Month: June 2026

MY LIFE IN ORCHIDS

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There are three orchids sitting on the windowsill in my office. Each one was a gift. 

One given as a housewarming welcome. 

One given as an encouragement for surgery. 

One given by a friend moving away who wanted her plant to continue to live. 

Right now, all three are blooming. Bursting forth in various shades of dark violet, magenta, and white. Their flowers a splash of hope against the rain that’s falling from a grey sky outside. 

But as I look at those orchids I see more than flowers, or even hope. I see my life. 

I went to Hawaii for the first time when I was in middle school. The warm air, balmy breezes, swaying palm trees and turquoise waters captured my soul. Orchid leis were everywhere; their monkey-face flowers strung through to make necklaces. I don’t remember if I got one on that trip or if it was years later when one was lifted over my head, given with a kiss on the cheek. 

For years we returned and the orchids were always there to greet us, no matter what island we landed on. 

The ocean called to me more than the vibrant blossoms, but they were always a part of the experience. A part of all the trips I took to the place I loved. 

The day of my college graduation, my dad surprised me with an orchid lei. Its flowers were the same bright magenta that now adorns my windowsill. Leis are a big deal in Hawaii. They mark special occasions. Moments of note. Celebrations to remember. And even though we weren’t Hawaiian, or anywhere near Hawaii, my dad wanted me to have a touch of the place we all loved, a reminder of all the beauty and color that exists in the world. 

Fast forward a few years and I’m in my mid-twenties, walking home from the bus stop on a drizzly Seattle day. Just as I get to the hill, I look up and see Erik walking towards me. In his hands he held two things. A bottle of 7-up and a bouquet of orchids. 

“You always feel queasy when it’s a rainy day and you can’t see out the bus window,” he said, handing me the soda. 

How did he know that? I hadn’t even realized it. We hadn’t even been dating that long! 

Next, he handed me the orchids. 

“These are for you,” he said. 

As I remember it, there was no reason. No anniversary or birthday to celebrate. Those “just because” orchids were the first flowers he ever gave me. Even though we hadn’t said  “I love you,” yet, they made me feel special and, well, loved. 

A little less than a year later, “I love yous” already said countless times, I got on a plane to Maui with my parents and sister, but without him. We scheduled a phone date for the same time every day, and each day I pestered him with the same question, “Are you coming?” 

His response was always Socratic: “Did you buy me a plane ticket?” “Did you want me to come?” “Did you talk to my boss and get the time off for me?”

Little did I know that he and my parents had planned to surprise me so he could propose on the beach. A few days later, he arrived, fresh off the plane. Shocked and delighted to see him, it took me a while to understand his mission for being there. Finally, he talked me into going for a walk on the beach, where he proposed. 

I didn’t say yes once. I said yes three, maybe four times. 

Overjoyed, we celebrated at a nearby restaurant – the Sea House – each plate and cocktail glass garnished with, you guessed it, orchids. 

When I designed our wedding invitations, I made sure there were orchids on them. After all, they were part of our story, even if only a small part. The bouquet I carried down the isle also had orchids. Orchids that Erik scoured the Seattle-area for after our original order was lost. 

At the time, neither of us knew that years later, we’d move to Oahu and be greeted by people who would become some of our best friends with more orchid leis. 

Birthdays. Anniversaries. Special occasions, the orchids would show up. We’d find wild ones on hikes and nearly every grocery store sold different versions of the potted flowers. I tried growing them several of the places we lived. Orchids are supposed to thrive in Hawaii, right? Mine always died. But even though I wasn’t growing them myself, orchids were a part of our life in Hawaii. 

Then we moved back to Washington and in with my parents. Somehow my mom has mastered the art of growing orchids and almost always seemed to have some in bloom. Yellow. White. Purple. We had left Hawaii, but the orchids still surrounded me, surrounded us. 

The day we moved into the house we live in now, some friends brought over the first orchid I mentioned. The housewarming one. How fitting, I thought, but was leery that I wouldn’t be able to keep it alive. Over three year later, it’s still happily growing alongside the other two. 

All three have been blooming for months. And that’s the thing about orchids. When still connected to the stem, each flower can last for weeks, if not months. Their blooms on display far longer than any other flower I know of. 

I don’t know how these three plants are thriving in my office in Washington, far from their native lands, but I’m glad they are. I’m thankful for their blessing that reminds me that you never know what will be around the corner. But God-willing, there will always be beauty … and maybe an orchid…to remind you that life is good, beauty is worth celebrating, and things can thrive in unexpected places. 

