Coffee Shop of Talk

2012-01-26T11:44:00.000-06:00

This is a little funny and a little true. Enjoy.

Hello 2012

2012-01-03T20:40:00.002-06:00

December 31st, 2011 I took an inventory of the “good life” in my journal. I made a list of all the things that I considered pretty awesome and evidence that my life was pretty darn good.

After that I made a list of all my hopes for 2012. I’m not into New Years resolutions. I prefer wish lists that I can look back on in the end of the next year to see how many came true.

I didn’t have much time, so that was the end of my nostalgic so-long to 2011. I then packed up a suitcase and headed to meet up with some girlfriends. We were planning to celebrate the New Year in Nashville.

I was excited to spend time with the girls. I love my friends so much that they all made it on my list for the “good life.” Next to being excited about partying on Broadway with some of my best friends and drinking Champaign in the hotel at midnight, I was excited about our New Years Day adventure. We’d be going to the same church that we went to the year before.

My memory of this church was this cool, super-hip church with all these musician type people. But my favorite memory was the pastor and how his sermon had spoken to us when we went at the beginning of 2011. You know a sermon is good when you think about it for days afterwards and it gives you something to talk about on your way home.

With 5 girls, all with different personalities, getting to church in the morning can be an adventure all by itself. The craziness didn’t stop from the moment we woke up until we reached the door of the church, this warehouse with a garage door and concrete flooring.

The church was full, but we were able to find 4 seats and then pull up a chair on the aisle so we could all sit together. I ended up on the aisle seat. As the service began, I noticed one thing that made me seriously uncomfortable:
There were kneelers at the front of the church and then communion plates behind the kneelers. The first thing that went through my head was “not cool.” It wasn’t because there was anything wrong with kneelers, or communion, or kneelers in the front of the church. It was that all of these things would be happening at the same time: kneeling, communion, front of the church. Not cool.

Instead of a sermon, the pastors from all three campuses got up in front of the church to recount ways God had worked in their personal lives and in the life of their congregation.

The first pastor was a younger man who talked about his younger years (which obviously wasn’t that long ago). He talked about how if God had given him a heads up about what was coming ahead when he was younger, he wouldn’t have been able to handle it. Some of the stuff that happened was pretty rotten and not all that fun. He talked about if you were going to give anything up for 2012, it might be good to consider giving up the commitment to only trust God if you understand Him and know what He’s doing. He said even if you can’t see Him working, He is.

I felt like he kept looking at me, because, after all, I was sort of sitting in the aisle and was an easy target. Why did I sit in the aisle seat?

The next pastor shared some similar things, but one of the things he said was that he always had a desire to arrive at a place spiritually where he would know what to do and always know the right way to handle every situation. But, he said, we would never arrive at that place, because at that place we no longer need to depend on Jesus. Jesus, in His mercy, will never allow us to be self-sufficient with our own understanding.

He totally looked at me when he said that. Again, easy target. The aisle seat felt like it was getting more and more conspicuous.

The final pastor talked about how everyone he had ever come in contact with was broken and messy and complicated. There was no uncomplicated story and no uncomplicated life and no life that didn’t need Jesus.

Why did I wear the red boots? It makes me stand out even more.

When the music began to play, I made myself get up and take communion, but all I could think about was how uncomfortable I was. Throughout the entire service, I realized one thing: I was way more spiritual the year before.

Something had happened in 2011 to make me hold out on spirituality and hold out on Christianity in general. I didn’t feel like I was holding out on God, I felt like I completely and utterly trusted Him. But who I didn’t trust was myself. And everybody else.
When we were on our way home, we all discussed the sermon. Every one of us admitted that our 2011 sucked. But I remarked that when it came to 2012, I didn’t hold out much hope that it would be any better.

I usually begin each year with high expectations. But it seems like each year gets harder and harder, with more and more pain. The complication of my life escalates every year. 2011 was the clincher. I realized as I sat in a service that worshiped Jesus, that I was on edge, on guard, defensive. I didn’t believe the “good life” really existed.

Life is pretty tough. And the fact that we are sinful in the midst of it makes it even tougher. We try to figure out what life is all about and try to figure out what God is up to, but the answer sometimes is that we just don’t know.

