y-o-u-r welcome.

So… do you remember that time I whined loudly on facebook about the grammar of the entire Internet last week? It went something like this:

Are we being punked? It feels like the entire internet did a search and replace and every “your” is now “you’re” and every “their” is now “they’re.” I’m looking up verses on multiple sites and every single translation that has either “your” or “their” has it wrong. YOU CAN’T DO THAT TO THE BIBLE. (Also, every blog post, magazine article, and news story I clicked on last night while waiting for kids to sleep had issues with those words.)

GAH!!!!!

Too early for April Fools’ Day. What in the world?

Let me back up a little.

I’ve been a bit of a grammar nazi for most of my life. I try not to be obnoxious about it, but I generally notice errors. A couple weeks ago, I started seeing them in places that they really shouldn’t be. Places that should know better, like my email’s news site and Intuit.com (think Turbo Tax and Quicken.)

I took crappy cell phone pictures and sent very ragey texts to my sweet husband, who completely understands my hatred of misused apostrophes. The one that really killed me was this one:

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Amazon. AMAZON.

Somehow this hit me as the worst kind of bastardization of the language. If anyone should be able to afford editors that know what they’re doing, Amazon should. I don’t know. It made me SO MAD.

But I kept it inside.

For a little while.

And then last week, I was writing a post about my (then) upcoming ultrasound and all my crazy fears. I was working so hard to point myself back to the One who can calm those fears (and who commanded me to “fear not.”) I had some verses in mind, but I try to link to Bible sites so that you can check my hermeneutics if you want to. I don’t ever want you to take my word for it when you could instead take His.

And when I went to both biblehub.com and biblegateway.com (my go-to sites), both of them had your/you’re, they’re/their/there and it’s/its problems in every single instance and every single translation. I lost it. And by “lost it,” I definitely mean “posted a very angry rant on facebook.”

A couple days later was date night. Andrew and I had a lovely time out, and on the way home, I finally remembered to ask him about it. “Did you do something to the internet?”

Yes. Yes, he did. Apparently, my loving husband found (as in went looking for, not stumbled upon) some Chrome extension that switched every usage of its/it’s, your/you’re, and rotated uses of there/their/they’re. (Also replaced every use of “less” with “fewer,” which I didn’t come across.)

In that moment, I wasn’t sure whether his ability to punk me in the most subtly effective way possible was evidence that he was the best husband in the world or the worst.

In either case, it was pretty clear that a counterattack was required.


 

Many months ago, I stumbled across an Instagram photo of someone’s color-coordinated bookshelf. I thought it was beautiful. I also knew that it was strictly out of the question in my house. Andrew would go insane. He’s touch color blind, and he organizes things by category in his brain (and certainly not by color), so he’d never find anything.

So, naturally, I laughingly showed him the picture, with the qualification that of course I knew this would never, ever happen in our house because he’d hate it.

He nearly made me sleep on the couch for “impure thoughts about the bookshelf.” (He was kidding. But only kind of.)

So obviously…

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I picked a day I knew he’d be out late and went to work. The girls gleefully helped (I definitely just told them I was reorganizing, not that I was messing with Daddy) and we spent ALL. DAY. We have nearly 40 feet of shelf there, and a fair bit was stacked two deep.

(And, yes, I notice how nerdy it sounds that my husband and I have prank wars involving bad apostrophes and bookshelf organization.)

We sorted, we cleaned. It was a crazy mess, and it cut off access to the bathroom. (Whoops.) I even called in backup from a local “move a body” kind of friend. (As it turned out, I did finish just before she came, so we just got to hang out. Win!)

At one point, Jenna decided it was way too dusty and insisted on a dust mask, which she made with string and a styrofoam cup:

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The girls loved it. Jenna gushed on and on… “It’s so pretty! Daddy’s going to be so surprised and SO pleased!!!” Oh, he’s gonna be surprised!

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It is pretty.

(Also, we own a LOT of blue books.)

