For the past few years, my Christmas seasons haven’t looked like I wanted them to. Last year, a water leak necessitated the removal and replacement of the flooring in half my home—during the month of December.

The ancient “road” in Israel is a narrow footpath that runs alongside a deep canyon—cut by water through the limestone of the rocky Judean hills—known as the Wadi Qelt.

Understatement warning! Stepmothering is hard. Not only are we the queens of accommodation and adjusting, but we do so while battling very difficult emotions. I certainly wrestled with a few early in my stepmom journey.

You have to grieve normal. I advised as she cried. You have to grieve normal. Or you’ll feel like you’ve died. He’s not what you wanted? She’s broken, you say? He’s medically fragile. She can’t learn to play?

It seemed a logical decision to make. I was nearing forty, and my husband and I would soon be launching a church plant in a new community.

After almost forty years as a dental hygienist, I’ve come across a few clever statements. These are two of my favorites: You don’t have to floss all your teeth, just the ones you want to keep. Brushing without flossing is like washing your hands without cleaning between your fingers.

It’s been almost nine months since my husband, Alan, passed away suddenly while, thankfully, doing something he enjoyed—working on the lawn. When I think about that day, the pain still can hit me like a wave—or a slap—and the tears flow.

I don’t remember a thing she said, but the entire time she preached, I wept. The woman at the front of the church was older, probably in her mid-60s. We were new to the church, and when she was introduced, I grew tense with anticipation.

“Wait just a second…you’re telling me we have to climb up this waterfall just by holding hands with a bunch of strangers? No ropes or harnesses or anything?”

When my now six-foot-two son was growing up, he experienced what the doctor called “growing pains.” During multiple appointments, the medical staff couldn’t prove that growing hurts and/or find physical concerns to explain the aching. However, my son’s leg pain was real. We did what we could to bring him relief but, sometimes, all we could do was comfort and encourage him while he . . . grew.

“I think I’ll bounce it off the van and into the basket,” my husband, David, joked as he aimed his disc. We were visiting western North Carolina, where rec center disc golf courses are ringed with blue mountains, gurgling streams, and lush nature.

“I will remove my hand and you will see my back; but my face must not be seen” (Exodus 33:23).

Maybe you’ve seen inspirational quotes or merchandise along the lines of “You are enough.” It’s a saying that’s trending now—something people find encouraging.

A young boy was watching his mother make the family’s traditional holiday ham recipe. After noticing his mother slice off both ends of the ham before placing it in the pan, the son asked his mother why she removed part of the ham because it seemed wasteful.

When in 1995 my friend Amy Young moved to Chengdu, China, to teach English as a “Great Commission” cross-cultural worker, she wasn’t prepared for the proliferation in her new home of what she calls a “free-range animal.” On her first night in this new city, the head of her English department said, “Please mind the doors because there are many mice.” How true those words proved to be: mice nibbling the flowers next to her bed; mice running over her face as she slept; mice that she finally, with a frying pan, had to put out of their misery when they got caught in the sticky-paper trap.

Except for the Gospels, where Jesus is the living and breathing Word, God seems to reserve the power of His audible voice for critical moments. He breaks His silence only when it’s His true and clear Word that could muster the listener to turn, go, act, or change.

My daughter had not returned. It was late, so I stepped out the front door to watch and wait for her return. I spied her as she ambled down the street, reluctant to return home, it seemed, by her pace. I ran up the street to meet her. She flinched, unwilling to let me gather her into my arms, and truth be told, I flinched, too. She’d gone where she wasn’t supposed to and did what she’d known not to do.

I shy away from truly expressing my feelings. Which people who know me would question, because I don’t think anyone would call me “emotionally reserved.” I cry most days—good cries, happy cries, grateful cries, excited cries, and of course, sad cries, too. But despite how many feelings I show on the outside—I have a zillion and ten more that I stuff down and keep inside.