Life

Cheerful Hearts

Maybe it’s a small town phenomenon. Maybe it only happens in this small town. I don’t know, but my husband and I noticed the difference almost immediately after we moved here three months ago from the Chicago suburbs. The friendliness. The smiles. The way people take time to stop and chat to strangers like us.

It began with the morning walks we take every day. The path that goes past our house to the beach is a popular one with joggers and cyclists and people out walking their dogs. We were stunned by how everyone we met greeted us with a smile and a friendly, “Good morning.” If we stopped to watch the boats on the lake or a fisherman casting his line, we often found ourselves in a friendly conversation with a passerby. People wave if we’re sitting on our front porch.

Then there was the day I ran into the bank on a quick errand, my mind distracted by dozens of other errands on my list. The teller said something to me as I handed her my deposit slip but I didn’t catch it. “Pardon me?” I said.

She smiled. “I asked how your day is going for you.’” I barely knew how to reply! But my errands suddenly seemed less urgent as I took time to chat with her about weekend plans.

Moving to another state meant a trip to the Department of Motor Vehicles for new driver’s licenses and plates for our cars. I steeled myself for the ordeal. We’ve moved numerous times over the years and I knew what to expect at the DMV. The underpaid, overworked civil servants in these busy offices rarely have much to smile about. But the people in our new hometown office were some of the friendliest I’ve ever met. The gentleman who gave me my vision test joked about the elderly woman who kept asking him where the focus knob was. The woman who took my driver’s license photo asked if I liked it or should she take it again. And when we were all finished, the man who had spent so much time doing our paperwork smiled and said, “Welcome to our community. I hope you enjoy it here.”

One of our neighbors delivered freshly-baked cookies to our door when she came to introduce herself. I didn’t think people did that anymore. The clerks who ring up our order in the supermarket chat with us as if we’ve known each other all our lives. Other bikers stop to tell us which new trails we should try. Strangers in the Farmer’s Market offer advice about where to buy the sweetest corn, the juiciest watermelon. A woman from one of the churches we visited came by with a loaf of fresh bread and other goodies from the town’s favorite bakery. My young neighbor across the street offered to water my plants when we went away for a weekend—and I’d only met her five minutes earlier!

I confess that I was very suspicious, at first. Why were people being so nice? Was it a trick? A scam? Did they want something from me? Sadly, I’ve built a huge wall of skepticism after living in an unfriendly metropolitan area for the past twenty-two years. But those walls are quickly toppling—and here’s the latest reason why. As I was writing this blog, one of our neighbors came to the door with this beautiful bouquet of flowers. He’d just picked them from his garden. For us!

The Bible says, “A cheerful heart is good medicine” (Proverbs 17:22), which means that the people in this town are going to live long, healthy lives. In his book, Run With the Horses, Eugene Peterson says, “You cannot be the person God wants you to be if you keep yourself aloof from others.” So I’ve been practicing my smile. I’ve decided I want a dose of God’s medicine.

Summer

It’s August already. I can’t believe how quickly this summer has flown past! I’ve only begun to enjoy all of my favorite things about this season—and I do love summer. In fact, I love all four seasons. With only two exceptions, I’ve lived most of my life in places where the four seasons were evenly spaced with three full months to enjoy each one—the cool, daffodil days of spring; the hot, sit-on-the-beach days of summer; the crisp, multicolored-leaves days of fall; and the frigid, snow-filled days of winter.

One of those exceptions was the two years my husband and I spent living in Bogota, Colombia back in the mid-1970s. You would think those would have been hot, steamy days living so close to the Equator. Not so! The city of Bogota perches on a plateau in the Andes Mountains nearly 9,000 feet high. The weather is spring-like year-round, averaging only in the 50s and 60s. A jacket is a daily necessity. So is an umbrella. It rained every single day the entire time we lived there. If we longed for sunshine and warmth, we had to take a bus down a precarious mountain road to the “hot country.” There were trade-offs to being warm; the sunny “hot country” came with lizards and Palmetto bugs on the walls, and snakes as big around as my arm, and spiders the size of saucers. I learned to get used to the rain.

The other exception was the eleven years that our family lived in Canada—first in Thunder Bay, Ontario, then in Winnipeg, Manitoba. I still experienced all four seasons while living there, but they weren’t evenly-divided into three months apiece. We waited forever for spring, and once had a blizzard with three feet of snow on my husband’s birthday, April 15. I brought my daughter home from the hospital after her birth in May, wrapped in layers of blankets and sweaters. Summer was hot and very brief. We learned to harvest our tomatoes by the end of August or risk frost on the first of September. Fall passed swiftly, too. When we finally returned to the U.S., our Canadian-born kids complained that “It just doesn’t feel like Halloween without snow.” Of course, the longest season of all was winter, with typical thermometer readings of 40 below zero. The temperature often stayed below zero for an entire month.

