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 any good 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.

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.

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."

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.)

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.