I Could Have Missed It

Photo by Toni Seyfert on Pexels.com

Friday evening began with sporadic flashes of light, popping and fizzling over the southeast tree line of our property.

Later there were heavier booms to the north.

Then, in two locations to the west came the rumbling blasts that finally sent our normally easygoing behemoth of a dog inside to wait out the beginning of the July 4th festivities.

It was impressive, watching fireworks in surround-sound as our rural community began celebrating our nation’s 250th anniversary.

As I scanned the horizon from the semi-darkness of our backyard, my eye happened to catch a glimmer of light higher in the western sky.

Aloft in the vast umbra of space, Venus gleamed brilliantly over our spangled, multi-colored displays. As much as I was enjoying the manmade light show, I was struck by the relative permanence and steadiness of that planet. For how many eons has it orbited and reflected the sun’s light, held in the cosmos without our control? “The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands.” (Psalm 19:1).

Overhead I could see stars shimmering through partial cloud cover. Like old friends, the Big and Little Dippers emerged. “He is the Maker of the Bear and Orion, the Pleiades and the constellations of the south.” (Job 9:9).

Suddenly I felt the same awe of examining a great work of art and discovering the Artist’s signature on the canvas. More than once, I have marveled in museums over pieces by artists I have long admired, thinking things like: DaVinci touched this very canvas…. Look at how Monet captured the light and the texture…. I never imagined this Renoir painting was almost life-size!

The words of a beloved hymn sprang to my mind:

“O Lord my God, When I in awesome wonder,
Consider all the worlds Thy Hands have made;
I see the stars, I hear the rolling thunder,
Thy power throughout the universe displayed.

Then sings my soul, My Saviour God, to Thee,
How great Thou art, How great Thou art.”*

To think I could have missed it all, distracted as I was with all that was happening around me. Isn’t that the very essence of the Christian walk? To not miss it all, distracted as we are with all that is happening around us.

Sandra Jantzi, Copyright July 2026

*How Great Thou Art, Carl Boberg; translated and adapted by Stuart K. Hine

Posted on by Sandra Jantzi Featured 1

Not That Neighbor

It did not start well.

The dog seemed to come out of nowhere, shot across the road with a menacing rumble, and attacked my dog with fury. Shock quickly turned to anger and dismay as I pulled at my dog’s leash and shouted at the other dog, trying to determine the best course of action. My cries drew the attention of the vicious dog’s owners, who spilled out of their run-down farmhouse and, with some effort from all three of them, managed to get their aggressive dog away from us.

I was shaking. My dog, who had put up a good fight, was bleeding. Kneeling next to her, trying to assess the extent of her injuries, I became aware of the family patriarch, who owned the attacking dog standing over me, talking. Rallying my brain out of a state of consternation, I realized he was telling me I shouldn’t walk down the road with my dog until I called them first, so they could make sure their dog was confined. Anger began boiling up inside me as I rose up to face him. There was no way I was going to inform this sketchy character of my whereabouts (a bad enough plan), so that he could then nobly decide to follow the law and tie up his menacing dog.

Enraged, I let him know the exact plan I was going to follow: “You keep your dog tied up, or I will call the police!”

That may very well have been the last words I spoke to him. After that incident, I re-routed my walks and kept a low profile. But it was impossible to ignore this family, since their house was across the road from my husband’s small business. Technically, they were our neighbors. And as foolish and impossible as they seemed to me, they were also the neighbor that Jesus commanded me to love. When questioned about which was the most important commandment, Jesus responded, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength. The second is this: You shall love your neighbor as yourself. There is no other commandment greater than these.” (Mark 12:30-31, ESV). There doesn’t appear to be a loophole for unfriendly dogs or ridiculous requests. But I avoided them. We maintained a distant, cordial friendliness, mainly because my husband is a good peace maker.

Photo by Tom Fisk on Pexels.com

Eventually, the combative dog died. Some time later, the father of the family died as well, leaving the wife and an adult son in the deteriorating house. That’s when the pit bulls moved in.

When their lawn became overgrown, the wife reached out to my husband to ask if it could also be mowed when one of his employees tended to the lawn surrounding his small business. We understood that she had some challenging health issues, so my husband arranged for their lawn to be mowed. A few times, when we had our own family or business gatherings, we shared some of the food with them. These were not hard things to do, but they were not very personal.

Then came the day that the son told my husband that he had gotten a job, but it meant he had to leave his mother alone for many hours to struggle with severe, active autoimmune disease and other chronic illnesses. He wondered if I could check in on her while he was gone. Like a modern-day Jonah, I inwardly groaned and enumerated to God all the reasons this was not going to work. Would she become dependent on me for every little thing, disrupting my workday? How much medical care would she need? Would the pit bulls try to attack me if I had to enter their house? What kind of burden was I taking on? With some hesitation, I agreed to send daily text messages, with the promise that I would go to the house if she didn’t respond or if she needed help. (It is with humility that I look back on this with the realization that I was quite focused on myself and how much of a problem it might be for me to do the thing God was asking.)

I was not prepared for all the warmth and welcome I received in response to my texts. I soon learned that Sonya (not her real name) was incredibly lonely and delighted to have someone with whom she could converse. Surprisingly, the texting format worked well for her, as she often was not up to doing much, but could still meet her basic needs and assure me that all was well. Some days the texts were short; other days they were long, and sprinkled with sunshine and flower emojis. She had many stories to tell about her life. Sometimes there was family conflict that she wanted me to assist her with in one way or another, but I did my best to kindly decline. Overall, she asked very little of me. She showed great interest in my family, especially my grown sons, whom she remembered as young boys. When I told her that I prayed for her, she replied with enthusiasm. She believed in Jesus, she told me, and had been greatly helped by a Christian Greif Share group when her husband died, but her health had kept her from going to church in recent years.

I decided to take her to the Women’s Bible Study at my church, although I had many misgivings about how it would work. For many weeks she told me she was not feeling up to it before she finally agreed to go. With some effort we got her across her deteriorating porch and icy yard, and into my car. Her excitement in getting out of the house for something other than a medical appointment bordered on the comical. She talked non-stop the entire way to the church with such a rush of words that I could scarcely keep up. I felt a small wave of panic as I pulled into the church parking lot and there was no let-up in the flood of her speech. I could appreciate her happiness to be out of the house, but it seemed to me to be approaching hysteria. I smiled and nodded reassuringly, but inside I was praying for help.

With a bit of gentle redirection and a lot of silent prayers for wisdom, we navigated the class and I think she was able to hear the lesson. Although I was scrunching my toes in embarrassment at her non-stop talking, it was hard not to appreciate her joy at seeing a few familiar faces and the sheer radiance of her face.

Not long after that she called me in a panic because one of the pit bulls had gotten loose and was running in the road and around my husband’s business. She was in no shape to catch it and she was worried that her son would be angry if anything happened to it before he returned from work. She begged me to find the dog and bring it home. “Yes, I’ll go right now,” I assured her. During the short drive, I found myself petitioning God again for help. “Please, God, I need You to help me catch this dog. I have no idea how to do it, or if I’m going to get bit. Please help me!”

When I pulled into the parking lot of our business, I immediately saw the pit bull running around the outside of the building. I cautiously pulled the car up as close as I dared and opened the door. The pit bull was standing right there, within arm’s reach. I saw my chance and without hesitating I grabbed for the collar. I’m pretty sure my eyes were closed as I braced for the bite that never came. But, amazingly, my hand was securely wrapped around the collar. I eased the rest of my body out of the car and attempted to steer the animal toward home, but she was exceptionally strong and it wasn’t going well. At that moment, one of our employees saw my predicament and ran to help me complete the mission. Sonya was practically in tears when we pushed the dog through the kitchen door. I still smile at that memory of God’s very practical answer to my prayer.

Sadly, Sonya’s health began deteriorating further, and she was unable to attend another Bible Study with me. Then her son contacted us to let us know that she had been taken to the hospital with some complications and the situation was not looking good. The family was not receptive to visitors, so I was unable to see her before she passed away.

Suddenly, after eighteen or nineteen months, the mission I had grudgingly accepted was over, and I was sad. I missed Sonya’s cheerful little texts, dotted with sunshine and flowers. I missed how she relished a beautiful day when the weather was fine and she was feeling well. I missed how grateful she was for very little. I was honored to have had a front row seat in observing how God cared for someone who felt forgotten by the rest of the world. In doing so, the Lord widened my tiny comfort zone and taught me a little about forbearance, forgiveness, humility, and compassion. I realized that he not only commands us to love our neighbor, but he chooses the very neighbors we are commissioned to love. Even when it doesn’t start out so well.

