This post was first published in Anabaptist World.

We recently bought a neglected house in town to use as a rental—a property foreclosed on and sold cheap after its owner died. So now we are left with the task of sorting through piles of “junk” once valued by someone.

I sort through a box of photo remnants of a life. Black and white photos of a schoolboy and schoolgirl in various stages. I wonder if these are the boy and girl who grew up into the man and woman who married, whose marriage covenant I found framed large. If so, he died first. There was only an old woman living here at the last, an old woman who must have needed the ramp and the wheelchair and the plastic storage cabinet full of medical supplies.

She’s left other records behind. A girl’s—maybe a daughter’s—perfect attendance record. A certificate for a CPR class. A certificate of divorce. What I guess to be a son and daughter looking slightly unnatural in too-dressy clothes and gummy smiles.

I wonder why these records of a life were not treasured by family. Do they not care about such quiet old things? Are their lives too full of podcasts and talk show hosts and work? Was there a breach in the relationship? Or were the pictures simply overlooked?

Here, this fresh young face. Is this a granddaughter? And this, a grandson? Pictures show the daughter reaching adulthood, but what happened to the son? Did he die? Leave the family? There is a book about grief here. Here a motto, birds flying, commemorating a Stephanie who’s flown. I remember a child’s artwork, signed Stephanie, among the collection. And here, what’s this? A letter from a correctional institution addressed to Mom.

What heartbreak lies folded among the remnants of this life, heartbreak along with smiling faces, records of accomplishment, sweet cards from friends.

And here am I, a stranger, conjecturing. Looking at the photos not so much because I am morbidly curious but as a mark of respect. I do not want to briskly throw the last records of living and being away, along with flaccid pillows, outdated tins, moldy books.

There is too much of everything in this house. Too much bagged, boxed, stored and unused. Gone moldy. Maybe a record of a thrifty soul caught in bounty. Or maybe the record of an old woman who didn’t have the ability to get down the basement stairs anymore, to sort and discard herself.

Who knows what things I have saved that later eyes will look at impatiently (why on earth?) and toss into a dumpster.

That is why I am afraid to confide too much even in a journal—who knows what those later eyes will unearth? The words will probably be shoved in a box, deleted from a file, burned, forgotten…but what if they are not? I am listening to a biography of Elizabeth Elliot, based on her piles of journals. “Things nobody cares to read but me,” she wrote in one of them. But I am listening to excerpts from those journals. I care.

What if, years later, someone who cares reads my records of birth, death, and emotion and finds things I would not have told them? Or what if, years later, no one bothers to read?

Which would be worse?

I’ve heard people say that writing can impact others for years to come. Maybe. But words are cheap. Amazon and the internet are inundated. When I think of the people who have most impacted my life, I don’t think of a person faceless behind a book. I think of my mom and dad first. Their unconditional love, their willingness to listen. Then I think of others. An older couple who mentored me. A friend who loved me wholeheartedly. Our children’s adopted “grandparents” at church.

Written words are almost meaningless compared to the impact of one ordinary life lived.

I am fascinated, captivated by ordinary life.

Ivan walking into the house, his loping gait. Sunlight on pine needles. Blocks scattered across the floor. Teddy making broom broom noises with his tractor—how does he know to do that? He’s just turned a year, and I never showed him. My daughter’s warm head, hair under my cheek, long lashes fanned down.

The present your children want most is your presence, I read recently. That is why I call Annalise when it’s time to set the table, do the dishes, work on a jigsaw puzzle. Often it would feel easier and more enjoyable to do it myself—but I want her friendship and company when she is fifteen, so I court it now, when she is three.

The things we leave behind. The moldy books and flaccid pillows will be thrown into a dumpster. Other things remain.

***

Feature photo by Margarita Marushevska on Unsplash.

Wishing you all a good month. And check back mid-May for a family update. :)

The post Remnants of a Life appeared first on Lucinda J Kinsinger.

After I posted last, Ivan told me I should make it a point to post every six or seven months. LOL!

“I thought I’d post at least once a month,” I told him. For a person who used to post once a week, I thought that already quite a come-down.

He thought once a month sounded unrealistic, but I think I can. Maybe not long posts, maybe not profound. But a post, near the first of the month, sharing a little about me and what I am thinking and of course, the children. And yes, I did miss the first of April, but I’m sliding in near the end. I’ll try to be more faithful after this. :)

Sometimes I will also share articles I’ve written for Anabaptist World…I have several in the files. So look for one of those around May 1st.

