REMEMBER YOUR CREATOR

Before Difficult Days Come

Dear ones,

I HAVE NOTED that high school senior girls are beautiful, enthusiastic, energetic, excitable, eager, as well as serious and a little unsure about their future. My husband and I meet weekly at school with a group of these senior girls over lunch to encourage them in their faith.

I’ve also been privileged to attend the Fall Formal, Prom, and Spring Banquet with Don, who takes photographs at these events. The images linger in my mind—beautiful young women in gorgeous gowns, with perfect makeup and hair falling in exquisite curls onto smooth bare shoulders. The young, strong men escorting them look like princes, with bright eyes and handsome smiles beaming over their dates.

Ahhh… the days of our youth when we too were young, vivacious, and beautiful.

Don and I have been having many conversations about what is happening to us at this age. One of my recent journal entries began:

“Lord, this journal entry is not for a blog. I’m just trying to work through this age-related reality. I need You to deliver me from the frustration and disappointment that have come as a result of health issues, doctors’ visits, lack of energy and motivation.”

Perhaps the hardest part isn’t actually aging.

It’s the continual negotiation with it.

We seem caught between two places:

“I can still!”

and

“I can’t anymore.”

Yet there is a third place I want to find—not giving up, and not fighting to remain young, but receiving the life we actually have today.

Some days I laugh. Some days I fight. Some days I grieve. And I’m trying to learn what God wants me to do with all of it.

Then the LORD led me to Ecclesiastes 12:1–7—one of the most striking descriptions of aging in the Bible, and a passage that spans the entire chasm between seventeen and seventy-seven.

Solomon begins:

“Remember now your Creator in the days of your youth, before the difficult days come.”

What are those “difficult days”?

Solomon uses poetry to describe them because the raw facts are rather stark. I dared to look at that stark reality without the softening poetic cushion.

Solomon is essentially saying:

You are going to get old.

Your body will gradually lose strength. Your muscles won’t do what they once did. Your joints and bones become less dependable. Your teeth may deteriorate. Your eyesight and hearing may weaken. You don’t sleep as deeply, and little noises can wake you. Things you once did without thinking—climbing stairs, walking on uneven ground, getting up from a chair, carrying something heavy—may become difficult.

Your hair turns white. Your physical vitality changes. Your desires change. You become more conscious of your vulnerability and realize that your body is not invincible. And eventually, the process ends in death:

“Then the dust will return to the earth as it was, and the spirit will return to God who gave it.” — Ecclesiastes 12:7

That is remarkably blunt.

Solomon isn’t pretending that aging is beautiful. He acknowledges that aging involves loss.

Strength is lost. Vision is lost. Hearing can be lost. Mobility changes. Sleep changes. Desire changes. Confidence in your body changes.

Eventually, life itself is lost.

And yet Solomon puts the crucial instruction before the description:

“Remember now your Creator…”

He doesn’t tell us to pretend we are still young. He tells us to remember our Creator.

The body is temporary, but it is not the whole of us.

The dust goes back to the earth. The spirit goes back to God.

Perhaps this is where humor becomes helpful.

Because there are, after all, some telltale signs that we may be losing the battle against aging:

  • After twenty minutes of carefully applying makeup, you discover that without your glasses, you have been putting it on approximately where you hoped your face was.
  • The magnifying mirror reveals things about your face that God, in His mercy, never intended you to see at that distance.
  • Your arms continue waving long after you’ve stopped.
  • You squat down to retrieve something from the bottom shelf and immediately begin calculating how you’re going to get back up.
  • You need your arms to be longer because the words on the medicine bottle have mysteriously shrunk.
  • Your hair has become white enough that you no longer need to worry about whether it matches your outfit—it goes with everything.
  • Your eyebrows have apparently decided to migrate to other parts of your face.
  • Your “comfortable shoes” have become your “only shoes.”
  • You finally succeed in looking younger—until you catch sight of yourself getting out of the car.

We laugh because underneath the humor is something almost everyone eventually has to face:

The body is changing, and we don’t get to negotiate the terms.

Maybe the goal isn’t to look young.

Maybe the goal is to remain fully alive while becoming old.

And this is where Solomon’s words become important not only to those of us in the “golden years,” but to those beautiful young women I see at school.

Solomon doesn’t tell young people, “Enjoy being young because you’ll miss your beautiful body someday.”

He says something much more important:

Know your Creator now.

Why?

Because the body you have today isn’t permanent.

The beautiful young face will change.

The strong young legs will weaken.

The clear eyes will dim.

The thick hair will turn white.

The effortless things will eventually require effort.

And you don’t want to wait until everything begins disappearing to discover the One who never changes.

Someday, girls, some of these will be your battles too.

But here is what I wish I had understood when I was your age:

The real tragedy isn’t getting old. The real tragedy would be reaching old age without having learned to know and love your Creator.

Don’t think, “I’m young now, so I need to prepare for becoming unattractive.”

Rather:

“I am young now, and I have an extraordinary opportunity to establish where my identity rests before life begins taking things away.”

Because life will take things away.

Childhood. Athletic ability. Certain dreams. People we love. Physical strength. Eventually, the body itself.

And if our identity has been built on beauty, accomplishment, popularity, intelligence, athleticism, romance, motherhood, career, independence, or physical ability, every loss can feel like a little death.

But if our identity has been rooted in our Creator, the losses are still painful—but they don’t destroy us.

That is a message for seventeen and seventy-seven.

Young:“I have my whole life ahead of me.”

Middle-aged:“I have so much I need to accomplish.”

Older:“I can’t do everything I once could.”

Old:“What remains when so much has been taken away?”

And Solomon answers:

“Remember your Creator.”

At the end of Ecclesiastes he says:

“Fear God and keep His commandments, for this is man’s all.”

We were never meant to build our lives around the things that eventually disappear. And perhaps this is what I am learning now. I can laugh at the white hair, wrinkles, knees, and all the other evidence that my body is telling the truth.

I can grieve what I have lost. I can be frustrated by what I can no longer do. I can even say to God, “Lord, I don’t want this.”

Trusting Him doesn’t require me to pretend that I like it. But perhaps I can stop fighting a battle I was never meant to win. Maybe the real battle is not against aging at all.

Maybe the battle is against the belief that my value, usefulness, beauty, or joy depends upon remaining physically young.

That is a battle worth winning.

And perhaps, as our bodies become less capable, there is an opportunity—painful, yes, but real—for something else to become more visible:

Who are we when we can no longer prove our worth by what we can do?

That is a very different kind of strength.

So, dear ones, whether you are seventeen or seventy-seven, don’t wait for the difficult days to remember your Creator.

Seek Him now.

Love Him now.

Build your life on Him now.

Because one day you may wake up and realize that the young woman you once were has quietly become the older woman I am today.

