Cindy DeBoer

Joy in the Journey

My Broken Family

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While living overseas, our family had several fortuitous opportunities to experience and explore both Europe and Africa. Unfortunately, traveling as a family of six on budget airlines with minimal luggage allotment meant almost ZERO space for souvenirs.

One time, however, we just had to make an exception. During our two years living in France, we were offered a chance of a lifetime to attend a conference in South Africa. Although still a 10-hour flight south across the entire African continent, we lunged at the opportunity positing, “Well, we’ll never live this close to Africa again –  let’s go for it!” (Geeesh! How wrong that assumption turned out to be!)

We stayed in the eerily deserted post-apartheid city of Johannesburg, visited the shanty towns of Soweto and the mostly white Afrikaans capital city Praetoria, and scouted for the “Big 5” on an African Safari in Kruger Park. I’ve been told I use the phrase “life-changing” too often, but South Africa truly WAS life-changing! (And now that I think about it, why would I want to participate in anything that doesn’t, in some way, change/improve me???)

Because South Africa soaked deep into our bones, I simply HAD to find a way to bring home some kind of tangible thing from that country.

After scouring the open-air market, I opted for a sculpture made from ebony wood. It’s a carving of a six-member family embracing one another in a circle. To me, nothing symbolized our family’s unity via our unique path in life better than that carving.

I gingerly hauled that unwieldy, lead-like, behemoth in my hand-luggage all the way “home” to France. It faithfully watched over us from its perch on our mantle for two years. Then I carried that hulking thing back to America in a padded handbag where it again found a home on our fireplace mantel. Three years later, the sculpture was one of very few decorative items to make the “cut” for our limited luggage space and accompany us on our move to Morocco. It was THAT special. Strangely, it felt like that carving carried some power of actually holding our family together as we bounced around the world.

Although ebony is wood, it’s extremely heavy, shiny and smooth so it looks and behaves more like stone, or even dense ceramic. And so, when someone accidentally knocked it off our fireplace hearth in Morocco, it crashed onto the tile floors and broke into at least 20 pieces.

For weeks, I mourned the loss of a “treasure.” But once I got a hold of myself, I decided that even if it’d look ridiculous, I’d glue the many pieces of my sculpture back together. And then it fell and broke into pieces again. And again. And again.

Today, my beautiful sculpture has more fault lines than the San Andreas.

However, I continue to proudly display this special carving in my home. It will always remind me of another place and another time when our family lived in faraway places and was as unified and whole as a family can possibly be.

I was dusting recently when I picked up the sculpture and the “Mom-piece” snapped off in my hand. My heart skipped a beat. I immediately felt this was a foreshadowing of my imminent death. For someone with a nasty lung disease, those thoughts are not entirely irrational. Pummeled with intrusive thoughts of how a dead mother would be better for my kids than a needy, sick mother, I moped around for days waiting for a lung to collapse (common with my disease) and death to ensue.

Which, (obviously) never happened.

I squelched those negative thoughts with a reminder that the sheer fact I wake up each day means I’m definitely supposed to still be here. In spite of this stupid lung disease that originally thrust a 10-year life-expectancy in my face, in a medically baffling twist, my life keeps drumming on rather normally 11 years later. I looked down at my pathetic ebony sculpture – which now looked like total garbage that most normal people would have decidedly chucked by now – and decided that I MUST, both literally and figuratively, stay attached to my people.

So, in a death-defying act, I grabbed the glue.

As I glued myself back onto the others in my family, I ran my fingers over all the cracks, fissures and holes and became overcome with emotion. I suddenly realized that this – THIS UGLY MESS OF A SCULPTURE – is eerily representative of our family today in REAL time.

I’m still not entirely sure how it happened, but over the last several years we’ve been battered, stretched and tested and I think every one of us has felt akin to this sculpture when it landed splat on the hard tile floor and broke into bits. We, too, have been feeling very broken. No longer representative of who we once were, and unsure of who we’ve become.

Of course, sometimes things break. Of course, relationships will take hits. Of course, we will find ourselves splayed open at times. Of course, we will not always be as shiny and polished and new as a freshly carved ebony sculpture sitting in a market in Johannesburg. That “shiny” moment, that “new-beginning” feeling, and that “unmarred” occasion is gone and cannot return. Similarly, life is always pushing us forward and beautiful new beginnings disappear in a breath. And there’s no rewind. Just forward. Just like life pushed our family forward from continent to continent, it also now moves us forward through changing seasons of relationships and our polish is getting worn down. Whenever we take the risk of relationship, we must accept there will be some falls that result in cracks. We’ll inevitably get hurt and we’ll inevitably hurt others.

If we’re alive, there’s no escaping the cracks on this pilgrimage.

