Author: made4eternity

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.”

My life lately feels like it is swirling around the concept of sufficiency. Several of my latest blog posts have included the topic and in my Bible reading and conversations with others, there is a common theme. Think the Lord is trying to teach me something?

A couple days ago, my brother Daniel commented on my Gmail chat “status” verse, which is 2 Corinthians 3:5: “Not that we are sufficient in ourselves to claim anything as coming from us, but our sufficiency is from God.”

I told him that it is one of my favorite verses, and as I am wont to do in my love of playing with words, I turned an adjective into a noun. “He is our enoughness,” I wrote.  (And spell-check goes crazy: “’Enoughness’ is not a word!” Well, maybe not technically, but it sure captures what I want to say.)

To say that God is my enoughness cannot be a glib statement. Enough carries the concept of needing nothing else. There is a satisfaction, a contentedness, a settled attitude inherent in recognizing all that we are and have comes from God. It’s a foreign concept in our fallen world.

I am not enough to fulfill my deepest and not-so-deep needs. My job is not enough. My friends are not enough. My savings account is not enough. My family is not enough. If I rest my hope even an iota on any of these things, my heart will grow restless with their lacking. I know, because I try daily in one way or another to be completed by things that never were meant to do that.

But when I recall my All-Sufficient God, I find in him my strengthcouragewisdomcomfortpatienceprovisionforgivenessjoyrest.

I find my enoughness.

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.

It’s wonderful how God uses visual illustrations to remind us of who he is. This week we got several inches of snow. Well, it’s February and it’s Wisconsin, so that’s not unusual. What was odd, I thought, was how the snow coated the trees and then stayed on for a couple of days. Usually the coating only lasts a little while before it melts or the wind blows it off. This time, it just hung on and on, beautifying the skeletal winter tree branches and delighting my heart.

The effect was stunning, especially when contrasted with the inevitable nastiness that follows snowfall in the city. Within a few hours, the streets became lined with piles of ugly dirty snow. Slushy mud puddles multiplied. The pure whiteness was gone.

Until I looked up. And there was that unspoiled snow, clinging to the tree branches and causing me to rejoice in its Creator.

As I drove or took walks during those days, I thought about the lesson so clearly laid out in front of me. Down here on earth, it’s dirty. We are people spoiled by sin. Our daily circumstances can be very hard. It’s easy to get discouraged and lose hope as we look at the problems around us and in us.

But when we look up and gaze upon our unspoiled Savior, resting in his beauty, love, and goodness in the midst of the slushy puddles of earth, oh, how our hearts will rejoice.

O soul, are you weary and troubled?
No light in the darkness you see?
There’s a light for a look at the Savior,
And life more abundant and free!

Turn your eyes upon Jesus,
Look full in His wonderful face,
And the things of earth will grow strangely dim,
In the light of His glory and grace.
-H.H. Lemmel

I’ve come to hate the fact that I am so surprised when God answers my prayers, says “yes”, and moves circumstances in my life just the way I asked him to. It’s sad that I’m shocked when these situations happen, because I think it reveals my heart.

What – is God in heaven some kind of stingy ogre? Is it so incredible that when I ask for something specifically, he often gives it to me? It shouldn’t be. He is my Abba. He loves to give good gifts, like any daddy. And if something will be for my best and his glory, he will delight in lavishing his grace on me.

I’ve been thinking about my surprised response to answered prayers lately as my studies have taken me to Acts 12. There, the apostle James has been martyred, Peter is in prison awaiting trial, and things are looking dismal. A group of believers meets and prays “earnestly” (v.5) for his release. Miraculously, God intervenes and sends an angel to rescue Peter, who then proceeds to the house where the believers are praying. At first, they don’t believe the servant girl who informs them joyously that Peter is at the door, even telling her she is out of her mind. Then, when they do see that it is really Peter, they are “greatly astonished” (v.16).

My initial reaction to reading that was, “C’mon guys. You were just praying for his release. How can you be so surprised that God got him out?” Heh. Pot, meet kettle.

Shock, incredulity, astonishment. All of them carry a whiff (or more) of disbelief. Disbelief isn’t really the response my Daddy is looking for when he blesses me with goodness. Joy, relief, thankfulness, praise – yes.

Surprise – no.