LOVE AND A LAPTOP

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Erik bought me a new laptop. It’s still in the box, sitting on top of the armoire in my office. 

I haven’t even taken it out of the cardboard yet.

Part of that is practical. Erik will help me set it up and he’s been busy with work all week. I’m telling myself I want to keep it pristine until I actually start using it. But that’s not the whole story. 

Hiding behind that practicality is the fact that I don’t think I deserve a new computer. If I keep it in the box, I don’t have to face some of the realities of life right now. One of the biggest ones is the loss of my job. 

I loved the writing job I had, but it ended a little over six months ago. My computer has been a reminder of the 15 years I did that work, and now, the new laptop is sitting here, ready to be opened, reminding me that the season is over. 

I want to open it. 

I want to use it. 

I want this computer to mark a new season of my life. 

But I don’t know what that will look like yet, and because I don’t know, I don’t feel ready to step into it. Especially because right now, I can’t “pay back” the cost of the laptop with my next paycheck because I don’t know when my next paycheck will come. 

Never mind the money was already in the account. 

Never mind that I’m the one who earned it at my last job. 

Never mind that my current laptop is six years old — ancient in technology terms. 

I still feel the pressure to make the cost worthwhile. To somehow prove that I’m worth it. 

And that gets to the heart of it, doesn’t it? The reality is, I’m afraid I’m not worth it. Not only of the new laptop, but of the love Erik has for me. So I keep trying to do things that prove my worth. 

See? I can earn the money back. 

See? I can grow a garden so we have food. 

See? I can cook a good meal.

See? You made a good choice marrying me. 

It’s not that I don’t like gifts. I do. But I accept them much more easily when they are small and don’t cost too much. 

A surprise matcha late? Sure!

Extra vegetable seedings? Absolutely! 

Clothes you don’t want anymore? Yes, please! 

But a laptop? That wasn’t cheap. That was a sacrifice. I’m not sure I’m worth it. 

As I thought about it, I began to wonder, how often do I say the same thing to God? 

How often do I try to pay back the gift of salvation? 

How often do I attempt to earn the love I’m already given? 

Why do I feel like when I’m given a gift I need to figure out a payment plan? 

I think it comes down to a quote from the late author and spiritual director, Judy Cannato, that I’ve been pondering for weeks. Here it is:

“Everywhere the Holy One is shouting and whispering, ‘Let me love you.’ And all that is asked of us is to receive. In reality, that is our life’s work. Nothing more, and certainly nothing less.”

I could have easily missed those four sentences. They were in a forward from my uncle, sandwiched between morning spam emails all wanting something from me. 

Money. 

Time. 

Attention. 

But my uncle’s email didn’t want anything from me — it was offering me something. So, I read it. Then I read it again. And again. Now, this idea of simply accepting love has lodged itself in my brain, like a worm in an apple. I can’t get it out, and even if I do, there will be a trail left that can never be erased. 

I have spent so much of my life trying to be worthy of the gifts other people give me. Of their time. Attention. Love. 

But what if, instead of trying to make myself worthy, I let myself be loved? What if I open the new laptop, ask Erik to set it up, and focus on being grateful that God loves me enough to have given me a man who encourages me at every turn? 

Oh what grace! Make no mistake, it is grace. I’ve attended churches that have talked about grace my entire life, but it’s still a struggle for me. Not only when it comes to things like laptops, but ultimately, to the love of God. 

Just like letting yourself be loved, at its core, grace sounds simple. The most common definition I’ve heard is that grace is unmerited favor. It’s goodness and generosity given to you even though you didn’t “earn” it and can’t pay it back, and that gets to the heart of it. Erik doesn’t expect me to pay back the cost of my new computer. He’d laugh at me if I even tried. He knows that it will be a blessing for me and he wants me to have it. He wants me to delight in it. He knows it’s a tool that will help me to do whatever job I get next. 

Grace. 

Grace. 

Grace. 

The grace of God isn’t something He expects us to pay back. There’s no way we ever can. He knows that, but He gives it to us anyway. In His mercy, kindness, and love He wants to bless us. He delights in it. And He wants to equip us to do the work He is calling us to do. 

 But how often do I — do you — leave the grace of God in a box on the shelf thinking that if I work hard enough, then I can enjoy it? 

What would it look like to live in the fullness of the gifts I’ve already received? 

To live in the love that has already been poured out? 

To live as a chosen, ransomed daughter of the God of the universe?

