It was a warm August day in 1996 — warm by British Colombia interior standards but still slightly brisk for a teenage girl from Missouri. All around the region, large and frolicking waterfalls abounded. What a lovely day to get out and see them. Or so it seemed.

My parents and I had made the multi-day drive up in Dad’s humble red Dodge pickup to visit our Canadian relatives: uncle, aunt, and cousins that I had only seen a few times over the years due to the great geographic distance between us. That day, part way into our visit, Uncle Lloyd offered to take the three of us on an invigorating nature tour. We drove around to a few locales with much more accessible approaches or viewing spots, cleanly cut bluffs or wooden decking and steps. But Uncle Lloyd saved a favorite spot for last.

When we stopped the car at that final location, I was immediately puzzled when I got out but could neither see nor hear any sign of rushing water.

“It’s up this way,” Uncle Lloyd called over his shoulder, taking his sturdy walking stick in hand and heading off on a gravel-strewn path, toward a thick grove of trees trailing down the mountain looming above. We followed him and walked on that path for many minutes, the way becoming progressively more winding.

As I kept my eyes fixed on the trail, I was surprised when the gravel covering evaporated and the way forward was apparently not well-established. It was harder to see as the tree coverage above became denser. Yet, Uncle Lloyd seemed to know right where he was going given how his steady pace didn’t miss a beat from the more refined surface to the utterly wild one.

He glanced back to check on us and paused fully when he saw I was not immediately continuing. “Tired already?” he asked with a small smile.

“No,” I said, a bit of shakiness in my voice. “I just didn’t know it was going to be like this.”

The further we climbed, the more fear-filled I became. The path was slick in places due to recent rain. There was nothing to hang onto for security apart from the occasional tree we passed that closely. By the time we reached the top of the ascent and stood in close-viewing distance of a scraggy, impish falls with brilliant, multiple tiers, my emotions were shot.

Uncle Lloyd turned with a big smile. “Was really worth the climb, eh?”

I burst into tears. And I found myself sobbing nearly uncontrollably for a moment. It was embarrassing and equally scary for me to have difficulty reigning in my feelings, when I’d been encouraged for so long not to display negative emotions so openly in the first place.

“What’s wrong?” my uncle asked, his brow now furrowed, with deep concern in his voice. He stepped closer and turned back and forth between me and the view, seeming genuinely puzzled over how all that rugged beauty could draw out such terror and discomfort in me.

When I could finally speak coherently, I tried to excuse my childish display. “All the way up here, I was just thinking about not falling on the path,” I mumbled in a raspy voice, “and thinking about how hard the way back down will be.” Only two summers previously, I had severely sprained my ankle and was still gun-shy of being too adventurous lest I should repeat my clumsy misstep and go through all that again.

Once more his gaze swept back and forth between the falls and my tear-drenched face. He reached out to touch my shoulder. “It’s okay. Let’s stay here and rest for a few moments and enjoy the view. We’ll be careful going down. You can hold onto me if you need to in the tricky patches.”

I took a deep ragged breath and swiped the back of my hand across each cheek in turn. The waterfall really was magnificent. I tried to focus on it and breathe deeply, to calm my heart and agree that all this had been worth it. No matter how awful it felt to be pulled right out of my comfort zone.

I didn’t know my uncle very well. In that moment, I didn’t understand that he wasn’t scowling at me in disapproval or anger. But later, as I came to know him more, I would understand that his heart felt my anxiety in those moments. He wanted to put me at ease to some degree. But he also wanted me to lay down my fears and be free to enjoy the beauty in the world. So much beauty in the world that he could see. He was eager for me to learn this lesson in trust.

True to his word, when it was time to descend, he kept a reasonable pace, slowing down in places where it was prudent to do so. More than once, he anchored himself with his walking stick and made sure I and my folks all made it over a challenging spot. By the time we reached the bottom, my legs were shaking from the physical demands of the descent. But my emotions were restored to a peaceful state, and my confidence was quietly lifted.

Uncle Lloyd knew the way up and the way down. He knew where he was going. He knew what awaited him — and us. And he was eager to take us and show us. He was confident and sure in a powerfully humble way.

We finished out our visit. We drove back to Missouri. I went to college and off to teach in a foreign land. I came back to attend grad school and later to work Stateside. And I joined social media platforms. Through the Facebook connection, I got to know my uncle again. And better.

Here was a man who gave his whole life to loving his family and ministering to others for God’s glory in several different roles and capacities. Here was a man who approached things and people with both wisdom and kindness while never neglecting what he knew to be truth. Here was a man who, though human, did his best by God’s grace to live an upright life.

