Category: Blog

The Hunger and Want of Christmas

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“Forgive me if I am not justified in what I ask,” said Scrooge, looking intently at the Spirit’s robe, “but I see something strange, and not belonging to yourself, protruding from your skirts. Is it a foot or a claw?”

“… From the foldings of its robe, it brought two children; wretched, abject, frightful, hideous, miserable. They knelt down at its feet and clung upon the outside of its garment… They were a boy and a girl. Yellow, meagre, ragged, scowling, wolfish; but prostrate, too, in their humility. Where graceful youth should have filled their features out, and touched them with its freshest tints, a stale and shrivelled hand, like that of age, had pinched and twisted them, and pulled them into shreds. Where angels might have sat enthroned, devils lurked, and glared out menacing. No change, no degradation, no perversion of humanity, in any grade, through all the mysteries of wonderful creation, has monsters half so horrible and dread.”

“… They are Man’s,” said the Spirit, looking down upon them. “And they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both, and all of their degree, but most of all beware the boy, for on his brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the writing be erased….”

– Charles Dickens in “A Christmas Carol”.

If you have lived on this earth long enough, you have pulled back the robes of pretense at some point to reveal this truth about humankind: Left to ourselves, we are hungry and insatiable. Maybe there is no time when this is more apparent than the holiday season when we ramp up our gratification efforts with buying, feasting, and lavishing.

In stark contrast, God provides us with sustenance that does not disappear when consumed. In the gospel of John, chapter 6, Jesus tells the people following Him: “Do not work for the food that perishes, but for the food that endures to eternal life, which the Son of Man will give to you.” Later, he reveals to them, “I AM THE BREAD OF LIFE; whoever comes to me shall not hunger, and whoever believes in me shall never thirst.” John 6:35 

The first record of the Bread of Life came thousands of years before Jesus, when a nation of refugees found themselves trekking through the wilderness, driving their livestock and hauling their belongings because they had put their hope in promises of freedom. At first, it was exhilarating to shake off the bonds of slavery, but now the reality of their situation came into focus: they were exposed and dependent in a terrain that showed little kindness. Then came hunger pains and their children began crying for bread. Would slavery not have been better than death? 

At just this time, bread was divinely provided to their camp, free and available to everyone. The only caution was that they must gather only what they needed for the day. With that, the picture changed and they were no longer exiles wandering in a hostile world. Instead, they were the children of Israel, tenderly cared for by God, surrounded with protection and grace.

Two thousand years ago, masses streamed to deserted places to see the mysterious Man Jesus working miracles: sick people made well, blind people given sight, frail people walking. Jesus didn’t just ignite curiosity, He ignited the hope that maybe God was nearer than they thought. That God cared about the tyranny under which they lived, their illnesses, addictions, fears, and losses. This glimmer of hope opened a hunger that had been rumbling in their very souls. They left the day’s work just to see Him and found Jesus so compelling that they stayed long and ran out of provisions. 

Jesus saw their need and instructed his disciples to share five loaves of bread with over five thousand people.  As the bread was broken and passed from hand to hand, it did not diminish. With that, Jesus proclaimed: “I AM THE BREAD OF LIFE”, and there were some in that crowd who knew they were looking at the only One who could nourish their bodies and their spirits. Here was God’s Chosen One, the Messiah. The One Who satisfies our hunger. The Bread of Life.  

Like exiles and seekers, we, too need Bread.  This world with its promises of fulfillment and a better life if we just have more- more things, more achievements, more experiences, more connections- ultimately has left many of us isolated and confused, with cravings we sometimes cannot control. No amount of money or time can satisfy our endless desires. Surely this hunger will be the death of us. 

But there is an antidote for our relentless hunger.  The same Jesus, who once broke bread to feed thousands and proclaimed, “I AM THE BREAD OF LIFE,” freely offers the gifts of adoption and eternal life with Him in Heaven. We believe and are saved, but we must also be fed. As we let go of the world’s false promises, we find the Bread of Life by spending time with Him daily to gather what we need to nourish our bodies and souls.

2024 -Sandra Jantzi

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On Ending Well: An Open Letter To A Pastor

It was desperation that made me do it.

My ears perked up when your weekly message ended with the familiar reminder that the pastors are available to meet with people experiencing various issues in their spiritual walk.

A troubled relationship with one person had created ripples of conflict in other areas of my life and I had found myself in what I thought was an inescapable and intolerable situation. I was certain I was right, but that provided no resolution to the conflict in which I was engulfed.

The multiple facets to my situation were like hundreds of strands in a knot with which I wrestled inwardly day and night. I could not see another way and I was emotionally distraught. I don’t like to ask for help, but I had come to the end of my own resources. I emailed you for a recommendation to meet with someone in our church counseling ministry, but you and your wife offered to meet with me instead.

I’m not sure what I was expecting but I know I did not expect that what I learned in our meetings would eventually alter the curve of my Christian walk forever. I know I did not expect the level of compassion that you both showed me. So often we avoid asking for help because we don’t want to dispel the church myth that we have it all worked out, and appear weekly with shiny, happy smiles. I’m utterly grateful for that compassion. When you began to slowly unravel my knot in the light of scripture, and I saw that my problem was deeper than the other person, your compassion made the hard admission of my failings so much easier.

When it would have been possible to get involved in the details of my conflict, you kept the focus on God’s Word, the Bible. It was with skill that you applied those ancient Words to my wound. I remember you telling me that no matter how wrong I thought someone else was or how badly I felt I had been treated, I was still answerable to God for my own behavior. Well of course I knew it at some superficial level, but that day it got my attention and I realized that my failure to live by that very concept was probably keeping me from growing spiritually. Although I hadn’t realized it before, I think I (and many others) believed that some poor behavior is justifiable. Some wrong reactions are admissible. But Jesus didn’t add an “except when” to the charge to love one’s enemies. It became clear that if I was going to go on saying that I believe in God, I was going to have to humble myself and do what He said. Even the hard things. The cost of which, of course, was my own pride and comfort.

