I have a one-track mind that struggles to manage multiple, simultaneous crises. At one time I aspired to become a medical doctor until I realized I didn’t have the multi-tasking skills needed for that profession. The positive side to this super-power is I can focus on a task to completion. Unfortunately, I get frustrated at interruptions, finding it hard to pull my mind away from the zone.
As I’m concentrating on a task, I’m not thinking about God. When I’m worshiping God, I find it distracting to be around people. And while I’m with people, I can’t center on my inner needs. How do I balance these areas of focus and release my feelings of worry and guilt that I’m “less than”?
So here’s my visual: With my heart in the middle, my feet perform a task, my arms reach out to minister, and my head looks up to God. When I look within, I focus on self—adjusting and changing, making goals, and removing triggers. When I look outward, I focus on relationships and the needs of others.
So, in my visual, it’s okay to be seated (feet still, no task) while I reach out to minister to others. The body is still there, whether my mind is focusing on it or not. When I watch my feet, my senses can still be alert, aware of changes in the environment that will warn me of danger. The parts are all inter-related, still in existence even if my eyes are focusing on one part only. The rest of me doesn’t go away.
So how do I find balance? Should I tithe my time? (That would mean focusing solely on God 2.4 hours in a 24-hour period or 1.6 hours if I only count waking hours). How much time should I allot to self-examination? (As much as necessary, I think, to become emotionally healthy.) If my arms are always engaged in ministry, my feet (tasks) don’t get done. If my head always faces the sky, my feet will trip. Each part must take turns. The trick is to maintain an equilibrium between the parts.
But I must not become too compartmentalized. I can focus on each in rapid succession. Micro-seconds of looking up while engaging my hands or feet will give me orientation. Checking my attitude while ministering to others is necessary. I might not be able to stop for self-care in the moment, but I certainly can take note of it and deal with it at my first opportunity.
A 2025 Update. Over time, I worked through the anger I felt at my tasks being interrupted. I find I can more quickly redirect my attention to others or return to the zone and refocus on my task without anxiety or shame. Being one-track-minded is not a character flaw.
Philip Yancy in his book The Jesus I Never Knewsuggests that we get a false view of Jesus from our exposure to false teachings, life experiences, and poor examples. Perhaps my view of Jesus is slightly off-center I realize.
I watched the movie Anna and the King last night. The King of Siam has Christ-figure elements about him. His eyes are gentle and kind. His self-sacrifice for the sake of his wives and children. Room in his heart for one more. Of course there are major flaws in this analogy since he is human and a Buddhist, but there’s something about his character that draws me in, makes me sit up and take notice and love him.
Because I’m married, I can’t relax around most men—my heart stays on guard. But I’ve encountered three men in my life who make me think “Jesus.” One was a relative, one a friend, and another a stranger. Each had that quality or air that made me want to sit at his feet and learn.
Jesus is not my human daddy; He’s not my human husband; He’s not the King of Siam, a friend, or a relative. Who is He then? How do I picture Him? Am I afraid of Him? Is this why I need to come to Him as a little child, trusting, unself-conscious, needy, desiring to sit in His lap and be held …?
The verse in Isaiah that says there is no comeliness about Him that would draw us to Him trips me up. Of course that refers to His human form or perhaps to His battered body on the cross. But what if I could see Him in His risen, shining, radiant beauty? Would I be drawn to Him then?
I can approach Jesus and talk to Him about anything, and He doesn’t get angry or defensive or push me away. He listens with patience and waits for me to quit struggling, to relax and trust Him.
So how can I see Him? Many clients report seeing glorious revelations and pictures in another dimension. I visualize nothing. I have no inner landscape, no other world, no Land of Narnia. (How does one get to Narnia anyway without a wardrobe?) How does one get to see the face of Jesus? In the final scene in Finding Neverland, the playwright tells little Peter he can visit his deceased mother any time he pleases.
“How?” Peter asks.
“Just believe,” he says.
Just believe? How do you do that?
“Through the eyes of faith,” you might tell me.
But what is that? Give me more than words. Give me an experience. Give me a heavenly vision.
Without that, I return to an earthly example. I see Jesus in the eyes of my Grandpa Peterson. His gentle, kind eyes model for me what it feels like to come to Jesus as a little child and feel warmth and unconditional love.
In the news this week: the head of a national Christian organization falls from grace after preaching about moral failure. I’ve been thinking about how preachers (okay, I’ll make it personal—how I) tend to protest too much or preach the loudest about the very thing I struggle with.
