There is Hope

Simon Pegg Likes My Shirt

2011-03-20T16:02:00.000-07:00

Simon Pegg likes my shirt!

Yeah, I know, you're shocked I even know who he is. But moving on...

So, I was sitting at SXSW, watching an interview with Simon Pegg and Nick Frost. Between takes, I caught Mr. Pegg staring at my chest, after which he gave me a thumbs up and mouthed something inaudible that looked almost like "amen." "What?" I mouthed. "Amen to the shirt," he said. "Ah thanks," I said, then turned to my friend to find out if he knew who the cute (and funny) blonde chest-starer was.

After the interview, I took him a few gifts from my friend's Atheism Store, (a couple of buttons and a card that lets people know you prefer not to be prayed over or given last rites, etc in case you are ripped apart in an accident or something.) He was mildly appreciative, took the swag and said, "Watch Paul." "I started rambling about having seen the trailer the night before. He interrupted and said again, "Watch Paul. There's a thread there."

So, I haven't seen Paul yet, but I most certainly will if only to find out about Simon Pegg's cryptic inference that there is an anti-religious sub-plot or reference or something. Or maybe I'll find out he was just trying to tell me I had a string hanging from my sleeve.

Search the Scriptures

2011-01-23T22:20:00.000-08:00

Recently I was cornered on a facebook status to clarify my religious stance. I wasn’t quite ready to do so, but what the heck. I own it. I’m an atheist. Yep. The whole, “no god” thing. That’s me.

I’ve gotten quite a few responses to that revelation. Some public, some private. Some were supportive. Others leery or concerned. I have been encouraged by more than one person to write about my journey. I have chosen to do that by answering Frequently Asked Questions, addressing Common Misconceptions and exploring Friendly Advice/Exhortations. The first in this series will be from the “exhortations” category. I have been encouraged to:

“Read the Bible.”

Ok...whew. Read the Bible? Really? Ok, maybe you really don’t know my background, so we will start there.

Ok. Ahem. Allow me to introduce myself. I was practically born in church. At two years of age, I could recite the Books of the Old and New Testament and retell Bible Stories. I attended a Christian school from the age of three. I ‘received Christ’ at age 4, and began witnessing immediately. At 6, I was too shy to speak directly, so I recorded a music box song of “Jesus Loves the Little Children” onto my cassette recorder and took an illustrated Bible along with homemade flashcards of verses to display as the music played. I would then lead my playmates in prayer. My school taught the Bible in EVERY subject to the neglect of actual studies. I have memorized many, many psalms, large portions of Genesis and Proverbs, and Paul’s writings, countless individual verses, as well as the entire books of Ephesians, Philemon, James, 1st, 2nd & 3rd John, & Jude. I can explain any doctrine to you and can talk infinitely about God’s grace and His sovereignty and if you’d like, I can even contrast those two points of His character or conversely explain how they can coexist. I can give you a “promise of God” for every trial and a word from the Scripture for any question you have. I CAN BEAT YOU AT BIBLE TRIVIA AND SWORD DRILLS, suckas! :) Through my studies and education, I understand that the word of God is infallible and useful for all things, that God’s ways are not for us to understand, and that faith in spite of evidence is our high calling. I KNOW the Bible. Your exhortation to me to ‘search the Scriptures’ is dismissive, implying that if I only KNEW the Bible, I wouldn’t disbelieve now. Try to grasp it that I do know the Bible and am still an atheist. I know it’s hard to do. I must be doing something wrong....maybe I was never really saved so I don’t really have the Holy Spirit to guide me in understanding (if the Gospel be hidden, it is hid to them that are lost), or maybe I’ve ventured so far into sin that I can’t see the truth (‘having their conscience seared’, or “given over to a reprobate mind’). But what if none are those things are true?

What if I really was all the things I claimed all these years, and now, quite rationally, have come to this place? What then? Can you take a moment to fathom that? Because if you can’t do that, you are discounting all I’ve ever been or claimed to be. I’m here to say today that my character has not changed. If you knew me to be sensitive to do what is right...I still am. You knew me to be quick to forgive and ask forgiveness...I am still that person. You knew me to be honest...I have retained that honesty. And now, on top of all of what you already knew about me, I am living that way, not out of hope for an eternal reward, but because I want to be able to live with myself. I ask myself who I want to be and then I am that person. Twice last week I was overpaid. Once at the bank and once at work. I did what I would have always done with the money. I returned it. But it wasn’t for fear of displeasing a higher power, or because I needed to be a good testimony, or for a reward I might gain in Heaven. It was because I know what kind of person I want Hope Williams to be.

Is it possible for me to know the Bible and not believe? I submit to you that I do. And please tell me, at what point do I get to quit searching the Bible for answers? Another year? It’s been 38. I hear you. You’re telling me that I should NEVER give up. Keep plowing through the Book. Keep looking. Seek ye the Lord. As I continue to find answers outside my faith, at what point does it become obvious that the only reason I would continue to search the Bible would be to desperately hold on to something I can no longer accept? If I must force that belief, why? Would it be so wrong to step back and examine the desperation, that drives us to cling to the illogical? At what point are we totally closing our eyes to all that makes sense in the world so that we can continue to believe in a fairy tale?

Read the Bible. Hmmm. How about I read something else now?

Buffy!

2011-01-12T10:13:00.000-08:00

Watched Buffy the Vampire Slayer today for the first time. I guess I was thinking that, with a name like Buffy and a job like Vampire Slayer, that I was about to watch one mean dyke-ish bitch fight her way through dimly lit tunnels in another time. I was pleasantly surprised. Sarah Michelle Gellar, who plays Buffy is very cute. (She reminds me of Kellie Martin who was the star of one tv show I actually did watch where one religious group of missionaries tried to teach another group that their “superstitions” were wrong. But anyway, I liked that show and thought she was cute too. Even their mannerisms and voices are similar.) Buffy isn’t a tomboy at all. In fact, since she knows exactly how far from a Neiman Marcus she is, she might be more of a girl than I am. Willow, whom I met in the first episode and assume will continue to be a main character, reminds me of Jan Brady, to the point that I think the actress must have learned her skills watching the Brady Bunch. So, yeah, it’s a little hoaky and over the top--which I think is a feeling that some of my more knowledgeable film-loving friends like to call “campy.” All in all, I liked it. I watched it with my 10 year old son, who wanted to watch the next episode to find out what would happen after the “...to be continued.”

I also, thought I'd listen my way through the list on the previous post, and since "Imagine" was first (though, yes, I AM familiar with that one) I thought I'd start there. Beautiful thoughts. Thank you John Lennon. Click here to listen again.

Where have I not heard that before?

2011-01-11T20:53:00.001-08:00

Music-

Definitely a topic for exploration. I found this list online of 100 all-time best rock-and-roll songs. What do you think? What other music should I definitely hear in 2011?

#100: "Heroes" by David Bowie 1977

#99: "I Fought the Law" by Bobby Fuller Four 1966

#98: "Ain't No Sunshine" by Bill Withers 1971

#97: "House of the Rising Sun" by The Animals 1964

#96: "Mr. Tambourine Man" by The Byrds 1965

#95: "Whole Lotta Love" by Led Zeppelin 1969

#94: "For What It's Worth" by Buffalo Springfield 1967

#93: "Fortunate Son" by Creedence Clearwater Revival 1969

#92: "You Can't Always Get What You Want" by The Rolling Stones 1969

#91: "White Rabbit" by Jefferson Airplane 1967

#90: "California Dreamin'" by The Mamas & the Papas 1965

#89: "Let's Stay Together" by Al Green 1971

#88: "Higher Ground" by Stevie Wonder 1973

#87: "Purple Haze" by The Jimi Hendrix Experience 1967

#86: "Losing My Religion" by R.E.M. 1991

#85: "The Boxer" by Simon & Garfunkel 1970

#84: "Fire and Rain" by James Taylor 1970

#83: "White Room" by Cream 1968

#82: "Go Your Own Way" by Fleetwood Mac 1977

#81: "Baba O'Riley" by The Who 1971

#80: "Everyday People" by Sly & the Family Stone 1969

#79: "Sixty Minute Man" by The Dominoes 1951

#78: "Falling Slowly" by Glen Hansard & Markéta Irglová 2006

#77: "I Got You (I Feel Good)" by James Brown 1965

#76: "Smokestack Lightnin'" by Howlin' Wolf 1956

#75: "Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown)" by The Beatles 1965

#74: "Jailhouse Rock" by Elvis Presley 195

#73: "Dream On" by Aerosmith 1973

#72: "Respect" by Aretha Franklin 1965

#71: "Free Fallin'" by Tom Petty 1989

#70: "Redemption Song" by Bob Marley & the Wailers 1980

#69: "Paranoid" by Black Sabbath 1970

#68: "Superstition" by Stevie Wonder 1974

#67: "The End" by The Doors 1967

#66: "With or Without You" by U2 1987

#65: "Bridge Over Troubled Water" by Simon & Garfunkel 1970

#64: "Boom Boom" by John Lee Hooker 1962

#63: "The Message" by Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five 1982

#62: "Louie Louie" by The Kingsmen 1963

#61: "London Calling" by The Clash 1979

#60: "Sultans of Swing" by Dire Straits 1978

#59: "Shake, Rattle and Roll" by Big Joe Turner 1954

#58: "Somebody to Love" by Jefferson Airplane 1967

#57: "A Day in the Life" by The Beatles 1967

#56: "Purple Rain" by Prince and The Revolution 1984

#55: "Blowin' in the Wind" by Bob Dylan 1963

#54: "Thunder Road" by Bruce Springsteen 1975

#53: "Tutti Frutti" by Little Richard 1956

#52: "Billie Jean" by Michael Jackson 1982

#51: "(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction" by The Rolling Stones 1965

#50: "Maybellene" by Chuck Berry 1955

#49: "The Times They Are A-Changin'" by Bob Dylan 1964

#48: "Voodoo Child (Slight Return)" by The Jimi Hendrix Experience 1967

#47: "Kashmir" by Led Zeppelin 1975

#46: "Proud Mary" by Creedence Clearwater Revival 1969

#45: "Light My Fire" by The Doors 1967

#44: "God Only Knows" by The Beach Boys 1966

#43: "The Weight" by The Band 1968

#42: "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" by The Beatles 1968#41: "Black" by Pearl Jam 1991

#40: "Dancing in the Street" by Martha and the Vandellas 1964

#39: "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For" by U2 1987

#38: "Free Bird" by Lynyrd Skynyrd 1974

#37: "(Sittin' On) The Dock of the Bay" by Otis Redding 1968

#36: "Bo Diddley" by Bo Diddley 1955

#35: "Won't Get Fooled Again" by The Who 1971

#34: "Bohemian Rhapsody" by Queen 1975

#33: "Papa's Got a Brand New Bag" by James Brown 1966

#32: "The Tracks of My Tears" by The Miracles 1965

#31: "You Really Got Me" by The Kinks 1964

#30: "Smells Like Teen Spirit" by Nirvana 1991

#29: "Hound Dog" by Elvis Presley 1956

#28: "In My Life" by The Beatles 1965

#27: "Sunshine of Your Love" by Cream 1967

#26: "Sympathy for the Devil" by The Rolling Stones 1968

#25: "Comfortably Numb" by Pink Floyd 1979

#24: "I Heard It Through the Grapevine" by Marvin Gaye 1968

#23: "Be My Baby" by The Ronettes 1963

#22: "My Generation" by The Who 1965

#21: "That'll Be the Day" by The Crickets 1957

#20: "What'd I Say" by Ray Charles 1959

#19: "No Woman, No Cry" by Bob Marley and the Wailers 1974

#18: "Good Vibrations" by The Beach Boys 1966

#17: "All Along the Watchtower" by The Jimi Hendrix Experience 1968

#16: "Wish You Were Here" by Pink Floyd 1975

#15: "Heartbreak Hotel" by Elvis Presley 1956

#14: "Yesterday" by The Beatles 1965

#13: "Gimme Shelter" by The Rolling Stones 1969

#12: "Born to Run" by Bruce Springsteen 1975

#11: "Oh, Pretty Woman" by Roy Orbison 1964

#10: "Hey Jude" by The Beatles 1968

#9: "One" by U2 1991

#8: "Hotel California" by The Eagles 1976

#7: "What's Going On" by Marvin Gaye 1971

#6: "Let It Be" by The Beatles 1970

#5: "Like a Rolling Stone" by Bob Dylan 1965

#4: "Layla" by Derek & the Dominos 1970

#3: "Johnny B. Goode" by Chuck Berry 1957

#2: "Stairway to Heaven" by Led Zeppelin 1971

#1: "Imagine" by John Lennon 1971

What did I miss?

2011-01-07T22:11:00.000-08:00

Where to start is still as big of a question as it was. But I got a lot of insight tonight. A LOT. Around dinner we discussed the pop culture aspect of my lackings (well, I listened). Apparently I need to see Buffy the Vampire Slayer, 90210, Heathers, Friends, Xena, My So Called Life, Family Guy and of COURSE(!) Simpsons and Seinfeld! AND---I can’t even remember all the things I MUST see!

But it was good. I think I found some enthusiastic contributors to my catch up list. And I want you to contribute as well. You know the categories, music, art, pop culture, literature, etc. I’m tired of saying “huh?” in conversations or just blanking out because I have no idea what was just said.

I’m imagining myself to appear somewhat Amish to my new friends. In my mind, there is a lot of difference between me and the Amish, but to my non-religious friends, I do think I make an interesting study case. And why not? You know how much fun it is to share something you love with someone who has never experienced it. Maybe it’s a place, a food, a movie. So I can definitely understand the fun. It’s like watching a baby learn to walk. Except I’m an adult. Does that make it more special? Or just messed up?

Two things I learned tonight:

1. I WILL NOT catch up in a year. However, I still insist on calling it my “Catch Up Year” because it is the year I will make the most progress, I will go through suggested, watching, listening, viewing, reading, etc, with intention, and this is the year I will chronicle it.

2. Someone mentioned tonight that there’s a good chance I might not even like what I’m exposed to. That maybe I won’t be interested after all. I am sure that is a great possibility. Like the time I had never been to a baseball game and wanted desperately to go and experience that piece of Americana and then I hated it. But there has also been plenty that I’ve tried and loved. I think the point was to try everything and find what I love.

So, this year, as I catch up, maybe I won’t watch all 20 seasons of the Simpsons. But I will be exposed. I will watch the Simpsons. And I will know what ‘doh’ means. Whether I fall in love with Bart, or Buffy, or the Gilmore Girls remains to be seen. So, make your suggestions. I will taste it all and spit nothing out. And next time we see each other, maybe I’ll say something clever like “Would that show be anything without NPH?”

And I’ll get a sick little joy in my heart as I see someone hesitate trying to think who that is. Or worse...maybe they’ll have to google it.

Where to start?

2011-01-04T21:14:00.001-08:00

So I guess I need to put together some sort of list, if this year I am going to “catch up” to normal.

Some of you may have no idea what I’m talking about. See, I come from a religion, and a family where we did, well, nothing. Let me give you just a little list of things I wasn’t allowed to watch (along with the ‘reason’ why)

FILM AND TELEVISION

Bewitched (magic is of the devil)

I Dream of Jeannie (see above)

Cheers (takes place in a bar)

Star Wars (God is the only Force)

Sorcerer’s Apprentice (C’mon...Sorcerer? Duh)

Any Late Show (I don’t know why)

Saturday Night Live (No one said why--it was just bad)

E.T. (Just seems wrong)

My family didn’t have a strictly no tv rule, per se, but the code was so strict it was difficult to find what was acceptable. Movies were not explicitly forbidden either, although going to the theater was. I do remember watching about half of a lot of movies on tv before someone came in and turned it off because it was inappropriate. Poltergeist was just getting interesting when...well, you know.

READING

In school, we were exposed to Christian literature and the Bible. ‘Secular’ literature (Shakespeare, Tolstoy, Dante, etc) was provided in the form of a digest of short entries studded with disclaimers and examined for misleading ideas of humanism or incorrect theology.

ART

Art was not valued or taught in my school and was briefly reviewed one semester along with proper religious analysis and disdain.

MUSIC

Only Christian or classical music was tolerated, and only some of that. ‘Christian Rock’ of course was evil as was any pop song, rap, etc. Inappropriate music was confiscated. It was a really big deal. I remember several book and music burnings at my church and school.

HISTORY

Even current events were largely ignored unless it involved inauguration of the “right” president, etc. In that case, the evil television set would be moved into the school chapel for us to “witness history.” History that we didn’t like was ignored or rewritten. It was something akin to the modern-day uproar around playing President Obama’s addresses to school children.

MATH and SCIENCE

These subjects were at best weak. We possessed no science lab and I never saw or was involved with even one chemical experiment, science project, reaction or dissection of any kind. Math was self-taught and the teachers mostly couldn’t help us with it either.

I don’t say these things to demean those who tried to educate me and others. They were most likely doing the best they could and most certainly were doing what they thought was right. They strongly believed that filling our heads with Scripture and protecting us from outside influences was the greatest gif they could give. I do appreciate their sincerity, although I believe ti to have been misguided.

However, all that aside. It is now time to catch up. What should I have seen, learned and experienced? What do I need to fill in?

I know there is a lot, but I’m not even sure where to start.

2011--A year for Catching Up--And no, not like last year

2011-01-03T16:43:00.000-08:00

For 2010 I made a very small, modest list of things I wanted to accomplish. The list was unambitious at best and contained only 5 items. I completed two of them.

