Book Eleven

Donuthead
Sue Stauffacher

I. Loved. This. Book. Really.


Donuthead should be required reading for every fourth or fifth grader. And every adult. It deals with bullying and fighting for yourself and fighting for other people and dreams and hope and looking past appearance to help someone else and be changed in the process. Franklin Delano Donuthead is a boy caught in fear. Stauffacher deals with Franklin's "handicap," which could have become tedious or annoying, in a way that keeps the reader laughing at the absurdity. It also made me think of people I know (sometimes even myself) and how our fears keep us from fully engaging.

When Franklin meets Sarah Kervick, everything changes. His eyes are opened to the "messy" side of life, which isn't just physical. It's emotional. It's love. It's hope--in dreams and in the kindness of others. And it's funny and sentimental and beautiful.

Because it's a young adult/children's novel, it only took me a couple of hours to read. They were some of the most enjoyable hours I've spent reading lately. Now I can't wait to head out to my local bookstore to buy my own copy--one I'll share with friends and with my own children as they grow. And one I'm sure to read over and over, just to be sure I've got it.


Notable Quotes:

I discovered that there is a factor that is more important to your health than what you eat or how much alochol you drink . . .That one thing is hard to describe statistically.  It's love, if you can believe that.  The love of friends, of spouses, of neighbors, of teachers, of mothers who pester you to play ball with them, of dreamy little fourth graders who live next door and let their dogs wander the streets.  (p46)

"So we see at this day, whatever evils are abroad, hope never entirely leaves us;  and while we have that, no amount of other ills can make us completely wretched."  (Franklin, reading from the myth of Pandora  - p94)

Hold fast to your dream, Sarah.  Wrap it, as Langston Hughes says, "in a blue-cloud cloth away from the too-rough fingers of the world." And surround yourself with people who believe in that dream for you.  And you will achieve it.  (p131)

Book Ten

Justice: Crimes, Trials, and Punishments
Dominick Dunne

Justice has been on my reading list for quite some time, and I finally managed to check it out from the library and make the time to read it.  Because of its heavy subject matter (basically murder and the trials and sentences that followed) and my limited reading time (read: three young children), it took me several weeks to make it through the first half of the book.  The second half went faster (Memorial Day weekend), and I'm glad I read the book.  True crime is by far my favorite genre.

Dominick Dunne has got to be one of the most interesting men who have ever lived.  Somehow he seemed to have a face or a personality or something about him that led people to trust him and share secrets with him.  He took those secrets--and honored the secret tellers when they were honest or fair--and wrote gripping fiction and compelling nonfiction.  I used to love reading what he wrote for Vanity Fair and was sad when he passed away.  Surely we had lost a great story teller who knew how to make nonfiction read like fiction and fiction carry the true weight of nonfiction.  Brilliant.

Justice: Crimes, Trials, and Punishments is nonfiction.  In it, Dunne recounts his own daughter's murder, which drew him in to telling the stories of victims and their families while exposing the lengths that defendents and their lawyers will go to to keep guilty men (and women) out of prison.  Dunne also includes his essays on several popular trials of the '90s and early 2000s: the Menendez brothers, O.J. Simpson, and the murder of Martha Moxley and subsequent arrest--25 years later and in part because of Dunne's digging--of Michael Skakel. 

There are also chapters dedicated to other murders and trials that are less familiar, except to those who have read some of Dunne's fiction.  This was perhaps my favorite part of the book.  It was "fun" (if one can say that regarding reading about murders and justifications) to read the true story behind some of the Dunne novels I have enjoyed over the years.  He really changes remarkably little and somehow managed to avoid lawsuits even while building more than a few enemies among the rich and powerful.  I wish I could have sat in a room with him for even a short time . . . I bet the conversation would have been fascinating.

Overall, I really liked this book.  I guess it's still too soon for me to read 10 chapters about O.J. Simpson.  The trial truly was a debacle of justice, with the murders of two innocent people getting swept under the rug of pretending that a police officer's racism was a worse crime.  Those 137 pages left me disgusted and hurt and angry all over again.  It also left me grateful that he was caught in the Vegas robbery and is finally serving time.  I find it ironic that for robbery he is serving a minimum of 9 years, with a maximum of 33 years, while he served no time for murdering two people.  Yeah, it's still too soon. 

A Love Story

Once upon a time a boy and a girl grew up, in separate towns, with different families.  After he graduated from high school, the boy made his way to the middle of the mitten to begin the rest of his life.  Two years later, the girl also left her home and her family to settle into a new town, make new friends, and (eventually) marry her high school sweetheart.

Because life doesn't always work they way it's planned, the girl's relationship ended.  Three months later, the boy accepted God as his Savior and began attending a Christian fellowship group.  There, the boy and the girl met.  One day, the boy and the girl were assigned to call each other with a reminder about their volunteer work for the group.  The boy made the girl laugh.  But that wasn't love.

