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What They Never Tell You (a kind of Valentine’s Day post)

There is something
no one tells you
while the guests are still there,
while the cake watches,
uncut,
while the rings still feel
unfamiliar,
slippery,
like something stuck between
your teeth.

What that thing is,
what no one tells you,
(during the toasts or the speeches
or the dancing)
is that you will need to
say those two words
again
and again

and again.

The preacher makes it sound
like it’s once-and-done,
but it’s
not.

After the first fight,
for example,
the one that catches you
off guard,
you will have to say those two words,
and again after the twenty-seventh
argument about the same thing,
your tone, maybe,
or the smallest rolling
of the eyes.

And again
after the one hundred
and fifth
disappointment.
Or
when you’re sitting on the floor
of your office
in despair
and she is in the room
fuming,
or despairing, too,
over things you cannot name
and never could have foreseen.

And again
this time gladly
on nights when your hands
touch
under the covers, live wires,
or when your child leaves
the room, and you
smile at each other with joy
because
there goes the two of you
and so much more
in one body.

Or when the little strip just won’t
turn. And the months pass
marked by what arrives
and what does not.

Until sickness and health
are behind you
and death has parted you.
One hundred
thousand
million
times
in every little way and every big way
in every glance and every sigh.

I do.

You know,
I say those words
every day, every minute.
I peek into the room and see
you sitting in the sunshine,
eyes closed, tired from every little thing,
and I whisper it to myself, though no
one else is there
to witness it.

No one else,
still,
I do.

* * * * *

Did you know I have a book of poems you can get in an ebook for free? It’s called We Might Never Die, and it’s a free download over at Noisetrade. Go get it, as a Valentine’s Day gift from me. Or to me. Or another reason, if either of those seem weird.

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Losing Track of Sam at a Wrestling Tournament, and What He Did When He Heard My Voice

Another weekend, another wrestling tournament for our 9-year-old. He loves every minute of it, every take-down, every bruise, every pin. And I love to watch him wrestle.

Before the tournament began, the huge gymnasium was swarming with kids and coaches and parents and referees. Kids practiced on the mats and ran in circles and laughed out loud. Coaches tried to bring order, to get the wrestlers ready for their matches. The organizers made last second preparations. And for a moment, I lost track of Sam.

But I picked him out quickly. He was looking around with some of his clothes in his hand, obviously looking for me so that he could get rid of all that extra stuff and get down to the fun of warming up and tackling his friends.

“Over here!” I shouted, and even though my voice was nearly drowned out by the voices of hundreds of other kids and adults, and even though I didn’t use his name, he somehow recognized that it was me calling for him. He turned. He saw me. And he came running.

* * * * *

In that moment, when I shouted “Over here!” and he turned towards me, I thought how interesting it was that he actually recognized my voice in the middle of all that chaos, all those competing voices, everyone trying to communicate something to someone else. But the more I thought about it, the less strange it became.

After all, he hears my voice every day. Without realizing it, he knows the inflection of my voice, its tone. He could probably tell you what kind of a mood I’m in, just by the sound of me.

Do you see the question this is leading to?

What voice do you recognize and respond to?

Do you hear the siren song of more money always more money and turn, follow it wherever it leads?

Do you follow the voice of desire, experience, feeling, adventure?

Are you drawn to the voice of things? Shiny, new wonderful things?

Are you obsessed with the voice of Fox News or CNN or CNBC, being discipled by their “information,” their way of seeing the world, and then living out their calling and mission?

If you’re a Christian, do you even recognize the voice of Jesus? How? When do you make time to listen, to grow accustomed to his tone, his inflection, his pace of speaking?

* * * * *

I’ve been thinking a lot about how the voices I listen to, the voices I listen for, shape the way I live and the choices I make. In my writing life, am I more dedicated to following the voices that promise fame and success than anything else? Or am I willing to continue on, steadfast on the path set before me, no matter where it leads, following the voice that says, “Keep going,” “Keep trying,” “Keep writing”?

The truth is, every single one of us allows voices into our lives on a consistent basis that will shape the direction we go.

What voices are you listening to? What voices do you quickly respond to? What voices shape the direction of your life?

* * * * *

By the way, if you get a chance, check out this wonderful review of my book Once We Were Strangers over at Christianity Today.

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Four Types of People, and a Book You Need to Buy

If you’re in the publishing industry for any amount of time, you will start to recognize several types of people. Let me sum just a few of them up for you here:

1) There is the type of person who wants to know everyone so that they can impress everyone with the names of everyone that they know. They pull these names out of their pocket at strategic times, as if these names are $100 bills, and wave them around before stuffing them back in their wallet. You may find yourself wondering, what was the point of that?

2) There is the type of person who wants to sell you as many things/books/courses as they can sell you, so they make ridiculous promises and publish click-bait posts and generally succeed in selling things but often things of very little substance. Like the cute kid with the roadside stand who’s selling lemonade for $1 but after you buy it, you realize it’s actually just sugary water. And you’re like, eh, okay, whatever. Keep your dollar, kid.