If I had known then what I know now, I would have known that resolutions were not necessary in the world of huge change into which I was about to throw myself. Before the plunge I had never made my own decisions, paid my own bills and had barely even stood up for myself. I didn’t know how to ask for what I needed, provide for myself, or keep my head up when it all looked like a mistake.

Now, a year later, I have a reserve of memories and successes that spur me on as I continue to face the challenges I have taken on in order to make my life what I want it to be. I won’t bore you with those things in this post.

However, among the more laughable memories of 2010, is my List of “Firsts,” which resembles a list that a college freshman might make. It is not an example of how I have lived my life. It is more an example of how I didn’t live it before.

Some of it is mischief. Okay, most of it is mischief. Some of it is personal. In an effort to demonstrate at least some measure of discretion, I will leave you to your wild imagination on things too personal or too mischievous (or both) to post. Just be assured that these are real entries that I replaced with dashes.

Year of Firsts

First facial piercing

First girl’s night out

First time in a bar

First time to dance

First time to ---

First ---

First Sunday not at church

First ---

First time to ---

First ---

First move to another US city

First apartment of my own

First time living alone

First permanent non-ministry job

First time to see ‘forbidden movies’ including Ghostbusters and Pee Wee Herman

First non-Christian concert

First cigar

First 5K

First time to ---

First unnatural hair color

First ---

First time in court

And so I began to fill in gaps of things that, in many people’s lives, would have been tried at a much earlier age. This year I hope to fill in even more gaps.

And there are many.

I have gaps in exposure and education, due to my upbringing and the intolerance of ideas that I grew up with. This year, 2011, will be a year of catching up. Not of catching up on experiences, but in filling in the spots in my mind that scream for knowledge and stimulation. Topics that were ignored in my “education” that I hope to cover include art, mythology, influential people of our time, politics, literature, and pop culture such as video games, music, movies and tv. Areas I won’t be covering include Bible Memory and Creationism. Thanks to my 12 years in Christian School and 20 years in the ministry I think I’ve pretty well got those covered.

Oh, and should I also attempt to fill in gaps in history, science and math? Tackling the algebra I didn’t learn in school seems a little overwhelming when viewed alongside all the rest I just signed up for. After all, it wasn't till this year that I knew who Chubaka was. But we’ll see...

Me+Whoever

2010-09-26T22:36:00.000-07:00

"Please, Miss Me, may I have your autograph?"

"Excuse me! Can you give me your autograph, please? Make it out to John. Something like...I love you, John. Love, Miss Me."

"Miss. Me, could you sign my T-shirt?" And so she did. She refused no one. Always gracious and giving to the end, she took time for each request, though tired, and smilingly gave of herself."

Everyday he would see her. Mr. Whoever. He saw her coming down the carpet. Mr. Whoever followed her. He watched her. And he wished for her autograph. He wished for it more than anything.

One day Mr. Whoever was noticed by Miss Me. She wasn't annoyed. She even seemed somewhat flattered by his presence. She invited him to come with her. As she signed and waved her gloved hand and fluttered her false lashes, he sat in the shadows and admired the subtle things about her-- the curve of her back, the grace of her nose, and the way the flashbulbs made her hair glisten. Lots of people were fascinated by Miss Me. "Surely," thought Mr. Whoever, "I am no different than these."

And then, when the last light faded, and the last autograph signed, Miss Me turned to Mr. Whoever, and said, "Come with me." How he swelled up on the inside to be her private guest! She never said where she was taking him. She only said "Come," and he came.

She took him to a garden. She showed him an ancient tree in the moonlight. "This," said she, "Is where I come each day." She sat down at its roots and patted the place beside her. As he sat down the musky earth smell rose up and it was everything. She was everything. And she kissed him there. And after she had kissed him, she pulled her hand from his and gave him her autograph. "Me and Whoever," she wrote. She wrote it on the trunk of the tree. No one would know what that meant. But he knew. And so did she.

And so, Miss Me and Whoever met often. Often in shadows. Often at the old tree. And whenever Mr. Whoever was not at the tree, Miss Me would send a message, "Come!" she would say. "Why aren't you here already?" And he would shake his head in disbelief that she could possibly have extended open invitation to him.

She showed him around and he enjoyed learning the garden's secrets. She showed him the fragrant forget-me-nots growing by the gate and giggled. "This is where I first kissed Stevie Eff," she said, and his heart sank a little. But he remembered his name on the tree with hers. And though no one knew what it meant, he knew...and so did she.

She took him deeper inside and he saw the narcissus, it's white bells suspended on dark stems invisible at this late hour. "I touched a boy there near those flowers," she said almost proudly, "but I don't remember his name." No pang hit his chest.

And then she ran to the tree and looked back to make sure he was following.

Little by little, he began learn that with her, no invitation was necessary. At first, it had been hard to even come through the gate without calling her name first. She laughed at that. But little by little he began to come unasked as he supposed she wanted. Tentatively at first. Then with more frequency. She encouraged it. So he would come without asking and he went directly to the tree where she would be. And she would pull him in and embrace him in the darkness near the bark that bore their names. Indeed no one knew what it meant. No one knew how important it was. But he knew...and so did she.

One day, before their shadowy rendezvous, Whoever received a message. "I just wanted you to know," she said, "that I had to give away some of my tree today." His mind flashed to the scenes he knew so well. Miss Me attending to others selflessly. "Someone needed to build a home" he thought, "and she gave him the wood. Or maybe even," he thought painfully as he envisioned it, "maybe someone was cold and needed a fire."

"Did you give the needy person one of the high branches that needed to be trimmed?" he asked with a lump in his throat. Miss Me didn't answer. "Did you give him the back side of the tree that we never sit under because it's mossy?" he asked. He waited. And his heart waited for the reply. "No," she said, "the best part of the tree is the bark. I gave my best, as I always do."

"It's true," he thought. "You always do give your best. But...the bark?? What about...what about..." he stammered, "What about our names?"

"Are you going to be that petty?" she asked. "It's just bark. It's just names. I'll write it for you again."

But it wasn't just bark and it wasn't just names to Whoever. "And your friend?" he asked, "What did your friend need the wood for?"

"He was having a party and wanted kindling for a fire," she said.

"For such a whim as that?" Whoever imagined flames eating words unknown by the burner. His heart was broken. "But that had our names on it. That was special to me," he said.

"Well, it's not anything special. It was just bark and names. I already told you that. It was my tree. I can do with it as I please."

And it was true. The tree belonged to Miss Me. It was hers. She could do what she wanted with it.

And it was true. It was just bark and names. No one else knew what it meant. No one else knew how important it was. But he knew...

Adios Amigos!

2010-05-10T10:46:00.000-07:00

So long, facebook. It’s been real. It’s been fun...

Wait--on second thought it hasn’t been that real.

Think about it. On facebook we belong to “groups” of people who never congregate, we run cafes (man i’m gonna miss my sweet little place) and farms (or pot farms) that never materialize. We “chat” without saying anything. Most of us have even mastered the art of “vaguebooking,” where we post a status, that really gives no clue to the reader as to what our status is at all. And perhaps the most obvious indication that facebook isn’t real is found in our “friends.”

My profile says I have 240 friends (which btw is 3 down from a week ago when I posted something “questionable). I always am amazed at that number. “Do I even KNOW 240 people?” And are they really friends?

Facebook needs to come up with new classifications. The word “friend” is outdated and misleading. And then there are friend requests. Who in real life asks someone to be their friend? I haven’t done that since the monkey bars at recess. A friend request isn’t really asking a person to be your friend. And having a lot of “friends” doesn’t mean a lot of people like you. A friend request is essentially a request for permission to view and comment on your page. Nothing more. With that in mind, maybe facebook would do well to recategorize those requests. Imagine...you log on to facebook, and instead of friend requests, you see the following:

You have an “I vaguely remember you Request.” These are mainly to boost the sender’s numbers. They are mostly benign, and usually only a mild irritation as they go about “liking” everything you say.

You have a “People you met while you were out and drunk Request.” You don’t even remember what this person looked like, but they say they danced with you. You add them and they then take it upon themselves to “bar talk” all over your page as if you are long time friends (or more). Uggh. Unfriend.

You have a “Nemesis Request.” This person is your enemy in real life. They stalk your page and only comment to tell you they “don’t like” what you’ve posted. Oh, and their secondary function is to report and or twist what you say and spread it around. These are primarily a thorn in the flesh unless you decide to have fun with them posting things that will irritate them until they self-righteously delete you. They usually won’t do this though because then they don’t have the access that they need to fire back. That is, unless, they have family members who are still your friends. This provides a win-win situation. They can still get access to your business through family members who haven’t unfriended you while “stinging” you with their rejection of you as you watch your numbers fall (Athough I don’t even look anymore to see who unfriends me, so no sting there, suckas!)

You have a “Family Member Request.” These are tricky, because they are the one type of relationship that you can undo on facebook that won’t change the true basis of your relationship in real life. Usually they are harmless, and are a good way of pretending we are all keeping up with family news as we should while not really putting forth any effort to maintain actual contact.

You have an “I’d like to get to know you better Request.” Facebook provides safe distance to watch and get to know someone without actively getting involved until you are sure the person warrants your time and emotional investment. You never really know what these people are thinking, as they are generally quiet and observing. In that way, they don’t stir up a lot of trouble for you as they quietly form their opinion of you based on the cryptic info you share and your other “friends’” comments on your life. Their picture of who you are is likely to be skewed at best.

You have a “People I love and am glad to connect with Request.” This may be the truest use of facebook. When we post our status of the day we often edit it through the eyes of these readers. Although it begs the question, “If I really love them wouldn’t there be a more personal way to do it?” But still, it’s a tool and and good way to renew old relationships we have valued and enhance current ones that we work on outside of facebook as well. These are our actual “friends.”

I tend to forget about the other categories of people that are looking at what I write. But we must remember that those other categories are there. The nemesis will still be watching as always, and as one of mine pointed out earlier today, “If you aren’t clear in your posts, I must assume the worst.” That is reality. There are those who will always apply their own slant to what you say. And I get that. It’s my fault really, for not remembering that I’ve populated my facebook with more than just real friends.

In the beginning I was naive. I joined facebook, like all of you, hoping to see “whatever happened to so and so.” I innocently clicked and sent and accepted friend requests of everyone I knew or had ever known. I’m glad I did. I wouldn’t change anything. Facebook has brought me in contact with some of the most important people in my life. I’m glad to be in contact again with some sweet friends I had lost for a while due to my own negligence. And I am blessed to have found real new friends in people that I initially only added as acquaintances. As far as social media sites go, I’ll give facebook an A+. I jokingly suggest changes--but really facebook is what you make it. What have I made of it? Honestly, I’ve created a monster. And now I’m going to lock it that monster in the closet, close my account and throw away the key. If and when I come back to facebook I will know more about how to optimize the experience. But that will be after the monster dies. Don’t worry. I’ll see some of you again...if we have enough going on that we are willing to sustain our relationship outside of the cut and paste world. But for now...

So long facebook. No, it wasn't real. But it was fun.

2009-12-18T23:22:00.000-08:00

He sleeps in peace

What does he dream tonight?

Lashes on cheeks.

So tall.

We prayed for him.

We brought him home that day

When he was born.

And now...

Helpless I watch.

And I can’t catch my breath.

My heart won’t beat.

I pray.

Christmas Traditions in Midland, Texas

2009-11-27T22:56:00.000-08:00

Someone recently asked me if I thought I would miss Midland. My response was "probably not." But at Christmas Time I get sentimental. Of course there are the memories of the holiday season here. Sadly, as I reflect on many of the things that have meant Midland to me over the years, I realize that most of them are already gone on ahead of me

Riding the escalator to the second story toy department at Walgreens

I always wished I had asked about the massive neon sign that hung above that escalator when they tore down the old store. HI like to envision it hanging on a brick wall in a loft apartment somewhere and the owner loving it. It had a big arrow on it that lit up and words underneath that said something like "Up for toys, clothing, housewares." The only thing I was really interested in was the toys. There was also a very fascinating coke machine up there that my parents never splurged on. But I did get to see it in action once. It was pretty awe-inspiring how it dropped a paper cup, filled it with ice and dispensed a coca cola. 'Hope you wanted a coca cola...cause that's what you got. But it was soooo cool.

Buying Christmas decorations at Gibsons

Aside from being an-otherwordly place in the off-season (something of a cross between Tractor Supply and a modern day dollar store) Gibsons turned absolutely magical at Christmasttime. Gibson elves added to the already brimming and chaotic inventory of the store by creating winter wonder-scenes, replete with flocked trees (ahh..the LOVE of 'em) and tinsel trees (I so drooled over the marvelous things) and every type of bauble known to mankind: tweeting birdy balls, spinny ornaments, and myriads of other flashy fire-hazardy glittery goop. My best friend and I were once left in the store by her mom after being warned to go to the car several times. She circled the block and came back for us. When Gibsons closed down, the old building remained vacant for a number of years, it's oversized parking lot providing practice ground for driver's ed students. Since that time, it has been a gym and is now a Jumping Party. Of course nowadays, we Midlanders get our tinselly thrills at Miss Cayce's Christmas Store. My kids love to go there for warm cookies and cokes, if not for their fascination with all things shiny.

Downtown Christmas Parade

When you grow up in Midland, there's never much to do, so the Christmas parade is always a big deal. As a very young kid, I watched the parade huddled in blankets. As I got older, as most school-aged Midland students were, I think I was more often in the parade than watching it. From Marching Bands, to throwing candy from a church float. The parade was always a poorly publicized unpretentious, if not homely affair, but something we never wanted to miss. Just las year I found out tht it is always he first weekend in December. Maybe that's why it's not publicized...we're supposed to recognize a pattern. Ahhh, well, I'm gonna try to make it out one last year for my kids.

Seeing Santa at Sears

Before we had a mall in Midland, Sears was the place to shop. It had a special room that only opened for Christmas where all the toys were displayed and Santa Claus sat on his throne. Throughout the rest of the year, as I passed the entry to that room, I often wondered if elves were inside working. And if not, why they didn't keep the toys visible all year long. The old Sears building burned and was later relocated to the new Midland Park Mall.

Downtown window displays

One of my earliest memories was walking the downtown sidewalks with my mom to look at retail stores' seasonal window displays. This was before the area turned into the lifeless downtown of today (Yes, they say they are revitalizing it. Ummmm...okay, if you say so.) I don't know what the stores were, maybe clothiers and jewelers and the like. All I know is that my mom made a specail effort to take me and that she would call my attention to the bells pealing from First United Methodist Church as we strolled along. Midland with its tall buildings was fascinating to me. I had to bend my head all the way backward to see the top of the Wilco building. Inside the First National Bank Building, they had the tallest Christmas tree in the world. I always heard that if you rode the elevator to the top floor, they would give you a free coke. I don't know who told me that, but I was too chicken to ever try it. Today, Pioneer Natural Resources, the company that is transferring us to Dallas, occupies Midland's tallest building.

Uncle Al and Santa Claus at Parklea Baptist Church

A shy child, I was particularly coddled by one gentleman in our church. Al Little. My parents called him Al, and insisted that if I was to call him by his first name that I at least add "Uncle" to it. So "Unkey Al" was my guy and was pretty much the only man I'd go to. Not even when Santa Claus himself made an appearance at church could I be coaxed to sit on his lap. I believe I was four at the time when my parents manhandled me to a squalling sitting position on Santa's knee at the threats of not "getting what I wanted for Christmas if I didn't tell Santa." I avoided eye contact with the old man in red, focusing on a raised furry cuff exposing one hairy arm. I knew that arm. It ruined my believing in Santa from there on, but calmed me down enough in the moment that I could tell Unkey Al what I wanted for Christmas.

Christmas at the Mansion

I remember the Museum of the Southwest as a place we went on field trips and looked at exhibits I didn't understand. However, I was fascinated by the place itself. Rumor had it that there was a murder in the mansion long ago. "There is blood on the carpet upstairs," I was told. Hmmm... so THAT's why they never let us go up there. Today, the old mansion is done up right for the holidays. Local businesses decorate trees to fill the place. The Cats Meow Antique store usually does a fantastic display from their very complete collection of vintage findings. One year, they recreated the living room of A Christmas Story down to the leg lamp. But while I am admiring table settings and gingerbread houses indoors, my boys are pulling and tugging me to the train depot where a little old man in engineer cap shows off the collection of working toy trains with the enthusiasm and precision of a cub scout.

Candy Cane Lane

Candy cane Lane was a neighborhood venture someone dreamed up that became a tradition. Somehow they constructed oversized candy canes out of pvc pipe and dryer vents and striped them with red. Every house on the block had it's sidewalk flanked in a pair of the red and white sweets. Legend goes that if you sell your house there, you must leave the canes and the new buyer must agree to put them out each year. Now only a few avid traditionalists remain. But if you drive the street in daylight, you will notice a concrete pad on each side of the pathway, evidence of what once was.

Scrooge's House

I don't remember what street this was in Midland, but it was a highly decorated one. Once again, I think all the neighbors got together and planned to make it the brightest spot in town. There was only one problem: A large vacant, almost spooky looking house at the turning point in the cul-de-sac. There was nothing they could do about the eyesore but put out a large sign in front that read "Scrooge's House." The house remained vacant for some time and the seasonal solution continued to fit. Finally when the house was bought and the new owners moved in, they continued the tradition. How nice to have your neighbors tell you, "We will be spending tons of money on needless decorations but don't you worry about decorating at all. Just sit tight and put out this sign." Maybe I'll try that sometime.

