “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God” (Matt. 5:9)Dearest Daughters

    Peace is not merely the absence of noise or conflict. It is the deep tranquility that comes when design is at work—as it is in art or music. Think of a choir where every voice blends, or a symphony where each instrument plays the same piece in tune. In this kind of design, no one is in one corner plunking out “Yankee Doodle” while someone else is singing a heartfelt “How Great Thou Art.” The notes, the rhythm, the harmonies—they come together as one. Design is peace.

    Jesus said, “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God” (Matt. 5:9). This is not a small thing. To be called His children, to truly belong in His house forever, we must learn to make peace. We must walk into every circumstance asking ourselves, how can I bring peace?

    I remember a time not long after I married your dad. He was working long hours and pouring himself into a music project for the community fair. I was home with two little ones, feeling weary, and sometimes anxious about how much he was gone. My frustration came out in little questions:

    “What’s going on, honey?”

    “Did you realize dinner’s getting cold?”

    “Did it really take that long?”

    Finally, I burst out, “This schedule isn’t sustainable. What’s going to happen when our kids are teenagers?”

    Your dad just smiled at our toddlers and said, “Thankfully, that’s a long way off.” I didn’t yet understand times and seasons.

    Later, I confided in my friend Angie. I expected commiseration, but she gave me wisdom instead. She said she used to feel the same way when her husband came home tired and distracted. She would pepper him with questions, hoping to draw him out, but it only pushed him further away. Then she said God showed her: “Make an environment of peace when he comes home. Don’t add to the anxiety.”

    So she started with small things—quieting the house, preparing a favorite snack, settling the children so they could have story time with Daddy, offering a shoulder rub. She said, “When peace came in, everything I longed for in the relationship began to grow. My own anxiety had been excluding me. Peace drew me in.”

    That conversation changed me. I began to make every effort to create a home where peace could rest—not because I wanted to pretend everything was always fine, but because I wanted to be a blessed peacemaker, a true daughter of God. I wanted Daddy to long to come home, because it was home. A haven. A sanctuary.

    That made all the difference. And guess what? In the seasons that followed, including your teenage years, there has always been time and grace for the right balance of relationships and tasks in our home. And through it all, I also learned something else: wherever there is strife and anxiety, God does not speak. His voice is heard in the stillness of peace.

    The apostle Paul writes, “The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control . . . . If we live in the Spirit, let us also walk in the Spirit. Let us not become conceited, provoking one another, envying one another” (Gal. 5:22–26).

    Recognizing the times and seasons, honoring the order of relationships—this brings peace. And peace brings the Father into the home.

    So I ask you: let His peace first settle deep within your own hearts, and then let it spill outward into your homes and relationships. Remember, the Father’s song is always being played; our part is to find the rhythm, to fit into the notes, and to live in tune with Him. In this harmony, you will be true peacemakers, and you will know the blessing of being called His beloved children.

    With all my love,

    Mom

  • The Complainer Will Be A Wanderer

    The Complainer Will Be A Wanderer

    · Dearest Daughters
    “Enter His gates with thanksgiving and His courts with praise; give thanks to Him and bless His name” (Psalm 100:4).Dearest Daughters,

    Don’t ever let your spirit degenerate into grumbling and complaining. Grumblers are destined to wander, going in circles, repeating the same failures again and again. They may try again, appear to succeed for a while, but soon enough find themselves back where they started. This was the story of the children of Israel.

    God had delivered them with mighty works: the Red Sea parted before them, their enemies drowned behind them. He fed them manna from heaven, water from a rock, quail when they hungered for meat. He sheltered them by a cloud in the day and lit their way with fire by night. Yet they chose to murmur. The manna was boring. The water was bitter. The journey was too long. Their leader took too much time.

    These are not unfamiliar complaints. Have you heard them in your own heart? My husband can’t make up his mind. Our finances are low. The house renovation drags on year after year. These things are common. But one truth remains: grumbling cannot coexist with gratitude.

    The psalmist reminds us: “Enter His gates with thanksgiving and His courts with praise; give thanks to Him and bless Him name” (Psalm 100:4). Every time we yield to a complaining spirit, we step outside His presence and away from His blessings.

    Complaining also blinds us. Our eyes fix on what we dislike, what has gone wrong, what feels hard. Meanwhile, the miracles pass us by unseen. We miss the water gushing from the rock, the fire separating us from our enemies, the cloud of glory leading us forward, because our gaze is fixed on moldy manna, clutched one day too soon.

