In the last years of my grandfather’s life his life didn’t look much like life. Mostly he laid on his bed in the back bedroom. He couldn’t go to the bathroom by himself. He couldn’t feed himself. He couldn’t read a book or solve a crossword puzzle. Sometimes I’d sit with him on the bed and read to him or tell him a story about my girls. In the first several months of being confined to the bed post-stroke he could manage a short conversation. Later he could barely speak.
Even then though, even when he couldn’t say any other recognizable words, you could sit close to him and like putting a quarter in the jukebox, say, “The Lord is my…” And that’s all it took to prompt a complete recitation of the 23rd Psalm.
I was in high school when his mother, my great grandmother, died. Before she did, I’d visit the nursing home after church on Sundays to brush her hair and check in. After she’d turned 100 she’d slowly become untethered to time or place. Very little of what she said made sense. But sometimes, out of nowhere, sitting up in bed with a gigantic smile and freshly coifed hair, she’d begin, “The Lord is my shepherd…”
It seems the 23rd Psalm is my family inheritance.
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This past week my husband and kids and I visited The Lake District in northern England. It’s a magical land full of lakes, mountains, perfect trails, and three million sheep. Literally—3,000,000 Herdwick sheep. They’re a sturdy, smiley breed made to weather harsh winters and too-frequent rain. Each year in April and May the hills explode with brand new baby lambs. We arrived on May 16th. Jackpot.
On the drive in we’d noticed the sheep, so many sheep, dotting the never-ending green hills, but it wasn’t until our first hike when we realized how integral they’d be to our experience. Every hike took us through fields of sheep. Every turned corner revealed a sheep standing on a nearby rock or lambs running awkwardly from the middle of the path. At first we thought maybe we’d be able to catch a lamb and hold it. If you’ve never seen a lamb up close know this: upon seeing one, there is nothing you would ever want more than to catch it and hold it. It’s a primal urge. But quickly we discovered this was not a real option. That whole “the sheep know their shepherd” thing is verifiably true.
So we couldn’t hold them, but we did spend day after day watching them. We watched lambs play on neolithic standing stones. We watched a mother sheep charge (and berate) an unsuspecting tourist who got too close to her lambs. We watched sheep graze, watched lambs suckle (it’s a violent affair), and watched whole herds stand like Buckingham Palace guards as the sky dumped rain on their solemn woolly heads.
And the whole time, these sheep, all three million of them, were going about their lovely little lives here:
The Lake District is a wonder, friends. It’s high and wide and soaked in glory. There is no ugly corner. Every inch of it is majesty.
You know that line from the band Needtobreathe? “Show me something gorgeous //
Show me 'til my eyes get tired.” That’s what happened. I had to quote it to Justin on our third day of walking. I said, “My face hurts from too much holy.”
And this is where the sheep live. Every day.
I think, “Oh to be a sheep living in The Lake District.”
And then, Ah, right. Here I am—a sheep living in The Lake District.
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The Lord is my shepherd;
I have what I need.
He lets me lie down in green pastures;
he leads me beside quiet waters.
He renews my life;
he leads me along the right paths
for his name’s sake.
Even when I go through the darkest valley,
I fear no danger,
for you are with me;
your rod and your staff—they comfort me.
You prepare a table before me
in the presence of my enemies;
you anoint my head with oil;
my cup overflows.
Only goodness and faithful love will pursue me
all the days of my life,
and I will dwell in the house of the Lord
as long as I live.
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May you ever live under the loving care of our Lord Shepherd.
May your eyes be opened to green pastures and still waters, rain or shine.
May you fall asleep with Psalm 23 on your lips and oil dripping from your head.
-JL
A few pics from our trip to The Lake District, because I want to share my joy! And because sometimes something is just so beautiful that you have a grab a friend and force him to look, too. BTW I think that’s the big idea behind evangelism. :)
(P.S. We also saw a castle.)
If you haven’t yet, check out our summer workshop The Storied Family. We’ll be in six cities AND online. Here are a few things I’d like to say about it:
You are right, we are not parenting experts. Our kids aren’t even cooked yet. Everybody can talk about how to make a good soufflé while it’s still in the oven. Noted. I just wanted to be sure you knew we know—we’re not interested in leading this workshop as gurus. We’re much more interested in exploring together how to apply a well-documented fact (knowing their family story makes for healthier, more resilient kids) in practical everyday ways. This we feel good about.
This is not a workshop for perfect Instagram families. Our goal is to help all kinds of families (single parents, blended families, foster and adoptive parents, families living with disease or mental health struggles, etc.) live and tell better stories. This matters to all of us, and we’ll have all of us in mind as we lead.
This is not one of those bootcamp seminars that breaks you down in order to rebuild you. We have no interest in criticizing your parenting or pointing out all the ways you’re doing it wrong. We don’t know if you’re doing it wrong, frankly. What we do know is that all kids benefit from knowing their story and from living life as a story—we’re going to stick to that.
It’ll be fun. Really though. Snacks, conversation, lots of stories, a photo booth, swag. I’m buying a wax seal this week. Who doesn’t love a secret envelope with a fancy wax seal?
You can find all the info including session topics and how to grab tickets HERE. See you this summer!