Untying the Knot in Turkey

It is warm and sunny today in Ephesus, Turkey. Coming from Alaska, I cannot get enough of the sun, but I am missing the wind. Three Muslim women in head scarves and silky dress coats stand before me, conferring. Then one turns and asks, anxious, "Are these waters holy?"  I don't know what to say to her. A man standing near hears her and answers "Yes, many believe these waters are holy."  She looks relieved and steps toward one of the three faucets spouting from the stone wall. What will she pray for as she washes her hands in the water?

We are here together, Christians and Muslims of all kinds, from Asia, from the Middle East, our small group from the U.S.  We're at the House of Mary, where many believe the  mother of Jesus lived out her last days with the disciple John. (And who is not moved to remember that Christ, hanging crucified and close to death, looked upon his friend John and his beloved mother and gave them to one another as mother and son. From then on, the gospel tells us, John "took her into his house.") 

Muslims are here because Meryem is the mother of the prophet Jesus, and so is holy in some way. I go into the House of Mary where a statue stands in the center of the wall, a candle burning. Muslim women in headdresses bow, kneel in prayer. There are maybe 11 of us in this room. In the quiet I feel the heaviness of these women's needs. No one speaks. 

Is this tiny stone chapel, this two room shrine the place where John and Mary lived together, living out every day the words and new life Jesus taught them? No one can know. There is a long story behind the choice of this ancient nondescript dwelling, but I will not tell it here.  I have stopped my travel this day to write these words, to show you this one more thing, this one place where dreams and wishes and prayers become a wall. 

It is called The Wishing Wall. Prayers and hopes are written on napkins and tissues and tied to the iron grating. I see words written in Korean, Arabic, Chinese, English, Spanish and many others. There are ribbons tied here too, as well as socks, plastic shopping bags, whatever people brought, whatever they pulled from their pockets.  

A priest, a friend, traveling with us, tells us that Mary is sometimes called "The Untier of Knots."  It was St. Irenaeus in the second century who wrote that "the knot of Eve's disobedience was untied by the obedience of Mary; what  the virgin Eve bound by her unbelief, the Virgin Mary loosened by her faith."

I think of the Turkish rugs made by thousands of Turk women in small villages, women sitting before cotton strands, knotting every thread of wool and silk twice. Twice, so the knots cannot be pulled out. 

This day, standing before the Wishing Wall, I am grateful for Mary, but I did not knot a tissue for her. I said a prayer instead to her Son for all the broken choking hearts longing  for what Jesus came to give. He gives it still, his forgiveness flowing like water from a faucet, his love freeing knotted hearts to float  like tissues on a vast warm wind. 

Easter Uproot

This Easter Sunday, while my family and church sing praises to our risen Savior near the waters of Kodiak Island, I will be somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, trying desperately to sleep. On the most precious day of the year, I will be uprooted from my beloved sons and husband. I do not go lightly. I am joining a small group from a seminary and flying to Turkey, Greece and Italy for 2 weeks of research on the Apostle Paul. 

As I go, I will remember the Cross. Maybe you don't believe in the Cross or the man who hung there. But please come for a moment and consider these words, given to me today. All of Creation is changed because of that day. Pain shall some day be turned to joy, all harm shall finally be turned to good because of this:

cross in desert.jpg


I will send photos and words to you while there, as well as I can.

But most of all, this Holy Week, find the branches of this tree:

build a nest, rest and feed. 


With love, joy and gratitude,



Surfing a Storm and Launching a King

It's been blowing and raining unceasingly for five days. The seas surge and lunge to the rocky shores. We watch the violence from our windows, the shattering and gathering, the water exhausting itself and we who watch.




This morning, beyond a cliff and the foaming curls I saw him. A man or was it a seal? Among the waves, black, smooth as a rock polished by water, but he did not sink. Each time a wave swallowed him whole, he emerged moments later, at home in the winter water.  


Who wants to interrupt their warm dry feet and cozy life in the winter, launching off into frigid furious waters? Not me. Not many of us. But I know, if I asked him, this winter surfer on this island in Alaska why he goes into the teeth of a storm, wearing nothing but a rubber suit, he could not answer. How could he speak of the marvel of that oceanic force, a womb he chooses, and every launch a cyclonic baptism that washes him free? 

He would look at me with pity. The life I was missing!!

We miss a lot of living. Most of us prefer our lives just as they are, even when they're miserable. On Palm Sunday and the events that followed, most of them missed the life that was offered. I didn't leap onto a surfboard into the stormy waves, but I've launched out today into that event 2000 years ago, wondering  how it could happen. Wondering why so many turned away from that parade. Here is the story I found, from a woman who might have been there. Come with me now . . .   


May I speak this woman's story to you as well? Click here:


This day was unlike any other.  There were so many people there---- but it wasn’t that. And it wasn’t even the procession, the parade.  There have been parades----marches and trails of stumbling, lisping, broken, drooling people rolled, pushed, carried, slung hoisted to him. Yeshua.  No one would dare to believe  in healing----except it was happening. To EVERYONE!! Even the sorriest, lost-est sinners among them . .. . 

You should have seen them. Everyone now-----new born!  Legs straightened and muscles strung right. Women who were mute----now they are singing and spinning with gladness! And crippled men are running and racing and like deer!

So—yes, we’ve been watching these parades for many months now. But this time was different. Everyone ran to pull down branches from the trees. Palms, those fronds---do you know what that means? We have almost forgot ourselves what they mean and how it feels to wave them up high:  Victory!   Triumph! When was he last time we were the victors of anything? And we all took off our cloaks, our outer robes---and just laid them at his feet and at the feet of the donkey he was riding. We knew what we were doing! Because ------finally we all saw it! Yeshua. He was the king!!  He was the one we’ve been waiting for since . …..  since we were a people.


And the singing! Everyone was happy!! We are not ----we have not been a happy people, but this day!! " Ho—sanna!  Ho-sanna!" children were singing and old men, the young mothers----everyone!!  Cheering laughing shouting!! "Ho---sanna----O Save us!! O Save us!!"


Finally----a king to lead us!! To lead our people. We will be a nation again—not servants and slaves to the Romans …And we said---we turned to one another, all my friends, my neighbors, my cousins, we were all standing and shouting together, and we said, “We will follow him anywhere!!”  That’s what we said . ..

But we didn’t . .. 

because we didn’t know what was going to happen that next day

Nobody knew what was going to happen next. But I saw it. I saw how those same people---not all of them, but some of them---my neighbors, my cousins----they were there a week later. They were shouting again. Just Shouting this time—not singing, and not waving palm branches-----"O our glorious king"—but waving their fists and yelling        

 Crucify him!!


How did this happen? From O Save Us Our King!! Our King!!    To  CRUCIFY Him,  blasphemer!

HOW?    But maybe I know. 

They wanted a king, a MAN king  who acted like a god.

They didn’t want a king who WAS God.  

They didn’t really want God.

I wonder how many of us really do want God to enter our world and rupture our lives . . . 

But here is what I know now: that day of singing and celebration and triumph was true. And real, more real and more true than anybody every knew:

"Ho-sanna!! Praise to the King! O Save us!!" we shouted.

And then very quietly,

              through lashes and spikes

                         He did. 





May your Palm Sunday be full of Gladness and Salvation.

The Secret Path to Gladness (and Missing Socks)

Today an enormous weight was lifted. My son Abraham (16) slumped downstairs sleepily this morning with an announcement.  “I just figured out where socks go. Washers and dryers are portals to the cosmos. They get flung into outer space where they become stars and cluster into galaxies.”

         “Oh that makes so much sense,” I enthused, passing him a tall smoothie.  

         “Yeah,” he nodded sagely, barefoot. 

   The sun rose red through our windows as we readied for the day, collecting our papers, our lunches, our fragmented selves for the day. Micah, 14, would deliver his memorized speech today (Winston Churchill's "Never Give In" speech); Abraham would have a dentists' appointment midday, then play practice after school. I would be writing this post, editing essays for my next book, mailing off boxes, and maybe even squeezing in a walk to tend a bruised spirit. And still thinking about those socks orbiting the sun . .. (You know how they sway on the clothesline? They've heard stories of their brethren launching out, and they too yearn to be free . . ..)



I am still practicing joy. I am reading through the Bible this year, which plants the Psalms in front of me every morning. Here I have found great gladness mashed up with grave realities. Take Psalm 57, my favorite this week. 

