Stephanie Rische

Blogger and Writer: Capturing Stories of God's Grace

A Letter to Our Baby

Dear Baby,

Your dad nicknamed you Spark. Months ago, before our scary ultrasound, he decided it was a fitting name. I never figured out how he came up with it, but it didn’t matter. It just seemed right.

And now more ever, the name suits you perfectly.

The doctor said some scary words in that office after your ultrasound . . . words like genetic abnormality and restricted fetal growth and stillbirth and preterm. Baby Spark, we don’t know exactly what’s happening, and as much as the doctors try to pin it all down, they really don’t know the whole story either.

Your dad and I have so many dreams and hopes for you. We wonder what your personality will be like, what you’ll be passionate about, what you’ll like and dislike, what you’ll be gifted at, if you’ll have your dad’s blue eyes or your mom’s single dimple. We’ve imagined so many possibilities for your future.

Spark, we wouldn’t have chosen any of those scary doctor-words for you. We would choose words like healthy and whole and perfect for you if we could. But don’t forget this for a moment: Although we wouldn’t choose this road for you, we choose YOU. No matter what.

And this is likely the first lesson of many to come for us: that as much as we love you, as much as we’re honored that you’ve been temporarily entrusted to us, you are not ultimately ours. You are God’s child, on loan to us. And so we don’t get to map out your life or control what happens to you—we just get to love you and raise you with the wisdom God grants us.

***

That day of the ultrasound, right after we got this news we weren’t expecting, your dad and I were sitting in the lobby of the hospital. Instead of going to a celebratory lunch before we headed back to work, we found ourselves perched on blue plastic chairs, trying to process what we’d heard. I was ugly-crying, not even caring about the stream of people staring at us as they made their way through the lobby.

Your dad was holding my hand, plying me with tissues. After a while he said something I’ll never forget: “I feel like our baby is saying to us, ‘I am a child of God.’”

That moment marked a pivot for me. It was at once obvious and revolutionary. If we truly believe you are a child of God—and we do—then our dreams and hopes and plans for you come second. We choose to surrender all our ideas in favor of what God has in mind for you.

That Sunday, just two days later, your dad played this song with the worship band in church:

From my mother’s womb
You have chosen me
Love has called my name

Spark, we believe that no matter what happens, God is going to use you to shine for him. Maybe that will be because he surprises everyone and you enter this world miraculously healthy. Or maybe you will shine for him precisely because there’s something unique about you that this world would deem less than perfect.

I’m no longer a slave to fear
I am a child of God

And so, Spark, we are trying to choose love instead of fear. We believe you are God’s beloved child. And we believe he is going to use you to ignite hearts for him. You are only the size of a cantaloupe, but already you are shining. Already we love you like crazy.

Love,
Mom and Dad

If there is anywhere on earth a lover of God who is always kept safe, I know nothing of it, for it was not shown to me. But this was shown: that in falling and rising again we are always kept in that same precious love.
Julian of Norwich

When Your Greatest Joy Collides with Your Greatest Fear

If someone managed to do an X-ray of the soul, I wouldn’t be surprised to discover that our places of deepest joy are located right beside our places of deepest sorrow. I’ve spent the larger part of a lifetime assuming life should come one emotion at a time. A season of joy, then a season of pain. Heartache followed by a dream-come-true. All compartmentalized into neat categories.

But as it turns out, life rarely unfolds that way. The good and the bad often fly at us scattershot: joy and pain in simultaneous explosions. The happiness is so woven in with the tears that we can’t separate them out without losing both.

There’s an old song I love by Rich Mullins called “We Are Not as Strong as We Think We Are”:

With these our hells and our heavens So few inches apart We must be awfully small And not as strong as we think we are

Isn’t that about right? Our hells and our heavens, mere inches away from the other.

And that’s where Daniel and I find ourselves right now—smack dab in the middle of both. Great joy intertwined with deep sorrow.

Twenty weeks ago, God fulfilled a dream I’ve held on to for years—one of the most tender desires of my heart. My body wasn’t cooperating, my biological clock was working against me, and the doctors said it was impossible. But one brisk morning in January, to our speechless delight, Daniel and I found out there was new life growing inside me.

This is our miracle, our answer to prayer, our little piece of heaven on earth.

But just inches away—and weeks away—we bumped into one of our deepest fears.

