Made for Eternity

Thank you, Mrs. Helland

I’ve always loved English classes. In high school, there was a whole hour a day, five days a week, dedicated solely to reading and writing. Plus, homework! I mean, does it get any better than that?

Because I love the subject, I’ve also always had an affinity for my English teachers. I can name them all to this day, except that old guy from my junior year of high school in Pennsylvania who somehow made dry dust out of a feast of British lit. I’m glad he was the exception.

My last (and favorite) English teacher, Carol Helland, passed away on Friday. I’m saddened, but so happy for her that she is with her Savior. As I sit typing today, it’s hard for me to put into words the impact she had on me and my writing.

I took her grammar and composition classes as part of the Grace Institute of Biblical Studies twelve years ago. She lived in Minnesota, I in Wisconsin. Classes were virtual, so I only met her in person a handful of times. Yet, she rekindled in me a love for the structure and order of the English language.

She taught how grammar was important, because we were training to be communicators of God’s Word, both through writing and speaking. A good grasp of the structure and order of our language was critical for clarity and precision in our message. We worked through participles and pronouns, adverbs and gerunds. We diagrammed sentences, dusting off a part of my brain that had lain dormant since the early ’90s. Then, we wrote and wrote and wrote, which was my favorite part. Inspired and encouraged by a teacher who loved English and taught it well, the essays never felt like work to me.

After I graduated, Mrs. Helland and I continued to correspond by email. She once wrote the following to me, “You will always hold a special place in my teacher’s and writer’s heart . . . you have the ‘sound’ of good writing in your head, and I trust that you will use this gift and ability to the glory of God.” I especially treasure these words today as I imagine her reveling in God’s glorious presence.

Mrs. Helland practiced what she preached in her classes. She spoke at countless ladies’ gatherings, where her own excellent communication skills were evident. She was never bombastic or overly dramatic, but spoke with a gentle, firm clarity, confident in the truth of Scripture. She expertly wove illustrations throughout her messages, holding the listeners’ attention and bringing encouraging principles to life. I’ll deeply miss her teaching.

I saw her in person for the final time last March. It had been several years since we had seen each other, but as she always did, she looked at me intently and asked, “Are you still writing?”

Yes, Mrs. Helland. I am writing. Still. Thank you for being an important reason why.

10 Years Later…

It’s been a decade. The last time I wrote a post here was February 2016. It was never my goal to stop writing a blog, but since my goal stopped being to write a blog, here we are. Or, here I am, at least. It’s a little presumptuous to assume there is a “we” to talk about, considering my 10 year hiatus.

So why write here again? There are numerous reasons, but a couple of months ago, I turned 45. That’s not considered a milestone birthday, but to me, it feels like a milestone. I’m solidly middle-aged now. 45 is young when you’re 60, or 73, or 97. But 45 is still a good dose of life, and on my morning birthday walk, as I filled healthy lungs and felt my feet move steadily beneath me, I expressed gratitude to God, who has given me so many blessings.

Something about the day made me think, I need to start writing again. Then, upon checking this blog a while later, I saw my last entry was from 2016. It seemed fitting to pick up the proverbial pen again in 2026.

Now, it’s not as if I haven’t written anything in the last approximately 3600 days, but this decade has seen my life change more than any I’ve lived, except perhaps my teen years. Practicing writing* has taken a back seat to other endeavours.

While my writing has experienced a definitive drought, my life otherwise has been rich and full, so very full. I went from being a single career woman on a mission trip in 2016 to a married homemaker and mother of two in 2026. The rocket ship portion of the decade was the 3.5 years from first date to married with two kids (January 2018-July 2021).

My single-speech-language pathologist-could-barely-cook-eggs self would hardly recognize my hunter-wife-sourdough-seller-homeschooler-rambunctious-boys-referee self that I am today.

One of the most important lessons I learned in this decade of dramatic change was that I didn’t lose myself or find myself in all the iterations of life I’ve experienced: singleness, career, marriage, babies, leaving my career. I was “me” through them all, because my life is anchored in Jesus Christ, who never changes. My identity as a child of God was the same through each twist and turn. Lest you think I slid into every new phase of life with that calm awareness, I can assure you I did not. Getting married at 38 and giving birth at 39 and 40 is a life-rocking adventure. But God is never late, and the lesson that my identity is not found in what I do, but who I am in Christ came just at the right time.

God knew my roles would look very different in 2026 than they did in 2016, and “in every change, faithful he remain[ed],” to quote the old hymn. I’m so glad he planned for the content single career girl to (very) eventually be the married mama. Jesus does all things well.