We don’t know what He’s up to when families are in conflict, when churches are splitting, or when love is non-existent or doesn’t work out. We don’t know what He’s up to when bad things are happening and you wake up one morning realizing that pretty much everything that could be going wrong is going wrong and you’re completely helpless to do anything about it. You don’t know what He’s up to when the trial you are in, the one you’ve been tired of your whole life, may never end. You used to hope that God would deliver you, now you realize, He may have a reason for not taking you out of the circumstance, and you don’t know what He’s up to.

During such situations, you realize that you will never ever arrive. You will never reach this height of spirituality or this level of Christianity where you no longer need the Holy Spirit to guide you. Because Jesus made a promise that He would never leave us, and that’s because we will always need Him.

I’ll end with the words from SM Coldridge’s “That’s My King” because these words always put fire back into your heart:

“You can’t get Him out of your mind. You can’t get Him off of your hands. You can’t outlive Him and you can’t live without Him. The Pharisees couldn’t stand Him, but they found out they couldn’t stop Him. Pilate couldn’t find any fault in Him. The witnesses couldn’t get their testimonies to agree about Him. Herod couldn’t kill Him. Death couldn’t handle Him and the grave couldn’t hold Him. That’s my King.”

That’s my King.

What's Wrong With Christian Fiction

2011-12-08T16:39:00.004-06:00

I wrote this for a class a few months ago and I've revised it a bit to put on "the blog" (even so, I apologize for the scholarly tone). This is for all you artsy people who get frustrated with this sort of thing...

What can Christians do about?

The Christian attitude towards art, particularly in the area of novels, is one that tends to be confused and, at times, distorted. It is generally understood that any art that communicates a Christian message, however trite that message may be, is considered Christian art (Franky Schaeffer, 15-20). This is true in the area of fiction writing which causes Christian writers to be confused and think that in order to be a Christian writer they must force their writing to present an overtly religious message, free of any obscenities, objectionable material, and the like, no matter how important such material is in the purpose of complementing the story (Morden). This idea is perpetuated by Christian publishing houses who prefer that their publications “tell, don’t show” when it comes to realistic depictions of controversial material, therefore breaking a common maxim in the writing world “show, don’t tell” (Lukeman, 119-27). As a result, Christian writers have difficulty balancing commonsense rules and Christian publishing house guidelines. It is possible, however, to follow these commonsense rules while remaining true to Christian principles while producing good art (Morden).

What are the Commonsense Rules?
The commonsense rules of writing are the rules that are basic and known generally by all writers of fiction. One rule has already been mentioned and that is the rule of showing, not telling. This is an important rule that is the foundation for any other commonsense rule related to characterization, plot, or setting (Lukeman, 119-27). This is important for it shows respect for the reader, giving the reader ample opportunity to develop their own opinion about the text, rather than telling the reader what he ought to think. This further shows respect for the reader and perpetuates the idea that art is subjective, giving the reader free reign to like or not like the particular artwork of fiction (Lukeman, 15). Showing and not telling is important for any participant in the craft and art of writing.
Characterization is one of the three key elements of a fictional work of art and has its own set of commonsense rules. It is important for a writer to depict characters in a realistic fashion. Truth is synonymous with artistic quality and a novel’s artistic quality lies in its truthful representation of human nature and life in general (Howells, 1915). Even fantasy or science fiction genres should represent humanity and universal themes about life in an honest and relatable manner (Through the Eyes of a Child, 264). Characterization makes a novel. Without characters, plot and setting fall to pieces. Characterization is what makes a novel come to life (James, 1918).
Plot is the creating of conflict involving your characters. You cannot have plot without characters, nor can you have characters without conflict (George, 41). How a person achieves plot through characters is different for every person (Morden), but the commonsense part is always true: there must be some sort of conflict, be it person-against-person, person-against-self, person-against-nature, or person-against-society. Every good novel will have some person-against-self as the characters deal with inner conflict while also dealing with some sort of outer conflict, represented in the other three types of conflict (Through the Eyes of a Child). Any form of conflict encountered by the characters forms the plot.
Setting is the element of the story that comes in to support the life of the plot and the characters. Setting sets the mood and creates the background for the plot and characters (George, 17). For the best depiction of setting, another writers’ maxim comes into play. That maxim is “write what you know” (George, 24). It is best to be familiar with the setting that is created in the story. Knowing the setting personally will enable a writer to better describe it and naturally weave it into the plot while allowing it also to help represent the characters (George, 24).
In What Ways Have Christians Lacked in These Areas?
Christian writers have lacked in many of these areas because oftentimes following these rules inhibited the promotion of Christian agendas. Not long ago, Christians began to compartmentalize their lives, separating the spiritual from the everyday life (Franky Schaeffer, 28). With this compartmentalizing, “the arts were regarded as unspiritual, unfit, and secondary to those high and spiritual goals now set forth for Christians to achieve” (Franky Schaeffer, 28). This was due to an infiltration of the beliefs of the industrial movement, which promoted that everything had to have utilitarian usefulness. The way the church handled this infiltration was to disregard anything that did not promote Christian agendas, such as witnessing or Christian growth (Franky Schaeffer, 31). The result, for the Christian world, was a lack of interest in any art that did not fulfill these requirements. The areas of plot and characterization are dramatically affected by the compulsion to present an evangelical message and the result is forced, trite stories with unrealistic characters (Edelen).
Characterization and plot are also affected by the rules of the publishing houses. Publishing houses aim to present a safe haven from secular fiction and also to encourage Christians and non-Christians alike (Morden). From these principles a few rules have taken form: 1) the protagonist must either be a Christian or come to Christ at the end of the book. 2) The Characters are usually one-dimensional (all good or all bad) with little depth or conviction (Woodlief). 3) There must be spiritual development and it must take priority over the other conflicts in the book. 4) There must be no explicit bad language, sex, consumption of alcohol, or drugs (Morden). 5) “Violence must be treated very carefully—they would rather it happen off-page than on” (Morden). With these rules, a very limited type of story can take place. This also goes to show, because of examples of C.S. Lewis and Tolkien, that these developments in the Christian publishing world are fairly new (Morden). Because of these limits, plots often take on an unrealistically fast pace with little character or setting development (Edelen). Such rules construct a very small realm for plot and characters to operate. “…if Christian novels…must be stripped of profanity and sensuality and critical questions, all for the sake of sparing us scandal, then we have to wonder what has happened that such a wide swath of Christiandom has failed to graduate from milk to meat.” (Woodlief)

