Welcome to The Beautiful Detour Travelogue. My name is Chris Craft. I am documenting my experience as I write and self-publish my first book, The Beautiful Detour. Subscribe and receive updates on the ups and downs, writes and wrongs of my journey from choosing a book title to self-publishing. My target launch date is November 3, 2026.

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I’m going to write a book!

My Table of Contents loitered in my desk drawer like a forgotten travel brochure. It called to me now and again, reminding me of the sprawling adventure the Lord had laid at my feet.

I had been a paid subscriber to Neera Mahajan’s “Author Circle” Substack for several months. Neera was offering a cohort titled “Substack to Book.” The course was available at no cost to paid subscribers.

I enrolled.

A passport to The Beautiful Detour was mine for the taking.

After attending the first session of the cohort, my journey was confirmed. My passport now had an entry stamp, and I felt at peace with this new project.

God had answered my earlier questions:

• Would a book project allow me to honorably steward the time He had given me to write on Substack? Yes!

• Would I still be able to publish new posts while putting a book together? Absolutely!

• With little experience in memoir writing and no clue how to self-publish, was I capable of completing this project? Most definitely!

I fished my notepad out of the desk drawer. The three-month-old Table of Contents had gone from daunting to directed.

The Beautiful Detour stopped being something I might write someday and became the book I was writing now.

See you next week!

From the Detour,

🌸Chris

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Welcome to The Beautiful Detour Travelogue. My name is Chris Craft. I am documenting my experience as I write and self-publish my first book, The Beautiful Detour. Subscribe and receive updates on the ups and downs, writes and wrongs of my journey from choosing a book title to self-publishing. My target launch date is November 3, 2026.

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Why did I decide to write a book?

I began my Substack nearly two years ago after a heartbreaking job loss.

I’ve authored nearly 50 posts bringing my readers with me on a journey of healing led by Jesus. From the depths of grief to the mountaintop of my growing writing ministry, the Lord had lovingly guided me on this beautiful detour.

Six months ago, I began praying about quilting a memoir from my patchwork of posts. For the most part, I had written chronologically as my journey unfolded before me. So, I had a linear story broken up into about 45 posts.

The first thing I did was pray. I asked God the following questions:

• Would a book project allow me to be a honorably steward the time He had given me to write on Substack?

• Would I still be able to publish new posts while putting a book together?

• With little experience in memoir writing and no clue on how to self-publish my book, was I capable of completing this project?

I took a notepad and mapped out a table of contents—meaning I wrote out the titles of my Substack posts in the order they were published.

Just laying the project out on paper instantly made the task real and daunting. So, I stuck the notepad in a drawer for three months.

Have you ever dreamed of turning your Substack posts into a book—and then backed off because the project seemed overwhelming? Tell me about it in the comments.

See you next week!

From the detour,

🏵 Chris

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I’ve been writing on Substack for nearly two years.

When I began back in November 2024, I had just lost the best job I’d ever had—working for my church alongside my husband.

I hadn’t written in over forty years, but the Lord revived a gift I had stored away. I started my Substack to write about how astounded I was to find myself at a bend in the road I had presumed would carry me all the way to retirement—or death, whichever came first.

I never imagined where that bend would lead.

Now I’m turning my Substack posts into a book called The Beautiful Detour.

I’ve never written a book before.

I know very little about self-publishing.

And that’s where you come in!

I know many of you are curious about what it takes to turn a collection of Substack posts into a self-published book, so I’d like to invite you to come along with me on this journey

Every two weeks, I’ll give you a behind-the-scenes update on the writing and self-publishing process—what I’m working on, what I’m learning, what’s going well, and probably a few things that aren’t.

And I’ll be asking for your input and your prayers along the way.

My goal is to publish The Beautiful Detour in November 2026—less than three months from today.

Between now and then, I could use as many cheerleaders, encouragers, and wise voices as I can get.

If you’re in for following me on my Beautiful Detour, leave me a comment and let me know.

My first behind-the-scenes update goes up this weekend.

Come take the detour with me. -💜 Chris

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It’s been nearly two years since I lost my “dream job.”

Many of my posts here on Substack have detailed my journey of hope and healing—walking with Jesus from a season of loss into a time of harvest.

The Lord has taken me on a most scenic route. He carried me through valleys, led me beside still waters and when I grew weary He counseled me as we lay in lush green pastures.

Through the miles and miles of my moaning and His mending, Jesus has taught me precept upon precept and line upon line. He is preparing me for the most fruitful time of my life.

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This morning, as the sun rose on an oh-so-California beach day, Jesus reminded me of an ancient story that took place seaside on the Galilee.

In the cool of the early dawn, the Lord was visiting His beloved disciples for the third time since His resurrection.

Peter, James, John, and several others had been fishing all night long and caught nothing. The weary and worn fishermen were preparing to return to shore empty-handed. Then a voice drifted across the water.

“Friends, haven’t you any fish?”

“No,” they called.

The disciples had no idea the man standing on the shore was Jesus.

He said, “Throw your net on the right side of the boat and you will find some.” They obeyed, and the catch was so enormous that they were unable to haul the net in.

“It is the Lord!,” John exclaimed. The moment Peter heard those words, he plunged into the water and hurried to shore.

After my husband and I lost our ministry partnership, I believed I had lost everything I treasured most. We had spent a quarter of a century building something beautiful together, only to have it abruptly taken away. My heart was as empty as the disciples’ nets that morning on the Sea of Galilee.

I was emotionally exhausted; convinced I had nothing left to give.

When my son suggested that I return to writing after forty years, I was apprehensive. The writing gifts I displayed as a teenager had been set aside for so long. I wasn’t sure I could access that part of my brain again.

But I heard a voice calling, “Throw your net on the other side of the boat.”

Like John, I instantly recognized Jesus.

Like Peter, I immediately plunged in.

I trusted the Lord. How could I not, when I had just lived out the most glorious chapter of my life?

The one thing I knew above everything else was that Jesus loved me.

I had every reason to believe that He had more for me. He will always do more than we could ever ask or imagine.

Jesus wanted to revive my words and use them for His glory.

The alchemy of trust and obedience produces astonishing results. For the disciples it meant a miraculous catch of fish.

For me, it meant a new purpose; a brand new chapter and the beginning of a ministry that has the potential to serve more people than I ever thought possible.

My writing has brought blessings my nets—and my heart—could scarcely contain.

My friend, if you are literally “lost at sea,” due to grief, loss or simply lack of direction, listen for the still, small voice drifting across the water.

You’re worn and you’re weary. Emotionally spent. Nothing left to give.

You may think you’ve tried everything, but don’t return to shore empty-handed yet. Ask the Lord for His wisdom. Ask the Holy Spirit to bring to remembrance all that God has taught you.

Trust and obey.

The answer might be as simple as throwing your net on the other side of the boat.

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I have a little potted Christmas tree in my backyard.

I bought it last December to merry up my garden during the holidays.

Two months after I bought the tree, I fell in a movie theater and broke my ankle.

It’s taken me nearly five months to recuperate from that injury.

Both bones in the ankle were fractured and a ligament was torn. My orthopedic surgeon installed a metal plate, six screws and something called a “tightrope” to reinforce my ligament.

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When my doctor removed my Frankenstein-like stitches, he asked “what’s your favorite color?”

He was about to cast my ankle in his office and was inviting me to choose the shade.

I immediately answered, “Purple-it’s the color of royalty.”

I wanted to honor the King who had so wondrously reconstructed my life after my job loss.

I knew that God would use this unfortunate accident for my good. I found it both fascinating and exciting that for five months I had nothing to do but sit around and write.

I’ve treasured the countless hours I’ve spent telling you my story.

With my words I’ve sent you picturesque postcards from the glorious journey I’ve taken with Jesus. From the vivid valleys to the miraculous mountaintops, I’ve signed each card with hope.

I’ve entered into a summer warmed with gratitude.

I am basking in the wonder of writing my first book, learning to walk again, and returning to the simple pleasures of mundane tasks.

Today I watered my backyard Christmas tree.

Gazing at my little spruce, I was reminded that like the tree, God’s promises are evergreen.

As I sprinkled the tree, Jesus transported me back to 2022.

During May and June of that year, I took long lunch breaks every Tuesday to take my daughter to physical therapy. She had been through a painful ordeal and was being treated at a nearby clinic.

I created a special playlist of worship songs to listen to as I waited for her hour-long appointments to end. I’d choose a shady parking spot, start the music and pray for the therapist to minister to my child’s needs.

One Tuesday as I prayed, the Lord prompted me to take notes.

I searched the car and found a barely used journal shoved into the glove box.

It was creased and some pages were torn, but it would do.

I was pleased to see that the journal had lined pages, since I figured Jesus would be dictating something to me.

But there were no words at first.

The Lord asked me to draw a Christmas tree.

I’ve never been an artist, so I just sketched a large triangle and added a star on top and a skirt on the bottom.