2026 Sandra Jantzi

Posted on by Sandra Jantzi Featured 2

Dealing With The Darkness

Photo by Jou00e3o Jesus on Pexels.com

It’s one of those memories that stands out because of its unexpectedness: A glorious autumn day, golden sunlight shimmering through the kaleidoscope of colors in the rolling Adirondack foothills. The air is still warm but there is a touch of fresh coolness that pushes away any lingering heat and humidity. It makes you want to breathe in deeply. Trees are approaching “peak” color- flamboyant shades of red, orange, yellow, and green- as they mark the end of a flourishing summer season. It makes up for a hundred dreary days. I turn toward my grandfather and remark about the glorious colors. He looks squarely back at me and acknowledges, “They are pretty, but I hate to see them.”

Stunned out of my admiration of the scene, I ask him why.

“Because it means winter is coming,” he responds, scanning the landscape as if it were already covered in stark frost.

I’m surprised. Up until that point in my young life, I saw our northern winters as a simple trading of activities. Skating instead of swimming. Skiing instead of hiking. Then I remember he has difficulty walking in the best of conditions, but ice and snow make it treacherous and impossible to navigate alone. That was the obvious part of his story.

Decades later, I realized there was more to his dread than slippery conditions and cold. It is the unrelenting darkness that I now find myself battling every year.

These days it has a label: Seasonal Affective Disorder. For me, the world seems dark and heavy. Well, it is dark. At the lowest point, there is a little over 7 hours of light before we begin adding minutes of daylight again. I also live in the “shadow of the Great Lakes” where cloudy days are plentiful due to the moisture swept up from the surface of the lakes. Ice and snow can make it harder to navigate, harder to get outside. Lethargy creeps in. Low mood. Life and work start to feel overwhelming. The overwhelm seems never-ending. Anxiety grabs hold of those perceptions and I wake with an undefined feeling of dread.

Are the days really heavy? I guess that’s where my state of mind comes in. I do like winter. The refreshing cold, the sparkle of frost, the different textures of snow, the way it makes the world look so stark and yet so pure. The stillness of a winter’s night. The crispness of the air. Still, if I am not vigilant, I begin to feel heavy and despondent despite my best campaign against it. February, when daylight finally becomes noticeably longer, is often my hardest month.

How is a lack of peace consistent with a proclaimed follower of Jesus? Shouldn’t I be walking in freedom and peace of mind? The reality is that I am living in a fallen world. For things to be different I’ve discovered that I have to act in ways that go against the grain of how I’m feeling. Ways that align my self better with my Creator, who knows me and cares about my struggles. These actions work only when I am disciplined and attentive to doing them daily. Like a soldier, I have to be vigilant. Here is my battle plan:

-Brisk outdoor activity or an indoor workout when the weather is bad. I truly look forward to skiing, snowshoeing, and hiking with my Great Pyrenees, who loves winter like no other. Many days I get up early so we can get 30 – 40 minutes outside before work. These pre-dawn moments have become a savored time of prayer and listening to my Bible app before the onslaught of work activity and distractions. The beauty of those moments makes up for any inconvenience in getting there.

-Light therapy. Long ago I purchased a light lamp but didn’t realize there is a protocol for making it work. I won’t describe the entire process here, but for those interested I suggest checking out the work done by Dr. Andrew Huberman, a neuroscientist who has done extensive research in this area. He can be found at http://www.hubermanlab.com or on the Huberman Lab podcast.

-Hear me out: Cold showers. I know, I know, it’s already plenty cold outside, why add to the misery? Again, I refer to Dr. Huberman on this, and others have done a great deal of research in this area too. Dr. Huberman does an excellent job presenting the science and do’s & don’ts. Some people prefer ice baths, but I find cold showers to be effective, fast, and easy to execute. I can share from experience that doing this gets easier with repetition.

-Spiritually speaking, I return every winter to the theme of Jesus as the Light of the World. Winter is a time when the world seems particularly dark to me, not just in a natural light sense. It is vitally important to my spiritual life that I remain consistent with daily time in prayer and the Word of God. I cannot emphasize enough how important this consistency is.

John 8:12 says, “Again Jesus spoke to them, saying, ‘I am the Light of the world. Whoever follows me will not walk in darkness, but will have the Light of life.’ ” There is a promise and hope that I do not have to struggle in darkness, but as I follow Jesus daily I can have an abundant life. A life of inner peace and freedom from darkness and anxiety no matter what else is happening. The ability to walk in guiltlessness, to recognize I have a place in God’s family, to accept new ways of thinking and behaving that lead to life, not death.

This is not a “name it and claim it” mentality. Instead, like dear Pilgrim in “Pilgrim’s Progress” (John Bunyan), I put one foot in front of the other, receiving grace hour by hour, learning as I go and making many human mistakes along the way. It is as Paul says in Philippians 2:12, “Therefore, my beloved, as you have always obeyed, so now, not only as in my presence but much more in my absence, work out your own salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God who works in you, both to will and to work for his good pleasure.” When despondency is a companion, keep walking toward the Light.

From that perspective I can sometimes utter a prayer of thankfulness for this struggle. Would I have sought God and clung to Him as tightly if I hadn’t had this gnawing darkness of soul pursuing me? What human trials could be our strength when illuminated in the brilliant light of God?

Sandra Jantzi, February 2025

Posted on by Sandra Jantzi Featured 0

The Servant and the Undeserved Gift

Photo by Angela Roma on Pexels.com

As I opened the letter I felt a jolt of disbelief when a check dropped onto my lap. Perplexed, I could not understand why this man would be sending a check. Back then, I did not think of him as a servant, but I realize now that’s exactly what he was. 

When we first met he was in his nineties, but there was nothing about him that suggested the feebleness or detachment that so many who reach that decade exhibit. He was in remarkably good health and I don’t remember him mentioning any ailment more than in passing. Whether this was by choice or because he had the fortune to know few illnesses, I don’t know. He was tall and lean, slightly bent with age but his bending forward gave one the impression that you were the sole focus of his attention. And you were. He spoke pleasantly, with the charm of his southern roots- and always about the subjects that interested his company. He looked you in the eye and sought reasons to smile at you. He could disagree with you in a way that made you feel you had been heard and valued, even though his convictions were strong. In the few years I knew him before he passed, he made such a marked impression that to this day I frequently compare my behavior in any given situation- even my Christian walk- with his.

His name was Paul Swope, and he was my husband’s grandfather. Born in Virginia to Mennonite parents, he eventually moved to Ohio where he married, raised a family, was active in the community and church, and worked well into his nineties. He carried himself with a rare grace, humility and kindness. We enjoyed his company so much that my husband and I packed up the kids as often as was practical and drove three hours just to spend a weekend with him. In between visits, he wrote us letters. Some addressed to my husband, some to me. The letters were always encouraging, praising our efforts. He always seemed to think the best of us. 

I never saw him join in gossip or sarcasm. But his lack of participation was never cold or self-righteous. When he picked up the conversation, his words were kind. I’ve asked his family and even his own children do not remember hearing him say anything negative about anyone. 

My husband tells of a story involving an individual who had been the source of much conflict and grief in the family. This person had once helped my husband transport a vehicle a few hours’ drive to his grandfather’s house. Upon their arrival, Grandpa Swope stepped out of his kitchen door to offer a glass of water to the person who had brought so much offense to his family. He had every right to hide inside and pretend he didn’t see the person- just let the moment pass. Instead he took the opportunity to show kind-hearted forgiveness, not allowing his pain to excuse him from following the example of Jesus. I think of the times I could have laid down my pride for someone whose soul might have benefitted from compassion rather than my sense of justice.   

Salvation and forgiveness is free, but true Christianity will cost you something. Earnest followers of Jesus soon learn that they will be letting go of their own pride, plans, and prejudices to become a servant. I have rarely seen this exemplified in another person as well as in Paul Swope. I felt it most when I was the undeserving recipient of that kind of love.

The day had really just been awful. Hugely pregnant, I had waddled uncomfortably through my workday as a school social worker. Driving home I was preoccupied with some of the more desperate cases with which I worked. As well, my husband and I had just bought a house and were trying to prepare it for the arrival of our first baby. Finances were already stretched when we realized that we could not start any additional house projects until we replaced the roof. It was expensive. It was discouraging. But we started scrimping and saving even further. That particular day was one of those “everything-I-touch-goes-wrong” types, and I remember feeling defeated when I pulled the car into the driveway and switched off the ignition. 

Too tired to get out of the car, I began flipping through the day’s mail and found the letter from Grandpa Swope addressed to me. Tearing open the envelope, I found the check that dropped out was also made out to me, not my husband. I scanned the letter for an explanation. ”…On our last visit I remember you mentioned that you had hoped to make some improvements on the new house before the baby arrives, but the roof would need to be repaired instead… Please accept this gift so that you may make those improvements sooner rather than later…” 

Tears rolled down my face, not just because I had received an undeserved gift from a generous and good-natured man. More than that, his actions had painted a picture of what God is like at a time when I felt beaten down:

  • God cares about the things that concern us. 
  • God gives gifts that we do not deserve and have no right to receive. 
  • When God adopted me into his family, I was all in. There are no in-law “outlaws” in the family of God. 

