So I Won't Forget...May 2026

So I Won't Forget...May 2026

Hi friend! I’m Emily. I’m so glad you’re here! I’m a former therapist turned writer and theology student. In the early mornings and middle minutes while kids are at school, you can find me in my home office writing about hope, grief, spiritual practices, and Biblical literacy—all things that have changed my life and light me up inside. Today’s email is part of a monthly series I’ve been writing for over 2 years called So I Won’t Forget [https://wehavethishope.substack.com/t/so-i-wont-forget]. It’s the overflow of a life full of the goodness of God and the simple way I practice remembering as a spiritual discipline, something I talk about a lot. It’s my most read and most personal writing. I hope you’ll stick around! Prefer to listen? Let me join you on a walk via the audio narration of this post. You can find it right here in the app or wherever you listen to the We Have This Hope podcast. 🤎🎧🎙️ We did it. We survived what the internet affectionately (and accurately) tells me is now called May-cember. Just typing the hyphenated made-up word makes me cringe a little. Is it not equal parts humorous and equal parts sad that 2 months out of our calendar year are known for their hustle? Something to ponder as I stare out my window watching a red cardinal land on a hammock I haven’t once used this month. There’s a song by one of my favorite artists Jon Guerra that is based on Matthew 6 and I kicked it around in my brain while I watched that red cardinal hop around like the totally contented creature I aspire to be: I see the birds up in the air, I know you feed them, I know you care. So won’t you teach me How I mean more to You than them In times of trouble Be my help again. I would not categorize this month as a “time of trouble” by any means. In fact, it was mostly a time of great joy, but I did experience the full breadth of it such that, now at its close, I need to watch a few birds and remember who holds it all together. This is May(cember) and here are the things I don’t want to forget. #1…Forty years deep I won’t bury the lead. I turned 40 this month. I wrote some reflections on this milestone in my essay The Year of Whole Numbers [https://wehavethishope.substack.com/p/the-year-of-whole-numbers], so I won’t belabor the significance of it,. But I also won’t breeze past it so as to ignore the spotlight or to downplay the joys of the day. In other words, there are a few things I want to remember. Dustin kept asking me what I wanted to do for my birthday and all I could think to say was 1) I do not want to be responsible for planning something and 2) I want to spend time with people I love. Not to make it about this, but I have lived in a world where someone I love deeply was here one day and gone the next. It’s conceptual for some, but for me it has been reality and as the experts say “the body keeps the score” so I shall not leave things unsaid if I can possibly help it. I decided I wanted to go on a walk with my Dad, go shopping with my Mom, and have dinner with a few people I love dearly and include the kids. Waking up the morning of a milestone birthday and navigating a whole day where people are acknowledging you, texting you, and generally making the day about you can feel a little bit strange, unsettling even for those of us who don’t mind being in front of a group. Our kids greeted me with the darling-est (I made up a word here, but you understand…) of morning hurrahs, cards and armloads of enthusiasm. When they scurried off to school, my Dad arrived with an orchid in hand and his sneakers laced for a 5K. We both caught the bug for walking a few years ago and the shared hobby rarely makes its way to joint efforts so I asked him if he’d walk the full loop of a nearby trail and grab coffee afterwards. I share this with humility and the understanding that there are many reading who either no longer have their father or never had him to begin with. I write my experience with tenderness in my heart and a true desire to acknowledge the utter gift I have in my father. He’s a delight. Supportive and intentional. Slow to speak and slow to become angry. Hard-working and affectionate. I have never known anyone to not love my Dad and what a sentence to be said of a person. May it be true of more of us! Thickly in my elementary school era, my life is chock full of logistics and we rarely get one on one time. It filled my cup to have space to hear him, ask him questions, and just converse about the things happening our lives. As long as we are able-bodied enough to make the 3.2 mile loop, I hope we’ll make it a more regular thing. Midway through the day, I decided I would tell a few friends things I love and cherish about them. Perhaps that would seem backward to them, but oh well. It wasn’t deflecting, but rather embracing the permission birthdays seem to give. To paraphrase the great Miley Cyrus, this is my party, I can do what I want. So I told one friend what a great leader he is, one friend that her presence in my life was a total answer to prayer, another that she has a pure heart, another that no one is kinder than she is, and another that she is my safe place. The next day I skipped town with my Mom for a shopping trip. Is this real life? We spent 48 straight hours together and the conversation never lulled. This must be the backlog of all the truncated conversations we’ve had over the last 11 years since I became a mother and start-to-finish conversations became scarce. The thing is I am a rich woman in the parent-department because my Mom is as much a gift as my Dad. She’s thoughtful and generous. Dependable and uncomplicated. I enjoy being with her and we both seem to appreciate that this alone is a rarity for some mother/daughter duos in our respective life stages. Suffice it to say, we had a ball. I submit all of this to you with a twinge of hesitation. I never want my words, and particularly my real life, to appear to be something that it is not, namely perfect. I have known stress and frustration and disappointment. I have dabbled in anger and resentment. And I have an earned my stripes in sorrow. If you’ve read any of my work, I hope you know this to be true and you hear my heart as I sift out what is worthy of commemorating for this moment in time. Forty years deep, I will say this: I have seen the goodness of the LORD in the land of the living and I will look for more of it in my second act. #2…slow middle spaces My husband calls it his “happy place.” This is one of the more demonstrative descriptions to ever fall from his lips so please allow me translate: this place must be magic for him. It’s a 20 acre plot of land just outside the city where he and my father-in-law have started to dream, scheme, chop stuff and build ponds. If you’re wondering how one builds a pond, you’re not alone. Just a few months ago, I also had a few questions about how this gets done. I grew up traipsing around my grandfather’s pond, but it existed long before I did so I was never privy to how it got there. Here’s a brief summary of what I’ve learned based on a couple of eyewitness accounts combined with a flurry of trail cam videos uploaded to a photo stream people keep showing me. Step #1) Dig a really big hole. Step #2) Wait for it to rain. Step #3) Check it constantly. Voilà! A pond in a matter of a few Oklahoma Spring rains! I may have left out a few details like dam construction or water flow, but generally it seems building a pond is the stuff of sand boxes and weather patterns. A few days ago, we ventured to the land with kayaks in tow to officially inaugurate summer and to scope out the herd of goats hired to clear out the underbrush of some densely wooded spots. Yes, hired goats bound by the geofenced tags around their necks doing the Lord’s work. We invited some