Lynn Austin's Blog, page 5

And the Winner Is…

Is there anyone in America who doesn’t know that tomorrow is election day? With our country deeply divided between the two opposing parties, I think it’s safe to say that when the outcome is announced, half of the people will be happy and the other half won’t be. Many of us will just be relieved that it’s over!

In the midst of all the anxiety and nail-biting and fear for the future, I’m trying hard to remember two things. First, that God is in control, even if the next president isn’t the one I voted for. In Old Testament times, God’s people never would have voted for the brutal Persian dictator, King Cyrus. Yet once in power, he allowed the Jews who had been taken captive to Babylon to return to their homeland in Israel. Cyrus even paid for their trip. Why? “In order to fulfill the word of the Lord spoken by Jeremiah, the Lord moved the heart of Cyrus, King of Persia . . .” (Ezra 1). He can direct the heart of any leader to accomplish His purposes.

In New Testament times, God’s people never would have chosen the Roman Emperor Caesar Augustus to rule over them. But as we all know from the Christmas story, it was this pagan emperor’s decree that led to Mary and Joseph’s journey to Bethlehem—where the prophets had foretold the Messiah would be born. God knew exactly how to direct the course of history so that scripture would be fulfilled. And He already knows the outcome of this election.

The second thing I’m reminding myself is that I have a calling to fulfill that doesn’t hinge on who becomes president. “Go and make disciples of all nations . . .” Jesus told us (Mark 28:19). God didn’t send His Son so that I could live a happy, comfortable life governed by leaders who think like me. He sent Christ so we can be forgiven and live in relationship with Him as our King. We’re supposed to spread that good news everywhere we go, to everyone we meet. And God knows the perfect conditions necessary to reach the lost. The next president’s policies and vision for America may not be to my liking, but my calling to follow Christ’s teachings and to point the way to Him isn’t going to change.

The Bible chronicles Israel’s long history of “good” kings and “bad” kings. Ideally, the people wouldn’t have needed a king at all if they’d trusted God as their king. But they wanted to be like the other nations. Jesus has much to say about the Kingdom of God, the kingdom to which believers today still belong. And whether your candidate wins or loses, His prayer for us is this: “I pray that all of them may be one, Father . . . so that the world may believe that You have sent Me.”

Do you want to know who’s going to win the election? The man God has chosen for His purposes.

A Sneak Peek . . .

One of the most exciting moments for me as an author is when I first get to see the cover design for my newest novel. There have been some that I have loved, some that were so-so, and a few that I’ve really disliked. My publisher asks for my input and ideas, of course, but I never know what the final outcome will be. It’s up to the design team to choose an image and a “look” that best fits the characters, the story, the novel’s tone, and its theme. Not an easy thing to do! How do you capture the essence of a complex, 400-page novel with multiple characters and story lines in a single, compelling picture?

They say “you can’t judge a book by its cover,” but I’m not sure that’s true. I find myself doing it all the time. Some covers are so off-putting for a variety of reasons, that I’m not even tempted to read the back-cover copy to see what the book is about. Other covers look like books I’ve seen a hundred times before, making me wonder if the story is also one I’ve read a hundred times before. But then there are those very special covers that are so arresting that I want to turn to the first page of the book and start reading as quickly as I can. That’s the kind of cover I always want for my books!

Well, I may be slightly biased, but I think the design team at Tyndale House did an extraordinary job with the cover for my newest novel, “Chasing Shadows.” The book will be released next June, but in the meantime, here is a sneak peek, just for you . . .

What do you think? Do you spot any clues that tell you what the book is about, or when and where it takes place? The windmill and flat landscape will probably tell you the novel’s setting. And the three airplanes flying in formation across a stormy sky offer a hint of when it takes place. But what I love the most about this cover is the sense of movement and tension it portrays. This young woman looks like she has been on the move, and now something off to the side has captured her attention. She seems alert and perhaps a little uneasy, yet determined to push down on that pedal and continue her journey. I want to know her story, don’t you?

