Fellowship in the YLCF Team

"Tell me what company thou keepst, and I'll tell thee what thou art."
- Miguel de Cervantes

"Be slow to fall into friendship; but when thou art in, continue firm and constant."
- Socrates
"A Friend may well be reckoned the masterpiece of Nature."
- Ralph Waldo Emerson

"When true friends meet in adverse hour;
'Tis like a sunbeam through a shower.
A watery way an instant seen,
The darkly closing clouds between."
- Sir Walter Scott
"It is not so much our friends' help that helps us as the confident knowledge that they will help us."
- Epicurus

"I count myself in nothing else so happy
As in a soul rememb'ring my good friends."
- William Shakespeare

June in Georgia

Here are a few more glimpses of my time with Lanier...

The smallest and biggest members of the farm...


Poetry and tea under a star-filled sky...


Feeding the lambs

Something Tookish - Part Two

Imperfect analogies have a force that their cousin, the allegory, sometimes lacks. They demonstrate the universal potency of Truth, under other circumstances than our own, on unfamiliar ground, even in different worlds. There are pictures and symbols of the Christian life, with all its raptures and perils, woven throughout the Lord of the Rings. Frodo’s quest spoke vividly to me of the supreme challenge of Life in this fallen world. I saw in the hardships that he and his friends encountered an image of each faithful Christian’s experience upon the earth, ‘creeping upwards’, often upon hands and knees, sometimes even carried by fellow pilgrims. A life blinded by tears; a mission that those closest to us may never understand or even recognize. (One of the most poignant moments in the films, to me, was the wistful look that passed between the four hobbits, at home once more in the Shire, as they sat in the Green Dragon surrounded by kith and kin that had absolutely no idea what Frodo and his friends had been through for their sakes. And the gentle sigh of acknowledgement that they never would know.)

As believers, the most intense battles often rage within the secret of our own minds and hearts, and yet they can be no less terrifying than the fires of Mt. Doom, or hopeless-seeming than that last valiant diversion at the Black Gate of Mordor. Our enemies are not orcs and trolls, but ‘the world, the flesh and the devil’. Our aid lies not in elves and wizards, but in the prayers of our compatriots, in angels from heaven, in, above all, the promised help and presence of the Holy Spirit. But reading these books has made me long to ‘fight the good fight’ with more perseverance than ever. It has reminded me of the valor required of the servants of Christ, and the futility of any campaign waged against the victory He has already secured. It has made me long to throw my hat in the ring for Beauty and Truth and Goodness, not only for the sake of this tired, hurting old world, but because I believe in that which is to come.

Of all the tools at a writer’s disposal, none, perhaps, is more effective than that great device of perspective. An author must consider carefully the vantage point from which his tale is to be told: which character or characters will lend their inmost thoughts to the reader and which ones will be more remote, supplying only actions and gestures and words to convey their response to the unfolding events. In Tolkein’s hands, point of view is the blade of a sure swordsman, striking true to its mark with a keen thrill of insight. From our first acquaintance with Bilbo Baggins to Sam Gamgee’s last contented statement, the effect unfolds with great simplicity and authority, until we realize at the end that the characters we identify with more than all the others are the hobbits. They are the only ones that we get inside of; they are the ones that awaken our deepest sympathies and over whose triumphs we rejoice most ardently.

I can’t help but believe that this was entirely intentional: of all the marvelous creations of Tolkein’s fancy, hobbits are the most like us. Frodo and his ilk are the least likely of heroes; they are little and simple and great fanciers of creature comforts. But their halfling stature conceals a sturdy soul forged of steel, capable of rigors and valors unlooked-for in the common hours. In the hobbits, Tolkein paints an endearingly accurate picture of the average Christian and what he or she is capable of; they illustrate most poignantly the exquisite heavenly irony of God using something so puny as a human on a divine mission.

Like us, hobbits are very much of earth. And yet their nature sings of eternal adventures—irresistibly so. In The Hobbit, the placid Bilbo is first awakened to this inner yearning by way of the mysterious songs of uninvited dwarves around his fireside:

And as they sang…something Tookish woke up inside him, and he wished to go and see the great mountains, and hear the pine trees and the waterfalls, and explore the caves, and wear a sword instead of a walking-stick…

No matter how quiet and ordinary and Baggins Bilbo may have desired his life to be, the untamed blood of his Took ancestors would not lie dormant in him forever. We, too, are often surprised by longings that flame unexpectedly within our prosaic earth-bound little bodies, soaring heavenward like vanishing sparks and taking with them any hope of our being content on a mere temporal plane again. Some latent Tookish trait wakes up to the essential Romance of being alive and being in Christ, and with a shout of joy and a brandishing of heavenly steel, we’re up and off on the adventure of eternity, without a thought of the tame, terrestrial existence we’ve left behind. It’s that great pilgrim spirit of Christianity that proves we are citizens of another country and have sworn our allegiance to another King:

And they admitted that they were aliens and strangers on earth. People who say such things show that they are looking for a country of their own. If they had been thinking of the country they had left, they would have had opportunity to return. Instead, they were longing for a better country—a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for He has prepared a city for them.

Hebrews 11: 13-16

Like Frodo and his friends, we’ll all have our battle scars to show at the end of days, no less valid for the fact that our Lord may be the only one who knows of them. And like the hobbits, we’ll celebrate with a joy to which all our joys have been but a prelude when we finally see our King come into His kingdom. It’s that blessed hope that makes of this life an epic adventure, with an ending that lends a reflection of truth to the finest fairytales and puts the poets’ best dreams to shame. And the fact that we already know the climax of the story doesn’t take away one shade of the surprise.

Godspeed, sisters, on our common Quest. May you know what is the hope of His calling and the exceeding greatness of His power to us who believe…

Of tea, kittens, and literary conversations

Lanier and I are finally taking time from barn chores and tea parties to say hello! The past week has been truly delightful. Instead of attempting to describe how cathartic their menagerie of babies has been for me, I decided to share pictures. Every day plenty of time is spent cuddling with three painfully adorable kittens, playing with the dogs and cats, trying to charm the Gulf Coast lambs, and being charmed by the Nubian goats. And of course we are constantly talking--about writing, C.S. Lewis, books, poetry, and all things literary. Talking about God, life, relationships, and everything under the sun. On day eight of my visit we have yet to run out of things to discuss and I doubt we ever will.
For me, these idyllic days in the beautiful South have served as a special gift of grace. I've felt God's loving touch on my heart as I have enjoyed His creation and fellowshipped with His people.