For now, here’s a couple of my favorite recent pictures, with commentary, followed by a favorite excerpt from our family journal.

Ivan had a birthday! And spoiler alert…he turned 49. He is ten and a half years older than me…a distance that felt like quite an adjustment at first. But now, I’m cool with it. It’s part of our uniqueness, and I love that we’re unique. To celebrate, we hung balloons and streamers and had birthday pie. Of course, the children helped blow out the candles.

I’m very proud of this vegetable train. I was going to make it for a party, but the party cancelled, so I made it anyway. A great way to get the children to take an interest in veggies, and quite easy to make. ;)

I love the feature photo at the top of this post: the epitome of summer. And I love the warmer days we’re having. And I love having two children to play in them. Teddy is my little boot boy, and Annalise spends so much more time outside, now that she has someone to play with.

It gives me all the warm fuzzies to see them interact in positive ways. Of course there’s a lot of spatting too. Funny thing is, when Annalise gets in trouble and has to sit somewhere, Teddy faithfully comes and hangs out beside her. The other day, I sent her away to look at a book, leaving him with the coveted toy…and he lost interest as soon as she’d gone and trotted in beside her and squatted down with a book, too.

“You’re my best friend and I love you so much!” she can often be heard to say. (While giving him an overly enthusiastic hug which I have to cut short to prevent him squawking.) Such are the joys of a sibling.

April 14 (an excerpt from the Kinsinger Family Diary)

Last night I was sad & sat with Ivan’s arms around me and cried. Annalise came over & in such a soft sweet voice said, “It’s okay. What’s the prollem?” She gently patted me & said, “Should I get you a blanket?” & brought me a soft fuzzy one. She is a very, very good comforter. :) Teddy also came over and gave me a couple of big open-mouthed kisses. Both children so sweet.

Until May,

Luci

The post Hello in April appeared first on Lucinda J Kinsinger.

Well over a year ago, in December 2023, I began a blog post like this:

“Many of the best gifts in my life have been unexpected, and Theodore Jonas Kinsinger, born November 7, 2023, was no exception. He weighed in at 4 lbs 3 oz, was 16 inches long, and arrived almost 8 weeks before my December 31st due date. He is a gift beyond measure, but nothing like my carefully laid plans and deadlines anticipated. You haven’t heard from me on this blog because in the three weeks following his birth…”

And there the written part of post ends, followed by a string of pictures I uploaded that day and never put words to.

Today I will finish that post. And I will attempt to explain a little bit why I didn’t finish it earlier.

Ivan and I recently tried to name a major event for every year since our marriage (“the year Annalise was born, the year your dad died” etc) and the description we came up with for 2024 was “the year we were tired all the time.” Crazy what one little gastro-intestinally challenged baby can do to you. Besides the stress of caring for Teddy, we were also working through difficult decisions and emotions–decisions and emotions that have not been completely resolved yet, and so I won’t talk about them.

But I will talk about Teddy, my bright-eyed, giggly, wiggly, amazing little boy. Before he was born, I was scared to parent a boy. I mean, how does one know how a boy THINKS? How does one relate to a boy?

Strangely, my apprehension vanished the minute I held Teddy in my arms, and just between you and me (and minus the gastrointestinal challenges), boys just might be easier to parent then girls. So far, our second born seems far less dramatically inclined than our first.

I came this close (picture two fingers held a centimeter apart) to giving up blogging during tired twenty twenty-four. But something in me wasn’t quite ready to. Maybe I need to blog. Maybe it is one way of processing. Maybe it is one way of being somebody, of being heard. Maybe it is one way of forging a connection with a foggy puddle of readers, mostly nameless and faceless in my mind, but people that in some way care about what I have to say, because they read my stuff. Maybe it is one way of maintaining that elusive thing a writer needs–a platform.

And so I never entirely gave up the idea of blogging…sometime. I’d even narrowed down my start-up time to within the next couple of weeks, when I opened an email a couple mornings ago from a reader who sounded rather frustrated. If you have decided that you need to let it go indefinitely, she wrote, it would be nice if you would at least put a short note to that effect on the blog so the people who keep coming to see if you have a new post would know to just let it go also.

