Stephanie Rische

Blogger and Writer: Capturing Stories of God's Grace

Elastigirl Arms

I don’t think it’s a fluke that the superhero Elastigirl (she of Incredibles fame) is a mother. The longer I’ve lived with small humans in my care, the more I find myself in need of superhuman elasticity and flexibility, not to mention arms that stretch to the faraway (and, dare I say, dangerous) places my children fly off to.

***

It was the second day of summer. I was in possession of color-coded calendars and grand visions detailing how we’d strike a balance between structure and play, how we’d avoid the summer slump by filling out reading charts and doing math practice (disguised as fun games, of course!). We’d conquer potty-training and go on adventures and spend quality family time together (and yes, I’d get my work done somewhere in there too).

By day 2, the lists and charts had melted like yesterday’s ice cream on the sidewalk.

“Can we go outside and play?” my boys begged.

I agreed, on the condition that they play in the front yard while I worked on the stoop. “Make sure you stay where I can see you,” I instructed. What I didn’t say: Within the reach of my Elastigirl arms.

It wasn’t long before they rustled up some bungee cords from the garage and rigged the Burley to Graham’s bike. Pretty ingenious, I thought. This wasn’t on the Official Summer Plans list, but there were probably some STEM-adjacent benefits, right?

Seconds later, I looked up. To my horror, the Burley, now disconnected from Graham’s bike, was careening down the driveway . . . with Milo in it.

I threw my laptop across the porch and sprinted like my flip-flops were on fire.

By now the Burley was at the end of the driveway and heading into the road, racing downhill and picking up speed by the second.

As my legs churned, so did my mind, conjuring up every worst-case scenario, from the Burley toppling and my three-year-old spilling onto the asphalt to an untimely collision with an Amazon truck.

At last, my arms reached the handle of the Burley. My chest was heaving so hard I could barely speak, but I blubbered some incoherencies while kissing my son. He just grinned up at me, eyes sparkling with the thrill of his at-home Six Flags adventure.

After making the trek back to the house (and offering abashed nods to the gawking neighbors), I collapsed onto the stoop.

“Let’s do it again!” my six-year-old exclaimed.

When I shot down that idea, he stated emphatically that he was going to live somewhere else—preferably a house with fewer rules.

“Is that right? Where would you want to live?”

“I don’t know,” he sulked. “Probably Australia!”

***

If only for those elastic arms that would allow my body to here and my arms to be there.

How often I wish I could be in more than one place at once—at work and at home, playing with my kids and making dinner, being productive and resting. But these limits we’ve been given—our limited bodies, our limited time, our limited capacity—they’re an essential part of what makes us human.

And as much as I strain against these boundaries, they really are a form of grace. They remind me that I can’t do everything, that I can’t be everywhere at once, that my arms don’t hold the world together. This is at once disappointing and freeing.

Knowing I can only do so much invites me to trust the one who can do everything and be everywhere. The one whose arms are strong and everlasting. Not to mention super-stretchy.

And so I’m trying to accept my ordinary arms, along with the limits I’ve been given. May I see them not as restrictive, but as pleasant—delightful, even.

The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; surely I have a delightful inheritance.

Psalm 16:6

When my arms are too short and not as elastic as I would like, when my grand summer plans melt away, may I find the sweetness in these boundary lines. May I accept the gift of not being responsible for holding the earth on its axis. And may I entrust my children to the one who created them and can catch them when I can’t.

A Benediction for Summer

There is no one like the God of Israel.
    He rides across the heavens* to help you,
    across the skies in majestic splendor.
The eternal God is your refuge,
    and his everlasting arms are under you.

Deuteronomy 33:26-27

A Letter to My Son on His 6th Birthday

Dear Graham,

This summer we went on a family vacation to the Sleeping Bear Dunes—that veritable mountain range of sand. We squinted our eyes against the electric-blue sky, taking in the towering hills above us. Can we make it to the top? I wondered. It would be a steep enough climb even if we weren’t schlepping water bottles, snacks, and diapers, not to mention two small humans.

Your dad and I listened studiously as the park ranger went over safety guidelines with our group. He told us how sometimes people start the climb but aren’t able to finish, and what to do if you get tired or hot or stuck somewhere between the base and the summit.

