It’s Labor Day, cloudy and full of rain-laden wind and the cooler weather I longed for it to bring this weekend.   It’s so appropriately wistful.   I’ve been reading Robert Frost this morning. His autumn poems seemed to blow in through my open windows, settling around my soul with fresh understanding. I love poets: They express so well feelings and moments that might otherwise go unexamined.   In my last blog I wrote about my long season of “in between,” a characteristic of September simply and beautifully expressed by my lovely late mother—who did not often put her own spirit’s poetry...

This summer has been one long and challenging transition for me. So much has changed in my life over the past 18 months, and I’m still adjusting.   It may take me a while longer.   God is doing good things in my life, to be sure. But sometimes those good things are the result of hard things. I’m feeling a bit glad that the main months of summer have passed, hoping that my internal world will soon begin afresh like that first fallish morning with a hint of frost in the air. For that reason, I’m so glad it’s September.   Yet, I’m reminded that September is...

Painful the work God does in the heart, yet joyful its end.   That is my simple testimony so far this summer. A couple days ago I wrote a prayer based on Psalm 16, which captures my response to His work and His heart toward me, which are always, always good.   Your love draws lines around me; I am fenced in with beauty, freed up with joy! My heart is Your spacious place— there find openness for all You want to do, endless fields for sowing, deepest wells for holding Living water, richest soil for nourishing healthy, life-giving fruit. This, Your work— Your planting, Your vineyard— this is my...

I’ve always been told that I look like my mom. Someone once said I have her smile. It has always been clear to me how I take after her—from my inability to sit still “doing nothing,” to my propensity to “whip up” cookies at a moment’s notice, to my enjoyment of planning and preparing meals for guests.     For over a year now, Dad has been my only parent. And although I’ve always known that I inherited his love of peanut butter (which is a given if you are born a Chantelau), his good teeth and his aptitude for interesting word choices, I’m now more aware than ever before how much I take after...

and let this yearning rest in You reminding me that even the dust of earth, which I’m made of, along with its rivers and trees, stones and mountains, is lonely   for the day when You and I will no longer be separated by hope   and though the ache runs deep let it lead me to the place where only glory waits— Yours, in the wordless groans that impart the strength to endure   and the ability to receive unseen love   until disappointment itself rejoices that my heart at long last sees Your face   Romans 8:18-27...