“Beware of refusing to go to the funeral of your own independence.”
Oswald Chambers

I highlighted this line in my book years ago. I knew there was something in it for me, something that I needed to understand, but it always eluded me. But this year as I read that line, I understood. And I offer this requiem for the funeral of my independence.

It died years ago the moment I gave myself and my life to God. When my desires became His desires. And when I crucified my old self with him and arose fresh and new born. Alas, even after rising anew, I snuck back to the cross and reclaimed those parts of me that I didn’t want to let go of. They were dead, to be sure, but I wasn’t ready to let go of them. Independence was the first one I reached for. And I continued as if it was not dead.

 Of course my reclaiming it did not resurrect Independence. It was dead, is dead, whether I acknowledged the fact or not. Whether I chose to attend the funeral or not. But I felt more comfortable having it with me. And I thought that somehow, by not admitting that it was dead and reattaching it to my reborn self, that it would be resurrected too.

Needless to say, this isn’t what happened. My Independence hung off of me like a revolting dead thing.

(I have a mental picture of Huck Finn swinging a dead cat.
“What’s that you got there, Huck?”
“Dead Independence.”
“Say, what’s Dead Independence good for, Huck?”)

Having reclothed myself with my Independence, I went about my new life with great fervor and good intentions. I didn’t use my Independence for “bad” things, like I did in my old life. No, I was a new person! I used it for “good” things. I used it to buy spiritual books that I couldn’t afford. I used it to make gifts for loved ones that I didn’t have time to make. I used it to write moralistic homilies that I didn’t understand. Independence might have looked different in my life, but it still stank.

I have carried around my Independence with me for years, doing all kinds of good things that God never asked me to do. As if He was an AP English teacher handing out extra credit.

If my Independence had taken a different form it would have been easy to condemn and put off. If it had looked like pettiness, or pride, or meanness, or selfishness, I would have been first at the funeral to mourn its death. Most of us are willing to attend the funerals of things that we wish were dead.

But my Independence took a more “helpful” form. It looked like support, love, compassion, sharing. It was meals delivered, gifts bought, hospitality offered. And weren’t these the very things I had been reborn to?


And no.

“It is the things that are right and noble and good from the natural
standpoint that keep us back from God’s best. To discern that natural
virtues antagonize surrender to God is to bring our soul into the very
center of its greatest battle…It is the good that hates the best.
Oswald Chambers

Even if it is something good. Even if it’s something right. If whatever it is arises from my own Independence, it is not God’s best. By choosing to do the thing that originates from Independence, I am not choosing His best.

The meals were cooked and delivered with love, but I fed my own family cold cereal for dinner because there wasn’t time left to cook for them. The gifts were bought and given with the purest intentions, but our mortgage payment was late because there wasn’t enough money for both.

There is good, and there is best. And today I’m laying my Independence to rest, and so too all of the good things that I do out of it. I’m choosing to seek God’s best for me.

Which might mean less “good” for others, which sounds so wrong and makes me want to take up the dead cat again!

But I trust that God’s best for me, is God’s best for everyone. And so I attend the funeral.



I like to keep a little something inside my head to turn over and over during Lent, to quietly contemplate and study all the facets from different angles. Here’s what I’m musing on this week:

To Keep a True Lent
Robert Herrick

Is this a Fast, to keep
the larder lean?
And clean
From fat of veals and sheep?
Is it to quit the dish
of flesh, yet still
To fill
The platter high with fish?
Is it to fast an hour,
Or ragg’d to go,
Or show
A down-cast look and sour?
No: ’tis a Fast to dole
They sheaf of wheat
And meat
With the hungry soul.
It is to fast from strife
And old debate,
And hate;
To circumcise thy life.
To show a heart grief-rent;
To starve they sin,
Not bin;
And that’s to keep thy Lent.

This is His Doing

I am far less regular in my prayers and devotions than I want to be. I make time to be still and quiet far less frequently than I ought to. But when life begins to spin and spiral and twist and contort, when my heart is heavy because of sickness and pain and sorrow, when friends and family suffer and mourn, I can go nowhere else.

