Stephanie Rische

Blogger and Writer: Capturing Stories of God's Grace

Unexpected Love Letters

love lettersToday’s Christian Woman just posted my article about love letters…and how they’re sometimes written with something other than pen and paper.

Unexpected Love Letters

I’m a sucker for old-fashioned letters and old-fashioned romance, so I felt like a teenager at prom when I happened upon a book called Love Letters of Great Men. I waited all day before cracking it open, eager to sink my teeth into it as if it were the literary equivalent of dark chocolate.

At first I was savoring the letters—these epistles dating as far back as Pliny the Younger almost 2,000 years ago and capturing the words of some of the political and literary greats in the centuries since. I was taken by the beauty of the language, the permanence of the sentiments, and the artistry of the writers as they sought to capture their passion and pin it down with ink and paper. In short, I wanted to love those love letters.

But then something unexpected happened: I started digging up biographical information about a few of these “great men,” and suddenly their words sounded less like soaring symphonies and more like discordant clanging.

You can read the rest of the article here.

The Gift of Presence

Dad #1crop

 

When I was fifteen, I decided to exchange my gymnastics leotard for a basketball jersey. There was just one little problem (and I do mean little): I was barely four foot eleven, with shoes on.

 

I practiced hard that season, but whenever game time came, I warmed the bench. With the rare exception of a major blowout, my sub-five-foot frame didn’t see any action on the court the moment the game clock started.

 

But my dad . . . my dad was at every game. Every. Single. Game. He’d leave work early and sit up in the bleachers with my mom, still in his dress shirt and tie. All so he could watch me warm the bench.

 

When I came out of the locker room with the team before each game, I’d find him in his usual spot—left side, near the back—and he’d flash our family’s secret signal, which, roughly translated, meant, “Hey, I see you. I’m here.”

 

He was there, even though we all knew I wouldn’t be out there shooting or dribbling or passing or doing any of the other things he’d been helping me with in our hoop out back.

 

And he was there after each game for his trademark “postgame talk” when I was feeling discouraged after yet another four quarters of not even taking off my warm-up jacket.

 

“We’ll keep practicing,” he told me. “Just wait—you’re going to be a starter one of these days.”

Dad #2crop

 

***

 

Right around that time, I found myself plunged into the waters of teenage awkwardness, and along the way, I started losing track of how to connect with my dad. I was self-conscious in my own skin, clumsy about hugging him, so we mostly exchanged fist bumps instead. I didn’t quite know how to talk to him about the things that made up my world either—friend drama, boys, how I was trying to sludge through this new space to figure out who I was and where I fit in. How could we show love to each other surrounded by so much awkward?

 

But Dad found a way. I’m sure I didn’t realize what was happening back then, but each time he showed up, each time he watched me sit the bench, he was giving me a rare gift: the gift of presence. He was there, and there said, “I love you.”

 

***

 

All through the next summer, Dad coached me as I relearned my basketball shot. It was brutal at first, but he was right—it paid off. My senior year, when they announced the starting lineup for my team, there was a new jersey out on the court—number ten, measuring in at barely five feet tall. When they called my name, I ran out onto there, shoes squeaking on the hardwood, my eyes scanning the stands for one face.

 

He was there, of course. I flashed Dad the trademark family signal and grinned to myself. I’d been wishing for this moment for a long time, but when it arrived, I realized that what I’d needed most had been there all along.

 

“The greatest gift is a portion of thyself.”

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

 

Sometimes love is complicated, multilayered. Sometimes it means having deep talks and hashing everything out. But other times love is simple. Sometimes love is just showing up.

 

dad and me

So Happy Father’s Day, Dad. Thanks for teaching me how to shoot a basketball. Thanks for watching all my games. Most of all, thanks for always showing up. (And by the way, I didn’t get you anything for Father’s Day, so please consider this your gift.)

A True Story of Love and War and 67 Years

The year was 1946. The Nuremburg war trials had begun. Wartime price controls were being lifted in the United States. And America’s boys were slowly trickling back from the war…including the tall, dark-haired Lieutenant Voiland, having defied the odds and survived countless bombing missions on the European front.

His fiancée, Cay, had been waiting and praying anxiously, day by day, month by month, year by year, longing for her sweetheart to come home. She’d been planning their wedding while he was gone—the ultimate act of hope in the midst of a war in which half a million men who left never returned. With her trademark spunk, she refused to let the scarcity of silk prevent her from having a wedding dress, so she arranged to have a dress made from the unlikeliest of sources (I wrote about the remarkable story here).