Paul Swope exemplified humble servanthood in his daily life. I am so grateful to have known him, not only because he was such a remarkable person, but because his Christian walk has given me much to consider. Jesus said, “Freely you have received, freely give.” (Matt. 10:8) When I realize how very undeserving I have received God’s gift, I am motivated to give that much more. Would my willingness to give of myself -to be a servant today -change someone’s life?

“…be imitators of God, as beloved children. And walk in love, as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us, a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God.” Ephesians 5:1-2

Copyright Jan. 2024 Sandra Jantzi

Posted on by Sandra Jantzi Featured 1

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

It Wasn’t Supposed To Be Like This

LISTEN TO THE PODCAST
Photo by Suzy Hazelwood on Pexels.com

Christmas was not bathed in the comfortable glow of tinsel and electric lights for Blanche and Louie that year.

For much of the world, life was getting back to normal in December, 1947. World War II had ended two years before, and the US economy was almost inexplicably burgeoning as it transitioned from wartime production to consumer goods. An article about the mid-1940’s US economy perseverates on toaster production- an interestingly appropriate gauge of the new focus on home and modern efficiency in those years.

The bang of the heavy front door as Louie came home from work each day broke the silence of a hushed house where serious illness had taken up residence. His days were busy at the barber shop and hardware store he co-owned with his older brother but there was no falling away of tensions as he entered their house. Cancer had ravaged his wife’s body and she had been gravely ill for some time, although she was not yet 44. Enough had been spent on treatments and medications that both of their children later recalled money being less plentiful in the household. Louie had been driving Blanche to a nearby city for treatments that left her nauseated and exhausted. Their days had taken on a gradual desperation. When her sisters visited, she pleaded with them to take care of her children when she was gone. By Christmas it was clear that her determined grip on her life, family, and all that she loved in this world was weakening. This knowledge loomed over them despite the cheery Christmas songs crooning from the table top radio as they relaxed in the living room in the dark evenings. By the end of January she had left this world, having passed in her sleep in their little home. It was clearly a very painful time that would influence my family for a long time; Blanche and Louie were my grandparents.

As a child I have distinctly vivid memories of my grandfather telling me stories of “a woman he once knew” in odd moments when we were alone; stories I discovered years later were about my grandmother, Blanche. I was surprised to see tears flowing freely down my aunt’s cheeks when I questioned her about this grandmother I had never known. My aunt was in her eighties at the time. Some memories remain poignant.

It wasn’t supposed to be that way. We have only one life and we are shaken and broken when it doesn’t turn out the way we think it should.

Maybe it is the long nights of winter that give me time to ponder in the darkness. Or the crisp, cold air that causes me to see with unusual clarity. But isn’t this actually what Christmas is all about? Tidings of comfort and joy despite bitter regrets and feelings of loss. In the fragments of broken plans and lost destinies, peace.

I recently had my own health concern that left me entertaining a ball of anxiety in a physician’s waiting room. The stories of my grandmother’s early departure played out in my mind. After some mental wrestling I saw that I could continue to clutch this icy fear, or I could have some faith that God cares about my personal concerns, big and little. That the pathway that led me to this day was actually orchestrated by a God who wants me trust Him more, rather than questioning and turning away when my plans go awry.

Quietly putting my trust in God that the outcome will be His and not necessarily my plan has been a frequent exercise. But if I listen, I hear a silent peace that I didn’t hear before. I see a shining light through the murkiness of my daily worry. Good tidings of great joy that no matter what the end result is, God is with me, as I believe He was with Blanche. And I am with Him, not clutching at false hope or scurrying after anything that will make me feel better in the moment.

Jesus, whose birth was heralded with wonder and angelic visions, promised this: “And behold, I am always with you, to the end of the age” (Matthew 28:20).

Are the days leading to your Christmas full of uncertainty or even dread? Are you clinging to something over which you have no control?

Then I bring tidings of comfort and joy. It is for this reason that Jesus Christ came into the world. So that you would never again have to be separated from God’s presence by the darkness in this world. “Where shall I go from your Spirit? Or where shall I flee from your presence?” asks Psalm 139:7. “God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him” (John 3.17). Isaiah 55:6 urges, “Seek the LORD while He may be found; Call upon Him while He is near.” That is the essence of Christmas.

Copyright 2022 Sandra Jantzi

Posted on by Sandra Jantzi Featured 3

Drowning In Freedom

LISTEN TO THE PODCAST
Photo by Susanne Jutzeler, suju-foto on Pexels.com

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

Posted on by Sandra Jantzi Featured 2

He’s Got This

There were times it was difficult to see him, even though he stood only a few feet away from me. In the darkness and intermittently blinding snow, it seems now that what I remember most was his voice which could be heard shouting to my brother above the howling wind. We were paused at the top of the first hill, having climbed a 6 to 8 foot snow drift deposited by the windy blasts in the middle of the road that had been closed for days. On the other side of the drift, we found a patch of bare, icy ground. Such was the random aftermath of lake effect squalls that had suddenly sideswiped our northern New York region. Over the past few days, the storm had shrieked up to 50 miles per hour or more and dropped 6 feet of snow in places.

But the weather wasn’t finished with us yet. Snow, wind, subzero wind chills, and substantial drifting continued, closing all roads and leaving us and our rural neighbors stranded. My grandfather, a dairy farmer, was forced to start “dumping milk” because the milk trucks were unable to reach his farm tucked away on the northeast slope of the Tug Hill plateau. Dairy cows must be milked twice a day- morning and evening- and with no outlet for the milk tank, it was growing dangerously full. Other farmers were facing the same dilemma- essentially pouring their incomes down the drain. My grandfather had summoned any neighbor who could navigate the journey. His small farm was a mere mile from our home and it was our habit to buy fresh milk and eggs from him a few times a week. Days ago, my father and brother had already made the 2 hour trek through the blizzard to the farm and back to retrieve milk. The nearest store, a mile in the opposite direction, was equally inaccessible with no guarantee that the product would have made it to the shelf.

We didn’t know when the roads would be open again or when the storm would abate. If you’ve never lived through a natural disaster it is hard to imagine that you could be cut off from food, home, and modern comforts so quickly and without a promise of a quick fix. It would prove to be one of the most memorable storms in many decades for those of us who lived through the blizzard of 1977. Much has been published about the event from the perspective of people living in or around larger cities. But in the foothills of the Adirondacks, the communities tacitly battled against the elements without much fanfare.

After the first milk run a few days before, it was decided that it would be easiest to pull the large glass milk bottles on a sled rather than trying to carry them, and it was my job to ride in the sled and hold the bottles steady. I had just celebrated my 8th birthday a month earlier. Wearing snowmobile suits, heavy mittens, and layers of clothing, Dad, my older brother, and I headed out with Dad pulling me and the empty milk jugs in a plastic sled.

Today my father can recall many details of this trip with vivid specification. Enormous snow drifts that were over his head in places had been blasted down to bare ground a few feet away by the relentless wind leaving an unfamiliar landscape. We were traveling in the early evening winter darkness, and at times he was able to see the well-known route fairly clearly. Then a lake effect gale would roar across our path and he would stand still for several minutes trying to see lights from the familiar houses so he could get his bearings in the blinding snow. My dad is a pretty determined man and was fit for the task, but it may seem hard to understand now why he would go through with such a difficult journey, especially with his children in tow. We were not completely sheltered from life’s tragedies but in turn, we had learned implicit trust in my father’s guidance. He simply took care of his family, day after day.

I am amazed at how little I remember from this epic trip. As I said, I remember his voice, raised over the wind, talking to my brother as they determined our location and direction from the familiar points they were able to find along the way. From my vantage point, sitting in the sled he was pulling, I have a memory of the back of his black snowmobile suit bent into the journey as the gusts blew a screen of snow between us. I remember the top of the tallest hill where Dad stood under the outdoor mercury light near an old barn to catch his breath and get his bearings. I can still remember the warmth and light in the milk house, the smell of the cows nearby, the conversation between my father, grandfather, and uncle as the pitcher was dipped into the milk tank to fill our jugs. I remember there being a discussion about all of us riding in the sled on the way home because it was mostly downhill in that direction… but I don’t remember if we actually tried to do that.

What I remember most was that I was not worried.

I did not fret about whether we would find our way. I did not for a minute entertain the thought that we would freeze in a snowbank to be recovered in the Spring. I don’t mean that I put it out of my mind and focused on the positive. I mean that it just didn’t occur to me even though I remember hearing news reports of people stranded in various places because of the storm. I knew there was some danger involved, that frostbite could happen, but largely, I believed that my father could handle whatever came our way and that he would not allow disaster to overtake us. It should, perhaps, be mentioned that as a police officer who ran and lifted weights in his spare time, he truly was prepared for this situation.

The simplicity of my trust in him causes me to pause. I was fortunate to have a father that never left me wondering if he would take care of me. I realize now what a blessing that is.

