Quotes Worth Remembering

From The Night Circus:

I find I think of myself not as a writer so much as someone who provides a gateway, a tangential route for readers to reach the circus.  To visit the circus again, if only in their minds, when they are unable to attend it physically.  I relay it through printed words on crumpled newsprint, words that they can read again and again, returning to the circus whenever they wish, regardless of time of day or physical location.  Transporting them at will.

When put that way, it sounds rather like magic, doesn't it?

- Friedrick Thiessen, 1898

{page 369}

"It is important," the man in the grey suit interrupts.  "Someone needs to tell those tales.  When the battles are fought and won and lost, when the pirates find their treasures and the dragons eat their foes for breakfast with a nice cup of Lapsang souchong, someone needs to tell their bits of overlapping narrative.  There's magic in that.  It's in the listener, and for each and every ear it will be different, and it will affect them in ways they can never predict.  From the mundane to the profound.  You may tell a tale that takes up residence in someone's soul, becomes their blood and self and purpose.  That tale will move them and drive them and who knows what they might do because of it, because of your words.  That is your role, your gift.  Your sister may be able to see the future, but you your self can shape it, boy.  Do not forget that."  He takes another sip of his wine.  "There are many kinds of magic, after all."

{page 381}

"Why haven't you asked me how I do my tricks?" Celia asks, once they have reached the point where she is certain he is not simply being polite about the matter.

Frederick considers the question thoroughly before he responds.

"Because I do not wish to know," he says.  "I prefer to remain unenlightened, to better appreciate the dark."

{page 183}

Book Six

The Night Circus
Erin Morgenstern

What a delightfully, charming book!  I'm a total sucker for magic and mystery, and this book was full of both.  Morgenstern cleverly lays the book out in narrative sections, describing the night circus, and sections from two different time periods.  At first it was confusing, but once I started to get to know the story and the characters in each time period, it was easy to follow.  And when the stories came together, Morgenstern's quick transitions between different days instead of years added to the suspense.

The premise of The Night Circus is that two magicians--illusionists, really, who have learned to truly manipulate reality rather than use slight-of-hand techniques--have chosen students who have been eternally bound to participate in a challenge to determine which is the better illusionist.  It would actually be more accurate to say "determine which is the better teacher," because it truly is all about the elder illusionists.  Celia and Marco are kept in the dark about their opponents and the true conclusion of the challenge, and that makes the book even more engaging.  The imagination needed to create this story and this world is a gift--and made it especially fun to read.  Morgenstern's careful attention to detail in this imaginary world of the night circus made it easy to recreate in my head and made me wish for a red scarf of my own. 

My only true complaint is that I could not read the book quickly because I wanted to relish every word.

A Tender Day

I've been a bit tender ever since I opened the letter this afternoon.  It was a normal day, and it was a normal letter.  We often get letters from the principal over the listserv, so I started to open it without really thinking.  But then the subject caught me off guard this time: "Death of a Student."  I thought it was an accident--a high school student or someone from one of the other schools.  I figured it would hurt as I thought about it, but I never dreamed it would hit me this hard.

A 7th grader at a local middle school passed away yesterday.  He committed suicide.  He went to the same elementary where my oldest daughter is a student.  If we stay in West Michigan, then in a few years she'll be at that same middle school--with most of the same kids she started school with in Kindergarten.

I don't know why this young man, this baby really, decided to end his life.  I pray that some day his parents get answers and find hope again.  As I think about what happened, though, my heart breaks--for him, for his parents, for his friends, for his classmates, for his teachers, for my daughter.

Middle school sucks.  There's no way around it.  It's so, so hard being a teenager.  But it gets better.  It sounds trite, or perhaps it just sounds like I'm stealing it from something different, something that this might not have been.  All I know is that it's true.  And when I walked in my daughter's classroom to read to her class this afternoon, I was tender.  I looked at their little faces and wondered what middle school holds for them.  They have a little better than five years before they get there, and so much can happen in that time.  But all the same, I wonder.  These are Ellie's classmates.  They're beautiful children learning to read and be friends and eat from all of the food groups.  And I love them.

So this is a tender day.  May God wrap His arms of peace around this young man's parents and his teachers and his friends and his classmates.  May God protect those kids, those babies, from themselves and from the only choice that can't be fixed.  And may God help all of us know what to say, how to help, what to see, how to be tender.

God, I love those kids.  The big ones and the little ones . . . please keep them safe tonight.

Finding Us Faithful

There is a large dumpster in the driveway of a house a block or so away from my house.  It's a house that I walk by or drive by multiple times each day.  There's a gold van in the driveway that announces who its owner voted for in a past presidential election.  It used to drive by my house several times a week, and when I was outside of my house, the driver would honk his welcome--and I would nearly jump out of my skin.  That won't be happening anymore, because the owner of the house, of the van, is gone.  He has arrived in his eternal Home, greeted by his Savior and his beloved bride who preceded him Home by 2 1/2 years.  The man has probably been a member at my church longer than I have been alive, and in many ways he embodied our church.