Now… we have a rule in our house that you can’t pull any pranks you’re not willing to help clean up, so this actually represents a tw0-day commitment to the silly bookshelf. (But I love my husband, so it really won’t stay.) (Andrew: if you’re reading, weekend after Easter?)

So I got done, put kids down, cleaned things up, and awaited his arrival.

10:30 pm, Andrew walks through the door. He takes a few minutes futzing with the fire, then he looks up. “What did you do to my bookshelf???”

I answer, with a very satisfied smile, “Y-O-U-R welcome.”

He thinks for a beat. I’m pretty sure I see it all register. “…You suck.”

And that, my friends, is love in real life.

 


This post is part of my series, 31 days of speaking the truth. You can find the whole list of them here on the first post of the series.


liturgy of home

I’m writing this Saturday night to publish Sunday morning, which marks the shortest buffer I’ve had yet this month. Andrew is out running sound for a group called The Rad Trads at the UAF Pub until midnight (later?) and the house is finally quiet. After feeding the kids mac and cheese (blue box) while they watched Moana (a special dispensation for a daddyless Saturday night), the big two asked for a sleepover on the back deck. Now, we’re mid-20s overnight (Farenheit) here, but I’m tired and sick and thus not really in my right mind, so I said yes, sort of. They could stay out on the back deck as long as they did not come in and out and did not fight and they could not stay out past my bedtime. I put the little two in their respective bottom bunks and looked at the living area—living room, dining room, kitchen.

It was wrecked.

This isn’t a shock—I’m not at my best today, plus Andrew has been out since late afternoon. I wasn’t on top of making the kids clean up between things. I have not, in fact, been on top of much, unless you count the futon. But this isn’t a way I can comfortably go to bed (more accurately, it’s not a way I can reasonably wake up on Sunday morning) so I started setting things right.

“Setting things right.” You might not notice, but that marks a subtle change in the way I frame housework. “Catching up” or “managing the mess” or “damage control”? Sure. I’ve lamented at length the quotidian nature of housework—the way nothing I do manages to stay done for more than 24 hours. Most of my tasks have a shelf-life of less than that: kids need to be fed three times a day. Bottoms need wiping, areas need tidying, limits need enforcing over and over, all day every day. But my attitude towards some of these mundane jobs has been shifting lately.

Madeline L’Engle talks about true art as drawing cosmos from the chaos: taking disorder and finding or creating meaning out of it. Putting things in order. I’m not sure sure there’s a more elegant way of describing every aspect of homemaking, and she equates it with art.

Since February, I’ve been thinking and reading about spiritual disciplines and liturgical worship. Disciplines and liturgy are effective because it trains our hearts by directing our habits, but liturgy is a lot broader than I ever thought. Really anything I do repeatedly with my heart pointed to the Lord has the potential to become liturgical worship.

And so it is with housework. While I’ve certainly allowed the repetitive nature to breed resentment and contempt, it’s slowly morphed to become worship. It’s a chance to bring order from chaos in one small area for a few minutes and that mirrors God’s work in the tiniest way.


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This post is part of my series, 31 days of speaking the truth. You can find the whole list of them here on the first post of the series.

reentry: field notes

I got home at 2am yesterday morning and I got home sick. I’d been coming down with it early in the week, but the funny thing about getting a cold on vacation is I get to rest. Yesterday, after a good sixish hours of rest, I woke feeling like I’d been run over. Debilitating headache plus a full-service cold meant we would definitely not be going to Classical Conversations. Jenna came home halfway through the day with a fever. This morning, Lilly woke up with one.

This sounds like the worst. Reentry plus sick kids plus sick mama? No thank you.

Bizarrely, this is the best reentry I’ve ever experienced.

I’m trying to dissect it because reentry is always really hard and if I can duplicate this, I’d sure like to.

My expectations are down.

For me, of course—I feel pretty bad, so I look at the laundry and the unpacking and the schoolwork and kind of shrug my shoulders. If I get to it, awesome. Today’s about keeping kids alive. The rest of it will still be there tomorrow.

