Stay strong out there, friends! (Bonus points if you get the James deep-cut)

It’s been raining a lot. As a dirt-road dweller and garden tender, I welcome the sweet relief of water falling out of the sky; petrichor makes me want to simultaneously curl up on the porch with an Irish novel (Niall Williams1 to be precise), and wildly twirl with face tipped up and feet in the silver grass. Lucky for me, I live on a back road where the Pharisiacal eyeballs are few and far between.

Despite the absence of words in this space, ordinary life carries on. No big headlines here. One of the unsung gifts of middle age is the ability to see that sentence for what it is: sheer mercy.

We are summering to the best of our ability.

June has given us smoky fires at supper, mushroom collections on the side table, and epic hair tangles from hours in the pool2. Sibling squabbles and run-ins with stinging nettle are the obligatory, unwelcome summer accessories that somehow never seem to fall out of fashion.

We abandon all clocks (save our stomachs) and roam free from the tyranny of jackets, socks, and schoolwork. I buy sugary cereal. Which is met with a rousing cheer until two days hence when the natives grow disillusioned and beg for a return to the fried eggs of Egypt. #smallvictories

In garden drama: I planted way too many gladiolus and—according to the empty stare of my freezer—probably not enough green beans or carrots. Apparently we shall fill our stomachs with beauty. Pink peonies have taken their final bow and surrendered the stage to delphiniums hypnotizing sway. Both are perennial divas, eager to throw themselves headfirst in a fit of despair at the slightest threatening breeze, but they’re also beautiful enough to get away with it. I’m glad for a mom who not only taught me to love flowers, but how to stake them as well.

Yesterday, I attempted to preserve the delphinium blossoms in watercolor—a (mostly) fun and (tiny bit) frustrating exercise. Fun because playing with color lights me up inside, and frustrating because (for some inexplicable reason) my work doesn’t look like Redouté on the first go. Rude.

Ruby (5) “weeded” all the radishes, so I’m forced to make do without my elite early-season snack3. Thankfully, the butter lettuce and scallions were spared her virtuous tending. Meanwhile, I have resumed unholy war on the moles intent on constructing condominiums beneath my garden beds. Trapping used to be the surest bet, but I’m beginning to wonder if Gen Z moles are less gullible than their grandparents; the steel jaws of Josh’s traps remain mostly empty and tunnel construction continues below.

Every evening like clockwork I receive fresh wildflower offerings from aforementioned five-year-old: wood violets, trilliums, purple clover, white yarrow, wild roses, ditch daisies4. Every morning, I sweep away the evidence of death: drifts of wrinkled petals from beneath her windowsill bouquets. The circle of life writ small.

Alongside these Edenic pleasures of summer, foreboding joy5 slithers in and I take and eat the low-hanging fruit. Surely there is merit in contemplating hypothetical diagnoses, tragic eventualities, and the probability of my children making poor choices? Right? Right?! But the fruit that pretends to manage future disappointments is bitter. Instead of the promised control, I’m left with a racing heart and sour stomach.

The Spirit’s breath meets me in front of the kitchen sink. I’m thinking a whirlwind or earthquake might help me remember better, but instead he just offers a stack of syrupy plates and the prophetic voice of Nehemiah: the joy of the Lord is your strength.

The bad news: Nowhere in my striving, planning, pushing, fixing, balancing, optimizing, worrying, micromanaging, catastrophizing, boot-strapping, white-knuckling, grasping-for-control efforts can strength be found.

The Good News: The joy of the Lord has sustained me yesterday. The joy of the Lord empowers me today. His joy already inhabits tomorrow—so there’s little use in running ahead. My part is to remember and rehearse:

The joy of the Lord is my strength.

The joy of the Lord is my strength.

The joy of the Lord is my strength.

The joy of the Lord is my strength.

I tape the good news to my kitchen window: The joy of the Lord is my actual strength. Light shines through the words. And the darkness cannot overwhelm it.

They always say: write what you know. So these days, I write about winter.

There are still mounds of “purple patterned snow”1 lying everywhere. It is achingly beautiful when the sun shines. Depressingly monochromatic when it doesn’t.

The frozen lakes have sprouted ice shanties, pickup trucks, and optimistic fishermen. Occasionally this results in freshly caught walleye for supper, but mostly it gives little boys something to do besides wage nerf war on their sisters.

Real Spring2 is still several months away. Which means we can sit around and whine about the weather—or we can roust our creativity out of hibernation and have some fun. I’m doing my best to choose the latter. Most of the time.

Below is a collection of everydayish winter moments written for a recent writing challenge: write 7 poems on one topic in two weeks. I’ll probably tinker with them a bit more at some point. For now, they stand as testament to the early weeks of 2026.

.

What is inspiring your creativity this winter?

It’s a marshmallow world. A Narnia land where all is floofy white cushions and diamond crust. When I clock my daily miles in the relative warmth of afternoon sun, my boots still squeak with the tell-tale report of ten degrees Fahrenheit. Evergreen boughs wear cartoonish mounds of snow à la Lawren Harris and ivory fretwork has turned even the scrappiest sections of understory into a masterpiece. Everything in sight feels clean, bright, generous—stirring up sehnsucht in all the best ways.1

Is half the magnificence of snowfall due to its ephemeral nature? By the time I actually hit publish on this piece, the ground will have been traipsed over and tumbled through, artlessly sculpted by animals and children. My boot tracks will no longer be a distinct record of this particular day’s walk. But for a few hours, the earth is pristine, a velvety remnant of Eden.

I suppose it is well nigh impossible to walk through virgin snow the first week of a new year without contemplating clean slates and fresh starts. New possibilities. But of equal import is reflecting on what lessons from the past fifty-two weeks I wish to carry forward. Perhaps one of the happiest discoveries of the past year was how

turning forty is actually pretty great.

So far, this milestone year has been both grounding and freeing, even amidst the multiplying responsibilities and accompanying gray hairs. Isn’t forty supposed to feel a touch more dramatic? Instead, I am finding

• my own skin more comfortable as well as my shoes.

• The need to impress has blessedly shrunk.

• Fears that played a prominent role in my younger years are being laid to rest.

• By now the pages of Scripture feel like the face of a familiar friend rather than a strange journey into a foreign land.

What a mercy we never have to quit growing! There are so many fascinating things to be discovered every day if you simply stay curious and pay attention. And that (to quote a delightful young friend) “is a fine hallelujah.”

Another lesson gleaned from 2025 is that in “abundant” seasons (my current one) I need outside accountability to keep exercise a priority. Especially in winter when it’s so much easier to hunker down indoors. But walking/running outdoors always energizes my body and sets to right the claustrophobic tangle of thoughts inside my head.

I have yet to regret taking a walk.

To help keep my priorities straight, last January I joined a simple walking challenge hosted by my cousin Carol who regularly logs 1000+ miles per year. Weekly check-ins with the group made all the difference in my ability to stay consistent. Many days it helped chase my excuses—too cold, too hot, too tired, too busy—right out the door and down the road where they belonged. Solvitur ambulando2 became my un-official motto of the year. Daily walking is just one more way I can make a simple, actionable3 choice to embrace the analog. Rather than naively waiting for “things” to slow down, (which, let’s quit kidding ourselves) I can look for concrete ways to opt out of the frenzy. Another way I embraced a slower pace was in

my reading life.

In the early days of first grade when my hair was still white-blonde and my two front teeth were still AWOL, I unwittingly opened the cover of Little House In the Big Woods. The clear evocative prose of Laura Ingalls swiftly secured my six-year-old suburban loyalties; I wasn’t content until each succeeding volume was devoured. Hungry for more, I turned to Anne, with the seven Narnia books soon to follow. It was official: I loved to read. And I loved to read fast.

This past year, rather than focusing on the number of books I finished, I prioritized reading with more intention. I scrawled notes in the margins and highlighted my heart out. Reading became richer as I took the time to appreciate style, cadence, and content. Habits, after all—even good habits—are only virtuous when we have right motives. Reading only because it entertains, or merely because we know it’s good for us, or as another way to feel accomplished, does not produce the same fruitfulness as when we are reading with a genuine desire to understand what an author has to say, engaging with the story they are trying to tell. I had to practice reading less in order to understand more. Which leads me to another theme of the last year:

Be okay with saying no so I can give a better yes.

Over-achieving and people-pleasing have too long been my cocktail of choice. Eldest daughter and all that. It takes a lot to swallow my pride and acknowledge my need for rest. The past year showed me again and again that when I spread myself too thin, nobody wins. Rest is not an optional perk for the lucky few with nothing better to do. It is a tangible reminder that I am a human being lovingly designed with limits. Resting both body and spirit is a discipline that I want to welcome because it is essential to wholeness. This applies even/especially to good things that I want to do—jobs that seem important, projects that sound fun—but which do not currently fit within my current life’s calling and time constraints.

A specific ‘no’ I have been exercising more often is in the area of tech. I am increasingly disenchanted with the digital realm, despite its ever-increasing capacities. It really is possible to live well without an app for everything. I’m saying no to a smartwatch interrupting my every thought. No to micromanaging every move of my loved ones with Life360. I’m saying yes to bigger chunks of time with my phone in “dumb” mode. Yes to books with real pages and art from real artists rather than the AI slop now dominating Pinterest. Yes to fresh air, wool socks, and stacks of thrifted children’s books. Yes to reading something other than my phone before bed and yes to daily taper candles at the breakfast table. Yes to

More poetry.

Poetry is imaginary gardens with real toads in them.4 I am well aware that poetry is a hard sell these days. It is not inherently productive. It is not analytical, pragmatic, logical or any of those briskly efficient words that turn ideas into money. I also suspect that much of our distaste for the form is due to the overwhelming amount of jangling rhymes we were spoon-fed as children. Good poetry may rhyme on occasion, but it certainly is not a requirement.

Better poetry invites us to play words across our tongue, feel their relative lightness or weight, and digest them through multiple readings.5 It begs to be copied out and taped above your sink. The best poetry also tells us something true about the world by igniting our imagination. As William Shakespeare famously notes, “Imagination apprehends more than cool reason comprehends.” In our modern context we tend to view imagination as something reserved for children and novelists. The classic meaning, however, is much more expansive—humans are hard-pressed to know anything that we cannot first imagine.