I will write and share more when I return home, if we do not get around to it before then. For now, I will leave you with a passage I read this morning in Isaiah 46:

I am God, and there is no other;
I am God, and there is none like me,
declaring the end from the beginning
and from ancient times things not yet done,
saying, 'My counsel shall stand,
and I will accomplish all my purpose,'
calling a bird of prey from the east,
the man of my counsel from a far country.
I have spoken, and I will bring it to pass;
I have purposed, and I will do it.

Captions: Top left - Lanier with an armful of kittens. Their names are Aloysius, Balliol, and Giles. Can anyone guess what or who they are named after? Top right - Natalie holding Hermia, one of the six lambs. Bottom center - Lanier had the idea to wear gardenias in our hair to church on Sunday! One person thought we were sisters.

All pictures by our resident photographer Philip Ivester.

Something Tookish - Part One

When Philip and I finished the last book in the Lord of the Rings trilogy I sat in silence for some time, the tears chasing one another down my cheeks, wrapped in a lovely melancholy over the end of the Third Age and the pilgrimage of the fair folk beyond the Grey Havens. I couldn’t stop brooding over what it must have been to have had a mind like Tolkien’s: crammed with such beauties and terrors: the birthplace a world so real that a reader’s heart literally breaks over not being able to journey there and see the shining heights of Minas Tirith or race on a flying charger across the plains of Rohan or chat with a hobbit beside a companionable fire over a pipe and a pint. What a master Tolkien was. It is not lightly that I say I thank God for him. Truth lives in his work, at times shimmering and glowing, at times piercing with the sharp and often painful flash of lightning.

We both wanted more of Middle Earth, and of our dear friends we’d adventured with for so long. And so we treated ourselves to an absolute Tolkien movie fest one weekend. (Remember our ‘no movie till we’ve read the book’ rule? Well, we managed to hold out, in spite of a world that seemed conspired against us to spoil both books and movies before we’d had a chance to experience them for ourselves!) The movies had a beauty of their own, and cast a spell while not nearly as potent as the books, (what movie ever could?) yet compelling in their own right and rendering me dreamy-eyed for days upon days. To actually see the long travail of Frodo and his friends, the tears of dear Samwise and the slow smile of Gandalf, the absolute horror of the evils they faced, all just seemed to seal the strong beauty of this tale upon my heart.

Long afterwards I am still mulling over the insights that continue to appeal to me, blooming under my feet as it were, like the lowly, lovely elanor in the glades of Lothlorien, smiling up at me as I walk along the way. There are vast stores to be mined here, and great critics have done it better and more thoroughly than I ever could. My reflections are of a humble nature, and perhaps simplistic in the light of the scholarly treatment already devoted to this work. But I cannot help but make this story mine through the acknowledgement of its verities, claiming its meanings and symbols for my own.

The Lord of the Rings is not a perfect allegory or anything of that sort, any more than Lewis’ Narnia was. And that’s why I love it so, why I believe it carries such power at its heart. He doesn’t spell everything out for us; he doesn’t merely recast true but familiar stories in a different mold. He makes us think, and ache and search—he speaks first to our hearts and then our heads, in a way that, for me at least, was a humbling and intensely personal experience.

...to be continued next week!

Betsy, Tacy, and Tib

Last fall a YLCF reader commented that a picture of Gretchen, Lanier and myself reminded her of the friendship portrayed in the timeless books by Maud Hart Lovelace. Betsy, Tacy, and Tib. It only took me a moment to think which of us was which; the similarities are striking.

Tacy was the tallest. She had long red ringlets and freckles... Gretchen is most certainly Tacy. Her curly red hair and snapping green eyes leave no room for argument.

Tib was the smallest. She was little and dainty with round eyes and a fluff of yellow hair. She looked like a picture-book fairy, except, of course, that she didn't have wings. Lanier is similar to Tib in so many ways--although her personality is even more soft and sweet and she is even more beautiful! And she's a dancer--just like Tib.

Betsy was the middle-sized one. She was almost always smiling. At twelve she had been short, straight, and chunky with perky braids and a freckled, smiling face. At fourteen she was tall with a tendency to stoop. Her brown hair waved softly. Freckles were fading out of a pink and white skin. As a matter of face what one noticed first and liked best in Betsy were her eyes, clear hazel, under dark brows and lashes.

As for me--Natalie--Betsy is the only one left and I seem to be the most like her anyways, from the brown hair and freckles to her insatiable love of literature (it was because of Betsy Ray that I fell in love with Ivanhoe!), Europe, and writing. My own half-finished novels and stories done in pencil on scratch pads were scribbled with no less aspiration and fervor. I also have much of her sometimes-amusing romantic sensibilities.

Betsy's oldest and closest friend was red-haired Tacy Kelly. They had been loyal, loving chums, and they had been friends with Tib almost as long as they had been friends with each other. She and Tacy sat looking down Hill Street while the clouds in the sky behind Tacy's house turned pink. Their hands met and as always, unfailingly, joined in a loyal clasp.

Some friendships remain treasured for a lifetime. I count myself immensely blessed to have such friends as these who stick with me through the times of great celebration and heart-wrenching sorrow. Their loyalty proved true when they had nothing to gain from being true friends--when I needed them but had little to offer in return.

Yet such is one of the glories of godly, genuine friendship. They are not friends only when the relationship is comfortable, enjoyable, and mutually beneficial. They are friends when such means suffering with those who suffer, weeping with those who weep, and remaining steady and true despite the chaos.

This summer I get to visit both of these dear friends. In fact, today I fly to see Lanier! I look forward to sharing more during and after those days together.

- Photo of Natalie, Gretchen, and Lanier aka Betsy, Tacy, and Tib by Philip Ivester

Just call me Shepherdess

I love how Catherine Marshall put it:

Dreams carried around in one's heart for years, if they are dreams that have God's approval, have a way of suddenly materializing.

And I can definitely say that this has been a Spring of ‘sudden materialization’. So sudden I feel I’ve hardly had a chance to catch my breath before one beautiful change follows on the heels of another. Spring itself is a season of change, of course: new things stirring to life; old, spent growth disappearing under the inexorable greening of bud and leaf and blade. Here in the South our Spring flirts for a while, courting us with balmy days in mid-February and then turning a diffident shoulder of frost and gloom again till one hardly knows whether to trust in the promise of April or not. But there can be no doubt on this gentle afternoon, soft with the sweet pale haze of awakening trees and scented with apple blossoms: Spring has really arrived. And with it, a fine crop of heart’s desires.