Also, I’m asking less of my kids.

This isn’t a sustainable way to live all of life, but I’m being much more choosy about the battles I pick. Let’s not worry about plowing through history and science. Also, I’m going to cancel that appointment I made a few weeks ago. How about I just read you all picture books instead? As a bonus, we get some snuggle time we’ve all been missing this last week.

I’m more present.

I can’t be thinking about the next thing or noticing the chores I’m leaving undone. The ziploc full of travel liquids that are covered in goo from one exploded bottle? No. I don’t have the capacity to even consider any of it. I can handle exactly one thing at a time, and very slowly, and that thing is whatever is right in front of me.

Weirdly, I don’t think I’m getting any less done than usual.

I know, I know, all the productivity research says I accomplish more when I am not trying to do a bunch of things at once, and I think being sick is forcing me to prioritize differently than I ordinarily do. The laundry is getting done. The dishes are caught up (enough). The kids and I are fed. I’m writing a piece to publish in the morning, for crying out loud.

I don’t have any idea if I can repeat this next time I take a trip. I don’t even know if it makes any sense, to be honest—my brain is not at its best. (I just had to stop and think about whether that “its” needs an apostrophe or not in that last sentence, which is a flag for me—maybe I should not make big decisions today.) I do know I need to write it down or there’s no chance I’ll remember it tomorrow, let alone next time I return from a trip.


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This post is part of my series, 31 days of speaking the truth. You can find the whole list of them here on the first post of the series.

five for friday, volume 3

…and now for something a little lighter…

I spent six days in Santa Barbara visiting friends on my own. There was much rejoicing and much napping, sometimes in the sun like a cat.

kid quote:

This is an oldie (see: out of town sans kids)… Lilly was twenty-four hours old.

Me: Girls. Get off your sister.
J: We’re not on TOP of her.
K: We’re covering her.
J: We don’t want others to see her!

book:

Inspired by Rachel Held Evans. This is the first RHE I’ve read and, in line with yesterday’s conversation on fear-based clean and safe Christianity, this is one that would have been off the reading list some years ago because she comes to some theological conclusions I don’t. BUT she did point me to the God who is good, noble, right, pure, lovely, admirable, and praiseworthy. Beautifully written.

recommendation:

I listened to all available episodes of the podcast Last Day. They zoom in on the day someone died (this season, of opioid overdose) and zoom out to tell how they got there. Real stories, told with empathy and respect for the families and the addicted. This is not an “out there” problem.

moment of happiness:

I biked around Santa Barbara for the most part, because my Airbnb hostess also rents ebikes and so I skipped renting a car this trip. I biked half an hour to Butterfly Beach, sunscreened up, laid on my face on a towel, and slept for an hour. It was bliss.

little bit of nature

Dear SB:

Thank you so much for being full of lovely flowers, trees, succulents.

Sincerely,
Robin


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This post is part of my series, 31 days of speaking the truth. You can find the whole list of them here on the first post of the series.

clean and safe Christianity

I have no use for fear-based faith anymore.

Oh, I used to, for sure. I’d make up all kinds of rules about which things were safe and which music I definitely didn’t listen to (and which I would listen to but not purchase…) Am I allowed to watch Smurfs? Read Harry Potter? I’m not knocking discernment in media consumption, but I wasn’t doing it to be discerning, I was doing it to be good. It all gave me this illusion that I could make myself acceptable and keep myself that way.

The phrase seems like a punchline to a bad joke: fear-based faith. An obvious oxymoron. But it’s so common (or perhaps just in my little evangelical subculture?) that I sometimes forget how absurd it is.