Two favorites poems from the last year: O Sapientia by Malcolm Guite and Antietam Creek by Sheila Petre. These two poets have almost nothing in common other than an extraordinary sense of the ordinary and an ear for capturing it in genius verse. Oh, and I believe both their mothers loved poetry, so perhaps it is nature and nurture at work in them both. At any rate, Malcolm is an Englishman with a delightful accent and magnificent beard who dresses like a real life Hobbit. Sheila is a Mennonite mother of nine who writes some of the most entertaining letters I have ever had the pleasure of reading.

Tonight,

several days since beginning this post, I take to the road yet again, clocking my daily miles in the dark. Well, dark is not exactly accurate. White-coated fields reflect plenty of light, even at night. A warm front has moved in and my boots work up the gray slush with each step. As I cant down the last hill, yellow bars glimmer between the trees—a living poem—tugging me towards suppertime and the lights of home.

Sehnsucht hits me square in the chest.

I’d love to hear what lessons you’ve learned last year. ✨

The last several weeks we have examined our relationship with technology by mining the questions hidden below the mesmerizing glow of blue light:

In what way does the comfort and convenience of “automated everything” seek to replace the basic elements of personhood as our Creator intended? What does it actually mean to be created in the image of God in the modern age?

We observed how these new invasive species (LLMs such as ChatGPT, Grok, Google’s AI Overview, etc. etc.) grow unchecked like virulent kudzu—sprawling over, under, and throughout our everyday lives. We gained insight and took note of the ways AI technology can choke out the uniquely human experiences of curiosity, learning, discernment, conversation, empathy, and embodied connection.

So, where to from here?

That, of course, is entirely up to you.

“The problem with discourse about the ills of digital life is that we rarely move from discourse to actual change.1” Talk is cheap and change can feel costly. But, as Lewis notes above, “There is nothing progressive about being pig-headed and refusing to admit a mistake.”

Admitting our (over)reliance on tech is an important first step. After all, one of the red flags of addiction is denying a problem exists in the first place. (Famously: I can stop whenever I want.)

But we do not experience the benefits of change by merely discussing said change; we must take real, practical steps to weed out unhealthy habits and nurture new ones. Especially in the digital realm, where devices, platforms, and apps are carefully designed to keep us chronically online—and increasingly addicted.2 It is the job of developers to gradually convince us that life would be unbearably dull, pointlessly difficult, without minute-by-minute online assistance.

Below are five tactics I have found personally helpful in keeping the digital kudzu at bay. I share them on the off chance that you too are working towards cultivating a life more fully “where your feet are.”

As always, take what you need, leave what you don’t.

My only request is that you don’t give up too easily. Tech is convenient, but seldom is the algorithm better for our souls than the stack of books at our elbow, the physical work in front of us, and the faces around our dinner table.

1. Draw Definable Boundaries

By now, many of us operate purely from muscle memory when it comes to our devices.

Our fingers involuntarily swipe at notifications before being conscious of doing so. Thumbs flick through statuses barely registering what we see. Listlessly we scroll through scores of news updates while waiting in line—worries interrupting worries—seldom pausing to read any article in its entirety.

In other words, we interact with our devices multiple times per hour in a state of persistent distraction.

For most of us, a hazy, virtuous “intention” to reduce our dependence on tech is destined to fail. Forming healthier habits will only happen through conscious, sometimes uncomfortable effort.

The simplest (though not necessarily easy) way to do this is to create “speed bumps.” Speed bumps offer a small, momentary jolt—causing us to slow down and pay attention, reminding us of our new priorities.

Practical “speed bumps” can look like:

• Scheduling daily Downtime on your phone (a practice I’ve been utilizing for about a month now and one which I hope to permanently adopt).3

• Setting daily time limits on whatever apps you tend to overuse.

• Identifying which apps you mindlessly scroll most often and delete them for a week.

• Setting your phone to grayscale—this little hack is phenomenal at illustrating just how much tech companies bank on glitzy aesthetics to glue us to our screens.

• Be brutally honest about your screen-time. Nearly every smartphone records this—both daily and weekly. Most also track the number of “pick-ups” per day. Look at it. Think seriously about what percentage of your day you are giving away.

Another interactive and eye-opening option is to organize a Screen-Time challenge. I know of youth groups that have done this with their parents; at the end, the winning group made supper for the losing one.

Or start small. Find at least one accountability partner. Don’t be surprised at how unwieldy this may feel at first.

We have grown so accustomed to immediately medicating—every bored minute, every momentary insecurity, every fleeting question—with the swift administration of a smartphone. It only stands to reason that creating personal boundaries in this area will cause some cognitive dissonance in the beginning. The good news? It gets easier over time.

2. Whenever Possible, Choose the Embodied Activity

“We weren’t put on this planet to watch other people make pancakes on TikTok while our own skillet sits cold,” writes author and speaker Mandy Arioto.”

Sure, nowadays you can handily google any recipe under the sun. But how about trading the barrage of pop-up ads and lengthy food-blog narration for that lovely stack of cookbooks? Or picking the brain of your mom-friends for meal-plan inspiration the next time you’re together?

Similarly, you could scroll Pinterest for half an hour—drooling over perfectly aesthetic rooms—but why not forage an imperfect masterpiece from whatever happens to be blooming out your back door? Social media is far more adept at breeding comparison and sowing discontent than it is at birthing creativity or fostering real inspiration.

I could check the weather radar before hanging the laundry outside—only to look up fifteen minutes later and realize the clothes are still in the basket by the door and I’m knee deep in the comments section. Or I could do something crazy like glance at the sky. Head for the clothesline, take my chances. I do own a dryer after all.

I could kill time in a boring line with my chin tipped down into Wordle. Or I could look up, out, and around—meeting the eyes of the image bearers God has placed in my orbit at this specific moment in time.

These trade-offs sound tiny when you say them out loud. Laughable even. But I am consistently surprised at their ability to lower the noise level and lift my soul. The here and now becomes a lot more cherished when we’re not scrolling infinity.

Which brings us to…

3. Practice Waiting Well

I’ll go first in admitting this one sounds about as appetizing as soggy cereal. Most of us avoid it like the plague—but we all benefit from learning how to wait. In an age where instant gratification has become part and parcel with the American birthright, we do well to remind ourselves of this immutable fact.

• If you make a lot of online purchases, try consolidating your shopping. Set aside a certain time of day, or day of the week, rather than doing it immediately—“on the fly.” You’ll likely find that sticking to a dedicated time frame causes you to more carefully consider what you buy, and cuts back on browsing time as well.

• When someone raises a question in conversation, practice waiting (even ten minutes) before racing to google to relieve the strain of uncertainty. Re-learn how it feels to not have every question immediately satisfied; release the myth of omniscience. Few things are as urgent as we make them out to be.

So very little requires our immediate reaction—though our culture of hot-takes would make us believe otherwise. Patience, perhaps more rare than ever, is still indeed a virtue.

Speaking of patience…

4. Write Real Letters

Over the last few months, I have written several actual-factual letters—on paper, mind you—with a pen that does not have backspace.

Before that it had been years since I had written or mailed anything beyond a birthday card (to be honest, I wasn’t doing so hot with those either). There’s something terribly impractical in it all. Yet for reasons I can’t quite pin down, this particular practice—taking time to formulate clear sentences; to carefully ascertain an address; to locate a stamp; to ferry the envelope out to the box—results in something greater than the sum of its parts.

We don’t take much care with correspondence these days, emojis seem to have hijacked careful sentence construction.4 But putting forth the effort (at least occasionally) is a tangible reminder that beautiful and worthwhile things are not always efficient.

5. Read Backlist

Backlist is the term used in publishing circles to describe volumes written some time ago but still in circulation (as opposed to a buzzy new release).

Physical books, in general, are excellent for elongating our ever-shrinking attention spans, and reading older books reacquaints us with the world before everyone came tethered to a digital device.5 In addition, the best authors are always nudging us toward the transcendentals. Not through overt moralizing, but by showing us that truth, goodness, and beauty are all around us—even in the most unlikely stories.

Good literature reminds us of our shared, story-soaked humanity, delivers a fresh perspective, and grows our appreciation for the gift of language. How nice to know that Lewis, Brontë, Berry, Steinbeck, Sayers, and so many more were able to produce magnificent creative work with only their brains and a blank sheet of paper.

Due to the pernicious nature of technology, your brain is perhaps already doing mental gymnastics to convince you this all sounds too inconvenient. Too weird. Too extra.

Any alteration of our usual habits will feel that way in the beginning. But should you implement a few of these rhythms for even a week, I think you’ll be shocked at what you discover about your digital habits—amazed as you experience the truism come alive that, “We become what we behold.”

Will we rediscover wonder in an undistracted sunset? Relearn meditation on long walks with only the Spirit’s breath for company? Recover the quiet pockets of a mind grown overstuffed and overstimulated by things we never really wanted in the first place but somehow were led to believe we couldn’t live without?

Where to from here? Well friend—that choice is entirely up to you.

And a million tiny choices make a life.

A Book List (in no particular order):

Analog Christian by Jay Kim

The Opt-Out Family by Erin Loechner

The Anxious Generation by Jonathon Haidt

Thinking, Fast and Slow by Daniel Kahneman

The Shallows: How the Internet is Changing the Way We Read, Think, and Remember and The Glass Cage both by Nicholas Carr

What are People For (a book of essays) by Wendell Berry

You Have a Calling by Karen Swallow Prior

If you happen to be a teacher, parent, or just an interested human navigating life in the digital age, Ruth Gaskovski’s long form work is a great resource. Two of my favorites:

School of the Unconformed

The Reading Rebellion: One Book. Two Weeks. Repeat.

Reading is an act of resistance in a landscape of distraction…

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a year ago · 322 likes · 50 comments · Ruth Gaskovski and Peco

School of the Unconformed

Learning, Fast and Slow: Why AI will not revolutionize education

For those of you who prefer to read off paper rather than the screen, we have converted the post into an easily printable pdf file. If you appreciate this, please consider supporting our work by upgrading to a paid subscription. Thank you…

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a year ago · 324 likes · 58 comments · Peco and Ruth Gaskovski

(We interrupt our scheduled programming for an autumnal intermission originally penned for a writing group prompt. If you’re only here for Very Serious Content, check back next week. However, should you find delight in autumn, pie, or nostalgia—this one’s for you.)

Few are the domestic highs that rival the satisfaction of pulling a burnished pie from your very own oven. And if the maternal half of your family tree branches with as many sturdy Amish limbs as mine, then you know that the changing seasons are marked by pies cooling on the kitchen counter as surely as the turning of a calendar page.

Time passes to the tune of pie.

