Ministry

How Preparing a Gift for My Parents’ 50th Wedding Anniversary Reminded Me of My Calling

/ Elizabeth Trotter / Leave a comment

For my parents’ 50th wedding anniversary (which is today, by the way!), my sisters and I decided not to throw a party. I’m not sure my parents would have wanted a party anyway. But we wanted to celebrate them in some way, and we chose two avenues. First, we signed them up to write their memoirs bit by bit through a company called Storyworth. It’s been fun for all of us to read the stories of their life as they arrive in our inboxes week after week.

And second, we decided to put together a book of memories for them from their closest friends and family. These people are scattered across the country, as our family’s story includes fifteen years in the U.S. Army, including four years stationed in West Germany in the early 80s. I knew this had the potential to be a once-in-a-lifetime gift, but I had no idea what its true impact would be on me or my parents.

As the letters started to trickle in, I noticed a pattern. Over and over again, the main thing people remember about Jeff and Mary Hunzinger was the way they served others. Consistent across all their locations—El Paso, Germany, South Dakota, Fort Riley, Red Bridge Church of Christ, Legacy Christian Church—they were just always there for people.

I remember hearing the same themes when my mom’s dad died. People kept talking about how he helped other people, how he was there for them. At the wake someone told a story I’d never heard before of Grandpa helping a man in the community who’d been at risk of suicide and how he’d even gone to his house in the middle of the night. My grandparents were farmers. They didn’t have a lot of money. They didn’t even have high school diplomas (though Grandpa was really proud of Grandma for earning her GED later in life), but people didn’t care about that. All they remembered was how much Grandpa had contributed to the community.

It reminds me of the way people talk about my husband’s parents. Mark and Kerry have been gone for decades now, but the main thing people remember about them was the way they were there for other people. They had this special ability to see where people were spiritually and to speak into their lives. With a dentist’s salary, they also had the means to bless people financially—and often did. But it’s not just Jonathan’s parents who gave us this example; his dad’s parents lived in much the same way. 

So I read all these letters about my parents and thought about the legacy I’ve been given on both sides of the family, and I was moved to tears. It made me grateful. More than that, though, it made me want to live into this precious legacy I’ve been given. 

My parents didn’t know any of those things when I visited them earlier this summer. I was still acutely ill, but after dinner we sat around the table talking like usual, and Mom was commenting on life. I can’t remember the context, but she said something about how life isn’t all about you, it’s about other people and serving them. Her priorities were clear. She knew the important things in life. But she hadn’t seen any of the letters yet. She didn’t know what people were saying about her and Dad. She just knew how she wanted to live her one beautiful life, following in the footsteps of her parents and in the footsteps of Jesus.

I started to think back over the last several years and see how my health struggles and mental health challenges have just been so all-consuming. I wasn’t always able to see outside myself. I remember pregnancy being the same way. A momma just turns so inward, needing to take care of the little life inside. After a few pregnancies, I remember consciously thinking that it would be good for me to take a break from being pregnant because it’s so inward-focused, trying to take care of the baby and all. 

And then I thought back over this past year and how (with the exception of this summer) I’ve had the best mental, physical, and relational health in a long time, probably due to finally being on HRT. Suddenly I could see outside myself again—because service has long been a theme in my life as well. 

Why do my hormones need to be in balance in order to serve the God I’ve loved since I was a little girl? Why do my neurotransmitters need to be in balance to be the person God made me to be? Because I know who God made me to be—I’ve known that for so long—and loving Him and loving ministry and caring for my family and for people in the community has defined so much of my life.

And then perimenopause and re-entry (not so affectionately called re-entrypauseTM in our household) just sideswiped me. I look at who I am when my hormones are out of balance, and I have a hard time believing that’s God’s intention for me. Self-centered and irritable is not who He made me to be. He made me to be joyful, patient, curious, nurturing. This years-long process has shown me that sometimes these mortal vessels need medication for us to be the person God created us to be. 

Re-entrypause shifted my ability to listen to God, to see other people outside myself, to see things in reasonable and rational ways. My thinking got all twisted up on so many levels. I’m thankful for modern medicine that can restore the circuits in my brain to be able to look outside myself and to serve other people again—and to want to do that for the rest of my life. I just had a birthday this past week, 45 trips around the sun. I’m already halfway to the end, if not more than that. For the second half, I want to return to the way I tried to live most of the first half, in service to God and others.