By that same social media platform, the Canadian family communicated with us as Uncle Lloyd recently became increasingly sick. Then went to the hospital, then was moved to hospice care and quickly faded. Finally, on March 16th, he flew away to the arms of Jesus.

Where he’d always known he was headed.

There is a nearly indescribable blessing in seeing the beauty of a wild waterfall, completely untamed, while one drinks in the thin mountain air like a dehydrated person. There is an even greater blessing, however, in knowing the way out and the way home. In knowing where I will end up one day. For good.

It is a sweet thing to trust Jesus. To hold on to Him in the rough spots. And to follow Him both there and back again.

Uncle Lloyd taught me that. One summer’s day. And by the span of his whole life.

Rest in peace. I will see you again, Uncle. I am blessed to know it.

This coming week in the Nebraska Legislature, a judiciary committee will begin to hear testimonies and statements from citizens regarding opinions on LB781: Adopt the Heartbeat Act. This bill, if passed, will protect unborn children from the threat of legal abortion in our state once their heartbeat has been detected. While I personally believe that a conceived child is a true and unique life even in the weeks before a fetal heartbeat first occurs, I appreciate this bill and the good that it can do if the legislation is passed and enforced. There are so many tiny, precious lives to be saved.

I’m not the type to attend a lot of big protest rallies or get up in the faces of other people via obnoxious, disrespectful debates. But I do have very strong opinions on matters such as this one. I think I’d forgotten, in fact, just how passionately I felt about it.

Until the day a brother from church encouraged me and others to speak up, to speak out, in the forum we were welcome to join. And I thought to myself, “Well, I can’t attend the hearings directly because I have to work at that time. But he says we can submit written statements for the committee’s consideration. I can at the very least do that.”

So, I sat down this afternoon to start writing my statement. And the more I wrote, the more I felt the need to write–to speak and to be heard, for the sake of those who cannot yet speak with words we can understand. When I finished writing, I felt a bit drained for all the energy it had taken to formulate the words and for all the goodness I felt over the thought of sharing my thoughts in the days ahead.

The Bible urges people to “speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves…” (Proverbs 31:8-9). When we will do so, we can be a tremendous blessing to those poor, needy, and voiceless ones. And when we do so, we receive a blessing in return: a blessing in knowing we have used the voice and words God has given us to do something really important in the world. The things we have said may fall on deaf ears in a human sense, but they will still have never been spoken or written in vain. Because God, the greatest Judge and the Most Just One sees and hears. And He is the one who returns blessings for obedience, time spent, reputations risked.

Whether it be speaking against murder of innocents, standing up to a bully to protect a less powerful person, or taking part in similar activities, we must choose wisely when we will speak up and speak out. Let us do what we can in the days and weeks He gives us to bless others in this way. Use your voice, friends, and be blessed in return.

It’s time for a shout out. A love shout out, showering appreciation on those who mean so much to us. We can, and should, do this regularly. But I thought a bit of seasonal and encouragement might be in order.

So, a few weeks ago, I took to Facebook to announce a contest. I encouraged readers to reply in post comments or send me an email for a chance to have an affirming message to their loved one published here and also for a chance to win a copy of The Voice of Melody.

In terms of responses, I had a couple of initial great ones.

Charles McCoy wrote, “I love my wife, a living example of Genesis 2:18.” (If you don’t know the reference, that verse speaks of the creation of Eve as the suitable helper for her husband, made by God so that Adam did not need to be alone.)

And Chris Turack shared, “I love and appreciate God for giving me my husband John. And I love John because he has been so patient and encouraging in our forty years of marriage. He has never been critical of me and has cheered me through my hormonal/emotional ups and downs with ten pregnancies, two miscarriages, PMS, and now menopause. He has a great servant’s heart and I’m thankful to be married to him, my best friend.”

These are wonderful words, all.

I was encouraged by the start of the responses, looking forward to more. A short time before the submission deadline, I tried to share another post to remind people of the opportunity to participate.

That’s when things went haywire and I was temporarily blocked from Facebook. Apparently promotion of an activity that encouraged sharing such affirming words was going against their community standards. I have never thought of myself as a threatening person. And I have never thought that promoting loving words to bless those we cherish is an offensive act. I guess I was wrong.

After struggling to get past the block and sending feedback to protest their decision (which was received but not affirmed as valid…ironically), I chose not to try and promote the contest further. I saw that my original contest post had reached well over 100 readers. So, I just decided to wait and see what would happen.