Winter mornings sing a song of shoo-fly—or buttery pecan—always paired with strong, black coffee. Spring ushers in the tart promise of rhubarb crumb, with fresh strawberry pie following close behind. Then it’s on to stained fingers and sour cherries: a labor of love behind bronze lattice. And before you know it, the dog days have arrived with their lugs of ripe summer peaches in tow. Opulent fruit. Tender crust. A heavenly match for earthly taste buds.

Growing up, I was trained in this foundational truth: pie is both art and necessity.

Today, when the bean fields turn gold and the air smells of wet oak leaves and the harvest-driven squirrels in the north treeline render the best of us slackers, I turn from the regular hum of an October afternoon to the specific goodness that is baked in a pie. Apple, of course.

I learned the art of pie from my mom—who learned it from hers.

Mom’s approach to pie was defined by the same artful efficiency she bestowed upon her streak-free row of porch windows and the colorful bouquets that graced our Sunday dinner table. And while I have not inherited her knack for sparkling panes, I can whip up a pie with a modicum of ease—right down to the signature crimped-rope-edge. I’ll take warm pie over spotless windows any day of the week.

So….lets make a pie!

First, a vessel. When it comes to the dish, you’re hard pressed to beat the elegant simplicity of a nine-inch Pyrex. With excellent heat conduction, a transparent base for monitoring the browning crust (Pie rule #1: no soggy bottoms allowed!), and edges canting up to a ledge well-suited for supporting a decorative crimp, there is little point in fiddling around to find something more sophisticated. (Not to mention this plate will only set you back about seven bucks at your local Wal-Mart.)

Next, a crust. When it comes to the crust, experienced bakers have Opinions. All butter. All shortening. Lard. Part-butter, part shortening. Food processor, stand mixer, pastry cutter, fork—and the list goes on. I’ve attempted many of them (for the sake of science), but I’ve always returned to the method of the women who taught me. Like the Pyrex, why mess with a good thing?

Lard or shortening, flour, salt. These are cut together with a fork until fine crumbs form. Into the pebbly mixture goes ice water, whisked up beforehand with an egg and a glug of vinegar. As the fork tosses together liquid and dry, clumps begin to form.

This is the point where girlhood play-doh dreams are realized as the fork is set aside in favor of clean hands—the best tool for gently folding the dough into a final, cohesive mass. And since making a singular crust is a travesty not to be considered, now is the time to portion the dough evenly into rounds and wrap the extras in plastic. (Pie rule #2: As long as you’re dirtying bowls and cups, make several pie crusts while you’re at it. Pastry is especially well-suited to freezing.)

This is the point where all those “experts” say to chill the dough. And while I do this on occasion (mostly if my kitchen happens to be on the warmish side), mom managed to produce perfectly flaky crusts without this “vital” step.

It’s roll time!

With back-and-forth strokes from each point of the compass, the pliant dough flattens and takes shape1. Never fear if at first you don’t succeed in making a perfect circle; twenty years ago my initial attempts at rolling out dough resembled a map of the United States, but over time they’ve come round. Nowadays, my pies are nicely symmetrical. (Pie rule #3: Repetition is the mother of learning.)

When transferring the rolled pastry into the waiting Pyrex, ease the dough into the bottom of the pan, gently nudging it up and over the sides, being careful never to pull or stretch the dough. (Pie rule #4) Stretching your pastry is like feeding your pie a shrinking potion; it will shrivel and slump in the heat of the oven, and who wants that?

Now. The crust is sorted; we must attend to the filling.

Apples of course.

Peeled, and very thinly sliced. Never chunked. Grandma always insisted on Smokehouse, but I have yet to find that particular variety here in the upper Midwest. Nowadays I rely on a mix of Cortland, Honeycrisp, and Haralson; in my opinion, the variety of textures and flavors make for a superior pie experience.

Now for the sugar—not too much—a little of both granulated and brown. Then comes a squeeze of lemon, two tablespoons of flour to thicken the juices, a sprinkling of cinnamon, (Grandma scorned this “modern” addition—in her words “apple pie should taste like apples”) and a pinch of salt. My secret addendum in recent years has been a small slug of bourbon. (No need for pearl clutching, the alcohol bakes off in the oven, leaving in its wake a delightfully nuanced note.) A few stirs of the spatula and the mixture is ready to be raked into the waiting shell and topped with nubs of butter.

Onward to the lid!

Repeat the rolling process with a second disc of dough. This time, before laying it atop the filled pie, use a knife (though a handy-dandy pastry wheel gifted from grandma is preferable) to create decorative slits in the dough for steam to escape.2 Transfer the lid to your waiting pie, once again being careful to tuck—not stretch—the pastry top. Using a knife or scissors, cut the dough flush with the outer edge of the dish, then with your thumb press down firmly around the outside circumference so as to marry the top and bottom crusts securely.

There are dozens of ways to properly finish a pie. Newbies can always press down the edges with a fork, or use pastry cutouts to adorn the perimeter. But the mastery of grandma’s signature crimped-rope-edge remains one of my crowning culinary achievements—and I think of her legacy of pie whenever my fingers practice the now familiar twist-press motion.

A quick brush of cream over the lid, a sprinkling of granulated sugar to guild the lily, and into the piping oven it goes.

An hour later, behold: the burnished peaks and creamy valleys of top crust, the flaky edges bubbling thickly, the bottom shell browned to perfection, and the whole house layered with the sweet, sentimental aroma of butter, cinnamon, and cooked apples.

Autumn has officially arrived.

“The research necessary to create insightful content is often a laborious process which can now be automated.”

“Implement quick, personalized, trust-based automated conversations.”

“The inclusion of AI-powered virtual mentors and learning platforms significantly contributes to fostering a culture of continuous learning and growth.”

“Artificial intelligence is transforming every industry, including higher education and human resources.”

“Experience round-the-clock support and guidance with a 24/7 AI therapist, always at your fingertips to help you navigate life’s challenges.”

The quotes above are pulled from a diverse sampling of online companies: a consulting firm, an accredited college, an increasingly popular therapy site (more on that in a bit).

Surprising to no one, I didn’t have to look long to find these examples. I could have included dozens more, but you get the point—they all sound the same anyway.

Today, every institution under the sun seems eager to show off their machine learning capabilities, proudly advertising their AI services with words such as quick, necessary, insightful, and trust-based.

Are you weary of labor, of learning? Are you tired of listening—or even expressing yourself clearly in conversation (all work that has historically been unique to humans)? Not to worry! Armed with a virtuous sounding vocabulary, AI systems are ready to lighten your burden and offload the angst of ordinary life.

But under their shiny marketing hood hums a subliminal message: dedication, discipline, and work—even the work of the mind—is now distasteful. A cumbersome duty to be avoided. Outsourced if at all possible.

We are left with the question: In an era of automation, is work still worth valuing?

If so, why?

Is it merely a means of keeping a roof over our head and the wolf at bay? A way to finance our dopamine habit courtesy of “add to cart?” Will we finally reach the pinnacle of human achievement by automating every aspect of our “work” to the nth degree? And what do we lose by slowly exchanging good work in favor of a quick tap and continuous scroll?

Designed for Work

Though the nature and meaning of work has shifted between cultures and generations, and though mankind has long searched for ways to lessen the effects of toil brought on by the curse, humans were perfectly designed by God to work and keep from the very beginning.

Our call to create, to order, to work, is a feature—not a bug—of bearing God’s image.

Early in the Genesis account, we see each day marked by a work of creation—progressively turning what was wild and waste into formed and filled. This work is always followed by a divine pronouncement over the day’s activity: “and it was good,” the biblical author using repetition as a literary tool to embed the notion that God’s work and goodness are deeply intertwined.

In Genesis 1:28 we see the One who orders the universe commissioning our ancient foreparents to reflect his image through their work in the world—a small but clear echo of God’s own expansive work. And though Adam’s heartbreaking fall soon introduces burden and burdock into the equation (toil), our unique mandate to work and co-create remains fixed.

And indeed, there is a glorious multiplicity of good work that we are called to do.

The accountant restores order to a previously convoluted mass of debits and deposits. The baker shapes flour, salt, and water into nourishing crust and crumb. Carpenters transform piles of lumber and bits of galvanized metal into shelter, safe and dry. Medical professionals take seemingly chaotic symptoms and order them so as to create a helpful treatment plan. The writer sands down rough-hewn sentences, constructing them into smooth paragraphs, while the teacher instructs young minds in the way of facts and reasoning so that they too can begin to make sense of a big, chaotic world.

When we willingly channel our time, attention, and energy to whatever task is at hand, we actively participate in God’s original design for human flourishing. And lest we forget: the cultural mandate to “work and keep” is planted in the fertile soil of chapter one; it is not a byproduct of the poisonous fruit in chapter three.

The presence of sin, of course, has clouded the beauty of the imago dei in us all. But we who follow Christ are given the beautiful opportunity to be progressively re-formed into the image of the true and better Adam. This process of sanctification will continue all the days of our life—seldom sudden, but always sure. The way we steward the call to work is no exception.

But growing as a “Christian worker” is not accomplished by merely avoiding what is sinful. Nor can Christian calling and vocation be confined to those who wear the title of missionary, preacher, or Sunday school teacher. All our work can be a spiritual act because it occurs at the hand of a Spirit-indwelled person.1

Simply put, Christian work is any good work done well.

When we “work and keep” as unto the Lord, all our labor becomes Christian labor.

There is a line often (mis)attributed to Luther that goes something like this:

“The Christian shoemaker does his Christian duty not by putting little crosses on the shoes, but by making good shoes—because God is interested in good craftsmanship.”2

We could ask the AI editor on Whatsapp to polish our message and make us sound more thoughtful or erudite. Or we could simply practice the useful work of learning to express ourselves as concisely and clearly as we are able in written communications.

We could employ ChatGPT to quickly pull up verses for a topic we’ve been assigned at church—asking a machine to do the work of sorting relevant scriptures and stitching them into an essay of seamless, alliterative prose. Or we could put in the good work that involves prayer, contemplation, and self-denial: taking the time to read verses in their full context, noticing how they fit into the greater Story, and using our personal (often imperfect) words to share our inspiration.

This is active learning—and it is far more likely to leave us with lasting meditations and a deeper appreciation of both the Holy Spirit and Scripture. (As a reminder, defaulting to AI because it “saves time,” is a fruitless endeavor. Data shows that the time we “save” by using technology is nearly always consumed by more technology.)3

Or, as poet and playwright T.S. Eliot says in Choruses from the Rock, “…take no thought of the harvest, but only of proper sowing.” How’s that for a life motto in an age obsessed with outputs?