Ever since Philip and I set up housekeeping here on our farm-in-the-city we have dreamed about the animals we’d love to welcome and raise. That is, in addition to our five cats, fourteen hens, rooster and best-Australian-Shepherd-in-the-whole-wide-world. We’d entertained the notion of cows because Philip’s grandfather had been a cattleman and we wouldn’t be so completely in the dark. Highland Cattle received more than a passing consideration, owing to the fact that one of the shining points of our vision is promoting historical or endangered breeds. We installed good, sturdy fencing and sketched out a plan for our barn, an original structure and sorely in need of renovation. We started scrutinizing the Market Bulletin for animals and supplies. We entertained our Aussie with glowing descriptions of his life as a real farm dog. And then everything began to slow to a halt. For a couple of years, something always seemed to waylay the plan: trips and travels, droughts, sprained ankles, surgeries, unexpected expenses. I really began to wonder at times if it wasn’t just a pipe dream after all.

Since Christmas, however, my heart has been stirring on this theme more ardently than ever, and towards the end of January I determinedly ordered a whole box of books on farming and livestock. And thus it was that Philip came home one day and found a lovely volume lying on the kitchen table: Living with Sheep.

I came upon him after he’d been reading it for a while, leaning against the counter, completely engrossed in the engaging text and gorgeous photographs, very much as I had been not a few hours before. He looked up at me with shining eyes.

“Let’s get sheep!”

I blinked back at him as if it were the first time it had occurred to either one of us. As if we hadn’t started dreaming about it on the first day of our Scottish honeymoon. As if we hadn’t longed for it as an unattainable wish all throughout our sojourn in England. Truth is, we’d been scared off by our own ignorance, not to mention the simple fact that we didn’t know of a single other person in Georgia that raised sheep. And for a super-cautious, obsessive-compulsive little soul like me, that spelled terrifying, no matter how much I wanted it.

But suddenly, standing there in the kitchen, grinning back at my husband, I knew that we could do this. That old familiar flame of aspiration began to glow and spark within me; Philip’s eager enthusiasm sealed the deal. God’s timing on this dream seemed to materialize right there between us. And so I devoted much of the month that followed to reading and educating myself, talking to shepherds on the phone, emailing like mad—basically scratching up all the information I possibly could. And literally, within the span of a few short weeks, we went from the germ of a dream to the cusp of fulfillment. Through an intensely exciting series of events—interesting only to me, I am sure—I made the discovery of a marvelous breed of sheep native to our area, historically important from a heritage point of view and remarkably hardy and tolerant of our climate due to hundreds of years of ranging feral in the Southern fields and forests. A flurry of emails, a frenzy of waiting—and, suddenly, six lambs, yet unborn, had my name on them. Quite an honor when you consider that there are only around 2000 registered such animals in existence!

It’s in the details that I know my God is in this, and blessing this dear, crazy undertaking. I’ve seen Him guide and provide in countless ways—I could fill several posts with the recounting but I’ll spare you!—and I know that He’s working out some purpose of His, even if it’s only the stretching of my own faith. I’ve been forced to trust Him at every turn—the path we’ve set our feet to is uncharted territory, and there’s a very scared little girl deep down inside of me that shrinks from change of any sort, even that for which I’ve longed and prayed. But it has been so endearing to see how He cares about these dreams of ours; how He plants such lovely and challenging goals in our hearts and then provides all we need to attain them. Even when we’re cowering in the folds of His garments like frightened lambs ourselves.

This time last year I was becoming an expert on punting options in Oxford and driving distances to obscure literary places of pilgrimage preparatory to our journey abroad. This Spring I am a connoisseur of pasture grasses and organic fertilizer options, having our soil tested and discussing the results at length with our extension agent, and basically betraying my ignorance to every clerk at every Feed and Seed north of Savannah. It’s been very humbling, and I can’t tell you all how many times I’ve had to swallow my pride and say, “I have a really dumb question…”. But my prayer this April is the same as it was a year ago: The Lord grant you the desire of your heart and make all your plans succeed.

My lambs come home in May; the two little bottle baby Nubian goats that Philip promised me are sleeping out in the barn with their tummies full of warm milk; the lovely, majestic Great Pyrenees dog we brought home to be a livestock guardian is patrolling her barnyard and lingering by the fence for loving words and ear scratches. Down in the basement a host of newly-potted starts are dreaming of a whole garden to grow in, and out in the yard roses and grapevines and brambles are sending forth tender, tentative growth in prelude to an absolute explosion of fruit and flower. Even the hens are clucking among themselves of the new quarters we’ve promised them in the barnyard…

Change is sweeping, and it’s good, for the Lord is good. There will be a lot to adapt to in the coming weeks and months, but soon these changes will seem as if they have always been and new changes will be looming. Through every change He faithful will remain…

I wish you all the most blessed of Springtimes!

Teacups and Paintbrushes

January 12, 2008

Last week my sister-in-law had two of my friends and me for lunch. It had been arranged before Christmas, a flurry of emails having saved and secured the date, but as I set out on that dour January morning, it seemed to me that the timing of our little gathering was exquisitely providential. My mood was as heavy as the dark clouds piling in from the west; tears seemed even more imminent than raindrops and the headache that had been brewing with the approaching weather front was raging so violently I could hardly see straight. I pulled into her driveway with something like a sigh of relief and hauled myself out of the car, grateful only that I hadn’t gotten a speeding ticket on my way there as I had two days previously en route to meet two other friends for lunch…

Edie still had her Christmas wreath on the door—fresh and yet fragrant it was too lovely to take down. I gazed at it rather mournfully, luxuriating a bit in my post-holiday blues. But before I had a chance to knock the door swung open, and there stood Edie, smiling in her radiantly gentle way, and beyond her, Ashley and Debra, waiting to receive me with hugs and smiles of their own. Is there any medicine on earth so potent as the embrace of a friend?

I forgot my headache. I dismissed my Janu-weary mood, for what place had it in this little sanctuary of beauty and warmth? The 1920’s bungalow was aglow with candlelight, and soft French music lilted through the rooms. A collective gasp went up at the sight of our table, for a more daintily feminine array cannot be imagined. There were place cards (with appropriately deco script), and the damask cloth was laid with every possible accouterment for a ladies’ tea: antique china, vintage silver, a tiered cake plate boasting everything from homemade scones to macaroons and melt-in-your-mouth truffles. On the sideboard stood enticing decanters of chilled lemonade, with crystal goblets at the ready. And everywhere I cast my eye, it seemed, were sweet little bottles and vases of pink and white spray roses. Pretty as a Valentine; proper as an English tea room.

Edie brought out the soup course while I poured the tea, and then we fell to the feast of fellowship with as much relish as we polished off the roasted red pepper soup, and the mushroom and pine nut quiche that followed. Our conversation took a delightfully meandering course, as it only can in the hands of like-minded ladies. We discussed everything from organic gardening to vacuum cleaners, touching on politics, homeschooling and needlepoint, each in their turn.