When I got the email last week that John had passed peacefully, tears immediately filled my eyes.  I thought of the joyous welcome he received and what a gift it was for him to look around him and see that he was Home.  I described John to a friend who is new at our church, and I said, "You'd know him if you saw him--or rather, if you heard him."  John was mostly deaf, and he compensated for it by talking loudly.  It didn't really matter how loudly you talked back, because he didn't really leave too much time for you to speak.  That's probably because he couldn't hear you anyway.  Still, John was an amazing and welcoming man.  He was one of the first people to welcome my husband and me to church, nearly seven years ago, and I continued to see him be that welcoming, Sunday after Sunday.  John was love.  John was a gift.  And John was faithful.  Heaven got just a bit louder at his arrival, and our church got just a bit quieter.

Since we started attending Fourth Reformed almost seven years ago, we have been to several funerals for longtime members of the church.  Jerry was the first, and when the memorial service is held on April 1, John will be the most recent.  As I was thinking about John, I was struck by Whose he was as much as who he was.  John had two loves: his Savior and his beloved Jane.  There were things he really enjoyed--hunting, getting away from the city in his rustic cabin, talking politics, his children and grandchildren--but he absolutely and completely loved God and Jane. 

Some day they will all be gone, all the saints who have built our churches and who have been the sources of our wisdom, our examples.  Some day they will all have reached their final rest, and we will be the saints who are left.  We'll be the ones who stand as an example of what it means to love God and to love others, to give up our lives for our spouses, to work with integrity, to welcome.  It will be up to us.  May those who come behind us find us even half as faithful as we find those who have gone before us.

The Tenth Sabbath

Just as I am, without one plea
But that Thy blood was shed for me
And that Thou bidst me come to Thee
Oh Lamb of God, I come, I come.

Just as I am, and waiting not
To rid my soul of one dark blot
To Thee whose blood can cleanse each spot
Oh Lamb of God, I come, I come.

Just as I am, though tossed about
With many a conflict, many a doubt
Fightings and fears within, without
Oh Lamb of God, I come, I come.

Just as I am, poor, wretched, blind
Sight, riches, healing of the mind
Yea, all I need in Thee to find
Oh Lamb of God, I come, I come.

Just as I am, Thou wilt receive
Wilt welcome, pardon, cleanse, relieve
Because Thy promise I believe
Oh Lamb of God, I come, I come.

"Just As I Am, Without One Plea," Charlotte Elliott

OCD Much?

Our youngest daughter has a problem.  I'm not sure it's an actual problem or would warrant an official diagnosis, but she fixates like no one I've ever met.  Now it must be said (because otherwise my husband will say it for me), that I'm a fixater, too.  If I'm lying in bed thinking about doing something the next day and some random item I'll need for the project is missing in my mind, I absolutely have to get out of bed to find it.  That moment.  It can't wait until morning, or I won't sleep.  So perhaps she comes by it naturally.

Every two year old goes through the "Why?" phase.  Addie seems stuck there.  No answer satisfies her "why," nor will any answer make it go away.  And, to make it all worse, she doesn't forget her curiosity.  So, we have a two year old who wonders why about almost everything she sees, and then she fixates on it.  For the next three days.

You think I'm exaggerating.  Last week Monday, we were picking Meg up from preschool.  On our way out the door, we started talking to our friend Kari, who was there to pick her daughter Maddie up from school.  Unfortunately for Maddie's little sister, Molly, we continued our conversation after Maddie had opened the door of their Jeep, and the wind caught Molly's balloon, lifting it out of the Jeep and sending it soaring into the sky.  Maddie was traumatized about what she'd done, Molly was devastated to see her balloon floating into the sky, Meg was grieving for all of the balloons she's lost to the clouds, and Addie was fixated.

As we drove home from school that day, Addie must have asked "Why?" two dozen times.  Finally I got tired of the question and could no longer ignore her insistance.  So, taking the advice of another parent I'd chatted with recently, I launched into a full and detailed explanation.  The plan was that this would confuse her so much that she'd be distracted from her question and would stop asking.  It went something like this:

"Well, you see, that balloon was filled with helium, and helium is one of the lightest gasses in the world.  It's on the periodic table before oxygen, and the air is mostly filled with oxygen.  When the balloon was in the car, it stuck tightly to the ceiling because it was so light, but it wasn't strong enough to go through the ceiling, so the balloon was safe.  When Maddie opened the door of the Jeep, the balloon, filled with super light gas, wanted nothing more than to fly into the sky, because it is lighter than all the oxygen in the sky.  Because it's so windy today, the wind caught the balloon and pulled it out from under the ceiling and into the air.  The helium was too light to stay down and instead it floated up into the sky and just went up and up and up.  It's sad, but that's what happens to balloons filled with helium when they are set free in the sky."

There was the much longed-for and planned silence.  Then, the two-year-old voice behind me said, "Why?"  Super, I thought.  What do I do with this? 