And when that happens, I hope you can look back and say:

“I knew Him then. I know Him now. And He has been faithful through every version of me.”

I’m certainly not the expert. I’m just a woman still figuring it out. Perhaps that is exactly what God can do with a struggle that initially felt too personal to share.

And perhaps my prayer is no longer simply, “Lord, help me accept aging.”

Perhaps it is:

“Lord, I don’t want this. I don’t know how to accept this. But I want You more than I want to win this battle. Teach me.”

And maybe that is where contentment begins.

Therefore we do not lose heart.

Though outwardly we are wasting away,

yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day.

For our light and momentary troubles

are achieving for us an eternal glory

that far outweighs them all.

So we fix our eyes not on what is seen,

but on what is unseen,

since what is seen is temporary,

but what is unseen is eternal.

— 2 Corinthians 4:16–18

Posted on by MarJean Knaak 1

THE INVITATION

Dear Ones,

The aroma of roasted fish and fresh baked bread drifted from glowing coals into the cool morning mist. Silhouetted against the hills of Galilee, seven weary fishermen finished breakfast after witnessing a once-in-a-lifetime miracle—a catch of 153 large fish.

After His resurrection, Jesus had instructed His disciples to meet Him in Galilee. They went, but while they waited, Peter announced, “I’m going fishing,” and six others joined him. They fished all night and caught nothing.

As dawn broke, a man stood on the shore and called to them, “Throw your net on the right side of the boat.” They obeyed, and instantly their nets were so full they could hardly haul them in. John recognized Him first. “It is the Lord!”

Soon they were gathered around a charcoal fire, eating breakfast with Jesus.

When the meal was over, Jesus turned to Peter and asked a question that has echoed through the centuries:

“Simon, son of John, do you love Me more than these?”

What a tender question.

Only days before, Peter had denied even knowing Jesus. We almost expect a rebuke, a lecture, or at least a reminder of his failure. Instead, Jesus simply asked about Peter’s love.

I find it interesting that Jesus called him Simon, the name he had before Jesus renamed him Peter. It was as though Simon had returned to the only life he had known before following Christ. Yet Jesus wasn’t finished with him.

Three times Peter answered that he loved the Lord, and each time Jesus responded, “Feed My lambs… Take care of My sheep… Feed My sheep.”

Then He simply said,

“Follow Me.”

Last Sunday my husband preached from this very passage. In the weeks leading up to his sermon, we talked often about Peter’s restoration, but one thought settled deeply into my own heart.

What if Jesus asked me that same question?

“MarJean, do you love Me?”

I know what I would want to answer.

“Yes, Lord. You know that I love You.”

But then what?

What would He ask me to do?

And what would He ask you?

I don’t believe Jesus calls every believer to preach from a pulpit or serve as a missionary in another country. Yet He does call every one of us to follow Him.

Each of us has been shaped differently. Romans 12 reminds us that God gives different gifts to different people. Some encourage. Some teach. Some quietly serve. Others give generously, lead wisely, or extend remarkable mercy. The differences are beautiful because they all reveal Christ’s love in unique ways.

Perhaps we’ve spent too much time trying to discover our spiritual gift and too little time simply growing in our love for Jesus.

After all, Jesus didn’t begin by asking Peter, “What are you good at?”

He asked,

“Do you love Me?”

Love came first.

The assignment followed.

I’ve always loved the story of Eric Liddell in Chariots of Fire. When his sister urged him to stop running and become a missionary to China immediately, Eric replied,

“God made me fast, and when I run, I feel His pleasure.”

After competing in the Olympics, Eric did become a missionary in China. Running had never been a distraction from God’s calling. It had been part of the way God had made him.

I understand what he meant.

More than anything, I want to feel the pleasure of God—not because I’m doing something impressive, but because I’m faithfully doing what He has asked me to do.

Hebrews reminds us,

“Without faith it is impossible to please God, because anyone who comes to Him must believe that He exists and that He rewards those who earnestly seek Him.”

Can you picture that quiet morning on the shore?

The mist still rising from the lake.

The warmth of the fire.

The smell of fresh bread.

Jesus looking at you—not with disappointment, but with tenderness—and asking,

“Do you love Me?”

Perhaps, like Peter, memories of your own failures come rushing back. Yet there is no condemnation in His voice. No scolding. No shame.

Only this:

“Follow Me.”

Follow Me in the unique way I have prepared for you.

Love the people I place in your path.

Use the abilities I have entrusted to you.

Trust Me with courage.

Joshua’s words still ring true today:

“Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go.” (Joshua 1:9)

As we go through our days, may we hear Jesus’ invitation echoing in our hearts:

“Follow Me.”

And may our answer be found not only in our words, but in the quiet, faithful way we follow Him, loving others with the gifts, opportunities, and passions He has graciously placed within us.

Posted on by MarJean Knaak 0

I AM With You

The freeway rushed toward us as I gripped the steering wheel with sweaty hands, reminding myself to just keep breathing while repeating God’s promise: “Fear not, for I am with you.”

A few days earlier, my husband had noticed a painful red lump on his calf. Since we were expecting overnight guests, he drove himself to the emergency room. Hours later he returned with the diagnosis—a ten-inch blood clot near the surface of his leg—and a prescription for blood thinners.

By Sunday afternoon his face was flushed with fever, and his blood pressure had climbed dangerously high. A resource nurse told him to return to the ER immediately—but not to drive himself. Then she added words no reluctant driver wants to hear: “Tell your wife that if you pass out, she needs to pull over and call 911.”

Driving has always been stressful for me. I can get lost in a closet, and because of my Essential Tremors, my late husband gradually took over most of the driving years ago. But now my navigator sat beside me as the patient. An hour later we safely reached the hospital. Seven hours, several blood draws, and countless anxious moments later, Don was finally released with antibiotics. Exhausted, hungry, and both feeling miserable, we gratefully found an all-night McDonald’s drive-through on the way home.

For some time I’ve wondered what God means when He repeatedly says, “Fear not, for I am with you.”

So, He is with me. Now what?

Knowing He is present doesn’t automatically stop my hands from shaking or my stomach from tightening. My body doesn’t seem to get the memo. Fear still feels like a punch to the gut.

So I began talking with God about it and searching His Word. We all experience fear. Mine may not be yours, but every one of us knows what it feels like to have our thoughts race and our hearts pound. The question isn’t whether fearful circumstances will come, but where we look when they do.

Isaiah 41:10 says,

“Fear not, for I am with you.”

God doesn’t say, “Fear not because life will be easy.” He doesn’t promise we’ll avoid suffering, uncertainty, or loss. Instead, He offers something remarkable—His presence.

If His repeated answer to fear is, “I am with you,” then His presence must somehow be the antidote.

But what does that actually look like?