Fear-based faith starts with the assumption that we’re doing okay, so long as nobody screws it up. I mean, yeah, everyone is a sinner, but we have our sin problem managed right now with our quiet times and our praise choruses. But it’s important not to let “wolves in sheep’s clothing” into our midst. That guy who has some doctrine that doesn’t square with our reading of scripture? We won’t read his books—they might lead us into error. The group from the church with some questionable theology? We definitely won’t sing a word of their music, regardless of the actual content, for fear their views will infect our relatively healthy space.

The problem, of course, is the premise: we are not “relatively healthy” and, aside from the Bible itself, there is no material that meets the inerrancy criterion. We’re all a mess, and any music or books or teaching or anything that isn’t the Bible is going to be from human origin, and whoever that human is… they’re a mess, too. So we end up drawing these arbitrary lines around whose doctrine is “too far” and whose is “close enough” and it’s all completely incoherent.

I cannot hold any human author/artist/theologen to the standard of inerrancy. To do so is to put them in the place of God, so… idolatry.

In the preface to Madeline L’Engle’s Walking on Water, Sarah Zarr makes this point:

Strangely, as much as I heard the word secular as a label on things that should be avoided by good Christians, I don’t ever remember hearing the word sacred as its opposite. Instead, I heard the words clean and safe. to describe what was not deemed worldly. Clean and safe. How puny those words are. What a pitiful reduction of the grandeur of the created world and its inhabitants. What a sad commentary on the church’s understanding of the God of the universe.

We were never meant for clean and safe. We were meant for sacred. Sometimes sacred overlaps with clean and safe, often not.

So rather than clean and safe (or from a source that is without error), might I propose true, noble, lovely, pure, admirable, excellent, right, and good? Does it direct me to the God who is without error?

I am over “fear of contamination” as a justification for any choice I make.


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This post is part of my series, 31 days of speaking the truth. You can find the whole list of them here on the first post of the series.


how I study the Bible

A friend of mine asked, after I’d published this post on spiritual practices, how I did word study and inductive study.

There are lots of people who say lots of things about this, and probably better than I will. Ordinarily I’d just direct the question that way, but October is long and I’m only halfway through it, so… sure!

Word study

When I have a topic I want to drill down into, this is how I go about it: I pull out my concordance (metaphorically—actually I open Blue Letter Bible on my phone) and search a word. Right now, I’m reading a tiny book by Beth Moore that’s based on a study of the word “pit”—how people get in them, stay in them, get out. I look at all the verses in the Bible with the word I’m searching, see what original-language words the various writers used. Is it always the same? Are there a couple different words? If there are different ones, what are the differences in nuance between them? I generally fall into a rabbit hole or two or three in this process, examining obscure stories I’d forgotten, looking at characters I want to know more about, etc. But by the time I’ve gone all the way through my list of verses and associated bunny trails, I have a fairly reasonable grasp on What the Bible Says About ____. If I want to or have reason to or if the results of my search were especially multifaceted, sometimes I’ll organize my thoughts on paper, but usually there’s not much call for it.

Inductive study

This is the form of study I do more frequently. I’ll pick a book of the Bible (frequently whatever Eric is preaching on at church) and dive in. I tend to use Precept upon Precept studies, but you don’t have to. Basically, it involves looking at the text, finding key or repeated words (often marking them, either in my Bible or, more frequently, on a double-spaced copy), seeing what’s there. In a study Bible (or in my Precepts study), there are cross-references to see what other books say about this event or this period in time. When I did a study of Esther this past summer, I kept a running list of what I knew about each of the characters, a list of details about each of the many feasts and the various decrees. I looked at the ways God (who is not mentioned) orchestrates events throughout. Frequently, this involves, again, pulling out the concordance or Bible dictionary to learn the nuances of the words being chosen. Sometimes (typically after I’ve done all the above steps) I wind up consulting commentaries. (Can I plug the BLB app again? It’s free! Concordance! Dictionaries! Cross-references! Commentaries! On your phone!)