friends to come explore and within minutes of their arrival, 7 happy children were full-on swimming in the pond. In the moment, I thought about all the gross stuff likely floating around the newly formed water hole—guys, please don’t swim with your mouths open! Also, we did not have enough towels…or swimsuits…not one swimsuit. In hindsight, what on earth did I expect? The sun was beginning to set over the horizon while I sat near a solo stove chatting with one of my best friends, a cold drink in hand, our kids cackling, maneuvering, digging and generally having the time of their lives nearby. Why would I ever interrupt such a delightful scene just because we didn’t bring enough towels? Forget the towels, Emily, and let the people play… While my “happy place” eventually needs to include electricity and modern plumbing, I think I can get on board with the slow middle space between creature comforts and adventure—between my iced coffee and my muddy children. One day they won’t want to jump head to toe in the pond. They’ll think twice about their freshly painted nails before digging them into all that red clay. They won’t want to ruin their favorite t-shirt. They’ll be more inhibited like their mom and they’ll consider the laundry more than the moment. Or maybe they won’t because they’ll remember how sweet it is to jump off a kayak with friends and play in the sun until their cheeks feel a little crisp. Maybe they’ll teach their mom to relax a little and pay close attention. Here’s hoping they do. #3…on character awards & cosmic thoughts Tis’ the season for school character awards. I remember my own elementary school’s version of this. Somehow I always walked away with something that felt boring like “industrious” or “responsible.” What 10 year old girl wants to be described as “industrious”? I have yet to meet her. I envied the kids who got “creative” or “artistic.” Somehow those words felt cooler than being the one your teacher could always count on to do the right thing—nah, I think it’s better to be the kid who’s really good at doodling. Over the last few years our eldest has collected her own version of “industrious” because, by God’s grace, she does typically do what is expected of her at school. No complaints here, but I’ve found myself wondering a couple of times if there wasn’t something more fitting to describe her. I mean this mostly to say that I’ve wondered if the one selecting the award really and truly knew her. Did they see what she brings to a group? Could they name any her quirks and strengths? She’s rich in them. I mean this not as a critique or as a whine. In a room full of her wildly wonderful classmates, there is much, truly MUCH, to name that is worthy of recognition. These kids bear the image of their Creator with uniqueness and beauty that makes you catch your breath. I’m so grateful my girl gets to be around them. I simply noticed a difference this year when the words of her teacher captured both her personality and her potential. A mom notices when her kid is seen—and because I noticed, I want to remember it. “You sit there and you contemplate, you’re thinking a lot…” Said with affection and humor: “These guys are pesky and you’re like thinking these cosmic thoughts…” Her award: Wisdom. Maybe for Ella, it still wasn’t “creative” or “artistic,” but I chuckled through my pride because if ever there was a child who was thinking cosmic thoughts while a whole room swirled around her, it was my firstborn. And of course, her wisdom is only blossoming, but after the months I’ve spent digging into Proverbs and the Life of Solomon, I can’t think of anything I’d rather nurture in my children than wisdom. Her teacher wrapped up the moment by quoting Proverbs 13:20 to the class for what must have been the umpteenth time because they finished it for her: “He who walks with the wise grows wise, but a companion of fools suffers harm.” Then she pointed her finger at Ella and speaking to the class in a sort of sage, motherly way said “You want to hang out with her.” The moment ended, but I was still processing it later that day. Popularity is not something I’m interested in seeking and I certainly won’t encourage it for my kids. If anything, in an age when popularity generally equates to putting yourself first and slandering your neighbor, we’d be wise to run from it. In this instance, her teacher meant only to counsel the students toward seeking friends who understand the things that matter, those who will sit long enough to contemplate before acting, those who are beginning to look like they possess a glimmer of God’s good wisdom. And she saw those qualities in my kid! Holy smokes, let’s keep going in this direction, shall we? I won’t pretend like we’re not doing a boatload of character development at the Curzon house right now—please hear me when I say most emphatically, WE ARE. If anything, we needed a “W” so I preserve it here as a testimony to myself. This long obedience in the same direction is bearing fruit and I’ll keep my eyes peeled for more of it. Friends & readers, I’ll be taking the month of June off because our crew is headed to the UK on a grand adventure that will most assuredly be fodder for the next installation of So I Won’t Forget. Also, my seminary class is wrapping up and I need a little sabbath. I also need time to finally finish reading Theo of Golden [https://www.amazon.com/Theo-Golden-Novel-Allen-Levi/dp/1668236516] like everyone else. Later this week, I’ll send you the last installment of our Stack Study on Proverbs [https://wehavethishope.substack.com/p/stack-study-proverbs-and-the-life]. I hope this will be a resource for some of you over the Summer months. It’s an easy and rich step into the world of Solomon and his acclaimed wisdom. Let me know if you’re working through it and I’ll see your inboxes next month! Thanks for reading We Have This Hope! This post is public so feel free to share it. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit wehavethishope.substack.com/subscribe [https://wehavethishope.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_2]

So I Won't Forget...April 2026

Hi friend! I’m Emily. I’m so glad you’re here! I’m a former therapist turned writer and theology student. In the early mornings and middle minutes while kids are at school, you can find me in my home office writing about hope, grief, spiritual practices, and Biblical literacy—all things that have changed my life and light me up inside. Today’s email is part of a monthly series I’ve been writing for over 2 years called So I Won’t Forget [https://wehavethishope.substack.com/t/so-i-wont-forget]. It’s the overflow of a life full of the goodness of God and the simple way I practice remembering as a spiritual discipline, something I talk about a lot. It’s my most read and most personal writing. I hope you’ll stick around! Prefer to listen? Let me join you on a walk via the audio narration of this post. You can find it right here in the app or wherever you listen to the We Have This Hope podcast. 