If only I would think of God in that way.

Instead, I seem predisposed to meet every one of life’s challenges with a fresh rush of anxiety and relentless contriving to relieve my anguish.

This, despite having read the following dozens of times: “In the world you will have tribulation. But take heart; I have overcome the world.” – Jesus (John 16:33, ESV); “When he calls to me, I will answer him: I will be with him in trouble;” – (Psalm 91:15, ESV); “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your hearts be troubled, neither let them be afraid.” – Jesus (John 14:27, ESV); “Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance.” – James (James 1: 2-3, NIV).

And this one: “If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give good things to those who ask him!” -Jesus (Matthew 7:11, ESV).

Maybe I don’t trust God because I don’t really know Him. I had complete trust in my father, who had proven in the eight years of my life that he would and could do what he set out to do and he was able to take care of my brother and me. This is the reason that I, who remembers everything- as my family says, do not recall this event with the sharp retentiveness of someone who has lived through a perilous event. Because in my eight year old mind, my father had it under control and we were not in peril.

Maybe it is through the storms of life- when you and I are actually willing to put away our distractions- that we can actually begin to know the character of God in a way similar to the way I trusted my father. We are not immune to tragedy, sickness, discrimination, devastation, loss, misunderstanding, addiction, death… Even though there may not be an immediate end to the storm, there can be peace in the midst of it. For those of us who are willing to follow our Heavenly Father into the midst of the storm, we may find that we can hear His voice above the shrieking tempest: “Don’t panic. I’m with you. There’s no need to fear for I’m your God. I’ll give you strength. I’ll help you. I’ll hold you steady, keep a firm grip on you.” (Isaiah 41:10, MSG).

I have no idea what kind of blizzard you may be trying to get through in your life today. But rest assured, if you are a child of God, you can trust His words.

He’s got this. And there will be peace.

Copyright February 2022, Sandra Jantzi

Posted on by Sandra Jantzi Featured 7

O Come Let Us Adore Him
Photo by Simon Berger on Pexels.com

The winter of my 12th year, my father decided to outfit our family with cross country skis.  He was and still is an enthusiastically athletic person, and at the time, neither of his kids showed much athletic interest. I’m sure he was motivated to get us outside and away from the TV.

Out we ventured into the near-arctic winters of the Adirondack foothills and Tug Hill Plateau.  For Dad, if 2 miles was good, 12 was better.  Nearly every weekend he dragged us into the frosty forests while I rolled about in the snow to trying to learn the art of Nordic skiing.   

Cross country skiing is trickier than it looks.  Your heels are not attached to the skis and the constant stepping and gliding can make for achy arches.  Ankles can turn suddenly on the narrow skis, causing the skier to topple unexpectedly even when standing still.  The terrain where we skied was rolling and forested.  If I was lucky enough to make it down a steep hill without falling, I was then faced with the entanglement of angling skis so I could climb the next hill without slipping backward into the brush.  There were plenty of bushes and trees in the way, some pricklier than others.  Once I did fall, getting back up was no small matter.  The skis did not pop off easily and I often found myself positioning my legs in ways that twisted them beyond their ordained capabilities so I could find the right angle to get upright.  All this was done in a cold blanket of snow while the rest of my family waited with feigned patience. 

After repeating this weekend after weekend, I found my 12 year old self becoming distracted. 

Aggravated.

Burdened.

Angry. 

The breaking point came on one trip while I was on my back in the snow trying to position the long skis and succeeding only in tangling them in several different ways.  My family tried both to help and to stifle the laughter.  This was too much for my middle-school maturity to take. 

From my prone position, I finally raised one ski pole to the sky and with true pre-teen melodrama I wailed, “Just go!”

I didn’t exactly mean ‘leave me here to die’ but definitely something similar.  Only after they had all skied away and I had waited several minutes in the chill did I finally disentangle myself, get upright, and glide angrily on. 

After that it was my habit to linger behind on the trails, which was a relief to everyone, I’m sure.  I could flop about in the ice and snow at my own pace while the others in the family could be rid of my sour attitude. 

On one such journey, something happened that changed everything for me.  After pulling myself out of the brush, I was leaning against a tree brushing snow out of my knit hat when I heard a huge cracking noise echo across the landscape. 

I looked around. 

There was nothing but trees and snow and hills in every direction.  What I had heard was the sound of an ice-covered tree branch cracking in the quiet forest. 

But then, stillness rushed in again.

Utter quiet.

A vacuum of silence. 

A hush that suddenly seemed so loud. 

Nothing moving.  No one chattering.  I had not noticed it before, occupied as I was with my skis and my frustration.  So I stood and listened for a very long time. 

Not wanting to break the quiet, I softly packed up and glided forward on my skis.  Every few minutes I stopped to listen to the silence.  Every miniscule thing became remarkable on that blanket of stillness.  A soft breeze moving the pine tree tops overhead.  A lingering dry leaf scratching across an icy bank.  The muted squawk of a blue jay.  I stopped to take it all in.  When I finally caught up to my family at the trailhead, my mind was quiet, and I was no longer irritable and indignant.

On subsequent trips, I looked forward to letting others ski ahead of me so I could appreciate the beauty and peace all around.  I recognized that this remote, wild, and momentarily peaceful place was a gift from God and I began thanking Him for all I saw and heard.  For the long-needled pines rising toward a brilliant and icy blue sky.  For the postcard-worthy scenes sparkling with ice and frost.  The rustle of frozen weeds scattered in a secluded swamp.  The gentle and relentless drift of snow, sifting down through the branches and melting on my eyelashes.  In the midst of middle school, where confusion reigns, I had this gift that turned my heart toward the Creator and gave me peace. 

As the book of Isaiah states, “The whole earth is full of His glory.”  It’s not obvious until you slow down. I didn’t even know it until I stumbled upon it and found myself quietly cherishing the Creator of such beauty.   That was the gift of adoration. 

Now, decades later, in the holiday hustle and bustle I can hardly remember sometimes what it was like to decelerate and drift forward with an uncluttered mind.

There is a narrative of Jesus visiting a household where there are two sisters- Martha and Mary.  Luke 10:39 says Mary sat at the Lord’s feet and listened to his teaching, while Martha was distracted with much serving.  I can picture Mary sitting with the followers of the Lord – completely enraptured by Jesus and His teaching.  And I can most definitely picture Martha, slaving about making sure everyone was comfortable, preparing a meal, getting more annoyed at her sister by the minute.  I’m sure she would have loved to sit down and enjoy herself in the Lord’s presence, too, but since Mary clearly wasn’t helping her, Martha was left to do all the serving on her own. 

When her sense of justice finally couldn’t take anymore and she called her sister out in front of Jesus, He took Mary’s part.  “Martha,” He said, “You are anxious and troubled about many things, but one thing is necessary.  Mary has chosen the good portion…” 

Being endowed with a fair amount of distraction, anxiety and care myself (and a substantial spirit of martyrdom when required) I find it hard to understand why Jesus didn’t suggest that He provide spiritual teaching while they all helped with the dishes.  I mean, the fatted calf isn’t going to roast itself. 

When I try to rationally point this out, it leaves a bit of an awkward silence between myself and God because in all these years, He hasn’t changed His answer:

Sitting at His feet is way better than checking things off the to-do list.  And while my head can understand that, I struggle with sitting still. 

Enter Christmas. 

It’s a busy time of the year, filled with traditions, shopping, events, get-togethers, decorating, baking, and a host of other festive activities.  And so many of them are good.  For Christians, this is also the time of year when we commemorate the birth of Jesus- the very Son of God, who came into the world to save a dying and lost humanity. 

But for me, and I suspect some of you, the celebration of that amazing, wonderful, joyful news gets lost in the multitude of distractions and stress surrounding what our culture calls Christmas.  Especially in this season, when we want to maintain an attitude of awe and wonder and appreciation for God’s gift of life through Jesus, instead, don’t we become distracted and frenzied in our attempts to orchestrate all the daily details? 

We sing the Christmas carol:

O come all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant. O come ye, o come ye to Bethlehem. Come and behold Him, born the King of angels. O come let us adore Him! O come let us adore Him! O come let us adore Him, Christ the Lord!

Three times the song implores us to come and adore Christ the Lord.  But adore seems like it could be the wrong word for today. Like that hymn that suggests we raise our “ebenezer”, coming to God in “adoration” might require some clarification for 21st century North America.

We’re good at singing worship songs to God. We have no problem respecting Him. Thinking highly of Him, looking up to Him. Being thankful toward Him. Mentally tossing a spiritual high-five in His direction because we’re grateful for the things He’s done for us. The whispered prayers, the momentary despair, the worries, the regrets we feel in our hectic, fast-paced lives. God does hear them all. But somehow, in our American-ized thinking, it becomes all about us- our wants, our feelings, our lives, our stress, our need to have things a certain way.