***

We went into the ultrasound rather giddy about meeting this baby of ours, naïvely thinking the biggest question would be whether to find out the gender. After much contemplation, we decided to be surprised.

We were surprised. But the gender was the least of it.

After the ultrasound was over, the doctor came in and did a second one. That’s when I felt the first niggling of trepidation. Wouldn’t a doctor be too busy to repeat what the tech just did? But I was on such a high after seeing the baby’s button nose and tiny fingers that I was caught off guard when the doctor called us into her office.

“We suspect a genetic abnormality,” she said matter-of-factly, as if she were mentioning it might rain later.

For you created my inmost being;
you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
your works are wonderful,
I know that full well.

I’ve heard Psalm 139 countless times, but honestly, I’ve always skipped over the “fearfully” part and moved right on to “wonderfully.” The images we saw in the ultrasound served as incontrovertible evidence of the wonderful part. Before our baby weighed a full ounce, the kidneys and liver were formed. Before this child was the size of an avocado, the heart was thrumming away at 150 beats a minute. Wonderfully made indeed.

But in that doctor’s white-walled office, fearfully took on ferocious new meaning. I am carrying a wonder inside me, yes. But inseparable from that wonder is fear. Fear about what could happen if something is amiss with just one of the 46 chromosomes. Fear about the ramifications if this baby enters the world too soon. Fear about how fragile life is for all of us, but especially for someone who is currently only about one pound.

This baby is, even now, being masterfully and tenderly knit together by the Creator himself. In the meantime, I need to know: How can I hold on to both the fear and the wonder? I don’t want to revel in the wonder alone and deny the legitimate fear. And I don’t want to let the fear eclipse the wonder altogether. So somehow I need to find a way to embrace both at once.

It’s a risk, this business of loving someone. But isn’t that part of what it means to be made in the image of the Creator who knit us together? He knows full well our frailties and weaknesses and humanness. And yet he loves his children with abandon. To love is to risk being hurt. But it’s worth the risk.

As we wait in the unknown these next four months, I wouldn’t choose any other way than the bumpy road of love. Even if it means that our hells and our heavens, our fears and our wonders, are separated by mere inches.

To love at all is to be vulnerable.
C. S. Lewis

The God of Surprises

This holy week I’ve been thinking a lot about how God has this knack for surprising us. He gives us whispers about his coming, but he doesn’t usually spell out the itinerary for us, like the exact whens and wheres and hows.

This is tricky for planners like me. I want to know how it’s all going to play out. I like to pretend that’s so I can be prepared, but at some level, it’s because I like to think I have some measure of control.

The truth is, this habit of God’s to surprise us is precisely what I need. Because how do you build faith if you have the entire roadmap laid out for you? Besides, I’m pretty sure that if God gave me the whole picture in advance, I’d curl up in a fetal position and never get out of bed. I’m only brave enough for one step at a time.

On Palm Sunday, Jesus fulfilled those ancient whispers about his entry into Jerusalem. But he didn’t come the way the people expected. He didn’t come like a king, on a white horse. He didn’t come with a sword, surrounded by a fierce army. Instead, he came humbly, on a donkey.

Jesus comes. He always comes. But he doesn’t always come in the way we expect.

Shortly before his death, Jesus said he would rebuild the Temple in a mere three days. The people were incredulous—how could he do such a massive construction project in such a short time? But sure enough, three days after his crucifixion, the temple of his body was raised to life again.

Jesus comes. He always comes. But he doesn’t always come in the way we expect.

This Easter, I want to crack my heart open to God’s surprises. I want to follow the clues about his coming; I want to listen for the whispers. But I don’t want to be so stuck in the way I imagine his arrival that I miss him when he comes. I want to be ready for him, even when the way he comes is different from what I’d choose, what I’d expect, what I’d plan.

I don’t know what you’re facing right now, but I have a hunch that you, too, are longing for Jesus to come. Longing for him to show up in your pain and your doubt and your confusion. Longing for him to move your stone away. Longing for him to bring life out of death.

Jesus comes. He always comes. May we be ready for him, even when he doesn’t come in the way we expect.

What’s Your One Word?

We are already 59 days into 2017. New Year’s resolutions have come and gone, diets and gym attendance are now a distant memory, and the new year has dulled like your car under its coat of winter grime.

In other words: I should have written this post several moons ago.