For most of my life, I assumed Grandma and Grandpa’s February wedding date had been scheduled around Valentine’s Day. Whenever we gathered to celebrate as an extended family, we marked the occasion with red decorations and a heart-shaped cake, and I never heard anything to indicate otherwise.

It was only recently that I discovered their wedding date was determined not by Valentine’s Day but by Ash Wednesday.

“Ash Wednesday?” I asked Grandma. The dots weren’t connecting for me.

“Things were stricter back then,” Grandma said. “You couldn’t get married during Lent.”

g and g weddingOf course—Lent. The church took seriously this 40-day period of sacrifice, fasting, and repentance, and it was not the time for weddings and feasts.

Grandma winked at me. “I’d been waiting long enough,” she said. “I wasn’t about to wait until after Easter!”

And so, on a Tuesday morning, just a day before Ash Wednesday, they squeezed in a simple ceremony at the campus chapel. I’ve always been enchanted by the lone black-and-white photograph of Grandma and Grandpa on their wedding day: Grandma looking beautiful and big eyed in that one-of-a-kind gown, and Grandpa, serious and handsome as ever in his classic suit.

***

This year Valentine’s Day and Ash Wednesday fell one day apart from each other, just a week before my grandparents’ 67th anniversary, and I was struck by the tender intersection of these sacred occasions: Valentine’s Day. A much-anticipated wedding. Ash Wednesday. Lent. An anniversary marking almost seven decades of marriage. And it got me to wondering: maybe Ash Wednesday is the perfect backdrop for a wedding after all. Valentine’s Day offers fine sentiments, of course—an appropriate reminder for us to express our love each year. But real love may be more aptly captured by a day marked by sacrifice and surrender and the choice to lay down one’s life.

Grandma and Grandpa know this well. The war showed them the cost of love from the very beginning: the agonizing separation—both by an ocean and by endless days, when the only threads connecting them were their love and a string of handwritten letters. And just because the war ended, that didn’t mean the sacrifices did. With the ratio of one income to 12 children, they sometimes had more month than they had money.

And now, as my grandparents are in their golden years, they are dealing with the sacrifices of caring for each other’s needs as their bodies and minds aren’t quite what they used to be.G&G

But if you asked them about the cost of love, they’d likely look at you with a bewildered shrug. That’s just what love does. It’s the very nature of love to give, to sacrifice, to lay down one’s life for one’s beloved.

And that is, after all, what we celebrate during Lent. This season marks the greatest romance of all time: the Savior who sacrificed everything to show us his love. The one who fought courageous battles on our behalf. The one who laid down his life for the ones he loves.

Love and Lent. Perhaps they’re more connected than I realized. 

So happy 67th anniversary, Grandma and Grandpa.

And happy VaLENTine’s season, everyone.

***

If you’d like to read more about my grandma and grandpa’s love story, including how Grandma’s dress was passed down to two more generations, check out my aunt Annie’s story here.

To Anyone Who Feels Underloved on Valentine’s Day

I write this with no credentials except that I’ve spent my share of Valentine’s Days solo. And I know firsthand that there’s no way around it: it stinks to feel alone on Valentine’s Day.

I remember being single and having nice people try to cheer me up whenever February 14 rolled around. (Which it inevitably did. Every. Single Year.) I appreciated their kindness, but it kind of felt like getting a stick of gum when you’re ravenous for steak.

All that to say, I won’t pretend that anything I can say will make this day easier. But I feel compelled to say it anyway, just to let you know that you are not invisible. You are not alone. And even when it doesn’t feel like it, you are loved.

Today, if you feel betrayed or abandoned by someone you thought would never leave, this is what God says to you:

I will never fail you. I will never abandon you.

—Hebrews 13:15

Today, if you feel alone in this big world, God says:

Be sure of this: I am with you always, even to the end of the age.

—Matthew 28:20

Today, if you feel forgotten, like so many leftovers, God says:

I will not forget you! See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands.

—Isaiah 49:15-16

Today, if you feel like you got passed over when Cupid was flinging his arrows, this is what God says:

I have loved you…with an everlasting love. With unfailing love I have drawn you to myself.