But ‘adore’ has a different nuance. It means to regard with the utmost esteem, love, and respect; to pay divine honor to; humble worship.  Putting down the need to attend to the constant yapping of this world and intentionally centering attention on the Lord and His great attributes.

And it takes a moment.

We might have to stop and linger.

We might have to forget about our momentary despair, worries, regrets, and aggravations for a bit. We might have to “look full in His wonderful face” as the old chorus says. No glances or hasty, ‘yes, I see Him’. It isn’t just about choosing which spiritual team you want to be on and showing up for practice. It becomes about a relationship that is built when no one else is watching. Like all great relationships, it is about time, attitude, what we prize, and our own “want to”. It is about acknowledging His lordship and humbling ourselves. Realizing the greatness and glory of who He is without expecting anything.

Recognizing that we don’t even deserve anything, but here we are basking in His very goodness: That He would send His only Son into a very dark and dangerous world, so that whoever would believe in Him would have everlasting life in His presence. Not only His presence in Heaven.

But He is also present now.

I can go right on scurrying around Him with my list of things to do and things to get and He probably won’t stop me. But I’ll have spent my allotted time on this earth missing the unexpected artistry of the hand of God on this shadowy path.

Copyright December 2021: Sandra Jantzi

Posted on by Sandra Jantzi Featured 9

Every Day I Climb The Mountain

“You’d have to be a fool to climb this mountain in the rain.”

His declaration was met with soft laughter from the other hikers as I winced inwardly.

Just a few years earlier I had, in fact, climbed that mountain in the rain and it was no party.

The west central Adirondack Mountains rise in massive, solid waves just east of my childhood home, stretching across New York State toward Vermont. They were a constant part of my growing up and my family has a long history there. For decades I’ve climbed what is known as the “low peaks” with friends, family, and our dogs. With six million acres of park and winters full of legendary cold and snow, it is not hard to find remote and beautiful places.

There are just no words to describe the shimmer of dappled sunlight dancing through the autumn leaves on a silent mountainside. Or the essence of pine rising in the summer heat from a damp forest floor. Or the laughter of a mountain stream bubbling under a coat of the most fragile black ice. Or the vastness of sky and mountain reducing my large and in charge self-concept to the minuscule speck that I really represent in time and space. I love the very sturdiness of the ground, seemingly unmovable, reminding me of God’s unshakeable being. I adore the roar of mountain waters thundering down rocky rapids; to me, it is the sound of God’s audible voice. I cherish the quiet, remote places that seem hardly touched by the push and squalor of mankind.

But one trek I remember more for the chafing than the charm.

Our family had talked of climbing Blue Mountain for a while. When the appointed day came we had already experienced several days of rain and the weather was undecided. After some discussion, we decided to go ahead because we weren’t sure when we’d all be together again.

There was no sign of anyone else at the trailhead and from the start the forested trail seemed gloomy, dripping, and dark. I’m not sure how long we hiked before we discovered that the path on which we ascended was also the avenue of least resistance for mountain rain runoff. Before long we were almost consistently ankle deep in water with the damp leaves overhead dribbling down on our heads. There was mud; slippery in places, gluey in others. It was particularly tricky because at some points, the trail was overrun with tree roots, requiring attention even in the best of circumstances. Deerflies whined jubilantly around our heads, rejoicing to find such a feast on an otherwise bleak day. Light mist made long distance scenery nonexistent. The last leg of the journey was quite steep, requiring careful foot placement and physical exertion. At the summit we were encased in cloud, the panoramic views reduced to gray. We were fortunate that the visibility was the few hundred feet that it was, but we stayed pretty close to the trail to avoid unexpected drop-offs. After a short while, we commenced the sodden journey back to the car.

Other than the camaraderie of our group, the trip was disappointing.

Often, isn’t that just like life? Instead of the breathtaking scenery that everyone else (especially those on social media) seems to be enjoying, it can feel like we are trudging through a murky trail full of annoyances and obstacles designed to trip us up. Outcomes we had hoped to achieve become tarnished with reality. Doesn’t it seem that the western world is proclaiming in many ways that if you aren’t living the good life, you are a fool?

That rainy mountain hike comes to mind because at this time of the year my own personal journey becomes murkier. As the days become shorter, darker, and colder my own spirit grows languid. Beyond that, the clamor and expectations of impending holidays leave me feeling pushed and stressed rather than warm and joyful. After the holidays lies the expanse of a long northeastern winter where head down, cloaked in my heaviest apparel, I mentally push through the days toward Spring.

I could say that I hate winter but I really don’t. I just don’t like the darkness it brings to my soul.

I could resort to despair, but I am reminded of this: “For God, who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness,’ has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ. But we have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us. We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed; always carrying in the body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be manifested in our bodies… So we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day. For this light momentary affliction is preparing us for an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things unseen. For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal.” 2 Corinthians 4:6-18.

What if this momentary affliction that I experience every year is actually- in my weakness- giving God the opportunity to prepare me for something better? Maybe the darkness I face, part of the turmoil of this world, is the very thing that pushes me to seek God’s light and strength in ways that I otherwise wouldn’t have bothered. Like climbing the mountain in the rain, I’m forced to consider every step and stay close to the path to avoid slipping, falling, death. Practically speaking, what makes this obscure path lighter is reading God’s word in the Bible and speaking to Him in prayer every day as a priority, not an elective.

It’s not what I would have chosen. It’s not a compelling social media image. At times it feels very lonely. But maybe it is the thing I need.

Maybe that thing you’re dreading is also the thing you need to keep you on the path.

A couple of years later we retraced our steps on a beautiful summer day, taking in the full radius and range of the gorgeous views from the fire tower standing at the 3759 ft. summit of Blue Mountain. The lake below was sparkling in the sun and the landscape around us seemed to go on forever in light and color. It was the fulfillment of a hope that we had when we planned our first hike.

I climb my own mountain every day, looking for the fulfillment of this hope- that God will keep me from stumbling and present me before his glorious presence without fault and with great joy on the appointed day. Let that be your hope as well, as you face the journey you wouldn’t have chosen.

Copyright Sandra Jantzi, November 2021

Posted on by Sandra Jantzi Featured 2

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

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

Posted on by Sandra Jantzi Featured 2

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

___________________
Copyright 2020, Sandra Jantzi,

Photo by mali maeder on Pexels.com

Posted on by Sandra Jantzi Featured 1

Grounded or Groundhog?

It was a groundhog that finally taught me a humbling spiritual lesson.

At least it was a movie about a groundhog.

If you’re not familiar with the 1993 movie “Groundhog Day”, the gist is that the main character, Phil, keeps reliving the same day (which happens to be Groundhog Day) over and over until he learns to drastically soften the edges of his crass personality, win the girl, and miraculously emerge from the curse of living the same day repeatedly.

The idea of reliving the same day was a funny idea until I found myself hunkered down in the umpteenth week of a pandemic, living a much narrower life without an end in sight. Sometimes it can seem like the same day. Every day. I keep losing track of which day of the week it is because they all seem to look the same.

The interesting thing is that everyone’s Groundhog Day is so different. Some have been mostly at home for months now, without the familiarity of work, meetings, and activities. For others, life has become a daily battle to keep things running smoothly, figure out a new way of doing things or keep a languishing business alive. The stress of this daily load has been relentless for some of us. My husband and I have stopped keeping track of how many hours we work every day to keep our business moving forward. We get as much done as we can every day because each new day brings a whole new load. Every day the same fears, the same burden. The same day over and over. I think a lot of people are in that place.

Daily we carve out an altered existence and periodically ask ourselves, “Is this really happening?” Phrases like, “difficult time”, “unprecedented” and “global crisis” have lost their impact. We are heaving a collective sigh of resignation. We are muttering, “enough already” under our breath. Kinda like that guy in “Groundhog Day”, I’ve had moments in which I would happily smash the alarm clock that awakens me to yet another day of the same.

Back in April, I thought it would be fun to enter into the spirit of the “Groundhog Day” thing, so I set my alarm to Sonny and Cher’s song, “I Got You, Babe”, the alarm that the main character awakens to every morning when he relives Groundhog Day. Then I started to post on Facebook that we should make that song our pandemic anthem. I was trying to bring a little bit of levity to a dark situation, but I had left out a very big piece of the equation.

Yeah, I left out God.

You may view 2020 and its events (global pandemic, racial upheaval, political tensions, economic chaos) as an aggravation on the road to “getting back to normal”. Or maybe your life has been so capsized that you don’t know how you will every get it right again. But if you consider yourself a Christian your life is not your own, and the events that take place are opportunities to allow God’s Spirit to work in you. Turns out that living our “best life” requires a fair amount of trouble.