🤎🎧🎙️ #1…on gerbils & bracing my core I own two gerbils. This is noteworthy only because I grew up in a home where animals were essentially not welcome. I know that sounds harsh, but I come from a long line of women who don’t like to touch animals. Dare I say, myself included. Inviting them to live in your home has generationally been a bit of a foreign concept—save the time my sister and I bought a miniature dachshund while my parents were out of town and they kept it long after we moved out. My grandmother once saved a cat who had gotten stuck in a car window and the real miracle wasn’t that the cat had been saved, but that my grandmother had been the one to do it. This story became family lore: The Time Meme Touched a Cat. Many moons have passed and I now find myself in a home with four pets: a fish, a big, hairy golden retriever, and two gerbils—Nutmeg and Snowball, to be exact. On the eve of our twins’ eighth birthday, we succumbed to what can only be described as relentless begging from our youngest daughter who clearly did not inherit the “it’s gross to touch animals” gene. As is often the case with mothers, I walked into PetCo that day propelled only by selfless love because, let me be clear in conveying, I had (and continue to have) zero interest in owning gerbils. Alas, we marched back to our car with two poorly assembled cardboard containers holding essentially mice that we paid money to bring into our home. I thought people paid to have mice removed from their home? Why does this feel backward? Once home we rearranged her room to fit a cage much larger than I expected and filled it with the essentials including toilet paper rolls. Did you know they eat the cardboard from paper towels and toilet paper because their teeth never stop growing? Like beavers, people, tiny beavers who live in the upstairs of my house. File this under things I never thought would be true about me: Gerbil owner. Mother of twins. Later that night I made the twins take a picture with me—one I’ve been taking since the day they were born. With a fifty pound kid on each hip, I had to bend my knees and brace my core just to hold them. I certainly couldn’t have walked up and down the stairs with them in tow like I used to. I went to bed looking at old pictures of them on the day they entered the world, both at just four pounds each, the tiniest babies I had ever seen. Eight years ago, this same core was effectively ripped wide open so that those two babies could enter the world and change the course of history forever. I’ll never get over the miracle—their lives, the fact that my core went back together, all of it. I marvel at their lives in the same way I marvel at those two little gerbils upstairs—things I never thought would be true of me and yet things that have settled into the reality of my life. I think my takeaway this year is that sometimes we learn to steady ourselves, to brace our core and hold rightly the things we’ve been given to steward, but often this wisdom comes on the heels of tremendous surprise, delight, and a healthy dose of motherly surrender. This month I found all of that at the strange intersection of kids birthdays and pet ownership. Here’s to Nutmeg and Snowball, may their surprises be contained to their cage and may they continue to bring us delight—but like a normal gerbil-amount of it. Let’s not get too crazy. #2…singing in public There are only a few times in my life that I have sung in public with a microphone. One of them was my senior year of high school when I played Sandy in Grease. You read that correctly—yours truly was Sandra Dee, circa 2004. To be honest, I had almost no business being cast in that role, but at the time I was the only blonde girl in the theater production class and I suppose that qualified me more than my actual singing abilities. These days I keep my singing to strictly low stakes environments and if you lived in my home or rode in my car, you would know that to be true. The older I get, the more I marvel at people who have the ability to perform or share an art form publicly. I suppose that’s what writing is although with writing I can hide behind my computer and I can edit. In my mind, there is really nothing more vulnerable than singing in front of an audience. And that is exactly what my son did this past week. He is the bravest kid I know, full of a confidence tempered by a humility I hope he never loses. For the last six months, he’s been taking ukulele lessons. It’s a totally delightful instrument and perfect for an eight-year-old trying to make his mom swoon over his future guitar-playing skills. For the recital this year, he decided he would both pluck and strum his song. But in order to strum, he would have to use his voice to sing the melody—something he, without hesitation, decided was a perfectly suitable thing to do. This boy sings all over our house, particularly in the bathroom because…well…acoustics and time. He spent the week leading up to the recital bellowing out the words to “Everybody Loves Saturday Night,” a simple song that will forever be embedded in the brains of the other four Curzons who live here and use the same bathrooms. On the night of the recital, he was the only performer to play an instrument while singing along and I was so proud of him. Sure, there were a couple of notes that maybe fell a bit sharp, but overall that kid marched up to the front, did his thing, and bowed ever so quickly as he ran over to sit back down. One of my favorite things about being a parent is knowing intimately the subtleties of your own child’s facial expressions. His little grin was the perfect blend of relief, pride, and the twinkle of a new neuropathway forming to say I can do hard things. It left me wondering today about whether my face ever tells the story of the hard things I have done or continue to do: parenting, seminary, generally trying to be a kind and healthy human. I don’t have to tell you, dear reader, that it’s hard work out there being a adult, let alone one who is hoping to mature in the ways of Jesus and embrace hardship as discipline. I suppose that’s why sabbath has been at the forefront of my mind lately. I need to rest in order to do hard things. And so the queue I’m taking from my kid this weekend is not necessarily singing in public, but rather embracing a little bit of rest so that come Monday I can do hard things again. Maybe this is why…🎵 Everybody Loves Saturday Night 🎵… #3…Lectio Divina I am writing this to remember a spiritual practice that is forming me right now—and to remind “Future Emily” that she has a repertoire of things to draw from depending on the season. Lectio Divina is an ancient, contemplative Benedictine practice used for centuries as a form of spiritual reading. For most of my life, I’ve approached Scripture through study—digging into context, language, translations—and this is far and away my favorite way to engage my imagination and intellect spiritually. I love to understand how the pieces fit into the whole and God has used this deep work to form me in ways still rippling effect in my daily life. But my life also includes groceries and laundry and school drop-offs and friendships that need nurturing and bodies that need moving and floors that need mopping and you get the idea because you live one too. Sometimes in-depth study can’t squeeze its way onto the plate like it used to when my only responsibility was maybe going to class on time. As I’ve leaned further into the Anglican tradition and into my seminary work thus far, I’ve discovered some contemplative practices that have opened a “side door” into spiritual formation—the most recent of which is Lectio Divina. In a recent class cohort, we walked through the process in small groups and it essentially looked like this: Someone read a passage of Scripture 4 times. Each time followed by 2 eternally long minutes of silence. Resist the urge to interpret or analyze. Invite the Spirit to draw out a word or phrase. Listen and reflect and receive. Here’s an article with significantly more detail [https://saintandrewsabbey.com/homily/accepting-the-embrace-of-god-the-ancient-art-of-lectio-divina/]. The app Lectio 365 [https://lectio365.com/?gad_source=1&gad_campaignid=22666082635&gbraid=0AAAAA92mZbtE9TOM7oe0WvDa03J1XrMED&gclid=CjwKCAjwntHPBhAaEiwA_Xp6Rg70YaKHR4F3KiZx-BndSjp4qKIEEpwNrJPemYP4MxWnzJKgP-8aTBoCpm0QAvD_BwE] is another good place to start. Or read through Eugene Peterson’s Eat This Book [https://www.amazon.com/Eat-This-Book-Conversation-Spiritual/dp/0802864902] (an OG favorite of mine) for a more thorough overview on this general posture toward reading the Bible. For