Stephanie Rische

Blogger and Writer: Capturing Stories of God's Grace

A Tale of Two Lipsticks

lipstickI was minding my own business in the cosmetics aisle at Target the other day when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

“Excuse me, but can you tell me which one of these looks red?”

I turned around to see a woman in her 50s, her face the very definition of angst. She was holding two lipstick tubes directly in front of me.

Now I admit I was feeling pretty confident I could ace this one, having mastered my ROYGBIV a long time ago, but when I looked at the lipstick, I found myself utterly befuddled. PEOPLE, they were almost the identical shade of fire-engine red.

“Um,” I faltered, wondering if this was a trick question. “They’re both lovely.”

The woman’s face instantly fell, and I realized there would be no elegant sidestepping of this question.

“Okay, what are you looking for?” I asked.

“I want it to be RED,” she said. “Not even a little bit orange or pink. RED.”

I looked at the two tubes again, desperately trying to decipher any nuances between the two. And then it hit me: this woman wasn’t looking to me for my color expertise or my fashion savvy. It was well into the afternoon, and any attention I’d paid to my lips before I left for work was long gone by now. I’d eaten something that required much napkin-swabbing for lunch, and I’d made a mad dash through a rainstorm on my way into the store, so I clearly didn’t have the cosmetic qualifications to answer this question.

What this woman needed was someone to feel confident on her behalf when she did not. (Which, come to think of it, was surprising for someone with such a bold shade of lipstick.)

I took a breath and dug in. I looked at the current shade she was wearing, and then I looked at the two tubes again. “This one,” I said with more certitude than I felt. “Definitely this one. It looks like the color you’re wearing now.”

She breathed an audible sigh of relief and headed directly to the check-out. I shook my head as she left, wishing I could be so confident when it came to my own decisions.

The thing is, sometimes we lose perspective when it comes to our own lives. We can’t tell if red is red. We need someone else to speak the truth boldly on our behalf.

Sometimes we shy away when someone asks for our input, not wanting to butt in to someone else’s business. But what if one word from you is exactly what that person needs to be able to move forward, to do the big thing they need to do? What if one word from you could inject in them the extra inch of courage they need?

Maybe they need to hear words like this from you:

Yes, try for the new job.
Yes, write the book.
Yes, go on the trip.
Yes, ask her out.
Yes, go back to school.
Yes, turn in your adoption application.
Yes, follow your dream.
And yes, get the red lipstick.

As I drove home, I wondered about the woman’s story. What had she needed RED lipstick for? Was she feeling any braver? Was she applying it in her rearview mirror this very moment?

I’m reminded of the words of that wise philosopher Christopher Robin, spoken to his friend Pooh:

“You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. But the most important thing is, even if we’re apart . . . I’ll always be with you.”

Isn’t that one of the reasons we’re here? To be bold on behalf of our friends when they are feeling timid. To speak truth to them when they can’t see it. To be there for them when they can’t tell red from red.

Whatever hard decision you’re facing right now, allow me to be your Christopher Robin: You, my friend, are braver than you believe. You’ve got this.

***

Has someone ever spoken bold words to you when you were facing a tough decision? I’d love to hear your story!

Do I Have Anything in My Teeth?

When I was in high school, the group of girls I sat with at lunch had a ritual before we headed to our next class: the daily “teeth check.” We’d flash our pearly whites at each other to make sure no bits of sandwich had unceremoniously lodged there.

(Keep in mind, this was the era of braces and retainers, not to mention just a teensy bit of insecurity.)

Most days the teeth check passed without incident, but on occasion, one of us might be known to say something like, “You don’t have anything in your teeth . . . but you do have something hanging out of your nose!”

(Yes, our humor was very sophisticated back then.)

We may have been a little over-vigilant about the post-lunch hygiene, but there’s something to the idea. It’s infinitely better for your friend to point out your social faux pas than to have the popular kids snickering about you behind your back or to have that cute guy see you with a piece of spinach stuck between your front teeth.