I thought of Joshua. God asked him to do the impossible—to lead a nation, cross the Jordan River, defeat giants, and conquer fortified cities. Again and again God told him, “Be strong and courageous.” Why? “For the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go.” Joshua’s courage didn’t come from confidence in himself. It came from confidence in God’s presence.

Then there is Peter.

He actually stepped out of the boat and walked on water. The storm didn’t change. Jesus didn’t leave. Peter’s attention changed. Fear entered when Peter began interpreting reality through the storm instead of through Jesus. The only thing that shifted was his focus. Yet even then, Jesus immediately stretched out His hand. Peter’s failure never separated him from Christ’s presence.

Finally, a light began to dawn.

I think I had assumed that God’s words, “Fear not, for I am with you,” meant the frightening thing would disappear. But He never actually promises that.

When we hear, “God is with you,” perhaps we’re secretly expecting the sentence to continue: “So you won’t hurt.”

Scripture seems to mean something very different:

“So you won’t be alone.”

Those are two entirely different promises.

One removes suffering.

The other transforms suffering.

Throughout Scripture, God’s greatest gift is never first His protection, provision, or miracles.

It’s Himself.

Think about it.

To Moses: “My Presence will go with you.”

To Joshua: “As I was with Moses, so I will be with you.”

To Isaiah: “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you.” Not if, but when.

To David: “Though I walk through the valley…You are with me.” David is still walking through the valley.

To the frightened disciples, Jesus didn’t calm the storm immediately. First, He was in the boat.

And to us, Jesus’ final promise wasn’t, “You’ll have easy lives.”

It was, “I am with you always.”

At first that almost sounds disappointing.

We want changed circumstances.

God offers His companionship within those circumstances.

In the quiet moments, when there are no answers and no quick solutions, I have discovered that God’s greatest gift is not an explanation but His presence. Sometimes the deepest comfort comes simply from knowing that I do not sit in the silence alone.

Like Jesus’ illustration of the wind, we cannot physically see God’s presence, but we often see its effects—a peace that doesn’t make sense, strength that arrives just when we need it, words we didn’t know we had, endurance beyond our own resources, hope that survives devastating loss.

Not the absence of pain…

but the presence of Someone within it.

The psalmist understood this.

“I will be glad and rejoice in Your love, for You saw my affliction and knew the anguish of my soul” (Psalm 31:7).

“The LORD is near to the brokenhearted” (Psalm 34:18).

Yet how quickly we forget.

Fear doesn’t usually grow because God has moved. It grows because our awareness shifts—like Peter looking at the waves, like Israel staring at the giants, like us gazing at our circumstances instead of glancing at them and fixing our eyes on God.

Fear asks,

“What if?”

Faith quietly answers,

“Even there.”

What if I lose my health?

Even there.

What if I lose someone I love?

Even there.

What if I fail?

Even there.

What if I don’t know what comes next?

Even there.

Psalm 139 reminds us there is nowhere we can go where God is not already present.

Perhaps God’s presence is less like an anesthetic and more like a hand to hold.

A mother holding the hand of her frightened child during a vaccination doesn’t remove the needle. The child still cries. The pain is still real. But everything changes because someone loving is there—not to prevent every hurt, but to bear it with the child.

God has never promised a life without storms.

He has promised something infinitely better.

“I will never leave you nor forsake you.”

“I am with you always.”

Fear may still knock.

Storms may still come.

Darkness may still fall.

But none of those can change the greatest reality of all.

Immanuel. God with us.

His gracious presence is His greatest gift.

And that is enough.

Posted on by MarJean Knaak 0

The Treasure Beneath The Paint

HIDDEN TREASURE has always captured our imagination. Treasure is never left lying in plain sight. Its very value demands that it be hidden. And discovering it requires a search.

For most of my Christian life, I knew God had given me a treasure, but I don’t think I fully appreciated it. Only in the last couple of years has He taken me on what feels like the greatest treasure hunt of all.

Last spring our Bible study journey led us through Proverbs, where wisdom is described as more valuable than silver, gold, or precious jewels. As I read those familiar passages, an old worship song drifted back into my memory:

Lord, You are more precious than silver.
Lord, You are more costly than gold.
Lord, You are more beautiful than diamonds,
and nothing I desire compares with You.

I have sung those words for years. But sometimes God lovingly leads us into circumstances where we must decide whether we truly believe them.

Almost two years ago, He surprised me with a second love story. After losing my husband of fifty-two years, I never imagined I would marry again. Yet the Lord graciously brought Don into my life—a godly, gentle man whom I dearly love.

Like many people entering a new season, however, I carried some quiet expectations. Somewhere deep inside, I imagined this chapter would restore pieces of life that age had quietly taken away. It would feel energetic, adventurous, perhaps even a little younger than reality allows.

But time keeps moving forward.

Bodies slow down. Limitations appear. Plans require adjustment. And if we’re not careful, disappointment quietly slips into the space between our expectations and reality.

Over these past months, the Lord has been gently teaching me that even His sweetest earthly gifts were never intended to satisfy the deepest places of my heart.

Every human relationship, no matter how precious, has limitations. Every season changes. Every earthly treasure eventually fades.

But Jesus Christ remains the same yesterday, today, and forever.

Paul tells us that in Christ “are hidden all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge.” Suddenly Proverbs began to sparkle with fresh meaning. Wisdom is far more than learning how to make good decisions. True wisdom always leads us to the One who is our greatest Treasure.

It teaches us to enjoy God’s gifts without asking them to be God.

That lesson came to life this summer over an old oak dining table.

When I first walked into Don’s home two years ago, one of the first things I noticed was a large table covered in layers of chipped brown paint. Years ago, painting solid wood furniture had been fashionable. To Don’s credit, he was simply following the trend of the day.

But somewhere along the way our tastes had changed. Perhaps it comes with age. We have grown to appreciate authenticity far more than fashion.

We wanted to uncover what the Master Craftsman had placed there all along.

So the work began.

The old paint softened under the stripper. One stubborn layer after another surrendered to the scraper. Then came hours of sanding. Some places yielded quickly; others resisted every effort. Coarse sandpaper gave way to finer grits until, little by little, the rich grain began to emerge.

Every newly revealed section encouraged us to keep going.

What we thought might take a few days stretched into nearly two weeks.

When the wood was finally smooth, we stained it a rich dark walnut. The beauty of the grain almost seemed to come alive. At last we were ready to apply the polyurethane finish.

A few hours later we walked outside, eager to admire our work.

Instead, we looked at one another in disbelief.

The entire tabletop had bubbled and flaked.

Somewhere we had made a mistake. Perhaps the stain had not fully cured. Perhaps the finish wasn’t compatible. Whatever the reason, there was only one solution.

Start over.

Out came the scrapers again.

More sanding.

More stain.

More waiting.

Then three careful coats of a different finish, each one allowed to cure before the next was applied.

