A Lonely Church Kid Blues

Posted on January 29, 2026 by Mark

I feel alone. I have been reading all the stuff online by ex-evangelicals who are “deconstructing” their faith in favor of a faith less traumatic, legalistic, shaming, silencing, and controlling: a more affirming faith—or in some cases, no faith at all. Many comments declare solidarity and cry, “Me too! I also suffered under the tyranny and trauma of evangelical churches!” Without some dishonesty, I can’t join this chorus.

I feel alone because although in the depths of evangelical tradition, I have no trauma. I am missing what seems universal online—trauma and resentment from a childhood in evangelical culture. I was the son of a pastor and attended church twice on Sunday, once on Wednesday and every day during revival services. I also attended an evangelical college. In graduate school at Washington State University, I helped lead an Intervarsity Bible study for graduate students. Although I spent most my life teaching at community college, I taught long enough at an evangelical college for them to ask me to resign (regarding the gifts of the Spirit).

Despite all this, I find myself on the outside of the community of traumatized ex-evangelicals who are helping one another heal. I read about their hurt with sympathy and curiosity. I can only listen carefully. I am in no position to challenge or validate their pain. My mother survived the trials of being a pastor’s wife whose appearance and parenting skills were constantly critiqued by congregations. And then there were the expectations that if Dad was hired as the pastor, mom was part of the package. She was criticized for teaching school instead of being a full-time pastor’s wife and keeping us completely dependent on the meager and sporadic tithes. Yet, I never heard or saw any signs of trauma in my mother.

Nor did I see any signs that patriarchy had robbed her of her voice. The whole community discovered this when she was elected president of the local teacher’s organization. She confronted male superintendents and school board members and nearly led the organization into a teacher’s strike. Mom was articulate, well-read, and loved Jesus and my Dad. She had a keen sense of what was just and ethical. Before the Americans with Disabilities Act, she valiantly defended a male teacher whose job was threatened because of his “poor eyesight”.

Neither as a parent or a pastor, did my father ever shut down questions. In high school when the Black Panthers, Weathermen, and protests were a thing, I could ask him anything without being shut down. I let my hair grow when the Jesus Movement hit the west coast. Although a few people in the local church were critical of my ragged bellbottoms and long hair, Dad asked one question, “Mark, do you love Jesus?” When I said, “Yes”, Dad said, “Then wear your hair how you want.” Well, there went my chance to complain about controlling and legalistic parents.

Another common complaint is that evangelicalism is shallow. Maybe it is/was for some, but that was not my experience. I grew up in a home that was churchy to the core, but well-read and intellectually active. Dad and I discussed the ontology of time and how it is that God’s foreknowledge is or isn’t causative. We argued about different theories about theodicy, epistemology, and eschatology. Mom’s Quaker parents thought, even in the 30’s, that all their daughters should have a college education. Mom taught grade school but her first love was botany—so our whole family grew up knowing the names of plants, birds, and butterflies. We grew up camping and loved all that is natural and wild.

I attended an evangelical college (Northwest Nazarene in Idaho) and found it more intellectually challenging and wide-ranging than my graduate program in English. I took a lot of philosophy and history classes. My junior and senior year I was invited to enroll in Doctor Woodward’s history seminar where we read a stack of challenging books from the left and right of the political spectrum. Because of Doctor Woodward, I was much better prepared to tackle difficult works than most of classmates. Amazingly, I was even more familiar than my secular classmates with the texts of those on the left.

It may be that my lack of trauma is simple because my parents were extraordinary. However, much of what I read online makes evangelical culture seem so toxic that healthy parents could never protect a kid and adult as immersed in it as I was. (And yes, I went to church camps and had fun and went to the altar.) I am aware that I deliberately chose an intellectually challenging course of study in college. Other students may have chosen a narrower and more provincial path. And maybe the Christian liberal arts college I attended was unique.

Nor was I just a mild and compliant kid that did not make waves. Like my mother, I was not compliant. In high school and college, I had conflicts with administrators. I once confronted the college president about his silly censorship of some the plays being staged on campus. I wrote a couple articles in an underground campus newspaper whose editors were discovered and suspended by the college president.