Jesus instructed me to draw several boxes under the tree representing gifts.

Then came the words.

He told me to search my heart and think of everything I’d ask Him to give my kids if I had the chance—not material items, but blessings.

Without hesitation, I filled in the boxes with words like Peace, Fearlessness, Clarity, Strength, Health, Wisdom and Purpose.

Pondering just how intimately the Lord knew my “mother’s heart,” I became teary-eyed.

My daughter was approaching the car. I quickly folded the journal and tossed it into the back seat. After work that evening, I put the journal in my dresser drawer filled with old greeting cards and forgot about it.

I unearthed that beat-up little journal recently and immediately remembered my drawing from four years ago.

I flipped the pages to find the tree picture I sketched. One by one I scanned the labeled gifts—the Christmas list I had created for my children.

Over the course of the past four months, God has presented each of my kids with every gift in my drawing!

When I broke my ankle in February, I was unable to accomplish my usual everyday household tasks. Grocery shopping, cooking, washing dishes and cleaning couldn’t be put aside while I healed. The rest of the family—the able-bodied—had no choice but to step up.

The first two weeks following my surgery were filled with anxiety, short tempers and Uber Eats.

We all began to realize that I had months of healing ahead of me.

As much as we loved the Munchie Meals at Jack in the Box we had clowned around long enough.

My family was amazing!

My husband took over laundry duties, my daughter became chief grocery officer and my son became a master chef.

We always have clean towels.

I used to order groceries five times a week. My daughter has saved us hundreds of dollars simply by being organized enough to shop only twice weekly.

My son has developed a passion for cooking and prepares dinner nearly every day.

Two months ago, when I was still hobbling around in my walking boot, I paused the family festivities to make a speech.

I told my son and daughter how grateful I was to them for all that had done since my injury. I added that I wasn’t surprised at the talents they had shown because I’ve known for decades they possessed marvelous gifts.

They just needed the opportunity to bless someone else with those gifts.

Then I asked them:

“Have you amazed yourselves?”

They both beamed proudly as they nodded and, in unison, replied, “Yes.”

Back to the presents under the tree in my 2022 journal sketch.

Peace, Fearlessness, Clarity, Strength, Health, Wisdom and Purpose.

When I became incapacitated, my son and daughter were forced to set aside their anxieties and strategize together to keep the household running.

They already had a purpose. Though they didn’t realize it at the time, the old “For such a time as this,” gauntlet had been thrown down.

God gave each of them clarity and wisdom.

He also provided them with emotional and physical strength to push through their limitations and put their plan into action.

Their accomplishments gave them peace.

Their consistency and resolve have made them fearless.

I know I’ve said this hundreds of times before, my friends, but God will never cease to amaze me.

With complete candor I can now confess that when I obediently drew the Christmas tree and presents in my journal, I didn’t think much about it. At the time I saw it as my own wishful thinking.

But God was planting seeds that wouldn’t bear fruit for years.

He has a farmer’s heart—He plants, He waters, and declares when the harvest will come.

Now I count on that fact.

The God who fulfilled every gift beneath that hand-drawn Christmas tree is already nurturing prayers I have yet to pray.

Watering my little Christmas tree in the middle of summer reminds me that while seasons change, God’s faithfulness never does.

His promises are evergreen.

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Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. Hebrews 11:1

One of the most difficult things about following Christ is understanding how prayer really works.

Oversimplified, it looks like this:

I desire something

I pray and ask God for that something

God replies with “yes,” “no” or “wait.”

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But, often we fail to realize all that happens within our hearts in between the petition and the answer.

Last week, I learned that a friend’s daughter was diagnosed with terminal brain cancer.

Aggressive. Incurable Life-stealing.

According to medical science, this young woman would be gone by year’s end.

My immediate and continued response since I heard this tragic news has been to pray for a complete recovery.

Non-believers might see my actions as tantamount to dropping seeds in sidewalk cracks.

• There’s no soil to cover the seeds.

• No place for them to take root,

• No source of nourishment for them.

• No earthly reason for their hard coverings to soften and life to spring forth.

The writer of Hebrews tells us that faith is the substance of things hoped for; the evidence of things unseen.

We serve a God of miracles.

• When there was no way out for the Israelites, Jehovah parted the Red Sea.

• With just five loaves and two fish, the Lord fed more than 5,000 followers.

• On a gloriously triumphant morning, Jesus rose from the grave.

So why not scatter seeds over sidewalk cracks?

• Let hope be the soil that blankets your prayers.

• Meditate on His miracles and let the reality of His power take root in your soul.

• Let worship nourish and replenish your faith as you draw near to God.

• Ask others to join you in prayer—storm the gates of Heaven to break those seeds open!

In the end, if what you requested doesn’t come to pass, take heart, dear friend.

The Lord will see you through and as time goes on, you will realize that though prayer did not change your circumstances, it forever changed you.

You grew closer to Jesus as He led you through the valley.

You learned that His thoughts are higher than yours and His ways past finding out.

Beyond all of this and most importantly, Beloved, you’ll trust and lean into Him even more as you embrace the knowledge that His plans are always for your good.

Pray and keep an eye on the sidewalk, but take a look in the mirror too.

You’ll see that you’re becoming more like Jesus.

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I hadn’t opened my eyes yet, but tears trickled onto my pillow.

Friday, September 27, 2024.

It was 5:30am on the morning after my husband lost his job.

An old familiar song by Steven Curtis Chapman was running through my head.

Tomorrow morning if you wake up

and the sun does not appear,

I, I will be here.

The lyrics combined with my tears, literally salted my freshly wounded heart.

This must be the ‘worse” in ‘for better or worse’, I thought.

We had worked together for over 25 years building a successful bookstore and cafe ministry for our church—the church where we’d discovered Jesus in 1987.

This was the church where we brought our little girl to Sunday School when she was only three—the church where, on my birthday in 1991, the pastor we loved so dearly dedicated our daughter and newborn son to the Lord.

Our Senior pastor, our shepherd, taught us everything we know about the love of Jesus—His compassion, His caring, His covenant with His people and His countless promises to be near us when we are shattered.

My husband needed me now more than ever.

If in the dark we lose sight of love,

Hold my hand and have no fear

Cause I, I will be here.

Our shepherd had retired months earlier.

The new, much younger, Senior pastor had his own plans for the ministries we had poured our lives into.

His plans did not include the two of us.

Without warning, we had been thrust into a new season.

I felt the Lord’s strong presence, but I was frightened and the way was dark, as if we had entered a tunnel with no end in sight.

Tomorrow morning if you wake up,

And the future is unclear,

I, I will be here.

“Are you awake?” my husband softly asked.

Quietly wiping away the tears, I whispered “yes.”

“Oh,” he continued.

There was no groggy rasp in his voice—I could tell he’s been awake for hours.

“Was yesterday a dream?” he asked. “I was hoping it was.”

“No,” I answered. “It happened.”

I will be here and you can cry on my shoulder,

When the mirror tells us we’re older

I will hold you.

“Shall we order McDonalds?” my husband asked.

“At 5:45am?”

“Well, I’m not going back to sleep, are you? he asked.

“I haven’t really been to sleep.”

There was a sweet irony in the predawn breakfast we chose that day.

It had become our habit over the years to have McDonald’s for breakfast on Sundays.

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The church held three services and the bookstore was constantly bustling as worshipers came and went from early morning till midday.

Between first and second service, I’d make a fast drive-thru trip so we could refuel.

I loved McDonald’s coffee and always got one despite the fact that we managed the adjoining cafe.

The sun was just coming up when Door Dash arrived.

The familiar comfort of the warm, brown-sugared oatmeal felt so nourishing despite the stark chill of emptiness that was settling into our souls.

It was uncanny.

We ate most of our breakfast in silence and then, while I drank my coffee, my husband talked—about the hurt, the confusion, and our unknown future.

I will be here when you feel like being quiet

When you need to speak your mind,

I will listen and

We’ll be together ‘cause I will be here.

As I listened, I kept wishing that I hadn’t worked with my husband for all those years.

If I had worked elsewhere, I might have been less emotional and more detached, allowing me to minister to him from steadier ground.

Instead, the day before, two pastors who called us "family" laid off my husband and informed me that I would assume his role as store manager.

The wound was shared.

The bullet that pierced my husband's heart passed straight through and lodged in mine.

Even in that moment, there was redemption.

Our two broken hearts had been part of the same threefold cord for forty-one years.

God was with us and would show us how to comfort one another.

I will be true to the promise I have made

To you and to the One who gave you to me

I will be here.

I knew how much that ministry meant to my husband.

I was the only person in the entire universe who knew exactly what he was feeling.

Only God loved him more than I did.

I was more qualified to help him than anyone else.

I reassured him over McDonald’s at the break of a devastating dawn.

I keep reminding him of the endless promises God had already kept and that He isn’t finished with us—not by a longshot.