Work Isn’t Just About You

When it comes to work, current Western culture invites us to pursue our passions and follow our bliss; but for the Christian, work and vocation can never be just about us.

Our unselfish, individual efforts in the kitchen, clinic, classroom, or construction site will always result in communal blessing.4 When we “work and keep” as unto the Lord, we cannot help but also honor the command to “bear fruit and multiply.”

God intended human beings to provide for each other through each other.5

Unfortunately, we have always been skilled at turning good things into gods—and our call to “work and keep” is no exception. Rather than reflect God’s good design, we sometimes seek to replace it.

We pin hopes on our labors, wrap identity around our accomplishments, and work becomes an end to itself. In this way we see how the workaholic who labors long hours to the neglect of family, church, and community is not fulfilling the sacred call to work. Instead, (whether consciously or not) he/she is deifying effort and accomplishment—worshiping work for its own sake.

Over time, as we inevitably grow exhausted from “chasing the dream”—that elusive ideal of having it all—we constantly search for new ways to create a frictionless, optimized life.

And wouldn’t you know: AI has arrived and is “happy” to help.

But is it the kind of help we actually need?

Created for Community

Here’s a rather inconvenient truth: we are designed to need each other.

A few paragraphs back we looked at the creation of our world in Genesis 1, and the rhythmic pronouncement that “it was good.” In chapter two we encounter an abrupt departure from the familiar phrase when we hear God uttering these words, “It is not good…”

The phrase is meant to cause us dissonance. What in this beautiful, Edenic place could be “not good?”

“That man should be alone.”

Adam could not complete the mission to “work and keep” and “bear fruit and multiply” as a solo act. So God graciously formed “a helper fit for him.”

These are the words of a thousand wedding sermons, but their implications echo far beyond the walls of marriage. All human beings—married, single, widowed, or orphaned—are created for community and formed for fellowship. It is one more way we image a Creator who eternally has enjoyed perfect communion between Father, Son, and Spirit. Just as the roles of the trinity complement and work together in unified purpose, we as humans need each other—helpers ‘fit for us’—in our life and work so that the mission of God goes forward.

Which is to say: none of us (introverts, extroverts, or ambiverts) flourish in isolation.

Is community messy? Of course it is! (We are still dealing with the consequences of chapter three, after all.)

Relationships absolutely take work. Robust conversations take time, and honest, in-person feedback requires humility. Sometimes people’s breath smells. Once in a while we all wish for a break from listening to the halting monotone of a 7-year-old working through pages of reading homework.

These minor inconveniences produce major dissonance in a world where we can order anything shipped to our front door within days, receive answers to every question on demand, and track real-time weather radar no matter where we happen to be.

We grow accustomed to believing that everything can (and should) be controlled, predictable, and optimized.

We get used to thinking that we can finally be freed from the burden of being human—and from the tedious toil in the service of others.

But human presence cannot be optimized.

And real relationships cannot be automated.

I love the way Curt Thompson communicates our universal longing to be personally known: “We all are born into the world looking for someone looking for us.”6

Today, AI offers us the illusion of being that “someone.” But regardless of how wise or seemingly logical the answers, artificial intelligence will never satisfy this longing to belong. A chatbot will never be anything more than a cheap imposter of the spirit-filled, skin-wearing presence we all are made to crave.

Sure, ChatGPT sounds solicitous and cheerful (though of course in reality it does not actually care one way or the other, it is simply predicting the most common answer based on the prompt) but it can just as quickly become the ultimate accuser. And the results are devastating.

Automated Advice

This year, a 16-year old committed suicide after months of interacting with an LLM.

Though Adam Raine initially began using this technology for homework and other “benign” topics, he quickly became enamored with ChatGPTs ability to provide answers for every question he posed. Over time, he began to share his feelings about lonelines, loss, and anxiety with this new “guru,” who seemed always to have a solution.

You can read the full story here.7 It comes to a heartbreaking end when ChatGPT offers to help Adam write a suicide note. Sadly, this is not an isolated case. A recent survey by the digital safety non-profit organization, Common Sense Media, found that 72% of teens have used AI companions at least once, with more than half using them a few times a month.

Admittedly, this is the far end of the AI horror spectrum. But before you dismiss it as a random crazy news story, let us consider that chatbots in both therapeutic and theological spaces are steadily on the rise—and show little sign of slowing.

While we bemoan the loss of our attention spans, tech companies simultaneously work to provide 24/7 digital genies tailor-made to our lifestyle; soon we begin to believe the common narrative that every bit of life can be managed through a screen.

Whatever the need—there is an app.

When we rush to LLMs for answers and reassurance, we are chasing after a simulation of something thing that has been uniquely entrusted to human beings. Perhaps you scoff at the idea of turning to AI for validation, companionship, or serious advice. I’ll admit, at first glance it seems ridiculous and far-fetched. But who doesn’t subconsciously enjoy the polite and deferential tone that accompanies each interaction with these online assistants, who cheerfully answer our questions and never need to sleep?

Author Erin Loechner (founder of the tech movement ‘Opt-out Family’)8 shares a conversation she had years ago with a tech developer:

…[he] predicted, accurately, that Big Tech isn’t after only your attention. It’s after your companionship. Your mind and, mostly, your heart. Intimacy. Togetherness, closeness, understanding. Warmth.

The low-risk anonymity provided by a chatbot can be very appealing (especially to teens and young adults). A recent study reports that one third of teens “find conversations with AI companions to be as satisfying or more satisfying than those with real-life friends.9” You likely know young people who feel the same, even if they’re not talking about it.

It is easier to process our unspoken fears with a sanitized, far-away machine than to make ourselves vulnerable to the human at our elbow. A really smart computer somehow feels safer than a human who might misunderstand.

But a computer cannot grieve with you. It cannot offer the kind eyes or solid shoulder of a friend or family member. Only an un-optimizable human can sit beside you in a worship service, share the Spirit’s witness as you visit over coffee, or offer the relational oxygen of encouragement.

Only a person—made in the image of God—can do the good work of recognizing the infinite worth of another weary soul.

Kingdom Come Down

What does it look like to bring order out of chaos?

It looks like the Spirit hovering over the waters. It looks like Yahweh pronouncing goodness over all he has made. It looks like embracing the good work to which he calls us and the gift of an embodied community where he plants us.

It is the kingdom come—upside down—here and now.

It looks like feet-washing and self-giving and walking the second mile when only the first is strictly necessary.

It looks like acknowledging our God-given limits while also putting our hands to the plow in service of our fellow image bearers—and accepting the blisters that sometimes come when they rub us the wrong way.

It looks like finding the common things ablaze with God. So that we today can boldly pray like Moses:

Let the favor of the Lord our God be upon us,

And establish the work of our hands upon us,

Yes, establish the work of our hands! Psalm 90:17

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Thanks for reading Walk the earth, Watch the Sky! This post is public so feel free to share it. Next week we wrap up this series with a booklist, as well as some practical tools to keep technology from taking the wheel.

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In case you’re new to this conversation, here are links to Part One, Part Three, and Part Four.

The AI Summary: A Rising Star

In May of 2024, like a thousand times before, I opened up Google and tapped out a query (probably something vital such as who were the original inklings?”). As expected, a fresh webpage loaded within seconds.

But instead of the familiar blue list of external links, I was greeted by a sparkling, four-pointed star jauntily paired with the words “AI Overview.” Beneath it ran a paragraph or two that seemed to competently and succinctly answer the question I had posed a moment before.

Genius.

Since its debut fifteen months ago, “AI Overview” has, for the most part, gained widespread acceptance by the average user. The ultimate magical machine has finally arrived; no longer must we endure the burdensome left-clicking on our quest for original sources.

If our search contains multiple words, asks a direct question, or expresses a complete thought (e.g. where should I eat in Washington D.C. this fall?), an AI generated summary is nearly guaranteed.1 Put another way, the more complex the question, the higher the likelihood AI will summarize the answer. Or, in the words of Google itself, “AI Overviews will help with increasingly complex questions. Rather than breaking your question into multiple searches, you can ask your most complex questions, with all the nuances and caveats you have in mind, all in one go.”2

So what’s the big deal? Why should we care? And how is it any different from the way we’ve used search engines for the last twenty years?

Quite a lot, it turns out.3

Currently (though current for how long is anybody’s guess) somewhere between 50-60% of users now terminate their online search without clicking any links to the sources offered in response to their prompt. The answers to our daily questions are being served in such a way that they are now divorced from any relevant context.

In case we’ve forgotten, AI does not inherently “know” anything—it simply predicts the next most probable outcome based on the reams of its training data. AI outputs will always be situated in the middle of a probability bell curve: what is most likely to be said about any given topic.4

This matters because pre-AI, an online search (and before that, gasp, print media) allowed us to see exactly what vehicle and viewpoint the information came courtesy of. Was it an academic paper? A press release from a tech company? A think-piece by an Anglican priest? A journalistic report from a particular news outlet? An influencer trying to promote a certain diet via their social media page? Or perhaps a magazine article from a familiar publication?

Upon selecting one or several sources, we would then proceed to read (or at the very least skim) the article—searching for relevant bits and subconsciously assigning weight and meaning to the information we encountered. We were, whether consciously or not, practicing a form of discernment.

Seeking Discernment

Let us first set to the task of defining our terms. “Broadly speaking, discernment is the ability to sort between a host of options and pick what is good. It carries the idea of judging the merits of something, being able to distinguish what is good and bad and best.”5

As followers of Jesus, we should all desire to know the difference between that which is truly good and that which is truly harmful. To rightly divide what is nice from what is necessary. But how exactly does one go about this? And what will keep us aware and afloat as we navigate the torrent of online information?

In the first chapter of Proverbs we find this invitation:

“Let the wise hear and increase in learning,

and the one who understands obtain guidance…” (Proverbs 1:40)6

In other words, if we want to rightly increase our learning in a way that is wise, we must start by being aware of how little we know—and how much we have left to learn.

I recently thrifted a copy of East of Eden and have been dipping in and out of it in the spare moments that would otherwise disappear via scrolling. In the presence of this immense literary talent comes the recognition of the considerable gap between his proficiency and mine; no matter how much I practice my craft or hone my skill, I will likely never attain the descriptive perfection of Steinbeck. Yet experiencing the beauty of Eden’s prose galvanizes me to stretch beyond what feels comfortable and easy in my own creative endeavors. It inspires me to learn more—in spite of my limits.