—Jeremiah 31:3

Today, if you feel unnoticed, damaged, unappreciated, devalued, here’s God’s promise:

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

As for me, my love isn’t close to God’s love. It has conditions, it lets people down, it’s forgetful, it’s self-centered and fickle and cantankerous. But my prayer this Valentine’s Day is that God will weed out my own love from my heart and replace it with his love. Love that is unconditional and pure and selfless.

“In God there is no hunger that needs to be filled, only plenteousness that desires to give.”

—C. S. Lewis, The Four Loves

It’s with that generous love that I want to love God and my husband and my family and my friends and strangers. And it’s with that love that I love you, whoever you are, wherever you are, however alone you’re feeling right now.

Wherever you find yourself on Valentine’s Day, know this:
You. Are. Loved.

Love in the Little Things

Sometimes love is in the big things—gem-studded jewelry, exotic trips, big promises, grandiose gestures. But more often, as I was reminded the other day, it’s the little, everyday actions that string together to make up this thing we call love.

It was a Friday, and I’d just met a big deadline at work, so when I got home, Daniel suggested we go out to dinner to celebrate. We decided to try a new Thai place to replace “our” Thai restaurant that bit the economic dust (you can read the sad story here). When our food arrived, Daniel surprised me by pulling something out of his bag.

“A plate?” I asked.

When I looked more closely, things started to make more sense. The “Your Special Day” plate!

When I was a kid, Mom had a special red plate she pulled out on significant occasions—not just on birthdays, but also on days we accomplished something worth celebrating. A piano recital. A satisfactory report card. A basketball win. Shortly after I moved out on my own, my sister made me a plate like it, and now Daniel has been swept along in the tradition too.

But I certainly wasn’t expecting to have the plate show up in the middle of Tusk Thai restaurant. It was a little thing, perhaps, but it meant something big to me.

The next day I got a card in the mail—an expected burst of yellow amid the junk mail and bills. What’s this? I wondered. Christmas is over, it’s not my birthday…

I tore open the envelope to find a card from my friend Sarah that said, “Thanks for being you. I’m looking forward to another year of being your friend.” A card for no reason at all, just to tell me I meant something to her. It was a series of little things, really…she picked out just the right card, she wrote words with real pen and ink, she put a stamp in the corner so it would make its way to my mailbox. Little things; big love.

How often am I looking to God for grand gestures to prove his love—the impossible miracle, the big answer to prayer, the parting of a proverbial sea? And to be certain, God does offer those large-scale proofs of love at times. But he also gives us undeniable bread-crumb trails of his love through the smaller things too. A ray of sunshine bursting through the cloudy sky. The provision of daily bread. The innocent laughter of a child. An unlikely burst of joy that surges despite all evidence to the contrary.

May my eyes ever be open to those little acts of love. Because who knows—maybe those little things are big things after all.

***

Epilogue: Daniel and I noticed throughout dinner that we seemed to be getting more attention than the other customers. The waiter was extra friendly, and the owner kept walking by our table—not saying anything, but obviously observing us. When we’d finished our meals and were waiting for the check, we were surprised to see the waiter coming out with a plate of sumptuous coconut custard. I looked over my shoulder, wondering if this sweet treat was missing its intended mark. But no, the waiter’s eyes landed straight on me, eagerly awaiting my reaction.

I fumbled out something appreciative, but I was baffled.

“It’s not my birthday!” I whispered to Daniel after the waiter left. And then it hit me. Of course! The plate. He must have assumed “Your Special Day” meant birthday. Hence the free dessert.

I certainly wasn’t going to complain. As I looked at the last bite of custard, which Daniel had saved for me, as usual, it felt for all the world like another little piece of love, right there on my plate.plate

God’s Stocking Stuffers

Almost two years ago, my friend Mary and her husband, John, went to Ukraine to meet their new son and bring him home. Igor had grown up in rather frugal conditions in the orphanage, so he was pretty blown away by his first Christmas in the States last year. Even now, a year later, he’s still trying to wrap his mind around the extravagant traditions in his new home.

“We get gifts and stockings?” he kept wondering aloud to his older brothers.

I asked Mary if Igor had any special requests for Christmas this year.

“Yes,” she told me with a smile. “He was really excited about the idea of getting an apple in his stocking.”

An apple.

Mary and John were happy to oblige. They’re his parents, after all, and those gifts are just one of many ways they delight in showing their son how much he’s loved.