To live in freedom from the chains of death?  

To live fully forgiven, fully loved, fully redeemed? 

Maybe this new laptop is just the start. Not of a new “work” life, but of my life’s work. Letting myself be loved. 

If Judy Cannato was right, and I think she was, it’s your work, too. 

REFUGE

/ jessicaivaska / 6 Comments

There are a few sections of our yard that are overgrown. As weird as that may sound, it’s intentional. We want to have pockets that are all natural, even if that means they look a little crazy. Those natural patches provide a refuge for the things we want to welcome into our yard. 

Birds. 

Frogs. 

Pollinators. 

Squirrels. 

The occasional rabbit. 

We love all these little guys. Seeing them each day makes us smile, and so, because we want them to visit us — and feel safe enough even make their home here — we leave a few sections wild and untouched. 

But a few weeks ago, we had an unexpected visitor. 

A disheveled, long-haired, Siamese (or at least part Siamese) cat. 

We recognized it as the neighbors’, who live kitty corner. They have two cats and both have visited our yard on occasion. While we have nothing against cats, we tend to shoe them away, hollering things like. . .

“Go home.”

“You don’t live here.”

“Leave the birds and the squirrels alone.”

“This isn’t your yard.”

It often works. At least for the other cat. But this one, this one just stares back at us and lays his head back down and closes his blue eyes. We can walk all the way up to it and it doesn’t flinch. 

I admit, at first, I was annoyed. After all, he had decided to make my flower bed into his preferred nap spot.  He didn’t care that he was crushing the irises I planted from blub last fall. Didn’t care that he was knocking the blooms over, destroying the beauty I had tried to manicure. 

A few days went by and Mr. Cat kept coming back to the same spot. He’d be there when we went to bed and sometimes when we woke up. That’s when we got worried. Maybe he was sick. 

Erik walked over to the neighbors and asked them about it. They said he does his own thing and for a while slept in our other neighbor’s shed. Huh. Ok. But then we told them that he’s been letting us get close and pet him and they got worried. That’s not like him. He usually runs away from people. 

Uh oh. 

So they came and gingerly scooped the cat out of a shady spot on our lawn and took him to the vet for a check-up. Apparently he was fine, because the next day, the cat was back. 

It’s been weeks now and nearly every day, we find Mr. Cat snoozing somewhere in our yard. Usually, he’s curled up somewhere against the side of the house. Yesterday, he was tucked between branches under a bush. 

Now, I don’t look for the cat to shoe it away. I look for the cat to see where he is. I’ve realized that for him, our yard is a safe and quiet space. A place he can rest. A refuge. And as much as I wasn’t thrilled about it at first, as I’ve thought more about it, I’ve been able to recognize we all need that. 

We all need a safe, quiet space to curl up in. 

We need a place where we can let go. 

A place that doesn’t demand anything from us. 

For Mr. Cat, that’s our yard. 

For a lot of people, that’s the church. Or at least it should be. 

The church should be a place that makes space for anyone and everyone. Even if they look a little rough around the edges. Even if you wouldn’t pick them to be your best friend. Even if they sometimes drive you a little crazy. Even if you think they’re freaks.

It makes me sad to think about how many people don’t feel welcome in the church. They think they have to look a certain way, act a certain way, wear certain clothes. On one hand, I get it. Church is often a place where we bring our best selves because it’s a small way that we can honor God. 

But on the other hand, I don’t think that God really cares that much what we’re wearing or what we look like. I think he’s just glad we’ve taken the risk to step into new terriority. And I think He wants us to find safety, refuge, and love there. 

The only way that happens is if we stop chasing away the people we don’t want and make room for everyone. 

Even the ones that don’t look like us. 

Even the ones who say the wrong the at the wrong time. 

Even the ones who haven’t showered in a week. 

Even the ones who think differently than we do. 

What would happen if instead of trying to protect their own space, Christian churches threw their doors wide open and welcomed anyone – and everyone – who needed refuge. 

What if we greeted them warmly?

What if we got them a cup of coffee? 

What if we made them feel safe and welcome? 

What if they curled up and decided to stay? 

I think that’s the life – and the gospel – that Jesus invites His followers to live out. He knows it’s not easy. He knows we are all about self-protection. He knows we want to keep things neat, tidy, and pretty. But He also knows that if we look carefully enough, we’ll see ourselves in every person we encounter. Because no matter how we look, at our core, all of us, are  the “least of these.” 

Is it easy? No. 

Is it worth it? You tell me.