I had an encounter with my pride this week.

I was born with a fierce stubbornness that's helped me jump in, without looking back, to what God has called me to. I drove a U-haul from my small hometown in Texas on my 22nd birthday. I moved to Los Angeles to start work and seminary in a city where I didn't know a soul. I moved to Africa on my own at 25 and became a mom. Somehow though... Even though I've lived on donations for 16 years...

I asked my three-year old son, Wyatt, what I should write the call to worship about. He replied without hesitation, "You should write about everything because I just love my family so much."

Context makes that statement so profound. We've just finished a long, hard school holiday. Our six-year old son, Benjamin, struggled at the edge of autistic burnout. There were few peaceful moments and many meltdowns. Little Wyatt adores his brothers and has a special connection to Benjamin. We've watched Wyatt's love for Benjamin grow exponentially in the last months, even while Benjamin lashed out against him and dominated the attention of the household.

It's 2026! Some are working out new year's resolutions, while others are still shaking the dust off of 2025. I tuned in (a week late, as usual) to a raw WhatsApp conversation about the new year in my neurodivergent parent support group. Weary parents disclosed visceral reactions to the social standard of dreaming big for the year ahead or even celebrating it as they stagger across the finish line of 2025. They found solace in relatable stories and sentiments, and then resolved together to take one day at a time. I was too late to join the conversation, but I related deeply as I read it.

I have found myself in the beginning of my Bible at the beginning of a new year. The fall of man is the first account after creation. It only took three chapters to get there. Every page after is filled with God's pursuit of unbroken relationship with us, no matter the cost.

Genesis 3 starts with the enemy twisting questions aimed to steal, kill and destroy. "Did God really say...?" In an instant, chaos, confusion, separation, shame, guilt, and fear stained a spotless masterpiece…

The most anticipated day of the year has come and gone, leaving precious memories, overflowing garbage bins, and my kids asking how many days until next Christmas. Is there a such thing as a "wonder hangover" after the Christmas magic has peaked?

Just imagine the morning after the very first Christmas. An incredibly sore, new mom picks up the King of Kings in soiled swaddling cloth.

In 1843, a French priest commissioned renowned poet, Placide Cappeau, to write a poem to commemorate the renovations to the church organ. Cappeau penned the poem "Midnight, Christians". At the priest's request, he worked with distinguished composer, Adolphe Adam, to turn his poem into a song called “Christmas Carol". Today, we know it as the song, "O Holy Night".

The carol was instantly popular but quickly banned from French liturgy when church leadership found out Cappeau was an atheist and Adam was Jewish. The French wouldn't let the song go, however, and it lived in their homes when the church wouldn't sing it.

The South African school year just ended, but it ended extra early for my differently-wired son. His sparkle has been losing its luster since the middle of this year. School breaks, weekends, and our family's accommodations brought no relief or restoration. He loves his school, family, soccer team, and the church community growing around him more than you've ever seen a six-year old love. But even good old-fashioned childlike zeal costs him much…

Last week, I marched into my kitchen and announced, "I will not utter a SINGLE grumble or complaint for an entire month. I won't think one. I won't say one. There's no venting. There's only gratitude." My husband hadn't had his first sip of coffee yet. His eyebrows rose to his hairline as he wondered what had his wife riled up so early in the morning.

It didn't feel early in the morning for me. I'd been up for a long time with a sick child. Beyond that, seismic concern for my son with special needs was rising.

There have been a few seasons in our missions career when we didn't have enough money to buy makeup. I only keep a few, inexpensive cosmetics products on hand, but it's a little thing that makes me feel like me.

Almost ten years ago, I held an almost-empty bottle of makeup and looked at its almost-empty companions. I prayed, "God, please don't let me run out until we can buy more." Maybe it was ridiculous. Maybe it was vain. But God answered that prayer.

It's almost 11pm on Thursday night. I've been trying to write this call to worship all week. There were some curveballs. But more than unforeseen events, my body was just not on board. I woke up daily with an unexplainable sense of panic and a mind that refused to stay engaged. I couldn't sleep, and, when I did, it seemed to only make me feel more tired. Overwhelm was a storm cloud above my head, following me wherever I went.

