Day breaks, and my husband Tony is ready to get going.

He usually begins with some kind of breakfast, after which he will read the newspaper and play a rousing game or two of Spider Solitaire on the computer before hopping into his golf cart and heading to the club house to team up and play eighteen challenging and joyous holes of golf.

This he does every morning of his life if we’re in town and it isn’t sleeting. Or, to be fair, this he does if someone doesn’t need him for something before one in the afternoon.

The morning of my sixtieth birthday, Tony was kind enough to linger in bed with me awhile before throwing back the covers to embrace the day.

When I opened my eyes on the morning I had been dreading my entire 59th year and realized that I had, in fact, lived long enough to be 6-0, I groaned.

Of course, somewhere underneath the angst, I was thankful still to be alive, with things yet to experience and accomplish before this mortal puts on immortality, but I’m sorry to say, dread trumped gratitude.

My only defense for such a poor attitude is that the most down-to-earth Christian woman I know told me across the pew one Sunday when I was 58 or 59 that turning sixty had been her hardest birthday. Thanks, Dorothy, your confession was salve for my wounded ego as I prepared to slither through this birthday with so little grace and dignity.

“Tony,“ I muttered, when my foot discovered he was still beside me that wretched morning. “I don’t think I can do this.“

He laughed and said, “Sure you can, Slick.“

He’s sure we can do anything.

I appreciate his confidence. It was a lot better than saying, “I don’t think you can either, Slick.“

Nevertheless, I need more than his reassurance to make this transition into what Jane Fonda has called Act Three.

Just over fourteen years ago, I remember receiving a call from my older daughter, Stacey, who had been married only four months.

“Mother!“ she exclaimed. (This was frightening as she always calls me “Mom.“) “Come over here and tell me if you think this is a plus sign.“

Five minutes later four of us were in our daughter’s little kitchen gathered around the table looking down at the most obvious plus sign I’ve ever seen. Our first grandchild was on his way.

I wanted to shout, “Woo hoo!“ But sensitivity to Stacey and Steve’s faces and body language kept me from saying or doing anything remotely celebratory. Instead we calmly reassured them that everything was going to be fine.

(We could wait until we made our getaway before rejoicing over the fact that soon, by God’s grace, we would begin loving and teaching “their children after them.“)

Stacey, after briefly processing just a smidgen of what this plus sign would mean, pointed at her dad and me and said, “We’re not in this alone, you know!“

Tony and I smiled.

“Of course not.“

And for sixteen years now, she hasn’t been. Neither has her sister, Leanne. Tony and I have been thrilled to help them any way we can.

As I lay in bed on that ominous birthday, overwhelmed at beginning this unfathomable decade of my life, I prayed a prayer much like what Stacey had said to us all those years ago: “I’m not in this alone, Lord.“

I uttered that prayer with great respect and confidence. If I’ve learned anything in the last sixty years, it is this: he will be glad to help. “I will never leave you or forsake you” is my theme verse; “Great is the Faithfulness,“ my theme song.

For this reason alone, I was willing to get up on that December 14th. That and an 11:00 doctor’s appointment.

As I’ve said—in this blog, in my articles, and in my novels, the loving and faithful presence of God in my life is my “astonishment”; it is the theme of my life.

Today if you didn’t want to get out of bed for a small reason or a very large one, I hope you remember that you are loved and you’re not in this alone.

I mentioned last week that only three weeks into my teaching career, I wanted desperately to quit. My husband talked me into hanging in there until Christmas, but my anxiety, coupled with sleep deprivation caused, no doubt, by that anxiety, led to an incident that I have called “the last straw.“

I was standing before my third hour class and someone said something funny that made me smile. When it was time to quit smiling, however, I couldn’t. The smile, becoming quite inappropriate, remained.

Even when I told it to go away, it didn’t. Though I’ve never heard of such a thing and haven’t experienced it since, it seems both my involuntary and voluntary muscles had shut down. I actually turned from the class and did what people have been commanding to do for years: I wiped that smile off my face!

Fortunately the bell rang, the kids called out, “See you tomorrow,“ and I walked down to the office and told the secretary to get a substitute for me the next day because I was going to be sick.

I actually went to the unemployment office that Friday. Whomever I talked to looked at me like I hadn’t slept in a week, and I left there and drove to the college where I had graduated with useless honors and spoke to some of my favorite professors. They said I wanted to teach like they do except they’d been doing it for years and years and not to come back if I quit. Or something like that.