Yes, it would. And I am sorry, people who keep coming to see if I have a new post. I had no idea you’d remained faithful. This is due to the fact that the only blog posts I ever check are the ones that pop conveniently into my inbox (and even then I read them less than half the time because, well, I just don’t have time). Bless you for coming back, a whole year later.

Here’s Teddy, the day he was born.

His birth felt miraculous to us. My contractions came so hard and fast there was no way to stop them, but the doctor gave me magnesium and steroids via IV: steroids to strengthen his lungs and magnesium to slow my contractions and protect his little brain. The steroids would need 6 hours to be fully effective, the doctor said, and there was no way we were going to get that…but maybe the magnesium would buy us a couple.

By God’s grace, my labor stretched out seven hours, enough time for Teddy’s little lungs to fully absorb the steroids. When he was born, he needed only minimum oxygen help, which is unusual for a boy. He was transported to Ruby Children’s Hospital in Morgantown, about an hour away.

I got to hold him for the first time the following day, after I was discharged from our local hospital.

One of the most exciting moments of my life was when he got to try drinking from a bottle for the very first time.

We were so impatient for him to master sucking and swallowing so we could take him home! That and growing older, because we were told he wasn’t allowed to leave the hospital before thirty-five weeks.

Such scrawny little bird legs my baby had! Actually, I worried tremendously about his below average weight his entire first year and only recently calmed down a bit and relaxed (since the worst of his gastrointestinal difficulties seem to be over and he’s settled into a heartier feeding routine).

Another exciting step was exchanging his incubator for a bassinet.

And FINALLY, finally when he proved that he could actually and surely eat all by himself, having his feeding tube removed.

At our request (okay, pleading with a few tears) we were allowed to go home two days early, which happened to be the day after Thanksgiving in 2023. My parents were there to escort us.

Home at last.

With this bright-eyed little munchkin.

Who grew into this joyful toddler.

In retrospect, the two and a half weeks Teddy spent in the hospital wasn’t that long. I know people whose babies were in the NICU much longer. But to us, every day felt excruciating. The daily hour-long drive to the hospital. The fact that our little family was always split in two, since Annalise wasn’t allowed into the NICU. The fact that I wanted to care for both my babies, and couldn’t. Annalise started acting out specifically for me over that time, because she couldn’t understand why I left her.

It was two and a half weeks in the hospital, but much longer until our family felt anything like normal again.

If you call this normal, that is. It must be admitted, Teddy’s mama is a VERY messy baker.

We thank God for our Teddy.

The post Welcoming Theodore appeared first on Lucinda J Kinsinger.

Merry Christmas from our little family to you! And yes, that is a second baby in our family photo, a baby that may be a surprise to you if you follow me only on my blog and are not an in-person acquaintance. That’s Theodore Jonas Kinsinger, the reason for my long silence here. He was born November 7, at 4 lbs 3 oz, 16 in long, and almost 8 weeks early. Teddy will be seven weeks old tomorrow, but I tend to forget that and remember instead that he was 39 weeks gestation this past Sunday and we are almost…ALMOST…to his projected due date on December 31st.

He is doing well and growing nicely, thank you for asking.

Sometime soon I will tell a more complete story of his birth and share pictures, but for now, I want to share the Christmas article I wrote for Anabaptist World, in which I tell part of the story and–from the perspective of a mother who’s just given birth to a son–reflect on what Mary must have felt those long years ago.

***

Following a grueling trek across the country, by donkey or by foot, Mary gave birth.

Following a grueling trek across the country by airplane and by car, I also gave birth. Theodore arrived almost eight weeks prior to his due date and—though the circumstances surrounding my labor were different than Mary’s—our son’s birth was in its own way unexpected, traumatic, and miraculous.

We had just returned from an early November visit to my parents five states away. At breakfast time the following morning, I started timing regular contractions. By the time we gathered a few things together, dropped our toddler daughter off with a sitter, and arrived at the hospital’s OB department, I was doubled over in strong labor.

Teddy had decided not to wait for his scheduled arrival date. He was coming and coming now.

Through IV, doctors gave me magnesium to slow the contractions and steroids to strengthen his lungs. The steroids needed six hours to be fully effective—and my labor would never delay that long—but maybe the magnesium would buy us a couple of hours, the doctor said. 

