I meant to share this a while ago, when I first took my three daughters (and my dad) to see "How To Train Your Dragon 2" over the summer. But then life happened (or laziness ensued or distraction set in or insert any other excuse here), and I didn't get around to it. Then my nieces watched it during our family Christmas celebration, and news events happened in our country, and I was reminded.
So, in the theme of things as I close out 2014, better late than never.
While I was watching "How to Train Your Dragon 2," two themes kept coming to mind. They, coupled with something I listened to myself whisper as I held my frightened four-year-old daughter on my lap, made up three truths about life I've learned over the last several years. And, as I watch the news each day, I see how essential it is that I teach them to my girls.
It's been too long for me to give specific references to the film, and maybe they aren't even as important as real-life examples, so here goes nothing.
1) Talking and getting to know new people is better than fighting.
Our country is on the cusp of something major. In college I studied the Civil Rights Movement, and in the cry of silent protesters and angry crowds I see so much history being repeated. On another front there are lines being drawn about gay rights and transgender individuals and what is Christian and what is right. Then there is addiction--both the addicts themselves and the people who desperately love them and want to be enough for them . . .
We're in a mess of hurting people, and "we" as the Church are too often stepping up to the wrong side of those lines. Yes. There is right and there is wrong. But God never asked us to judge the heart of man. He asked us to love His children. If I insist on pointing out the right and the wrong and ignore the brokenness and desperation, am I doing that? No. So. Talking and getting to know people is better than fighting. We need each other. We need each other for what we can learn from people who are different than us, and we need each other for what we can share with people who are different than us. And, most importantly, we need each other because without each other I'm not sure we can ever see a true picture of the God who created each of us.
2) Work together to fight the bullies.
Maybe this lends itself to #1 up there. We. Need. Each. Other. Period. There's nothing more to it than that. There are bullies in this world. Some of them are big and physically violent. Some of them are small and insidious. Some of them are in the pews next to us in our churches. Some of them stand in our capitol buildings. Some of them wear a badge and carry a gun. Some of them work on our news stations or in a cubicle next to us.
But, it's important to remember that not all of the people in those roles are bullies.
As I'm involved in a Global Learners' Initiative through my daughters' school district I have learned one important lesson: NEVER go alone. Find a friend. A buddy. Someone who has your back. Because here's the thing. The bullies are tough. Their insecurities and ignorance and hatred make them formidable, and their desperation makes them dangerous.
So don't go alone.
Let's join together. Alone we can get killed. Alone we can bend and break under the pressure. Alone we can get laughed out of the room.
If you see a bully who needs to be fought, ask a friend to join you. If you see a friend who's fighting a battle, join in. Don't quarrel about differences in technique or philosophy or theology or interpretation. Just fight alongside someone who needs it.
Fight the bullies with truth and goodness. Maybe we'll get beaten in this battle. But we'll win the war.
3) "It might get scary, but it will be okay."
This one is my favorite. During the great battle scene at the end of the moview, my youngest daughter crawled onto my lap and whispered that she was scared. I wrapped my arms around her, squeezed her tightly, and whispered back, "Baby, it will be okay. It might get scary, but it will be okay."
There is truth to this, I realized as I heard my words. That's life, friends. It gets scary sometimes. But it will be okay.
What a year my family had closing out 2013 and throughout 2014. We were betrayed by friends--publicly. Lies were told. Tears were shed. Curse words were uttered. Truth is still taking its time stepping into the light. In the middle of all of it, a brother ended his fight with PTSD. And now, at the end of it (we thought), my dad has been diagnosed with prostate cancer. His prognosis is good, though the cancer is aggressive. Still, it's cancer. There will be surgery and, depending on what the doctors find, maybe treatments.
It might get scary, but it will be okay.
We have faith. And we have God. And we have each other. And we have grace. And we know that in the end, it will all be okay.
Let these three lessons carry us into the new year, friends. Let this be the year that the Church stops caring about semantics and starts caring about the heart of Christ. Let this be the year that the bullies are fought against and that the bullied find us standing with them. Let this be the year of hope in the midst of the fear that everything really will work out in the end. And, in the middle of it all, let us find grace and love and joy.
Wednesday, December 31, 2014
Reviewing: The Making of an Ordinary Saint
The Making of an Ordinary Saint: My Journey from Frustration to Joy with the Spiritual Disciplines
by Nathan Foster
Three brief moments of disclosure before I begin:
1) This book took me months to read. That was all on me. I slowly and carefully digested each word. I'm certain it could have been read faster, but I couldn't do it.
2) I haven't read Celebration of Discipline by Richard Foster. Still, I have my preconceived notions about the spiritual disciplines and Richard Foster's beautiful (and comical) use of antonyms in his title.
3) One of my dearest friends edited this book. She knows me well enough to know that means nothing as to my liking this book.
Now. On to the review.
Nathan Foster is the son of Richard Foster, whom I have always referred to as "The Disciplines Guy." Richard's famous book Celebration of Discipline was published when I was one year old and has always felt like a daunting, "must-do" task for me if I want to be a true Christian. I'm not sure anyone put that on me besides me, but it has always sat there nonetheless. So, when my editor friend told me what she was working on, I was skeptical and intrigued. Then I got my hands on the book. And I spent the next three months eating, chewing, laughing, wiping away tears, nodding my head, and shaking my head in amazement.
For starters, I was glad to find out I wasn't the only one who found the concept of the spiritual disciplines as a formidable but essential checklist in order to reach true Christian status. Richard Foster's own son felt that way too! And, in much the same words my own pastor father would use, Richard gently explained to his son (and to the reader--in a coup we get "The Spiritual Disciplines Guy" AND his "Skeptical About the Disciplines Son"!): "This isn't supposed to hurt. It's not supposed to be a checklist about succeeding or failing. It's supposed to be about choosing God."
With candid honesty, vulnerable humility, and well-sprinkled humor, Nathan Foster details his four-year journey with the spiritual disciplines. It's a journey from fear, trepidation, and duty to freedom, love, and joy. Through his journey, Foster makes approachable what has long felt daunting. And he helps his reader see the secret Richard Foster tried to share with us all along:
And, in that learning to actively respond to a loving God, through Richard Foster's introductions to each chapter, Nathan Foster's prosaic explanations of his practical implementation of each discipline (sometimes accidental, always simple, and never with mundane results), and a brief essay on a "mother or father" of the faith who lived that discipline daily, we see that this really is practical. It really is about responding actively to a loving God. It really is about choosing joy and choosing love and seeing God and needing Him and wanting Him more than anything else.
I'll read this book again. Next time it won't be for an assignment or with a deadline I already missed. It will be with a journal and a plan to actively and intentionally walk this journey on my own.
Disclosure: I received this book free from Baker Books through the Baker Books Bloggers (www.bakerbooks.com/bakerbooksbloggers) program. The opinions I have expressed are my won, and I was not required to write a positive review. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission's 16 CFR, Part 255 (http://www.access.gpo.gov/nara/cfr/waisidx_03/16cfr255_03.html).
by Nathan Foster
Three brief moments of disclosure before I begin:
1) This book took me months to read. That was all on me. I slowly and carefully digested each word. I'm certain it could have been read faster, but I couldn't do it.
2) I haven't read Celebration of Discipline by Richard Foster. Still, I have my preconceived notions about the spiritual disciplines and Richard Foster's beautiful (and comical) use of antonyms in his title.
3) One of my dearest friends edited this book. She knows me well enough to know that means nothing as to my liking this book.
Now. On to the review.
Nathan Foster is the son of Richard Foster, whom I have always referred to as "The Disciplines Guy." Richard's famous book Celebration of Discipline was published when I was one year old and has always felt like a daunting, "must-do" task for me if I want to be a true Christian. I'm not sure anyone put that on me besides me, but it has always sat there nonetheless. So, when my editor friend told me what she was working on, I was skeptical and intrigued. Then I got my hands on the book. And I spent the next three months eating, chewing, laughing, wiping away tears, nodding my head, and shaking my head in amazement.
For starters, I was glad to find out I wasn't the only one who found the concept of the spiritual disciplines as a formidable but essential checklist in order to reach true Christian status. Richard Foster's own son felt that way too! And, in much the same words my own pastor father would use, Richard gently explained to his son (and to the reader--in a coup we get "The Spiritual Disciplines Guy" AND his "Skeptical About the Disciplines Son"!): "This isn't supposed to hurt. It's not supposed to be a checklist about succeeding or failing. It's supposed to be about choosing God."
With candid honesty, vulnerable humility, and well-sprinkled humor, Nathan Foster details his four-year journey with the spiritual disciplines. It's a journey from fear, trepidation, and duty to freedom, love, and joy. Through his journey, Foster makes approachable what has long felt daunting. And he helps his reader see the secret Richard Foster tried to share with us all along:
It isn't about twelve rigid practices; in fact, as I go about each day, there are so many simple ways I can intentionally direct my will and actions toward God. While the categories are helpful, they are only constructed to enable us to frame our experiences. In a sense there is only one discipline: an active response to a loving God. (p191)
And, in that learning to actively respond to a loving God, through Richard Foster's introductions to each chapter, Nathan Foster's prosaic explanations of his practical implementation of each discipline (sometimes accidental, always simple, and never with mundane results), and a brief essay on a "mother or father" of the faith who lived that discipline daily, we see that this really is practical. It really is about responding actively to a loving God. It really is about choosing joy and choosing love and seeing God and needing Him and wanting Him more than anything else.
I'll read this book again. Next time it won't be for an assignment or with a deadline I already missed. It will be with a journal and a plan to actively and intentionally walk this journey on my own.
Disclosure: I received this book free from Baker Books through the Baker Books Bloggers (www.bakerbooks.com/bakerbooksbloggers) program. The opinions I have expressed are my won, and I was not required to write a positive review. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission's 16 CFR, Part 255 (http://www.access.gpo.gov/nara/cfr/waisidx_03/16cfr255_03.html).
Monday, November 03, 2014
Reviewing: At Bluebonnet Lake
At Bluebonnet Lake
by Amanda Cabot
This is the first book I've read by Amanda Cabot, but I understand that under her various names, Cabot is, at heart, a romance writer. And she's done that again with her new Texas Crossroads series. At Bluebonnet Lake is the first in the series, and it meets both people and places at a "crossroads" in their lives. Whether it is a question of confronting priorities, broken relationships, hope for the future, or reclaiming purpose, Cabot brings her main and her minor characters--and the resort where their lives intersect--into crossroads where the reader is invested and cares about their next steps.
At Bluebonnet Lake is truly a sweet romance. It is the love story of people and place and family. As is the case with most romances, I found the ending predictable. Still, it was a journey that I enjoyed taking. And along the way there were a few surprises. Most of those surprises came in how much I ended up caring about Rainbow's End and the town of Dupree--and all of its minor characters. I look forward to future books in the series and hope Cabot continues to tell their stories, dropping At Bluebonnet Lake's main characters--Kate, Greg, Sally, and Roy--into the background in favor of exploring more of Carmen, KOB, Lauren, and even Fiona. I even couldn't help rooting for Drew to find his own happy ending.