“I will never forget this awful time, as I grieve over my loss. Yet I still dare to hope when I remember this: The faithful love of the Lord never ends! His mercies never cease. Great is his faithfulness; his mercies begin afresh each morning. I say to myself, “The Lord is my inheritance; therefore, I will hope in him!” The Lord is good to those who depend on him, to those who search for him. So it is good to wait quietly for salvation from the Lord. And it is good for people to submit at an early age to the yoke of his discipline: Let them sit alone in silence beneath the Lord’s demands. Let them lie face down in the dust, for there may be hope at last. Let them turn the other cheek to those who strike them and accept the insults of their enemies. For no one is abandoned by the Lord forever. Though he brings grief, he also shows compassion because of the greatness of his unfailing love.”

So wrote the author of Lamentations (Chapter 3, verses 17 – 32, NLT). He experienced firsthand the invasion and destruction of his country around 585 BC. No doubt he woke day after day to repeated sorrow, suffering, and upheaval. Nothing would ever be the same in his lifetime. Unlike me, he did not seem to be inclined to stumble out of bed, scratch his belly, and mumble, “Welp, this looks familiar.”

It is time for me to stop resorting to a Groundhog Day Christianity, slogging repeatedly through the same lessons, inwardly rolling my eyes at my own suffering. I’m just being honest here. James, the brother of Jesus said it best: “Consider it a sheer gift, friends, when tests and challenges come at you from all sides. You know that under pressure, your faith-life is forced into the open and shows its true colors. So don’t try to get out of anything prematurely. Let it do its work so you become mature and well-developed, not deficient in any way.” (James 1: 2-4, MSG).

I can see that I have a long way to go, but the first step I took was to start every morning with a “thank you” to God for the gift of the new day. The situation in my life might be much the same as it was yesterday, but His mercy is new and there are new opportunities to mature in my faith. I’ll admit that sometimes that “thank you” comes through tension-tight lips. I’ve been incorporating uplifting music into my routine, which reminds me that God is present and His promises are true no matter what my circumstances seem to suggest. Reading God’s word every day has been a great way to discipline my mind to put my trust in Him, and not the rest of the world. Finally, finding a few quiet moments in the hubbub of my day where I’m consciously listening and looking for God and appreciating what He has blessed me with has made a huge difference in my attitude. And the attitude needs adjustments often.

Turns out that living my best life is living through a pandemic. Even when the days are long, the car gets smashed, the refrigerator is making a weird noise and I’m sleep deprived: God is still good.

Copyright 2020 Sandra Jantzi

Posted on by Sandra Jantzi Featured 1

Is It Too Late To Turn Back?

Eyeing the drop-off from which I was about to leap, I queried, “Is it too late to turn back?” I was only half joking. Kurt looked me in the eye and with great finality responded, “Yes.”

Photo by Artem Beliaikin on Pexels.com

Have you ever reached a point in your life at which it seemed there was no turning back?

For better or worse, you knew your life would never be the same and it could never go back to what it once was?

I think that happens frequently with the death of a close family member or friend. Maybe you’ve had the experience of losing someone who is close enough to you that when a significant event happens your first instinct is to call that person… and then you remember that they are no longer here with you. If you’ve had that kind of experience, then you know what I’m talking about.

Right now, it appears that the world itself may have shifted and creaked a little on its axis, and we are facing the possibility that things will not be the same as they were before March 2020. Maybe forever. I’m not sure if this experience is the same for Third World countries, since so many places in the world seem to be in a constant state of upheaval, disease, and loss. But here in the North America things have seemed eerily apocalyptic, despite our best attempts to return to normalcy.

Several summers ago as a fresh-from-grad-school psychiatric social worker, I was co-leading a social skills group for pre-teens with mental health struggles. I looked forward to the weekly outings with this group of a dozen or so young people, where we visited local attractions or played games in the park. For a few hours a week, these troubled kids could have fun and fit in.

One week the other group leader and I took them to a ropes course where we hoped the group members could not only have fun, but find some inner fortitude for the personal battles they faced. I resolved that, being the lone female group leader, I would participate in every element on the course so I could be a model of perseverance to our two female group members.

The course was in a beautiful wooded setting, where the multiple shades of summer green shifted and sparkled in the summer sun. In places, we could smell the cool pine forest floor, as we climbed, reached, jumped, and pulled our way through the course elements, where elevations progressively rose several feet into the air. Before long, I began to find myself challenged. True to my resolution, I participated in every obstacle even though my trepid steps visibly shook the ropes that were stretched high above our heads.

The course culminated in a 400 ft. zip line, where participants leaped from a wooden platform situated on a steep slope, and sailed seemingly without bounds or brakes through the forest, all the while attached to a pulley suspended on the zip wire. Of course the rider is harnessed, but as inched toward the edge of the platform that day I remember feeling exposed and unprotected. One step and I would relinquish all control to the wire, the pulley, the harness, and gravity. I could not seem to make my feet maneuver beyond the security of the platform. Although my brain understood that I was safely harnessed, a visceral hysteria welled up in my stomach. It was a long way down. What if I fell? What if the harness broke? Would the zip line hold me? What if the wire broke? Rapid fire doubts and fears took form in my mind and I hesitated. From the safety of the ground, the social skills group members gazed up at me, watching with interest as I wrestled with my inner fears. What would they remember from that day?

“Is it too late to turn back?” I ventured. Having just fastened my harness to the pulley, my friend Kurt was standing beside me on the platform waiting for me to jump. Kurt is a man of strong faith and convictions. He looked me straight in the eye and with great gravity, he replied, “Yes… But it’s not too late to pray.” I did pray, and then I jumped.

Many times in my life I have found myself facing a similar choice: take the leap of faith or back down. Either way, life would never be the same. (Backing down, by the way, is never a return to normal because you’ve become aware that you could have been capable of more.) Kurt’s advice has returned to me again and again. It might be too late to turn back, but it is not too late to pray.

We are living in a world that feels as though it may spiral out of control at any moment. Few of us could have imagined a year ago the far-reaching ways in which our lives have been altered… right here in the United States, arguably one of the more impenetrable countries on the earth. Yet it has happened; chaos from without and turmoil from within. The very worst that humanity has to offer in a world that seems to be corrupted beyond repair. No promises for the future, only ominous predictions. It might be too late to turn back, but it is not too late to pray.

You might wonder what good prayer is in such overwhelming odds. After all, a lot of people say they pray or meditate, but it doesn’t seem to effect much change. It may even seem like God is strangely quiet in the face of such global turbulence. Is He even listening? Do you wonder if He even cares? If your intention is relief from trouble, those would seem to be valid questions.

Difficulties, trials, suffering, victimization, corruption, illness, and loss continue all around us. If you’re wondering if God may have allowed strife to endure so that you would put down whatever is distracting you and look for Him, and that relief from trouble may not be your best goal, then you and I have something in common. Perhaps God is waiting, like my friend Kurt was that day, to see if you will pray, put your trust in Him, relinquish your control, and take the leap of faith. Isaiah 55:6 says, “Seek the Lord while you can find Him. Call on Him now while He is near.” (NLT) Jesus told his disciples in John 14:27, “I am leaving you with a gift- peace of mind and heart. And the peace I give is a gift the world cannot give. So don’t be troubled or afraid.” (NLT) It might be too late to turn back, but it is not too late to pray.

Posted on by Sandra Jantzi Featured 1

The Lady in the Window Seat

Have you ever found yourself in a place you did not want to be, but there was no way around it and no escape button? You knew you had to go through it. You knew that when you got through it your life would not be the same. You knew that it was not going to be easy.

Maybe you’re feeling that way right now.

I think we’ve all been there at one time or another, and perhaps, like me, you’ve been there more than once. A particular time that stands out for me occurred when when my son graduated from Air Force basic training. Having dropped out of college, he had enlisted and was off to Basic Training in a matter of months. There was some discord in the family about his choice. At times it seemed like we were failing him as parents. I was fiercely proud of him and terrified at the same time. Only another military parent will understand how much greater is the sacrifice in sending your son or daughter to the military than sending them to college. When he left, all I could see was his 5 year old face in the school bus window on the first day of Kindergarten. I was reminded of that song by Matt Redman that says, “Blessed by Your name/ on the road marked with suffering/ though there’s pain in the offering…. You give and take away/ my heart will choose to say/ Lord, blessed be your name.”

After the long weeks of training finally came to an end, we flew to Lackland Air Force Base to watch him graduate. The intense pride and relief we felt in seeing him march with almost 800 other graduates, and to discover that he had graduated in the top 10%, cannot be adequately described. But this story isn’t about that happy ending, or even about how my quiet, easy-going son had found his place and excellence in the military.

My story starts when we got on the jet to come home.

On top of the sadness of leaving him (he was getting ready to leave for Tech School), I was feeling particularly low because he had earned leave time that Sunday, and we had to leave early to tend to our family business back in New York. So he basically had nowhere to go except to hang out on base or try to tag along with someone else.

As a rule, I don’t usually talk much to strangers while I’m traveling. I’m an introvert and I have this theory (which my husband thinks is nuts) that if I start a conversation with someone and they are a non-stop talker or it is just awkward, then I am stuck with that situation until I reach my destination. But on this day, in the middle seat of the row, near the back of the jet, feeling again like I had failed my son, I welcomed the kind question from the lady in the window seat. She wanted to know if my son’s girlfriend, who was seated in the aisle seat, was OK.