In my regular life

Some people do this daily. When I order studies, they’re typically laid out as five days a week. I’ve tried to do this, but it hasn’t worked well for me. Rather than finding 20 minutes to half an hour a day for study, I do far better setting aside a couple hours one evening after bedtime to do it all at once. I find it takes the 20-30 minutes to just get my brain in a good space for this, so doing it daily is frustrating—it feels like drudgery for the first little bit, and then about the time I get into it, the day’s work is done. I think of both of these as analogous to “date night” study. My relationship with Andrew is enhanced by dates, but not sustained by them. Going out on dates every day would be fun, but not realistic. In the same way, I find a few hours once a week to be kind of the ideal blend of helpful and manageable.

This post doesn’t feel very exciting or story-driven, but I challenge you to try it—the Word of God is both.


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This post is part of my series, 31 days of speaking the truth. You can find the whole list of them here on the first post of the series.

Acing Motherhood (guest post at Kindred Mom)

Hello! I’m over at Kindred Mom today! Feel free to read on for part of my piece or click here for the whole thing right now (if you’re into instant gratification and stuff).


I grew up the oldest of five, so I knew all there was to know about mothering. I’d seen infancy. I lived all of my formative years watching (and helping, and “helping”) my mother take care of babies. I spent my teenage years babysitting and working at camp and serving in the church nursery and various kids’ programs.  I actually (annoyingly) read parenting books of all kinds well before any children arrived—I had this parenting thing NAILED DOWN. I was one of the last in my circle to have babies (I was a whopping 28), but no matter—I could talk parenting theory with great authority and depth.

And then I had my first baby, Jenna.

Usually, this would be the part of the story where we all chuckle together at how wrong I was and how I embarrassed myself with my know-it-all pre-kid attitude. But instead, Jenna reinforced everything. She didn’t throw me off. I remember looking around thinking, “Man, all my friends had this really difficult initiation into motherhood. I don’t see why it’s such a big deal.” I’m not proud of it, but there it is. A persnickety nap schedule was my only hint I didn’t have it all under control—and maybe not everything was mine to control—otherwise, I pretty much had the whole situation managed.

I had it so managed, we decided immediately to have another


(Head over to Kindred Mom to read about the inevitable faceplant.)


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This post is part of my series, 31 days of speaking the truth. You can find the whole list of them here on the first post of the series.

my best life

The clean black and white lines of the cafe stand in contrast to the dappled shadows on the wood floor of the trees as the midmorning sun streams through the wall of windows. The familiar din of low conversation is punctuated by the hiss of espresso machine and the clinking of mugs behind the counter. There’s a smell in the air I can’t quite place—the coffee is obvious, but there’s also eucalyptus and something else, probably from a plant I don’t recognize. There are a lot of those here. I sit at a small, square table across from Jill editing a post for tomorrow as she works on lesson plans. Jill and I are, by any personality indicator we’ve found, the same person, so sitting together and being introverts is the most comfortable and natural thing in the world. As I sit here immersed in beauty and comfort, I think, “I am living my best life right now.”

Immediately, the guilt hits me: This isn’t my best life! My real life has kids in it—a lot of them—and I wouldn’t trade them for anything! There are happy giggles and less-happy sibling fights and hugs and chubby hands and babies who have somehow turned into whole people with clever senses of humor and opinions about everything.

As I process more, though, I think the guilt was misplaced. This is my best life. The whole thing. It’s the one I have, so, by definition, it’s the best I’ve got. But also? It’s a really, really good one.

I don’t need to feel bad about enjoying time away from my “regular” life. When I’m home, my time is carefully organized around getting space away from my children. It’s not that I don’t love them (duh), but as an introvert (and a highly sensitive one, at that), I need to pull back a little in order to show up for them as their best mama. During the day, I have “bathroom breaks” for a few minutes here and there—usually about three before the shrieking begins—and nap time. Only one of my children actually sleeps during naps, but they all do quiet things—screens, often—so I can have some space of my own to think my own thoughts and get my own chores done. Each week, I have a morning where I get up at an unholy hour to go to the gym before arriving at Starbucks as soon after their opening (at 5) as I can manage. There’s a tiny chunk where I pay a 13-year-old to watch the two who are neither in school nor napping while I stay in my room for an hour and a half. Every other week, I get a Monday night “out,” which is usually spent hiding in my room again, because who wants to waste precious time driving somewhere? Not me.