David is writing. And he's in trouble (again). He wrote this about fleeing from Saul, who was  hunting him down like a dog, this young man, this harpist who made the unfortunate mistake of loving God and serving his king a little too well. He won some battles, slayed some giants, just a few too many, remember? Exhausted, desert-dry, weary-eyed, and not a little bit wounded in his spirit, he did the only thing he knew to survive: He wailed out:

Have pity on me, O God!!  Have pity on me,
    because my soul takes refuge in you.
        I will take refuge in the shadow of your wings
            till the storms of destruction pass by.

Why does David bother to spend his voice and his strength calling out to a God he cannot see or hear? Because-----

I cry out to God Most High,
    to God who fulfills his purpose for me.
 He WILL send from heaven and save me;
    he WILL put to shame him who tramples on me. 
God WILL send out his steadfast love and his faithfulness!

And here is the pattern of this short Psalm (and many others): The crushing reality of THIS time and place--- 

My soul is in the midst of lions;
    I lie down amid fiery beasts—
the children of man, whose teeth are spears and arrows,
    whose tongues are sharp swords.

Then the soaring reality of a God beyond time and space:

Be exalted, O God, above the heavens!
    Let your glory be over all the earth!

Careening again between Here:

They set a net for my steps;
    my soul was bowed down.
They dug a pit in my way,
    but they have fallen into it themselves. 

And there:

My heart is steadfast, O God,
    my heart is steadfast!
I will sing and make melody!
    Awake, my glory!
Awake, O harp and lyre!
    I will awake the dawn!

Nothing has changed for David, but everything has changed. By launching into heaven through his words, David enters the other reality: God is as near as the words on David's lips and pen. Can God love him that much? How can he not burst now with gladness? How can he not how see God and speak of Him EVERYWHERE?

I will give thanks to you, O Lord, among the peoples;
    I will sing praises to you among the nations.
For your steadfast love is great to the heavens,
    your faithfulness to the clouds.
And now he remembers what he wants most of all, even more than his own deliverance. 
Be exalted, O God, above the heavens!
    Let your glory be over all the earth!
What else is there?

In the midst of your trouble, Don't wait for relief to mysteriously appear. Go to the Psalms. They're a portal to Heaven, given for us, for the Church, for all ages. This year, I am doing more than praying the Psalms; I am writing out every Psalm in my own hand. Those words are becoming mine. 


  Like this,  every morning, I launch out far beyond our missing socks; I am spun from complaint to praise,                                                        from trouble to calm,                                                                               from mourning to gladness.  And you can launch out as well!   


Like this,  every morning, I launch out far beyond our missing socks;

I am spun from complaint to praise,

                                                       from trouble to calm,

                                                                              from mourning to gladness. 

And you can launch out as well! 



Be exalted, O God, above the heavens!
    Let your glory be over  ALL  the  earth !!!!

March into Gladness!

This week I wanted to speak face to face with you and share a moment of great conviction that pierced me--and then led me into a new place of freedom. Maybe you need this too?? 

Before I start, Here's the Israelites-in-the-desert moment of whines and delusions!!

4 Now the rabble that was among them had a strong craving. And the people of Israel also wept again and said, “Oh that we had meat to eat! 5 We remember the fish we ate in Egypt that cost nothing, the cucumbers, the melons, the leeks, the onions, and the garlic. 6 But now our strength is dried up, and there is nothing at all but this manna to look at.”

7 Now the manna was like coriander seed, and its appearance like that of bdellium. 8 The people went about and gathered it and ground it in handmills or beat it in mortars and boiled it in pots and made cakes of it. And the taste of it was like the taste of cakes baked with oil. 9 When the dew fell upon the camp in the night, the manna fell with it.



Thanks for watching!! (Can I take a tiny survey? Do you miss the photos too much, or do you like this change-up once in a while?)

Learning to Praise and walk in the Freedom already given,




For those with deeper work to do, I'll be leading another live webinar April 11, 7 - 9 CST: UNDAUNTED! The Jesus Way to Healing and Peace.   No matter our woundedness, God desires to heal us and make us ALL instruments of His peace.      Christ's peace to you, dear friend.

You, Me, Philip Yancey and God: Finishing the World!

Leslie + Phillip Y closeup.jpg

Last week in Denver, Phillip Yancey and I had a blast.  We were talking about one of our favorite subjects: Creativity.  It went beautifully well (except I was having a bad hair night and was trying to ignore a raging sore throat.)         

(Phillip and I will be teaching together at the next Harvester Island Wilderness Workshop.)


There’s SO much I want to sing and dance about this topic----but who has five years right now? So----let me give you this, just this, because you need to know it. Because it will make your day brighter, and you will make someone else’s day (life??) more radiant.

You do know, don’t you, that the world needs you? 


Shall I prove it? Listen: God spoke and created All That Is: Let there Be: and bing-bang-baboom-Look! The violent blooming of Life Everywhere!! Then He spoke again, this time, admiring, announcing it was all “VERY GOOD.” 


Why only “VERY GOOD”? Why not “Perfect”!?? Why isn’t all that God made in that Genesis explosion of striped beasts, white roses, elephants, kangaroo mice, Fir trees and fin whales----why wasn’t this oh-so-holy just-made shiny creation named------PERFECT? After all, HE had made it; No human had yet marred or disturbed it with their clumsy, imperfect efforts.



But that’s exactly what God wanted. He wanted our clumsy hands, our awkward feet in the ground, on his peach trees, pruning his roses. He wanted First Man’s and First Woman’s eyes, taste, thought, measurement,  to take the “very goodness” of what was given to make it better!! To Make it ----yes, perfect. Not perfect aesthetically----were they capable of this? Are we? But perfect as in: finished. God and man, art-crafting together, in the light of one another, co-creators delighting one another with their handiwork. All of it done out of love and joy. And, I am sure, a lot of laughter and fun. (Can you see this?)


So we’re all farmers.  We’re all cultivators, we humans made of humus. We’re all made-in-the-likeness-of-God artists and creators, designed and charged to make something out-of-this-world beautiful out of all the stuff of this world. This is who we are! We who are ourselves God’s poeima, God’s poem.




But----where is our joy? Our creativity? Sometimes Christians are so engaged and enraged in the Culture Wars, we destroy more than we create. (Because it’s easier? Yes. Because we think we’re the moral police-of-the-world? Yes.) Why aren't we tending Creation rather than rending it?

Imagine what would happen if we were known for what we create rather than for what we crush?!?


Imagine what could happen if we were known for what we design rather than for what we destroy!


Imagine being known for what we joyfully proclaim rather than what we angrily denounce?


Imagine being known for our imagination rather than our condemnation?


Look how many are already doing this!

Max McClean in The Screwtape Letters

Max McClean in The Screwtape Letters

Return of the Prodigal Son by Carravaggio

Return of the Prodigal Son by Carravaggio

Because, if we don’t sing out----if we don’t paint, write, weave, dig, draw, bake, woodwork, carve, dance, garden, build,---all to the glory of our Creating God, we’ll miss it. We’ll miss joining the chorus of all Creation which is already singing, shouting, clapping, creating; for the heavens themselves are declaring the glory of God; day by day pouring forth speech.”  When WE don’t proclaim the coming of the Lord to every area of Life and Creation, the rocks themselves will shout out!!

Don’t make the rocks grow tongues and hands. Use yours!

God values our human making. He asks us all to make something beautiful of the world he has given to us---for our joy, for His delight, for the "perfecting" of Creation. And yes, even for the "perfecting" of ourselves.

 Go forth this week and bloom beauty into this undone world!


Naphtali yoga iwth mountains.jpeg

What will you bring into bloom this week?

Storming God's Peace (and Books to Send)

It's a bright freezing day here in Kodiak. The wind is whirling the waters. It's hard passage for the winter fishermen, whose boats can ice and sink. Even in the summers, these waters can be hard passage for us as well!


(photos by Carol Scott)

(photos by Carol Scott)

carol scott--noah storm skiff.jpg


But come on in anyway. You'll be safe, dry and warm. Though we're sailing treacherous, real waters, I promise a happy ending, and I'm giving away some “Crossing the Waters” .



When I first came to Kodiak so-long ago, when we were young and ready for anything, Duncan told me a story I didn't want to believe. It had happened just a couple of years before I came. It's Dave's story mostly to tell. And he does share his story with many. But here is the heart of it, and the tiny piece I was honored to experience. 



