When Good Fruit Must Fall

While I walked through the peach orchards a few weeks ago, I noticed hundreds, maybe thousands, of small green peaches lying on the ground. It seemed so wasteful until I understood the purpose. My farmer husband told me the growers thin the fruit so that what remains will grow larger.

It made me think about how God often needs to thin out our lives as well. Last year I wrote a blog to you about pruning branches, which can relate more to sin, and my blog from Hebrews 12 about laying aside every weight and the sin that so easily entangles us. This peach thinning insight goes beyond simply pruning sin. Many of us think of thinning as God removing bad things from our lives. But often He removes good things that compete with better things. The peach tree is not being punished. It is being prepared to produce quality fruit.

In 2005 we joined an Alaskan mission and wrote Courage letters to our support base. In one letter I penned a poem that is not about thinning peaches, but it is about being so busy that our fruitfulness never comes to maturity.

A Rhyming Reason to Refocus

Right in the middle of a very busy day,
I took a hurried moment to bow my head and pray.
I would have run off quickly
But something seemed to say, “Be still.

“Your intensely flustered flurry,
Your pressured heat and hurry,
Your anxious wiles and worry only serve
To disconnect you from the Vine!

“Do you think that you can make it?
That your intellect can shake it?
That your strength can really make it
Happen in your time?

“Can a branch produce a cluster
With a glowing healthy luster
Without the Vine to muster up
Its sweetest wine?

“For your fruit comes not by straining,
But by gentle, quiet waiting
On the One whose living water
Fills your soul.

“Child, be still and listen to Me
Whisper peace that will come through Me
As you give the time that’s due Me
From yourself.”

So I listened and I waited
On the One who so had stated
That His peace was under-rated
In my mind.

All the while my work was calling,
And I hesitated stalling,
For it seemed the sky was falling
And I’d never finish all I had to do.

Yet as I sat there stewing
About all that needed doing,
A gentle peace began its brewing
In my soul.

Slowly He began the changing
With a quiet rearranging
By exchanging my poor thinking
For His own.

All that mattered was His nearness,
Which I saw with renewed clearness,
And He changed me to be fearless
In His love.

There my busy day was brighter
And my to-do list seemed much lighter
As I found that as a writer
I’m renewed!

As I reread that poem twenty years later, standing among those peach trees, I realized the lesson had been there all along.

The peaches scattered across the orchard floor were not diseased fruit. They were not bad peaches. In fact, they were perfectly healthy young peaches. Yet if they all remained on the tree, none would reach their full potential. The tree’s energy would be divided among too many competing demands.

The grower understands what the tree itself cannot.

Sometimes less fruit now produces better fruit later.

Jesus spoke of a similar process in our lives:

“Every branch that does bear fruit He prunes, that it may bear more fruit” (John 15:2).

Notice that He is not pruning dead branches in this verse. He is pruning fruitful ones.

That truth can be unsettling.

We readily understand why God removes sinful habits, unhealthy relationships, or destructive patterns. But what about the good things? What about worthwhile projects, meaningful commitments, enjoyable activities, and even ministry opportunities?

Sometimes God lovingly removes things that are good because they are competing with what is best.

Hebrews 12:1 instructs believers to “lay aside every weight, and the sin which so easily entangles us.” The writer makes a distinction between weights and sins. Some things are sinful and must be abandoned. Other things are simply weights. They may not be wrong, but they slow us down in our pursuit of Christ.

A peach tree does not need diseased fruit removed in order to be thinned. It simply has too much fruit.

How often is that true of us?

We crowd our calendars, fill our minds, multiply our commitments, and then wonder why our spiritual fruit seems small and immature. We strain harder, work longer, and push ourselves further, while the Master Gardener quietly invites us to release something.

Not because He wants less fruit.

Because He wants better fruit.

Love that runs deeper.

Joy that lasts longer.

Peace that remains steady.

Patience that endures hardship.

Faith that has been tested and proven genuine.

The thinning may feel like loss for a season. Opportunities pass. Plans change. Certain dreams are delayed or even surrendered. Yet the Gardener sees what we cannot. He knows which peaches must fall so that the remaining fruit can grow sweet and mature.

Perhaps that is why David wrote, “One thing have I desired of the Lord, that will I seek after…” (Psalm 27:4).

One thing.

Not twenty things.

Not a hundred worthy pursuits.

One thing.

We see the same principle in the story of Martha and Mary:

“Martha, Martha, you are worried and troubled about many things. But one thing is needed…” (Luke 10:41-42).

Martha wasn’t doing bad things. She was doing good things. Jesus simply pointed her toward the better thing.

The mature Christian life is often less about adding more and more and more, and more about allowing God to narrow our focus until Christ Himself becomes our chief desire.

The peaches on the orchard floor reminded me that God’s thinning is never punishment. It is preparation. The hand that removes is the same hand that nourishes. And the fruit He leaves behind will be all the sweeter because of what He chose to take away.

The next time I walk through the peach orchards, I doubt I’ll see waste lying on the ground. I’ll see the wisdom of the grower. What once appeared to be loss is actually an investment in sweetness yet to come.

And perhaps when God removes something from my own life—a dream, an opportunity, a responsibility, or simply a season that has ended—I will remember those little green peaches beneath the trees and trust the hand of the Master Gardener.

He is not reducing fruitfulness.

He is preparing it.

And perhaps that is why His invitation remains the same today as it was twenty years ago:

“Child, be still and listen to Me…”

For sometimes the sweetest fruit grows not from our striving, but from our abiding.

Posted on June 12, 2026June 12, 2026 by MarJean Knaak 2

HALEY HOUSE

What mold, memory, and grace taught me about restoration

A SMALL WEATHERED PARSONAGE sat beside a little country church made up of about fifteen elderly folks and an itinerant pastor. We had recently resigned from another pastorate nearby, leaving us without work or a home. This house on Haley Road was available—not at all on my hope list—but it kept our four children in the same school district in the middle of the year.

