For Our Father.

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”
― Theodore Roosevelt

To the man that taught me the importance of "daring greatly", long before I ever read these words.
Thank you for being a constant example what it means to follow the Lord, to work hard and play hard,
and for passing along your love of story.

Your daughters lead a charmed life because of your obedient one.

We love you to the moon and back.

The Eldest.

For our Mother.

At the Jensen Home:
We love the Lord and cling to His Word.
We invite weary travelers in need of rest to come and stay.
We believe in good coffee. Always.
We play games.
We make up dances.
We cry openly.
We disagree, but there is resolution.
We adore stories.
We wrap our rice in seaweed.
We work hard.
We forgive.
We celebrate ½ birthdays.
We embrace silence.
We cheer one another on.
We enjoy a clean house but we don’t buckle under messy life situations.
We uphold loyalty.
We remember when music was good and play it loud when we want to dance.
We stay up late talking about victories.
We eat Norwegian pancakes whenever possible.
We make Russian Tea whenever permissible.
We love bonfires.
We hold hands when we pray.
We laugh. A lot.
We check up on one another.
We bake pies and bread.
We sing our children to sleep.
We remind each other to be a blessing.
We give to the point of hurt.
We harbor Italian spirits for people and food.
We treasure Japanese passions of peace and beauty.
We stand up for one another.
We wash our own cars and clean our own carpets.
We relish each others company.
We swim whenever possible, no matter how old we get.
We miss Roy.
We name watermelon, "dessert".
We use olive oil to heal ear infections.
We move picnic tables...

And lastly,
We all share the same truth,
That no matter if separated by distance or time-
our hearts will always be at home.
Even when they aren't beating beneath the same roof.

Diamond Days.

Some days at work can be hard.
Sometimes it feels like failure is a suit coat I put on each morning.
It is heavy and dark and swallows me up.
Those are the mornings that nothing goes right.
I spill my coffee.
My complexion is angry and splotchy.
I have unruly hair and I overreact to every question or correction.
Each patient that walks through the door seems to demand more than
my pumping heart can handle. And they can be mean.
Gosh can people be mean.
So those days are hard.

But.

There are also days like yesterday.
Filled with a moment like this one,
in which every struggle fades into the background,
and one is simply left... holding a miracle.

...

He would walk through the door with a cap in one hand
and his cane in the other. His step was slow but his wit was quick.
He was of the kind who was kind. Always a discerning eye and
the ability to look into yours and make you feel important.
He was magnetic.
And when he drew you in, you never left empty handed.

Take for example the last time I saw him.
I stood making his usual cup of coffee and he asked
me questions about my husband. He listened and smiled
as he always did. He'd been married for nearly 50 years.
So I asked him if he had any advice and he leaned slowly over and told me.
It was lovely.
So I held onto it.

That was six months ago.
Fast forward to yesterday.

A women came in with a face I did not recognize,
but with a last name we all did. I waited until the reception area cleared
and it was just her.

"Excuse me, but you're last name is so familiar...are you by chance related to..."

"Yes." She said. "He was my husband."

None of us moved.
That one word.

Was...

Past tense.
She nodded quietly. Tears were forming as she confirmed it.
He had passed just over a month ago she told us.
More patients arrived on the scene.
Phones started ringing and the hustle and bustle of office life broke the silence.
Not wanting to further extend or make spectacle of her grief,
we quietly offered her our condolences
and expressed to her that which she already knew-
how much he was loved by everyone he met.
She thanked us graciously and took her seat.

I sat behind my desk and stared at the keyboard.
Hot tears began to well up and spill over onto the keys.
I remained motionless, hating myself that in those moments of loss
I so rarely know what to do or what to give someone.

But suddenly there it was- the memory of my last conversation with him came tumbling to the forefront of my mind,
as if it knew it had something important to give even before I did.

So I stood up and walked over to her.
I asked her if it would be alright to share something.
This of course took her by surprise but she obliged. I took a seat
and took her hand, exactly as he had done with mine 6 months prior.
It was wrinkled, soft, and warm. Just like his.