Oscar Wilde once said, “True friends stab you in the front.” And I think that’s about right, whether it’s about lunch . . . or your gossip habit or how you’re not being yourself or your tendency to hold back out of fear.

As painful as it can be to have someone tell you that you have the spiritual equivalent of spinach in your soul, how much better is that than to know you’ve been walking around like that for days or weeks or years? And all the better for it to come from someone who loves you.

We will speak the truth in love, growing in every way more and more like Christ.
Ephesians 4:15

I’m thankful to have people in my life who give me spiritual checkups. I’ve invited them to stab me in the front when I need it, and they do. They gently point out my blind spots, they tell me the truth in love, they remind me who I am and who I want to be. And they invite me to do the same for them.

As vulnerable as this whole process is, I’d much rather have it this way than go on living with something ugly stuck in my soul.

***

How about you? Do you have a friend who is willing to give you accountability when you need it? What would it take to get there?

The First Word of Jesus’ Prayer

Jesus’ disciples wanted to pray, but they weren’t quite sure how to go about it. So Jesus gave them a lesson in prayer—a model that Christians all over the world still use thousands of years later (Matthew 6:9-13).

I’ve said the Lord’s Prayer countless times, heard sermons about it, read books about it. But there’s one word in the prayer that I’ve brushed right by in the past. It’s a small word, just three letters, but it’s a critical one.

How could I have missed it for so long? It’s the first word, for crying out loud. Our.

Our Father who art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name . . .

Why, I wonder, didn’t Jesus instruct his disciples to address their prayers to God individually? “My Father who art in heaven . . .”

But from the very first line of the prayer, it’s apparent that Jesus sees prayer as a communal activity. Certainly we are to spend time with the Father one-on-one, but our default should be to come to him remembering that we are part of a community. He didn’t create us to be lone-wolf Christians, howling our prayers from the isolation of our dens.

Jesus tells us to call God our Father, which means that fellow believers are our brothers and sisters. We have the privilege of linking arms with them as we talk to our Dad about the things that are close to our hearts. Together, we can share our burdens. We can cry out for healing, for peace, for a relationship to be restored, for a prodigal to come home. And together, we can share our joys. We can offer thanks to God for his faithfulness, his goodness, his answers to our prayers.

My friend has a twentysomething-year-old son who cut ties with his family several years ago, leaving no forwarding address. Ever since, she and her family have tried everything shy of hiring a private investigator to find him. She wants more than anything to let him know that he is loved, that he is wanted, that there is a spot reserved for him that no one else can fill. I’ve had the privilege of praying with my friend every Thursday, begging God to reunite them and to show her son how much he is loved—by God and by his mother.

Our Father . . . please.

In Matthew 18:19-20, Jesus says, “Truly I tell you that if two of you on earth agree about anything they ask for, it will be done for them by my Father in heaven. For where two or three gather in my name, there am I with them.” I don’t know exactly what it is about praying to our Father with other people that makes it so sacred. Obviously God’s ears are just as attuned to the prayers we pray in solitude; it’s not as if we need to meet some kind of quorum for him to answer us.

But perhaps communal prayer is more for our sakes than for his. God knows how easily we lose hope, how quickly we get discouraged when we’re left on our own. But when our brothers and sisters stand united with us, they can believe and hope on our behalf when we grow weary.

On Mother’s Day weekend of this year, my friend received the best gift she could ever hope to receive: an unexpected reunion with her beloved son. As she held him in a long-awaited embrace, with tears streaming down both their faces, the hundreds of prayers that had been uttered on his behalf over the years seemed to swirl around them.

When my friend shared this news with me and the other friends who had been praying, I experienced another gift of communal prayer. Not only does it allow us to share our burdens; it also gives us the chance to multiply our joy and our gratitude.

Our Father . . . thank you.

So whatever we find ourselves up against this week, may we embrace the model Jesus gave us in his prayer. In our moments of need, we can come before him as our Father. In moments of rejoicing, we can come before him as our Father.