We went to inspect it. God drew my attention to the slightly sculptured ceiling, so I missed the animal droppings scattered in the corners. People had broken into the empty house and camped there, leaving the place in miserable condition.

Still, we had little choice. Friends from our former church came to help us scrub, repaint, and repair the little 900-square-foot bungalow. A converted oil stove served as our only heat source. The floors sloped so much that syrup ran to one side of the plate. Rats scurried in the walls at night, and one memorable rat escaped a trap missing a leg—only for our golden retriever to later catch a three-legged rat!

Then the damp Oregon winter settled in.

We burned green wood that barely heated the house, and before long fuzzy white mold crept up furniture legs and spread along the walls. Black mold gathered around the window frames. No matter how much we cleaned, the contamination kept returning.

The problem was deeper than what we could see.

Years later, another mold situation brought all those memories rushing back to me, and my thoughts immediately turned to Scripture.

Leviticus 13 and 14 contain surprisingly detailed instructions about mold spreading in houses. What struck me most was this: contamination spreads quietly, and careful inspection is required.

Sometimes infected areas had to be torn out completely. Superficial cleaning was not enough. Persistent contamination eventually required destruction.

One sentence from a mold inspector especially stayed with me:

“You have to find the source.”

That statement feels deeply spiritual.

The hidden spread of mold parallels the quiet spread of sin in our lives. Bitterness, pride, compromise, resentment, unbelief, and secret sin rarely appear all at once. Like mold, they begin hidden beneath the surface and quietly spread through the whole house. We finally found the source of the mold under the house where a putrid pond collected from a leak beneath the kitchen sink.

Psalm 139:23–24 says:

“Search me, O God, and know my heart… See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.”

Just as mold often hides behind walls, sin hides deep within the human heart.

Proverbs 4:23 warns:

“Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it.”

Mold remediation fails if the moisture source remains. Behavior modification without heart transformation fails too.

Jesus Himself said in Mark 7 that defilement comes “from within, out of a person’s heart.” We may paint over problems outwardly, but cosmetic fixes never cure the source.

And that is why the Gospel is such good news.

Every religion calls mankind to somehow reach God through human effort or goodness. Christianity tells the opposite story: God reached down to us through His Son.

Through the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, God made a way for sinful people to be cleansed, forgiven, and reconciled to Himself. When we come to Christ by faith, He not only forgives us, but begins the lifelong work of transforming us from the inside out.

Sometimes that cleansing process is painful. In Leviticus, infected stones were sometimes removed from the house entirely. In our lives, God may remove unhealthy patterns, false securities, sinful habits, or even relationships—not to destroy us, but to preserve life.

There must be inspection before restoration.

And there is hope.

The rest of our little house story came by learning to trust God’s love, wisdom, and grace. Spring finally arrived. We pumped out the swamp from under the house, bleached remaining mold, and painted our home a lovely country cream with dusty blue trim. Blue hearts and scrollwork decorated the gables, flowers bloomed beside the house, and rocks lined the gravel driveway. Slowly, our home changed and we delighted in what it became.

God has a way of doing that.

He forgives sin, cleanses hearts, renews minds, and restores what once seemed beyond repair. Old things pass away, and Christ truly does delight to make all things new.

This is what the LORD says: “Let not the wise boast of their wisdom or the strong boast of their strength or the rich boast of their riches, but let the one who boasts boast about this: that they have the understanding to know me, that I am the LORD, who exercises kindness, justice and righteousness on earth, for in these I delight,” declares the LORD” (Jeremiah 9:23-24).

Posted on May 21, 2026May 21, 2026 by MarJean Knaak 0

Reconciliation

This story is near to Don’s and my heart. Through our mutual concerns and fervent prayers together, we wrote this story to warn and encourage those we love. It can happen to anyone.

Two places set. Light still remains. The question is not whether the day is ending… but whether they will turn toward one another again.

WE have been watching a marriage.

Not our own, but one near to our hearts—close enough to feel, and close enough to learn from.

It is an old marriage. The kind that holds years within it. Shared memories. Seasons of joy and seasons of strain. A marriage that has endured more than most ever see from the outside.

And yet… today, it is in trouble.

The wife has grown weary. For reasons that did not appear overnight, she has come to believe that separation is the only way forward. The husband, meanwhile, seems unable—perhaps not unwilling, but unable—to truly hear what is being said, or to respond in a way that brings healing.

And find thinking: it did not begin this way.

It never does.

This marriage began on a firm foundation. But over time, life happened—as it always does. Responsibilities multiplied. The urgent slowly replaced the important. And without anyone quite noticing when it began, the relationship itself was no longer tended with the same care.

What grew instead was distance.

Not loud at first. Not obvious. Just… quiet.

Grievances were not resolved—they were set aside. Covered over. Gently pushed beneath the surface. After all, these were peace-loving people. They did not want conflict.

But somewhere along the way, they learned the difference between keeping peace and making peace—and chose the easier path.

They avoided what was hard instead of walking through it together.

And so honest conversation faded. Hurts went unspoken. Longings went unshared. Vulnerability slowly slipped away.

In its place came something more fragile: silence, misunderstanding, and quiet disappointment.

Without meaning to, they began living around the truth instead of in it.

And the truth, as it always does, eventually found its way to the surface.

Not clearly. Not cleanly. But indirectly.

It showed up in tone. In distance. In conversations held with others instead of each other.

The wife, carrying real pain, began to look for understanding wherever she could find it. She spoke of her hurt to those who would listen—not out of malice, but out of longing to be seen. And yet, even as her pain was validated, the distance at home only widened.

Her words toward her husband grew sharper—subtle at first, then more frequent. Not always direct, not always named, but enough to wound.

And somewhere deeper within her, something else began to take root: not only hurt, but regret.

Even the quiet question—Was this a mistake?

Meanwhile, the husband felt the shift.

He felt the distance. The disappointment. The weight of her dissatisfaction. And his own heart was wounded in ways he could not easily name.