But over all our talk, it seemed, a shining mantle was cast, a high vision of beauty’s worth that infused every subject with a strange sort of lowly nobility. Time and again we came back to one of the tenets of our homemaker’s hearts: the value and validity of loveliness. The power of beauty, in its simplest and purest sense, to speak audibly of the presence of Jesus Christ in our lives. Beauty is of Him, from Him, for Him. Beauty has a language that transcends even the finest words, that soars above our sweetest experiences in this life and whispers to our souls of what heaven will be.

Debra and Ashley are painters, artists in both life and craft. It has been beautiful for me to watch the former inspire and instruct the latter, pouring herself out, as it were, to the enrichment of a friend’s creative world. As a homeschooling mother of three, Debra could easily justify the forestallment of her own artistic desires. But instead, she’s set an example for the three of us childless women not to deny the significance of our own unique and God-given talents, even in the whirl of a houseful of teenagers. Creativity is a hidden spring, feeding the deep wells of our personalities. And when that spring is tended, unclogged and running true, cups of cold water in His name abound. We give of ourselves, because there is something there to give.

Ashley has approached the discipline of oils with courage and joy (almost she makes me want to paint…not quite. I’m not that brave!). I love to go into her house and see a new work in progress lying on the dining room table, or to catch that light that comes into her eyes when she’s describing some technique that Debra’s entrusted to her. Ashley doesn’t want to have her works in the Met, or even make a living off her paintbrush. She wants beautiful things of her own making on the walls of her home; she wants to give gifts that are indeed a portion of herself. When one considers that her whole life is a gift, that being around her is one of the most energizing occupations I can think of, it appears that the hours spent mixing paints and poring over a canvas are a perfectly natural and even necessary replenishment for her.

Into the midst of all our high talk that afternoon, Ashley slipped an analogy she’d heard in a sermon that caught my fancy in a compelling way. She gave us a picture of our callings: Some of us are tiny watercolor brushes, with only a few strands, intended for the most delicate of detail work. And the range goes all the way up to those big industrial paint rollers that can cover a whole wall in minutes. If you asked a watercolor brush to coat the side of a building it would be a disaster that ended in despair. And a paint roller would wreak havoc upon a little violet in a cut glass vase. Is the paint roller more important, more valid, because it covers a greater area with speed and efficiency? Is a Winsor & Newton more extraordinary merely because it is able to capture the rare beauties of life that might otherwise have been trodden underfoot? We all know the answer—in our heads. Both have their place and their job to do. And it’s a job that is certainly never going to get done by looking around at the other brushes nearby and comparing oneself to their bristle size and handle length. Or their subject matter, for that. And just as an artist will rifle through many brushes in the creation of one painting, we will doubtless find that the Master Painter will bring varying sizes of implements to bear upon the living landscapes we’re all creating, day in and day out.

And, if you happen to be a watercolor brush, don’t be mistaken in thinking that you cannot have a far-reaching impact in this world for beauty and truth. In a recent (and umpteenth!) viewing of the movie Miss Potter, I was struck by something she said regarding her own art: “I’m not very good at landscapes,” with a somewhat regretful glance over a sweep of Lake District loveliness. But Beatrix Potter was good at animals. And charming little stories that revealed their dignity to untold numbers of children the world over. She did not set out to write the best-selling children’s books of all time, or to almost single-handedly save the Lake District. She was just brave enough to be good at what she was good at. And there’s not a one of us alive who should not be grateful to her for it.

In like manner, Edie was merely living in her gifts that day. Hospitality, gentleness and grace; the touch of an artist upon her table and the rooms of her home. She gave of herself in that little luncheon for four, and created an environment for edification to flourish. It took time and great care, and a painterly attention to detail. (And if she wasn’t the immaculately tidy housekeeper I know her to be, I’d say she was still washing dishes!) She refreshed us from a source both deep and true, and I feel safe in assuming that she was refreshed in the process. This is beauty’s seal and signature: a mutual joy and a glory to God.

Musings on the New Year

This piece was written by a dear friend of mine, "in the wee-smalls of December 31st, 2006", as she put it. I will always remember her reading it aloud at our 12th Night Revel (here, too) last January, the firelight playing over her face, and the faces of so many loved ones gathered around...

For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord,

...Plans to give you a future, and a hope. - Jeremiah 29:11

It's Time to move;

Out of an old year,

into a new one.

It's time to pack --

It's time to square away our lives,

Pack up old baggage,

Move forward, or continue onward.

Time to clean the cobwebs

out of the attics & closets of out souls:

to bury the dead, the hatchet -

hate, old hurts,

old sins, dead sins,

dead works, dead self.

Time to make a bonfire for the old year --

To pile on the wood, hay, & stubble from out lives,

To relegate to the ash heap the chaff,

The broken shards,

the unworthy priorities --

the business of life that stirs us like leaves in the wind.

Time to prepare to give away our lives, our souls, our selves.

Time to pick up what's good, cherish it,

pack it carefully into memory:

Days with friends and family,

Blessings,

triumphs,

Halcyon days,

Those days when God inexplicably reached down

into our lives and souls,

New Faith, tested faith, joy,

Character-changing trials,

Hope, dreams,

And Love.

Time to plan a prominent place in the New Year

For more of the same:

More time with family and friends,

More love for others,

More opportunities,

More worthy pursuits.

More Faith, more Hope, more Love.

More joy, more peace

-- more peace in waiting.

More kindness, & rejoicing with others,

More humility, grace, & selflessness,

Patience & forgiveness,

More truth, more strength,

More sensitive hearts,

Endurance for the race.

More ways to serve,

More awareness of His Spirit.

More room for God in our relationship with Him,

More of Him in our relationship with others,

More of our dreams in our own life -

for that too is His.

Time for a New Year --

not filled with resolutions,

but full of less -- and more --

and Life.

J. Arrendale, Dec 31, 2006

A year of God's favor

It hardly seems possible that on the writing of this Thanksgiving is only one week away. My heart is already in full holiday mode—Philip has had to stop me a couple of times from breaking my own ‘no Christmas music till after Thanksgiving’ rule, but I’m counting the days till I can open my new Anonymous 4 album and fill my home with the haunting melodies of a Celtic Yule…

But I have been enjoying this autumn to the hilt. As I write, the solemn beauty of a November twilight is descending upon my little world. The sun has just dipped below the rim of the pasture in a breathtaking tide of amber light and the hickories are standing out with a gold that seems alive against the gathering purple shadows. Despite our drought here in the South, we’ve had a brave display of autumn color, blood red dogwoods and bright banners of crimson sassafras and rainbow-hued fruit trees that can’t seem to decide which color suits them best. (And, God be thanked, we did have a good steady rain in the night—it woke me up! I’ve begun to forget what rain sounds like falling on the roof and dripping off the gables. Y’all keep praying for us!!)