As a result of our meetings, the Sermon on the Mount, perhaps Jesus’ most famous words, took on new life. And I have to tell you, I felt a fair amount of dismay when I measured my behavior against those hard words. “Love your enemy.” “If anyone forces you to go one mile, go with him two miles.” “Pray for those who persecute you.” “Forgive us… as we have forgiven others.” “Lay up treasures in heaven where neither moth nor rust destroy… for where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” “Judge not, that you be not judged.” “Why do you see the speck that is in your brother’s eye, but do not notice the log that is in your own eye?” “Whatever you wish that others would do to you, do also to them.” “The gate is narrow and the way is hard that leads to life, and those who find it are few.” “Not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord’, will enter the kingdom of heaven, but the one who does the will of my Father who is in heaven.”

When I thought nothing would improve, you showed me the passage in Habakkuk 3 with this charge: “Though the fig tree should not blossom, nor fruit be on the vines, the produce of the olive fail and the fields yield no food, the flock be cut off from the fold and there be no herd in the stalls, yet I will rejoice in the Lord; I will take joy in the God of my salvation. God, the Lord, is my strength…” I saw then that everything I was clutching and clinging to and thought I needed in my life was transient. When I accepted that I would live in whatever set of circumstances I was given and sincerely look to God for strength, I cracked open a treasure chest of gratitude and contentment that is unreduced in each new situation. It’s a daily, sometimes hourly choice. It is hard. But it is life-changing.

So many of us Christians seem to be consumed with the pursuit of something better in our current lives. By that I mean a nicer climate, a prettier house, a more fulfilling job, time to ourselves, a place where we agree more with the politics and mandates. All good things. But I unexpectedly found a prize in embracing the difficult things that I thought would lead to unhappiness. Like raging rivers we blast haphazardly through the rocky chasms of our lives, noisy and full of emotion, thinking we have some say in where we are going. The hardness of life in God’s masterful hands can direct to a sharpened awareness of His purpose and personality, leading to the still waters of grace and peace where there was none.

Your emphasis on God’s Word, and your encouragement to read it every day at every opportunity had a huge impact on my life. I had already been a Christian for a long time when we met, but I admit that up to that point reading the Bible was something I checked off the list everyday like any other chore. Sometimes it was hard to muster a lot of excitement for that duty. However, I came to realize in our meetings that God’s Word is one of the main tools on this earth that He uses to change me. When I am tired of the me that botches things up, struggles to forgive, and becomes too focused on myself, there is an amazing remedy at my disposal; God’s own words and the account of His interaction with other humans who have failings just like mine. I am privileged to have free access to those Words and the thrill of what this means has not diminished with time.

It should be said that in the midst of my struggle, I saw you and your wife also working to model the very things you were encouraging me to do. With the host of personalities and situations you both encounter, I can see that this would be no easy task. You were both unrelenting in that pursuit.

It was a challenge for me to share this personal story. I wrote it two months ago and wavered about whether to publish it. I finally did for a couple of reasons. One is that I’m sure there are other people out there who are in similar situations to mine, battling a situation that seems to have you down for the count. There are a lot of voices out there claiming to provide help. I encourage you to find the person in your life who can skillfully lead you through the Word of God, because that’s what changes lives.

Secondly, in a world where there is an abundance of ineffective and sometimes even abusive spiritual leaders, I am so genuinely grateful for those who have worked uncompromisingly to stay true to the message of Jesus Christ in word and deed; encouraging, coaxing, and cheering the rest of us on.

I saw a great illustration of this the day my youngest son reached his goal of a sub-five-minute mile at a high school track meet. Every ounce of his energy and focus was on the goal, the painful mental battle playing out on his face. The opponents were close on his heels as he rounded the last curve of the track. Out from the crowd of spectators, my older son- also a competitive runner- joined him, running parallel to his brother, just outside the track. As my husband and I watched from the upper level, we could hear our older son above the roar of the crowd shouting, “GO! YOU’RE ALMOST THERE! YOU’VE GOT THIS!!” He ran and cheered all the way to the end. That is what a pastor does.

To my pastors, and pastors everywhere: Thank you.

Thank you for continually encouraging us to keep running this race, pressing us to run better and faster. Thank you for reminding us that we’re almost there- that we can end well. What you do really does make a difference.

Sandra Jantzi

Copyright 2023, all rights reserved.

Posted on by Sandra Jantzi Featured 3

Big White Fluffy Prayers

“It’s up to you,” my husband said as we looked out at the sunny winter afternoon. “You’re the one that will have to deal with all of the headaches.”

I knew this to be true. The sweet smell of puppy was still on my coat that January day in 2021, but I was unable to decide what to do. I considered the significant changes that had occurred in the previous 18 months: one son married off and the other off to college. The family dog died weeks before my youngest left for college, so the house felt empty indeed. A new grandchild had entered the world, and I was eager to spend my free time with her. Then a global pandemic swept in and completely changed our business resulting in long workdays, constant changes, disrupted schedules. The slow realization that our company would not go back to its former way of doing business began to take hold. New employees were being hired and trained. New processes put into place. Trial and error honed our system. Trying to make family time in the 50+ hour weeks my husband and I were putting in became increasingly difficult. I’m not sure when overthinking, anxiety, impatience and dread crowded into my busy hours, but there was no doubt that they were my eager companions as soon as I woke every morning. There were days I spent 14 plus hours working, tossing up a few hurried prayers when I could.

What kind of lunatic invites a puppy into this chaos, I wondered.

