Made for Eternity

It’s Resurrection Day. The kids sang about God’s mightiness this morning in our church service: “There’s no power greater than the power of our God.” And indeed, today we celebrate the most awesome display of his omnipotence – he raised Jesus from the dead!

A smaller, but still incredible display of his power is happening this weekend in the nest of Jackie and Shadow, our California eagle friends. Yesterday, their first egg hatched, and today the second did. It’s been a joy to watch the eaglets’ birth during this holiday especially – new life to remind me of the new life I have in God’s Son.

I love celebrating Jesus’ resurrection in the spring. The green grass is returning, tiny blue flowers are blooming by the driveway, and soon the trees across the street will be covered in white blossoms. Each of these is God’s gentle reminder that he is continually giving life, and they all point to the eternal life we have as a gift when we believe in the risen Jesus who died for our sins.

Look around your yard. Read John 20. Take a peek in an eagle’s nest. Truly, there’s no greater power than the power of our God.

Shiloh is in love. Her name is Lacey, and she’s the puppy that lives around the corner.

That’s funny, because I’m not a dog person. I’m probably the antithesis of a dog person. An unpredictably noisy, smelly, hairy, slobbery perpetual infant/toddler in need of care for years and years? No thanks. I understand I’m in a minority when it comes to this consideration of “man’s best friend”, and I’m fine with that. I just know they are not Katie’s best friend.

Until recently, Shiloh had been viscerally afraid of dogs, stemming from an incident a few years back when a corgi who was exactly Shi’s size pinned him to the wall with her paws on his shoulders; a clear gesture of friendship on her end, resulting in sheer terror on his.

Sandy’s worked to desensitize him around dogs, which has finally brought us to this point of absolute affection for Lacey. And even I, for all my indifference to canines, have to admit she’s quite a beautiful dog. She lives up to her name – she’s small and delicate, with long soft ears and orange-brown spots on her petite white body.

We passed by her house on a walk, and Shiloh was delighted to see her watching us from the picture window. Then her owners happened by with her last week after supper while Sandy was outside with the boys. Shiloh played with her for several minutes, and when he came inside for bed, it was, “Mama, Lacey gave me besos all over my face. Mama, Lacey played fetch with my sticks. Mama, do you know what Lacey likes to do? She likes watching the birds and squirrels. Mama, I love Lacey. She’s my best dog.”

And finally, “Mama, I want a dog, just like Lacey.”

And like millions of mamas before me, all I want to do is give one to him. A boy and his dog – a tale as old as time, right? I know we can’t have a dog right now or maybe ever, but it’s sweet watching my little boy being such a little boy and catching puppy fever.

Seasonal changes are not linear. Spring is stumbling in uncertainly this year, as it does most years. While the trend is generally toward warmer days, parts of Wisconsin are currently under a blizzard warning, and here in the Milwaukee area, we are expecting several inches of snow tonight, with temperatures plunging into the single digits tomorrow night.

But, oh, last Monday. Last Monday, the temperature soared to 71. The breeze was pleasant. The boys spent 7.5 hours outside. I rummaged in the basement for a pair of shorts. We took off our shoes and ran through the sun-warmed yard in bare feet. We played baseball and catch with Shiloh’s Foxtail toy. And late in the afternoon, the boys rediscovered their squirt guns, whereupon the water battle squeals commenced. The timing of this beautiful day was perfect, coming right after the time change, and giving us that extra hour to enjoy the evening outside. I was so thankful to the Lord for the sun and the warmth.

Do I always enjoy living somewhere with fiercer winters? No, but I remember my Kenya years, where, while there were seasons, the drama was largely missing. Shifting from a warmer dry season to a cooler rainy season just isn’t the same as living in a place that can have 120+ degree temperature swings in a year.

Why is a 70-degree day in early March so amazing? Because it’s often surrounded by freezing days and weeks. It’s a weather respite to be savored.

It’s a good gift from a good God who delights in our delight in his creation. And, my, did we delight in it last week!

I’m so glad I live in a time when live eagle cams are a thing. I’m sure I wrote a post about this 12 years or so ago, but it bears repeated treatment. Watching a bald eagle pair thousands of miles away incubate eggs and raise eaglets is a wonderful experience that was not available to anyone in human history until this century.