We can come to him together, as brothers and sisters. For that is exactly what we are.

What Prayer Tastes Like

Have you ever wondered what prayer tastes like?strawberry-apple pie

Up until yesterday it wouldn’t have occurred to me that prayer intersects with the taste buds at all. But now I can say with pretty firm confidence: prayer tastes like strawberry-apple pie.

I asked a friend to pray for me yesterday. There was something specific on my calendar, and I knew it was bigger than me, so I asked her to go with me through her prayers. And over the course of that hour, I felt covered somehow. Braver than usual, more myself than usual. And I knew I wasn’t alone.

Later that evening the doorbell rang, and it was my friend and her family. In her arms she was carrying something warm and wrapped in a dish towel. When she put her bundle on the kitchen counter and pulled back the cover, a heavenly aroma wafted into the room. It was a homemade pie. Sweet strawberries mingled with cinnamony apples. And it was still warm from the oven.

“I wanted to do something with my hands while I was praying for you,” she said.

I’ve had people tell me they were praying for me before, but it’s not every day that you can see the results of someone’s prayers—let alone taste them.

When I took the first mouth-watering bite, I thought, So this is what prayer tastes like. Sweet and tangy and baked to perfection inside a golden crust.

I pictured my friend rolling out the dough, asking God to smooth out the path before me. I imagined her slicing strawberries and peeling apples as she prayed for God to cut away the obstacles. I envisioned her scooping the flour and sugar, all the while requesting extra measures of wisdom and guidance.

As I licked the last few crumbs from my plate, I thought about what a brilliant idea a prayer pie is. If the thing you’re praying about utterly flops, your sorrows go down much easier à la mode. If things go well, what better way to celebrate than to toast with a forkful of pie? And either way, you will know that the hands that made it were the same hands that prayed you through.

So I guess that’s what prayer tastes like. A little like homemade pie. And a lot like love.

Book of the Month Club: Bread and Wine

bread-and-wineThanks to everyone who joined our book of the month club for October! Our selection was Bread and Wine by Shauna Niequist, which I introduced here.

 Here’s how it works: I’ll throw out a few discussion topics, and you can respond about these topics or anything else you’d like to talk about in the comment section below.

Discussion #1: A Call to Hospitality
I love the way Shauna reclaims eating together and sharing meals with others as not just something we do to sustain our bodies, but something that feeds the soul as well. “Food is one of the ways we love each other,” she says, “and the table is one of the most sacred places we gather.”

Having grown up with a grandma who can do a hundred magical things with a pie crust and her bare hands, and a mom who made every person who crossed the threshold of her home feel welcomed and loved, I have always understood at some intuitive level that the intersection of food and home is where relationships are cultivated and love takes root. But I appreciate the way Shauna puts those feelings into words and affirms the sacredness of hospitality in a world that is increasingly busy and fragmented.

“While it’s not strictly about food, it doesn’t happen without it. Food is the starting point, the common ground, the thing to hold and handle, the currency we offer to one another.”

 What are your experiences with hospitality and making food for other people? Was that a priority in your family when you were growing up? How have you done things the same or differently in your own home?

Discussion #2: A Place for Vulnerability
One of the highlights of the book for me was the way Shauna emphasized that making food and inviting people into your home isn’t a performance; it’s an opportunity to create space for authenticity. When we break bread together, we can slow down, be real, let down our guard.

I loved her tradition of sharing toasts on someone’s birthday—saying something that person has brought to your life in the last year or a prayer for the year ahead: “The heart of hospitality is creating space for these moments, protecting that fragile bubble of vulnerability and truth and love. It’s all too rare that we tell the people we love exactly why we love them—what they bring to our lives, why our lives are richer because they’re in it.”

I also appreciated the way she made peace with things not going according to her own plans and being open to what God had ordained for the gathering:

“It was just as it should have been, and nothing close to what I could have planned. And that’s what makes a good party—when the evening and the people and the conversation and the feeling in the room are allowed to be whatever they need to be for that night.”

