Beauty on the Backroads

Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns

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How I'm learning to love the dying season

A few weeks ago, the trees around here were breathtaking in their fall colors. I’m learning that Lancaster County is a beautiful place to live in autumn. No matter which direction I drive, I see color and mountains and streams and rivers.

Beauty.

Some days, I’ve felt like I live in a painting, but no picture can quite capture it. Even if I was an award-winning photographer with professional equipment, the result would be inadequate.

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Now, the leaves are falling. And the weather is turning colder. (Sort of.) And the days are shorter, the sunshine lacking.

I always get a little sad when the seasons change because, well, change is hard. When you get used to one thing–leaving the house without jackets, mittens and hats–and you have to switch suddenly, it’s jarring. I’ve sent my daughter to school without a winter coat on a cold day because I just didn’t think about her being outside for recess. And I forgot my coat when we went to the park on Saturday because it had been warm during the day. News flash: when the sun drops in the sky, the temperature goes with it. Live and learn.

And my eye is drawn to color. I notice the reds and pinks and yellows and differing shades of green. Sometimes I can’t believe there are so many different colors in nature, that trees that all look green in the summer display the whole palette of colors come fall.

So, winter, with its whites and grays and browns seems dreary.

But this year, I’m noticing beauty in the barren.

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Because what looks dead isn’t really dead. It’s dormant. Resting. Waiting.

If the trees were dead, there would be no hope. But they aren’t dead. They’re alive, and this is just a season. A part of the natural rhythm of life. Necessary, even, for the new life to come.

I have felt it in my days, those spring and summer seasons of life and fun and fullness, when everything seemed new and bright. And I have felt the dying seasons of change and loss and bleakness.

In the life seasons I rejoice, and I think things could stay this way all the time. In the dying seasons, I  wonder if spring will ever come again. If it will always be this way.

And, of course, it never is. Life, death, life again. The seasons change, in nature and in life, and we do well to find the joy where we can.

I can’t yet say that winter is my favorite season. Maybe none of them are my favorites anymore. Maybe they all hold their own special charm. And maybe I wouldn’t appreciate them at all if not for the others.

Without winter, would I anticipate spring? Without fall, could I endure the heat of summer?

“There is a time for everything,” the wise man writes. Living, dying, laughing, crying.

This winter, instead of moaning and whining about the cold, I want to find the beauty. Seek the joy.

Will you join me?

5 on Friday: Reasons I'm glad I didn't have social media in my 20s

Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, even Instagram now. I’m way too attached to my social media these days. Facebook was my first, and I was late to that party. But when I look back, I’m grateful that I was nearly 30 before I figured out what social media was.

Here’s why.

1. My parents would have worried about me more when I spent a college semester in England. I traveled around Great Britain and Europe while they waited for weekly e-mails home. I can only imagine what my Facebook, Twitter and Instagram posts would have looked like. (Nothing too terrible. But there was that time I took the Tube out of London to Wimbledon by myself. I lived to tell about it.)

2. I would not have survived seven years as a journalist. I was reminded this week that social media is unforgiving and snarky with reporters and news organizations. I was thinking in particular of one very terrible mistake I made in print and how much time I spent fielding phone calls to correct it. (Also, it was the most embarrassing correction I ever had to write.) If social media had been part of the picture, I probably would have changed my name and hairstyle and entered the witness protection program.

3. Two words: wedding planning. I see you on Pinterest, high school and college girls, pinning wedding ideas. “For the future,” you say. “Someday,” you say. And if any guy you were interested in was on Pinterest (but seriously, there aren’t that many guys on Pinterest are there?) he’d probably head for the hills. I’m not saying you shouldn’t do it. I just know that when Phil and I started dating, wedding bells were already ringing in my head. Fortunately, he knew that early on, and his intentions were in that direction. But my Pinterest board as a single gal in my 20s would have been Scary.

4. Two more words: baby ideas. I already felt inadequate as a mother, and Pinterest would have led to a slow death on the inside. We’ve never had a themed nursery, and I don’t even want to talk about the boxes of pictures and keepsakes and baby books that are stuffed in a closet until “I have time to be sentimental.” I held out on Pinterest for a long time. I feel more emotionally stable and mature enough to handle it now. (Our son turns four in a few weeks. Guaranteed, I’ll be searching Pinterest for birthday cake ideas a week before.)