But have you ever had a dream or a goal or a whisper of a hope that was just too tender to put into words? It feels so delicate, and you’re afraid that if you bring it out into the harsh winds of reality, it will get blown over or stepped on unceremoniously. It seems safer to keep it inside the glass case of your own heart.

But here’s the hard truth about keeping dreams enclosed in a glass case: While they may not get trampled that way, eventually the oxygen will get squeezed out, and the dream will shrivel.

As this year approached, I searched for a word to focus on in the year ahead. The truth is, I’m terrible at resolutions, so I figured if I only had to remember one word, maybe I’d be able to hang on to it—or at least remember it come April.

After a great deal of mulling and re-mulling, one word kept haunting me: believe. I balked at first. After all, I’ve believed in God for a long time . . . for as long as I can remember, in fact, though in varying degrees.

But the implication for this year seemed more personal. We weren’t just talking about “Do I believe in God?” It hit closer to the jugular than that.

Do I believe God is who he says he is in my life?
Do I believe his promises are true for me?
Do I believe he still does miracles?
Do I believe that he is for me . . . that he loves me, personally?

And will I keep on believing in him—whether he says yes or not?

Somewhere along the way, when it came to the deepest desires of my heart, I’d started hedging my bets with God. I wasn’t sure if he’d give me the thing I longed for, so I stopped talking to him about it in a real way. When he and I did talk, I’d hit him up with platitudes along the lines of “Thy will be done,” with my emotions safely checked at the door.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that prayer—it was modeled by Jesus, after all. But I’d forgotten the first part of his prayer—the part where he cried out his desire before his Father so earnestly that his sweat came out as drops of blood.

I wasn’t being pious by holding my request in check; instead, I was showing a lack of belief. Whether God decided to grant my desire or not, I needed to be real with him about what I was asking him for, what I was believing for.

And so, as this year has launched, I’ve begun taking some baby steps toward believing. It feels vulnerable and scary, because when you put yourself and your big ask out there, you’re setting yourself up to get hurt. But there’s an important part of this puzzle I’ve been overlooking: belief isn’t really about the strength of my faith; it’s about the object of my faith.

The God I believe in is a good Father; he is infinitely tender with us. So if he doesn’t give us what we’re asking him for, I have to believe it’s because he has something better than our finite minds can conceive. Better to ask and allow him to say no (or yes) than to always wonder what might have happened if we’d had the courage to really ask.

So what does it look like to believe? I’m still young at this, but so far, this is what I’m trying:

1. Writing my big, audacious request in my journal.

I have a journal with this quote from Alice in Wonderland on the front: “I’ve believed six impossible things before breakfast.” That’s a big goal for a girl who tends to hedge her bets, but I’m giving it a shot.

2. Allowing friends to believe on my behalf.

I’ve shared my big request with some people I love and trust, and it is a gift to know they are hoping and praying for me when I don’t have it in me to muster up much belief on my own.

3. Believing on behalf of other people.

I’ve asked other people what I can believe this year for them. Somehow it feels easier to have faith for their big request than for my own, and there’s something beautiful that happens when we share our tender hopes and beliefs with each other.

***

What are believing for this year? If you’re willing to share, let me know, and I’d be honored to believe with you and pray for you. And do you have any tips for holding on to belief in a tangible way?

 

Are You a Catastrophizer?

messy ballOkay, time for a show of hands. When you start a sentence with “What if . . .” how many of you are picturing something wonderful happening? And how many of you are envisioning the bottom dropping out in a thousand different (but equally catastrophic) ways?

If you are in the first category, you are my hero. And also: we need to be friends. If you are in the second category, you are not alone. Here’s the truth: My “what ifs” are always worst-case scenarios.

What if Daniel isn’t home from his bike ride yet because he was swept up by a funnel cloud and then attacked by a bunch of thugs?

What if the pain in my side is appendicitis or, more likely, some unpronounceable kind of cancer?

What if gluten/GMOs/social-media-induced narcissism/the two-party political system will be the demise of us all?

What if I run out of time or money or energy or friends or grace?

What if I’m missing out on what God is calling me to do?

Yep, my worry gene is on constant overdrive.

But lately I’ve been wondering . . . what if my imaginings were best-case scenarios?

What if, instead of catastrophizing, I serendipitized instead?

What if my “what-ifs” were about all the amazing, incredible, wonderful, serendipitous things that God might just have in store?

I adore this poem by Mary Oliver:

I Worried

I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers
flow in the right direction, will the earth turn
as it was taught, and if not how shall
I correct it?

Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,
can I do better?

Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows
can do it and I am, well,
hopeless.

Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,
am I going to get rheumatism,
lockjaw, dementia?

Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing.
And gave it up. And took my old body
and went out into the morning,
and sang.

I can relate to Oliver’s worries about things like which direction the rivers will flow and if the earth will turn the right way—things we humans have no business controlling, not to mention any power over. And I love her remedy, which at first seems like a bit of a non sequitur: go out into the morning and sing.

***

When I started riding my bike with Daniel, he shared this rule of cycling with me: Don’t look at what you’re trying to avoid; look at where you want to go. This sounded terrifying at first, because it means you have to loosen your perceived control over this thing you want to protect yourself from. But in reality, this letting go is freedom.

When you take your eyes off your object of worry, it loses its power over you. As counterintuitive as it sounds, you’re much more likely to crash into something when your eyes are fixed on it.

So just for today, in the face of worry, I want to sing. Every time a worry comes crashing into my brain and my heart, I want to fight back . . . not with striving or many words, but with a song.

Satisfy us each morning with your unfailing love, so we may sing for joy to the end of our lives.
Psalm 90:14

***

Are you a worrier? What do you tend to catastrophize about? What helps you combat worry?

God’s Elbow

addie elbow3

When my niece Addie was almost two, my family headed to Washington State to visit my grandparents. The 2,000-mile trip made for a long day . . . even for those of us who weren’t toddlers. By the time we drove to the airport, changed planes, rented a car, and headed over the mountains to Grandma and Grandpa’s house, we’d spent an entire day using transportation of some kind. Add that to the two-hour time difference, and we had a pretty tired two-year-old on our hands.

Gratefully, Addie was a champion traveler and charmed the entire plane. But when we got to Grandma and Grandpa’s house, she toddled over to me, her eyes plaintive. “Eppie ebbow!” she said.

I looked at her, confused. The “Eppie” part was easy—that’s my auntie alias. But “ebbow”? What was she trying to tell me?

“Can you show me?” I asked.

She dutifully pointed to my elbow, but I was still at a loss for what that signified.

Finally I called in my sister, Addie’s mom, for some clues. “What does it mean if Addie is asking for my elbow?”

Meghan laughed. “Oh, she’s asking you to hold her in a rocking position—with her head in your elbow.”

Of course! I was only too happy to oblige.

***

Just a few months later, Addie’s world turned upside down when her parents brought home a baby brother. She had been practicing her big-sister skills with her doll (whom she called “Pink Baby”), but we weren’t sure how she’d adjust to not being the baby of the family anymore.

Most of all, how would she respond when someone else took the prime spot in her mama’s elbow?

When Meghan and Ted returned from the hospital with their precious bundle wrapped in a blue quilt, I held my breath, wondering how the introduction with the newly minted big sister would go. Would she be jealous? Would she feel bumped out of prime elbow territory?

I needn’t have worried. The first thing she said after inspecting little Grant was “Addie ebbow.” Then she sat down on the couch, ready to put her little brother in the crook of her own arm.

Here I was afraid she’d want Mama’s elbow for herself, and she was offering her elbow to her baby brother.

At two years old, Addie was living out this verse in 2 Corinthians:

God is our merciful Father and the source of all comfort. He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us.
2 Corinthians 1:3-4

God comforts us—he lets us rest in the cook of his arm, if you will. And in turn, he invites us to share that comfort with other hurting people.

When we know there’s no scarcity of love, we don’t have to hoard the comfort we’ve been given; we don’t have to be jealous for it. Instead, we can receive it with gratitude . . . and then extend it to someone else.

Have known the comfort of your Father’s elbow? If so, don’t keep that love to yourself. Find someone else who needs an elbow too, and share his comfort with them. And if you haven’t felt that comfort, know that his arm is ready, waiting just for you.

***

What’s your story? Has someone passed on God’s comfort to you? Or have you passed it on to someone else?

The Other Irish Saint

Top o’ the morning to you! I hope that you are wearing green or drinking a Shamrock Shake or eating corned beef or doing whatever it is you do on a day when everyone is Irish.

So most of us have heard of Saint Patrick, but today I’d like to introduce you to a lesser-known Irish hero: a monk named Saint Dallan. You’ve probably never heard his name, but you just might know his work: he’s the author of the hymn “Be Thou My Vision.”