The deadline came and went. No more responses.

Perhaps it is no longer the thing to publicly declare appreciation for another person for no other reason than just because we notice and cherish them, and want to let them know it.

Perhaps we have started to lose the ability to say something good about others in a genuine, selfless way: not doing it because we really want to draw attention to ourselves but because we really want to bathe that other person in the warmth of a loving spotlight.

Perhaps I would have gotten a greater quantity of responses if I had asked people to give a shout out to themselves. Or if I had asked people to tell us about the people and things that most often frustrate them.

As a culture, generally speaking, we speak far less love and appreciation than we should. We are given to focusing most on our own personal contentment, accomplishments, interests. We are quicker to speak what is harsh, critical, obscene, unverified, slanderous, manipulative, or self-serving than to speak what is thrive-promoting and praiseworthy. We want to focus on all the ways we have been hurt by others instead of affirming how others have helped us.

This is a great pity. Because a key way to promote goodness in the world and to really help “the community” is to write and speak more words of gratitude, appreciation, life.

And we fool ourselves if we think it is enough to say all the sweet things on one holiday a year and then go on with a nasty, selfish outpouring (or even just a neglectful silence) the other 364 days.

I am thankful for the answers that Charles and Chris submitted. Thankful not only for how they can each bless their spouse in this way this Valentine’s Day, but also for how they have each maintained healthy marriages for decades because they have chosen to speak words of affirmation and blessing on an ongoing basis, over the weeks and the years.

In the end, I will admit I didn’t enjoy my brief stent in Facebook “jail.” But that won’t make me stop sharing good words, encouraging good words. Let us all take the time to tell those around us more and more on a regular basis what we love about them, why we appreciate them, and how they have blessed us. We can start on Valentine’s Day…but let that only be the beginning!

Ralph Powell passed away yesterday. He was 75 years old and had struggled with some serious health conditions during his life. He lost two children over the years and faithfully cared for his wife who has been, herself, of limited mobility.

Ralph is my uncle. I am saddened by his passing. Saddened for my widowed aunt. Saddened for my father and his siblings. Saddened for my uncle’s neighbors and friends.

Saddened in and for myself as his niece, however? Reading reflections posted by Aunt Jean, I wondered if I have a right to be. After all, the brother she described was the uncle I barely knew. We lived at least a few hours apart over the years. And apart from a handful visits in my childhood and a number of letters I sent him later on, I had no contact with this uncle who spent many hours with my father as a boy and young man.

Yet, while reading Aunt Jean’s words, I felt my heart tugging, wishing I could have known my uncle more. Known his serving heart, known his gifted eye for helping to beautify spaces and cultivate plants, known his industrally-trained mind.

Last night, as I drifted to sleep, I quieted my heart with the wondrous thought that I will see Uncle Ralph again. And we will be able to know and understand each other better than we ever could have known each other on Earth. Because we will be in the place where we are fully known and where we have all the time in…well, not in the world really, but all the time in Heaven.

We, as mankind, were made for forever. We long for forever. But the forever now awaiting us is not universal.

Many of us have spent countless dollars and hours pursuing activities, using products, and eating foods that might help us live longer. Death seems like an annoying marage, a shadowy threat, or an eludable rumor. We want to develop some technology or wonder drug that will help us remain young and healthy and mentally sharp forever.

Because we have forgotten the Creator who made us. The Father who loves us. The King we were designed to dwell with forever. Before we broke faith and law…before our souls fell down.

But our souls do not have to remain crushed forever. They can be lifted from the mire of brokenness by the arms of Christ and washed in the blood of Christ to regain the possibility of forever life (instead of forever death). Because the forever we all need and long for is the forever of honoring God and of fellowshiping with each other with no distance, shame, secrets, or grief between us.

My Uncle Ralph’s days on Earth were extended by modern medicine, his work on Earth helped many people, and his time on Earth blessed more people than it cursed. But the most important thing I know about him and will remember is that Uncle Ralph knew Jesus and trusted in God’s grace through Christ.

And so, I grieve but I also praise. The blessing of forever awaits us. I want my heart and my mind to stay fixed on that promise with anticipation.

I will see you there, Ralph Powell. Can’t wait to know you better. Until then, rest in peace, and be blessed.

THE COUNSEL OF THE LORD STANDS FOREVER, THE PLANS OF HIS HEART TO ALL GENERATIONS. Psalm 33:11

How does God bless us most dearly and vitally on a daily basis? In addition to keeping us alive and meeting our most basic needs, He offers us His counsel. This is a blessing that stands for all time and is supremely good, never leading us astray and never abandoning us in our time of needed wisdom.