Dave and his son Skeeter were winter watchman at a cannery fourteen miles from our island. His father, seventy-one, was living there with him that winter. His father was a Jesus follower who lived as a missionary in the Aleutians in a village of a hundred people, living out Christ among them.

Skeeter was excited his grandfather was there for the season. The two had a special bond. This day was Skeeter’s fourteenth birthday. They took one of the dogs, a black lab, and two rifles to go hunting. It was a calm day. Just a little wind chop on the water. Nothing to even pay attention to.


But hours passed and they didn’t return. Dave found their skiff drifting, with the dog and the rifle still in it, and nothing else. They were gone. They had slipped beneath those quiet black waters, waters without a hint of storm or danger that day.


On this same day, forty years later, I was there on Dave’s fishing boat. I was visiting Dave, doing research for my new book. I had no idea I would be there on that anniversary. We sat together in the wheelhouse, sailing the waters of the bay they had died under, and talked about God, about why bad things happen.

“I don’t know why I lost my son. I’d been looking forward to having a son since I was twelve years old,“ Dave says calmly with his resonant voice. “I have a friend who says it was Satan. Who says every bad thing that happens is from Satan. I don’t believe that.”

Then in a quieter voice he says, “I found my dad’s body the next day. Where we found their skiff, drifting, down there close to the cannery, there’s a patch of forget-me-not’s that bloom on the beach every year. There, just there and nowhere else in that area. That’s a holy place,” he says, as I close my eyes for the tears. We are silent in the wonder and fear of it.



Before I said yes to Duncan, that I would marry him and make this island and its waters my home, this was one of the very first stories Duncan told me. He wanted me to know that this place was dangerous. That people could die here, just like that. Just by falling out of a boat on a calm day. He wanted me to know that living here had a cost. Duncan was right.

But no one warned me about the Christian life, that pledging my whole self to this Jesus would not change my world. That life would still be dangerous. That storms would still come. There are so many storms.

What about the storm of fire? Can we trust him through the pain and loss and storm of fire? Because there was a fire. It started in the kitchen in the early hours of the morning, long before anyone was up. But one person, up in the night, saw the house aflame. And my mother-in-law was inside. I wasn’t there, but others were, her eldest son, a handful of crewmen, her youngest son a mile away. They broke the window to get in. One climbed inside, keeping low to the ground. He could not see for the smoke. He could not find her and he could not breathe. He fell back out of the window, heaving. He tried again in a moment, after his breath came back. He could not find her again, and now he might die too, the flames were closer and no air was left to breathe. He fell out for the last time and the house was nearly gone.


She was a follower of Jesus. She had loved and served him her whole life, without pause or question. Church organist, church everything, generous, always thoughtful. She loved her life out at Bear Island. She loved the wildflowers, the beaches. What peace could be spoken into this storm?



From the start, I knew Jesus as a rescuing God who saved me from my self, from my lonely and loveless life, from my own proud and self-sufficient heart. I believe he is with us in every storm, but how many boats have gone down just in this corner of the sea? How many men and women lost when the flames were not quenched, when the waters were not calmed? Yes, so many saved, but so many lost. Even those who knew Jesus. I know he told it straight and often, “Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.” I know that “take up their cross” means to be ready to die. But who can do this?



I think Wanda could. She lived a life of such service and love, I saw it daily: how she died to self. How in that dying she brought life to so many.

Who knows how God will decide to bring us home? I am trying not to fear that death. My greatest fear is that I will refuse the cross and insist on a private self-adoring life, and I won't even know it. That is the death I fear.





There is more to say about this. There is a deeper brighter answer to this question: "Why do bad things happen to good people, to God’s people?" And there is a larger question that lies at the heart of  Crossing the Waters: Following Jesus through the Storms, the Fish, the Doubt and the Seas": "       What IS Jesus calling us to? And---If we decide to follow Jesus with ALL of our hearts, what should that life look like? "  Maybe not what you think.  If you haven't made that journey yet, I hope you will.

 I do want to send some books out this week. If you are part of a Bible study group or book club and you're considering your next read, I'll send one to your group! Just email me (leslieleylandfields@gmail.com) and let me know what your group is and where to send it.  (I also will come and "visit" your group by Skype!)

Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your hearts be troubled, neither let them be afraid.        -----Jesus
Dave and I at Harvester Island this last fall. 

Dave and I at Harvester Island this last fall. 

Welcome to My Paradox Party!

Wouldn't it be fun to throw a Paradox Party? When it came time to tell our paradox tales, here would be mine:  


"Last Sunday, I led our Home Group in a study of James:

'Be quick to listen, slow to speak, slow to become angry. For the wrath of man does not accomplish the righteousness of God.'



Monday through Wednesday I was gliding on Holy Spirit spirits-----Doing radio interviews (one on parenting), writing articles about Faith, making food for hungry people, pouring love and sweat into my first webinar (on forgiveness), visiting the sick and being such an obsessive, overscheduled sleepless frantic little Church-girl that I woke up this morning grumpy, exhausted, in angry meltdown mode with a Mt. Sinai sized headache, and proceeded to carp at my teenage sons all morning, through the breakfast I didn't fix, and all the way to school, issuing decrees and making the morning just as miserable as possible for everyone. I didn't kick the dog, but I thought of it.


Yep. That's me. Holy Bible teacher and Mother extraordinaire!!


My only defense is that as soon as I drove home, ate something, took a long nap, woke up, wandered around in my Bible---I felt immediately guilty. Deeply guilty. So guilty I drove to Walmart and bought one son the new underwear he needed and the other his favorite juice (100% cranberry) in the gallon size. AND that night I made their favorite dinner (halibut enchiladas). Thank the God of grace for guilt!!




This is my lifelong struggle, and I cannot quite seem to land on the right spot. It seems I have to careen from an all-in heart-bursting ache to spend every muscle of strength for the half-the-world in so much need (though, God knows, I don't always do this well), to ------Leave-me-alone hibernation. Silence. Retreat. 

We need both, of course. We cannot dwell for long in one without the other.  Maybe today you need what I have craved, and what I have allowed myself these three successive Saturdays, and this next one too, I hope. I want to take you into the mountains, where God has met me and fed my soul such rest . . ..


These Saturdays, I traveled through these Kodiak mountains my favorite way:


One day I hiked 10 miles into the mountains. Another eight miles. Another nine. These are my prayer walks. I have needed rest that much . . . 

But even here, there in this spectacular land and snowscape, I find it:  



(And a pair of ducks)



Massive mountains scaled by tiny people, small bundles of bones,


who are yet unafraid to climb an hour to the summit,

for an hour of snow-stomping, heart-pounding bushwhacking----an hour of sweat for ten minutes of slide. 

Look how we all seek the mountains, their size, that we may disappear into our own insignificance.  (Ahhhhh! how mighty it feels to be small!!)

Here is what I am slowly earning from all those miles.

I'm giving up on the ideal of of a steady, balanced life, a life-on-the-plains kind of life. You know, a life that is regular, orderly, without mountains and valleys, without the high peaks of ecstatic servanthood and the plunging valleys of exhaustion. A life of perfect consistency and regular order. A life without risk. A life without paradox. 

 I wonder if that "regular life" is possible. Or even desirable?

Paul described himself as "sorrowful yet ever rejoicing;" He was "more than a conquerer" who  was often imprisoned. He boasted in God's strength made perfect in his weakness. He led thousands to freedom while he remained a "slave." He preached light in the darkness, love in persecution, grace rather than law. Always, he struggled to serve a mighty God out of a frail human body.    

Isn't this us?? I'll take it ALL, then. The mountain peaks of grace and the pits of my own guilt. The ecstasy of serving God and the agony of my own frailties. I'll take it all. It's hard, this Narrow-gated trail through high mountains, but is there any other path?


Yes. There is another way. The path I dread: the wide open gate and the gentle even path

 that leads,

     before we know it,

(softly and surely) 

        to apathy

which is to say,

                to destruction.



(LORD, let it never be!!)




What paradox tale would you bring to the party??

God Answers My Valentine Whines

Will you get a Valentine this week? Yes!! Here it is! It's fat-free, sugar-free, gluten-free, flavor-free, organic-free, and calorie-free----and, it's free!!


(I'm making this lovely chocolate mess for my honeys tonight--except it will be frozen, with ice cream in the middle. Definitely calorie-free!)