those of us who grew up in the Bible Belt in the late 90s and early 2000s, the word “meditation” might carry some long-buried negative connotation not too dissimilar from that one time you tried yoga and weren’t sure if your mother would approve. I’m only slightly kidding. In general, there was a time in our Western evangelical traditions when mediation or the idea of listening, rather than studying inductively, sounded a bit too “woo-woo” for comfort. The reality is that the practice of mediation has been embedded in global Christian traditions for centuries and I can’t help but wonder if some of us have been missing out. Perhaps in this season, contemplative prayer and meditation is exactly what I need. In ways almost too innumerable to count, the way of contemplation is wildly counterintuitive to the inertia of my inner and outer life. I know someone reading this can relate. In these slower postures, I still find the Scriptures to be ripe with wisdom. I can spend an entire day dwelling on two words from a verse in Colossians and feel connected to the work of God even while I walk through a seemingly relentless to-do list. This may be a totally foreign concept to you, or you may be among the wealth of writers and readers who have been practicing this for a decade. Wherever you land, I hope you might consider trying on something contemplative like Lectio Divina and seeing how it feels—especially if you find yourself in an overflowing season of life. The Spirit is there, moving and speaking—this is our reminder to slow down and listen. So many of you responded kindly to my most recent essay The Year of Whole Numbers [https://wehavethishope.substack.com/p/the-year-of-whole-numbers]. I can’t tell you have meaningful it is to hear back from readers. Some of you told me over coffee and some of you commented from another part of the country. However you responded, I wanted to express my gratitude and my heart’s desire that this work would play some small part in turning your thoughts and affections toward the God who speaks through writing. That being said, I owe you something: the last half of our Stack Study on Proverbs [https://wehavethishope.substack.com/p/stack-study-proverbs-and-the-life] and I’ve decided to release all of that via email on May 14th. There, I said it, so now I have a deadline. I will be releasing each lesson via Substack only as those get through final edits so if you’re eager to do something with them, you can watch for those to roll out in-app. Otherwise, subscribers will get the full thing in their inbox on May 14th. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit wehavethishope.substack.com/subscribe [https://wehavethishope.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_2]

So I Won't Forget...March 2026

March rushed in like the wind sweeping down the plains here in Oklahoma. We braced ourselves, and our flower beds, for the whiplash that often comes with fake Spring and premature Summer. Shakespeare says to beware. I say remember. This is (the ides of) March and here are the things I don’t want to forget. #1…when you don’t have a brother I did not grow up with brothers. In fact, the closest thing I had to a brother was the boy across the street who I now call my husband. My father is a gentle man and one who lived well with a house full of rowdy women. I still remember one Sunday morning as a teenager, in what can only be described as my glitter-as-eye-shadow era, I came bouncing down the hallway with purple lipstick freshly lathered on my lips only to walk straight into my Dad who had just donned a crisp white oxford shirt. My purple lipstick left a precise imprint on the pocket and it was immediately clear that there would be no salvaging things. I take a bit of delight in the fact that my son is living a similar experience. He has a mother who is by most measures into girlie things—although I have toned down the glitter—and God blessed him with not one, but two sisters. I tell him often that it takes a special kind of man to have multiple sisters, not many are cut out for it. He smiles knowingly and I’m reminded that he is much like his grandfather in both kindness and patience. But there are times I wonder what it would be like for him to have a brother. Over spring break, we traveled with some dear friends who have an opposite family makeup—mostly boys and one sister. We love this family so much and time with them is a breeze. Much of the weekend I spent smiling to myself over the fact that for once in his life, my son was not outnumbered. And oh the ways he embraced it wholeheartedly! Roller coasters, bare chests, basketball, mini-golf, stinky laundry all over the floor, and nearly constant eating. He shared a room with his buddy and one evening as I was helping tidy things up, I noticed they had hung their wide-brimmed golf hats on the lamps of their respective night stands in a sort of synchronous way—a subtle, but adorable gesture. It’s a funny thing to watch your kids grow and wonder about how your family dynamic is shaping them. What aspects of who they are were born when they came squealing out of the womb and what aspects are being formed as they sit in the middle seat to keep their sisters from fighting on the way to the grocery store? So much of my son’s temperament is perfectly matched for having sisters and I like to think God had this in mind as He formed him. There may be a time he resents his lot in this family of mostly girls, but I do hope he’ll come to wear it as a badge of honor. One that my husband is currently training for on the precipice of raising teenage girls and one my father wears like a medal of honor from his years in the trenches. If nothing else, he could not be among a more esteemed bunch in my eyes. #2…a helluva Costco run I have a love/hate relationship with Costco. Sometimes it’s sort of exciting to come home with a van load as if I am some kind of pioneer mother coming back to the fort with a big loot. I holler to my kids to come out and help me unload the wagon like I’ve been gone for days trading goods the next town over. But sadly it’s usually more of a modern day ordeal that takes no less than 2 hours, plus 30 minutes of driving and 58 trips back and forth between my kitchen and the trunk of my car. Because I bemoan going, I like to drag out time in between trips as long as possible so as to make subsequent Costco trips that much more logistically complicated. I have never spent less than $500 and if that gives you sticker shock, let me remind you that I have 3 elementary aged kids who insist on eating every day. Monday mornings at Costco are about as good as it gets. I don’t want to brag, but I am an executive member. It turns out if you spend enough money, it cues the cashier to ask you about an executive membership and I was asked every single time for a year until the lady behind me in line at Christmas said “oh honey, just do it…” So I did and every time I walk in an hour before it opens to shop in peace I think about that woman with great affection. On my most recent pilgrimage, the man posted at the exit took my receipt and started the performative counting they do to ensure you aren’t sneaking by with an extra bag of 500 tortillas. He was less rushed this day because it was a unicorn Monday and midway through his counting, he shook his head, smiled and said “You did a number….no, you did a helluva number.” Then he chuckled so loudly it echoed against the warehouse walls. I suppose I could have taken offense at his reaction to my cart, but instead he had me giggling the whole way through the parking lot. That’s right sir, I did do a helluva number today at Costco and frankly, I needed someone to name it. Sometimes the drudgery of Mondays is enough to ruin a whole week, then we layer on the heavy loads we’re all pushing around