one year later, when grief and joy hold hands

I want to take a moment to remember the scars I bore a year ago. I want to acknowledge them, grieve them in the deep places of my heart, before looking upward…before planning Baby’s first birthday party.

One year ago, when we got home from the hospital, I wondered if my scars would ever fade. The physical ones, I mean. God heals emotional scars, turns them into beautiful, shining things. This I know from experience.

But the truth is, my body was marked everywhere and, I can’t explain why, but I was embarrassed about it. I remember wishing I had the normal marks of labor like everybody else, wishing I was sore in all the normal places.

In the weeks following my delivery, I barely even noticed my C-section scar or the pain from it. I was too distracted by my battle scars.

My jaw was sore, and my voice was thin and raspy, a breath, thanks to the ventilator that had kept me alive. In the beginning, after I was finally able to speak, I was afraid to sing to Baby…I was afraid my vocal chords might give up, snap and break, decide they’d had enough. The doctors promised me this wouldn’t happen, assured me my voice would return with time. So I sang, soft, soft, soft, my voice a whisper.

Removing the ventilator was ugly, its own scar on my memory. The nurses made Michael leave the room. I still remember why.


Photo by Eduard Militaru, courtesy Unsplash

I also had a deep, painful scab on the side of my neck from a special IV port they had to insert into some sort of main artery leading directly to important organs…they do this in critical conditions, I think. They took it out as soon as they could, since it’s dangerous to have such an intense portal in for too long, but it left a hefty scab on my neck that the hospital photographer later photoshopped out of our newborn photos.

“I can’t be in the pictures,” I’d told the photographer from my hospital bed, shaking my head. “No. I can’t. I just—I don’t look good.”

She didn’t know what I’d been through.

I didn’t want her to know.

“Oh,” the photographer had said, her voice cheery, her red hair shining, clean, unlike mine. (I’d been connected to a blood-thinner IV for days that made it impossible to shower. God bless the night nurse who, after day 4, saw my desperation for normalcy, bit her lip, and unhooked me from my IV so I could sneak a shower.)

“All the moms say that,” the photographer had said, focusing her lens. “You’ll be glad you took some photos.”

My cheeks burned. I wish I was like all the moms.

I nodded, winced as I scooted into the frame, and took the pictures. It was fun pretending to be like everyone else for a moment.

(Weeks later, after an inward debate, I chose to print the photo with the scab on my neck. It just felt more real.)

I also had scabs all over both my wrists, about seven or eight on each side. To this day, I’m still not sure how they got there. I asked Michael about my wrists while we were still in the hospital, but all he could tell me was “Robby, you went through a lot while you were under.”

I had a cocktail of bruises – big, purple, yellow, green bruises, all up and down both my arms. I know for sure where those came from. Those came from the night after I was moved from the ICU into a high-risk family room. 

My welcome committee was two nurses who spent two hours numbing me, injecting me, numbing me again, injecting me again, trying to put in a PICC line, which is, from what I could gather, a thick needle that lets you inject as many meds as you need into one person without a million IVs. After two hours of being injected, I finally started to cry, silent tears rolling one by one down my cheeks, and my veins wouldn’t stop closing.

All I remember is I was ready to hold my baby again, and the fluorescent lights were unnaturally bright. I felt see-through and exposed.

“She’s done,” one of the nurses whispered. “She’s done. She’s been through enough. We need a different solution.”

The different solution was a bunch of IVs and more bruises. We clipped all my wires to the side so I could nurse and cradle my treasure-baby.

Before I was released from the hospital, a doctor showed me how to inject blood-thinners into my stomach. Three months of that precious, life-saving medicine for which I am eternally thankful, and my stomach was riddled with even more scabs.

I joked to Michael that, along with being the Harry Potter of the hospital (“The Girl Who Lived”), I’d also become a human pin cushion. Joking helped. It still does.

The thing is, a good friend told me that grief doesn’t mean you’re not thankful for what you have. It just means you’re acknowledging what you lost.

You can be thankful for things and grieve other things at the same time.