After forty-one years of marriage, on that morning in late 2024, I asked God to help me face the part of my vows He had graciously spared me from until then—the “worse” in “for better or worse.”

His tender reply was this:
“Dear daughter, before you were born I chose this man for you, and you for him. A threefold cord is not easily broken. Abide in Me. The plans I have for the two of you are for your good. The best is yet to come.”

And just as sure as seasons are made for change

Our lifetime’s are made for years

So, I will be here,

We’ll be together

I will be here.

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When you’ve known God for as long as I have, your heart is always attuned to His voice—you recognize His promptings, listen for direction and expectantly wait for answers to prayer.

In Christian circles, this skill is called discernment.

Over the years, I thought I’d become pretty adept at capturing the Lord’s whispers, and constantly feeling the soft vibration of His footfalls just ahead of me.

I always knew exactly where I stood with God and was confident that I was walking the path He had set before me.

Yet, eighteen months ago, I completely missed a literal bread crumb trail Jesus had left for me.

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For weeks, the Lord put the same scripture in my path, over and over again.

“Be still and know that I am God.” Isaiah 46:10

I kept seeing it on the products I stocked while working in my church bookstore— on journals, mugs, wall art and other gift items.

Annoyed by the repetition, I began questioning my ordering habits.

Why was I buying so many products with the same scripture?

I needed to focus more on what I was doing—maybe get more sleep.

One afternoon, I felt a queasy twinge in my spiritual “spidey sense” when I opened a shipment of checkbook covers and, discovered that the same scripture-”Be still and know that I am God,” was printed on each and every one.

Disgusted with myself, I shook my head and muttered, “Eight different designs with the same scripture. Geez.”

“Lord, are you trying to tell me something?” I asked.

Later that same week, I couldn’t help but notice a Herculean gentleman shopping in the store. His billboard-sized back had the number 46, silkscreened in yellow against his green football jersey.

I approached him, and asked, “Sir, is there anything I can help you find?”

I nearly fainted when he turned around and the front of his jersey screamed the words “BE STILL.”

At that point, I was a little frightened.

“Lord, are you talking to me?” I asked again.

I’m pretty sure I heard the Holy Spirit say, “Duh!”

Only two weeks later, the church laid off my husband, cut the store’s operating hours and reduced my hours from 40 to 24.

This was the event the Lord had been preparing me for.

My immediate question for God was “Why?”

What I should have been asking was “How did I miss all of those clues, Lord?”

Now, after much prayer and reflection, I can admit that the reasons for my spiritual blindness and lack of discernment were simply pride and distraction.

For 25 years, I was certain that I was living in the center of God’s will.

I was sure of it and, what’s more I was proud of it.

Time and time again, I told my friends and coworkers that I was exactly where the Lord wanted me to be.

• My husband and I were serving God.

• We were putting His word into the hands of others.

• We were sacrificing our lives to equip the saints.

In my finite mind I envisioned the two of us forever working 10-hour days in the bookstore until at last, we’d simply drop dead, side-by-side, hands clasped beneath the soft light of the Bible display.

But God had other plans.

We had dedicated our lives to making both the store and the cafe the best they could possibly be.

• I created gorgeous displays.

• My husband haggled with sales reps to get the biggest discounts possible.

• We stewarded the church’s money wisely.

• We taught our staff to go the extra mile to get customers the study materials they needed. After all, we were helping people grow closer to the Lord.

• The deepest desire of our hearts was to work those jobs until Jesus came back for us.

But God had better plans.

We were so distracted by the busyness of serving the Lord, that we missed His escalating whispers of “Be still.”

To be clear, even if I had recognized the bread crumb trail Jesus left me, the our dream jobs still would have ended.

Maybe it would have been a little less painful, or maybe we’d have been a little less lost at first; I don’t know.

When my kids were little, I did everything within my power to shield them from pain.

If the pediatrician was immunizing them, I pulled them onto my lap covered their eyes and held them close.

It still hurt.

But they felt my presence, sensed my love and knew if I was allowing their pain, it must be right.

It must mean that it was for their good.

God loves my husband and I infinitely more than I love my kids.

He was there when the pain hit us that day—holding us close and wiping our tears, yet still allowing the hurt.

Because it was for our good.

It was part of His better plan for us.

Lord, please help each of us to always be attuned to your voice—to hear your wise promptings, listen for your masterful instruction, to live expectantly, waiting for answers to prayer.

Beyond all of these things, Jesus, give us the discernment to know when to unbusy ourselves and turn our eyes upon You.

Help us Lord, to be still, and know that You are God.

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We’ve all heard the phrase, “Misery loves company.”

In these words, written centuries ago, the apostle Paul offers a holy counterpart:

“...who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God.”

When the Lord carries us through agonizing seasons, He is doing more than rescuing us from pain. He is also preparing us to recognize—and help heal—the pain of others.

Paul reminds us that the comfort Christ extends to us was never intended to stop with us. We are called to become living vessels of the same mercy that once sustained our own weary hearts.

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For me, writing has provided an opportunity to speak honestly and vulnerably about the grief and pain I’ve waded through for the past 18 months.

In November 2024, our church took away the bookstore ministry my husband and I had managed together for 25 years.

Our lives were upended emotionally, spiritually and financially.

The grief was overwhelming.

To cope, I returned to writing—a passion I had put aside for 40 years.

At first, I started my Substack to sort through the layers of depression that wrapped around my heart like tangled jungle vines..

I found that I could wield my pen like a razor sharp machete slicing through the stranglehold my emotions had on me.

With each post, I was able to better articulate what I was feeling—grief, anger, gratitude, pain and eventually, hope.

To my astonishment, readers who had also suffered grief and loss commented that they were finding relief and hope in my words.

God was blessing me with a new ministry—one which allowed me to “comfort others with the same comfort” He had given me.

Sometimes the best way to navigate the darkness is to find someone who stands in the light of victory after walking through their own shadowed path.

I myself have found solace in the words of fellow Substack authors who candidly shared their own stories of heartbreak and redemption.

Only last week, I read a post by Derek Hughes about the grief he suffered when he stepped down from his role in church leadership.

Although he had voluntarily left the job, the emotions he felt afterwards were contradictory.

A reply he wrote in the comments moved me to tears.

Speaking of his conflicted emotions, Hughes wrote, “I spent a long time feeling like I should be grateful rather than gutted.”

This man had walked a path similar to mine.

There was so much comfort in that realization alone.

His words perfectly depicted the nauseating seesaw I’d been on for so long.

Hughes explained that while he was deeply grateful for the role he held, he also felt “gutted” because with the ending of his role came an unexpected loss of identity.

He was no longer needed by the people who at one time needed him most.

Wow.

Reading his words, I felt as if a rusty nail had been pulled from the bottom of my foot.

Relief.

Deliverance.

Hope.

Healing.

Comfort.

Somehow, Hughes was able to unknot the delicate chain of his tangled emotions and then graciously share his insights with the rest of us.

I am so thankful that he chose to be obedient to Paul’s words.

It is an honor and a privilege to write for this wonderful community.

For a year and a half now, many of my posts have detailed my long journey through grief, heartache and healing.

Sometimes I wondered if those posts were self-serving—there are countless other topics I could have written about.

But, dear readers, writing for all these months about my pain, my heartbreak, my battlescars and the way God has brought me through it all has turned my ashes into beauty.

Knowing that others have experienced God’s comfort through my story is wondrous.

I now know these things to be true:

• There has been purpose in my pain.

• Healing has replaced my heartache.

In prayer, I’ve thanked the Lord many times over for His compassion, His comfort and mercy and for the absolute treasure of turning this gift of writing into a ministry of hope that blesses others.

I’ve also told Him that I would go through all of that suffering again to have the life He has given me today—a life where I see His mighty hand in my past and especially in my future—a life where I am surrounded by a community of other creators who freely bare their souls and put their hearts on display so that someone like me can read their words and whisper, “I’m not the only one.”

Thank you fellow writers.

Let us continue to serve and encourage one another.

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“I will bless the LORD who has given me counsel; My heart also instructs me in the night seasons.”

Psalm 16:7

I had over 24,500 nights of deliriously peaceful sleep before I recently experienced my first bout of insomnia.

I slept through barking dogs, boisterous neighborhood parties and sometimes criminal activity.

One scorching summer night, as I snoozed on our front room sofa, windows and front door open, an unhinged fellow raged down the block, smashing windshields with a baseball bat.

I shamelessly slept through the whole thing.

My kids told me all about it in the morning.

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Though I was convinced that sleeping was one of my natural talents, I had a rude awakening on a chilly evening last January.

I was exhausted when I fell into bed that night, and slept soundly—for thirty minutes.

I don’t know what it was that ceased my slumber, but I was suddenly wide awake.

My brain seemed to be under the mistaken impression that just before bed, I’d indulged in an espresso nightcap followed by a Red Bull chaser.