hoping to gain momentum, and it can sour a whole season. Most of the time we can’t shirk our responsibilities (the kids have to eat, remember?) so I wonder if what we actually need is some counterweight, something to balance the heaviness in the form of laughter and being seen by a stranger. The Costco employee wasn’t mocking me, he was validating me with a shaking head that came from what I can only imagine to be a place of knowing. I bet he’s pushed a cart or two in his day. So if nothing else, let people acknowledge your load, try to name theirs, laugh a little, and for goodness sakes, get yourself an executive membership. #3…a letter to the editor One of the gifts of growing older, or perhaps realities, is the ability to see things through adult eyes that you once only saw with a childlike sort of wonder. Turning 40 is but a breath around the corner for me and I’ve lately been thinking about my grandparents, wondering about their lives as real people rather than the heroic figures of my childhood. Most prominent among them is my Grandad who died when I was coming of age in the early years of college and who looms largely (and ever so fondly) in my imagination as a little girl. I recently drove back to the town where he lived his entire life and where as little girls my sister and I would trek into pastures unknown with our cousins—a bunch of city kids getting a taste of country life and relishing the freedom that came with galavanting around without parental supervision. Among the hallowed section line roads of Creek County, my Grandad served his community as teacher, principal, superintendent, farmer, realtor, and eventually for a brief stint, as State Representative. I remember campaigning wearing a red t-shirt that said “Vote for RC Lester, my Grandad” and passing out RC Cola to the locals. I suppose it tracks that the thing I remember most is the soda and the t-shirt rather than the fact that my grandfather was respected and beloved by his community such that he beat out the incumbent on his first bid for office. Recently, I stumbled upon a local newspaper article from 2005 among a pile of other nostalgic things being organized at my parent’s house. It caught my eye because it had obviously been laid out to read and the opening line to this Letter to the Editor said “Dear Editor, RC Lester wore many hats.” A entire half page had been devoted to espousing not so much the accomplishments of my grandfather, although those were certainly mentioned, but more so his character as a friend and educator. Grandad died rather swiftly to pancreatic cancer in 2005 and this letter had obviously been written with great care by a longtime family friend who had known him both personally and professionally. We treasured conversations with him and trusted his sage advice on just about any subject, personal or otherwise. RC spoke not so much with authority as reason. He was not one to shoot from the hip. You might ask him a question and experience several moments of silence as his hands mused about rubbing his palms diagonally. We often quoted him and to do so would settle an issue. - Steve Lalli, The Bristow News, September 14, 2005 I smiled through tears later that night as I read the article aloud to my husband and oldest daughter, remembering some of his familiar and timeless mannerisms, ones that I see reflected in my own father now and find so utterly endearing. The beauty in discovering this gem of an article is that it confirmed for adult Emily what little girl Emily knew to be true of her grandfather. That he was kind and serious and uncomplicated and sincere and, most of all, lion-hearted. It is a strange thing to build a life where people most dear to you are not known by those who were once most dear to you. I wish my children could know Grandad, that they could experience him waiting at the gate for us to pull up wearing jeans and a plaid shirt, hear him whistle as the cattle come running up the pasture because they know his voice, or watch him mercy kill a turtle who swallowed a fishing hook like it’s just a regular Tuesday. I suppose this will always be one of the great mysteries of the Kingdom to come. Will we get to know, really know, those who shaped our lives before they started? Will we one day hug their necks in a knowing sort of way and will their eyes see the story of our lives as we get to reflect on theirs? I’m banking on it and in the mean time, I’ll try my best not to forget. For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known. - 1 Corinthians 13:12 To my dear WHTH regulars, I feel like I have been somewhat MIA this semester and I attribute that almost entirely to seminary classes. I recently finished a New Testament class and it was equal parts drinking from a fire hose, equal parts wonderful. I hope you’ll stay with me, read, please do comment, and share with friends as you’re able. I have a one-off article to share hopefully next week that I’ve been painstakingly distracted by and then plan to finish up the study on Proverbs before the Summer! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit wehavethishope.substack.com/subscribe [https://wehavethishope.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_2]

So I Won't Forget...February 2026

Hi friend! I’m Emily. I’m so glad you’re here! I’m a former therapist turned writer and theology student. In the early mornings and middle minutes while kids are at school, you can find me in my home office writing about hope, grief, spiritual practices, and Biblical literacy—all things that have changed my life and light me up inside. Today’s email is part of a monthly series I’ve been writing for over 2 years called So I Won’t Forget [https://wehavethishope.substack.com/t/so-i-wont-forget]. It’s the overflow of a life full of the goodness of God and the simple way I practice remembering as a spiritual discipline, something I talk about a lot. It’s my most read and most personal writing. I hope you’ll stick around! What am I supposed to do with you, February? The more iterations of So I Won’t Forget [https://wehavethishope.substack.com/t/so-i-wont-forget] I churn out over the years, the more I notice the subtleties of the seasons. More than any other month, February is somehow both confusingly too short and requiring of more grit. Dare I say that February is littered with more holding out for the next thing than even late August? I think it does and I’m bothered by it every year as I sit to write these essays. This is likely the reason you’re receiving February’s edition in early March. That and the paper I had to write for seminary last week that conjured up many long-buried feelings of paper-writing dread and hovered squarely on my shoulders until late Thursday when I finally pressed “submit.” I wonder what long-buried feelings tried to sneak through the cracks of your exterior this potentially grueling or boring February? Or what sat on your shoulders so comfortably, you’re just now beginning to notice it was heavy after all? Whatever the case for you, I wonder if you might practice a little remembering this month. Find a quiet space, take a deep breath with your hands laid open in your lap, and ask God to bring to the forefront of your mind the moments when you may have missed His goodness. By way of the Spirit, I’m confident you’ll find them. Here are mine. This is February and these are the things I don’t want to forget. #1…A million questions with a side of bad breath There’s a speed by which my youngest daughter navigates the world. We used to joke that she had an on/off switch. She was either moving her body or she was asleep, no in between. As she’s grown from toddler to full-blown kid, her busyness has developed a bit more nuance, as personalities have a tendency to do. She can melt your heart with a fierce running to jumping hug and