For more than a decade, I’ve had the growing sense that we’re all missing something.

Not a policy or a program, but a social coherence; a warm, metaphysical essence that is quietly being displaced by something colder, more rigid, something unforgiving.

I’m not suggesting we need to do something. It’s not that simple. The usual suspects in this conversation—politics, gender, religion, technology, AI, etc.—are not the issue and are not helpful.

There is a light we simply do not see.

Birds and Butterflies

Lately, that thought has taken me back to a conversation I had thirty years ago with my dear, and now deceased, friend, Lee Earl. As we talked over lunch one day, his heart seemed to groan as he said,

“White people are obsessed with understanding black people. But as a black man, I don’t care if you understand me or not. I want your respect.”

Later, as we drove away, he continued: “Birds fly in a straight line. Butterflies don’t. But birds don’t try to teach butterflies how to fly.”

In that moment, I sensed something universal. Beneath all our affiliations and arguments, people want respect—not for their qualifications, conformity, connections, or status—but for something older than all that. For reasons that reach back to that holy moment when they were “... formed in utter seclusion... woven together in the dark of the womb.” (Psalm 139:15 NLT)

From Community to Centrifuge

From birth, sparks of destiny began glowing into our times and spaces. We tasted, touched, reached, and retreated. We found our voices, encountered virtues and vices, fell in love, raised barns, and served on school boards. Through it all, we discovered the treasure in others, that mysterious green sprout of life rooted in the moment they were “formed in utter seclusion.” All that formed our own ecosystem, our community.

This was called normal life. Then, somehow, our age became a centrifuge.

It spun faster and faster until it pulled us apart. Minds, bodies, personalities, and beliefs were sliced and stratified. Apparently, we were not acceptable as whole persons; markets preferred us reduced to particles, easier to sort and sell.

What Matters Most?

I first caught sight of what we are missing when my friend, Rex Miller, a speaker and author, convened specialists in architecture, education, commercial construction, and other disciplines for a collaborative approach to writing books. I served as the project editor.

Day after day, city after city, we worked with those leaders as they grappled with serious issues facing Western societies. Because of their education and careers, most were likely left of center politically (others surely were not). But politics never walked into our deliberations. Even when we met on November 8, 2016, the day Donald Trump was first elected—politics never grabbed the microphone.

The relationships in that room represented timeless examples of teamwork. People checked their stuff at the door, joined their minds and hearts, worked for a larger good, and kept their eyes on the ball. To paraphrase Goethe, they refused to let things that matter most to be at the mercy of things that matter least.

And no one tried to teach anyone how to fly.

The Possibilities...

Jesus once said of a generation “It is like children sitting in the marketplaces, who call out to the other children, and say, ‘We played the flute for you, and you did not dance; we sang a dirge, and you did not mourn.’” (Matthew 11:16-17 NASB)

His words seem to reflect this present age. Culture bombards us with pulsating signals, directions to think, be, or do as it suggests. But real life does not allow external pings to jerk us into conformity with trends or experts. Beneath all the noise, we remain who we were when we were first formed.

For now, the best we can do may be to just get still and quiet. To become comfortable within our own limitations. Step away from the noise and fragmentation of daily life. Practice humility. Recognize and honor the wholeness in those around you, not for their skills or marketability, but for their internal and eternal value.

Perhaps what we’re missing is not light, but the eyes to see it.

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John Goldsberry, my maternal grandfather, expected little from life and received less. But he did all he could to feed his wife and their seven children in southwest Missouri during the Great Depression. He farmed, worked odd jobs, and made moonshine—a long path of futility that marked much of his life.

In 1936, he worked as part of a road gang blacktopping roads around Buffalo, Missouri. He was paid fifteen cents per hour. One hot evening, he stood with the other workers at the end of a long, hard day, listening to their foreman lay out the plan for the next day’s work.

Then, from across the road and about a hundred yards away, hymns began flowing out the open windows of a country church. As night fell, the work meeting ended and Grandpa walked down to the church, squatted beneath an open window, and listened to the stirring music. The next morning, his children woke to the sound of their father singing hymns he heard in the dark.