He knew he had given much in the ways he understood—worked hard, provided, tried to be faithful.

And yet, there were questions he had not fully asked himself:

Had he truly listened—not just to words, but to her heart?
Had he made it safe for her to speak honestly, even when that honesty was difficult to hear?
Had he drawn near when she needed comfort, or remained distant when it mattered most?

And so here they are.

Not as enemies—but as two wounded people who no longer know how to find their way back.

The ending feels close.

And yet… there remains a quiet, sacred possibility.

That what is broken does not have to remain broken.

That wrongs, though real, do not have to be counted and carried forever.

That both could choose to lay down their case against one another—and take up the harder, holier work of reconciliation.

Because reconciliation does not begin when someone finally gets what they deserve.

It begins when both choose mercy.

When both release what they are owed.

When both take even one small step toward one another again—not as accuser and accused, but as people in need of grace.

And if they are willing, this marriage could still become something new.

Not what it once was—but something deeper. Softer. More honest.

A relationship no longer built on unspoken expectations, but on, humility, patience, and a love that chooses to remain.

And as I have watched this marriage, I have found myself asking a quieter question:

Why does it feel so familiar?

Not because it is the same… but because we are human.

Because wherever people walk together over time—whether in a home, or in a church—these same patterns can quietly take root.

We grow busy.
We drift.
We choose silence instead of honest conversation.
We carry hurts without bringing them into the light.
We begin speaking about one another instead of to one another.

And without ever intending to, we find ourselves standing at a distance… wondering how we got here.

This is not a story about them.

It is an invitation for us.

Not to assign blame.
Not to decide who is right.

But to ask, quietly and honestly:

Where have I withdrawn?
Where have I assumed instead of listened?
Where have I held onto what I should have released?
Where might I take one small step toward peace?

Because the grace that restores a marriage
is the same grace that can restore a church.

And the invitation before us is not to win—

but to be reconciled.

2Corinthians 5:17-19 says, “… Now all things are of God, who has reconciled us to Himself through Jesus Christ, and has given us the ministry of reconciliation, … and has committed to us the word of reconciliation.”

1John 3:18 —“Let us not love with words or speech but with actions and in truth.”

Posted on April 25, 2026April 25, 2026 by MarJean Knaak 2

What We Do With The Wound

My dear friends,

I’ve been thinking lately about how much of our lives is shaped not by what happens to us—but by what we do with the wound it leaves behind.

I’ve been sitting with the book of Esther again, and I can’t shake how surprisingly relevant it feels. Who would have thought that two ancient men—Haman and King Ahasuerus—could hold up such a clear mirror to our own hearts?

You likely remember the story. Haman, a descendant of the Amalekites—longtime enemies of the Jews—had been elevated to a place of great honor. When Mordecai refused to bow to him, something deep and dark was stirred. His anger wasn’t just irritation—it was consuming. What should have remained a personal offense became a plan for the destruction of an entire people.

And then there is King Ahasuerus. In the middle of his lavish feasting, in a moment clouded by wine and pride, he summoned Queen Vashti to display her beauty. When she refused, he too “burned with anger.” What should have been handled privately became a public decree affecting the entire kingdom.

Two men. Two bruised egos. Two very revealing responses.

And if I’m honest, I see pieces of myself in both of them.

I know what it is to feel that sudden rise of emotion when I feel slighted or overlooked. As someone who tends to feel things deeply and express them quickly, I recognize how fast a small offense can grow into something much bigger inside my heart. Perhaps you know that feeling too? Maybe your response looks different—maybe you go quiet, or carry it silently, or rehearse it over and over—but the root is the same. Something in us rises up and says, “That wasn’t right.”

What strikes me most is how both Haman and Ahasuerus took something personal and made it public.

Haman couldn’t simply deal with Mordecai. Instead, he expanded the offense to include an entire nation. Ahasuerus couldn’t quietly resolve the situation with Vashti. Instead, he made a sweeping decree, as if her choice threatened the whole social order.

And I had to stop and ask myself—how often do I do this in smaller ways?

How often do I take a personal hurt and let it spill into conversations, coloring how I speak about someone? How often do I replay the story, subtly inviting others to agree with me? It feels so justified in the moment, doesn’t it? And yet, it can so quickly become something that spreads far beyond the original wound.

I’m learning—slowly—that while there is a place for wise counsel, there is also a sacred place where I must first take my hurt to the Lord alone. Not to build a case. Not to be validated. But to be healed.

Another thing I notice is how both men surrounded themselves with voices that reinforced their reactions. Ahasuerus turned to his advisors, and instead of calming the situation, they escalated it. Haman, in his own way, carefully framed his words to the king to gain approval for his plan.

Isn’t that something we can do so easily? We don’t always look for truth—we look for agreement. We look for someone who will say, “Yes, you’re right to feel that way.”

But I keep coming back to this gentle conviction: Jesus didn’t die for my excuses. He died to set me free from them.

There’s also the matter of proportion. Oh, how this one humbles me.

A single act of disrespect led Haman to seek genocide. A single act of refusal led Ahasuerus to issue a decree affecting an entire empire. It sounds extreme—and it is—but isn’t there a quieter version of that in us? When emotions take over, how quickly we can exaggerate, escalate, and react in ways that don’t match the moment.

How different things might be if we paused… if we waited… if we invited the Lord into that very first surge of emotion.

At the root of it all, I see pride. A deep attachment to honor, to being seen rightly, to not being diminished in the eyes of others.

And here is where the Lord has been gently reshaping my thinking.

What if my identity is not in how I am perceived, but in whose I am?

What if the people around me saw not a polished, always-right version of me, but a woman learning to depend on Jesus? What if they saw me stumble—but also saw Him lift me up? What if they saw weakness, but also the quiet strength that comes from surrender?

I’m beginning to think that might speak more powerfully than anything else.

Finally, both men used their power to regain control. Haman through manipulation and destruction. Ahasuerus through authority and decree.