Unexpected Cracks

No one tells you that this parenting gig gets harder when less “parenting” is actually involved. No one warns you that as middle-agers you don’t, in fact, get to just “hang out” until Jesus comes because the hardest relational work is still before you. As we attempted to figure out what life should look like at this juncture (Are we still parents? Are we just peers? Should we call? Should we give them space? Can I bring them lasagna?) and walk the thin line between overbearing and uninvolved, our kids described a sense of disorientation and disillusionment. We’ve had to work our way through difficult changes, challenges, and seasons of life that none of us anticipated or prepared for.

Yet, as I smeared Gorilla glue into the seam of the sculpture where “Mom” belongs, it hit me what a beautiful thing glue is.

When it comes to relationships, Gorilla Glue is “grace.”

Apart from grace, all people and all relationships would be laying in a big heap of ebony shards.

Grace means I see you, I know you, and I know your heart. And no matter how I’ve been hurt, I still want you in this circle with me and want to keep you glued on.

Grace means I do not have to fear making a mistake. If I do, I know you’ll pick me up and glue me back on.

Grace means if we disagree, there’s no risk of permanent separation because we have this glue. We will hold tight to one another agreeing that God gives us grace SO THAT two imperfect people can, in fact, get along.

Grace means if you forget my birthday or I forget yours, or if we don’t hold the same value to a family holiday or personal event or informal gathering, it’s okay – we’ll hand each other the glue.

Grace means that if I don’t text back soon enough, I won’t be exiled because we’ve got glue.

Grace is the substance that holds us together EVEN when the world suggests we walk away to “find ourselves” or tells us relationships are “toxic” when, in reality, they’re just NORMAL and require the NORMAL amount of hard work.

Grace says, “I know you didn’t mean it. You were just having a bad day.”

Grace says, “I know you love me. Even if I’m not feeling it today, I know it’s true.”

When your head hurts due to ugly crying from a conversation gone awry, or from a door-slamming fight, or from an overwhelming feeling of abandonment from someone close to you, grace is the calm that washes over you and gives you the strength to just let it go, or to make the phone call, or to offer the olive branch and go out for beers together, or to apologize (even if you’re 100%, without a doubt, absolutely sure, it’s not your fault).

Glue puts us back together no matter WHO snapped off and no matter WHY the break happened and says, “We’re better off together WITH cracks, then not together at all.”

Apparently, the Japanese figured this all out long before me:

Kintsugi is the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with a concoction of lacquer and gold, resulting in pottery covered in a web of gold cracks. The philosophy behind the practice says when a vessel breaks, the brokenness should never be disguised or give reason to cast off the piece, but instead, it should be recognized simply as a part of the history of the vessel. In fact, Japanese tradition posits pottery with lots of Kintsugi actually INCREASES in value.

Today, as a family morphing into a new season, we are less certain about who we are and what, exactly, our roles are in this stage of life. But we are seeping glue (grace) out of all our collective seams, and I’m pretty sure that means we’re worth more now than ever.

It’s Been Ten Years… So Why Am I (still) Alive?

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On the day before Thanksgiving, 2013, in a closet-sized, moldy-smelling exam room, a University of Michigan pulmonologist confirmed my fear: the shortness of breath I’d been experiencing was due to a rare, progressive, degenerative, and often terminal lung disease, Lymphangioleiomyomatosis (LAM). Paul and I sobbed the entire drive home from Ann Arbor.

Not surprisingly, a rare disease doesn’t draw the research dollars compared to something like, say, cancer. I get it. Why put out a toaster fire when a whole city is burning down the street? Lack of research funds translates to a lack of up-to-date information as well as a cure. So even though sources were minimal, I scrambled to learn everything I could about this unwanted guest residing in my lungs. Most everything I read at that time suggested women with LAM (it’s a sexist disease – only women get it) had, on average, 10 years to live from the time of diagnosis.

Attempting to make sense of my imploded world after learning my years on this planet would be reduced, I wrote a blog about it and it kind of went viral. You can find that original blog here. And now, as someone shocked to still be alive, I feel compelled to revisit that original blog. Although it reads like a re-imagined list of life priorities, in actuality, it was a simple attempt to find the meaning of life. I had to. I’d been handed an “expiration date,” and I would never again have the luxury of NOT thinking about how I’d spend my precious days.

A humbling and unexpected experience these past 10 years has been watching from the sidelines as many, many other women with LAM have passed away. Especially during COVID. What a gut-wrenching time as numerous LAM-sisters lost their lives (don’t even get me started on how I believe society failed us, the vulnerable…) And for mysterious reasons most likely tied to hormones, LAM tends to spread more quickly and be more severe for women under the age of 40. This means that often, the deceased are younger than me. These precious ones are taken to heaven during child-bearing years – often leaving young children behind.

So what the heck am I still doing here?