I even asked God if it was a good idea for me to get a dog, but it was so hard discern any kind of answer over the constant overthinking and anxiety that swirled in my mind. It makes sense to me now that I would have felt that way. But at the time I was struggling. I used to think I could handle almost anything until almost anything happened.

I had gone to the “puppy viewing” we had arranged with the attitude that there was no way we were going to get one of these Great Pyrenees pups. For those who aren’t familiar, Great Pyrenees are a large breed dog, typically white in color and double-coated, suited for cold climates and outdoor work such as guarding livestock. I had no experience dealing with large breed dogs and since we were spending so much time at work, we would need a dog that could be incorporated into our workday fairly easily. I was thinking an older dog that already had the basic training down would be a better choice. But where to find one, with the animal shelters practically empty because of Covid? Our good friends who were also seeking a dog had met us there and quickly picked out one of the roly-poly fluffy female pups. Only the male puppy was left. After the breeder honestly answered our questions about the pros and cons of the breed, I heard him tell my husband, “These dogs are pretty mellow. This is the kind of dog that could just hang out at your auction house.”

We were home on Covid quarantine when the Great Pyrenees puppy we named Samson was dropped off at our house. He was timid and adorably cute with his tan ears, soft fluffy white coat and round puppy belly. I’m not about to tell you it was easy. We were training a puppy after all! We both knew that the puppy phase wouldn’t last forever, so we kept our eye on the prize. It was definitely more work for my already busy days. I learned to type with one hand for hours while dangling a toy in the other hand to keep Samson occupied. I had to pause work every 2 hours to take him outside, whether or not I wanted to. The every-2-hour breaks were a bit frustrating but not completely unwelcome to a woman who had spent the past several months tethered to a computer for 10-14 hours a day.

As we settled into a routine, Samson accompanied me to work every afternoon, and I made sure he got at least a 30 minute romp outside each day, no matter the weather. We reached a stage where he could just run in the fields we owned while I circled the perimeter for exercise. It felt pretty good to get away from work for a few minutes. I was providing for the dog what I rarely had taken the time to do for myself! The peace and calm of nature around us began to settle my mind. Samson stayed within eyesight, always coming back when I toned his training collar.

One day, as I marched around the field and Samson ran ahead of me, I started thanking God for this time, usually in the middle of the day, when I had a legitimate excuse to leave the office and find a few moments of quiet. I find a lot of satisfaction in working with and assisting my husband. But at that time, work was incredibly overwhelming. It started with a few words of thankfulness each day. Eventually I started praying for people I knew. I have a Bible app on my phone and I began listening to it while I walked. Daily I did some combination of those 3 things- thankful praise, praying for others, listening to the Word. Sometimes I walked in silence and asked God just to be with me as I walked. I have prayed for people who have faced death or the death of loved ones; people who are ill or have family conflicts. I have prayed for guidance for people who are struggling. I’ve prayed for my pastors and their families. I’ve listened to the entire Bible. Sometimes I just try to quiet my mind in the presence of the Holy Spirit. There has been snow, wind, sleet, drizzle, downpours, mud… and also plenty of gorgeous, balmy, sunny days where the clouds chase each other across the blue sky. Still, we walk.

That is our routine to this day. Samson is now 2 1/2 years old. He recently weighed in at 104 pounds, which is average for his breed. He comes with me to work almost every day and is known as a gentle giant. Our staff love him and our customers look for him. He is happiest when he is with people or frolicking in the fields. What I feared would be, literally, a huge problem has become a huge blessing.

This is, to me, a testimony that God works unrelentingly and in ways we cannot understand or predict. I love to tell people the story of the time Samson began circling me and patrolling the border of our field with his resounding bark when we heard coyotes in a nearby field at dusk. But the real story is this: Over time, my comrades- anxiety, dread, overthinking- have taken a back seat. They know that I will be checking in with a God who cares enough about me to use a Great Pyrenees named Samson to get my attention.

Sandra Jantzi

Copyright March 2023

All rights reserved

Posted on by Sandra Jantzi Featured 2

Drowning In Freedom

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Standing indecisively at the edge of the pond, I twisted my bare toes in the warm, fragrant mud. The summer heat had so invigorated our northern town that even the mud had a warm, moist and mushroom-y smell. The humid sultriness meandered over the rolling hills and valleys, radiating ever outward until it collapsed on us like a distressed animal, unable to rise.

The pond at which I stood was fed by cool underground springs and lay glinting with promise in the afternoon stickiness. I watched my older brother and cousins as they plunked, dove, and belly-flopped into the refreshing water. There were nine cousins- plus my brother- all having rushed together to the pond in a mass of bare feet and broken-down sneakers. I lingered alone on the bank because I could not yet swim and my mother had left emphatic instructions when she dropped us off that I not go into the water without an adult. My aunt reiterated those instructions as the group headed to the pond, but because I balked at having to stay next to her she let me stand near the water to watch. I circled the pond feeling that a great injustice had been handed to me.

That pond seemed to sparkle and gleam in the summer heat with an incandescence that was hard to resist. The burden of being the only one who couldn’t slip freely into its cool, refreshing depths was very heavy on my five year old shoulders. My cousins called, “Watch this!” and I ran around the perimeter while they entertained me with their amphibious feats. The splashing and shouting was exhilarating. Sometimes the spray from a particularly impressive stunt would spritz across my flushed cheeks. As the youngest cousin in the group, it seemed there were so many interesting and fun activities from which I was barred. I convinced myself that no one was watching and lulled by the cool shimmer, I sat down and began swinging my legs in the water. Encouraged, and with a great sense of freedom, I began lowering myself further down into the pond from the safety of the bank.