I think that whichever climate we grow up with seems “normal” to us for the rest of our lives. I live in Michigan now, which has a climate very similar to that of the Hudson Valley in New York State where I grew up. Both are orchard-growing regions where the countryside transforms into a ruffle-blossomed paradise in springtime. Is there anything better than a crisp apple picked right off the tree when the fall days begin to cool? Christmas is nearly always a white one. And glorious summer thunderstorms often rumble through in the evenings after a hot, humid summer day.

God promised Noah after the flood that “As long as the earth endures, seedtime and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter, day and night will never cease” (Genesis 8:22). I’m so glad He kept that promise!

But right now it’s still summer. And here are some of the things I love most about this season:

Plump, juicy blueberries.

Reading thick novels on my front porch swing.

Feeling sand between my toes.

Watermelon and corn on the cob.

Picnics with my family.

Sleeveless blouses and cotton shorts.

Colorful flip flops.

Riding my bicycle to the beach.

Ice cream cones.

Now it’s your turn. What are your favorite things about summer?

Dexter

This is Dexter, a rescue-cat. He was found wandering the streets of Chicago and brought to the Red Door Animal Shelter where my daughter, Maya, sometimes volunteers as a foster parent for stray cats. We call her the “Cat Whisperer” for her ability to calm and tame strays like Dexter—and he needed a lot of taming. Big, boisterous and street-smart, Dexter didn’t get along with the other cats and went stir-crazy in the crowded confines of the shelter. So Maya agreed to foster him until he settled down and a permanent family could adopt him. She brought him home to meet her sleek, tawny Siamese, Leonidas. I admit I didn’t like Dexter, at first. He was too rambunctious and seemed to bully our much-smaller “grand-cat,” Leonidas. But as the months passed and Maya worked her magic through love and discipline, I grew to appreciate Dexter’s unique personality. He liked to sleep in strange places, like the bathroom sink: Or on my son-in-law’s bass guitar: Or on top of my bookshelf when he came to visit: Or my fireplace mantel, which I had emptied as we prepared to move. It was almost as if he was volunteering to fill and decorate the barren space for me. At Christmas, he slept beneath my tree, as if hoping he might go home as someone’s Christmas present. Maya taught Dexter how to sit on command. How to play fetch with his little plastic ball. And how to play kitty-cat video games on her I-Pad. He loved those games, chasing birds or catching fish, and quickly reached level 3.

And then one day the animal shelter called. They had found a permanent home and a family for Dexter. It happened so fast that I didn’t get to say goodbye. When Maya called to tell me the news that he was gone, I felt a hole open up inside. I realized how much I would miss him, how much I had grown to love that large, rambunctious ball of shedding, white fur. We were happy for Dexter, sad for ourselves.

Leonidas missed him, too. They had become friends. Leonidas wandered through the empty rooms as if searching for Dexter, meowing plaintively. Maya felt so bad for him, she wondered if she should foster another cat. I didn’t think I could take the heartache a second time.

A week later the shelter called. Dexter was back! His new owners were unhappy and so was he. Would Maya consider taking him again? I think we all wept with joy. She told me, “If a cat can smile, then Dexter was grinning from ear-to-ear when he walked into our house.” She and her husband adopted him. Dexter belongs to them, now. He’s my beloved “grand-cat.”

I think the reason that Dexter’s story is so heart-warming is because it’s our story. In Christ, we were rescued from our former life, redeemed and made new, then adopted into the family of God. Like the psalmist, we sing, “My soul finds rest in God alone; my salvation comes from Him” (Psalm 62:1).Welcome home, Dexter. Welcome to our family.

You Are Not Forgotten

In early June, I had the privilege of touring northern France with my husband for the 70th anniversary of D-Day. Ken performed with the Holland American Legion Band at Normandy’s historic battle sites while I absorbed the rich history of the region . . . for a future book, perhaps?

It’s impossible to put into words the emotions I felt as we remembered the courageous men who landed on the beaches of Normandy in June of 1944. These brave young soldiers faced enormous obstacles as they fought to liberate Europe from Nazi oppression. Here are the beaches where they came ashore on D-Day, June 6, 1944.

And one of the many Nazi guns that fired down on them.