Some people might argue that God can be silent or seem silent at times, and others may wonder how we can know His counsel at times when so many of us have never heard His audible voice. But in every generation and in every season, the counsel recorded for us in His Word can lead us well. And when we listen to wise people in our lives, where their advice falls in line with His Word, we are also guided with assurance.

His counsel is boundless. It is timeless. And it is matchless in value. In receiving His counsel – in even seeking it out in the first place – we open our hearts to the very best input we can receive. To our greatest daily blessing.

It is the ONLY source of true life, wisdom, guidance. It is the ONLY route for answers to the questions that gnaw at us in soul and in mind. All other outlets for potential blessing will leave a sense of phantom longing in the gut and a strange hit of dissatisfaction on the tongue.

And once we have found this blessing, it is not enough to only seek His counsel once or twice. No, we must hunger and thirst for it, crave it daily, and desire to live in it more fully.

Because the goal of being blessed by the Lord is to know Him better…that His blessed counsel in our lives should bring Him glory and lift our hearts to see things at least a little more from His point of view.

My husband and I love to share songs with each other. Some are ones we both know well or heard growing up. Others are numbers that only one of us has encountered, so we each have the joy of introducing each other to those and in broadening our repertoire.

One of the songs in the former group is a Margaret Becker classic called “Say the Name” (linked below). One day, Paul asked if I knew it as the intro bars started playing through his portable speaker. I smiled and showed my response by starting to sing along immediately.

But as we got to the chorus, he paused in his singing with me and said, “I have always loved this song…but WHAT is that word? I can’t ever make it out clearly!”

I paused in my humming and murmured, “Immutable. You know, as in can’t be turned off or silenced.”

“Ah.” He nodded with understanding and relief.

The actual line from the song says, “Say the name Jesus. Say the name that soothes the soul, the name of gentle healing and peace immutable…”

When I prepared to write my next blog post, I thought back on that moment and I paused to ponder the weight of that word more deeply.

To say that the peace of Christ is immutable means that it cannot and will not be silenced. Even when the circumstances of life derail and threaten and reroute us, that is a peace that still speaks if we will be still enough to listen to it.

And God himself is immutable. He cannot be silenced. Even though we may think we can speak for Him or rewrite and reinterpret His words, we are only fooling ourselves. In the end, His spoken words have always been and will always be true. And in the end, He will always have the final word in truth, judgment, and mercy.

I ended my pondering by asking myself if people are truly immutable. Certainly, we are not God and we are limited, and death ultimately silences our voice here on earth. Yet, what we leave behind in what we write or pass on to others before we pass away — those are messages that remain and continue, the kind of legacy (for good or ill) that makes us somehow immutable even after we are no longer breathing.

Then, when I searched my brain to come up with a synonym for immutable that expressed the human scope of the word in a single word and not a phrase, all I could think of was this: free.

While we are free, my friends, let us speak and write without fear. And even when our freedom is stripped or our breathing ceases, may goodness we have begun to spread be unsinkable, immutable.

Because of the power in the name of Jesus, through whom we must seek to do everything good. With the strength and peace He gives. For His glory.

Over the past weeks, I heard people talking about love, especially the passionate kind. It led me to wonder how many millions of red roses were purchased and how many bottles of wine were consumed in the traditional effort to highlight and fuel physical attraction, centering around the day of February 14.

But then I thought of all the firy love songs now buzzing over the radio and the pick-up culture that is still alive and well despite encouraged pandemic parameters. And I thought of an essay a student of mine recently wrote about if the size of a man’s anatomical equipment is truly the determining factor in whether or not a romantic relationship should last or fall apart.

And I felt something is out of focus, off balance, not as it was meant to be.

So, I did a bit of studying about the word “passion” to uncover the reason behind my curious feeling.

It turns out that the term has five different meanings in Merriam-Webster. And it is only the fifth — the last — that has anything to do with romantic or sexual love. Long before this word was commonly used in that light, it was more commonly used to refer to the suffering and death of Christ.

The roots of passion and patience are nearly identical and are all tied to suffering. Do we sometimes suffer and give up things we care about for the sake of those we love? Yes. Do we hate to watch those we love suffer? Yes. Do we ache with heartbreak when the love and desire we long for from another goes unrequited? Yes.

