Mark 13:7-8 When you hear of wars and rumors of wars, do not be alarmed. Such things must happen, but the end is still to come. Nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom. There will be earthquakes in various places, and famines. These are the beginning of birth pains.

Philippians 4:8 Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.

Life is hard. You only have to wake up some mornings to realize that is true. A loved one may be dying. You may be sick. You could be unemployed and wonder how the bills are getting paid. Or everything could be good on the surface, but you are hurting and you can’t figure out why.

Ever since the Garden, the human condition has been filled with thorns. Some of them we can see and point to and say, this is bad. Others prick us and poke us and remind us of the wounds of the world about us.

And, if you ever start to think that life will never have trials, perhaps you’re going through a spate of blessings, remember that the happiness will pass because happiness is based on happenings.

But joy, joy is based on our thoughts and our faith.

The two verses I quoted above seem at odds with each other. On one hand, Jesus promises that disasters and wars will happen until the end of time. In fact, he says they will get worse, not better. No Star Trek future where mankind continuously improves for us. But then Paul, at the end of his life, facing execution and in prison, says to think about the good. In fact, the phrasing he uses means we are supposed to ponder the good. To chew on it and savor it and let it fill us.

Since the beginning of the pandemic, the news has seemed worse than usual. And it is always bad. I determined long ago that news must get better ratings the more awful the things it has to cover. The only time I heard good news as a kid was listening to Paul Harvey or if I intentionally dug to find a story about something wonderful happening. As far as what was on the TV or internet—always bad.

Bad news is depressing. Bad news elevates fear and anxiety. Bad news reminds you how hopeless this world truly is and how depraved are its occupants.

I learned long ago that I have a limited ability to tolerate traditional news broadcasts. (Like one episode every year.) So, for the most part, I avoid the news.

The problem with sticking my head in the sand is that I often don’t know what’s going on worldwide. It makes me limited, conversation-wise. Unless you’re talking the weather, I may be clueless.

For the longest time, that embarrassed me and I would pretend to know what my dialogue partner was talking about. Nod long enough and you’ll pick up on the general gist of events.

But even in those limited doses, it could feel like I was taking a step away from Philippians 4:8. The latest terrorist, the latest killing spree, the latest whatever depravity human beings had sunk to took my eyes away from God and his Kingdom.

There are those of you that can see the awfulness of the effects of sin and it highlights the glory and purity of God by contrast. I am not one of those people. To be any earthly good, I must keep my eyes lifted. To do good, I have to look at good and keep my gaze fixed there.

Therefore, I am content to ignore the news. And should you ask if I’ve heard of x or y or z, expect one of two responses.

1. No. Could you explain it to me briefly? (Without gruesome details, of course.)
2. No. And I’m good with that.

Because it’s only by ignoring the news that I can focus on the joy of the future.

With last Sunday being my dad’s birthday and next Sunday being Father’s Day, I must needs write about dads.

First of all, while there are some occasions where I envy guys for being guys, being a dad is not one of them. The whole “buck stops here” hierarchy of true fatherhood is intimidating. I mean, what would a mom be without the ‘wait until your dad gets home’ card? It was always comforting to know Gary could and would wield the gauntlet when my efforts with the guys (in their much younger days obviously) came to naught. Dadhood, when done well, is not only difficult, it is thankless. Here, I will at least try to thank a few of the dads who have impacted me.

Grandpa W. was born in 1900. He got to see the advent of the auto, the movie, the shopping mall, TV and the home computer. Always one to weave a good tale, he regaled his grandkids with stories of coping through the Great Depression. In order to keep his job with Montgomery Elevator, he took assignments wherever they would send him. Because of that, he worked all over the country and often had to leave his family behind. He sent home the majority of his paycheck to his family and then told us about how he would seek out a cheap meal in the town du jour. Thanks to a faulty elevator, he lost a thumb (didn’t like that story) and I enjoyed watching him tinker as he built grandfather clocks of varying sizes. To cope with some of life’s uncertainties, he created his own. Oyster stew Sundays and afternoon coffee were a couple I remember. From him I learned that there’s always a path forward even when you can’t see it yet.