I don’t think it was because I grew up in an idyllic time. My parents lived through WWII and the Depression. I had one brother in the army in Vietnam and one brother marching against the war and then serving in the Peace Corp in Korea. (Strangely and wonderfully, they met up in Japan and had a great time seeing Tokyo.) Comparing the difficulties of past and present is probably a fool’s errand; different times are hard in different ways. In my times, there was certainly more legalism than today. If legalism is part of evangelical toxicity, I was certainly exposed to more of it than most of those deconstructing their faith.

There are probably multiple evangelical cultures, and some may be more toxic than others. Most of the ex-evangelicals I read, however, present their experience of evangelicalism as universal and don’t acknowledge that West Coast evangelicals (me) might have a better experience than a deep south Baptist.

I attribute my lack of trauma to the fact that my parents were the real deal—and lived their faith behind the scene and in the hardest times. So, no matter how many legalistic busybodies or anti-intellectual bigots I encountered, my parents were a spiritual compass that always pointed to Jesus. Had they been hypocrites, I would be a mess, even today. But this would be true no matter what religious tradition I was raised. Hypocrisy is always a disaster for kids–whether in Catholicism, Orthodoxy, or evangelicalism.

It is at this point, I want to let everyone know that I have real skills when it comes to criticizing the church. I was pastor’s kid, so I saw behind the curtain. I saw all the meanness and pettiness of people. I could throw theological and sociological and ethical critiques at the church. Whether they are egalitarian or complementarian, evangelicals have not done enough to protect and value women. We have not been in the fore-front of every battle against racism and antisemitism. Almost all my adult experience as an evangelical has included serving the poor, but here we, like all American Christians, could do much more.

I do not offer my experience as vindication of evangelicalism, but nor do I receive the accounts of trauma as discrediting of evangelicalism. I simply offer my experience as something that is also true. In all areas, it is important for the voices of victims to be heard clearly and fully. And where the trauma is the result of institutional evil or cover-ups, it is important to demand repentance, transparency, and change.

But it is just important to hear from those who were blessed, helped, and nurtured by the evangelical tradition. One reason I am still an evangelical is that in Scripture we have a rudder that can steer God’s people when they drift off course. Any look at the use of Scripture by the abolitionists shows how powerful a force it can be for moving the church away from sin and injustice—even when entrenched in a culture. It is evangelicalism’s high view of the authority of the Bible that I treasure most and gives me hope. If “deconstructing” our faith loses this, we have lost our way and risk losing the Way.

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Sunday Morning Light and the Sweet Rhythms of Church Kid Life

Posted on January 25, 2026 by Mark

Here in Kansas we are snowed-in after a day and half of flurries, but now sunlight slides across the snow. All is bright and white. Teckla and I have been sitting on the couch looking out the window at the melting snow sliding off the redbud tree. All is clean.

 For some Sunday memories are sad, or even angry. I would like to sing a different song this morning. I have been sitting by a stream of Sunday church kid memories. When I was a boy, I played outside all week: catching snakes, climbing trees, digging tunnels, and throwing dirt clods. Come Saturday night I turned the bath water brown and had to scrub the dirt from around my neck and knuckles with a brush.

We cleaned up for church. I am sure I was cute as all get-out when Mom clipped a bow tie on me. These were the days before churches were fragrance-free, so not only was I free of wild-boy stench, but Mom’s perfume and Dad’s Aqua Velva (sometimes Bay Rum) filled the air. During the week my brothers and I went our own ways, but on Sunday there we were all cleaned up together in the car (without seat belts) and then in a row on a wooden pew.

I grew up in church, so the tunes of the hymns were familiar before I learned the words. I often mumbled through the verses and sang the chorus with gusto. I especially liked the song “Whiter than Snow” which ended with “Now wash me and I shall be whiter than snow.” The dirty bathwater from the night before helped me sing this with certainty that my heart also needed washing.

I still need Jesus to wash away my sins. That Jesus makes me whiter than snow gives me even more joy now since I am closer to seeing Him. I am grateful for all the church-kid rhythms of Saturday bath and Sunday worship. I am grateful for the fragrance of Christ that filled my life because of a mother and father that loved Jesus. I am grateful for lilacs that bloomed outside the door of the little Nazarene church in Milton-Freewater even though the parsonage was tiny and white-board church hot in the summer.