5. I like my memories of my 20s. Facebook might have ruined that. Some of my happiest memories are of this group of friends I found in my hometown (one of them would become my husband.) And instead of sharing with the rest of the world all the fun we had, all the trips we took, all the witty things said at 2 a.m., those memories are contained individually in our memories and in a few pictures. And sometimes when we’re together, we piece those memories back together and have a nostalgia moment. Sometimes I feel like I let Facebook and Twitter and Instagram into too many of the special moments, moments that before social media would have been the stories told at family gatherings. Almost none of my best stories start with the words, “You remember that time I posted that thing on Facebook …”

So, there it is. Now, I’m officially old for making this list.

Why we need to talk about it, even if it makes us squirm

I read this quote last night:

Write about what disturbs you, particularly if it bothers no one else. – Kathryn Stockett

Great words for writers from the author of The Help, an inspiring story of a woman who cared enough about the black servants in white households in the South to hear their stories and write about how they were treated.

I won’t pretend this blog post compares to that fabulous work of fiction. But I do want to write about something that disturbs me.

A couple of weeks ago, our local paper published this article, about prostitution arrests in our township, at motels I pass by almost every day. I reposted the article on Facebook, commenting that none of those arrested had that Julia-Roberts-Pretty-Woman look about them. Instead, they look desperate. Beaten by life. Weary. One friend wondered why no one publishes pictures of their “customers.” A good question, indeed.

What bothers me is the way we, as a society, view prostitution. The comments on the story were heartbreaking. Some people said it was a “victimless” crime, implying we shouldn’t spend our government resources on arresting and prosecuting for it. Others joked about the name of one of the women and the age of the “ringleaders.” And some dubbed it “the oldest profession.”

I didn’t always care about this. I watched Pretty Woman plenty of times in my high school and college days, never once thinking that maybe it glorified prostitution. Or desensitized us to its effects.

Prostitution is closely related to sex trafficking, which is a crime and contributes to this staggering number: 27 million people enslaved around the world. Today. (Learn 8 facts about sex trafficking here.)

And it doesn’t just happen somewhere else. It happens here.

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Prostitution is often dismissed because it’s seen as a choice. But what if you were trafficked, forced into prostitution throughout your teenage years, and when you had outlived your usefulness, you had nowhere to go? What if prostitution seems like a good choice because at least you’d be getting the money now, unlike when you were trafficked and saw none of it?

That may not be every prostitute’s story, but it’s surely the story of some.

As for it being a “victimless” crime, I can’t agree with that. A person who hands over money to another person for sex is essentially asserting power over that person. And power can make people do things they’d never imagine they could do. Does money give a man the right to beat a woman? Because that happens.

The same day I read the local news story about the prostitution arrests, I read a story about a teacher in a nearby county who was arrested for having a relationship with a 17-year-old student. The comments on this story were very different from the first story. Some comments said they wished a teacher like her would have been at their school in high school. Others wondered why she didn’t wait till the student was 18 and couldn’t be charged. And others dismissed it as a useless arrest because they were “consenting adults.”

I’m not going to argue about the law. I just present these two stories as illustrations of how we, as a society, view sex. We don’t seem to care that people are mistreated as long as money is exchanged. We don’t hold responsible the men and women who solicit these services (because really, how would we know who they are?) and instead we punish girls as young as 17 for committing a crime. Maybe things would change if we offered help to the prostitutes, instead of jail time, and punished the “customers” instead. And we applaud a 17-year-old boy who has sex with a teacher.

I’ll be honest. I don’t have any answers.

And I’m afraid to hit “publish” on this post because I could be accused of being a prude or naive or ignorant. But I will hit “publish” because I’m not okay with people being sold for sex, no matter who “benefits.” I’m not okay with a culture that winks at an inappropriate relationship between a teenager and an adult while turning a blind eye to teenagers being repeatedly sold for sex elsewhere in the world.

Consider this statistic:

According to the California Child Welfare Council, kids as young as 10 are being peddled for sex every day in Los Angeles County … the average life expectancy of children who enter the sex trade is seven years. This means, on average, a child forced into prostitution at age 12 will be dead by 19. (Source: http://www.dailybreeze.com/general-news/20130902/a-call-to-crack-down-on-those-who-pay-for-child-sex )

Not okay.

I wasn’t alive in the Sixties for the so-called sexual revolution. But I think we need another one. Only instead of advocating free love, we need to advocate for freedom. Men and women, young and old, need to know that sexual slavery is not okay. It’s not a joke. It’s not someone else’s problem.