Have you ever hosted a party that didn’t go at all the way you planned or expected? Were there any unexpected blessings in that experience?

Discussion #3: Embracing a Healthy Relationship with Food
Shauna’s perspective on having a healthy relationship with food was very refreshing, and I especially appreciated her take on how there are some seasons to fast and other seasons to feast.

“I’m learning that feasting can only exist healthfully—physically, spiritually, and emotionally—in a life that also includes fasting. . . . The very things you think you need most desperately are the things that can transform you the most profoundly when you do finally decide to release them.”

 Do you agree that we all need seasons of both feasting and fasting in our lives? What does that balance look like for you?

Discussion #4: Recipes
If I had one complaint about the book, it’s that I sometimes felt like a kitchen slouch when I read it. I know that wasn’t the author’s intent, and I realize the principles apply whether you’re whipping up homemade risotto or making Kraft macaroni and cheese, but sometimes I felt like I couldn’t relate to her stories about dinner parties with lobster and steak au poivre with cognac sauce.

That said, I did attempt a few of the recipes, and I appreciated the author’s conversational tone as she talked readers through the recipes. I felt like I had a sister in the kitchen, coaching me through the steps. I made the lentil soup, which wasn’t too hard, even for the likes of me. When my husband tried his first spoonful, he said tactfully, “It tastes like it’s good for me.” But to his credit, he ate it all. I also attempted the blueberry crisp (I made mine it peaches), the scrambled eggs with goat cheese (pretty good, but I prefer my eggs more solid than the recipe calls for), and the toffee (which I’m pretty sure I botched somehow because it just may crack your teeth). There are several others I’d still like to try.

Did you try any of the recipes? How did they turn out? Which one should I attempt next?

Rating ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
I would give the book 5 stars. I loved the bits about relationships, hospitality, faith, and the sacredness of the table. (Although I think I needed the “for dummies” version for the recipes.)

How many stars would you give the book?

{Remember: I’ll send a free book to one randomly selected commenter!}

Sweatpant Friends

I was given an unspeakable gift last weekend: the gift of sweatpant friends.

We women, we feel almost constant pressure to put forth our best self…to coordinate the outfit and gloss the lips and fix the hair and don the stylish (i.e., uncomfortable) shoes. All so we can look like we have it all together, that we ourselves are all together.

But last weekend eight of us girls who have been friends since the days of Jars of Clay and bad perms got together and spent a few days in the rarest of settings—a safe haven where we could be our unvarnished, un-makeup-ed, sweatpanted selves.

girls2

It’s been almost fifteen years since we were all in the same place together, and honestly I wasn’t sure how things would fall into place. Would it work to have eight women accustomed to having our own nests all together under the same roof? Would things get cliquey or competitive or catty? Would we still find common ground all these years later?

There were a thousand reasons not to do it—the cost, the travel arrangements, the logistics, the potential awkwardness. Not to mention the 14 collective children we have as a group, plus one on the way. Was it worth all the effort?

I credit our loyal, creative teacher-friend for setting the tone in the first place: You all don’t mind if I wear sweatpants all weekend, right?

And from that moment, the stage was set for things to be real, authentic, vulnerable. In a word: imperfect. Just like our cottage.

girls5

With its turquoise and canary-yellow walls, adorned with mismatched bits of Americana, the quirky rental felt like a metaphor in itself. The kitchen sloped down on one side; the wood floors let out contented groans every time we took a step. The gaps around the window frames and the door ushered howly gusts of wind and sand into the otherwise cozy living room.

But something about it felt just right. Community, after all, isn’t about creating something pristine, seamless, perfectly composed. The beauty of community comes when we bring together the mismatched pieces in a delightfully quirky collage. As the eight of us sat in our mismatched chairs, sipping hot chocolate and pouring out the past decade of our lives to one another, our words tumbled out much like our attire: real, raw, unpolished.

girls3

I know it’s unrealistic to live in beach-cottage world all the time, but still I wonder: How can I keep this sense of community even when my old friends are miles away? And how can I turn new friends and acquaintances into sweatpant friends?