Before I could answer, the four-year-old voice in the far back of the van said, "Do you suppose it just keeps floating all the way up to heaven?  Do you suppose all of the balloons we lose are there?  And maybe the ones we write on for Baby Zion?  There in heaven, with God and Jesus and Nana and Papa and Grandpa Meyer and Baby Zion?"

Then Addie asked, "Meg, do you think we'll see them again when we get to heaven, too?"

"I hope so," came the seasoned, big-sister response.  "I hope so."

There was a long silence after that in the car.  As the tears filled my eyes from thinking about all that we have lost waiting for us in heaven where we will gain eternity, that wise four-year-old voice piped up again: "When do you suppose Jesus will come back for us, Mommy?  Because it seems to be taking a long time, and I really want to play with my balloons again."

Some things you just can't make up.

You can't make this up either: on Wednesday, when we drove Meg to school again, Addie said, "Mom?  Why Molly's balloon fly into sky?"  Maybe she just wanted to be reminded about heaven.

When You Don't Believe in You

I don't think you have time to waste not writing because you are afraid you won't be good at it.

DearWriterFriend sent me this Anne Lamott quote the other day.  And then a few minutes later she accused me of not believing in myself.  It would hurt if it weren't true.  (No, it wouldn't, because she loves me, but it certainly is true.)

I called her simply because it IS true.  I had just come from a meeting that might result in some contract grant writing for me, and they asked me to submit some writing samples--pieces I'm proud of.  Naturally, I panicked.  I kept up my confident "I'm a professional writer" face while I was still in the building.  As soon as I shook their hands and walked out of the building, my confident expression was replaced by "Holy crap, they're going to figure out I'm no good" eyes welling and throat closing off.  So I did the only logical thing.  I called DearWriterFriend. 

For the last ten years, DearWriterFriend has been believing in me when I don't believe in me.  She said all of the good friend things, encouraged me, told me that of course I was going to submit the writing samples, and called me a writer.  After she was done laughing hysterically at me, of course.  And then, within a few hours, she emailed me a link to a writing contest and told me I was doing that, too.

And that's what true friends are.  That is how you know your friends.  They're the ones who believe in you when you don't believe in you.  They're the ones who tell you what you need to do in order to meet your dreams, and they're the ones who make sure you do it.  Naturally, they're also the ones who laugh hysterically at you when you say, "What if I'm not really any good?" because they know you are good.  Because other people believe you are good.  Because maybe, just maybe, you really are.

At least until you're pretty sure everyone is about to expose you as a fraud.  Then they'll answer the phone and do it all over again.

Two are better than one,
because they have a good return for their labor:
If either of them falls down,
one can help the other up.
But pity anyone who falls
and has no one to help them up.

Ecclesiastes 4:9-10

Finding the Strength to Come Back

Here they are.  The thoughts inspired by Beyond Belief: Finding the Strength to Come Back, Josh Hamilton's memoir. 

Addiction.  It comes in so many forms and starts for so many reasons.  I know people who are alcoholics in varying states of recovery, and I have a dear friend who is a recovering drug addict.  It's not something that I have always understood.  At the same time, I have always tried to understand.  But I figured that I'd never live it, so I would never really get it.

And then, over the past several months, I have come to understand myself in a different way.  I have come to see that while I smoked a handful of cigarettes when I was 16 but never became a smoker, while I drink a few times a month and have gotten drunk a couple of times over the last 14 years but never became an alcoholic, and while I have never used an illegal drug or misused a prescription drug, I am still an addict.  It's hard to admit, but I seriously have a problem with food.  In his memoir, Josh talked about being both an alcoholic and a drug addict.  He said that he needs to completely avoid alcohol, because he is unable to stop at just one drink.  In 2009, he had a very public relapse that began with a late-night dinner at a pizza place and the question, "What could one drink hurt?" 

For me it is a question of what can one bag of jelly beans hurt?  What can one fast food meal hurt?  What can one run through Culver's hurt?  And then it goes further than that, because I struggle with self control.  What can sleeping in one morning hurt?  What can one day away from my Bible reading hurt?  What can one lapse in self-discipline hurt?  For me, the answer is a lot.  The answer is that it's never just one day.  Because I'm an addict.

I hope that I'm not belittling the damages that are caused by alcohol and drug addictions.  I'm certainly not trying to do so.  I know that those addictions destroy families and careers and lives.  I know that food addictions don't do that.  At least not normally.  From time to time, though, they do.  I hope it doesn't for me.  I'm certainly not the healthiest person around, but I am also not in real danger of dying because of my addiction.  At least not at this point.  But I've seen it in people.  I've seen food consume them.  I've seen an extra-large casket at a funeral.  I know that it can happen.

But beyond the physical problems from addictions, there is a deeper issue.  There's the fact that this isn't what I was created for.  There's the fact that God wants one lord of my life, and it's Him.  It's not cocaine or Jack Daniels or Burger King.  It's Him.  It's Him. 