We were nodding along, taking in all the tips, when in a surge of panic, I realized you were gone. We scanned the parking lot for your trademark green ball cap. Where could you be? Then I spotted you climbing—no, sprinting—up the dune. Somehow, in the span of minutes, you’d made it two-thirds of the way up, all by your barefooted self.

I tried to call out to you, but the lump in my throat silenced me—a lump that was one part pride, one part fear, and one part I’m not ready yet.

***

You started kindergarten last week. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise—five comes after four, six comes after five, kindergarten comes after preschool. These are linear steps, predictable chronologies. And yet I find myself standing at the bottom of this sand dune, looking up at you with a mixture of pride and fear and I’m-not-ready-yet.

When you were a baby, I heard so many times that the days are long and the years are short. I tried to soak in this advice, but I don’t know if it’s possible to be prepared for the inevitable time-slip of watching you grow up. I am no likelier to freeze-frame you at this stage than I am to preserve a dandelion puff or capture a sunset in my pocket.

You are adamant that I am Mom now, not Mama or Mommy. It’s strange how quickly you are changing while I stay the same. I look at pictures of us together, how you once fit in my arms and how your arms now wrap all the way around me. I remain the same height while you keep inching higher.

As soon as your dad and I think we’ve found a rhythm in a new season with you and your brother, things change. Your brain is growing, your heart is growing, and your soul is growing. Your questions are getting bigger along with your shoe size, and the problems you’re up against are increasing in complexity along with your math problems. And I find myself ever a step behind, racing to catch up.

But maybe I’m growing too, just less obviously than you. At the very least, my rib cage must be expanding, because how else could my heart contain all this without bursting?

And so, as you turn six and climb the mountains God has put before you, know that your dad and I love you. And when you face mountains that you have to climb all on your own, know that Jesus is with you, running to the top beside you.

We’ll be cheering you on, whether we’re ready or not.

Love,
Mom and Dad

Don’t Do Belief Alone

There has been a small spiral-bound notebook sitting beside my comfy red chair for the past year. On the outside, it is as ordinary as any Target impulse buy. But inside? It contains all the tender hopes and beliefs of a small village.

Last year I chose the word believe as my anthem for the year. There was one thing I was specifically hoping for and believing God for in my own life, but I knew I wasn’t the only one out there with a God-sized dream. So I asked the people around me: What are you believing God for this year?

The responses cracked my heart open in all the best ways. My friends’ hopes were beautiful and vulnerable and achingly real. Some of these people had been rubbed raw from years of agonizing waiting; some were voicing their quiet hopes for the first time. But all of them were united in their bravery, in the guts it takes to bring big dreams into the light.

I didn’t take it lightly that people were entrusting me with something so precious. I wished I could wave my magic wand and give them what they longed for, but I couldn’t. So I did the only thing I could to honor those tender shoots of hope: I wrote their dreams for the year in my notebook, and in the mornings I sat in my red chair, coffee steaming my in hands, and asked God to intervene. I believed on their behalf.

I wish I could tell you that after a year of my crash course in believing, I have it all figured out. I don’t. In fact, the nature of belief may be more of a mystery to me than ever. Some of the things I believed God for were answered in miraculous ways, and other requests—just as valid, just as earnest—were met with silence.

  • I believed for a baby for four of my friends—women who were made to be moms. One had a baby before year’s end, and one is currently pregnant. But another friend miscarried, and one is still in the agony of waiting.
  • I believed on behalf of three beautiful friends who long to be married. One had a whirlwind romance and got married last fall, and one is dating a good man who treats her with the love and honor she deserves. But the third one, for reasons that are lost on me, is still waiting for her turn to come.
  • I believed on behalf of two talented writer-friends who are hoping for a home for their books. One has a book contract, while the other one continues to send out submission after submission, to no avail.

I saw miracles last year—some that unfolded slowly, like the gentle healing of a marriage, and some that happened all at once, like the long-awaited job offer. But there are other miracles that seem notably absent: the parents whose adopted children are stuck in layer upon layer of bureaucratic red tape, the daughter whose liver is failing, the loved one who continues to run from the Father-love of God.

To my surprise, it was much easier to believe for other people than for myself, and to have them believe for me. At first I felt guilty about this . . . why couldn’t I trust God with the things closest to my heart?

But as the year went on, I started to see that this is part of how God wired us. We’re not meant to do faith alone; we need each other. When we get weary, we need someone else’s hope to cover the gap for us. And when we see God at work in other people’s lives, it can give us renewed hope, a down payment of sorts to remind us of his power and goodness and love.