Why them and not me?

New Thoughts for a New Decade

It seems to me God chose the wrong “mama” to take home. Why wouldn’t he take the one who has lived more than half a century and watched all her children enter adulthood than the one in her 30s with small children at home? Did God goof?

This line of thinking has kept me up at night and given me many a migraine these past 10 years.

NOT the reasons I’m still alive:

I always believed our single most important purpose here on earth was to bring God glory. I think, like the good Calvinists we were, we learned about “saved by faith alone” at a very, very young age so that we didn’t freak out about trying to please God and think our salvation depended on it. But simply glorifying God can NOT be why God keeps me (and you) here on planet earth. Because, if he truly just desires our praise and glory, he’d receive it even MORE PERFECTLY and MORE ABUNDANTLY from us in heaven. Here on earth, we fall short and screw it all up much of the time. God would have us all at his feet in heaven if glorifying Him is all we were created for.

Other Christians tell me that we’re supposed to just be grateful and bask in God’s beauty and goodness. They say that by doing this, we please God and that THAT is the meaning of our existence. Be HAPPY, Be THANKFUL, and WATCH more sunsets, they say.

I find that sorrowfully lame as well. For one, I’m not so sure how I feel about the “goodness of God” anymore anyway. I think, as is clear in the Beatitudes, that HIS definition of “good” is not the same as OURS. For another reason, I feel like we wealthy, privileged, and first-world Christians love to use thankfulness as our panacea. We dodge the responsibility of leveraging all our “#blessings” to help “the least of these” by incessantly repeating how darn thankful we are.

What would SHE say is the reason I’m still alive?

I can’t stop thinking about what one of my younger deceased LAM-sisters (that’s what we call each other) would say to me. How would she, as one who passed away in her 30’s and left behind several young children, feel about me and my choices, as one whom God spared and has made it to 57 years old?

If it were possible that this LAM-sister could watch me from heaven, would she be pleased that I spend all kinds of hours feeling sorry for myself? Would she say I’m living my best life as I watch more HGTV or reruns of Friends? Would she want me to obsess more about shopping – buying new cars, better clothes, and bigger homes with my bonus years that she was robbed of? Would she think the hours I spend taking care of all my “stuff” and buying more “stuff” is honorable? Would she be supportive of God’s decision to take her home early yet spare me as I hold grudges, argue with my husband, gossip with friends, or spend hours trying to change someone’s political bend?

Just the thought of all the ways I cheapen this existence – this ONE PRECIOUS LIFE, while she, my LAM-sister doesn’t even GET an existence, sickens me.

When I wallow in self-pity and pilfer away my days in meaningless activities, it feels to me, that in some way, I’m dishonoring the legacy of my LAM sisters – or of anyone who has gone before me who really should still be here on earth. I feel that if I’m not living my best life, I’m basically saying to those deceased: I don’t like the gift of life I’ve been granted. I’d rather be you.

The Good Life

It’s such an existential question: what are we here for? As I write this blog, I’m finding it much easier to identify all the things I am NOT placed on earth for. But when I parse out those things, I’m left with a conclusion that makes me tremble. I’m left with the conclusion that there IS STILL SOMETHING LEFT FOR ME TO DO. Not to just simply be, but to BE fully alive and DO something. Which begs the question: How do I know if I’m fully alive?

I don’t know.

I often think I’m really living and living abundantly. But then I see other people (Christians) who are doing it so differently from me and are as equally convinced that they are the ones actually really living.

But what I do know – and you know this, too – is that there are these holy-moment times when we feel very much alive and we don’t want them to end and it’s almost as if we can feel God smiling down on us. For me, those moments are when I:

  • Sit with a patient at my psychiatric hospital who may be battling things like suicidal ideation, anxiety, depression, anger, fear, hopelessness, or helplessness, or any number of mental struggles, and just listen to them. Not necessarily speak – but just sit with them in the moment.
  • Sit oceanside and get all caught up in the mystery and massiveness of a God who holds the oceans in his hands and cry my eyes out for at least an hour.
  • Scoot my 2-year-old granddaughter down the sidewalk in her Little Tykes cozy coupe and pretend we are going to Costa Rica to sell strawberries, but then abruptly stop because she sees a yellow wildflower and yellow is her mama’s “favowite.”
  • Watch a sunset over a small inland lake in the middle of Michigan with my high-school sweetheart whom I’ve now been married to for 37 years.
  • Give with extravagant generosity – more than the world would say is prudent.
  • Soak in the chatter when all four kids, their partners, and grandbaby have gathered in our home and I hear them cover things like Israel/Gaza, refugees, which breed is better: weaner dogs or Bernadoodles?, who’s the best SNL character ever, a new book release by Jedidiah Jenkins, best practices in sourcing quality coffee, the takeaway from the morning’s sermon, and does anyone want to go to the border and learn about the crisis firsthand from a non-bias, NGO?
  • Walk. Whether in the flower greenhouses in the spring, Meijer Gardens in the summer, the woods in the fall, or our neighborhood in the winter after a fresh fallen snow. I FEEL God when I walk.
  • Spend time with the six junior high girls in my small group at the Potters House School
  • Tell Alexa to play a random favorite worship song and instruct her to “turn it up” so loud that the walls of this old former crack house just shake in worship along with me.