That moment marked the beginning of a Pentecostal pull on the family. They all walked the six-mile round trip twice every Sunday (they couldn’t afford the eleven-cents-per-gallon gasoline). But Grandpa would not enter the building with them. He didn’t feel worthy to enter a holy place, so he continued to crouch beneath the windows.

In April 1937, the family loaded up their old pickup and moved to Ford County, Kansas. Two years later, sixteen-year-old Mary traveled with other teenagers from their church in Dodge City to attend a “youth rally” at a church in Sun City. There, she met a family of eleven kids named Chinn. One of the Chinn boys was the good-looking, adventurous, face-to-the-wind Jack.

Love sparked—but Jack had already pledged himself to the U.S. Navy.

Five years later, on October 24, 1944, Jack was aboard the aircraft carrier USS Princeton when she was destroyed by a Japanese bomb in the Battle of Leyte Gulf. He survived. Two months later, he married Mary. I am their firstborn. Vernon and Carl followed.

When, as a child, my mind finally connected the details of this story, I became obsessed with its hinge moments—the what-ifs:

What if the road foreman had not called for the work crew meeting?

What if cool air had forced the church to close the windows?

What if Mary had not attended the youth rally?

What if Jack had died in the waters of Leyte Gulf?

Each hinge carried the call of destiny. Grandpa wasn’t the only one crouched beneath that church window in the dark; my brothers and I—and all our children and grandchildren—were there too. And my dad wasn’t the only one struggling to survive a naval battle; all his descendants were also fighting for their lives.

Our story began when an eternal sound—a wind chime from Heaven—rode the breeze into the ears and heart of a poor man living in life’s shadows.

Grace found him. In the dark.

It was a night when “...for those who lived in the land where death casts its shadow, a light has shined.” (Matthew 4:16, NLT)

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Written and Narrated By: Kara Lea Kennedy

The hospital lights were dimmed to create a “peaceful” atmosphere, but the chaos of pain I was experiencing sucked all serenity from the room. I yelled in the disoriented agony that can only come from childbirth. Thirty minutes earlier, I could breathe and talk through each contraction, loudly telling myself I could do this. Now, the jaws of pain clamped around my midsection, with no sign of release. The dreaded “transition phase.”

In desperation I screamed, “Help me! Help me!” I was floundering, knowing there was no escape but hoping relief would come. Breaking through the turmoil, a nurse appeared angelic and took center stage in my tunnel vision. Grasping my right hand with hers and looking into my eyes, she said, “I am helping you.”

In the writhing and agony, I held onto her words like they were life itself. I wanted a tranquilizer, but her hand and eyes would have to do. I cried and pleaded some more. She remained, urged me to look at her, and repeated, “I am helping you.”

Minutes later, I held my precious, perfect baby. In the midst of the holy hush that descended on the room, the nurse gently adjusted my pillows, grinned, and said, “See? I helped you!” I laughed, cried, and agreed with all my heart.

In the hours that followed, I cried whenever I remembered the pain. But I also thanked God for the nurse who helped bear my burden with four simple words and one unflinching gaze.

What does “help” actually look like, and is it possible that we spend so much time worrying about what we cannot do that we don’t offer what we can? How hopeless would I have felt if that nurse had recoiled from my misery rather than boldly stepping into it?

We can learn the definition of “help” by reflecting on what brought relief in our moments of need. I remember when I was once lonely; a neighbor gave me a bouquet of hydrangeas from her garden. When I was scared, my husband kissed me on the forehead. When I was sick as a child, my dad would get down on my level and say, “I wish I could take it away.”

“Help” rarely looks like winning the lottery, receiving a miracle fix for my problems, or even being fully understood by a friend. More often than not, help comes in the form of a willing presence. It ignores its own shortcomings to just reach out. The best help almost always carries an air of childlike confidence.

What if we could get back to that uncomplicated eagerness to audaciously “pitch in” on projects we have no business touching? As a toddler clumsily stirs batter with a wooden spoon and shamelessly declares, “I helped,” are there purposes and people that would benefit from our joyous, and perhaps unsophisticated help?

It is too easy to disqualify ourselves from service. Easy. And arrogant. Who are we to measure the value of our contributions?