And while I may not hold that kind of power, I do recognize the subtle ways I try to control my world—through worry, through over-concern, through wanting things to turn out a certain way. It often looks respectable on the outside, but underneath is a struggle to trust.

The truth is, dear friends, we are not so different from these men as we might like to think. The same human heart beats within us—the same tendencies, the same vulnerabilities.

But here is the hope that steadies me:

What begins as a wound does not have to end in destruction.

Where Haman and Ahasuerus allowed their wounded pride to harm others, we are invited to let our wounds draw us closer to Christ. We are given the freedom to forgive, to release, to respond differently.

We may never influence an empire—but we deeply influence the spaces we live in every day. A reaction can wound a marriage, a family, a friendship, a church. But a surrendered heart? That can bring healing just as far.

So I’ve been asking myself—and I’ll gently ask you too:

Where might a small offense be trying to grow into something larger in my heart?

And what would it look like to place it, fully and honestly, into the hands of Jesus?

He is more than able to take what the enemy intends for harm and transform it into something good—far beyond what we could ask or imagine.

And perhaps it begins right here—with a quiet surrender, a softened heart, and a willingness to release what we were never meant to carry.

“Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.” (Ephesians 4:32)

With love,

Posted on April 9, 2026 by MarJean Knaak 4

When Thoughts Become Weights

Sometimes the struggles that weigh on us the most are not circumstances, but thoughts—thoughts that return again and again like waves against the same shoreline. I didn’t realize how much those rolling and crashing waves were shaping my spiritual life until a simple ocean photograph, a painting, and a few Bible word studies began to reveal something deeper.

What started as a quiet question about my own restless thoughts became an unexpected journey into what Scripture says about the heart, the mind, the soul, and the thoughts that move through us. And strangely enough, the crashing waves along the rocky coast of Cambria helped me see it more clearly than ever before.

About a year ago, I was delighted when Don took me to Cambria, a lovely coastal town just north of Morro Bay. We walked along the boardwalk taking photos, trying to capture the beauty of waves exploding against rocks, and powerful swirling waters.

We had only been married about a year. It was the beginning of the second chapter of our lives, now together, and God had given us a Scripture that felt like a shield of protection for this new season.

Isaiah 43:18–19 says:

“Forget about what’s happened; don’t keep going over old history. Be alert, be present. I’m about to do something brand-new. It’s bursting out! Don’t you see it? There it is! I’m making a road through the desert, rivers in the badlands.”

It was a perfect Scripture for our marriage.

Yet I struggled to follow those wonderful directives.

Instead of leaving the past behind, I found myself wanting to know everything about it. I sorted through hundreds of Don’s old photographs. Some stirred warm appreciation for the life that had shaped him. Others surfaced unexpected emotions. At the same time, I missed my family back in Washington and Alaska and felt the distance from everything familiar.

The past was not as easy to “forget” as Isaiah seemed to suggest.

Recently, I asked ChatGPT to transform one of our Cambria ocean photos into an oil painting. The result was beautiful. As I looked at the image, I was drawn to another passage of Scripture—Hebrews 12:1:

“Let us lay aside every weight and the sin that so easily entangles.”

The word weight caught my attention.

The weight I felt was not necessarily a visible burden. It was the constant swirl of thoughts—thoughts about our pasts, thoughts that revisited old questions, thoughts that replayed memories again and again. They tangled around my spiritual feet and made it difficult to walk freely in the joy of the Lord.

I prayed often for contentment and gratitude. Those prayers were answered—but only in small increments.

Then one day as I studied the ocean painting, something struck me. The large rocks rising from the water reminded me of the past. The waves crashing against them were like my emotions—constantly returning, colliding with what could not be changed.

The rocks were immovable.

No matter how much the water surged, the rocks remained.

That picture stirred something in me, and I decided it was time to face the issue directly. I opened my online Bible study tool, Blue Letter Bible, and began an investigation. First, I searched for the word thoughts. Then I searched for mind, soul, and heart.

Then I gathered those passages together and asked ChatGPT to help summarize the themes I was seeing. The Scriptures themselves were clear—the Bible has a great deal to say about our thoughts, our mind, our soul, and especially our heart.

What I discovered surprised me.

The Bible speaks often about our thoughts, but it rarely treats them as the deepest center of who we are. Thoughts are described as something that can wander, multiply, accuse, imagine, or be taken captive.

Thoughts are real, but they are not the deepest part of the human person.

Scripture points instead to the heart.

The heart, in biblical language, is the core of our inner life—the place where desires, choices, trust, and devotion reside. Proverbs tells us, “Guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it.” Jesus said that what comes out of a person originates from the heart. Paul prayed that believers would have the “eyes of their heart enlightened.”

In other words, the heart is the true control center.

The mind processes understanding.
The soul expresses our living self.
Thoughts move through our awareness.

But the heart directs the whole person.

Suddenly, my Cambria painting began to make more sense.

The waves in the painting were like my thoughts—constantly moving, sometimes calm, sometimes crashing. The rocks represented the unchangeable realities of the past. But the ocean itself—the deeper body beneath the waves—reminded me of something deeper still.

The heart.

Waves may thrash on the surface, but the deeper ocean remains steady.

This realization changed something for me.

My problem was not that thoughts existed. Thoughts naturally come and go, just like waves on the sea. The problem was that I had been allowing those waves to define the condition of my heart.

Hebrews 12 suddenly sounded different.

“Lay aside every weight.”

Perhaps the weight was not the existence of thoughts themselves, but the habit of carrying them, rehearsing them, and letting them entangle my steps.

When I looked again at the Cambria painting, I saw something new. The waves were still crashing. The rocks were still there. But the scene was not chaotic after all. It was simply the nature of the ocean.

Waves move.

Rocks remain.

But beneath it all lies a vast and steady depth.

God was gently reminding me that He works at that deeper level. He does not merely quiet the waves of passing thoughts; He renews the heart itself.

And when the heart rests in Him, the waves lose their power to entangle our steps.