This is a sweet book. It's a sweet love story and an invitation to settle down and enjoy the peace and the quiet of the sweet gifts God places in your path.
Disclosure: I received this book free from Revell through the Revell Reads Blog Tour Program. The opinions I have expressed are my own, and I was not required to write a positive review. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s 16 CFR, Part 255.
by Amanda Cabot
This is the first book I've read by Amanda Cabot, but I understand that under her various names, Cabot is, at heart, a romance writer. And she's done that again with her new Texas Crossroads series. At Bluebonnet Lake is the first in the series, and it meets both people and places at a "crossroads" in their lives. Whether it is a question of confronting priorities, broken relationships, hope for the future, or reclaiming purpose, Cabot brings her main and her minor characters--and the resort where their lives intersect--into crossroads where the reader is invested and cares about their next steps.
At Bluebonnet Lake is truly a sweet romance. It is the love story of people and place and family. As is the case with most romances, I found the ending predictable. Still, it was a journey that I enjoyed taking. And along the way there were a few surprises. Most of those surprises came in how much I ended up caring about Rainbow's End and the town of Dupree--and all of its minor characters. I look forward to future books in the series and hope Cabot continues to tell their stories, dropping At Bluebonnet Lake's main characters--Kate, Greg, Sally, and Roy--into the background in favor of exploring more of Carmen, KOB, Lauren, and even Fiona. I even couldn't help rooting for Drew to find his own happy ending.
This is a sweet book. It's a sweet love story and an invitation to settle down and enjoy the peace and the quiet of the sweet gifts God places in your path.
Disclosure: I received this book free from Revell through the Revell Reads Blog Tour Program. The opinions I have expressed are my own, and I was not required to write a positive review. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s 16 CFR, Part 255.
Wednesday, October 22, 2014
Reviewing: Steel Will
Steel Will
Staff Sgt (RET) Shilo Harris with Robin Overby Cox
Shilo Harris is one of the many veterans of the Iraq and Afghanistan wars who have come home with scars from wounds that anyone who comes across them can easily see. In fact, his scars are hard to avoid. Harris was riding in a Humvee that was blown up by an IED while he and his men were clearing a road referred to as Metallica. The blast caused his ears, part of his nose, and some of his fingers to be blown off, and the heat and flames from the ensuing fire burned much of his body. Due to the nature of these wars, wounds like this are nothing new. Harris and Cox detail many of them--all horrifying to imagine, but some gut wrenching to endure through Cox's almost too-vivid descriptions--in Steel Will.
What makes Staff Sgt. (RET) Shilo Harris different from many veterans is that he has chosen to talk about his journey. Steel Will is subtitled "My Journey Through Hell to Become the Man I was Meant to Be." This is an accurate description for the road he walked--he describes the flames and the heat so intense it caused ammunition in the Humvee to discharge and his uniform to melt into his body--and a figurative one as well. Harris doesn't shy away from sharing his own growing pains and mistakes as he grew up in the home of a Vietnam vet suffering from undiagnosed and self-medicated PTSD. He also doesn't shy away from his own selfishness as a young adult and the pain those choices caused for the people around him. So it's no surprise that he doesn't sugar coat the realities of living through his medically-induced coma as his body struggled to heal, the impact of his new life on his family, his guilt over surviving, the cost of his activism, and his children's desire to protect him from stares while they are together in public.
And, through it all, the missteps, the pain, the hell on earth, the hell in his mind, the suicidal thoughts, Harris credits God with helping him endure. I expected faith to play a bigger, more active role in the story Harris and Cox lay out in Steel Will. Instead, it is sort of an underlying theme. And, true to his willing transparency, the faith often belongs to Harris's wife. When he doesn't have his own, he draws on hers. When he can't draw on hers, he humbly draws on his young daughter's. In the end, the steel will to endure might not belong to Shilo Harris. It might belong instead to Kathreyn and Elizabeth Harris.
As the daughter of a former National Guard chaplain who survived my father's deployment to Iraq--a deployment that brought home a different father than he brought over--I can recognize that there are no unwounded soldiers. And there are no unwounded soldiers' families. Being one of those, this was a hard book to read. I read portions of it to my husband, and he asked me to stop. The descriptions turned his stomach. But you know what? Those are the costs of freedom. When we don't have family members or friends or neighbors who serve, it gets easy to debate the merits or horrors of war as theory. When we read a book like Steel Will we are forced to confront them. I think that even though it's hard, this is a book well worth reading. It's worth it to understand just a bit about where our soldiers and their families are and what they endure. It's also worth it to see that in our own ways, God brings each of us through a hell in order to make us into the people we were meant to be. And when it gets too hard to endure, He gives us the steel will of the faith of those around us to help us make it.
Disclosure: I received this book free from Baker Books through the Baker Books Bloggers program. The opinions I have expressed are my own, and I was not required to write a positive review. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s 16 CFR, Part 255.
Staff Sgt (RET) Shilo Harris with Robin Overby Cox
Shilo Harris is one of the many veterans of the Iraq and Afghanistan wars who have come home with scars from wounds that anyone who comes across them can easily see. In fact, his scars are hard to avoid. Harris was riding in a Humvee that was blown up by an IED while he and his men were clearing a road referred to as Metallica. The blast caused his ears, part of his nose, and some of his fingers to be blown off, and the heat and flames from the ensuing fire burned much of his body. Due to the nature of these wars, wounds like this are nothing new. Harris and Cox detail many of them--all horrifying to imagine, but some gut wrenching to endure through Cox's almost too-vivid descriptions--in Steel Will.
What makes Staff Sgt. (RET) Shilo Harris different from many veterans is that he has chosen to talk about his journey. Steel Will is subtitled "My Journey Through Hell to Become the Man I was Meant to Be." This is an accurate description for the road he walked--he describes the flames and the heat so intense it caused ammunition in the Humvee to discharge and his uniform to melt into his body--and a figurative one as well. Harris doesn't shy away from sharing his own growing pains and mistakes as he grew up in the home of a Vietnam vet suffering from undiagnosed and self-medicated PTSD. He also doesn't shy away from his own selfishness as a young adult and the pain those choices caused for the people around him. So it's no surprise that he doesn't sugar coat the realities of living through his medically-induced coma as his body struggled to heal, the impact of his new life on his family, his guilt over surviving, the cost of his activism, and his children's desire to protect him from stares while they are together in public.
And, through it all, the missteps, the pain, the hell on earth, the hell in his mind, the suicidal thoughts, Harris credits God with helping him endure. I expected faith to play a bigger, more active role in the story Harris and Cox lay out in Steel Will. Instead, it is sort of an underlying theme. And, true to his willing transparency, the faith often belongs to Harris's wife. When he doesn't have his own, he draws on hers. When he can't draw on hers, he humbly draws on his young daughter's. In the end, the steel will to endure might not belong to Shilo Harris. It might belong instead to Kathreyn and Elizabeth Harris.
As the daughter of a former National Guard chaplain who survived my father's deployment to Iraq--a deployment that brought home a different father than he brought over--I can recognize that there are no unwounded soldiers. And there are no unwounded soldiers' families. Being one of those, this was a hard book to read. I read portions of it to my husband, and he asked me to stop. The descriptions turned his stomach. But you know what? Those are the costs of freedom. When we don't have family members or friends or neighbors who serve, it gets easy to debate the merits or horrors of war as theory. When we read a book like Steel Will we are forced to confront them. I think that even though it's hard, this is a book well worth reading. It's worth it to understand just a bit about where our soldiers and their families are and what they endure. It's also worth it to see that in our own ways, God brings each of us through a hell in order to make us into the people we were meant to be. And when it gets too hard to endure, He gives us the steel will of the faith of those around us to help us make it.
Disclosure: I received this book free from Baker Books through the Baker Books Bloggers program. The opinions I have expressed are my own, and I was not required to write a positive review. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s 16 CFR, Part 255.
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
Reviewing: The First Time We Saw Him
The First Time We Saw Him: Awakening to the Wonder of Jesus
Matt Mikalatos
Mikalatos begins The First Time We Saw Him with a disclaimer: "Remember, the point is not to breathe new life into the Scriptures. It's to remind us that they're already alive." And, boy, are they ever!
Let me also include a disclaimer: I have been a Christian my entire life. There have been moments that I have "taken off" my WWJD bracelet (or attitude), but there is no possible way for me to separate myself from Christ. I know that. BUT . . . I find that the stories, the parables, can get a bit stale. I've read them so many times that I feel like I know them by heart. There's a danger then in hearing what they are saying to you . . . or even listening long enough to believe they might have anything to say.
The truth is, that I'm exactly the kind of person for whom Mikalatos was writing this book. Awakening to the wonder. That's what so many of us need. Not adding wonder, or uncovering wonder. Awakening to it. Because the wonder is there. It's in every word, and every story Jesus told.
Using modern language, names, and situations, Mikalatos retells Jesus' story as recounted in the Gospels. From Jesus' birth to a young girl named "Miryam" ("Mary" in Aramaic), through the miracles and signs and wonders, to his resurrection and ascension, each story comes alive with beauty and wonder. And conviction. Mikalatos writes lovely prose, and he captures the heart of the reader, bringing us in to the story where we eavesdrop on the lessons and can even nearly glimpse the eye of Jesus Himself as He looks deeply into our hearts, piercing our souls with conviction and grace. When needed, he adds his own thoughts and narration. When that will get in the way, he simply lets the retelling of Jesus' story speak for itself.
As he is wrapping up this short book, Mikalatos retells the Great Commission. For his purposes, he refers to it perhaps more accurately as "The Great Thing Entrusted to Us," where he suggests Jesus' commission to us is more than that. It's a command and a blessing and a promise and an invitation, all rolled in to one. This was perhaps my favorite chapter in the book. It was the heaviest on author narration, because I think we often misunderstand what Jesus was saying and doing as He stood on the mountain with his closest followers. Where often this message gets bogged down in guilt, Mikalatos reminds us there is no condemnation in Christ Jesus. This isn't an order or a guilt-driven demand. This is an invitation. It's an empowering. It's a gift that we get to share.
I began my review with a quote from the beginning of the book, and I'll end it with two from the end:
Mikalatos is talking about Thomas and the missionary work he did following the outpouring of the Holy Spirit. But he could as easily have been describing how I felt about this book--and what we, as believers, are invited to share in our love and spreading of the Gospel. Stories of what we have heard, what we have seen with our eyes, what we have looked at, and what our hands have touched.
One last note. When Mikalatos closes the Epilogue, he subtly addresses Communion in one of the most beautiful ways I can imagine.