If you guessed that the novel is set in the Netherlands during World War II, you’re right. The young woman’s name is Ans DeVries, and when the Nazis invade and occupy her nation, her life will change drastically. Along with Ans, there are two other extraordinary women of faith and courage in this story, Lena and Miriam, who also will be forced to make life-and-death decisions. I won’t give away any more of the plot, for now, but you can read a preview of it on the final pages of my last novel, “If I Were You.”

In the meantime, I would love to hear your opinion of the cover of “Chasing Shadows”—and of book covers in general. Are there things you like seeing on the cover—the main character’s face, for instance? Or would you rather that her appearance be left to your imagination? Are there elements of a cover design that make you want to read the book? And anything that makes you decide to pass? I would love to know what you think about the saying, “you can’t judge a book by its cover.”

Saving Ellis Island

Several years ago, when I was writing and researching my novel, “Until We Reach Home,” my sister Peggy and I took a day trip from her home outside New York City to visit Ellis Island. As I’m sure you know, Ellis Island was the iconic landing place near the Statue of Liberty for millions of immigrants who came to U.S. shores seeking a new life. My novel tells the story of three sisters, Elin, Kirsten, and Sofia Carlson, who leave Sweden to come to America, so I wanted to walk around the grounds of Ellis Island and get a feel for what they may have experienced.

As Peggy and I toured the Great Hall and other buildings, putting ourselves in our great-grandparents’ shoes, I became intrigued with this cluster of islands that greeted our immigrant ancestors. Their ordeal, in a babble of languages, was likely very frightening and frustrating at times, but most newcomers passed inspection and were released from the island within 3-5 hours. One of the reasons why 2% of immigrants were detained was if they showed symptoms of a contagious illness. Authors love to put obstacles in their characters’ paths to create tension and spin an exciting story, so of course the Carlson sisters ended up staying in the hospital and detention center on Ellis Island.

You’ll have to read the novel to see how they fared, but in the meantime, you’ll have a chance to hear me speak about my research, do a reading from my novel, and answer your questions in a free virtual event that I’m excited to participate in on October 20. The event helps support the non-profit organization, Save Ellis Island, which is raising funds to restore the Historic Ellis Island Hospital Complex – twenty-nine buildings on the south side of Ellis Island. Registration is free, but you’ll receive an autographed copy of “Until We Reach Home” when you make a $25 donation. You can go to their website: www.saveellisisland.org to register and see the amazing work they are undertaking to save this valuable piece of history. I hope you’ll be able to join me.

Besides gleaning new ideas for my novel, one of the other happy results of our visit to Ellis Island was the information we were able to discover about our great-grandparents who came here from Germany in the 1890s. We knew a little bit about their journey from the stories that our grandmother told us over the years, but seeing their names in the registration book was an amazing moment. Also listed, was the name of the town and region in Germany where they came from, something that had been lost to us over the years. Using that information, I was able to visit their village of Bornstedt on a trip to Germany a few years later.

The little town in the countryside is very small, but I was thrilled to wander through the remains of a castle on the hill above it, dating from the time of Charlemagne. How fun to imagine my adventurous great-grandfather playing in those castle ruins as a boy. And maybe dreaming about America?

It’s hard to visit Ellis Island or Germany in these days of Covid restrictions, and I have missed meeting with readers through various live events in churches and libraries and bookstores. I hope this virtual event for a very worthy cause will give us a chance to meet together and talk for a little while. Please join me on October 20 at 7 pm EST.

Answered Prayer

In my last blog, I asked for prayer for my mom who recently fell and broke her hip, just before her 95th birthday. I want to thank everyone who prayed for her, and to tell you that she is doing very well. The surgery went well, she’s in a rehab hospital, and she’s in good spirits. She’s starting to walk again, and hopes to be able to return home soon. I’m so thankful that I can now praise God for this wonderful answer to prayer. What an amazing privilege it is to be able to bring all of our needs and fears to God!

Lately, I’ve been almost afraid to watch the news or read the headlines with all of the tragedies that seem to be happening daily. The terrible forest fires and hurricanes. The latest Covid statistics. The social unrest and injustice. The political divisions. I think we all dislike change, and things seem to be changing faster than we can even process them. It helps me to remind myself that our Heavenly Father is unchanging. His love and mercy are the same yesterday, today and forever. His salvation in Christ is unchanging. And His Word is unchanging.

