When the problems of life distract you, how do you keep your focus?

I remember a few years ago when Madison learned how to ride her bike. She and Curt had spent most of the afternoon practicing on the cul-de-sac in front of our house. I sat on our front steps, watching their progress. As Curt jogged alongside Madison with a hand on the back of her bike, Madison’s foot fumbled against the pedal. She looked down at her feet and scrambled to get them back on track. Wobbling and weaving, she finally regained control. I exhaled as she narrowly escaped hitting the pavement.

“Don’t watch your feet!” Curt warned, breathless. “Just keep looking where you want to go.”

After awhile, Madison seemed to be getting the hang of it. She kept her focus straight ahead and circled the cul-de-sac like a pro. That is, until she noticed me.

“Hi Momma!” Madison’s eyes peeked out from under her pink flowered helmet. I cringed as she meandered too far in one direction and headed for the ditch. Curt grabbed the handlebars, but he was too late. Once Madison got side-tracked, it wasn’t long before she crashed.

When I think about the distractions Madison experienced while riding her bike, it reminds me of the distractions we encounter in life. Hebrews 12:2 reminds us where we need to keep our focus. It says, “Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith ...”

If Madison would have kept her focus on where she wanted to go, she would have avoided a lot of pain. She shifted her focus away from her goal, lost her balance and crashed. I can relate to that. There have been times in my life when I took my eyes off Jesus. Instead, I fixed my eyes on my own situations and problems – and I also crashed.

The cares of life can be distracting. Maybe you are facing a crisis. Fix your eyes on Jesus. Maybe you are sick or in pain. Fix your eyes on Jesus. Maybe you are tempted. Fix your eyes on Jesus.

If we keep our focus on Jesus, we will be strengthened and encouraged. Whatever life throws our way, Jesus will bring us through. The road ahead might be bumpy, but when we look to Jesus, we know we can stay on course.

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*photo by freedigitalphotos.net / David Castillo Daminici

The other day I came across a notebook I had taken with me to my first writers’ conference. As I flipped through the pages, the memories flooded back ... 

I remember sitting in my van that spring morning, watching conference-goers weave their way through the parking lot toward the front doors. I was in no hurry to join them. Attendees were probably still mixing and mingling, sipping their lattes and discussing their latest novels.

What am I even doing here? I thought, tapping my fingers against the steering wheel. Writing for the church newsletter doesn’t make me a writer. Anyone could do that.

For nine years I had written for the church. After my youngest started kindergarten, I began to wonder if I could turn my writing into more than a hobby.

I walked into that first workshop feeling like the new kid in a junior high school cafeteria. All too soon someone asked me the question I had hoped to avoid.

“So what have you written?”

I felt the warmth rising up in my cheeks. “Oh, I’m not actually a writer. I just write for my church.”

Truth be told, I went to that conference looking for a sign. I didn’t need anything dramatic; just some little clue to let me know if I should pursue this writing thing.

As it turned out, the conference was wonderful. I learned lots of great tips, made several new friends and walked away feeling very encouraged.

As far as a sign, I’m not sure about that. But I do remember one of the speakers, Marti Pieper, saying something that grabbed my attention.

Marti said: “Writing for the church newsletter is not any less than writing that gets published. In the Kingdom, it may actually be the person who helped with the church newsletter every week, year after year … they may be the one to whom God says, ‘Well done good and faithful servant.’”

Suddenly I saw my writing from a whole new perspective. I didn’t have to be published in a magazine or write a bestselling novel to call myself a writer. After all, if God thought I was a writer, who was I to argue?   

I continued skimming through the pages of my notebook. My eyes settled on a scripture I’d jotted down during one of the sessions.

Luke 16:10: “Whoever can be trusted with very little can also be trusted with much ...”

I remember scribbling it down and wondering if God would ever trust me to write for a larger audience than my little church newsletter.

I closed my notebook and set it on the corner of my desk – right next to my latest copy of Guideposts magazine.

Then it hit me. Guideposts currently has about two million subscribers and six million readers.

And I couldn’t help but smile.


*photo taken from www.freedigitalphotos.net / mrpuen

We had a creek, but they had a pool. So why did they think we were the lucky ones?

My heart pounded as my bare toes inched toward the edge of the steep ledge. I peered over the side, watching the water cascade down the eroded bank below me, and inhaled a slow, deep breath.  

“Come on! Just jump already!” My older brother squinted up at me, hands propped on his hips, water up to his cut-off jeans.  

My cousin, Cathy, crawled up the bank toward me on her hands and knees. “What if I jump with you?” Water dripped from her long, dark hair. I faked a smile and nodded. She positioned herself next to me, bent her knees and leaned forward. “Okay ready? One, two, three!” Cathy leaped off the edge, hugging her legs and plunging into the water with a loud splash. Her hair floated to the top; then she burst out of the water, looked up at me and shook her head.

“Next time,” I said, shrugging. I slid down the muddy bank and waded out into the water until it reached my chest.  