I tossed and turned for an hour—gently at first and then panicked, like a hooked tuna trying to escape its fate.

When I asked God for help, He directed me to meditate on Psalm 23.

Was Jesus telling me to count sheep?

Verses one through four played in my mind with sweet familiarity.

But my memory stalled at verse five.

I sat up, grabbed my phone and opened my Bible app.

“You prepare a table for me in the presence of my enemies.”

I had read the Shepherd’s Psalm countless times before; in my Bible, on bookmarks, and on prayer cards.

Yet, on that first sleepless night, the words in verse 5 of this beloved passage stirred my heart.

“…in the presence of my enemies.”

I focused on those words. What was the Lord telling me?

Then it clicked—sort of.

I made a mental list of people I saw as foes, zeroing in on the ones who had hurt me the most.

I knew their names and their offenses well, because emotionally, I wrestled with their actions on a daily basis.

For months, I’d listened to a repeating playlist of tense conversations we’d shared.

These people were the cause of my insomnia!

“My enemies are stealing sleep from me, Lord,” I said.

“No, Chris, you’ve got it all wrong,” He whispered.

“You are the cause of your own insomnia, daughter. Your very thoughts are robbing you of My peace and the sweet rest I offer you.

Your thoughts are your enemies, Chris not other people.”

The mic dropped right there on my undented pillow.

The Shepherd, who provides everything I need—green pastures, still waters, and Divine protection through death’s dark valley, longed to welcome me to an intimate banquet arranged in my honor.

“You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies.”

He had set before me a tablescape of tranquility,—one where He was serving serene slumber and dulcet dreams with a side of refreshing repose.

However my invitation was null and void until I learned to take my thoughts captive.

A friend suggested that I spend part of my day journaling about problems that troubled, saddened or angered me.

She recommended that I write my thoughts by hand.

That same day, with my favorite rollerball and a steno pad, I did an afternoon brain (and heart) dump.

I made a habit of doing this.

Some entries were incoherent, rambling thoughts.

Others were copious rants detailing how I’d handle upsetting situations differently, if given the chance.

Practicing this new habit was like sweeping out the corners of my soul.

When I’d finish journaling each day, I’d immediately feel unburdened and at peace.

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I began to sleep better.

Besides, freeing myself from insomnia, I also stopped dreaming about my trials and turmoils.

The nights I lie awake, I’d realize I had forgotten to do my journaling.

Jesus beckons us to lay our burdens at His feet.

In return He promises to give us rest for our souls.

Sounds like a fair trade to me.

Psalm 121 reminds us that “He who keeps us shall neither slumber nor sleep.”

Beneath a dark sky twinkling with hope, God tenderly watches His children quietly enjoying the precious gift of sacred sleep.

And, if one night my friend, you find yourself knotted in the net of an unnerving night season, take heart. The Shepherd will be there to lovingly comfort, counsel and if needed, correct you.

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“Call to Me, and I will answer you, and show you great and mighty things, which you do not know.” Jeremiah 33:3

Dear readers,

In the spirit of spring cleaning, I’ve been sorting through my closet of memories lately.

When a life season ends, our grief, pain, gratitude and reflections have to live somewhere—emotions were never meant to be filed away in the dark corners of our minds.

This poem came from a profound vision the Lord gave me—one which showed me how I could mentally find places in my soul for the many memories I have of my 25 years in ministry.

I pray these words will be a source of holy practicality for those of you sifting through the both rubble and the riches of brokenness.

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The Urn, the Box and the Locket

I

At the pink of dawn, a gentle knock fell upon my door.

I turned the knob, and beheld three packages, nothing more.

I brought them all inside and wondered from whence they came?

All in brown paper, tied and corded, each different yet the same.

The first box was the biggest, garnished with a lotus bloom.

At once, a heavenly aroma began to grace my room.

Inside, there was a parchment scroll, rolled and held with a ring.

The greeting, in script, was simple and pure, “To Daughter, from her King.”

I read His words, so excited, that He would think of me,

He spoke of what was, what is and what is yet to be.

“The Lotus flower,” He said, “Is a symbol of your healing.

Live free from the chains of heartbreak that left you broken and reeling.”

The gift in this first package was a painted ceramic urn.

“But Lord,”I asked with innocence, “What have I to burn?”

“The memories of dark days in valleys filled with tears,

I will redeem these ashes for beauty in coming years.”

II

The second box carried lavender; a sachet of God’s peace.

Forgiveness, moving onward and a hope that doesn’t cease.

The message inside was written with His holy finger:

“This gift was created for sweet memories meant to linger.”

A crafted keepbox was then presented.

“Hold only the lovely things; add nothing you’ve resented.

Friendships true and kindnesses that made you think of Me.

Joyous songs and photographs of who you used to be.”

III

The final box was dainty, with a sunflower perched on top

to signify new beginnings and blessings that never stop.

The trinket took my breath away. I pressed it to my chest,

Elegant and exquisite, this was by far, the best!

“I’ve shown you great and mighty things you did not know before,

Now, I have placed before you an open and waiting door.

Moments of mirth and majesty; take only the good part;

Sprinkle them into your locket and wear them near your heart.”

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I firmly believe that God uses every gift, every talent, and every passion He’s placed within each one of us.

John 6 recounts the story of when Jesus miraculously fed thousands with just five loaves and two fish.

The most astonishing part of this Bible passage, however, is that after every person had been fed, there were leftover scraps—twelve large baskets in all!

Jesus’ words to the disciples were “Gather the pieces that are left and let nothing be wasted.”

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During the 25 years I worked for my church, God used every ounce of experience I garnered from previous jobs.

One summer at a beachside snack shack, four years in a retail clothing store and thirteen years in a supermarket accounting office all equipped me to spend a quarter century faithfully serving my church body.

Quite unexpectedly, God also used something that had dwelt inside me for most of my adult life; something I would have considered as useless as leftover lunch scraps—my passion for coffee.

In 2013, our senior pastor asked my husband and I to takeover the large café that was adjoined to the bookstore we managed together.

The church had sacrificed a large portion of the parking lot to construct the 1,800-square foot cafe which opened in 2002.

We had been praying that one day that area would be used to expand the bookstore.

Our business was growing rapidly and we longed for more space to house our greeting cards and Bible cover displays.

But when we learned the cafe was coming, we heard the Lord saying “No,” to our expansion request.

Perhaps if we had listened more closely, we’d have realized that He was really saying “not yet.”

“The Chapel Cafe” opened during a time when every California megachurch coveted a coffee house.

Back then, we Christians were known for plenteous potlucks with fabulous fellowship, so coffee and comraderie were a match made in heaven.

Starbucks was booming with over 15,000 American stores, and caffeine just happened to be the only acceptable addiction among the body of Christ.

The climate was perfect.

Still, it took eleven years for the church’s cafe to truly percolate.

Leadership insisted on serving hot meals around services, but time-strapped families rarely arrived early enough to dine.

Most guests stuck to simple cups of coffee, keeping the average ticket under $5.

Sadly, much of the hot food prepared at the cafe went to waste.

The business went through several money-losing iterations, with hot food choices running the gourmet gamut.

There was even a short-lived pivot into a Mexican grill.

The nachos were amazing, but when the chips were down, the waste monster once again reared its ugly head.

After just 6 months, the church’s mexican menu folded like a seven-layer burrito.

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When our pastor came to us, he was desperately searching for the path that would enable the café to provide hospitality without breaking the proverbial bank.

We laid out the simple vision the Lord had given us.

Our desire was to duplicate the business model created in 1993 when Barnes & Noble began adding Starbucks cafes to their bookstores.

We suggested combining the church’s bookstore and café into one cohesive space.

Greeting cards, gift items, and Bible covers displays would fill a portion of the café’s large dining area, while the menu would focus on—wait for it—coffee.

No prepared food.

Just grab and go snacks.

The idea was difficult for our pastor to swallow.

He had thoroughly enjoyed the Wednesday evening burgers, tri-tip, and street tacos served by previous teams.

What he couldn’t stomach, however, were the financial losses that accompanied those dishes.

“So, no hot food?” he asked, clearly disappointed.

We shook our heads.

“You’re making it all about the espresso?”

We nodded.

“You have 30 days to make it work.”

It lasted a dozen years.

Looking back, I can see how the Lord had prepared me for this new adventure.

For three years prior to managing the café, I visited Starbucks every Monday night with my daughter.

We tried every drink on the menu, from the simplest lattes to the candy-topped calorie-laden seasonal Frappuccinos.

Whenever I’d visit the church cafe, I’d catch myself staring at the espresso machine, imagining the endless possibilities.

“Oh, Lord,” I’d wistfully whine, “Do you know what liquid beauty I could bring forth from that machine, if I was calling the shots?”

For years, caffeinated cacophonies clamoured through my dreams.

Ice-blended wonders whirled in my mind like flavorful funnel clouds.