{I received this book free from Baker Books through the Baker Book Bloggers program. I have expressed my own opinions, and I was not required to write a positive review. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission's 16 CFR, Part 255.}
Matt Mikalatos
Mikalatos begins The First Time We Saw Him with a disclaimer: "Remember, the point is not to breathe new life into the Scriptures. It's to remind us that they're already alive." And, boy, are they ever!
Let me also include a disclaimer: I have been a Christian my entire life. There have been moments that I have "taken off" my WWJD bracelet (or attitude), but there is no possible way for me to separate myself from Christ. I know that. BUT . . . I find that the stories, the parables, can get a bit stale. I've read them so many times that I feel like I know them by heart. There's a danger then in hearing what they are saying to you . . . or even listening long enough to believe they might have anything to say.
The truth is, that I'm exactly the kind of person for whom Mikalatos was writing this book. Awakening to the wonder. That's what so many of us need. Not adding wonder, or uncovering wonder. Awakening to it. Because the wonder is there. It's in every word, and every story Jesus told.
Using modern language, names, and situations, Mikalatos retells Jesus' story as recounted in the Gospels. From Jesus' birth to a young girl named "Miryam" ("Mary" in Aramaic), through the miracles and signs and wonders, to his resurrection and ascension, each story comes alive with beauty and wonder. And conviction. Mikalatos writes lovely prose, and he captures the heart of the reader, bringing us in to the story where we eavesdrop on the lessons and can even nearly glimpse the eye of Jesus Himself as He looks deeply into our hearts, piercing our souls with conviction and grace. When needed, he adds his own thoughts and narration. When that will get in the way, he simply lets the retelling of Jesus' story speak for itself.
As he is wrapping up this short book, Mikalatos retells the Great Commission. For his purposes, he refers to it perhaps more accurately as "The Great Thing Entrusted to Us," where he suggests Jesus' commission to us is more than that. It's a command and a blessing and a promise and an invitation, all rolled in to one. This was perhaps my favorite chapter in the book. It was the heaviest on author narration, because I think we often misunderstand what Jesus was saying and doing as He stood on the mountain with his closest followers. Where often this message gets bogged down in guilt, Mikalatos reminds us there is no condemnation in Christ Jesus. This isn't an order or a guilt-driven demand. This is an invitation. It's an empowering. It's a gift that we get to share.
I began my review with a quote from the beginning of the book, and I'll end it with two from the end:
[The new believers] are watching [Thom], leaning forward, eager to hear what he might say. He smiles and begins another story of what he has heard, what he has seen with his eyes, what he has looked at, and what his hands have touched.
And they stay with him until long after dark, gathered around the great light and enveloping warmth of his stories.
Mikalatos is talking about Thomas and the missionary work he did following the outpouring of the Holy Spirit. But he could as easily have been describing how I felt about this book--and what we, as believers, are invited to share in our love and spreading of the Gospel. Stories of what we have heard, what we have seen with our eyes, what we have looked at, and what our hands have touched.
One last note. When Mikalatos closes the Epilogue, he subtly addresses Communion in one of the most beautiful ways I can imagine.
Pete lifts his wine glass. "In his memory," he says, and we toast together, and we drink, and we tell stories long into the night, and there is raucous laughter and there are tears and comforting arms and hymns and on the way home we link arms and hold car doors for one another and there are kisses on cheeks and warm hugs and we tuck into our beds warmed by our memories and, when the sun wakes us, we rise to make another day of memories together with him, here, in the real world, where he lives.This, friends, is our world. The place where we live, and the place where He lives, and the place where we still get to make memories together. Thank you, Matt Mikalatos, for awakening me to the wonder of that gift.
{I received this book free from Baker Books through the Baker Book Bloggers program. I have expressed my own opinions, and I was not required to write a positive review. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission's 16 CFR, Part 255.}
Monday, August 25, 2014
#alsicebucketchallenge
So our day came. Our middle daughter and I were challenged by two separate people to participate in the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge. If you aren't familiar with it, go to YouTube and search ALS Ice Bucket Challenge, and you can watch for days.
Working in fundraising as I have for the past 13 years, this is a tricky thing for me. I resent gimmicks as fundraising tools. I also think it's easy to get caught up in the emotion or excitement of the "challenge" and not understand the purpose or the mission. And, I get the concerns of people saying this is wasting water while people around the world struggle for clean water and California is in the middle of a record drought.
Still, what if only half of the people who do the challenge donate their $10 to ALS? What if only a quarter of the people do it? Reports this morning are that the ALS Association has raised $79.7 million to fight ALS and research to find a cure. That's $77.2 million more than during the same period last year. So what if those are pledges and not actual donations and only 1/4 of them come in (which is far worse than normal pledge to donation ratios)? That's still $19.3 million MORE than they raised during that time last year. It also surpasses their entire revenue from FY12. Just in the last month or so since this challenge started. And if half of those pledges are actually donated . . . or the closer-to-average 75%. Wow.
In addition, I spoke with three of our neighbors when we were in the process of completing our challenge. One of them didn't know what ALS was. Neither did my 8-, 6-, and 4-year-old daughters. And now they do. So if each of us who participates donates $10 and tells 4 people about ALS, then maybe this is more than just dumping a bucket of ice water on our heads.
So we did it:
And then we challenged Marianne Boykin, Nancy Bierenga, Amanda TeKrony, Beau McDowell, Addison McDowell, Ellie McDowell, Abbie Schalk, Tressa Meyer, Danielle Meyer, Sara Meyer, Josh Schalk, and Kate Schalk.
So if each of them donates $10 and tells four people about ALS, then that's another $120 and 48 people. That's nothing to complain about.
Haven't been challenged but still want to learn more and donate? Here's your chance!
P.S. I really did get soaked.
Working in fundraising as I have for the past 13 years, this is a tricky thing for me. I resent gimmicks as fundraising tools. I also think it's easy to get caught up in the emotion or excitement of the "challenge" and not understand the purpose or the mission. And, I get the concerns of people saying this is wasting water while people around the world struggle for clean water and California is in the middle of a record drought.
Still, what if only half of the people who do the challenge donate their $10 to ALS? What if only a quarter of the people do it? Reports this morning are that the ALS Association has raised $79.7 million to fight ALS and research to find a cure. That's $77.2 million more than during the same period last year. So what if those are pledges and not actual donations and only 1/4 of them come in (which is far worse than normal pledge to donation ratios)? That's still $19.3 million MORE than they raised during that time last year. It also surpasses their entire revenue from FY12. Just in the last month or so since this challenge started. And if half of those pledges are actually donated . . . or the closer-to-average 75%. Wow.
In addition, I spoke with three of our neighbors when we were in the process of completing our challenge. One of them didn't know what ALS was. Neither did my 8-, 6-, and 4-year-old daughters. And now they do. So if each of us who participates donates $10 and tells 4 people about ALS, then maybe this is more than just dumping a bucket of ice water on our heads.
So we did it:
And then we challenged Marianne Boykin, Nancy Bierenga, Amanda TeKrony, Beau McDowell, Addison McDowell, Ellie McDowell, Abbie Schalk, Tressa Meyer, Danielle Meyer, Sara Meyer, Josh Schalk, and Kate Schalk.
So if each of them donates $10 and tells four people about ALS, then that's another $120 and 48 people. That's nothing to complain about.
Haven't been challenged but still want to learn more and donate? Here's your chance!
P.S. I really did get soaked.
Wednesday, August 06, 2014
Reviewing: Dynamic Women of the Bible
Dynamic Women of the Bible: What We Can Learn from Their Surprising Stories
by Ruth A. Tucker
This text from the back cover is intriguing to me. Because I think that's what is lost about the women in the Bible. I grew up in the church, and when I wasn't there or at Sunday School I was playing church, baptizing my dolls, wearing my grandmother's fur collars over my play clothes, having fake conversations with the ladies while our imaginary children ran around sneaking cookies. I know the stories. Eve brought sin into the world. Rahab sneaked the spies out of town over the wall. Esther saved her people. Bathsheba was an unwitting victim of King David's lust while Potipher's wife, Delilah, and Jezebel made victims of their own. And then the new testament. Mary is the sweet, innocent mother of Jesus. The other Mary followed him around, learning from him and believing in him, even when his other friends didn't. As I grew up and heard the stories I began to understand they were a bit more complicated than I originally thought--Adam is just as guilty, right? Rahab was a what?! Couldn't (shouldn't?) Bathsheba turned down the king's advances? And how did Mary actually love Jesus (hey, I adore "Jesus Christ Superstar" and can sing nearly every word)?
But how real have these women ever really been to me?
Obviously Sunday School needs to quiet things down and make its subjects rather one-dimensional. I mean, five year olds can barely sit still and listen, let alone understand who Rahab was when she wasn't aiding and abetting spies. And then, when you get a little older, and you start sitting through sermons and your own readings of the text, the writers of both testaments give too little time or space to these women to make them any more than two-dimensional characters.
Tucker takes those two-dimensional women who lived and died so long ago and breathes life into them. Yes, it's conjecture. It has to be. There is no one living today who sat with Bathsheba and talked with her about the pros and cons of getting involved with the king while her husband was away at war (but wouldn't that be an interesting conversation?!). So Tucker looks at what the Bible does give us about fifty Biblical women--both the commonly known and the obscure--and asks the "what if" questions. In the introduction, she wisely notes that this book isn't about the hows or the whys of the decisions they made and the lives they lived. There are no real answers here. Like 17th-century philosopher Spinoza writes (and Tucker quotes in her introduction), "the purpose of the Bible 'is not to convince the reason, but to attract and lay hold of the imagination.'" So there are a lot of questions about what makes these women real--and how that relates to us as women today.
Dynamic Women isn't perfect. I found the sidebars confusing and disruptive to my reading. Tucker includes those and questions--fluffy and more intentional--that can guide a small discussion group. There were several chapters I found myself wishing I could talk about with my friends, if only to ask the "what if" questions with them. But many of the chapters have stuck with me, and I look forward to rereading these women's stories in the Bible with new eyes that long to see beyond the few verses they are given and imagine what depth those women have.
As Tucker writes, "The Bible is a big book, but brevity is too often the rule . . . [these women] are far more . . . than what the Bible tells us." And, Tucker would have us believe that by considering what more they are, by allowing the wonderings to lay hold of our imaginations, we can learn more about their stories, about ourselves, and about God. I think she's right.
{I received this book free from Baker Books through the Baker Book Bloggers program. I have expressed my own opinions, and I was not required to write a positive review. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission's 16 CFR, Part 255.}
by Ruth A. Tucker
They were wives, mothers, daughters, and friends. They were faithful and faithless. They were benevolent and they were brutal.
But always, they were real.