turn right around to incite a riot over where everyone is sitting at the dinner table. Meek she is not and I say that with a sort of womanly pride. Give me all the strong daughters. Except no one warns you that the real work of raising strong daughters is cultivating your own layer of thick skin because their strength comes with a side of brutal honesty. One that lacks the scaffolding of age and the skill of what professional communicators call “the compliment sandwich.” That’s right, no free compliments unless they want to borrow something from your closet, look at your phone, or want you to stop for a slushie on the way home from school. Last week, after spending the majority of the my time hyper-focused on a seminary paper, which is code for I left it all on the field intellectually-speaking, I solidly switched to mom-mode and spent the remainder of my afternoon chasing everyone around the house. Sometimes literally, but more metaphorically. I had almost nothing left to give when my youngest found me in the fleeting quiet moment of unloading the dishwasher and fired off a round of questions that went something like this: Her: Can I have a snack? Me: What have you had already? Her: I don’t know. Can you see if so and so wants to play? Me: Get something from the pantry, no candy please. They aren’t home from school yet. Her: Can I have a popsicle? Can you see if so and so wants to play? Watch this! (Cartwheels across living room) Me: I can text their mom. No popsicle, get something from the pantry. Her: What’s for dinner? Can we have mac and cheese? Will you play with me? Me: Chicken sausage and veggies. You had mac and cheese for lunch, remember? Her: Uuuuuuggggghhhhh, there’s nothing to do. Will you play with me? I’m going outside. Anyway, did you brush your teeth today? If I were to re-write the story of that conversation, I might have her say something along the lines of “Mom, I see you working really hard this week. Why don’t you finish unloading the dishwasher while I grab a string cheese independently from the refrigerator? I’ll even shut the door when I’m done. I’m headed outside to peacefully invite my siblings to play! Love you, Mom!” But that is a world I will never live in and the reality is I’m not sure I actually want to. It’s the real zingers in life—the ones that do occasionally feel like a kick when you’re already down—that remind us we’re not machines and neither are the people who live in our homes. This essay is not going the way of machine critique, but it is a plug for the irreplaceable resource that is our humanity, namely the humanity of our children who offer to us the kind of refining you can’t buy in a store or ask a computer to generate. Had I brushed my teeth that day? Yes, but in truth it had been a solid 10 hours and I most certainly had bad breath. Did I need to be reminded in that exact moment? Who’s to say other than the one whose lack of filter keeps me humble? No one could have delivered the feedback quite like her. #2…Out of the depths of Flu B Speaking of humanity, a moment of silence for the flu that raged war on my body and the bodies of many people I love this past month. I hate being sick. And sure, the obvious response is to say no one likes being sick, but please hear me when I say I truly haaaaattttteee being sick. I’ve spent years cultivating an attitude of defiance toward the whole notion of needing to cancel my plans and do the annoying work of convalescing. I have an advanced degree in “it’s probably just allergies…” and somewhere out there I have a husband reading this and rolling his eyes. Alas, February got the better of me and I’m here to report it was not just allergies. It was Flu B and it kicked my butt. I tumbled head first into the hazy world of intermittent naps and sweaty sheets and wondering what time it was and whether the sun was shining. I had a post-viral headache for days long after I resolved enough was enough and proceeded with my regular life in spite of feeling like I’d been run over. As I type this I’m reminded of the many I know who suffer from chronic pain—my sister was one of them—and I have zero room to talk. My body managed the viral onslaught as is customary of a healthy immune system so I will not pretend to hold my two weeks of angst up as a memoir on suffering. But I did walk away with a slightly changed perspective on what it looks like to slowly exhale my need for care from others. That’s what it felt like—a slow exhale. Breathe in: There’s so much I need to do. Breathe out: Yet all my needs are met. Isn’t that the great irony of being a person safe within the Kingdom of God? There is truly much to be done, a great work ready for our participation, yet it is simultaneously a work headed in the same redeemed direction whether we hop on board or not. I think the grace of the occasional sickness might be this exact reminder. At least, it was for me this month and so my earbuds are attuned to the words of this song while I go about my day free from a headache, yet keenly aware of my need for God to hold my whole life, physical body and all, together in the center of His love. #3…Sideline siblings & another note on basketball We attended approximately 438 basketball games this season. That’s a rough estimate based largely on feelings rather than actual data (my kind of math) and it translated to a ton of what I affectionately call sideline sibling activities. I know this rings true for all younger siblings and perhaps a few oldest who aren’t yet able to drive or stay home alone. We have all of that going on at our house so I like to think we’ve mastered the art of grabbing shoes, audiobooks, doodle pages, and a snack while toppling into a van already littered with the things we just shoved into our tiny, random bags. Toward the end of the season I started to pay closer attention to what was happening behind all the literal and logistical noise. Here are a few things I observed… * Makeshift pickleball using an old ball and a rope. * 4 boys piled in closely over the pages of a Space book. * A million trips to the bathroom with friends. No one is more knowledgeable about rural Oklahoma upper elementary bathrooms than my kids. * Collaborative doodling. * Smacking. * Sharing of Doritos—sadly the most healthy snack choice available. I’ll never understand the nacho cheese. * Baby doting of the most precious kind. It’s magical to be only 7 and think you’re the cool older kid. * Yelling and then asking why we’re yelling. * Shared celebration and shared disappointment. * Learning each others’ names and then remembering them the following week. Last week I listened to the most incredible podcast episode at the behest of my husband and one our dear friends. It’s an interview with Ben Sasse, an impressively credentialed former senator and university president who recently announced a terminal pancreatic cancer diagnosis at age 53. I’ll not be able to do justice to the episode by written summary, but suffice it to say this one will make you feel things. When reflecting on his ongoing work of “redeeming the time,” Sasse said this: “You can play a lot of basketball in the last 60 seconds…” I spent all week thinking about it and I’ve come to the conclusion that if that’s not true, what are we even doing? This season of sporting for our young family has been full to the brim. I can’t say I wouldn’t do a few things differently because I would. I’d holler less about getting in the car quickly and I’d care much less about the outcomes of games with scores even now I can’t remember. But I can say we played a lot of basketball, the fullest kind, the real kind that included sidelines and siblings and snacks and sometimes questioning everything. This ball and hoop game at its worst develops a little grit and at its best teaches us how to live. I know what sounds hyperbolic, but I really believe it. Listen to Ben Sasse put a bow on it and tell me I’m wrong. Don’t forget tissues. As always, I get to the end of these and feel profoundly grateful to anyone reading to the very end. Please don’t stop here though. I have two asks: 1) Take what you see here and try your own hand at it. Maybe writing is not your jam, but I contend even the non-writers can make remembering a discipline. Like all worthy habits, the results are in the long haul so you should probably get started…do you have a journal nearby? 2) Consider reading through my guide for studying Proverbs. I’m rolling it out over the entire semester so you can take what you see and go slowly…no rush, no pressure, just a resource for you that I’ll keep offering for free! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit wehavethishope.substack.com/subscribe [https://wehavethishope.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_2]