So, what can we do? Chaperone a field trip, even if you’re a “stick in the mud.” Visit your aging relative, even if they can’t hear a word you say. Stop assuming you understand the impact you have on others. Hold the hand of the one who is fighting a fight that only they can face.

Deliberately drop your “widow’s mite” into one of those slots of need in your community. Be glad you could help. Then, watch what happens next. You could find yourself ushering new life into a hurting world.

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Imagine you’re riding a passenger train as it rolls across rural America. You stare out your window at the blur of gravel, grass, roads, and rails. Although your view takes in billions of bits of information, it’s all just a streak, a smudge of colors and shapes. It moves too swiftly to give a perspective on what you see.

In order to get a better viewpoint, you would have to walk to the rear of the train and step out onto the (now virtually extinct) observation platform. From there, your view would instantly widen to give you the sweep of a larger landscape.

Many years ago, I heard a reporter (whose name I’ve long forgotten) use that metaphor to contrast journalism with history. Journalism records the near, but incoherent rush of current events. History, on the other hand, gives a depth of field, a wide panorama of context and clarity.

Today, we seem to live in the age of speed and blur. Our search for information—often useless but quick and addicting—creates the illusion of significance. Sitting in a porch rocker with a good book creates the illusion of laziness. But, as Dwight Eisenhower famously said, “What is important is seldom urgent and what is urgent is seldom important.”

When people press their faces against the windows, drawn to the kaleidoscope of fractured images, what they see moves very fast, but it does not enlighten. For that, we have to cultivate a serene center, an eternal secret place of the heart. From there, we can practice the mystery of living in a higher realm.

It’s called “normal life,” a spiritual dimension that spills into our earthly seasons and places. That’s where we find the freedom to slow down, breathe deep, get quiet, sit still, think, meditate, pray. That place allows us to step away from the noise to watch the surf, walk through a redwood forest, gaze at the night sky.

Life in the lower realm disrupts those slow and graceful rhythms, prodding us to react, to move quickly ... now!

That may be why many scholars recognize the need for distance between themselves and the issues, personalities, and ideas of their own time. Because emotional, philosophical, and moral entanglements distort judgment, they need the passing of time—like 30 years—before they can more clearly understand and present historical events and people.

That sets up a struggle between the careful, thoughtful, and undisturbed approach to life and the centrifuge that spins us away from it. That’s why I am naturally guarded against any force, agenda, proposal, or crisis that tries to provoke me to do something. I know there are times when we must fight. And die. But that’s different from seeking conflict. Until we learn to live in the secret place, we will carry our own conflict and anger around with us all the time.

I owe it to my wife, family (blood and spiritual), friends, work, neighborhood, society, and nation to see broadly and deeply and to live generously. But I cannot do that if I allow this age to place electrodes on my spine, jerking me into compliance with its whims and flavors. Nuanced and multilayered thinking sees further and hears deeper; it catches distinctions, tones, and possibilities that just don’t seem to find traction with frantic souls and societies.

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Written By: Beverly Oxley

Narrated By: Kara Lea Kennedy

When I walked into Mrs. Sauer’s classroom midway through 5th grade, it was the third one I had attended so far that year. I didn’t expect to stay long, so I didn’t even try to make new friends.

Because I entered so many schools, I was the perpetual “new kid.” Adapting quickly was essential. As the merry-go-round spun, I had to just run in, grab the bar, and hang on.

I hated being watched and judged as I entered each new classroom. But within a couple of days, I could usually spot the kids who might join me at lunch or for jacks at recess. I was pretty good at jacks, though sometimes I’d lose just to win a new friend. Reading the social landscape accurately was crucial in a new school.

Mrs. Sauer was a petite, professional woman who saw beyond outward appearances. When she looked at me, I don’t think she saw a transient or even a lanky child. She saw someone in need of care. She seemed to look deep into my soul. I began to feel she saw my potential. That’s what dream makers do—they look past the surface and imagine a new future for certain ones in their paths. Through her words of inspiration, Mrs. Sauer changed the course of my life.

My father was a true dreamer; he seized job opportunities that required rapid relocation. My siblings and I learned to stash our keepsakes in a cardboard box, always prepared to move at a moment’s notice.

Dreamers are rarely dream makers. They get so caught up in their own dreams that they cannot see the budding dreams in those around them, even their own children.