I’m never quite sure what to do when I get all riled about this. Fortunately, there are organizations doing the hard work of rescuing, advocating, preventing, caring and educating.

Here are three I’ve found helpful in guiding my own actions:

Love146

The Exodus Road

IJM

I’ll leave you with this quote.

Amen.

A mix of what I love about a romantic adventure story: Review of Elusive Hope by MaryLu Tyndall

Earlier this year, I read my first-ever MaryLu Tyndall book when she released the first book in her new series, Forsaken Dreams. I loved it so much, I could hardly wait for the second book, which released this month.

And Elusive Hope doesn’t disappoint. (I received a free copy of the book from the author in exchange for my review.)

elusive hopeIn it, Tyndall continues the story of the post-Civil War Southerners who are looking to start a new colony in Brazil. Forsaken Dreams told the story of their sea voyage and the relationship between the ship’s captain, Blake, and Southern widow Eliza. Book 2 turns the lens toward Hayden, a con man looking for the father who abandoned his family, and Magnolia, the spoiled daughter of a wealthy couple who is miserable and wants to go home.

The book started a bit slow for me and I wondered if Elusive Hope would be conform to the pattern I’ve often seen in a trilogy where the second book is weak and just a placeholder of sorts between the beginning and the end.

I’m happy to say that Elusive Hope does much better than that. I don’t know how the author does it, but she blends romance, adventure, and spiritual truth in a way that is challenging, interesting and entertaining.

When I read Forsaken Dreams, I compared it to Gone with the Wind, only with the setting on a ship. That was meant to be a compliment. Elusive Hope reminded me of some of my favorite scenes from that ’80s movie Romancing the Stone with Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner. I loved that movie, and when Hayden and Magnolia are navigating the jungles of Brazil, I pictured scenes from the movie.

I like that Tyndall’s books remind me of other works I like without feeling like they are carbon copies of those works with a slightly Christian perspective. Tyndall’s characters undergo significant trials and overcome major obstacles on their way to faith. She pulls no punches in her belief that there is a battle of good and evil taking place here and now. Both books so far in the Escape to Paradise series have had elements of spiritual warfare. Elusive Hope’s plot builds on that theme, and without giving anything away, leaves us with a lot of questions yet to be answered in book three.

I, for one, can’t wait to see how this ends.

Tyndall doesn’t write your “typical” Christian fiction, and I don’t mean to knock anyone’s favorite author, but her books are worth the read because they are different in a good way.

You can learn more about MaryLu Tyndall here, and you can find her books at major online retailers.

And check out this hauntingly beautiful book trailer. If I hadn’t already wanted to read the book, the trailer would have sold me on it.

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Why I no longer fear the word 'feminist'

Today, I’m linking up with blogger Sarah Bessey, author of the newly released book, Jesus Feminist. You can read my review of it here. And read others’ reflections on what it means to be a Jesus feminist here.

I was vaguely aware of the feminist movement in high school and college but watched from a distance. I wasn’t sure of myself as a human being, much less a woman, so it didn’t seem to matter to me.

Then I found Jesus. Or maybe He found me. I’m still not quite sure which it was. And I learned that men and women had clearly defined roles in the church. And leading wasn’t one of them for women.

I was mostly content with this arrangement, though something in my soul still rebelled when I was told I need a man’s protection and/or leadership. As a single woman, living on her own, I wasn’t quite sure how to accomplish this nor was I sure I agreed. But I was young and an even younger Christian.

Still, I wrestled when I saw a woman I love dearly, who is clearly called to lead, be refused that leadership time and again. But it’s what the Bible says, right? So, how could it be wrong?

When I finally met the man I would marry, that biblical hot-button word “submission” never really seemed like an issue. He didn’t demand I submit to him. I didn’t silence my opinions, though I probably deferred to him more than I wanted to. Because that’s what a biblical wife does, right?

My husband started seminary, and for the first time, I was presented with a different way of looking at women in leadership. My husband was in classes with women. Women who are called to be pastors. Who faithfully serve congregations. Who preach. And care. And shepherd. And lead.

The world as I knew it was shifting, and I began to wonder if maybe, just maybe, I’d gotten wrong.

