Banks of a River
“I wanna hold you close but never hold you back,
just like the banks do the river.”
You don’t always notice the banks of a river.
You first notice the current, the pull, the way it carries you somewhere you didn’t plan to go.
Only later, when you emerge downstream and catch your breath from the surging journey, do you realize something has been holding it all together.
Long before I ever typed a single word of The Forgotten Gospel, my husband knew I would write a book.
Back when our house was full of babies and toddlers, he would take them out—to the park, the store, anywhere—just so I could sit in the quiet and write my little hobby blog. I didn’t have a following. (I still don’t.) What I write doesn’t make us any money.
But he knew it mattered. “I’m telling you. You’re going to write a book one day,” he’d say. And I’d laugh. “About what? No one cares what I have to say.”
He never argued. He just watched the years go by as I filled notebooks with Bible study charts and references. Watched as I read theologians far beyond my depth while making dinner. He’d tidy the papers piled up around my desk—notes spilling like water over the edges, books emerging from a sea of papers, like a sandbar in a river.
He never once complained about the mess or questioned the hours. He never doubted the Bible studies I led or the materials I wrote myself. He never asked why I put so much effort into something that lived only a hard drive or ended up in someone’s recycle bin.
Three Christmases ago, he gave me a small box. Inside was a brand-new MacBook Air. I could have cried. For years, I had worked on a twelve-year-old laptop—slow and glitchy with sticky keys and failing battery. But it ran, and with four kids, there are always more pressing needs. It never even crossed my mind to ask for new computer.
When I asked him why he would do such a thing, he said, “Because what you write is important. You’re important. It brings me joy to give you the tools to do the work God puts on your heart.”
He has been my cheerleader when things went well, and my shelter when they didn’t. When I came home discouraged after being dismissed, humiliated, or laughed out of the room for what I believe, he was the one who anchored me when everything in me wanted to drift back into the shallow waters. He’d lift up my head and remind me why I had waded out into those deep parts in the first place.
That’s Mike. It’s all or nothing with him. There is no middle ground. He moves toward hard things without hesitation, thrives when the odds are stacked against us, and somehow, in the eleventh hour, he finds a way forward—even when it matters to no one but us. Especially then. And how a nerd like me ended up with a cool guy like him, I will never understand.
When I began writing The Forgotten Gospel in the fall of 2024, I wasn’t trying to write a book. I sat down to make notes for a small group. We were studying Leviticus, and I thought we needed one extra session: “Why Jesus Doesn’t Replace Leviticus.”
Three hours later, I looked up from the computer. Those notes had become a river of their own, and I realized that I wasn’t writing notes anymore. Mike walked into the kitchen and asked what I was working on. “I think I’m writing a book,” I said, stunned at the pages in front of me.
He smiled, kissed the top of my head, and said, “Told you!”
He’s been right all along.
This man has championed my writing forever and funded this project without hesitation—being both the banks of the river and, quite literally, the bank.
And its been his great joy to do so. He has treated my book as though its a precious offering, and that bringing these words into the world is his privilege. He’s read every draft and listened to me talk (endlessly) about Leviticus. He built this website, took the pictures, researched independent publishing. But mostly, he has been the banks that held the current of this book—bearing its weight with me, steady when the pace quickened and the inspiration surged like rapids—and to say I couldn’t have written this book without him is an understatement.
Somehow, he saw the words inside me long before I ever did. He understands the burden I carry like no one else. And long ago, he braced his own heart for the cost of carrying it with me. He has met me here in the work—undaunted by the vision, unthreatened by the voice, unwavering in his love.
So whatever good this book carries, it carries him with it too.
He’s the banks of this river—streadfast on the edges—holding it all in place…for as long as it takes.
His fingerprints are on every page, even if his name isn’t.