Autumn is such a nostalgic time. I find myself looking back at God’s past faithfulnesses more this time of year than perhaps any other. September and October seemed bursting at the seams with good things this year, but November has been much more contemplative, much more conducive to quietness and reflection which are, truth be told, the real marrow of life for me. I am learning more and more what a quiet life really is, and what it isn’t, and just how precious is this burden for simplicity I’ve carried since I was a teenager. That’s the real news in my life at present, that and the everyday bliss of candlelight and firelight, wet dog noses and the scent of gingercake baking in the oven and cabbages and collards in the garden. And, always, the sweet joy of Philip coming home at the end of a long day…

But that doesn’t really account for my long silence around here, I know! 2007 has been a rich, full year—truly, as I’ve thought to myself again and again, a year of God’s favor. They all are, I know that. But this year I’ve seen Him do some really neat things, answer some very heartfelt prayers and grant some long-standing dreams.

In early spring we had the glorious news that a family member's cancer was gone. We all just felt the Lord wrap His arms around us in that season—there was a peace that passed understanding both before and after the good tidings came to us. And then in May, Philip and I were able to take our yearned-for pilgrimage to England. I am still processing all that the Lord did and gave during that enchanted time. To say it was a dream come true seems mild and trite. We still look at one another and wonder if it all really happened…

In the summer I had a scheduled surgery which was the Lord’s doing, as well. Though I spent pretty much all of July and August recovering, it was a sweet time of peace and healing and I really look back on it fondly—though I would have laughed if you told me that in June! To say I was not looking forward to it is putting it mildly! ;)

As soon as September hit there were weekend trips and weddings and lots of fun times already lined up. You all know what took me to Omaha in early October ;), and what a precious, precious time that was! It was a privilege and a joy to stand beside our Natalie on her wedding day and to share in all the celebrations. I will always cherish the memories of that time with beloved kindred spirits. (We parted with Merritt and Gretchen feeling like they were old friends…) Later in the month we had another one of our madcap trips to New York to visit my sister and her husband. It was yet another gift: great weather, lots and lots of time to talk and laugh with them on a blanket in Central Park, a fabulous French restaurant in SoHo, wandering among the masterpieces of the Frick. We came home exhausted but happy, and eager to settle back into our little farm-in-the-city life here.

Speaking of farm life, we had a bit of a surprise last spring. After seven years of raising chickens, five broods in all, we had something happen that’s never happened before. One of our Araucanas started getting bigger than all her sisters. Then her comb and wattle grew larger—and then—she started to crow. So we now have a rooster named Margot, who’s already gained legendary stature by chasing me across the back yard at full tilt! And she—I mean he—doesn’t just crow at dawn. Try all hours of the day and night. But we’ve grown to love it. There’s nothing like being greeted on your return home with such a pastoral sound. I only hope our neighbors can say the same…

Oh, and did I mention Oliver, the orphan kitty that came begging at our door on the eve of our first hard frost of the season? Oh yes—sick and hungry and utterly destitute, as pitiful and scrawny as his namesake. Needless to say he found himself lapping milk in a warm house with a fleece bed and all the food he could want before he knew what happened to him. I told my mother that we’re praying we’d find a good home for him. She laughed, of course, and told me she thought we already had. ;) But I just know God sent him our way…and, yes, if anyone’s counting, that makes five cats. One dog. Fifteen hens and a rooster. And two humans. I told Philip one morning last week after my daily feeding routine had begun “Well, five down, nineteen to go!”

There’s so much more, of course. A thousand thousand details of all the ways God has showered our path with His light and goodness in 2007. I stand on the cusp of the holiday season awed and grateful and full of anticipation. Truly, the Lord has done great things for all of us, hasn’t He? I’d love to hear of some of His kindnesses in your lives…

Bridesmatrons

Too little sleep...
too much caffeine...


and way too much fun!

A friend may well be reckoned the masterpiece of nature.
Emerson

A good word from Marmee

No matter how old I am, or how many times I've read it, Little Women will never lose its first charm for me. I'm indulging in it all over again this summer and rekindling my girlhood friendships with Meg, Jo, Beth and Amy. Indeed, I really do feel like I grew up with those dear girls. Reading it now, with the perspective of years, I appreciate perhaps as never before the personal struggles and little daily battles the March family faces. That's exactly why it's still a relevant book, why, over a hundred years after its publication, girls and young women all over the world still call it their favorite. Louisa May Alcott gave us real girls, just like people we know. Just like ourselves.

This precious bit of wisdom from Marmee brought tears to my eyes last week, as I'm sure it did when I was 15. But now, all these years later, I can personally vouch for the value of her counsel:

I want my daughters to be beautiful, accomplished and good; to be admired, loved and respected; to have a happy youth, to be well and wisely married, and to lead useful, pleasant lives, with as little care and sorrow to try them as God sees fit to send. To be loved and chosen by a good man is the best and sweetest thing which can happen to a woman; and I sincerely hope my girls may know this beautiful experience. It is natural to think of it, Meg; right to hope and wait for it, wise to prepare for it; so that, when the happy time comes, you may feel ready for the duties and worthy of the joy. My dear girls, I am ambitious for you, but not to have you make a dash in the world,--marry rich men merely because they are rich, or have splendid houses, which are not homes because love is wanting...I'd rather see you poor men's wives, if you were happy, beloved, contented, than queens on thrones, without self-respect and peace...Better be happy old maids than unhappy wives, or unmaidenly girls, running about to find husbands.

Louisa May Alcott, Little Women

Obedience...or Obligation?

I've been thinking a lot about obedience lately.

There are things in life that we know we should do. Things we have been called to do, and specially equipped by God to fulfill. Each of us has our own place in the Body, our own heaven-sent 'to-do list', and throughout our lives we all get many opportunities to be a part of what God is doing in the world around us. Sometimes we serve cheerfully and easily out of a particular talent or strength; sometimes our lack of qualifications makes us cling gratefully to His grace. But there is a sweet spot from which all true service springs, a point of surrender which one of my best friends aptly calls our 'place of peace'. We know it when we experience it. It's that wonderful sense of being exactly where the Lord wants you for that space of time, and with it comes joy, true joy and rest, no matter what outward challenges may be laid upon us.