We ate better on Sundays. Mom had mastered the pastor wife’s art of putting food on to cook so that it would be done when we got home. This was before crockpots, so it was often a roast in the oven. During the week we ate poor—at least economically (chicken necks, liver, meatloaf). Sunday was a feast day—often with mashed potatoes and gravy. We even put out a tablecloth. In all this there was the gentle glory of love’s labor.

I wish I could sing or dance all this. Words fall short. Teckla laughs when I dance, and that too gives me joy on a Sunday morning filled with light, blanketed with white

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The Explosive Truth about Contemporary Worship

Posted on January 16, 2026 by Mark

Many of those exiting the evangelical tradition for liturgical churches list dissatisfaction with worship as a main reason. I have friends that have found a home among Anglican, Catholic, and Orthodox worshippers. I have read some cutting criticisms of contemporary worship by some of ex-evangelicals—criticisms that, I think, sometimes go astray.

Although I grew up on hymns and holiness gospel songs, I enjoy contemporary worship. At the Vineyard where I worship, there is no hint of entertainment, nor much emotionalism. But most folks stand with their hands raised throughout the service, but I saw more emotionalism in my early days in The Church of the Nazarene. Then people shouted, waved hankies, and occasionally would run the aisles while shouting, “Glory.” We called this being “blessed”. We sang some hymns, but mostly rousing gospel songs. I lived through and participated in the Jesus Movement which gave birth to contemporary Christian worship. I deeply appreciate both worship traditions.

One criticism which may be true in some instances is that evangelical worship appeals too much to people’s emotions—it tries with music or lighting or amplifiers to create a religious feeling. This criticism, however, assumes anything felt is merely emotional. But must the desire to experience the presence of God—the moving of the Holy Spirit—be reduced to emotionalism? Can we worship and adore Emmanuel, God with us, without in sensing His presence? When we are together as living stones made into a temple of the Holy Spirit, is it not good and right to experience the Spirit’s presence? Must this be dismissed as an immature need for feelings or exploitive emotionalism.

An emotional response to the good news of God’s love and our salvation through the grace of Jesus is simply realism. I would argue that even where I worship, we need more emotion, not less. Feelings of adoration, celebration, and gratitude should flood our hearts as we worship God. I have always objected to idea that one could express such emotions only if “blessed” or “moved by Spirit”. I worship because I am moved by the truth and because God, no matter how I feel, is worthy of all my praise. I am a realist.

Regarding worship, it is easy to confuse personal taste with critical evaluation. The result is that we sometimes criticize contemporary worship for things rampant in the Psalms. Contemporary worship is repetitive, some complain. Not like hymns that have the same chorus after each verse? Have they ever read Psalm 136? Really, can’t we just say once that “God’s lovingkindness endures forever”? When we shift from worship that is mental assent to biblical propositions to worship that adores, exalts, and praises God repetition is less likely to exhaust our patience.

Others complain it emphasizes the individual’s experience too much instead of teaching deep theological truths. Have they read David’s songs of complaint and praise? I read one critic who complained about how often the personal pronoun “I” comes up in contemporary worship.He cited this as evidence of narcissism. I took this criticism seriously until I looked at the personal pronouns in “Amazing Grace”. I think there is nothing narcissistic about proclaiming “I once was lost, but now am found/Was blind but now I see.”  Celebrating grace that saves a “wretch like me” is humble. The hymn “Love Lifted Me” like many gospel songs is a testimony to power of God’s love to save us out of sin and despair. I suspect, however, if we added some drums and lighting some would be quick to call it shallow and narcissistic.

We should also avoid skewering contemporary worship for what it omits. I recently read a list of contemporary worship songs that should be avoided because they failed to place God’s love and our salvation in the context of covenant. Since I begin each day singing hymns with my wife, I noticed that none of the ones we regularly sang mentioned our covenant relationship with God. Some failed to mention the trinity. In fact, almost any hymn can be criticized for what failed to include.