In my non-fiction devotional, Sightings, I offered three exercises that I’ve used over the years to keep me centered on Christ’s promises when the changes start happening too quickly, and life seems overwhelming. These three ideas have also helped me grow closer to God over the years.

First, I keep a prayer journal to write down people and circumstances I’m praying for. The journal helps remind me of them when I sit down to pray during my quiet times. But I also leave space after each request to record how and when God answers those prayers. My mother’s surgery will certainly go into my book. I’m always amazed to see how the things I prayed for were perfectly resolved in God’s time and according to His plan. The journal serves as a reminder of His faithfulness, especially during the hard times when I don’t even know how to pray.

The second thing I recommend is that you take note of all the “God sightings” in your life. These are the moments and places where you saw God’s hand, or little reminders of His love. It might be as simple as noticing His boundless creativity in the flowers in your garden. It could be a kind word someone offered just when you needed it. In my devotional, Sightings, I describe some of the “God sightings” in my own life. Recording these little moments will provide you with an account of His goodness to remind you when He seems far away.

Finally, I encourage you to write down scripture verses that build your faith. Keep them in a handy place where you can read them regularly and commit them to memory. The Bible says, “Your Word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path” (Psalm 119:105). It offers guidance and wisdom when we need it. Scripture is also part of every Christian’s armor to battle the enemy. The Word of God is our “sword” (see Ephesians 6:10-18). We need to be well-armed.

Yes, there are a multitude of things we need to pray for in our country right now. But I want to remember to take time to praise God and to thank Him every single day for one of His blessings. Today I’m thanking Him for my mom, and for every one of you who took time to pray for her and wish her well. God bless you!

Small Miracles

Today is my mother’s birthday. She will be 95. Unfortunately, she will be celebrating it in the hospital this year, virtually alone because of Covid. A week ago, she fell while tending her flower bed and broke her hip. Mom is a lifelong Christian and an amazing example to her family of what a life of faith looks like. She is also a prayer warrior. I have been asking all of my friends to pray for her recovery, and I was reminded of this blog that I wrote about Mom ten years ago. I hope it will encourage you today to keep praying for miracles.

SMALL MIRACLES

I have a story to tell about one of God’s small miracles. A true story. If I made it part of the plot of a novel, the “coincidence” would be unbelievable.

Last Christmas, I attended a concert at Moody Church in downtown Chicago with two couples from our Bible study group. My husband Ken performed in the concert. Before the music started, I was talking with my friend Peggy about the pain she still experienced from a car accident a few years ago. I mentioned that my 85-year-old mother, who has a quiet, one-woman prayer ministry, had been praying for her.

A stranger seated in front of me suddenly turned around and said, “Would your mother please pray for me, too?” He told me his name was Shad—short for Shadrach—and he explained how he was also in great pain and had trouble sleeping at night. “What’s your mother’s name?” he asked. “If she’ll pray for me, I’ll pray for her.” We exchanged information, the concert began, and Shad and I didn’t talk again.

Every morning, my mother (who lives 800 miles away from me) faithfully prays for her daughters, sons-in-law, twelve grandchildren and their spouses, and her eleven great-grandchildren—along with countless other people she hears about, like my friend Peggy. She added Shad to her list. In fact, she told me that he often came to her mind—sometimes in the night—and she prayed for him then. Most of Mom’s prayers are answered in amazing ways, but there have been some prayers that have gone unanswered for a long, long time. She rarely asks for prayer for herself, but I knew of one particular need in her life that she was trusting God to answer—and He just didn’t seem to be listening.

Four months after the Christmas concert, I returned to Moody Church with two friends on Easter Sunday to hear my husband play for their morning service—a glorious musical experience that always makes me feel like I’m in heaven, listening to the angels sing. When Mom heard that I would be returning to Moody Church she said, “Oh, maybe you’ll see Shad again. Find out how he’s doing. I think of him so often when I pray.”

“Impossible,” I told her. “Finding him would be like finding a needle in a haystack!”