    Your father sometimes tells a story about a study conducted: people were asked to count the number of times a ball was passed back and forth in a video. In the middle of the scene, a man dressed as a gorilla wandered in, waved, made faces, and walked out again. Almost no one ever noticed him, because they were so intent on the ball. This is what happens when our eyes are glued to our complaints—we miss the very presence of God moving right in front of us.

    Worse still, complaining drains the joy, peace, and laughter from a home. If you complain to your husband, your children will complain to you. They will mirror your attitude, until the whole household is weighed down under the same gray cloud. Even the husband you long to draw near may not feel urgency to return to a house of complaint. God Himself withdrew from Israel when their spirit was one of murmuring.

    A friend of mine, whom I greatly respect, once told me a story. She and her husband had a little habit of making the bed together every morning. Standing on either side, snapping the sheets and smoothing the wrinkles, they would talk about the day. She confessed that she realized one morning how she always began by complaining: how little sleep she had gotten, how many times the baby had woken, who wet the bed. But in one of these moments, she felt the Lord convict her: Why don’t you start your day with gratitude instead of complaint?

    The next morning she tried. As they tucked the corners and fluffed the pillows, she shared funny things the children had said the day before, progress in the garden, small joys. She told me it utterly changed the atmosphere—not only their relationship, but the whole day that followed. Her gratitude sparked inspiration in her husband, gave him ideas for their children, direction for their family plans. Just that simple choice—to begin the day without complaint, but with thanksgiving—opened the door for guidance, for creativity, for blessing.

    Gratitude changes everything. Scripture exhorts us: “Do all things without grumbling or complaining, that you may become blameless and pure, children of God without fault in a crooked and depraved generation, in...

  • He Brought Me into A Spacious Place

    He Brought Me into A Spacious Place

    · Dearest Daughters
    “He brought me out into a spacious place; He rescued me because He delighted in me.” —Psalm 18:19
    Dearest Daughters,

    Some people look at the traditional role of a woman, mother, wife, homemaker, and see something small. They feel it must be narrow, like a hallway without windows or a life with too few options. I understand that fear. The world has painted a narrow one-dimensional picture of womanhood. But I want to share something with you that has stayed with me since I was a child, something that returns to me again and again in my sleep.

    I’ve had a repeating dream during my adult life of a little house, a house I once lived in as a girl. In the dream, I walk back through its rooms, and they are as tiny as I remember. I trace the walls with my eyes, remembering where the table stood, how the light came through the curtains, what it felt like to belong there. And then, always the same: I open a closet door. At the back of the closet is another door—one I had never noticed before.

    When I open that second door, it’s like stepping into a miracle. There is a whole section of the house I didn’t know existed: broad, beautiful, welcoming spaces—well-furnished, full of light. Room after room, stretch far beyond what I lived in as a child. And in the dream, I say, again and again, “How did we not know this was here? Why did we live in only that tiny part of the house when all of this was ours?”

    The life of a woman, the life in God’s design, is not narrow. But it can feel narrow if we never open the hidden or locked doors. The door of deep relationship. The door of true sacrificial love. The door of wisdom and shared sorrows and the kind of selfless care that makes space for others to grow. The door of prayer, where heaven bends low to meet us in our kitchens and bedrooms and laundry rooms.

    When we live disconnected, when we don’t truly invest all into those roles that tie us to others, that demand vulnerability, we live only in the smallest corner of the house. But when we throw ourselves fully into the life God gives, investing everything in those relationships and responsibilities, the house opens up. We find that service is not drudgery but abundance, that giving our lives away enlarges them, and that the narrow hallway opens into a great hall where generations may gather and feast at His table.

    We find that what looked small was only the entryway. The temple is just beyond.

    “He brought me out into a spacious place; He rescued me because He delighted in me.” —Psalm 18:19

    With all my heart,

    Mom

  • Whoever Practices Righteousness


    Whoever Practices Righteousness…

    · Dearest Daughters
    “And the fruit of righteousness is sown in peace by those who make peace.” — James 3:18
    Dearest Daughters,

    Something my dad once told me has stayed with me for years. He said righteousness is when your thoughts, your words, your actions, and your relationships all line up—with each other, and with God’s purposes. It’s not just about doing the right thing; it’s about being whole.

    Righteousness brings peace. It draws the fragmented pieces of our lives together, weaving integrity where there was once inconsistency. It pulls us into integration instead of disintegration—into connection, not conflict. As James wrote, “The fruit of righteousness is sown in peace by those who make peace” (James 3:18).