So I Won't Forget...January 2026

Welcome friends to the first installment of So I Won’t Forget [https://wehavethishope.substack.com/t/so-i-wont-forget] for 2026! If you’re new to We Have This Hope, you can find out what this is all about right here [https://wehavethishope.substack.com/p/remembering-is-the-discipline-hope]. If you’re an OG (or my mom who happens to be the real OG), I’ll be keeping this introduction shorter than normal because I have a lot of words for you today. These essays are the overflow of a grateful heart. I never finish writing them without being astounded by the goodness of God in my ordinary life. This is the consistent return for the spiritual discipline of remembering. I hope you’ll savor them as you read, laugh a little in between, and consider doing this work yourself. Prefer to listen? Pop in your headphones and take me with you on a walk. Read all the way to the end for an update on the podcast and an announcement about what’s coming next week! #1…I Have a Dream cake My eldest has an affinity for baking. I know what you’re thinking…what an adorable hobby! And you’d be correct because baking at age 11 does check a lot of boxes. It’s tech-free, creative, translatable to useful skills, delicious, and positions her in the center of the house while working independently. Sprinkle in a little math and it’s basically the unicorn of pre-teen hobbies. When we were drowning in toddlers, people espoused to me the wonders of kids old enough to use the kitchen on their own and that’s turned out to be somewhat true. It’s quite nice when they can grab a snack, eat it on their own, and then throw the trash away—your only involvement is to affirm the whole process. That’s much better than wiping the floor underneath their high chairs for the umpteenth time, but what I found missing from all the laud about childhood kitchen independence was any warning about the cost by way of character development. So dear reader, I will not perpetuate the myth that as children grow more independent in the kitchen they will not require your assistance. They will and it looks a lot like emotional coaching with a side of very clear verbal instructions. Results may vary, but I offer up a cautionary tale about a Nutella cake that cost me 5 hours and ended with the entirety of Dr. King’s I Have a Dream speech. Parents of toddlers, consider yourself warned. I found her in the kitchen donning an apron and a sidekick from across the street. When I inquired about the setup, she told me she wanted to bake a cake to share with neighbors on MLK Day. How could I possibly object to such a noble endeavor? I nodded along and snagged my iced coffee to sip while chatting with friends in the sunshine of my driveway. Flash forward to a time later that evening when the sun was no longer shining and the cake was still not done. For unknown reasons, our top oven won’t reach temperature unless you chose specific buttons and if someone doesn’t know this, say the 11 year old baking a two layered cake, it can result in wildly different textures and colors. By 6PM we had one perfectly golden, rounded layer and one light beige and very dense layer. We also had an abundance of tears about the disparity between them. Cue the aforementioned emotional coaching. Half an hour later and with much encouragement, she began tackling the Nutella-based icing while insisting that she did not, I repeat DID NOT, need any help from the adults. I learned shortly thereafter that the recipe had called for 24 ounces of salted butter which she melted in the microwave for slightly longer than recommended. More tears for her and deep breaths from me over this darling cake that appeared to be stealing our evening. Ever the hero in these situations, Dad stepped in to calmly demonstrate how to ice a two-layer cake even though I’m fairly confident he’s never actually done that before. And by 8PM the whole thing was heartily complete and resting under the shelter of a glass cake stand. The next day she called the neighbors over for cake and stood proudly in the corner of our dining room holding a book she’d brought home from school. With an air of poised classroom teacher, she read slowly and deliberately while we ate, holding open the pictures for all to see in between each paragraph. Halfway through her reading, I realized she was sharing Dr. King’s I Have a Dream speech word for word. This wasn’t just a cute picture book, this was his infamous speech peacefully calling out injustice and affirming the equality of all people made in the image of God. When we allow freedom to ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God’s children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual: “Free at last! Free at last! thank God Almighty, we are free at last!” These hallowed words came out of my girl’s mouth while mine was full of Nutella and I wondered in my heart what compelled her to facilitate such a staunch reminder of Dr. King’s legacy. Was she parroting what she’d seen through teachers, neighbors, friends, and family? Was she responding to a nagging sense of justice that she seems to have accompanied her out of the womb? Or was the Spirit of God calling these beautiful sensibilities into the next phase of maturity, a phase that produces that perfect blend of gentleness and wisdom and measured action? Please let all the answers be yes. When I set out to be officially laid-back about a cake that cost 5 hours with a side of my sanity, I hadn’t anticipated what I’d find on the other side of it. I mostly imagined that I was fostering confidence in the kitchen and encouraging creativity, but it was so much more than that. If I’d jumped in to rescue my mostly white kitchen, I might have missed my daughter rehearsing how to use her voice to speak truth in love, to name injustice, and to rally others to join her in these holy efforts. I’m still finding remnants of splattered Nutella that I could begrudgingly wipe up while wondering about a day when I won’t have a kitchen filled with little creatives or I could count them the markings of a sacred space where people grow into maturity. In some seasons that maturity looks like how to balance a spoon all the way to your mouth and in other seasons, it looks like how to turn curiosity into overflowing compassion. What a privilege to wipe the floor for all of them. #2…How basketball teaches us to be human We’re in the thick of basketball season at our house which mostly means calculating the time it takes to get from one rural Oklahoma town to the next. In a real life conversation a few weeks ago, I legitimately did not know what town I was in—somewhere that started with a C and was big enough to have an elementary basketball team, but otherwise no clue. Basketball is a new sport to me. I never played growing up and didn’t pay much attention to it in a college or professional level either. March Madness