Many people prayed, and by the grace of a gift-giving God, Teddy waited not two just hours, but seven to make his appearance.

From birth he needed only minimal assistance with breathing and was weaned from his c-pap completely several days later.  In the next two weeks, he passed through miles of development, moving from an incubator to a crib and learning to coordinate sucking and swallowing. Just before he hit 35 weeks gestation, Teddy’s doctors released him to come home.

Now he is here with us, and I am amazed to see this tiny person, who should still be floating in amniotic fluid in the safety of my womb, doing all the things a baby must do to live in the great world.

I had thought he would be a Christmas baby. I had looked forward to waiting through the quiet days of Advent for him to arrive, thinking—as Mary must have thought—contemplative thoughts about nurturing and motherhood.

God never gave me that chance.

Like all the best gifts he has given me, he gave Teddy in an unexpected way at an unexpected time and, for good measure, double wrapped the package with a season of stretching and growth. For two and a half weeks, Ivan and I scrambled and stretched to meet the needs of our two babies—a two-year-old and a newborn—in two different places an hour apart. There were hours spent rushing between hospital and home, interrupted nights in a busy hospital, the agony of our little family separated, our daughter missing her mom.

But along with his hard gifts, God gave grace.

And I wonder…those quiet days of Mary’s waiting were maybe a myth in my head. Mary’s pregnancy and delivery also were nothing like what she must have expected and hoped for.

Pregnancy carried her through tremendous stress, through ostracism from loved ones. The circumstances of her son’s birth were less than ideal. Did she have an experienced midwife to coach her, or did she push out her baby with only her husband—who had never seen a birth in his life—to help her? Whatever the case, she must have concentrated—like me—on nothing but her baby, straining every muscle to deliver him safely into the world. And like me—after he came out red and squalling, after she felt his chest warm against hers—she must have loved him.

Did she realize she would love him deeply, love him always, respect him as a man-to-be—not because he was Messiah, but because he was her son?

To hold God, to hold a human baby…what does it matter? To a mother, both are miraculous.

To see the tiny mouth open, expectant, like a bird. To feel the first sharp nibbles on a breast and to know that this tiny baby somehow knows that you are his mother and knows where and how to get his milk. We both experienced this miracle, Mary in her first century stable, I on the seventh floor of a twenty-first century hospital.

Mary’s gift, like mine, was double wrapped. She knew the miracle of holding her baby, of holding Messiah. Later she felt the piercing of a sword to her heart at what her child must endure. She would gladly have died for him, would have preferred it that way. Instead, he died for her. I think there is nothing in the world that could break a mother’s heart like that.

Maybe God’s best gifts are always unexpected, always miraculous, always traumatic. Even the gift of a son to his mother.

The post Christmas Babies and Double-Wrapped Gifts appeared first on Lucinda J Kinsinger.

This article was first published in Anabaptist World as a part of my regular column.

***

When I moved to Oakland, Maryland, after my marriage, I immediately felt at home. The people were warm and inclusive, curious and friendly. I loved to see the Amish and Mennonites mix with each other and with the rest of the local community at a level of interaction and openness I hadn’t experienced among other conservative Anabaptists. Oakland, with its prosperous farms and productive country people, seemed haloed by an idyllic charm. I was proud to call it home.

I am still proud to call this community home. But recently, I learned something about a local Anabaptist—someone I respected and even admired—that deeply disappointed me. Now I grapple with a feeling of disillusionment.

I dealt with similar feelings of disillusionment when it came out that Christian Aid Ministries had badly mishandled sexual abuse against Haitian schoolboys, abuse that could have been prevented. CAM had represented to me everything that was best of conservative Anabaptists—generosity, practicality, integrity, a commitment to spreading the gospel.

My disappointment received a second taint more recently when a Mennonite who was supposedly smuggling Bibles to restricted countries was found to have cheated several Anabaptist ministries from millions of dollars smuggled into his own bank account.

And the late Ravi Zacharias, a Christian hero who blended logic and storytelling in a way that made Christianity both attractive and feasible to the demons of doubt that danced through my soul—this hero too was felled by a specter of sexual misconduct that reached back from his grave.