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Then, I birthed a daughter. A feisty red-head who showed her independence from birth. (She arrived five weeks early because well, the world was just too interesting to miss.) As she’s grown, we’ve seen the potential in her. She was “preaching” sermons not long after she could talk because that’s the sort of make-believe play that happens when your husband is seminary. Even after her brother was born, and now when they “play church,” they are both pastors. Both teachers. Because, why not?

And I began to realize that I couldn’t deny her gifts, whatever they were, if I wanted her to do what she was meant to do in God’s kingdom.

I believe she has a purpose. A God-given one that has nothing to do with what I want for. It might not be world-changing, at least not on the grand scale. But it will matter. And I want her to know that she is not limited just because she is a girl who will be a woman.

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So, I am a Jesus feminist, for her.

But also for me.

A few years ago I took a spiritual gifts inventory, something I hadn’t done in a while. And a new gift emerged. One I’d never expected nor ever seen before.

Shepherding.

I thought it was a mistake because that’s an awfully pastoral sounding gift. I figured it was because my husband was in seminary and I’d been gleaning the leftovers from his studies.

But, why not?

As we’ve navigated the post-seminary waters, we’re discovering together, he and I, that we are called to ministry together. He has the seminary degree, but we are partners. And there’s nothing wrong with that. With men and women working together to share the good news, to tell of the kingdom work of redemption.

I am a Jesus feminist because when I read the Gospels, I can’t help but see the way Jesus values women. I’ve heard that Jesus is the most sexist man who ever lived, but it’s simply not true. For the culture in which He lived, He was a liberator of women.

I am a Jesus feminist because I see women changing the world. When they band together to end a civil war in Liberia, or apply for loans to start a business in an African village to feed their families and bring hope to their community, or use their time, resources and influence to ensure women in Cambodia have a better life.

I am a Jesus feminist because I love my husband and want to share his burdens. I love my brothers in the faith and want to encourage them in their callings. I love my sisters in the faith and want them to see their place in the kingdom.

I am a Jesus feminist because I believe women are worth it. And even though the declaration feels a bit daring and controversial, I’m no longer afraid to be called a feminist.

In the end, it’s not about being better than men. It’s about living out my calling and loving well.

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So, what about you? I’d love to hear your thoughts.

How a book about waiting challenged me: Review of The In-Between by Jeff Goins

For years, I’ve been eager for the next stage of life. The next move. The next … whatever. And I realized that in the process, I was missing out on the right now.

Jeff Goins’ new book The In-Between meets me where I’m at and propels me not toward the next thing but toward the now. The-In-Between_KD-570x868

He writes: “Maybe the ‘good stuff’ isn’t ahead of or behind us. Maybe it’s somewhere in between. Right in the midst of this moment, here and now.”

The In-Between is a book about waiting, and while that might not sound interesting (I’ll admit, I was skeptical), in truth, it’s one of the best books I’ve read this year. (And I received a free digital copy of the book in exchange for a review.)

Goins has an approachable style of writing where he hits on some big spiritual truths but not in an in-your-face way. It’s like meeting a friend for coffee and listening to him tell stories. That’s what he does here, tell of his in-between experiences, when he was waiting for the next big thing, the next stage of life, the next step in God’s plan for his life, and what he learned.

Throughout the book, Goins offers us the opportunity to embrace the waiting times and let them shape us. One of the most powerful statements of the whole book is this: “Maybe, I thought, God is less concerned with exactly what I’m doing and more concerned with who I’m becoming.”

Challenging and freeing at the same time.

I connected with it in so many ways. (And while it’s subtitled “a spiritual memoir” I didn’t really think of it that way. But that’s not a drawback.)

It’s a short read, full of encouragement and honest looks at the times when Goins got it wrong. His honesty and openness about his life is one of the charms of his writing.

If you find yourself in a period of waiting, you’ll find The In-Between a helpful resource to endure it, and maybe even enjoy it.

Watch this book trailer for more of a taste of the message.

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The most important words I'll ever write

It’s November, which in the writing world means it’s also National Novel Writing Month aka NaNoWriMo, and because of this, I’ve been beating myself up about my lack of commitment to novel writing. It just hasn’t been a priority, even though I say I want it to be. Other writing work seems to always come first. And I feel bad. So bad I want to throw in the proverbial towel when it comes to writing.

But one of my dreams is to write and publish books. Some days that seems within reach; other days it’s far-fetched.

And while that would be an amazing accomplishment, it isn’t the most important thing I’ll ever do with words.