This reminds me of the time Scott and I were staying at a hotel in North Carolina when the fire alarm screamed in the middle of the night. Scott took his time getting out the door. He wanted to get dressed first, go to the bathroom, and find his wallet. He said he saw no smoke and felt no heat, so he wasn’t worried.
I, on the other hand, panicked and urged him to flee immediately. I had visions of us perishing in the fire together if I waited for him, thus leaving our children to fend for themselves as orphans. It was a double-bind: follow my husband’s lead and die together or follow my instincts and run? My choice was to leave without him and let him come at his leisure. But as I descended the third flight of stairs, guilt set in that I had abandoned him, and I slowed my pace. Why wasn’t he catching up to me? Did he have a heart attack? Did his bad knees give way? Did he need my assistance?
What I didn’t know was that we had each chosen a different stairway to descend. In the end, we both got to safety—even though there was no danger from a fire. It was a false alarm.
If I had to do it over again, I think I’d wait for Scott. In fact, the next time it happened, this time in Chattanooga, we took our time and went down together (yup, another false alarm).
So how does this story relate to the fallen preacher? We all need transparency and accountability in our struggles. We’re safer when we do life together.
A 2025 Update. As I read back over this entry, I admit I’m not sure about my conclusion in this double bind. Was I really safer waiting for Scott? I don’t know, but I do know it felt less stressful to stay together.
Galatians 5:19-21 lists “acts of the flesh” as “immorality, impurity, sensuality, idolatry, sorcery, enmities, strife, jealousy, outbursts of anger, disputes, dissensions, factions, envying, drunkenness, carousing, and things like these.”
I’m not too worried about drunkenness, orgies, sorcery, and idolatry. But what of selfishness? Or outbursts of anger? Or envy? Are we not all guilty of these at some point?
This is more than a list. It’s an admonition for self-examination. And so my prayer today, Lord, is for You to reveal and expose any area in my life that does not exhibit a fruit of the Spirit.
Later. That’s the quickest answer to prayer I’ve ever had! Yesterday was an emotionally draining day. It will forever be known in my mind as “Meltdown Day.”
Probably ten years ago, I got ticked off with a friend over an issue that affected me. She promised to take care of it, but she never did. Year after year, I stewed inside, waiting for her to fulfill her promise. Up to now, she’d always put up a brick wall when I brought up the subject.
Well, yesterday, the subject came up again, and I was surprised when she said she’d handle it. Now, it appeared that a little door had opened in her wall, and it felt safe to walk through it.
Wrong. She got triggered and slammed that door in my face. The why is her story, her issue. But my response was so out of character and out of line that I knew it tapped into something deep inside. I had been working through a grief issue just before this incident, and it was not finished yet. This seemed to blow it wide open.
I grabbed some Kleenex, hopped onto my bicycle, and rode to our local playground. I cried for over an hour before I started to process my anger, envy, and grief. It took another couple hours to talk it out with my friend.
Deep wounds take a long time to heal and release, I think. But why are they there in the first place? Perhaps because of our own sin. Perhaps because of other people’s sin against us. Or maybe it’s just lies we believe. Guilty. I raise my hand. Guilty.
I have been struggling, fighting, working at getting some uninterrupted quiet time first thing in the morning. Not happening. This time is so precious to me, and when I have to give it up for whatever reason, it leaves me irritated. Why? What’s going on here, Lord? I know spiritual warfare is part of it.
I woke this morning with this childhood song in my heart: Jesus is the joy of living. But it doesn’t feel true today.
When, on this earth, will I quit struggling to keep Jesus as my joy? I get annoyed, upset, angry, peeved, frustrated, ticked off at so many stupid little things. I’m tired of it! Why can’t I just have a “poof pill”? POOF! And the anger is gone. Actually, giving up anger is the only way to make this happen, but it’s a lot of work getting to that place of peace. I’m a slow learner.
I know irritations in life are inescapable, but how I respond to them is up to me. Lord, give me peace.
A 2025 Update. I am in a different season of my life now and have more control over my schedule. Finding alone time is no longer an issue. Maybe that’s why my heart easily agrees that Jesus is the joy of living.
Burnout is a dead campfire. No spark, no heat, just cold ashes. No life left to warm others. No energy to cook. Useless. It needs an outside source to reignite the wood. And rain further diminishes any chance of catching a spark. Cool and damp, I retreat to my tent.
AI-generated
I remember my experience in Grade 6 at Camp Barakel.* One night we were scheduled to camp outdoors, but for some reason our counselor decided to forgo setting up tents. In the middle of the night, rain sent us dashing to our cabins—clothing, hair, and sleeping bags soaked. Shivering and shaking, I wrapped myself in my one dry towel for the rest of the miserable night.