I’m thankful for and awestruck over my healthy, beautiful boy, and I’m saddened and grieved for what we went through together.

I acknowledge my grief, and I acknowledge that God makes all things new. God feels my pain and is, somehow, turning it into something beautiful. Something I honestly can’t see yet. 

Right now, what I can see is that my grief runs deep, and my joy runs deep. 

I have prayers to lament, a baby to cuddle, a husband to hold, a birthday party to plan.

Turns out, my scars finally faded. 

But I’m comforted in knowing that God remembers every single one.


Blessings to you,


So we do not lose heart…

“So we do not lose heart…” 2 Corinthians 16.


I didn’t know how to weep – I didn’t know what weeping meant.

Not until my (mercifully short) season of infertility.

I quickly learned.

The carpet floors of our sweet townhome have known well the salt of my tears, my cries of ache, anguish, and fear, and my whispered prayers of mustard-seed hope.

I’ve learned what it is to simply get out of bed because I can do all things through Jesus, Who surely carries me through.

I’ve learned what it is to full-out wail for a child not yet.

I’ve stopped judging Sarah from the Bible for throwing her husband at another woman just to get a baby. Infertility is an ache like no other.

And yet…there’s this: Infertility also leaves space for a holiness, a sacred intimacy with Jesus like no other.

I have experienced the love the Father has for His daughters…the special nearness He gives to his daughters who ache.

I want to share my story here, not to give anyone an “answer.” Not to say “If you do ___, then ___ will happen.” That’s not at all what I’m saying. I don’t think God works that way, as frustrating as that is at times.

But I do want to share what God has done for me and for my family.

I want to point us to Perfect Love who heals, Who works miracles, Who does more than we can imagine.

I am here to share my story. Glory be to God.

“I am my Beloved’s and He is mine, His banner over me is Love.” This is the song I played to and from every doctor appointment, beginning with the one when Michael and I heard my doctor sigh and say, “Robyn, you have Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome. It’s a disease. It can be managed, but it cannot be cured. Your hormones – even for this disease – are very uneven. They make it so that your body doesn’t do what it’s supposed to. This makes it…very tricky to conceive.”

Michael held my hand on the way home from that appointment. It was a bright, sunny day. A beautiful work day, cars whizzing by, people going to lunch.

And I felt so alone.

No one knew.

No one knew what I was going through.

It was too personal. Too raw to write about.

Too raw for anyone but Jesus.

You know those trials we face that are so tender to the heart that if you tell even one person who speaks a careless word in response, you might just break?

Those trials where if ONE MORE PERSON gives you a contrite Christian saying, trying their best to make an uncomfortable situation feel better, you might (not so)accidentally punch them in the face?

This was one of those.

In her book “Every Bitter Thing is Sweet,” Sarah Hagerty writes, “While mothers cradled their babies at night, I cradled my barren womb.”

Oh, the pain. The pain.

I can’t describe it.

But in the dark, in the pit, in the nausea from medication trials, in the endless, quiet appointments, in the aching emptiness of my womb, in the heart-stabbing dig that was every baby shower invitation, Jesus was not only there, but He whispered a different tune.

Hear me, Beloved. I am bigger than doctors. I am bigger than your body. I am bigger than disease. I AM.

all bundles by Erica Zoller

photo by ashley mckinney

Michael came to me one day, strolling in the warmth of summer. “I get the feeling we’ll have a baby in 2018. I even…” he paused. “I think we’ll be pregnant before this year is over.”

I narrowed my eyes. I’m the one with all the “feelings.” He’s the one with very mature, rational thoughts.

“Why?” I asked. “Why do you think that?”

He gave a small smile, raised his eyebrows, and shook his head. “I don’t know. I just…I just do.”

“Do you think…should we, like, pray for that?”

Oh, gosh. I can’t pray for something that may or may not happen. I can’t open myself up to disappointment. Shouldn’t I only pray for God’s will? Because then I can’t ever be disappointed…

(I TOLD you. I had mustard-seed faith. Not the big, giant kind of faith. I had the little, scaredy-cat kind that wanted to pray “correct, A+” prayers.)