For one thing, I couldn’t even remember what he looked like, since he sat in front of me the last time. And for another, the auditorium at Moody holds close to 4,000 people and every seat is filled on Easter. I found it impossible to imagine that I would cross paths with Shad again, especially since I would be sitting in a completely different part of the auditorium this time. But for Mom’s sake, I did look around half-heartedly that morning, eyeing the nametags that ushers and some church members wore, looking for one that said “Shad.” My friend asked me who I was searching for and I told her the story. She agreed it would be nearly impossible to find a man whose face I couldn’t recall. I didn’t even pray that God would help me find him because I didn’t really believe He would answer such a difficult prayer.

A few minutes before the service started, I happened to overhear a conversation behind me. The two men who were talking had never met, so they introduced themselves. One of them said, “Nice to meet you. My name is Shad—short for Shadrach.”

No! Impossible! Right behind me?

I whirled around with tears in my eyes and reminded Shad how we had met at Christmas. He told me that my mother’s prayers were being answered. I marveled at how God had put him right behind me in an audience of nearly 4,000 people and he said, “You know, I started to sit farther back, but I heard the Lord telling me to move up. And there was only one empty seat—right behind you.”

I couldn’t wait to call Mom and tell her the story. Finding Shad was indeed a miracle, but I believe the even bigger miracle was that God would orchestrate this impossible reunion just to encourage His faithful, sometimes discouraged, prayer warrior. He wanted to let Mom know in a personal, seemingly impossible way that He loved her and was listening to her every word when she prays. He truly did hear all of her prayers, even the unanswered ones.

But this Easter miracle was meant for me, as well. I have no trouble believing in God’s big miracles like the Christmas story and the empty tomb—I was praising Him that morning for the miracle of His resurrection from the dead. But for the small things in my life? Surely God was too busy to micro-manage the little details. I have a few unanswered prayers of my own that I’ve been praying about for a long, long time. But when I consider the size of the crowd filling the auditorium—and overflowing into a second hall with a video screen—I can’t deny that He performed a miracle that Resurrection Sunday. Only He could put the very stranger I was searching for in the seat right behind mine.

My prayer time has been re-energized by my “chance” meeting with Shad. And I’ll continue to pray for all of the impossible, unanswered needs on my list. Because the God who is listening is a God of small miracles as well as big ones.

Celebrating Fifty Years

The August day, fifty years ago, was hot and sticky. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except that I was about to marry my best friend. Ken and I had dated for two years in college, and when we kissed goodnight outside my dormitory we would say, “We’re another day closer!” We had finally reached that day. I saw Ken waiting for me at the end of the aisle and couldn’t stop smiling.

 It wasn’t a “picture-perfect” wedding by any means. Ken was starting graduate studies at Yale so we didn’t have a lot of money. My parents prayed for me before the ceremony, thanking God for “loaning” me to them for the past twenty years. Dad was very nervous. I was the first of his three daughters to marry, so this was new to him. As he walked back to his pew after kissing me goodbye, his shoe caught on my veil, dragging it with him. I scrambled backwards to keep it from tearing off my head, whispering, “Dad! Dad, stop!” He thought I was changing my mind.

Ken and I held hands as we spoke our vows—the ones that promise “For better for worse, in sickness and in health, until death we part.” Then the pastor dropped Ken’s wedding ring and it made a lovely, pinging sound as it bounced down the three wooden steps from the altar to the aisle. Our best man chased after it.

We knelt down and the pastor laid his hands on our heads as he prayed for us. But my headpiece had real roses in it, and I could feel the thorns digging into my scalp. I envisioned trails of blood coursing down my brow. I still remember what he prayed, though—that God would bless our marriage and make it endure as an example of what a strong marriage in Christ can be. Fifty years later, I think his prayers have been answered.

Our reception was in the church basement. My sisters and I had decorated the hall, Mom made the food. A woman we knew baked the wedding cake. We don’t have many photos of our wedding because our photographer had a heart attack a few days before the wedding and his replacement was inexperienced. It didn’t matter. The memories are engraved on my heart.

Four years ago, Ken and I attended a relative’s picture-perfect wedding. At the reception, the DJ invited all the married couples onto the dance floor for a Generations Dance. Each time he called out an anniversary—five years, 10 years, 15 years—couples who had been married for only that length of time had to sit down. At last, only the longest-married couple remained. Ken and I had won. The DJ handed us a microphone and asked us to tell the new bride and groom the secret of our long, happy marriage. I’m not sure how I replied, having no time to prepare. But I’ve thought about it since then and here are two of our “secrets.”