I had a bad month.  My husband may have witnessed that, but there is also a lot that I did in secret this month.  I hate it.  I hate that I did it.  I hate that I relapsed.  But I love that I can come back.  I love that His strength is made perfect in my weakness.

I read Beyond Belief at an interesting time.  The copy that I read has an extra chapter, updating readers on Hamilton's relapse in 2009.  I finished the book and looked Josh up online only to discover that he relapsed again early this month.  What heartbreak.  And then to read some of the negative comments that people are writing about him and even to him . . . why?  Why?  Because it's hard to admit that something could have so much power over you?  Because it's easier to judge him and find him a failure than to take a look at the addictions in your own life?  This was a horrible month for me.  It was set off by a new medication that erased the weight I lost in January.  I decided that meant it erased all the hard work I'd done and decided to cash it all in.  I couldn't see how it was worth it, so I barely worked out, and I ate what I wanted.  I'm embarassed to have to face what I did to myself this month and how I ended up back where I said I never wanted to go again.  But that's addiction.  That's relapsing.  That's life.  Thank God there's grace.

I believe that Josh Hamilton is a public figure representing the private battles so many of us face.  No matter the addiction, no matter the number of relapses, no matter the person, there's power in facing it.  There's power in acknowledging it.  There's power in getting back up to start all over.  So this becomes a new month for me.  This becomes a learning experience and another step in my journey--another page in my story.  I have the strength to come back, in the exact same place where I found the strength for day one: in admitting that I am hopeless on my own and hope-filled in Him.

Book Five

Beyond Belief: Finding the Strength to Come Back
Josh Hamilton (with Tim Keown)

I'm trying to decide whether to start with a review of the book or writing down all of the thoughts that the book has brought to mind.  I suppose today will get two blog entries--one for the book review and one for the thoughts. 

Hamilton wrote Beyond Belief with a cowriter, so it's hard to know what, if anything, he actually wrote of his story.  Either way, Hamilton comes across as a bit pompous and strangely defensive of his parents.  The early portions of the book, while engaging, were hard for me to read.  All I could see in Hamilton was a jock who was still attached to his mother and father ("momma" and "daddy," to hear him tell it).  Time and time again he defended his parents in places that I didn't think they needed defending.  As the book goes on, though, it seemed to me that Hamilton is not pompous or still attached to his umbilical cord--I think he's naive.  I think he's, um, simple.  And I think he's sweet. 

As Hamilton recounts his descent into cocaine addiction, the story becomes at times engrossing and appalling.  It's rather like watching a car crash--you want to look away from the destruction, but you have to know how it comes out.  You can't look away.  At least with Hamilton's story anyone who follows baseball knows at least how it comes around.  The self-destruction is evident, and (this is why I think he's simple and sweet) Hamilton doesn't hide any of it.  He details the squarlor in which he was willing to find his drugs, his descent into crack, and the levels he sunk to in order to feed his demons.  Hamilton also doesn't hide the fact that his faith in God is all that brought him through.  At face value, Beyond Belief is the tale of Josh Hamilton's addiction, his efforts to throw away the natural baseball talent that God gave him, and his recovery from drugs and of his career.  When it comes down to it, though, this is a tale of spiritual warfare.  From his tattoos to his drug addiction to his reclaimed career to his two relapses, that's what Hamilton's story is.  And, at the end of the day, that's what our stories are too.

I know the twelve steps by heart, but my healing did not come from a strict adherence to those principles.  Instead, my life changed from hopeless to hope-filled when I turned to God and asked for His help.      (Josh Hamilton)

The Ninth Sabbath

When morning gilds the skies,
My heart awaking cries:
May Jesus Christ be praised!
Alike at work and prayer
To Jesus I repair
May Jesus Christ be praised!

Does sadness fill my mind?
A solace here I find,
May Jesus Christ be praised!
Or fades my earthly bliss?
My comfort still is this,
May Jesus Christ be praised!


The night becomes as day
When from the heart we say:
May Jesus Christ be praised!
The powers of darkness fear
When this sweet chant they hear:
May Jesus Christ be praised!

Be this, while life is mine,
My canticle divine,
May Jesus Christ be praised!
Be this th' eternal song
Through all the ages long,
May Jesus Christ be praised!

"May Jesus Christ Be Praised," Katholisches Gesanglruch

Book Four (B)

11/22/63
Stephen King

I should probably start by noting that while I'm a fan of Stephen King (especially Uncle Stevie, who entertains us often--though not often enough--in Entertainment Weekly), I don't read his books.  I have watched nearly all of his books on film--Pet Semetary and Sometimes They Come Back are particular favorites, and It scares the crap out of me just to think about it--but I just don't get into the swearing and the sex and the monsters in his books.  And, I don't really have 500+ pages to commit to anyone other than dear Harry Potter.  That said, I was excited to pick up 11/22/63 and knew that I wanted it to be the first book I read on my Kindle.