But perhaps the most important point of all the observations above is that the pursuit of real love and the central focus of our lives were never meant to be wrapped around ourselves and our own desires, our own driving happiness, our own burning hunger. We were and are meant to be focused on Jesus and His glory, example, sacrifice, patience, self-control, death, victory, magnificence, love.

On His passion.

The start of Lent snuck up on me this year. Ash Wednesday came just three days after Valentine’s Day. This Valentine’s Day was the sweetest I have ever had, the first one spent with a man I will love forever. After our sweet celebration on that day, however, I remembered the words engraved inside each of our wedding rings and shifted my heart right back where it needed to be. Where it needs to stay.

And not just for the Lenten season. But for every day of my life. Jesus as number one, my husband as number two.

And my whole life — every day — to be a reflection upon and of Jesus’ passion for us all.

There’s a great word that isn’t used so much in our vernacular these days.

It can mean to stay for a time or to become a resident in a place. It can also mean to keep one’s attention directed on something or someone or to speak or write continuously about a subject.

Ironically, this word that now means where we live or stay was first used in 13th century middle English based on an old high German word for tarrying but equally evolved from an old English word for going astray.

Reading about this in my dictionary app made me think about how so many life stories include one or more chapters in which we who are living are lost before we are found, are wondering before we find our best path, are distracted before we hone in on goodness.

For those who seek God, even after we find His Goodness in this life, we must journey still, before we reach our true home with Him.

I also smiled as I sketched this word art and noticed that the word well resides in the word dwell.

When we are no longer astray but are dwelling where we are meant to be — when we are home — it is well with us.

And from that heart and soul where we abide with God and His Spirit abides in us, Life will bloom — both here and ever after.

Among the multiple meanings of our word peace (which morphed out of the Latin pax and has been in use for at least nine centuries), one stands apart. Several have to do with a sense of civil rest from war or under government control. Another has to do with sound relationships between siblings or other loved ones. But the second meaning listed in the Merriam-Webster Dictionary states, “Freedom from disquieting or oppressive thoughts or emotions.”

There is a broader sense of peace that I have little to no control over. And there is a peace with others that I can only do so much on my own to maintain.

But there is a peace that has nothing to do with the absence of trouble or the choices of others. Instead, it has everything to do with where I find my freedom.

And for me, one who has trusted Jesus for freedom from the first weight of her sin, and one who still seeks to trust Him when daily trials and challenges come (whether in my thoughts or in my feelings), that kind of peace soothes the heart. It is like dwelling for a time in the eye of a hurricane. While all spins fast around, the immediate closest air is still and bright.

My friends, today I would pray for peace on earth and good relationships within our families. But more than that, I would hope for you that this most important peace would be yours and would guard your mind and your heart. Amen.

The final verse of Only a Holy God says, “Who else could rescue me from my failing? Who else would offer His only Son? Who else invites me to call Him ‘Father’? Only a holy God…only my holy God!”

Rounding out the month on generosity and a year about various virtues, I want to provide a short profile of a dear friend.

Her name is Nyla McKinzie, and she moved from her native Hawaii to settle in rural Illinois, to work faithfully beside her dear farmer-husband Jim and raise three beautiful children. Being Hawaiian in an otherwise generally all-white and rather remote area was not the only thing that made Nyla initally different from her neighbors, however. The thing that made her most wonderfully unique was her generous heart.

When I was growing up, I remember experiencing time with Nyla as a respectable, honest, kind, and warm lady. But when I got older and returned to her home and community for occasional visits, I understood her and appreciated her in a different, deeper way.

Nyla — who I have now called Tutu (Hawaiian for grandmother) for some time — finds tremendous delight in giving to others as she feels God lead her to do so. Her time, energy, resources, and ideas have blessed so many, both in when she gives (at such opportune times) and how she gives (with such joy).

The truest generosity is born out of a listening heart.

Tutu loves to study and meditate on the names of God. His names in the original scripture languages and their meanings as we grasp them in our own tongue. And those meditations have refined a beautiful soul in her over years and years of dwelling.

The most beautiful generosity is born out of a thirsty heart.

Tutu has the forgiveness of God through Jesus so deeply stamped on her core being that she must tell others (in her natural, endearing way) about how His grace and His invitation changed her forever. And she knows that there are some very “good-hearted people” in the world…but without the goodness of God’s heart transforming each person’s heart with a familial relationship, that person will never be good.

The sweetest generosity is born out of an adopted heart.

Thank you, Tutu, for encouraging me to love like this. I know I can follow your example because you follow the example of Jesus.