Pull-through Santa Scene

Everyone who has lived here very long knows about a certain house in old Midland with a circle driveway and a big picture window in the front room. At Chrismas every year, a life-size Santa appeared engaged in yet another exciting activity. Santa the skier, Santa stuck in the chimney, Santa watching the game on t.v. The sign in the drive way said "pull through for a closer look." Every year cars full of families lined up to pull through and see what Santa was up to. This remained a family tradition from the time I was a young girl until adulthood. Then suddenly it stopped. We lamented that the new owners didn't keep up the tradition that so many had enjoyed throughout the years. And we continued to drive by that pace, as other Midlanders did, and remembered. Last year, we were surprised to see Santa was back, after all this time. This time, Santa stood before an easel among suitcases and trunks. Around the room were numerous completed works of art. The sign in the window read something like this: "For my Dad. Many people never knew that he was an avid traveller and an artist."

Video Game Room in the Future for Leach Family?

2009-11-25T23:56:00.000-08:00

For those of you who know me (which I would assume is all one of you), you’re probably gonna check this blog a couple of times to make sure this is really me writing. Yes, it’s me...no one has captured my account. But lemme just ask you one thing...wouldn’t it be cool to have a room just for video games in my new house?

I know, I generally don’t like the idea of video games. As a mom, I feel that they can be distracting at best, eating away the minds of youngsters and teaching bad habits--you know, like killing people. As a sister, (can I say this?) I have seen excessive video gaming play some serious parts in wrecking some marriages of those girls I love the most. As a family, we have shied away from purchasing anything trendy in this area. I guess we thought that if the games they play aren't the thing right now, that they won't spend as much time on them, and will concentrate on more boyish activities like playing outside. You know, things that require activity and sweat.

But it's been a bit of a downward spiral We bought a vintage atari once for our kids and they thought they were uptown! Next, someone gave them a Nintendo 63, I think it was. (See, I’m so dumb about them, I don’t even know what it was for sure.) There was like one game we allowed them to play on it. The kids, in an attempt to connect with society and ‘be like other kids’ have bought themselves what poor imitations they could afford--various plug-in controller/video games of such things as Fantastic Four and Thomas the Tank Engine. Oh, yeah and there was a golf game that someone gave them. They bought some old Playstation or something at a garage sale recently and now they fascinate their friends with games no one knew existed on a playstation nobody else has. Last year, we finally broke down and bought them a Wii. And it was even a new one. I justified this venture in to current trends by noting that these games were "athletic." Therefor, if I catch them sitting down playing tennis, the game is over. Overkill, I know. But I just have had a little bit of an aversion to video games.

Until today.

Beatles Rock Band. That’s all I’m gonna say.

I know. Don’t hit me. I know you already knew all about it...but well, I had just ignored that piece of American culture. But I played “Hard Day’s Night” on the drums tonight at Best Buy. And now I think we ought to have a whole room devoted to such endeavors as “I Wanna Hold Your Hand." Don't you agree?

Okay, wait... I can justify this. We have been thinking about homeschooling right? And musical instruction is important right? So I said to my kids, “What do ya’ll think if we just do our homeschooling on the Wii?” They were in full agreement, so there you go. Of course my husband was a little skeptical that we could produce an academically balanced curriculum just of Wii material. Okay...if we have to we will add Xbox.

But seriously, the kids were telling me all sorts of neat stuff. Like, did you know they have a Gardening Mama game? Or a Zookeeper game? Sure and there are things to learn Geography and Math and everything you need to know. So I’m all for it. Whattayathink?

So I was looking online for design ideas. Why are there no video game room design ideas? (This question is my lazy way of prompting others to look for them for me, since googling is almost as hard as scrolling through blog entries.) I hope it works. I would love to know what you think would be important in such a room. What games, What furniture? What decor? Fridge? Preferred flooring? Surround sound? Stations for different games at different times by different people and oh! I'm serious here, people. I want feedback. Do I need a poll? I can add one. As long as it has Rock Band 2 on it somewhere.

And let me reiterate, just so you don't think I'm doing this for selfish reasons--the kids said the whole thing sounds good to them if I promise not to hog it. Heck, we’ll get two of ‘em if we need to. Wouldn't want to deprive the kids.

Icky Sicky Ick

2009-11-24T11:22:00.000-08:00

I feel like Im camping out in the house. And I’m sick.

Being sick sucks. But you know what? The flavor and texture of Zicam has greatly improved! So there’s a nice little surprise. Thank you Zicam...I almost didn’t buy you because of our previous experience together. Other than, that, there have been no pleasant surprises to feeling like crud.

For instance, in the doc’s office, there was this sign that said “limit 2 visitors per patient.” I didn’t have any. No one came to see me while I was there. So posting that there was kind of like rubbing it in my face. Yep I was alone. For quite a while. I thought it might be kind of a fun place when I saw that the paper covering the exam table was Cat in the Hat. But as I sat down right on top of Thing 1 and Thing 2, I noticed there really wasn’t anything special about it. Thing 1 and Thing 2 were just there in a feeble attempt to comfort me after pointing out that I have no friends.

I did get a nice hip shot though. I remember how I used to tighten up and cry when I was little. Now I try to take it like a big girl. I still hate them. Not because I don’t like needles...I’m fine with giving blood or IV’s. I just hate the burn of antibiotic. So in addition to the shot I am taking two other antibiotics which they told me they would call in for me.

As I walked into Walgreens I realized that there is no time that I feel uglier than when I am sick. I don’t know, maybe it has something to do with the fact that I don’t bother to fix my hair or put on makeup. I guess it’s kind of like, if I’m going to feel bad, the rest of the world is going to have to suffer right along by seeing me this way. Last night I went out to my Mom’s and my sis kind of studied my face for a second. “You look different,” she says, as if she’s not sure if it was intentional or not. “It’s cause I don’t feel good. Plus with all the remodeling all my mirrors are covered up.” “Oh,” she says. “Well, don’t go look in one of ours.” I guess she would have been really grossed out if I had shown her the fur on my tongue.

So now I'm waiting for my husband to bring me lunch. And if he's really good, he'll bring me a prize. Because he knows the house rules: You get a shot--you get a prize. I can't wait!

Two days down. Five to go.

2009-11-23T17:09:00.000-08:00

So last Saturday I decided to do a facebook fast. There are too many reasons to enumerate here, but suffice it to say that I was a little obsessed. What? Me---obsessed? I know you're shocked. You'll get over it. I needed to get away from facebook because it was consuming all my time. (The following is going to come as an even bigger shocker to those of you who can't fathom my being obsessed in any form:) Guess what? Other things can take the place of facebook!!! I know! WEIRD! Who'd have thought it?!?!?-- Even the obsessing part. Hooray!

I have become obsessed with NEW things! For instance, did you know that there is this very cool thing called email that works just like facebook except that only the person you are sending it to gets it? Now, of course it doesn't have the stalking factor that I love about facebook. I can only see my friends' responses to me when they WANT me to. But nevertheless, this email thing has it's own primitive charms. Like I said, it is astounding. And believe me, in my facebook deprivation, my friends have been very astounded about just how many emails I can produce in a single day.

So I don't know if staying away from social networking sites is helping me in obsession area. But there are some things I've learned during the facebook fast. (Learning is always good, right?) So here's a few of the things I've noticed since I've been away:

1. I have actually remembered to do some things that I usually forget. (Could facebook deprivation be a cure for A.D.D.?) Chucklehead, you should check it out. It might work for you too.

2. I don't obsess AS MUCH about staying in contact with my friends as usual (This is not a true statement, but I only realized that after I had already written it, and it gives me one more point, so it stays.) And by the way...we are talking about an introvert here...what is my deal with all this reach out and touchy stuff? Is it possible to be an 'I' in real life and an 'E' online?

3. I've had more time for other things (although I've noticed I'm attacking them with the same addictive behavior that some of you witnessed in the facebook arena. (For instance, getting ready to texture, I just couldn't stop masking off my house. I begged my husband to PLEASE start spraying the walls so I could put the tape down. And I admitted I was a green-tape addict. He suggested I get a new addiction.

4. I noticed that when I'm not constantly summing up my life in one sentence statements, I am dying to write something. Who knew that those status updates were satiating my creativity? For every post, there's a story, and while I've not been constantly revealing to the world "what's on my mind" I have had more of an urge to write. I don't know...it could be a good thing, depending on whether you're the writer or the reader of this nonsense.

5. I also found out that some people are texters, some are facebookers, some are emailers, and some are facebook chatters. It is rare that a single person be all of these. I've also noticed that some relationships that exist in one of those realms cannot survive in others. Please don't point out the fact that I didn't mention the 'real world". If it's virtual it IS real right?

Virtuality-- that's why I love facebook. My little world away from the world. See you in five days.

Oops I thought it again!

2009-11-14T17:31:00.000-08:00

It happened again. I just caught myself thinking it. It’s still a little bit of an unfamiliar thought for me, so whenever I have it I always stop and reflect. I usually want to share it with someone. I like to nudge whoever is next to me, smile and say in a low voice, “Tomorrow is Sunday! We get to go to church!”

What a change that has been for me over the last few months. There was a time in my life when Sundays were my least favorite day. I dreaded weekends. While the rest of the world was cheering them on, I was left muttering, “You mean it’s here again already?”

We could explore the many why’s of my hating the day: Was it the people you were with every Sunday? Was it the preaching at the church you were at? Was it that you were overworked? Man, I’d sure like to say it was any of those answers. But the truth of it, Sunday had just become a day of performance for me.

No one required it. Sure, I felt some pressure, but I didn’t have to give in. Nope, it was mainly self-induced, much of it brought on by my tendency to offer my services to appease a perfect God. I ignored Him every day and especially on Sunday when I had to take over because I had no time to chat with Him if I was going to get His work done. On Sunday, I also needed to put on an act, so that people would see a “good example” to follow and not a human one. Again, He never asked me to do that. In fact, I have noticed that as a follower, I learn a lot from imperfect individuals who claim their shortcomings and rely on God to make up the difference.

Sundays used to be the culmination of all I lived for. Everything from our family vacation calendar to what clothes I bought were strategically planned because of what took place on Sundays. So services had better have been good. After all, they were the only means we had of judging ‘how we were doing.’ Sunday’s were the test. And so, whether God cared about the results or not, I did. And maybe that was just one more thing to feel guilty about. Sorry, God, to make up for my not caring how You feel, how about I work a little harder and make next Sunday even better? What? You want me to spend time with You? You know nobody really does that.

But now I have found that people do. People do really spend time with Him. People really do fall head over heels in worship of Him. People really do commune with Him every day of their lives, including Sundays.

I have found a wonderful place to spend my Sundays with Him. Yes, there are a lot of people here who are doing it right. They are here because they want to spend time with Him, and their service is sincere. Less emphasis is placed on performance as was expected in the old environment I helped to create for myself and others. More seeking Him and less flailing to please Him goes on here. Here, my heart sings out in beautiful worship with the very spirit of others seekers of Him and failures in life, like me. And it all happens in a setting of uncompromising preaching that shores me up and convicts my heart every time I go.

But it’s not so much the transplant of location that has changed Sundays for me, as much as it has been a change of my own heart. On Sunday, I am there for Him. Not for myself. Not for other people. Not for the work. But for Him. I am thankful to the Lord of the day for allowing me to enter His house tomorrow with awe, gratitude and relief to be there. I truly can say every week that it has been good to be in the house of the Lord.

O come let us worship together!

Psstt---Guess what!!! Tomorrow is Sunday! We get to go to church!

What are you hungry for?

2009-11-04T21:56:00.000-08:00

What are you hungry for? And no I don't mean chili cheese fritos, which I am really craving right now, thanks to a friend who just had to bring them up. What I mean is...what is it that you need to have that feeling of ahhhh....satisfaction in this life?

I love this quote by C.S. Lewis. Don't skip it and go on to the rest. For those of you who read my blog and tell me it's the only thing you ever read, let me just clue you in...C.S. Lewis really is a much more noted and talented writer than I, so take a sec and read it. And to the rest of you, stop laughing, Suzette really didn't know and would have skipped his great quote. So here it is:

“Creatures are not born with desires unless satisfaction for those desires exists. A baby feels hunger: well, there is such a thing as food. A duckling wants to swim: well, there is such a thing as water. Men feel sexual desire: well, there is such a thing as sex. If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world. If none of my earthly pleasures satisfy it that does not prove that the universe is a fraud. Probably earthly pleasures were never meant to satisfy it, but only to arouse it, to suggest the real thing. If that is so, I must take care, on the one hand, never to despise, or be unthankful for, these earthly blessings, and on the other, never to mistake them for the something else of which they are only a kind of copy, or echo, or mirage. I must keep alive in myself the desire for my true country, which I shall not find till after death; I must never let it get snowed under or turned aside; I must make it the main object of life to press on to that other country and to help others to do the same.”

The band Downhere has a song about Heaven that says, "From the corner of my eye, there's a tear I'm tryin' to cry...but the feeling can't be found. Like a note thrills in a song, when I play it again, it's gone...cause it was never in the sound." Yeah, there's something out there. Something we want and just can't get a hold of . Something we miss, but we've never had. We can almost taste it...we know it's there.

In Heaven, full robust flavors we've imagined...those whose existence we sometimes doubted, will explode onto our palettes in burst of unbelievable satisfaction. Earth's appeals will vanish in the experience of God. Then, we will realize that all we thought we wanted while on earth was actually just a picture on a menu, tasteless and useless to fill us. What flavor and color and satisfaction we experience here on this earth is only to give us a taste of what is to come. And we will never hunger again. What is it that you are hungry for?

Survey for school age kids:

2009-10-28T20:03:00.000-07:00

How do you see yourself compared to others in your peer group? How do they see you? Take this brief survey to find out. If you are not a kid, pass on the link. The results of the survey could tell us a lot about the kids we love.

Yeah, that's right, we love you kids, blah blah blah (jk)...now take the survey!

http://www.surveymonkey.com/s.aspx?sm=MU8JWifjqNCwlwwPsaGPcQ_3d_3d

Things I hate about being a teacher...

2009-10-15T20:30:00.000-07:00

Things I hate about being a teacher:

1. Cleaning up vomit.

2. Telling a kid he or she failed a test.

3. Dealing with parents.

4. Keeping records.

5. Goodbyes and transfers.

That's what I don't like about being a teacher. Yeah, I hate those things pretty much. On bad days, it's easy to get discouraged because it's not unusual to have all those things happen on the same day.

But as far as I can think, as much as I hate those things, that's all I can find that I don't like about teaching. I mean, sure there are things I'd change, like maybe we'd have a four day week. Maybe we would start school at 10:00am. I also think instead of snow days we whould have 'sun days' and cancel school for them, and only come to school when it snows. I mean, of all the days I want to be with my students, snowball fight days are at the top of the list. And I'd also like to change that thing where you teach a kid in Kindergarten and then the next time you see them they are in college. That one sucks. But all in all I love it.

Here are just a few of the things I love about teaching:

1. The kids.

2. Watching them listen to me like I have something fascinating to say.

3. Witnessing a breakthrough.

4. Being part of that breakthrough.

5. Field Trips.

6. Fun Fridays.

7. Having fun just 'cause we want to sometimes.

8. Introducing the kids to a new experience.

9. Helping with English!! And especially---diagramming!

10. Seeing my students accomplish more than they thought they could.

11. Seeing them accomplish more than their parents thought they could.

12. Journals.

13. Apples on my desks.

14. Speech!

15. Cool pencils.

16. Playing Math Games.

17. Class Projects.

18. School Spirit.

19. Telling a kid he passed a test he had failed twice before.
20. Giving out candy to the whole class in celebration of it.

So, even though I'm tired, and this week I hit five for five of my top ten most-hated list, I guess I will go in tomorrow. After all, it will be Fun Friday. And who wants to miss that?

And the Winner is....

2009-10-12T19:32:00.000-07:00

A week ago, I asked you to take part in a poll: "What is most important in a church?" And you said:

DOCTRINE!

Almost half of you said doctrine was more important that any other thing. 45% of you voted that way. I'm a little surprised, this day in age, with so many people who don't know what they believe. However, those people may not be in the demographic that participated in this poll. I do have many well-educated 'old' christians as friends and your preferences doubtless came shining through. This is an interesting thought. I'd like to know more about the people who chose this answer. I would imagine that although many of you have this priority in common, that you may have very different reasons for choosing it. Too bad the poll didn't have place to 'splain.

Tying for second with 18% each was COMMUNITY and STANDARDS. I expected both of these to do very well in the polls, although for various reasons I would likely consider the groups of people seeking these individual traits to be at opposite ends of the spectrum. What do you think? Do you think of those who are separated in terms of being separated from community? Which churches are more likely to focus on standards, small or large? And does size affect community? I'm pretty sure that many of these options would overlap in different ways for different people.

Next in line was WORSHIP with 9%. This one did surprise me. I have heard so many people say something like, "The preaching was good but I just couldn't take the music." Similarly, I have known people to leave churches because the worship service wasn't what they thought it should be. And then it may be possible that this item would have pulled in more votes if the poll had allowed first and second choices. Because, while many people would definitely shy away from certain congregations where the worship service was uncomfortable, those same people may feel that if doctrine is on the ticket, it must certainly take first place. And then again, I may totally have it figured wrong.

MINISTRY and SIZE tied for last place with only 4% each.

PROGRAMS didn't even make a showing. This I am surprised about, having known people to have sought churches based on what they had for their children, teens etc. However, once again, we must consider that these same people, while looking for programs, might have been primarily more concerned with doctrine, and would look for churches with programs only if they first agreed with them doctrinally.