You know, I don’t remember exactly what happened. I do know I continued to be encouraged by first one person and then another; I think of them as God’s ambassadors. And I do know, one day at a time, God himself helped me figure out what I could do to survive each class, and as the weeks passed, he helped me figure out how to convey the material.

And daily he gave me courage. I found his mercies were new every morning, just as Jeremiah said.

By Christmas, as Tony had counted on, I had enough success and courage to stay. For three years I taught at that high school, and then with this particular crisis behind me by two and a half years, I accepted a position at Ozark Christian College, where I had the pleasure and privilege of teaching a variety of English courses for twenty-eight years.

Goodness, there are so many things that could have made me give it up-the most recent took place before a new freshmen class and most of my peers the night I flew from bleachers on the chapel stage to the chapel floor, landing at the feet of a former student.

But there have been a string of catastrophes: singing with soloists, having articles returned with a version of thanks but no thanks, handling students badly though I’ve had the best of intentions, or a real favorite through the years, allowing some sin to so easily entangle me.

But in each situation he has come to me.

“Lord,“ I’ve said, “I’m an idiot!“

“Lo, I am with you always, Jackina.“

Of hundreds of themes, this is my favorite. I have a cluster of verses to remind me of God’s faithfulness. These verses are the sheep I count when I cannot sleep: “I will fear no evil, for thou art with me”; “I will never leave you or forsake you”; “Lo, I am with you always”; “It is I, don’t be afraid.“

Okay then.

Wordsworth spoke of a “timely utterance” giving him relief from pain or sadness or regret. I understand that, but as much as I love words, it is something else that gives me relief: He, the faithful one, restores my soul. And I can speak again, write again, teach again, love again, risk again.

The truth is, most of us have challenges to tackle, limitations to overcome or to work around, and failure to face and to forgive and to forget. But just as the disciples were not alone on the hillside to feed the thousands with a few loaves and two fish, we are not alone. He who is able is with us, breaking and blessing whatever we are, whatever we have to bring.

You should not doubt that it will be enough.

I try to post a new item every Monday. Twice now I didn’t get it done. I seriously doubt anyone has noticed, but if you have, maybe you’ll understand. My life is like most of yours—crazy. Good crazy at the moment, but crazy.

I’ve been posting things my students always seemed to like; however, the next two posts are from a devotion I wrote for the Ozark Christian College faulty. Like much that I write, it’s pretty transparent. I don’t mind that up to a point, not if it might provide insight or comfort to someone.

I got the title for this from Wordsworth’s great ode on immortality. I do love a “timely utterance,“ and something like writing in a journal has brought me comfort in the past, but there is something that has always been more helpful than that. That’s what I’m exploring in this devotion. If you need relief from an anxiety or heartache, I hope this will encourage you.

Kathy, a former student who has remained a part of my life for many years, gave me a Selah CD to thank me for some little something and also to celebrate a rather significant birthday. There’s a song on it, which I’ve been praying these days. It’s a testimony of praise for “The Faithful One.“

   I find no hope within to call my own,
   For I am frail of heart, my strength is gone.
   But deep within my soul is rising up a song
   Here in the comfort of the Faithful One.

   I walk a narrow road through valleys deep
   In search of higher ground on mountains steep.
   And though with feet unsure, I still keep pressing on,
   For I am guided by the Faithful One.

   Faithful, faithful to the end,
   My true and precious Friend.
   You have been faithful, faithful, so faithful to me.

My true and precious Friend is the reason I was able to teach for 31 years.

I went back to college when my girls were three and four and graduated at the top of my class at the age of thirty. I thought I was quite prepared to begin my teaching career, but when September rolled around and I stood before my classes, I ran into a serious problem. So serious I begged Tony to let me quit.

I had never heard this problem discussed in all my education classes, so it took me by surprise. From the first I enjoyed my students. My problem had nothing to do with liking my students, and it had nothing to do with discipline. My problem was I just didn’t know how to teach. Yes, it’s true. I didn’t know how to get what I knew out of my brain and into theirs.

Bummer.

One evening three weeks into the semester, Tony walked into our bedroom and saw me sitting cross legged on the bed staring at my book. He sat beside me.

“What the matter, Slick?“ he asked.