And, since you’re reading this, I suppose there is a “we” after all. Thanks for coming along as I begin writing (probably weekly) again. I’m planning on sticking around this time, you know, for the practice.

*Writers are always practicing; we never “arrive”. Each blank page brings a new challenge to communicate our thoughts clearly and effectively.

Batter Up: Béisbol with the Boys

Sometimes connections with the kids happen in unplanned and unexpected ways. Today at recess, Cassie and I were sitting on the steps talking with another staff member when I saw a group of our rather rambunctious first and second graders playing a modified version of baseball. Their equipment consisted of a green plastic Wiffle bat, one glove, and a small beat-up nerf ball.

If case you didn’t know, baseball is my favorite sport. “I’m going over there,” I told Cassie. Of course I was.

As is true with most activities in which young boys are in charge, a slightly ordered chaos reigned. They immediately turned to me to sort out the batting order. “Profe! Profe!” they yelled. (That’s short for our title of “profesora”.)

I managed to get them into something of a line up – Yaniel, Jesser, Max, Mateo, Nimrod, Jeffry, Joshua, Steven. Then I asked if I could have a turn. They looked a little unsure at first, but then the grins appeared. I don’t think the teachers come out to play baseball much.

The first pitch was well outside and high, but I swung wildly anyway, much to to the amusement of the boys. “Strike!” they shouted gleefully. I made solid contact on the second pitch and ran to the first base tree , then raced around in an ovally diamond shape back to the area that seemed to be “home”. The boys all cheered and gave me high fives.

The game continued, and I enjoyed watching them try to count balls and strikes and call Yaniel back because he hit the ball foul. (Who knew where the foul line was? Not me!) They cheered loudly each time contact was made, and other than disputes about who was up next, there was a general good-natured feel to the thing. Pretty much everyone scored. It was the whole point. Hit the ball. Run home. No one gets out.

Recess continued, and I went back and sat on the steps. Jesser followed me over and Cassie asked him about the baseball game. He looked over with a little smile and said, “She hit a home run.”

We all did. And we sure had fun.

Out on the Water

Well, here I am in Nicaragua, sipping delicious Ethiopian coffee that was roasted in Kenya and given to me by my parents in Minnesota. This coffee has come a long way, needless to say.

So have we. Cassie and I arrived in Managua on Friday night, were picked up by our hosts, Julio and Narlly, who drove us here to Ciudad Dario, which will be our hometown until December.

The Lord has blessed me immensely with familiarity at every turn. From the beautiful vegetation and mosquito nets to the bumpy dusty dirt roads and diesel engines everywhere, this place reminds me of Kenya. Even on the other side of the world, there is a level of comfort to be found in the sights, sounds, and smells of this place. I’ve lived like this before.

Not that it’s easy. The sudden intense weather change has been draining. We left in the snow and arrived to 90 degree temperatures on Saturday. The language barrier is challenging, for both of us in different ways. There are still a lot of unknowns and innumerable cultural adjustments.

This morning I read the story of Peter stepping out of the boat on to the stormy sea to walk to Jesus. He sank, not because he was in the wrong place, or out of God’s will, but because he took his eyes off the Savior. And yet Jesus, in His infinite love and grace, was instantly there to rescue him as soon as Peter cried out.

Getting on the plane and flying here was stepping out of our Milwaukee boat in simple obedience. Now we are on the water. The waves are rolling and it’s windy, but we know our Savior is here, His strong hand stretched out and ready to sustain our hearts.

Hebrews 12:2-3 “looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith, who for the joy that was set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame, and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. For consider Him who endured such hostility from sinners against Himself, lest you become weary and discouraged in your souls.”

A Small Little Life

For obvious reasons, my prayer life lately has revolved around the impending move down to Nicaragua. Incredibly enough, it’s the day after tomorrow. In my prayers, I usually end up in the same place, partly incredulous, partly in awe.

Why me?

I’m completely ordinary. In fact, I’m a wimp. I’m small and weak. I have little strength and stamina. I wear out easily. I don’t do well in heat. The list could go on, but you get the point. Humanly speaking, if you were going to choose someone for this particular mission venture, it wouldn’t be me. It’s kinda ridiculous, honestly.

Yet, somehowly (as they say in Kenya), God has made it abundantly clear that it is me.

And Hudson Taylor’s assessment of himself comes to mind: “I think that God must have been looking for someone small enough and weak enough for Him to use, and that He found me.”

Amen, brother. Because in the end, it’s not about us, our qualifications, or our glaring lack thereof. We all live small little lives. But a small little willing heart is a gracious instrument of choice in the hand of our great big God.