Michael nodded. “Heck yes we should pray!” (I love my husband.)

And so we did.

At first it was hard to pray. I didn’t want to ask anything of God that He might not want to do.

But then, as the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months and as the tears fell one by one into His hands, the praying got easier.

Because I knew Him more.

I loved Him more. Trusted Him more.

And yet, by the fall, my body still didn’t do what it was supposed to do. The medicine still hurt; my body still didn’t “work.”


photo by ashley mckinney

I yelled at God. “Why me? Why? What have I done?”

God simply held me. Rocked me. Comforted me.

And by the grace of Jesus Christ who strengthens me, I forged ahead, continuing a trial of different medicines.

Fall leaves drifted to the ground, and Michael and I fell to our knees, eyes on the calendar.

We prayed fervently for our baby. Every night. In the hushed quiet of longing, we held hands and prayed.

Snow fell and winter rolled in.

And suddenly, gently, I felt strange.



Hope against hope, praying silently “Can it be, Lord?” I drove to the doctor and took a blood test.

A few hours later, back at home, I got the call.

The smile in the nurse’s voice was unmistakable.

The miracle had happened.

I was with child.

IMG_1314 (1)

photo by emily youngo


I fell to the ground and cried. I couldn’t believe it.

What happened next, I couldn’t tell you. I don’t remember.

As I pen this now, fatigued with pregnancy hormones, full of baby in womb, I am still teary-eyed and at a loss for words.

“Wow…look at what your hormone levels were,” another doctor said, looking back over my file. She handed me the ultrasound of my baby, heart beating loud and strong and full of miracle in my womb. “How did you…?”

“Yeah,” I said, looking at Michael, shaking my head. “I know. It’s…it’s a miracle.”

Beloved Sister, this is my story. It will not look like yours, and yours will not look like mine. But something is the same in all our stories.

God hears. God heals. God is able. God provides. God does miracles.

Sister, I don’t know what your miracle will look like.

I don’t know. I wish I did. I wish I could comfort you and balm your ache and tell you it’s going to be all right, but only Jesus can do that.

Beloved, pray for what’s in your heart. Don’t ever stop. Don’t be afraid of disappointment. Let the salt of your tears be the fragrance of your prayer and rest assured each tear is held close to His heart in the quiet.

My prayer for you, Mother-to-Be:

I pray that the God of miracles Himself would bless you with abundantly more than all we can ask or imagine. I pray for healthy, strong, beautiful babies filling your wombs and homes. I pray for safe pregnancies and for anointed adoptions. I pray for healed bodies and for blessed marriages. I pray that you would soon receive the desires of your heart. I pray that you might know intimately the God who loves you, the God who heals, the God who is so, so pleased with you. May you know fruitfulness in every area of your life. May your family and your children and your children’s children be a lineage who rock the generations with His love. May you be a beautiful story of His faithfulness. May you quickly and safely have in your arms the perfect baby God has for you. May you know intimately His love.


In Him,



P.S. – If you or a loved one are diagnosed with PCOS, it would be my privilege to share any information I have with you, and to pray for you. My email is rfieldwriting (at)


photo by emily youngo

when chasing your dreams makes you want to stuff your face with chocolate…and maybe even give up

Sometimes, God’s answer isn’t “No,” it’s just, “Not yet.”

And so then you imagine banging your forehead on the keyboard in front of you. But you don’t, because you’re having a good hair day and also because you’re at the library and you would scare all the children.

But really. The love I have for my Asher series is big.

I love the seven year-old I created. Love him. Love his quirks and his imagination, love his freckles and his two best friends who wear capes to school and only talk by writing on mini-whiteboards.

I love them. But an agent hasn’t picked them up yet, and at this point, it’s been about a year shopping this little guy and his crew.

erica 9

photo by erica zoller

And so, for now, it’s time to move on from this particular series. I mean, I could self-publish Asher, but that route simply was never in my game plan. It’s a great route to take! I know BUNCHES of self-published authors, and they’re SUPER successful.