3) There is the enthusiastic newcomer who asks a thousand questions because they believe there’s a secret that will help them circumvent the process of time and hard work. And you keep saying, “Just keep writing,” and they look at you with glazed-over eyes and say, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, but what else?” or “Can you get me an agent?”

4) There is the genuinely helpful person who actually cares about the people they interact with, encourages said people to not sell their soul, to take their time, to act with integrity, and to keep working. They are delightful to be around. You have no idea who their agent is because they rarely talk about it. You might not even realize when they have signed another book deal! They do not wear masks, or at least as few masks as is humanly possible. They seem to genuinely celebrate when something you do succeeds, which makes you feel a little rotten inside because you are secretly jealous of the things they have created.

I have been fortunate to meet quite a few in this last group, and one of them is Ed Cyzewski. We’ve been friends for who knows how long–I can’t even remember when or where we first met–and for all these years, Ed has proven time and time again to be a true friend, a good person, and someone who loves Jesus.

Today, Ed has a book coming out. It’s a book I love, a book that I think will be around for a long time, and a book you should definitely go out and buy. It’s called Flee, Be Silent, Pray. Here’s what it’s about:

What if prayer could be simple rather than strenuous? Anxious, results-driven Christians can never pray enough, serve enough, or study enough. 

What if God is calling us not to frenzied activity but to a simple spiritual encounter? What if we must merely receive what God has already given us? 

Order it online. Or from your local bookstore. Or, even better, from Byron Borger’s wonderful store, Hearts and Minds. Whatever you do, pick it up today.

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Believing Spring Will Come Again, Even When It’s Snowing

The sun shone beautifully, and it was only February, so we opened the windows and smelled the almost-spring and the end-of-winter and the first blue sky in a week. I had been in a fog this January. I felt like I had woken up in the middle of a lucid dream, and I couldn’t get my bearings in this new, dreary world. The gray skies were dragging me down. The long dark crept around the house, whispering to me.

Then came this February day, offering sun and fresh air and melting snow.

My older daughter scooped up her purse and a light jacket and proclaimed she was going to walk the city, take photographs, maybe visit Central Market and buy herself a smoothie. She walked outside, onto the sidewalk, and I remembered that feeling, that sense of invincibility, when all the world was there for me.

Later in the day I walked home with our two middle-aged kids. I walked in the front and they came along behind, straggling ducklings, and I heard them talk about friends and people they knew and stories they’d read.

I’ve been feeling the passing of time in sharp ways recently. The years keep turning, page after page. The height marks of our children creep ever upward on the laundry door. I am 42, and Maile and I will be married for 20 years in August. What is a life, besides years that speed by, and months that come and go, and days that last a moment?

Now, the street is dark. Leo stares up at me through his bedroom door, sucking on his finger, his large brown eyes heavy with sleep. I can hear some of the other kids in other parts of the house—Cade reading downstairs, Lucy in the bathroom, Sam sleeping on the floor because he never wants to sleep in his room. Abra pops her head around the door and asks to be woken up earlier than usual. Poppy calls out for “Mama!”

February is here now and even though more snow is coming, I can believe in spring again.

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When Mohammad Moved Away


Mohammad moved to Michigan last spring, soon after we finished writing the first draft of Once We Were Strangers. I drove him around Lancaster, trying to find a moving truck. I felt like I was helping one of my kids prepare to relocate to a faraway college–I was proud, anxious, and scared. I hoped he would find new friends. I hoped that Michigan would be kind to him and his family.

He wanted to negotiate with the man who rented the trucks. He always wants to negotiate. We finalized the arrangements, and I took him home. I remember waving to him through the open window of my car, the warmth of spring following me home. It is never easy to say good-bye.

* * * * *

We talk on the phone about once a week. He called me a few weeks before Christmas.

“When are you coming for Christmas?” he asked me, laughing. He is nothing if not persistent.

“I’m sorry, Mohammad,” I said. “We won’t be able to come out this year. It’s a ten-hour drive! Why did you have to move so far?”

“I know, I know,” he said, regret in his voice. “It is very far.”

When I first volunteered with Church World Service, I did it because I thought I might be able to help someone. Give someone some money, or a ride to a job interview, or find them some furniture. Not in my wildest dreams did I think I would find a friend.

* * * * *

Our lives go on, though. When we talk, Mohammad tells me about his job, how school is going for his children, how Moradi is adjusting. I tell him I’m no longer driving for Uber, that we haven’t yet had snow, that the city of Lancaster misses him. He laughs and talks in a wistful voice.

“Yes, yes. I miss Lancaster. Very much.”

He texts me a picture of him and his brothers from 1986, before he was married, when he still lived in Syria. He looks very happy. On December 20th, he sends me a Happy Birthday text with kissy faces. I laugh out loud and show Maile.

I wonder what new friendships might be in store for me in 2019. I wonder what new friendships might be in store for you? Are we open to these things? Are we willing to embrace someone who we don’t understand, a friendship we cannot possibly expect?

Keep your eyes open.

* * * * *

I would love to come speak at your church this year about my book Once We Were Strangers, friendship, the Good Samaritan, or what Jesus meant when he said to love your neighbor. If that’s something you would be interested in, please use the contact button above to get in touch. And have a wonderful 2019!