The past may remain like those rocks along the shoreline—real, visible, unmovable. But the grace of God creates something stronger than the waves that crash against them.

The waves may keep moving, but they no longer decide the direction of my heart.

A new heart.

And from that renewed heart flows something I had been asking God for all along:

contentment, gratitude, and the quiet joy of walking forward into the “brand-new” work He promised.

Artist’s Reflection

The Cambria ocean painting became more than a memory of a beautiful coastal walk. It turned into a visual reminder of the spiritual journey God was taking me through.

The rocks in the painting represent the past—real events and memories that cannot be removed or rewritten. They stand firm along the shoreline of our lives.

The waves represent our thoughts and emotions. They move constantly. Sometimes they are calm and gentle; other times they surge with surprising force. Left unchecked, they can repeatedly crash against the same places in our hearts.

But the ocean itself is deeper than the waves.

Then there is the sun shining across the sea and the sea reflecting its light and beauty. Hebrews 12:2 says, “Fixing our eyes on Jesus.” The Son of God, the Light of the world, the Way, the Truth, the Life! He is our focus and shines the light of His truth across all the waves of our lives so everything reflects His glory. The sun represents Him revealing Himself to us through all our circumstances, past, present. and future.

God does not promise to erase every memory or prevent every passing thought. Instead, He invites us to anchor our hearts in Him. Beneath the surface movement of thoughts, He forms a deeper, steadier life within us.

When our hearts are settled in Him, the waves lose their power to entangle our steps.

The rocks may remain, but the ocean belongs to God.

Posted on March 6, 2026March 7, 2026 by MarJean Knaak 4

Something Missing, Something Discovered

Sometimes what feels like emptiness is simply an invitation —
an invitation to notice how God restores us through one another.

Some mornings arrive with a quiet restlessness. Nothing is obviously wrong, yet something feels slightly missing.

Feeling out of sorts and a bit grumpy (not quite sure why), I pulled on my robe and slippers and headed for the kitchen. My morning greeting to my husband was less than cheerful, and even after a hot mocha, I couldn’t seem to shake my sullen mood. My prayers for help — “Change my heart, O God” — felt as though they were falling flat.

After my husband left for work, I texted a friend and asked her to pray for me.

She didn’t just send a quick reply. She sent three beautiful, uplifting songs from YouTube. Really — who can stay grumpy with a friend like that? One song led to another, and soon I was listening to the old hymn, “Does Jesus Care?”

What I could not shake, God gently shook loose — through someone who cared.

The tender words met me right where I was:

Oh yes, He cares, I know He cares;
His heart is touched with my grief.

Even though my cares that morning were not earth-shattering or heavy with sorrow, they were real. They were precious reminders that Jesus cares not only about our deepest anguish, but about our attitudes, our discouragements, and the subtle heaviness we sometimes cannot explain.

Sometimes our burdens are far heavier. Over a lifetime, each of us walks through testing fires. You know about that too, don’t you? Yet God redeems those hard seasons in a beautiful way — by allowing us to share the comfort we receive with others who are walking through their own valleys. He gives us what Scripture calls the ministry of reconciliation.

Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God (2 Corinthians 1:3–4).

Does Jesus care? Oh yes, He cares. Not only in life’s deepest griefs, but in small, ordinary mornings when our hearts feel slightly off balance. And often, His care comes in simple, earthly ways — through a friend, a song, a conversation.

I was reminded of that lesson again just the other day while standing at my stove.

After adding meat and vegetables to a pot of homemade bone broth, I tasted it and said to my husband, “This is still missing something, but I don’t know what it is.”

That thought lingered longer than I expected. For several days, I had felt as though something in my own life was missing — though, like the soup, I couldn’t name it. I have everything I could think of: a lovely home, a wonderful husband, children and grandchildren, meaningful Bible study with dear friends. What could possibly be lacking?

That afternoon I took a nap and dreamed the sweetest dream. I was walking along a hiking trail with my youngest son — grown now — and we were talking. I told him that the highlight of our reunion was simply our conversations and the fellowship we were sharing right then. I awoke with a lingering sense of closeness, mutual love, and oneness. I wished I could hold on to that feeling forever.

Later that same day, I had a couple of heartfelt conversations with friends. And suddenly I realized — the empty, incomplete feeling was gone.

Something missing had quietly been discovered.

What had been absent was not activity, accomplishment, or possession.

It was closeness.

Connection.

The extra dash of salt.

God created us for fellowship — with Himself and with one another. As St. Augustine wisely wrote, “You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our heart is restless until it rests in you.” True fulfillment is found in God alone.

And yet, the God who made us for Himself also made us for one another. We are not meant to live secluded, self-contained lives.

Jesus teaches that the greatest commandments are to love God with all our heart, soul, mind, and strength — and to love our neighbor as ourselves. When He prays for those who believe, He asks “that all of them may be one, Father, just as you are in me and I am in you” (John 17:20–21). The Apostle John writes, “God is light; in Him there is no darkness at all… But if we walk in the light, as He is in the light, we have fellowship with one another” (1 John 1:5,7).

Our loved ones may be around us daily. We may rub shoulders with them constantly. But it is intentional closeness — the listening, the sharing, the vulnerability of walking in the light, and the caring — that deepens the sweetness. Like salt in soup, it does not change the substance of what is there; it draws out the richness already present.

Scripture tells us that Christ’s love compels us. The One who reconciled us to Himself did not simply restore us and leave us standing alone. He draws us into His own heart and then sends us toward one another. God reconciled us to Himself through Christ, not counting our sins against us. And then — astonishingly — He entrusted to us the ministry of reconciliation.

We are called His ambassadors. God makes His appeal through His people.

That means when a friend sends a timely text, a song, a prayer, or a word of encouragement, it is not small. It is Christ caring through His body. It is the Father of compassion extending His comfort through willing hands and open hearts.

Perhaps that is what we so often discover when something feels missing.

We were not made merely to exist side by side.

We were made to share comfort, to extend grace, to bring the flavor of Christ’s love into one another’s lives.