But for some reason, I just don’t get the feeling self-publishing is my route.

I’ve wanted to go the traditional publishing route since I was little, and by golly, I’m going to do it.

(Well. Maybe. If I can stop eating these dang Hershey’s chocolates and let Jesus pick me up by my bootstraps and kick me in the pants to snap me out of my pity party.)

Just kidding. Jesus doesn’t kick me in my pants. I don’t think.

Or maybe He does. Goodness knows I need it.

But my point is, I’m having a moment where I imagine I’m staring into Jesus’s eyes from across the table.

I say, “I’m done. Find me a cave. I’m moving to Alaska with moose and hubby and this bag of Hershey’s and I’m totally serious this time. Why haven’t you published my books yet? This is NOT how I would have planned it!”

And I can almost imagine Him sighing, tilting His head and looking at me with only Love in His eyes.

I imagine Him saying (with a touch of humor because my own mouth is full of chocolates like a squirrel with nuts), “Don’t you remember, Beloved?”

“Remember what?” **mouth still full of chocolate.**

“I have good plans for you. And there are many things you just can’t know yet. I promise, My plans are far better than your own.”

all bundles by Erica Zoller

photo by erica zoller

**Squints eyes accusingly. Tries to look tough and it’s not working but that’s fine.** “But my plan was really good. I was going to show everybody how easy it is to follow your dreams and I was going to make money from my book sales and shop way more at the Loft and take a vacation it totally would have been awesome.”

This is where I’m pretty sure He hoots with laughter the way one laughs at a puppy chasing her own tail. But not a mean laughing, a laughter laced with delight in His creation. In me.

“You’re funny, Robyn, Beloved. I love how I’ve made you.”

I can imagine Him smiling at me, and I try my best to frown in return because I want to stay mad at Him because He didn’t do what I wanted Him to do.

He didn’t follow my plans.

But I suppose Jesus is more exciting than that, right? More exciting than my type-A calendar squares. More exciting than dollar signs or likes on Facebook pages.

And I suppose He really does love us too much to let us settle for lesser things than the glory He’s got in store.

And now, just like that, I hear a whisper that’s more quiet than our conversation had been a minute ago. “Just keep your Eyes on me, Dear One. Are you not worthy already? Are you not already My Beloved?”

I exhale and I smile. Just a little.

Because, yes. I suppose I am.

I know I am.

Despite my forehead banging on the keyboard and my squirrel-esque consumption of chocolate nuggets, I am already enough for Him.

And you know what else?

I’ve got a 2-inch binder at home chalk-full of 320 pages of the most favorite words I’ve ever written. Words filled with magic and wonder and beauty and messiness and a character I’ve poured my heart into.

They’re untouched words, words full of the hope and excitement and the possibility of publishing.

So I ask Him what His plans are for this next book, and all He’ll tell me is that…

…I’m already worthy.


Blessings, joy, and an abundant knowing of your worth,


why we can actually love our stories: a poem

why we can actually love our stories…

…and maybe trust that the Author loves us, too…


a poem, written by a heart that doubts more than I’d care to admit:


You are faithful when I rest

You are faithful when I work


You are faithful when I’m happy

You are faithful when I’m hurt


You are faithful in the evening

You are faithful in the day


You are faithful through the night

You sing melody at daybreak

spring landscape.jpg

You are faithful when I’m right

You are faithful when I’m wrong


You are faithful when I can’t

find the words to sing Your song


You are faithful to the animals

You are faithful to the trees


You promise to come back

and take the pain from them and me


You are faithful when I weep

You are faithful when I dance


You are the author of joy

You call us home in true romance


You are faithful when I know

I need you all the time


You are faithful when I say

“I’ve got this. This life is mine.”


You are faithful every season

You are faithful in all Your plans


You are faithful to me always,

for I am always in Your hands.