You know what else wasn’t available? Access – on a computer in our pockets – to every tragedy and war and general upheaval occurring around the world. I don’t roam the halls of power. I don’t make world-shaking decisions. I don’t need to know all the details of military campaigns or the latest scandal that’s rocking Washington. I’m aware of what’s going on in the world, but I’m also immersed in my current job: teaching Shiloh addition and subtraction, reading Rumplestiltskin, listening to Brahms’ Hungarian Dance No. 5, and teaching Shadrach how to write his name. I realized recently that knowing everything about everything does not bring peace to my heart. It generally brings frustration and anxiety.

Which is why I’m so glad for the Big Bear Valley eagle cam. I know Jesus wasn’t referring to this particular variety when he said, “Look at the birds of the air” in an admonition to trust God’s care, but I still find the principle comforting. Shadow and Jackie sit high in a tree in the wilds of California, their lives unaffected by the greater world’s problems. Caring for their two eggs, hunting the next fish, warding off pesky ravens – these are their concerns. They are doing exactly what the Creator made them to do, and he is tenderly providing for them.

Just like he’s providing for me. Watching these beautiful birds pulls me back to Jesus and reminds me to keep my focus on him and what’s right in front of me.

After all, he’s got the eagles, Katie, and the whole world in his hands.

I can’t decide if I’m a pessimist or an optimist. I’d like to think I’m the latter, but I tend to catastrophize future events as if it were my job. I imagine the worst about an upcoming situation, certain it will happen. That’s funny, because after a crisis, I often find the silver lining and think, That wasn’t so bad.

The part where I get to the not-so-bad is my favorite. It comes in handy in all sorts of life circumstances, big and small.

It helps when you’re born with a disability, but you see others far more impaired. It’s not so bad. At least one of my hands does what I want it to.

It helps after 36 hours of labor with your first baby. That wasn’t so bad. At least I didn’t have a C-section.

It helps when your leaning tower of drying dishes suddenly collapses, and a Corelle bowl shatters into a zillion pieces on the kitchen floor. That wasn’t so bad. I have a broom and my robot vacuum, and the boys aren’t home.

It helps when your kid throws up in his car seat on a long solo road trip. And then after you clean him up, he does it again 10 miles down the road. That wasn’t so bad. At least both boys weren’t sick, and we were right near an exit.

I suppose when I start out imagining what could have gone really really wrong, and it’s not as bad as all that, silver linings are in abundance. My goal is then to turn in thanks to God, because whatever touches me goes through his hands first.

And that’s better than not-so-bad.

When my grandmother died in October 2024, I flew to Pennsylvania for the memorial and stayed with my parents. My mom and her sisters had been going through Grandmother’s things, and the table was covered with items, both mundane and meaningful. Mom told me I could pick something of Grandmother’s to take home. Of course, I chose her cooling rack.

No, really. It fit perfectly in my suitcase on top of my clothes, and I’d been meaning to buy one for a while.

It’s not that I’m not sentimental. I can get lost in the “Google memories” section of my phone, staring wistfully at my baby boys who are not babies anymore. I tear up when I hear certain songs because they take me back to special times or places. And don’t even get me started on smells.

As nostalgic as I can be, I’m also very practical. My husband knows well that I’d like a vacuum cleaner or new kitchen tools for gifts rather than a useless piece of jewelry (I made an exception for my engagement ring!).

So, the cooling rack. In my mind, it encapsulated both the meaningful and the practical. Grandmother was a professional homemaker, if there ever was one. She raised six children as a stay-at-home mom, cooking, cleaning, and making all their clothes. I only knew her home once it was an empty nest, but it was always spotless, beautifully decorated, and one of my favorite places to go as I grew up.

Now that I am a professional homemaker myself, I have even more respect for Grandmother’s great skill and dedication to excellence. She was so happy for me when I married Sandy, and embarked on my own journey as a wife and soon after, mama.

I use her cooling rack several times a week when I bake bread or muffins or cookies. I think about her each time, imagining her in her own well-used kitchen pulling that same rack off the shelf. I know she was happy that I was developing my culinary skills as a wife and mama. I think she’d understand why I took the cooling rack.

Because it’s practical. And sentimental.

“Aaargh. Canada just did something wrong again!”

I heard Shiloh’s exasperated announcement from the living room as I sat at the kitchen table finishing breakfast with Shadrach.

“No, buddy, it’s not wrong, it’s just the way the game is played,” I called back, laughing.

The game we were referring to was curling. The “wrong” our neighbors to the north had committed was, I was certain, knocking out the United States’ stone.

Until last week, I had watched maybe 5 minutes of curling in my entire life. It was one of those boring, obscure sports that I always ignored at the Olympics in favor of the more exciting skating and skiing games.