This text from the back cover is intriguing to me. Because I think that's what is lost about the women in the Bible. I grew up in the church, and when I wasn't there or at Sunday School I was playing church, baptizing my dolls, wearing my grandmother's fur collars over my play clothes, having fake conversations with the ladies while our imaginary children ran around sneaking cookies. I know the stories. Eve brought sin into the world. Rahab sneaked the spies out of town over the wall. Esther saved her people. Bathsheba was an unwitting victim of King David's lust while Potipher's wife, Delilah, and Jezebel made victims of their own. And then the new testament. Mary is the sweet, innocent mother of Jesus. The other Mary followed him around, learning from him and believing in him, even when his other friends didn't. As I grew up and heard the stories I began to understand they were a bit more complicated than I originally thought--Adam is just as guilty, right? Rahab was a what?! Couldn't (shouldn't?) Bathsheba turned down the king's advances? And how did Mary actually love Jesus (hey, I adore "Jesus Christ Superstar" and can sing nearly every word)?
But how real have these women ever really been to me?
Obviously Sunday School needs to quiet things down and make its subjects rather one-dimensional. I mean, five year olds can barely sit still and listen, let alone understand who Rahab was when she wasn't aiding and abetting spies. And then, when you get a little older, and you start sitting through sermons and your own readings of the text, the writers of both testaments give too little time or space to these women to make them any more than two-dimensional characters.
Tucker takes those two-dimensional women who lived and died so long ago and breathes life into them. Yes, it's conjecture. It has to be. There is no one living today who sat with Bathsheba and talked with her about the pros and cons of getting involved with the king while her husband was away at war (but wouldn't that be an interesting conversation?!). So Tucker looks at what the Bible does give us about fifty Biblical women--both the commonly known and the obscure--and asks the "what if" questions. In the introduction, she wisely notes that this book isn't about the hows or the whys of the decisions they made and the lives they lived. There are no real answers here. Like 17th-century philosopher Spinoza writes (and Tucker quotes in her introduction), "the purpose of the Bible 'is not to convince the reason, but to attract and lay hold of the imagination.'" So there are a lot of questions about what makes these women real--and how that relates to us as women today.
Dynamic Women isn't perfect. I found the sidebars confusing and disruptive to my reading. Tucker includes those and questions--fluffy and more intentional--that can guide a small discussion group. There were several chapters I found myself wishing I could talk about with my friends, if only to ask the "what if" questions with them. But many of the chapters have stuck with me, and I look forward to rereading these women's stories in the Bible with new eyes that long to see beyond the few verses they are given and imagine what depth those women have.
As Tucker writes, "The Bible is a big book, but brevity is too often the rule . . . [these women] are far more . . . than what the Bible tells us." And, Tucker would have us believe that by considering what more they are, by allowing the wonderings to lay hold of our imaginations, we can learn more about their stories, about ourselves, and about God. I think she's right.
{I received this book free from Baker Books through the Baker Book Bloggers program. I have expressed my own opinions, and I was not required to write a positive review. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission's 16 CFR, Part 255.}
Friday, July 18, 2014
Finding Hope
I just finished reading The Hour I First Believed by Wally Lamb. It is a book that had long been on my "To Read" shelf on Goodreads, and I was excited to walk past it on the shelf at the library while I was stocking up on vacation reading . . . for my daughter. (I'm not sure how looking for books in the Young Adult section led to me being in the adult fiction section, but those sorts of things happen to me. Any time I'm around books.)
It's a long, long book. Possibly the longest work of fiction I've ever read. Some of the reviews on Goodreads point to the fact that Lamb touches on five or six plot lines in this book, and he certainly covers everything from the Civil War to Columbine to PTSD to women's prisons to the current war in Afghanistan and Iraq to infidelity to . . . nearly everything else. At first glance it really is a disjointed conglomeration that makes the reader wonder why we have held on for so long. And then he says it. On page 685, Lamb has a character say, "Life is messy, violent, confusing, and hopeful."
And that's it.
That's what all these things have in common.
And that's what they have in common with me reading it right now, finishing it yesterday, the day a group of people accidentally shot down a plane full of innocent passengers. Passengers who included three infants and a hundred men and women who had dedicated their lives to saving the lives of others through HIV/AIDS research. And the day Israel sent ground troops into Gaza. Shortly after a local Christian radio host was arrested and charged with the sexual trafficking of a young boy.
"Life is messy, violent, confusing, and hopeful."
I have two friends whose families endured terrible and violent shooting tragedies over the past several years. The devastation has been horrible, and it has changed everything about their worlds. But they have hope.
I also have a friend who died following his battle against PTSD. He fought willingly in a war against bullies and tyrants, because that's who Zack was. But he was baptized, and he loved God, and we have hope that he is finally at peace.
For some reason Columbine has always stayed with me. It has been tucked in my mind since it happened, and I continue to be impacted by it. Perhaps it was the timing--I was a senior in college, so I was aware and had the time to watch the coverage and read about it. Perhaps it was the fact that I joined my friends in taking a group of high schoolers to Columbine just one year after the shootings. Or maybe it was standing in a church there, worshiping with my friends and those high schoolers, just miles from Columbine High School. We sang "Better Is One Day," there in the shadow of the Rocky Mountains alongside Columbine students who knew and loved the children who died. And we sang, with all our hearts and voices, "Better is one day in Your courts than thousands elsewhere." Because even in that mess, that violence, that confusion . . . there was hope.
As I wrote following our break in, I have friends and family members who have lost jobs, been betrayed by friends, been abandoned by spouses who vowed to always stand by them, and have their families continually ravaged by addiction. And all I have to offer them is this.
Life is messy.
Life is violent.
Life is confusing.
But, at the end of all this, life is hopeful.
It's a long, long book. Possibly the longest work of fiction I've ever read. Some of the reviews on Goodreads point to the fact that Lamb touches on five or six plot lines in this book, and he certainly covers everything from the Civil War to Columbine to PTSD to women's prisons to the current war in Afghanistan and Iraq to infidelity to . . . nearly everything else. At first glance it really is a disjointed conglomeration that makes the reader wonder why we have held on for so long. And then he says it. On page 685, Lamb has a character say, "Life is messy, violent, confusing, and hopeful."
And that's it.
That's what all these things have in common.
And that's what they have in common with me reading it right now, finishing it yesterday, the day a group of people accidentally shot down a plane full of innocent passengers. Passengers who included three infants and a hundred men and women who had dedicated their lives to saving the lives of others through HIV/AIDS research. And the day Israel sent ground troops into Gaza. Shortly after a local Christian radio host was arrested and charged with the sexual trafficking of a young boy.
"Life is messy, violent, confusing, and hopeful."
I have two friends whose families endured terrible and violent shooting tragedies over the past several years. The devastation has been horrible, and it has changed everything about their worlds. But they have hope.
I also have a friend who died following his battle against PTSD. He fought willingly in a war against bullies and tyrants, because that's who Zack was. But he was baptized, and he loved God, and we have hope that he is finally at peace.
For some reason Columbine has always stayed with me. It has been tucked in my mind since it happened, and I continue to be impacted by it. Perhaps it was the timing--I was a senior in college, so I was aware and had the time to watch the coverage and read about it. Perhaps it was the fact that I joined my friends in taking a group of high schoolers to Columbine just one year after the shootings. Or maybe it was standing in a church there, worshiping with my friends and those high schoolers, just miles from Columbine High School. We sang "Better Is One Day," there in the shadow of the Rocky Mountains alongside Columbine students who knew and loved the children who died. And we sang, with all our hearts and voices, "Better is one day in Your courts than thousands elsewhere." Because even in that mess, that violence, that confusion . . . there was hope.
As I wrote following our break in, I have friends and family members who have lost jobs, been betrayed by friends, been abandoned by spouses who vowed to always stand by them, and have their families continually ravaged by addiction. And all I have to offer them is this.
Life is messy.
Life is violent.
Life is confusing.
But, at the end of all this, life is hopeful.
Oh, my God. He will not delay.{"Always," Kristian Stanfill}
My refuge and strength, always.
I will not fear, His promise is true.
My God will come through, always. Always.
Thursday, July 10, 2014
Processing a Processing Disorder
My pastor recently sent me an interesting article questioning whether Sensory Processing
Disorders are a true medical diagnosis. It's a condition I have talked about before, and one
that my husband and I are seeing in our middle daughter as well.
The article is worth reading, even if it raises a point that ruffles some
feathers, including mine. Sensory Processing Disorders are not widely
recognized, and I have a friend who had to fight for a while to get her child
diagnosed. Even then, insurance may do little or nothing to treat its symptoms,
and there is no cure.
Thankfully our doctor does recognize it and has worked with us on free or very inexpensive ways to cope with it--Meg "snuggles" with a medicine ball, I made a "sensory jar" she can stare at to calm herself down, I've learned deep tissue compressions, etc.--and we haven't needed to try to find therapy which is, indeed, not covered by insurance. Gratefully, Meg's Kindergarten teacher also recognizes Sensory Processing Disorders and worked hard to make sure Meg transitioned well into full-time schooling. Meg was fine at school, but her teacher wanted to be sure we were coping at home, too. And she saved us. She really did.
So, obviously, I disagreed with the title of the article. I believe Sensory Processing Disorders are real. And totally a medical condition.
Right?
Still, I found this interesting:
While I do think it's apparent that I have something more than just normal reactions to things, and I can see that Meggie does too, I'm not prepared to say it's not linked to autism or ADHD. I believe autism is a spectrum--ranging from ADD to savantism--and that spectrum includes a range of functioning. It's all sensory processing difficulties--an inability to concentrate on any given task, an inability to control oneself to sit still, an inability to function in social settings, an inability to express oneself in any way other than playing the piano. In fact, when I describe it to other people, I just say, "It's on the autism spectrum." And Meg isn't as far down the spectrum as Asperger's, but she is closer to that than just ADHD or ADD. So am I, though I'm also coming to terms with the fact that I might have ADD. So do I have an extreme case of ADD manifested in a constant flight or fright state? Or does a place on the spectrum closer to autism mean I have everything to the left as well, including the ADD? And someone with Asperger's would have the ADD and the flight/fright state AND trouble in social settings/gathering social cues? Hence the problem.
Thankfully our doctor does recognize it and has worked with us on free or very inexpensive ways to cope with it--Meg "snuggles" with a medicine ball, I made a "sensory jar" she can stare at to calm herself down, I've learned deep tissue compressions, etc.--and we haven't needed to try to find therapy which is, indeed, not covered by insurance. Gratefully, Meg's Kindergarten teacher also recognizes Sensory Processing Disorders and worked hard to make sure Meg transitioned well into full-time schooling. Meg was fine at school, but her teacher wanted to be sure we were coping at home, too. And she saved us. She really did.
So, obviously, I disagreed with the title of the article. I believe Sensory Processing Disorders are real. And totally a medical condition.