When stories such as these shock my vision like electric sparks, the world feels tarnished, unsecure. I wonder if all I’ve believed is a lie. The truths I’ve spoken of so glowingly—the redemption that is in Christ, the values of love and forgiveness held among conservative Anabaptists—if these people I trusted could commit sin of such magnitude, is there anyone to trust? Or is all that is in people and in the world failure and disillusionment and lies?

A verse rings in my mind. “The foundation of God standeth sure, having this seal, The Lord knoweth them that are his. And, Let every one that nameth the name of Christ depart from iniquity.” (2 Tim. 2:19 KJV)

We cannot see all things. The verse offers assurance that there is still a foundation of righteousness, and that God knows his people.

I look at my two-year-old daughter, her small pigtails bobbing beside her head, and wonder what I can give her in a world so tarnished. I can give her books, love, time, a country lifestyle, a childhood free of fear…but who am I kidding? I can’t really offer her freedom from fear. I can’t even protect her from evil, much as I would like to. The places I think of as safest have not always proved to be so.

When she grows older, she will find the same surprising end of star dreams that I have found, the same dirge to sparkling water and roses.

I think of what my own parents offered me. I can see their imperfections. I can see the imperfections and wrongs of the small church I grew up in—but still they bequeathed to me as best they knew how a bedrock of dependance on God. They offered me Jesus.

And it comes to my mind that in this world of uncertainty and disappointment, the best thing I can offer my daughter is Jesus. Not Mennonite-ism, or country life, or books, or church, or education…or any of the things I think of as good. I have seen failure in the values and people I counted on most deeply.

But Jesus.

Jesus opens a way to holiness. There is a sense where Jesus cannot fail because…how could he? He is beyond this life.

Do we then hold to a pipe dream?

If it is a pipe dream, it is a powerful one. A pipe dream that has changed people’s lives, brought healing and hope where desert once was. Albert Camus once said, “I would rather live my life as if there is a God and die to find out there isn’t, than live my life as if there isn’t and die to find out there is.”

This Christian hope seems at first glance flimsy, but the closer you walk to it, the more you bang your head, your hands against its rough-hewn walls, the sturdier it seems.

The Christian hope is a hope visualized though not yet seen. A hope that rings louder in our hearts—though the world may stench around us—when we gain private glimpses of God.

Wrong will be rectified. Redemption will come. Lift up your heads; it comes near.

***

Feature photo by MacKenzie Zimmerman.

The post Disillusionment or Hope? appeared first on Lucinda J Kinsinger.

In my life and relationships, I’ve struggled with knowing how to set good boundaries. It took me a long time even to realize I NEEDED boundaries. That’s why the following guest post by Sarah Martin resonated with me. Sarah writes a newsletter called Life Stuff where she explores topics of depth and beauty. The following post is Part 2 of her Boundary Benefit series. If you’re interested in reading Part 1, or in subscribing to her newsletter, shoot Sarah an email at livelovewriteit[at]gmail.com. I am one of Sarah’s recent subscribers and am very glad I signed up!

Sarah says some of the following thoughts come from the book Good Boundaries and Goodbyes by Lysa Terkeurst.

***

Why are boundaries a good thing? 

It helped me to think about it this way: When I establish a relationship with someone, I am granting them access to my heart. But access requires responsibility. And if someone is not mature or respectful enough to be responsible and trustworthy with the access I give them to my heart, then they are not worthy of that access.

God operates in this way as well. His love is unconditional, but when sin entered the garden of Eden (because Adam and Eve crossed a boundary), access to God became restricted. In Isaiah 59:1,2 God says, “Surely the arm of the Lord is not too short to save, nor his ear too dull to hear. But your iniquities have separated you from your God: your sins have hidden his face from you…” (NIV)

Here’s another quote from Good Boundaries and Goodbyes:

“If people are constantly annoying us, frustrating us, exhausting us, or running all over us, chances are we either don’t have the right kind of people in our life or we don’t have the right kind of boundaries… Good boundaries bring relief to the grief of letting other people’s opinions, issues, desires, and agendas run our life.”

 So setting healthy boundaries is a kind thing to do, both for myself and for the other party. The other party might not understand the boundary at first—maybe not ever—but I know that if I don’t set it, I will come to resent them and the way they invade and take over my life. Although I can’t control their reactions when I set a boundary, my emotional health is something I can take control of by doing so.

But if we are here to serve and to love, isn’t it selfish to decide that we’ve had enough?