And then, suddenly, my leftover lunch scraps were summoned.

My Starbucks gold card became my ticket to a ministry laden with perks.

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Managing the cafe was a little slice of heaven.

I’d walk into the store each morning and the earthy scent of freshly brewed Colombian coffee was an instant reminder of God’s goodness to me.

The Lord graciously blessed us with a barista who savored coffee as much as I did.

Mary not only had a natural talent for crafting lattes and macchiatos, but God had given her the wonderful gift of hospitality.

Customers loved her.

She could effortlessly brew, froth, or blend any drink while carrying on a warm, engaging conversation.

We had the makings of a Christian “Cheers” on our hands—a place where people felt known, welcomed, and at home.

One morning, Mary shared a sample of an original espresso drink she had created.

“It’s something that’ll really wake people up when they’re dead tired—like on a Sunday morning,” she explained.

“You take a triple shot flavored with caramel sauce and frothed with half-and-half instead of milk. It’s sweet, smooth, and creamy.”

“Then you top it with whipped cream and a drizzle of more caramel—hot or iced.”

After trying the hot version, I was sure I recognized its sumptuous sweetness from my coffee fantasies of years past.

The caramel gently softened the bitterness of the espresso, and it went down with a velvety smoothness.

I also felt very much awake for the rest of the day!

We needed a name for the nurturing nectar destined to become our first original creation.

Mary suggested “Sunshine.”

My husband, who has never been a coffee drinker, chimed in.

“Let’s see,” he pondered. “A drink that instantly revives you when you’re dead tired? How about The Lazarus?”

And with that, a signature drink—and a bit of a cafe legend—was born.

We went on to create well over 70 original drinks—not all coffee based.

Among the favorites were:

• The Grizzly Chill-flavored shaved ice named after the church’s school mascot.

• Jonah Refresher-Raspberry flavored soda topped with a gummy Jonah figure and a gummy fish.

• Noah’s Ark-a vanilla smoothie blended with frosted animal cookies.

• Revolution-a rainbow parfait shake commemorating the opening of the 2023 film, “Jesus Revolution.”

• Fear Not Frosty-an orange and vanilla shake offered during the Halloween season.

The twelve years we spent managing the cafe were filled with both blessings and challenges.

There were moments of incredible joy—laughter, fellowship, and creativity flowing as freely as the coffee itself.

Even folks who didn’t attend our church would come in, order a coffee, open their laptops, and spend hours working in the peaceful, welcoming oasis we offered.

Several small Bible study groups met within our walls throughout the week.

One such group consisted of five gentlemen over the age of 60 who gathered Monday thru Friday at 9 am sharp.

They called themselves “Five for Christ.”

Their unaccompanied, off-key voices united in worship was one of the sweetest sounds I’ll ever hear this side of Heaven.

During a “Five for Christ” meeting, any man sitting alone was invited to join the study.

By the time Covid hit in 2020, the group of five had tripled its membership.

The cafe was more than just a place to grab a coffee; it was now a place of connection.

The Father tested the faith of the Son by pitting Him against Satan for forty days and nights.

My faith was tried by spending twelve years managing the cafe.

Failing freezers, backed up pipes, a lack of hot water, and the always unwelcome creepy crawlers were all Satan’s attempts to sift me “like wheat,” but early in my cafe tenure, the Lord taught me a valuable lesson regarding my response to trials.

My post from last August, “Pancakes Are Not an Option,” details the importance of treating life’s challenges not only as opportunities for growth, but as precious chances to witness God’s glory.

When the Lord visited the disciples after the resurrection, He lovingly cooked them a fish breakfast.

I have a strong aversion to eating fish of any kind, but if Chef Jesus prepares tilapia just for me, I’ll smile and gracefully swallow it.

One Easter Sunday, the Lord laid out a metaphorical sushi bar.

The cafe’s plumbing had backed up and the floor drains were overflowing with sludge!

My baristas slid and sloshed attempting to fill fifteen orders of assorted coffees and smoothies.

We made it through the afternoon, and while my staff swept the dining room, I grabbed a mop and cleaned up the sludge by myself.

With every sloppy push of the mop., I could hear Jesus whispering, “Well done.”

The smell of the sludge made me gag—or was that the sushi?

Through it all, our little café finally fulfilled the purpose it was built for in the first place.

It provided an haven where people could gather, recharge, and experience a sense of community. It gave us opportunities to serve, to grow, and to use the gifts God had placed within each of us.

Nothing was wasted.

More than just coffee flowed there.

The Lord granted us the stamina and strength to selflessly pour into our customers, and yet, it was always our cups that overflowed.

Our cafe closed it’s doors last August. The poem below was written to honor it.

Farewell My Little Cafe

Farewell my little Café

You were my daily grind

Brewing joy was your special way

Your perks I’ll now define.

You awakened me each morn

With French Roast bright and bold

Something deep inside was born

Creativity untold

So many came through your doors

You overflowed our cups

Serving, scrubbing, mopping floors

You changed our downs to ups

We helped folks stay awake

While they sat in church

Listening for Heaven’s sake

To Pastor on his perch

Lazarus and Noah’s Ark

Americano, iced with cream

Some days were a walk in the park

Others, a nightmare dream

Stopped up pipes

Customers with gripes

Critters needing capture

Had us looking for the rapture

Yet when it all came to end

And we pulled the final shot

Little café, you were a friend

For oh, the hope you brought!

You made us better saints

Using our gifts for His pleasure

The Lord had no constraints

Blessing more than we could measure

So Farewell sweet little café

Where fellowship made the rounds

We never did anything halfway

For we stood on holy grounds.

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I wrote those words a year ago in a Substack post.

I was nursing a grieving heart and waiting in wistful wonder for the purple irises to bloom in my backyard.

The Potter had intentionally broken me apart.

He was deliberately and Divinely remaking me for a new purpose.

After all, a fresh filling of the Spirit’s oil requires an exquisite, pristine new vessel.

Last March, we were still in the very early stages of His Masterful mending.

Today, as Creation unveils a fresh court of royalty in my iris bed, I am awed by the renewed beauty in my very soul.

Jesus has brought me full circle.

In Japanese, the word kintsugi means to join with gold.

Artisans use this ancient method to repair broken pottery.

Lacquer is mixed with powdered gold or silver to put the pieces back together.

The pottery’s mended cracks are not hidden, but highlighted by the precious metal shimmering from its seams.

Each new creation is an undenable reflection of beauty in brokenness.

What an elegantly perfect metaphor for our Potter’s compassionate care after a destructive storm wrecks the lives we were so comfortably immersed in.

Our merciful Master meticulously patches, polishes and prepares us for a new purpose.

Psalm 147:3 tells us that the Lord heals the brokenhearted and binds up our wounds.

Job 23:10 says that when He tests us, we have the opportunity to “come forth as gold.”

This Spring, I have been able to look back and see the intricacy of the Lord’s handiwork in my own life.

The Potter has wondrously put me together again.

While His holy hand is always steady, the mending has been far from painless.

On many occasions, I cried out, “Enough!” as I leapt from His work table.

I was more than willing to remain in my broken state.

I’d learn to live in the limbo of the over and the not yet.

I just didn’t want to hurt any more.

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But, on those occasions, our gracious God would look lovingly into my eyes, tenderly cup my cheek and softly sing :

“ Just hold my gaze, as I mend you little one.

For you are being fashioned to be used by the Son.

What you don’t know now and what you can’t see

Is refining makes you stronger

And so much more like Me.

Exquisitely fitted, purified and bold

There’s new life reflecting in your battle scars of gold.”

Battle scars of gold.

I like that.

That makes me a warrior—a warrior with a story to tell.

Most battle scars are camouflaged.

Warships are drydocked and restored.

Dented and dinged-up cars are sold for scrap.

Laugh lines and crow’s feet are negated by needles.

But my scars aren’t meant to be hidden.

Neither are yours, my friend.

Every piece of kintsugi pottery is considered far more valuable than before it was broken.

The alluring glisten of the golden cracks make it exquisite—and when the light hits the piece just right, its iridescent history becomes irresistible.

When we allow the Lord to pull us from the pit, benevolently bind us up and prepare us for His purposes, we come forth as gold.

And, like the pottery, our history and our healing illuminate the path of the downcast with hope and authenticity.

The Master’s merciful mendings transform our darkest seasons into brilliant beacons.

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Jesus was fully God and fully man.

He felt the same physical pain that we do.

Like us, He experienced heartbreak, grief, rejection and loneliness.

For thirty-three years the Father gave Jesus a masterclass on the good, the bad and the ugliest sides of humanity.

That didn’t stop the Messiah from loving us.

The nails He took on our behalf, produced the most famous battlescars known to man.

The Father’s provided His Son with the ultimate healing—a healing that radiated not with gold, but with glory.

Each and every one of our battlescars takes us one step closer to that same glory, because the hurts, the heartaches and the healing make us more like Jesus.