"He told me a secret the last time I saw him. About your marriage.
Would you like to know what that was?" I asked her.

At this point her hands began to tremble but her eyes were clear and strong.

"Yes. I would like that very much" she said.

So I brought out the gift that had been entrusted to me that half a year ago.
(the one I had kept for its' simple truth and beauty)
and handed it back to her. It was then I realized it was always hers to begin with,
that I was just keeping it safe until the right time.
I took a deep breath and began.

I told her how he had pointed out the window to their car
and whispered that the key to his wonderful life was sitting in the passenger seat
waiting for him, napping in the sun.

I told her how he called her his beautiful bride and how his face lit up when he said it.

And lastly, I told her how tall he stood when he said that he woke up every single morning with the realization
that if he had the choice each day of winning the lottery or being married to his best friend, he would pick her.
Every time.

"Every time" I told her.

When I was finished I sat quietly, fearful that perhaps I had overstepped my bounds.

"Have you heard him tell you that before?" I asked.

Her silence and and steady gaze made me think that perhaps she had,
or that perhaps I was making things harder and should have kept it all to myself...

But then her countenance began to morph.
Her smile grew until she was shining,
and sweet tears began to flow.

"No. No dear, I have not...not in those words exactly..."

She did not say anything more.
We both sat in the stillness of it all.

Shortly after, her name was called and she was brought back. The moment ended just as suddenly as it had been made. A half hour later she waved quietly to me as she left. I mouthed her a goodbye while I finished checking in the next patient. And just like that, she was gone.

The rest of the afternoon was uneventful. All the typical phone calls, typical scheduling, typical to do lists...
Nothing had changed...
And yet somehow...it all was different.

Even now as I sit a full day later,
the magnitude of those 5 minutes is still so humbling.

Because somehow, in an empty waiting room in Rockford Illinois, God allowed a failure-adorned receptionist to deliver something exquisite.

A love letter.

Yes.
It's all still true.
Some days at work can be hard.
But yesterday, dear friends,
was not that day.

What might God have in store for you today?

The call.

You.

You are more than your day job.
More than piles of laundry or coffee mugs in the sink.
You scribble words on napkins.
You see sunsets in phrases.
Your worth goes deeper than lack of publication.

You are not a runner.
You are a seeker.
You were designed to look for gold in passing glances.
You were purchased by blood.
You are being drawn to the Savior with chords of loving kindness.
You have a story worth sharing.
You have a Hope worth handing out.

It is not glamorous.
You fight time.
You argue with self doubt.
You avoid the critic.
You wrestle with jealousy.
This makes you weary.
But you are not a quitter.
Because
Greater is He that is in you than he that is in the world.

He is your battle fighter.
He is the lifter of your head.
Your Africa lies in notebooks.
Your mission field resides on the other side of the blinking cursor.
He beckons early each morning to "take up your cross."

So pick up your pen...
and write.

Evening guests.

I told them, "Come on out little, spring stars. Now is not the season to be shy." So they did. And we drank up the sun until we were drunk. And it was a lovely time.

No things wasted.

Last spring while en route to work, I glimpsed something magnificent in the morning sun. A giant magnolia tree with its pale, delicate petals seemingly had blossomed overnight. The sudden burst of ivory and pink after a bleak, grey winter was a comforting gift from the Lord.

You see, it had been a trying several months before that. Long days of frustrations and self-doubt. There were times when I wondered if the promise, “He who began a good work in you will bring it to completion”, [Phil.1:6 NIV] was actually one I could call my own.

But in that one moment, as I looked up at that tree, it was as if the Lord whispered, “You see? While you were waiting, I was working.”

That evening I wrote the following words with the windows open and one magnolia blossom in a vase on my desk. The words continue to remind me that if the Lord is able to bring about a flower through seasons of ice and snow, then surely He has further wonders planned for a restless heart in the midst of a similar season.