And here's another valentine, actually 10 valentines, but this one costs just a little bit. It cost me some honesty this morning. It was a small price to pay though, because God wrote back. I found his answer in the book of Valentines He's already given us.





Dear God, where is your peace?  I have no control over anything in my world, not even my own anxiety.


                      I will hold you in perfect peace if you fix your mind on me. Don’t be anxious for anything, dear one. Pass it on to me in prayer and with gratitude. If you love my law you will have great peace, and nothing will cause you to stumble.








Lord, I am afraid; every morning the news delivers turmoil and uncertainty. Where do I run?


     "Listen, beloved. I shall cover you with my feathers, and under my wings you will take refuge; My truth shall be your shield and buckler. You shall not be afraid of the terror by night, nor of the nor of the arrow that flies by day, nor of the pestilence that walks in darkness, nor of the destruction that lays waste at noon. My right hand will save you.”








Father, I am faulty, imperfect, so quick to mess up, to do my own thing.


            I know. But I am perfect; and I give my perfection to you, through my son. You stand before me and I see only your beauty. I see you faultless, blameless, pure, righteous.









Jesus, I am uncertain where to stand, where to go, who to be with, how to plan.


          I shall direct your paths, daughter, if you trust in me with all your heart. Don’t trust in your own understanding. Acknowledge me in everything you do, and I will lead you saying, “This is the way. Walk in it.”






Lord, I am lonely. Does anyone see me? Does anyone understand?


I see you, daughter. I know you, son. I see your comings and goings, when you sit down and stand up. I know you entirely. Every one of your days is written in my book. I am your Maker, even your husband. The Lord of Hosts is my name.








God, I am so needy, just a whirlpool of unfulfilled hungers and vacancies.


      I will supply all that you need, precious one. I did not spare my own son, but gave him up for you. Shall I not also freely give you grace and glory? No good thing will I withhold from you as you walk my paths.








I am trapped, addicted, imprisoned and I don’t know the way out.


I have come just for this, to let the captives free. If I free you, you are free indeed. You’re a new creature, child, and because of Christ Jesus, there is no longer any condemnation! But you must walk and live not by the flesh, as if you were still in prison, but by the Spirit.  Look! All things are new!








Father, I don’t spend enough time with you. I’m sorry.


And I never leave you. I am with you always, in all that you do. Whether eating or drinking or walking on the road, you are always in the palm of my hand. I will never let you go.






I am tired, dragging my daily cross. It’s too much for me to bear.


                         I have given you my cross, my yoke, but you are not carrying mine; you are carrying your own, dear one. My yoke is lighter, my burden easier than yours. Come follow after me, do not be afraid.







I don’t feel loved or worthy of love. 


            Ah, my beloved! I loved you before you were born. I chose you before the earth was made. I have wanted you and loved you always. Nothing can separate you from my love, not heights nor depths, neither demons nor angels, neither fears nor worries; nothing in all of creation can separate you from my love.

Not even you.





SO much more was written, but these words will fill this day. Until tomorrow, when I will need to feast again.   To you, my dear friends, happy week of love!






Guest Post: Once Frozen, Now Thawed: How God Makes Marriages Beautiful


I'd like to introduce you all to Dorothy Greco, a writer who has just released a book on marriage: Making Marriage Beautiful: Lifelong Love, Joy and Intimacy Start with You.  I would buy this book  on its title alone! I wanted to give you all a taste of Dorothy's book, and her wisdom, her honesty which is so rare in marriage books!. (Just read the first line. You'll be hooked!) There's one sentence in particular among these words that slays me and helps me onward in my 39 year old marriage. I think you'll see it as you go.  Many thanks to Dorothy for sharing her wisdom with us today as well as her gorgeous photos. (Dorothy is also a professional photographer.)




There have been seasons in my 25 year marriage when I have not liked my husband. Seasons when our differences became like sandpaper that rubbed holes in my facade, allowing my limitations and flaws to seep out.

One such memorable season happened at the ten-year mark. Due to the onset of chronic fatigue and fibromyalgia, I was floundering in my efforts to homeschool our three young sons and work a few hours a week. My husband Christopher was on staff as a pastor in a growing, urban church. We gave each other crumbs.

But the fault line actually ran much deeper than the circumstances of our life. I entered marriage with unrealistic expectations and as a result, battled chronic disappointment. Growing up, I dreamed of being both romanced and idolized by a man. Christopher equated romance with sappy sentimentality and thankfully, had no intention of idolizing anyone. Because I clung so tenaciously to my wish list, I was unable to see all that was good and godly in him. 

One night as we were on the way to see a movie, we clashed again over my frustrations regarding his lack of romance. He responded defensively and I remember feeling so angry that I contemplated getting out of the car when we stopped at a red light. After the film, which was about a highly creative man (not unlike like my husband) who was serially unfaithful (totally unlike my husband), Christopher communicated that we needed a new script. He too was a writer and has his own idea of what he wanted his role to be. 

Thus began an exceedingly painful season in our marriage. As the weeks turned into months, stubbornness, anger, and pride encased our hearts in ice. Though we shared the same bed, we were on different sides of the Continental Divide. We functioned like a business partnership, avoiding  incidental touch and any semblance of tenderness.

We knew better. We had walked with dozen of couples who were teetering on the brink of divorce. Couples for whom infidelity or addiction or bitterness had ripped a gaping hole in the fabric of their covenant. We were well aware that only a few bad choices separated us from a similar fate.

In the midst of this deep freeze, I had a conversation with a friend who struggled to forgive her husband for his ongoing harshness. One morning as she vented to God about the pain he caused her, she sensed the Holy Spirit ask, “Can you forgive him for my sake? Maybe he doesn’t deserve to be forgiven, but can you do it out of love for me?” That question broke through her resistance and allowed her to move toward her husband again.

My friend’s admonition was like a blow-torch to the ice that surrounded my heart. By God’s grace, I discovered a willingness to let go of my anger and disappointment—not because circumstances had changed but because I loved Jesus. 

It took months of hard conversations, forgiving, and extending grace before all the ice finally melted. I began leaning in toward my husband and then started the hard work of creating reality based expectations which ultimately freed me to appreciate his strengths rather than focus on his weaknesses.

Spring seemed particularly glorious that year. Every flower, every tree reminded me of God’s faithful promise to make all things beautiful—including our marriages. 

Dorothy Greco writes on how following Jesus changes everything. Her new book, Making Marriage Beautiful, is available wherever books are sold. You can find more of her work by following her on Twitter (@dorothygreco), Facebook, or by visiting her website (www.dorothygreco.com). 

UNDAUNTED! Respite for the Weary Wounded

Sometimes the load is too heavy to bear. The load of hurt, the load of not being loved by the ones who are supposed to love us. My heart is heavy this week seeing so many divisions in our nation, and so many struggling in broken families. I know this struggle deep in my joints and bones. Would you like to lay that backpack of concrete down, finally? Here is when I began:






Three weeks after my father had a stroke, I flew down from Kodiak to be with him, just the two of us. He was in a rehab facility by then. I flew into Orlando, rented a car, and drove to the facility, wondering who I would find, what would be left. The last time I saw him, a few months before, he had all his faculties. He walked painfully slow with a walker, but he was upright and cogent, though he never said much. He barely spoke to me my entire life, or to any of my siblings. I knew something was wrong with him, though I had not yet found the name for his detachment, his inability to love others, even his own children.




This time, I inched down the hallway as I approached his room. I peered around the doorway and saw it was a room for two. A figure lay curled on the bed, and then, through a half-open curtain, I saw another man in a wheelchair. I entered tremulously.

My father was lying on his side, curled knees to chest. He was wearing shorts. His jaw hung open, all his teeth gone now. He was much thinner, yet his legs were solid still, muscular. What do I do? What do I know about this—visiting the sick, the elderly, a father? I felt as if I was supposed to know, but I didn’t. Do I wait? I had come  five thousand miles, and my time was short. I didn’t want to wait. I inched closer to the bed, deciding . . . yes, I would wake him, if possible.