I’m not quite sure, but I offer you the same challenge I pose to myself:

Reach out.

Take a risk.

Embrace the messiness of real friendship.

Find someone with whom you can ditch your makeup and your put-togetherness.

girls6

And by all means, if you don’t have a sweatpants-level friend, do whatever it takes to become one.

Friendship arises…when two or more of the companions discover that they have in common some insight or interest or even taste which the others do not share and which, till that moment, each believed to be his own unique treasure (or burden). The typical expression of opening Friendship would be something like, “What? You too? I thought I was the only one.” . . . It is when two such persons discover one another, when, whether with immense difficulties and semi-articulate fumblings or with what would seem to us amazing and elliptical speed, they share their vision—it is then that friendship is born. And instantly they stand together in an immense solitude.

—C. S. Lewis

Women of Valor

I don’t know about you, but every time I read Proverbs 31, I feel tired. Maybe a little incredulous too (Seriously? This woman wakes up early, stays up late, weaves blankets, cooks, works outside the home, helps the needy, makes savvy business deals, wears a purple dress she made herself, and then probably posts it all on Pinterest? Who is this woman?).

Mostly, though, I just feel weary. And then I skip over to the next book in the Bible (Ecclesiastes) to remind myself that everything is meaningless anyway.

But I’m currently reading The Year of Biblical Womanhood by Rachel Held Evans, and she has given me a new perspective on the Proverbs 31 woman.

rachel1Apparently this chapter was written as an acrostic poem, intended as an ode to honor women, not a bunch of to-dos. In Jewish culture, this wasn’t a checklist for women to strive for; instead, men praised women with the phrase “Eshet Chayil” (“Woman of Valor”), taken from the first line of the poem.

In other words, this depiction isn’t intended to describe one woman, and it certainly isn’t meant to capture a single day of her life. Rather, it’s a shout-out to all women.

So today I want to take a moment to acknowledge all of you women of valor out there. I see you, and I honor you.

You give of yourself—your talents, your time, your tears—and usually do it without getting much thanks. Eshet Chayil!

You wipe bottoms and blow noses and get up in the middle of the night. Eshet Chayil!

You work inside your home and outside your home, in your career and in your kitchen and in your relationships, and my guess is that you’re tired. Eshet Chayil!

You are fierce in your love, zealous in your protection, tenacious in your prayers. Eshet Chayil!

You hug well, you comfort well, you bring life and goodness and joy. Eshet Chayil!

You don’t know it, but you shine. So here’s to you, you Woman of Valor! Eshet Chayil!

***

P.S. A special Eshet Chayil to my mom, Cindy, who just celebrated her birthday. Mom, you showed me when to stand up for myself and when to stay on my knees. You showed me how to how to make homemade snickerdoodle cookies and when to rip open a box of Keeblers. You taught me that sometimes things have to get worse before they can get better. You showed me how to follow through, how to clean an oven, how to knit a family together, how to giggle on waterslides, and how to fall in love with God’s Word. No woman fulfills the entire Proverbs 31 picture, but I have to say that you come pretty close. Happy Birthday, Mom of Valor!

On Priests and Awkward Moments

Last weekend my husband and I attended the baptism of our friend’s son. The service was held at a beautiful Catholic church surrounded by lush gardens and buildings with high-vaulted ceilings. Daniel and I arrived early (a phenomenon that is new to me since getting married), and we decided to explore the grounds a bit before the service started.

At one point I looked over my shoulder and noticed that the priest was following us and discreetly trying to get my attention. He was offering pointed looks in Daniel’s direction, but I couldn’t seem to catch his meaning. Finally he got bolder and motioned right toward Daniel’s derriere.

My first thought was, Yes, he does have a nice butt. But that just didn’t seem like the kind of thing you say to a priest.