Only after the table was finally complete did we look around and realize six matching chairs were patiently waiting their turn.

That restoration, however, is another story for another day.

As we worked, I slowly realized that God had been doing something remarkably similar in my own heart.

How often I have covered what God originally intended with layers of my own making—expectations, disappointments, anxieties, misplaced hopes, even subtle forms of idolatry. Most of those things did not begin as sins. They began as good gifts that gradually took on too much importance.

Even good gifts can quietly become substitutes for the Giver.

The Master Craftsman lovingly begins removing what doesn’t belong.

Sometimes His scraping feels uncomfortable.

Sometimes His sanding seems endless.

Sometimes, just when we think His work is complete, something unexpected happens and we wonder why we have to begin again.

The bubbling finish on our table reminded me of those moments.

How many times have I thought, Surely I’ve learned this lesson by now.

Then life takes an unexpected turn, and the Lord patiently whispers, Not yet.

Not because He delights in making life difficult, but because He sees something I cannot yet see.

Looking at our finished table today, no one would ever guess there had been a setback. In fact, because of what we learned, the finish is probably better than it would have been the first time.

Isn’t that often true of God’s work in us?

Paul writes, “Work out your own salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God who works in you both to will and to do for His good pleasure.” And in another letter he gives this wonderful assurance: “He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.”

Unlike our table, His work takes far more than two weeks.

It takes a lifetime.

Thankfully, the Master Craftsman is never in a hurry.

Little by little…layer by layer…He patiently removes everything that hides His workmanship. He is not merely making us better people. He is conforming us to the image of His Son.

And as He does, He uncovers an even greater treasure.

For a long time, I thought God’s greatest gifts were the blessings He had placed into my life—a loving husband, good health, meaningful ministry, precious family, fulfilled dreams.

Those are all wonderful gifts.

But gifts, by themselves, were never meant to carry the weight of my deepest longings.

Only Christ can do that.

Sometimes God lovingly loosens our grip on His gifts, not because He wants to leave us empty, but because He wants to fill our hands—and our hearts—with something infinitely greater.

Himself.

I think that is why Proverbs urges us to seek wisdom above silver and gold. Wisdom is not an end in itself. It leads us to the One in whom “are hidden all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge.”

The treasure hunt always ends with Christ.

As I look across our dining room now, I no longer see only an antique oak table.

I see a story.

I see old layers stripped away so hidden beauty could emerge.

I see setbacks that ultimately produced a better finish.

I see the patient work of hands that refused to settle for something merely acceptable.

And I see the far greater work of a heavenly Craftsman who has patiently refused to give up on me.

The old worship song has become sweeter to me now than when I first learned it all those years ago.

Lord, You are more precious than silver.
Lord, You are more costly than gold.
Lord, You are more beautiful than diamonds,
and nothing I desire compares with You.

I used to think those words were simply beautiful poetry.

Now I know they are the testimony of a heart that has discovered its greatest Treasure.

Perhaps that is the treasure God has been uncovering all along.

Posted on by MarJean Knaak 0

When Good Fruit Must Fall

While I walked through the peach orchards a few weeks ago, I noticed hundreds, maybe thousands, of small green peaches lying on the ground. It seemed so wasteful until I understood the purpose. My farmer husband told me the growers thin the fruit so that what remains will grow larger.

It made me think about how God often needs to thin out our lives as well. Last year I wrote a blog to you about pruning branches, which can relate more to sin, and my blog from Hebrews 12 about laying aside every weight and the sin that so easily entangles us. This peach thinning insight goes beyond simply pruning sin. Many of us think of thinning as God removing bad things from our lives. But often He removes good things that compete with better things. The peach tree is not being punished. It is being prepared to produce quality fruit.

In 2005 we joined an Alaskan mission and wrote Courage letters to our support base. In one letter I penned a poem that is not about thinning peaches, but it is about being so busy that our fruitfulness never comes to maturity.

A Rhyming Reason to Refocus

Right in the middle of a very busy day,
I took a hurried moment to bow my head and pray.
I would have run off quickly
But something seemed to say, “Be still.

“Your intensely flustered flurry,
Your pressured heat and hurry,
Your anxious wiles and worry only serve
To disconnect you from the Vine!

“Do you think that you can make it?
That your intellect can shake it?
That your strength can really make it
Happen in your time?

“Can a branch produce a cluster
With a glowing healthy luster
Without the Vine to muster up
Its sweetest wine?

“For your fruit comes not by straining,
But by gentle, quiet waiting
On the One whose living water
Fills your soul.

“Child, be still and listen to Me
Whisper peace that will come through Me
As you give the time that’s due Me
From yourself.”

So I listened and I waited
On the One who so had stated
That His peace was under-rated
In my mind.

All the while my work was calling,
And I hesitated stalling,
For it seemed the sky was falling
And I’d never finish all I had to do.

Yet as I sat there stewing
About all that needed doing,
A gentle peace began its brewing
In my soul.

Slowly He began the changing
With a quiet rearranging
By exchanging my poor thinking
For His own.

All that mattered was His nearness,
Which I saw with renewed clearness,
And He changed me to be fearless
In His love.

There my busy day was brighter
And my to-do list seemed much lighter
As I found that as a writer
I’m renewed!

As I reread that poem twenty years later, standing among those peach trees, I realized the lesson had been there all along.

The peaches scattered across the orchard floor were not diseased fruit. They were not bad peaches. In fact, they were perfectly healthy young peaches. Yet if they all remained on the tree, none would reach their full potential. The tree’s energy would be divided among too many competing demands.

The grower understands what the tree itself cannot.

Sometimes less fruit now produces better fruit later.

Jesus spoke of a similar process in our lives:

“Every branch that does bear fruit He prunes, that it may bear more fruit” (John 15:2).

Notice that He is not pruning dead branches in this verse. He is pruning fruitful ones.

That truth can be unsettling.

We readily understand why God removes sinful habits, unhealthy relationships, or destructive patterns. But what about the good things? What about worthwhile projects, meaningful commitments, enjoyable activities, and even ministry opportunities?

Sometimes God lovingly removes things that are good because they are competing with what is best.

Hebrews 12:1 instructs believers to “lay aside every weight, and the sin which so easily entangles us.” The writer makes a distinction between weights and sins. Some things are sinful and must be abandoned. Other things are simply weights. They may not be wrong, but they slow us down in our pursuit of Christ.

A peach tree does not need diseased fruit removed in order to be thinned. It simply has too much fruit.

How often is that true of us?

We crowd our calendars, fill our minds, multiply our commitments, and then wonder why our spiritual fruit seems small and immature. We strain harder, work longer, and push ourselves further, while the Master Gardener quietly invites us to release something.

Not because He wants less fruit.

Because He wants better fruit.

Love that runs deeper.