I touched his shoulder through the thin jersey, lightly, and watched his face. I held my fingers there for a moment, and he blinked; then eyes opened. He looked directly at me without moving his head. Seeing me, his eyes filled with tears and, still looking, he began to weep, a silent, shaking weeping, his whole body shuddering as he sobbed, his head still lying on his hands. I froze. I had never seen my father weep—or even teary or sad. He seldom showed emotions. I was torn in half. My face crumpled. I kept my hand on his shoulder to comfort his racking body, and there we were, bodies touching, both shaking in silent sobs, our faces lost in sadness and grief. I knew he could not speak or name the sorrows that shook him, but it seemed to me we wept, the two of us, for his life, for his long, sad life, for his breaking body, his tangled mind, and a tongue that was now nearly stilled. I cried that I had not seen him sooner. I cried for thirty years of absence from his life. We were crying for all that was lost to us both.



Later, I could not but wonder at this: the stroke had rendered him more fully human than I had ever seen him. I had not expected this: I saw my father through eyes of mercy and kindness. And I was sad as well.

Did it really take a stroke to render him worthy of pathos?


Look across now at whatever terrain separates you from your father, your mother, your mother-in-law, your stepfather, even your grandparent. Is it possible that someone is there on the other side of the road, someone like you, stripped, knocked out, unable even to ask for help? Might that person be the wounded also?

I am not insisting as you look that you feel a flood of emotion, as I did in those moments. I am not even insisting on warm feelings. Instead I am inviting perspective.

As you look into your parents’ lives, consider the words of Jesus on the cross as He struggled for breath, His body so bloodied He was unrecognizable. He had done no evil, no wrong at all, ever. Yet He was executed as a criminal. Jesus hung there, pinioned like a dove, and uttered the most startling words ever: “Father, forgive them, for they don’t know what they are doing.”



 You may not be able to pray that prayer right now, but consider where it leads us. It schools our hearts in empathy and “trains our spirits in compassion,” as Eugene Peterson has written. More than this, he continues, it allows “for the possibility that ‘they know not what they do.’”8 How many of our parents intended the harm they caused? How many acted in ignorance and are ignorant still? How many are stuck in their woundedness, unable to see, to move?

       This is what we’re doing now. We are training our spirits in compassion. When we do this, we discover or remember again the frailty of our parents, the burdens they bore, the weight of their own parents’ sins upon them. And we’ll find something much larger happening. When we truly see others in all their humanness, we become more alive, more awake, more fully human ourselves.




(Excerpted from Forgiving Our Fathers and Mothers: Finding Freedom from Hate and Hurt



There is so much  more we can do. Even in just 2 hours. The Lord has moved me to offer this Live Webinar Feb. 22. I'm offering it as affordably as I can---$20 for early registration---so all can attend.    (This is the material I have used in my own life, and in prisons, workshops and churches around the country, with much fruitfulness.)

Would you join us, and lay down that impossible weight of hurt, anger and unworthiness?

(Registration here)

Love is Hard, but Hate is Harder


The news passed us by those four days. We did not look or listen. We listened to each other instead. This is one of the joys of writing retreats. (This one the New Smyrna Beach Writer’s Retreat.) 



We read. We wrote. We sang. We prayed. A room of 12 strangers became a room of friends and confidantes, sharing our highest hopes, our ragged hearts, our quiet dreams to one another. But it could not last. Soon after we parted, the world lobbed its bombs: phone calls, frantic emails, the latest protests, the news from faraway and nearby.


Anger crashed in with it, like a fist pounding on the door. And there was hate, too. For entire groups of people, far and next door and out on the street; and you and I became Us and Them and No More. And Over There is Right Here and no one is at home in this strange land anymore . . .


If that isn’t enough, Anger calcifies like a rock and goes personal. A fist curled around a rock with your name on it is raised and hurled through your window. Sometimes you don’t even know why. Maybe you posted the wrong picture? Maybe you said a little too much truth. And though you have spent more than your whole life trying to love the rock-throwers, their stones pelt your house now more than ever. And the stones just keep getting bigger.  


This is nothing new. King David knew about this. And Abel, and Jeremiah and Stephan and Paul and Jesus and every ancient prophet and man and woman who tried to live right. The stoners were always nearby, poised and armed. 


But however ancient this battle, I am tired. I know you are too. In these daily storms, Love is too hard. Love disappoints. Love does not bridge every chasm. My own love wears out. It is not returned. It is misjudged and maligned. I want to give up on loving my neighbors. I don’t want to love the ones who think I am their enemy. I want to give up.


I have considered it. But surely hate is harder. How unrelentingly tight you must shut your eyes to the image of God in others! How much Truth you must suppress to give in to fear! How vigilant you must be to guard your heart against compassion! How tiring to believe every conspiracy! How deaf you must be to the voices of children! How hard to shield your soul against the stirring of the Spirit! How loud you must shout to drown the whisper of mercy! How ruthlessly you must pirate every grace and kindness of God to claim as your due! And all those people you’ve locked into boxes, how all-consuming to keep them in that prison!


I have not the strength to do this.


Do you?


How do we keep on loving in the midst of such conflict then? Here, these women and men remind me. If you too are tired, rest for these moments and remember with me what Love can do. And where it comes from. 


Maybe we can bend down and pick up that shattered glass.

Maybe we can open our doors

to one another



"If there is any encouragement in Christ, any comfort from love, any participation in the Spirit, any affection and sympathy, complete my joy by being of the same mind, being in full accord and of one mind. "     Phi. 2:1-2

Confessions of a (Repentant) Warmonger

I am in Florida for a few days, leading the New Smyrna Beach Writers’ Retreat. (Yes, it is joyous to be here!) But my heart is still heavy. I flew thousands of miles on three planes to get here, and still it followed me. All the way. I couldn’t escape.


The War is everywhere, it seems. On every media. On Twitter. Facebook. The radio.


We're destroying one another. We need to put our weapons down.  How? We are, each of us, trying to defend what must be defended: truth, justice, righteousness, equality, mercy, compassion. The gospel. 

Yes. I know. But do you know that we are all equally convicted, on both sides of these issues? Do you know that your arguments and vehemence are not going to change anyone's mind?

So--What do we do with all the hate and anger? We start with the only thing we have control over: ourselves.



Confessions of (a Repentant) Warmonger



bloody hands.JPG



*Let us have compassion for one another, for we are all living in tumultuous times. We are all saddened and confused as we suffer deep divisions within our country, our community and among our own families, neighbors and friends.


*Let us confess our own complicity in the uncivil and vulgar discourse that continues to pollute our media, our political process, and even our homes.


*Let us admit that at times we have seen others, even family members and neighbors as a kind of enemy, simply because they belonged to another political party---and we have not loved them. We have not even listened to them.


*Let us confess that we have spent too much time digging out the speck in our neighbor’s eye and very little time on the log in our own. 


*Let us acknowledge that we have delighted in the mistakes and failures of those on "the other side" and have not extended grace.


*Let us repent of caring more about the advancement of our own political party and its agenda rather than the advancement of the kingdom of God.


*Let us repent of continually trying to convert others to our point of view, forgetting that we are all called to be peacemakers and reconcilers, ambassadors between God and man.


abraham + Naphtali hugging.JPG


 *Let us confess that at times we have fought so hard for "social justice" we have ignored our neighbors in need around us.


*Let us believe that whatever side we choose on any particular issue, that our brothers and sisters of another view have wrestled with their conscience, too, and all are doing their best to seek God and act with integrity.


*Let us remember that God calls all of us to unity in diversity, that the body of Christ itself is composed of vastly different members, all of whom are needed for the body to be healthy and whole. 


*Let us recognize we share a common enemy and it is not a political party, a government or a person. Our true enemy is sin and death, and Jesus decisively won that battle 2,000 years ago. This is the flag of freedom that we wave.


 *Let us recommit ourselves to praying for those in authority over us, for they are God’s representatives, whether they know God or not.


*Let us not forget that nothing can separate us from the love of Christ nor silence us from the good news of the gospel, not persecution nor famine nor sword nor presidents nor politics nor demons nor all the powers of hell, nor anything else in all creation.


For the Kingdom is His,

        the Power is His

        the Glory is His


Forever, world and time





The Beautiful Truth about Loving and Killing and Eating

I don’t know if you will believe me, but I love deer. I love our Sitka black-tailed deer. Not in the abstract, but in the daily presence of the four deer, two does and their fawns, who lived on our island all summer, bedding down each night just outside my writing studio, grazing serenely as we walked past, just feet away. They share our paths. I spoke to them every day this summer. They are not afraid of us.

And then it is fall, and I do not speak to them. I come with a gun.