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about God’s gifts to us, despite how undeserving we are. He puts big gifts for us under the tree—or, more aptly, nailed to the tree—things like salvation and forgiveness and reconciliation with him.

He could stop there, and the gift would be sufficient for all of eternity. But that’s not the extent of his generosity. He also stuffs our stockings, showering us with bonus gifts that have no purpose other than to show us his delight in us, to reveal his extravagant love.

The other night as I was climbing into bed, I was greeted by Daniel’s stuffed rat on my pillow. Now lest you doubt my husband’s romanticism, I should assure you that where we come from, “Rat” is actually a term of endearment.

Daniel and I discovered early on when we were dating that among other startling family similarities (for instance: his dad is one of 13 siblings; my dad is one of 12), both our dads called us “Rat” or “Little Rat” as an affectionate nickname.

As we got ready for bed that night, Daniel said with a chuckle, “You know, every time our dads called us Rat growing up, God must have just smiled. Like he was saying, Don’t worry, guys—I’ve got this one.”

My mind wandered back to all those years when I’d been waiting for Mr. Right (as I mentioned in this post), wondering if God would answer my prayers, when all along he had the perfect person for me. Even down to the weird nickname.

I wonder how many other times I doubt God, thinking he doesn’t see my pain, when actually he’s just waiting for the precise moment to reveal the gift he has all planned out. Don’t worry, he must be saying. I’ve got this one.

God gives us those little bonus gifts along the way—stocking stuffers, if you will—not because he owes us anything, but to show us how much he loves us. To remind us that he has our lives covered, even if we can’t see the whole picture yet.

He does, after all, love his little rats.

rat1

 

Jesus’ Litmus Test

If someone from the outside looked around our nation, especially in the aftermath of our recent election, I have to wonder what conclusions they might jump to about what makes someone a Christian. How would they be able to recognize those among us who follow Christ?

Would it be by how we voted?

By our stance on abortion?

By our views on same-sex marriage?

By our precisely pinned-down theology?

By how perfectly we’ve got our lives pulled together?

No, it’s none of those things, according to Jesus. He said they’d know we’re Christians by our love.

I am giving you a new commandment: Love each other. Just as I have loved you, you should love each other. Your love for one another will prove to the world that you are my disciples.

—John 13:34-35

That’s not to say those issues aren’t important, or that we should gloss over truth. But those shouldn’t be the identifying factors about us. They shouldn’t be the first things that come to mind when people think about followers of Christ.

What if we were known for loving liberals and conservatives and Democrats and Republicans and Libertarians and Communists and nonvoters and everyone in between?

What if we were known for loving abortion providers…and young girls who find themselves unexpectedly pregnant?

What if we were known for loving same-sex couples?

What if we were known for loving people who don’t believe the same way we do…and people who don’t believe at all?

What if we were known for loving people whose lives are a mess…with the acknowledgment that our lives are a mess too?

What if we were known for our love?

And more to the point, what if I were known for my love?

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.

At the Intersection of Weeping and Joy

I fell in love with Daniel over a steaming bowl of Pad Thai.

It was our second date, and he had done his homework. He knew I loved Thai food, and he’d scoped out the perfect spot—a cute little restaurant near my house called Bistro Thai.

As we chatted over our watermelon juice (one glass, two straws), I was struck by all the things we had in common and how blue his eyes were and how he could make me laugh and how blue his eyes were. Did I mention how blue his eyes were? Still, I was telling my heart to take it slow.

I knew I was in trouble, however, when Daniel pulled out the big manila envelope, saying he had a surprise for me. Could this be what I thought it was?

By way of background: Somewhere between date #1 and date #2, Daniel and I had exchanged some playful banter that went something like this: he found out I did some writing and asked if he could read something I’d written. I made an offhanded comment that he’d have to give me some equally sensitive information in exchange, such as, say, embarrassing childhood photos. The conversation moved on, and I thought that was the end of it.

But sure enough, Daniel contacted his dad, eight hours away, who secured an envelope full of embarrassing childhood photos and delivered them to Daniel in time for date #2. (I later found out his dad had stayed up until 1 a.m. scrounging through shoeboxes for all the best pictures.)

As Daniel and I pored over the photos, with the scent of peanuts and cilantro mingling in the air, it was official. I was smitten.