“You do you” has been a resounding anthem in the last few years. It seems like a great idea, that we can all give each other permission to do what we want and just… chill. There is tremendous pressure to leave others alone or even encourage them when there are some serious pitfalls looming. To do otherwise would make you a judge, a nag, even a hater. And I agree that there can be a fine line between throwing a lifeline and being vocally opinionated. Nevertheless I am grateful, not bitter, when I think of some individuals who stepped up in my life and let me know that there were potential dangers in the course I was taking. In my teens, there was the pastor who told me to careful who I was hanging around with when I dated a young man who lacked direction. Later, a trusted co-worker warned me against sharing an office with a contentious person. A relative observed that my “side hustle” could keep me away from my growing children for more hours than was beneficial. These were gentle words delivered only once, quietly and privately, like a whisper against the shouting and foot-stomping of my own self-will. In every one of those situations, the people who cared enough to graciously say something hard proved to be right. That’s not Hollywood, where we celebrate the maverick who does things her way and proves the rest of the world is overly restrained, blind, and outdated.

On the day that I slipped into the pond despite the advice of my mother and aunt, there was something I didn’t know. Something other than how to swim.

On a similar sticky, sultry day years earlier, my mother was a recent high school graduate, working for a neighbor woman who needed assistance with some household projects and childcare. They painted, cleaned, and hung wallpaper around the house. In the midst, the woman’s children were fed, cared for and entertained. My mother remembers the youngest, a boy who was constantly in motion, would sit still while she read to him on busy mornings. This particular day the children went swimming in a neighbor’s pond and the unthinkable happened- the little boy was lost in the water. Sharply my mother remembers the phone call she answered from the sobbing neighbor and the awkwardness of trying to convey to her employer the seriousness of the situation in front of a visitor. She was there when they pulled his lifeless body from the water and saw helplessness and regret spinning agonizing webs around the child’s grief-stricken family and neighbors.

Even if my mother had told me about her experience with the little boy that drowned, I’m sure my 5 year old self, intent on my own desire, would not have believed that it could happen to me. And so it is, as we navigate our way through life…. Somehow we think we will buck the odds.

Until we don’t. Until we realize too late that the “you do you” world we all know and love is also full of addiction, brokenness, rage, and darkness.

The day I tried to slip furtively into the water that I would not have been able to navigate, my aunt assisted me out before I got into real trouble. I wasn’t grateful then, but I am now. Maybe you know someone who is about to get in over their head. Maybe someday in the future they would be grateful for your kind and gentle words now.

Copyright 2022 Sandra Jantzi

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When Trust Isn’t Broken

Every Wednesday afternoon beginning in sixth grade, I stepped out of my mother’s car and crossed the sidewalk into a wondrous world. Climbing the front steps into the vestibule of a big, old house, I could peek into the doorway that opened into many other rooms full of stillness, heavy decor, and a pleasant woody aroma. Behind one of these doorways was a lovely grand piano, but each week I settled myself onto the bench of the white student upright situated on a converted front porch. It was here that I, shy and acutely awkward, spent years learning piano (and indeed, life) lessons from one of my most memorable teachers, Louis Myers.

Photo by Charles Parker on Pexels.com

He was tall, gregarious, quick-witted, and had perfect pitch. When I knew him, he was probably in his sixties and seventies but still actively playing in bands and for events. In his youth he resembled George Gershwin, whom we both admired, and he frequently recounted the tragic tale of George’s untimely death- an event that occurred in his lifetime. It seemed to me that he was a link to a past that was more sophisticated and urbane. He was a devoted fan of his hometown baseball team, the Cleveland Indians. As I grew older, I often wondered how this Jewish man ended up in my small, predominantly Catholic, northern New York town.

What he may not have known was that I had begged my parents for piano lessons for years. My parents were careful with their spending, so my mother gave up her lessons so I could go. Week in and out he pulled up a chair next to the piano bench and we pushed on through drills, scales, music primers, Beethoven, Tchaikovsky, Cole Porter, Paul Simon, Mozart, Carole King, Rogers & Hammerstein, and Gershwin himself. Some days were laborious, and others were lilting. No one had to tell me to practice because I loved everything about it. I loved the instrument with its dark chambers inside the weighty wood, hammers striking strings, ivory and ebony under my moist fingertips. I loved the music, the tones, the trills, the emotion it evoked. And the music became a voice for my quiet, anxious, unpolished youth. Mr. Myers taught me to play the notes with my soul as well as my hands. He told me that I played with emotion, something that could not be easily taught.

That would have been enough, but it’s not all that I learned from from him. We covered the history of music and composers and as I blundered through adolescence he tossed in some practical advice. Sit up straight. Don’t pick at the blemishes on your face. Carry yourself like a young lady. Have confidence in yourself. And when I started driving myself to piano lessons he counseled, “A car is a weapon.” Most memorable was the constant reminder to treat others with respect. “Good and bad people come from every race, religion and color,” he would tell me. “People shouldn’t be picked on for their race or religious beliefs.” By high school, I realized that he had been alive during World War II and had lived in the reality of a world where 6 million other Jews were put to death.

It was his elegant wife, Nimi who caused Louis to spend most of his adult life in rural New York. With his talent and love for music, I’m sure he could have ended up in a metropolitan environment where there were more opportunities. Her family was Lebanese. Louis never told his mother that he converted to Catholicism to be with Nimi. Pictures of the young couple revealed a striking pair; both of them tall and dark-haired. I learned years later that Nimi used to sit quietly in their living room during my lesson so she could hear me play. I wasn’t that great, but I loved the music and it was flattering to think that this polished woman set aside time to listen to my progress.

When high school ended and I was getting ready to move on, the time came for lessons to end.

For weeks afterward, I cried quietly every time I sat down at the piano. I missed this man who had taught me so much about music and life. For 30 minutes almost every week, year after year, his example, encouragement, admonishment, and experience spoke into my life and added to who I am. I practically grew up at his piano.