Right?
Still, I found this interesting:
In 2012, the American Academy of Pediatrics claimed it is unclear whether children with sensory problems have a distinct disorder or whether their challenges are linked with other disorders such as autism, ADHD, and anxiety. It urged doctors to caution parents that the effectiveness of sensory integration treatments are "limited and inconclusive."
While I do think it's apparent that I have something more than just normal reactions to things, and I can see that Meggie does too, I'm not prepared to say it's not linked to autism or ADHD. I believe autism is a spectrum--ranging from ADD to savantism--and that spectrum includes a range of functioning. It's all sensory processing difficulties--an inability to concentrate on any given task, an inability to control oneself to sit still, an inability to function in social settings, an inability to express oneself in any way other than playing the piano. In fact, when I describe it to other people, I just say, "It's on the autism spectrum." And Meg isn't as far down the spectrum as Asperger's, but she is closer to that than just ADHD or ADD. So am I, though I'm also coming to terms with the fact that I might have ADD. So do I have an extreme case of ADD manifested in a constant flight or fright state? Or does a place on the spectrum closer to autism mean I have everything to the left as well, including the ADD? And someone with Asperger's would have the ADD and the flight/fright state AND trouble in social settings/gathering social cues? Hence the problem.
What I
do know is that the therapies we've tried DO generally work, and it IS a matter
of finding what works for yourself or your child. But, boy oh boy, it's
easy to be overstimulated in this fast-paced world. I can't imagine
trying to diagnose this or get insurance companies to determine what or how
much to pay for it. It's rather like diagnosing post-traumatic stress
disorder. Each of us is capable of handling different stressors . . . and
we all have bad days. So is someone with PTSD weak or depressed or just dramatic? Or is it real and does it deserve disability payments and therapy? How do you measure that degree and then assign a
dollar value to treating it or compensating for it?
I understand why the psychiatric establishment isn't ready to rewrite the DSM just yet. But I hope they're investing the time and the research dollars to explore it and helping families who haven't yet found what it takes to cope.
Thursday, June 26, 2014
When We Last Left Our Heroes . . .
We used to be a bit more innocent. A bit more naive. A bit more trusting. And we used to own a different laptop and have a shady back door or two. Oh, and we had a piggy bank I painted when I was first pregnant, before anyone but Beau and I knew.
My last post was in May. Early May. That's because May is always a crazy month for me, and I barely have time to think any thoughts, let alone write them down. I did manage to squeeze many wonderful events into the last five weeks of school--a visit from my wonderfully-amazing cousin, a chance to meet his super-cool boyfriend, the last preschool graduation, a fun mix-it-up lunch at my daughter's school, a Kindergarten field trip, cheering on my 3rd grader in the school talent show, turning 37, celebrating 16 years of marriage, enjoying "Jesus Christ Superstar" on stage, and a Kindergarten party. We also worked in a vacation to three of the houses lived in by Laura Ingalls and her family. It was busy, and it was fun.
And then, on our last day of vacation, after we'd enjoyed a day of pretending to be homesteaders in DeSmet, SD, I checked my phone to find a voicemail. It was from our neighbor, who was feeding our cat while we were gone. He asked me to call him back right away.
My first thought was that our cat had escaped and been hit by a car. So I prepared myself for that.
Instead, he answered my hello with, "Beka, I'm sorry, but you were robbed."
Robbed. Awesome.
Several long-distance phone calls--to my husband, who was in Montana for work; back to my neighbor; and to the police--later, we assessed that very few things had been taken. We also determined our back doors were both toast. And that it takes a very long time to get home from vacation when all you want to do is hug your husband and make sure your favorite things really are still in your house.
So now, nearly three weeks after we were broken into, my kitchen is a disaster while our builders work to replace our back doors and repair the frame around the door in the kitchen. We'll have to repaint the frame when they're done. And repair and repaint some chips in the plaster around the door. And then scrub up the floor from the grease and dirt work boots bring with them. We also had to clean up the fingerprint dust from my jewelry box and other doors and drawers. And we're waiting to hear what our insurance will reimburse for the doors, my work laptop, our personal laptop, and that piggy bank which our oldest daughter and I will recreate together more than nine years after I painted that first one.
Those are the physical damages we'll repair and replace. There are also emotional ones. There were neighbors who saw the people who broke into our house--before they had broken in--and said nothing. There were other neighbors who saw the people too and still said they wouldn't talk to the police. There's an almost-nine-year old who doesn't understand why someone would steal her piggy bank. And there's a six year old who is afraid to sleep in her room and had to receive reassurances from her daddy that the bad guys who break in and take things are not the same bad guys who break in and take kids. Like I wanted my kids to learn that right now.
We've installed a security system. And we've delayed the listing of our house for sale by a couple weeks so we can repair these damages in addition to finishing last-minute "fix-it" projects. And we still have those Laura Ingalls Wilder memories.
But so far on our summer break we've also learned another lesson. Or maybe relearned it. There's a verse that keeps going through my head: "Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but we trust in the name of the LORD our God." (Ps 20:7)
And I know He won't let us down. Even in the middle of a break-in . . . or a job ending, or a church closing, or health concerns, or a broken marriage, or a friend's betrayal. I trust in the name of the LORD my God.
My last post was in May. Early May. That's because May is always a crazy month for me, and I barely have time to think any thoughts, let alone write them down. I did manage to squeeze many wonderful events into the last five weeks of school--a visit from my wonderfully-amazing cousin, a chance to meet his super-cool boyfriend, the last preschool graduation, a fun mix-it-up lunch at my daughter's school, a Kindergarten field trip, cheering on my 3rd grader in the school talent show, turning 37, celebrating 16 years of marriage, enjoying "Jesus Christ Superstar" on stage, and a Kindergarten party. We also worked in a vacation to three of the houses lived in by Laura Ingalls and her family. It was busy, and it was fun.
And then, on our last day of vacation, after we'd enjoyed a day of pretending to be homesteaders in DeSmet, SD, I checked my phone to find a voicemail. It was from our neighbor, who was feeding our cat while we were gone. He asked me to call him back right away.
My first thought was that our cat had escaped and been hit by a car. So I prepared myself for that.
Instead, he answered my hello with, "Beka, I'm sorry, but you were robbed."
Robbed. Awesome.
Several long-distance phone calls--to my husband, who was in Montana for work; back to my neighbor; and to the police--later, we assessed that very few things had been taken. We also determined our back doors were both toast. And that it takes a very long time to get home from vacation when all you want to do is hug your husband and make sure your favorite things really are still in your house.
So now, nearly three weeks after we were broken into, my kitchen is a disaster while our builders work to replace our back doors and repair the frame around the door in the kitchen. We'll have to repaint the frame when they're done. And repair and repaint some chips in the plaster around the door. And then scrub up the floor from the grease and dirt work boots bring with them. We also had to clean up the fingerprint dust from my jewelry box and other doors and drawers. And we're waiting to hear what our insurance will reimburse for the doors, my work laptop, our personal laptop, and that piggy bank which our oldest daughter and I will recreate together more than nine years after I painted that first one.
Those are the physical damages we'll repair and replace. There are also emotional ones. There were neighbors who saw the people who broke into our house--before they had broken in--and said nothing. There were other neighbors who saw the people too and still said they wouldn't talk to the police. There's an almost-nine-year old who doesn't understand why someone would steal her piggy bank. And there's a six year old who is afraid to sleep in her room and had to receive reassurances from her daddy that the bad guys who break in and take things are not the same bad guys who break in and take kids. Like I wanted my kids to learn that right now.
We've installed a security system. And we've delayed the listing of our house for sale by a couple weeks so we can repair these damages in addition to finishing last-minute "fix-it" projects. And we still have those Laura Ingalls Wilder memories.
But so far on our summer break we've also learned another lesson. Or maybe relearned it. There's a verse that keeps going through my head: "Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but we trust in the name of the LORD our God." (Ps 20:7)
And I know He won't let us down. Even in the middle of a break-in . . . or a job ending, or a church closing, or health concerns, or a broken marriage, or a friend's betrayal. I trust in the name of the LORD my God.
Tuesday, May 06, 2014
Epic Mommy Moments
In my ongoing effort to cultivate a healthy (ie. generous but realistic) self-esteem in my three daughters, I regularly talk to them about what they have to offer the world and all the things that make them special. My mom started this with my oldest niece. From the time each of my mom's five granddaughters was born, she would tell them a special "I love you" followed by a question: "And why do I love you so much?" The girls have been conditioned from their earliest words to shout, "Just because I'm ME!" in response. It has caused many laughs, see the "Just because I'm YOU!" and "Just because you're ME!" phases, but it has also grown to include the same response to others who ask a similar question, like when I asked my youngest daughter the other day. I said, "Do you know why I love you like crazy, forever and ever, no matter what?" Her answer warmed my heart, because she nailed it.
I also want to teach my girls to be awesome to each other because life is hard. There are enough dream stompers in the world. I want my girls to be dream builders, dream encouragers, dream deliverers, dream followers. So sometimes when they get out of the van in the morning, I say, "Be great today!" I don't mean "Be well-behaved," or "Do really well in school." I mean, "Be great for someone else--be your best you."
My favorite song is Jennifer Knapp's "Martyrs and Thieves," and even though I know they probably will I still hope they won't ever have "ghosts from their pasts that own more of their souls than they thought they had given away."
Because I have those ghosts. And I spend days telling them to shut up and working to convince them that their voices aren't the loudest in my ears. And it's exhausting. So I'd like to avoid that wherever possible.
To that end, the other day my two oldest and I had a "Martyrs and Thieves" conversation where I got to ask them the most important question I know for my own life: "Could it be that my worth should depend on the crimson-stained grace on a hand?"
And I told them the same is true for them. Their worth depends on the crimson-stained grace on a hand. There's freedom and confidence in that.
There's also permission to be awesome to other people and to yourself. To be great. And to be a dream builder, a dream encourager, a dream deliverer. A dream follower.
So that was a win. Even when they asked about the "crimson-stained" part and looked a little squeamish when I told them that was Jesus' blood.
I also want to teach my girls to be awesome to each other because life is hard. There are enough dream stompers in the world. I want my girls to be dream builders, dream encouragers, dream deliverers, dream followers. So sometimes when they get out of the van in the morning, I say, "Be great today!" I don't mean "Be well-behaved," or "Do really well in school." I mean, "Be great for someone else--be your best you."
My favorite song is Jennifer Knapp's "Martyrs and Thieves," and even though I know they probably will I still hope they won't ever have "ghosts from their pasts that own more of their souls than they thought they had given away."
Because I have those ghosts. And I spend days telling them to shut up and working to convince them that their voices aren't the loudest in my ears. And it's exhausting. So I'd like to avoid that wherever possible.