 But not for them. We did not hunt them, those mothers and babies. Just the lone bucks off on other beaches.               I know, you wonder—how can I be so cold? How can I kill such beauty? It is not easy. But, too, don’t we often kill what we love?



Duncan and I are simple hunters. We hunt out of a boat, the same boat we pick fish from. And we prowl not woods or hills or corn fields----we scan the beaches. When the snow hits, the deer move from the hills and mountains down to the beaches, to feed on kelp. And often to launch out into the frigid ocean to another island, another beach where more food might lie. They are swimming deer, these Kodiak deer.



This late December day, it was clear and cold, the wind at home, not stirring the sea, as usual. But a storm was coming, so Duncan and I knew this was the day to find our deer.


We traveled miles of winter beaches, huddled in our coats, thankful for the sun. We saw deer on every beach. There are too many this year. The winterkill would be high.


 This is not sport for us. Nor entertainment. Nor a hobby. Nor interior decorating---we don’t mount heads, horns or hides on our walls. This is about food. It’s about working for our own food. It’s about thinning the massive herds of deer, to lessen the winterkill.  It's about spending ourselves to feed ourselves. It’s about living in place, from what the land and sea and God provide.



And He did. By nightfall, at 4:30, we had the deer we needed. Now the real work began, the work of transforming a body into food.


It was cold in our warehouse at fishcamp. Just 18 degrees the first day. While we cut and diced and packaged, hour after hour, winter played its cold hand. We couldn't keep warm.



 As we cut, what did I see inside the harp of those ribs, the cave of those bones?  What do I see other times when I am bloodied with salmon, with cattle, when I am filleting the reddened body of a halibut? I see the marvel of muscles, ligaments, the purity of the meat. I see friends sitting around our long crowded fishcamp table passing platters of food. I see the eagles and gulls feeding on what we can't eat.  I see people being fed and filled and warmed.  




But my own hands and body cannot forget: Death is hideous and bloody.

We hold both truths on our plates, on our forks every time we lift food to our mouths: something has died to feed us.



This is the way this living world works. Some of you choose otherwise. You are vegetarians and vegans. I applaud you for practicing heaven now and here. And I too wish for the Garden again, when lions lusted after cantaloupe instead of antelope, when wolves chewed straw instead of chasing lambs, when not a single beast snapped at a mouse or gnat . . .  I too am hungry for no-more-dying.

But death is not wasted. My friend Ann Voskamp, in her essay in The Spirit of Food connects the moments around two tables when we remember and celebrate the bloodiest of all times, the  Eucharist.  “The agricultural act of eating food, like eating Christ, is no different: we eat, entering into death, and come back rejoicing. The daily eating of food is but a way of remembering death, a way of experiencing resurrection.  The living dead, we eat of the dead, and the miracle happens again: we revive.” 



 We are not cheap. We cost a lot, don't we?

On Sunday, in church, we will have communion.

Tonight, we are eating deer.

We are fed this miracle again.

We are revived.

Again. And again. 

(And always . . )











The Unforgivable Sin (Especially for Mini-van drivers like me)

So many rescues in Kodiak this week!! A fishing boat was adrift in 22 foot seas. The Coast Guard braved the 50 knot winds and rescued the fishermen off the boat. Then the Coast Guard ship, while attempting to tow the fishing boat, was disabled and adrift as well in gale-force winds and seas! Other cutters came and rescued them.


Danger. Near-death. Drama. (This is why so many reality TV shows are set in Alaska.)

But there's more: 

A few days later, a friend from church watched a car sail off the road at 55 mph and crash in the deep trench below, then burst into flames. My friend ran and without any concern for his own life, pulled the unconscious driver out of the flaming car. He saved his life. The headlines ran:



I know about rescues, too. I have been rescued from storms, from blizzards, from boats adrift on the ocean multiple times. Today, in an interview for Crossing the Waters, someone asked me, “Okay, so you live in Alaska. You have this exciting life and all these rescues. I drive a minivan and go the office and pick up kids all day. My life is boring. How can I get to know the real Jesus through my boring life?”

 I drive a mini-van too. (And it's 20 years old, hideously ugly and falling apart. Not quite this bad, but close  .. .)



But dear readers----THIS is the unforgivable sin: Boredom. Yes, I hunt and fish and have Alaskan adventures, but may I tell you about the greatest adventure of my week? Are you ready? Hold on!!

I took an elderly woman out shopping for a winter coat.


That's it. There were no flames or gale-force seas, but it was an adventure so grand, so miraculous it made me cry.


My friend Sophie (not her real name) was not doing well. The stresses of her life had eroded her memory and abilities. Just months ago she had been a vital, warm friendly God-loving woman who always greeted me with joy. Today she barely recognized me. Her eyes were wide, sad and clouded. She did not respond to my pleasantries. She didn't want to talk.But she knew she needed a coat. And she knew she wanted to go to the local consignment shop. I was dubious. The chances of finding the right size coat that she liked at a consignment shop in Kodiak were slim indeed.


We shuffled in slowly together, my arm in hers. The saleswoman, “Pam,” greeted us warmly, recognizing Sophie. But Sophie did not remember her. We asked Sophie her size and whether she wanted a short or a long coat. She said her size quietly and then motioned to her knees. Pam brightened. “I think I have a coat just that size that came in a few days ago. It’s in the back room. I’ll go get it!”  I followed her, and in a whisper, Pam asked what had happened to Sophie. Then she confided,  “I was saving this coat for myself. But I think maybe God has another idea.”


The coat emerged. It was long, black, thick, warm, with a hood. It was perfect. And it looked like new. And it was only $40. The saleswoman and I raved about the coat as we helped Sophie put it on. We guided her to the fitting room. She looked at herself in the mirror with a blank expression. “Look, it fits perfectly! And see how warm it is! Do you like it?” I enthused, overwhelmed that this coat would be here.


She turned me to slowly. “No.”


“You don’t like it?”


“No.” She shook her head almost imperceptively. Then she turned from the mirror, stood a few inches from my face and said in a tiny voice, looking me full in the eyes, “I’m scared.”


My heart seized. I put my hand on her arm and leaned in close, speaking as softly yet as firmly as I could. “It’s going to be okay, Sophie. Your husband is getting better at the hospital.  You have friends helping you every day. And Jesus is with you, Sophie. He will not let you go. We won’t either.” I held her arm and held her eyes as long as she would let me. She looked so lost I almost started crying. 


Then Pam spoke up. “That’s right, Sophie. You have lots of friends. We’ll help you." She paused. "How about if I hold onto the coat for a few days. If you change yourmind it’ll be right here!”

“Yes, we’ll go to that other store, then we can come back if you want to. How does that sound?” I asked, gently.


She nodded. We gave the coat back. The saleswoman and I exchanged gestures of gratitude and hope, and Sophie and I shuffled out.


At the next store, we moved from rack to rack. I showed her jackets I thought maybe she would like, but each one was a “no.” I realized that Sophie was not able to make a decision today. But she needed a winter coat. But how could I force one on her?



Discouraged by this conundrum, I gave up. I finally urged her out of the store and back to the car. We drove back to the hospital where her husband was. Just before we got out of the car, Sophie broke the long silence. ‘That coat” she said, and then began reaching for her money.


“Would you like that coat, then, Sophie, the long black one?” I asked, hopeful.


“Yes,” she said softly as she gathered her purse to leave.


I went back the next day the moment after the store opened and claimed the coat. The shop owner, on hearing the coat was for Sophie, gave a further discount.


I don’t know if you believe in God or not, or if you believe in the stars, or luck or random chance. But I have seen God at work in so many places and so many ways. The stars don’t care about Sophie. But God does. That coat came in and Pam tucked  it away for herself until that moment when Sophie came---and Pam and I knew God had sent that coat for her. For her, one of his lambs who is cold and scared right now. This is what God does every day. He brings friends to comfort. He dresses his lambs and keeps them warm. No detail is too small. No one is beyond the scope of his mercy. And I got to be there to see this beautiful provision.


Boring? Jesus came to rescue us from a boring self-serving life. No matter who you are and where you live, in a crowded urban highrise, in the suburbs, in your mini-van filled with kids, on a dirt road in rural Virginia, on a fishing boat in Alaska: every day we say “Yes” to following Jesus, we launch out into adventures, storms, dramas and miracles. “Love your enemy” (boring?) “Forgive your offender” (boring?), Show mercy to the woman who doesn’t like you, take dinner to your sick friend, go visit your cranky neighbor in the nursing home, stage a Bible play for kids . . .   All of this, any of this is as real, as exciting, as miraculous, as life-saving as pulling a driver out of a burning car.