In a time when we are hearing almost daily about people who abuse others’ trust- adults and children, teachers and students, spiritual leaders and followers, I cling to this example of someone who gave so much more than what he was paid for and did not violate faith. His encouragement to be a good citizen, to work hard, to be respectful, to laugh once in a while, and to play music with emotion are qualities he assisted my parents in imparting to me.

In this current world of selfies and social media rants where everyone wants to be heard and seen, I think about my teacher, long since passed away, and how he quietly changed my life.

He consistently showed up, every week. He held me to a standard, but took the time to show me how to reach it. He expected good things from me and treated me respectfully- even at my most awkward times. He did not violate trust.

I wonder how I’m doing at showing those qualities to the people in my life. Am I adding something positive to the family, friends, and coworkers in my path, or just trying to be heard above the clamor of life?

Even now, decades later, when I hear certain songs- especially Gershwin’s “Rhapsody In Blue”, I remember the legacy passed to me by my teacher. What will people remember about me? Whose trust will I keep intact? To whom will I impart a legacy of goodness?

Sandra Jantzi

Copyright June 2021, all rights reserved.

Posted on by Sandra Jantzi Featured 7

Peace of Mind: Fleeting or Forfeited?

The COVID pandemic has deeply affected my life, and I know the business I co-own will never be the same. My propensity to troubleshoot, plan, control, and meticulously scrutinize details has been a big help in a pandemic-affected business. With some attitude adjustments and discipline, there were times in the summer when I thought I was killin’ it at making our business and life work in the midst of global upheaval.

But by January, my propensity to troubleshoot, plan, control, and meticulously scrutinize details left me waking up with generalized dread most mornings. An undefined worry. A dark cloud of anxiety that could not be rationalized away. A fear of everything and nothing. A gnawing, clawing, in the pit of my stomach that would come and go, but mostly perch darkly in my soul. The smallest changes and the slightest criticisms felt crushing. No one was more surprised than I.

In the midst of this, I became fascinated by the ancient narrative of a tribe of wandering people. This tribe was enslaved by another nation when several overwhelming plagues came upon their captors. After massive national losses, the captors decided to set the tribe free. Right away they regretted that decision and pursued the departing tribe into the desert. At that point the tribe managed to miraculously cross to the other side of a large body of water while their pursuers were destroyed and drowned.

A few pages later, the tribe is wandering in the wilderness, disgruntled and hungry. They hangrily address their leader: “If only the Lord had killed us back in Egypt” [where they were enslaved], they moaned. “There we sat around pots filled with meat and ate all the bread we wanted. But now you have brought us into this wilderness to starve us all to death.” (Exodus 16:3).

Given that they had just been freed from slavery and witnessed the destruction of their pursuers, it would be kind of a funny story except that it smacks too close to home. I would like to believe that I am like the tribe’s reluctant yet heroic leader, Moses. But I know that my default is to complain and to descry what I think I lack. And despite God providing for me -and the Israelites- in practical ways, I sometimes falter in my ability to see God at work. Instead, I allow my mind to scurry from crisis to crisis. I breathe a sigh of relief when a problem is resolved, and fail to see the larger picture: that God is good and He cares about the details of our lives.

The real irony for me is that the pandemic has brought me to my knees twice. The first time, I relinquished control over my days and ways of doing life while my husband and I re-invented our business and put up with the same pandemic hassles the rest of the world was experiencing. The second time, it brought to light a quietly destructive pattern in my own mind. The same thinking ahead, troubleshooting, and controlling that served me well in one area led to endless ruminating about even small problems and things that I have no power to control. That thinking was always there, but it took a pandemic to expose it to the bright light of day and help me to see how lethal it was for me. My anxious thoughts were like a prison.

I share this personal struggle because I not only hear the echo of my voice in the complaining (and anxious) tribe of Israelites wandering in the desert, but also in the voices of people who are struggling to figure daily life out in a world that has become uncertain.

But truly, we are no worse off when the answers aren’t clear and we don’t have it all under control.

I’ve come to realize that no matter how involuntary it may seem, my anxiety is a sin (yes, ouch!) because it shows a pattern of thinking that excludes God’s work in my life. Lucy Maud Montgomery said it best: “To despair is to turn your back on God.”

This isn’t to say that you or I should blame ourselves for being anxious. Anxiety is a sin in the same way that disease and death are results of the corruption present in the world. There are levels and types of anxiety that require medical intervention. I firmly believe that if there is a positive way to eradicate someone’s suffering, it should be considered. But I think it is also right to take ownership of the things I can do something about, even if the work is hard. Ultimately, the anxious person has to face their thoughts… and take control of them.

What I am suggesting is that if I truly believe that Jesus is my Savior and that God cares about my future, I can trust Him to provide the grace I need- when the time comes. In the interest of disciplining my mind to think in ways that are more profitable for me and those around me, Philippians 4:5-8 has been a great help: “The Lord is at hand; do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable- if anything is excellent or praiseworthy- think about such things.” (NIV).

The application is that we must mentally stop ourselves, several times a day, from ruminating on a problem or worrying about how it will work itself out hours or months or years from now. We must allow ourselves to experience the current moment, with all of its sounds, smells, and sights; and remember that the Lord is at hand in that very second. Thank Him for that time, no matter how bad or good it may seem. Ask Him for help in seeing that He is there, and also in finding solutions for the day- just this day. Tomorrow, which is not even guaranteed to happen, will take care of itself.

On one recent instance, I was enjoying a moment of Spring sunshine and thanking God for the warmth when I suddenly thought of Jesus telling the people of Jerusalem how He wanted to protect them as a mother hen protects her chicks under her wings (Matt. 23:37) and how in the Psalms it talks of taking refuge in the shadow of God’s wings until the storms of destruction pass by (Psalm 57:1). The image of this in my mind was so strong that I felt a great deal of relief and comfort. That is how God thinks about us- He is caring and compassionate, present in every detail, longing to protect us. These small but no less meaningful moments are one of the ways God brings healing to an anxious mind through His word and through making Him our focus.