In A Muppet Christmas Carol, Jim Henson gives us a glimpse into Ebenezer Scrooge’s childhood schoolteacher. He saw potential in him. As it turned out, Ebenezer was a math prodigy, bound for success in the world of finance. He could become wealthy if he played his cards right. Ebenezer bought into the dream, staying in at recess to get ahead instead of playing with the other kids.

Years later, Scrooge faced his fiancée, Belle. He had postponed their marriage for five years as he pursued his dream of amassing more and more wealth. Belle sings a mournful, heartbreaking song as she breaks off the engagement, “The Love is Gone.” Scrooge chose money over love. The dream planted by his teacher came at a cost. The love of money was more precious to Scrooge than the love of a woman.

When Mrs. Sauer looked inside me, she saw a rudderless child in need of hope and purpose. So, she planted two dreams. First, she saw potential for modeling. She often kept me in at recess, teaching me posture, poise, and confidence—strengths that would build my self-assurance and contribute to my direction. I learned to walk in a straight line with a book on my head.

Before summer break, Mrs. Sauer gave me another dream: she told me I could go to college. That seed, though possibly shared with every student she taught, was transformative for me. No one in my family had ever attended college; her words took root in my heart. From that moment on, I held onto the dream of higher education, quietly believing it was possible for me. That’s when I began to hear a future calling me.

When the time was right, as a high school senior, I shared my college aspirations with my mother. Naturally, her response was practical: “You’ll have to find a way to pay for it.” But the financial uncertainty and other challenges could not extinguish the dream Mrs. Sauer lit in me.

Now, years later, when I look back over my career as a special education teacher, college professor, and psychologist, I see I was able to influence the younger generation. I try to approach that responsibility thoughtfully, taking time to understand each student’s motivations and abilities before offering words that inspire a vision for a productive future.

Every one of us holds the power to be a dream maker or dream breaker. Our words can linger for a lifetime, either inspiring confidence or creating barriers that block pathways. By choosing to encourage and boost young dreamers, we may even help them make choices they won’t live to regret.

Words can create encouragement or discouragement. That’s why speaking or writing words that heal, lift, and bless represent a high calling.

Perhaps my father needed a dream maker in his life.

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Written By: Marianne Paulus

Narrated By: Kara Lea Kennedy

As I do every year, I recently decorated our home for Christmas. I’ve always done so with great anticipation of our lovely house after I am finished. But this year, nostalgia and sadness also came over me in the process.

In years past, Christmas decorating was a family affair. My husband, Bob, would help me get the tree set up and untangle the web of Christmas lights (as he still does). But then the three boys and I would decorate the tree while listening to the same vinyl records that recalled and celebrated the Christmas story each year in our home. The task also included hot chocolate, laughter, and tripping over one another as we did what needed to be done.

But seasons change. Sons grow up, leave, and buy homes of their own to decorate. So, the job of decorating falls on Bob and me. And we now have a “decorator” tree instead of the cherished collection of homemade ornaments, craft fair treasures and other assorted Christmas baubles. Some of the same songs wash over me, but now they come from Pandora. When I’m done, it still looks beautiful, but then I have to shake off the tinge of melancholy from remembering Christmases past.

One recent morning, I read Isaiah 43:18-19:

“Do not call to mind the former things. Or ponder things of the past. Behold, I will do something new. Now it will spring forth: Will you not be aware of it?”

As I read that passage, I wondered if looking back through the lens of loss caused me to miss out on the new thing. Was I overlooking the joy and the richness of the present because I was so locked into the memories of what was? Could I perhaps create and broaden new circles of Christmas celebration and fellowship? Could we enjoy the delight of beautiful new things?

These questions brought new levels of gratitude for the now of my life, but also caused me to look for the new—in relationships, opportunities, and other new things that could be added to it. Perhaps by letting go of the former things, I can enjoy each moment that comes to our home from the new things.

Marianne Paulus is the mother of three sons and grandmother to nine. She has two college degrees she has never been paid to use. You can read about that story and others in her memoir, Intersections: Stories of Faith When God Intersected a Life. She and her husband Bob work together with their church’s marriage and family ministry from their home in Bedford, Texas.

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