So while I may have failed at planting more trees and visiting our local nursing home regularly (goals from my blog 10 years ago), I’m learning there are definitely some actions that bring light and life (either to me or to the life of others) and, in return, make the world a better place to be.

I want to be all about ACTIONS that bring LIGHT and LIFE. I want to do more than just “be” and kill time until Jesus calls me home. I want to DO some things.

WAIT A MINUTE! Can Saved-By-Faith Christians actually SAY THAT???

There was a time when Paul and I sold just about everything we owned, packed up the four kids, and moved abroad to just live for Jesus in a place where not many others do. Somewhere during that time, someone told us we were “works righteous.” In other words, they suggested our actions indicated we were trying to EARN God’s gift of salvation. That accusation stung hard and burned deep. And I still reflect on it. Why does it still hurt? Because for the life of me, I can’t NOT DO things. It’s what gets me out of bed every day. It’s what I feel deep down in my bones – that whenever and wherever it is possible, we have been called to DO something that matters.

In general, I find it is the Christians who would rather not DO anything difficult or unsavory, who like to call “foul” on their fellow believers in action.

It seems to all come down to this: Love God, Love others. The Bible seems very clear to me on HOW we are to love others – to care for the poor, the widow, the orphan, and the alien in our midst. To love our neighbor as ourselves. THIS, to me, is the life well lived. Not necessarily the easy, comfortable, feel-good life – but a life that matters.

Don’t get me wrong. I do not think God demands us to live a life void of pleasurable things that simply exist to make us happy (think sports, entertainment, food, etc.). I think he maybe even takes pleasure in watching us be pleased. BUT… WHAT IF… WHAT IF we were most pleased by our actions of loving others??? Then, our “pleasurable experiences” would be the ACTUAL things he has CALLED us to do in this life!

Maybe we need to recalibrate what brings us pleasure and joy.

Maybe THAT is the intersection of our great joy and God’s great joy.

 God-Breathers

Our pastor once taught us about YHVH – the Jewish name for God. It was a name so sacred, that Jews couldn’t even say it out loud, they only breathed the word. And, ironically, YHVH is the actual translated word for BREATH. So, the name of GOD, which they dared not say, but only breathed, is the word BREATHE!

So, if I’m still alive and every single breath I take is actually me breathing in and out the very name of GOD, I can also conclude that as a God-breather, I am to blow my breath towards all those who do NOT know God and do not know from where their breath comes.

Now THAT is a reason to still be alive!!!

God-breathers, WE are God’s plan for this earth, we have a purpose, and we’ve been called – oh, so clearly – to bravely breathe the message of God to others. ALL the others. And love them. Love them with a costly, extravagant love for as long as we have breath.

My Magnum Opus: The Parenting Marathon

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Not my actual legs

I recently volunteered at a triathlon and discovered many interesting things about these athletic beasts. Besides being insane for paying actual money to brutalize their bodies and not knowing the difference between fun and pain, I noticed that at the finish they usually fell into one of three categories: 1) The nonchalant. “Yeah, I just finished a triathlon. No big deal. I’ll probably do it again tomorrow. 2) The triumphant – “Woooooo Hooooo!!! I f****** finished!!! Hey mom – take my picture!!! And 3) The Puker. No explanation necessary.

Well, I just finished my own marathon of sorts and I see that I am clearly from the third category. I am a puker.

Last week, our fourth child moved out for the final time and now it’s just me and Paul again. It’s been 30 years since it was just the two of us and I truly feel as if we’ve just completed a 30-year marathon – running, running, running as if our life depended on it and pushing our minds and bodies to their utter limits.

I remember the day we took our first newborn home from the hospital like it was this morning. We pulled into the garage, turned off the car, and shut the garage door behind us. I looked at Paul, then into the backseat where baby Andy was all nestled comfy-cozy in his way-too-big car seat and said, “Oh shit. Here we go.”

We were so young, naive, and impulsive and I still can’t believe the good people of Zeeland Hospital felt that just because we were able to produce the proper car seat, we were able to care for a CHILD!!! But, despite our inhibitions, we unbuckled the kid, brought him inside and gave him our best effort.