This is grace for today, very much like the manna that was provided for food for the ancient Israelites, but lasted only for the day in which it was gathered. And it has slowly dawned on me that perhaps God wants you and me to trust Him daily for our very being and all of its needs in a more personal way. To do this, one must believe that God is good, trustworthy, and that He does care in a very personal way. To believe anything else is to forfeit peace of mind.

Copyright 2021 by Sandra Jantzi. All rights reserved.

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Who Wins?

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As a child I often found myself engaged in little competitions of one kind or another with others. Who could run faster up this hill? Who could climb higher in that tree? We didn’t need a reason; we just liked to compete and mostly, to win. Summers found us trying to balance on an inflated inner tube in the pool to see who could recite the pledge to the flag and sing the national anthem before falling into the water. We got pretty good at it and continued to up the ante to multiple pledges and anthems. I believe our neighbors thought we were the most patriotic children they had ever met!

As we got older, our competitions became less random. Grades, schools, athletics, jobs, relationships… talents that rise to the surface and either blossom or wilt in the strident sun of comparison with others.

I was exponentially better at balancing on an inner tube and singing the national anthem than I was at Trigonometry. But I still feel the glow of earning an A+++ from a particularly difficult college professor. Similarly, there is still a slight sting when I remember the friend of a friend who refused to speak to me because she thought I was below her social circle.

We take our arbitrary experiences- unearned, and perhaps unjust- and throw them in the coin sorter of life to see how we stack up. From this we draw conclusions about our worth.

I was thinking about this recently when I heard that a woman in our church, whom I knew only slightly, had passed away. With the pandemic, politics, and social upheaval blaring in the news and our minds, this woman slipped quietly away without much fanfare. She was a senior citizen and she was not wealthy by our western standard. She was not a church or community leader. She wasn’t on social media.

There were a few things I knew about her and I believe they are worth my admiration.

Until recently, I saw her faithfully in church every week unless she was ill. She was committed to her faith and she showed up.

I knew she gave rides to others in need and once observed her accompanying another senior from her housing development to a medical appointment. In her own way, she was there for the people near her.

When students in our church graduated from high school, she made quilts for them. Both my sons were recipients of these gifts, and I still get a knot in my throat when I see my younger son ferrying his quilt between home and college. That quilt is an endowment of comfort in an ever changing world.

In the late summer of 1997, the western world was reeling from the shock of the tragic death of Princess Diana. She was a popular icon of the times, well-liked, young, and pretty. Known as the “people’s princess”, she appeared to have a loyal and copious following. Less than a week later, Mother Teresa, the elderly Roman Catholic nun and missionary to destitute people dying from leprosy, tuberculosis, and AIDS succumbed to heart disease. While it is not for me to determine whose impact was most important, I remember feeling that Mother Teresa’s sacrificial contribution of her life had been overshadowed by the precipitous and distressing loss of a celebrity.

Isn’t it so true? We gravitate toward beauty and prowess rather than humility and sacrifice. We run toward the people who seem to be winning all of life’s competitions without looking at the legacy they are leaving behind. The gentle memory of this unpretentious woman in our church is important to me right now in a time when the rest of the world grapples for a platform from which to shout, “Look at me!” It is important to me in a time when leaders, even some professed followers of Christ, eventually prove to be out for their own selfish gain and yet we follow them in droves.

There is a marked difference between the person who misses the mark and returns in contrition to do better, and the person who knows what the right thing is and chooses not to do it. No matter how beguiling, smart or robust I may be on the outside, what lasts is where my heart is.

“If you’ve gotten anything at all out of following Christ, if his love has made any difference in your life, if being in a community of the Spirit means anything to you, if you have a heart, if you care—then do me a favor: Agree with each other, love each other, be deep-spirited friends. Don’t push your way to the front; don’t sweet-talk your way to the top. Put yourself aside, and help others get ahead. Don’t be obsessed with getting your own advantage. Forget yourselves long enough to lend a helping hand. Think of yourselves the way Christ Jesus thought of himself. He had equal status with God but didn’t think so much of himself that he had to cling to the advantages of that status no matter what. Not at all. When the time came, he set aside the privileges of deity and took on the status of a slave, became human! Having become human, he stayed human. It was an incredibly humbling process. He didn’t claim special privileges. Instead, he lived a selfless, obedient life and then died a selfless, obedient death—and the worst kind of death at that—a crucifixion.” Philippians 2: 3-8 (MSG).

When this dear woman from our church left this world, we lost a quiet spirit and humble servant.

And well, there just aren’t very many of those around.

Copyright 2021 Sandra Jantzi

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2020: Tinsel or Triumph?

My husband is the only person I know who wants socks for Christmas. He’s got a thing about comfortable socks, so this is what he has asked for every Christmas I have known him.

For most of the rest of us, socks don’t make the list. They aren’t exciting. We don’t run to tell others we’ve been given socks for Christmas.

This year, many of us already feel that we’ve been given socks and nothing else for Christmas.

There has been a lot of discussion this year, the year of the Covid-19 pandemic, about how to do Christmas. Many of us already feel that we’ve been given socks and nothing else because the usual hubbub and tradition surrounding the holiday has been packed away while we struggle with the logistics of lowering the death rate.

But, it’ll all be back another year.

If my tone seems a little more ominous than hopeful, you got it right. I absolutely will miss some of the fun, traditional, family-centered, crowd-inducing pieces of the holiday season. I also struggle with the realization that much of the pomp and circumstance of the Christmas season doesn’t have much to do with the coming of Jesus.

