Every so often throughout our decades of ministry, someone will slip a folded check into my hand. This happened recently, and I quickly thought, How lovely. Perhaps it is a gift for the women in the Global Bag Project.


Mary Ogalo had just graduated 11 seamstresses, awarded them certificates of achievement, and presented each with her own sewing machine (part of the value of which they will pay back to buy machines for other seamstresses who complete training).

Because I was talking with other people, I stuck the check in a pocket just to make certain I wouldn’t lose it in the joyful confusion of meeting and greeting.

An industrial-strength sewing machine with dual controls for electricity and for manual operation (when the power goes off in Kenya, which it is always doing) costs about $325. You can imagine my amazement when I opened the check and discovered it had been made out to me personally and that it was for $5,000. The short message on the distribution line indicated that it was to be used to spread the love of Jesus. I was left in kind of happy shock!

So as soon as I got home, I wrote a thank-you note and said, “I would love to know what God whispered to your heart?” Then I wrote out a $900 check for the Global Bag Project, a $300 check for a friend whose husband has had a freelance job but has not been paid since February, sent $1,000 to the Brendan and Kailey Bell fund to contribute toward paying down their catastrophic medical expenses. I put some money aside so I would be able to pay our friend from Mexico when he had a day here and there without work; the funds would help him and his expertise would help me. The rest I divided between my Hungry Souls ministry and a donation to Mainstay Ministries.

You get the idea—I had joy, overflowing joy at being able to share the generosity shared with me. Indeed, I spread the love of Jesus, absolutely happy with being able to do so.

When we teach about the God Hunt, one of the four categories we use to help people identify God’s intervention in their everyday lives is that of “help to do God’s work in the world.” This is a prime example. Go find some examples of your own.

I spy God!

In Open Heart, Open Home (over 500,000 copies in print) award-winning Karen Mains steps far beyond how-to-entertain you hints to explore the deeper concepts of Christian hospitality-the Biblical way to use your home and an open heart to care for others like God wants us to. Countless pastors have recommended this classic resource as the meaningful example of how the Holy Spirit ministers to and through us to make other people feel truly welcome and deeply wanted.

Perfect for any womens bible study group, especially when used in tandem with the Opening Our Hearts & Homes Bible Study.

This new edition contains 54 helpful ways to make hospitality work whether you live on a country farm, in a house in the suburbs, or in an apartment in the city. Everyone in your bible study will appreciate the life-changing principles of this timeless classic.



Grab Your Copy of Open Heart, Open Home Now!

Comforting One Another uses Michelangelo's Pieta as a metaphor for learning how to comfort those hurting in life.

Author Karen Mains references her personal pain experiences, and unfolds a theology around the meaning of mercy, with pietas from art, literature, film, news photography, poetry and real life building pictures of how God's love can demonstrate itself through us in tangible ways in today's modern world.

This is a book for those who are suffering and for those who want to hold and comfort those who are suffering.

Karen defines a pieta as any person or group of people comforting and holding those who are broken or suffering, and in need of the healing touch of our Lord.

Get Your Copy Now of Comforting One Another Now!

Looking out my dining-room window on the barren March backyard, I saw the string hammock we purchased some 20 years ago, swinging forlornly between the two trees to which it is attached. Through the decades it has gone grey, but today I thought, Oh, I should really get a new hammock. That one looks pretty used.


Believe me, it has been used. Nine grandchildren, the oldest of whom is now 21 and the youngest of whom is now six months, have all swung to and fro in the hammock in the backyard.

I didn’t think about it any more. Come summer when the trees, bushes, grass and flowering plants are all green, when the four bright-blue pillows are bouncing on the string hammock, I’ll forget how forlorn and worn it looked in March. Because notes in my own grandmother’s hand, written to record some of the history of her family, indicated that her mother—my great-grandmother—had died after a fall from a hammock, I always check to make sure the hammock is solid. This grey hammock is sturdily attached to the two trees that guard it; not a string is frayed, not a knot untied.

It would probably serve us well for the next decade.


To read more, click HERE.

My whole trip from Chicago to Modesto, California only cost $10.50—and that was my ticket for the Bay Area Rapid Transit from San Francisco to the end of the line at Dublin/Pleasanton where I was picked up by my hostess for that night.

By God’s great grace, “buddy” passes have been made available to David and me for this year; for only the cost of the taxes, we can fly anywhere this airline flies, in the States and overseas. So far there have been no taxes on any of my stateside flights.

Over January and February, David and I will have traveled miles worth the amount of $2800. The projections for March total about the same.