What Can Christians Do About it?

Christians can begin to change this if they return to some basic principles surrounding the art of fiction. Some of the principles of good fiction have already been mentioned. According to Francis A. Schaeffer’s Art and the Bible there are four standards by which to judge a work of art (in this case a work of fiction). They are: 1) technical excellence, 2) validity, 3) intellectual content, the worldview that comes through and 4) the integration of content and vehicle (p. 62). Technical excellence would refer to the proper use of syntax and consistencies and an avoidance of clichés (O’Conner, 169-74). This would also include proper employment of the previously stated commonsense rules. Validity would refer to honesty in an author’s writing—honesty to himself (not forcing a story to go someplace it does not wish to go) (Morden) and an honest depiction of characters in a realistic fashion (Howells, 1915). The third standard of judgment is the worldview that comes through the work of fiction. Every artist has a worldview and that worldview will inevitably show through the work in some way or another. A Christian writer’s worldview will not be absent from his work, but this does not mean that worldview must dominate in the form of a Christian message (Schaeffer, 68). The final standard is the appropriateness of the content to the vehicle. Another way to say this is, do the message and the method in which the message is presented correlate in an appropriate manner (Schaeffer, 69)? If Christians keep these standards of judgment in mind they will not only be better writers they will also be better informed readers.
One fear that Christian authors have about writing realistic fiction that may or may not have objectionable material is that they will be unable to find a publisher. It is true that such material may cause Christian publishing houses to sensor the authors writing. If a Christian writer finds that this is the case, it is not wrong or unlikely that a secular publishing house will pick up the book. Non-Christian publishing houses are not barring Christians from their content and are just as much on the lookout for a good book as the Christian publishing houses (Morden). This is a legitimate fear for Christian writers, but not impossible to overcome if the writing is good.
If, however, a Christian desires to write a novel with Christian themes or even a Biblical plot, the same standards for structure and character development apply. Literature is literature whether it is written by a Christian or not. “Christian” literature need not exist. Only the categories of good and bad should exist (Lewis).

Conclusion
In conclusion, it is possible for Christians to remain true to their Christian principles while following commonsense rules for good fictional art. The guidelines of Christian publishing houses and the modern day Christian view of art makes it very difficult and confusing for Christian writers. However, if a writer follows the commonsense rules for writing, their worldview will inevitably shine through. Christians will once again be writing great works of art. “…great authors are always ‘breaking fetters’ and ‘bursting bonds.’ They have personality, they ‘are themselves’” (Lewis).