In the sixth century, a hundred or so years after Patrick landed in Ireland, Dallan dedicated his life to the Lord and to the people of his country. His given name was Eochaid, but most people called him Dallan, which meant “little blind one.”

That’s right. The man who wrote “Be Thou My Vision” was blind.

For generations, the Old Irish version of “Be Thou My Vision” was used as a prayer and chanted by monks throughout Ireland. It wasn’t until 1905 that the words were translated into English. The poem was set to music several years later, in 1912.

The simple yet profound lyrics of this song are just as relevant today as they were when they were penned some fourteen centuries ago:

Be Thou my vision,
O Lord of my heart.
Naught be all else to me,
Save that Thou art.

Almost five years ago, I walked down an aisle on a dewy August morning toward Daniel, grinning like a schoolboy in his gray striped suit, while a handful of our closest family and friends sang these words:

Thou my best thought,
By day or by night,
Waking or sleeping,
Thy presence my light.

The words seemed more fitting than other song we could find. As we entered into this covenant, this promise that was bigger than either one of us, we couldn’t see what lay ahead. We knew God had a plan to knit our stories together into one, but there was so much we couldn’t see. We had to cling to the belief that he would see us through the days and years ahead—that he would be our vision when we couldn’t see.

Be Thou my wisdom,
And thou my true word,
Thou ever with me,
And I with Thee Lord.

The truth is, even if we have eyes, we lack vision. In those moments when our dreams blind us or our trials cloud our ability to see or the darkness makes us lose our step, we don’t just need better vision. We need the Lord himself to be our vision.

Thou my great Father,
And I thy true son;
Thou in me dwelling,
And I with thee one.

Today I invite you to join me in praying the words of this blind monk:

Be Thou my vision at work.
Be Thou my vision at home.
Be Thou my vision in my relationships.
Be Thou my vision in my decisions.
Be Thou my vision in all I do today.
Amen.

And if you’re feeling especially festive, you can attempt the Old Irish version:

Rop tú mo baile, a Choimdiu cride:
ní ní nech aile acht Rí secht nime.

 

What Nobody Tells You about Epiphany

candleEpiphany. I learned the word from Mr. Heagney, my English teacher, two decades ago, and I’ve been smitten with it ever since. Not only does it dance off the tongue nicely, but the meaning itself is magical: a sudden illuminating discovery or idea; a revelation; the moment the proverbial lightbulb goes on.

Epiphany is a remarkable day on the church calendar too: the holiday marking the revelation of God’s Son to the Magi. This was one of God’s brightest ideas ever: Heaven breaking through to earth. Darkness being trounced by starlight. Kings bowing down before the true King. Hope busting through in the most glorious way.

I long for epiphanies myself. I yearn for the lightbulb to go on, for my fuzzy thinking to clear. I’m desperate for that creative idea, or for the key that will unlock my confusion or doubt or fear. I want to see a star from the east and drop everything to follow. I want a sign.

I’ve had a few moments like that in my life. Micro-revelations, perhaps, but glimpses of the divine nevertheless. Yet those moments are rare. Most days there are no stars in the night sky, no signs, no epiphanies. Most days I’m just treading along a dark path, half-hoping, half-praying that I’m headed in the right direction.

What they don’t tell you about epiphanies is that the star doesn’t stay in the sky forever. After the Magi visited God Incarnate, they headed back to their own country, back to their ordinary lives. Maybe their hearts were irrevocably changed, but life went on.

So what does it look to live out Epiphany even when there’s no miracle at the moment, when the star has faded in the night sky?

That’s when it’s time to hold on, my friend. What you saw when you glimpsed the divine—it was real. What you felt in that moment when God touched your heart—it was valid. The words of hope you heard whispered in the middle of the night—they were true.

So keep believing in the epiphanies. Keep looking for them. They will come. But don’t depend on them. Because faith means holding on to the fact that heaven broke through earth, even after the star has dimmed and you have to go back to your ordinary life. Faith means remembering that miracles are true, even when it’s been some time since you witnessed one firsthand.

Faith means holding on to Epiphany even when there’s no sign. It’s choosing to light a candle when the starlight has faded.

Listen to your life. See it for the fathomless mystery it is. In the boredom and pain of it, no less than in the excitement and gladness: touch, taste, smell your way to the holy and hidden heart of it, because in the last analysis all moments are key moments, and life itself is grace.