What is the coming of Jesus about? God becoming a person. Coming to earth in human form to rescue mankind in the most unlikely of ways. To rescue us from a curse that we can’t see or understand, but that is constantly tarnishing our souls and our lives. A curse that leaves us corrupt and dying even when everything seems normal. Here comes Jesus, Son of God sent to earth to find us and save us from that death. He felt the cold wind you feel. The sting of betrayal, the hunger pains. He laughed, felt compassion, knew anger, had friends, grieved loss.

Where in Black Friday and Cyber Monday do we find that? Where is that message in the lights, tinsel, snowmen and familiar songs? Don’t get me wrong… I like a lot of those things, but as a Christian, I realize I am celebrating two Christmases and they are often at odds with each other.

There is Tinsel Christmas, with cookie-making, tradition-rekindling, gift-giving, card-sending, visiting, carol-singing, program-attending, stocking-filling, decorating, party-throwing, and cheerful merry-making. It is a big, wonderful festival that everyone can be part of and often keeps me distracted and too busy to celebrate the Christmas of Jesus.

Jesus Christmas. The celebration of this requires me to be present for a few quiet moments every day. It requires the discipline of pushing away all of the daily concerns and holiday tasks that are nipping at my mind in those moments. It takes a grateful heart and a “yes”. Yes, I accept that Jesus, God’s Son, came into the world that I live in, and took away the curse under which I live. Yes, I want Jesus to be present this day and every day. This Christmas gives everything I need and takes everything I have.

So in 2020, we have been given a holiday gift: The clamor of Tinsel Christmas has been turned down a bit.

Perhaps in the stillness that ensues, you and I will find the time to look for the the “great light” that Isaiah predicted would come to those of us who walk in darkness. (Isaiah 9:2)

“For those who lived in a land of deep shadows- light! sunbursts of light!… Oh they’re so glad in your presence! Festival joy! The joy of a great celebration, sharing rich gifts and warm greetings!… For a child has been born- for us! the gift of a son- for us!… His names will be: Amazing Counselor, Strong God, Eternal Father, Prince of Wholeness… there’ll be no limits to the wholeness he brings.” (Isaiah 9:2-7, MSG)

Copyright 2020, Sandra Jantzi

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The Way Out is Through

It was Robert Frost who said, “The only way out is through.”

I found this to be sound advice at the tender age of five when I was hanging upside down in a laundry chute. With arms and legs bracing the narrow walls to keep me from falling head first into the basket at the bottom, I had shimmied into a position that seemed impossible. Above me, my brother and cousin peered down from the top of the chute. Below, another cousin squinted up at me from the laundry room cupboard where the chute ended. I was stuck. But I couldn’t turn around or shimmy back up. Here at the midpoint I had gained a certain mental clarity that eluded me previously. It told me I was somehow going to have to land on my face because my arms were occupied holding my body in place against gravity. Telling an adult about my dilemma was out of the question for obvious reasons. With a fair amount of coaching from my brother and cousins, I inched my way down the tube and landed with an abrupt plop in a pile of sheets.

There have been times in the last several months of pandemic that I have felt like I did the day I got stuck in the laundry chute. In fact, many of us have been trying to figure out how to get ahead in this uncomfortable place. Can’t go back. Afraid to move forward. Certain we will land on our faces. For all our talk of who could have gotten us through it better, who could have prevented it, and who was more at fault, we are still corporately going through it. I’m referring to the pandemic but what I have to say could apply to any difficulty.

Now that the whole world is suffering together, you would think we would be unified by the the common thread that has destabilized us all. You would expect us to pull together, pool our resources, put our differences aside. But we are not in a Disney movie.

It is unsettling but true that when pressures increase so do conflicts.

When outward chaos increases, internal corruption intensifies. This has been documented repeatedly by people like Alexander Solzhenitsyn and Wladyslaw Szpilman, who lived to document their experiences in authoritarian governments.

As much as we want things to be different, we do not want to change ourselves. Trust me on this. Not only did I work for years as a clinical social worker, but I know my own heart.

Even when we reach the point where we want to change, and sometimes do change, there are pieces of ourselves that we seem to be incapable of truly changing.

Disease, death, hatred, prejudice, violence, and corruption have been around for a very long time and in thousands of years no one has been successful in banishing them from the Earth. The world seems to be spinning toward decline on many levels. But why would a “loving God” allow these things to continue?

“Before I was afflicted, I used to stray off, but now I keep your instructions. You are good and you do good. Teach me your statutes! …It was good for me to suffer, so that I might learn your statutes. The law you have revealed is more important to me than thousands of pieces of gold and silver.” (Psalm 119: 67-68, 71-72; NET Bible). This is what was written thousands of years ago by a song writer that many think may have been King David himself. Whoever the writer was, he knew that adversity has the power to drive us either toward or away from our Creator. It has been my experience that if I choose to let life’s calamities propel me toward God, even when I don’t understand, I begin to see that God is true and good. I start to realize that His law- the commands I thought would box me in and make my life small and barren- actually brings life and freedom. I have a new appreciation for His incorruptible and virtuous nature; characteristics that I cannot manufacture for myself. There is an awakening that I would give anything to know this God more.

In the midst of entropy and decline, this has been my hope.

Oh, I’ve had my moments since March 13th. My husband and I have had to work long days and into the nights to adapt our business to the reality of a pandemic. I’ve cried selfish tears, felt overworked, been inconvenienced and angry, and at times soaked in the unfairness of it all. Over the days, weeks, and months of asking God to help me I realized that endurance would be required without any promise that everything would be magically fixed in the end (again, no Disney ending.) Does this sound familiar to you, too? Maybe you’re in a similar situation with no guarantee of a happy ending in this world.