“Surely Your goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” Psalm 23:6

“The Father loves the Son and has placed everything in His hands.” John 3:35

Blessings and peace to you,


the time i cursed at God and He didn’t leave me

I’ve had an injured knee for about two and half years.

I had surgery for it in October (after years of exhausting all other options) and supposedly should be able to run right now.

I can’t.

At least, not yet.


And it’s not like I was a crazy, hardcore runner before – I wasn’t. In fact, I didn’t “do” anything to injure my knee. It just started hurting one day – and then it never stopped.

I promise I’m not whining. I’m not. Maybe I am.

But hear me out: I’m extremely thankful for my overall health, the use of my limbs, the food on my table, the roof over my head, the health of my family – it’s all abundantly more than I could have ever asked for.

And I’m so thankful for it.

But chronic pain….it does something to a person after years go by. Especially when people keep telling you “it will get better in X number of months” over and over and over and months go by and it doesn’t get better and you’re left wondering why.

And chronic pain…it never lets you forget. It’s there when you turn over in bed, it’s there when you walk down the stairs, it’s there when you wake up and it’s there when you go to sleep. It’s there when you can’t dance at weddings. It’s there when you watch people play frisbee. It’s there when you fall trying to sit on the floor. It’s just there.

And now I really am whining. Sorry. Over now.

Two weeks ago, recovery for my knee took a bad turn, and not only did it scare me, it absolutely brought me to my knees.

I’d spent so much time trying, trying, trying, praying, praying, praying, hoping, hoping, hoping…

And I was just finally done. Done. Done. Done.


And I told God as much. I’m all for being real, so I’ll be real: I yelled at God. YELLED at Him. YELLLLLLLLED at Him like I don’t think I’ve ever yelled at anyone before in my entire life. (I was alone in the house. I might have scared the cats, though. I haven’t asked them.)

My angry, tear-filled rant sounded something like this, but only after I chucked my bible study onto the ground for dramatic effect:I’ve been faithful to You. I’ve done everything every doctor has ever told me to do. And all the while, I’ve read the Bible and I’ve tried to trust You and I’ve stayed positive and I’ve looked for the bright side in this whole thing and I’ve prayed and I’ve asked You for healing EVERY DAY FOR YEARS and I know you CAN heal but YOU WON’T ANSWER ME! WHY WON’T YOU HEAL ME?!”

Then I cursed. At God. With my finger pointed all crooked and accusing in His direction. Again and again. 

I know. My whole face burns with embarrassment as I write this. See my sin in all its ugliness: I cursed at the face of my Creator. At the One who loved me before I knew love. I cursed at Perfect Love Himself. At perfect Holiness and Purity. I cursed at the one I’d already nailed to the cross.

I did.

But then something even crazier and more scandalous happened.

He met me there.



I didn’t scare Him away. He wasn’t angry at me. I wasn’t struck down by lightning. I wasn’t given an “F” on my Christian Report Card.

Instead, over the next few days, I felt Him bending down nearer and nearer, leaning in, gently whispering, “Thanks for being honest with Me. You can trust me with all of you. I love you. I want all of you. I want intimacy with you. I don’t want your mask. I already know what’s underneath. I knew every word you’d spoken to me before you spoke it. And I still love you. I always will. You can’t change how I feel about you.”

It absolutely scandalized me. And confused me. I was slightly offended, in fact.

Because I hadn’t been good. I’d been ugly. But He didn’t punish me. Things aren’t supposed to work that way, right? Not in the economy of perfectionism.

Perfect Love tends to do that to perfectionism – exposes it for the fake security that it is.

“There is no fear in love. Perfect love casts out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love” (1 John 4:18, emphasis mine).

Can I fast forward to today?

Two weeks later from when I cursed at God and walked out on Him and called Him names?

Today, Michael and I walked 4 miles. Outside. In the sunshine.

And it felt ah-mazing!! Did you just read that?


It didn’t hurt! At all!

I literally can’t remember the last time Michael and I have been able to do that together.

In fact, over the past two weeks, my physical therapist has been amazed at the sudden spurt of growth and progress I’ve had in my knee.