I don’t know how to release the bone-chilling shivers in this memory. It reminds me of the day my dad, my brother, and I got caught in a downpour on our motorcycle on an African footpath. As soon as we reached home, Mom stoked the fire in the wood stove to heat up some water, stripped off my clothes, and plopped me into the tin bathtub. I think I’ve hated being cold ever since.
As I sit with the memories and release my anger and blame, I notice my campfire has a single flame, fed by a wick where oil flows steadily beneath it—God’s eternal supply. I venture out of my tent and savor the warmth. Perhaps I’ll have enough strength now to face tomorrow.
Simplicity or minimalism is better than clutter. Because it’s easier to clean around. Because I spend more time on what’s really important in life. Because it streamlines my work.
Things are to be used. If you’re not using them, why keep them?
We get emotionally attached to things. Childhood bonds to things may be the strongest. (e.g. my Funny Monkey). What’s important to me may not be important to you because we don’t have the same bonds.
It’s easy for me to throw away what I’m not attached to.
Things are temporal, of the earth. They bind us, tie us up, hang us—unless we can let them go.
There can be too much of a good thing. There can also be too little.
I can think of no possession I have that I wouldn’t be willing to part with—except my journals, because they’re irreplaceable. But if having them gets in the way of my love for God and service to Him, then I’d gladly give them up. Even pictures, as precious and irreplaceable as they may be, what’s in the heart is what counts in life. I’d prefer to not be tested in this, though. But God knows my heart.
“Funny Monkey” still has my name tag on it from boarding school.
A 2025 Update. I’ll never get my husband to read The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning – How to Free Yourself and Your Family from a Lifetime of Clutter by Margareta Magnusson. Living with a clutter-bug who feels more secure with his things crowded around him, I laughed when I saw this sign at the paint store. Apparently, my Swedish roots are showing.
Barkono is a Hausa word meaning “pepper.” After losing all taste and smell for a full year after COVID-19, I decided to celebrate its 50-75% return by indulging in the joy of once more tasting spicy flavors.
I started by searching for ethnic restaurants in Murfreesboro. Not surprisingly, Chinese, Thai, and Mexican were the most prolific. And then I researched available varieties in Nashville—much more cosmopolitan of course.
Nigerian
In January, when Scott and I drove to Nashville for an appointment, we stopped on the way to visit our daughter Sharon who teaches ESL at Legacy Mission Village, a school for refugees. Though the culinary choices in that neighborhood were numerous, I opted for the only Nigerian restaurant in the city. We followed our GPS to Nico’s Restaurant and Bar. The large room was dark and empty except for one man sitting at a corner booth. He greeted these turawa (white people) and motioned us to a tiny, sliding glass window at the back of the restaurant.
I asked the owner if she had any tuwo da miya (my favorite northern Nigeria dish). Sadly, she said she was from the South and only served fufu and pounded yam. I asked for the spiciest dish on the menu, and she recommended the okra soup.
Scott cannot handle anything spicy (yes, opposites do attract), and he cannot tolerate this African American eating any food with my fingers, so I ordered take out and reheated the dish when I got home that evening. Deliciously satisfying!
In September, My sister Grace arrived from California to join my brother and me for a sibling reunion in Georgia. On the way home from the airport, stopping at the Nico restaurant was a must. Two large, boiled chicken legs filled her bowl of okra soup. Not her favorite she said. I was happy to polish it off.
And then Grace asked me to make some kose (deep-fat-fried, black-eyed-pea beancakes). Much to Scott’s chagrin, it took a week to get the musty odor out of our house. I think the peanut oil was too old.
Korean
February’s wet, gloomy weather drove me to try Cup Pop Korean Restaurant, across the street from MTSU. Two ladies, chattering away in Korean (I presume) lent authenticity to the atmosphere of this little hole-in-the-wall eatery. I opted for vegetarian and spice level 2. (Next time I’ll bump it up to 3). Instructions were prominently posted on how to eat this delicacy: Pour your sauce cup over the rice/meat/veggies, stir, and enjoy. “But don’t pour over the dumpling,” the cashier admonished. Oh … my … goodness! I thought I only had enough room for half a serving, but I couldn’t stop myself from consuming the whole thing. Amazing! I brought home the remainder of my sauce, planning to toss it over my next bland meal.
Italian
Once a week, Scott and I order online a large, one-topping pizza (half pepperoni for him and half jalapeño peppers for me) from our nearby Papa Johns. I’m on a first-name basis now with Seth who greets me as I walk through the door. A home movie and a pizza. Can’t get much better than that!