The water hole was a great place for us kids to play on a hot summer day. It didn’t have ideal swimming conditions, but it was better than nothing. And it was definitely better than the cattle tank. My brother and I learned that lesson earlier that summer. We had finally accepted the fact that Dad would never buy us a pool, so we improvised by trying the cattle tank instead.  

We didn’t mind the green gunk on the bottom of the tank. It held water, so it met our criteria. My brother crawled into the stagnant water first.

“Not bad,” he said, skimming some floating scum off the top. “Come on in.”   

I crawled into the warm water, but soon realized that swimming in a galvanized cattle tank wasn’t a good idea. First, it stunk. Second, two kids in a 1,000-gallon, oblong tank didn’t leave much room for swimming. And third, it wasn’t worth the nasty ear infections we endured a few days later.

So the water hole became our preferred swimming spot. Sure, the water looked dingy, and snakes were always a possibility, but it was the closest thing we had to a pool on our family’s farm.

If only we could have a pool like our cousins from Peoria. They didn’t have to trek through the pasture, dodging sticker bushes and protective mama cows just to go for a swim. They could take one step outside their door and dive into a refreshing, sparkling-blue pool. They were so lucky. Their pool smelled clean, like chlorine. Ours smelled like mud. They had inflatable pool toys. We had bullfrogs. To us, the Peoria cousins had a backyard paradise.

That’s why, when they came to visit a few weeks later, we were shocked when they wanted to see our creek. Why would they care about our cruddy creek when they had a beautiful pool in their own backyard? Even more shocking, they loved it.

At first, they stood along the bank; tossing sticks and leaves into the water and watching them roll swiftly downstream. But the temptation became too great. Before long, they kicked off their shoes and waded into the shallow end. They tromped through the water, occasionally stopping to lean over and examine an interesting rock or watch a water bug zip across the surface. Sometimes they scooped their hands underwater, trying to catch a tiny, silver minnow racing around their legs. Within minutes they were kicking and splashing, and drenching each other with water and mud.     

“You are so lucky,” one cousin said, giggling as the cool mud oozed between her toes. “I wish we had a creek.”  

Suddenly, I saw our old creek in a brand-new way. After all, it offered adventures no pool could provide. At the creek, we explored all sorts of rocks, plants and creek critters. We learned about strategy and determination while capturing slippery frogs in mid-jump. We didn’t need chlorine and pool toys. We had waterfalls and mud slides.

Maybe our creek wasn’t so bad after all. It wasn’t a pool, but it was still pretty fun. Maybe our cousins were right. Maybe we were the lucky ones.

(As printed in Farm and Ranch Living Magazine June / July 2013)

Every summer there comes a time when I hear those dreaded words: “Mom, I’m bored!” In the past, I’ve caught myself jumping in to help them resolve the problem. “I’m bored” was usually my first sign that a fight was brewing. Many times, phrases like “stop touching me!” or “stay out of my room!” followed close behind.  

But once I stopped rescuing them from boredom, I realized something. Given the chance, they came up with some pretty creative ways to spend their time.

I remember one day a few summers ago. Emily noticed a small bag of clothes next to the trash. These clothes had been handed down three times and had seen better days. Emily’s eyes widened.

“Cool! Can I have these?”

“Oh Em, they’re all ripped and stained. I’m just going to pitch them.”

She gasped. “Don’t throw them away! I can make clothes for Taylor’s dolls.”

You would have thought she’d found a buried treasure.

“Ok, fine.” I said, tossing her the bag.  

So off she went with a pair of scissors, my needle and thread and an armful of dolls. She set up shop in her bedroom and spent the rest of the afternoon lost in her creations.

Now that my girls are getting older, they don’t have as many opportunities to get bored. There’s gymnastics, softball games, band and volleyball camp … and don’t get me started on all the electronic gadgets kids have today. (Yes, I know I sound old.)

But they still need unstructured free time. They need time to think and dream and play and create. Sometimes we get so used to having every minute planned out and structured that we forget how to entertain ourselves.

A couple summers ago, out of sheer boredom, the girls and I decided to walk a mile to the mailbox. The sky was cloudy, but if we hurried, we could make it back before it rained. On the way back it slowly began.

“Uh-oh. I just felt a sprinkle on my arm.” I said.

Within a few steps Emily joined in. “I just felt one on my cheek,” she said.

Madison looked up and crinkled her face. “A big one just landed on my nose!”

We marched along as drops of rain dive-bombed us like little moving targets.

Suddenly, the rhythm of the rain picked up. Now we had a challenge: get home before it poured.

As we turned the last corner, the sky opened up and the rain hammered down. We sprinted through the newly formed puddles, dripping wet and laughing hysterically. Our neighbor, standing under his front porch, smiled and waved as we raced by.   

Last week Madison talked me into watching the Disney movie “Up.” In the movie, the little boy, Russell, was telling the old man about his favorite times with his dad. At one point he said, “It might sound boring, but I think the boring stuff is the stuff I remember the most.” 

I love watching my girls participate in all their summertime activities, but every now and then, we need a day when we don’t plan a thing. Perhaps I should schedule some unscheduled down time. After all, if I want them to have a fun and memorable summer, maybe I just need to give them the chance to be bored.


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