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

The most important one is to build your marriage on the foundation of Christ. There’s a good reason why scripture tells us not to be unequally yoked with a non-believer—it’s because it doesn’t work. Since a Christian’s life-goal is to serve and glorify God, marriage becomes difficult when your partner has a conflicting goal. A successful marriage is going to require grace and forgiveness many times over, and this doesn’t come naturally to us. We learn what love and forgiveness are from God, who continues to love us in spite of our stupid mistakes, and who forgives us at great cost. The secret of a happy marriage is to follow His example and love each other sacrificially.

Ken and I were fresh out of college when we married, and we each had dreams for our lives. Ken’s first goal was a Master’s degree, so I postponed my dreams for a few years to support us. His bigger dream was to play full-time in a symphony orchestra, so when he won a position as principal trumpet in the National Symphony Orchestra in Bogota, Colombia, we moved to South America. We did the same thing a few years later when he won principal trumpet in a Canadian orchestra.

In the meantime, my first dream was to be a mom. Ken took several jobs in addition to the orchestra so I wouldn’t have to work outside the home. When I began to pursue my dream of writing, Ken became my greatest cheerleader. He bought our first computer, an expense we couldn’t afford, before I’d published a single word because he believed I’d be a writer, someday. My second secret to a long and happy marriage is to take time to prayerfully plan and dream together. Then do everything you can, sacrifice whenever you can, to help your partner fulfill those dreams.

Happy 50th Anniversary, Ken! It has been an amazing adventure!

Book Club Picks

I love book clubs!

I joined my first one nearly twenty years ago, and it was such fun to read new books that other members had chosen, especially when their reading tastes differed from mine. I loved hearing the variety of opinions on our monthly selections and discovering themes or insights that I had completely missed. Several books were ones I never would have chosen on my own, but I was glad I read most of them. I can also remember a few books that our club unanimously disliked. I once struggled through 3 or 4 chapters of a William Faulkner novel and just couldn’t finish it in time for our meeting. I went to book club anyway—only to learn that I had made it through more pages than anyone else! 

When my own books began to be published and were being chosen by other book clubs, it dramatically changed the book club experience for me. I was a little nervous, at first, but soon learned that book lovers are very kind and encouraging people. The leader of one club asked if I’d like to come anonymously and listen to the discussion before she announced who I was. I said yes, but told her if they hated the book, just say I’m your cousin from Australia. It turned out they loved the book and I didn’t have to converse in my fake Australian accent.

Reader Insight

I really enjoy talking about my plots and hearing how my characters have “come alive” for readers. It’s very helpful to know what readers like or dislike about my books so I can write with future readers in mind. And I love to answer questions about the book or about my writing process. Most of all, book clubs are a wonderful way to socialize with other book lovers.

Whenever I’m able, I like to visit in person, especially if there’s food! Some clubs are very creative with decorations and treats that relate to the story in some way. But when distance (or Covid-19) makes it impossible for me to meet with a book club in person, I sometimes visit via Skype or FaceTime or Zoom to answer readers’ questions. Afterwards, I like to question them and ask which other books have been club favorites. It’s a great way to add to my personal reading list. 

If you belong to a book club and are compiling this year’s list of titles, I’m very excited to announce that my novel, “If I Were You” has been chosen by Books-A-Million to be a Book Club Pick for the month of August. My book will be sold in Books-A-Million stores and their online website. 

Here’s the link for the Books-A-Million Book Club group you can join on Facebook. I’ll be checking in this month to answer your questions and read your comments.

Book Club Kit Available!

And if your book club decides to read “If I Were You,” my publisher, Tyndale House, has put together a fun Book Club Kit with some special recipes and quizzes for your members to enjoy.

Do you belong to a book club? What are some creative things your group has done? Are you still “meeting” in new ways because of the virus restrictions? I’d love to hear your ideas and comments.