To that end, the other day my two oldest and I had a "Martyrs and Thieves" conversation where I got to ask them the most important question I know for my own life: "Could it be that my worth should depend on the crimson-stained grace on a hand?"
And I told them the same is true for them. Their worth depends on the crimson-stained grace on a hand. There's freedom and confidence in that.
There's also permission to be awesome to other people and to yourself. To be great. And to be a dream builder, a dream encourager, a dream deliverer. A dream follower.
So that was a win. Even when they asked about the "crimson-stained" part and looked a little squeamish when I told them that was Jesus' blood.
Then a while back I read a blog post written from a father to his daughter. It really was great, and one of the things he said there is that he works hard to help his girls understand that while they are pretty and should try to take care of themselves, the most important beauty they possess comes from within. It's in their hearts.
I like that question he asks when he tucks his daughter in at night. "Honey, where are you the most beautiful?"
Well, what kind of mom would I be if I didn't take that opportunity? So the other day I talked to my girls about that too. And it was an epic conversation that went a little something like this:
Me: "Girls, where do you think you are the most beautiful?"
Oldest daughter: "Um, my hair is nice."
Middle daughter: "My eyes?"
Oldest daughter: "No! My smile!"
Me: "Those do look nice. But really it's on your insides."
Oldest and middle daughters look at each other with disgusted expressions.
Middle daughter: "In our guts?!"
Me: "Well, not exactly. I mean in your heart."
Oldest daughter: "Not too much better. That's really gross and bloody."
Me: "Well, not your heart, really. Not, like, the heart that beats your blood around. But your inside. You know, how you treat people and stuff."
Middle daughter: "Well, we are pretty nice. So I guess we have beautiful guts."
You guys, they're 8 and 6 and 4. And they get it! They've figured out their worth depends on bloody hands, and they're most beautiful in their guts. And the whole reason they are loved is because they are themselves. They really get it! My work here is done.
Oldest and middle daughters look at each other with disgusted expressions.
Middle daughter: "In our guts?!"
Me: "Well, not exactly. I mean in your heart."
Oldest daughter: "Not too much better. That's really gross and bloody."
Me: "Well, not your heart, really. Not, like, the heart that beats your blood around. But your inside. You know, how you treat people and stuff."
Middle daughter: "Well, we are pretty nice. So I guess we have beautiful guts."
You guys, they're 8 and 6 and 4. And they get it! They've figured out their worth depends on bloody hands, and they're most beautiful in their guts. And the whole reason they are loved is because they are themselves. They really get it! My work here is done.
Monday, May 05, 2014
A Letter to My Daughter
Dear Daughter,
Last night I crawled in bed with you. Well, I suppose it was actually this morning, as it was about 12:30 on your clock. I moved your big bear, a gift to you "from" your new baby sister more than six years ago. I moved the bear, and I laid down in its spot. I didn't wake you up, but I did brush your beautiful brown hair out of your face, and you snuggled up to me. I wrapped my arm around you. And I cried.
It's been years since I crawled into your bed while you were sleeping. Every night I peek at you, often I kiss my finger, and I rub it down your nose. Many nights I turn your music down. Sometimes I turn it off. I close your curtains or I open your window. I check your alarm to make sure it's on, though I know you'll just turn it off in the morning and roll over to go back to sleep like the teenager you will too soon become. But last night, I crawled in bed with you.
You see, I read the most terrifying book*. It took me a few days, but last night I laid awake in bed reading, long after I should have fallen asleep. I just had to finish it, because I couldn't read it for another day. Don't get me wrong, Sweetheart. It was a good book. It was beautifully written, but it was terrifying. I read the last third of the book with my jaw dropped in disbelief and tears of horror mixed with sadness about to spill from my eyes. Then, finally, in the last three pages, they did spill. And I knew I needed to go to you and hold you and whisper a prayer over you.
There are many truths I want to impart to you while you are mine to mold and shape. And there are truths I want to hide from you while you are mine to protect. Last night I crawled in bed with you because I needed to tell you one of each. First, one I wish you didn't know, though I suspect one day you will. In fact, I imagine one day you will grow and marry and have children of your own. And then you will need to know it, because it will be true for you, too.
Dear one, I am terrified you will learn that I have absolutely no clue how to be your mother. I started a journal for you--and any future siblings--on the first break I took from you after you were born. The first time I left you out of my care. I was terrified then, too. ee cumings has a poem that is apparently nothing about having a new baby, but I discovered it when you were mine. The first lines read
But there's another truth, too. This is one you must know. You simply must. And I will whisper it to you and I will shout it to you and I will write it for you and I will pray that it is tucked into your heart and your beautiful mind and that you live it every day. You are worth more than gold. You are beautiful. You are treasured. You are fearfully and wonderfully made. And the only reason I am not a bundle of anxiety every moment you are out of my sight--and every second you are in it, because remember I have no idea how to be a mom--is because you are never, not for one breath of a second, out of the care of the One who knit you together in my womb. The One who knew you before the dawn of creation. The One who died on a cross and fought against death so you can live forever. He won't keep everything bad from happening to you. I know that. But He will keep you together. He will keep me and the world from breaking you. I know that to be true, and I need that to be true.
And so, last night, as you slept peacefully, and I held you with tears streaming down my face and memories of bullies and pain and harassment and mean girls and lies and nightmares of everything bad that could happen to you flooding my mind, I took a deep breath. And I whispered a promise to you. And my promise was also a prayer to God, a desperate plea that I need Him to hear.
My beautiful, beautiful daughter. I am here for you. I am here. And I am not too busy. I will never again be too busy to hear you and to see you. I want to know you, Love. Like I knew you when I carried you inside me. When my heart beat with yours. Everything I did then, I did knowing I needed to protect you. I was your safe place then. I want to be your safe place forever, Heart of mine. I am here, with ears to listen to you and eyes to see you. With a heart that is open to whatever you have to share and whomever you are. I want to hear what you say. I want to hear about your day and your dreams and your fears and your joys. And I want to hear what you don't say. See what you don't want to show anyone. My darling girl, I love being your mother. Even when it's hard. Even when I need a break. Even when we fight. Even when I'm hard on you. So, give me grace enough to help me see you when I'm blinded by what is happening around us. I want to ask the questions you need me to ask, but, Baby, I'm scared I won't know them. So, please, give me a hint. Give me a chance. Because you are too important to me to lose . . . even for a moment. I love you, my beautiful girl.
With all my heart,
Your Mom
* Reconstructing Amelia by Kimberly McCreight
If you have children, read it. If you love children, read it. It's hard to read. It's not tidy. The language is bad, and there are many, many hard moments. But our kids are worth it.
Last night I crawled in bed with you. Well, I suppose it was actually this morning, as it was about 12:30 on your clock. I moved your big bear, a gift to you "from" your new baby sister more than six years ago. I moved the bear, and I laid down in its spot. I didn't wake you up, but I did brush your beautiful brown hair out of your face, and you snuggled up to me. I wrapped my arm around you. And I cried.
It's been years since I crawled into your bed while you were sleeping. Every night I peek at you, often I kiss my finger, and I rub it down your nose. Many nights I turn your music down. Sometimes I turn it off. I close your curtains or I open your window. I check your alarm to make sure it's on, though I know you'll just turn it off in the morning and roll over to go back to sleep like the teenager you will too soon become. But last night, I crawled in bed with you.
You see, I read the most terrifying book*. It took me a few days, but last night I laid awake in bed reading, long after I should have fallen asleep. I just had to finish it, because I couldn't read it for another day. Don't get me wrong, Sweetheart. It was a good book. It was beautifully written, but it was terrifying. I read the last third of the book with my jaw dropped in disbelief and tears of horror mixed with sadness about to spill from my eyes. Then, finally, in the last three pages, they did spill. And I knew I needed to go to you and hold you and whisper a prayer over you.
There are many truths I want to impart to you while you are mine to mold and shape. And there are truths I want to hide from you while you are mine to protect. Last night I crawled in bed with you because I needed to tell you one of each. First, one I wish you didn't know, though I suspect one day you will. In fact, I imagine one day you will grow and marry and have children of your own. And then you will need to know it, because it will be true for you, too.
Dear one, I am terrified you will learn that I have absolutely no clue how to be your mother. I started a journal for you--and any future siblings--on the first break I took from you after you were born. The first time I left you out of my care. I was terrified then, too. ee cumings has a poem that is apparently nothing about having a new baby, but I discovered it when you were mine. The first lines read
See, I was terrified that I would break you. I didn't know how to protect you, and I was certain I would break you. So here is the secret: I still am. I don't know how to protect you, my beautiful daughter, and I am certain I will break you. And if I don't, if I manage somehow to maintain a relationship with you (that I'm not even sure we have now), and I don't damage you, I know this world can. Girls are mean, honey. Boys can be selfish and cruel and demeaning. Pressures for sex and drugs and giving more of your heart away than you can afford to someone who doesn't deserve it . . . I want to shelter you from all of it, and I can't. I don't know how. And, you being brand new and you know consequently a little stiff and fragile and precious and beautiful--I want to be careful of you and I want the world to be careful of you. Because I'm terrified you will break.she being Brand-new;and you
know consequently a
little stiff I was
careful of her . . .
But there's another truth, too. This is one you must know. You simply must. And I will whisper it to you and I will shout it to you and I will write it for you and I will pray that it is tucked into your heart and your beautiful mind and that you live it every day. You are worth more than gold. You are beautiful. You are treasured. You are fearfully and wonderfully made. And the only reason I am not a bundle of anxiety every moment you are out of my sight--and every second you are in it, because remember I have no idea how to be a mom--is because you are never, not for one breath of a second, out of the care of the One who knit you together in my womb. The One who knew you before the dawn of creation. The One who died on a cross and fought against death so you can live forever. He won't keep everything bad from happening to you. I know that. But He will keep you together. He will keep me and the world from breaking you. I know that to be true, and I need that to be true.
And so, last night, as you slept peacefully, and I held you with tears streaming down my face and memories of bullies and pain and harassment and mean girls and lies and nightmares of everything bad that could happen to you flooding my mind, I took a deep breath. And I whispered a promise to you. And my promise was also a prayer to God, a desperate plea that I need Him to hear.
My beautiful, beautiful daughter. I am here for you. I am here. And I am not too busy. I will never again be too busy to hear you and to see you. I want to know you, Love. Like I knew you when I carried you inside me. When my heart beat with yours. Everything I did then, I did knowing I needed to protect you. I was your safe place then. I want to be your safe place forever, Heart of mine. I am here, with ears to listen to you and eyes to see you. With a heart that is open to whatever you have to share and whomever you are. I want to hear what you say. I want to hear about your day and your dreams and your fears and your joys. And I want to hear what you don't say. See what you don't want to show anyone. My darling girl, I love being your mother. Even when it's hard. Even when I need a break. Even when we fight. Even when I'm hard on you. So, give me grace enough to help me see you when I'm blinded by what is happening around us. I want to ask the questions you need me to ask, but, Baby, I'm scared I won't know them. So, please, give me a hint. Give me a chance. Because you are too important to me to lose . . . even for a moment. I love you, my beautiful girl.