The boy and the girl became fast friends, and they discovered that God wanted them to get married.  So, fourteen years ago today, they did just that.  They danced to "Shameless," and they were in love.  But that wasn't love.

Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God. Where you die I will die, and there I will be buried. May the Lord deal with me, be it ever so severely, if anything but death should separate you and me.  Ruth 1:16-17

Even though they had a beautiful wedding and made wonderful vows to each other, and even though their friends all wished them happily ever after, things went differently.  Three years after they married, the boy and the girl realized that they didn't want to be married to each other anymore.  They decided to separate.  While they were apart, they discovered that God truly had other plans for them and their marriage.  So they fought.  Instead of fighting with each other, they fought next to each other, for each other.  And that was love.

I will repay you for the years the locusts have eaten.  Joel 2:25

Over the years, they have settled into a deep friendship and into their lives together.  There are now three beautiful girls and one child in heaven.  A household of two has become a household of five.  They haven't always been happy, but they have always been committed . . . to each other, to God, to their family.  And that was love.

It's hard to know--or even imagine--what life could hold next for the boy and the girl.  They have their plans and their dreams, but they don't know.  Today they are in love, and they are best friends.  God has helped them go and stay together.  One day death will separate them.  But until then, God truly has repaid them for the years of their marriage that the locust stole, and He has given them love.

And we're dancing in the minefields
We're sailing in the storm
This is harder than we dreamed
But I believe that's what the promise is for

So when I lose my way, find me
When I loose love's chains, bind me
At the end of all my faith, till the end of all my days
When I forget my name, remind me

'Cause we bear the light of the Son of Man
So there's nothing left to fear
So I'll walk with you in the shadowlands
Till the shadows disappear

'Cause he promised not to leave us
And his promises are true
So in the face of all this chaos, baby,
I can dance with you

"Dancing In the Minefields," Andrew Peterson

Beau, I love you.  I'd happily be the girl who went to Central and met you and married you and fought with you and fought for you and fought next to you and birthed our beautiful children and worked with you to raise them and spent fourteen years (so far) dancing through the minefields with you.  Because He promised not to leave us, and His promises are true.  So I'll walk with you in the shadowlands 'till the shadows disappear.  530

I'm Calling It A Success

I know what Memorial Day is about.  I know that it is recognizing the sacrifice that so many men and women--mothers, fathers, husbands, wives, children, brothers, sisters--have made for the freedom that we enjoy.  Freedom doesn't come free, just as nothing worth having (besides grace and eternal life) does.  Today I'm celebrating Memorial Day with my favorite veteren and wearing the shirt I wore when my family and I went to pick him up in Taylor, MI, four years ago after his year in Iraq.  It says, "Some heroes wear capes.  Mine wears combat boots."  And he does.

But I also know what the first weekend of summer is about.  Though we all go back home, and the kids (or at least the oldest one) has two more weeks of school, summer is official with Memorial Day weekend. 

* I spent three nights staying up too late with my mom and dad on the porch at Sandy Pines.
* We all woke up too early every morning when little voices started talking as the sun came up.
* Ellie learned to swim--even underwater!--without any flotation device.  And she has a red bracelet that says she can ride the water slide all by herself to prove it.
* I have four new mosquito bites.
* Addie decided to pee in the potty and has spent four days dry, except for one accident at the picnic table (much to Megan's disgust, since she was next to her on the bench).
* We have eaten grilled food for three days and will again today.
* We enjoyed ice cream instead of dinner one time and will again today.
* The deck is covered with towels, swimsuits, beach toys, and people relaxing in chairs.
* I received ramekins, both seasons of Downton Abbey, a beautiful new sweater, and lavendar sachets from my birthday celebration.
* I read the second half of a book in three days instead of the five weeks it took me to read the first half.
* We watched the Tigers win three games (in a row!) and the Angels do the same.

I'm calling this one a success.

The Twenty-second Sabbath

Some keep the Sabbath going to Church –
I keep it, staying at Home –
With a Bobolink for a Chorister –
And an Orchard, for a Dome –

Some keep the Sabbath in Surplice –
I, just wear my Wings –
And instead of tolling the Bell, for Church,
Our little Sexton – sings.

God preaches, a noted Clergyman –
And the sermon is never long,
So instead of getting to Heaven, at last –
I’m going, all along.

"Some Keep the Sabbath Going to Church," Emily Dickinson

I'll be honest, because it's best not to lie.  I didn't go to church today.  Today I kept the Sabbath taking my kids out for donuts for breakfast and letting them put on their swimsuits and run in the neighbor's sprinkler and reading a book and watching my kids play at the beach.  And it was wonderful.

Most Sabbaths I keep going to Church.  I love going to Church.  When I was small (because I've decided that I'm still young) I used to play Church.  Sometimes I would even go to Church and play Church there (one of the perks of being a pastor's daughter).  I especially love going to my Church.  I love my pastor and the message from God he brings to us each week.  I love the songs we sing, and I love singing them with my friends.  I think it's important to go to Church, so even when I don't love it, and when I don't want to be there, I still go.