Does Jesus care?

Oh yes, He cares.

And often, what was missing is discovered in the warmth of His love —
seasoned and passed along through us.

Artist’s Statement

Something Missing, Something Discovered was inspired by an ordinary morning that felt slightly unsettled. The simple elements in this painting — a bowl of soup, a resting spoon, a softly glowing phone, and morning light filtering through a window — represent the quiet ways God meets us in everyday life.

The steam rising from the bowl symbolizes warmth and comfort, while the light suggests His presence entering gently rather than dramatically. The subtle imperfection in the brushwork reflects the beauty of real life — not flawless, but filled with grace.

This piece is a reminder that what feels missing is often restored through connection. God’s care frequently comes through simple acts of love, passed from one person to another.

Our Prayer

Father of compassion,

When our hearts feel restless or slightly out of balance,
help us not to ignore that quiet ache.
Teach us to bring it to You.

Thank You for the ways You care for us —
not only in life’s great sorrows,
but in small, ordinary mornings.

Open our eyes to see how often
Your comfort arrives through others —
a song, a prayer, a conversation, a simple text.

Make us willing carriers of that same comfort.
Season our lives with kindness,
soften our hearts toward one another,
and teach us to walk in the light together.

When something feels missing,
lead us gently to what You are already providing.

In Jesus’ name,
Amen.

Posted on February 25, 2026 by MarJean Knaak 4

When God Writes Second Chapters

BLOSSOMS IN THE FOG OF NEW BEGINNINGS

The peach trees are beginning to bloom.

Each morning I notice a little more color against the gray—soft blossoms opening while the Central Valley fog still hangs low. Some days the clouds linger longer than expected, muting the light. And yet, there they are. Blossoms. Quiet. Persistent. Unhurried.

Living on a peach orchard has become more than scenery to me; it feels like a living parable.

When I married Don July 2024, I made a significant transition—leaving Spokane, Washington, my children and grandchildren, and a lifetime of familiar rhythms to join him here in Reedley, California. Don, on the other hand, has lived in this valley all his life. This land has been in his family since 1925, passed from his grandfather to his father, and then to him. These acres have been faithfully tended for generations.

So while the geography is still new to me, the orchard itself speaks of rootedness, endurance, and patient hope.

Both of us came into this marriage as widows and widowers after 52 years. I brought with me the ache of leaving what I loved and the courage it takes to begin again. Don brought his own transition—learning to love again after deep loss, adjusting to life with a different wife while honoring the long, faithful marriage that shaped him. Joy and sorrow have met us both here, just in different ways.

And still, the trees bloom.

Fruitfulness in a Second Chapter

Scripture never presents fruitfulness as belonging only to first chapters.

God’s Word is filled with lives that bear fruit later, quieter, and differently than expected. Ruth flourishes in a foreign land. Elizabeth rejoices after years of silence. Sarah laughs at life returning when she thought the season had passed.

Second-chapter fruitfulness does not deny loss. It grows because the ground has been broken open.

These blossoms are not fruit yet. They are promise. They do not guarantee the harvest, but they testify that life is stirring beneath the surface—even while the sky remains gray.

That feels especially true in this season of marriage. Adjustments have been real, especially in this first year. Blending two long stories takes patience, humility, and grace. And yet, God has been faithful. Sweet companionship has grown. Shared purpose has emerged.

Don finds deep fulfillment teaching Bible in his 54th year at Immanuel High School. I have found joy and strength serving alongside the women of WOW—Women of the Word, whose friendship, prayers, and encouragement have anchored me during this transition. God is making our lives fruitful in this land—not hurriedly, not perfectly, but faithfully.

A Word for Widows and Singles

I want to speak directly to those who may be reading this from a quieter, lonelier place.

If you are widowed, single, or navigating a season of transition that feels unseen, please hear this: your life is not paused, and your faithfulness is not overlooked.

Fruitfulness is not measured by marital status or visible milestones. Scripture honors seasons of steadfastness, obedience, and trust—especially when they feel hidden. The Lord sees you. He knows the weight of memories, the ache of absence, and the courage it takes to keep believing that He is not finished with your story.

You are not barren ground.

Even now, God is at work—preparing roots, forming promise, bringing life in ways that may still be tender and unseen.

Faithfulness in the Fog

Living here has taught me something simple but profound: fog does not stop growth. The trees bloom anyway.

We do not need full clarity to remain faithful. We do not need certainty to trust. We are simply called to stay rooted where God has planted us.

“Those who are planted in the house of the Lord shall flourish.” (Psalm 92:13)

Flourishing doesn’t always look dramatic. Sometimes it looks like endurance. Sometimes it looks like obedience. Sometimes it looks like quiet blossoms opening under clouded skies.

And that, too, is a holy kind of beauty.

Scripture Reflection & Prayer

“Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?”
—Isaiah 43:18–19

Prayer:
Lord, help us trust You in the fog. Give us eyes to see the quiet work You are doing beneath the surface of our lives. Teach us to honor what has been lost without fearing what is new. Root us where You have planted us, and let our lives bear fruit in Your time. Amen.

Posted on February 9, 2026 by MarJean Knaak 5

UNFADING LOVE –– Running The Race Together

Could all that is lost ever be found? Could a garden come up from this ground at all? You make beautiful things You make beautiful things out of the dust You make beautiful things You make beautiful things out of us. —Gungor

February already! The bustling holidays passed in a blur, January sped by, and I remember C. S. Lewis’s words: “We cannot fathom the passing of time because we were made for eternity.” I suspect it also has something to do with my age-related metabolism slowing down—time seems to move faster while I move slower. Either way, Valentine’s Day peeks around the corner, stirring different emotions in different people for different reasons: hope for some, loss for others, loneliness for many, puppy love for the young, and perhaps something deeper for the young at heart.

Wherever we find ourselves this February—married or single, widowed or waiting, content or quietly longing—we are all invited into the same deeper love: the unfading love of Christ that meets us exactly where we are. So this month, let’s talk about something deeper—like unfading love and running the race together.