Man, Stephen King can write!  Seriously.  I knew this from the films based on his novels, the novellas that I've read, and from reading On Writing, but I just hadn't experienced it on my own.  From the first chapter through the Afterword, I found myself devouring each page.  I couldn't put it down and was grumpy when I was forced to do so.  While King wrote about time travel and stopping the assassination of JFK, 11/22/63 is about far more than that.  Along the way, this is a novel about building friendships and setting things right and how sometimes it's better to not know what is coming ahead because then we want to step in and change it.  And this is a novel about hard choices and love and responsibility.  In true Stephen King fashion, there are monsters in this book, but they serve as a reminder that sometimes the monsters are us. 

Readers familiar with King's work will see many delightful references that make me wonder if just any author could pull off.  History buffs will love the detailed research into Oswald's associates and his life in the Dallas/Fort Worth area.  Lovers of small towns will become engrossed in the Jodie Doin's (I sort of want to move there--to King's Jodie anyway).  Conspiracy theorists will find few answers and perhaps even more fodder.  Those prone to "what ifs" will be caught up in imagine a new world.  And aspiring writers will wonder if there is anyone else who can pull this novel off.  And then they'll want to try.

Book Four (A)

Book Four was meant to be our February book club book: The Zookeeper's Wife by Diane Ackerman.  I say "meant to be," because I didn't read it.  For nearly three weeks it sat on my shelf, waiting to be read.  I thought about it several times but was engrossed in what actually became Book Four.  Finally, it was the Sunday before book club.  I knew I needed to read it, so I pulled it off the shelf and settled in.

Wow.  I must have read the first four pages a dozen times, and I still couldn't tell you what they say.  It's so disappointing to me when I can't even get that far in a book, because I know that somewhere, someone (Diane Ackerman, as it seems) worked hard researching and writing the manuscript.  But I'm sorry, Diane, you have to do better than that.  You need to somehow wrap me into it.  Rumor has it that it's good if you get a ways into it, but who has time for that?  If you can't catch me at the beginning, chances are good that someone else will.

All that said, I think the subject matter and the premise of the biography really are great.  A Polish, Christian zookeeper and his wife house Jews during the Holocaust.  And the kicker is that they hide them in cages in their zoo.  I imagine that it's far more humane than it sounds (and than the Holocaust, when it comes down to it), but my point is that I don't know.  I have no clue.  Part of me wishes I did.  Part of me wanted to renew it and give it a go.  But most of me wanted to return it to the library and get back to Uncle Stevie. 

Maybe someday I'll pick The Zookeeper's Wife up again--and just start where it gets good.  But until then, I'll just mark it in Goodreads as "Couldn't Finish" and move on to the March Book Club Book.  It looks a bit more engaging--just from the cover.

A (Wo)Man After God's Own Heart

2001 was a rough year for our family and friends.  It began with several family funerals and ended with 9/11/01, when our grief became corporate, shared by the country.  Tucked in between were a separation between my husband and me, a desperate fight to come back together, and the death of my husband's best friend's twin brother.  It was a year from hell.  And I have never learned more.

Today in my Bible readings I read four different psalms.  The thing that strikes me most about David is that, despite his royal mess ups, God calls him a man after His own heart.  The sinning surely isn't what does that.  The sinning is just part of his job description as a human being.  We can't get away from that.  Now, maybe we don't do it quite as "big" as David, but I don't think that measurement is something God cares about. 

I think what God sees in David is his honesty.

In three of the psalms that I read today, David went from running "straight to the arms of God" (Psalm 11) to declaring, "Long enough, God--you've ignored me long enough" (Psalm 13).  Now I know that the psalms aren't necessarily listed in chronological order, but I do believe that God had everything to do with how the Bible is laid out.  He isn't surprised by the change in David's tune any more than he was surprised that Samuel "prayed his anger and disappointment all through the night" after God said that He regretted making Saul king (I Samuel 15:11 The Message).

And the best part is that God isn't angry about any of it.  I think He loves it.  In the heart of 2001, my Writer Friend shared with me a story of her high school boyfriend.  He and his dad used to play fight, and his dad would pat his shoulders, encourage his son to come at him with all he had, and say, "I can take it.  I've got big shoulders."  She said, "Beka, God can take it.  He's got big shoulders."  Another friend pointed out that while I was crying on the floor, God was lying there holding me and crying with me.  I began to picture Him sitting in His throne with me in His lap sobbing and pounding my fists on His chest.  And I've never been closer to Him.

I know that God is the only one who could have spared our friend's twin brother.  I also know that God is the only one who could have softened the blow from the bull's hoof on my cowboy cousin's chest, keeping his aorta from rupturing.  I also know that God is the only one who could have kept the planes in the air on September 11, despite evil's best efforts to crash them into buildings.  But I also know that God is the only one who can hold me while I cry, dry my tears, and help me heal.