Neither is blogging. Or writing articles or curriculum or anything else I think is a priority.

So, if the most important words I’ll ever write aren’t among those pursuits, what are they?

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pen and cardI sat on the front porch, on a mild fall day, as the kids played around me, writing words in cards. I’ve become a negligent card writer (I’ve told you the one about the birthday card sitting on my desk for two years, unsigned and unsent, haven’t I?) but this needed to be done. I wrote of my sorrow over loss, of shared grief and hopeful expectation. Nothing poetic. Simple words. Not nearly enough to describe what I was feeling.

That day, I set aside all the blogging, all the novel writing, all the Facebook posts I wanted to write for the “world” to read and I penned words for an audience of one, or two, or a few.

And I remembered the power of words. How the right ones can effect change, bring healing and incubate hope.

—

I’ve written a lot of words in my life. Eight years of working for daily newspapers will do that for you. And while the words I wrote for those stories all those years did have an impact on people and communities, I still don’t consider them the most important work I’ve ever done.

The most important words I’ve written or spoken, few people have seen. And I thought about sharing them here with you, but I’m afraid they’ll lose their significance if I broadcast them. And the most important words I write or speak will not be the same as the ones you write or speak.

But here’s how I know which ones have been most important: they are words I didn’t agonize over to make sure they were “right.” They were spoken from the heart, out of a desire to help and serve, and they gained me nothing I could see or touch. No money. No fame. No prestige. No awards.

They are words like “I’m sorry,” and “You’re a treasure” and “I love you, just the way you are.”

“I believe you can do it.”

“You are special.”

Words of invitation and inclusion, truth in the midst of lies, forgiveness and grace.

These words I write now, they’ll soon be forgotten. And should I ever write a book that finds itself on bookshelves, its impact will be limited and temporary. And while I believe the words in the Bible are meaningful and powerful and important, I believe the words we speak to each other have their own kind of power. Proverbs tells us that the tongue has the power of life and death.

Of all the words spoken or written, the ones we share with the smallest of audiences are often the most powerful and memorable. For better or worse.

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I sat in a restaurant last week listening as a mother berated and criticized two teenage girls with her the entire time they were in the restaurant. Her tone was critical. Her words hurtful. And though the girls seemed immune to her tongue-lashing, I knew the words would eventually settle into their spirits.

I wanted to tell them they were precious. Loved. Treasured. I wanted them to hear words of hope and grace.

But I chickened out. I was afraid it wasn’t my place, although it was a public place and the older woman was drawing attention.

And I was convicted. That sometimes the words I speak are not kind or life-giving.

Will you resolve with me to change? To speak and write words of life, even if they’re only to one other person and no one else sees or hears?

Words are my life.

But no words are more important than these mostly unseen words of encouragement and hope.

And when I think that my words don’t matter or won’t make a difference, I’ll think of the three times when they did.

The only book you need for all your vinegar needs: Review of Vinegar Fridays by Hana Caye {plus a giveaway!}

I started using vinegar (and baking soda) as a cleaner a few years ago when money was tight and we didn’t have extra funds to spend on cleaning products. Until then, I’d heard that there were natural, non-toxic, non-chemical alternatives, but I didn’t give them much thought.

Then I started using them. And learning more. And the more I learn, the more I find there is to learn.

Enter the Green Grandma, aka Hana Haatainen Caye, blogger, writer, and overall inspiring woman. Her blog is a wealth of information about green alternatives, lessening our harmful environmental impact, and healthy living. I met Hana at a one-day writers’ conference a few years ago when I was still a bit skeptical and uninformed about all this green living stuff. Over time, her words, the information she’s shared, have contributed to some gradual changes in my family’s life.

vinegarOne of the past features on Hana’s blog was Vinegar Fridays. She’d share a tip about how to use vinegar for cleaning, health or beauty. It was here I learned that I could use it as a fabric softener instead of the liquid stuff, especially when hanging my clothes out on the clothesline. She compiled these tips into a book, Vinegar Fridays, and holy cow! If I wasn’t already impressed with vinegar, I would be after reading this book. (Disclaimer: I received a free copy of Vinegar Fridays from the author in exchange for my review.)

Did you know that vinegar can help relieve sunburn? Or work as a fabric refresher to dispel odors? Or can repel bugs?

Maybe you did know that. And I don’t want to reveal all of Hana’s amazing tips, so let me just say this:

Reading Vinegar Fridays made me want to clean my whole house.