Broken.

Battlescarred.

Beautiful.

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Today I cried because I missed my backyard garden.

I broke my ankle just over a month ago and, due to the many tripping hazards on our patio, I’ve been unable to crutch my way out to my fragrant little sanctuary.

Shortly after my accident, my adult kids used a small wheelchair to transport me onto the patio to visit my petal-headed friends.

My daughter sweetly indulged me by bringing each one of our potted plants over to the wheelchair. My heart lifted as I gasped at growth, counted new buds and simply admired God’s handiwork.

I also snapped multiple photos including one of Rutger, a gloriusly crowned little fellow who was the main character in one of my recent posts.

This afternoon’s tears were about much more than my garden though.

Since I injured my ankle, which required surgery to install a plate and screws, I spend much of the day sitting in a recliner, keeping my purple-casted foot propped up on three pillows to keep the swelling at bay.

When my orthopedist told me I had four months of healing ahead of me, I rejoiced at how much writing time the Lord had gifting me with.

I was more than happy to type away the hours, posting day after day, watching my readership grow.

The challenge was finding a comfortable way to use my computer.

Even Mr. Fantastic himself would find it a stretch to use a full-size laptop in a recliner while holding one foot in the air!

I bought a little Chromebook and experimented with every sort of lapdesk available online.

Sadly, none of them solved the problem, simply because I no longer had a lap.

I’ve managed to post several notes and type half a post into my phone.

My left elbow is now suing me for lack of support. Ouch.

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In recent months, writing and tending my garden have been my favorite pastimes.

During my breakdown today, I realized they’ve become so much more.

In His romantic wisdom, The Lord has used my wording and weeding as conduits for intimate conversation between the two of us.

For the first 67 years of my life, I never fancied myself a gardener.

Other than grilling burgers on the backyard barbecue, I rarely even stepped outside.

But, when my heart was shattered in November 2024, Jesus began beckoning me outdoors every morning to treat my wounds, tend to my soul and teach me all about the new life He had waiting for me.

When we first moved into our house 14 years ago, the backyard contained a large rose bush and a poinsettia tree. Both produced gorgeous flowers regularly with absolutely no help from me.

Although I had no time for these long neglected backyard beauties, Jesus had a perfect purpose for them.

Both the rose bush and the poinsettia tree became the Lord’s visual aids in a Masterclass created solely for me.

My first homework assignment was to start a garden.

I’ve always been an exemplary student, so I promptly ran to Lowe’s and bought a variety of potted plants to care for.

Hearty green succulents, begonias the shade of Marilyn Monroe’s lips, yellow primrose pots and lush burgundy snapdragons all became the Lord’s living Powerpoint presentations.

Jesus cleverly illustrated the principles of planting, pruning, growth and most importantly, being deeply rooted in His word.

In just a few short weeks, my yard’s dirty, brown grass was transformed to holy ground.

Jesus and I have shared moments of confession, communion, comfort and camaraderie in this consecrated courtyard.

At the same time the Lord was establishing my colorful classroom, He also returned me to writing after a forty-year break.

In high school and college, I was an award-winning author headed for a career in journalism when I met the love of my life.

I dropped out of school, we married, raised two kids and spent 26 years working together in ministry.

When that ministry abruptly ended, I found myself drowning in grief.

My son, who is also an author, urged me to write so that I could put my emotions into words and process my heartbreak.

He told me all about Substack.

The Lord spoke to me clearly saying, “You already know how to do this. Now, tell others about your pain, but also share the hope you have in Me.”

Nearly 1,000 subscribers later, my posts have detailed my story—the story of how my loving Shepherd guided me around an unexpected bend in the road and gave me a new ministry—a ministry that is a pipeline of hope for folks like me, who have been forced to start over later in life.

This afternoon, my tears washed away the confusion that had clouded the obvious.

I missed my dates with Jesus.

I yearned to be back in the garden talking and learning from Him.

I longed to write about the healing He is still doing in my heart even as He knits my bones back together.

Once your heart has been captivated by the simple charm of His kindness or the honey dripping sweetness of His voice, there’s just no going back!

Two days after my surgery, the Lord wooed me with a passage from Song of Solomon.

“Come away with me, my beautiful one.

For now the winter is past;

the rain is over and gone.

The flowers have appeared in the countryside;

the season of singing has come,

and the cooing of turtledoves

is heard in our land.”

Since then, I had been trying desperately to take Him up on His enchanting invitation!

He knows my every thought.

He knows my words before I speak (or write) them.

For me, Jesus is home.

I wept today because I was homesick.

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I am better now.

My kids created a path that I can easily navigate to reach the King’s courtyard.

I went there late this afternoon.

As I watched my son water my beloved flowers and succulents, Teacher Jesus not only met me there, but He hit me with a pop quiz.

There was just one question, but it was a tough one.

“Would you ever shed tears because you’re homesick for Heaven?”

My focus suddenly shifted from the temporary to the eternal as I compared:

• A carpet of dirty, brown grass to streets paved with gold

• My richly colored begonias and snapdragons to the sublime shimmer of jasper and amethyst

• The brightness of the spring sunshine to the radiance of God’s glory

• The spiritual presence of Jesus to seeing Him face-to-face.

It is a true testament of the Lord’s lovingkindness that we have the capacity for contentment here on earth, even as we realize all He has waiting for us in Heaven.

Today, I tearfully longed for intimate fellowship with the Lord.

I was homesick.

I believe Jesus used my heartache to give me a glimpse of heavenly homesickness.

After my garden visit, I hurriedly scrounged up enough lap space to balance my Chromebook so I could write.

On my way back to the recliner, The Lord had whispered something He wanted me to share.

He said, “Now that you’ve inhaled joy and exhaled relief in my presence, give your brothers and sisters this simple message:

“There’s no place like Home.”

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If you’ve known Jesus for any length of time, you, no doubt have discovered that not only is He the Lord of lords but He is also the King of metaphor.

I’ve been on a journey of healing and hope for the last 18 months and in His compassion, Jesus has used countless metaphors to comfort and minister to my once shattered heart.

From the early days of my heartbreak until the present, Jesus has whispered comfort to me using the trees, bushes and plants in my yard.

I have documented previous lessons from my Master Gardener in the posts linked below:

The most touching of those metaphors arrived in the form of the struggling little plant pictured above.

I discovered Rutger in the clearance section of our local Lowe’s.

I had been mourning an unexpected job change and often, when I found the pain almost too much to bear, I would wander through my backyard crying out to the Lord.

On warm days, the sun rays warmed my tense, grief-worn muscles as the Son’s ways soothed my battered heart.

I watered the shrubs and the rose bush with my tears while Jesus hydrated my soul with tender mercies and whispered promises.

These garden walks became sacred to me.

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Jesus nudged me to buy more plants to nurture.

The Lover of My Soul knew that if I had more buds and blooms to tend, my visits with Him would most certainly lengthen.

He’s such a romantic!

I was perusing the Lowe’s clearance rack for inexpensive succulents when Rutger’s tiny orange flower caught my eye.

It was gorgeous.

His tangerined bloom was nearly hidden by small clusters of brown-tinged leaves that were frail and feasted upon by pests.

“Oh my gosh!” I told my daughter. “Look at this little guy!”

Thrilled with my newfound treasure, I placed the plant into my cart only to watch several dried, dead stems drop to the ground.

But when the stems fell, my heart lifted as visions of Charlie Brown’s needy little Christmas tree flashed through my mind.

I heard Charlie’s voice confidently proclaiming “all it needs is a little love.”

Just a few days prior to my Lowe’s trip, I watched the classic sci-fi film, “Bladerunner,” which featured Rutger Hauer as the rogue android, Roy Batty.

At the climax of the film, a defeated Batty realizes his death is near.

He delivers a heartwrenching soliloquy now known as the “Tears in Rain” speech.

The final words of this sad monologue of surrender are “time to die.”

After two weeks of watering, sunning and coddling, my little plant showed no desire to live.

His umber leaves continued to shrivel, and his once fiery orange head drooped.

And so I called my pallid plant “Rutger,” after the dying android.

It was as if his roots had forgotten how to drink, though his thirst was obvious.

And though the sun’s rays beckoned Rutger to do nothing more than turn toward their lifegiving warmth, he lay still, frozen in defeat.

Simply stated, his tiny cells had already accepted death’s invitation.

There was no need to RSVP to life’s overtures.

Oh, how I could relate.

During my recent season of deep grief, I spent a lot of time mourning the parts of myself that had died when I lost my dream job.

I was 67 years old.

The ministry I’d devoted 26 years of my life to had suddenly been ripped away.

I spent my forties, fifties and most of my sixties working alongside my husband.

We were passionately devoted to building a thriving bookstore ministry for our church.

Those decades of serving our church body were filled with indescribable joy up until the day we were told that the new pastor no longer wanted a bookstore.