I’m not talking about totally cutting people out of our lives. Please don’t take this as permission to flee responsibility. But I am saying that there is a danger that we may be helping others for fulfillment, instead of serving from a place of fulfillment.

It helps me to think of it this way: If I overwhelm my schedule and over-commit myself emotionally, I lose the ability to love others well.

It might feel easier to go along with the other person’s expectations in order to keep peace, rather than dealing with the fallout of addressing the issues. And that may work for a while. But resentments will simmer and eat away at you until eventually, there will be an emotional explosion you’ll regret. When the anger and frustration gets the best of us, we are no longer living like Jesus would have us to.

We need to understand the areas where we can find this balance.

·       For example, you might decide that with a certain person, you will only talk face to face instead of messaging in order to remain emotionally balanced and in control of your own reactions.

·       With that person who repeatedly asks for help, instead of always catering to it all, you might give them one or two specific areas where you can help.

 ·       You might be able to have an honest conversation with that person who holds you responsible for their happiness, and kindly point out that you need to step back in the relationship.

Setting a boundary will not look the same for each person, nor be the same in each situation. The key is to prayerfully let your action be one of Spirit guidance and not of selfishness. 

Edward and I learned valuable lessons in spite of the hard situations we dealt with. But I see in looking back that had we established some good boundaries earlier, we could have avoided some of the despair, helplessness, and burnout.

What’s the difference between a healthy boundary and a selfish one? A Christian counselor named Jim Cress says:

“A good boundary is focused on what I do. Its motivation is self-control—I am responsible for my actions; I manage my behavior, and I take ownership for my actions. I focus on the things in my life that I can control.

A bad boundary is focused on what the other person does. It wants to punish or control the person who has hurt me. I want them to be different; I have to change their behavior; I’m owning the actions they choose. I’m hyper-focused on them and always negotiating and trying to motivate them to get them to do what I think they should. The relationship becomes no longer satisfying but rather a drain on my constantly frazzled emotions.”

So, let’s say you’ve put up the good boundary. You’ve kindly explained to the other person the areas where your relationship needs to change. You’ve tactfully said “no” to the demands that are draining your energy and emotional health.

Remember that you still need to heal. “Things are better” does not mean “things are healed.” Healing from a manipulative or abusive relationship takes time—maybe lots of time. It’s normal to recoil from close interaction or to feel hesitant about initiating conversations and activities with the person who has hurt you. That’s okay. Be kind to yourself as you recover.

But it’s good to have at least one other objective person that you can talk to and debrief with. Be honest with someone safe about your feelings. Ask them to assess your reactions and speak into your battered emotions. Reality can get distorted when we’re hurting. Sometimes we need someone else to tell us whether we’re still reacting or looking at situations in light of past negative history. Obviously, this will be a mature person who won’t just tell you what you want to hear.

But do give yourself space. No, this is not always a selfish concept borrowed from secular counselors. It’s a necessary thing. Think about a broken limb that is protected by a cast. Think of Jesus going away alone to pray and recharge before once more facing the crowds.

For example: One day, someone who had recently battered my emotional equilibrium wanted to use my washing machine to finish a load of laundry when hers had given out. (I tell this story with the individual’s permission.) My first reaction would have been, “No! Don’t come into my space.” But I didn’t feel right about a flat ‘no.’ So I said she could come.

However, I knew about what time she would be coming. I didn’t feel able to face her. It was afternoon, so I had to put my baby to bed for his nap. I used this as an excuse to stay upstairs until she left. But up in that bedroom, I fought an inward battle. Should I go down? Was I just hiding, trying to avoid the inevitable time to begin the healing that deep down, I longed for? Was this silly?

Later, when I thought it was safe, I sneaked downstairs, feeling a little sheepish—and found a bag of carrots on the table. I needed carrots. I took this as an affirmation from God that I had done the right thing. And that maybe the other person wanted to move toward reconciliation as well, and understood my actions.

So small, but I believe God uses little things like this to affirm us and keep us from getting discouraged.

Boundaries are not only a good thing, they are a God thing. “He hath shewed thee, O man, what is good; and what doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God?” (KJV) That’s boundaries.

I still have much to learn about loving people well by setting good boundaries. I realize, too, that this concept can’t be explored exhaustively in two thousand words. I’d love to hear from you if you have questions or input. And if you need to put some boundaries in place, I pray you will have the strength to do it.