Nowhere is our limited understanding as human creatures more evident than in our knowledge of the unlimited God. Job’s friend Zophar puts it this way:

Can you find out the deep things of God?

Can you find out the limit of the Almighty?

It is higher than heaven–what can you do?

Deeper than Sheol, what can you know?

Its measure is longer than the earth and broader than the sea.

(Job 11:7-9)

Scripture provides us with many excellent opportunities to rightfully, humbly measure our shallow human knowledge in comparison to the boundless knowledge of our Creator. But encountering His greatness should never cause us to throw up our hands, asking, “What’s the use of pursuing wisdom and knowledge? I’ll never attain anyway!”

For, “Though God is not able to be fully known, he is able to be sufficiently known. What we can know about him from creation and the Bible is more than sufficient quantity to keep us in regular contemplation and reflection until we see him face to face.”7

Proverbs 1:7 speaks plainly to the importance of this foundation:

The fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge;

Fools despise wisdom and understanding.

Fear of the Lord is right reverence and awe for who he is and what he has done in redemptive history. Proverbs reminds us that our view of God (or lack thereof) is the very bedrock of our thinking (what we know and how we know it). Solomon continues to instruct his son in chapter two:

The Lord gives wisdom;

From his mouth come knowledge and understanding;

He stores up sound wisdom for the upright;

He is a shield to those who walk in integrity. (v. 6-7)

So far we can conclude that discernment is both a promise and a gift. But make no mistake: it is a gift that requires our participation.

Earlier in chapter two, we hear this clarion call through active verbs, commanding us to: “make your ear attentive to wisdom,” incline your heart to understanding,” “call out for insight…for understanding,” “seek for it like silver,” “search for it as hidden treasures.” (Prov. 2:2-4)

Today, as we are summarily served AI insta-pot answers cobbled from every imaginable source, we must be clear-eyed about the fact that in our race to stay relevant, we may inadvertently adopt technological habits that steer us toward poor decision making. We should welcome good, honest, and sometimes uncomfortable questions about how easily we outsource the practice of discernment.

We must care about what is true.

Hallucinations and Half-Truths

In an age of misinformation generated by bots and passed along at warp speed, it is worth the extra minute or two it takes to click through and verify our findings. Even better if we can address important topics through multiple sources.8 This cannot be overstated, particularly if we plan on repeating our information to someone else.

It is worth reminding ourselves that how we choose to handle information is an indication of our personal character. The practice of verifying what is true is especially important in light of the fact that AI “hallucinates” somewhere between 17-40% of the time.9

Hallucination is a blanket term for certain kinds of mistakes made by the large language models that power systems like ChatGPT or Google’s Gemini. It expresses the way generative AI sometimes presents false information as true. Not for any sinister reason, but because, despite its conversational chit-chat subconsciously telling us otherwise, LLMs do not inherently know anything.

I keep returning to this point, mostly because I’m amazed at how many people rely on technologies like AI Overview and ChatGPT who honestly believe they are accessing a database of concrete facts. When viewed this way, it is easy to understand why so many default to reliance on the answers of LLMs.

While a human brain gives conscious consideration when a particular question is posed, LLMS essentially generate (which literally means “to make”) an answer by scrolling at warp speed through previous inputs and “guessing” at what word is most likely to occur next. It is really, really high-volume guesswork, to be sure. But guesswork it remains.

About a third of the time, it guesses wrong—utter hallucination—though it will confidently offer up a summarized answer in such a way that most users will absorb it as fact without bothering to verify. Generative AI can sound quite eloquent, even in its moments of stupidity.10

As one might guess, this poses a significant challenge when we begin to rely on LLMs as a tool of learning. Not only is it problematic due to its pernicious inaccuracy, but because it undermines and replaces the learning process itself.

So how do we actually “learn” anything?

From Information to Understanding

As any teacher can tell you, learning is not as simple as bucketing information into a child’s head.

In short, the human brain assimilates facts by paying attention and organizing information into categories. This process is strengthened when we elaborate on new information using our own words and connect it to what we already know.11 If you have ever wondered why it feels so difficult to clearly articulate information you “learned” from ChatGPT mere days ago, now you know.

Significance of the “Spacing Effect”

Time is another crucial component of the learning process.

Our brains need time to subconsciously work on problems, as any mom who has helped a panicky child “cram” for a spelling test on a Thursday night can bear testimony to. (Ask me how I know.)

Though researchers are not entirely certain why the “spacing effect” works, for over a century it has been recognized that learning and/or memory is enhanced when information is distributed over time when compared with the same information delivered in one fell swoop.

I experience this phenomenon regularly in writing. The reading, research, and note-taking of this article in particular has spanned several months. Not because I have been voraciously reading and writing for 6 months solid, but because my brain needs the space of those months to think, to question. To allow what I have read and the notes I have written to marinate and cross-reference with each other. For real life to gambole into the midst of those thoughts and interface with the theories at hand. To formulate ideas and ask my husband and friends for their feedback.

Serendipitous Learning

The example from the previous paragraph not only illustrates the role of the spacing effect, but it also helps us understand another cognitive process: serendipitous learning.12

As a curator of words, I have always held an inordinate fondness for the term “serendipity.” Scroll back through the archives and you will no doubt find multiple mentions. The official definition of serendipity is: the occurrence and development of events by chance, in a happy or beneficial way. Serendipitous learning is the beneficial discoveries we naturally make as a byproduct of seemingly unrelated activities. (Both Newton’s discovery of gravity and Alexander Fleming’s discovery of penicillin are examples of serendipitous learning)

When I set out to learn what I could about the influence of LLMs on ordinary life, I had no plan in place to reread the first nine chapters of Proverbs. I did not have a clue that I would become intrigued with reading about the process of neurogenesis. Nor could I have predicted that the creaturely wisdom of “Watership Down” (A story about…rabbits. Yes, you read that correctly.) would filter up into my consciousness as I worked on this subject.

Over the last couple months, most of the books I read and many of the conversations I participated in never mentioned AI directly—but the thoughts and wisdom I “serendipitously” gleaned from them couldn’t help but add melody and measure to this work. And underneath every interaction, making meaning of it all, creating order out of disparate parts, was the humming constancy of Scripture.

Bypassing What Is Good

Now let us consider that when we use ChatGPT to “learn” something, we bypass every step required to actually learn by conveniently offloading this process to a machine.

This machine does not require us to pay attention, categorize, elaborate on, or make connections to information we already know. The original context has been sanitized, and we are left with a tidy (though not always accurate) summary, which may satisfy our curiosity in the short term, but ultimately handicaps our brain’s ability to carry out the incredible work of neurogenensis.13

Like its spiritual sibling wisdom, true knowledge requires our participation.

A student may feed a very rough draft into ChatGPT and it (arguably) may improve the flow of writing. But it has not made the student a better writer. There is no shortcut to skill. To the discerning reader, written content created with the editing assistance of LLMs will often results in a certain “woodenness” 14 —the absence of life and an abundance of cliche.

People have taken to calling LLMs a tool, but that’s hardly a fair description in light of what we have just explored. Tools imply skill, working knowledge, and require our attention to be properly used.

In writing this, I became conscious of how often the word “adopt” kept popping up in my research. Which is perhaps prescient?

Instead of merely using and laying aside LLMs as we tend to do with other tools, we keep them close and constant—like the newest member of our family. We run to them for constant input and security when threatened by the particular discomfort of “not knowing.” And we are quick to defend this codependent relationship.

A Better Path

In our quest for discernment in the digital age, in the life-long discovery of wisdom and knowledge, I believe it matters tremendously that we keep front and center what we are for—not merely what we are against. Reactionary values are an ever changing target, easily dismissed.

No, we do not simply wish to avoid what is evil or foolish—we want to taste and see and learn what is truly good.

Discerning that which is true, honorable, just, pure, lovely, and of good report15 will guide us well in the way of wisdom because it shapes the part that matters most of all: the person we are becoming.

Or as Solomon expresses it:

Then you will understand righteousness and justice and equity, every good path;

for wisdom will come into your heart,

and knowledge will be pleasant to your soul;

discretion will watch over you,

understanding will guard you.

(Proverbs 2:9-11)

Let it be so.

Here lies my amateur but earnest attempt to upcycle several months’ worth of lingering questions and scribbled longhand into a somewhat coherent and hopefully thought provoking post(s) tackling the topic of LLM1 usage in everyday life. (Perhaps you’re most familiar with its colloquial name, ChatGPT)

Long-time readers are aware that my preferred writing wheelhouse is lilting prose or poetry that makes you feel things. Contentious topics, on the other hand, make me twitchy. Especially online. A landscape not exactly known for its charitable discourse.

Not only that, but there exists loads of excellent work on this topic by academic writers far more skilled than I. But after a good number of iron-sharpening conversations with friends on the matter, it occurred to me that for some, the words I offer here could function as a starting place of sorts. A low-stakes exercise in critical thinking. An invitation to begin this conversation with people in your own sphere of influence.

Navigating work, rest, and relationships amid the constant creep of online technology is no longer a conversation reserved for those who are inherently tech savvy, or who claim a degree in social science. If we hold a common hope for cultivating a life that is good, true, and beautiful—especially as believers—then this topic isn't just theoretical, it is intensely personal.

A few necessary clarifications. The questions and concerns I wish to explore here are not in reference to the larger scope of artificial general intelligence in the fields of medical science, physics, and so on. Rather, the thoughts shared below are reflections on the formative impact of LLMs (such as ChatGPT, Grok, Claude, DeepSeek, etc.) upon us regular people and our everyday habits.

I believe it is worth examining how easily we fall prey to over reliance, casually offloading the very motions intrinsic to good mental health, critical thinking, human flourishing, and spiritual formation.

Let’s dive in.

If the chatter overheard at the last five social functions I attended is any indicator, ChatGPT and his cronies are the new in-crowd. Their meteoric rise from relative obscurity to pocket-size BFFs is nothing short of breathtaking.

Change, it should go without saying—alas, this is the internet, and everything requires a caveat—is not inherently bad. Nor is it anything new. It is a simple side effect of being human. To be a created person is to change from the moment we expel that first reedy breath.

Through our span of years we change our opinions, our addresses, and how much we are willing to pay for groceries. We change our hair. Should we cling too tightly to a singular style, time will eventually change it for us.2 Our relationships morph and body parts shift.