While doctrine did carry the lead, what is interesting to note is that some of you made a very clear choice not to choose it as most important. Maybe it is a big deal to you, but obviously something else was an even bigger deal. 53% of you were willing to place doctrine in at least the second seat to something you deemed more important. It would be interesting to know how doctrinally-broad people would be willing to differ for the sake of having those other needs met in their lives.

I know in my own life, that some of the people I love the most, some of the neatest people I know, believe differently than I do. We are able to have sweet fellowship together. I love meeting with people who can unaggressively discuss different points of view. A meeting of the minds, where personalities and preferences come through, but never at the cost of brotherly love. It is what I imagine Heaven to be like.

Discussion, conversation, Christians meeting and sharing. In a way, it is what has happened here, in this blog, with this poll. Yep, it's pretty heavenly to me.

Thank you for participating!

Where I went to church today....

2009-10-11T20:00:00.000-07:00

Anyway, like I was sayin', crow is the fruit of the sea. You can barbecue it, boil it, broil it, bake it, sautee it. Dey's uh, crow-kabobs, crow creole, crow gumbo. Pan fried, deep fried, stir-fried. There's pineapple crow, lemon crow, coconut crow, pepper crow, crow soup, crow stew, crow salad, crow and potatoes, crow burger, crow sandwich. That- that's about it.

I love Stonegate Fellowship. In spite of what you may have heard or thought about me. And in spite of what I may have said or been like in the past. I love Stonegate.

I'll write more on 'why' later. Just for now know that I am smiling. And "I'll be back."

http://www.stonegatefellowship.com/

What is most important in a Church?

2009-10-10T22:06:00.000-07:00

Excited about my first blog-poll!!!

I'll admit I'm a litle surprised by some of the answers, but I'll refrain from commenting until the poll closes. You have one more day, so if you haven't taken it, please do so here -------------------->

I'd also flip if you left me a comment! Thanks

Because You're Right

2009-10-10T07:01:00.001-07:00

In school I once wrote an essay titled "Because You're Right." It was all about taking a stand for what you believe and being true to your convictions.

I used to be right about a lot of things. Not anymore. It's kind of a relief.

When I was 'right' i felt kind of obligated to 'share' that with other people. You know, to help them. Pray for them. To convince them so that they too could see the light and live the glorious life that I....well, anyway.....I wanted to convince them for their own good. I was nice about it though. It wasn't like I was pushy. Some people just can't see the truth. I felt sorry for them and continued to pray for their enlightenment while we remained friends. I never estranged myself from people because they believed differently than me. Although, as you realize, I could never be as close to them as I might have liked if only they had believed correctly.

It can be tough when you are standing for what you believe. All that time, I might not have had any deep relationships or close friends but I did have the peace of knowing that I was right.

What a consolation that was!

I wonder what I was thinking. I wonder what I thought Heaven was going to like when all those people were there? Did I think that even there I would receive an extra crown for carrying my torch?

Is there any spiritual blessing for being right? I'm just wondering. In the Bible we see a lot of examples about forbearance, judging, and hypocrisy. Jesus had a lot to say about the Pharisees, who by the way, were doing it by the book. But all in all I'm not seeing a lot of commendation coming from the Lord toward anyone for the sheer recognition of someone's being right.

But maybe I'm wrong on that. I'm sure you'll let me know. Or maybe you'll just "pray for me."

What would you search for in a church if in fact you searched for a church?

2009-10-05T18:31:00.000-07:00

Have you ever given any thought to why you like your church? What makes it special to you? What about your church would make it difficult to leave?

If you found yourself without a church home tomorrow, (maybe due to a move or something) what would you look for in a church? I know, I know. You probably already have a church home and you're not anricipating a move. But it still might not be a bad idea to make a list of what you would want your church to be like. It could kind of keep you on the ball, making sure you know where you are on things. (And where your church is on things.) A little introspection and an honest look at things is seldom a bad idea.

Would you sacrifice believing identically to find real Christians living in community? Would you sacrifice your worship-style preferences to find a church with programs to raise a family you're struggling to raise on your own? Would you sacrifice ministry opportunities to find a church that teaches godly living? Yes, these are difficult questions. Maybe it's time to take an honest look at what's most important.

In the meantime, PLEASE take a moment to take my poll on the right ------------> It is completely anonymous. So now is your chance to tell the truth about what is important to you, even if you don't think your priorities are in order.

Maybe it's time to set those priorities straight. Maybe it's time to come to some hard conclusions about your spiritual state or that of your church. And maybe it's time to just say a big "thank you" to the Lord because you find out He's got you exactly where He wants you.

So what is important to you in a church? Maybe it's time to think about that.

Hey, but aren't you supposed to....?

2009-10-05T05:13:00.000-07:00

I just realized that we didn't get a gift from church yesterday for being a first-time visitor. Wait a minute. That's just not right. Or is it?

There was also an obvious lack of a written program. In visiting churches, some things have just come to be expected. Others are not.

Yesterday the passages used were not displayed on a big screen. The pastor encouraged us to turn in our Bibles, for what reminded me very much of a sword drill. Twice during the service my son asked me if it was raining before we realized it was the sweet sound of the tiny rustlings of thousands of pages turning the leaves of God's Word.

Sweet.

2:29

2009-10-01T21:41:00.000-07:00

Cool stuff, this sitemeter gadget I added to the blog. I found out a bit of interesting trivia today:

The average length of stay for a reader is 2 minutes and 29 seconds. I seriously hope that wasn't thrown off by someone who forgot and left the browser open while they went to lunch!

You know, if this was a paper copy, I may start to think that my blog is only being read in the.....naw! And then used for.....certainly not! (Note to self: This is why you must never publish book. Or if you do, publish Kindle version only.)

So anyway, just wanted to say thanks for the 2:29!

(Outhouse photo was taken in Mason County at an old school site. This is the girls' facilities. The boys' is down the lane. The old school has been torn down, but as the song goes, 'the outhouse is still standing'. This picture was taken mere moments before we realized the outhouse was occupied--by a skunk!)

First Day in Massage Therapy

2009-09-30T18:46:00.000-07:00

My intense back pain finally drove me to the chiropractor. I had tried the regular doc. People warned me that all he would do would be to give me muscle relaxers and run tests and MRI’s. They were right. So, I finally listened to some of my friends who recommended chiropractic treatment and massage therapy.

My first mistake might have been going there in the first place. I stuck with my old chiropractor based solely on the fact that he had a massage therapist right there in the office. I was hoping the massage would be part of my treatment. Imagine! A doctor ordering you to get a massage! I went in and laid down on the table. Ambient music played and water gurgled in a miniature fountain. And then she walked in.

I know people who talk about their these ‘healers’ in saintly terms, calling them miracle workers and so on. Not this one. She was the Monstrous Masseuse from Hell. My first clue should have been when she laughed and called me her victim. I thought she was kidding. Guess I thought wrong.

My second mistake was telling her where it hurt most. Take my advice if you ever go to one of these “therapists”: DON’T TELL WHERE IT HURTS! These therapists are paid on commission based on how bad they hurt you. Run if you can. Lie if you have to. But no. I had to tell her the exact location of the damaged nerve. She worked it till I cried. When she had succeeded in driving all feeling from my back, she had the gall to ask why I wasn’t flinching anymore. Unfortunately, by then I was too weak to slap her.

Church Search Volume 1

2009-09-29T12:33:00.001-07:00

I had thought about writing about our hunt for a new church home. You know, kind of a journal about what we found at various places. Our journey...kind of a “Former Pastor’s Family Seeks New Church Home” series. But then I thought “Aawww, we will find one so soon, that there won’t be much to write about. We won’t see much in the brief time we are between churches.”

Wrong.

And we’ve seen it all, brother. (Ummm, what I meant to say is that they all have their own unique qualities.)

And then there’s the question of how much to say. Do I mention the NAMES of the churches we go to? Sidethought: mentioning names in conjunction with church-going always brings up Ray Stevens‘ Mississippi Squirrel Revival, “And then they started naming names!” (Okay, if you just got totally lost just now, you have more pressing issues than reading this blog. You need to stop and google the above and come back when you are more culturally balanced.)

But seriously. If I blog about my church search experience do I mention the names of the churches? That would certainly make all of this writing more useful than just being an entertaining (grant me this one) blog read. People could use the unbiased honest assessment of my experience to help them pick the next church to visit (or not) in their own church-home quest. Cause if I know anything, it’s that there are a LOT of people looking for a church home right now. And no, they are NOT all related to me!

And then there’s the other benefit (evil laugh). As Suzette said the other day, “Yeah, I read your blogs...whenever they’re about me.” Fame is waiting at my door if I just go ahead and say who I’m blogging about. People like nothing more than to read about themselves. So there you have it. If I write about churches, church officials everywhere will literally flock to my blog to see what I have to say about their church. Was it friendly enough? Did I like my guest gift? (why, yes I did!) What did I think about the message? The music? I would be like a mystery church shopper! Imagine! You may have a mystery guest at YOUR church this Sunday. They will observe everything. And they’ll go home and blog about it. And then...and then...I don’t know what then. It just could happen. That’s all I’m sayin’.

So whattayathink? Should I ‘start naming names’?

"Creative Reading"

2009-09-20T06:58:00.000-07:00

I drew a picture--scribbles for sure

He hung it up

On the refrigerator door.

He could have said

"This is no good,"

And my childish heart would know it's true.

I also wrote a note--in crayon

I made a mess

Of what I meant to say.

A wordless attempt

With letters askew

But He chose to read it, "I love you."

Boatrocker

2009-09-10T14:55:00.000-07:00

You think I’ve rocked the boat up till now? Just wait. Before now, I was doing everything I could to hold it still. If I breathed wrong I felt bad and apologized. I wanted you to be happy with the equilibrium of the vessel.

There were times I wanted to stand up and see the view. You saw it. The others on board did too. But I sat still. Maybe it is not something you required of me. But it is something I felt required to do. Nowadays I am running to the edge to peer over, and people are noticing. I know you want me to be still, but just wait. It’s gonna get worse.

You see I’ve been noticing some good things coming from what I’ve been doing lately. For one, I am getting to see a lot that I had missed. I can breathe the salt air. I like the “free” feeling of the wind running over my hair and skin. I like being able to see more than just the deck of the boat of life I’m on. There’s more out there than I knew.

But that’s only a side benefit. Daring to venture up from the plank floor and over to the side was the best thing I ever did because it showed me I could be all right even if I wasn’t in control. When I stood the boat tossed. I was afraid. But I was okay. The dread that had accumulated in my heavy heart over many years of terrified crouching dissolved into the past. My fear melted away. My fear of being seasick. My fear of falling over. My fear of disappointing you.

And I’m brought to mind of another great boat rocker. Remember the story of Jonah? God rocked the boat he was on. And when he did, the others on board noticed. The one running from God was thrown over. The boat rocking acted kind of as a purge. If God hadn’t rocked it, Jonah would not have repented and the others on board wouldn’t have seen the power of God.

And you know what? It may seem like it’s me rocking your world. But is not really me. I don’t have that kind of control. So...

Hold on. I know it’s rough. I know it’s scary. I can’t hold it still. You’re gonna have to do you’re own holding on. And if you are bound and determined to sail on a steady boat, you can even try your hand at holding it still a while. But I’m not gonna sit down.

Besides, unless you’re running away to Joppa, you’ll probably make it through.

Book Review: "Fearless" by Max Lucado

2009-09-08T22:04:00.000-07:00

What if I lose my job? What if I make a mistake with my children? What if the thing I fear the most come to pass?

What are you afraid of?

In his most recent book, Fearless, Max Lucado dares to approach the very topics we are afraid to bring up:

Fear of not mattering

Fear of Disappointing God

Fear That God Is Not Real

Perhaps our biggest fear should be that God is Who we act like He is. We paint God as a tame deity. In our out-of-control world, we like to think we have a God we can control. But thanks to God He is bigger than we can imagine! He is bigger than our fears, and He is not a tame God!

This book is a quick and easy read. The author uses lots of imagery, simple language and clever antidotes. Every chapter begins with a quote from Jesus on the topic of fear. These topics range from fear of violence to financial fears and everything in between. I even think it would be an appropriate read for school-age children. I’m handing the book to my ten-year old son in the morning. What better gift can I give him than to lead him to the source of fearless living?

You’re so vain. You prob’ly think this blog is about you.

2009-09-07T00:25:00.000-07:00

You know, as a wannabe writer, this is one of my biggest fears. I’m afraid that people will take my writing the wrong way. Or worse, they will think it’s about them when it’s not.

The last thing I want to do is alienate friends and family. I would, however, like to be able to write things that would touch other people. And frankly, most stories with enough meat to touch someone else have to come from real life. Similarly, I’d like to be able to get up on my soapbox and have a good rant, without someone thinking I’m ranting about them. And in case you’re wondering, no, no one has accused me of any of that...yet.

But it could happen. Especially if I unleash myself to write as I’d like. As I feel led. It’s similar to the way my husband the preacher felt when he would preach something God had laid on his heart and people were convinced it was about them. One day he told me he was having trouble thinking of anything to preach about that wasn’t going on in someone’s life. Because, like it or not, it’s not good preaching if it’s not real life. The Bible is about real life and if it is truly relevant, it is going to sound...well, familiar.

But, like my preacher husband was sometimes wont to do, I have chased a rabbit...

John Boy Walton...now there’s a writer with a problem. He knew all of 20 people. A dozen of them were his family. And when he dared mention them in his story he had more trouble than he knew what to do with. That could be me someday. Or if I know you...it could be you!

I’m not gonna lie to you. You could end up in a story. I mean after all, you are hilarious (I meant to say interesting) material. I can’t pass up what you say and do and never include it in anything I write. So beware! If I know you, you could end up in print. Just thought you’d like to know. But I’d like to let you in on a little secret about us writer type folks: Our stories are not 100% true. For instance, something you say might end up as a snazzy quote made by a flashy blonde character named Suzette. That doesn’t necessarily mean that you ARE Suzette. Suzette may eat lobster and you are allergic to lobster. She may drink and hang out at night clubs, and you hang out at Baskin Robbins. Suzette may be a little more complex than she seems, you know. Suzette could even represent every blonde friend I have, heaven forbid!

No, this is not a new trick of mine or something designed to throw you off the scent. Writers have always done this. Remember Nellie from the Little House Books? (Or for Suzette who never reads: Remember Nellie from the tv show “Little House on the Prairie”?) Well Nellie was a compilation of people Laura Ingalls had known in her childhood. It seems that anyone who was ever mean to little Laura was rolled into one neat little package named Nellie Oleson. I wonder what would have happened if any one of those snotty Nellie’s read the book, recognized some of her misdeeds but found far more evil accredited to her than she ever really did. Thankfully, Laura Ingalls Wilder was smart enough not to use any of Nellie’s actual names. Like me. I don’t really know a Suzette. (Calm down, Suzette, I do know you...just not a real person named Suzette. I’ll explain later.)

All this to say: Read away. Take it or leave it. I hope you like it. And if I’m any good at all, some of it will sound like it’s written about or to someone you know. But don’t be vain. It’s not about you.

At least not entirely. (Insert evil laugh.)

I am an UN-reasonable Mom

2009-08-16T14:51:00.000-07:00

I always thought I was pretty understanding about boys and their ways. But apparently I’m not. Some of my friends can’t understand why I let my son keep an ordinary yard lizard in the house for a year and a half. Some parents shake their heads when they see my children swinging from ropes and hanging from trees or dancing on the rooftop. They don’t understand why my kids are roaming the allies, diving in dumpsters and dragging home trash. They make their kids throw things away---the nerve! Some kids’ parents even have the audacity to make their children sleep in beds instead of on the floor piled high with the just-folded covers they drag from the cupboards. They have silly rules like “no food in the bedroom”. We don’t even have a “no snails in the bedroom” rule. You know, most moms and dads just don’t “get” why kids would paint snails and then load them into electric trains until the snails are dazed, forgotten or begin to stink.

I’ve known parents who never allow their kids to dig networks of grave-sized holes in the backyard. Nor do they let their children run pell-mell on four-wheelers inside the yard in the city limits, crashing into sheds and brick walls. Some parents have a problem with bows and arrows. Others have fear of explosives kids create out of old batteries and papers. What’s wrong with scraping gunpowder out of caps until you have enough for the big one? And matches? Well, they are baby toys compared to what we allow. My oldest sons most asked questions start with “what is____?” and end with “...how flammable is it?” Parents who may be okay with such outdoor activities bordering on pyromania sometimes object to more domestic set-ups like science labs in the bedroom. They don’t understand the importance of soaking turtle food in sprite in a open container. They can’t seem to grasp that anything thrown in the trash in fair game and will end up in a water bottle atop the lava lamp to let it “boil”. What’s the problem with storing fifty cans and bottles of smelly goo of various origins on your desk to watch it grow? Of course we need to see how air affects the specimens, so they must all be left uncovered as they seep. Most of these experiments are simply messy and sticky when they spill onto the floor, books and the clothing that we use as a dropcloth in the experiment area. But many of them “boil” until no one can pass the room without inquiring about the odor.

But me....I am a reasonable mom. Or so I thought...until today, when my son brought in mosquitos he found in a pail outside. When I asked him to please take them outside, I heard that old familiar whining again, “Ahhhhh, Mom. You never let us do anything!”

That’s it. I’m an unreasonable Mom.

