The rest of the mog story

Confession: I am slightly embarrassed. And extremely grateful.

Today my son brought home a package he’d found in his locker at school.


Inside the wrappings and quirky box and fun tissue paper


was this.

Picture of mug with this note: "I always wondered why I ended up with a mug like this. Now I know- It was for such a time as this!"

It’s made by my favorite potter (Alison Hershberger of White Hill Pottery), just like the one I smashed, and it’s large and perfect and shockingly beautiful.


I knew God was in the business of giving undeserved gifts, but apparently one of my local blog readers is too. I don’t know who you are—your careful typing left little chance of that—but I am so grateful. I will cherish this mog until smash do us part.

Thank you!


Our maiden voyage… Ahhhh!


The rest of the story

Confession: I told you I miscarried a tiny baby last January. I didn’t tell you the rest of the story. Of necessity, this post contains personal details I would not normally share publicly. There are not many; I have been as discreet as I could. But I ask, especially if you are male, that you read respectfully.

The Rest of the Story

The problem with backing up to the beginning of the story is that it’s hard to know when to stop backing. You pass through months and years of events-that-led-to, and land not only in the hospital where you were born, but somewhere just before the book of Genesis, when all these things were developing in the heart of God. So I can’t tell all the rest of the story.

The piece I am going to tell you now started the month before my miscarriage, in December of 2014, when we said yes to a dream opportunity. A newborn foster girl was coming into care. Her older siblings had all been removed from the home, one was being adopted right now, and there was no kin. Would we be willing to take her? Continue reading

In which I step briefly onto my soapbox

*This post has been edited to remove a word that was causing offense to too many. I asked you to push back on me and you did. It’s not offensive to me personally, but quite frankly it’s not worth fighting for. I stand corrected.


Dear people,

Could we all please stop kidding* each other by claiming that X has solved all of our problems?

Let me tell you something. There is nothing you can eat [gluten free] or drink [oxygenated water] or blend [Plexus] or otherwise imbibe [marijuana] that will heal the broken places of your world.

This power belongs only to Jesus Christ.

Stop telling me that if we moved illegal immigrants out of America we’d have the perfect nation. Stop telling me that if I ate carbs and proteins separately I could have the perfect body. Stop telling me that if I got my hormones in line I’d feel like a million bucks forever.

It’s just not true. No matter how worthwhile a cause or product is in itself, it’s simply not making your life complete.

You and I live with broken bodies in an imperfect world.

End of story.

Please consider the gospel you preach. There is no cure for human suffering except the one found in the person of Jesus and His final redemption. It’s coming, folks. Wait for it. And don’t confuse it with the next political bill or diet book—

Love as always,

The most stumbling steps

“I’d like a small iced cappuccino,” I tell the waitress at Timmy’s. “Caramel.”

As I carry it to my vehicle I take my first sip. I’ve never tried a caramel iced cappuccino before, and the sweet coffee flavor explodes upon my senses. Unexpectedly, I begin to cry right there in the Tim Horton’s parking lot, a furrowed face reflected in the windows of my van. I fumble with the keys so I can lose myself within the tinted windows, hide before the world detects my weakness.

I cry.


Several months ago my friend Sandy lay in a hospital bed, dizzy and ill and in danger of blood clots, carrying pain around in her body. She’d been coming to our church for six years, maybe… a 50-something-year-old-woman with a dark past and an uncertain present. She loved coming to church. She was drawn to us and frustrated by us, feeling warmed and repulsed in turn. We did not understand her, but we took care of her. We made her food when she was sick and prayed for her needs and invited her over to our homes. She took care of us too. She gave us advice on raising our children and prayed for us in our hard times and created for us elaborate birthday cards that were not to be opened until the day!

She lay there sick in bed, those months ago. I called her hospital extension and said “Sandy, it’s Shari Zook. I’m coming through town; is there anything you’d like to drink that I can buy for you and bring to your room?”

Her voice was gravelly with stress and sleeplessness. “Um, wow! Yes, there is. Tim Horton’s has this wonderful thing, I don’t know what they call it. Um. It has caramel and ice cream and coffee all mixed together and a bunch of whipped cream on the top…”

“I’ll see what I can do,” I told her. “I’d love to bring it to you. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Within fifteen I was there at her door, peeping in. She sat half-reclined in her bed, a cooling pack on her tousled gray head. When she tasted the drink, her face lit up. She began nodding, still pulling at the straw. A long drink and then another nod. “This is it! Mmm. It’s so good.”