Books and Cover Art

Every now and then, my publisher sends me copies of the foreign editions of my books. It always amazes me to learn that my novels are being translated and read in different places all around the world, places that I’ll probably never get to visit. I also find the foreign covers very entertaining! Sometimes the publishers use the same cover art as the original book, but sometimes I like the foreign cover design better. And sometimes the covers are—to be honest—quite terrible! I thought I would share some of these foreign editions with you and see what you think.

I received this copy of my novel “Gods and Kings” yesterday. It’s in the Slovenian language:

Here are “Gods and Kings” in Afrikaans, Polish, and Slovakian. I love the fact that my name is Lynn Austinova in Slovakian! Doesn’t that sound cool?

And this one is in Korean:

These are all copies of my book “Hidden Places.” The one in the top row beside the original is in Danish. The bottom two are in Russian and Polish. I think the Russian version looks racier than the original, don’t you?

Here is my original “Eve’s Daughters” with the Dutch version beside it. Below it is the Danish version and the Romanian version. Which is your favorite?

My novel “Until We Reach Home” is about three Swedish sisters who immigrate to America in 1897. I find it amusing that the sisters look the same, but in the US version they are gazing at the statue of liberty, and in the Swedish version they’re saying goodbye to the Swedish coastline.

This is the American version of “Waves of Mercy” compared to the German. The novel takes place in Michigan but the German cover sure looks like Maine to me:

The cover of “Fly Away” on the left is the original US version published in 1996. (Not one of my favorites!) The middle cover is Dutch, and the one on the right is my own reprint with a cover designed by Deb Raney’s very creative, graphic-designer husband Ken Raney. The “Fly Away” cover at the top of this post is Tyndale House’s new e-version:

And finally, these are two of my least favorite foreign covers: A Woman’s Place” in Norwegian and “Fire by Night” in Romanian:

They say you can’t judge a book by its cover, but that doesn’t mean the cover isn’t important! So, what do you think of these foreign editions? I would love to hear your opinion.

Celebrating Independence Day

What I’ve missed the most during this virus quarantine, is being with family and friends—especially for holiday celebrations. We could invite some fearless souls for a get-together this Fourth of July and wear masks, use hand-sanitizer, and stand six feet apart. We could still have a picnic and play horseshoes on the lawn. Unfortunately, the fireworks that we usually watch from our beach on Lake Michigan have been cancelled this year. It would still be Independence Day, as my grandma used to call it, but somehow it won’t seem the same.

Lately, I’ve been remembering the Fourth of July celebrations that my grandparents used to have at their home in the Pocono Mountains in Pennsylvania. A spring-fed creek ran through their wooded property, and Grandma and Grandpa worked hard to create dams and bridges and waterfalls and a little pond, which they stocked with brook trout. The creek attracted deer, birds, frogs, turtles, and the occasional garter snake. In the middle of this paradise, my grandparents built a picnic area beneath the trees with a fireplace for roasting hotdogs and marshmallows, a hammock for lazy afternoons, and a tree swing for their grandkids. If it sounds idyllic, it was!

Grandma was one of six sisters, and every Fourth of July they’d come with their extended families, bringing food for the feast. They would smile and tug my pigtails and say how big I’d grown. My grandparents also invited all their friends and neighbors and their families. There were many, many fascinating characters in this crazy group, including my very German Uncle Otto who played cymbals in a marching band. I could write several novels about all of these characters.

The food was abundant and delicious, especially Grandma’s potato salad. The soda pop stayed cold in the creek—Grandma’s homemade root beer was my favorite. We would chase frogs beside the brook and feed bread crumbs to the trout. We carved sticks with our pocket knives to roast hotdogs over the fire. We lit sparklers after dark, and when they were gone, we’d catch fireflies. Throughout the day, the adults laughed and ate and reminisced, and there was always a lap to sit on, someone to put iodine on a scraped knee.

Our family reunion in happier times

I’ve been trying to decide what it was that made those celebrations so memorable, and I think it was the feeling of joy I experienced at being part of something that was so much bigger than me—and yet I belonged! Everyone knew each other—and they knew me. They had shared joys and sorrows, good times and bad. They had experienced two world wars and the Great Depression together. And my sisters and I were part of the next chapter of their story.