With all my heart,
Your Mom
* Reconstructing Amelia by Kimberly McCreight
If you have children, read it. If you love children, read it. It's hard to read. It's not tidy. The language is bad, and there are many, many hard moments. But our kids are worth it.
Thursday, April 24, 2014
Theology from Veggie Tales
The other night our two youngest girls asked if they could watch a "show" instead of read a story for bedtime. It was sort of a hectic night (our oldest, my husband, and I were just sitting down to eat supper at 7:00 p.m.), so I said yes. I fired up the Wii, searched Netflix and Amazon Prime for the requested "Charlie Brown." Nothing for less than $1.99.
I draw the line at paying for bedtime stories, when I'm already paying for the subscriptions to online movie channels, so I searched for something else. Aah, Veggie Tales. Most of the episodes were over an hour long or had been watched ad nauseam, so I settled on something about Snoodles. Whatever. Like a good mom I wasn't going to watch it with them.
Now, in my defense, it should be noted that I know how long it takes to read a novel when working nearly full time outside the home; being an at-home mom to a preschooler; staying involved as a volunteer in my Kindergartener's and 3rd grader's classes; trying to write a novel; and keeping up with my responsibilities as a wife, daughter, sister, friend, and church member. (I was told recently via a blog post I didn't have the time to read that we should stop highlighting how busy we are, because it's neither healthy nor helpful. So pretend none of that just happened.) Anyway, here's how long it takes: more than nine weeks. I know that because I'm one week from my library book being due--after my allotted two renewals--and I'm still only half way through the sucker. You don't get to read through it very quickly when you only read a chapter at a time . . . on a good day.
So, like anygood mom normal mom sane person I took the Snoodles time to eat my dinner and read my book. One sandwich and five pages in I felt that all-too-familiar feeling. Cue the guilt. Cue the "here's your chance to be an involved parent while expending almost no energy, and you're sitting here reading." Cue the self-imposed judgement.
I put in my bookmark and crawled onto the sofa with three of my family members (four, since the youngest always insists on including the cat), took a deep breath, and started watching the Snoodles.
I'll be honest, my mind was on my book, so I wasn't paying the closest attention through most of it. All I noted was that the story sounded a lot like a Dr. Seuss book (so did Larry, apparently, because at the end he told Bob he was thinking he wanted to eat some green eggs). And then the littlest Snoodle who'd been carrying around all these drawings people had given him of what they saw when they looked at him showed up at a little shack. Inside, he found a stranger. The little Snoodle told him how upset he was and how weighed down he was by the artwork he carried. So the stranger said, "Let me paint what I see."
"Oh, great," thought Little Snoodle. One more person to point out how I don't measure up. How my dreams are silly. How my clothes don't fit and they don't match and no one likes me anyway. How nothing about me is right or will ever be right.
The stranger painted. And he painted. And then he unveiled his painting with a flourishing withdrawal of the cloth and an, "It's time that you learned what you really look like!"
Little Snoodle saw a boy who was older and strong. He had wings that would help him fly. His eyes showed courage and freedom.
And Little Snoodle said, "I'd like to believe it, but I'm afraid to."
What was the stranger's response? "I know who you are, for I made you."
I. Made. You.
Friend, there is Someone who made you too. So He knows who you are. Those people handing you pictures of who you are, what you're good at, what they see when they look at you . . . they don't know. They. Don't. Know.
He knows. He made you.
As the stranger, no, the Creator, says to Little Snoodle, "I gave you those wings so you can soar." Little Snoodle replied that the picture from the Creator was too big, and it would weigh him down like the others had done. Instead he was told that if he carried that picture, if he remembered what it showed about who he really was, he would find it actually made him lighter.
And, lo and behold, he looked down and saw that he was flying.
God gave each of us wings, too. And He wants us to soar.
It takes more than nine weeks for me to read a book. I often park my kids in front of the television because I'm exhausted. We have eaten out more times this week than anyone should. We haven't had guests in our home in too long, and I haven't spoken to my best friends--more than a quick wave and a stolen chat from a car idling in the middle of the road--in weeks. I so often feel like I am failing at everything I'm trying to do. But none of those things are the picture of what the Creator made me to be. He made me brave. And free. And He wants me to soar.
I draw the line at paying for bedtime stories, when I'm already paying for the subscriptions to online movie channels, so I searched for something else. Aah, Veggie Tales. Most of the episodes were over an hour long or had been watched ad nauseam, so I settled on something about Snoodles. Whatever. Like a good mom I wasn't going to watch it with them.
Now, in my defense, it should be noted that I know how long it takes to read a novel when working nearly full time outside the home; being an at-home mom to a preschooler; staying involved as a volunteer in my Kindergartener's and 3rd grader's classes; trying to write a novel; and keeping up with my responsibilities as a wife, daughter, sister, friend, and church member. (I was told recently via a blog post I didn't have the time to read that we should stop highlighting how busy we are, because it's neither healthy nor helpful. So pretend none of that just happened.) Anyway, here's how long it takes: more than nine weeks. I know that because I'm one week from my library book being due--after my allotted two renewals--and I'm still only half way through the sucker. You don't get to read through it very quickly when you only read a chapter at a time . . . on a good day.
So, like any
I put in my bookmark and crawled onto the sofa with three of my family members (four, since the youngest always insists on including the cat), took a deep breath, and started watching the Snoodles.
I'll be honest, my mind was on my book, so I wasn't paying the closest attention through most of it. All I noted was that the story sounded a lot like a Dr. Seuss book (so did Larry, apparently, because at the end he told Bob he was thinking he wanted to eat some green eggs). And then the littlest Snoodle who'd been carrying around all these drawings people had given him of what they saw when they looked at him showed up at a little shack. Inside, he found a stranger. The little Snoodle told him how upset he was and how weighed down he was by the artwork he carried. So the stranger said, "Let me paint what I see."
"Oh, great," thought Little Snoodle. One more person to point out how I don't measure up. How my dreams are silly. How my clothes don't fit and they don't match and no one likes me anyway. How nothing about me is right or will ever be right.
The stranger painted. And he painted. And then he unveiled his painting with a flourishing withdrawal of the cloth and an, "It's time that you learned what you really look like!"
Little Snoodle saw a boy who was older and strong. He had wings that would help him fly. His eyes showed courage and freedom.
And Little Snoodle said, "I'd like to believe it, but I'm afraid to."
What was the stranger's response? "I know who you are, for I made you."
I. Made. You.
Friend, there is Someone who made you too. So He knows who you are. Those people handing you pictures of who you are, what you're good at, what they see when they look at you . . . they don't know. They. Don't. Know.
He knows. He made you.
As the stranger, no, the Creator, says to Little Snoodle, "I gave you those wings so you can soar." Little Snoodle replied that the picture from the Creator was too big, and it would weigh him down like the others had done. Instead he was told that if he carried that picture, if he remembered what it showed about who he really was, he would find it actually made him lighter.
And, lo and behold, he looked down and saw that he was flying.
God gave each of us wings, too. And He wants us to soar.
It takes more than nine weeks for me to read a book. I often park my kids in front of the television because I'm exhausted. We have eaten out more times this week than anyone should. We haven't had guests in our home in too long, and I haven't spoken to my best friends--more than a quick wave and a stolen chat from a car idling in the middle of the road--in weeks. I so often feel like I am failing at everything I'm trying to do. But none of those things are the picture of what the Creator made me to be. He made me brave. And free. And He wants me to soar.
Tuesday, April 15, 2014
A Dying Man, Giving Up the Fight
My blog takes its title from a song by Sarah Hart (Amy Grant also covered it). I find the song beautiful, and it truly captures my heart--sometimes, perhaps always, honesty is the best hallelujah we can offer. It's the strength and beauty of a crocus popping through the spring snow. It's the mother crying her baby back to sleep in the middle of the night. It's the husband laying his wife of 50 years to rest. It's broken. But it's honest, and it's beautiful. And that broken honesty is better than a hallelujah.
In January, my family was in the middle of that broken and beautiful hallelujah.
We were two months into a long journey that led to decisions we weren't ready to make. And our tears were better than a hallelujah.
We didn't like where we were, and we let God know that. But we still walked. One foot in front of the other. A deep breath and then a quavering one and then a sigh. And then a whispered prayer. And then a sob.
And then the phone rang.
My dad was a chaplain in the National Guard for nearly 23 years. One of those years took him to Iraq with a man named Zack. Zack was his assistant, and he was a bit younger than me. He was a bit immature and goofy, and he quickly became like the younger brother my sister and I never had. Among other things, Zack's job as my dad's assistant meant that he was tasked with protecting my father in Iraq. You see, chaplains don't carry weapons, but their assistants do. So Zack's job was to use his weapon and, if it came to that, his body to protect my dad. Now, I can tell you that something like that bonds you to someone for life. This immature, goofy kid was the guy who would save my dad . . . great. We'll take it. And we'll tuck Zack into a place in our hearts that no one could ever take away.
Zack suffered from PTSD after his time in Iraq. We didn't see him much after they came home, but we did keep in touch. For the past five years, there were ups and downs, but we all thought Zack was doing okay. He and my dad talked on Christmas--also Zack's birthday--and it seemed like things were going well. But that call in early January was to let my dad know that Zack had taken his own life.
We traveled to Detroit where my dad presided over the funeral service of a young man who was like his adopted son. A young man at one time tasked with protecting his own life--no matter what the cost. As my dad stood next to Zack's flag-draped casket, I thought about how this was yet one more war death. Combat didn't kill Zack, but the war did. And, fittingly, Zack's body was attended by many soldiers. There was a rifle salute and taps. The soldiers laid poppies and saluted his body. He is buried in a military cemetery where his body was accompanied by his brothers and sisters in uniform and his sisters, his dad and step-mother, his mom, and so, so many friends.
And, just before they played the taps in that chilly cemetery in early January, one of the men from his first company said words I hope to never forget: "We have carried our brother as far as we can." We did. We carried Zack as far as we could, and it was time to let his body go. Together we carried Zack's body to the cemetery, and we carried Zack to the feet of our Savior.
But the memories . . . we can carry those further. There's a Facebook group dedicated to remembering Zack. Every couple of days someone posts another picture they found or a memory they shared. None of us can eat Godiva chocolate without thinking about Zack, because when he and my dad were prepping to go to Iraq, Zack pronounced it Go Diva. And he made everyone laugh, and he laughed at himself. I also think of him every time certain songs come on the radio, and I tearfully remember the night we tested Zack's reflexes by throwing tennis balls at him. Tears and laughter mix together a lot for the people in that group.