To claim we cannot change would be ridiculous, a delusional grasping for a divine attribute that will always be just beyond our reach. For human beings, change is a historical constant. Which is really, really good news. Being created with the ability to change means repentance is always possible.

God alone stands immutable;

we are a people who change. Ours is a world of constant metamorphosis.

Yet modernity—and the post-modern wilderness in which we now wander—is distinctive due to the dizzying pace at which that change occurs.3

We have not gathered here today to sing sad songs to a bygone era. Nor wash the “way things used to be” in sentimental fairy dust (let’s not fool ourselves; since Chapter Three, there has always been something broken).

I rely on the internet daily. My guess is that you probably do as well. Without a doubt, digital technology is here to stay, bringing with it an increased capacity to spread both good and ill. (For better or for worse, the majority of my final edits usually happen on an iPhone.)

Yet isn’t it interesting that the more we adopt the wizardry of technological “shortcuts”—the busier our lives seem to become?4 If we chart which world (online or real) matters most to the average person—our daily screen time averages show reality is at risk.

Yet I believe with all my heart: we were made for this day; this day was made for us. (Esther 4:14, Psalm 139:16)

Psalm 139:16

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

Your eyes saw my unformed substance;
in your book were written,
every one of them,
the days that were formed for me,
when as yet there was none of them

Carl R. Trueman puts it this way, “The task of the Christian is not to whine about the moment in which he or she lives, but to understand its problems and to respond appropriately to them.” 5 God calls his people to be wise stewards, and that includes stewardship of the mind we have been given.

I have little interest in telling you what to think, and even less in overwrought arguments about whether AGI robots will one day annihilate the human race.6 Psalms chapter two paints a vivid picture of reality—leaving little doubt who gets the final word. God is sovereign, that much is certain; our times are in his hand.

The question then becomes: what is my role in “understanding the problems of today and responding appropriately?”

For me, the pressing questions of our generation in regards to LLMs are not the predictably sensational ones—but rather those with respect to personhood, formation, and the power of choice:

• How will the ways I choose to adopt LLM technology form—or deform—my creative and intellectual integrity?

• Am I (perhaps unwittingly) utilizing AI in such a way that devalues vocation, creativity, or inspiration? (all of which are ways we fulfill our cultural mandate and image God)

• How much do I rely on ChatGPT to give the appearance of virtue without the virtuous habit?

• Does the use of AI tools help me attend to my work more faithfully, or does it tend to make me feel more frantic while worshiping outputs? (if the answer is both, then we will need to do some thoughtful prioritization)

• How much more of my daily human function (critical thinking, careful listening, sustained effort, empathetic engagement) am I willing to offload to machines in order to sound smart, relieve temporary discomfort, boost productivity, or receive instant gratification?

• When we repeatedly choose instant answers and voracious consumption, what do we actually gain? What do we stand to lose?

No doubt a certain percentage of my readers will fall into the category of digital natives and AI-early-adopters, while others will proudly claim their status as Luddites. But I suspect the majority of us are ambivalent—simply along for the ride.

I do find it intriguing how quickly defenses go up when people are asked about their personal habits surrounding ChatGPT—with casual users eventually falling back on the tired line, “Yeah, but every new technology has always been suspect until it becomes mainstream.”7

Probably so. Yet ample research shows (by nearly any metric) that a life lived chronically online causes increased anxiety8, impairs cognitive function, and disrupts our sleep.

The current "loneliness epidemic" is fueled in large part by the gravitational pull of screens in nearly every facet of life. Work. Play. Study. Shopping. And increasingly, (horrifically), companionship. Which begs the question: if the excessive use of tech already renders us worried, confused, exhausted, and alone—why rush to defend more of it faster?

What is the end goal here? To tidily compress the height and depth of our human experience to the dimensions of a screen?

On the other hand, I get it.

I can’t be the only adolescent who spent the afternoon staring at a stalled clock, willing something, anything, to happen that would disrupt sixth grade monotony. We crave novelty. And the energizing jolt of dopamine it delivers.

At the top of the page I referenced that the reading and note-taking done in preparation for this topic has spanned several months. It is not lost on me that I could have simply typed a ten word prompt into ChatGPT and…..Presto-Change-O—1500 words on the pros and cons of LLM usage would spew forth. Just think of all that time and effort saved!9

The allure is real.

We are all reluctant students when it comes to the lessons we learn only when reaching the end of our knowledge and stepping out into curiosity. Who among us willingly volunteers for the school of delayed gratification?

We instinctively recoil from the squirm of not knowing how to do something, from the vulnerability that comes with being a novice. (Behold this attempt at a persuasive essay that feels terribly left-footed.)

To learn is to first admit we do not know.

But mastery? Mastery makes me feel amazing. It makes me feel secure, capable, and smart. So when ChatGPT offers finesse on the first try—instant, effortless, and (seemingly) without risk—who wouldn’t be tempted?

We now can appear industrious while indulging in sloth. Sound smart without having to study. Accomplishment minus the cost.

This new distortion of the human experience allows us to fool ourselves into thinking we can bask in human pleasure while avoiding the burn of human discomfort. And as emphasized earlier, it makes us feel virtuous without the virtuous habit.

But simply having access to everything all of the time has never been, nor ever will be, enough.

We are old hands at discontent.

In the 17th century, modernity10 arrived with a fresh-faced promise: freedom from the constraints that long defined mortal life—illness, social caste systems, being rooted to a single patch of earth for all one’s life etc. In many ways, it delivered on its promise.

Today generative AI is hawked11 as the latest, greatest liberator. A blinking-cursored genie that will finally free us from our intellectual confines, deliver us from messy human interaction, and eliminate that pesky constraint otherwise known as waiting. We can have it all.

But we were not created to handle even a faux-omniscience.

As we launch free from these human limitations, we may also find ourselves inadvertently freed from the symbiotic joy that accompanies grace-driven effort. Delivered from the burden of intimate human connection. Unencumbered by a curious, empathetic mind and emancipated from the necessity for patience.

“But there’s no stopping it. AI technology is going to completely change the world. Hop on board or get run over.” Thus swells the steady, predictable chorus one often hears when daring to question the headlong rush toward artificial everything.

Does anyone else find it a touch ironic that the current discourse on generative AI is steeped in the concept of inevitability? It seems to me an odd fixation for a society that supposedly prizes human individualism and radical autonomy above all else.

I’ve (intentionally) posed far more questions than answers here. Regardless of your current position on the accleration of LLMs—for, against, or don’t care—I hope you’ll join me in the coming weeks to practically and specifically:

• Consider some of the brain science behind why process matters.12 (Effort and the “spacing effect” play a much larger role in growth than we might first imagine.)

• Examine the significance of knowing our sources—how the careless use of LLMs trains us to conveniently bypass discernment.

• Dive into the emotional, spiritual, and physical implications of defaulting to ChatGPT as an armchair expert, rather than looking to the practical wisdom and hard-won experience an embodied community can provide.

• Discuss the importance of honesty and transparency surrounding our use of generative AI. If we’re tempted to hide or downplay our reliance on it, we might have a bigger problem than we think.

• Look at establishing practical personal boundaries in regards to LLMs. Instead of allowing the status quo to set our priorities, we can turn to the uniquely human task of working out what actually matters to us—then build healthier habits to support those values.

In the weeks that follow I will do my best to footnote sources throughout, along with linking any books or articles I have found particularly insightful.

Now—go ye forth and chat up some real people in your real life. Look them in the eye. Remind yourself (especially if they’re cranky) that they too bear the imago dei.

Create something beautiful, delicious, or useful with your bare hands. Read a whole book. Commit a chapter to memory. Order the chaos of a junk drawer, a classroom, a garden—being conscious that in so doing we are fulfilling our sacred birthright to work and keep.

This world needs you, no matter how powerful the machines.

You—and your big, weird, irreplaceably beautiful, human intelligence.

1. The 21st Century Luddite:

This writer frowns over the top of drugstore reading glasses while surveying the unwashed, online proletariat. They brim with Serious Book Recommendations (definitely Berry, Lewis, or the Russian novelists), bemoan the evils of social media on a daily basis, and wax eloquent about analog everything. All while posting copious amounts of Notes from their iPhone and swigging high-octane, black coffee from the same mug every morning. Retain an affinity for phrases such as: “With every convenience you gain, a skill is lost.”

2. The Teen/YA Poet:

This subset is firmly convinced that capital letters are antiquated relics on par with Model T’s and flip phones. Punctuation? Optional at best. Navel gazing is the default mode, and angsty, half-finished thoughts cloak the page like a fashion choice. Introspection rules the day—yet actual self-awareness remains as scarce as a Gen Z girl sans oversized Hydroflask.

3. The Grifter (who claims to have cracked the code):

They went from blogger, to Instagram influencer, to Medium aficionado. Now—freshly emigrated to Substack Ellis Island—these hucksters are eager to dispense invaluable expertise for a low, low price: “I went from 20 subscribers to 2,000 in just two months! For a 7 dollar subscription, the secrets to ultimate Substack success can be yours!” Enough said.

4. The Everywoman Mommy Blogger:

There’s coffee and crumbs and messy buns galore. The term “sleepless nights” is a recurring theme. Lots of words plumbing the depths of toddler meltdowns and posts that usually end with a sigh and a wistful reminder that “You only get 18 summers.” Emotional blackmail at its finest.

5. The One with an English Degree (who writes about writing):

Wondering how to find your writing “voice?” This individual can expound an easy thousand words on the topic. Struggling with writer's block? Here’s the perfect exercise to bust through the blahs. Looking for better word pictures? They’ve got your back—with an article all about the neglected art of “noticing.” Oh, and somewhere along the line they will definitely serve up reminders to go out and live “your one wild and precious life” in order to have something worth writing about.

And if all that fails? No worries. You can always sign up for their online masterclass.

The above piece is a little exercise in satire— first written for a group prompt exploring tropes: “The Five People You Meet in/at___.”

// Young love is in full bloom—it seems as though each weekend yet another starry-eyed friend announces engagement bliss. They are convinced: no one has ever been so lucky in love. Their newfound happiness is a fresh joy to behold, but I smile to myself—because I wouldn’t trade places for the world. When my little writing group was offered the prompt: “debate a common aphorism,” I knew almost immediately which one I would write on. Here is my love-song for the long-haul. //

Jump Into Joy

Monday afternoon my breathless 6-year-old 
delivers the breaking news: her brother
“has finally got his life figured out.”
Upon cross-examination 
I deduce that the man-cub
(who prefers dry land, trees, blue jeans)
has hitched courage up high
and somersaulted deep down
into the effervescence of our lopsided Walmart pool.