But today I kept it staying at Home.  Not really Home--more my parents' cottage.  Well, more a trailer at Sandy Pines with a golf cart in the garage and a lake out back and a yard full of goose poop.  This whole weekend has been a Sabbath.  And it's been wonderful.

A Reason to Celebrate

So . . . in case you haven't heard, it's my special day today.  On this day in (35-year) history, I was born.  It was 10:10 a.m. Pacific Time.  I don't know if I was early or late or right on time, but I know I was born when my dad was home from his few days on/few days off schedule on an island off the coast of California with the US Navy, and I was born at the perfect time to give my parents an anniversary steak dinner.  No, really.  The hospital where I was born gave the happy new parents a steak dinner the night before they were discharged from the hospital, and that just happened to be their anniversary.  Their fifth anniversary.  I've no doubt been an eternal gift to them. 

Let me be clear--I love my birthday.  I'm high maintenance, so I love that this is a day about me.  I love to receive gifts, and I love to have fun.  So, yeah.  I'm not going to hide it.  It's my birthday.  Give me a day to celebrate it!  :)

• I slept in this morning.  It was nice to have the girls go downstairs on their own and sit nicely without fighting--until I got downstairs, anyway.
• Red Robin seems to be the place we McDowells celebrate our birthdays.  Because that Banzai Burger is just so good.
• This morning I volunteered at field day at Ellie's school.  And I had a fantastic time playing with the parachute with all of the 1st and 2nd graders.
• Last night I "rang in my birthday" (well, within a couple of hours) with my book club at The Score listening to live music from Outer Vibe.  Thanks to Marianne for my yummy beverages and to Ashley, Stephanie, Marianne, and Courtney for the laughs and the hoarse voice I have today.
• I really like cheesecake.  Thanks to Eric for making it for our board meeting tonight.
• Hearing three little voices say, "Happy birthday, Mommy!" is one of the coolest things in the world.  Especially when one of them bursts through the bathroom door, interrupting your shower in this fashion: "Happy birthday, Mommy! I need to poop."
• For my birthday lunch I treated myself to a salad and tapioca pudding from Forest Hills Foods.  Yum.
• I took a nap today.  It was a birthday nap, because 35 is a bit old to spend two hours playing with a parachute.
• Beau gave me a quirky road trip guide and the Jericho Complete Series DVDs.  Great gifts.  Great gifts.
• I received more than 100 birthday greetings because of Facebook.  I started to respond to each of them when there were only 30.  Then I felt like I had to keep going.  That was a lot of responses.
• It was really fun to read all the "Happy Birthday" messages from family members I've known my whole life, friends I've had for 30 years, and friends I've had for less than 30 days.
• I used to think that my cousin Michael was WAY older than me.  Today I realized that he is only 40 . . . how'd he get so much cooler and smarter than me in those five years?
• I was also surprised to see that my parents aren't that much older than me.  At 25, those 25 years felt like a lot.  At 35, not so much.
• It would have been really nice if the Tigers had realized that things are meant to go my way on my special day.  A win shouldn't have been too much to ask--especially when Verlander was on the mound.
• This afternoon I was packing for our Memorial Day trip to the lake, and I heard the phone ringing downstairs.  I ran down to hear Addie and Megan shouting, "Daddy caught a deer!  Daddy caught a deer!  On his way home from work!"  Thinking he must have HIT a deer, I called frantically returned his call.  No deer.  My kids might be crazy.
• For the first time in my life I got a gift of money for my birthday, and I have no clear idea of how I'll spend it.  I'm sure I'll find a way, but there's nothing "pressing" for it.
• Next Tuesday I'm giving blood with a coworker in memory of her friend's baby who passed away at only a few days old.  I'm also giving it because it's my birthday, and I can so I should.
• I can't actually believe it's my birthday.  I still feel like it should be February.
• This may be the hottest birthday on (my) record.  The temps make it feel like it might be July 24.
• Some birthdays have been memorable for their events (a surprise birthday party instead of dinner at Logan's with Julie) and some have been memorable for their simplicity (opening a Barbie cat and travel cage at some hotel on the way to Duncan, BC, when I turned 7).  This one ranks with the simplicity, and I love it for that.
• Tomorrow I leave for my parents' cottage for a relaxing weekend at the lake.  And more celebrations. Thanks, Mom and Dad, for having me at the end of May where I always get a three- to four-day weekend to celebrate my special day.  :)
• So far I've had a birthday sundae from Red Robin, a birthday cheesecake from Eric and New City Neighbors, and birthday tapioca pudding from Forest Hills Foods.  Tomorrow I'll get some birthday ice cream from the Sandy Pines ice cream store.  Saturday I'll get some birthday peach pie from Grand Traverse Pie Company.  And Tuesday morning I'll get my butt to the gym at 5:00 a.m. to work all that off.
• My mom, my dad, and my sister all called me to sing "Happy Birthday" today.  And they each called separately and sang in varying degrees of loudness.  It was great.

