I love to listen to people's stories and understand why they tell them the way they do. We all have a timeline, speckled with highs and lows. But it's the narrator, not the timeline, that tells the story.

Chris coined the term “chill people” when we moved to Cape Town several years ago. We were not (and are not) “chill people” but seemed to live in a city full of them….

The little guys and I got rained out of Lifa’s rugby game sidelines again yesterday. We packed a picnic and headed to church to play our blues away. I seized an unexpected opportunity to teach Benjamin how to pray (with his mouth full) in every family ministry environment.

Wednesday was a public holiday, a bonus "play day" for my kids. I received bad news from family in the US on Tuesday morning that left me unsure how I'd get through Wednesday. I was frazzled, exhausted and didn't know what I'd do wtih a two-year old and a child whose disability requires my unwavering attention to support his nervous system.

I try not to be “play place people”. I’m not into paying for playing or the litany of unknowns to help Benjamin navigate through. But on this rainy public holiday, with my mind and heart preoccupied with family issues in America, we opened up that play place and stayed until the crowds came. (Less than an hour!)

Two very different picutres of our Sunday morning at church… one of them is hilarious.

I texted my husband yesterday and told him I felt sick about an appointment I preparing for. I laid down for 15 minutes, hoping nausea would subside. I was taking my son to see a new specialist, and our last appointment hadn't gone well. We ended up having a very positive experience, and I took note of the lightness inside of me as we traveled home. The moment I walked in the door of our home, however, I felt like I got punched in the gut with that same sick feeling I had before. It dawned on me then. It wasn't the appointment. It was something in our home.

Parenting has a way of humbling you. It's amazing how quickly I started doing the things I said I'd never do as a parent. You know what helped me be ok with that? The bigger picture.

Somebody prayed for us today. I witnessed the proof through supernaturally joy-filled boys playing their ever-loving hearts out. It was a different kind of play. It was light... it almost made light.

I attended a groundbreaking ceremony for an orthopaedic unit at a children's hospital this week. Our church has given generously so children near and far can access exceptional medical care, so we were invited to commemorate this special moment.

We started a journey toward understanding our son's autism and nervous system disorder two years ago. We had all kinds of new limits to navigate but no rulebook to explain them.

I've been studying what it means to "intercede" as our church presses into the power of prayer. According to Webster, “intercede” means “to act between parties with a view to reconcile those who differ or contend; mediation." Intercession was a legal term before a spiritual one. It's all about delegation, authority and representation.

From SM Lockridge’s famous message…

It’s Friday. Jesus is praying. Peter’s a sleeping. Judas is betraying. But Sunday’s comin’.

It’s Friday. Pilate’s struggling. The council is conspiring. The crowd is vilifying. They don’t even know that Sunday’s comin’…

I've been reading through the table-turning, parable-telling Gospels and am sure I would have doubted Jesus as Messiah if I lived in His day. He wasn't the revolutionary warrior-Messiah people expected. He didn't come from high influence, and He never seemed to be in a hurry, no matter how hard-pressed things were.

Our autistic son is a noise-sensitive music lover. We gave him noice-canceling headphones and secondhand iPod shuffle. (We thought we were nailing it as parents.) Newsflash: Giving an mp3 player to a 4-year old who's never touched a device is a TERRIBLE idea.

It's been a regular week with regular highs and lows. I sat in traffic, made sandwiches, and went to parks. On Tuesday, an uninvited measure of dread crept into my spirit. I didn't want to face the normal, still-privileged problems that would present themselves that afternoon. I don't always remember to call my heart to worship during the monotonous moments. I don't often walk to the park with purpose and power.

A legislative bill aggressively moving forward mandates teachers to help students 12 years and older get abortions without telling their parents. Failure to assist a child's secret abortion results in jail time for the educator.

Moses was born into a death sentence. Through extraordinary circumstances, he was adopted into the same royal family that tried to kill him. Years later, that miracle baby became a murder and refugee. He fled from his identity. He was not a Hebrew slave nor deliverer. He was not Egyptian royalty. He became a foreign shepherd that didn't even have his own sheep. Still, God Almighty entrusted this miraculous, messy, murderous man of the fields to fulfill a 400 year prophecy.

We've received many heavy messages this week of loss, sickness, brokenness, financial need, loneliness and more. I want to shake my fists when seven-year olds are hospitalized, family members are gone too soon, businesses are closing, and fear is on the rise.

Today's Call to Worship is a call to action.

I boarded a South Africa-bound plane exactly 14 years ago today. I promised I'd be back in six months, although I hadn't purchased a return ticket. One year later, I returned briefly to raise missions support for a life I hadn't expected.