That beautifully vibrant hunk of my life was now as shriveled and dry, as Rutger’s faded leaves.

In so many ways, my work had defined me and shaped who I was.

Where would I go?

What would I do?

I was like a migrating bird with no internal compass to guide my course,

Deprived of the natural instincts I’d long utilized to serve others, my wings flapped, but I was lost.

My soul had been grounded.

Like Rutger, death was sending me a summons.

The best parts of me were wasting away.

Rutger needed more sun.

I needed more Son.

And we both needed to be replanted as soon as possible.

When Jesus resurrected Lazarus, the man had been dead for four days.

The Lord had received word that his friend was gravely ill, yet He delayed His return to Bethany where He would visit and presumably heal Lazarus.

Jesus’ plan was sure and intentional.

It was the last miracle He would perform before His crucifixion—His final chance to turn doubts into dust.

When Jesus and His disciples finally arrived at Lazarus’ house, the scene for triumph was set.

Crowds of mourners, skeptics and followers had gathered—each person eagerly anticipating what the Lord’s next move would be.

From the quiet beauty of a woman healed by simply touching His garment’s hem, to the astonishing feeding of the five thousand, the Savior’s actions had been unpredictable.

But I believe it was Jesus who was most surprised by what He did when He encountered Lazarus’ grieving sisters.

He wept.

He loved Mary and Martha deeply.

They had sent for Him when their brother fell ill.

“Lord, if only you had been here, he wouldn’t have died!” cried Mary.

They were hurt and disappointed.

They didn’t understand.

And although Jesus knew that, in moments, their unbearable pain would be eclipsed by indescribable joy, His heart broke with theirs.

The book of Matthew tells us that even a sparrow will not fall to the ground outside of our Father’s care and that He has numbered the very hairs on our heads.

He sees us.

He knows our deepest desires and our most powerful passions.

He also knows when it’s best for us to let go of those things.

It took months for me to accept that the biggest blessings we are given in this life can have an expiration date.

‘Dream jobs’, open doors and circumstances that once enabled us to serve the Lord well for a season may exist for only a season.

“I am doing a new thing,” the Lord declared in Isaiah 43:19.

When the massive stone was removed from Lazarus’ tomb, the stench of death was nearly overpowering.

But when Jesus raised His holy hands and beckoned Lazarus to come forth, the fresh wind of the Spirit filled the cavern with new life.

The foul odor of decay instantly vanished.

Like the fragrance of a rosebud newly blossomed, the inspiriting sweetness of hope filled the air.

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I was not an experienced gardener.

Truth be told, I had lost about forty percent of the potted plants I had purchased over a six month period.

But, as I’ve said, these flowers and succulents weren’t just plants—they were teaching aids, fit for the Master’s use.

A green thumb wasn’t necessary.

My caregiving instructions were straight from the King of Kings.

You might say I had a purple thumb—the color of royalty.

The Lord told me to create a new home for Rutger—a place with more sun, near other blooming plants.

I placed his pot near a small brigade of new “buds” in my old wheelbarrow.

Within weeks, my little guy began to perk up.

Rutger’s stems were standing strong and upright as his appetite for sunlight grew stronger. He proudly boasted two new brightly colored flowers.

It was then I realized why I was so captivated by my first glimpse of Rutger.

His one tiny orange flower peeking out from behind dead, dry leaves created a picture of instant hope.

The contrast was like a fresh and fragrant spring wreath lying against a dirty old tombstone.

Beauty among ashes.

With God’s help, I would soon be boasting my own fiery blossoms.

The Lord used water, sunlight and care to heal and rekindle Rutger’s growth.

He renewed the wasting cells that had fallen dormant and my little plant responded with eye-popping gratitude.

Now the Master Gardener would get to the root of my problems.

The book of Hosea tells us to “break up our fallow ground, sow righteousness for ourselves and reap in mercy.”

Bitterness had poisoned the soil in my heart, making it hard and unusable.

When I started my Substack, nearly two years ago, God began to break up and cultivate that soil—not with a shovel, but with words.

I hadn’t written in over forty years, yet I was compelled to document my grief, my pain and the wonder of the new path God had so lovingly set before me.

Every time I sat down to write, I felt Jesus tending to my soul in the same way I had tended to Rutger when he was ailing.

I thirsted for answers and He filled me with living water—enough, and then some, to pour onto my pages for others to drink.

His warming presence as I typed melted away my fears and apprehensions to allow the soft glow of truth and vulnerability to shine forth.

Day by day, post by post and note by note, the dry and stale remnants of pain and unforgiveness began to fall away.

People were responding to my story and my testimony.

A new ministry was blossoming!

Like Roy Batty, Rutger needed revival.

It wasn’t actually the little sprout’s “time to die.”

Rather, it was a time of being tenderly nourished and warmed enough to quicken the grand treasure that Rutger held deep inside.

Rutger is currently flaunting hundreds of brilliant, orange blooms.

Like Lazarus, I needed resurrection.

Jesus removed the dried and spent gifts I had used for so long and when He turned the soil in my soul, the promise of a glorious new writing ministry was unearthed.

The seeds of this harvest had long been sown.

Now it was time for words to be watered and metaphors to be mulched to allow stories of glory to blossom and bloom.

I have over 900 subscribers.

Oh, the pain of letting go.

The grief and heartbreak of feeling the fading colors of what once fed my very being.

But, oh, the awe and sheer celebration of the new life that hobbled forth from that grave.

What is waiting to blossom in you?

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These words from the book of Matthew are frequently used to summarize the well-lived life of a Christian who has gone home to be with the Lord.

But, did you know that, if you listen for His still, small voice throughout your day, you’ll hear Jesus whisper the phrase “Well done,” over and over again?

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I hear it as I move through the mundane and messy tasks of my ordinary day:

• When I spend hours crafting a post that offers my readers undeniable hope.

• When I set my phone aside to be fully present with loved ones.

• When I cook a delectable meal for my family after a long day and wash the dishes afterwards.

• When I my allow my husband to have the last word during a disagreement.

Jesus is pleased anytime we mirror His attributes.

Kindness, patience, honesty, generosity, compassion, self-sacrifice and, most of all, love.

At the Sermon on the Mount, the Lord told His followers to “let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven.”

Some days I am tested and imitating Christ is a battle.

My light shines about as brightly as the sun on an overcast day.

How do I season my words with salt when I’m being peppered with never-ending to-do lists, needy people and constant demands on my time?

I look to the Savior.

I surrender.

And then, I listen as He sings me another glorious chorus of “Well done.”

During His earthly ministry, everyone wanted Jesus’ time and attention.

They all had problems for Him to solve.

Like us, He suffered exhaustion, hunger and aching feet—and still, He cast out their demons, healed their diseases and forgave their sins.

He taught the Word and shined the Father’s light so all would realize they were dwelling in darkness.

That’s what He calls me to do each and every day.

He fills my morning cup to overflowing with His love for me.

His spirit refills that same cup over and over again allowing me to pour His love into others.

As evening approaches and I inhale the smoky pinks and neon mauves of His painted sunset, the Lord leans in and softly sighs, “Well done.”

I hand Him my cup once more and as He quietly tips the day’s final fill,

He lullabies, “Get some sleep. I promise I’ll have new mercies for you tomorrow.”

Do justly.

Love mercy.

Walk humbly with your God.

Then listen.

I promise you’ll hear it over and over again.

“Well done.”

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The Lord guided them by a pillar of cloud during the daytime and by a pillar of fire at night. So they could travel either by day or night. The cloud and fire were never out of sight. Exodus 13:21-22

How many times have you asked God what His will is for your life?

I thought I knew what His perfect will was for me.

I spent 26 years working alongside my husband, building a successful bookstore business for our church.

It was heaven on earth.

Then, one day God revealed a completely unexpected bend in our beautiful road.

The bookstore ministry we built together is being closed.

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Through the harrowing heartbreak of this season, I have leaned on God’s immutable character.

• He never changes.

• He is true to His promises.

• He will always do more than we could ever think or imagine.

• He will never leave me or forsake me.

• He has plans to give me a future and a hope.

In the early days of grief and mourning, the Lord comforted me with divine direction. Although I believed my purpose was lost, God assured me that, like the Israelites, He would lead me to my promised land.

From the moment the Israelites left Egypt, the soil beneath their sandals became a grueling training ground.

God was preparing their hearts to trust as He readied them to enter the promised land.

Through His faithful provision in the wilderness, the Lord taught both Moses and His chosen people to rely on Him.

In so many ways, my journey has paralled that of the Israelites.

My old life had countless moments of fulfillment, but so often, my spirit was restless and stifled—as if God had something more for me.

I now believe that the Lord had placed a longing in my soul for the promised land He had fashioned for me alone.

Like the Israelites, I have a covenant destination, a land of milk and honey, a place of blessing and security.

The sad thing is some days I long for Egypt.