2 Corinthians 12:9 “And He said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore most gladly I will rather boast in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.”

A New Path

Kijabe Forest

When I was a girl growing up in Kenya, I loved exploring the forest, trying to get “lost” and then finding a new route home (or creating my own). I suppose I had a touch of the pioneering spirit back then.

These days, I tend to prefer the well worn trail, the one without hidden roots, encroaching thorn bushes, or face-level spider webs that suddenly appear out of nowhere.

God has different ideas, to say the least. He’s taking me off my familiar comfortable road and setting me off on a whole new path. Unknowns abound. But I know Him, and He will be with me all through the journey. (Psalm 9:10 “And those who know Your name will put their trust in You; For You, LORD, have not forsaken those who seek You.”)

I wrote this poem (technically a sonnet) several years ago, and it seems to perfectly fit my new situation.

This Way

Joshua 3:4 “…you have not passed this way before.

Dear one, you have not passed this way before;
Lean hard upon My gracious, loving arm.
I know the path, and you can rest assured
I’ll keep you safe from every fear and harm.

Don’t try to light your own flickering beam,
Or plunge ahead into the night alone.
No good has ever come of all your schemes,
Or anything you’ve done that’s on your own.

I am the only Light you’ll ever need –
Remember that, with ev’ry twist and turn.
Then as you rest, I promise I will lead,
And teach you all the things that you must learn.

In joy and pain, you’ll ever be secure,
Although you have not passed this way before.

(Photo credit: The Kijabe Forest Trust)

Bounding Along the Path

“We begin to calculate about the sacrifices, the hindrances, and the difficulties, instead of bounding along the path, in eagerness of soul, as knowing and loving the One whose call has sounded in our ears.” – C.H. Mackintosh

My life changed on April 28th of last year. A few days earlier, my friend Cassie had texted me that she wanted to talk to me about a potential ministry opportunity. OK, I thought, probably a friend is in need, or she wants to go witnessing down by the lake or something.

Nope.

“So, do you want to move to Nicaragua with me for a year?” she asked that spring evening as we hung out in our friend Emily’s living room.

Wait, whaaaaaat? I actually started laughing. “Seriously?!!!”

Yep.

That was weird, because I really thought I understood God’s trajectory for my life. I had been receiving ministry training in my local church. I worked in the school system in Milwaukee, so I have my summers off. I had spent a wonderful 7 weeks volunteering at a mission in Alaska in 2014, and was scheduled for 9 weeks there in 2015. The combination of evangelism and interaction with people from all over the world was right up my alley. And if the Lord ever led away from that, I figured I could always spend my summers in Africa where I had (hint hint) grown up. Perfect, right?

Central America was never on my radar. I assiduously avoided Spanish in high school and college, and only dabbled in it when I switched positions to work at a school in the Hispanic area of Milwaukee. I thought it was wonderful when our church supported short term trips to El Salvador and Nicaragua, especially when Cassie got to go as a translator for the team. How nice. It just wasn’t for me.

Until April 28th, when God suddenly dropped it in my lap.

The “buts” began echoing in my head immediately. I was in my 3rd year in my dream job, working exclusively with 3 and 4 year old kiddos. I had a wonderful church family. My roots in Milwaukee were a decade deep; I’d lived there longer than anywhere else in my life. I had summers off for ministry trips. I still had school loans. I’d just signed a new lease on my apartment. I had a car. I had stuff. I had a plan.

My plan didn’t include moving away from the comfortable life I’d carved for myself in the middle of a school year to work at an academy in a country where I had never felt an urge to visit, I didn’t speak the language, and I didn’t have the foggiest idea about the culture.

The Apostle Paul in Acts 20:24, said, “..nor do I hold my life dear to myself, so that I may finish my race with joy…” Our problem is that we don’t realize how dear we are holding our life to ourselves – at least I didn’t – until God gently pries our fingers off our comforts and our unadmitted idols and our ideas of how life should be and says, “That’s not for you anymore.”

And that’s where faith begins. No calculating. No manipulating. Just bounding along the path with all the eagerness we can muster, for the Master Maker of Paths is also our wise, tender-hearted, infinitely trustworthy Father.

Throughout the next several days and weeks, Cassie and I talked, prayed, and sought counsel. The Lord began to open door after door for this unexpected new path He has set us on. He’s worked in amazing ways, large and small, to bring us to the point where we are less than 3 weeks away from flying to Managua. It’s been quite the ride already; I can’t imagine what it will be like when we actually get there.

But we know that He will be there. And isn’t that all that really matters?