Indian
One day while waiting for a friend to get out of surgery, I was delighted to discover the hospital cafeteria that day was serving Indian butter chicken with cauliflower, sweet potatoes, and chickpeas over a bed of rice. Warmed my heart! I felt sorry for my friend’s pain, but this delicious meal made my wait tolerable.
Mexican
In March I indulged my craving for Chuys Mexican Restaurant’s creamy jalapeño dip and chicken tortilla soup. I always bring home leftovers.
And since I was out of town for Mothers’ Day, Scott surprised me later with a trip to Mi Patria, a new Mexican restaurant in town. I tried their fish tacos. Quite tasty, but the only spice came in the salsa dip for the chips. Since Scott does not care for Mexican, and spice does not fare well with his system, this was truly a sacrifice for him. He had steak and fries.
This summer, A friend gave me some home-grown summer squash (which I oven roasted with zucchini, mushrooms, and onions) and another friend gave me some tajin spice (chili peppers, sea salt, and dehydrated lime juice). Put the two together, and the result was indescribably delicious. I wonder what tajin would taste like on popcorn.
Thai
In April, my birthday month, friends treated me to two Thai restaurants. At Thai Pattaya, I ordered coconut curry with tofu and veggies (spice level 2) and at Bangkok Thai, red curry with fish (spice level 3).
In October, Scott and I returned to Bangkok Thai with a gift certificate for our anniversary, and I ordered the massaman curry dish with tofu. Though delicious, it was too mild and soupy. We were surprised when the bill came to $6 higher than the menu stated. Apparently, we had neglected to notice the $3-each extra charge for brown rice. But I guess I must have enjoyed it, because I consumed it all instead of taking home leftovers!
Ethiopian
My Life Group at church meets for a potluck every other Sunday, and the theme one week was international food. Since I was already in Nashville to attend the open house for Legacy Village Mission, I stopped by Rehobth Ethiopian Café, a take-out- only establishment that still had the remnants of COVID-19 restrictions. Undeterred, I ducked under the plexiglass partition in the doorway to place my order. Though Minna, my ministry partner from Ethiopia, raved about the food, I felt disappointed. Apparently this restaurant matches the poor man’s injera that she grew up with, and I am more familiar with the upper-class variety (pictured here). Though I craved the spicy meat dish option (30 minutes to prepare), I chose the vegan combo (10 minutes) since I would have had to sit in my car in the 97-degree heat to wait for my order. I also missed the experience of sitting around the community dish with my friends, with no utensils but the three fingers on my right hand to snuggle tasty morsels in the delicious bread.
Mediterranean
This next story begins in 1970.
When Cheryl (my other ministry partner and boarding school classmate) had reconstruction knee surgery in June, her home health care provider, Jan, arrived and announced she was not the person originally scheduled to come. The ensuing conversation went something like this.
Cheryl: I just got back from an MK (Missionary Kid) boarding school class reunion.
Jan: I’m an MK too! Where did your parents serve?
Cheryl: Nigeria.
Jan: Me too!
Cheryl: What school did you attend?
Jan: Hillcrest.
Cheryl: My ministry partner went to Hillcrest!
Cheryl (texting me): Guess who’s in my home? A lady who went to Hillcrest.
Karen: What’s her maiden name and year of graduation?
Thus, Jan (a classmate I had not seen in 52 years), Minna, Cheryl, and I met at Taziki’s Mediterranean Cafe. We shared some hummus, and I ordered an amazing watermelon, spinach, feta cheese, and candied pecans salad. Very refreshing on a hot summer day.
Venezuelan
One day my daughter Sharon wanted me to meet a sweet Venezuelan couple from her ESL class who had recently moved to our town. For a taste of home, they recommended Brasas Grill. Thus my friend Carol and I agreed to meet for lunch in August (“As long as the food is not spicy,” she said. It wasn’t.) We ordered chicken-filled empanadas and sweet, caramelized plantains topped with delicious cheese. Tasty and filling, but one visit was enough.
Cuban
In October, I tagged along with Scott to Chattanooga where he participated in WMBW’s Share-on-thon. Going to the Hamilton Place Mall food court was an easy way to satisfy both our palates. I tried a portobello mushroom sandwich. Though not spicy enough to provide the flavor I was seeking, I enjoyed the crustiness of the toasted bread.
Laotian? Vietnamese?