Grandpa J., aka Papa, grew up in Sweden and came over as a young man. He originally immigrated to work in the logging industry in Minnesota. For whatever reason, he eventually moved to Chicago where he met my grandma. She was a singer in a Swedish club. That’s where they both settled and raised a family. Papa had hands of steel. He wasn’t a big man, but he could lift me whenever he gave me a hug, do chin-ups by his fingertips and outwalk anyone on the planet. When I saw the movie, The Quiet Man, it made me think of him. Papa was never vocal about his opinions, his faith or his beliefs, but they ran through him as a strong, deep current. You knew it was there with a word or two or his piercing gaze. From him I learned that life is worth living, and living abundantly, for every day that you’re given.

Gene, my father-in-law, also came to this country as a teen. He grew up in Germany during and after WWII. His dad was drafted to both sides of the war and spent time in concentration camps on both sides, as well. That meant a lot of his childhood was spent without a dad and with plenty of hardship. It’s hard to learn to be a father that way. When Gary came along, Gene concentrated on providing for the family. He worked some hard jobs and crazy hours. From him I learned that you don’t have to be good at something or trained in it to do your best.

Next up is my father. I have always been a daddy’s girl. I liked the things he liked more than the things my mom liked. I would drop everything if he said we were going to dig for geodes or bike ride through the forest. I could play hours of pinochle or help him on his latest jigsaw puzzle. My fondest memory of my dad occurred when I was in 6th grade. At that time, I thought I want to be an archaeologist. I was passionate about it and read and watched everything I could about it. He reached out to his contacts in the science community and arranged for me to help on a Mound Builder dig in central Illinois for a day. That day proved to me that I didn’t have enough interest to override the tedium of the job. But from my dad I learned that if you love someone, you will find ways to fuel their passions.

That brings me to my own hubby. I have loved watching him develop as a dad to our two guys. He had never put being a dad in his lifeplan, but he stepped up to it well. I was scared to death that I would break Erik when he was born, so Gary carried him a lot. He never planned to be the sole breadwinner either, but I wanted to homeschool, so he stepped into a role he didn’t want so I could. From watching him be a dad, I learned that love means sacrificing your dreams in order to birth the dreams of others.

My heavenly father teaches me each of the lessons of these men and many more. But it is the example of fathers who do their best that remind me that my God only wants the best for his children.

Happy Father’s Day to dads everywhere!

One my favorite quotes, as a cat person, is that dogs have owners and cats have staff. I was honored to be part of Checkers’ staff!

A lot of you noted my Facebook post on Saturday about the death of our beloved kitty, Checkers. While we are still mourning her (she was our only pet for over 18 years, after all), this blog will try not to be gloomy. Instead, I will try to tell some of her stories.

We met her when Charlene, Wendy’s mom (Grandma Charlene to my guys) was fostering her and her brothers until the shelter would take them in or she could find someone to adopt all the kittens. We had lost Trixie almost a year prior (the black and white kitty in the picture below) and six-year-old Erik was good with animals. Charlene had asked him to care for her dogs before when she would go to North Carolina to visit Wendy.

Anyway, this time we were caring for the three kittens as well as the dogs. The very first time we headed into the back room to give the tabbies food and water, the smallest of the three darted over to Erik. We would later learn that she was trying to avoid her brothers. Those same brothers would push her away from the food until they had their fill. Erik, being one for fairness, blocked the food bowl from the two male kittens so the female could eat.

That was it. With that action, she dedicated herself to him. In fact, that she acted so sweet to Erik that in less than a week we were begging Gary to give her a trial run.

Her name, according to the shelter paperwork, was Princess.

That wouldn’t fly with two young boys so we went out to lunch to ponder what to rename her. As we sat enjoying our burgers, three-year-old Karl commented, “you know she has those marks. Over her eyes.”

We nodded, unsure of the point.

But Erik picked up on it. “Yeah, they look like checkmarks.” He pointed to the restaurant sign. “Checkers.”

Thus, she had a name.

The plan had been to introduce one of Checkers’ brothers and have two cats after she got accustomed to our house. About two weeks later, we attempted that.

It was a disaster.

Our new kitten, contrary to cat lore, had a long and unforgiving memory. She launched at him with a vengeance trying not just to get him to run, but to do him harm. He cowered until we boxed him up and sent him home with Charlene.

That night, our adorable and well-trained kitten pooped somewhere she shouldn’t have. We learned that was her way of saying she was angry. And the presence of any other animal definitely angered her. We were her people and she wasn’t sharing!