Joy that lasts longer.

Peace that remains steady.

Patience that endures hardship.

Faith that has been tested and proven genuine.

The thinning may feel like loss for a season. Opportunities pass. Plans change. Certain dreams are delayed or even surrendered. Yet the Gardener sees what we cannot. He knows which peaches must fall so that the remaining fruit can grow sweet and mature.

Perhaps that is why David wrote, “One thing have I desired of the Lord, that will I seek after…” (Psalm 27:4).

One thing.

Not twenty things.

Not a hundred worthy pursuits.

One thing.

We see the same principle in the story of Martha and Mary:

“Martha, Martha, you are worried and troubled about many things. But one thing is needed…” (Luke 10:41-42).

Martha wasn’t doing bad things. She was doing good things. Jesus simply pointed her toward the better thing.

The mature Christian life is often less about adding more and more and more, and more about allowing God to narrow our focus until Christ Himself becomes our chief desire.

The peaches on the orchard floor reminded me that God’s thinning is never punishment. It is preparation. The hand that removes is the same hand that nourishes. And the fruit He leaves behind will be all the sweeter because of what He chose to take away.

The next time I walk through the peach orchards, I doubt I’ll see waste lying on the ground. I’ll see the wisdom of the grower. What once appeared to be loss is actually an investment in sweetness yet to come.

And perhaps when God removes something from my own life—a dream, an opportunity, a responsibility, or simply a season that has ended—I will remember those little green peaches beneath the trees and trust the hand of the Master Gardener.

He is not reducing fruitfulness.

He is preparing it.

And perhaps that is why His invitation remains the same today as it was twenty years ago:

“Child, be still and listen to Me…”

For sometimes the sweetest fruit grows not from our striving, but from our abiding.

Posted on by MarJean Knaak 6

HALEY HOUSE

What mold, memory, and grace taught me about restoration

A SMALL WEATHERED PARSONAGE sat beside a little country church made up of about fifteen elderly folks and an itinerant pastor. We had recently resigned from another pastorate nearby, leaving us without work or a home. This house on Haley Road was available—not at all on my hope list—but it kept our four children in the same school district in the middle of the year.

We went to inspect it. God drew my attention to the slightly sculptured ceiling, so I missed the animal droppings scattered in the corners. People had broken into the empty house and camped there, leaving the place in miserable condition.

Still, we had little choice. Friends from our former church came to help us scrub, repaint, and repair the little 900-square-foot bungalow. A converted oil stove served as our only heat source. The floors sloped so much that syrup ran to one side of the plate. Rats scurried in the walls at night, and one memorable rat escaped a trap missing a leg—only for our golden retriever to later catch a three-legged rat!

Then the damp Oregon winter settled in.

We burned green wood that barely heated the house, and before long fuzzy white mold crept up furniture legs and spread along the walls. Black mold gathered around the window frames. No matter how much we cleaned, the contamination kept returning.

The problem was deeper than what we could see.

Years later, another mold situation brought all those memories rushing back to me, and my thoughts immediately turned to Scripture.

Leviticus 13 and 14 contain surprisingly detailed instructions about mold spreading in houses. What struck me most was this: contamination spreads quietly, and careful inspection is required.

Sometimes infected areas had to be torn out completely. Superficial cleaning was not enough. Persistent contamination eventually required destruction.

One sentence from a mold inspector especially stayed with me:

“You have to find the source.”

That statement feels deeply spiritual.

The hidden spread of mold parallels the quiet spread of sin in our lives. Bitterness, pride, compromise, resentment, unbelief, and secret sin rarely appear all at once. Like mold, they begin hidden beneath the surface and quietly spread through the whole house. We finally found the source of the mold under the house where a putrid pond collected from a leak beneath the kitchen sink.

Psalm 139:23–24 says:

“Search me, O God, and know my heart… See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.”

Just as mold often hides behind walls, sin hides deep within the human heart.

Proverbs 4:23 warns:

“Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it.”

Mold remediation fails if the moisture source remains. Behavior modification without heart transformation fails too.

Jesus Himself said in Mark 7 that defilement comes “from within, out of a person’s heart.” We may paint over problems outwardly, but cosmetic fixes never cure the source.

And that is why the Gospel is such good news.

Every religion calls mankind to somehow reach God through human effort or goodness. Christianity tells the opposite story: God reached down to us through His Son.

Through the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, God made a way for sinful people to be cleansed, forgiven, and reconciled to Himself. When we come to Christ by faith, He not only forgives us, but begins the lifelong work of transforming us from the inside out.

Sometimes that cleansing process is painful. In Leviticus, infected stones were sometimes removed from the house entirely. In our lives, God may remove unhealthy patterns, false securities, sinful habits, or even relationships—not to destroy us, but to preserve life.

There must be inspection before restoration.

And there is hope.

The rest of our little house story came by learning to trust God’s love, wisdom, and grace. Spring finally arrived. We pumped out the swamp from under the house, bleached remaining mold, and painted our home a lovely country cream with dusty blue trim. Blue hearts and scrollwork decorated the gables, flowers bloomed beside the house, and rocks lined the gravel driveway. Slowly, our home changed and we delighted in what it became.

God has a way of doing that.

He forgives sin, cleanses hearts, renews minds, and restores what once seemed beyond repair. Old things pass away, and Christ truly does delight to make all things new. 

This is what the LORD says: “Let not the wise boast of their wisdom or the strong boast of their strength or the rich boast of their riches, but let the one who boasts boast about this: that they have the understanding to know me, that I am the LORD, who exercises kindness, justice and righteousness on earth, for in these I delight,” declares the LORD” (Jeremiah 9:23-24).

Posted on by MarJean Knaak 0

Reconciliation

This story is near to Don’s and my heart. Through our mutual concerns and fervent prayers together, we wrote this story to warn and encourage those we love. It can happen to anyone.

Two places set. Light still remains. The question is not whether the day is ending… but whether they will turn toward one another again.

WE have been watching a marriage.

Not our own, but one near to our hearts—close enough to feel, and close enough to learn from.

It is an old marriage. The kind that holds years within it. Shared memories. Seasons of joy and seasons of strain. A marriage that has endured more than most ever see from the outside.

And yet… today, it is in trouble.

The wife has grown weary. For reasons that did not appear overnight, she has come to believe that separation is the only way forward. The husband, meanwhile, seems unable—perhaps not unwilling, but unable—to truly hear what is being said, or to respond in a way that brings healing.

And find thinking: it did not begin this way.

It never does.

This marriage began on a firm foundation. But over time, life happened—as it always does. Responsibilities multiplied. The urgent slowly replaced the important. And without anyone quite noticing when it began, the relationship itself was no longer tended with the same care.

What grew instead was distance.

Not loud at first. Not obvious. Just… quiet.