“She’s a little upset,” I began. “My son is her boyfriend. We just saw him graduate from Basic Training at the Air Force Base and now we’re leaving….” At that point, the tears came. Unexpectedly. Betraying my attempt to remain calm and in control. Like a little child I babbled something about how he had earned leave to spend the day with us, and we had to leave early.

Turns out, the kind lady in the window seat was a retired college career counselor, whose husband had been in the Air Force for over 20 years. I don’t remember every word she said to me that day, but I remember that she reflected on what a great experience the Air Force had been for her family, and that with Basic Training behind him, my son would also be moving on to some great experiences. She reassured me that leaving him, although difficult, was OK. He was going to be OK. From Dallas to Chicago, we talked about books we liked, genealogy, and traveling. When we parted in Chicago, I thanked her for making what could have been a very difficult journey pleasant. My last memory of her was the smile and wave we exchanged in the terminal before I turned to find the rest of my family. I don’t think she ever realized how very much her conversation meant to me.

Before the day was over, I received a text from the mother of one of my son’s best friends in Basic Training. Their family had taken my son with them for some rest and relaxation at their Air BnB house. Another unexpected blessing.

So this very week, on a much grander scale, we have all found ourselves in a place we do not want to be. We’re trying to figure it out. It’s confusing and it’s hard. Some of us are having a harder time adapting than others. While we’re still reeling a bit from all that has changed, I would encourage you to take a few minutes and think about the ways that you have been blessed in the midst of your trouble. Where in your life, this week, did God send the equivalent of the lady in the window seat? When was there unexpected comfort? When did you have something you needed that you didn’t think was going to be there? Were you safe? And even if you weren’t safe, were there moments when you knew that God sent something into your life that helped you or made a bad moment bearable? Now is a good time to thank Him.

No matter how difficult things may seem, there are people all around you who need you to be the lady in the window seat. Even though we are physically distant from one another, it might be a time to speak up when you normally wouldn’t have. I think we’re all feeling a little on edge. Maybe now the people around you would be happy for a comforting word. If you have been comforted, even a little, by your Father in Heaven, maybe now, when hearts are in pain, would be a good time to share that comfort. “Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God.” 2 Corinthians 1: 3-4

Lyrics from “Blessed Be Your Name” by Matt Redman and Beth Redman, copyright 2002 ThankYou Music

Posted on by Sandra Jantzi Featured 0

When A Word Changes Everything

Photo by Ricky Esquivel on Pexels.com

I was about eight years old when I noticed that Jesus had started showing up at our house.

A man called Reverend Martinson stopped by to talk to my parents about Jesus, God’s Son. I can’t remember the exact reason my parents decided to start attending church, but Reverend Martinson followed up by coming to our house after we showed up at his church. These visits were so unusual that our whole family was assembled in the living room to listen to Reverend Martinson’s words. I was often situated on the floor, hugging my knees to my chest, taking it all in.

Up to that point, we were occasional churchgoers, mostly on holidays or for weddings. But suddenly (to me, anyway) we began consistently attending a very traditional Baptist church, complete with steeple, balcony, heavy wooden pews, choir, and pipe organ. We participated in a host of novel activities, like eating tiny bread cubes and singing out of a very large book of songs to the thundering accompaniment of the organ. I found the stained glass windows quite fascinating, especially the way the light streamed through the colors so brilliantly on sunny days.

But now Reverend Martinson sat in our living room talking about Jesus. The Jesus he spoke of didn’t live in stained glass, frozen in an image of benevolence. I was both captivated and uncomfortable with this Jesus he described. A Jesus who had lived long ago, died a horrific death to save us from sin and separation from God the Father, rose to live again, and lives still- redeeming all who believe in him.

My mind swirled with new words and concepts I could not fully absorb. Crucifixion. Sin. Repentance. Resurrection. Salvation. Redemption. Faith. Eternity. And a mysterious figure, the Holy Spirit, who would come to dwell within us.

Even at the age of eight or nine, these words created a deep unrest within my being; a guilt, a kind of festering dread. I would try to dismiss it. I would think it was gone. But there it was again. Something not right. Something needing resolution and relief. I couldn’t reason it away or fix it on my own.

Although I protested the “loss” of Sunday morning and was too shy to attend Sunday School, we continued to attend church every week, and secretly, I was engrossed. I loved the billowing notes from the pipe organ, balanced by the comforting tones of the piano. I loved the choir’s harmonies and shiny robes. I couldn’t get enough of the poetry and images from the hymnal. I was so impressed when we sang “When Morning Gilds The Skies”, I later looked up the word “gild” in the worn Merriam-Webster Dictionary at home. Eventually, I found such a kind-hearted and gentle Sunday School teacher that I agreed to attend her class.

Even so, the internal unrest continued until the day I said the word “yes”.

The organ was playing one of my favorite hymns, “I Need Thee Every Hour”, and I was wrestling with the feeling of private dread and discomfort when Reverend Martinson suggested that those who wanted to put their faith in Jesus Christ as Lord of their lives might come to the front of the church so he could pray with them.

The congregation sang: “I need Thee every hour/ Most Gracious Lord/ No tender voice like Thine/ Can peace afford/ I need Thee, Oh I need Thee/ Every hour I need Thee/ Oh bless me now, My Savior/ I come to Thee.” *

Awkward but determined, I stood up and stepped over the necessary feet to get to the aisle. I remember the creak of the wood floor and how we finished all five verses of the hymn while I stood alone next to Reverend Martinson at the front of the church. I also remember the flood of peace and relief as I prayed for God’s forgiveness that morning.

The Word says that all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God (Romans 3:23), even though we were created in his image (Genesis 9:6). But the Word also says that God loved us so much that he gave his only Son as a sacrifice for our wrongs and rebellion against him, so that whoever believes in Jesus will not die in that state of rebellion, but have a peaceful relationship with God and life (John 3:16 & 17). That is the simple message I heard, but it was the Holy Spirit that created the internal unrest and desire for peace with God that ultimately led me to him.

I’m so grateful that he saw me all those years ago, sitting in the last row of pews at First Baptist Church of Carthage, NY. What a gift that he did not consider me too insignificant or young to offer forgiveness and salvation.

That day, the truth of God’s Word changed my life and marked the beginning of a journey of growth. Since then, there have been times I’ve gotten off track and taken detours. But God’s Word, the Bible, has always been there to guide me back to the certainty of his love and my need for salvation. The truth is, the Word has the power to change us. Rather than focusing on experiences and how I feel, it is the steady, unchanging Word of God that has provided clarity when I’m confused, hope in my despondence, and health when my spirit is bruised.

Salvation isn’t just about saying “yes” once. Putting faith in Jesus is a start. It takes countless more “yeses” for faith and fellowship with God to grow. Yes, I will humble myself in this situation. Yes, I will sacrifice my time or resources over here. Yes, I will forgive this person again. Yes, I will give up “my time” to worship God. Yes, I will visit the new family who visited the church. Yes, I will show love and kindness to the shy, awkward child in class. Yes, I will do the hard thing. Yes, I will allow myself to be changed by a loving God. And yes, I need him. Every hour.

*”I Need Thee Every Hour” by Annie S. Hawks and Robert Lowry, 1872; Public domain.

2025 Sandra Jantzi

Posted on by Sandra Jantzi 0

The Spirit of Christmas Past: A Journey

Photo by Yan Krukau on Pexels.com

Our car pulled up to the farmhouse in the chilly Christmas Eve darkness, and I strained from the back seat to see who else was parked in the semi-circle drive. My mother came from a large family of 19 children, so there were dozens of cousins, aunts and uncles. It was a lottery to see who might also be visiting my grandparents on the farm. My brother and I clambered out of the back seat with great expectancy.

The white clapboard house and dairy barn were nestled comfortably in snow-covered hills and pastureland on the edge of the Tug Hill Plateau, known for legendary winter weather. A faint scent of cow manure hung in the frigid outdoors as I stood in the driveway waiting for Mom and Dad to pull a gift out of the car trunk. Snowflakes floated lazily onto my nose, where they melted with astonishing speed. I watched my breath rise in clouds on the frosty air. We walked single file into the garage, past the friendly, smelly collie, and up the few steps to the large kitchen, where the aroma of dinner still hung.

As excited as I was to be there, I hesitated suddenly on the threshold, and my mother had to push me into the kitchen gently. In those preschool years, I often found myself shy and at a loss for words outside our home. Some of my cousins and aunts were gathered around the long farmhouse table. I could hear Grandpa in the living room telling a story to my uncles. Grandma was in the other living room, where the Christmas tree twinkled, visiting with more cousins, aunts, and uncles. My great aunt, Edith, who was developmentally disabled and largely nonverbal, sat beaming at us grandchildren from her overstuffed chair. Voices were everywhere; narrating, interrupting, laughing, teasing. The house had curiously slanted floors from years of use. Some of the fixtures dated back to the 1930’s. But it was warm, inviting, and comfortable.