Grandmama's Quilt

2009-08-15T10:54:00.000-07:00

It's funny how a single object can remind you so much of the person it belonged to. Even if you never saw them use it or enjoy it, is connected to them. One such object, was this quilt, made by my Grandmother.

I remember one day going over to Grandmama's house to ask her to teach me how to make a quilt. I wanted to enter quilting in a competition at school. Grandmama was the kind of clothing seamstress that held up the fabric to you and laid it out on the table to cut. She got her patterns from things in her mind. Her quilting was the same way. She knew how a certain design should go whether she had an example or not. If she wanted to add a picture to her work, she would applique or embroider it on from a design she got from a paper towel or a coloring book. Grandmama never threw away anything. It might be useful or valuable someday. So when we found stashes of coloring pages, paper towels, napkins and greeting cards scattered throughout her house when she died we knew what they were for.

When I went to see her that day it was like she had been expecting me. Our new-found common interest in quilting would be something we could talk about and discuss for years to come. She dug through boxes and trunks and closet and brought out treasure troves of quilts. Where had all these been hiding? It was an absolute treasure trove, hidden away for fear that the priceless items might be unappreciated, mishandled and marred. Though she had dozens of handmade, beautiful quilts, her bed was covered in a store-bought comforter. All of those heirlooms were tucked away, like the paper towels, for 'someday'.

This day she took the time to lay each one out on the bed. I looked on in wonder as colors and patterns emerged from their hiding spots. She explained to me how just about every quilt consists of small patterns that repeat themselves to make a larger pattern. I was hooked. After that I saw patterns everywhere and could easily remember the names of many designs.

She chose a pattern for my first quilt that was very simple. It consisted of rectangular pieces of material to form a block. Then each block was turned a certain way to make diagonal designs across the quilt.

The design it created was called a rail fence. You could just see the fence swooping up and down across the quilt on the bed like it would if you were driving past it in the country. The example quilt that she had of that particular design was not pretty. The color combination was what I've heard people call "God-awful," although I was never really sure what that meant. but it couldn't be good. She explained to me her choice for the colors.

My Great-Grandmama (her mother) was bed-ridden most of the time. She was going blind. As the story goes, she told my Grandma near the end of her life that she wanted a rail-fence quilt. So, Grandmama went out and bought the fabric new (something she rarely did) at TG&Y, I think. She bought the brightest, cheeriest colors and strongest contrasts she could find so Great-Grandmama would be able to see the design in it. The quilt was put together pretty quickly and machine quilted to save time. It was then used as the top quilt of the bed where my Great Grandmother spent her last days. I'm not sure who the quilt was really for--Grandmama seemed to get a lot of satisfaction out of knowing that she had given her something she had wanted and could enjoy.

It was one of the few times anyone got opportunity to enjoy Grandmama's quilts in her lifetime.

When my sisters and I went through her things, we lamented that we had so few stories to go with the items we found. We wished these elements had been everyday parts of her life that she could share with us. But we do have our memories, and we do have our laughs connected to them.

One day, I took the red and yellow rail-fence to the park for a picnic with my sisters. As I spread it out, I remembered the day she had spread it out for me. I thought of Great-Grandmama and her dying days. Quite sentimentally, I said to my sisters, "Wouldn't Grandmama be glad to know we were enjoying her quilt this way?" There was a silence. Then, as the emotion of the moment wore off and we thought about what was said, there was a sputter, then laughter. "No, she wouldn't," we agreed. But we sat down on the quilt and enjoyed her memory, and the quilt, anyway.

On a hunt...

2009-08-14T06:48:00.000-07:00

Did you ever hear someone up in years when they were looking for something? They might say "I'm huntin' my glasses," or "I'm on a hunt...". Well, this morning I am on a hunt. I'm hunting for God. Not just hoping to see Him today. Not just wishing to experience Him. I'm hunting Him.

I don't just want to hear it

I want to feel it too

It's less like I'm trying

It's more like I'm dying to know You.

I've 'known' God for years. Served Him just as long. But recently I learned what it's like to really have fellowship with Him. Since that happened, I'm never satisfied with my old way of doing things.

Old streets don't lead back where they used to

We blaze new trails to ancient places

I still love You just like I used to

But this love won't fit spreadsheets

Being a creature of habit, I need to remind myself that my old ways of "relationship" are not valid options for me. I used to try to work God like He was a formula. How sad that must be for Him. How sad that was for me. My old ways? They were ways of working to earn a sense of fulfillment and satisfaction instead of being fulfilled in Him. Yeah, they were those ways of waking up and not acknowledging Him. That is, until I needed something. My old ways were going about my day and if something happened that touched me in a meaningful way it was just extra. Like icing on a cake. Well, now that I've had icing I don't want plain cake anymore.

The last few days, I've been eatin' plain old sponge cake and I'm not happy about it at all. I don't know exactly how to go about getting back that feeling that I want. (Yes, fellow Baptists---feeling---it's not a bad word!) So I looked in my head for Scripture this morning to see what I know about looking for God and getting close to Him. I came up with: "Draw nigh to God and He will draw nigh to you" and "Seek ye the Lord while He may be found." Both begin with me. So I will begin with something pretty simple. I will start looking for him. My day then will begin with a cry to Him, telling Him just how much I long for His presence.

I'm dying to swim in Your sea
I'm dying to taste and see
I'm dying in all that I do
So come to me 'cause I can't get to You*

*words in italics are lyrics from "Dying to Know You" by the band downhere.

(Leave me a comment...Let me know your thoughts on seeking God and relationship with Him. Have you ever felt Him? Is it a priority to feel Him everyday? How do you feel about iced cake versus plain?)

Closet Artist (volume 4)

2009-08-09T23:47:00.000-07:00

Everything was black here. The walls around me. The canvas. Even the tubes of paints held nothing but blackness.

From the dark interior of my closet studio I imagined beautiful venues. I dreamed of the freedom of an artist to do what she was created to do. I thought about how far I had come, from the little girl, through all the ugliness. My flesh literally ached to be outside. Nothing could penetrate this world. No one came knocking.

One day, a speck of light came through a crack in the door. It wasn’t much, but it landed on a bit of blue paint. I wished for more light. I cracked the door a little more and a dim shaft cast weak light onto colors waiting to be awakened. Violets, reds and oranges. Fear reminded to stay where I was safe, but beauty and life begged me to leave. Little by little I was prodded to go out.

At first I came and went. Then, one day I brought out all my paintings to take a good look at them. Some were not any good. That thought didn’t crush me like it used to. Admitting and accepting their faults cleared my eyes to see beauty in some of the others. Some of them were actually quite good. Though imperfect. I hung one on the wall. Yes, there was danger in displaying it. Danger that it wasn’t good enough. Danger that someone might even copy it as they had copied the childish princess on butcher paper. But there was a certain goodness in seeing that I was okay enough with myself to display it and say, “Yes, this is mine. Like it or not. Take it or leave it. It is mine. It may not be the best, but it is my best. And it is honestly and authentically mine."

Some time has passed since I've taken up living again. I've even renewed contact with the One who inspired me to paint in the first place. Life is good and inspiration is around every corner. There is more to paint than ever.

Maybe someday I’ll even take up teaching again. I don’t know. But I do know a few things I’ll change if I do: I’ll show students my own work, knowing that real works by real people will bring more discussion and thought than a fake. My students will have the benefit of seeing my mistakes. They may even come up with ways to avoid my mistakes. Who knows? Maybe they’ll develop an eye for faulty tendencies in their own work. They can learn to be artists, not copy machines. And I would be more proud of that than of anything.

Oh sure, there will always be people who would rather not see an imperfect work displayed. Maybe they would rather I worked in the closet and only brought out the best pieces. Or maybe they would like me to bring a fake to show and tell. Some, knowing my history and seeing my blunders, might like for me to give up the notion of being an artist at all. I understand their misgivings. I faced them every day in the darkness of the closet, and most days in the light of outdoors too. But the end of the story is that I know what i was created for. Is perfection required? Or is it enough for me to do my best and honestly assess myself and my work and share what I learn along the way?

And speaking of sharing what I've learned, here's a biggie. f you’re gonna copy, copy the Original Artist, not me. But I’m gonna keep on painting, too. No, it won’t always be pretty. But I’ll do my best. There will be days that I will question my right to paint as much as anybody does. And when things get ugly it’ll take everything I have to stay in the light.

So do me a favor, okay? If you see me with my brush in hand, heading for the closet, gently take me aside. I don’t want to live in darkness anymore.

John 3:21

Closet Artist (volume 3)

2009-07-25T14:53:00.000-07:00

The first time I brought a piece of art to class that wasn’t mine it felt good. It can be exhilerating to bask in the praise of admirers. That is, until you stop and think for a moment. Then your conscience begins to eat away at you for claiming the credit for doing something you never did. Or being someone you no longer are. I used to be real. Maybe my work was amateur. My technique flawed. Maybe I was never really an artist at all, but at least I was real.

Initially the borrowed art seemed to alleviate some of the pressure to deliver. But I soon learned that my newfound coping mechanism brought pressures of its own. I had unknowingly raised the bar for what I could share. After presenting works of accomplished artists, my own work was less suitable than ever. I missed not being able to bring my own thoughts and ideas to people. Although I had never thought I was worthy of it, I also missed the sincere praise that my work had brought me in earlier days. The praise I was receiving these days only brought pangs of guilt to my heart. I was in constant terror of being discovered. I wanted it gone. I wanted to return to my own painting. And I wanted to be me.

The guilt and unrest intensified until I knew I couldn’t live like this any longer. A choice had to be made. My options were clear: I could either keep on bringing the fakes to class and perpetuate the cycle of guilt and inadequacy I had placed on myself, or I could raise my standards, improve my own work and eventually reclaim my initial standing as an authentic, if flawed, artist. The last remaining choice would be to come clean altogether, to admit what I had done and to begin bringing my own feeble attempts back to class. To me, the latter wasn’t really a viable option. I had see the criticism afforded amateurs in their absence. After my dishonesty, mine would be a double dose. I couldn’t face the humiliation.

The safest way for me to return to normalcy seemed to be to combine the first two options. I continued to guiltily claim credit for masterpieces that weren’t mine. But I justified in my mind that it was only until I could improve my own work enough to present it. I worked secretly at home to hone my skills so that someday my own work would be worthy of a trip outdoors.

I poured myself into my work I was passionate about painting. As a child I had been passionate too. But nowadays, I wasn’t passionate for art’s sake but for the sake of creating safety to be able present my own work again. If I got good enough, I could be worthy to receive the praise I had stolen. Maybe then I could begin to paint again for the joy of it.

There I stood in the front window of my home. I worked frantically on amidst piles of papers and oozing supplies. It had become a familiar scene. Caught in a trap of my own making, I was in a state of true panic. Blood pounded in my ears. The feeling was gone in my stained fingers. The canvas I dabbed at was a soggy, blurry mess, through the tears that burned my eyes. How long could I keep this up?

In frustration I threw the easel to the floor. Month after month, I had painted. For what seemed an eternity I had been stuck in this trap, trying to get out. I had been patient. I had taken correspondence courses, studied the greats and sought private instruction. Surely with time I could achieve. Surely with practice, I could accomplish. All to no avail. My work continued to be second-rate, barely worthy of its place where it was stacked along the closet wall. Things had gotten worse. It seemed like the harder I tried, the less ability I had. I began to wonder about myself, my calling. As the months turned into years, I finally began to give into that sinking feeling I had tried to ignore for so long. I’ll never be good enough. I hated what I saw on the canvas. I had unknowingly created a self-portrait of one who loathes everything she has become. Shock racked my chest like painful blows of an assailant as I caught sight of the grotesque image that had come from my hands. Had I really gone this far?

I walked to the closet. Stack upon stack of images assailed me. None were beautiful. None had any merit. How could I have ever thought that I could paint something worthy of display? Darkness was where these works belonged. Hidden. With a torn spirt I threw in the easel, the paints. Then, gritting my teeth, I threw in the hideous self portrait on top of it all. And I slammed the door.

It was with some relief that I put away those things. Yet as I passed the closet door day after day there was still a nagging at my soul. Still a longing to create. There was still that little six year old girl wishing to make a princess for the sheer joy of painting. I was torn between bringing out my supplies and leaving the door shut forever. But I knew what was best. These images should never see the light. They were a curse on humanity and the Creator. Even in the darkened and confused state of my hurting heart I knew that these images were meant to be locked away.

Then one day as I passed by the closet, they called to me again. I had to paint. If my paintings could never see the light, then neither would I. And I climbed in the closet with them.

Sisters

2009-07-19T16:43:00.000-07:00

“I like the way the trees cast shadows on the water,” I commented as our little kayaking party drifted past one of the best places on the South Llano River at just the right moment before sunset. My sister, beside me said, “I like the way the light shines through the trees.” I lifted my eyes. It was nice. And I probably wouldn’t have noticed that part of the scenery if she hadn’t pointed it out. I guess I just assumed that we were seeing the same things as we rowed merrily along.

Once again, an unexpected viewpoint, from someone I thought I knew so well, had enhanced my life. One of us enjoys ripples in the water, the other delights in the beauty of a single flower that will last for only a day. Another finds rest in the sight of a crane lifting gently from the water. There we were. Family. We think we know each other. But we are constantly surprised when life throws us a glimpse of what it’s like to see the same thing through each other’s eyes.

It wasn’t the first time I had been pleasantly surprised in what I found in those brats I grew up with. I guess it was traveling to Mexico with one sister that I noticed it first. A quality that she had. I don’t remember what it was now, but I remember thinking, “Hey thats neat. I never knew that about her.” And then I discovered a different and equally unique quality in another, and then the other. And I began to realize that although we think we know each other, we are assuming a lot. Though we think we are alike, we are so different. And some of the traits I most desire in my own self, I find in my sisters.

One of us recently posed the question: “If we weren’t sisters would we like each other?” That’s a hard question to answer, and it’s one that you wouldn’t ask just anybody. But since we’re family and we’ll always be that, it’s safe. Of course, it’s something we can speculate on, but probably won’t ever really know. Would we be attracted to each other as friends? I can only guess probably not. I would most likely be intimidated by each one of my sisters, were she not my sister. The fashionista...how could I relate to someone like her? The independent...would I ever know she’s not so independent, would I see her unique ways as a treasure? The capable, do-it-all loving mom...I’m pretty sure I would flail miserably in her light, so I’d probably stay away. Yet God saw fit to place us in the same family. We have the same histories, but different outcomes. I appreciate and value their place and influence in my life. I need them in order to be who I want to be. It’s almost like if you could take all our weaknesses and all our strengths and throw them in a pot, you’d come out with one complete person. I wouldn’t be who I am if any one of them were missing.

We kind of take it for granted that we will make up for each other where we lack. And we take it for granted that the bond of sisterhood is enough to sustain us through tough times. Being sisters provides an environment in which we can totally be ourselves, sharing our truest faults, without the risk of losing each other. Of course, there is some inherent risk in any relationship, but with us, we know it would take a lot to break down those walls completely.

We have tested them little by little over time, and they remain. We have no way of knowing if these relationships would make it outside of family. But because there is that bond, our ties have been able to become stronger through each trial that comes along. If we were gonna give up on each other, we’d have already done it. Because, hopefully--let’s see what’s the best way to put this--the best is yet to come. If it isn’t, boy are we in for it!

So would we still like each other if we weren’t sisters? Chances are we’ll never know. But it’s sure we would have missed out on a lot. As it is I’m already pretty good at missing out on a lot of their contributions to my life just because I don’t take notice. Until days like today. Good thing God knew. He planned it just right. God must have put us together as sisters because He knew we wouldn’t find each other any other way.

Closet Artist (vol.2)

2009-07-11T18:18:00.000-07:00

(continued from previous post...)

Being watched is not always a bad thing. Especially when you’re sure of what you’re doing. It had worked out well for me that day, to be sure. It might have pumped my ego a little to know that those contestants closest to me, those who had the best view of my painting, had captured the second and third place ribbons. Maybe my picture was worth copying after all. Still it bothered me. I didn’t like the feeling of being responsible for what other people did. What would happen if I painted a bad picture? What if my ideas were bad? Or my technique was off? What if I simply lacked inspiration? Would others continue to follow?

What would be the outcome for those blind copy cats if I was a bad example? And what would it do for my self-esteem if I accidentally led them into painting horrid, ugly pictures and all the world knew where they got their inspiration?

To make matters worse, through the years I noticed myself being singled out as a creative type. Please, Hope, help us make this. Please, Hope, show us how to paint that. It wasn’t long until I was coerced into full-fledged teaching. Not only was I being copied....I was demonstrating publicly something that used to be very private and personal. All the while the fears lurked? What if I fail?

I discovered that a good fake can often to be the answer to the pressure to perform. An artist can bring a painting to class and no one will know it is not an original. As the students 'ooh and ahh' over it, the teacher can discuss technique and perspective without ever actually saying the painting is hers. Yet all the while she knows they think it is hers. And she knows that not only is the piece a fake, but that she is a fake as well.

Thirsty

2009-07-10T07:37:00.000-07:00

There’s a part of me that wakes up unsatisfied each day. It’s the same part that always wants more. It’s the part that is lonely. It’s the part that hurts. It’s the part of me that feels like something is missing.

And so I go throughout my day throwing things at it. I entertain myself, buy something, call friends who will pour encouraging words into me and shore me up. I try to fill it with ambitious plans and busyness. And when I can’t fill it, I want to crawl into the cave of my despair, where I will sleep, cry, or wonder when it will all end.