God understands human reluctance.

In His compassion for the Israelites, He gave them evidence that He was with them through every moment of their wilderness journey.

He didn’t offer them agendas, itineraries, or Google Maps.

They got something far better.

He guided them with a pillar of cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night.

His holy presence dwelt within the pillars of cloud and fire that billowed and blazed before His chosen people.

I, too, have His holy presence with me on this journey.

When I’ve felt lost, God has spoken to me in soft and tender tones.

His guiding pillar of cloud has heartened me when I’ve been at my worst— the days when I’ve whined like the Israelites.

Why has God led me into the wilderness of an unknown future?

I’d be better off sleeping soundly in my comfortable old shackles.

With all the patience, compassion and gentleness of a loving Father, the Lord has nestled me in a nurturing nook.

He has gently awakened the prose and poetry that had fallen dormant in my soul.

On restless nights, when shadows of my old life walk single file through my fitful dreams, the whirring wind of God’s fire pillar caresses me back to consciousness.

My spirit is immediately infused with His promises and my path is bathed in light that instantly shatters the impotent darkness.

Perhaps the wandering Israelites had similar experiences.

They cursed Moses when their flesh felt discomfort or when fear slithered its way around their hearts, threatening to choke off the seeds of trust God was planting.

I hope Moses sang them lullablies about the promised land—the plump and purple grapes of Hebron, the mouth-watering pomegranates and the lush green carpet of the hills.

I hope they fell into peaceful sleep hearing the beckoning babble of the crystal clear brooks and springs that awaited them.

The wandering and the waiting make us weary, don’t they, my friends?

But when you embrace the knowledge that the God who loves you, the One who created your very soul has a promised land waiting for you, the arduous journey becomes a romantic adventure.

From dawn to dusk and dusk to dawn, His presence goes with us.

Look to the cloud and the pillar.

Listen for His whispers and His lullabies.

Your promised land may be closer than you think.

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When it’s cold, you can see the song.

The beautiful little bird pictured here is singing from her soul, her feathers fluffed against the bitter winter chill.

She isn’t shivering or complaining.

No—she is using the frosty air within her tiny lungs to release rhapsodies into a waiting world.

She lilts loudly and confidently, without reservation.

The cold weighs on her tiny body, but it doesn’t silence her.

It is this little bird’s instinct to sing through the winter’s frost as heartily as she sings every morning of spring.

That instinct is a gift from her Creator.

I came across this photo today, while scrolling on my phone.

The caption read, “When it’s cold, you can see the song.”

My heart ached a little—the way a deep wound does when it is between healing and scarring over.

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The Lord has faithfully led me through the darkest season of my life.

I’ve mourned, I’ve wept, and I’ve questioned.

Jesus has graciously held me close and listened to it all.

Somehow, my King managed to take away one of my most beloved treasures, while still making me feel like His princess.

At times, I have lost my way.

But the Lord’s promises danced like a candle in the darkness and softly guided me back to Him.

I will never leave you, nor forsake you.

I am working everything together for your good.

Be still and know that I am God.

I will do more than you could ever ask or imagine.

I am the God who sees you.

Let the scarring begin.

The book of James urges us to “Count it all joy” when we face life’s trials.

I knew from the start of this trial, that each day I would have to make a conscious choice to praise God for the grief He had allowed.

When friends asked how I was doing, I told them that I knew the Lord was doing something new and wonderful in my life.

More than once, Jesus reminded me of my favorite scripture, Ephesians 3:20, which says that He always does more than we could ever hope or imagine. He summed it up for me in one distinct promise:

“The best is yet to come.”

I’ve known the Lord for over 45 years and He has always been faithful to His word.

He is the same loving, kind and merciful God who tenderly wooed the troubled heart of a teenage girl so long ago.

His whispers still beckon me to His side when the biting chill of this coldhearted world threatens to shake me.

He has taken the ashes of my grief and transformed them into beautiful words that testify to His goodness.

I’ve trusted Jesus through each difficulty and drama life has given me.

When light finally appears at the end of each dark tunnel, I find myself loving and trusting Him more deeply than ever before.

I have trusted Jesus through this trial, and I will trust Him through the next one—and the one after that.

I don’t think twice about that trust.

It has become an instinct.

When it’s cold, I want others to see my song.

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Last week, I had an unexpected visitor to my office.

On a painfully gray Sunday morning, a little birdy told me that Jesus loves me.

My work day and begun earlier than usual.

I had dragged myself to the bookstore after a horribly restless night. I hadn’t slept well at all in the three months since my husband’s sudden layoff.

Before the church took his job away, our Sundays were known as “showtime.”

We left for work together each weekend eager for eight hours of exhausting, but oh-so-rewarding activity.

Three Sunday services meant hundreds of customers all with distinct and varied needs.

My husband would steer the bookstore ship while I captained the adjoining cafe.

From espresso to living water, our cups ranneth over as we reveled in our lifegiving ministries.

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Now, Sundays were a sad struggle.

My heart broke each week as I left for work and watched my hubby wave goodbye from our front lawn.

To be sure, our lives had been changed.

It was as if 100 black clouds now cloaked us in darkness with no hope of ever seeing the sun again.

On this particular Sunday, I had just turned my computer on when an enchanting little bird flitted into my office.

He chirped a little and then delicately lit on a mesh back support above my desk.

The funny thing is, I had just encountered the bird a few minutes earlier in the cafe.

A customer had come to my office to let me know that he was flying around near the counter.

I expected to see a frightened brown sparrow fluttering around, desperately lost.

Instead, I saw a splendidly clad little fellow hopping along the floor near the cafe’s large glass windows.

The bird’s feathers were a deep blue-gray with a brilliant shock of yellow under his wings and on his chest.

He was breathtaking.

He was also strangely calm.

I marvelled for a moment, then hurried back to my giant to-do list.

I figured he’d find his way out when he was good and ready.

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But, minutes later, here he was in my little office, at the back of the store.

Why was he here where the light was low and nowhere near the large windows and glass doors at the front?

Clearly, “James,” as I’ve dubbed him, was on a mission.

What mission?

This dutiful little warbler was serving as a royal courier.

James was bringing me a personal message from the King Himself.

Just as the Lord sent ravens to sustain Elijah in 1 Kings 17, He had now sent this diminutive warbler to minister to me.

Elijah needed food and water during a severe drought.

The Lord had seen my struggle through a long desert of brokeness.

He knew that I hungered for hope and panted for peace.

When I locked eyes with little James, I felt the presence of the Lord and could not wait to receive the message God was sending.

My new feathered friend perched and chirped exuberantly for two or three minutes.

When he was finished, he fluttered out of the office, through the open front doors of the bookstore and he was gone.

Just as I began going through my emails, a friend stopped in to ask how my husband and I were doing.

She told me that she knew the Lord was “doing wonderful things” in our lives.

As she spoke, her eyes glimmered with joy and excitement.

My heart lifted as I sensed her absolute conviction that God had good things in store for my family.

“So this was James’ message,” I thought. “Thank you, Jesus!”

Little did I know that my beloved friend’s stirring words were just the first page of a long love letter from the Lord—a letter filled with great affection and tenderness.

Two days after James’ extraordinary visit, I received a message to call a customer who was searching for an old CD.

I was pleasantly surprised to see that the message was from a dear friend who had worked with my husband and I many years ago.

Over time we had lost touch.

I returned my friend’s call and tearfully told him all about the difficult season we were going through.

This very special friend of mine spoke in a quiet, sure voice.

He lavished me with encouragement, quoting scripture after scripture.

His words fell like soft rain on my parched and weary soul.

I felt God’s undeniable presence, just like when I first met little James.

My friend reminded me of the Lord’s precious promises, while sternly cautioning me against bitterness and despair.

“Chris, there’s a reason the book of James tells us to count it all joy, when the Lord sends a trial,” he said.

“Because,” he went on, “Blessings follow trials. Hold onto that.”

Forty-five minutes into this spirit-led conversation, I realized that I had forgotten about the old CD my friend had called about .

“Don’t worry about that,” he said.

“That CD was just a device the Lord used so that I could speak with you.”

And with that, James’ special delivery was now complete.

The message from my heaven sent little songbird was one of great hope.

With quaint majesty, James heralded the arrival of other messengers who would reinfuse my heart with the never-changing truth that God, the creator of the universe, treasures me.

Even on days when I forget that truth, Jesus will always find new ways to reassure me that He will never forsake me.

As 1 Peter 1:6 says “there is wonderful joy ahead."

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There is cleansing in the rain You’ve sent

on this final day of the year

Muddy memories flow out of sight

And my new path is oh so clear.

In the pattering drops You exhort me

to run through open doors waiting

You whisper, “Nothing can stop you

This future is your fating.”

For 365, You’ve been my umbrella

Now You cry, “Run through the storm!”

and drench your soul in blessings

The Son will keep you warm.”