Six-year-old girls are prone to hyperbole,
but it’s crazy how they morph and wrinkle
into sages if you just add water. They know
at some point you’re gonna have to leave 
the ladder. Stop whining. Commit 
to the jump. Go all in on the unknown 
staring you in the face.  
Forget cold feet, let’s figure life out. 
Plug that nose and brace 
for the shock and awe of burning eyeballs.

It takes a heart-stopping millisecond

until faith collides with surface
fears and leaping brown limbs surrender.
Ears rush down, 
                       down, 
                               down, 
bearing a bubble crown and oxygen trails 
dissolve inside a weightless, clear-lit 
wonder reborn. A healing hum, 
a turquoise peace.
This sun-webbed, 
supernatural 
distillation of Joy.

Happy Midsummer! What a joyous affair, where the kids roam free and so does my poetic verse…

Per the request of a few, I have copied the poem above into non-.jpg format below.

Minority Report

If only 24/7 rank punditry
and social media hot takes
came labeled with adverse side effects.

WARNING: Irritability, mood swings,
or restlessness may occur. Consult Physician
immediately if you experience a sudden
increase in blood pressure.

If only we called to mind--
that keeping soft this shared soil
by means of repurposed plowshares
is always preferable
to clashing swords cutting 
image bearers off at the knees.

But farming has fallen out of fashion
(there are rumours of war)
and people bleed out cortisol--
while the fruit of the Spirit
gets traded at lunch for a steaming pottage
of back-lit opinion.

Outside the babbling zeitgeist,
you'll find the lightsome lilies

waiting. And sparrows waving
like small, slanting signposts
pointing towards shalom.

For the willing, the few, 
the humble, the brave--
who slow down. Look up,
           and actually listen.

-c.j. Breit 2025

A natural bent towards order and curation is generally a net benefit for a fledgling writer such as I—but taken too far it quickly becomes counterproductive. Or as Geneva Eby so aptly puts it: “Something I constantly struggle with when writing is giving myself permission to write the junk.” This post feels more rambling and stream-of-conscious than I prefer, but perhaps in posting it, my inner perfectionist will learn a thing or two. At least a girl can hope.

Sunday afternoon. The air feels balmy and flat with a jaundiced sky, courtesy of wildfires farther north. The kids have all piled into the back of our noisy farm truck—headed out with daddy, west for the barns. The space around me is finally, blessedly silent after an abundant weekend of wrangling children into church clothes, making food for fellowship meals, and general summer commotion. Now I can chat with the hazy sky. Now I will write.

I do not.

Instead, I ruminate on the fact that—in less than two hours—four tummies will return rumbly. And while there are plenty of ingredients, there is no FOOD. Reluctantly, I head back to the kitchen; stir up peanut butter cookies; slice smoked turkey for sandwiches. Chop, chop, chop. Cucumbers transform into round Ranchmobiles.

Monday morning. I strip the beds, studiously avoiding any mental arithmetic on how many weeks have elapsed between washings; focus instead on the tidy, accomplished feeling you get from pulling snug the corners on fresh percale. I tote reheated coffee out to a back porch strewn with fresh morning sun, pollen, and yesterday’s wilting swimsuits. The absence of a.m. school drama feels downright luxurious—what is this charmed life without lunches, backpacks, or homework to marshal?

My intention of scribbling a solid paragraph or three seems utterly within reach. But the blank page is soon ambushed by the view just beyond: Coral Sunset peonies showing off as only a peony can, the dapper appearance of monsieur chickadee, the kitchen garden waving me over for a quick (turned long) conversation.

The ensuing hours swell with the myriad ministrations which sustain summer life when four small humans are involved. They have lots to say. Most of it equal parts charming and tedious. Also, everyone wants to “help.” Usually in a way that is just slightly above their pay grade.

I am learning how to let myself let them.

Some days we conquer amazing things1—feeling eager, earnest, and virtuous—like darlings magicked straight out of Camelot castles. Some weeks we have more in common with a tiny kingdom of rowdy anarchists who use too many paper towels.

There are lessons to be learned from both forms of government.

In May, the lively little writing cohort to which I belong decided to schedule a month-long hiatus. Which felt blissfully freeing amidst the end-of-school marathon, but alas, I am also that girl who thrives on a Plan. Without the trellis of accountability, precious little emerged from a month’s worth of haphazard writing attempts. (Three-word scribbles on planner pages—four-sentence inspirations tapped into Notes—does not an article make). Most of what I did manage to write tasted weak and watered down. A flavor not unlike soggy cardboard and which smelled exactly like everything ever written before.

Isn’t it funny how we always have the same 26 letters at our disposal, the same raw potential to make something new and beautiful—yet some days we can only stare stupidly back at a blinking cursor?

Lately I have been thinking and praying more attention into what specific writing projects (especially outside of this space) I am excited to tackle in the future—which led to a sonorous duet of imposter syndrome and internal ridicule dogging my steps and rudely banging at my heels. Always a fun time.

I decided to redirect my worrywort energy toward some very grimy windows. (We live on a sunny dirt road deep in bear country)

•Baked a lovely pink coterie of rhubarb crisp/bars/pies.

•Sewed three summer dresses for my eldest.

•Soliloquized daily to my flowers, and replanted the cucumbers which stubbornly resisted germination for reasons unknown.2

Did you know that creative angst is rocket fuel for getting everything else that needs doing, done?

In between bouts of domesticity, I swallowed liberal doses of the world’s most readily available creative stimulant. I’m referring, of course, to reading.

Reading almost always makes me want to write.

So I read…

…a lot of Andrew Peterson. His words never fail to give me both roots and wings. What a gift.

…the Gospels. Gulped up the Water and savored the Bread. Squirmed with conviction. QTNA: Why do we never read ourselves as the Pharisee?

… “Rembrandt Is In The Wind”. And became very intrigued with fine art—as well as the artists behind the world’s most famous sculptures and canvases3. A topic of which I knew almost nothing about.

…this coming-of-age novel. Which feels Austen-esque, but is set amid the 1930s in a tumbling down castle. The story is charming with a capital “C.”

Serendipitously, at some point I ran across Dorcas’s post, and then a few days later Geneva’s. Both provided that little frisson of anticipation that usually signals a creative breakthrough. And from their communal well of big-sisterly, writerly wisdom, I distilled two actionable goals.

•write a letter

•write a tanka4

It’s almost embarrassing how happy and galvanized a list can make me feel. Have I mentioned how I do love a plan? Especially when it’s a simple one.

I write the letter. And what a shocker—applying that tiny bit of elbow grease to the page inexplicably gets the creative gears to move just a smidge.

Next I attempt the tanka. Several in fact.

Griffin Gooch says the hardest part of writing is “sitting down and not procrastinating,” and gracious, isn’t that the truth. I am reminded yet again how annoyingly vital these trivial routines are in sustaining real-life writing progress (fill-in-the-blank with your own creative endeavor).

Encouragement. Accountability. Perseverance. Such sturdy, polysyllabic wonders that have the uncanny ability of nabbing artistic inspiration and transforming it into something more than a hazy idea. Come to think of it, those words also work well for coaching a seven-year-old-whippersnapper who is begging to “help.” Especially when it’s a task just beyond their pay grade.

If you’ve made it thus far, below is a sampling of my tanka shenanigans. They are bite-size and low stakes—addictive in their simplicity. I share them with the hope that your own summer path is strewn with good curiosities and fresh creativity.

But if not, never fear.

Write an overdue letter. Or a simple, weird-sounding poem pronounced “tonka.” Maybe your gift to the world finds expression in a watercolor card, some ditch flowers pressed between book pages, or zhuzh-ing up those one-bowl cupcakes “just because.”

Beautify what you have, where you are.

Share freely as you can.

Because, in Andrew Peterson parlance: “If you wait until conditions are perfect, you’ll never do a thing.”

 Tanka no. 1    (“Iris”)

       Lavender excess                          
with ruffles galore—how I      
     envy the chutzpah                  
  of rocking a look that is      
     unabashedly extra.                


Tanka no. 2

     Barbie and Ken have
       unceremoniously 
 been dumped mid I-do’s—
   romance is yet inferior 
to the sound of daddy’s truck. 


Tanka no. 3

         Giving myself full
  permission to fail feels like
      learning to hold hands 
      with fear and audacity 
 praying our parachute holds.

The halcyon1 days are here.

West Virginia may be immortalized in music as “almost heaven,” but by mid-May, northern Wisconsin comes pretty close to paradise too. This time of year, one’s thoughts can’t help but mosey toward glory multiple times per day. Imagine every morning like this…minus the stinging nettle and sore lower back.

Everywhere we rest our eye, the earth is waking up; yawning, stretching her limbs gone numb with sleep, shimmying into bespoke garments of green and gold. Beauty of the almost-aching kind.2

We lap warmth in the sun and sip rest in the shade, a fool-proof tonic that sloughs away the dull husk of our winter selves. Cortisol ebbs and possibility overflows. I become a one-woman hype team for the fat earthworms greeting each turn of my trowel: “Way to go, little guys! No one else can do this dirty work—you fabulous, flexible, industrious things, you!”

Even the decidedly prosaic among us—those generally sensible and unromantic—seem to find poetry tucked between the blades of iris, or glimpse it in the scrunched face of newborn rhubarb. These are the liminal days where all is fresh-washed possibility: the gardens we will plot, the herb-heavy recipes we will concoct, the al fresco prose we intend to write—all accompanied by dandelion bouquets and copious amounts of vitamin D.

But wait, there’s more!

My friends and I text each other things like: “THIS DAY!” All caps, no explanation. We give each other seedling updates, swap surplus tomato plants, and defy the odds to find a few hours where it suits four moms (with thirteen young children between us) to go greenhouse hopping.

Like every year, we are convinced that never has there been so glorious a spring.

Like every year, we double check frost dates, dither over storm forecasts, and harden off tender transplants with maternal cajoling. (It is easier at times to muster patience for a finicky plant than it is to suffer long with bickering children who sometimes pick their noses.)

Like every year, we bask in the glories of May all the more because we have endured snow and sleet and false starts to spring in order to arrive. The gray waiting we suffer is bearable (though admittedly our feet grow restless), because we remind each other: blissful days lie just round the bend.

