My husband and I are not birthday party kind of people. So when his birthday recently approached I was not surprised by his answers to my following questions:

Me: Do you want anything special for your birthday?

Him: No.

Me: Do you want to go out to eat?

Him: Sure, if you do.

Me: What kind of cake do you want?

Him: It doesn’t matter.

Me: Okay.

And so the day of his birthday came. It was a particularly busy day for me with an already full week of meetings and pastoral visits made more pressing by a funeral to officiate in just two days. As I went about my day, though, my husband’s birthday was still front and center in my mind. I just couldn’t get over this feeling that I wanted to do something special even if we weren’t birthday party kind of people.

Seeing the hours of the day slip by quickly I began realizing that even if I had an idea for his birthday there was no time in which to execute it.

A drive to the shopping mall to pick up a special gift was out of the question because the stores weren’t close by and the traffic to get to the stores would make the trip even longer and more frustrating.

So what was I to do? I was at a loss for ideas and had no more time to think as I was heading to the assisted living facility to visit a woman recovering from knee surgery.

As I made my way through the large gathering room to get to her room, I took notice of the residents sitting there in their wheelchairs, perhaps waiting for a scheduled visit from a loved one or perhaps just waiting for any visit from anyone.

I made it a point to look each one in their eyes and to smile and say “hello.” It is amazing the healing power a simple hello has when spoken to someone in need of a hello. Some smiled back at me; while others looked surprised that I was even noticing them. But notice I did. I noticed eyes clouded with memories of yesteryear. I noticed frail bodies and white hair. I noticed the passing of time right in front of me and I slowed my rushed steps and realized something. I realized I needed to become a birthday party kind of person because the passing of yet another year is something not to ignore. It is something to honor. It is something to recognize. It is something to be thankful for. Just then I remembered the poignant words of my high school friend who wrote on her blog many years ago, “Today I got to celebrate my 41st birthday and for that I am very thankful to God.” She never got to blow out 42 candles.

I looked around at the sea of wheelchairs all around me and wondered how many birthdays have come and gone without being celebrated? How many birthdays have I let come and go without any recognition? It was then I knew what to do for my husband’s birthday.

With little time to spare, I rushed over to the grocery store and picked up a cake and some candles. I then found a birthday card. After that, I ran to the dollar store next to the grocery store and grabbed a bag of blue balloons and the tackiest  “Happy Birthday” banner I could find.

I sped home so that I could put up the decorations and get the cake on the table. Now for the card…what to say? Hmmm….

All of sudden Sofie, our bumbling Bernese Mountain dog, hopped off the couch and with tail wagging happily stood at the door. I looked up and asked, “Where’s Daddy?” She began jumping back and forth with joy as my husband came through the door.

“Surprise!” I shouted as he looked at the balloons all around. He was indeed surprised. After a light meal of whatever we could find in the fridge, it was onto the cake. But before the cake he opened my card. Since I have always struggled with gift-giving ideas, I wrote in his card three birthday gifts for him: 1.) Dinner at a restaurant of his choice, 2.) A movie date with his choice of movie and, 3.) All of my love forever and ever.

And with the candles blown out and the cake cut, it was then my husband and I became birthday party kind of people. For another year is a gift from God and moments to pause and celebrate what we have should never be taken for granted.

This is indeed the day the Lord has made. Let us alway rejoice and be glad in it.

There’s something special about country churches. I’m not talking about the idyllic charm of a little white clapboard structure with arched windows and a steeple peeking out from a wooded country lane or a stone chapel tucked away in a valley, complete with grazing cows or sheep as its neighbors.

There’s no place like a country church as captured in the beauty of Grandma Moses’ painting, “Home in the Hills.”

The something special I have come to know about country churches goes beyond what one sees on the outside. The something special I am talking about is what one can find when finally stepping through an old battered door whose creakiness is actually its way of beginning to tell a story or two of years gone by. For once inside an old country church one will find love—and lots of it.

I never thought I would serve such a church, but one summer a friend from seminary was serving as a pastor in a very remote area in Maine. She was serving there to fulfill the hands-on training required for graduation and ordination. Admittedly, I was a bit surprised when I heard of her decision to spend two months in such a rustic setting. My friend hailed from a more genteel lifestyle. Her middle name was not your typical “Ann,” “Lynn” or “Marie.” Her middle name was an old family name, making her complete name, when spoken out loud, quite impressive indeed.

“You’re going where?” I remember asking at lunch one day towards the end of our spring semester.

“I know. It’s crazy,” she replied.

“It just doesn’t seem to be something you would want to do,” I said.

“I know,” she agreed, adding with smile, “That’s why I am doing it.” And so she packed up and drove the 10-plus hours it took to get to her new home away from home.