    But this kind of righteousness isn’t automatic. The apostle John said, “He who practices righteousness is righteous, just as He is righteous” (1 John 3:7). Did you catch that? It must be practiced. That means it takes effort. Intention. Deliberate choices, day after day.

    It’s easy for a Christian woman to say with her mouth, “I submit to my husband.” But what about her tone? Her timing? Her inner posture? What if her words say yes, but her actions whisper no? That’s not righteousness; that’s pretense. Scripture says, “Let love be without hypocrisy” (Rom. 12:9). So it’s possible to appear loving while withholding true love in the heart.

    This dissonance—when our behavior and our inner attitude are out of sync—drains the life from our faith. It may look like submission, but it’s really a subtle rebellion, a kind of guerrilla warfare that plays out in sarcasm, cold silence, or thinly veiled criticism. And over time, it erodes the trust that marriage needs to flourish.

    The kingdom of God is not built with bricks and mortar; it’s built with relationships. That means righteousness isn’t just about moral decisions. It’s about being rightly related to others. John says plainly, “Whoever does not practice righteousness is not of God, nor is he who does not love his brother” (1 John 3:10). In the end, we won’t be judged on how many arguments we won, how many facts we got right, or how clever our reasoning was, but on how we loved.

    When you stand before the Lord at the end of your life, do you really think He will check whether your scheduling was better than your husband’s? Was this meal more tasty than that? Was this vacation more suited than that? Should we have used this curriculum over that, or even chosen this vocation rather than that? No. He will ask whether your heart was consumed by His love, your mind tempered by His Spirit, your actions guided by His sacrifice. The attitude of the heart is what God is looking at.

    Paul says, “The only thing that counts is faith working through love” (Gal. 5:6). So yes, the small things matter—vacation plans, daily routines, parenting decisions—but what matters more is the spirit and attitude we carry into those discussions. Are we building peace? Or are we bulldozing our house to make a point?

    “The wise woman builds her house, but the foolish tears it down with her own hands” (Prov. 14:1). I often think about that verse when I feel the urge to “set something straight.” There are ways to speak truth that don’t fracture unity. There are ways to be strong without being hard. And there are ways to suggest adjustments that aren’t manipulative.

    Remember, dearest daughters, we’re not just tending our own households—we’re part of something much larger. Scripture says we together are God’s temple, and His Spirit dwells among us. And it gives this sobering warning: “If anyone destroys God’s temple, God will destroy that person” (1 Cor. 3:16-17; Eph. 2:21-22).

    That means the way we treat one another—especially those closest to us—is sacred ground. Do not destroy that temple.

    Does righteousness mean you can never speak up, never ask questions, never express concern? Of course...

  • Your Kingdom Come in the Home

    Your Kingdom Come in the Home

    · Dearest Daughters
    “You also, like living stones, are being built into a spiritual house to be a holy priesthood, offering spiritual sacrifices acceptable to God through Jesus Christ.” 1 Peter 2:5 (NIV)

    ï»żDearest Daughters,

    I’ve often been asked what the purpose of marriage is, and my heart longs to answer in a way that reaches deeper than duty or romance or even companionship. To truly understand marriage, we must begin not with ourselves, but with God and with the purpose for every relationship He has designed.

    You see, from the beginning, God was building a house. Not one of stone and timber, but of human souls. His plan was always to dwell with His people. Not just among us, but inside of us. And so, every Christian relationship is meant to become part of that spiritual structure. We are, as Scripture says, “living stones,” carefully placed and shaped, growing together into a temple where God’s presence rests (1 Peter 2:5).

    Through this holy dwelling—His Church—God reveals His wisdom not only to the world, but even to principalities of the heavens. Imagine that! Your faithfulness in friendship, in family, and especially in marriage becomes part of an eternal testimony to angels and powers, a declaration that love always wins over fear, over death, over pride, and over every decay that sin has sown into human relationships (Ephesians 3:10–11).

    So marriage was never just about finding “the one” who makes only you feel complete. It was never meant to be only about our self-fulfillment or comfort. Marriage was created for God’s glory. It is a sacred context in which we learn to lay down our lives, to submit not merely to one another, but to Christ. It is a place to unlearn self-centeredness and relearn how to love like Jesus does—with humility, grace, and transparency.

    The world tells you to ask: What will this relationship do for me?

    But the better question is: What is this relationship asking of me? What is God forming through it?

    If we want to be part of the spiritual house that He’s building, we must allow Him to dismantle the selfish scaffolding we’ve built around ourselves. That can be uncomfortable. But to the one who longs for Christ to be formed in her, it is holy ground.