So far I've been alive for 12,784 days.*  If I live an average life, I have another 15,340 days* left.  I pray that they are even half as wonderful and beautiful and magical as this first half of my life has been.  If they are, I shall be a blessed girl indeed.


*Please note: Math has never been my strong suit.  I have attempted to adjust for leap years, but I don't fully understand them and may have royally screwed that up.

Book Nine

The Art of Racing in the Rain
Garth Stein

My book club (mostly full of dog people) chose to read The Art of Racing in the Rain, and I'll confess, I knew nothing about it.  Then I cheated and read a friend's (and fellow book club member) review of the book on her blog. 

Narrated by a dog?!  A dog?!

Clever, but I figured I'd be in for a long read.  (Again, not a dog person here.)  Because I'm (always) in the middle of a few books, and I wasn't sure about this one, I waited and waited to start it.  Finally, last Saturday I started reading--because book club was only five days away.  Imagine my surprise at finding it to be delightful! 

The Art of Racing in the Rain is cleverly written and a very quick read.  I didn't find it gripping necessarily, and I didn't feel too invested in the story line or the characters, but I did find it fun to read each chapter.  The reason behind the "racing in the rain" title is clear from the beginning, though Stein does bring it back around with subtle differences or a bit more explanation through lessons learned by Enzo, the narrating dog, from the car races that he watches on TV.

Stein's use of a dog as the narrator allows his characters to be introduced and developed in a unique way that was more engaging than the plot of the novel.  And, at great surprise to me, the scenes that were the most tender were one-on-one moments between Enzo and the people he loves and is charged to protect.  There were times when I felt that the prose waxed a bit eloquent for a dog, but then I reminded myself that perhaps dogs who hope to be humans one day talk like that.  (And then I reminded myself about the suspension of disbelief and that this is, actually, a novel and dogs don't really talk.)

I'm not sold as a dog person, nor am I sold on this being a "four-star" novel.  I did tear up in a few of those tender moments, and I did have brief flashes of thinking I may be missing out on something by not having a four-legged friend in my life.  If I let one in, though, he better narrate our story.  And bark any time I'm about to make a mistake.

Accepting the Bad With the Good

At one point or another in my life, I imagine I have read the entire Bible.  I remember being in high school (probably middle school, too) and reading a chapter or two with my family after dinner each night.  (Remember when families actually ate meals together every night?  And then they did devotions?)  Like most people, I find some chapters of the Bible--some books of the Bible--more meaningful interesting easy to read than others.  And, like most books I've read, some have become my favorites.

I love Philippians.  Some day I'd like to commit it all to memory--I have a good start because of Aaron Wetzel and my days in Higher Ground.  As crazy as it sounds, I'd have to say that Job is my second favorite book.  It's long, and there's a fair amount of doom and gloom, so I'm not committed to memorizing it, but it's good nonetheless.

As I'm continuing to catch up to the end of May (how did that happen?!) in my Bible reading plan, I finally arrived in Job.  And, like every time, I was struck by its beginning.  Not by the part where Satan and God are talking, and God is bragging up Job.  Not by the part where God allows Satan to--with some parameters--strip Job of all of his security and wealth and love.  The part where Job says (as written in The Message):

Naked I came from my mother's womb,
naked I'll return to the womb of the earth.
God gives, God takes.
God's name be ever blessed.
(Job 1:21)

God's name be ever blessed.  Ever blessed.  No matter what.  No matter what my life looks like or how much money I have in the bank or how healthy I or my children am.  No matter what; God's name be ever blessed.

I know that I've shared this before, but I have a child who resides in heaven.  Baby Zion would be two years and seven months old if it had lived.  Addison, Zion's twin, is that old.  She is exuberant and loving and adorable and giving.  She is so grown up.  She is life, where Zion is not.  I have to remember, some days, that Zion was God's to give and God's to take away.  Like everything else in my life, God gives, God takes, and God's name be ever blessed.

The important thing to note from Job is that while he is committed to blessing God's name--no matter what--he isn't committed to a grief-free life.  He isn't committed to never crying, to never tearing his clothes and sitting in sackcloth and ashes.  He isn't committed to laughing in the face of death and destruction.  He's just committed to God. 

So am I.  There are days, moments, that I still cry.  Last night, my two oldest girls gave me mini pink roses from a neighbor's miniature rose bush.  As with the last time I received two pink roses, one was open, and one was closed almost to a bud.  That was a celebration of the birth of Addison and (unknown to the giver) a memorial to a baby who didn't live.  My girls knew nothing of that and were each given a little rose to give me.  It just happened to bring a tear to my eye.  That happens, and it will continue to happen.  I get to cry about it, because part of my heart isn't here.  My family isn't all together.  God gave, and He took away.  That hurts.

