Once upon a time, I served on staff at a Christian boarding high school that was home to teenagers from across the country and around the globe. I loved these young people, and I loved the part-time work—activities director, cheerleading coach, overseer of community service.

Megan Martin and her son showed up at our place back when Dan and I were first married. We had sorted through our duplicate household items, and Megan was there to pick up the excess home furnishings.

In a conversation with my daughter and son-in-law around their dining table, I tried to explain how the years of hard news and disappointments affected my outlook. As sorrowful events piled one on top of the other—like so many crushed, stacked cars in a junkyard—I eventually became accustomed to the brokenness. I still believed God could do anything, anything. Just not for me

We hiked every day, even on the couple of intermittent-rain days. The reward for putting up with the wetness was a dusting of snow on the mountains the next day. Dan dragged me out of bed before sunrise—twice—so we could catch the alpenglow. If you’ve never seen pink frosting on a mountaintop, you need to get out more.

“It’s very rare.” My friend, Howard, called on his drive home from Oregon Health Sciences University in Portland. “And fast-growing.”

Howard’s cancer diagnosis came out of the blue. “They’re saying a matter of weeks.” I was stunned. Everyone was stunned.

While relocating from Oregon to southern California, I was escorted off the Pacific Coast Highway by two patrol cars with flashing lights. I’m blaming it on my son, Jeremy. He recommended a jog over to the coastal highway from the 101.

Our grandson, William, spent a few days with us recently. When all the grands are together, there is rowdy fun. But one grandchild at a time provides the unique opportunity for deeper conversations and greater bonding.

“Can I deliver a Chai and leave it on the front porch so as not to disturb the patient if you pick it up while it’s hot?” The email arrived out of the blue from a retired schoolteacher friend.

“No, you may not drop and run,” I countered. “I need a hug. Besides, isn’t that a run-on sentence?”

Dan and I recently returned after a week of wandering through Olympic National Park and down Washington’s ruggedly gorgeous coastline.

A few years back, my mom blacked out and hit the floor in her small-town pharmacy. Her physician couldn’t find anything wrong. “Mom,” I implored, “come stay with us until the doctors can figure this out.” She balked.

This week on the lake and around the campfire, I’ve been reflecting on how Dan and I met and married—a miraculous, seemingly random turn of events: if this one little thing hadn’t happened, then this other big thing wouldn’t have happened.

My daughter Summer was with us as her dad was dying of cancer in the hospital bed in our living room. Her cell phone chirped. It was the international adoption agency. “We have a referral for three brothers who would do well in a family with children. Are you interested?”

The world is much smaller than I thought. I recently met new members of my family I hadn’t known previously—brothers and sisters in Latvia, this tiny country that was once part of the Soviet Union and has only been independent since 1991.

On a beautiful 740-acre piece of rolling hills with patches of forest, stands a children’s camp and a working sheep ranch. Eagle’s Wings. 

I had several stand-out high school teachers, but a seventh-grade teacher comes to mind when I think about undercover influence. Mrs. Wells. She invited me to join her after school one day a week with a handful of other seventh graders.

Not all people are eager for change. It takes us away from the comfortable, the familiar. It sometimes costs, and sometimes hurt, and has the potential to unsettle us a bit. Or a great deal.

Making intercessory prayers for our children is a privilege. It’s a tool from God to assist us in the high calling of rearing our offspring, which takes tremendous amounts of grit and grace.

Every time I returned from a hike, Roxie was sitting at her guard post, halfway up the stairs where she can see out the large windows that flank the stone fireplace. No one was getting away with anything on her watch.

I met this amazing young woman, Sarah Thebarge, at a writers’ conference in Portland a couple years ago. She taught a coaching class entitled “The Healing Power of Your Story”—eight hours spread over three days with in-depth instruction, writing exercises, and critique.

The antagonism has risen to a new level. After we housed and fed and entertained my daughter, son-in-law, three of the grands, and a grand-dog for five days—five days—we started finding tiny plastic ducks. Everywhere.

Our time with family in Hawaii this year unfolded at a slower pace—partly because there were only two couples instead of four. Which allowed for time to read on the beach. And time to leisurely journal on the balcony to the crash of waves.