Then in a flash there was baby number 2. Another flash and a blink later came child number 3. And right in the middle of diapers and sippy cups and horrific sleep schedules, we thought it’d be a good idea to adopt a child. And wham – there she came – on a TACA flight out of Guatemala in 2001. We were still relatively young and naive, and our impulsivity had only gotten worse – but at least now our resume included parenting 3 other children.

The years went by like a melting ice cream cone on a hot July day. I licked and licked and tried to savor the taste of each delicious lick – but life melted away so quickly, I’m afraid I’ve already forgotten some of the taste.

Last week was so weird. The day we moved the last child out for the last time, we returned home to a nearly unbearable quiet. I flashbacked to when little children would come running to the door to greet us whenever we came home. I felt a deep ache in my soul knowing those days are fully, completely, dreadfully behind us.  Paul and I stood in silence for a few moments as neither of us knew what to say.

We also didn’t know what to do. We didn’t know if we should run upstairs and have loud sex, have a solemn moment of prayer and build a commemorative altar from the kids’ college binders, or crank up some fantastic Queen and Bon Jovi and dance on the living room furniture.

Nothing felt right.

Except maybe a nap.

Or puking.

All I know for sure is I am not well – something deep inside of me is still longing. My head, my heart, my soul, my entire body aches and most days I feel like puking. We’re definitely going to need some time to recover, process and debrief this 30-year parenting marathon.

Some days I feel like stealing away to Figi, or Tahiti, or the Galapagos Islands and just stare at the ocean for about 30 hours. One hour for every year of parenting. And when I’m done with that I will cry, shout – no, SCREAM into those seas or to whomever else will listen (God?) for the absolute audacity of time to move so quickly. Can’t you do something about that, God? Do you not know that I am dying and I don’t have time for wasted time? Do you not know that I need more of it? Can you slow it, kind sir? Please, for the sake of the sick and the suffering, can you slow it down???

Standing in our quiet living room that post-marathon day – heaving and gasping for air as I “puked” all over Paul and the floor – I realized parenting may have been the hardest thing we’ve ever done (or will do), but it is nevertheless our magnum opus – the best we have to offer the world. We just completed a 30-year-marathon of birthing, raising, and releasing HUMANS into the world!!! We lived as large as we knew how to and gave those kids a hell of a ride all the while screwing up some parts of it royally. But one thing I do know: If I should die soon, I will not regret having poured myself out for those four kids and teaching them that, above all else, we ultimately live to give God the glory for every single one of our gifted breaths.

Well, now that I’m done puking, I guess I’ll make dinner.

My lungs still hurt and I need to take a lot of deep breaths before we get back up again and relace our shoes for whatever God has next for us. For this moment, I need to just sit for a bit. Not Figi or Tahiti or Galapagos. Just here in Grand Rapids for a bit.

Just a bit.

I’ll get up shortly. I’ll get up.

Life isn’t waiting for me. We have much to do! We have to revisit the things we used to enjoy when it was just the two of us, we must help Syrian and Central American – and now Afghanistan – refugees!! And the Hondurans, the Haitians, and Lebanese as well!!  We have no time to waste to share ALL the necessary things with our adult kids before we lose our minds and can’t remember the things. We need to spread love to our neighbors in our struggling neighborhood, and rock this grandparenting gig, and give our best gifts to our local urban school and church, and give my mom the best possible finish to this life and at least a million other things.

No, we’re no longer running the child-rearing marathon, but I sure as heck don’t want to hang up my “running shoes” yet either! Although we now run just the two of us and are navigating the course with a stupid lung disease, a few more aches and pains, and at a much slower pace, we still beg of God to help us “strip off any weight that slows us down and especially the sins that so easily trips us up. And let us run with endurance the race that is set before us.” (Hebrews 12:1 NLT)

Time to run our next marathon, Paul. Let’s get after it.

The Secret For Saving Christmas 2020

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Photo by Ben White on Unsplash

Don’t go cancelling Christmas just yet. This may be the year from hell and maybe you’re fighting with your relatives, neighbors, employer AND church leaders because COVID (whether we have it or not) turns our brains into murky waste and makes us say careless, evil things for which we cannot be held accountable – but even if it feels like the only sane thing to do is cancel Christmas, please don’t. Not yet.

Because there may be hope.

Maybe, just maybe, there’s a way to salvage something from this pile-of-crusty-cockroaches-year.

Two years ago, as our family was reeling from enormous losses of four dear family members in one year, I wrote about what makes Christmases “good” and “bad.” And it’s not what you’d think. Here is a portion of that blog that highlights our “Best Christmas Ever”:

I recently did some Christmas reflection – searching for Christmases past that would hopefully stir some joy-filled memories. We’ve been desperate to find some joy in this joy-less year. This is what I remembered:


Our first Christmas living in France was life-altering and left a permanent imprint. Since it was our first time living abroad, I was clueless on what to bring from the states and never even considered Christmas decorations. It seemed so frivolous. But as that first Christmas rolled around, we soon realized our house looked sad. We had zero decorations and basically no budget to buy any.