We are told repeatedly that Job never sinned. He never cursed God or turned against Him. So the sin isn't the crying or the loss or the grief. The sin is in turning my back on God.  I don't understand His ways.  I don't understand why He would tell us that we had lost our child in the same breath that we were told we'd had a second baby.  I don't get it.  And it hurts.  But may God's name be ever blessed.

The Twenty-first Sabbath

When the morning falls on the farthest hill,
I will sing His name, I will praise Him still.
When dark trials come and my heart is filled
With the weight of doubt, I will praise Him still.

For the Lord our God, He is strong to save
From the arms of death, from the deepest grave.
And He gave us life in His perfect will,
And by His good grace, I will praise Him still.

When the morning falls on the farthest hill,
I will sing His name, I will praise Him still.
When dark trials come and my heart is filled
With the weight of doubt, I will praise Him still.

For the Lord our God, He is strong to save
From the arms of death, from the deepest grave.
And He gave us life in His perfect will,
And by His good grace, I will praise Him still.

When the morning falls on the farthest hill,
I will sing His name, I will praise Him still.

"I Will Praise Him Still," Fernando Ortega

Things I Think I Think #62-77

62. I continue to be amazed every time I see Twitter comments that people make to celebrities.  Is it the anonymity of it all or just the access you have that makes you feel tough enough to ridicule, degrade, and denigrate the character of a person you have never met?  For pitching a bad game, leaving one team for another team, or acting in a movie? 

63. Everywhere I look or listen, I keep hearing evidences of the two lessons God is currently teaching me: He is busy in the mundane, and integrity is central to my walk.

64. It turns out I am very impatient . . . with disrespect, ignorance, repeating myself, my circumstances.  Hmm . . . (See #63)

65. I wonder at which point a mommy's kiss isn't effective in chasing away the ache from wounds of all shapes and sizes.  For that matter, when do bandaids stop serving that purpose?  (And are bandaids coated with magic mommy kisses?  Is that why putting one on a sore finger works?)

66. "Boys of Summer" is a great song and the perfect example of a remake surpassing the original (good on you, The Ataris).  Is it just me, or is it totally about baseball?  (Kidding.  But seriously, it makes me think of baseball.)

67. Today I danced to "The Way You Make Me Feel" by Michael Jackson in the bathroom at Jimmy John's.  Then I wondered if it could be possible that there was a camera on me.  Then I remembered it was a bathroom and there would be worse things to catch in there than someone dancing.  Even as badly as I dance.

68. Miley Cyrus's "Party in the U.S.A." makes me smile.  Every time.  And when I get to the "nodding my head, like, yeah; moving my hips, like, yeah" parts, I discover that I am doing exactly that.  It really is a party.

69. If I lived by a Major League Baseball city, I would buy season tickets.  Man, I wish I lived in a Major League Baseball city.

70. Addie is the craziest little person.  She thinks it's her job to take care of everyone in our house.  She also thinks it's her job to be the most stubborn person on earth.

71. For the first time in a long, long time, when someone asked me how I was doing, I said, "I'm great."  And I meant it.  It was shortly after the dancing in the bathroom, so maybe that was part of it.

72. I'm turning 35 in six days, and I'm okay with that.

73. I simply adore all types of potatoes except for twice baked.  Those things creep me out.

74. Watching three movies back to back at the movie theater was a true highlight for me and may be one of the best gifts I've ever received.  (Thanks, Beau and girls!)

75. There is no feeling that can beat watching your husband cross the finish line of a 25K and knowing that he achieved one of the hardest physical goals he set for himself.  It was beautiful.  I cried.

76. Okay, but I do feel like 35 is old.  So is the fact that in 12 days I will have been married for 14 years.  Apparently I'm okay with the feeling old thing.

77. Some day I will drive all the way across the country on back roads.  Preferably in a convertible.  And I will detour to every "World's largest" spot along the way. 

Untying from the Mundane

I've had several conversations with different people lately, and all of our talks have circled around the same theme.  The content may have varied--from "dying a slow death" to "need to get away" to "can't do this anymore"--but they have all been born out of weariness.  It all came to a head for me the other day, when I was struggling to catch back up with my scripture reading, and I read Jesus' words in John 8:23.

But let me start a few days before that.

A dear new bride came to see me, because she was exhausted--both physically and emotionally.  She said she needed some encouragement, and she was hoping I'd have something to share.  My first tips--and the only things I have found that enable me to sleep with another person in my bed--were practical: earplugs and Tylenol PM.  That can take care of the physical exhaustion quickly. 

The emotional stuff . . . yeah, since the "dying a slow death" and "need to get away" and "can't do this anymore" may have all come from my mouth, I'm not sure I can help with that.

See, here's the thing.  My newlywed friend, my young mom friends, and I all have something in common.  None of us are in a place where things are changing or exciting, and it's entirely possible probable that none of us are in the spot where we thought we'd be in our early 20's late 20's mid 30's(!).  I'm tired.  I'm tired of not working in my dream job, I'm tired of fighting with my kids, I'm tired of cleaning up the exact same messes every day and being able to tell you what I'll be doing next Wednesday at 3:30 pm because it's what I'm doing EVERY day at 3:30 pm.  It wears on you.