In the midst of the answers and non-answers from 2017, I realized that we all have a need greater than whatever it is we’re longing for. We need our God more than we need our miracle. And we need each other along the way—in the celebrations, when the answer is yes; in the heartbreaks, when the answer is no; and in the agonizing middle, when the answer is wait.

It is important to tell at least from time to time the secret of who we truly and fully are . . . because otherwise we run the risk of losing track of who we truly and fully are. . . . It is important to tell our secrets too because it makes it easier for other people to tell us a secret or two of their own.
Frederick Buechner

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

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?

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

Book Club Discussion: Wearing God

Thanks to everyone who read Wearing God by Lauren Winner. I’m looking forward to hearing what you thought of the book!Wearing God

Here’s how it works: I’ll throw out a few topics for discussion, and you can write your responses about these topics (or anything else you’d like to say) in the comment section.

I have been a fan of Lauren Winner’s writing for years (I loved Girl Meets God, and I had the privilege of hearing her speak at The Festival of Faith and Writing several years ago). As someone who finds it hard to get my brain around something as big and mysterious and intangible as the nature of God, I am constantly seeking metaphors and analogies to piece together a truer understanding of him. I was excited to read Winner’s book about some of the more obscure or overlooked metaphors the Bible uses to describe God’s character.

Discussion #1: Images of God

Lauren Winner says that as a Christian community, we tend to overemphasize certain names/metaphors for God (Shepherd, King, Father) while overlooking others that would help give us a more fleshed-out picture of his character. She explores the idea of God as clothing, smell, bread and wine, a laboring woman, laughter, and fire, and unpacks these metaphors in striking ways.

I began to realize that my pictures of God were old. They were not old in the sense of antique champagne flutes, which are abundant with significance precisely because they are old. . . . Rather, they were old like a seventh-grade health textbook from 1963: moderately interesting for what it might say about culture and science in 1963, but generally out of date.

Do you agree that some of our images of God are old and worn out? Which image/metaphor of God do you resonate with most (either from this book or in general)?

Discussion #2: Scandalous Comparisons

I have to admit that some of the metaphors for God made me a little squeamish. Really, isn’t it a little undignified to picture the God of the universe as a pregnant woman agonizing in a birthing room? And isn’t it, well, indecorous to think of God wanting us to become drunk on him? But as I read, it occurred to me that that’s exactly the point. We tend to put God in a tidy little box so we can pin him down and understand him, but over and over the Bible blows our minds with how God is so far beyond our comprehension.

This is why Jesus is hymned not as grape juice but as wine: because He is dangerous and excessive.

Were there any images for God that didn’t sit well with you? Why or why not?

Discussion #3: Redefining Goodness

As I read this book, it occurred to me that one of the reasons we tend to shy away from certain metaphors about God is because they don’t seem to line up with our view of a good God. If God is fire, doesn’t that indicate he has the power to destroy as well as create? We are scared of this idea of an untamable God, so we stick to metaphors that we perceive as less threatening. But Winner gives us broader perspective, reminding us that while yes, God is good, that doesn’t mean we’ll never experience pain or hardship.

Maybe, if God is fire, we are a grove of ponderosa pines. Without the heat and burn of God’s flame, our pinecones would remain closed tight around the seeds that are needed for our thriving and growth and new life.

Have you ever seen God as fire in your life, not only bringing warmth but also purifying you?

Discussion #4: God as One Who Hides

One of the final descriptions the author offers of God is as one who hides. She quotes Isaiah as saying “You are a God who hides himself”—Deus absconditus.

Sometimes God hides. Sometimes what I might first name as God’s absence is in fact God’s hiding. In a sense, God hides amid all the many divine metaphors and similes that litter the scriptures. This is a God who conceals and reveals.

Have you ever experienced a season when it seems that God is hiding? How are you encouraged by this promise in Jeremiah: “When you search for me, you will find me”?

Discussion #5: Rating

I would give this book 4 stars out of 5. I don’t agree with all of the author’s theology, but I appreciate the way she tackles some intriguing (and often difficult) pictures of God. This book got me thinking about God’s character more deeply, and I found myself connecting with him in new ways as a result.

How many stars would you give this book?

Remember: There will a giveaway for a free book for one lucky commenter!

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