I’ve done more in the past two weeks than I’ve been able to do in the past two years – all with little to no pain.

All this outpouring of blessing. All this answered prayer. And all….after I failed God. After I cursed at the Healer Himself and accused the Faithful One of being unfaithful. After I walked out on Him.


I’ve never been more in love with Jesus. And not because my knee is doing well. I do love that, but that’s not why I love Him more.

It’s because when I let Him see me, really see me, He still liked me.

I let Him in on the good, the bad, the ugly, and He didn’t turn away.

He welcomed me, anger and all. I was fully known. Fully accepted. Fully loved. Fully hemmed in, behind and before.


He didn’t punish me for spewing anger His way. He didn’t make my knee worse. (Yes. I was actually afraid of that.)

On the contrary, like David said, God actually blessed me in the weeks that followed:

“When I was beleaguered and bitter…in Your very presence…I’m still in Your presence, but You’ve taken my hand. You wisely and tenderly lead me, and then You bless me” (psalm 73:21-24 msg version, emphasis mine).

I did apologize for treating God badly – for being mean to Him. That’s not how I would have talked to a friend. To my dad. To myself.

But He “made me lie down in green pastures…He restored my soul” (psalm 23 v. 2-3).

He made me lie down. He brought me to my knees.

And then He raised me up.

I’ve never felt more secure or loved…or calm. All of a sudden, I’m praying all day. I’m not trying to, I just am. I’m just talking with Someone who already knows and already loves.

Y’all. With confidence: we can trust Him. We can trust Him. We can trust Him.

You can’t scare Him off. And you certainly can’t out-perform Him.

Perfect Love won’t punish us. He punished Himself for us.

Mmm. Yes.

It’s scandalous. Scandalous grace.


Blessings, sunshine, fresh air, and long walks to you,


a clinched fist is tiring, but an open palm can hold all the chocolate

I’ve learned this year that…to receive the blessings of God, the promises of God, the Word of God, the confidence of God, the love of God, the glory of God, the rest in God, the peace, the joy, the steady heartbeat that comes with simply being loved by Love Himself

I have to open my clinched fists of control. So that, open-palmed, I might receive from Him.

That I might receive Him.

Control makes no sense. So then, why do I want it so badly? Is it maybe because I don’t trust God fully enough to take care of things?

That’s embarrassing. Because that would mean…I myself want to be God…instead of letting Him be God.

Seriously. That’s embarrassing.dsc_7386

So how then, I wonder, do I combat the need to clinch the fists and tighten the grip and strangle the carefree life in search of elusive control?

Heart bowed, humility washing, I ask the Lord to gently uncoil my fingers…

…and suddenly the breathing is easier. I notice the sun on the pinestraw outside and the whiskers on Tuck and suddenly there are enough hours in the day to do everything I want to get done because suddenly all I want to get done is…enjoying God.

And the work is more fun. The words are beautiful. The pressure is gone. The rest is easy and the burden is light. Jesus didn’t lie about that part.

I always wondered what He meant when He said, “Come to Me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest” (Matt 11:28). Because I must have been coming to Him all this time with my fists clinched. Head-butting Him, probably. Knowing me. Because with fists clinched all I can do is head-butt or punch. And head-butting is more fun. Just ask Michael.

But with open palms, I can receive from Him. Receive life. Receive more of Him. Right where I am. In the middle of the work day. In a night of anxiety. In the quiet moment on the couch with coffee. In the triumph of progress. Wrangling the cats. Waiting for an answer.

And we can, you know? We can open our palms to receive from Jesus..because He can be trusted. “The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; His mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness” (Lam 3:22-23).

Gosh, it’s hard. But clinching the fists tight, I’ve learned, is harder. And much less fun. I prefer joy over worry.

I can, I must, to really live, open my palms to Him. And I can, I remind my heart, because He, in order for me to really live, opened His palms for me. He engraved my name upon His hands (Isaiah 49:16). He let the nail pierce His hands, knowing it was for me. Me. If He saw me as worth His very life, can’t I trust Him with mine?