So these days you’ll find me singing the words of that old camp song, “Make Me a Servant.” I pray the song, and I think about my parents’ legacy, so that when I get to the end of my life, what people remember is how much I poured out, not how much I took. I want to live a life that flows outward, not inward. A life that points to God’s love, not one that points to myself. And the only way to do that is through the blood of Christ and the power of the Holy Spirit.

Mama Said

/ Elizabeth Trotter / Leave a comment

My mom was an Army wife. She told me that things always go wrong when a dad is out of town — whether deployed or out for field exercises or summer training. All the Army wives knew it was true. 

A kid would get seriously sick, or the car would break down, or something would go wrong with the house when a dad was gone. It was a fact of life they had no choice but to accept. One time a toddler ended up in the hospital while my dad was gone. Another time Mom had a baby. (Thank God for supportive church people, right?!)

But this truism ended up applying to more than military life. Ministry life felt much the same.

I remember being six months pregnant with my fourth child when Kansas City received torrential downpours. Jonathan was at Bible camp with the youth group, and the parsonage basement flooded over fifteen inches. It short-circuited both the air conditioning system and the (newly replaced) hot water heater, which now both needed replacing, and ruined most of what we’d stored down there — books and family photo albums in cardboard boxes which we had carefully placed on top of stone blocks. 

But the water level rose above those stones, and capillary action on the cardboard ensured total damage. I needed an entire team of people to help empty the basement of its boxes and furniture, now ruined, try to salvage anything we could, and toss the rest. Later that week a nearby water main broke, and we didn’t have water at all for a while, which was even worse than trying to shower in cold water a few days before. 

After that, we stored our belongings in plastic boxes on even higher blocks.

I remember another time when we lived in Cambodia and Jonathan was on an international trip and I got sick. He wasn’t planning to come straight home though. He was going to meet me and the kids in Thailand, where we were scheduled to be the keynote speakers at a home education conference.

I had to figure out how to get better and still make it to the conference with four kids in tow. Asian airlines and airports have been checking for fevers long before COVID-19 hit the world, so I didn’t actually know if I would make it to the conference. That week involved a lot of praying, phone calling, and Tylenol swallowing.

Something similar happened again recently. Jonathan was just about to leave for an international ministry trip when I became seriously ill. I couldn’t concentrate, I was in constant pain, and I could barely get out of bed, but I somehow dragged myself to the doctor for testing. What I was diagnosed with (thyroiditis) was going to require a long recovery, but there were some medications that could help manage symptoms in the meantime. 

Then it was time to decide whether he should leave on the ministry trip or not. I was in bad shape, and he offered to stay home and care for me. But I really felt he still needed to go. People were depending on him — some people were attending the event specifically to meet with him. Plus, I had all these older teen and adult children who could help, in addition to an amazing local church family. One thing I know for sure: the prayers of the saints have held me these past couple weeks.

This illness isn’t fun. I actually got worse for a little while after he left. But the experience reminded me of my mama’s wisdom. Things always seem to go wrong just when the person who is supposed to help you navigate the trials of life is also gone. Is it chance, happenstance, spiritual warfare? I don’t know. I do know that my husband and I have often fought just before a big ministry event — so much so that he began to expect it. 

This time around we didn’t fight. I got sick instead. 

I’ve never been one to accuse the devil of much. I’ve seen the practice misused. But sometimes it’s hard not to draw spiritual conclusions. This illness was so unexpected. I’ve never had thyroid problems, and they don’t run in my family. I’m generally healthy. Yet right before Jonathan was supposed to leave for an eleven-day trip to do some really important ministry, I was diagnosed with a temporarily debilitating illness.

The truth is, maybe we’ll never know the reasons these things happen. But as every military, ministry, and missionary wife knows, they do tend to happen. The question then becomes: What are we going to do when they happen?

Wars, Plagues, and Fires: Is This How the World Ends?

/ Elizabeth Trotter / Leave a comment

Saddled with an anxious mind, it’s easy for me to go bleak. Hopeless. Straight to the end of the world. It’s easy to look around at world or national events and think, it’s never been this bad before.

But this is not a new habit of mine. I’ve been fast-forwarding to Armageddon for years. This tells me it’s not about the age in which I live but about the mind I inhabit.