Jesus has rescued you so you can rescue others!


(Bye Bye boring life!)


What adventures have you been part of lately?






The Ten Best (and Worst?) Posts of 2016





It's a wind-stormy day today in Kodiak, when the wind lifts the ocean like a veil, spinning me around. The calendar tells me as well: it is time to remember.

 This first week of January, who can resist the retrospective “Top Ten” lists which take account of even things that can't be counted? (For a shortcut to all things best and worst, try this from Time magazine, the Top 10 of Everything, 2016 .

 In the spirit of imitation, enumeration and retrospection, I humbly offer my own, as determined not by me but by YOU---by the most comments, email notes and social media shares. 

Perhaps I should also include "My 10 Worst Posts of 2016"? My worst writing is anything that emerges from obligation, resentment, small-mindedness, a desire to impress, and/or a beat-the-clock kind of panic. I try to eliminate those kind of words before they're posted, but I'm sure some sneak by. Feel free to contribute your nominations for that category! (smiley face---sort of.) 

Here they are. 



Why Your Sin Makes You Perfect 

 You got a dark sinful heart and you know it? Welcome in, Brother! Come on down, sister! Join this boatload of sinners! (See why your sin makes you perfect for God.)






When the New Year Storms In

"We are all  in the same boat in a stormy sea, and we owe one another a terrible loyalty." 





For All Insomniacs & Artists After Midnight Besotted with Their Brilliance

Answering the age-old question: Why are we so brilliant at 3 a.m. and so painfully average when we awake? 





180 Packs of Gum: Shopping the Warehouses of the World

 The antidote to our obsession with shop-till-you-drop   Buy-Now-Pay-Later,  Super-Stuff-Me,  Pay-Less-and-Shop-For-More gigantic ground-to-sky warehouses of STUFF.




Stop Trying to Make Your Kids Happy!!

How to parent our kids toward REAL happiness.






Extravagance and Exhaustion

When we are called to love and serve so many, how do we keep going?



A Party for Words and Laying Down My Idol

How do we know we’re doing what God asks of us?




Why is Some “Christian Art” So Terrible?

There’s bad art everywhere, but how can we make sure that our art is worthy of our calling?




The Trouble with Wine, Body and Blood


Christ gave his life, which is to say Christ gave his ankles, hands, back, clavicle, knees, wrists, neck, forehead. He gave his hunger, his thirst, his cramping legs, his aching lungs. Christ gave his breath, his spit, his skin, his blood.   WHY does this matter to us?




Surviving Your Island of Grace

When I felt like I could no longer survive my faraway island in Alaska, here is what I finally learned. 



Next week, maybe I should post the Top 10 Comments from YOU, beloved readers and writers!???   You all share such wisdom with me. When I read your comments, I often stop, sniffle, cover my hands in wonder, thank God,  pray for your blessing and good.         

Thank you.


May God continue to make this space a holy place where all are welcome, where all open their hearts to Him who made us and loves us.


Hunting the Albino Eagle

We did not go to our fishcamp for eagles. Two days after Christmas we flew in the bush plane across Kodiak Island, over heavy-snowed mountains and then rode in a frigid winter skiff not for eagles, my constant neighbors, but-----for deer. (I will tell of that hunt later!)


Bald eagles are our messy crows, they with their haunting and hovering over anything dead or dying. They are thick as fleas on Kodiak and on Harvester Islands, their screeches like rusty hinges we hardly even notice. But I do. I with my camera still notice, still watch and catch them close, and far, and in between. I cannot help it. (VIDEO: Here an immature is feasting on the remnants of our deer. Watch for the dogfight near the end.)




This winter trip to Harvester held plenty of astonishments. I will share one with you here.

At the end of the year, the very end, when I am hunting for words to help us all onward, into another calendar, into another cycle of another year, without fear or dread, without apathy or ennui, without boredom or alarm, without terror or horror----I am also hunting for deer to fill our freezers. And I am watching eagles, all the regular customers, and then this appears, something I have never seen before:



I could not get a good shot---my zoom lens wasn’t working, but there it was among all the other brown immature eagles:


A white eagle. An albino eagle. Ornithologists will not be so dramatic, they will call it “dilute plumage,” or “leucistic” plumage, but I know wonder when I see it.  I have watched eagles closely for 40 years. My husband for 50 years and never, never this. 


In the bird world, albinos occur 1 in every 1,800 experts say. But no one I know in Kodiak has seen such an eagle. 

I believe in miracles, but I don’t believe in signs, and I’m a skeptic about visions, but here is this eagle on my beach for two days, and I cannot get enough of him. He haunts the beach for two days, soaring over my head, beside me. 



And these other eagles are so winter-hungry they let me walk close enough to nearly touch then. This daily eagle-watcher and dweller held her breath for hours  . . . 



I don’t believe in clichés either, but what do I do with these eagles whose wings nearly bat my face as I ponder the coming of another year? I will not miss this. I will not turn from the obvious, however familiar and rote we say it. Remember those words we sang 1000 times as kids and teens? But remember this, the larger frame for those words from Isaiah 40:




“To whom then will you liken Me,
Or to whom shall I be equal?” says the Holy One.
 Lift up your eyes on high,
And see who has created these things,
Who brings out their host by number;
He calls them all by name,
By the greatness of His might
And the strength of His power;
Not one is missing.

Why do you say, O Jacob,
And speak, O Israel:
“My way is hidden from the Lord,
And my just claim is passed over by my God”?

Have you not known?
Have you not heard?
The everlasting God, the Lord,
The Creator of the ends of the earth,
Neither faints nor is weary.
His understanding is unsearchable.

 He gives power to the weak,
And to those who have no might He increases strength.

 Even the youths shall faint and be weary,
And the young men shall utterly fall,
 But those who wait on the Lord
Shall renew their strength;
They shall mount up with wings like eagles,
They shall run and not be weary,
They shall walk and not faint.




 Do you believe it? I believe it. Because in all the decades of my life, God has kept this promise.

And He reminds me now, even as I quake on the precipice of starting a new book (which petrifies and overwhelms me) . . . 

And as I pray for my children and my suffering friends, 


If, after 40 years, God can bring a never-before-seen albino eagle onto my beach,


If the eagles can launch themselves without fear every day into the frigid wind,


If God can feed his hungry tired creatures in the middle of winter,  


If God knows the fall of every sparrow and the rising of every eagle,


then surely WE can enter this New Year


With confidence,


With Attention,


with Courage, 


With Anticipation,


 With Wonder and Astonishment:


What will God DO in and through US this year? What will He do HERE in this space? What wonders will He perform there in your house, your church, your city?


I can hardly wait to find out!





Starry Night, Kodiak Harbor Lights

It was worth waiting a year for this night. It was clear and cold and still, this night, already dark by 4:30. Hundreds came from their warm houses, filling cars with their bundles of coats and gloves. Coming to the Harbor, to the boats that fill our city of Kodiak and make a city of their own.



james brooks

james brooks


Christmas is contagious like this. It does not want to be contained in little boxes, even in our houses. It keeps spilling out . . . 





Who knew it could climb rigging like this----and twine around reels that sink lines into the deep? Who knew such colors could light up the waterfront night?





We strolled down each finger, drank hot chocolate, took photos of our neighbors’ boats. We  walked arm in arm. Stopped to talk. To get a (chocolate) kiss from Father and Mother Christmas . . .  






And wasn’t it true, that the brightest light of all came from each other, the way we passed, talked, held hands, smiled at each other . . .



All of this a hint, just a glint, a tiny star that hovers over what we all need even when we cannot name it . .. .

but even there among the boats, the story shines . . . 



For this is why he was born that day, that long ago day in a cave, not a harbor.

And because of him, every place still tells his story,  

and everywhere the story plays,


it  lights the way.




Friends, how can I say all that I wish for you?  

This Christmas season, may we all

“give glory to God in the highest,"

and on earth, may his peace and favor rest

on all who love him. 



The Story of St. Nick: A True-Life Dead-Dog Kodiak Christmas Miracle

I’ll tell you upfront: this is going to be one of those heartwarming holiday stories about a family dog---but this one is true. It involves a dog, a dentist, my kids, an accident, a Christmas show, and so much more! If you're tired of fake Christmas miracle stories---this one's for you!