I tried to understand what was going on while I drove to the gym one morning…

If you saw last week's Call to Worship, you might have picked up that I was going into the weekend overwhelmed and undone, capsized by life's chaos. I was also heading into a weekend away for the women's Alpha course I've been leading. It was just seven women, a house in the mountains, and an exorbitant amount of snacks.

I think I ate three weeks of calories in two days and caught up on a year's worth of laughter. Peace-filled silence and open skies recalibrated my soul's rhythms. Time stood still. My nervous system healed.

Many years ago, I had a profound encounter with God that's stuck with me. My loving Father said, "Daughter, you never have to live in chaos." Simultaneously, a picture flashed in my mind of myself in a room with laundry spread out, toys strewn recklessly, and a complete absence of order. I hadn't even met my husband yet, and the picture didn't match my life at the time. But it often does now.

I once heard a pastor talk about hiring a media consultant. His church was one of the fastest growing churches in America at the time, and social media wasn't yet as popular as news or TV interviews. I can't recall the details of the event that led to the pastor seeking professional advice, but I remember his church breaking the mold in a lot of ways at the time. A public outreach had unexpectedly made national news, and the young pastor was being chased by the media. He was facing a very different audience and knew many interviewers weren't looking to build the Church.

My husband and I sat in a crowded auditorium this week for our oldest son's high school valediction. The headmaster's final address to the students encouraged them to shape their lives around generosity and connection. He spoke of Nipun Mehta's "Karma Kitchen", a generosity experiment that has become a global chain of restaurants.

My sons are 17, 6 and 3 years old. One is preparing for the last exams of his high school career; one is practicing subtraction; and one is learning to sing the ABC's. Almost every evening, all three brothers gather around our low coffee table to play dominoes. The oldest makes sure both of his brothers get a win, but all three are completely unified in purpose and passion. The proverbial "playing field" is leveled by their brotherhood.

This week we asked, "Why did Jesus die?" in the Alpha course I am hosting. This story was part of the lesson and has been on my mind all week…

Corrie ten Boom was a Dutch Christian who hid Jews during the Holocaust. Her whole family was arrested and imprisoned. Her sister died beside her in Ravensbruck concentration camp just ten days before Corrie's release.

Three years later, ten Boom went to Germany to speak about God's forgiveness. Her message was put to the test as soon as she delivered it. Torment resurfaced as she recognized one of the cruelest guards from Ravensbruck approaching her.

This week contained enough material for many calls to worship but did not leave me with margin to write even one. Today, I'm sharing from page 17 in my "Called to Worship" book, originally shared on 6 August 2021.

…

Hurricane Ike devastated the Gulf Coast of Texas in September 2008. Three years prior, I lost my childhood home to Hurricane Rita in the same area.

My eyes are my greatest insecurity.

I underwent surgery for infantile esotropia (crossed eyes) when I was six months old. Early surgical intervention gives young eyes a chance to develop binocular vision (eyes that work together, but the effects "wear off" in time.

Over the last decade, I've lost binocular vision, and, consequently, developed severe eye strain, visual impairment, and loss of eye control. I stay mortified in every moment of eye contact (even with my husband), appearing on videos, or standing in front of crowds.

This week I read an obscure story with a familiar plot.

Ezra 4-6 recounts one episode of God's people returning from a 70-years exile. They faced immediate opposition in rebuilding the temple. Politics, persecution, and twisted truths made it seem there would never again be a place to meet with God. But an extraordinary plot twist came by decree. Enemy accusers received royal, irrevocable notice to stop opposing the temple rebuild. They would face their own demise if they did not also foot the bill and provide for temple sacrifices.

It's our 10th anniversary! Want to hear what happened right before the wedding?

One week prior to our big day, we were en route to a ministry retreat when rioting broke out in a community we were serving. From the road, we managed to have a Ugandan pastor moved from xenophobic uproar into the townhouse we would move into after our wedding.

We returned a few days later with massive sinus infections and discovered our pre-wedding housing would not have electricity for the week.