But one morning, in an effort to introduce the boys to the Olympics, I turned on the TV to discover an array of live options, all of them curling matches that comprised the mixed doubles (one male/one female) tournament.

It was a hilarious start, as my sons, used to relying on me to explain anything and everything to them, peppered me with questions about this sport that I quite literally knew nothing about. My answers were massively unintelligent.

“Um, I think they are trying to get that rock thingy into that little circle there. I guess the broom thingys help?”

It was an inauspicious introduction to a new sport, but here’s this funny thing about the time difference between here and Italy. Curling was scheduled to be on in the morning and early afternoon here in Wisconsin, perfect for homeschooling! It has been one of the only things we can watch live consistently. Shiloh was quite interested, and so we kept tuning in.

Slowly, some of the fog has lifted, and I can understand the basics enough to begin thoroughly enjoying the game. New words like “end”, “burnt rock”, “hog line”, and “hammer” are intelligible. This morning, I even predicted to Sandy what a team would do in a certain scenario, and they actually did it!

Now, I freely admit I’m ridiculously unaware of all the intricate strategy, rules, and ins and outs of curling, but watching people who have played for years and are at the top of their sport is very enjoyable. I find the game exciting and soothing at the same time, watching the curlers expertly maneuver the stones smoothly over the pebbled ice.

So, football season is done. Baseball is a month away. But this week, we’ve got curling!

Sandy took the boys ice fishing again yesterday. He called mid-afternoon to check in, and my exuberant children began talking over each other, all about the fish they were catching. Shad even caught a blue gill while I was on the phone with them.

As he was saying goodbye, he told me, “We gotta keep working.” “Okay!” A little pause, then the clarification in case I missed the point, “Our work right now is fishing.”

True. Maria Montessori said, “Play is the work of the child.” And, on the other hand, work is their play. Clearing brush from the neighbor’s yard. Putting laundry in the dryer. Shoveling the sidewalk. Helping Papa, even if “helping” may look more like “getting in the way”. “Playing math” (Shiloh’s description) with Mama most mornings.

I call them my helper boys and my workin’ men. Shadrach will put his hands on his hips, his head tilted with pride as he describes a task he completed, or I observe details on his coloring page. When he takes this stance, he indeed looks like a miniature man, satisfied in a job well done.

My little guys’ attitude toward their “work” is joyful and precious. I know at some point, drudgery will invade, but for now, the world is new and fresh. They are just beginning to learn to do so many things that we as adults take for granted and grumble and groan about. But when I look at my chores through their eyes, I can see work as the gift it is. Maybe I should get going – I have some dishes to play with.

I came to the coffee shop this afternoon without knowing what to write about. But this is my writing time, so there’s nothing else on the agenda except this blog post and my cup of coffee. Accordingly, my thoughts have flitted from here to there, which is typical of thoughts when there’s nothing to corral them.

Things I have thought about since sitting down:

1. The dream I had last night, which included Mt. Marathon in Seward, Alaska, the house I grew up in in Kenya, and my husband and sons. It was bizarre, but also totally sensical while it was all happening.

2. My Sunday school lesson from this morning, including the prop of a hard-boiled egg (representing Pharaoh’s hard heart).

3. Frankenstein by Mary Shelley. I’m listening to the audiobook/commentary on the podcast “Storytime for Grown-ups”, and whew, is it a doozy.

4. Ice fishing, archery, and skiing. Sandy’s great at doing activities with the boys, and all three of these were on the agenda for this weekend. All three are also included in the category of “stuff Katie could never do with her kids and therefore is grateful that they have a papa who can”.

5. The weather. We are finally above 20 for our high temperatures for the foreseeable future. Ah, February. Your weather is whispering that spring is coming next month.

That’s the lovely thing about setting aside a time for blogging just for the practice. There’s no pressure, no deadline. If the ideas aren’t fully formed, it’s ok. Because there’s me, my laptop, a coffee, and my happily wandering mind.

And, oh, look. It’s a new post.

On Friday, Shiloh’s math lesson included the instruction to count the members of his family. Easy enough. He held up 4 fingers. Papa, Mama, Shiloh, Shadrach.

“Wait!” he said, “There’s one more! What’s my sister’s name?”

Poppy. Her name is Poppy. Shiloh’s sweet remembrance brought tears to my eyes, because I’d already been thinking about her that morning. I always do on the coldest days.