And then there are the things we feel we ought to do, and I am just beginning to recognize this for the pernicious little temptation that it is. It's called obligation, and I certainly know the signs of its presence in my own life: my heart begins to beat a little faster, my mind starts racing around in circles trying to figure out how I'm going to add this one more thing to my day or my week or my month. A sudden weight descends on my woefully inadequate shoulders and I feel completely and miserably overwhelmed. It makes me shudder to think how many things I have done 'for God' out of this dreadful state of being. What an insult to His love and sovereignty to cherish such a self-important notion of my own indispensability.

It's so easy to counterfeit obligation for obedience. It's easy to look around at the mad-cap pace of modern life and convince ourselves that an 'intolerable round of panting feverishness' is just the way we're all supposed to live. To buy into the idea that obedience equals 'Christian service'. But if we are really yielded, truly and earnestly desirous of God's will, we may find, to our relief and surprise, that obedience sometimes equals stillness. Not doing, but being. Listening. Waiting. Saying 'no' can be as much an act of true worship as saying 'yes'. And, speaking from personal experience, when we take the time to stand back at look at things, we may find that most of our 'yeses' are said more out of a desire to impress other Christians or appease our own conscience than out of a true devotion to Christ.

Here's a hymn that we sang at a tiny village church in England a few weeks ago. The lovely setting, the atmosphere of heavenly peace, the scent of lilies in the air, seemed to frame the sweet simplicity of its message, truly 'a word fitly spoken':

Dear Lord and Father of mankind,
forgive our foolish ways;
Reclothe us in our rightful mind,
In purer lives Thy service find,
In deeper reverence praise.

O sabbath rest by Galilee!
Oh calm of hills above,
Where Jesus knelt to share with thee
The silence of eternity
Interpreted by love!

Drop Thy still dews of quietness,
Till all our strivings cease;
Take from our souls the strain and stress,
And let our ordered lives confess
The beauty of Thy peace.

Breathe through the heats of our desire
Thy coolness and thy balm;
Let sense be dumb, let flesh retire;
Speak through the earthquake, wind and fire,
O still small voice of calm.

John Greenleaf Whittier
1872

Fairest Isle

There is simply nothing like traveling to open the eyes and the mind and the heart to fresh inspirations of God's Spirit! Some of the most profound moments of my life have been in other countries, on foreign shores, among a language that is not my own (even the Northern United States! ;)). God changed my heart forever on my first trip to Russia. He spoke to me in an unforgettable way off the coast of Maine. And He restores my soul each and every time I visit my beloved Jekyll Island.

So it was that I anticipated our Maytime sojourn in England with a heart full of glad expectations. God had already lavished so many blessings upon the preparation that I could only imagine what the actual journey would be like. We'd been planning it for years, and I felt the same giddiness attendant upon my wedding day rising to the fore as the date of our departure approached. But this trip didn't seem like any other—there was a definitive sense of home-going attached to every detail. English literature and English culture are so intrinsic a part of our lives, not to mention an easily-traceable British lineage on both sides, that it was as much a return as a visit.

We kept to the quiet ways, the rural landscapes and pastoral splendors of which England is so wealthy. We stayed in rental cottages in places we really wanted to get to know, catering to our own needs and doing exactly as we pleased every day. There were revisitations of favored spots from previous journeys before we knew each other, beauties we could hardly wait to share with one another. And there were delicious surprises neither of us had dreamed of: a hilltop of bluebells high above the Somerset coast; Cotswold lanes lined so thick with wildflowers they leaned over and brushed the car as we passed; the scent of hawthorn snowy with bloom and the thrill of an English robin singing in the hedge.

Mid-way through our trip we had to agree between ourselves not to set foot in one more antiquarian bookshop. (Philip was fearing for our weight limit...) But I did managed to cart home some treasures: slim volumes of poetry, an early 20^th century wildflower guide, a lovely blue and gilt Little Lord Fauntleroy. We drank more tea and consumed more scones and clotted cream that I would have thought humanly possible. We wandered hand in hand over green pastures musical with the bleating of spring lambs and watched the sun set over the Cotswold hills and ate fresh strawberries bought off the side of the road. And every single day I was literally overwhelmed with the goodness of the Lord. I saw His beauty in every beautiful thing and filled up a whole notebook with my rhapsodic scribblings.

I was refreshed, restored, my creativity invigorated in a totally new way. But I came home not quite whole. Part of myself resides yet among those leafy lanes and hedgerows. And it always, always will.

The power of a story

Lanier is going to be busy so we will be missing her sweet presence around YLCF the next few weeks. In the meantime I decided to share an excerpt from the beautiful Introduction she wrote for Pearl of Beauty. Mayhap it will whet your appetite.

P.S. The book is being printed this coming week and I should be receiving and shipping orders by May 12th!

I love that Jesus taught in stories. That has always given a lift to my writer’s heart, has always made the effort of putting pen to paper seem so worthwhile. In His parables He comprehended the fact that we are a story-loving lot, that tales of the just and the unjust are a universal language that people of every time and place can easily relate to. The power of the narrative often holds the key to the heart where sermon and lecture cannot yet gain admittance. It’s not a question of superiority, as much as simplicity: the simplicity of the children Jesus loved and drew near to Himself; the simplicity of the tales themselves, and of the trusting, inquisitive heart required to comprehend them.

The Bible is the greatest storybook of all time. It is the source and home of all earthly romance. It is the splendid and essential Reality from which the fairy tales draw their expressions of beauty and truth and goodness. It is Love itself, embodied in words that we can understand. When God wanted to teach mankind, He gave us stories—true stories—about men and women who had experienced Him. When He wanted to redeem mankind, He sent His own Son, the True Word, the living chronicle of His heart’s devotion.

In this same image, writers throughout the ages have tapped into this universal vein of humanity, this love of the tale, to give utterance to the mysteries of life: the glories and triumphs, the beauties and agonies, the inexplicable and unknowable. The great writers have given us glimpses of heaven. The greatest have taken us by the hand and shown us the way in.

The interesting thing about the various tales in this volume is that, while written in a different age altogether, not one of them is backward. An Old-Fashioned Girl describes frills and finery that are obsolete and perhaps even amusing to our jean-clad culture; Hidden Pearls warns against social dangers that may seem completely harmless to the girl of today, beset with much more insidious perils on every side than dancing and jazz music. But the message of each of these winsome vignettes is truly timeless. There is not one girl who could not be challenged by Polly’s willingness to stand alone, or by Marcia’s sacrifice to keep herself pure for her wedding day.