Even in a loving marriage, life is never without its challenges. Marriage at any age is not easy, and when—by reason of more years—we become more set in our ways, it can be even more challenging. There is a bending, and sometimes even a breaking, of the will when we love someone enough to give up our own way. Submission was not easy the first time, but the second time we no longer take the relationship for granted. We come with a more willing spirit.

Still, there are moments when, despite that willing spirit, change threatens my sense of security and I feel the impulse to protect and defend both my point of view and my heart. Years ago, I learned the necessity of debriefing with someone in order to process change well. Change is hard because it always brings loss: loss of relationships, ways of life, possessions, ideas, expectations, hopes, and dreams.

So here’s the line-up: Every change brings loss. Every loss brings grief. And every grief must be processed. When we try to bury grief, shut it up, shame it, guilt it, or replace it with distractions, we discover it does not stay buried. Instead, it comes out sideways—often through the very things we use to numb ourselves. Grief cannot be turned on and off like a water spigot. It may remain contained for a while, but eventually pressure builds, and what is unprocessed leaks into other areas of life.

But doesn’t time heal all wounds? Time alone does not heal emotional pain. It creates space—but healing requires intention. It requires naming loss, processing emotions, finding meaning, and sometimes seeking help. Healing is not passive.

Recently, I came across old photos of us—still young and beautiful. They stirred those feelings of loss again, but I knew where to go. I cast my cares on Jesus. I met Him in His Word and through prayer journaling. In my mind, Jesus looked at those photos with me. I did not turn away. I looked straight into the ache of what I missed.

Then I turned the page of my mental photo album and saw us now reflected in the mirror: older, slower, stiffer, marked by time.

And I prayed, Oh Lord, give me grace—to accept the reality of aging in a fallen world. Help me look beyond this season to the eternal youth and beauty that await us with You.

In the quiet of the night, truth pushes back the lies of hopelessness. God often brings a song, a phrase, a reminder that He specializes in making beauty from brokenness and life from what seems worn out. As Gungor writes, “Could all that is lost ever be found? Could a garden come up from this ground at all?” What seems impossible, faith brings to light through the grace, goodness, and faithfulness of our God.

Even out of aging, aching bodies, He is still able to bring something good. My true life is not—nor ever was—found in youth or physical beauty. It is found only in the life of Jesus, poured out for me, into me, and through me to others. That is how God makes something beautiful out of dust—out of this fragile, aging clay pot of a life.

The apostle Paul writes:

For God, who said, “Let light shine out of darkness,” has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ. But we have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us (2 Cor. 4:6–7).

The glory of God in Christ is the treasure. We are the clay jars—fragile, ordinary, and easily cracked—so that it is unmistakably God’s power at work, not ours. Glory carried by weakness. Light housed in frailty. Christ displayed through us.

Hebrews reminds us that we do not run this race alone:

Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses… let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus (Heb. 12:1–2).

Because others have gone before me—and now cheer me on—I pray for God’s strength to lay aside what hinders me: old comparisons, lingering jealousy, quiet resentments. I ask for grace to run with perseverance the race God has chosen for me, fixing my eyes not on what once was, but on Jesus. He endured the cross for joy—joy in redeeming clay pots like me.

And so I run—not young, not beautiful by the world’s standards—but deeply loved, still becoming, and carried by a glory that does not fade.

So we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away,
our inner self is being renewed day by day.
For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us
an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison.
—2 Corinthians 4:16–17

This winter forest is a my painting of unfading love. The season is bare and cold, yet the light remains—shaped not by what is added, but by what endures. The paired footprints move forward together, not in haste, but in faithfulness, marking a shared direction through the long path. Love like this is not loud or fleeting; it keeps walking, through winter, toward the light.

Posted on February 3, 2026April 9, 2026 by MarJean Knaak 0

New Year Thoughts on Light and Salt

AS WE STEP INTO THE NEW YEAR, many of us are thinking about rest, renewal, and what truly guides us through the darkness. A sleepless night—and a bedroom full of glowing gadgets—became an unexpected reminder of Jesus’ call to be light in a dark world. This reflection invites us to begin the year not by striving harder, but by abiding deeper, allowing His light to shine through us in quiet, faithful ways.

When a Little Light Keeps You Awake

I like a dark room in order to sleep—and stay asleep. Actually, let’s be honest—I need a dark room. Don, ever the practical one, says, “Just close your eyes.” That’s adorable. If it were that simple, the sleep industry would collapse overnight.

As a new year begins, I’ve been thinking about rest—real rest. Not just sleep, but soul rest. And I didn’t expect the Lord to use my bedroom to get my attention, but here we are.

When we finally turn off the ceiling light and bedside lamps, it’s dark for maybe three seconds before the glow show begins. The bedside clock shines like a spotlight. The smoke detector blinks as if to say, “Still awake?” The carbon monoxide detector joins in. Blue lights from air purifiers glow on both sides of the room, the motion detector’s red eye keeps watch, and even the microwave shines from the corner (for heating pads… because, well, life).

Add in my phone lighting up with notifications, my Fitbit flashing when I move, Don’s C-Pap machine with its friendly yellow beacon, and chargers for everything plugged into a power strip that twinkles like Christmas—and sleep suddenly feels optional.

I’ve tried covering lights. I’ve tried moving things. I’ve even tried wearing red goggles to block blue light when I prayer journal at night. Between the goggles and my C-Pap, I’m quite a sight—definitely not romantic. Don, on the other hand, prefers a little light so he won’t bump into things if he gets up at night. And honestly, I understand.

Years ago, when I was single, the power went out after I got up at night, and I couldn’t find the bed in the pitch black. Completely disoriented, I felt my way through the darkness like a confused bat. Thankfully, I didn’t get hurt. Don would be another story.

Light in the Darkness

All this nighttime illumination has followed me right into the new year—and it’s reminded me of something Jesus said:
“You are the light of the world.”