My Great Aunts often told stories at these gatherings, and it thrilled me to know that their past was part of my story, my history. They’d talk about growing up on a farm without electricity or plumbing. They rode into town on horseback. Wild cats and panthers roamed the woods nearby. Grandma’s oldest sister, Aunt Martha, remembered coming to America from Germany in the 1890s as a small child and landing at Ellis Island. She had brought a little doll carriage with her, and one of the immigration agents took it away from her, saying she wasn’t allowed to have it in America. He set it aside, probably to give to his own daughter. But after her family had sorted through all the paperwork and were free to leave, little Martha marched over to her doll carriage and boldly wheeled it away. I’m proud to share her genes.

I wish I could recreate my grandparents’ celebrations for my own grandchildren, but our family members are scattered across the country, with one uncle in California, another in Indiana, more aunts and uncles and cousins and second-cousins in Texas and Florida and New York State. I would love for my granddaughters to meet their feisty great-grandmother who is 94 and still full of life. She could tell them some stories!

I would love for my home to overflow like Grandma’s did with people I have known through good times and bad, people who are glued to me with bonds of love. More than anything else, I long for my granddaughters to know they belong to a community that is much greater than just their immediate family, a community with a shared history, and with many more stories yet to be lived. It won’t happen this Fourth of July. Family reunions on Zoom just aren’t the same. I pray that next year will be different.

Until then, what are some creative ways that you’ll be celebrating the Fourth of July with your loved ones?

How I became a Daughter of Grace

“I have asked my friend, fellow-writer, and marketing assistant Christine Bierma to write a guest-post for me today. I think you’ll see that her recent experiences have made her uniquely qualified to write about the appalling racial injustice that we’re seeing in America.” ~Lynn

I attended my first political rally in 47 years last week. It was in my hometown, just a few miles up the street. I read about it on Facebook and felt compelled to attend even though I was only 10 days post-op from knee surgery. Why? I went because God introduced me to the most wonderful group of loving Christian women I’ve ever met about 2 years ago. And they happen to be black. 

Ella, “Peaches” was the first lady I met. She had intentionally sought out a primarily white church and attended a Bible study there. If you ask her retell the story about her experience, she will tell you that it took two weeks to summon up the courage to walk through the doors. She knew she would be the only black woman in the room. However, she has an incredible ear to hear God’s voice and his instruction was “to go.” As she sat in a room full of women who she didn’t know and who didn’t look like her she heard God yet again instruct her to speak. 

Speak to the woman sitting to her right and ask her to teach at the yearly conference Peaches’ women’s ministry was holding later in the year. The woman she asked to speak was my best friend. 

Later that week, my friend asked me if I would come for lunch and meet Peaches. My friend was unsure how she should react to a woman who spoke so powerfully about hearing and obeying God’s voice. It was over chicken salad and lemonade that I met and listened to Peaches tell me about her vision for a women’s group that included white women and black women and hispanic woman; women of all races and colors. She had a vision that one day, this group would come together in unity and praise God together. She was already leading a group of black women from her church who called themselves, Daughters of Grace. Now, she felt she needed to find some white women to join them. And that she told us, is where we came in. 

Instantly I was mesmerized by her passion and her love for God. I never heard anyone speak about race so plainly and I never dreamed of being part of a multiethnic group before, in fact, most of my upbringing was about segregation. I’m not sure my community was inherently racist, but it had been built on the principle of separatism. I grew up in a Dutch family, went to a Dutch conservative church, went to a Dutch school, a Dutch college, married a Dutch man. My whole life had been defined by being around people who looked like, thought like, lived like and worshipped just like me. Even so, Peaches had captured my heart in a way I was not prepared for with her fervor and the way she spoke about the Holy Spirit. It was compelling, unfamiliar and I wanted to know more. 

The first meeting my friend and I attended was at Peaches’ church in a town about 45 minutes away from where I lived. I was nervous not knowing what to expect. As I pulled up to the church, a young black man was standing outside the building and as I looked at him, I realized I was afraid. I am ashamed to even write about my fear because of what I know now. Now when I see this man, I know his name and have held his children. But at the time, I was suddenly confronted with the racism that I didn’t even know existed in my heart. Somewhere during my life I had learned, accepted and believed that black men were dangerous. I do not have one reason, not one experience that led me to believe that except that at that moment, I couldn’t deny it.  