So whether it's praying my anger and disappointment all night long, pounding my fists into God's chest as I continue to grieve the loss of one of our twins, or dancing with joy in front of Him, He is worthy of my honest praise.  It's the thing that makes me a woman after God's own heart.

Worthy, You are worthy
Of a childlike faith and of my honest praise
And of my unashamed love
Of a holy love and of my sacrifice
And of my unashamed love

"Unashamed Love," Jason Morant

Nothing Left to Say

I'll confess that I'm sitting here with this blank page only because I know the month is winding down, and I have quite a few posts to write in order to meet my quota.  It is hard to knowwhether the exercise of writing is worth the fact that I'm actually sitting here with nothing to say.  What do I type--and how much of it--to fulfill this portion of my creative goal?  Would dear Anne Lamott or talented Stephen King tell me that the post itself is the important part, and the content can all be crap that all of us want to delete later?

In Bird by Bird, Lamott gives aspiring writers a few tips and offers insight behind the scenes for readers.  She says that you should write just a square inch of the story, you should write a certain number of words or for a certain number of minutes each day, that you are allowed to delete what you wrote the day before if it's no good, and that not everything that happens to you is interesting.  That last tip is probably the reason for tip number three.

So here I am.  A writer, with nothing left to say and a goal to meet.  I want to be a writer.  I am a lover of words, and I want to be a writer.  I am a writer.  But I want to make my living by creating stories that entertain and make people think.  Stories no one has ever told before.  (Dare I say it, some even better than anyone has told before.)  If I'm a writer, then I have to write.  Because the point truly is the exercise, the working, the digging deeply, the creation.

Anne Lamott also says that the process of writing is about asking oneself, "How alive am I willing to be?"  As a writer, that really is the question.  Even when the answer takes a boring form, maybe the key to me being a writer is me being willing to be fully alive.  And me being willing to sit down with a blank page and muscle through this exercise, knowing that some day it will pay off.

Because I am a lover of words.  And one day I will write a book.

Things I Think I Think #18-34

And it's time once again for everyone's my favorite random thoughts.  I bet you can't wait.

18. I'm surprisingly sad that Whitney died.  Addiction breaks my heart, and I hate that it stole a mother and daughter once again.  I also hate that it stole The Queen--that voice was such a gift.

19. "The Greatest Love of All" has always been one of my favorite songs, but I forgot how great "I Have Nothing" is. Entertainment Weekly called it the song that brought "power" into "power ballad," and I think they're right.

20. I am looking forward to watching "This Means War," even though it might not be a super film.  It's probably the baby blues of Chris Pine and Tom Hardy.  They remind me of Beau's.  :)

21. My husband is the greatest man that I know.  He cares so deeply that it hurts him, and he struggles to become the man that God has called him to be.  I love that man.

22. It should go without saying that I don't support what Chris Brown did to Rihanna.  It's terrible, awful, and inexcusable to beat a woman.  However, he completed the punishment the courts gave him and participated in treatment.  So is he really not allowed to still be a musician and a good one at that?  Isn't it possible that he continues to regret his behavior and work to be a better man?

23. It turns out that Justin Bieber might actually be talented.  I ended up watching Never Say Never over the weekend.  That boy had rhythm and could play drums like nothing else--at five years old.  And now he has song-writing credits on most of his songs, plays the guitar and the piano, and can dance.  Didn't want to be impressed by him, but apparently when he smiles, I smile.  ;)

24. I bought my first bag of Brachs jelly beans for 2012 today.  That means it's spring.

25. It's good to get away and spend a weekend with good friends and no kids.  And then it's good to come home.

26. Every woman should have a couple of best friends--who keep you up too late talking and then don't get mad when you fall asleep in the middle of their sentence, watch Justin Bieber movies with you "for work research," pray for you when you cry, share your history and love you anyway, believe in your dreams when you don't feel like you can, laugh with you like a little girl, and promise to tell you when they think you need to grow up.

27. I'm blessed to have two of those friends.  And I'm also blessed to have many others who go much deeper than mere acquaintances.

28. Sometimes I just can't make it past the first five pages of a book.

29. I love my iPhone.  Those apps are quite something, and I'm going to work hard to become the mayor of something.  Thanks for making me sit in my car just a few seconds longer at each destination, Foursquare.

30. It's exciting to have friends expecting new babies and even more exciting to know it's not me.

31. Mondays are my favorite TV nights--The Voice Adam Levine AND Hawaii Five-0 Scott Caan.  If only I got to add in some Green Bay Packers football.  Then we'd be golden.

32. I wish celebrities would take better care of themselves so that their kids don't have to say goodbye to them so early.

33. I can't help it.  I love to watch red carpet specials and awards shows.  The American Music Awards are always my favorite, but I do like the Emmy's and Oscars, too.  And the Grammy's.  Seriously, I think I watch almost all of them.

34. Sometimes I miss working full time, because I enjoy working at a desk and keeping everything organized.  And I love office supplies.

Now I'm going to go eat some jelly beans and settle in with The Voice.