Because that was Zack. He was beautiful, and he was broken. And, as the song says, he was a "dying man, giving up the fight." He was tired, so he went Home. And he was greeted with arms open to catch him. To hold him while he rests. And it is better than a hallelujah.
In January, my family was in the middle of that broken and beautiful hallelujah.
We were two months into a long journey that led to decisions we weren't ready to make. And our tears were better than a hallelujah.
We didn't like where we were, and we let God know that. But we still walked. One foot in front of the other. A deep breath and then a quavering one and then a sigh. And then a whispered prayer. And then a sob.
And then the phone rang.
My dad was a chaplain in the National Guard for nearly 23 years. One of those years took him to Iraq with a man named Zack. Zack was his assistant, and he was a bit younger than me. He was a bit immature and goofy, and he quickly became like the younger brother my sister and I never had. Among other things, Zack's job as my dad's assistant meant that he was tasked with protecting my father in Iraq. You see, chaplains don't carry weapons, but their assistants do. So Zack's job was to use his weapon and, if it came to that, his body to protect my dad. Now, I can tell you that something like that bonds you to someone for life. This immature, goofy kid was the guy who would save my dad . . . great. We'll take it. And we'll tuck Zack into a place in our hearts that no one could ever take away.
Zack suffered from PTSD after his time in Iraq. We didn't see him much after they came home, but we did keep in touch. For the past five years, there were ups and downs, but we all thought Zack was doing okay. He and my dad talked on Christmas--also Zack's birthday--and it seemed like things were going well. But that call in early January was to let my dad know that Zack had taken his own life.
We traveled to Detroit where my dad presided over the funeral service of a young man who was like his adopted son. A young man at one time tasked with protecting his own life--no matter what the cost. As my dad stood next to Zack's flag-draped casket, I thought about how this was yet one more war death. Combat didn't kill Zack, but the war did. And, fittingly, Zack's body was attended by many soldiers. There was a rifle salute and taps. The soldiers laid poppies and saluted his body. He is buried in a military cemetery where his body was accompanied by his brothers and sisters in uniform and his sisters, his dad and step-mother, his mom, and so, so many friends.
And, just before they played the taps in that chilly cemetery in early January, one of the men from his first company said words I hope to never forget: "We have carried our brother as far as we can." We did. We carried Zack as far as we could, and it was time to let his body go. Together we carried Zack's body to the cemetery, and we carried Zack to the feet of our Savior.
But the memories . . . we can carry those further. There's a Facebook group dedicated to remembering Zack. Every couple of days someone posts another picture they found or a memory they shared. None of us can eat Godiva chocolate without thinking about Zack, because when he and my dad were prepping to go to Iraq, Zack pronounced it Go Diva. And he made everyone laugh, and he laughed at himself. I also think of him every time certain songs come on the radio, and I tearfully remember the night we tested Zack's reflexes by throwing tennis balls at him. Tears and laughter mix together a lot for the people in that group.
Because that was Zack. He was beautiful, and he was broken. And, as the song says, he was a "dying man, giving up the fight." He was tired, so he went Home. And he was greeted with arms open to catch him. To hold him while he rests. And it is better than a hallelujah.
Sunday, April 13, 2014
Fame
The Festival of Faith & Writing is over. I learned a lot, heard a number of good speakers, settled on a new acceptance of who I am . . .
And I got to hear Anne Lamott speak.
That catches quite a few people. When I mention I was at the Festival, the first question people who know about it ask is, "Did you get to hear Anne?!"
And I did. And it was wonderful. And that, coupled with a few other experiences, have made me do some thinking.
One of the speakers, Julia Spencer-Fleming, said, "One of the things that surprised me was the quasi-fame you get when you publish a novel."
I saw that over my three days at Calvin College. I had a woman interrupt her conversation with me to say, "Is that Anne Lamott walking in the door?" (I probably would have done the same to myself if it had been. But the woman didn't even look a bit like Anne . . . beyond being a woman.) People applauded when Anne walked on stage, but they didn't do that for James McBride--winner of the National Book Award. Hundreds of people waited hours to get autographs in books purchased just for the occasion. Readers spent hundreds of dollars for a chance to hear their favorite authors speak or (gasp!) have a chance to say hello.
Don't get me wrong. It was an amazing experience to run into a new favorite author at another session--he was there to learn, to observe, just like I was. While my dad and I were speaking with an old friend, Hugh Cook, Miroslav Volf, and Scott Cairns walked past at separate times. And I got to hear Anne Lamott, James McBride, Rachel Held Evans, Miroslav Volf, and a dozen other authors speak about their trade and how faith intersects to create art. It was an incredible experience.
But it was also incredible to catch up with our old friend, there on the sidewalk outside the Prince Conference Center. And it was amazing to hear Anne speak about grace and the collision of joy and grief and mourning and celebration while she spent her birthday at the funeral home of a young man who was like a son to her. And the best part of all was hearing--and remembering and realizing for the first time--that Anne is just like me. And you. And all of us.
So that was on my mind when I sat in a hard church pew next to my husband this morning. That was on my mind when the offering started and the worship team led us in praising God, "The Famous One."
Chris Tomlin nailed it, and he brought everything home for me in a way that shocked me and humbled me and gave me chills.
God is the famous one. He is known throughout the earth and beyond it; He is seen in the stars and the rain falling outside my window and the three little girls sleeping upstairs in their beds. And He is my friend. He speaks to me daily, and He desires to know me and be known by me. Amazing.
I had the chance to wait in line to have Anne sign my copy of Traveling Mercies. I chose not to, because . . . the line was long, she's just a person, it was late, I was tired. Because I didn't need her scribble in my book to remind me that I had seen her and heard her and learned from her. Because why? She's just another person, a sinner, used by God because she was faithful to His call on her life.
Then, when I was sitting in church, lifting my hand in the presence of the Famous One, He impressed something amazing on my heart.
"Beka," His inaudible voice said to my heart. "YOU are my autograph. You are my scribble. I'm tucked there inside you."
And I am. I'm God's scribble in the cover of a work of His creation, purchased just for this occasion. And so are you. Be His scribble. Live that reality. And let us never forget how special that makes us.
(Full disclosure: I did get William Kent Krueger's autograph in my copy of Ordinary Grace. But I call that connections.)
And I got to hear Anne Lamott speak.
That catches quite a few people. When I mention I was at the Festival, the first question people who know about it ask is, "Did you get to hear Anne?!"
And I did. And it was wonderful. And that, coupled with a few other experiences, have made me do some thinking.
One of the speakers, Julia Spencer-Fleming, said, "One of the things that surprised me was the quasi-fame you get when you publish a novel."
I saw that over my three days at Calvin College. I had a woman interrupt her conversation with me to say, "Is that Anne Lamott walking in the door?" (I probably would have done the same to myself if it had been. But the woman didn't even look a bit like Anne . . . beyond being a woman.) People applauded when Anne walked on stage, but they didn't do that for James McBride--winner of the National Book Award. Hundreds of people waited hours to get autographs in books purchased just for the occasion. Readers spent hundreds of dollars for a chance to hear their favorite authors speak or (gasp!) have a chance to say hello.
Don't get me wrong. It was an amazing experience to run into a new favorite author at another session--he was there to learn, to observe, just like I was. While my dad and I were speaking with an old friend, Hugh Cook, Miroslav Volf, and Scott Cairns walked past at separate times. And I got to hear Anne Lamott, James McBride, Rachel Held Evans, Miroslav Volf, and a dozen other authors speak about their trade and how faith intersects to create art. It was an incredible experience.
But it was also incredible to catch up with our old friend, there on the sidewalk outside the Prince Conference Center. And it was amazing to hear Anne speak about grace and the collision of joy and grief and mourning and celebration while she spent her birthday at the funeral home of a young man who was like a son to her. And the best part of all was hearing--and remembering and realizing for the first time--that Anne is just like me. And you. And all of us.
So that was on my mind when I sat in a hard church pew next to my husband this morning. That was on my mind when the offering started and the worship team led us in praising God, "The Famous One."
You are the Lord
The Famous One
The Famous One
Great is Your name in all the earth
You are the Lord
The Famous One
The Famous One
Great is Your fame beyond the earth
Chris Tomlin nailed it, and he brought everything home for me in a way that shocked me and humbled me and gave me chills.
God is the famous one. He is known throughout the earth and beyond it; He is seen in the stars and the rain falling outside my window and the three little girls sleeping upstairs in their beds. And He is my friend. He speaks to me daily, and He desires to know me and be known by me. Amazing.
I had the chance to wait in line to have Anne sign my copy of Traveling Mercies. I chose not to, because . . . the line was long, she's just a person, it was late, I was tired. Because I didn't need her scribble in my book to remind me that I had seen her and heard her and learned from her. Because why? She's just another person, a sinner, used by God because she was faithful to His call on her life.
Then, when I was sitting in church, lifting my hand in the presence of the Famous One, He impressed something amazing on my heart.
"Beka," His inaudible voice said to my heart. "YOU are my autograph. You are my scribble. I'm tucked there inside you."
And I am. I'm God's scribble in the cover of a work of His creation, purchased just for this occasion. And so are you. Be His scribble. Live that reality. And let us never forget how special that makes us.
(Full disclosure: I did get William Kent Krueger's autograph in my copy of Ordinary Grace. But I call that connections.)
Friday, April 11, 2014
Day One in the books, or On Being a Writer
I was asked an interesting question today. It was the first day of Calvin College's Festival of Faith & Writing, my first official writing conference. A friend of a friend leaned over to me while we were waiting for James McBride to deliver his plenary talk, and she said, "So Wendy tells me you're a writer."
I guess it wasn't a question in its true interrogative form, but there were many questions loaded into that one statement she directed at me. She was giving me a chance to refute it. She was giving me the opportunity to say no or that I hope to be or that I'm working to be. In that statement she was giving me the chance to disagree.
I made a face and didn't answer right away.
And then I decided I wanted to answer her unspoken question with the cry of my heart for almost as long as I've wanted to be a doctor (age 3). And nearly as long as I've wanted to be a student at the University of Notre Dame (age 6).
Yes, I said. I'm a writer.
She didn't ask me if I was a doctor or a student at Notre Dame. She said she was told I was a writer, and she gave me a chance to deny or confirm.
I confirmed. And when I tried to say I was an unpublished writer, I was reminded of the poems I had published when I was in elementary school. And the article in Women's Lifestyle about the year my dad was in Iraq.
So I confirmed. I am a writer. I am a published writer, and I wrote my first novel when I was in middle school. Now I have a novel which I am 1/3 of the way through. And I have a series idea I'm excited about and a collection of essays started and a devotional idea to flesh out and two other novels tucked in my brain.
I'm a dreamer. That's nothing new. But, for the first time in my life I'm not just a dreamer. I'm a doer. I'm a writer.
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