Grievances were not resolved—they were set aside. Covered over. Gently pushed beneath the surface. After all, these were peace-loving people. They did not want conflict.

But somewhere along the way, they learned the difference between keeping peace and making peace—and chose the easier path.

They avoided what was hard instead of walking through it together.

And so honest conversation faded. Hurts went unspoken. Longings went unshared. Vulnerability slowly slipped away.

In its place came something more fragile: silence, misunderstanding, and quiet disappointment.

Without meaning to, they began living around the truth instead of in it.

And the truth, as it always does, eventually found its way to the surface.

Not clearly. Not cleanly. But indirectly.

It showed up in tone. In distance. In conversations held with others instead of each other.

The wife, carrying real pain, began to look for understanding wherever she could find it. She spoke of her hurt to those who would listen—not out of malice, but out of longing to be seen. And yet, even as her pain was validated, the distance at home only widened.

Her words toward her husband grew sharper—subtle at first, then more frequent. Not always direct, not always named, but enough to wound.

And somewhere deeper within her, something else began to take root: not only hurt, but regret.

Even the quiet question—Was this a mistake?

Meanwhile, the husband felt the shift.

He felt the distance. The disappointment. The weight of her dissatisfaction. And his own heart was wounded in ways he could not easily name.

He knew he had given much in the ways he understood—worked hard, provided, tried to be faithful.

And yet, there were questions he had not fully asked himself:

Had he truly listened—not just to words, but to her heart?
Had he made it safe for her to speak honestly, even when that honesty was difficult to hear?
Had he drawn near when she needed comfort, or remained distant when it mattered most?

And so here they are.

Not as enemies—but as two wounded people who no longer know how to find their way back.

The ending feels close.

And yet… there remains a quiet, sacred possibility.

That what is broken does not have to remain broken.

That wrongs, though real, do not have to be counted and carried forever.

That both could choose to lay down their case against one another—and take up the harder, holier work of reconciliation.

Because reconciliation does not begin when someone finally gets what they deserve.

It begins when both choose mercy.

When both release what they are owed.

When both take even one small step toward one another again—not as accuser and accused, but as people in need of grace.

And if they are willing, this marriage could still become something new.

Not what it once was—but something deeper. Softer. More honest.

A relationship no longer built on unspoken expectations, but on, humility, patience, and a love that chooses to remain.

And as I have watched this marriage, I have found myself asking a quieter question:

Why does it feel so familiar?

Not because it is the same… but because we are human.

Because wherever people walk together over time—whether in a home, or in a church—these same patterns can quietly take root.

We grow busy.
We drift.
We choose silence instead of honest conversation.
We carry hurts without bringing them into the light.
We begin speaking about one another instead of to one another.

And without ever intending to, we find ourselves standing at a distance… wondering how we got here.

This is not a story about them.

It is an invitation for us.

Not to assign blame.
Not to decide who is right.

But to ask, quietly and honestly:

Where have I withdrawn?
Where have I assumed instead of listened?
Where have I held onto what I should have released?
Where might I take one small step toward peace?

Because the grace that restores a marriage
is the same grace that can restore a church.

And the invitation before us is not to win—

but to be reconciled.

2Corinthians 5:17-19 says, “… Now all things are of God, who has reconciled us to Himself through Jesus Christ, and has given us the ministry of reconciliation, … and has committed to us the word of reconciliation.”

1John 3:18 —“Let us not love with words or speech but with actions and in truth.” 

Posted on by MarJean Knaak 2

What We Do With The Wound

My dear friends,

I’ve been thinking lately about how much of our lives is shaped not by what happens to us—but by what we do with the wound it leaves behind.

I’ve been sitting with the book of Esther again, and I can’t shake how surprisingly relevant it feels. Who would have thought that two ancient men—Haman and King Ahasuerus—could hold up such a clear mirror to our own hearts?

You likely remember the story. Haman, a descendant of the Amalekites—longtime enemies of the Jews—had been elevated to a place of great honor. When Mordecai refused to bow to him, something deep and dark was stirred. His anger wasn’t just irritation—it was consuming. What should have remained a personal offense became a plan for the destruction of an entire people.

And then there is King Ahasuerus. In the middle of his lavish feasting, in a moment clouded by wine and pride, he summoned Queen Vashti to display her beauty. When she refused, he too “burned with anger.” What should have been handled privately became a public decree affecting the entire kingdom.

Two men. Two bruised egos. Two very revealing responses.

And if I’m honest, I see pieces of myself in both of them.

I know what it is to feel that sudden rise of emotion when I feel slighted or overlooked. As someone who tends to feel things deeply and express them quickly, I recognize how fast a small offense can grow into something much bigger inside my heart. Perhaps you know that feeling too? Maybe your response looks different—maybe you go quiet, or carry it silently, or rehearse it over and over—but the root is the same. Something in us rises up and says, “That wasn’t right.”

What strikes me most is how both Haman and Ahasuerus took something personal and made it public.

Haman couldn’t simply deal with Mordecai. Instead, he expanded the offense to include an entire nation. Ahasuerus couldn’t quietly resolve the situation with Vashti. Instead, he made a sweeping decree, as if her choice threatened the whole social order.

And I had to stop and ask myself—how often do I do this in smaller ways?

How often do I take a personal hurt and let it spill into conversations, coloring how I speak about someone? How often do I replay the story, subtly inviting others to agree with me? It feels so justified in the moment, doesn’t it? And yet, it can so quickly become something that spreads far beyond the original wound.

I’m learning—slowly—that while there is a place for wise counsel, there is also a sacred place where I must first take my hurt to the Lord alone. Not to build a case. Not to be validated. But to be healed.

Another thing I notice is how both men surrounded themselves with voices that reinforced their reactions. Ahasuerus turned to his advisors, and instead of calming the situation, they escalated it. Haman, in his own way, carefully framed his words to the king to gain approval for his plan.

Isn’t that something we can do so easily? We don’t always look for truth—we look for agreement. We look for someone who will say, “Yes, you’re right to feel that way.”

But I keep coming back to this gentle conviction: Jesus didn’t die for my excuses. He died to set me free from them.

There’s also the matter of proportion. Oh, how this one humbles me.

A single act of disrespect led Haman to seek genocide. A single act of refusal led Ahasuerus to issue a decree affecting an entire empire. It sounds extreme—and it is—but isn’t there a quieter version of that in us? When emotions take over, how quickly we can exaggerate, escalate, and react in ways that don’t match the moment.

How different things might be if we paused… if we waited… if we invited the Lord into that very first surge of emotion.

At the root of it all, I see pride. A deep attachment to honor, to being seen rightly, to not being diminished in the eyes of others.

And here is where the Lord has been gently reshaping my thinking.

What if my identity is not in how I am perceived, but in whose I am?