Frederick Buechner

Praying Upside Down

Praying Upside DownI recently finished reading a book called Praying Upside Down by Kelly O’Dell Stanley. I tend to gravitate away from books about prayer, because in general the book I need most about prayer can be summed up in one short sentence: “Shut up and pray.” Truth be told, my biggest problem isn’t usually the nuances or the how-tos of prayer; more often it’s about flat-out Not Doing It.

But this book is an exception—it offers something fresh to the conversation about prayer. It isn’t theoretical; it’s a practical approach to prayer. And the author comes at the topic from an interesting perspective, tackling prayer as an artist. Kelly shows what white space, sketching, point of view, and other artistic concepts can teach us about prayer. For a non-artist like me, all of this was revelatory.

If your prayers are starting to feel stale, this book will help you get out of a rut. And if you’re finding it hard to pray right at all right now, this book will help you get unstuck.

One of the things I appreciate most about this book is how the author emphasizes the importance of gaining a new perspective when we’re praying. In art, if you’re not able to capture the piece you want to create, it’s probably time to move to a new position. And the same is true about prayer: If you find yourself unable to connect with God, it may be time to change positions and get a fresh perspective.

Kelly describes something she and a friend prayed about: “When we found a way to get unstuck, God answered. When we tried something new, we saw different results.” Case in point: if everything in your life is hard at the moment and it’s hard to talk to God about it, it may be time to step to the side and take a look at things from another angle.

If there’s a flood in your basement, that means you have a home . . . and a basement to thank God for.

If your house isn’t selling and you’re starting to get stressed about the timing, maybe it’s time to start praying for the person who will buy your house.

If you’re having trouble praying for a situation in your own life, offer to pray for a friend and ask them to pray for you.

Most of all, I appreciate the way Kelly reminds us that ultimately prayer isn’t about us; it’s about God. And he is more powerful and more caring than we typically give him credit for.

The effectiveness of our prayers doesn’t come down to how good our prayers are; it comes down to how good God is. As Kelly puts it, “Just because I had run out of things to do didn’t mean He had.”

***

Too often, we miss seeing God because we think His answer will look different than it does.
~Kelly O’Dell Stanley

What a Two-Year-Old Taught Me about Running

I run on occasion, but I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’m a runner. Truth be told, I’m probably more of a plodder. One foot in front of the other, slow and tortoise-like.Addie Norway

I’ve heard the term “runner’s high,” but so far the only high I’ve experienced comes after the run, when I eat the bowl of ice cream I promised myself as a reward.

So when I read this verse in Hebrews about running the race of faith, I have to say it doesn’t automatically instill inspiration in me:

Since we are surrounded by such a huge crowd of witnesses to the life of faith, let us strip off every weight that slows us down, especially the sin that so easily trips us up. And let us run with endurance the race God has set before us.
—Hebrews 12:1

When I think of spiritual running, I tend to conjure up images of plodding along in the life of faith, putting one foot in front of the other from now until glory-be.

I’m not usually feeling the spiritual runner’s high.

But a few weeks ago, when I went to my parents’ house for a family get-together, something changed my perspective on the kind of running God might be talking about.

As I pulled into my parents’ driveway, my almost-two-year-old niece was in the garden, “helping” pick cucumbers. The minute I got out of the car, Addie spied me and started waddle-running toward me as fast as her little legs could take her. Her arms swung haphazardly from side to side as she zigzagged across the yard.

When she was about halfway to me, she hit a dip in the grass. Bam! Down she went, toppling bum over heels. But she barely seemed to notice—she just got up and kept running.

When she got closer, I saw something that permanently melted my auntie-heart: An impish grin was spreading across Addie’s face, her trademark dimple indenting one cheek. And that smile was running toward me for a hug.

Addie wasn’t plodding. She wasn’t trudging along, forcing one foot in front the other. She was running out of sheer joy. She had her destination in mind, and nothing was going to stop her.

That’s how I want to run this race of faith. I don’t want to run out of duty or because it’s good for me. I want to run more like Addie.

I want to run with a heart that’s overflowing with joy, knowing I’m running toward someone I love, toward someone who loves me.

Even when the race is hard and the finish line seems impossibly far away, know this: God is waiting for you at the finish line, with his arms open wide.

Seek . . . to cultivate a buoyant, joyous sense of the crowded kindnesses of God in your daily life.
—Alexander Maclaren