Tag: christianity

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

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 2

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

When God Writes Second Chapters

BLOSSOMS IN THE FOG OF NEW BEGINNINGS

The peach trees are beginning to bloom.

Each morning I notice a little more color against the gray—soft blossoms opening while the Central Valley fog still hangs low. Some days the clouds linger longer than expected, muting the light. And yet, there they are. Blossoms. Quiet. Persistent. Unhurried.

Living on a peach orchard has become more than scenery to me; it feels like a living parable.

When I married Don July 2024, I made a significant transition—leaving Spokane, Washington, my children and grandchildren, and a lifetime of familiar rhythms to join him here in Reedley, California. Don, on the other hand, has lived in this valley all his life. This land has been in his family since 1925, passed from his grandfather to his father, and then to him. These acres have been faithfully tended for generations.

So while the geography is still new to me, the orchard itself speaks of rootedness, endurance, and patient hope.

Both of us came into this marriage as widows and widowers after 52 years. I brought with me the ache of leaving what I loved and the courage it takes to begin again. Don brought his own transition—learning to love again after deep loss, adjusting to life with a different wife while honoring the long, faithful marriage that shaped him. Joy and sorrow have met us both here, just in different ways.

And still, the trees bloom.

Fruitfulness in a Second Chapter

Scripture never presents fruitfulness as belonging only to first chapters.

God’s Word is filled with lives that bear fruit later, quieter, and differently than expected. Ruth flourishes in a foreign land. Elizabeth rejoices after years of silence. Sarah laughs at life returning when she thought the season had passed.

Second-chapter fruitfulness does not deny loss. It grows because the ground has been broken open.

These blossoms are not fruit yet. They are promise. They do not guarantee the harvest, but they testify that life is stirring beneath the surface—even while the sky remains gray.

That feels especially true in this season of marriage. Adjustments have been real, especially in this first year. Blending two long stories takes patience, humility, and grace. And yet, God has been faithful. Sweet companionship has grown. Shared purpose has emerged.

Don finds deep fulfillment teaching Bible in his 54th year at Immanuel High School. I have found joy and strength serving alongside the women of WOW—Women of the Word, whose friendship, prayers, and encouragement have anchored me during this transition. God is making our lives fruitful in this land—not hurriedly, not perfectly, but faithfully.

A Word for Widows and Singles

I want to speak directly to those who may be reading this from a quieter, lonelier place.

If you are widowed, single, or navigating a season of transition that feels unseen, please hear this: your life is not paused, and your faithfulness is not overlooked.

Fruitfulness is not measured by marital status or visible milestones. Scripture honors seasons of steadfastness, obedience, and trust—especially when they feel hidden. The Lord sees you. He knows the weight of memories, the ache of absence, and the courage it takes to keep believing that He is not finished with your story.

You are not barren ground.

Even now, God is at work—preparing roots, forming promise, bringing life in ways that may still be tender and unseen.

Faithfulness in the Fog

Living here has taught me something simple but profound: fog does not stop growth. The trees bloom anyway.

We do not need full clarity to remain faithful. We do not need certainty to trust. We are simply called to stay rooted where God has planted us.

“Those who are planted in the house of the Lord shall flourish.” (Psalm 92:13)

Flourishing doesn’t always look dramatic. Sometimes it looks like endurance. Sometimes it looks like obedience. Sometimes it looks like quiet blossoms opening under clouded skies.

And that, too, is a holy kind of beauty.

Scripture Reflection & Prayer

“Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?”
—Isaiah 43:18–19

Prayer:
Lord, help us trust You in the fog. Give us eyes to see the quiet work You are doing beneath the surface of our lives. Teach us to honor what has been lost without fearing what is new. Root us where You have planted us, and let our lives bear fruit in Your time. Amen.

Posted on by MarJean Knaak 5