We told the kids to lower their expectations for Christmas that year – things would be VERY different on the east side of the Atlantic. There wouldn’t be multiple family gatherings. There’d be no snow or skiing outings. There’d be no trips to the mall or shopping sprees. And there’d be no drives through wealthy suburbs to look at Christmas lights. In fact, because we used our life’s savings to live in France (which bottomed out quickly from the rapidly declining dollar value), we explained that funds just weren’t available for presents. We prepared them for a simpler Christmas where we’d just focus on Jesus’ birth.

The kids had become so used to things being different from “back home in Michigan” that the news didn’t create much of a stir.

But one day, it was crafty Grace who could take it no more and started making paper-chains. With zero colored paper, she just made one extremely long chain with white computer paper. On her insistence, but to my chagrin, I hung that chain across the long expanse of our family room/dining room. It looked pathetic – like a 4-year-old had made it – because one had.

Christmas was two weeks away and so far we had one lonely white paper-chain draped across the family room like a sagging clothesline. But I swallowed my Christmas pride and told Grace we needed several more paper chains to complete the look. She made eight more and once they were strung up, the whole family room/dining room had a white paper-chain canopy overhead and it looked kind of, well, wintery. It may also have looked like a third-grade classroom in a poor inner-city school district, but hey, it was something.

We couldn’t find a Christmas tree farm to save our provincial butts. So we tracked down a 4-foot potted Scotch pine at a local nursery and plopped it on a table in the corner. It would have given even Charlie Brown grief. However, I sat little Gracie down with more white computer paper strips and she made more paper-chains for the tree. We then strung popped popcorn to make more garland. The following day a family who was moving back to the states stopped over with a box of junk they couldn’t fit in their luggage. At the bottom of the box were two strings of white lights. Jesus loves me, this I know.

Next, I showed the kids how to make paper snowflakes. They plastered them all over our windows and French doors. If there had been Instagram back then my pics would have received many likes. The kids’ excitement was mounting.

Miraculously, we received two unexpected deliveries. First, a huge package in the mail containing gifts from my family in Michigan – one for each of our kids. There would be gifts on Christmas morning after all! Second, a whole suitcase of surprises arrived (carried over by a random Michigan acquaintance). It was sent with love from the Outreach Team at our church. Inside we found all sorts of Christmas wonder: gifts for each of us, Christmas cookie cutters, sprinkles and icing, Christmas movies, wrapping paper and gift bags, wooden ornaments, a rustic-looking table runner, and a wooden angel tree-topper. Adding those decorations to our white winter-wonderland made everything chic and modern-farmhouse-like. I am the OG Joanna Gaines…

On Christmas Day, we started the day with pancakes (because as long as you have flour, eggs, milk and baking soda, they taste the same on every continent), followed by a reading of the Christmas story – slowly this year – to fill the gap left from all the things that usually fill Christmas Day. Next, we opened those precious few gifts – again, much slower than Christmases past – savoring the meaning and thought behind each one.

That afternoon, we met up with another family and filled over 100 small bags with Christmas candy and a little piece of scripture that shared the good news that Jesus was born and still lives today! Our combined tribe of ten spent the whole afternoon passing out the candy bags to passers-by in the city of Aix. We laughed and sang and danced in the streets. We successfully made most of those serious French people smile! This– this act of love that we never would have had time for on a typical Michigan Christmas Day – this was truly the spreading of Christmas cheer.

Without fail, whenever asked about their favorite Christmas while growing up, all four of our kids will say their Christmas in France. It was the simplest Christmas ever – barely any gifts and no real parties – but the kids unanimously pick it as their favorite. Isn’t that telling?

My revelation has been this: from the worst of Christmases to the best of Christmases, it isn’t about where we are, who we are with, what things look like or taste like, or whether we receive the Airpods we asked for. And furthermore, it’s definitely NOT about what crisis we may be in the middle of. Christmas is ALL about Christ stepping IN TO those situations and circumstances and bringing us the same reminder and promise year after year after year – He is with us.

It’s really not the circumstances around us that define whether a Christmas is defined as a “good one” or a “bad one”. Even as I continue to grieve the passing of my sister, my dad, and my mother and father-in-law, as I reminisce over special Christmases spent abroad, all I really need to know (all any of us really need to know!) to have the most JOYous of holidays is so simple (yet so easily missed) – is the recognition of the power of the name: Immanuel.

Immanuel – God with us. When we know that, believe that, and live in that truth, Christmas is beautiful. No matter who you are, where you are, or what you’re going through, Jesus is our Immanuel. Rejoice!!!