Do I feel selfish about this?

Yes I do.

Am I being selfish?

I don’t know. Probably sometimes. But most of the time, I kinda doubt it. I know how I get when I haven’t had any space. It actually feels more like I haven’t had any air. Like I’m being suffocated under all these needs and noises and children and I love them and also I can’t breathe. It’s hard for me to love them well from this place.

So I try not to have to.

So here I am, sitting on the curtained-off porch at my Airbnb. I had the morning with Jill (at the coffee shop, among other places) and the rest of the day is mine to use as I please. I hardly know what to do with discretionary time, but the day stretches ahead of me, blank and full of options, all of them good.

Do I miss my kids?

Nope.

I miss my husband’s company, and I enjoy thinking about my kids. I love the photos I periodically get from whoever’s watching them now. I look forward to getting home to see them. But do I wish I was home with them? No. Do I wish they were here with me? Also no.

And it’s fine. I’ll probably miss them about the time I need to leave, and the long travel home will accentuate my desire to be there. Once I arrive, I’ll be better able to mother them well than I was when I left.

In the Wilderking trilogy by Jonathan Rogers, a phrase appears routinely:

Live the life that unfolds before you.

So that’s what I’m doing. And it’s my best life for sure.


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This post is part of my series, 31 days of speaking the truth. You can find the whole list of them here on the first post of the series.

remembering Elchanan

I met my nephew three years ago today. Amber had been in labor more than a day. After he was born, she called to see if I’d like to come meet him. It was about 10pm, but I hopped in my car and drove the ten minutes to the hospital. I think I called a friend or two along the way to let them know what was up and ask them to pray. My stomach hurt.

This wasn’t a normal, happy birth. My sister was more than 30 weeks pregnant when a normal prenatal appointment revealed no heartbeat. She went in for induction.

When we arrived at the hospital, his daddy was holding him. My mom was there, her in-laws, the other sister who lives in town. We were in the Women’s Center, but they had her tucked away at the end of a hall to give her privacy and a little bit of space from the other laboring mamas whose babies all wailed when they finally arrived.

My nephew did not wail.

The were trying to come up with a name. Michael Ray had been discussed, then discarded because of its similarity to Miley Ray, Amber explained in a hazy, drugged voice. She hadn’t slept in a day and a half. The labor had been difficult—more difficult than I’d have imagined for a baby just shy of three pounds—and in addition to birthing a tiny human, the meds made her really sick and she was doing the harder work of grieving the loss of that same child.

“Do you want to hold him?”

He was light. Two pounds and fifteen ounces. His fingers and toes were perfect. He was perfect. But he was too cold and too limp. I wanted to give this yet-unnamed little boy all the love I could pour into him in this tiny window I was able to hold him. Well, not him. His body. We passed him around—sister, Nana, Grandma and Grandpa… eventually my dad also came, toting this sweet boy’s big sister. She was three then. “He… doesn’t look very good to me,” she said in her little Minnie Mouse voice. We all chuckled at her honesty—because of his gestational age, his mouth and tongue were super red and it did look kind of funny. A photographer came by to get the only pictures my sister would have of him.

I remember the quiet compassion of the nurses. They offered just enough support without being overbearing. I remember the kindness of Annie, the photographer, getting some images to remember him by. I remember lots of tears and some nervous laughter—it was quite a crowd in that little hospital room, and none of us knew quite how to be.

I remember after a while, my youngest sister and I sensed it was time to go. They were going to need to take him soon, and we’d been there, taking turns holding this swaddled little baby for a while. We each got in our cars. She left, I think, and I sat in my car and wailed. I cried harder than night than ever before or since.