         The dog’s name wasn’t actually St. Nickolas; it was Sir Nickolas. The pup was knighted shortly after birth, I believe, by its 20-something owner. The dog came through our doors unexpectedly. I did not ask for this dog. I did not want a dog. Maybe later, but now I had four rowdy babes, one just a few weeks old, and the others older, and louder and always up to mischief. After my son's birth, I had no idea how I could care for four little humans. And then came the dog. Surprise!


My husband was rescuing him, the story went. Or rather, rescuing a young man. It was the strange-but-true case of a friend of a friend who was getting married, but his bride loved her dog (St. Nickolas) more than her groom. Friends staged an intervention shortly before the wedding, and I got the dog.


How can children resist a fluffy new playmate, especially one that looked like a miniature version of Lassie? (He was a Sheltie). Quite easily, it turns out. Sir Nickolas wasn’t interested in my children, unless they were moving about, which was most of the time. Their movement---running, playing, throwing balls and household items---signaled his movement: running in circles around them barking. Barking. And that was it. Otherwise he ignored them, as he ignored me. Ignoring an entire household can keep a dog busy, but Nickolas had time for lots more. He repeatedly peed on my bed, ruined my levelor blinds, and escaped often to play in traffic, which assured regular phone calls from furious neighbors and big money to spring him from the pound. But this was not his worst offense. 


Picture a middle-aged woman with a daughter and three boys, ages 2 months to 7 years old. Picture twice-a-night feedings, undereye circles, the daily schedule of a CEO. One thing kept her going----afternoon naps. As soon as she got the 3 year old and 5 year old safely in bed and then the baby snuggled in his crib, she ran to her bed and collapsed, breathing thanks-be-to-God in anticipation of a few moments of sleep. Now enter the not so saintly saint nick (whose name I refuse to capitalize at this point in the story.)


Naptimes were his favorite moments to exercise his one great gift: barking. I tried everything to make him happy and silent, but nothing worked. Nor was Duncan moveable. He liked the dog and wouldn’t consider giving him away. Desperate, I spent “naptimes” devising (humane) ways to get this dog out of my life. Then not-so-humane. Until finally, two months later, near Christmas, utterly sleepless, I fell into imprecatory psalms and fervent, though guilty, prayers. I had never before prayed for the disappearance of any living thing.


A week went by. This night was our school’s Christmas program. The elder two were in it, one had a speaking part. We couldn't miss! We scurried around excitedly getting ready, but Duncan took sick. He remained in bed upstairs, knocked out with a stomach bug. Luckily I had help: a friend was visiting for the whole week, and this night, he was wrestling on the floor with Noah, 5, while I put dinner away.  Suddenly I heard “Owwwww!” Ron was now flat on the carpeted floor, holding his jaw painfully. I ran to his side, helped him up. He shuffled to the couch, sat down, all the while holding his jaw.

         “What happened?” I asked, alarmed.

           “My jaw. Noah hit it. It’s out of place,” he spoke, muffled, through his hand.

        Ron was holding his jaw in pain; overhead, Duncan was noisily throwing up, the baby was crying and we were supposed to be at the Christmas program in 15 minutes. I stood paralyzed.

Then, the doorbell rang. What? Who could it be? 

I swung the door wide, then, incredulous, “Jim! What are you doing here?” It was our friend who lived in Anchorage, a plane ride away. But we hadn’t seen Jim for 5 years. Suddenly he’s on our doorstep, tonight?

“I’m in Kodiak to go deer hunting. I thought I’d stop by and surprise you!” he smiled.

The best thing about Jim at that moment was not just that he was here at my door, but-----Jim was a dentist.




“Come in, quick! A friend just got his jaw knocked out of its socket. Can you help?”

 He strode into the room, placed his hands on suffering Ron’s face, made a few subtle movements, and soon Ron was sighing with relief.

I turned to Jim, astounded, when the doorbell rang again. What was going on here tonight? I never had visitors.

It was my neighbor, Gretchen. Gretchen had two labs who terrorized me and my car every time I came and went. But something was wrong. Her face was white, her eyes pinched and red. “Leslie!” she said ominously, struggling for control.

“What? What happened?”

“I’m . . . I’m afraid it’s Nick.” She bit her lip.

My heart leapt with hope. “Nick?” I said, my voice rising.

“Yes. I’m afraid he was . ….  he was hit by a car.  I’m sorry. He’s gone.” She sucked in her breath, looking carefully at my face to make sure I was okay.

 “Ohhhhhh, that’s terrible, “ I lied.

 “He’s . ..  ummm, lying right near the turnout. I don't think he suffered.” She sniffed and wiped her nose.

My heart burst with shock and wonder. But I arranged my face into a mask of sorrow. “Thank you so much for letting me know, “ I said slowly. I looked meaningfully into her teary eyes, shook my head as though grieving, thanked her again and softly closed the door behind me.

Jim looked at me with deep concern. Our dog had just been killed. I didn’t want to scare him. I acted sad. But I was genuinely confused. I have a house guest, a vomiting husband, a crying baby, a recovering friend, and now a dead dog on my hands just minutes before the Christmas program started.

 But I wanted to dance. I wanted to shout the doxology then and there. My prayers!



And---what about the kids? The kids didn’t care a figgy pudding about Nick, but I decided not to stir the night up any further. I would wait and tell them after the program. But what now?

Jim put a hand on my shoulder. “I’ve got this, Leslie. You go on to church and I’ll find the body and take care of him,”  he said kindly.

I blinked with wonder yet again. I could have cried. Could this be so? In a few minutes we would go to our church to celebrate a God who came down as a babe to deliver his people. God-in-the-flesh who became God-on-the-cross to deliver us from sin, from death. And does God deliver his people from errant dogs? Does God deliver his people from broken jaws? He DOES!


The miracle is this. The dog did NOT come back to life, but I did. In a dark season of my life God heard the prayers of an exhauasted mother and came near, on a Christmas night, in a barreling car, in a wandering dog, in the nick of time, in an angel of a man sent to a faraway door to heal the sick and bury the dead.


God came that near. God came that far.


Is there anyone He cannot find?





(If this made you smile---would you share  this post of hope with others? Thank you!)


P.S. Just so you know, I have always loved dogs. Just not that one, and not then. When my 6 kids were mostly grown, Sophie joined our family. She is our delight and goes with me everywhere! 


Interview with the Incomparable Luci Shaw & 10-Book-Giveaway!

How do I thank you all for your response to my last post? Your generosity has overwhelmed me! And now, may I give back? As promised, ten books will be given away, with your help. AND---here is the promised exclusive interview with Luci Shaw (age 87), recorded on Harvester Island this fall during the Harvester Island Wilderness Workshop. But--for those of you who don't know Luci, here's a tiny sketch.


Luci Shaw is something of an icon in Art and Faith circles. I can't convey her whole amazing life in letters, but the thumbnail version is this: She’s a poet, with 11 volumes of wondrous poetry as well as a handful of beautiful groundbreaking books on creativity, the life of faith, the theology of Art (among others!) All are significant contributions to our understanding and practice of creativity. I'm grateful to Luci for many reasons, but one is her rescue of poetry from Church bulletins, releasing those poor strangled over-rhymed words back into the wild to range throughout God’s creation as freely as the Holy Spirit. 


photos by Luci Shaw

photos by Luci Shaw


And all along the way, Luci has mentored uncountable people stumbling toward the Cross. 

Here, Luci is, as always, thoroughly honest, thoroughly herself. She shares how she started writing; Clyde Kilby’s role in her career. She critiques Christian publishing; shares her spiritual awakening at age 86 and how that’s impacted her writing life. She speaks about death and dying. And, what body part does she choose to describe her role in the kingdom of God? You won’t believe it.

 Enjoy these 30 minutes with this wise and gracious woman, whom I love.



Now, who can I send Crossing the Waters to? Do you know someone who needs a fresh encounter with Jesus, who is weary with life, who is ready for a adventurous trip to Alaska and the Sea of Galilee? And---you know they won't order a book---or they cannot. Would you email me their name and mailing address and I'll send out as many as I can. (leslieleylandfields@gmail.com) 

(And If someone has a very special need, let me know, and I may be able to send along some Wild Harvest salmon and jams as well . .. ) 


Now may the God of hope fill you

with all joy and peace in believing,

that you may abound in hope,

through the power of the Holy