***

Sarah describes herself as an ordinary wife and mom with an extraordinary God. She loves photography, old buildings, books, and light in all its forms. Sarah celebrates life by writing about moments of grace, lessons she’s learning from her seven children, and family escapades among the lakes, rocks, and trees of Bancroft, Ontario. Subscribe to her newsletter by emailing her at livelovewriteit[at]gmail.com.

***Feature photo at the top credited to Lois Friesen.

The post The Boundary Benefit appeared first on Lucinda J Kinsinger.

For me, the easiest way to give an update is to share photos. Below are a few of my favorites from summer 2023.

First, here’s Ivan and Annalise and me atop Backbone Mountain overlooking Pleasant Valley. In real life, you can pick out our farm in the valley below, but I doubt it’s identifiable in the photo. This photo was taken in July, and another thing that’s not easily identifiable in the photo is the fact that I was four months pregnant. In next year’s family picture, there will be four of us.

This summer I spent a lot of time driving back and forth to a chiropractor about an hour from our house, trying to fix a recurring back problem. (Still working on that.) Annalise often came with me, and we’d stop at a playground for twenty minutes or so, an-easy-to-offer pleasure that in her mind made the trip well worth it. In fact, usually when I ask her what she wants to tell God thank you for, she says, “Swings and slides.” Here she is crawling through a tunnel at one of the parks, her eyes like stars.

Picnics have created several more fun moments this summer, whether on a Sunday afternoon or in the field while Ivan was haying.

This impromptu tea party made Annalise so happy! Little girls don’t care if the cupboards are cluttered and Gatorade serves as tea. Tea parties are always the best.

Annalise and I took a trip to visit my parents and siblings this summer. And would you believe it, caught Grandpa Ted and Grandma Rose taking selfies on the bridge.

If you’ve read Anything But Simple, you might remember that Dad planted over a thousand apple trees going into “retirement.” Well, those trees produced bountifully this year, and my parents were kept busy picking for weeks. Just a couple of days ago, Mom said on the family chat that they’d finally picked the last apple of the season. For those of you who live near Sheldon, Wisconsin, they still have plenty left for sale!

Here’s a picture of Annalise with a dear Wisconsin friend. What I love about this picture–besides the fact that it features two of my favorite people–is the contrast between their hair and skin.

And below is one of my brothers with his little son. It makes me proud and happy to see him be a daddy, and rock it. This is the brother I wrote about in my very first post, many moons ago. I remember how scared and nervous and terrified I was to think of people actually reading that post. I was overjoyed when friends and acquaintances made positive comments about it.

Blogging has done a lot for me. It got me used to writing for an audience.

We enjoyed a Kinsinger family reunion this summer. Ultimate frisbee below.

We hiked with friends during the early changing of the leaves. They’ve far matured in their autumn colors by now.

And we’re only ten weeks from baby’s due date. Amazing! I am still chugging along full steam ahead–albeit with lots of puffing and groaning and naps now and then–trying to get creative writing curriculum at a good resting spot before baby arrives. I’ve pulled out some wee clothes–they’re so very tiny, aren’t they?–but have yet to get them into drawers or the baby room ready.

I think I’m glad God gives us nine months to prepare. I seem to need every week of mine–but no way would I want it to be longer.

In case any of you missed it, another momentous even occurred recently when Rosanna in the Middle–a children’s book based on my mom’s childhood–came out. You can read more details in last week’s blog post.

And that’s it for this update! Next week I’d like to share a guest post from a writer whose newsletter I recently subscribed to. She writes about boundaries, a subject near to my heart because I’ve had such a struggle with knowing what good boundaries are and how to set them.

Until then, Luci

The post Favorite Photos from My Summer appeared first on Lucinda J Kinsinger.

“Hello, everyone,” she said, slipping in the door and tossing her purse on the cupboard.

“Where have you been?” they asked her. “You’re later than you said you would be.”

“Well, I’ve been writing and revising and picking and pickling and baking and blanching and listening and living and being a mom and being pregnant…all very necessary items of business, I assure you.”

They shrug. “Okay, I guess. We were busy anyway. Any news?”

“Well…actually…” she casually pulls a thing from behind her back. “This just came out. Wanna look?”

And so we introduce (drum roll please) ROSANNA in the Middle!