As I talked with my young friend, though, something dawned on me.  Last week Monday night, I went to the seminary graduation of a man who is like a brother to my husband.  We have been friends with him and his wife for 12 years now, and he spent part of his seminary years as an intern at our church.  His wife is my DearWriterFriend who wants to be my DearPublisherFriend and who helped me realize what I want to be when I grow up.  It dawned on me that if my husband and I hadn't bought our current house 11 1/2 years ago and been stuck here for all these years, maybe none of that would have happened.

Perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself.  When we bought our house in November 2000, it was meant to be for 5-6 years.  We were never meant (we thought) to still be here when we had school-aged children.  Instead, we've stayed.  And it has been a source of annoyance and frustration for me for the last several years.  But God hasn't let us go.  Now, there could be a number of reasons for that, but maybe this is one of them.

Aaron and Wendy moved to Oregon several years ago to be youth pastors at a small church on the coast.  We left our church to look for a new church family.  When we found out we were pregnant, we decided we needed to find a Calvinist church that would fit our family's doctrine.  Since there is a Reformed church at the end of our road, we decided to visit there.  We found our home.  And we bragged it up.  While Aaron and Wendy were in Oregon, we continued to talk about our wonderfully urban-involved and reconciliation-focused and Biblically-rooted church, and God began to birth in Aaron the calling to be a senior pastor.  When it came to be time for him to choose a seminary, he chose Western Theological Seminary in Holland, MI, and they chose our church to be their home.  Wendy took her old job at a local publishing house, and she began to push me to pursue my dream of being a published writer.  (She's pretty good at nagging, right, Aaron?)

Now, Aaron is a graduate, and they are looking for a new church home--this time one with Aaron as the pastor.  Someday soon, God will bless a congregation (local, I hope!) with a pastor who has a heart for urban ministry and reconciliation and bringing Jesus to people . . . a heart that was maybe affirmed and encouraged at our great church.  And I, for the first time in my adult life, have peace about what I want to be when I grow up.  And if we hadn't lived here in this same house, maybe none of that would have happened.

What's the point?  Who knows what God is planning, or what He is doing in our every days?  Maybe none of what I said is true--maybe God would have brought Aaron and Wendy to our church and me to professional peace without any of that.  But the point is that we just don't know.  And when you start to think that He just might be working through my boring every day, through my being stuck in this place, in this house, in this mundane reality, it all feels just a little bit less boring and stuck and mundane.

So how did it all hit home?  In these words, that I should have read on May 7, the day of Aaron's graduation and three days before my conversation with a young bride:

Jesus said, "You're tied down to the mundane; I'm in touch with what is beyond your horizons.  You live in terms of what you see and touch.  I'm living on other terms." (John 8:23, The Message: Remix)

It probably would have come easier if I'd read it when I should have.

The Twentieth Sabbath

A Sabbath prayer:

Oh, God.  We are such a faithless people.  You truly are our maker, our father, our Savior, our redeemer, restorer, rebuilder, rewarder . . . and you deserve our praise.

Instead you get our complacency.  And you get our complaining.  Like the Israelites who lost sight of the miracles you performed to lead them out of slavery and sustain them on their 40-year journey through the desert, we have short memories.  We find ourselves bored or lonely or not where we dreamed we would be, and we question you.

For all the times you are working behind the scenes and we wonder where you are, God forgive us.  For all the times you are working through our heartache and we wonder why you have abandoned us, God forgive us.  For all the times we see what we don't have and wonder why you are so slow, God forgive us.

Father God, great is your faithfulness.  Great is your goodness.  Great is your timing.  Great are you, God.  Help us to see your new mercies every morning.  When we can't understand what you are doing, help us to trust--help us to know--that you are at work rebuilding, restoring, reclaiming us for your glory.

Amen.

Who I Am In The Dark

This is for my pastor, who took me to task for claiming there were lots of thought-provoking moments from our service on Sunday and then only posting a video from someone else.  (It was a jest-filled taking to task, like much of the evening was, but I still feel I owe him one.)  So, Pastor Tim, this is for you.