We laid wreaths on the graves of local soldiers from Michigan who died in Normandy. The banners read, “You Are Not Forgotten.” I pray that the generations to follow will also remember.

As I read the dates on the gravestones, I was struck by how young these brave, fallen men had been. The sight of SO many graves brought tears to my eyes.

Ken had the honor of playing “Taps” during a concert in the American Cemetery overlooking Omaha Beach.

One of the most touching experiences for me was shaking hands with elderly veterans of D-Day, bent with age but still standing tall, their withered chests heavy with medals. “Thank you,” couldn’t begin to convey my gratitude for their courage and sacrifice.

The band performed a concert one evening in the village of St. Lo, in the square in front of the 13th century l’Eglise Notre Dame. The church was severely damaged during the war, losing one of its twin spires, but it was left unrepaired as a monument to the price of freedom. The spring evening was warm, and people of all ages filled the square to hear the band play. They rose to their feet, cheering and singing along as the band played the French National anthem. They cheered just as hard for the American anthem. Then a hush fell over the crowd as a haunting melody began to play. The tune started very softly, built to a proud crescendo, then ended as softly as it began. I saw tears in many eyes as everyone hummed along. I later learned that it was the Chant des Partisans—the song of the French Resistance, sung during the war each time a resistance fighter died.

We spent a day at the D-Day festival in the village of Sainte-Mere-Eglise, along with thousands of other people and groups of WWII re-enactors. They wore U.S. Army uniforms, camped in vintage tents, and drove around in period Army Jeeps. WWII era planes flew overhead.

A life-sized dummy still hangs from the church steeple by a parachute to commemorate paratrooper John Steele who landed in the dark on D-Day and got caught on the steeple.

The band played at the “Liberty Banquet” that evening, performing for more than 1300 guests and military personnel from dozens of nations.

Normandy left me with a deep sense of the high price of war. I pray that one day all warfare on earth will end. Yet whenever tyranny and oppression and injustice arise, I’m profoundly grateful for the courageous men and women who are willing to risk their lives for our freedom. Have you thanked a veteran lately?

Grand Tour

You won’t believe where I am. I can hardly believe it myself! Like a wealthy heroine in a 19th century novel, I’m on a Grand Tour of Europe. But this trip isn’t purely for pleasure, although I’m certainly having a lot of fun! My husband Ken and I are here in the Netherlands after a stopover in Copenhagen to watch as our son Benjamin is awarded his PhD in Biblical Studies from the University of Leiden. You can’t imagine two prouder parents.

Leiden is a beautiful, ancient city with scenic canals and art museums and buildings that date from the Middle Ages. Even the graduation ceremony is like something from another era, with scholars in majestic robes and my son in a tuxedo.

Now the three of us are cycling for a few days on Holland’s amazing bike trails, something that has long been on our “bucket list.”

A few days from now, we’ll begin the next stage of our Grand Tour. We’ll travel by train to Paris where my husband Ken, who is a professional trumpet player, will meet up with the other members of the American Legion Band to perform for the 70th Anniversary of D-Day.  For the next ten days, the group will travel and perform in ceremonies and concerts to commemorate the Allied landing in Normandy during World War II. I’m thinking I might find some ideas for a future novel as we tour France, Luxembourg, Germany, and the Netherlands, visiting famous cemeteries, museums and battle sites.

Then on to the final stage in my journey. My German publisher, Francke, has invited me on a week-long book tour with fellow authors Tamera Alexander and Elizabeth Musser. We’ll have lots of stories to tell and plenty of pictures to share when we return home.

I take none of this for granted. Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined an adventure like this—and I have a wild imagination! Ken and I met as college students when he was a very gifted trumpet player who wanted to serve God with his talents—and now he’s doing that. When God first called me to write, I merely dreamed of serving Him here in the U.S., let alone in foreign countries—yet here I am. And after countless prayers and a 7½ year battle with infertility, our son Benjamin was finally born thirty years ago. We couldn’t have known that this long-awaited baby would one day serve God as a Bible professor, training future pastors from a multitude of nations, as he has done at Tyndale Seminary here in the Netherlands.  The God we serve “is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine” (Ephesians 3:20).

Ken and I have experienced times when our prayers seemed to go unanswered and our plans and dreams weren’t fulfilled the way we’d hoped. But in the end, God’s plans always turned out to be better than ours. Always. And those struggles drew us closer to Him.

And now we’re off to rent bicycles to enjoy the magnificent Dutch countryside.  You can bet I’ll be praising God with every breath I take, every mile I travel!