Sweet magnolia. You are more than a sudden overnight blessing of richness and beauty. Your petals are but the closing notes of your soulful concerto. The beginning of your melody was a rhythm of unheard struggles beneath snow-covered boughs.

Months on end you remained still, a chest tight with promise. Shades of velvet and ivory were hidden deep within your bones.

But dark nights and icy winds did not deter you from what you knew to be true in every season. That the Painter, the Creator, the Sustainer…
Is the One who brings life when there appears to be only death.
This very dawn is one that you knew would come. He called you out and you came forth shining. Dew covered and radiant.

Oh Lord, let this Magnolia-art be found within this dormant soul. Remind me daily of Who it is that You are and what it is that You do. What I perceive as lack of movement does not mean lack of life. And lack of sun does not mean lack of hope.

We wait and you work.

So that when you call us out, we will come forth shining -- reflections of our Maker.

Frozen. (Not the Disney Movie)

Winter afternoon. from Jessi on Vimeo.

A lot of times I find myself wishing I could freeze time. Not every waking minute obviously. Just the moments that get you in your gut and bring you to your knees in gratitude. The ones where you lift your gaze at a dinner table and realize you wouldn't want to be with anyone else in the world. The one where a child giggles from their belly and can't stop. The moments of great conversation over a not so great cup of pancake diner coffee. It's the moment you pull into your driveway and know you are about to walk through front door into a place of unconditional love. And it's all wonderful. So wonderful in fact,that we want to slow it down. Or better yet, freeze it entirely. We think to ourselves that maybe,if we can stop the movement, we could stop the moment and stay in it forever.

Sounds wonderful doesn't it? Living in a world of eternal family dinners and laughing babies. But after this past winter's stint...I'm not so sure.

This week was a rough one for the midwest. Anyone within a 5 state radius from Illinois knows the kind of "rough" I am speaking of. The one where negative temperatures and wind chills closed schools, killed car engines, broke water heaters, and burst pipes.

The Monday morning when temps were at their lowest, I opened the porch door to let the dog out and was amazed at the new level of freezing that we were experiencing and what negative 30 does to an environment.

Each step I took made the wood porch sound as though it had cracked in two. The air was sharp and when I exhaled, the moisture from my breath seemed to break and shatter into millions of pieces at my feet. Even standing there for only a few minutes lent itself to aching lungs. And the things that used to sway and move freely in our back yard were petrified and stiff. The branches, the wheat grass, each just motionless shells of what they used to be.

As the long week went by, I began to think more on this idea of all things frozen...

In our home, the coffee is made and a candle is lit. The dishes are done and the bread timer dings. Wool slippers my grandma made me, make scooting noises on the wood floor. My dog sits at my husbands feet and begs to lick the bowl from our dinner of homemade beef stew. A friend texts me to tell me she has prayed for me. Everything is warm and beautiful. And every thing is fleeting.

And today it hit me. That is why I love them. Because every beautiful moment in my life that I can recall, was not stoic or frozen. They were soft and lovely and uncatchable. The air was never sharp and never cracked when I moved. The unfrozen moments always let me sit, let me breathe...let me laugh.

It's a strange enigma to think that the fact that we are completely powerless to freeze time is the very reason that we are able to experience the glowing beauty that it brings. That if we really were able to do as we so often wish and freeze what we love, that it would be tragically counter productive. That instead, there would be a lot more dead, broken, and bursting things. There would be lot more pain in our lungs and a lot of unmoving shells that used to be souls.

I am sure this is not the last I will ever yearn to keep something still forever. I know myself better than that. For example, at this stage in life I'm not a parent, and I'm sure that comes with a built in backpack of frozen wishes all it's own.

But I do hope I remember what I've learned this season in 2014. So that as things in our life come and go I'll see them for what they are. A precious gift, meant to be opened and then let go of, carried off with the wind.
Also because if I have to go through another winter like this one to be re-taught this truth, I"m not our closets have enough storage space for any more pairs of fleece lined leggings.