I sit in church, jotting a grocery list and doing little to conceal the fact that my mind is anywhere but on the sermon.  These days I am quite the church cynic.  I have been in church my whole life, and there are times when the pageantry of Sunday school and announcements and ladies’ Bible studies feels unbearably shallow.  I don’t think church has changed all that much.  It’s me that has changed.  I am in a season in life where everything seems to shifting beneath me, and I find myself groping uncertainly towards the next chapter, searching for a firm place for my soul to stand.  Yet despite my general doubt and angst, every Sunday there is one part of the service that collects all the rough edges of my faith and anchors them in a deep and quiet peace. The Lord Jesus, the same night in which He was betrayed, took bread; and when He had given thanks, He broke it and said, 'Take, eat; this is My body which is broken for you'. I watch the rows of people in front of me

Big Girl “There is absolutely nothing feminine about me!” I hurl it like an accusation at my mother who sits across from me placidly folding laundry. “I’m a big girl,” I say, in despair.  “I’m so tall, and I’ve got bigger hands and feet than any other girl I know.” My mother looks at me like she doesn’t quite know what to say.  Unusual for her, especially since I am her third teenage daughter and nothing much rattles her at this point.  She nods.  She knows what I mean.  We live in Korea, and next to the Korean girls my age, I do indeed look gigantic.  My mother puts down the laundry, takes my hand, and examines it thoughtfully. “They look like strong, capable hands to me, Phebe,” she says.  I roll my eyes.  Small comfort at sixteen. ***** My patient is only sixteen.  She looks small and scared in the big delivery bed.  I try my best to appear calm and confident, but the truth is that I am a very new labor nurse and not much older than she is.  “It’s going to be

  Monday morning. Slick streets and snow to keep us home. The three-year-old has a wet bed. The one-year-old is getting into everything. Too many messes this morning. Too many kids in time-out.      I begin to cast about in frustration. What am I doing wrong? If only I work harder, can I have a perfect house? Perfect children? Perfect marriage?  Lord, what do You want from me?      I see the world passing me by out the window. So many of my friends are moving on, getting jobs, going back to school, changing themselves… And here I am—snowbound at home with three children, frayed around the edges.   Oh Lord, what do I need to do to please You? To have an organized home? To make my children stop squabbling? ‘What must I do to be saved’?      And then Jesus comes by. I hadn’t expected Him. But there He is, grinning at my door.      “May I come in, Phebe?”       Such a gentleman , I think, rushing to wipe the crumbs off the table and straighten my hair.      “Oh Lord,” I apol