There is, as always, reason to fear. Recently some have said that we are closer to nuclear war now than we have been since the Cold War. (Note: I originally wrote those words in April 2024, shortly after the war in Israel had begun.)

But in times like these I remember what C.S. Lewis had to say in his 1948 essay, “On Living in an Atomic Age,” and I go reread it. You probably already know it, but here it is just in case:

In one way we think a great deal too much of the atomic bomb. ‘How are we to live in an atomic age?’ I am tempted to reply: ‘Why, as you would have lived in the sixteenth century when the plague visited London almost every year, or as you would have lived in a Viking age when raiders from Scandinavia might land and cut your throat any night; or indeed, as you are already living in an age of cancer, an age of syphilis, an age of paralysis, an age of air raids, an age of railway accidents, an age of motor accidents.’

In other words, do not let us begin by exaggerating the novelty of our situation. Believe me, dear sir or madam, you and all whom you love were already sentenced to death before the atomic bomb was invented: and quite a high percentage of us were going to die in unpleasant ways. We had, indeed, one very great advantage over our ancestors – anaesthetics; but we have that still. It is perfectly ridiculous to go about whimpering and drawing long faces because the scientists have added one more chance of painful and premature death to a world which already bristled with such chances and in which death itself was not a chance at all, but a certainty.

This is the first point to be made: and the first action to be taken is to pull ourselves together. If we are all going to be destroyed by an atomic bomb, let that bomb when it comes find us doing sensible and human things – praying, working, teaching, reading, listening to music, bathing the children, playing tennis, chatting to our friends over a pint and a game of darts – not huddled together like frightened sheep and thinking about bombs. They may break our bodies (a microbe can do that) but they need not dominate our minds.

Of course, that reminds me of this George Orwell quote from his 1946 essay, “Some Thoughts on the Common Toad,” which I’ve also shared before:

The atomic bombs are piling up in the factories, the police are prowling through the cities, the lies are streaming from the loudspeakers, but the earth is still going round the sun, and neither the dictators nor the bureaucrats, deeply as they disapprove of the process, are able to prevent it.

And that reminds me of what we learned in homeschool history class. Specifically, what we learned in Chapter 12 of Susan Wise Bauer’s The Story of the World Volume 3: Early Modern Times. The setting was London, the 1650s and ‘60s. First there was a long, drawn-out war followed by an extremely unpopular governing regime. Then there was a plague. And finally, there was a disaster that destroyed half the city.

Nearly ten years of the English Civil War—violence, unrest, and oppression. An unpopular religious regime for the next five. Two fifths (forty percent) of London succumbing to the Yersinia pestis bacterium a few years after that. And less than a year later four fifths of London burning to the ground all because the king’s baker had been careless one night.

If I’d been living in London in 1666, at the end of all of that, I would have thought the end of the world was right around the corner. I would have thought Jesus was coming soon. Surely. But I would have been wrong. Nearly four hundred years later, we’re still waiting.

What about Matthew 24 and Jesus’s apparent warnings that the end was happening soon? What about Matthew 25 and the parable of the virgins? Aren’t we supposed to be ready for His return at all times? It could happen at any moment. At least, that’s what I’d heard growing up.

But when our Bible class studied this verse, the teacher explained that it’s not just that we need to be ready for His return to happen soon. We’re also supposed to be ready for it to happen later. To be prepared to stay and wait a long time. The wise ones were prepared for a longer wait — and possibly more suffering — and they were rewarded.

Wars, plagues, and fires. Those are the trials that the English people faced in the 1650s and ‘60s. And they are the trials the modern world has faced in the 2020s. It doesn’t necessarily mean the end of the world is nigh, although it might. But things have always been falling apart. 2026 is no different — though it is personal.

So don’t just be ready to receive Him now. Also be ready to wait. Be ready right now, and be ready later. We don’t know the times, and it’s not our job to know the times. It’s our job to be prepared no matter how long it takes. Even through suffering, even through heartache. It’s our job to settle in and make a life, to raise children and plant gardens, even if we have to wait seventy years, or more.

I remember in 2021 my husband Jonathan was working on a landmark article on codependency and the church. He took a couple months to germinate the seed and complete the essay. And all through that time, I knew I wanted to write about Rose of Sharon.