For the past several weeks, our pastor has been delivering messages about community and truly caring for each other:

• On April 15, we were challenged by John 21:1-19 when Jesus calls Peter to demonstrate his love for Jesus by feeding His sheep.  It was explained that Jesus had taken His disciples full circle.  He called them to Himself by making them fishers of men.  He called them, Pastor Tim said, to bring people from one kingdom into another--they were to rescue them from the sea (representative of chaos and despair) and bring them into peace and joy.  After His resurrection, Jesus again calls them to Himself by telling them to feed His lambs.  He called them to carry on His work of being an unconditional and true friend to to the broken by meeting their deepest needs.
• On April 22, Dr. Branson Parler filled in for Pastor Tim, and he preached about freedom.  His text was Galatians 5:13-6:2, and he spoke about the truth of freedom.  So often we consider Christianity as a list of don'ts, and we want to rebel against that.  The truth is that through Christianity, we are free to be whom God has actually created us to be.  We want to be free from others when God is calling us to be free to be with others and to care for them.
• This past Sunday, Pastor Tim taught on integrity.  Webster defines "integrity" as "firm adherence to a code of especially moral . . . values; un unimpaired condition; the quality or state of being complete or undivided."  I like the way that dictionary.com states that final definition: "the state of being whole, entire, or undiminished."  Being whole . . . undiminshed.  God calls us to a whole and undiminshed relationship with Him, and with others.  It does no good for anyone for me to pretend to be someone other than who I am.  When I do that, I'm hiding something--I'm in bondage to a facade, an act--and I'm not free to fully love others.  There's freedom in Christ.  There's freedom in the humilty of falling on my face at the cross and saying, "God, I don't have it all together."  There's freedom in admitting that same truth to others.  There's freedom in integrity, in being whole and undiminished, complete and undivided.

So, who am I in the dark?  Who am I behind my husband's back, my friends' backs, when my windows and doors are shutting my neighbors out?  There's the true answer, and then there's the answer I'd like to give.  How is that for integrity?  Or maybe I can just let you in on my little secret.  I'll quote Douglas Coupland (in one of my favorite books, Life After God) to share it right:

Now here is my secret; I tell it to you with an openness of heart that I doubt I shall ever achieve again, so I pray that you are in a quiet room as you hear these words. My secret is that I need God--that I am sick and can no longer make it alone. I need God to help me give, because I no longer seem capable of giving; to help me to be kind, as I no longer seem capable of kindness; to help me love, as I seem beyond being able to love.

That's who I am in the dark.

But there's something more that hit me. 

"Who am I . . . when my windows and doors are shutting my neighbors out?" 

Maybe that's one of the other reasons I need to keep my doors open to let my neighbors in.  If they're in, then I can't be someone else, can I?  Because I can't hide.  I'm not in the dark if I'm always willing to walk in the light--with Jesus and with others.

So this is the truth, who I am in the dark.  The truth is that I need God.  I am sick, and I can't make it on my own.  I need Him to help me give and be kind and love.  The truth is also that I need others.  Even when I want to be apart from them, I need them to keep me accountable and help me to be who I truly am.  Whole and undiminished.

The Nineteenth Sabbath

A different sort of hymn today: "Why I Hate Religion But Love Jesus."

Arriving Home

I recently had a conversation with some teenagers and young adults about heaven.  Even more than heaven, we were talking about one of the final parts of The Apostles' Creed: "From there he will come to judge the living and the dead."

We talked about that judgement, and what it might mean.  (Because they're teenagers, we also talked about whether "judgement" is spelled "judgement" or "judgment."  And, because they're teenagers, we had plenty of smart phones to use to determine that it is considered correct either way.  We all liked it better with the "e.")  We talked about how for Christians, when we arrive at the Judgement Day, we will be judged based on Christ's actions and His sacrifice for us.  We also talked briefly about how nonChristians will be judged by their own actions when they stand before Christ, because they haven't come under His righteousness.  And then we talked about why, if Christians have already been judged (and found worthy), there would be a second judgement.  Our curriculum explained that it is so that Christ will be officially and finally and completely glorified for His sacrifice by looking at us and proudly declaring us worthy.

With that "final" thought, I told the students to keep this in mind as we say The Apostles' Creed together in church.  I also told them that we could all take comfort from being reminded that we have been declared eternally worthy when we feel inadequate in life.  And then I was about to send them on their way.

Before I could do that, one of the young adults said, "But don't you think that judgement will still be scary?  I mean, when you get to heaven, and you're looking at Jesus' face, don't you think you'll be freaking out?"

The question sort of caught me off guard, but it didn't take long for a smile to spread on my face and tears to spring into my eyes.  "No," I whispered.  "No.  I think when I get there it will be like arriving home, and I've never been afraid to walk into my house.  I belong there, and my parents are there."

Maybe that's why the command from heaven to not be afraid truly is repeated in scripture more than any other command.  Surely God commands a holy fear.  We are to fear the Lord, in fact.  But that fear isn't the fear that is defined in most American dictionaries.  It's not a "distressing emotion" brought on by "impending danger."  It's an awe.  A reverence for this holy, holy God.  When I think of that "fearing the Lord," I'm reminded of the passage from The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis when the Pevensie children are asking the beavers about whether Aslan is safe.  "Safe?" they are asked.  "Who said anything about safe?  'Course he isn't safe.  But he's good.  He's the King, I tell you."

We have that same comfort in approaching our God.  Of course He isn't safe.  And of course we should fear Him.  But we shouldn't fear Him, and we shouldn't dream for even one moment that walking into our final judgement or standing in front of His throne at our deaths should be scary.  Because He's good.  Because He's the King.  Because those of us who are found in Him have been saved and made perfect by Him.  And because when we get there, we're Home.  And it should never feel scary to walk into your Home.  You belong there, and your Father is there.