Special effects and staging, I suspect, are a matter of taste and tradition. If you think about it, Catholic tradition is full of special effects. The architecture, acoustics, stained-glass windows, and candles offer amplification and special lighting. Cathedral pipe organs playing Bach can not fail to leave a believer untouched by glory of God. I once worshipped in an Anglican church in Nampa, Idaho (of all places) where the priest swung the censor as he walked down the aisle at the beginning of the service. I liked it but some old-time Anglicans complained.

Most Protestants, however, have viewed all special effects with suspicion. In fact, we are sometimes guilty of acting as if ugly is more spiritual. Part of my spiritual heritage is Quaker—who celebrated plainness in everything, including their meeting halls. No pastor preached but all waited until someone felt led by the Spirit to speak. The goal these days for Protestant buildings is usually functionality rather than beauty. It seems, however, that if God is the Lord of our body, soul, and spirit that is right for worship to appeal to both our senses and our minds, our body and our spirit. Maybe God likes beauty.

A final criticism of contemporary worship is simply that it has become too much like the world. If worship looks too much like a rock concert, it is inherently worldly. But, it is implied, if people sit quietly like those attending a classical music concert, they are not worldly. It is equivalent of saying jeans are worldly, but the suit worn by a greedy Wall Street tycoon isn’t. Too often Christians stand or sit frozen in their pews singing psalms about shouting or dancing unto the Lord.

Last of all, I think it is easy for ex-evangelicals to fall prey to “convert zeal” when looking back at their evangelical experience. I have a taste of this as I have read Catholic and Orthodox writers on the contemplative tradition and attended some masses. I feel like I have stepped off into the deep end as I read Ignatius Loyola’s Spiritual Exercises or St. John of the Cross’s Dark Night of the Soul.The need to practice spiritual disciplines to grow in Christ seem practical and refreshing. Even the sacrament of confession, seems needed and powerful—if not limited to priests.

But if I am honest, those in these liturgical traditions did not share my excitement—most had not read their own spiritual fathers. Many went to church occasionally and for many God had little impact on their daily lives. It is therefore important to see that spiritual stagnation is not limited to the evangelicals or any one group. It also true that nationalism can take the church captive anywhere—as we see with Orthodoxy in Ukraine and Russia right now.

What then brothers and sisters? First, let’s not mistake nostalgia or personal taste for discernment. Let’s reject all emotional manipulation whether done with liturgy and ritual or lasers and smoke machines. Third, let’s not raise any tests for worship that David’s psalms or our beloved hymns cannot pass.

Lettuce worship!

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Life is a River, Not a Road

Posted on January 2, 2026 by Mark

We figured three hours would be long enough to canoe from Myrtle Point to Coquille which was only nine miles by Highway 42. The plan was Aaron and his two boys plus my four boys would fill the bottom of big Coleman canoe and Aaron and I would paddle from each end of the canoe. We slid into the Coquille River at the boat ramp near the end of Spruce Street.

Friends and family were going to meet us at Sturdivant Park in Coquille where we would pull out the canoe and celebrate Peter’s birthday. As soon as we passed the place where the north fork of the Coquille comes into the river, we knew we had a problem. Here the dark water was still, and the fallen alder leaves floated up the river. Turns out that the Coquille River is one of the longest tidal rivers on the Oregon Coast and the tide, unfortunately, was coming in. Not only did we have no current, but we had to paddle just to keep from drifting upstream.

Soon a second problem emerged. Three hours was plenty of time to walk to Coquille on the road, but the river looped and meandered all over the Coquille Valley. Ancient myrtles and broadleaf maple trees hung over the river—the last remnant of the trees that once owned the valley. We glided past blue and green herons as osprey wheeled in the sky above us. Occasionally, a beaver would slide off a riverbank or slap the water with its tail. Everything was beautiful, but we were moving slowly.

Just a little past the Arago boat ramp, we realized that we were an hour late and probably had another hour of paddling to do. Fortunately, Aaron had grown up around Arago, so we pulled the canoe up a steep bank and Aaron went for help. The boys were exhausted from cramped quarters in the bottom of the canoe. They were ready for the adventure to be done. We were at least an hour and a half late for the party and gave our apologies to those who had waited. (These were those amazing days before mobile phones.)