As I reread this blog while working on my new website, it felt as if I was reading something from the ghost of Cindy. How did this woman from two years ago know exactly what I’d be going through (what we are ALL going through) THIS year? How did she know that we’d be approaching what truly feels like THE WORST CHRISTMAS EVER???

But here’s the thing: just as the ghost of Cindy has reminded us, it should never be our circumstances that determines our joy or rates our Christmases as a “good one” or “bad one”, but simply the knowledge that Our Savior Came To Earth In The Flesh To Be Here With Us.

Our Immanuel.

That is, and forever will be, the secret to a great Christmas. Let’s celebrate, friends!!!

Psst…if you haven’t already downloaded it, please subscribe to my list below and I’ll send you my free printable guide, 12 Simple Ways a Pandemic Can Make Us Better People.

It includes:

  • Beautiful, printable pages 
  • Tools to help with discernment
  • Stories of encouragement
  • Hope and Help to get you through this pandemic

It just might be a sweet gift you can work through with your family over your Christmas break.

How to Launch Into Winter with COVID All Around Us

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My stupid COVID dog (not that she has it, but we bought her because of it) woke me up way too early one morning. I wouldn’t mind if our Governor mandated all humans shall not stir before 8:00 a.m.

Vie (my COVID dog’s name – which is French for “life”) needs a walk immediately upon waking or she’ll poop in the house. So at the crack of dawn I headed outdoors in my pajamas for a dog walk.

With sleepy-eyes and morning breath I bumped into my neighbor just two doors down. She was loading her last piece of luggage into her car before heading to the airport. She was meeting up with her parents so they could tearfully send her off to live in the Middle East. She’s young (25?), very blonde, very attractive, and traveling solo to teach at a high school in Afghanistan. Yes, you heard that right:

Af-freakin’-ghanistan.

God knew this one last impromptu meeting was needed by both of us. We had a precious exchange there on the sidewalk and I was able to send her off with a blessing. With mutual  tears, she departed. I wondered how in the world her parents were handling this. Afghanistan. Who even does that? (Okay…. So maybe I did that. But WE went as a family. I had a brave husband at my side along with two strapping, tall teenaged sons and two very confident daughters. I was not ALONE. And Morocco is no Afghanistan. Not even close. People actually take vacations to Morocco.)

Before I had much of a chance to process the bravery of this young woman, I turned the corner and ran into a homeless man. He was picking at garbage in the park across from our home and so I greeted him warmly, “Hello!”

He launched into a rambling apology, “I’m sorry. So sorry. We didn’t mean it. We’re leaving.” It was then I noticed his tent that was erected just beyond the children’s play area. A second man was exiting their “home” as we spoke.

“Sorry for what?” I asked.

Without making further eye contact, he shuffled away saying, “We slept too long. We’ll be gone soon. So sorry.”

Homelessness in Grand Rapids is a thing – as I imagine it is in every city. But I’ve heard we are known as a destination for the homeless because we have plenty of shelters and food distribution centers, clean parks, friendly police and a plethora of Christian organizations that will do anything to help. But COVID has definitely made the homeless issue worse here in GR.

One thing I know for sure: Homelessness is not of the kingdom of God. This is not the way things are supposed to be.

I quickly realized the reason my stupid COVID dog woke me up so early is because God knew I needed to run into my Afghanistan-bound neighbor and my neighbors with no home because I needed the reminder that life is rarely what we thought it’d be or even what it’s supposed to be.

Watching my neighbor leave for Afghanistan I thought, “I bet when she was born and her parents first saw her rosy little cheeks, blonde tufts of hair and blue eyes they never once thought: “I hope that someday this one will move to Afghanistan all alone – a place where young beautiful blondes really stand out and American’s are not particularly welcome.”

I bet her parents never once imagined this for her future. But…

“A man’s heart plans his way, but the Lord directs his steps and establishes them.” Proverbs 16:9

I bet when my two homeless neighbors were in high school, they never once thought to themselves, “I hope someday I will be without a home. I just know that I’ll end up jobless, with no prospects, and unable to secure safe shelter.”

 But…. “A man’s heart plans his way, but the Lord directs his steps and establishes them.”

We were invited to 3 weddings this fall where the bride and groom watched many lifelong dreams shatter as they moved up their wedding date, changed the venue, and shrunk the guest list due to COVID.

But… “A man’s heart plans his way, but the Lord directs his steps and establishes them.”

Our college graduate daughter was supposed to be living abroad in France or Spain or Honduras right now developing her language skills but instead she is home here with us working as a barista.

Because a man’s heart plans his way, but the Lord directs his steps and establishes them.