What if the people around me saw not a polished, always-right version of me, but a woman learning to depend on Jesus? What if they saw me stumble—but also saw Him lift me up? What if they saw weakness, but also the quiet strength that comes from surrender?

I’m beginning to think that might speak more powerfully than anything else.

Finally, both men used their power to regain control. Haman through manipulation and destruction. Ahasuerus through authority and decree.

And while I may not hold that kind of power, I do recognize the subtle ways I try to control my world—through worry, through over-concern, through wanting things to turn out a certain way. It often looks respectable on the outside, but underneath is a struggle to trust.

The truth is, dear friends, we are not so different from these men as we might like to think. The same human heart beats within us—the same tendencies, the same vulnerabilities.

But here is the hope that steadies me:

What begins as a wound does not have to end in destruction.

Where Haman and Ahasuerus allowed their wounded pride to harm others, we are invited to let our wounds draw us closer to Christ. We are given the freedom to forgive, to release, to respond differently.

We may never influence an empire—but we deeply influence the spaces we live in every day. A reaction can wound a marriage, a family, a friendship, a church. But a surrendered heart? That can bring healing just as far.

So I’ve been asking myself—and I’ll gently ask you too:

Where might a small offense be trying to grow into something larger in my heart?

And what would it look like to place it, fully and honestly, into the hands of Jesus?

He is more than able to take what the enemy intends for harm and transform it into something good—far beyond what we could ask or imagine.

And perhaps it begins right here—with a quiet surrender, a softened heart, and a willingness to release what we were never meant to carry.

“Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.” (Ephesians 4:32)

With love,

Posted on by MarJean Knaak 4

When Thoughts Become Weights

Sometimes the struggles that weigh on us the most are not circumstances, but thoughts—thoughts that return again and again like waves against the same shoreline. I didn’t realize how much those rolling and crashing waves were shaping my spiritual life until a simple ocean photograph, a painting, and a few Bible word studies began to reveal something deeper.

What started as a quiet question about my own restless thoughts became an unexpected journey into what Scripture says about the heart, the mind, the soul, and the thoughts that move through us. And strangely enough, the crashing waves along the rocky coast of Cambria helped me see it more clearly than ever before.

About a year ago, I was delighted when Don took me to Cambria, a lovely coastal town just north of Morro Bay. We walked along the boardwalk taking photos, trying to capture the beauty of waves exploding against rocks, and powerful swirling waters.

We had only been married about a year. It was the beginning of the second chapter of our lives, now together, and God had given us a Scripture that felt like a shield of protection for this new season.

Isaiah 43:18–19 says:

“Forget about what’s happened; don’t keep going over old history. Be alert, be present. I’m about to do something brand-new. It’s bursting out! Don’t you see it? There it is! I’m making a road through the desert, rivers in the badlands.”

It was a perfect Scripture for our marriage.

Yet I struggled to follow those wonderful directives.

Instead of leaving the past behind, I found myself wanting to know everything about it. I sorted through hundreds of Don’s old photographs. Some stirred warm appreciation for the life that had shaped him. Others surfaced unexpected emotions. At the same time, I missed my family back in Washington and Alaska and felt the distance from everything familiar.

The past was not as easy to “forget” as Isaiah seemed to suggest.

Recently, I asked ChatGPT to transform one of our Cambria ocean photos into an oil painting. The result was beautiful. As I looked at the image, I was drawn to another passage of Scripture—Hebrews 12:1:

“Let us lay aside every weight and the sin that so easily entangles.”

The word weight caught my attention.

The weight I felt was not necessarily a visible burden. It was the constant swirl of thoughts—thoughts about our pasts, thoughts that revisited old questions, thoughts that replayed memories again and again. They tangled around my spiritual feet and made it difficult to walk freely in the joy of the Lord.

I prayed often for contentment and gratitude. Those prayers were answered—but only in small increments.

Then one day as I studied the ocean painting, something struck me. The large rocks rising from the water reminded me of the past. The waves crashing against them were like my emotions—constantly returning, colliding with what could not be changed.

The rocks were immovable.

No matter how much the water surged, the rocks remained.

That picture stirred something in me, and I decided it was time to face the issue directly. I opened my online Bible study tool, Blue Letter Bible, and began an investigation. First, I searched for the word thoughts. Then I searched for mind, soul, and heart.

Then I gathered those passages together and asked ChatGPT to help summarize the themes I was seeing. The Scriptures themselves were clear—the Bible has a great deal to say about our thoughts, our mind, our soul, and especially our heart.

What I discovered surprised me.

The Bible speaks often about our thoughts, but it rarely treats them as the deepest center of who we are. Thoughts are described as something that can wander, multiply, accuse, imagine, or be taken captive.

Thoughts are real, but they are not the deepest part of the human person.

Scripture points instead to the heart.

The heart, in biblical language, is the core of our inner life—the place where desires, choices, trust, and devotion reside. Proverbs tells us, “Guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it.” Jesus said that what comes out of a person originates from the heart. Paul prayed that believers would have the “eyes of their heart enlightened.”

In other words, the heart is the true control center.

The mind processes understanding.
The soul expresses our living self.
Thoughts move through our awareness.

But the heart directs the whole person.

Suddenly, my Cambria painting began to make more sense.

The waves in the painting were like my thoughts—constantly moving, sometimes calm, sometimes crashing. The rocks represented the unchangeable realities of the past. But the ocean itself—the deeper body beneath the waves—reminded me of something deeper still.

The heart.

Waves may thrash on the surface, but the deeper ocean remains steady.

This realization changed something for me.

My problem was not that thoughts existed. Thoughts naturally come and go, just like waves on the sea. The problem was that I had been allowing those waves to define the condition of my heart.

Hebrews 12 suddenly sounded different.

“Lay aside every weight.”

Perhaps the weight was not the existence of thoughts themselves, but the habit of carrying them, rehearsing them, and letting them entangle my steps.

When I looked again at the Cambria painting, I saw something new. The waves were still crashing. The rocks were still there. But the scene was not chaotic after all. It was simply the nature of the ocean.

Waves move.

Rocks remain.

But beneath it all lies a vast and steady depth.

God was gently reminding me that He works at that deeper level. He does not merely quiet the waves of passing thoughts; He renews the heart itself.

And when the heart rests in Him, the waves lose their power to entangle our steps.

The past may remain like those rocks along the shoreline—real, visible, unmovable. But the grace of God creates something stronger than the waves that crash against them.

The waves may keep moving, but they no longer decide the direction of my heart.

A new heart.

And from that renewed heart flows something I had been asking God for all along:

contentment, gratitude, and the quiet joy of walking forward into the “brand-new” work He promised.

Artist’s Reflection

The Cambria ocean painting became more than a memory of a beautiful coastal walk. It turned into a visual reminder of the spiritual journey God was taking me through.