Finally he came closer and whispered to me, “Um, I think you should take that off his pants.”

I looked down, and sure enough, there was the fresh-from-the-store sticker running right down the backside of Daniel’s corduroys. Awkwardness abounded.

Once I stopped giggling long enough to remove said sticker, it hit me that sometimes awkward is the best thing that can happen to us. Isn’t it better to have someone correct you gently—and early on—than to keep going through the day with a sticker on your behind? Whoever said that ignorance is bliss obviously never looked in the mirror to find spinach lodged between their teeth or their skirt tucked into their tights.

On a spiritual level, the same is true. We desperately need the very thing we dread most—the moment of correction.

When God holds up the mirror to us and shows us where we’re falling short, it immediately brings a flush of shame to our cheeks. But wouldn’t we rather have it that way? Better for God to point us in the right direction now, while we can still peel off the sticker. Before we do any more permanent damage.

Jeremiah voiced a similar sentiment about God’s correction:

I know, Lord, that our lives are not our own.

We are not able to plan our own course.

So correct me, Lord, but please be gentle.

Do not correct me in anger, for I would die.

—Jeremiah 10:23-24

What I love about the prophet’s description here is the way he describes God’s correction as coming from a place of gentleness, not anger. Not unlike that kindhearted priest, perhaps.

Whether you find yourself on the giving end or the receiving end of correction at the moment, don’t be scared to walk straight into the gentle awkwardness. It’s the only way for us to get right again.

But the next time you leave the house, it wouldn’t hurt to have someone check your backside, just in case.

I’ve taken the challenge of reading the Bible chronologically this year and tracing the thread of grace through it. These musings are prompted by my reading. I’d love to have you join me: One Year Bible reading plan.

Bridging the Gap

On a recent Wednesday evening I drove to a building that was just a few towns away, but the moment I stepped in the door, I felt like I’d walked into another world.

My husband, Daniel, was the “visiting artist” for mentally ill adults who live at various group homes in the area, and I was going along as his assistant. (For the record, I can’t even draw stick figures, but I figured at the very least I was qualified to wash out the paintbrushes.)

Having had limited exposure to individuals with mental illness of this severity, I was a little nervous, unsure what to expect. Daniel told me all I needed to do was be there, that showing up would be enough. But still I worried.

As the participants finished dinner, I joined them around the table and tried desperately to come up with conversation topics we could connect on. What common ground would I be able to find with people whose lives looked so different from mine—many of whom had been dealt the harsh blows of homelessness, unemployment, and addiction, some of whom had been abandoned by family members and shunned by society at large?

Fortunately for my tongue-tied self, Daniel is a master at breaking the ice. “What do you like to do for fun?” he asked the group, making eye contact with each person who would meet his gaze. And with that simple question, the table launched from awkward silence into animated conversation.

I found out that Jim is a diehard darts player, that Steven has a passion for his motorized kayak (who knew such a thing existed?), that Betty Ann loves anything yellow, and that Gene could cite every statistic about the Chicago Bears from 1986 on.

Before I knew it, it was time to start the art project, so I distributed the scissors, glue, and paint. As the participants got to work, I realized that we had not only creative talent but also some quick wit represented in the group.

Before we began, Chris had told me that using scissors wasn’t his forte. But once we got going, I noticed he was doing a meticulous job, and I told him as much.

“Hey, you’re good at cutting,” I said.

Without missing a beat, he responded, “I’m good at cutting the cheese, maybe!”

And when I saw Jon mixing the paint colors to create beautiful shades of chartreuse and burnt orange, I told him I was impressed with how artistic he was.

With a wry grin and a self-deprecating chuckle, Jon shot back, “Wait…did you say artistic or autistic?”

As the evening progressed and our hands gradually became kaleidoscopes of tempera paint, I had a sudden realization: I was having fun. And I had a lot more in common with these new friends than I thought I would. Daniel was right: there was power in simply showing up.