It’s a bottomless pit. A vessel that cannot be filled. It is the part of me that needs God. And it is every part of me. My whole body cries out with longing, with discontent. I am a huge open space that screams, “Empty! Empty!” I cannot drink enough of Him to fill me up.

As the deer panteth for the water so my soul longeth after You. You, Oh Lord are my soul’s desire and I long to worship you.

Closet Artist (volume 1)

2009-07-09T11:56:00.000-07:00

Colors can’t be seen where there is no light. The shape of an image on canvas cannot be detected by touch. An artist who paints and whose paintings remain in darkness is unsure of what she paints. Her judgment is inhibited by the absence of exposure. She is aware that illumination is necessary in development and critique of her work as well as in the enjoyment and display of the finished piece. As she dabs at the invisible screen in in the darkness, she struggles to appreciate the depth of beauty she hopes is there. She paints because she must. And she remembers.

That day was particularly sunny. My eyes focused on the glaring sheath of butcher painter tacked on the wall in front of me. My sheath. I knew what would fill it. As a six year old among 100 other excited, talkative young artists lined up along the fence, my mind was quietly fixed on what I had come to do. It was a fence painting contest and what I was about to paint was going to take first place.

I had it all planned out. The princess with her crown. Her golden hair. The flowers around her. And the bright sun shining down on everything. I couldn’t wait to get started. A woman handed me a paintbrush and half an egg carton. Each compartment held a different color. I dipped my brush in and raised it confidently to make the first sure swipe at the paper, not noticing the hesitation in my fellow artists.

A girl next to me leaned over and whispered, “I don’t know what to paint. What’s yours gonna be?”

“It’s gonna be a princess and some flowers and a sun,” I stated, not really looking at her.

“What color is her hair gonna be?”

“Yellow,” I answered, dipping my brush in the chosen color.

“That’s what I’m gonna do too!” And with that she dipped her brush in yellow and watching my hand, began to sloppily duplicate my picture in a distorted, out of scale kind of way. I was stunned. Of all the kids here, why did she choose me to copy? Forcing my eyes to my own page, I focused on my work, ignoring the miniature version of my art that was assaulting the page next to me.

My princess emerged smiling and all was well. Soon, the sun was shining again and the flowers bloomed at her feet. Satisfied with my efforts, I cleaned my brush and turned to survey the competition.

As I looked up and down the fence, I was startled to see the wall awash with blonde princesses in a sea of sunbeams and flowers. Did no one have inspiration of their own? How did my project become the work to copy? I was certain it was not better than any of the others. But it was one thing that they were not. It was authentic. An original. As I was called to the front to be recognized, my thoughts were bittersweet and wondering. The announcer laughed as he commented on the similarity of so many of the entries. I felt the others eyes on my back as I shook the man’s hand. Why had I won and they had not? I blushed and hung my head.

There were two things I carried away with me that day: a first place ribbon, and a keen sense of being watched.

to be continued...

Can We Keep Him?

2009-07-08T22:24:00.000-07:00

The mammoth hole in the backyard is multi-purpose. It was originally the site of an extensive dig in search of dinosaur bones. These days, depending on what day it is, the crater can be anything from a swimming hole to a moat around twin volcanoes made of plastic water bottles heaped in mud. Though currently inactive, these volcanoes will awaken on the fortunate day when the mother of the two boys supplies the vinegar and baking soda. For now, the boys wait, fill the trenches with water, build and rebuild.

Playing in the mud is such fun; I can't see how some parents are against it. Why, as a child I spent half my life with shovel in hand. I guess this fascination with removal of earth is inherited. Daddy was a digger too. We sisters recall, with varied enthusiasm, his many projects. We dug a cellar once. Well twice. For some reason, Daddy didn't like it the first time. So he filled it in. After it sat for a awhile, and the ground got good and hard, we redug it--in the exact original location!--by hand!--with shovels! It started off as fun, but by the time the second cellar was nearing completion, we felt we were being subjected to the worst kind of forced child labor. I mean who wants to dig Daddy's hole in the backyard when you have your own 'tunnel to China' in the barn floor? I had read Martyr of the Catacombs in school and was sure I could duplicate them. There shouldn't be any problem--there was a map of the catacombs in the back of the book! Once completed, they could serve as an underground highway, living quarters for the family in the event of a nuclear explosion or a Hiding Place for Jewish friends.

Yes, I read a lot. And so do my boys. Without the fetter of cable television, their minds still function and dream wild dreams as few children in this century can. So to them, the 'hole' is important. And big. Both boys can get in it up to their armpits. This large cavity in the ground is their entertainment of choice, providing me with time alone inside the house to mop muddy floors (again).

This hole is a hole of dreams. It is an "if you dig it they will come" kind of thing. And boy did those boys plan for 'them' to come! Who exactly would come and fall prey to the hole was just a detail. Why, it could be anybody! The hole could be a squirrel trap! That would be just fine. But even better, what if a tiger fell in like in Swiss Family Robinson? Of course, the very best thing that could happen would be for a prowler to bow the knee (or break the leg). And so you can bet that last night when we returned home late and saw flashing red and blue lights in our alley, the boys were excited. The police had the four blocks around our house sealed off. There were about eight of them around the perimeter, two of those parked directly behind our house shining lights in our back yard. We sensible parents have 'absolutely no sense of imagination' (Anne of Green Gables) and so we hadn't given thought to the backyard orifice. That is, until it did its magic. Don't even try to tell those boys that no one would ever come into the yard and fall into that hole! O ye of little faith! One Midland officer can testify that it is indeed a very good trap after all.

So they didn't catch their burglar… but isn't a cop in a hole just as exciting? Fortunately, the officer was unhurt (and was released). The hole remains. Today it basks in the glory of its success…tomorrow it becomes an active volcano at last. Long live the hole! And long live the minds that can imagine that even the unimagineable can happen!

A true story.

2009-07-08T15:52:00.000-07:00

I knew you. Knew who you were. We talked on occasion. At times I liked to pretend that there was something more to our relationship. But you and I both knew we were acquaintances at best.

Then one day you showed up at my door with a gleam in your eye and the keys to the world in your hand, and life has never been the same. I didn’t know where you would take me or what we would do. I only knew I wanted to be there with you, in the crook of your arm, looking up into your face. Your eyes.

How could I have known you felt this way about me? And how could I have not known? How was I to know you had been waiting, watching for a moment to tell me, to let me into your world? And how was I not aware of it?

Song of Solomon 2:10, Revelation 3:20, I John 3:16

Making a Difference

2009-07-01T15:15:00.001-07:00

I just came in from outside where I was digging the foundation for a new sidewalk I want. It’s true that most women are indoors cooking dinner, but I prefer to be doing the groundbreaking work of improvement. I predictably choose the task that is more exciting over the everyday tasks. I want to do whatever is going to get me the most bang for my labor.

I love to paint. Nothing makes as big a difference in a room as a coat of paint, and I think that is why I love it. Dusting, though easier than painting, is not my idea of a good way to spend my time. If I dust or if I don’t, who will notice? But painting! Even MY husband notices when the yellow living room goes red. And that’s what I’m after...a noticeable difference.

As I was working outside on the sidewalk, and thinking about these tendencies in my life, I began to look a little deeper. On the surface, this looks like a problem. Hope wants to do the glory jobs, but leaves the mundane ones undone. She only wants to do the work that will produce a big change or improvement. Sure, I need to work on that. Mundane jobs need to be done as well as the exciting ones. And I need to be willing to work on tasks where there will be no noticeable difference whatsoever. But in all of my self-loathing for neglect of simple duties, I don’t want to miss the beauty of how God made me who I am. I need to find a balance. God made me a person who loves to see improvement. What did He do that for? Is there any way He would like to use it for good?

So I start thinking. Difference...difference. What does the Bible say about making a difference? And then it came to me... “and of some having compassion, making a difference.”

Whew...hard one. I should try that. But painting is easier.

God help me to see where I can be more compassionate and help me to do it. help me remember that you were compassionate to me first.

Going Home

2009-06-30T08:58:00.000-07:00

I live in the town where I grew up. Yet last weekend I went home.

Home isn’t a place. Although a place can evoke such memories and such emotions that we often cannot be convinced otherwise. I had recently seen the old place with all its changes. I had walked the familiar hallways. Distant, time forgotten voices had called. Forgotten scenes had replayed themselves against a familiar backdrop . Some memories were dim. Like that word you sometimes get on the tip of your tongue and then you lose it. And you want to find it. You want it back. You want to relive that memory. To replay it.

This weekend those memories came to life. No more was it a distant barely audible voice that called. No longer did my mind drift past faces that were fading like photographs on the wall. We were there, back in that place in that moment. The memories were complete and real and very present. And this time, as an adult replaying those clear memories, I got the feeling that I would more equipped to understand them than I was when they were just everyday pieces of my life.

Those pieces of life. Who would have thought they would be such precious substances now? Like rare coins from bygone days, they are pieces of a collection. We each possess different ones. A joke, a laugh, a prank. Are these the stuff of life? A tear, a hug, a smile. I remember these. Frolics in the hallways. Loud calling of names. Sharing carmex at the lockers. Passing notes at the door. I have this memory; you have that one. The way he or she walked into the place and dominated the room with their sheer presence. These are the undefineable moments we relive in a familiar place. These little snips of life are the parts that go unmentioned when the memories are verbally reviewed with old friends. No one says “Hey remember the time we stood in line together, me with my books all organized...you with papers jumbled in your arms, and you looked at me and smiled?” Nobody says that. But it is there. It is not spoken--yet we feel it. And it is those underlying elements, like a carpet you walk on everyday, that you remember and treasure the most.

So we stood there. Some of us shared discernible, speakable memories of the place. Some stood soaking it in. And some shed a tear for what was.

Some things are lost forever. Our hearts hurt when we think of that. When we look around and one important element of the scene is missing. A person who couldn’t make it. Someone that has passed on. Someone whose life has taken them down a road that won’t allow them back into our lives. And there are some, who although we can’t understand it, have walked away from that time and place and won’t be back. They have their reasons. But us. Those of us who were there in that hallway that night. We are back home.

We are back and not a day has passed. We are back in that time. Bell ringing, locker doors slamming, teachers’ voices calling. We are there. Together. And nothing has changed.

You look different. I look different too. But neither of us has changed. How is that possible? I used to sit by you. Why was that never important? Why was that never valuable to me? Yet today, somehow, we must have both realized its value. Because without saying a word, we moved together, held the camera at arms length and snapped a shot. Now it recorded forever, lest its significance slip our minds again. The memory is sealed. I remember you. You were and are important to me. I just never knew it until today.

I can’t put my finger on what makes the difference now. We grow up. We live our lives. We learn. Meanwhile those we haven’t seen in years are doing the same. We are like trees that are planted in pails and trained to grow a certain way. When we were young, we were all together, growing. When we left, we continued to grow. When we came back together, we expected to be so different. It surprises us to see that so many of the young saplings have continued to grow straight up just like we were shaped back then. It should be no surprise then, that we are so similar as adults. Each with our own bents...that’s for sure. But having the same rich soil, we have each thrived in our new environments.

The straightening of young branches, the moral development that shaped our lives is still evident. We know what we expect of each other and we come through. We stay and clean up when it's over. We do it because that is what we were taught. We help each other out. That is what we do. We apologize for things we left undone years ago. That is who we are. And it is so good to see those characteristics thriving in each others’ lives.

Why am I surprised that this person has a strong work ethic and excels at his job? Why do my eyes grow wide when I see the football player, now grown, tenderly holding a baby? Why am I in awe that he or she is serving in her church with fire and fervor? Isn’t that what we were taught? And why am I still shaking my head in wonder that we can have such a connection as adults? It is a good thing to come home and see that things are as they should be. They are as I had dreamed they be. And nothing has changed, except for the better. As we have continued to grow in the direction we were set, you are more of who you were and I am more of me. It’s good to be home.

Reunions can be scary. You never know how it’s gonna turn out. You never know if you’ll meet and things will be awkward. Or if you’ll have nothing in common now. Or maybe some of your closest friends won’t show up and you’ll have no one there. Or maybe, just maybe, you will walk in, and be transported back in time. Back to the place where you grew up. Maybe all the beauty and all the uniqueness and the all worth that you had ascribed to it over the years was really there. It wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t a weird, messed up, flag waving, flag wearing, pace working, detention serving wonderful dream after all. It was real. It is real. And you can’t get enough of the people who lived it with you.

To all those who were at the reunion, you know what I mean. Tearing ourselves away from each other was so difficult. We will meet again. We now know how much we need each other and mean to each other. To those who couldn’t make it, you should know that you were in our hearts and minds the whole time. You were missed. the only thing that could possibly make the next reunion better is that you would be there.

And to all of us who lived and still are living the dream, let us thank God for it every day. It has made us who we are. And it is very, very good.

15 No-Fail Ways to Win at Weigh-In

2009-05-24T22:45:00.000-07:00

Forget traditional diets and fad work-outs. They require hard work and dedication, sometimes even requiring discomfort, pain and fatigue. Here’s the perfect weight loss program for those of us who really kind of want to lose weight without all the effort. The good news is that all but a few of these suggestions are relatively painless. Think about it--we all carry unwanted pounds and ounces in places we don’t even think about. The key here is that every little bit counts. And here’s the best part of all: While these tips may not get you the bikini results other plans can deliver they will help you achieve your weight loss goals at your next Weight Watchers meeting! So come one, America--step on the scales! It’s weigh-in time!

1. Don’t eat or drink anything the day of your weigh-in.
2. Take off your shoes.
3. Remove jewelry.
4. Go to the bathroom.
5. Take a laxative if necessary.
6. Cut your hair.
7. Trim your nails.
8. Shave your legs.
9. Wax your eyebrows.
10. Clean out your ears.
11. Take care of toe jam.
12. Blow your nose.
13. De-lint your belly button.
14. Donate a kidney.
15. Hock a loogie.

A Change of View

2009-05-13T11:12:00.000-07:00

My husband and I had a conversation the other day that really got me thinking. He was talking about reexamining a particular belief he has held to for some time. Just as a matter of note, he and I have had differing viewpoints on this issue for years. Now he is saying that after consideration, study and prayer he may need to change his stance.

I should be thrilled that he is thinking about "coming over to the light”, but I’ll be honest. It scares me to see him being willing to change. That may be because I depend on him to provide stability in my life. As much as I’ve fought for my way, I always feel I have an anchor in him. He is unchanging. This may all sound like the perfect set-up for me, but it denies the power of the working of the Holy Spirit in his life. God wants change from us. Sometimes He will reveal something to be wrong that we have held to for some time. Then the question is up to us. Do we change as He directs? Or do we hold onto our former stance for fear of disappointing those who watch our lives? No one wants to be labeled wishy-washy, unstable or worse--a turncoat. We want to appear to have it all together. It’s no fun to have someone point out our inconsistencies. We even laugh at our nation’s leaders (maybe rightfully so) when they make comments like, “I voted for it before I voted against it.” Our culture doesn’t like uncertainty in its leaders. Fear of rejection from those following us or of letting down those who depend on us can put tremendous pressure on even the most personal of decisions.

It’s a hard place to be in, but sometimes we find ourselves choosing between the status quo and maintaining the peace, or making a few waves to move in the direction God calls us. Yes, it will rock the boat. It will upset the consistent environment that people are relaxing in. But we, as leaders must think: What is more important? A secure insulated environment or a flexible one with allowance for improvement?

While there is something to be said for being consistent, there is nothing noble about being consistently wrong.

Be brave. Follow God.

Mullygrubs

2009-05-07T09:00:00.000-07:00

Frustration. Gloom. Boredom. Angst. Blah. Mullygrubs.

Yep, we’re back in Midland all right. Back to the desert. The heat. The unview. The grind. If I was on the mountain a couple of days ago--and I was--the Smokey mountains to be precise--I’m on flat land now. Literally. Pump jacks and tumbleweeds. Breathe it in. Well, better not. Ahhhh. Home at last.

Isn’t home supposed to be that sweet place you long for? That place where you lay your head on your pillow and breathe the warm scent of honeysuckle streaming in your window on the midnight air? Home is the place of intrinsic comfort and security. You know, home sweet home?

Why then am I so unsettled?

Home also represents routine living. Normalcy. It is the reality of what we must be a part of every day. It is responsibility and pressure. It is imperfect relationships. It is the feeling that this is all life is and all it will ever be.

Dreams are big on vacation. Do dreams ever occur at home? Does anyone ever just sit in their living room and have an epiphany, hear a calling, or come to the best life decision they ever made? Here in this place can I fix what is broken in my life? Can I relate to someone who loves me with all their might? Can I sprout wings and fly in this place?

To what better place would I fly? I have traipsed off to many varied destinations, only to find myself longing for the peace of a place to call home. I have gone looking for love, only to lose security in the love I already possessed. I have sought adventure, only to wish for solid ground again.

What a creature of discontent I am. A dreamer, some would say. I’m always chasing the next rainbow. Look around. I have everything. Is there nothing left to dream of? And if there were, would I waste my life away pining for that dream?

Unsettled.

Today I sat down on my front porch with an apple. It was sweet and good. The breeze was nice and the birds were singing. While there may be some charm in sitting down and eating an apple in the open sunshine like I did this morning, a wanderer like me wonders why she can’t enjoy it. There needs to be more. Someone to share the apple with, perhaps? An apple tree to plant, maybe? And the dreaming begins. Oh it will be a fabulous apple tree, and people will come from miles around just to see it and eat from it, and then I can have all the apples I want and sit down in the sunshine and eat an apple just because I want to. Oh wait…I’m already doing that. It’s not as neat as it sounds. I throw the half-eaten apple into the yard for the birds and go inside not taking the time to watch them swarm around and eat it. The fun was all in the dream.