I have often expected and even wanted life to be a road, but it is much more like a river. I went to college as religion major, changed to a English major. On a whim, I took a Graduate Record Examination and had my scores sent to graduate programs. After a graduate degree in English, my life looped through pastoring for three years, teaching third grade six years, returning to Oregon to teach at the community college for thirty years while preaching here and there. Now I have looped back to Kansas where I pastored forty years ago.

In evangelical circles, especially Baptist I suspect, people would be invited to Christ because “God loves you and has wonderful plan for your life.” It is certainly true that God has a wonderful plan for our lives, but sometimes we think that the plan includes the job we get, the person to marry, the place to live, and kids we have. But then we discover the GPS of the Holy Spirit isn’t telling us where to turn, that people have free-will, and that God may leave some choices to us. Suddenly, life is much more like a river than road, and we worry we missed God’s plan A are forever doomed to second best plan. You may even find the tide is coming in—and that you need to paddle hard just to stay afloat spiritually.

Our plan would have worked if we had taken a whole day, packed a lunch, and taken time to swim and stretch our legs. I have learned to take life as it comes, to wander with the river. If you allow enough time, even the tide changes and suddenly you are freely gliding on the current of the river rushing to the sea.

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Framed

Posted on December 22, 2025 by Mark

Once again God has hemmed me in with limitations. Until this last year my life had if not fewer, at least different limitations. In Oregon, I had job with what  seemed like unlimited contact with people. Each term there were new groups of students, each like a strange new planet. Teckla and I lived in a rambling four-bedroom house with a yard and garden. We shared the house with our son Peter and his son Ari, and an unruly Doberman named Pharaoh.

I was rooted in two churches and a men’s Bible Study that had met for years. Three Sundays each month we attended the little Nazarene Church across street–a church my father pastored for several years in the seventies. We had friends and saw those friends regularly. Once a month, I preached at the local Presbyterian church—a place full of wonderful people.

We were also rooted in the beaches, forests, and creeks we haunted. I can still tell you where the trout lilies, grass widows, and larkspur bloom on Euphoria ridge. On the beaches I know the best places to find sea stars and anemones, the places to get out of north wind that whistles down the beach in the summer.

All that has been left behind for a two-bedroom townhouse in the suburbs. Ari has been adopted and we gave up Pharaoh. This might be the first time in our married life that Teckla and I are living alone. Even though Dylan and Vanessa and their four kids live only a couple blocks away, it is odd for it to be just us.

Although we are free of parental responsibilities, a dog, and a job, Teckla’ dementia presents more limitations each day. The usual formula of retire and travel will not work in our life’s equation. The things time and money make possible must be surrendered.

God is like a photographer who keeps zooming in for a close-up and cuts more and more out of the frame. Of course, for both paintings and photographs, what is left out is as important as what is put in. A skilled photographer can snap a picture of something we see everyday and make us feel that only now do we really see it. A still life of an apple can make us see apples for first time. The limits of the frame help us see clearly.

We live in a culture that hates limits and celebrates personal autonomy as the highest good. But the limits that God uses to frame our lives should be embraced—it is what gives meaning and beauty to our lives. God calls us to love—and love places limits and demands on our lives. When we adopted and then homeschooled four boys, we embraced a slew of limits on our time and finances. It was hard, and it was wonderful.

What is marvelous and mysterious is that when God enters into our picture even the smallest place with tightest frame becomes panoramic. I see clearly his presence in my life over the years, and a whole universe of eternity opens for before me as death and resurrection move closer. As the frame gets smaller, the picture gets bigger. When God is with us, nothing good is truly or forever lost.

So much has been pared away from our lives—in Teckla’s case even memories—that it feels like God is asking, “Are you ready for your close-up?” Teckla is certainly ready. I am sprucing up my heart and trusting God to frame the picture perfectly.

This time of year we celebrate how God framed love and salvation with a stable. A manger framed the Ancient of Days and King of Kings. And in the smallest place we see the greatest glory.  

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Kirby’s Gift

Posted on December 15, 2025 by Mark

I don’t remember how Kirby and I became friends in 2nd grade in Miss Brook’s class. Kirby was a tall and lanky kid; I was short and quick. Somehow we discovered we loved playing outdoors together. In those days fear had not yet gripped the hearts of parents, so it was common for them to yell at their kids to get out of the house. Kirby and I did, again and again.

