Fear Not


But I was afraid, he told the Master, holding out the one talent that he had buried. (Matthew 25)

We dismiss this servant too easily, I think.

This morning, he is the one that catches my attention.

Instead of investing the money in the marketplace like the other servants (with, you know, all that risk), he hid it away.

Just in case.

It hardly seems a terrible choice.

Some might call it frugal, even.

But one thing it certainly was:

A fearful choice.

The call to generosity is a tricky one for rule-followers like me.

I like specific instructions.  Numbers.

So while my heart is drawn to generosity, I see myself here too.

In this servant.

You never know, I reason.

I might need it someday.

And so, sometimes, I hold back when I should pour out.

And I let my overthinking win out over my first instinct, over my (dare I say it?) Holy Spirit breathed intuition.

Because I am afraid.

Fear not, the same Master says.

Again and again.  Three hundred times and more.

Fear not.  I have redeemed you.  I have called you by name.

You are mine.  (Isaiah 43:1)

I know this to be true.

And I desperately want it to change me.

To change my hoarding into agape.

To change my fear into faith.

I’m not there yet, friends.

But I’m sitting with those words awhile tonight.

And maybe you should too.

Let’s not bury our talents.

Let’s hear the truth instead.

You are mine.

Fear not.

Colorblind is not a thing


This post already has me all fired up.

Because, for the most part, I don’t like making waves.

I really don’t.

But on this day when we celebrate a man who fought for freedom and equality,

I cannot remain silent.

Friends, the goal of the dream isn’t colorblindness.

It’s said in an off-hand way.  Flippantly, almost.

Oh, I don’t see color, you tell me.

And I’m raising my kids to be colorblind too.

I hate to be the one to break it to you, but colorblind is not a thing.

I work with little kids.

They see color.  They notice differences.

And it’s ok.

Maybe what you mean when you tell me that you don’t see color is that you choose to ignore it.  That you choose never to have conversations about race with your children.

As a white mom to non-white babies, I cannot make this choice without fear for their literal physical safety.

I want to wrap them up in my arms, in my privilege, and keep them there forever.

Instead we have conversations about how certain types of body language can be interpreted as aggressive even when they are not intended that way.

And we talk about how we never ever run from police even if we are terrified.

Do I believe that my babies can do whatever they set their minds to do?  Absolutely.

Am I scared for them in a world where justice does not yet roll down like rivers?  No question.

So, friends, please don’t raise your kids to be colorblind.

Raise them to be kind.

To be brave.

To be agitators for justice.

Because our world needs more dreamers and less ignorance.

The Why


Bring your best, the Father asked (Genesis 4).

One brother does.

And one does not.

It’s not the blood that matters,

Not the size of the gift.

It’s the faith with which it is brought (Hebrews 11:4).

Bring your best, the Father asks.

Because I gave my best.

Breathing humanity into existence.

Providing grace after grace—even for the brother who does it all wrong the first time.

I gave my best.

Watching his only begotten sweat drops of blood asking for another way.

Letting this perfect One take on sin not his own.

All the brokenness of all time there.

On that tree.

I gave my best.

If we know this Father, this Love,

The call is not burdensome.

The yoke is not heavy.

Bring your best, the Father asks.

No posture seems quite right except falling on our faces.

No response seems quite right except giving it all.

Every single little bit.

To the One who loved enough to give his very best.

How Haiti Prepared Me For Foster Care


Once upon a time, I went on a short term mission trip to Haiti.

I had read all about how such things often hurt as much as they help, and I was keenly aware that I was only a tiny part of the story that God had begun writing in his people there long before I arrived and would continue long after I left.

We were a few days in when I dared to speak the truth during one of our team debriefing times.

It’s hard for me to really be here—to really love, I confessed, when I know I am going home in a few days.

I’m sure the actual words that my teammate spoke in response were kind and gracious, but the words that Jesus spoke through him to my heart were unmistakable.

That’s you being selfish.  Love in this day.  They’re my people anyway—not yours.

I spent the next few days falling deeply in love with people and communities that I knew I would be leaving soon.

I remember distinctly watching the city of Port au Prince disappear beneath the clouds one day before Easter Sunday.

I knew he was right.

He loved these people, these communities, more than I ever could.

All I could do was love in this day.

I arrived home and started almost immediately on the crazy journey of foster care.

Although I expected it to be hard, there are a few things that really took be by surprise.

One of those things is how much my love would multiply over the next few years.

How each sad story (and friends, every foster care story is a sad story) would stab my mama-heart and send me scrambling to make space for just one more.

I was reminded of the city of Port au Prince disappearing beneath the clouds the other day.

I had dragged my babies all over town in the pouring rain trying to make Christmas happen for one of the Little Ones.

It seemed like we were foiled at every turn and I was feeling a bit frantic (ok, maybe more than a bit).

Surely if I made one more phone call, we could get this done.

I wanted this Little One to be mine.  To be my responsibility.

Do you want to know a secret?

I want all of the Little Ones to be mine.

Every.  Single.  One.

And they are not.

Home with my soaking wet and surprisingly cheerful babies,

I watched this Little One, all the Little Ones,

Disappear beneath the clouds.

They’re my people anyway—not yours

He reminded me.

And once again, I opened my hands and released my death-grip to the loving Father who is infinitely more capable of taking care of Little Ones than I am.

It won’t be my last death-grip—I’m pretty sure of that.

And so I am grateful for words of truth spoken in a vulnerable moment.

That echo these many years later.