This story is based on my mom’s childhood, as The Arrowhead was based on an incident from my dad’s childhood. In case any of you don’t know about the first children’s book I wrote, here both of them are together. I love having a sort of a set–one about my dad and one about my mom.

A sweet lady named Laura picked up an early copy of Rosanna in the Middle at Christian Light’s bookstore, and here’s what she had to say about it:

 I was quickly skimming through until I reached those last two pages, and I just want to say – the ending of that book is absolutely brilliant. Every so often I read a book that I wish I had written, and now that’s one of them. Such a beautiful way to tie everything together and leave a child with the vision of also being a part of that line of Christians. . . Thank you.

You can see further samples from Rosanna in the Middle on CLP’s website, and order your own copy.

I’ll be back next week with an update from my life. :)

The post Introducing Rosanna in the Middle appeared first on Lucinda J Kinsinger.

Caught up in the busyness of summer and a writing deadline, I missed my weekly post last week…not that any of you are keeping track, I’ll bet. You are probably busy, too.

Summer is always the season that takes you off guard with how busy it really is. You look forward to bare feet and sunshine and campfires and cookouts and summer squash and blueberries; you conceive plans to take your daughter swimming and make her a sandbox and sit in the fresh green grass with her and play with puppies…and then your breath is taken away in the whirling, bountiful rush that is summer.

You volunteer to teach summer Bible school because teachers are needed and you want to be an active, contributing member in the church. You pick blueberries and green beans and put them in the freezer. You try to keep up with lawn mowing. You realize your writing deadlines are going to be more difficult to meet than you realized…and by this time summer is maturing to mid-July and you’re planning a trip to a family reunion, wondering if you’ll ever get around to making that sandbox, and thinking to yourself that she’s really too young to enjoy swimming yet anyway.

So goes summer, a season that astounds us with both its bounty and its busyness.

With that being said, I plan to take a break from blogging for the month of August…and we’ll see what happens in the month of September. I already have a post or two in mind I want to share with you, and I like the stability of having that writing-and-sharing incentive, although keeping up with it can be challenging. So when September comes, I’ll see how I’m feeling about the state of affairs and let you know. :)

Before I go, I want to share a few of my favorite photos from this past month and also a few of my favorite lines from the gratitude journal I’ve been keeping. I highly recommend keeping such a journal and–if you haven’t read it yet–the book One Thousand Gifts by Ann Voskamp.

• Cold small feet against my leg through my dress in the morning
• A child’s colorful crayon scribbles
• The precise shape of my two-year-old’s lip as she concentrates
• Small sounds of morning, the creak of a chair, scratch of pencil and crayons
• The first tart taste of orange juice

• The varied shades of red in the roses Ivan brought me
• Molasses cookies dipped in milk
• Round fat little girl toes
• Clothes on the line on a sunny day
• My dried purple sea-lavender on the kitchen windowsill

• Ivan and I planting flowers together
• The hay scent of Annalise’s hair
• Peonies bending the bush
• Coffee mugs, each with a different personality
• Sunday evening golf cart rides

• Blonde fine little girl hair like fairy dust in the wind
• Naps
• Him bending over her, dark against blonde, going brrrrrr on her little round head
• Smiles–friendly, shy, peeking from faces in every culture
• A cardinal on a fence post

The post Bounty and Busyness in the Month of July appeared first on Lucinda J Kinsinger.

Recently I saw this poem framed in the home of a dear older couple from our church. I remember hearing it long ago, so coming across it now was like coming across a dear old memory and being freshly inspired. I hope you are inspired also.

No Time To Pray

I got up early one morning

 And rushed right into the day;

I had so much to accomplish

That I didn’t take time to pray.

Problems just tumbled about me,

And heavier came each task,

“Why doesn’t God help me?” I wondered.

He answered, “You didn’t ask.”

I wanted to see joy and beauty,

But the day toiled on gray and bleak;

I wondered why God didn’t show me;

He said, “But you didn’t seek.”

I tried to come into God’s presence;

I used all my keys at the lock;

God gently and lovingly chided,

“My child you didn’t knock.”

I woke up early this morning,

And paused before entering the day;

I had so much to accomplish

That I had to take time to pray.

– Anonymous

***

Feature photo by Colleen Geiser.

The post A Poem: No Time to Pray appeared first on Lucinda J Kinsinger.