Sometimes we just went a few blocks from his house to the abandoned log pond and the irrigation ditches behind the park and tennis courts. We caught crawdads and snakes and waded the ditches. Once we built a “fort” out of a stack of railroad ties and defended it from other kids with our BB guns. However, we beat a hasty retreat when some of the Zaragoza boys started raining down boulders with their slings.

On many summer mornings, I would say to Mom, “Kirby and I are going to play together at the river.” The Walla Walla River ran through the east edge of town. In the spring we flipped logs to find the black salamanders with yellow spots. In the summer we tried to catch every snake we could find. On sweltering days, we would drag home for lunch and then comb the alleys for enough beer and pop bottles to get fifty cents for the swimming pool. A couple times, Kirby, with a treble hook and a quick wrist, caught some trout and sold them to the neighbor for pool money. Even in those days, Kirby could catch fish.

As we got older, Kirby and I sometimes climbed the hill above the pool park and dug for opal in the bank behind the reservoir. We rode our bikes down the dusty and rock-strewn road from the top of the hill—occasionally crashing. It was not uncommon for us to come home with bleeding knees, sun burnt necks, and torn jeans. Turns out we both still have a couple pieces of green “opal” we dug up.

I have often said the only thing I have ever really been good at is being a boy. I am grateful for my parents for their free-range approach to parenting. I am just as grateful to Kirby, a friend who made being a boy in Milton-Freewater everything it should be.

After the 5th grade my parents and I moved to Myrtle Point, on the other side of Oregon. The place was beautiful, full of creeks and woods and near some wild beaches, but I never stopped wishing I had a friend like Kirby to explore it all with me.

About ten years ago Kirby and I reconnected on social media. We tried to track how each other was doing in our old age. I explained that I had never stopped catching snakes or flipping logs to find salamanders. I thought perhaps I had over-romanticized my boyhood in Milton–Freewater; it turned out Kirby also thought those years of friendship and adventure were grand. Kirby and I never stopped loving nature and letting it fill us with wonder. It is a gift that Kirby did not know he was giving but one that has blessed me all my life.

Teckla and I moved to Kansas a year and a half ago and about five months ago moved into our new place. I messaged Kirby and asked for advice about planting irises around my house. He didn’t just send advice; he sent a whole box of bulbs. Kirby died last week. I was hoping to send him pictures of the irises when they bloom next summer. Instead, with each bloom I will whisper a prayer of thanksgiving for a good friend who helped give me an amazing boyhood.

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Remember?

Posted on December 14, 2025 by Mark

I recently read of the suicide of a philosopher. He was in his nineties and in good health but felt he had lived long enough and wanted his family and friends to remember him as he was with all his faculties and the ability to care for himself. His decision would not be mine, but my age, Teckla’s dementia, and the visits of ambulances to the homes of the elderly on my street force me to think about how I want to be remembered.

I am sad to see Teckla’s dementia dissolve so many of her abilities and gifts. She searches her grandchildren’s faces but can’t recall their names. She forgets we are married. It would be wonderful if our last memories were of her at her best: leading Bible studies and worship, showering love and hospitality on everyone.

And these losses are only the beginning of the indignities we can expect. But caring for my mother, brother, and son as they died has left me unafraid and humble enough to not care how I am remembered. I am unafraid because I have seen how in the days before dying God breaks through with surprising gifts of love and grace. My hope is in Him—not better pain management protocols.

For example, not long before Teckla’s dad died of bone cancer we stood beside his bed and watched as he lifted his hands and stared at the corner of the room. His skin was translucent and you could see the blue line of every vein. He was so frail, so thin. When we tried to take his hands, he shook free. Still staring into the corner he said, “Not yet.” It was clear he was not talking to us. Something a fresh as a mountain breeze touched our skin and souls. That moment on the threshold of eternal life was a gift to Teckla and me. We knew God and eternal life is real and is always a second away.

My mother chose to prolong her life several times after her stroke. She couldn’t swallow so she had to choose whether to starve to death or have a feeding tube put in. I laid hands on her and prayed for her healing. She would always say sweetly, “I feel a little better.” If you can survive your prayers for your dying mother being unanswered, your prayer life has grown a spine and some roots and some perseverance. And of course, in those last days my brothers and I also got to show her the depth of our love.  