The Year Without My Father

It's hard to believe, but four years ago (today, if my memory serves), we were in Taylor, MI, to greet my dad's unit as they returned from serving a year in Baghdad.  Megan Leigh met Robert Lee for the first time (at three months old), and we got to regain some sense of normalcy in our lives.  In honor of that great day--and that hard, hard year--here is something I wrote for Women's Lifestyle Lakeshore.


The Year Without My Father


“Old as she was, she still missed her daddy sometimes.” Gloria Naylor

I have been here before—in this hotel, in a room not far from this one. That time with my father, and this time waiting for my father. “We made it,” I sigh to myself as my head drops to the pillow. And when I wake, he will be here.

My father is a chaplain with the 177th MP Brigade of the National Guard, and in May 2007, his Brigade was deployed to Baghdad to take part in Operation Enduring Freedom. We were told he would be gone 400 days . . . standing on that end of it, the beginning, it is truly hard to imagine 400 days. At the time he left, my daughter was barely more than 400 days old and she had changed so much in that time. How would we change while my dad was gone? A little girl’s daddy is her entire world while she is young and half of her world when she is old. How would we ever make it through a year without my father—without my world?

I remember when my dad joined the National Guard. I was 13 and in 8th grade when he left for a one-month training. While he was gone, my sister turned 16, and our country entered the first Gulf War. War was so foreign to me at the time that I never thought he would actually be deployed anywhere, so our only concern while he was gone was what day we should take the trash out and where it should go. That war ended quickly, and since then we have been a military family who kept our soldier right by our side. In May 2007, the war came to our family, and our father left it.

Mom, my sister, and I stood at the armory in Taylor, MI, saying goodbye to him and watching him fight back tears as he climbed onto the bus, our own tears falling down our cheeks, anxiety flooding our hearts. Would Dad come home? Would we be the same if he did? Would he be the same if he did?

During his time away, we leaned on my husband and my brother-in-law when we needed a man (not for the trash, but for the grilling), and we leaned on each other when we could. We added yellow ribbons around our trees and National Guard deployment flags in our windows. And we lived each day tender, with empty hearts and tears ready to fall.

Four hundred days means far more than the thirty days he was gone before. This time my parents celebrated an anniversary apart. I turned 30 without my daddy. I announced my pregnancy over the telephone and wished there was a good way to send ultra sound pictures to Iraq. Dad had a birthday surrounded by soldiers and boxes packed with whatever gifts and goodies can travel into another country. My oldest daughter turned two. We celebrated one birthday for each person in our family, without Dad there to sing. On Thanksgiving, we huddled around a web camera, talking to Dad—joking about how badly the Lions would lose, remembering the time that the turkey was almost raw, laughing about the battle for the most turkey skin—all of the same things we share every year, but this time without the joy. My dad never says much, but every meal we shared together was quiet without him.

Our most desperate time may have been Christmas. Tradition for our family dictates that we spend Christmas Eve at my parents’ house, opening our stockings, filled to the brim with more gifts than we could ever need; eating a huge dinner; and opening still more presents. This year, we all moved with mixed emotions toward a holiday that is considered a family favorite in normal years. Dad arranged for his leave time to fall just after Christmas, so we decided to hold off on most of the family celebration until he was back. Still we knew that the day itself, the day that was marked for family, could not be spent apart. So we gathered in a house that felt empty without its spark. I had spent the weeks before Christmas frantically buying gifts that my father could give to my mother, and I tried my hardest to make light of the fact that I filled a role that should have been his. Together on Christmas Eve, we talked with Dad over the computer, but any time that your call travels ocean and most of the way to the other side of the world, the conversation lags in timing and lacks in heart. How do you celebrate such an important day with someone who is present but nowhere around? And how do you share joy while the man who was your world for so long is now a world away and all alone? How does your heart not break?

Dad came home in January, on leave, and we relished each moment, celebrating Christmas again and hanging on every word he spoke. He left again far too soon.

When my daughter was born, it was night in Iraq. That did not stop my dad from rushing to a telephone where he could call us to welcome his fourth granddaughter and learn that this one, named Megan Leigh, shares his middle name. She is the only one in the family to have that honor, in part because he was gone when she was born and in part because, in the end, he really is still my world. That night, as a February blizzard blanketed the city outside our window, I whispered to my baby girl my hopes for her life. They were hopes for peace, joy, love, wisdom, a sense of humor . . . and the gift of being held by my father.

We learned so much during our year apart. We learned about ourselves, about the geography of the middle east, and about each other. We learned about the emptiness of having someone so central to our lives so far away. And we learned that we are stronger than we thought we were.

My dad is home now, for the holidays and the meals and the celebrations. He has held my daughter and participated in her baptism. Life is normal again. But while he was gone, I missed him so.