Somehow the chasm that had once loomed so large in my mind was shrinking once it was removed from the realm of the theoretical. Now that we were sitting at the same table, face to face, our differences didn’t seem so unbroachable.

It got me to thinking about the Incarnation—how God himself showed up in our world in human form. How he narrowed the huge gap between us and him—a gap infinitely more yawning than any perceived gap between me and another equally valuable human being.

Zephaniah prophesied about the Incarnation, when God would span that divine gap and make his dwelling with the likes of us:

The Lord your God is living among you.

He is a mighty savior.

He will take delight in you with gladness.

With his love, he will calm all your fears.

He will rejoice over you with joyful songs.

—Zephaniah 3:17

No doubt there are profound aspects to the Incarnation, theological conundrums that scholars could devote a lifetime to. But as I sat there with my hands covered in paint, I was struck by a rawer side of the Incarnation. A God who showed up. A God who didn’t grit his teeth to make small talk with us but instead delighted in us. A God whose Incarnation was birthed out of gladness and love.

Jesus showed up. He bridged the gap. And he did so with delight.

May I never think I’m above doing the same.

I’ve taken the challenge of reading the Bible chronologically this year and tracing the thread of grace through it. These musings are prompted by my reading. I’d love to have you join me: One Year Bible reading plan.

On His Hand

Not long ago I had the privilege of spending the afternoon with joy personified—joy that goes around in the form of a seventh grader named Becky.

According to doctors, Becky has an extra chromosome—Down syndrome. Although I’m not familiar with all the medical implications that go along with that diagnosis, I would agree that Becky does have something extra. But in my books, the extra that stands out most is her joy.

When my husband and I went on a walk with Becky and the rest of her family on a sunny Saturday afternoon, I suddenly saw the world through fresh eyes—eyes of wonder and pure delight.

Where I might have walked right past a swampy bog, Becky had her eyes peeled the whole time, certain that at any moment she’d see a turtle sunbathing on a rock. Where I saw a field of weeds, Becky squealed with delight and promptly gathered a dandelion bouquet for me, including some to be tucked behind each of my ears.

Skipping with happiness on the way home, she looked at me with a grin that lit up her entire face. “Can I hold your hand?” she asked.

And so I walked the rest of the way back with both hands full, one with a yellow bouquet and the other with joy herself.

Later that evening we all sang hymns together, led by Becky’s older sister, Hannah, on the piano. Hannah asked for requests, and after a few selections, Becky piped up, “Let’s do my favorite! ‘Before the Throne’!”

I was a bit chagrined to discover how rusty I am on my hymns, and I wasn’t sure I could even pull out a tune for that one. So as the song started, I just sat back and listened.

Before the throne of God above

I have a strong and perfect plea…

As I looked around the room, my gaze fell on Becky. She sat perched on her chair, her face beaming and her legs swinging to the music. To my amazement, she knew every word of the song. I listened as she belted out the next line:

My name is graven on His hand

My name is written on His heart

Just last week I came across a startling statistic: some 90 percent of women who find out in prenatal testing that their baby will have Down syndrome choose abortion. As we sang, I couldn’t help but think of the extra joy Becky’s family would have missed if she’d never been born—the joy all of us would have missed.

Can a mother forget her nursing child?

Can she feel no love for the child she has borne?

But even if that were possible,

I would not forget you!

See, I have written your name on the palms of my hands.

—Isaiah 49:15-16

As I looked at Becky’s face, I knew I wouldn’t be able to sing, even if I managed to dredge up the tune. Not with a lump the size of a small turtle in my throat.

I closed my eyes, and a vision flashed through my mind—of God’s big hand holding the hand of a smiling seventh grade girl. She gives him a bouquet of hand-picked dandelions, and as he reaches out to take them, I notice that he has a tattoo on his hand. Right there on his palm is etched the name of his beloved child. Becky.

I’ve taken the challenge of reading the Bible chronologically this year and tracing the thread of grace through it. These musings are prompted by my reading. I’d love to have you join me: One Year Bible reading plan.