Jennifer Gross

Anyone who has taken piano lessons or played a sport or learned a new language knows the importance of practice. A dedicated piano student plays every day at home. A language learner uses flash cards to memorize new vocabulary. An athlete runs drills, lifts weights, or studies new plays. Elite achievers often practice for hours a day.

"Everything happens for a reason!" It’s one of those phrases people say when they don’t know what to say. When we say it about a positive situation, it’s usually a lighthearted acknowledgment of a blessing or achievement.

My teenage daughter loves taking pictures of sunsets; her phone’s camera roll is filled with them. Here in the suburbs of Washington, DC, though, we often admire a beautiful, pink-streaked sky not surrounded by nature but while driving on the highway or walking out of the grocery store.

One of the delights of parenting older kids is watching them discover and enjoy their individual interests. My daughters often start conversations or change the subject by brightly saying, “Fun fact!”

My cell phone rang early on the day after Christmas, and I knew. 
Just a few weeks before, Dad’s health had worsened, and he ended up in the hospital. He was now in a rehab center, trying to get well enough to go back home. On Christmas morning, my mom wheeled my dad from the rehab center down the sidewalk and into their little cottage on the senior living campus. Dad was in great spirits. He loved Christmas.

When I was a child, Communion seemed to take forever. In an attempt (I suspect) to keep restless kids occupied, an adult suggested that we pray for each person who walked past our pew. I can’t remember how much praying I did then, but the advice stayed with me. As an adult, I often pray for my fellow congregants as they take Communion. This little spiritual practice has given me a richer picture of the Body of Christ.

 I was giving some motherly advice to my college-aged daughter, listing several different suggestions on how she might handle a situation she was facing. As I talked, my daughter looked more and more annoyed. Finally, she said, “Mom, stop trying to fix it!” 

Every winter, my church works with a local charity and other houses of worship to host a hypothermia shelter. One week a year, each church welcomes a group of our unhoused neighbors into their building, giving them dinner, a warm place to sleep overnight, and breakfast. From November to March, the houses of worship in our community supplement the country’s overflowing permanent shelters, one week and one church at a time.

After five years of infertility, I was finally pregnant. Six weeks later, I had a miscarriage. It was devastating. Why had God let me down this way? I had unknowingly fallen into thinking that if I was a “good Christian,” God would give me what I wanted. And when it didn’t happen, I sank into grief and bitterness. Holding on to faith seemed more painful than letting it go.

“I believe; help my unbelief!”