That stopped me.

If a tiny charger light can keep me awake, what might even a small reflection of Jesus’ light do in a spiritually dark world? His light in us isn’t meant to decorate our lives—it’s meant to flow through them. It’s His presence, quietly but powerfully at work.

As a new year begins, many are tired. Many are confused. Many are searching for solid ground. We see it everywhere—disorientation, discouragement, hearts stumbling in the dark.

And yet—even the faintest glow of Christ’s truth shining through a willing heart can awaken something in another soul. It can stir hope. It can point the way home. People may trip over the truth at first—but if the light keeps shining, some will eventually see that the very thing they stumbled over is the only thing that can save them.

Salt, Light, and the Work of the Heart

It’s no accident that Jesus talks about salt and light right after the Beatitudes. The order matters.

Before He calls us “the salt of the earth” and “the light of the world,” He blesses the heart attitudes that reflect His own life within us. The Beatitudes aren’t goals to strive for in the new year; they’re evidence of what Jesus produces when we abide in Him.

Poverty of spirit. Mourning over sin. Meekness. Hunger for righteousness. Mercy. Purity of heart. Peacemaking. These aren’t boxes to check—they’re fruit that grows when Christ is at work in us.

Only then does His influence naturally flow through us.
Salt preserves and creates thirst.
Light reveals, guides, and gently exposes.

Jesus isn’t asking us to try harder this year. He’s inviting us to stay closer.

Awake on Purpose

So maybe my glow-in-the-dark bedroom is a small parable for January.

The world is full of little lights that keep us awake physically. But Jesus calls us to be a light that keeps people awake spiritually—to shine just enough for hearts to notice Him.

And maybe, when I wake in the night surrounded by all those blinking gadgets, I can quietly pray,
“Okay, Lord—I see the lesson. You’ve made me light-sensitive for a reason.”

May this new year find us resting in Him, walking closely with Him, and shining—not because we’re trying to—but because His light lives in us.

“Arise, shine, for your light has come,
and the glory of the LORD rises upon you.”
—Isaiah 60:1

Posted on January 5, 2026 by MarJean Knaak 2

While We Wait

TRUTH IS, I’ve lived a lot of years. Nearly a biblical lifetime. Every September I celebrate another birthday if I want to or not. I believe I finally reconciled the frustration of aging when I read something about the blessing of not dying young. So, I’m grateful.
Recently, I waited with an intensity that nearly took away my breath. I tried to imagine the immediate reality of Jesus’ actual appearance to rapture me to glory this fall. Though it felt crazy, I prepared to make sure Smoky, our yearling pup, and three-month-old Snickers wouldn’t starve to death in their kennels when we disappeared from this earth.
The need to keep them in kennels at night and often during the day happened the first week of September when Smoky discovered a rabid bat in our backyard. Though we saw no contact between the bat and the pups, the health department quarantined them. That meant no contact with each other or any humans besides us for up to four months. This tough challenge suddenly made life very restricted for us, our pups, and for our eight little grandchildren who delight in these darling Havanese.
One morning I felt especially weary and feared a miscalculation of the immediacy of Christ’s return. I opened my Bible, and the Lord met me with these words,

Strengthen the feeble hands, steady the knees that give way; say to those with fearful hearts, ‘Be strong, do not fear; your God will come, he will come with vengeance; with divine retribution he will come to save you’ (Isaiah 35:3-4).

Recent studies and a great number of Bible teachers and “watchers” testify to the growing immediacy of Christ’s return. While they did not set exact dates, hope rode high for a September 2017 snatch. September passed without His glorious appearing, and my spirits sagged.
I’m still passionate about the reality of the harpazo (rapture) prophesied in 1Thessalonians 4:13-18. Speaking to the Jews about His second coming (not the Rapture), Jesus says, “Suppose that servant says to himself, ‘My master is staying away a long time’” (Mt 24:48). He also tells us “The bridegroom took a long time in coming (Mt 25:5), and in the story of the talents He says, “After a long time the master of those servants returned” (Mt 25:19).
The Lord will indeed come to rapture His Bride and also come again to set up His millennial kingdom but in His time. According to these passages, He also holds us accountable for our response during the wait. My disappointment taught me that if I know the day and hour, my life stops. Why dust my furniture, make doctors’ appointments, or plan anything beyond that date? Once the time passed, I felt a sense of relief from the intensity of the wait to go back to a more familiar mind frame of worldly denial where Jesus is coming back “someday” in some ethereal, distant unreality. Not good thinking!
The delay also means I need to buckle down and embrace my restrictions and responsibilities whether I want to or not. Once again endurance and perseverance came into play. I so wanted to be done! Done fighting with my old nature, done with my responsibilities, done with the daily grind, and done with the intensity to keep the pups apart. I did not welcome this additional time to wait.
God still offers me another opportunity to trust His grace and mercy. Another chance to do all things through Christ who strengthens me. He continues to walk with me through this earth place day by day. Not the calendar, blood moons, a darkened sun, nor hurricanes, floods, earthquakes, bloody massacres, firestorms, wars, nor rumors of wars ever change Him, His intense love, or the truth of His promises.
Today I listened to songs on Youtube that reminded me of God’s faithfulness over the years. Throughout my life, God always provided something to challenge, test, and grow my faith. The Lord also gives me a choice. I can resist and get angry over growing pains, or I can thank God I’m alive enough to feel them and that He will use them for my good and His glory.
Our puppy snuggles next to me. I love to touch his soft, silky fur and feel his warm little body next to me. I thank God for him, for the sun that still shines through my windows, for God’s grace, mercy, and love that constantly fill and renew me for yet another earth day.
John tells us that the light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it (Jn 1:5). No matter how hard life becomes or what disappointments come our way, they will never possess enough power to snuff out God’s light, the truth of His Word, and the love of His heart.

Therefore, we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all (2Cor 4:15-17).

20171003_194655-2

Posted on October 19, 2017 by MarJean Knaak 6