The Eighth Sabbath

Today was truly a sabbath as I enjoyed a weekend with friends at a cottage in Pentwater, MI. With limited exceptions, I spent the weekend unplugged from phone and computer. We laughed, ate junk food, shopped, played games, watched movies, stayed up late talking, and slept until we wanted to get up in the morning. It was a lovely hint of heaven.

The Reason

Recently a friend of mine sent me a text message.  She wrote, "I am running errands and heard an Amy Grant song on the radio--what a great song and title for your blog." 

This blog used to be called "Funny Writer Mommy."  There's a joke between my Writer Friend and I that people like me because I'm funny.  I used to be Funny Writer Girl, but then I became a mommy, and I thought I should grow up.  But then one day I watched a slideshow depicting a day of radiation for the 10-year-old son of friends of mine from high school.  Another former classmate of ours had taken the photos and put them into a slideshow with "Better Than a Hallelujah" playing in the background.

I couldn't think of a better sentiment either, especially for a life that seeks honest praise.  So here it is.  May my life truly be filled with hallelujahs and honesty that is sometimes better even than that.

God loves a lullaby
In a mother's tears in the dead of night
Better than a Hallelujah sometimes

God loves the drunkard's cry
The soldier's plea not to let him die
Better than a Hallelujah sometimes

We pour out our miseries
God just hears a melody
Beautiful, the mess we are
The honest cries of breaking hearts
Are better than a Hallelujah

The woman holding on for life
The dying man giving up the fight
Are better than a Hallelujah sometimes

The tears of shame for what's been done
The silence when the words won't come
Are better than a Hallelujah sometimes

We pour out our miseries
God just hears a melody
Beautiful, the mess we are
The honest cries of breaking hearts
Are better than a Hallelujah

Better than a church bell ringing
Better than a choir singing out, singing out

We pour out our miseries
God just hears a melody
Beautiful, the mess we are
The honest cries of breaking hearts
Are better than a Hallelujah

We pour out our miseries
God just hears a melody
Beautiful, the mess we are
The honest cries of breaking hearts
Are better than a Hallelujah

(Better than a Hallelujah sometimes)
Better than a Hallelujah
(Better than a Hallelujah sometimes)

"Better Than a Hallelujah," Sarah Hart and Chapin Hartford

Better is One Day

This morning I was thinking about the song "Better is One Day."  I thought of it because one of the Psalms in my daily reading is a Psalm of the Sons of Korah.  So is Psalm 84, the Psalm on which the song is based.  Without a doubt, that is my favorite Psalm for more reasons than I have time to write about now.

The song.  This is about the song.

The first time I sang "Better is One Day," I was in a church in the mountains of Colorado.  Talk about being aware of the majesty and creativity of God.  I'm sure there are many places in the world where God's power and creation are on full display, but the Rockies seem to be a grand place to start.  As we were singing the song, I couldn't keep my eyes from the windows where the power and beauty and wonder of the mountains reminded me of Whose presence I was declaring was great.

I also couldn't keep my mind off of the people I was with.  It was a spring break trip with dozens of high schoolers.  We had taken a Greyhound-style bus and a couple of vans full of teenagers from Grand Rapids, MI, to Colorado for a week of skiing and day trips in Glenwood Springs.  As we were singing the song, in the midst of those beautiful teenagers, I thought, "Yes.  I would spend one day in the presence of these lovely children of God pointing them to Him."  One day with them and with Him.  Because it would be worth it.  Even after how that week ended up, it would have been worth it.

And I couldn't stop thinking about where we were singing it.  Our trip to Glenwood Springs brought us through Denver.  Because we were taking teenagers through Denver, I thought it would be good to take them to Columbine High School.  It was only one year after the tragic shootings at Columbine, and I thought it would have a great impact on the teens to actually see that place and be reminded that what they saw on the news wasn't actually a Hollywood creation.  And, I didn't want to be that close and not get to see it myself.  So we went.  Dozens and dozens of teenagers and adults walked around that school, praying, taking pictures, remembering.  We also went to a church service not far from there.  We attended West Bowles, which is the church where some of the kids who died at Columbine had worshiped.

In that place, in the midst of that majesty interwoven with tragedy and possibility, I sang "Better is One Day" with all my heart.  I learned it that morning and felt as if I'd known it my whole life.  When I sing it today, I still see those images.  And I still think that I would cash it all in for one day with Him.

Kids Today (or, Back When I Was a Kid)

I am privileged to teach Sunday School for the 7th-12th graders at our church.  It's a privilege every week, and most Sundays it's fun too.  :)  (Kidding.  Mostly.)  The students in my class, like most teenagers, come in varying degrees of communication, enthusiasm, and participation.  They are a beautiful and lovely group.

Our curriculum this year is the Heidelberg Catechism.  A couple of weeks ago I had prepared a lesson that I knew would be more fun with as many participants as we could get--plus I'd purchased a lot of candy for it, and I didn't want to have the extras at my house.  Since there were only three students in class that day, I decided that we would have a chat session instead of using our normal lesson. 