I will open my hands to Him. I will receive the restful life He promised. I will receive Him.

Because I can trust this God-man, I tell my heart. The One who gave His life for me. I can trust Him.

Jesus holds all things together, and everything is in His hands. Col 1:17, John 3:35.

So I’ll live with open hands today, thrilled and kid-like to see what God places in them. Marveling at how God holds them gently. Loving the easy-going rest.

And you know, with open hands, there’s just flat-out more room to hold all the chocolate.


Blessings and joy and freedom and a handful of chocolate to you,


when we think Jesus counts straws

Ever felt like this must be the last straw?

Like if you seriously make this SAME. MISTAKE. one more time, Jesus is totally done. He must be.

Because let’s face it: we feel that way about ourselves sometimes. Lots of times, maybe.

*(Seriously, Robyn? You’re really going to worry. Right now. About that thing. AGAIN. You seriously forgot about “not worrying” already?)*

And maybe your “last straw” isn’t worry. Maybe it’s insecurity or selfishness or pride or laziness or a million other things that you KNOW that you know that you know you don’t like.

But here’s the thing: Jesus doesn’t have last straws.

Because instead of counting straws he counts the hairs on our heads (Matt 10:30). He counts the tears we shed (Psalm 56:8). He even counts the beauty of our smallest seed-size faith (Matt 17:20).

His Love is too great to leave room for last straws.

Jesus doesn’t do last straws.

ball park 2

He shows us this in the book of Luke.

First, Jesus chose his 12 disciples. And His disciples weren’t just his students, but they were His closest companions on this earth. These last-straw people were the ones with whom He literally reclined (relaxed and shared meals with). By choice. He chose these men to share in His intimate times of prayer. So dare I say it? He trusted them with His heart.

And let me clarify something: Jesus knew before He picked His disciples, his friends…He knew every time they would mess up, every sinful thought they’d ever have. He knew Peter would literally deny knowing him.

And then there’s this: Jesus didn’t need to trust anyone with His precious friendship. He’s God! He’s completely self-sufficient! He didn’t need anything.


Intimate friendships with last-straw people were His choice.

And they still are.

Can I tell you a little bit more about His disciples, His chosen companions, some last-straw champs just like you and me?

Luke 9 gives us a nice real-life window into their lives. Here’s a very brief summary:

The disciples (Jesus’s chosen friends) fell asleep amid a miracle. Then they compared themselves with one another and argued about which of them was the greatest. Next, one of them became jealous of a Christ-follower who was able to perform a miracle that none of them could yet perform. Then they tattled on this particular man and even tried to exclude him from their group.

But did Jesus ever give up on His disciples or trade them in for better friends? Did He ever roll His eyes and mark an “X” on their checklists of “How to Follow God?”


He was patient. Because Jesus doesn’t throw in the towel.

In fact, He does the opposite.

After all the drama, after all the last-straws of Luke 9, this is what Jesus did:

“As the time approached for him to be taken up to heaven, Jesus resolutely set out for Jerusalem” (v. 51).

That’s exactly the next verse after the disciple-getting-jealous-and-tattling-and-excluding episode. Jesus sets out resolutely to the place where He would die for that very disciple. And for you. And for me.

Meriam-Webster definition of “resolute”: marked by firm determination; bold, steady.

That’s our Jesus, isn’t it?

STEADY. We fall asleep, we get jealous, we exclude, we sin, we fail. But He’s there at the end our race, flag waving in victory, RESOLUTELY STEADY. And He’s there in the midst of our race, guiding us with the hands upon which our very names are engraved (Isaiah 49:16). RESOLUTELY STEADY.

ball park 3

Jesus doesn’t count our straws.

He counts us as His friends.

“Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.” John 15:13, emphasis mine.

“I no longer call you servants, because a servant does not know his master’s business. Instead, I have called you friends, for everything that I learned from my Father I have made known to you.” John 15:15, emphasis mine.

Peace to you and abundant blessings today in Christ,