But he was doing something really important, and we were everywhere surrounded by chaos. I wondered if my desire might be meaningless. So I asked him, “Every day it seems like the world is ending. Should I still write about flowers? How could they possibly matter in the light of all this other stuff?”

You know what he told me? He said, “The end of the world is especially the time to write about flowers.” And then he said something about that C.S. Lewis essay I love so much. (You can search our website for his take on the essay and my take on the essay; apparently we love this essay.)

You know what else? Since I started writing this reflection a couple years ago and then laid it down before picking it back up again recently, my relationship with news-related anxiety has changed. I don’t follow the news so closely anymore. There have been so many brushes with apocalypse that they no longer shock me anymore. It’s seemed like the end of the world so many times that I’ve given up thinking it is. 

I’ve tried to order my loves rightly once again. Looking to history, especially London in the 1650s and ‘60s has helped. But so have the words of Jesus in Matthew 25 and the words of Lewis in his famous essay, along with the essays and book listed below. Because someday it will be the end of the world, and there won’t be any question about it. Everyone will know. But until then, God has work for us to do.

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For further reading:

Why I Can’t Care About Every Crisis (on the challenges of living in two worlds)
What George Orwell and C.S. Lewis can teach us about chaos, creation, and a world living in fear
On Living in Terrible Times by Jonathan Trotter
Reading the News When Crisis Hits by Lilly Rivera 
Stop Burning Out for Jesus by Valerie Limmer
Reading the Times: A Literary and Theological Inquiry into the News by Jeffrey Lyle Bilbro

A Liturgy for Leaving Work

/ Elizabeth Trotter / 2 Comments

I open my hands at the end of this day
To release the plans I’d intended to make,
All the lists I’d intended to check,
And the sweet relief of finishing it.

The clock ticks later, it’s time to move on,
To leave my lists undone
And transfer affection
Away from work and back toward home.

I won’t fret o’er my troubles or my endless lists,
For You’ll be there with me in every next day that I live.
We’ll pick them up together when the morning comes,
But right now in this moment, I am going home.

Like manna, You give me this day my daily bread
As you have done every day of life.
I trust you with the bread,
I trust you with the work.

But deliver me from overwork, from ruminations
and an endless supply of puzzles to solve.
Help me to choose the better things
As each day folds into night.

I walked in the pastures, I worked in the pastures,
Now I walk to still waters and release unanswered emails.
I pause unfinished work, take a breath, and remember
There are enough problems for each day.

I brought my whole self to this work
And now I take my whole self with it—
To the husband of my youth,
To the children of my womb,
To the life I have been given.

How Big Is Your Cup?

/ Elizabeth Trotter / Leave a comment

You can’t pour from an empty cup. It’s so cliche, yet cliches arise for a reason.

Because it’s true: you can’t keep giving and giving and giving. To God. To others. Not without refilling. Even my children know this. We’ve talked about ministry burnout often enough.

I think most of us know this truth and even accept it. We have to be refilled by God. Jesus modeled this for us.

But what we don’t always recognize is that we all have different cup sizes. We pour out at different rates, and we refill at different rates. Nobody is the same, and we can’t compare our public ministry or private refilling needs to anyone else’s.

So how big is your cup? How long does it take to pour out, and how long does it take to refill? These are things only you can discern. God asks us to pour ourselves out for others, yes, but He also longs to pour Himself into us. 

We aren’t useful to anyone if we’ve poured ourselves out so completely that there isn’t even a drop left. So let God fill your cup, in His own time and in His own way. He made your cup and gave it to you, and He knows how much time it takes to refill you.

Then walk out your front door and pour it out for Him. He promises to be there when you come back for more.

Because we weren’t meant to hoard all that goodness for ourselves. We were made to share it with others. 

When we don’t, we become like the Dead Sea, with freshwater inflow and no outflow. We become too salty, too concentrated and astringent to sustain life. Always taking and never giving — like a metaphorical black hole.

I’ve used way too many analogies here, and now it’s time to stop.

But before I do, I want to help my fellow low-energy moms out there. Ten years ago Brandy Vencel wrote a blog series called The Low-Energy Mom’s Guide to Homeschooling. Even if you’re not homeschooling, several of the articles might still apply.

Because we all have different sizes of cups. We all have different rates of pouring out and refilling. But we also all have the same God, a good Father who longs to pour into His children and watch them pour into others. We were never meant to keep the goodness He gives us—we were made to share it.