Possibility is close kin to hope. I would say it’s a sibling, but perhaps that designation belongs to faith and charity. A first cousin then? At any rate, without hope—without the promise that life will blossom again after stony days of grave—we would scarcely be more than skin-covered vessels of impending doom. Every season a sad beige. Always winter and never spring flower.

Fortunately for us, the Tender of our souls specializes in hope.

He is a good Father, who turns wild and waste into formed and filled3. And though we foolishly sample every false spring, he alone is the location where, and the means by which, we experience jaw-dropping, resurrection bloom4: new birth, the fruit of the Spirit, abundant life, and the hope of future shalom in his presence forever.

Not only that, but in kindness, he continues to offer us forgetful (sometimes bickering, occasionally nose-picking) children a yearly reminder writ large across the land: eternal spring will burst forth in the fullness of time.

The gray waiting we suffer here is bearable, (though admittedly, our feet grow restless) because we remind each other: heavenly days are hidden just round the bend.

Honestly, there are so many good metaphors to be excavated from the gospel soil that I feel an acute solidarity with John’s parting sentence: “The world itself could not contain the books that would be written.” Sometimes, words fall absurdly short.

Which perhaps is my cue to put down this laptop and climb the patchy, sloping grass to my own little Eden plus moles.

There you can find me engaging in the oldest of all professions—perusing the little raised fists of radish sprouts, thinning the purple-veined beet leaves5, and peering for signs of life along the carrot row. Working and keeping this slice of good earth among friendly pines and some very conversational blue jays.

I’ll cut tulips for you to take home.

We can swap rhubarb recipes and gossip about the scandalous amount of children sprouting from last season’s dill. And next year, when winter gets dreary (and my feet grow restless), please remind me again: halcyon lies just ahead.

I.

This week I began journeying through the gospels again. Flipping from the parting words of Malachi to the first page of Matthew always feels like a giant exhale. Good news is here and the kingdom has come down!

II.

Last Sunday, our pastor preached on faith—his text drawn from Hannah’s poetic prayer in 1 Samuel. Less than twenty-four hours later, I “happened”1 upon Luke’s record of Mary and Elizabeth in my chronological reading plan.

III.

This poem is an attempt to illustrate a spiritual reality: no matter how uncertain the road ahead, there’s plenty of good company in the cloud.

Hannah’s prayer, Elizabeth’s blessing, Mary’s song. Thousands more testimonies, both named and not. Words divinely stitched into a unified Story—illuminated at this very moment by the warm exhalation of the Holy Spirit.

Let’s go run.2

Writing is hard and sometimes frustrating work.

Writing is also one of the most rewarding practices I have ever taken up.

Here’s a bit of free verse in an attempt to capture the pleasures and pitfalls of the adventure. C’est la vie!

Sixty feet of exquisitely twined linen, hemming in a holy mystery.

From within its weighty folds, the guardians of God’s concentrated glory keep watch—embroidered angels—formidable in threads of blue, purple, and a red called scarlet. Who stitches scary looking creatures with too many faces onto a…

…curtain?

These supernatural symbols are woven into our collective story—threads that pull us backward in time, finding their origin at the east edge of an ancient garden. It is here, in the rent relational fabric of Genesis 3, that we first come face-to-face(s) with the cherubim: heavenly beings sent to guard the tree of life. A living, breathing “do not disturb” sign.1

We tremble and turn away from the ferocity of their gaze; forgetting that the biggest threat is still right beside us.

Inside us.

As the story of “who begats who” sprawls across centuries and parchments, Yahweh’s covenantal love keeps pursuing his people.

Right into the desert.

In the midst of grumbling nomads with forgetful hearts, the God of all galaxies settles into a tent—a mobile sanctuary richly decorated with the symbols of Eden. At the holy center of this tabernacle stand the watchmen of his manifest presence: cherubim shielding those clumsy children so they can experience Glory without risking their neck.

Should all this talk of mysterious curtains and many-faced creatures seem a bit arbitrary—or perhaps fantastical—a detour past the graves etched “Nadab” and “Abihu” 2should set the record straight. Unflinching truth, a solemn story set in gravestone:

Only a perfect sacrifice.

Offered the perfect way.

By the perfect representative—

dares to encounter his Holiest presence.

Make no mistake; our God is a consuming fire and we are the people of unclean lips.

The years of history churn on, and so does the dust from under the feet of innocent sheep.

Liquid life—thick and carmine—caught in cups, passed by priests, then finally splashed upon an alter: a constant, dripping testimony. All sin demands death. Sticky and staining, ugly, and raw. Like a mirror image of the beating hearts inside these rebellious children whom God calls beloved. Stiff-necked and spiraling downward.

Are they hell-bent on their own destruction?

El Shaddai suffers long.

Does not slumber.

Needs no rest.

His eyes are only watchful, seeing all— beholding the evil and the good. As people of His own possession bend low their bodies, no longer in the joyful response of worship, but in forced servitude to the boot of their oppressors. Prophetic voices seem silent. Years stretch and darken with only tears—and the crumbling words of Malachi for comfort:

“Behold, I will send you Elijah the prophet, before the great and awesome day of the Lord…”

Deliverance—a dream nearly dead. But in the silence of centuries, Yahweh prepares the Way.

From a darkness 400 years and counting, the Redeemer rides onto the horizon. Sun of righteousness rising, Malachi’s message made flesh. The euangelion3 is here.

The thick, hanging veil has nearly finished its years of service, a vigil nigh complete. A quarter-mile west, a man hangs too.

The middle tree of an ancient garden once stood witness as the first Adam traded our birthright for a broken heart—now, a middle tree bears testimony as the second Adam buys it back.

He is a first-born. (The perfect offering)

He is unblemished—by the sin that indelibly clings to us all, no matter how hard we try. Or how many times we scrub. (The perfect human representative )

Blood flows. He groans. The burden of severed relationship weighing down like the heavy curtain that separates. His life now offered—not taken. (The perfect Way)

The horizon turns to charcoal, an atmosphere more oppressive than any Roman tread. Three hours stretch—as though infinite. Heavy, dense, nothing makes sense.

Then, a shift. A groan from the wretched, near-dead sacrifice as the work of millennia reaches its aching crescendo in a weary exhale of words:

“It. Is. Finished.”

His head sags. His spirit leaves. His body rests from the completed work we could never accomplish. The ringing voice of a Roman soldier cries out the gospel truth4: a coronation has occurred.

On the temple mount a tearing is heard. The noise of it a victorious roar. A ripping not made with human hands—this slash starts at the top.5

Dwelling place of I AM, now accessible to all man.

The purchase of this privilege?

One spotless Lamb.

[11] But when Christ appeared as a high priest of the good things that have come, then through the greater and more perfect tent (not made with hands, that is, not of this creation) [12] he entered once for all into the holy places, not by means of the blood of goats and calves but by means of his own blood, thus securing an eternal redemption. [13] For if the blood of goats and bulls, and the sprinkling of defiled persons with the ashes of a heifer, sanctify for the purification of the flesh, [14] how much more will the blood of Christ, who through the eternal Spirit offered himself without blemish to God, purify our conscience from dead works to serve the living God. (Hebrews 9:11-14)

Our wounds, our shame, our innumerable rebellions—fully, completely, and finally ransomed by blood. A red called scarlet.

Whose sin? Mine.

Whose blood? His.

Once. For all.

I’m acutely aware that the math isn’t fair. How absurd a thought that mercy is free.

But the curtain is gone, and a temple stands here. Rebuilt in my body—illogical thought. The powerful Presence once guarded by four-faced creatures—now living and breathing life—inside me?

A curtain torn down.

A kingdom rises up.

We lift our eyes and fix our gaze.6

Sunday (and Someday) is coming!

•Three in-progress writing projects seem to stick their thumbs into ears and waggle their fingers at me: Dare you to finish. My words feel very dull these days and I’m casting about looking for someone or something to blame. Advice is welcome.

•I’ve wrapped up Anna Karenina and have since moved on to Dostoyevsky’s Crime & Punishment. (Don’t be impressed. This is shocking to me as well.)1Come to think of it, perhaps that’s why I feel blasé about my current writing. In the presence of greatness, my mediocre attempts at wordcraft sound utterly inane.

•Last week I girded up my loins and papered an accent wall in my daughter's bedroom. It went surprisingly well. I used a level and felt like a ‘90s housewife.

•Whilst galloping up and down staircases during the aforementioned project, I managed to pull something in my right leg. Let’s just say my present gait is not exactly elegant; Princess Shcherbatskaya would certainly disapprove.

•Spring is on the way. Allegedly. Along the south porch the tulips have grown gutsy—punching through the cold earthen ceiling only to look somewhat appalled at the inhospitable atmosphere of April.

•Last Sunday, I stirred together a white chili that looked suspicious but tasted delicious, along with homemade tortillas that were a splendid flop—for no apparent reason other than the fact that guests were present. The accompanying heartfelt conversation, though, was top-notch.

•QTNA2: Could someone please explain why soggy bandaids and used hair elastics multiply like furry little cockroaches in the kiddos’ shower when a trash can is handily within their reach?

How’s that for an anti-climactic list?

But the past week or two has been precisely that: a basketful of regular days. The terrain we’re passing through right now is mostly flat—not a petal-strewn path, of course (Springtime in the upper Midwest runs more to frost than flowers)—but a trail edged with the sweet nothings of ordinary life, marked only by a smattering of minor nuisances.

Sometimes abundance can feel scary. How long will the good times last before a new emergency pulls up to the curb?3

Some say they feel God’s nearness most acutely when everything else falls apart. For others, witnessing the miracle of birth or the splendor of the Rocky Mountains leads them to deepest awe and closer connection with their Creator.

And though I have experienced both, I cheerfully refuse to believe that real intimacy with God is only available on the mountaintops or valleys—or that closeness with Christ becomes an inevitable casualty when life hums along in the slow lane. Yes, complacency can happen—but it needn’t be a foregone conclusion.

His constancy does not fluctuate according to my perception of it. As he first informed a skeptical Moses, so now he reminds me: “I AM who I AM.”4

There is no landscape where Jesus’ call to abide is diminished, no season when the Father abandons his loving work as vinedresser5, and no morning where His mercy is anything but new.

Put simply, there is not a single circumstance—good, bad, or monotonous—where I will need the miracle of the gospel any less.

The gospel is good news for me, for you, right now.

I’ve most likely written a version of those words here before. But sometimes my soul gets amnesia.

Today, I needed to ink them again on my doorposts.