However, leaving San Francisco on Friday and what became Saturday morning was not quite such a positive experience. After my board meeting and a two-hour drive hitched with one of my colleagues, I waited in line at a very crowded gate for the red-eye flight that was scheduled to leave at 10:05 p.m., arriving in Chicago at 5:30 the next morning.

There were eleven names in front of me on the posted standby list, the flight was listed as full, and I began to have increasing doubts about making it out that night. Parents were waiting with their kids, grandparents were smiling indulgently at their rambunctious grandchildren, and I suddenly realized that it was the Presidents’ Day holiday. One mother explained, “The kids have the whole week off school, so we are heading out.”

Not such a great idea, planning to fly standby on a holiday weekend. One final red-eye was scheduled to leave from a gate nearby, so when names of the standby passengers who did not make the 10:05 flight were deleted from the public screen, I rushed to the gate of the 10:10 flight, only to find the door was closed. “Too bad,” said the gate attendant. “There was one empty seat left on the plane.”

I determined that from that point on, I would be just a little bit more proactive. If my instincts told me to move fast (the gate attendants are supposed to automatically roll the surplus names along to the next flight), I might make a point of showing up and questioning the fact of an available space by myself. My name had not been rolled over in time.

Earlier, because I arrived at the airport around 5:30 p.m., I had scoped out what I thought was a secluded spot behind a check-in counter with a row of seats without armrests. If I had to spend the night in the airport (thinking it would defeat the purpose of free airline passes if I spent the night in a nearby airport, wouldn’t it?), this was the space to plop. I hauled my leather tote, taking squatter’s rights over the empty corner, used my tote as a pillow and spread the blue wool shawl given to me by a dear friend. It was perfect blanket for a 70-year-old woman airplane-stranded due to too many holiday travelers.

I discovered that airports after 12 o’clock at night are not quiet places. The overhead lights stay on; I pulled out my eye shades, earplugs and stretched the wool blanket over my head. I still could hear the extraordinarily loud automatic announcements that rotated every five minutes. They were now even louder because there were no passengers coming and going through the aisles and gates: “Contact security if you notice any abandoned luggage…” “Subway sandwich stays open between 12:00 and 4:00. You will have to re-enter at Security when it opens.”

A group of night workers congregated in the gate area where I was attempting to sleep. Washrooms were getting cleaned; busy vacuums sucked up debris on the carpets and bare floors; carts with their beeping signals hastened back and forth on the tarmacs outside my windows; gated airplanes were being straightened inside and their tiny kitchens stocked for the early-morning departures.

I thought of all the people in the world who sleep in the transit centers that take folk here and there, back and forth, to business or to family gatherings—buses and trains and airplanes that carry hopeful travelers on the adventure of going on holiday.

Why was I sleeping in this airport? Why hadn’t I found a hotel? After all, all the other travelers waiting in line had gone somewhere—maybe home, maybe to more comfortable lounges I didn’t know about. While trying to fall asleep, I considered this question. I hate to spend money if I don’t have to—reason number one. In addition, by the time I found a hotel, took transportation to a hotel, checked in, got to my room and into bed, there would only be a few hours for me to sleep. Reason #2: I hate security check-ins! I’d rather sleep in an airport (particularly if I can stretch out) than go through those security lines again. Most of all, I wanted to be in the standby line early (6:05 a.m.) to see if I could take the first flight home.

I was content to sleep, like so many other thousands, in a transit center—at least for one night, but I did wonder slightly, dozing in and out of wakefulness, why the Lord hadn’t nudged me onto that empty seat to Chicago. And if not me, why not one of the other standby passengers eager to leave?

I spy God!

The e-mail messages for this trip to the Dominican have been flying in flurries; there is so much to remember and to do. Copies of the film script need to be made in case we misplace our work scripts, and there may be a reason for other people to look them over. The shoot list, a schedule of must-get shots, needs to be prioritized and sent to the videographer; a day agenda of where we will be shooting and when must be compiled. The translator who volunteered to help needs to be contacted with information as to when we will need her. (Nothing complicates an out-of-the country shoot any more than the film team and the principals speaking different languages.)

David coached me on making sure we hit the bottom line of the script. My adult children, many who are involved in media—film, video and television—reminded me that this is a visual medium. Content is important they said but if we don’t get enough B-roll, there isn’t enough to work with in the editing room and the project is left with way too much talking heads.

I e-mailed Dr. Bibiana MacLeod, the Regional Coordinator for MAI in the Caribbean, and said, “Two days out from departure and I am getting the nervous-jervies; I am certain there is something major that I am forgetting.”