This morning I sat down with such a heavy heart for all of life’s hardships. I felt such sorrow for all of the ways that we suffer here, most of which I see evidenced right now in the lives of the people closest to my heart. Chronic sickness that doesn’t get better. Acute pain that causes concern. Broken relationships that divide friends. Weak bodies that require mending. Everything seems wrong. Nothing is as it should be.

And yet, what does He whisper to my heart this morning?

“This is My doing.”

Wait. What?

It comes again. “Yes. This is my doing.”


He says it in 1 Kings. God’s people are divided. Israel is a broken nation. Everything seems wrong. Surely this is not what God intended.

One faction takes it upon themselves to fix the problem, to make war against the other faction and force unity upon Israel again. But God says, “Go home, every one of you. For this is My doing.”

These are the words that pillow my head today. My weary brain that paces back and forth over each problem, over every outcome, over all possibilities, finds rest here. Even when circumstances are pure sorrow, even when life is grief and living is pain, God is working and moving.

“Today I place a cup of holy oil in your hands. Use it freely, My child. Anoint with it every new circumstance, every word that hurts you, every interruption that makes you impatient, and every weakness you have. The pain will leave as you learn to see Me in all things.” -Laura A. Barter Snow


There’s a snow storm moving in and we’re all ready for a couple of days of coziness. Even the family minivan is getting cozy.


There’s really no logical reason why one would knit a hood-ornament-cozy for her minivan. But here’s my best explanation.

Two years ago, the car in front of me stopped short and I tapped into the bumper. No damage done, except that the hood ornament on our car popped out onto the road. I picked it up and tossed it into our catch-all basket of “things that need to be fixed someday”.


Then, last week, I had time to browse at the library. Tucked in among the craft books I found this little gem, and was inspired to mend all of our clothing in creative and inspiring ways.

Thinking about the mending put me in a fix-it frame of mind, and I got sad thinking about all of the things in life that couldn’t be fixed with a little fiber (plumbing, appliances, relationships…) So sad, that I became determined to prove that any repair is not only possible but also more fun with fiber. The minivan was the perfect foil.

I knew if I didn’t finish it in a day, it would never get finished. So I taught school that morning with my knitting beside me and we had leftovers for dinner. The kids kept asking me what in the world I was doing. The plumber gave me a very odd look as he passed in and out of the room. But I got it done.

And it makes me really, really happy.

Now I’m eyeing the wheel with the missing hubcap.



Pearl has just been full of the most encouraging words for me this week.

On Monday (me making a desperate attempt at the loom with Daniel on my lap):
“Mama, I know why you can’t finish that weaving. Because you never work on it!”

On Thursday (me refilling my pill box for the week, Pearl watching me):
“Mama, I think you need to make a doctor’s appointment because I don’t think you’re ever going to get better!”


Right now she can still get by on her cuteness. But I’m not sure how much longer that’s going to last.


What They Didn’t Teach Me in College


I had a lot of great professors and sat in a lot of great classes in college. The one that I never saw offered? That I probably would get the most use out of? How to weave with a toddler on your lap.

Maybe it’s a graduate level course.


It doesn’t make for the tidiest edges. But once you get the hang of it it’s awfully sweet to work the treadles with little feet dangling off of your lap.



Dickens belongs to winter. Just as much as knitting and wood stoves and hot licorice root tea.

I almost can’t read anything else from November to February.


This winter belongs to Bleak House. And in my reading last night was this perfectly Dickensian character description.

“Mr. Vohles put his dead glove, which scarcely seemed to have any hand in it, on my fingers, and then on my guardian’s fingers, and took his long thin shadow away. I thought of it on the outside of the coach, passing over all the sunny landscape between us and London, chilling the seed in the ground as it glided along.”

Don’t worry, the season for Dickens passes with winter. Come March I am ready to pick up some light-hearted Austen-ish romance.


The Best Wishes

We found this Christmas card from “The Milk Man” in our milk cooler last week. It was sopping wet. It looks like he wrote it while sitting at a red light.

And yet, it’s hanging on my fridge beside all of the other Christmas greetings  because it makes me giggle just to see it.

I mean, how many people get a Christmas card signed “The Milk Man”??