The rocks in the painting represent the past—real events and memories that cannot be removed or rewritten. They stand firm along the shoreline of our lives.

The waves represent our thoughts and emotions. They move constantly. Sometimes they are calm and gentle; other times they surge with surprising force. Left unchecked, they can repeatedly crash against the same places in our hearts.

But the ocean itself is deeper than the waves.

Then there is the sun shining across the sea and the sea reflecting its light and beauty. Hebrews 12:2 says, “Fixing our eyes on Jesus.” The Son of God, the Light of the world, the Way, the Truth, the Life! He is our focus and shines the light of His truth across all the waves of our lives so everything reflects His glory. The sun represents Him revealing Himself to us through all our circumstances, past, present. and future.

God does not promise to erase every memory or prevent every passing thought. Instead, He invites us to anchor our hearts in Him. Beneath the surface movement of thoughts, He forms a deeper, steadier life within us.

When our hearts are settled in Him, the waves lose their power to entangle our steps.

The rocks may remain, but the ocean belongs to God.

Posted on by MarJean Knaak 4

Something Missing, Something Discovered

Sometimes what feels like emptiness is simply an invitation —
an invitation to notice how God restores us through one another.

Some mornings arrive with a quiet restlessness. Nothing is obviously wrong, yet something feels slightly missing.

Feeling out of sorts and a bit grumpy (not quite sure why), I pulled on my robe and slippers and headed for the kitchen. My morning greeting to my husband was less than cheerful, and even after a hot mocha, I couldn’t seem to shake my sullen mood. My prayers for help — “Change my heart, O God” — felt as though they were falling flat.

After my husband left for work, I texted a friend and asked her to pray for me.

She didn’t just send a quick reply. She sent three beautiful, uplifting songs from YouTube. Really — who can stay grumpy with a friend like that? One song led to another, and soon I was listening to the old hymn, “Does Jesus Care?”

What I could not shake, God gently shook loose — through someone who cared.

The tender words met me right where I was:

Oh yes, He cares, I know He cares;
His heart is touched with my grief.

Even though my cares that morning were not earth-shattering or heavy with sorrow, they were real. They were precious reminders that Jesus cares not only about our deepest anguish, but about our attitudes, our discouragements, and the subtle heaviness we sometimes cannot explain.

Sometimes our burdens are far heavier. Over a lifetime, each of us walks through testing fires. You know about that too, don’t you? Yet God redeems those hard seasons in a beautiful way — by allowing us to share the comfort we receive with others who are walking through their own valleys. He gives us what Scripture calls the ministry of reconciliation.

Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God (2 Corinthians 1:3–4).

Does Jesus care? Oh yes, He cares. Not only in life’s deepest griefs, but in small, ordinary mornings when our hearts feel slightly off balance. And often, His care comes in simple, earthly ways — through a friend, a song, a conversation.

I was reminded of that lesson again just the other day while standing at my stove.

After adding meat and vegetables to a pot of homemade bone broth, I tasted it and said to my husband, “This is still missing something, but I don’t know what it is.”

That thought lingered longer than I expected. For several days, I had felt as though something in my own life was missing — though, like the soup, I couldn’t name it. I have everything I could think of: a lovely home, a wonderful husband, children and grandchildren, meaningful Bible study with dear friends. What could possibly be lacking?

That afternoon I took a nap and dreamed the sweetest dream. I was walking along a hiking trail with my youngest son — grown now — and we were talking. I told him that the highlight of our reunion was simply our conversations and the fellowship we were sharing right then. I awoke with a lingering sense of closeness, mutual love, and oneness. I wished I could hold on to that feeling forever.

Later that same day, I had a couple of heartfelt conversations with friends. And suddenly I realized — the empty, incomplete feeling was gone.

Something missing had quietly been discovered.

What had been absent was not activity, accomplishment, or possession.

It was closeness.

Connection.

The extra dash of salt.

God created us for fellowship — with Himself and with one another. As St. Augustine wisely wrote, “You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our heart is restless until it rests in you.” True fulfillment is found in God alone.

And yet, the God who made us for Himself also made us for one another. We are not meant to live secluded, self-contained lives.

Jesus teaches that the greatest commandments are to love God with all our heart, soul, mind, and strength — and to love our neighbor as ourselves. When He prays for those who believe, He asks “that all of them may be one, Father, just as you are in me and I am in you” (John 17:20–21). The Apostle John writes, “God is light; in Him there is no darkness at all… But if we walk in the light, as He is in the light, we have fellowship with one another” (1 John 1:5,7).

Our loved ones may be around us daily. We may rub shoulders with them constantly. But it is intentional closeness — the listening, the sharing, the vulnerability of walking in the light, and the caring — that deepens the sweetness. Like salt in soup, it does not change the substance of what is there; it draws out the richness already present.

Scripture tells us that Christ’s love compels us. The One who reconciled us to Himself did not simply restore us and leave us standing alone. He draws us into His own heart and then sends us toward one another. God reconciled us to Himself through Christ, not counting our sins against us. And then — astonishingly — He entrusted to us the ministry of reconciliation.

We are called His ambassadors. God makes His appeal through His people.

That means when a friend sends a timely text, a song, a prayer, or a word of encouragement, it is not small. It is Christ caring through His body. It is the Father of compassion extending His comfort through willing hands and open hearts.

Perhaps that is what we so often discover when something feels missing.

We were not made merely to exist side by side.

We were made to share comfort, to extend grace, to bring the flavor of Christ’s love into one another’s lives.

Does Jesus care?

Oh yes, He cares.

And often, what was missing is discovered in the warmth of His love —
seasoned and passed along through us.

Artist’s Statement

Something Missing, Something Discovered was inspired by an ordinary morning that felt slightly unsettled. The simple elements in this painting — a bowl of soup, a resting spoon, a softly glowing phone, and morning light filtering through a window — represent the quiet ways God meets us in everyday life.

The steam rising from the bowl symbolizes warmth and comfort, while the light suggests His presence entering gently rather than dramatically. The subtle imperfection in the brushwork reflects the beauty of real life — not flawless, but filled with grace.

This piece is a reminder that what feels missing is often restored through connection. God’s care frequently comes through simple acts of love, passed from one person to another.

Our Prayer

Father of compassion,

When our hearts feel restless or slightly out of balance,
help us not to ignore that quiet ache.
Teach us to bring it to You.

Thank You for the ways You care for us —
not only in life’s great sorrows,
but in small, ordinary mornings.

Open our eyes to see how often
Your comfort arrives through others —
a song, a prayer, a conversation, a simple text.

Make us willing carriers of that same comfort.
Season our lives with kindness,
soften our hearts toward one another,
and teach us to walk in the light together.

When something feels missing,
lead us gently to what You are already providing.

In Jesus’ name,
Amen.

Posted on by MarJean Knaak 4