wasn’t a thing around my girlie household, but I married a Kansas Jayhawk and that changed the basketball landscape for me going forward. Save the time Dustin finished a game standing on top of our coffee table blaring All I Do Is Win [https://open.spotify.com/album/4hZUVZAHXQX70fwKnahMzG] by DJ Khaled, I’d say we’re fairly laid back fans. We make brackets, snuggle up to watch fourth quarters, and play out in the cul-de-sac a little. I’m the least qualified person to be chronicling the greatness of this game, but sometimes a mid-life convert can shed a fresh light on old things. We’re learning so much at our house through this fundamentally lovely game so allow me to indulge a few metaphors for the sake of remembering a formational and precious season. * Pass…You cannot do it all on your own. Sometimes the only way to get the job done is to surrender to the help of another. * Run…It’s one thing to be restful, but at some point our legs were made to run. Use speed at the right time and, for goodness sakes, don’t walk when you’re supposed to be running. * Arms up…There are times when you’re still in something, but you’ve also done all you can. This is when you calculate your risk and simply have to go arms up. It’s anything but passive—it’s strategic and utterly important. * Block…Defense wins championships so we’re told…set a boundary, be respectfully firm, and don’t compromise your values. * Foul…Some are personal, some are technical. You’re allowed a few with a bit of grace, but there’s a limit for the safety of others and the purposes of the game. Forgive when you’re fouled. Extend a hand to the one you foul. And get back to work. * Dribble…As is the case many times in life, you can’t skip certain steps or you’ll have to walk it all the way back. Pressing forward is not the same as barreling forward without a little skill. Don’t forget to look up. * Get open…There’s always repetitive and important work to be doing even when you aren’t the center of attention. Stay curious, move around, and when the time is right, call for it. #3…Not a book review “Having and defending and celebrating the Bible instead of receiving, submitting to, and praying the Bible, masks an enormous amount of non-reading.” - Eugene H. Peterson, Eat This Book: A Conversation in the Art of Spiritual Reading This is not a book review. It will be more akin to a love letter than anything else because twice now I’ve read it and twice now I’ve teared up at the urgency of it all. I closed its pages last week and, standing in our kitchen, emphatically told Dustin “We have GOT to read the Bible more” and I didn’t mean it in the way you’re likely thinking—more devotionals, more quiet times, more regularity out of rigor or duty. I meant we need more of it like we need more vegetables. We need to eat more of it. Get it into our bodies and do the slow work of digesting and metabolizing it so that we are different people because of it. I borrowed this metaphor, of course, from the book I’m about to espouse by the late and prolific Eugene Peterson. Most of us know him from his modern translation of the Bible called The Message, but too few of us know him for his other seemingly hidden works like Eat This Book: A Conversation in the Art of Spiritual Reading [https://www.amazon.com/Eat-This-Book-Conversation-Spiritual/dp/0802864902/ref=sr_1_1?adgrpid=186429966676&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.syqPRGNg-cGSiNfp6_Kvvx6S0B-mDJu8MgKZ7so85w_G8ZoWF8eVUPAtK8f8QAotiXAWNLtQO-8H82ReBP1WQgOLFFlDPk2BDHxokOBqhv1e7W1CZMJU-1bYH1jCEFiysZdYR9kWJXQwvOGqz-HNTX9l9sdhbKm0Y3g7KD8qBSdo4lBNPeFMEVnMWQG3-I5rLUx15UOY1XPpYvvMfaivUoZ_xzOMIFgDfix0NnSWl3Y.eyuE7cgJYTBD4AtOTPMFzF0PmJyPlnnm6L2-Q54PEC0&dib_tag=se&hvadid=792823114503&hvdev=c&hvexpln=0&hvlocphy=9026563&hvnetw=g&hvocijid=2722066609597259717--&hvqmt=e&hvrand=2722066609597259717&hvtargid=kwd-314905386175&hydadcr=2929_13892007_2445887&keywords=eat+this+book+eugene+peterson&mcid=910ef9d444f83a99bf3a880427413af0&qid=1769649263&sr=8-1]. “Language is not primarily informational but revelatory. The Holy Scriptures give witness to a living voice sounding variously as Father, Son and Spirit, addressing us personally and involving us personally as participants. This text is not words to be studied in the quiet preserves of a library, but a voice to be believed and loved and adored in workplace and playground, on the streets and in the kitchen. Receptivity is required.” - Eugene H. Peterson I’ve yet to read anything else that articulates more beautifully an argument for reading the Scriptures in a way that is wholly personal and deeply transformational. Peterson borrows his own metaphor from chapter 10 of John’s Revelation when John attempts to write his vision on the scroll, but the angel instead tells him to eat it. His point in dissecting these strange verses is simply that our interaction with the Scriptures ought to be a lot like eating—savoring, processing, experiencing, ruminating, and ultimately coming back again and again as if our whole lives depended on it. I find this to be such a comfort because it names reading Scripture as embodied work—in my view a much more compelling process than if it required intellect alone. In those seasons and moments when the Bible has astounded me, it has been less about the academics of it all and so much more about the way my insides were nourished. And because I’m in a season of academics, one where I am truly nerding-out about the text, I need to cling to the reality that Rich Mullins so lyrically captured for us in the late 90s: “I did not make it. No, it is making me….” If anything, may this essay live right here so when I re-read my own work, which I occasionally do, I’ll remember how much I love Peterson’s work and how much it felt like a hug from a mentor who put words to an experience that I couldn’t name. Also, I hope you’ll read it [https://www.amazon.com/Eat-This-Book-Conversation-Spiritual/dp/0802864902/ref=sr_1_1?adgrpid=186429966676&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.syqPRGNg-cGSiNfp6_Kvvx6S0B-mDJu8MgKZ7so85w_G8ZoWF8eVUPAtK8f8QAotiXAWNLtQO-8H82ReBP1WQgOLFFlDPk2BDHxokOBqhv1e7W1CZMJU-1bYH1jCEFiysZdYR9kWJXQwvOGqz-HNTX9l9sdhbKm0Y3g7KD8qBSdo4lBNPeFMEVnMWQG3-I5rLUx15UOY1XPpYvvMfaivUoZ_xzOMIFgDfix0NnSWl3Y.eyuE7cgJYTBD4AtOTPMFzF0PmJyPlnnm6L2-Q54PEC0&dib_tag=se&hvadid=792823114503&hvdev=c&hvexpln=0&hvlocphy=9026563&hvnetw=g&hvocijid=12725117806226490257--&hvqmt=e&hvrand=12725117806226490257&hvtargid=kwd-314905386175&hydadcr=2929_13892007_2445887&keywords=eat+this+book+eugene+peterson&mcid=910ef9d444f83a99bf3a880427413af0&qid=1769650138&sr=8-1] and let me know what you think. “Christians don’t simply learn or study or use Scripture; we assimilate it, take it into our lives in such a way that it gets metabolized into acts of love, cups of cold water, missions into all the world, healing and evangelism and justice in Jesus’ name, hands raised in adoration of the Father, feet washed in company with the Son.”- Eugene H. Peterson Some of you have asked me about the We Have This Hope podcast this year and the short answer is that I’m not doing any interviews until later this year. Why? Because I’m in seminary and I’m a mom of 3 and both require me to be healthy. For now, you can except monthly narrations of So I Won’t Forget if you just crave the sound of my voice or perhaps you’re simply more a listener than a reader. I get that. Most importantly…next week I’m rolling out the first installment of a Stack Study [https://wehavethishope.substack.com/t/studies] on Proverbs. If you have questions or you’re interested in following along, leave a comment and I’ll do my best to fill in the gaps. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit wehavethishope.substack.com/subscribe [https://wehavethishope.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_2]