Phone call from the videographer: “Say, Karen. Are you sure we have reservations at this hotel? I’ve called and e-mailed, and they say they have no record of our names, and the hotel is full for the night of our arrival.” We both had visions of arriving in Santiago, gathering our luggage (including two carts of video and sound equipment), finding a taxi and arriving at the hotel, only to discover they indeed had no room in their inn and we would have no place to stay. Our couple on the ground was working in Cuba, to return shortly before arrival. Another e-mail to Bibiana for translation.




To read more, click HERE.

Returning home from a trip, David and I made our way from Terminal Two to United Airlines Baggage Claim in Terminal One. We picked up our suitcases, took the elevator up one floor to the transit line, crossed the bridge, then rode the escalators one floor down and got ourselves ready to board the shuttle train to Parking Lot F, the long-term lot.

It was only then that I noticed I no longer had my black purse. Ordinarily, I haul shoulder-strap bags, but I’m trying to cut down on the weight of the luggage I drag through airports, and I had picked up a resale Liz Claiborne purse that was smaller, lightweight and would only hold so many travel items. My habit had been to slip the hand straps over the bar to my mobile computer-office bag where I file all my books and projects. Since it is on wheels, I can pull it behind me.

To read more, click HERE.

The days that I remind myself that I am collaborating with God in his design for my life and ministry are the days when everything goes smoothly—often breathtakingly so. The days when I just cry “Help! Help!” are not so easy—I kind of bump and stumble and waste time and get delayed.

Yesterday was an example of a collaborate effort between myself, the all too human Karen, and the Divine, a great and transcendent and all-powerful yet intimate Heavenly Father.

Moved with compassion over the huge financial burden of my nephew and his wife after two premature births, both babies with allergies, and one with a twisted bowel (altogether some 18 weeks in the Neo-Natal Intensive Care Unit), I have taken it upon myself to raise the amount to pay off the remaining medical bills that are sitting on this young couple’s credit cards.

Trying to be sensitive (sometimes, as we all are learning, helping actually hurts), I interviewed my nephew and his wife, consulted with my sister and brother-in-law, talked with a few close friends, wrote a draft letter, had it edited, ran that past everyone for suggestions or corrections, then sent it off to the designer via my son who manages our print projects through his company, Pathmaker Marketing.

Yesterday, when I came into the office, two boxes of No. 10 business size envelopes—100 in all— were sitting on my desk. It was my plan to print a tag line on them and hopefully, a photo of the for-sale sign on their house (due to the huge payouts for the extraordinary hospital bills, their out-of-pocket premiums that are now the equivalent of another mortgage payment).

I had decided that we could save funds and run off the envelopes and the designed letter on the color copier in our office, but I had never needed to learn how to run this kind of project through our copying machine. Searching through my computer programs, I found the one that teaches users how to run off multiple envelopes as well as the short lecture that teaches how to do your own design.

We decided that a tag line on the envelope should read: “Update on Baby Merrick: Kailey and Brendan Bell.”

Just as I was struggling with this, one of the faithful volunteers who helps out several hours a week (and without whom I could not be productive) came into the office. She is a retired home-economics teacher and used to office equipment.

“Oh, I know how to do that!”

Of course. I had prayed the prayer of collaboration. Our editor, who is part-time knew exactly how to manage the program when she ran into glitches and was available just when we needed him before he was called away because of an emergency in his family. I didn’t want to include a photo of the baby on the outside of the envelope and ship it through public mail, so I settled on what I felt was an even stronger image of the For Sale sign in front of the house.

Before my editor left, all three of us figured how to run multiple copies through the copier and how to make sure they were printed in color. My volunteer assistant and I stuffed the envelopes with a reply envelope on which I handwrote in red ink—“Baby Merrick Account”—and as she left the office, she took the envelopes home, packed them in a sturdy box and had them in the mail by 4:46 p.m. My sister could begin addressing envelopes while we waited for the letter to return from the designer.

What a collaboration!—done and out the door. Why is it I don’t remember to always get myself into this attitude and understanding that God is as interested in collaborating in my life as I need Him to do so? Not only that, I think He takes as much joy in working with me as I take in those days that go like smoothly oiled mechanics in some kind of master clockwork machine.

Perhaps this attitude of collaboration with my Heavenly Father is just not as yet a habit and the more I work at it, the more it will work in me to become a practice. At any rate, I strongly recommend that those who are not collaborating with God on creating their lives with him should try out this delightful practice.

“So he shepherded them with a faithful and true heart, and guided them with the skillfulness of his hands.” Psalm 78:72

I spy God!