I asked my students two questions:
1) What issues--social, person, etc.--would you like to talk about this year?
2) What do you wish adults knew (or remembered) about being teenagers?

As I was introducing our topics, it occurred to me that though I'm not old it has been longer since I've been a teenager than it took me to get there.  I mean, I graduated from college 13 years ago.  Craziness.  It also occurred to me that perhaps the problem we're having with our curriculum being relevant is the fact that it was written by people who had been teenagers even longer ago than I was.  Nothing against adults, but I began to wonder how life had changed since then and how we as adults could speak to that unless we understood it.  So we spent an hour talking about it.

Here's what I learned:
* High school teachers today sound more like college professors.  Students get syllabi from every class, and teachers allow different things in class--some allow notetaking on computers, some allow you to ask questions, some just want you to sit like a bump on a log and absorb their lecture.
* Still not everyone is offered drugs.  I wasn't, though I had some friends who smoked pot, and it was interesting for me to hear that that's still true.  However, I was shocked to find out that there are teenagers walking through the halls at their schools with mushrooms hanging out of their backpacks.  They use meth, too.  And instead of cigarettes it's pot they're smoking in the bathrooms.
* Kissing in the hallways isn't the whole issue anymore.  Students at local high schools have been caught having sex--yes, having sex--in the hallways and on the middle of the dance floor at prom.

We ran out of time before we got much further.  After class they mentioned a couple of other things they'd like to talk about, including homosexuality.  (That should be an interesting experience, and I've already selected some guest speakers to deal with it so that I don't get myself in trouble by not wearing my traditional church filter that day.)  Apparently there are lots of kids in schools today who are gay--and there are lots of kids who are homophobic.  That makes for interesting hallway experiences.  I can't imagine being a student today.

So . . . how does one who was a teenager nearly 20 years ago relate to a world so different than where I lived?  Kids today.  They're lovely and giving and beautiful and honest and it's a privilege to be trusted by them.  God--and the church--has His hands full with them, and I can't wait to see how they change His world.  I hope I don't mess them up.

That Doesn't Make It Easy

For the past few weeks, our pastor has been preaching about loving well and what it means to be true community to each other.  Two weeks ago he preached about "loving stupid people" and talked about how each of us is "stupid" from time to time.  We're stupid when we fall into the same sinful traps over and over again.  We're stupid when we are rude and short tempered.  We're stupid when we ignore the presence of God in our lives and instead focus on all that we don't have and our discontent.  We're stupid when the choices we make destroy ourselves or our relationships.  We're all stupid from time to time.

In order to love stupid people (and hopefully be loved in return when we're stupid), we may need to speak the truth to them.  We may need to call them on their stupidity.  Or, we may just need to take the time to ask them how they are and really listen.  Maybe there's something more to their stupidity.  Maybe they are pessimistic because they can't allow themselves to believe that they deserve good things.  Maybe they drink too much or don't smile enough or are critical and grumpy because of a deep hurt they've endured.  And maybe if we take a minute to ask and to truly listen, we just might find a way to gently restore them into optimism or even joy.

I've had a rough couple of weeks on a lot of levels, and there is someone in my life who is especially hard to love right now.  This person is (dare I say it out loud) stupid.  I think that in the past several weeks, I believe I have specifically referred to this person as an idiot, crazy, incapable, and a host of other lovely and Christian things.  (Yeah, right.)  God brought all of this to mind as I sat cringing my way through the sermon.  And He told me that I don't get to speak harshly about this person or be impatient in our dealings or be proud about how I have it all together and this person doesn't.  It totally sucked.  But I prayed, and I began my dealings with this person with this new and humble heart.  I thought that maybe if I approached our dealings with love and humility, then maybe I would have the opportunity to ask--and really mean--"Are you okay?  Because there seems to be a lot going on with you."

I wish I could say I've been perfect at it.  I haven't.  I'm truly a work in progress.  The occasions I had to talk with this person over the past week have been markedly different--in my mind and attitude at least.  I don't know if this person felt any different about me or my attitude, but I certainly did.  I forced myself God gave me the ability to see this person through His eyes and as someone that He created in His own image and died for.

But boy, it was not easy.

I was reminded that just because it's right does not make it easy.  Just because I decided to change my attitude and approach doesn't mean anyone else around me did.  And it didn't make the person less "stupid."  Recently a friend of mine and I had a conversation about another friend we needed to "confront" with humble and loving truth.  We needed to do it, because we were the only people who could, and it had to be done.  So I gave an early morning pep talk and then made my friend do it--while I stayed behind praying, of course.  She did it, and it was received well, and our friendship--our community--has been honored.  But that didn't make it easy.

Maybe that's what tough love, loving stupid people even when they don't change, and speaking the truth in love is all about.  It's not easy.  It's not easy for the person who is hearing it, nor is it easy for the person who is doing it.  But it's still the right thing to do.