Quite by accident, I discovered an 18-month-old restaurant listed online as Laotian but supposedly Vietnamese just a few minutes from my church. Though near some run-down establishments, inside I found clean, bright booths and tables and a friendly face. Lin (not sure how she spells her name) greeted me enthusiastically and seated me with a one-page menu. Many of the items looked like Chinese or Thai, so I asked for her recommendation for a typical Laotian dish. “My favorite is Pad See Ew,” she said, “with wide rice noodles, Chinese (!) broccoli, and egg—but I don’t recommend you include the carrots.” I took her advice and ordered it with chicken.
This dish originates in Thailand, “so what makes it different?” I asked. “We like our food HOT,” she said. And she proceeded to fuss over the arrangement of condiments on the table, mixing Hoisin Sauce and Sriracha Chili Sauce on the side of my plate, topped with a jalapeño pepper. She then hovered nearby to see how I liked it. “Delicious!” I declared, and she grinned, satisfied. By the end of my meal, we’d exchanged names, I knew she was my age (70) and had lived in the USA for 43 years. Her two kids live out of state, and she works at the restaurant a couple hours a week to get out of the house. What a happy extrovert! To complete my experience, I wandered through the international grocery store next door and drooled over the guava and mango nectars.
International Potluck
For my last hurrah, I shamelessly invited myself to one of Sharon’s many Christmas parties at Legacy Village, for I knew I’d find a variety of dishes from other countries, including Kurdish, Burmese, and Mexican. Sadly, though all the dishes were tasty, this year not a single one was spicy. To make up for it, I added hot sauces, gifts from friends this year: Cowboy Candy and The General’s Hot Sauce Hooah Jalapeño.
In Conclusion
If you’ve read this far, I suspect the first question you will ask is, “What was your favorite?” Ethiopian and Nigerian topped my list for the best flavor (no surprise there), and Korean for the most unusual. My most fun experience was meeting Lin at Ladna 88. In the end, I enjoyed any dish with barkono.
Thank you to my friends who joined me on this adventure or contributed toward it with your gifts. And thank you to my husband who tolerates my cravings for international cuisine—as long as I don’t eat with my fingers or cook it in my house.
If anyone cares to join or invite me, I’m feeling lickerish* as I search for my next tasty culinary experience.
*Lickerish (adj.) [archaic]: eager to consume delicious foods
It had been an intensive week with a D.I.D. (dissociative identity disorder) client. At the end of the week she stated, “I feel so broken and shattered. What good am I? What’s the point of my life, anyhow? How can God ever use me?”
His answer came to her in a visual. “I’m going to use all your broken parts to create a beautiful mosaic.”
I may not dissociate, but like all of humanity, my life is broken in some way. The parts of my heart lie scattered on a table in a jumbled mess. I give up trying to find all the pieces of this puzzle. I need someone with more creativity, skill, and a mastermind to figure it all out. I hold just one piece in my hand right now. I don’t have the time, talent, or energy to pick up more than one piece at a time. Show me, Lord, what to do with this one piece. Keep me from cutting myself on the edges as I work with it.
I see myself wedged in sideways into the mosaic. I can only influence what I can reach—my little corner of the world. But I can see in all directions—the needs of the world. And I can pray and cheer on the other pieces. And God is making something beautiful out of my life.
There’s a debate swirling around these days about the role of the Holy Spirit. Some claim that only through study of the Scriptures can we know truth; others say we experience the Holy Spirit whispering truth in our ears. I say it’s both/and. We must know the Scriptures in order to test the spirit’s voice. The Holy Spirit’s words will never violate the written Word.
Some people argue, “You can’t trust your experiences,” but I retort, “That’s all we have! Everything that has ever happened to us is our experience, and we live our lives accordingly.” My experience will be different from yours, and this is okay. The goal is to get rid of the lies we believe in those experiences.
Some would admonish us, “Don’t seek an experience,” and I think they may be right. If one person experiences a spiritual high of some sort, I don’t have to go chasing after it to duplicate it. God will give me the experiences I need. My goal is to continually seek Him, pursue Him, and look for the treasures in His Word.
A spiritual experience can come from the outside—such as a visitation by an angel. This is not something I can manipulate or orchestrate. It’s God’s doing. But experiencing God on the inside, in my mind, happens because I choose to open myself up to Him—when I choose to obey, to let go of bitterness, anger, and unforgiveness. It comes when I fill my mind with good things and not evil ones. It happens when I guard my heart against the lies and wiles of the devil. It happens most often when I spend quiet, alone time in God’s presence, just being still. It’s the place of meditation. It’s where Jesus is. It’s where God’s Spirit speaks to my human spirit.
In the Pursuit of Peace 