Referencing changed plans and directions is not meant in any way to minimize those who have lost loved ones from COVID. Those losses are incalculable and we can’t even begin to make sense of that. But I think that, without exception, we ALL had plans, dreams, and hopes for 2020 that look nothing like the 2020 we’re living. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

THESE WERE NOT OUR PLANS, GOD!!! DO YOU REALLY KNOW WHAT YOU’RE DOING???

Never before have we all been so at the mercy of the Lord’s plans. We can barely plan next week, let alone next month or next year.

But one beautiful takeaway of this COVID reality is to realize I am not in charge of me and you are not in charge of you. We can plan all we want and hope and dream and whine when these things may have to be changed, cancelled, or never come to fruition – but the truth is that The Lord Our God alone is sovereign and we can never take his place on that throne no matter how much we think we belong there.

We can only surrender our plans and trust Him.

That’s it.

That’s all.

Whether in Afghanistan, a COVID-unit at the hospital, the Champs-Elysees in Paris, in a tent in the park, or stuck under the same roof between the same 4 walls for an entire year, the Lord has indeed directed those steps and he alone establishes those steps that lead us into our futures.

I AM OUT OF CONTROL

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When we lived in Morocco, every single day felt like a monumental challenge. It certainly wasn’t because of the people (they were incredibly kind, generous and welcoming). The challenge primarily came from being so out of place – so keenly aware we were foreigners and didn’t have much sense on how to navigate an alien nation. Simple things like retrieving cash from an ATM, adding minutes to our cell phones (no iphones there), getting groceries, visiting the orthodontist, buying underwear, paying bills, etc., etc. were all accomplished so differently from what we were used to they’d suck us dry of time, energy, and brain space. The language barrier also played a part (we often complained of headaches in the evening from speaking French all day long).

For example, we had to pay our utility bills in person in the nearby village. Payments had to be in cash, in an envelope, in the exact amount. If you forgot the envelope or needed even 10 dirhams back, they’d refuse the payment. If you couldn’t say your address clearly in either Arabic or French, they couldn’t process your payment. Some days the office was closed (for no apparent reason) so it was a crap shoot if you’d be able to make your payment or not. It was an enormous headache (quite different than having your bills electronically paid each month…)

Because life was so hard in Morocco, I was immediately stripped of cockiness and confidence. I quickly learned how incredibly incapable, insufficient, and dependent I was. I had NO CONTROL.

We had only been their a few weeks when I woke up one morning paralyzed by fear. I couldn’t imagine getting out of bed and facing the day – there was just so much unfamiliarity and overwhelming newness bombarding me each day, I was beyond exhausted and discouraged. I remember thinking, “I don’t even want to swing my legs over the side of this bed because when my feet hit the ground, there’s no turning back.” So I cried out to God and said, “I can’t do this without you, God. I can’t even let my feet hit the floor until I know you’ve got me completely covered. Help me, God. Help me.”

And every morning, for four years, before arising each morning, I said that little prayer. It’s the only way I dared to start the day. I could have never survived Morocco without that prayer.

Sadly, we had only been living back in Michigan for a few weeks when I realized I had ceased that morning practice. In America, it was just so easy to accomplish everything and I could do it all on my own. In America, I’m confident, self-sufficient, capable and energized. Simply getting money from the ATM is a no-brainer and I use NO brain space whatsoever. The same is true for the doctor’s office, grocery shopping, talking to the neighbors, and parent/teacher conferences. Life’s so simple, uncomplicated and easy back in America, it’s almost as if I don’t need a God anymore.

So it’s no wonder I stopped inviting God into my day before swinging my legs over the side of the bed.

Then came COVID-19.

I have a nasty debilitating, progressive and degenerative lung disease. I am in that “high-risk” group that those in the media treat as disposable by constantly reminding the public that the old and weak are going to make up the bulk of the dead, so the rest of the population need not worry so much.

But because of my lung disease, COVID-19 has given me a new wake-up call and once again reminded me how OUT OF CONTROL I really am. My life is not my own and I am at the mercy of a virus that not even the brightest minds in this entire world can explain or predict.

Every day I wonder if this is the day.

So I’ve returned to that morning practice that I should have never stopped. Before I even swing my legs over the side of the bed, I pray: “Okay, God, this day is yours. You alone know the pathway of an unseen virus. This is all in your hands and I MUST trust your sovereignty. Whether I live or die or am asked to simply sit here for another 12 weeks, give me peace. Whatever your will, Lord, I don’t want my feet to even hit the ground until I know you have me covered.”

And then I get out of bed. My feet hit the floor and I say, “Here we go, Cindy.” It’s weird, but I truly feel like no harm can befall me. Even if the COVID-19 finds me, I know that virus can never steal my joy. Am I afraid? You bet. But I KNOW that I am covered – and that covering makes all the difference.

Tell me, my friends, how are you covering yourselves in this unprecedented crisis? I’d love to hear all your innovative ways!