And so every year since, to mark the anniversary of our first dinner at Bistro Thai, we’ve gone back and ordered the same thing, reminiscing about the now-famous photo incident.

Last week my friend was visiting, and I decided to introduce her to my favorite little restaurant. As we walked up to the building, a series of observations came to me one at a time, in isolation, leaving me somehow unable to process them as a unit. Strange, I thought, there’s nobody here. Followed shortly by, The front window is completely gone! And then, Hey, why is there a big orange notice on the front door?

I realize there are real tragedies in the world, like when people lose their houses and everything they own in the wake of a hurricane, or when people are displaced from their families and homelands due to the ravages of war. But in that moment, the “For Lease” sign in the window of our restaurant felt like a state of emergency. I suppose it was partly sentimental, but maybe it was also a microcosm of those grander losses in life—that sense of remembering what once was and knowing that as hard as you try, you can never quite go back to the way things once were.

The book of Ezra recounts the significant event when a wave of Israelites returned from exile and started rebuilding their beloved temple. After it had sat in ruins for 70 years, there was much to celebrate as the new foundation was laid:

“He is so good!
His faithful love for Israel endures forever!”

Then all the people gave a great shout, praising the Lord because the foundation of the Lord’s Temple had been laid.

But many of the older priests, Levites, and other leaders who had seen the first Temple wept aloud when they saw the new Temple’s foundation. The others, however, were shouting for joy. The joyful shouting and weeping mingled together in a loud noise that could be heard far in the distance.
—Ezra 3:11-13

Maybe you’ve lost something precious to you—perhaps a place, a relationship, or a dream has been stripped away—and you know that things will never be the same again. Even if, by some miracle, that sacred place is rebuilt or the relationship is restored or the dream is redeemed, you know in your heart that it will never be as glorious as the original version. And when that happens, when you’re standing on the rubble of the old and on the cusp of the unknown, I think the only thing to do is weep it out.

More and more I’m realizing that life doesn’t usually come at me one tidy emotion at a time—weeping for a season, then joy for a spell. No, it’s usually tangled together in a messy jumble—“joyful shouting and weeping mingled together,” as with the Temple round two.

One day there will no longer be a need for a Temple of any kind, because Christ himself will be the Temple (Revelation 21:22). In Christ, we have the hope that one day God will bring restoration and redemption on a grander scale than we can even imagine. But until then, there just may be times when our weeping and our joyful shouting will swirl together, heavenward, in a loud noise.

Meanwhile, I’m holding my breath that one day there will be a new restaurant where Bistro Thai once was. Maybe, despite the loss, it will also be the foundation for something new. Something full of joy.

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.

My Month of Dating Disasters

Today marks the two-year anniversary of my first date with the man I married, so it seems fitting to reflect on the person who has been one of the most tangible expressions of God’s grace in my life.

When I met Daniel, I was taken with him from the very beginning—“smitten,” as my sister frequently reminded me. So I wanted to do everything I could to make a good impression on this man. It quickly became apparent that wasn’t meant to be. Within the span of just a few dates, I managed to make an egregious fool of myself on three separate occasions.

Occasion #1: The two-smoke alarm dinner

I’m not exactly a cook, but I do have about three standby meals I feel fairly confident about whipping together. Daniel was coming over for dinner and we were still in the “under three” category, so while I was a bit nervous, I wasn’t panicking. The star of the meal was my sister’s famous focaccia bread recipe, something I’d made plenty of times before.

However, it wasn’t long before my visions of golden-brown crusty deliciousness went up in smoke—literally. Daniel and I were chatting in my kitchen when suddenly I heard the piercing beep of not one but two smoke detectors. I opened the oven to discover, to my horror, that the bread wasn’t just overcooked. It was actually on fire. So much for Betty Crocker.

Occasion #2: The face plant

Something you should know about me is that my footwear of choice tends to be slippers or flip-flops, depending on the season. Any heel measured in something larger than centimeters is reserved for the occasional bridesmaid duty. I’m not sure what possessed me to wear the strappy, impractical sandals on my third date with Daniel, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.

That night as Daniel walked me to my car, I never saw the tree branch protruding from the grass. I was on the ground before I knew what had hit me. It wasn’t one of those graceful missteps either—it was an all-out tumble, the kind where you biff so hard you don’t have time to break the fall and the contents of your purse spill out all over the grass. Hypothetically speaking.