This last week Teckla and I had a hard time communicating about little things around the house. She simply could not remember what the words were. The milk would end up in the closet, no matter how many times I would point and say, “Refrigerator.” Exhausted, I flopped onto the bed and looked up and Teckla and said sardonically, “Teckla, what is the meaning of existence?” I was, of course, being a smart-aleck and did not expect an answer. But not a millisecond later, she quietly shot back, “To love others.” I was humbled, and I think I God giggled.

So how do I want to be remembered? As someone who has loved God and others fully to the very end. When time, death, and God wring the last drops of life from this ragged body—I want them to be drops of love. I want to be remembered as someone who poured out his life for God and others.

I want my grandchildren to remember how I loved Teckla through every hard moment and every sad moment. I want them to remember that though she can’t recall their names, she has not forgotten to love. As her mind falters, and her body betrays her, I hope they catch a glimpse of the light of glory growing brighter in her each day.

And perhaps above all, Teckla and I want to be remembered for caring most about how God remembers us.

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I See Pawpaws

Posted on December 5, 2025 by Mark

I have learned to see pawpaw patches. I lived in and hiked this part of the Midwest from 1980 to 1993. In the spring I occasionally saw the pawpaw’s large leaves and maroon flowers, but never the fruit. It turned out that the fruit matured in September, when clouds of ragweed pollen inflamed my allergies.

This September, thanks to better allergy medicines, I sought and found some pawpaw patches loaded with fruit. Now that I have become familiar with the shape of their leaves and their splotchy bark, I see them easily when hiking besides creeks. In fact, I now notice them so quickly that I wonder how I missed them along the trails I had hiked multiple times. Their leaves are larger than most of the other trees and in the fall hang on the trees longer. Now I see the buttery yellow leaves drooping in the understory of naked oaks and hickories.

What once seemed scarce now seems abundant, but all that has changed is my vision. There may be a name for this phenomenon.This miracle of seeing the world takes many forms. Experienced birdwatchers identify a bird from how it flaps its wings, creeps up the trunk of tree, dances in the understory, or scratches in the fallen leaves. Skilled birdwatchers, like my brother Stanley, could identify soaring birds from their silhouette and hidden birds from their songs.  

Skilled hunters will see the whole story of the deer before they see anything move. They will see the bark rubbed off the tree by a buck’s horns, the round scat, the flattened grass where they slept, and the trails to where they drink. The unexperienced will be blind to the story, stomp noisily through the woods, and report no sign of life.

Mushroom hunters know this concept too. Along the coast of Oregon, I learned to see a slight bump in the fir needles made by a chanterelle. I have never seen a wild morel; they blend in perfectly with the leaf litter, but once you see the first morel—I have been told—your eyes will see more. I have heard of people hunting morels and sitting down on a log in frustration and disappointment, only to discover that morels have taken the forest floor by storm.

Of course, in all this there is more than just knowing the look of the thing; it is knowing when and where they can be found. The pawpaws are understory trees overshadowed by the oaks, hickories, and towering sycamores. They flourish in moist soil along creeks and form thickets. On windy September days you may hear the thud of the fruit falling from the trees. Sometimes, I looked for the pawpaws at the wrong time and in the wrong places.

I have done the same with God who, although omnipresent, sometimes seems nowhere to be found. But at the heart of intimacy with God is learning where His presence grows. Sometimes I have found God in my grief—the grief I had been refusing. Sometimes I have found him in the smallest acts of kindness, the simplest blessings, a child’s smile. I have learned His habitat in the world around me and in my own heart. I have learned His presence grows in the soil of my tears and humility.

In quiet moments of exhaustion and loss, I sit alone on a log like the morel hunter and in the light and shadow of the forest floor see God all around.  

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Eating Eternity

Posted on November 13, 2025 by Mark

I was surprised by how much I liked rock-climbing. In graduate school, a classmate took me to a 30-foot boulder at the edge of Pullman. With practice I got better and better. I learned the grace of holding on to the rock just hard enough not to peel off but not hard enough to exhaust myself. Arriving at the top was exhilarating.