As well, I came to the conclusion that while I went through this thing I would have to surrender my will- my need to control people and outcomes- if I truly wanted God’s help. Surrender. Relinquish. Let go. Breathe in, breathe out, step back.

Jesus said, “Come unto me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light,” (Matt. 11:28-30, NIV). I’ve read these words a lot over the course of my life. Suddenly now, the phrase that stands out to me is not the “rest easy, light burden” part, but rather the bit about being gentle and humble in heart. With that as my focus, rather than expecting some one or some thing to make the pandemic better for me, I have found grace that I never expected and the ability to get through it day by day.

Not like a super hero who magically changes from mortal to something supernatural, but as a flawed human who has been given a better understanding of one small bit of God’s ancient law- and surrendered to it.

Copyright 2020 Sandra Jantzi

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Give It Your Best Endeavor

It was a brilliant autumn afternoon.

The deep blue sky stretched like a shimmering ocean above us. Leaves rippled softly on the light breeze, showing off their early fall colors. In the sun’s warmth, the latent summer insects made the afternoon hum. It was on this idyllic Sunday afternoon that my husband and I found ourselves meandering through a cemetery looking for a particular monument. We are a little geeky when it comes to history and architecture, which is what brought us to this place.

We often fail the people closest to us, sometimes beyond repair.

Momentarily we became absorbed in the stories carved on the headstones. A young Civil War veteran. A baby who lived only days in the 1920’s. A large family monument with multiple generations laid to rest. A 20 year old man with a picture of a motorcycle on his stone. The etchings were only whispers of lives and times brimming with hope, grief, despair, mirth, toil, anticipation. In this subdued and relaxed way we wandered through an afternoon.

A flash of white in the radiant sunlight; a newer stone caught my eye. Standing before it, I realized with a jolt that I had known the individual buried there. As I fumbled dazedly for my phone to look up her obituary, memories drifted into mind like the yellow leaves swirling on the afternoon breeze.

Some years ago I met this woman when she and her husband had small children and our families were about the same age. From the start, I was comfortable with them. They were a friendly, down-to-earth, welcoming, energetic family with well-behaved children. The couple was in the midst of rehabbing a dilapidated house. She was soft-spoken, more reserved. He was gregarious. In many ways they were similar to my husband and me.

But they just couldn’t get along with each other.

To their credit, they didn’t bicker publicly or show noticeable hostility. By my observation, they truly did care for each other. Things weren’t going well, though, and there were multiple separations. Little was said, but he mentioned that her anxiety often fueled their problems. She was less likely to complain but she hinted that he had his own careless way of doing things that didn’t include her. Eventually the divorce came and the children portaged between households, toting their belongings in overnight bags.

Life had carried us all to different places and I saw very little of them after that. We occasionally ran into the man, who had moved on in his industrious way; new life, new girlfriend and outward peace of mind. Projects kept him busy and when he spoke of his growing kids, he was enormously proud.

It was shocking when we learned that he died suddenly in an accident soon after we saw him.

It was utterly heartbreaking when I stood at her gravesite the other day, discovering that she died of an illness two years after his death. They both spent less than 45 years on this earth.

And they just couldn’t live in harmony with the one they loved most.

If that challenge to love one another had only affected the two of them, it would have been tragic enough. The ripples of discord most definitely resonated ever outward, touching their children, their families, and the others around them. As well, a tiny breaker of anguish furrowed and crested over me on that otherwise placid afternoon when I thought of how we often fail the people closest to us, sometimes beyond repair.

I don’t mean downplay complicated problems, and I acknowledge that there are situations, injustices and complexities where all the kindness in the world probably isn’t going to make a situation livable or even sustainable. I’m not naïvely asserting that being nice will solve issues that governments can’t seem to wrestle into submission or make a toxic environment less poisonous.

God’s remedy for personal shortcomings, though, does seem fairly simple. As we accept the sacrifice of Jesus the Son of God for our failures, we learn to live out our lives according to God’s plan not our own. “…The Lord has told us what is good. What He requires of us is this: to do what is just, to show constant love, and to live in humble fellowship with our God.” (Micah 6:8, GNT). Jesus said it this way in Matthew 22: “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your soul, and all your mind,” and “Love your neighbor as yourself.”

Why should we? We live in a culture where the constitutional right to the “pursuit of happiness” has been translated to mean the search for what will make me personally pleased with my life no matter the cost to myself or others. It is a nice perk to live in a country where I am supposed to have the right to do whatever makes me happy. But by Jesus’ definition in Matthew 22, how I act has more to do with my accountability to Him than what the rest of the world allows or even how I feel. Which brings me back to the people who eat out of the same box of cereal as I.

Standing quietly at that grave, my mind spoke the words of a poem I found in a long forgotten, mildewed book:

"If thou hast friends, give them thy best endeavor, 
Thy warmest impulse and thy purest thought, 
Keeping in mind, in word and action ever,
The time, the time is short.

Each thought resentful from thy mind be driven,
And cherish love by sweet forgiveness bought; 
Thou soon wilt need the pitying love of Heaven. 
The time, the time is short." *

I don’t know about you, but there are times when I could use some sweet forgiveness and the pitying love of Heaven. More importantly, how would life be different if I were to reflect that forgiveness and love to those around me? There are many times when this seems to be beyond me. Sometimes forgiveness is a very steep hill to climb. That is where the work of the Holy Spirit comes in and guides my steps in those places where I don’t think I have it in me. It is very much like long-distance running: Keep your eye on the finish line and don’t stop no matter how hard it feels.

Are you giving those around you your best endeavor, your warmest impulse? I know I could do better. The time is short.

*Poetry taken from “The Time Is Short”, published in “At The Beautiful Gate, And Other Religious Poems,” copyright 1879 by Anson D.F. Randolph & Company

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Copyright 2020, Sandra Jantzi,

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