The night at the church was filled with many firsts for me. It was the first time I was one of only two white women in a room. I was very aware of my race and that I did not look like everyone else. It didn’t help that Peaches stood up and told the whole room that she had brought two guests with her, as if everyone there hadn’t already realized who we were! As we sat there and watched, listened, worshiped and prayed my fear began to fade away.  I was still hesitant to let down my guard but that didn’t stop the group from embracing me. They hugged, prayed over and prayed for me with genuine love.  It was overwhelming.  Although I didn’t understand everything that I saw or heard that night, the Holy Spirit was evident and powerful. 

Ella “Peaches” Hill

At the end of the night we stood in a circle around the tiny sanctuary and linked arms and sang, “There’s a sweet sweet sprit in this place, and I know that it’s the spirit of the Lord” As I looked around the room at all of the beautiful women and listened to them sing I was compelled to share that experience with more of my white friends. I saw and felt a unity there that I had never known before. God was so evident in that room that night but in a way that was totally new and different for me and everyone in that room. He was showing us a facet of his beauty we had never seen. 

That is the story of how I became a member of Daughters of Grace. The story of how God introduced me to a community of beautiful believers who have welcomed me and my whole family and included us with open arms.

It is because of those relationships that I went to CVS last week and bought a poster board and spent an hour writing out Black Lives Matter. It is because of those relationships that I limped through my town’s city center with my son and my husband and said the names of George Floyd and Breonna Taylor and took time to think about the injustice that many of my friends experience daily that I never have had to confront or name. 

A few days after the protest I was on a Zoom call with the board members of Daughters of Grace and was asked to lead the group in a closing prayer. I took some time to tell my sisters that I loved them and that my heart broke for their sons, husbands and nephews. That I was worried about their safety and that I was sorry that I had never thought about it before. Then I asked about their thoughts and experiences. 

Peaches told us that she is afraid every time one of her sons is pulled over. She is afraid one of them will say something that will put them in danger. I’ve thought about that for days now. I have never been afraid that one of my sons would be in danger when interacting with a police officer. I’ve never been afraid that someone would call the cops on them. Ever. Her story has made me think about how different our experiences are and how unfair that is. 

In John 15 Jesus commands us to love one another and then he goes a lot further and says, “greater love has no one than this; to lay down your life ones friend.”

What is the answer to injustice and racism? Love is. 

What I have been learning with my sisters in Daughters of Grace is that I can not truly love you if I don’t know you. Once I get to know you, you are no longer a stranger. Once I get to know you, I am no longer afraid of our differences. Once I look into your eyes and listen to your hopes and dreams, once I meet your family and hug your babies, I am no longer afraid. And even though we look different and we may worship differently and we may speak differently, we are no longer strangers, we are now friends. If you are my friend and I see that you are being mistreated, misunderstood, misrepresented and that your power, your voice, your life is not being valued, when I see that, I can’t help but stand. I can’t help but cry. I can’t help but pray and long for a better tomorrow. Because I love you! 

As I look at the life of Jesus, he never met anyone he didn’t want to get to know more, unless it was someone misusing their power. He had no time for people who believed they were better than others. What Jesus did have time for were those who were marginalized, forgotten, poor, broken, abused and misunderstood. He went out of his way to be with people who didn’t look like him, didn’t act like him and didn’t come from the same place as him. He loved people so deeply that he would stop everything he was doing to listen. And today, I think that is what we as Christians are called to as well. 

When I say “we,” what I mean is those of you who look like me. White people. We need to listen. Listen without talking. Listen to what our fellow brothers and sisters of color are saying about their experiences. 

Assume a posture of humility for a moment.  Humility will lead us to reconciliation and unity and love. Love is the answer. 

Today, would you take a moment to ask yourself, what would it mean to love like Jesus did?

To learn more about Daughters of Grace visit their website at www.daughtersofgrace.net or follow them on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/DaughtersofGraceSisters/

To read more from Christine Bierma visit her blog at www.christinebierma.com