School was the opposite in every way. One class was followed by another, one degree by another. All my goals were long-term and somewhat vague. What would I actually do with degrees in English? In contrast, climbing a rock was wonderfully concrete. Getting to the top was a quick and definite achievement—even though no one was there to applaud my 30 ft ascent.

Even Christians are attracted to obedience that results in quick and concrete achievement. This is true even if we are free of selfish ambition. I wish serving God was more like rock-climbing and less like sowing seed. Broadcast sowing, as described in Matthew 13, is hit and miss. Where the seed lands is a matter of chance or the wind. Some lands on hard ground, some on rocky soil, some in the weeds, and some in good soil. And then there is the wait and the possibility someone else will harvest what you planted (see John 4:37). Only time will tell.

Turns out, I don’t have much appetite for eternity. For instance, this last year I have done no teaching or preaching. Even though both of these bear fruit slowly, compared to my life of prayer and care-giving, these are more like rock-climbing. I must confess, I am only beginning to develop an appetite for work that bears fruit only in eternity. All those who pour out their lives, sometimes for decades, caring for a handicapped child or a parent with dementia will only be rewarded when they see Jesus face to face. I wish I were okay with this.

My efforts to start a home group here in Gardner failed. Most people at the church I attend do not know me and I think few of them live in this area. (If I attended the church longer, I would worry that the lack of interest was because they did know me.) I asked the Lord why I was bothered so much by the small group failing. The answer formed in my heart and mind was, “You don’t take eternal reward seriously, you want fruit you can eat this side of eternity.”

I don’t think God wants us to stop enjoying rock-climbing, doing things that bring a concrete and measurable results. Preachers can enjoy people being blessed or even saved through their preaching. Teachers can delight in the “Aha!” moment when a student understands something. Both can enjoy those rare moments when years later someone shares how much their ministry or teaching helped them.

But the ministries of prayer and caregiving, when done with joy and presented to Lord with love, bear a rare and different fruit. Because no one sees or knows, this beautiful fruit is unblemished by personal ambition or a need for validation. The sweetness of the fruit is the love and pleasure we see in the eyes of Jesus. It is the joy of loving someone with Jesus as you serve and pray.

I want to follow Jesus to the Samaritan woman at the well. His disciples had gone into the town Sychar to buy food and left Jesus alone at the edge of town. When the disciples return, they are amazed that Jesus, a Jewish rabbi, was talking to a Samaritan woman. In fact, this conversation is one of the longest one-on-one exchanges recorded in the gospels. The ministry of Jesus had already gone viral, and he was drawing bigger crowds than John the Baptist had (John 4:1). Yet, here he was revealing himself as Messiah and offering eternal life to a lone Samaritan woman of dubious reputation.

Jesus’ disciples offer him some of the food, but he says he has food they don’t know about. They are puzzled so he explains, “My food is to do the will of him who sent me and bring it completion.” Like the disciples, I am only beginning to understand what it means to live and serve only with an eye on eternity and what is valued by God. The Father’s delight is the eternal food that feeds our hungry soul.

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For a Long Time

Posted on November 1, 2025 by Mark

This is our second autumn in Kansas. We have a wonderful assortment of oak, ash, and maple trees whose leaves flash every color from purple to scarlet. Yesterday we saw a bright red oak catching the setting sun in its translucent leaves. The tree radiated joy as the leaves danced in the breeze.

I told Teckla, “I enjoy the changing colors of the trees in our neighborhood.” She quietly said, “I have liked them for a long time.” I did not explain that we have only lived here a year and a half. Even though I knew her comment was the result of her dementia, she expressed a profound truth. 

Every new beauty is an old friend. Every taste of Eden, no matter how new, is also something ancient. Every new insight is also a memory of an old truth. Joy flows from a timeless place of beauty. God’s steadfast faithfulness is new every morning. God is always doing a new thing that feels old because of God’s unchanging goodness and majesty.

While looking through old pictures the other day, Teckla picked up a picture of herself in high school and exclaimed, “She is gorgeous!” She was baffled and embarrassed when I explained that it was her. Her memory loss allowed her to see her own beauty more clearly. And of course, it awakened me again to her beauty—especially her beautiful modesty and selflessness.  Everyday Teckla is learning something old and new. Me too.

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