Want to. I almost never want to clean my house. But Hana makes it sound fun and safe and effective. And if all you need is a jug of vinegar, and occasionally some baking soda, then there’s no lugging around a bucket of cleaners that leave you woozy from the smell.

Vinegar Fridays offers tips for more than just cleaning. Facial masks. No-pooing (in place of shampooing). Salad dressings (of course!) And other health-related remedies.

Seriously. I feel like I’ve been missing a valuable resource for my home. I can’t wait to stock up on spray bottles and start trying out some of these tips all over the house.

And guess what? I’ve got an extra copy of the book to give away! Hana graciously gave  me a second copy for one of you. To enter to win it, just leave a comment here, on this blog, telling me something you’ve learned about vinegar over the years, or why you’d like to give vinegar a try. I’ll keep the contest open till Monday, November 4, when I’ll choose a winner and send you the book.

In the meantime, check out Hana’s blog, Facebook and Twitter accounts. Lots of fun, informative and challenging information.

Don’t forget to leave a comment below for a chance to win! You can check out the book here.

 

When you don't know the way

“Your destination is on the right.”

I was on my way to a friend’s house, driving unfamiliar territory, thus relying on the GPS. A few months ago, my husband and I joined the world of smartphone users and became painfully aware of how dumb we could be without them. This was not the first time I had given my phone the “you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me” look.

When I’d punched in the address for my new friend’s house, the GPS gave me two scenic route options, and I took one because it was a nice fall day in Lancaster County, a place people pay money to come see in the fall, and I can see it every day for free. I passed touristy stuff and plenty of Amish buggies and schools, letting the GPS guide me as I gawked at the trees, rolling hills and changing colors.

When the GPS voice confidently declared I had arrived, I had my doubts. The only thing on my right was a cow pasture, and I was pretty sure my new friend was not a farmer.

I continued driving the road, thinking maybe it just had the wrong “right” location and I’d find the correct address if I kept going.

Then the road ended. And I had no idea where I was.

That’s when I called my friend.

“I’m pretty sure I’m lost,” I said. I gave her some road names and she confirmed my suspicions.

“Yeah,” she said. “You really are lost.”

Turns out there’s a big difference between “road” and “avenue” in addresses around here. One will put you in a cow pasture. The other, will lead you to a friend.

—

blank sign

I’m off course right now. Wandering in a cow pasture in the form of laundry and dishes and sickness and disappointment. At times, I hear the words “This is it. This is all there is” and even though I doubt the truth that I’ve arrived at my destination, part of my believes it.

Because I don’t know the way.

I don’t know how to get from here–where my son shrieks for my attention and sits on my lap when all I want to do is write. To there–where I can write and write and write the stories in my head. My blog sits empty. My mind turns to  mush under the weight of all.the.household.stuff. And I wonder if there’s a way to get there. Or if I should stop looking.

I don’t know the way to love well. I complain and whine and mutter sarcasm under my breath even to the ones I love because I feel unloved.

And I don’t know the way to love from a distance, when family and friends are hurting. I fear doing the wrong thing so I do nothing they can see.

And sometimes I choose all the paths, instead of one good one, because I think the way to “be” is to “do.” And I find myself lost again, unsure of how I got there.

—

Our family relies on the GPS a lot more now than I ever thought we would.

On the one hand, it’s made me more adventurous to try new routes and explore new areas because hey, if I get lost, the GPS always knows where I am and can help me find my way back.

That day, it got me back to where I needed to be without further incident, and I was grateful.

Though it often gives us the shortest, most direct route, I tend to use it to find the country roads, the back ways, the less traveled paths.

Takes longer, sometimes, and sometimes, I get lost.

But sometimes, getting lost leads to discovery. Unintentionally, I found the best ice cream in Lancaster County that day, according to my new friend. Next time, I’ll have to stop and try it.

—

It’s a tired joke that men won’t stop to ask for directions or admit they’re lost. Truthfully, I have a hard time admitting the same, and having a GPS almost makes it more humiliating.

But the truth is, we all lose our way, or have at some point. We’ve taken a wrong turn and ended up in a “bad” part of an unfamiliar city. Before our GPS days, Phil and I once missed the exit for LaGuardia to pick his parents up from the airport and ended up on some city streets in Queens. In the middle of the night. Talk about scary for these country bumpkins from Illinois.