Occasion #3: The navigational disaster

It was the fourth of July, and Daniel was going to a picnic to meet my church friends for the first time. I’m infamous for my navigational impairments, but I hadn’t exactly mentioned that to Daniel yet. I had carefully researched and printed out directions, and I thought I was ready.

Until we got to the street where the party was being hosted…and there was no house with the specified number. After some unproductive wandering and several confusing phone calls, I finally discovered that the address was indeed correct…but the city was not. Uh, yes, minor detail.

***

As chagrined as I was for royally botching things up on each occasion, ultimately these flubs turned out to be the best thing that could have happened in our young relationship. For one thing, Daniel might as well have known from the beginning who I am: a girl who is, inherently, a mess. A girl who can’t go many consecutive dates before things go up in smoke.

And it turned out that my faux pas gave me a glimpse into the character of this man I was coming to appreciate more and more. In each situation, Daniel responded with the kind of grace that made my knees go weak. As the smoke alarms went off, he fanned the air and assured me we had plenty of food to eat. After my spill, he helped me off the ground and gently made sure I was okay. When I found myself directionally flustered, he patiently drove around a three-city radius until we finally reached our destination.

I received the gift of his grace that month, and I also had the rare window of seeing how this man would respond one day in the future, when the stakes were higher than burned bread. Two years later, I see that my hunch was right: this man is a daily reflection of God’s grace to me.

Happy two years of knowing you, Daniel Rische.

“I do not understand the mystery of grace—only that it meets us where we are but does not leave us where it found us.”

—Anne Lamott

The Burden of Love

During Lent this year, my husband and I have embarked on a 40-day adventure of sorts. Initially we went through the list of things we might give up, as tradition would dictate. But this year, to our surprise, we felt compelled in a different direction—to the discipline of adding something to our daily routine instead of taking something away.

And so, during this countdown to Easter, we decided to pray for one friend or family member each day. We asked 40 people how we could specifically pray for their needs on the date set aside for them.

These were all people we knew well, and we figured we were pretty much up to speed on what was happening in their lives. But as the e-mails and calls started rolling in, something unanticipated took place. All at once we were given an invitation to go deeper into their stories, their hurts. Something about this simple invitation—“How can we pray for you?”—cracked open a sacred place between us. A place of sharing real life with one another.

One by one we logged the requests:

• The mother who just days earlier had received the diagnosis: Stage 3 cancer. A tumor the size of cantaloupe.
• The woman who recently got stationed at an army base on the other side of the world and feels so alone.
• The young husband who needs a job to provide for his wife and unborn baby.
• The girl whose father is mentally ill and is desperate to feel God’s Father-love for her.
• The couple who is grieving the baby they never got to meet.
• The man whose wife of 50-plus years is slipping away from him in the grip of Alzheimer’s.
• The older brother who is begging for God’s intervention on behalf of his prodigal brother.
• The aging parents who worry about how to care for their special needs son as their health declines.

According to the Gospel accounts, several women were there with Jesus on the first Good Friday, as he walked that long, arduous road to the cross. The Via Dolorosa, it’s called—“the Way of Suffering.” From a practical standpoint, there wasn’t much these women could do. They couldn’t carry Jesus’ cross, they couldn’t stop his pain, they couldn’t prevent the blow that awaited him at Calvary.

According to tradition, Jesus’ mother and Veronica, among others, walked this road with Jesus, wiping sweat from his face, mourning and wailing for him. They walked with him because they loved him. They walked with him to show him he wasn’t alone during his darkest hour.

Over the past 40 days, some of our prayers have been answered; others have been met with conspicuous silence. But along the way, something unexpected, mysterious, has transpired. I’m not sure I can put my finger on it exactly, there has been a shift in my soul.

As we’ve walked this journey alongside these people we love, we’ve experienced the unexpected blessing of sharing their burdens, their hurts, their crosses. We may not be able to remove their suffering or change what they’re going through, but there are small things we can do. Like wiping their brow. And reminding them that they’re not alone.

When one of our friends sent us his prayer request, he added this note at the end: “I hope, no matter what blessing and grace you seek for others, you yourselves receive grace and blessing from sharing God’s heart and the burden of love.”

He was more right than we possibly could have understood at the time. As we approach Good Friday, the most surprising discovery has not what we’ve given but what we’ve received.

Somehow in the process of trying to extend love, it has splashed back on us instead.