The weight of saying goodbye to my nephew who didn’t yet have a name was possibly the hardest thing I’ve ever done. And I’m not the mama.


There’s a weird expectation around miscarriage and stillbirth and maybe death in general… The pain is supposed to fade with time. The world keeps moving, and eventually it expects you to keep up with it, but no grief of mine has been so well-behaved. It hits in waves, sometimes allowing levity when least expected, other times crushing suddenly after years.


I’m trying to figure out why I’m even writing this. Mostly, I want to mark it. His life mattered. It left a mark. I will not forget him, and I’m thankful forever that Amber let me come hold him in those hours his body was available for holding.

He didn’t stay nameless, by the way. His parents named him Elchanan, Hebrew for “God has been gracious.”


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This post is part of my series, 31 days of speaking the truth. You can find the whole list of them here on the first post of the series.

such a time as this

He acted more like a cross between a spoiled toddler and a frat boy than the head of the world’s superpower. Unfortunate, but there it was. When things didn’t go as he wanted them to, he threw massive, public tantrums with permanent and far-reaching results. He spoke without thinking; he made foreign policy with little to no concern for consequences. He abused women, choosing them strictly for their ability to make his fratboy buddies jealous and horny. (Which wife was he on, anyway?) He used his position to advance personal vendettas. He was ready to stand by and watch as an entire race was exterminated—his was the only one that mattered at all, anyway.

Esther usually gets credit for saving God’s people from slaughter in ancient Persia.

(What spoiled despot did you think I was referring to???)

“For such a time as this” and all. Esther is commended for her bravery and Mordecai is venerated for not bowing to wicked Haman.

But the force behind the salvation of Israel is named nowhere in the book. The God of Israel was working in a very particular time through very particular (and frequently hilarious—occasionally slapstick) means to save the people he loved.

I love that Esther spoke up. I love how Mordecai wisely coached her through her years as queen of Persia.

But more? I love that God, though unnamed, carefully orchestrated events. A number of times throughout the book, it looked pretty bleak for either our heros or the entire displaced nation of Israel. Haman built a gallows (75 feet tall!) for Mordecai. Esther hadn’t been called to see the king in a month (he had countless concubines, remember) and the penalty for approaching him without summons could have been death. Haman, the baddie with a generations-deep grudge against Jews, and arranges for them to be exterminated throughout the far-reaching Persian empire—it included both the Jews in Persia and the ones remaining in Israel. (The king was not especially hard to convince. “You want to kill, destroy, and annihilate who now? Oh, never mind. Go for it.”)

This story has always been my favorite, and largely because of what it reveals about the God who is never named in the story. (Foremost: He has a great—sometimes dark—sense of humor.) Esther and Mordecai did what was appointed to them for such a time as this.

I don’t always see the Holy King of Israel working here in America. He’s evident in the beauty He’s created in the world and He’s creating in His people, but the news cycle makes it easy to forget He’s at work in everything. And I don’t want to equate America with Israel, certainly—we’re far more like Persia in this story. I don’t even want to equate believers within America with the Jews in Susa. We’re not in exile and not being persecuted (Starbucks releasing plain red cups at Christmas does. not. count.)

But our God is the same. He’s at work in the idiosyncratic and embarrassing details of the world we’re actually inhabiting. The bleakest circumstances set us up for the most dramatic reversals. He delights in revealing His glory through amazing pictures of redemption. I don’t know quite what he’s doing, exactly, but I know He’s making all things new.

That’s enough for me to keep being faithful, as best I can, in the cirumstances he’s appointed to me.

For such a time as this and all.


Disclaimer: this post was written from miles above the earth’s surface in an aluminum tube. It was either two or three in the morning (time zones are hard when you’re flying) and I was elbowing myself in the love-handles. Resemblances between the characters in this story and living, breathing humans are entirely coincidental. Maybe.


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This post is part of my series, 31 days of speaking the truth. You can find the whole list of them here on the first post of the series.