I didn’t hear from her too often that summer, as there was no cell phone reception out in the woods. Her calls would come only when she had to make a trip back into civilization, in her case; civilization was the Wal-Mart parking lot, the only place where her phone would work. As she sat in her car chatting she would fill me on all the adventures of life in a country church. She would tell me about the snakes that slithered about on the stone pathway to the house in which she was living in the basement apartment and how she hated making that walk to and fro. She worried if the snakes would get into her apartment. She talked about the black flies that were everywhere. She shared with me the stress of serving two churches that weren’t very close in distance and how she struggled with maintaining a healthy calorie intake when having to be at two coffee hours in one morning. Coffee hours whose tables were overflowing with the most scrumptious, homemade blueberry cobbler, blueberry pie, blueberry muffins, blueberry ice cream—this was Maine, after all. She would share the few highs and the many lows and go into detail on the rare ups and the all too common downs. And so when I asked whether or not she liked it there, she surprised me with her answer.

“Believe it or not. I do like it here. In fact, I think I love it. I know. Weird, huh? The thing is these country churches need pastors too. They need someone to lead them and to love them. It’s a shame so few people want to serve them.”

All of a sudden she got very quiet, so quiet that for a second I thought maybe her Wal-Mart cell phone connection failed.

“Are you still there?” I asked, trying hard to refrain from jokingly asking the question made famous by one phone carrier a few years back, “Can you hear me now?”

“I’m still here,” she said.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Well, while I plan on going to graduate school after seminary and see myself more in a professor role rather than pastor, I just can’t help but to feel sad to leave here. These churches need pastors too,” she said.

I nodded my head, but she couldn’t hear my nod of agreement, so she continued.

“The thing is, it’s not just about these churches needing pastors. Donna, there’s so much love in these churches. There is this sense of belonging. There is this sense of family. There is still this way of life that says community is everything.”

I was moved by her words, but I was taken aback by her comments that all I could think of saying when getting off the phone with her was a joke. So instead of telling her how powerful and moving it was to hear how God was using her, I said, “Keep up the good work and watch out for those snakes.”

Her words, though, stayed with me, so much so that when a call came a year later from a country church looking for a pastor, I took it. And when the chairwoman of the pastor nominating committee explained how hard of a time they were having finding someone to come to serve their church, I understood what she was telling me. But before the conversation could go any further, the chairwoman had to ask me a question. She wanted to know if I was interested in serving a country church because I didn’t circle that option on the ministry profile I had to fill out. Suburb, college town, small city…they were all circled. Rural wasn’t.

“Oh, hmmm…that…well, I am not sure why I didn’t circle that option. I guess it really doesn’t matter, though, does it? Because God knows where we should all be, right? So I would love to continue this conversation,” I said.

In a few months I was packing my boxes up and getting ready to hit the road out of crazy, congested New Jersey for the country roads of upstate New York where a white steeple church dotting the pastoral hills and valleys of a farming community was waiting for me.

The church was a beautiful sight indeed. From one part of the village, on top of a hill, one could see the 18^th century structure. It looked as if Grandma Moses painted it there herself. What was even more beautiful, though, were the stories the old battered doors would tell me every time I entered into the sanctuary. There were the stories of love gone by and the promises of love to come. Yet the greatest story was the one being played out in the present. The story of love that wasn’t this unrealistic we all get along kind of love, but rather the story of real love that meant even when the ties that bind us are put to the test or are strained or even fractured, love still reigns and keeps everything together.

It is in a country church where love is offered up to friend, stranger and even foe. It is in a country church where the struggles are great but the joy in those struggles is even greater. It is in a country church one will come to find something the rest of the world is forgetting—community is everything.

Yes, country churches are in need of pastors but what I have discovered is today’s pastors are the ones who are in need of country churches.

The kids from the church youth group were really excited about the corn maze. Me. Not so much. It’s not that the maze was so big and so daunting that it came with a “help if lost” number to call on your cell phone. Those mazes do exist. I’ve heard about them.

The maze we were about to enter was the perfect size. Not too big to get really lost in and not too small in which you miss out on the heart racing challenge of finding your way out.

While a manageable size, I still had a bit of trepidation when I stepped in. Maybe it was my childhood memories of our Saturday drives out of our congested New Jersey neighborhood and into the country to go hiking in which we would pass cornfields and my mother would remark how easy it was for little children to get lost in the endless rows of stalks. I would stare out the window trying to figure out how for that not to happen. I couldn’t. It did seem once you were in the cornfield there would be no way out.

Perhaps, though, my trepidation was due to the fact the sun was quickly setting and darkness was settling in.

