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Cross-Cultural Patience: People Wait for God in Hamburg, Germany Too
I made a new friend! She’s on the other side of the Atlantic, but technology doesn’t discriminate when an American writer in Germany and an American writer in Mexico bond over the not-so-popular W-word. We both love Jesus and we both wrestle with waiting. Works for me! Please give a big “Welcome/Bienvenida/Willkommen” to Caitlin Lieder. Moving to Germany meant stepping out in faith in a big way. It was a new level of trusting Jesus; we moved internationally a few times but never with four kids under five years old, and we did not make the decision lightly. We talked and prayed with our small group, pastor, and trusted family members for over a year…
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Excuses I’ve Told Visitors for $300, Alex
I’ve racked my brain, but can’t recall a time I have ever walked into a guy’s house and listened to him trip over his tongue in an effort to tell me all the reasons why his dwelling looks messy, dirty, or both. The home of a woman though? Different story. Every time I’m in a friend’s house and she starts going on about why there are messes, I want to grab her shoulders and say, “Relax. It’s okay that your nail clippers landed on the coffee table, beach towels are in the kitchen and dozens of unread magazines rest by your bed. You live here.” And then someone comes to…
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Living in the High School Library
New. School. Can any two other words evoke such equal feelings of curiosity and trepidation in a tween or teen? Pretty sure I’ve never seen anyone more than three feet tall jump for joy over the thoughts of being pulled from their normal and dropped in the midst of new schedules, peers and teachers. But when we returned home from vacation on a recent Sunday evening, our oldest son didn’t have time to think about it. Faster than fast he unpacked his suitcase, ironed his new uniform, and went from English-speaking camper to Spanish-speaking student. Putting on the welcome green with a few new acquaintances. A mere 45 hours separated…
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Easter Fail
I knew he was familiar with the Easter story, but I had never heard our seven-year-old try to re-tell it on his own. We only read the full account of Jesus’ death and resurrection once a year; I expected him to get a couple details wrong. Pride welled when he began. Then perfectionism kicked in and disappointment welled when he continued. Not disappointment in my boy—in me and my parenting skills. We use a visual aid called Resurrection Eggs and the carton contains a dozen plastic eggs, each one containing an object to help convey the meaning of Easter. For example, in the orange egg you’ll find praying hands, and the…