Precious Souls

Yesterday afternoon I was standing in an aisle of Target perusing the shelves, trying to get my tired brain to remember what it was I was looking for, when I heard my name. Or a variation of my name, anyway – one of the many that my speech kids use.

“Meeh Marizone!”

Peeking up out of a cart at the end of the aisle was the stunned face of M, one of my 4 year olds. This is my 5^th year on the job, but this was the first “community sighting” of one of my little guys. I walked over, gave him a hug, greeted his parents and his little sister and chatted for a bit.

“You buying snack?” he asked, since we were in the snack section. Indeed I was. Next week, our letter is “J”, and our shape is oval, so I showed him the bag of jellybeans I was getting and whispered conspiratorially for him to keep it a secret. He nodded very seriously. “OK.”

We said goodbye, and as they disappeared around the corner, I heard his little voice piping up, “Mommy, how my teacher get here?” You remember how weird it was to see your teacher outside of school. I was always convinced they slept at their desks or something.

The sweet encounter lifted my weary heart. Things have been bumpier at work of late, with changes and uncertainty galore. But then, there’s M in a cart at Target, smiling and excited and incredulous. Oh, thank you, Lord, for these kids.

There are 15 of them right now. Because of the nature of my therapy setting, they are generally bright, engaged kids who really, really “can’t talk good”. They can be hilariously funny or genuinely affectionate or they can drive me up the wall. They require tons of repetition, tons of patience, tons of love.

The former requirement is easy. The latter two are impossible. In order to truly show patience and genuine love to them, I need the Lord. So on the way to work, I pray for my 15 by name. I ask for wisdom for me in treating their disorders, and for progress toward their goals. I pray that I would show them Christ’s love.

But first, I pray for their salvation. It’s easy to forget in the midst of correcting sound errors and modeling proper grammatical structure that there is something much bigger than communication delays going on here.

My kids are most importantly precious souls for whom Christ died. Jesus gave his life for them so that if they would believe in him, they “will not perish, but have everlasting life.” (John 3:16) And so, thankful for the ministry of prayer that even my anti-God workplace can’t hinder, I entrust them to their Creator, knowing he can and will provide a way for them to hear that best of all news.

Then I walk inside to greet my little darlings.

Skyping with President Obama

Aaaaaaa! This is CRAZY!

So, if you hadn’t heard, there is a new “outreach” program started by the White House, where you can sign up and get randomly selected for a 5 minute Skype chat with the President of the United States. I’m guessing he does 3-4 of these every Saturday afternoon. Anyway, yours truly signed up on a whim a few weeks ago, and would you believe it? I got chosen! (!!!!) Now, I’m not a big fan of Obama’s policies, but I figured it’s 5 minutes of the undivided attention of the leader of the free world, so why not give it a shot? I was so excited, I could barely sleep last night after I got the “you’ve been selected” email. You better believe I wrote down some notes on what I wanted to say to him.

Here’s the play-by-play:

Today at 1:05pm CST, I was sitting at my kitchen table, and my Skype notifier rang. I freely admit I was a little ( A LOT) nervous as I accepted the call and saw the President appear on my computer screen.

“Hi, Katie,” he said. For a second, I couldn’t think beyond the thought, Oh, wow. He knows my name! It was all a little stunning.

Also, very fictional. Had ya going there for a minute, didn’t I? (Or not. Some of you are waaay too smart.)

Change the scenario a bit: This morning, I prayed for 50 minutes. OK, stifle the yawn. I know. You were all impressed when I talked to the President of the United States of America for 5 minutes today, but the fact that I communed with The King of All That Exists for 10 times as long is no big deal.

Do you see the problem? What is wrong with us?

That’s easy to answer. We tend to be far too in awe of the trappings of this world, of the Shiny Things and Important People we can see and hear and touch. We who are children of God through faith in Christ Jesus forget too often the incredible privilege that is ours. I’ll say it again. We are children of God! He doesn’t just know our names; he knows our hearts, our personalities, our secrets, our struggles.

Because of Jesus, we have the right to come before the infinitely powerful, holy, and awesome God and talk to him about everything and anything, anywhere, anytime. And, as if it couldn’t get any more wonderful, he WANTS us to talk to him. In view of this, neglecting prayer is ridiculous in the extreme. Prayer should be a treasured time, a delight to our hearts.

When I’m thinking right, I can’t help but realize that talking to my Father in Heaven beats Skyping with the President in Washington in every possible way.

Hebrews 10:19, 22 “Therefore, brethren, having boldness to enter the Holiest by the blood of Jesus . . . let us draw near with a true heart in full assurance of faith, having our hearts sprinkled from an evil conscience and our bodies washed with pure water.” (emphasis mine)