May you dare to experience the sweetness of a truly beautiful girlhood, and move with happy confidence towards a womanhood crowned with all the blessings God can bestow upon a faithful heart.

- from Pearl of Beauty: Becoming Maidens of Purity

Preparing for Marriage, Part Four

At one of the parties before our wedding, an elegant dinner hosted by dear and gracious friends of my parents, Philip and I found ourselves in a quiet corner chatting over coffee with a couple we deeply admired. They were much older than us by some forty years, but there was an unspoken kinship among us, a like-minded ideal of a truly happy marriage—one upon the very threshold, the other in smiling triumph many paces down the road ahead. As our talk gravitated naturally towards the great step Philip and I were preparing to take, the wife spoke up in her very decided yet altogether lady-like way:

“I have just one piece of advice for you,” she told us, scanning our expressions to make sure we were comprehending, “and it’s this: if you always agree on everything, one of you is expendable.”

One of you is redundant. One of you is getting walked over.

We all like to think that when we’ve waited for the right one, fall in love and get married, that everything’s going to go along swimmingly with never a ripple of dispute. Sure, we tell ourselves with a judicious inner nod, married people have their troubles just like everyone else. Married people have flat tires and lost jobs and children with chicken pox. Some married people even argue. But not us—we’ll never do that. We love each other way too much to ever disagree about anything.

But hopefully we soon learn what God and Mrs. McCrae knew all along: differences of opinion are a completely natural, and more, a healthy aspect of a truly loving relationship. How else are we to grow, if not challenged by the other? What need have we of ‘iron sharpening iron’ if we’re already perfected to begin with? If we are not prepared, however, for these occasional divergences from what we think is right, some panic button down inside of us can send out a false alarm of anger or fear. An over-reaction. An outburst or a withdrawal. A fight.

As much as we hate to be reminded of it, we are all sinful creatures. And the intimacy of marriage is only going to high-light this. If nothing can give you joy like the sunshine of your beloved’s favor and understanding, conversely, nothing can bewilder you with pain like even a momentary loss of communion. Disagreements come with the territory; it’s all part of the game—no two people, no matter how much in love, in understanding, are ever going to look at things exactly alike. But it doesn’t have to get ugly. It can actually be interesting—it can even be fun if we play by the rules. And, no matter how mature we are or otherwise, it can always be a moment of God’s grace.

So here’s my little watchword for the week:

Play fair

• Don’t ever walk out the room in anger or hang up the phone on your spouse. If you need time alone to cool off, express this calmly.
• Decide beforehand not to use the words ‘always’ or ‘never’ in the midst of a disagreement. (And, for the record, ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’ should be equally taboo in an apology.)
• Give your spouse the benefit of the doubt. He’s every bit as entitled to his opinion as you are.
• There’s a reason the Bible tells us not to let the sun go down on our anger—it’s all too easy to get lazy with our misunderstandings.
• Keep in mind that I Corinthians 13 is really all the rules of engagement we need. And that we have the grace of our Lord at our fingertips—if we will only remember to ask for it.

Note from Natalie: These principles are not just true in marriage of course, but in any relationship! I've had many opportunities to practice them during courtship...and it is not always (rarely) easy or comfortable. The list Lanier gave is one that I've been striving to live by and it makes a huge difference. As one who dreads the slightest bit of conflict or disagreement (though disagreement is not inherently a bad thing!), I am trying to learn how to speak up about what I am thinking or feeling.

Preparing for Marriage, Part Three

Not long before my wedding I had a heart-to-heart with one of my very best friends. She had been married for several years and had a relationship with her husband that I much admired. I wanted to know if she had any secrets for me, any wise words of counsel that would start me off on the right foot as the wife I so dearly longed to be myself. She smiled and sighed and looked thoughtful. And then she laughed, for once in her life completely speechless. (I now know exactly how she felt—Where to begin?!.)

“I’ll write you a letter,” she finally declared with a grin.

A few days later an envelope with a picture of Anne and Diana appeared in the mailbox, the last missive I ever received in my maiden name. Inside I found pages of closely-written lines, in a handwriting as dear and unpredictable as my sweet friend herself. She had many things to say to me, words of loving exhortation, cheerful reminders, glad-hearted promises of the joy that lay before me, and I cherished them all. But if the whole tone and flavor of her letter could be gathered up in a nutshell, it would look like this:

Share life.

Don’t stop dating once you are married. Take the extra pains you would have during your courtship to enter fully into the pursuits and pleasures of your beloved. Allow yourself to be stretched and broadened by the limitless horizons of this wonderful personality you have pledged your life to. Grow, change, expand, burst into flower!

All too often, married couples eventually lose the wonder of their first fascination with each other. But it doesn’t have to be this way—indeed, I firmly believe that God had something totally different in mind than cordial compatibility when He gave us the gift of marriage. Ecclesiastes exults, Enjoy life with the wife whom thou lovest all the days of the life…which He hath given thee! In Proverbs we are told that a man should always be ‘carried away’ with love for his wife. There’s no doubt that the Song of Songs espouses a marriage of perpetual and increasing rapture.

Of course, there is a comfort and familiarity in marriage that comes with time and this is very sweet. I would only say, don’t get so comfortable that you neglect to do the things that you once did to show your man that simply being with him is the dearest pastime on earth. The friend who thus exhorted me loves hunting and fishing and camping with her man. Another friend with a houseful of little children arranges occasional days when she and her husband can just be together and ‘pal around’. I feel almost intoxicatingly loved when Philip takes the time to read a book with me or listen to a symphony or sit on the front porch and watch the sunset.

Sheldon Vanauken had an insight that is still unique, thirty years after his book A Severe Mercy was published:

The killer of love is creeping separateness. Inloveness is a gift of the gods, but then it is up to the lovers to cherish or to ruin. Taking love for granted, especially after marriage. Ceasing to do things together. Finding separate interests. ‘We’ turning to ‘I’…Against creeping separateness we would oppose the great principle of sharing.

Every moment that a Christian husband and wife have truly shared works like a golden thread, slowly, carefully, purposefully weaving their hearts together with God into a 'three-fold cord [that] is not quickly broken’. It's worth all the work and energy and time required--and do not expect it to be otherwise. But your love will be a thing of beauty, a radiant witness to the First Love. A joy forever.

Preparing for Marriage, Part Two

My next piece of ‘advice’ in this series is so old and oft-repeated that I fear it has begun to lose some of its original meaning—or, worse yet, assume an implication that it never should have. But at the risk of some of you rolling your eyes and heaving a great sigh and saying, “Oh, that again,” ;) I’m going to throw it into the ring once more. Because I think it’s that important. Here it is:

If you are not content single you will not be content married.