For people like me, the joy in life often comes from expectation of things to come more than in their fulfillment. La esperanza, in Spanish is one word that envelopes three distinct English words: expectation, waiting, hope. Maybe in that sense I was aptly named. The hope of sweet idleness tomorrow is better than the simple relaxation I find in today. I kick myself for living in tomorrow and not enjoying the pleasures at hand.

And yet, expectation can be good. Those who are content in their surroundings have no need for improvement. Those who don’t dare to dream sit still. They never realize their full potential. They never reach the heights available for them to scale. I want to reach as high as I can. To go as far as I can. And yet, as I scale the heights, I glance around and wonder what the next peak will bring. Isn’t there a higher mountain to climb? Isn’t there something bigger I can be a part of? I feel compelled to keep moving forward. Is there some great feat just waiting for me around the bend? This is more than just boredom. It’s more than just needing something to fill my time. It is a gouging within my soul to take a risk. To put it all on the line for the ‘big one’. To conquer. To jump.

Is all of this thinking just selfish ambition? Do believe that I have to do something big or accomplish some new thing to be valuable? Is all my running an attempt to validate my own importance as a person?

Didn’t God already do that?

Is my itching a result of some lie written on my heart at some time in my life? A lie like, ‘You’re only as important as the things you accomplish?” Even now as I sit and write, thoughts come pouring in from my childhood. Phrases, meant for good, that perhaps were overused or over drilled. “Good, better, best, never let it rest, till your good is better and your better is best.” Never let it rest. Hmmmm. Sounds like my life motto. Or this one. “Do right till the stars fall.” Do. Story of my lie. Do. Serve. Work. Get busy. Accomplish something. Mark off a goal. PERFORM FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE! Haven’t we all heard something like “You’ve only got one life? Make it count.” What do I have to DO to make my life count? Does my life not count if I sit down and eat an apple in the sunshine? What if I die before I do whatever it is I’m supposed to DO? I’d better get up and get busy and make myself worthy to be counted.

Didn’t God already do that too?

God, fill my fears. Help me to realize the truth of all You did for me when you paid for me in my unworthy state. When I think of You I realize I will never be good enough. I’ll never be worthy. But You are. And because You are, I am.

Help me to do what you want when you want me to do it. Not out of obligation. Not out of fear of not being good enough. I am good enough in You. Help me to do life with you instead of for You--not leaving You behind as I rush about chasing perfection I’ll never attain. Sit beside me and enjoy a morning on my porch with me. And help me to enjoy it too.

My Own Personal Miracle

2009-05-03T23:26:00.000-07:00

Sitting in the airport for five hours in Midland, Texas on Saturday, I never would have thought that on Sunday morning I would be sitting here in my hotel room basking in my own personal miracle. I can’t wait to tell you about it!

Here lately God has been working in my life in a big way. Of course, He has always tried to work on me, but it has been only recently that I have really let Him. My turn around happened after a big fall (what we sometimes like to call sin when we don’t want to say ‘sin’). I had sinned. I had been “overtaken in a fault” as the Bible says. On my return trip from the habitual sin that had consumed my life I really comprehended the words I had heard so often before, that I could not “do it in my own power.” I had been working all my life for God. I felt an all-consuming drive to please Him in all things. Now don’t get me wrong….pleasing God is good. It’s what would happen when I didn’t please God that wasn’t so good:

You know we can never do it right? We “come short of the glory of God,” and “our righteousness is as filthy rags,” etc. When we live to please God we are set up for failure. I have equated that mindset to swimming but never getting anywhere. You can sure get tired, frustrated and depressed when you feel you are working on something you can never quite accomplish. In my experience, I gave up trying to please God altogether and gave myself completely to the sin that I had struggled against for so long. I felt like if I couldn’t win completely and make God happy, I would just give up altogether. You know, God never intended for us to just keep swimming while He watched from above criticizing our mistakes. If that is the view you have of God, I pray you will begin to learn a little of what He has been showing me. What I have been learning lately is that I should live with God instead of for God. After all, He created me for fellowship, not service. As Mike Donehey of Tenth Avenue North puts it in his blog, “Don’t live for God. Live Because God.” Those words are so profound. It was fresh to read those words and thoughts that God had already been nurturing in my own mind. But it wasn’t the first time God has used this musician to touch my life.

I never realized before how important music is. When the changes first began taking shape in my life and I began to return from the pit I had gone into, my first response was to praise the Lord in song. I would hear a new song and the words would knock me off my feet. Fresh words in the music I discovered came pouring into my life like a cooling rain to parched skin. I knew music was going to be a crucial part of my devotion with God from now on, so I started looking for music that I could use to express myself to God and that He could use to speak back to me. I found several groups and artists that I liked. One of my favorites was Tenth Avenue North. The first song I heard by them was “By Your Side”. It was amazing how closely the words to that song echoed the words I had expressed in my writing about the very things I was going through:

Why are you striving these days?
Why are you trying to earn grace?

Whoa, whoa…stop the music. Trying to earn grace? That was exactly what I had been doing in keeping swimming. I believed in grace at the point of salvation, but by the way I lived my defeated life it was apparent that I believed it must be earned after that. My striving and trying had gotten me only tears and frustration.

Why are you crying?
Let me lift up your face.
Just don’t turn away.

God was embracing me, loving me in my failure. I had tried to run from Him. I had run to my own sin to comfort myself for my failures. The song asked the question:

To where will you go child?
Tell me where will you run?
To where will you run?

My running had gotten me nowhere. I knew that now. One of the things I had realized as I lay in the bottom of the pit was that He was right there all the time. I had wrenched myself free from His hands and ran to a place that He could never be, but He was there. The song continued.

I’ll be by your side wherever you’ve fallen...
Please don’t fight these hands that are holding you.

The message was exactly what I was needing to grasp from the Lord. Of His undying unconditional love. I ran out and bought the CD to listen to whenever I was down or needed to hear that message from the Lord again. He is “by my side”.

When I got the CD I found it wasn’t just that song that I identified with. The song “Let it Go” speaks of letting go of works as a means of acceptance to God. “Times” is a song that lists every possible time that God could not love us, and yet He does. I fit a lot of those times on the list. “Beloved” is a love song to me, the Bride, from a loving Husband, my savior. I am astounded that He is that crazy about me. His undying devoted love for me was just what I was looking for, and I had looked everywhere for it but from Him. Now I have come running home to Him and I rest in His arms. I feel particularly blessed to have discovered music that speaks to my heart in such a significant way.

Saturday we had a chance to go hear these songs in person. We were traveling to Tennessee to see some kids we love graduate from Bible College. I noticed on TAN’s website that they would be in Hartsville, South Carolina just two days before the graduation. We decided to book the fight to come early, make the drive to the concert and then another drive back to Tennessee for the graduation. It would be a lot of extra effort and money but it would be worth it. We got our hotel rooms and rental car and all that we needed to make it happen with a couple of hours extra to spare…we thought. Our unexpected delay in Midland caused us to miss our connecting flight in Houston by two minutes, ultimately making us almost three hours late for the concert I had so been looking forward to.

My first reaction was to be angry with the airline. But my second (and better) reaction was to pour out my heart to God who cares about me and my hurt even over a small thing like missing a concert. I didn’t need to go to the concert. God knew that. Nevertheless, because of things I had been learning, I knew that He cared about my dissappointment. I dared to ask Him for a miracle as we drove in the rain to Hartsville, even while we knew the concert had already ended.

As we drove up to Emmanuel Baptist Church, most of the lights were off. There were a few cars in the parking lot. We parked, walked into the building and began chatting with two girls about our woes of missing the concert. We soon learned these two “girls” packing away the merchandise were Jeff’s and Mike’s very sweet wives. They insisted on taking us to meet the guys. We were elated about the special treatment as we walked in and among mic cords and boxes to shake hands with Jeff, then Jason, Scott and lastly Mike. As we stood talking, Jason was telling us about their upcoming album and the recording that would start on Monday. I was pretty excited to hear that a new album was on the way and wondered if the songs would be as meaningful as the first CD had been. While we were talking Mike walked away and reappeared with his guitar strapped around his neck. He asked if we would like to hear a song. Would we?!? He asked what we would like to hear and I quickly piped up “By Your Side”. It was the song that had meant so much in the beginning and had introduced me to the group. He began to sing and play. And just at the time that I was used to hearing Jeff’s voice join in on the CD, Jeff stepped up with guitar in hand and joined in playing and singing. The guys didn’t lift their eyes to us as they stood less than two feet away from us, singing for us. They did it as to the Lord, humbly.

When the song was over, we got to talk to Mike a few minutes. We talked about grace and what we had been learning. He talked about what he had been learning as well, and reiterated the phrase I had read in his blog just the week before. “Don’t live for God. Live because God.” Then out of the blue he asked if we would like to hear a song that would be on their new album. “It’s about confession,” he told us. Wow. Confession. Another topic that had been on my mind. In fact, very recently I had taken it upon myself to share with my church family the fact that I had been struggling with sin. I had personally confessed to some close friends the nature of my struggles and my particular sin. This had been so liberating, to take off the mask I had been wearing. Was it coincidence that the song Mike chose to sing for us addressed this very topic? Once again, their music had touched my life. This song, in particular was there when I needed it, even though CD’s wouldn’t hit the stores for months. I had my miracle. Meeting the guys, hearing my special song, discussing our struggle and growth with a Christian who gets what it means to fail and doubt and still have God. There is even more to the story, like the t-shirts and posters they showered us with, photos they took of us at their suggestion and will email to us, crew members escorting us to our hotel and on and on. What is special about it all is not Tenth Avenue North, but the fact that God used them to give us the miracle. And the most special thing of all is that God cared enough to give it to me. I am His beloved. I thank Him so much that he has brought so many things in my life so that I will know that for sure.

The Most Prejudiced of All

2009-04-13T08:01:00.000-07:00

Running late and out of cereal, the kids and I stopped by McDonald’s for breakfast this morning. As we sat down, my eyes met the eyes of a black man thoughtfully eating his breakfast alone. It didn’t occur to me for a few minutes that he might be eavesdropping on the conversation of a table of white know-it-alls at the table behind him, shooting the breeze and bashing the president. The subject turned to the new resident pet at the White House, one of the graybeards referring to the dog as the “new little Obama girl.” The man near me stood slowly, locked eyes with me again, walked out the door, and got into his BMW. Maybe the coffee drinkers at the table didn’t mean anything by it. Maybe they did. Maybe they were prejudiced and that’s why they said what they did. Maybe the black man was the one prejudiced for thinking so. Maybe a little of both.

But prejudice is more than what I saw at McDonald’s today. It’s me, seeing a Christian concert poster, and just feeling that those guys aren’t sincere in what they sing. It’s judging the lives of people dressed differently than me. It’s you, seeing an “I love Jesus” sign at a church of a different denomination than your own, and realizing that they couldn’t really love Jesus like the folks at your church do. It’s deciding the sexually active teen is worse off than the bitter adult. Prejudice can be sweetly excusing someone’s ignorance because they use the wrong Bible. Prejudice can be knowing that you are much more in tune with God than others are, and kindly keeping that knowledge to yourself. It’s praying for that poor Christian who only goes to church once a week and needs to get it right like you. It can be knowing in your heart who at McDonalds was in the wrong.

“Search me O God, and know my heart today…”

Pyromania

2009-04-11T13:31:00.000-07:00

She runs, her bare feet clinging to the hardwood floor, as the sounds of hard blows and unmuffled screams throb in her ears. Her grimy little hand grasps the cold brass knob of the heater closet, her safe, warm place. Eyes round, she peers carefully around her as she closes the door and lowers her torn body to the dusty floor. Puffs of cooler air from the heater’s return scuttled over her crossed legs as she positions her body to cover the crack under the door. The light disappears and with it, the security she should have gotten by locking herself away. Small and alone, her hands helplessly survey the dusty floor. She is searching. Searching for something to hope in.

Hope comes in the form of a small object lying near her feet. It is a box made of some kind of paper, smooth on top and bottom, rough on the sides. A rustle of tiny objects inside the box piques her curiosity. Opening the box, she picks out one small item and rolls it between her fingers. She can feel that it is a small squared off wooden stick with rounded top. As her mind identifies the object she grasps between two fingers, her imagination is released. She holds freedom between thumb and forefinger. Grasping the match in one hand and the box in the other, she places the tip to the rough surface of the side of the box. The scratching sound and the blue streak of light across the dotted cardboard is followed by millions of shards of yellow light and then one tremendous flash of white flame. Washed in its small but strong light, she is in the center of everything. She sees all.

Reassurance comes to her troubled mind. All outside sounds and thoughts vanish as her eyes gaze intently at the world of wonder she hold in her hand. It is a wand, and she is the princess. She breathes in the rich intoxicating smell of sulfur. A smile plays around the corner of her mouth. Her golden hair glows, illuminated by the aura. As the flame begins to quickly recede, panic once again invades her mind. The fire must not die. Intuitively she inverts her hand, willing the flame to revive and travel up toward her hand, leaving the stick behind it blackened and shriveled. A short burning thrill to her fingers brings her to reality. She drops the match. The flame goes out. Only a tiny glowing red ember remains on the cold hard floor as invisible smoke releases and fills the space. The red light fades. Once again she sits in darkness, small and alone. But never powerless again.

Have you ever felt like the little matchstick girl? So powerless in your life that you are searching for something that can give you some control? When we look for a source of power outside of God, often we take refuge in something harmful. We think we have found some measure of control, when we have really become dependent on something with the potential to control us and ultimately destroy our lives.

"Keep Swimming" What's THAT all about?

2009-04-10T07:58:00.000-07:00

So many of you have been so kind and sent notes of concern after reading my blog "Keep Swimming". It's comforting to know how many people are out there that care. I've decided to "publish" the story behind the story. This is actually just copied and pasted out of an answer I sent to a friend. I've edited it just a little for posting purposes. I hope it will be a testimony to someone who reads it.

The story behind "Keep Swimming" is my life story. I have always been told how to live a good life for the Lord, but haven't known how to have a relationship with Him. You know how that can become....very tiring! I relate it to swimming and getting nowhere. Before I knew it, I was swimming just for the sake of swimming. Others around me were making no progress either. There are so many of us who are just working to please the Lord and have lost sight of Him. There are a few out there who are making it, but they seem unreachable. We can't attain to their level of joy or abundant life. Even those words, joy, abundant life, sounded just like empty words to me.

I knew God was the giver of love, joy, peace (warmth) but I couldn’t experience those things while I was just performing and not having relationship. I swam harder, hoping it would give me that relationship. Fortunately, that’s not how God works. I'm so glad to know what I know now, that I please Him by relationship, not perfection. I now wonder how much of the swimming was my idea in the first place. My efforts in my own strength blocked God's power to reach me. (Having a form of Godliness but denying the power thereof).

In the midst of my struggle, I did begin to feel very hopeless. This part of the story is especially descriptive of how I felt as I began to look at the world (the boat) and wonder if it held any more abundant life than my constant performance was getting me. In the end, I denied God and took up a pet sin (life ring). It seemed to help me to cope. I knew that others around me would treat me harshly, like my fellow swimmer did in the story, if they only knew. They would tell me to just straighten up. It was harder than that. I felt so desperate that I clung to my sin like an addict holds to drugs. I wonder how many Christians like me turn to sins or even addictions when they finally reach the conclusion that they can never measure up. I would try to get rid of my particular stronghold, and then I would panic when I thought of having to survive and work to please God again. Finally, at the time I wrote "Keep Swimming" (a few months ago) I decided to give up the sin for good. But I didn't know the next step. I wrote exactly what I was feeling at the time...a determination to leave the sin once and for all, and a general confusion about how to begin my life with God again. I was sure that God was there and just hoped that I could someday feel His warmth and presence. I didn't want to go back to just performance but didn't know any other way, so I asked, "what do I do now, keep swimming?"

God reveals himself to those who seek Him. When you know no other way and you ask Him, He will show you. He also gives us people in our lives that can be just what we need, if we'll open our eyes and see that they are there. Swallowing my pride, I called someone whom I looked up to in the faith and told him about my struggles. God used him to point me in the direction of living a grace filled life. I'm still learning. But what I've learned most has been that God is more important to Him than how good I am. If you have been raised in a legalistic background, your brain may have just tuned out. Read it again. Your relationship with God is more important to Him than how good you are. Think about your kids. If your daughter became pregnant for instance, would you want her to hide it, maybe even get an abortion in order to appear good to you and maintain your relationship as you had always known it? Or would you want her to share it with you? As much as it would hurt, you would want her to share it. You would feel a lack of relationship if she felt she had to go it alone and that she wasn't good enough for you. You would let her know that while you didn't approve of her sin, you still loved her the same. Chances are, your relationship with your daughter would be even closer after that. But look at how we do the same with God. We deny ourselves relationship with Him when we don't measure up (and we NEVER measure up). We kind of paint him to be a big, bad, no-blessing-giving parent, don't we?

The good news is that I am in the sun today. There are many factors that contributed to it, but I think the main one is that I sought HIM. He rewarded me with Himself. I have never experienced God like I do now. My feelings of "not good enough" are His to deal with and I am just basking in His acceptance. It is wonderful! All I have been throught has brought me closer to Him and given me more to be able to give others. If there is anything I can do for you, to help you experience God's goodness, please let me know. I'm so glad to be able to share this with you!