Works Cited

Lewis, C.S. “Christianity and Literature.” C.S. Lewis: Essay Collection and Other Short Pieces, ed. Walmsley, Lesley. London: HarperCollinsPublisher, 2000. 411-420

Woodlief, Tony. “Bad Christian Art.” Imagejournal.org. 2011
May 31, 2011. http://imagejournal.org/page/blog/bad-christian-art

Morden, Simon. “Sex, Death and Christian Fiction: A talk given at Greenblet 2005 by Simon Mordern” simonmorden.com 2011 Little. Brown Book Group UK and Simon Morden.
April 28, 2011 http://www.simonmorden.com/about/essays/sex-death-and-christian-fiction/

Schaeffer, Francis. Art and the Bible. Illinois: InterVarsity Press, 2006

O’Conner, Patricia T. Woe is I: The Grammarphobe’s Guide to English in Plain English. New York: Riverhead Books, 2003

Edelen, Dan. “The Problem with Christian Fiction.” ceruleansanctum.com 2009.
April 28, 2011. http://ceruleansanctum.com/2009/11/the-problems-with-christian-fiction.html

Lukeman, Noah. The First Five Pages. New York: Fireside, 2000

George, Elizabeth. Write Away. New York: HaperCollins, 2004

Shaeffer, Franky. Addicted to Mediocrity: 20th Century Christians and the Arts. Illinois: Crossway Books, 1981

Howells, William Dean. “From Novel-Writing and Novel Reading: An Impersonal Explanation.” The Norton Anthology of American Literature. Ed. Baym, Nina, et al. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 2007. 915-918

James, Henry. “From The Art of Fiction.” The Norton Anthology of American Literature. Ed. Baym, Nina, et al. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 2007. 918-920

Norton, Donna and Saundra E. eds. Through the Eyes of a Child MA: Pearson Education Inc., 2011

Crazy Day

2011-11-27T16:39:00.002-06:00

I'm trying my hand at video blogging, so here's a sample of my life as a nanny. These are the two little boys I get to hang out with every day. They are amazing and fun and not always this crazy.

Wounded Heart

2011-11-27T14:49:00.000-06:00

I just finished the book The Wounded Heart: Hope for Adult Victims of Childhood Sexual Abuse by Dr. Dan B. Allender. It was a very heavy and difficult book that took me almost a year to get through. Each page was full of material that would give me something to ponder for a few days. Sometimes I’d just have to take a break for a little while, not wanting to go back to it because it wasn’t the most pleasant of topics to read before bed or during my morning quiet time (the times I usually spend reading).

Dr. Allender has been given a voice that speaks to this soul-damaging form of abuse. But the voice that speaks to sexual abuse also speaks to all different sorts of abuse, as well as to someone who has undergone a traumatic situation. He is not trite and cliché, telling you to just “trust God,” oh no, neither does he give you pat answers or four-step rules for forgiveness. His compassion is supernatural, but he doesn’t shy away from the truth. He calls abuse victims to repentance, but he does it in the most humble, gracious way imaginable.

I recommend this book to anyone, even if you had the most easy-breezy life without any hiccups or wounds (which I find highly unlikely). It’s wonderful for understanding your own pain and for empathizing with the pain of others—something we all, as Christians, should participate in more.

I thought about listing some of my favorite quotes, but as I flipped through the pages there were so many passages that I underlined that my favorites would probably make up an entire mini-book on their own.

Just read it.

If I Were a Girl

2011-11-21T16:01:00.003-06:00

I am a real girl. At least I think so. I think you can still be a real girl even if your emotions are a little fishy and don’t work properly. Most girls’ emotions occasionally get out of wack and we usually attribute it to certain times before, after, and during a certain time of the month. But mine, seriously, are messed up. I’m becoming more and more aware of it and an investigation has begun. The search for emotion might be ended if I received new tear ducts which actually responded to the prompt from the emotions I’m feeling. I simply cannot cry.

If you’re a woman, you know what it’s like to have days where you just feel like crying. It’s been a while since you’ve had a good cry and you’ve been feeling one coming on. All you need is a trigger: a good movie, a sappy story, or a sweet and syrupy song. Then the boo-hooing begins and afterwards you feel as refreshed as a clear spring day that just had a morning shower. You sigh with satisfaction and your day can begin once again.

I know this happens because I’ve been told about it. This wonderful experience where you feel like crying and decide to attend an emotional movie just to make that happen. Oh, how I wish I could participate in such a heavenly skill. But alas, I am destined to be a heartless, soulless automaton who has more in common with the witch in Sleeping Beauty than the golden-haired Aurora.