It looks so heartless in type, doesn’t it? And something within us balks at such a hard-and-fast statement. Of course, it goes without saying that God can do a work of grace in anyone’s life, no matter where they are or where they have been; He does it every single day. He can take us from disgruntlement to perfect rest in a twinkling of an eye—if we will let Him. Plenty of women have found contentment after marriage, we want to say. They got what they wanted and they are happy. Perhaps that’s true—it’s between them and God. But allow me to gently expostulate: wouldn’t it be better to have our hearts grounded in contentment before they are ever wrung by the pain and bliss of love? Before the uncertainties and cares of life wear us down into thinking that ‘happily ever after’ doesn’t exist?

And whoever said that getting what we want makes us happy? The Israelites got the quail they wanted in the dessert, and, with it, ‘leanness to their souls’. That sounds absolutely dreadful to me. How much better to go to your husband—and one day, your Lord—with arms full of bounty, the rich harvest of a happy and productive single life! This is not to over-simplify a very difficult discipline of a faithful Christian walk. It is hard, I know—actually, it’s impossible apart from God’s grace. And one magic click of a spiritual button somewhere is not going to have you set up for life. Contentment is a lesson we all must confront again and again. Even the Apostle Paul had to ‘learn contentment’.

But the principle holds, no matter how many disclaimers and provisos are propped up alongside it. Because, let me tell you, the waiting does not end once you are married. Ask any woman who has dealt with infertility. Or a military wife who doesn’t know where she’ll be living from one year to the next. Or a couple pouring their very soul’s energy into a church that seems indifferent, hoping and yearning for God’s Spirit to move—or move them.

Somewhere along the way I think this idea has been twisted into the notion that real contentment means we have lost all longing for the desire that made us unhappy in the first place. That’s hogwash, for lack of a better word. ;) (Jeannie has handled this topic beautifully in her Content but not Complete series, and I recommend a regular re-reading of it if you are in a waiting stage…which is pretty much all of us.) It is perfectly possible for our hearts to break with joy and yearning at the same time. A miracle, yes, but all things are possible with God. He takes our surrender and transforms it into a threshold of true fulfillment.

A contented, grateful, happy heart is one of the best gifts that we can give to our husbands. It is a critical foundation block of a heaven-on-earth marriage. A woman who has found the freedom to be at peace with God’s plan for her life also frees her man from any of the selfish ambitions that are a by-product of discontent. He is at liberty to face the future with her, hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder, knowing that when the battle of each day is done he will always have a heart that he can trust in waiting for him at its close.

Preparing for Marriage, Part One

I received an email some weeks ago from a dear younger sister approaching marriage. It was peppered with question marks, sincere queries from a woman that truly wants to be the best wife that she can. As I read them over, I thought how blessed her future husband already is to have a girl so desirous of fulfilling God’s potential as his mate. Her attitude, far from a self-righteous sense of ‘knowing it all’, was humble and honest and teachable towards God. I sincerely wonder if there is a more valuable trait in a woman about to be married—I can only think that the Lord will be able to do beautiful things indeed with such a cooperative heart.

I’ll admit, her questions overwhelmed me a little. They were so broad, so pointed: What was the one thing you were least prepared for in marriage and wish now that you would have known? What surprised you? What’s one thing you would tell any bride-to-be to help her as she prepares for marriage? I smiled over my limited perspective of 7 years, 9 months and 2 days—a baby compared to so many other married women I know and admire. And I knew that any response I could formulate would but barely scratch the surface. But in my head I heard other girls asking me the very same things since I’ve been married. I heard myself not too many years since asking them of my friends who married before me. If I had her—or any of you—sitting here on my front porch, rocking lazily to and fro and sipping iced tea, with all the time in the world to chat, I would have ever so much more than ‘one thing’ to say…Natalie knows what a chatterbox I am! ;) Even a series is inadequate…but it’s a start. So grab your iced tea and pull up a rocking chair!

If you’re not engaged, or even close to it, please don’t move on to your next bookmark or feed! :) So much—I’d venture to say almost all—of the sisterly advice my heart is brimming with can be of use well before your intended ever shows his face, if only in the realm of your ideals. If you aspire as a girl towards a Christ-centered, fulfilling, dynamic marriage, your values will grow in that direction, as a plant towards the light of the sun. True love and beautiful marriages really do exist. And the dreams God allows us to dare to dream in our girlhood are, I believe, where such marriages are born.

That’s not to say the course ahead will run smooth by any means…I think the Bard had some wise words on that account. ;) But it’s worth it. It’s worth it to have faith in something so beautiful that only God could have thought it up in the first place. It’s worth it to learn to wait on Him and hope in Him and to find, after all, that He is the Lover of your soul. It is worth it—all the longing and disappointed hopes and even heartache that may lay before you—to be able to one day stand before the person you love best in the whole wide world, wearing a white dress and veil, and to look up at him and say, ‘I have waited for God and I have waited for you.’

Gretchen and Natalie have spent an enormous amount of time compiling and cataloguing the index of Courtship Stories. They didn’t do it to breed discontent, or to give the married girls a chance to brag. They did it to ‘direct our eyes to the First Love’, to keep us in remembrance that the ‘best maker of marriages’ has an endless store of blessing to bestow—and equally infinite resources of creativity with which to confer it. Even if you have all the testimonies memorized, take a glance through them this week and see if you are not struck with the fact that not one of them looks like any of the others. Any more than I look like any of you. Or vice versa. God has not run out of ideas. He has not run out of dreams for his precious children: I know the plans I have for you, plans to prosper and not to harm you, plans to give you a hope and a future.

So that’s my first piece of advice for a good marriage: Believe that it exists in the grace of God. Believe that God intends for you to be married unless you have a very specific calling otherwise. Believe that it can be a ‘dream come true’ of oneness and closeness and fellowship and downright fun! And remember that it is worse than pointless to try and figure out how God is going to unfold your story. I’ll be honest and say that my sweet husband is really closer to what I dreamed of as a 16 year-old than what I allowed myself to hope for as a jaded 23 year-old. But never in a million years could I have imagined how God would bring a man of his stature and caliber into my life—from the next town over, no less!

Every point has its counterpoint. Taken alone, this first bit of ‘advice’ can be dangerously construed into a ‘God-is-going-to-give-me-everything-I-want-because-He-loves-me’ kind of doctrine, and that’s certainly the last thing I would ever espouse. But hopefully in the weeks to come I can give a somewhat balanced perspective on my favorite topic! ;) And if you have any questions of your own, feel free to send them my way via comments or email and I’ll see if I can address them in this series.

Tea time sweets and savories, Part Two