Seven Januaries ago, we had the worst cold snap I’ve ever experienced in my 20 years as a Wisconsinite. I’m talking temperatures in the -20s, and windchills approaching -50. School was closed for over a week, but my mind was happily occupied elsewhere, because on our one-month anniversary, a Thursday, I discovered I was pregnant. The next day, Sandy’s work also closed due to the weather, which was a rarity. We had our joyous news and an impromptu three-day weekend together! What could be better for newlyweds?

I made pancakes. We went for a walk and took a picture, just to say we did it. And we talked and wondered and dreamed about our baby. I remember that weekend of cold temperatures and warm hearts with great fondness.

On Monday, I miscarried. The dreaming and wondering were over, starkly and abruptly, the cozy joy of our weekend replaced by grief. The brevity of her life did not diminish the ache. We named her Poppy, because she was the size of a poppyseed when we found out she existed. It was only after I had my two sons that I began imagining her as my daughter. (If I get to heaven and find out Poppy’s a boy, that’ll be ok, too.)

We have a picture of a field of poppies hanging in our kitchen as a tribute, and when the boys ask about it, I tell them about their big sister who lives in heaven. And whenever the temperature dips near 20 below, I remember that bittersweet cold snap, and imagine my little Poppy, safe in the arms of Jesus.

I’ve been a mom for 6 years, but I’m brand new to formally schooling my sons. Together with my husband, I decided that kindergarten for Shiloh was going to be mostly recess with reading, writing, and ‘rithmetic sprinkled in for good measure. It’s going well so far, but my favorite part is the incidental learning, the unplanned “classes” that happen as we live life.

One of the boys discovered an old college anatomy textbook I had on a bookshelf, and when I explained that these were pictures of what our bodies look like on the inside, both kids were soon engrossed in the different systems. Throughout the day, they followed me about the house with the massive book, peppering me with questions.

I understood their fascination. It’s probably genetic. I developed my interest in anatomy books from my mom. She reads them for fun and even integrates them into her devotional time, worshipping the Creator while perusing his intricate design.

Upon noting my boys’ interest in the human body, I got several children’s “body books” from the local library. Shiloh and Shadrach quickly found their favorite pages in each, namely the ones with illustrations of preborn baby development (“Did I look like that inside you, Mama?”) and the digestive system. (They are little boys, after all!)

I consider these books and the discussions about them our informal biology class. The boys now know the esophagus is for food, and the trachea is for air (and that we need to be careful when eating so that doesn’t get mixed up). They understand that when they are sick, the tiny good guys are fighting the tiny bad guys inside of them. They know that the muscles that wiggle their fingers are actually in their arm. They can trace the path of a bite of sandwich from the mouth to the, well, you know where.

Their introductory understanding of anatomy and physiology comes into play frequently in ordinary conversations. Recently, I told Shiloh to use the bathroom. He balked, telling me matter-of-factly, “But Mama, my pees haven’t gone through my kidneys yet.” Nice try, bub. I still made him go. Then, the other day, Shadrach was jumping on the trampoline. “You wanna feel my heart? It’s blinking so fast.” I did indeed feel it.

Blinking hearts and kids’ anatomy books. Yeah, I love this kind of biology class.

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.

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.

It’s been a while since I really attempted to learn another language. I had a one semester foray into Arabic as a senior in college, and more recently learned some (very) basic Biblical Greek, but living here in Nicaragua, I’ve been thrust into a whole new level of language acquisition.

I learned how to say “I’m the 2nd of 6 siblings” last week and tried to squeeze that into every conversation I could. Cassie started laughing whenever I took a deep breath and haltingly began “Yo soy la segunda…” Yep. Here we go again! It took a lot of mental energy and usually came out wrong at first, but at least I was sharing something about myself.

Trying to tread water in a sea of new words is hard. So I talk to the three kids we live with. Big J., A., and Little J. are 8, 6, and 4, and are great language helpers, especially because we can discuss things on my extremely basic level for a short period of time. We’ve talked about how eating a lot of cakes will make you big. Another day, we debated what food ketchup is good with and what food you should not put ketchup on. There was some sharp disagreement on that second topic.

My sentences are broken, and my English-y accent leaves much to be desired, but we are communicating, and I love it. Last night, I curled my lips around my teeth and told A, “I don’t have teeth.” Soon no one at the table had teeth. Then fingers and hands started to disappear. General hilarity ensued. We were all laughing and having fun.

And not in English. 🙂

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.”