    Scripture speaks clearly: “Wives, submit yourselves to your own husbands as you do to the Lord. . . . As the church submits to Christ, so also wives should submit to their husbands in everything” (Ephesians 5:22-24). But hear me: this is not about inferiority or blind obedience. It is about coming under God’s mission (submission) and reflecting a transcendent picture: the church responding in love to Christ.

    And submission is not reserved for women. All who follow Jesus are called to mutual submission—to live in such a way that Christ is seen in how we yield, how we serve, how we forgive, how we listen.

    So ask yourself often: If marriage is a prototype of Christ and His church:

    How would I want my church to relate to Christ, and do I exemplify that in my marriage?What does my marriage say about Christ and His church?Does it reflect honor? Loyalty? Trust?Does it show how deeply the church loves her Lord?Does it echo the unity Christ prayed for when He said, “that they may be one . . . so that the world may know You sent Me”? (John 17:21)

    The enemy of your soul will go after that unity. His oldest trick is accusation and suspicion (Revelation 12:10). He knows that if he can divide what God meant to be one, he can distort the very picture of God’s covenant love.

    But a marriage that is ordered by God becomes a living parable—a testimony to what real, sacrificial, enduring love looks like, to what Christ looks like. A little piece of heaven on earth. Not...

  • A Radiant Home

    A Radiant Home

    · Dearest Daughters
    “She looks well to the ways of her household and does not eat the bread of idleness. Her children rise up and call her blessed.” — Proverbs 31:27-28 (ESV)

    Dearest Daughters,

    When you hear the word “home,” what rises in your heart?

    For me, it’s not just a word; it’s a feeling. A deep, almost painful tug, like something written into our very bones. After a long trip, a hard day, or even a hospital stay, all I can think about is home. There’s something magnetic about it, so powerful that the word “homesick” has been invented just to describe the ache we feel when we’re away from it too long.

    We remember the laughter around the dinner table, the comfort of familiar routines, the scent of dinner on the stove, the way the walls hold our stories. Home is where we feel safe. It’s where we belong. It’s where we are most ourselves.

    So, my daughters, there is another ache in my heart that I want to describe: If home is such a sacred and vital place, why is the word “homemaker” spoken with so much discomfort, even disdain, in this world around us? This truly grieves to me.

    If you say you spend 2,000 hours a year in an office cubicle, staring at spreadsheets, people will nod approvingly. Say you wear a paper cap and rubber gloves to press buttons on an x-ray machine, or clean the teeth of strangers all day, and they’ll commend your discipline and your contribution to society.

    But if you say you are a full-time wife and mother? Say you are a keeper of the home? An awkward hush falls. A shadow of pity or confusion flickers across faces. Just a housewife? Only a homemaker?

    As if you’ve given up.

    Daughters, never forget: you haven’t given up anything! You have taken up something holy.

    I don’t say this because I’m bitter that homemaking has been demeaned. I say it because I love being a woman! I love being your mother. I love creating a beautiful space for peace and welcome. I love the behind-the-scenes steady work of nurturing life and light in our home. And I believe, with all my heart, that this work, done in faith and love, is a sacred calling.

    Recovering the dignity and mission of womanhood is not drudgery to me. It’s delight.

    I truly believe that in the beautiful symphony of life, family, community, and faith, we women have been entrusted with a powerful anthem. We are privileged to bring the Kingdom of Heaven into kitchens, into laundry rooms, into bedtime prayers and warm plates passed around the table. We are honored to keep the flame burning day after faithful day.

    You see, the problem is not the calling itself. It’s the caricature. The distortion. The counterfeit that turns biblical submission into subjugation or paints homemaking as small, dull, or regressive. These lies shrink something beautiful into something bitter—and that, my dear ones, is what we must resist.

    I pray you will see the home for what it really is: a sanctuary. A garden. A training ground. A holy outpost of heaven in a weary world. And I want you to know that to tend that space with love, wisdom, and joy is no small thing.

    It is legacy. It is strength. It is purpose.

    Let’s redeem the word “homemaker,” not merely with nostalgia, but with vision! Let’s lift it up where it belongs, not in pride, but in peace. Let’s show the world that a woman who loves her home, who creates beauty, who serves with laughter and tears and open arms is not less. She is more.

    More than the world can measure. More than earthly culture will ever understand.

    And her joy? Her purpose? It is waiting to be rediscovered. Let that joy shine through you, and let everything you do in and for your home and family be radiant with God’s purpose.

    With all my love,

    Mom

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