Or maybe we tried a side road and found a detour or construction. Or we kept to the highway and an accident barred our passage and we had to find our way around it.

Delays, detours, missed exits, wrong addresses. It’s a part of life.

And of course, I’m not just talking about driving.

How easy is it for us to admit we’ve lost our way in other areas of life? Can we say to someone else, “I’m lost. I just don’t know what to do next.” Whether it’s a job decision or a family crisis or the pursuit of a dream. It’s never easy to admit it. But until we can say the words “I’m lost,” we’ll find it hard to find our way forward.

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Sometimes, the way forward, is back.

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Maybe it’s not so much that I’m lost. Wandering. Unsure of the way. Maybe it’s more that I’ve picked the wrong voice to listen to.

I trusted the GPS the day I ended up lost. But even as I drove, I remembered what my friend said.

“It’s really easy to find.”

Two or three turns into the adventure, I should have realized I was off course. But I trusted the GPS. And it’s only as smart as the one punching in the destination.

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Jesus said, “You know the way to the place where I am going.”

 Thomas said to him, “Lord, we don’t know where you are going, so how can we know the way?”

 Jesus answered, “I am the way and the truth and the life.

Where were they before now?

She was a woman with a cart full of groceries and hungry mouths to feed. The Last Hope

But during this trip to the grocery store, she left without paying.

And what happened next made headlines.

She was arrested for shoplifting, yes. But then the arresting officer went back into the grocery store and bought the woman $100 worth of groceries because the woman told her she had no food in her house and her kids were hungry.

“Desperate,” the headlines called her. A single mom. With hungry kids, kids who hadn’t seen food, much less eaten it, in too long.

Hungry enough to steal food and shown grace by a stranger.

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It happened in Florida, but it could have happened anywhere. Victor Hugo wrote about it 150 years ago. It’s a heartwarming story.

But it bothers me.

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The police officer was hailed a hero, and one story I read said the news got even better for the single mom: her story inspired others to give $700 toward food and she was offered a job.

Good news, indeed.

But here are my questions: Where were these people when the cameras were off? Where were the neighbors and the friends and the school personnel who might have known these kids were hungry? I say “might” because I know how easy it is to hide your struggles, even when it hurts so much you’re sure someone can see it on the outside. The woman was shoplifting food because she was desperate to feed her kids.

That’s not a situation that happens overnight.

Where were they?

Where are we?

Where am I?

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While people — children, adults, elderly — go hungry, we bicker over politics. We shut down governments for reasons I still don’t understand. We argue about policy while people starve in their homes. In our country. Where it should be easiest for us to help.

We are quick to criticize corrupt governments who keep food and aid from their desperate, hungry, impoverished countrymen, but are we any better?

We debate who should receive food stamp assistance and for how long, as if we understand what it means to be poor. And we label those who struggle to make ends meet as “lazy” and create a Facebook group that makes fun of anyone on welfare. We’re outraged when we feel “our” money has been misused to buy food we don’t think poor people deserve.

And yet, we applaud a police officer who looked a desperate woman in the eyes and couldn’t turn her back.

Shame on us. We’re hypocrites.

And I speak for myself.

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Jesus very clearly said we should give what we have to others. If we have two shirts, to give one away. A cup of cold water to someone “less.” To invite to dinner those who cannot invite us back.

My kids have more coats than they can wear. An abundance of clothes, toys, shoes and books. Our cupboards have food.

And the apostle John’s words condemn me.

If anyone has material possessions and sees a brother or sister in need but has no pity on them, how can the love of God be in that person? (1 John 3:17)

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Long before she was desperate, she was needy.

And I wonder who saw and looked away.

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But I can’t fault others without faulting myself.

I see them. The ones with needs I could meet.

And I don’t do it.

Maybe I’m scared of how they’ll react. Or I know what it’s like to be embarrassed by your needs and I don’t want to draw attention to it.

But the truth is we’re all needy. And we need each other. <Tweet this>

And it shouldn’t take a splashy headline news story for us to see it and to act.

Every day people are desperate and don’t know how to make ends meet and their stories don’t make the news. And every day there are people working to meet those needs and their stories don’t make the news.

I’m not telling you, or me, to do something newsworthy.

But do something.

Notice.

Care.

Give.

Share.

It might not be enough. It might not solve the problem. It might be the wrong thing.

But it’s something. And it might be just the thing that keeps the desperation at bay for another day.