“I don’t know what to do.“

He was still teaching and understood teachers have a curriculum but can order its presentation any way they want. With English, at least at the time, there was a lot of freedom. He took my book and began leafing through it. “Why don’t you do this next?“

He had misunderstood what I had meant, but I answered his question anyway.

“I can’t.“

“How about this?“ he asked, pointing to a poetry unit.

“No,“ I sighed.

“This?“

I shook my head. “Please let me quit.“

“Teach till Christmas,“ he said. “Then you can quit.“

Of course, Tony knew if I made it until Christmas, I’d make it period. He also knew that Christmas might sound manageable to me. And it sort of did. I had to hold out only a few months.

“‘Til Christmas,“ I said, more question than statement.

But meantime I had to go back into that classroom and figure out what to do. I was so nervous I could hardly sleep. I’m quite sure sleep deprivation accounts for the last straw.

I’ll tell you about that unfortunate incident next week.

My husband walked into my study one morning when I was reading John 21. He pivoted and immediately left the room, because I had just burst out crying. He didn’t figure he should be there.

He couldn’t have known that what would become my favorite prayer had just leaped out of the pages of God’s word and into my heart.

In this post-resurrection appearance, Jesus, standing in the morning sun, calls to his disciples from the shore: “Friends, haven’t you any fish?“ The disciples do not realize it is Jesus calling; nevertheless, they do what the man tells them and throw their empty net on the right side of the boat. When they couldn’t haul the net in for the great number of fish, John says, “It is the Lord!“

John’s understanding there could be no other explanation almost made me cry, but what Peter did pushed the tears past any “let’s be sensible here” barrier.

Putting on his outer garment, for this was the proper way to greet someone in that day and place, Peter jumped into the water to greet the Lord! Ah, such exuberance, such love.

Every day in our lives God does great things, and so I’ve written this prayer at the beginning of John 21:

“Lord, keep me from being oblivious to your working. Help me, like John, to know when something marvelous happens, it is because of you. Then help me, like Peter, to respond by coming to you properly, but with adoring abandonment.“

I once sang the lovely song, “I Want to Know You More.“ One line comes and goes very quickly, but it has such poignancy for me. When I sang it, I meant it, yet how could I really mean it?

The assertion is too grand: “And I would give my final breath, to know you in your death and resurrection-oh, I want to know you more.“

As I practiced I thought a lot about those words and what they mean.

What would it mean to know Christ in his death?

I doubt any of us will be crucified outside the city gates, but we can still know something of his death. Studying the accounts of his death will help us understand what it might mean. Would I be willing to forget myself? Would I be willing to feel, even be, alone for the sake of love? Would I be able to forgive even the most cruel deed by the most cruel hands? Would I, in fact, give my final breath to know Him in his death?

What would it mean to know Christ in his resurrection? The letters of Paul and Peter give us an idea.

Would I be able to see beyond trials to a place where God will welcome me? Would I be able to understand the power available to me, like the working of his mighty strength, which he exerted in Christ when he raised him from the dead and seated him at his right hand in the heavenly realms.“ (Eph. 1:20)? Would I never give in to discouragement because Heaven is near and mine because of the resurrection of Christ? Would I know the freedom of the promise and hope of putting on immortality when I receive my “spiritual body” (I Cor. 15:44)? Would life here on earth, “the grass withers and the flowers fall” (I Peter 2:24), finally be put in perspective?

The story of Stephen reveals a man who did, in fact, know Christ in his death and resurrection.

He knew Christ in his death, as the mob “yelled at the top of their voices and dragged him out of the city and began to stone him.“ He knew Christ in his death when he repeated words so like the Lord’s: “Lord, so not hold this sin against them.“

He also knew Christ in his resurrection, which is why he was able, “full of the Holy Spirit,“ to look to heaven and see “the glory of God, and Jesus standing at the right hand of God” (Acts 7:55). Standing, not sitting! What looked like a vicious death scene was Stephen’s most glorious moment. He saw Jesus standing by his father, not sitting, but standing, to welcome and honor his good and faithful servant.

It is interesting to note that the man overseeing and witnessing Stephen’s martyrdom, later wrote “I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the fellowship of sharing in his sufferings, becoming like him in his death, and so, somehow, to attain to the resurrection from the dead” (Phil. 3:10-11).

Such irony is not uncommon when one comes to know Jesus. To really know him. So when my faith is strong, I, too, sometimes pray this prayer:

Lord, I would give my final breath, to know you in your death and resurrection.