Stop swimming...take up flying!

Multi-Tasking

2009-04-06T11:02:00.000-07:00

Recently as a homework assignment for a writing course I am taking, I was asked to make a list of priorities. I sent them in to my mentor. He made the comment that my priorities seemed to be in order, 'especially for a busy person’ adding that I should make sure that I write some every day. You can't imagine how thrilled I was just to know that he could see I am a busy person. A lot of people don’t see it that way. Just last night a teenage girl at church asked me what I do after I take the boys to school each day, suggesting in her own words that I ‘sit around the house’. First of all, it takes me an hour and a half just to take my kids to school, and another hour and a half to pick them up, thank you very much. That leaves me with only five hours to ‘sit around’. But her comment did get me thinking. What do I do every day?

For busy moms like myself who run helter-skelter all the time, it can sometimes be hard to define what we do. Heck, most of the time I’m doing more than one thing anyway. I sometimes will sit dutifully down to 'write every day' and notice that my bedside table is full of half-empty water bottles. I’m not the only one in my family that never finishes a bottle, so I go around to each room and collect an armload of them. On my way to the kitchen to pour them out and throw them away, I pass the front door and remember a planter there full of thirsty petunias. I pour the contents there rather than waste the water. While doing that, I realize I don’t have enough to water all the plants so I turn on the hose and get busy. While I’m soaking the flower beds I get down and pull up some pesky weeds and grass. Soon I have quite a pile going so I go into the house to get a trash bag. There are none. Better make a grocery list! I open the refrigerator to take stock. Boy, it’s dirty in here. No time like the present to clean it! So I start to unload, sitting items out on the floor. I take out the shelves and put them in the sink, turning on the hot water. While running the water, I look out the window and see the family dog, her sad pathetic little cocker spaniel eyes saying “feed me!” I open the back door and she comes bounding in, knocking over the ketchup bottles and pickle jars on the floor, skidding around the corner and racing toward the open front door. Once out there, she splashes through the water that is now overflowing the flower beds. The grass and weeds I had cleaned out is drifting down the sidewalk in unsightly clumps. I manage to grab her and pull her back through the house, her muddy paws screeching across the hardwood floors. I finally get her out and shut the door. Remembering the kitchen sink just in time I rush back to turn off the water. Exhausted and unaccomplished I grab a water bottle off the floor near the fridge and head back to the bedroom to write. I’ll have to clean up the mess later. My husband will wonder ‘what I did today’ and I won’t be able to tell him. He’ll be amused that I randomly placed little piles of weeds along the walkway leading to the house. He’ll think it odd that I lined up condiments on the kitchen floor. A lingering odor of 'wet dog' might cause him to momentarily assume that I spent the day grooming our pets. He'll quickly see that's not right. Not only did I not bathe her, I didn't feed her either! Maybe he’ll notice my big accomplishment of the day: the water bottles are off the nightstands. Maybe not. Maybe I had better get back to my writing assignment. That’s one thing I can control. Now….what will I write about?

Recommended Books List

2009-04-02T16:10:00.000-07:00

If you’ve ever asked me for advice on anything—maybe even something as simple as “how do I get to a restroom from here?” you may have gotten a book recommendation. Okay, well, maybe it’s not that bad. But I do recommend books a lot. I have often thought of making a list of books I recommend. But when I start to do that, I can’t think of any. I usually read books and forget about them. I only remember them when someone has a problem that I know a certain book has addressed beautifully. In that way, I don’t have a general recommendation list for everybody, but a kind of custom made book list for each person I talk to. Now doesn’t that make you feel special?

Having said that, if I were to make a list I would put two books on it. Yes…just two. Okay, before you get super-spiritual with me and ask if one of them is the Bible—No, it isn’t. That goes without saying. Just like when you are asked who your hero is, and you say “Jesus” even when you’d really like to be just like Elvis. So, other than the Bible there are two books that I would put on my “everybody ought to read ‘em” list. These two have been so touching and transforming that I would recommend them to everybody. Whether you’re grieving a lost loved one, you have an addiction, you’re experiencing relationship problems or your husband snores you need these books. I love reviews, but rather than write a review for you to read, I would love to see you just jump into these books and see what they might do for your life. They are:

Safely Home by Randy Alcorn
The Shack by Wm. Paul Young

I am well aware that not everybody will have the same opinion of these books as I do. You might have even been “warned” not to read one of them. But you know me. You know my character. If you think you can risk a recommendation from me, I encourage you to go for it!

Maybe these books will change your life too. Maybe not. If they don’t have the lasting effect on you that they have had on me, they are still good reading and I am confident you will get at least some blessing for having tried them. Read ‘em and let me know what you think. If they touch your life in a particular way, I would love to hear about it.

Down (and Out!)

2009-03-31T18:54:00.000-07:00

Have you ever just wanted to run away from all you know and do your own thing? Have you been to what you thought was the point of no return? Have you been as low as a person can go? I have been to that level. I have searched it out, found it, and made it my intention to set up housekeeping there. Against the pleas of my Lord....against the advice of those who have taught me from my youth. I have made my decisions defiantly in the face of my God. Forgive me! I have fought against Him, pulling to be set free to do my own delights. He for a season had restrained me, not letting me visit the lower level. I fought. I was bitter. I argued with Him. I said "Let me go...it's my life!" Why would He not let me go? “If I am wrong, it will be only me that gets hurt,” I lied to myself, believing it. Still He held tight. Until one day, as I was again making a move to jerk free from His hold, He very quietly stepped aside. With pain in His eyes He watched me as I ran down the steps to Hell.

I exulted in my newfound freedom. As I realized I was free to do what my heart desired, I slowed down and looked around me. I reveled in the new sights, sounds and intoxicating smells that attacked my senses. So this was what I had been missing! I examined each unique step as I headed downward and I said "this is beautiful." Should I turn back? I asked myself those questions. But no, the descent was too sweet. Exciting, unknown, forbidden! Adrenaline fed me. Independence spurred me on. Tiredness and heartache pushed me ahead. I could not turn back. I would go further...and I would stay.

There is a song that I used to love to sing called "Sinner Saved by Grace". In that song, one of the verses says, "Where would I be had God not brought me gently to this place?" Could God still reach me where I was? There was danger in that thought. I did not want God to bring me out of the place I had found for myself. I liked the new world I was entering. So I hid from Him. Outwardly, I appeared I was doing well. I sang. And as I sang I feared that the words of the song I had once loved would come true in my life once more. They would call to me, begging me to let God bring me back. As I attended church and heard the sweet music I would teeter on the bottom step, pondering returning to the higher ground. But the perfume of the place where I had made my bed would draw me back in. There was comfort there. I gave myself to it wholly. I would focus on that fragrance until I was out of the power of the House of God.

Can God reach one of His own who has wandered this far? As I lay down on the earthen floor of that place to sleep my sweet dreams, I was amazed to roll over and find Him on next to me. I turned back over and willed my mind to return to the sensory pleasures around me as I drifted off to sleep. I was too far. Even He could not reach me here. And I was glad of that thought. I smiled to myself as I breathed a contented sigh. At last I was where I wanted to be....free from His grasp.

One day, quite unexpectedly to me, I begin to feel discomfort. The walls of my abode seemed to be closing in. I couldn’t breathe. I looked around at all the joys I had experienced in this place and I began to feel for the first time that I might lose them. Someone, somewhere, even seemed to whisper that I should leave. Indescribable pain racked my body as I knew the loss that I would experience if I left. I surveyed my life and saw devastation. I looked with terror at my neighbors whom I had joined there...and one whom I had invited to join me. And I saw pain. Pain that I had caused. Their eyes held the terror too. Terror of life beyond the pit. How could we ever leave this place? Sobs of distress welled up in my throat as I looked those dear ones in the face and saw only hollows where eyes should be. They were wasting away! Had I done this? It had been beautiful at first. How did it come to this? "We must go", I said to the one nearest me. And to my surprise, he nodded. But he was too weak to make his way out. I would have to guide him. I was unsure of the way. And worse than that, I was unsure of leaving. I hesitated. So did he. I looked again at his starving face and I took his hand. We were coming out!

Fear encroached upon my heart as I took each torturous step upward. What would life be like again on the high ground? I remembered it. It was colorless, tasteless and dry. My body fought me to return downward...but I could see the opening. Fresh air trickled in around the edges of a door at the top. I had not noticed the door on the way in. It was very heavy. How I had managed to get it open to go inside, I don't know. I must have been led by a more fierce desire than even I had realized as I had headed down that path. Upon pushing up the door, air rushed in. Air so cold and so crisp it took my breath away. I breathed in until my lungs hurt. Throbbing, I laid myself down on the greenest grass I had ever seen, right next to the door in the ground. My partner, weary form the ascent tumbled down beside me. Sunlight bathed over me and freshets of air played with my hair. My skin soaked in the rays until I was rosy and warm. I dreamed. In my dream, I lay on the same green grass. Beside me lay my partner. He had been with me the whole time. Together we had experienced all the nuances of the lower world, and now, we were experiencing the exhilarating highness of the open air. Ground, trees, grass, clouds never looked so good to me. Contented, smiling, I turned to my partner. He was ashen and gray. I sat up and took his face in my hands. He was cold. I awoke from the dream not knowing whether I had been able to revive him or not. Then guilty anguish touched my soul as I realized that I was the one who had invited him to join me. In these hours, as I recover from what could have been a life-quenching journey for me, I still don’t know if my partner has been able to revive. That is the worst pain of all.

God's hand on our lives is not a fetter. When we fight it, it can certainly seem so. But when we relax and let him lead, we realize that He holds us tenderly, as a lover holds the hand of his beloved. I am amazed now as I stand on solid ground. I can see down into the pit. All along the walls are warnings that I did not see—ugliness I had been blind to. The horrors of what I have escaped are making themselves known to me. I look around, dazzled by the sunlight and marvel at how gently God has placed me back where I belong.

I'm just a sinner saved by grace.

Keep Swimming

2009-03-30T16:26:00.000-07:00

I’m swimming. Swimming hard in the icy waters. Fighting painfully against waves that would overtake me. Salt water burns my eyes. My parched throat longs for pure water. I have no time to think of that. I must keep swimming. It is all I can do. There are others around me who are flailing in the water as well. I have little opportunity to stop and ponder their own peculiar situations, but I can catch glimpses of their struggles. I cannot stop to consider them. I have my own struggle to attend to. It is a matter of life or death. If I am distracted for even a minute, I will plunge down into the icy depths, perhaps never to resurface and feel what little warmth the sun might provide. The sun. Such a strong, steady source of life on the earth. I know that to be true. However, as my body numbly heaves in the cutting water, I cannot understand the meaning of warmth. The fact that the sun provides warmth is a maddening shred of trivia in this world of ice and pain. I reject it. The sun offers no warmth here. To dwell on empty facts will drain what little resolve I have left. Keep swimming!

There is a boat nearby. From it I hear the gaiety of people who don’t know the icy waters as I do. Laughter. A foreign sound in my memory. Block it out. Keep swimming! The tinkling of glasses. Of warm wine sliding down the throats of happy travelers. Keep swimming! A glance upward confirms the existence of heady colors long forgotten: red, yellow, orange, purple. The glance costs me a stroke. My nostrils resist the invasion of the burning water. Too late. I hate myself for looking. I won’t do that again. Keep swimming! I close my eyes, disgusted at the price of beholding something beautiful. I will not see it again. I open my eyes once more to take in my present lot, and my only hope. Gray. Gray sky. Gray water. No sun. No land in sight. Gray. I have been swimming as long as I can remember. I have made no progress. There is no end in sight. But all that is in me and all that is around me demands that I keep swimming.

“I can’t!” I yelp frantically, overtaken by the hopelessness of my situation. My voice echoes weakly across the water, then dies. For a moment, there is nothing but silence as the last note of my wailing dies away. Then suddenly, the sound of a rush of water precedes a hard blow across my face. The warmth of blood trickles from my nose. “Red,” I say to myself, ignoring the pain and concentrating on the beauty of that vivid color in my otherwise bleak world. Just as quickly I dismiss the thought as destructive. As I lunge in the water, I turn my head to see my assailant. It is the swimmer next to me. The swimmer casts a look at the boat, then at me, shakes her head, then just as quickly gathers all she has to maintain her own body above water. My face throbs in the frozen stillness as I take in the meaning of the assault. Keep swimming. Don’t look. Don’t say can’t. Keep swimming. A quick survey of the water around me reveals human forms at various stages in their journeys. Some appear tired, barely keeping their heads above water. Some are not so fortunate, but take regular punishments of heads yanked below the surface of the water and throats coughing out the strangling sea. Others fare better. Some even appear to be making progress, staying strong. They are too distant to reach--to ask them what their secret is. All I know is what I have been told since this ordeal began. You must always swim. Swimming is your only hope. To question that will cost you precious air and strength. So I swim, while in my heart I know I will never survive.

In my ears I can still hear the laughter from the boat. I hear the tinkling of glasses from which I’ll never drink. I strain to hear the sounds. As I do I begin to let my limbs relax. I remain extended in the water for seconds then slowly begin to sink. Sinking is feared but it is more desirable than the painful, hopeless motions required to keep myself afloat. I give in to it. Once again I am hit sharply in the head. I look, but no person is near. Red. Is it the blood again? My burning eye painfully opens. It is a life ring. A life ring is my enemy! I cannot accept it. To do so would be to deny my fellow swimmers. To accept it would be to deny that the sun is enough to warm a body, even a frozen, failing body. Most of all, to accept it would be to deny that I am enough to save myself. I weigh my alternatives and realizing that my resolve to keep struggling has left me, I grasp the ring. I exult in the freedom I immediately experience by transferring my weight to the saving object. I dare to lift my head. The boat. I look up and suddenly I realize that it is from the boat that the ring was tossed. And then the realization hits me: I am a failure by taking the ring. I am even more of a disappointment, when I realize the boat is it’s source! In spite of the self loathing I take by accepting the ring I choose to hold on anyway. This ring is what I need to survive. It is the sun. It holds me up, gives me hope and help, and promises me warmth. Cold condemning glances skid my way across the surface of the water from those floundering in its power. They can condemn if they want. They are drowning. I am not!

At last, realizing the full power of the float, I stop swimming. My legs come up. My shoulders relax and the waves that had once tormented me carry me on a thrilling adventure as I rise and fall gloriously in the spray. Relief. I cast my eyes thankfully on the boat. The sea was never so beautiful. The sky is blue. The waves don’t feel as cold. The brilliant red and white of my companion is intoxicating. I close my eyes, and riding on the crests, I rest.

After some time of resting, my mind begins to come back to me. I hear the words of those who had made the swim before me. Be strong! Keep swimming! Right and wrong assail me. I know I am a fake. Although I have not climbed into the boat, I am wearing its colors. I have deserted my cause and those around me. After some consideration I come to a decision. As much as I enjoy the ride, and the comfort it brings, guilt and habit overtake me, and I feel compelled to give up the ring. I allow my arms loosen their grasp and the ring slips from beneath me and I begin to swim again. For a while it feels good to be back in the swim. Like it’s the right thing. This is where I was supposed to be after all. But I soon tire once more and long for the security of the ring. It has remained nearby. I easily reach out and grab it with only one hand, not putting my entire weight on it, but still finding relief in its nearness. It buoys me slightly and encourages me. This seems a good compromise. I am doing the best I can while getting the help I need. This is consoling for a time, until guilt sets in again. I am ashamed of my attachment and feel a strong sense of urgency to dispose of the device. One of the swimmers next to me, who seems to be holding his own, motions to me with a pushing action. I understand this to mean that I should push the ring further away from me, so I won’t be so easily tempted to grab it. Although I hesitate to do it, it does feel like the right thing. Living with the embarrassment and guilt of having it around is not helping. I push it away and begin swimming on my own once more.

Something about having had some relief from the endless struggle, if only briefly, has woken something up inside me. New thoughts….new desires. While I had gloried in the swim in my youth, now I see it as a chore. Floating, which I had once despised, now seems a very logical alternative. As I begin to grow tired of swimming I begin to glance around for the ring. I need to know its location just in case I need it. Then I spot it. I think I could still get to it. I begin to wonder. Not having the ring is hard. Not knowing if I could ever get back to it when I need it is a sickening thought. Panic rises in my throat as I see it drifting farther away. Soon it will be out of reach and my one chance of survival will be gone. How could I have been so stupid as to let it go? I realize that if I am to ever have the security of the ring again, I must go to it immediately. I begin to reach, to flounder…and by some tremendous act of fate, the waves chip in and bring it closer to me. I reach out for it, warm tears flowing down my face and I say to myself, “I will never let go again.”

“Is the sun real?” I ask myself as I hold on for dear life.

“Yes, I know it’s real,” I hear my own voice answering.

“How do you know it’s real?”

“I have known others who have felt its warmth. They say it’s the sweetest thing. It must be real.”

“Have you ever felt its warmth yourself?”

“I think so” I begin, “….but it has been so long now that I am not sure of it anymore.” The voices go on and on, with their ageless pleading, “If you are to ever know, you must let go of your ring. You can never experience the help the sun can give you while you depend on the ring.” The battle continues. To experience the sun I must give up the ring. Yet, when I give up the ring, the sun does not shine on me. For eternity I swim. The sun shines on. Yet I feel no warmth. In exhaustion I cling to the ring.

“Is the sun real?”

“Yes.”

“Will I ever feel its warmth?”

“I hope so. So what do I do now, keep swimming?”