I never did taste a frozen caramel cappuccino, until today. The incident passed. Sandy was released from the hospital—and readmitted. Released. Readmitted. A plethora of physical and mental issues plagued her, wheeled like vultures above her head. She shook off one to be taken by another, bigger and blacker. I will not tell you of them all.

Three weeks ago, her life came to an end. “Suicide,” everyone says, and it may be. She apparently overdosed on medication and never woke up. Who can say what intent lay behind it? She was troubled enough to do it, had threatened it often enough in those last months of intense pain and darkness, but clung to life as well. Who can say if she determined on making an end of herself, or if, desperate for relief from pain, she induced a sleep from which she intended to wake, a sleep that took hold of her and did not let go?

Sandy is gone.

“Lord, have mercy on her soul,” I prayed often in those first days after hearing. I do not believe in praying for the dead, but I needed to say this, and say it again and again–my way of committing her to His loving and capable hands.

She reached for Jesus even at the end, and we trust her to His mercy. But I hate that darkness won in some way—hate that the evil that pursued her all her life, that blackened her memories and divided her mind, overcame her at last.

Our church family wrestles and doubts and questions, and lets her go. Could we have done more?

Most of us feel guilt in some way or another, feel it though we do not believe in its power and though we release it to Jesus. Could we not have done more? She was not an easy person to live with. She loved us and ranted at us; she lied to us and repented with tears; she begged from us and manipulated us. Some of us did for her all that the Lord asked of us, but we struggle that we didn’t feel like it, that we didn’t feel all the affection and warmth we showed. Some of us did not do all that the Lord asked of us, and we struggle…

We struggle.


I sip my iced cappuccino and begin to cry there on the asphalt, because He tells me “This is what you gave to Me that day in the hospital. I give it now to you.”

“But oh, Jesus, oh…

“I do not deserve Your commendation.

“What if I didn’t do enough?

“What about the thing that haunts me?

“What about that time she told me she didn’t want to come for dinner anymore unless we invited her More Often? She said that’s what friends do, they get together Often, and if we didn’t want to be friends she didn’t want to come—She didn’t want this Once-Every-Six-Months stuff. I never had her over for dinner after that. Jesus, what about that I never had her over for dinner after that? I took her a meal when she was sick and I brought her a cold drink and I cried with her when her wrists were bleeding, but I never had her over for a sit-down dinner again…

“Oh, Jesus oh…”

I taste the drink.

I cry.

He says, “I am talking about what you did, not what you didn’t do. This is what you gave to Me that day. Receive it now, my grace for you. Learn of Me. Trust Me.

“I accept the most stumbling steps toward holiness.”


This is why caramel iced cappuccino will always taste to me like redemption.

Alice in wonderland, or not

Walking through the woods, I found a little door.


I’m sure I saw a welcome mat laid down, curled from waiting.

door closeup

I’d like to stop in for tea sipped from an acorn cup, and some sweet nut cakes. I’d like to forget that I’m adult, that there are dirty dishes and bad news waiting in the house.

What is your view of pain? she asked me.

I don’t know. I have no opinion of it whatsoever. I would like to find shelter among the close darkness of the tree roots, drinking sustenance from the earth like they do.

redemption way

redemption lane

What is your view of pain?

I don’t know. Does Redemption Way really look like that—dappled shades of peaceful living?

The_ScreamNo. It’s a road flooded with drama, lined with fire, set with sinkholes. You can lose your soul on Redemption Way.

I’d like to stay away from it if I can, sip that acorn tea.







But the goal here is to grow, not shrink.

With every bite you grow larger, Alice.

I suppose I must go through the looking glass to see Redemption Way for what it is. It looks red and screaming from one side; green and healing when I look back over my shoulder, seeing how He carried us.

redemption lane

I have redeemed you
I will be with you
They shall not overwhelm you
You shall not be burned
The flame shall not consume you
I have called you by name

You are mine.


All images owned by Shari Zook, with the obvious exception of The Scream, Edvard Munch, public domain in the United States.