“Um, kids!” I shouted as they ran into the maze. “Do you think we have enough time to do this before it gets dark?”

“Sure we do, Pastor Donna!” they laughed. And with that not so blessed assurance, into the maze I went.

I have to admit at first it was kind of fun. The earthy, moldy smell of wet cornstalks in the crisp air of an autumn evening was definitely an improvement from the pungent smell that often came blowing in from the fields freshly sprayed with manure. The rustling of the stalks created an eerie symphony every time the wind blew and the muddy ground squishing below reconnected me to my inner child who used to love playing in the dirt and mud.

“Wait for me!” I yelled to the girls who ran on ahead. While I was beginning to have fun, I definitely didn’t want to do this maze on my own.

A few minutes turned into a few more minutes which then turned into a few more minutes which soon became more than a half hour. In one really sharp turn that was particularly muddy and slippery, I lost sight of the two girls who were my help—and salvation. (Okay. A bit dramatic but my sense of dread was growing.)

I stood by myself and noticed it was awfully quiet. The distant laughter of other kids and the murmuring of families figuring out which way to go, were no more. Was I the only one left in the maze?

The sun only had a bit more life left before turning in for the night. My heart then began to race as I realized something horrible. I had left my cell phone at home! There was nowhere to turn for help. I could start screaming but decided perhaps that was a bit too premature. Save the screaming for later when I really needed to scream for help.

I stood there with this sense of fear and lost-ness overtaking me. I forced myself to start walking, to try to figure out what path I should take, which turn to turn, which loop to loop around and which dead end to avoid.

As I walked I heard myself whispering, “The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want. He leads me…” He leads me. I smiled. Yes, the Lord does indeed lead me. He always has. All of a sudden this maze seemed familiar.

I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go. Psalm 32:8

How many times in life have I been stuck in a maze before? Not knowing the way ahead? Fearing the darkening skies? Wondering was there a clearing of some sorts? A clearing with an answer or finally a fulfillment to a long-awaited dream?

Yes, I’ve been in a maze like this before. That is, the maze known as life. And with every twist and turn in life I’ve always made a way forward with great trust in the One who was leading. Now that trust wasn’t always there. It was something I had to learn. It was something I had to experience.

It was the end of the fall semester in my first year at New York City’s Fashion Institute of Technology where I was studying to fulfill my dream of becoming a magazine editor. There on the job board was posted a part-time position at a well-known parenting magazine that would start during the winter break. The time fit perfectly into my schedule and the money was wonderful. I was so excited. If I could only get my foot into the door of a magazine…

The interview was scheduled late in the afternoon, which meant I had to hang around school later than I had wanted to. Again, it was my first semester and I was a commuter student, meaning for the first time in my life I was navigating trains and subways and the crazy and still-scary streets of a menacing maze known as the island of Manhattan.

I knew how to get from the subway stop to the school and back to the subway, which then led to the train, which then led to my home. But to stray off that path onto unknown avenues filled me with apprehension.

I did my best to relax and calm down. I tried to pray but my heart was filled with too many mixed emotions to really concentrate on what I was trying to say to God. I was excited about the prospect of the job while scared about getting lost in the big city’s maze. I reached into my book bag in an effort to try to distract myself with some light reading on the in’s and out’s of media buying. (A class I really didn’t like for numbers didn’t excite me as much as words did.)

As I reached for the textbook, my hand grabbed hold of something else. It was one of those pocket-sized Bibles that I had taken from a group who was standing on the corner of school one day handing them out. I flipped the tiny pages open. There staring back at me were the most beautiful words I had ever read. Even though my prayer to God was to me a failed attempt, God still heard what I was trying to say. God still heard my request to show me the way to go—not just directions to the magazine offices that night, but also the directions to the next step in my life. As I read the words a quiet strength and calm washed over me.

I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go. Psalm 32:8

That night I entered into Manhattan’s crazy maze with confidence in the One who was leading me. It was only the beginning of a journey of being beautifully led—always.

“The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want. He leads me…”

All of a sudden, in the last hurrah of the sun’s light, I saw the shadowy outline of the girls right in front of me, running and laughing and squealing with delight among the cornstalks, not phased at all by the fact that night was here and we were all still seemingly lost in the maze.

“Don’t worry, Pastor Donna! We’ll find the way!” they yelled with confidence.

In the slippery mud, amidst the earthy, moldy smell of wet cornstalks, I ran to catch up with the girls. And I ran without any fear and without any worries.

For the way will be found in all of life’s mazes. Just run with joy. Move forward with a calm strength and peace. Enjoy the twists and turns and endless loops and even the dead ends. For when you trust with all your heart in the One leading you, you know the beautiful truth. We are never lost when we walk with God.