_______________________________________________________________________

A sharp clatter rang out as the clinging snow was released from the shovel, then heavy boots stomped onto the little wood porch we shared with our neighbors. I could barely see through the steam my breath was forming on the windows, but at the age of four it was a great show to watch Dad shovel the walk between our house and his parents’. I turned from the window as an icy gust swirled into the small living room and my father burst through the door to the duplex apartment. Clumps of snow fell onto the floor, doomed to become the kind of puddles that worry socks. My mother appeared with my blue hooded coat and my cherished white boots. A plastic bread bag was standard gear for each foot before tugging the boots over my feet. Outfitted with white hat, mittens, and my coat, I was ready to accompany Dad and my brother to my grandparents’ house so he could shovel the walk before my cousins arrived for Christmas morning. My brother entered, similarly bundled and booted with heavy “snowmobile” boots.

The freezing air stung my face, and my lovely boots made a deliciously crispy crunch with every step. Wrapping my tiny mittened hand around Dad’s finger, the three of us proceeded down the freshly shoveled walk. As Dad began shoveling their driveway, my older brother led the way through my grandparents’ sunporch to their kitchen door.

A welcoming warmth greeted us, and my stepgrandmother was already in the kitchen making preparations. Colorful Christmas hand towels seemed to wink at me from the towel bar on the back door. Grandpa was seated next to the picture window, and I climbed up on his lap after extracting myself from my winter gear.

_______________________________________________________________________

When I knew you, Christmas was a time of eager anticipation, excitement for the gifts I might have, and wishes fulfilled. Days bustled with holiday preparations and events. The backdrop was the time spent with each of you, in your homes, at your tables. At the time, those celebrations and traditions were secondary to The Big Gift Day.

Christmases have passed and you have been gone for many years. The tangible offerings of the season are sweet, but I find that one of my greater longings is for you. All of you. My dear grandparents, whose lives of labor and love become more meaningful as I grow in years and understanding. Aunts, uncles, cousins, now departed from this life and very much missed. I wish I had stopped to consider what life might be like without you. I wish I had spent more time with you, asked more questions. And those who live on, likely unaware of how much I treasure them, are mostly far away from the life I lead now. My mind goes back to our days together, especially at Christmastime, but this is a part of my life about which my husband, sons, and grandchildren know very little. It is a yearning that I keep to myself.

I think God has a similar longing.

In His own way, I think God is also saying, “Christmases have passed and you have been gone for many years. The tangible offerings of the season are sweet, but I find that my greater longing is for you.”

It was God who cried out to Israel: “For the mountains may depart and the hills be removed, but my steadfast love shall not depart from you, and my covenant of peace shall not be removed, says the Lord, who has compassion on you.” (Isaiah 54:10). He refers to them as “storm-tossed”, and Himself as their “Redeemer”. Despite Israel living “far away” from God: far from His guidance and laws, far from worshiping Him alone, He repeatedly counters the message of discipline with words of longing, love, and compassion. “Thus says the Lord: The people who survived the sword found grace in the wilderness; when Israel sought for rest, the Lord appeard to him from far away. I have loved you with an everlasting love; therefore I have continued my faithfulness to you.” (Jeremiah 31: 2- 3)

In making these promises to Israel, we see a God of compassion, clemency, generosity, goodwill. Longing.

By the very act of sending His Son to the world, humbly, so that we might relate to Him, we see this great tenderness. He didn’t wait for us to get our acts together. He sent His very Son to pull us out of the wreckage of our own ignorance of Him. He longs for us to be with Him in a similar way that we long for our loved ones who are far from us. Timeworn and yet stunning, John 3:16-17 says it best: “For God so loved the world that He gave His only Son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish, but have eternal life. For God did not send His Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through Him.”

Can you pause for a moment, and think about that? God longs for you. His Son suffered greatly to heal the breach between you and Him. Would you take a moment to appreciate that astounding thought during this busy season? Would you find a way to step closer to Him, the One Who longs for you?

2024- Sandra Jantzi

Posted on by Sandra Jantzi 0

The Hunger and Want of Christmas

Photo by MART PRODUCTION on Pexels.com

“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

Posted on by Sandra Jantzi 0

Led Where You Do Not Want To Go

It just so happened that the day my son started his military deployment, war broke out between Israel and Hamas. In the pre-dawn darkness he waved goodbye, and a few hours later I was watching news coverage of the Hamas attack. Conflict had already been raging between Russia and Ukraine and that situation had become quite desperate. There were perhaps hundreds of other lesser known but no less volatile struggles between tribes, governments, sects, and countries playing out the day he left.

My son was launched into another part of the world where there are threats and points of view I do not understand and where there are people with agendas who are also worried about the futures of their own sons. A place where peace is anemic, wobbly, and often shoved out of the way.

This has caused me to think more carefully about what God gave up in order to reach you and me. I’m guilty of glossing over that part of John 3:16 where it says, “God… sent His only begotten Son into the world” so I can get to the part where He offers everlasting life. But these days when I’m watching the world more closely and praying more fervently, I think about what a risk it was to send His only Son as a defenseless baby into a rough and tumble world to be cared for by faulty humans. My son is an adult who has been trained to be aware of his surroundings and potential dangers, despite my mind’s insistent memory of his panicked five-year-old face on the first day of school. But God sent his Son as a baby even though He knew full well that we were incapable of handling or understanding Him, so that in every way He would face the same trials and temptations that we do. The reason is simple. Because He also loves us with a great, longing tenderness.

If you have ever been a parent, guardian, or mentor then you know parental love. I miss my son in multiple ways, every day. The first few months of his life he cried constantly with a colic I could not seem to soothe. My husband and I walked him through sleeplessness and sickness, birthday parties, pets, and that sweet summer when his baseball team won the championship and he walked with a swagger for weeks. There are few things I wouldn’t endure to ensure his safety. But now, each day I mentally put him in God’s hands for God’s purposes. The outcome of which is up to God. At times, this feels like a place I do not want to go.

Recently, a book came to mind that I had not thought about for many years. “The Hiding Place” by Corrie Ten Boom chronicles her life as a Dutch Christian who, with her family, risked life and livelihood by hiding many Jewish people from the Nazis during World War II. Eventually her family was arrested and sent to a concentration camp. Corrie and her sister experienced unimaginable conditions: hunger, thirst, brutality, dehumanization, ridicule, threats, dangers, and filthy conditions. Ultimately Corrie’s sister and elderly father died during their confinement. Corrie evaded extermination through a clerical error and went on to be a witness for Christ in several countries.

What was striking was that Corrie did not set out to be a hero or an evangelist. She just knew she could not call herself a Christian and turn a blind eye to the discrimination and murder that was happening under Nazi rule in her hometown. The more she assisted, the more was asked of her. She found herself being led where she did not necessarily want to go as the danger of what she was doing increased. By this step by step release of what was important to her in order to embrace what was important to God, she was able to bring hope and accomplish what would seem impossible, even in Ravensbruck concentration camp while she was starving and infested with fleas.

It was Corrie who said, “Hold everything in your hands lightly, otherwise it hurts when God pries your fingers open.”

“You can never learn that Christ is all you need, until Christ is all you have.”

And this, “The measure of a life, after all, is not its duration, but its donation.”

She would know, because she lost everything in this world and still remained faithful to Jesus, even in her humiliation and grief. Because of that faithfulness, she brought rescue, hope, and the message of God’s salvation to thousands throughout her life and after her death.

No matter who you are or how good you are at controlling your circumstances, you will eventually be led where you do not want to go. Maybe it is a loved one’s sickness or disease in your own body. Maybe you have lost someone you love. Maybe something you really wanted, even something good, is not going to happen after all your efforts. Maybe you are saying a long goodbye, or maybe the goodbye did not happen and it’s too late. Maybe all the pieces you were trying to fit together have come crashing down around you in some way and hope seems to be sinking.

It might even seem like the end. But as you look around the landscape of this place where you do not want to be, there is another path. It may not look like a practical answer right now, but it is a path of no regrets. Now is the time to release what you thought you could not bear to lose and take a step toward God.

“The Lord is at hand; be anxious for nothing, 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 minds through Christ Jesus” (Philippians 4:6-7, NKJV).

While He did not promise to make every situation rosy, He did promise His peace- not the world’s fleeting peace, but a lasting peace that is beyond our comprehension or control even in our darkest moments. What are you clinging to that might be keeping you from knowing that peace?

Sandra Jantzi

Copyright November 2023

About the blog

Find an encouraging word in an ordinary world at the Word for Word blog. Don’t forget to follow me on:

Subscribe

Be notified when a new blog is published by subscribing below.

Designed with WordPress.com

Posted on by Sandra Jantzi 1

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 2