I first noticed there was something wrong with me when I went to see the movie Love Happens with my sister Corrie. There was this really emotional part of the movie where the guy is coming to terms with the death of his wife and is allowing himself to grieve for the first time. He wells up with tears as he starts to tell his friend all the things he loved about her and all the things he will never forget, even if he does find true love once again.

Just writing that stirs my heart a little so I wonder why, oh why, I responded the way I did. For starters I began to giggle. I turned towards my sister in order to say, “Can you believe this crap?” but was deterred. What were these wet things upon her cheeks? Oh no, are those tears? She was really buying this emotional mamby-pamby hullabaloo. Weird. So I sat back in my seat. There was something special going on between Corrie and this movie and I didn’t want to ruin it.

Now that I think of it, this lack of emotion began a long time before this movie. The very first time I noticed it was when my great-grandmother, Grandma Re, died. At her memorial service I sat next to my cousin who was sobbing and using her entire hand—not just a few fingers—to wipe away her tears.

Not to be one-upped by my cousin, I actually went to the bathroom and splashed water on my eyes. I didn’t want people to think that my cousin loved my great-grandmother more than I did. I was the closest great grandchild to her, after all, and would not be accused of not missing her.

The saga continues into other arenas. I went to see the movie Courageous with a few friends. I wanted to cry so badly! All the elements were right. I was PMSing, I had a glass of wine beforehand, and I was really tired. I was fully prepared to sob my eyes out and boy did I need a good cry! Low and behold the movie began. It proceeded through some very emotional scenes. At one point I started getting concerned. I thought maybe I should be crying already. I turned towards my friend Hayden and sure enough, big wet tears were covering her cheeks. I shook my head in dismay. If only I could learn how to do that.

This lack of emotion can seriously be a burden, especially when you are trying to heed the commandment to weep with those who weep. I once had a friend tell me that the greatest comfort to her when she lost a child was when people cried with her. From then on I was determined to cry when I was with a grieving person.

Unfortunately, crying on command doesn’t quite work. I’m sure there are those who have mastered this skill and it’s possible that I should seek out my own sensei. It’s definitely an idea. This weekend I decided it was time to begin a thorough search of a way to turn my emotions into tears.

For one, I was at church and the pastor delivered a very emotional sermon. This time I didn’t even bother to look and see if anyone was crying. I could hear the sniffles and could see through my peripheral the tissues reaching up to dab the eyes. I remarked to my friend afterwards that, “If my tear ducts worked properly I would definitely have cried in that sermon.” She replied that she balled through the whole thing. Seriously, just go ahead and rub it in.

That same day I went to spend some time with a friend who was hurting. While I was there I leapt for joy that a couple tears actually did come to my eyes. But they weren’t enough to really represent my grief so I had to inform her that my tear ducts were broken and that I was actually feeling more than I was showing, which was partially true.

Gratefully, I am not always dry-eyed. I went to see the movie Soul Surfer for the second time in theaters. The first time I didn’t cry at all. The second time the tears came. I knew I could shut them off if I wanted to, but I was so overjoyed to be experiencing deep emotions that I allowed those tears to just flow and flow and flow. It was glorious. I even remarked to my family after the movie was over that I was so glad to know I was a real girl.

Every woman needs her tears. They are a blessed accompaniment to a sad world. Our mercy hearts are more naturally compassionate and sensitive to the emotions of others. It is our gift to this world and to ourselves. When I once would scorn the emotional women, I now envy them. Of course, there are times when I just can’t stand the drama, drama, drama. And I have always found it very refreshing to hang with the guys while they drink beer and watch scary movies. It’s just so much fun to laugh at the aliens who have come to abduct the humans and use their bodies to fuel the space ship. And just think, some people actually call that a plot.

In conclusion, tears are a good thing. Emotions are natural and healthy. And, even though it doesn’t seem like it, I am a real girl with real feelings that just don’t show up very often, or ever. If I’m with you when your favorite cat dies, please don’t be offended when it looks like I’m crying into my napkin but really I’m laughing. Joy and thanksgiving to God that there is one less cat in the world is also an emotion. I promise.

Emotions are beautiful things and I look forward to gaining some more feeling in this little heart. If I don’t seem to be displaying emotions, realize that they are under the surface and if you’re lucky enough to catch a glimpse of them, you should feel honored. One day, I dream of crying more often and leaving the lack of tears to the menfolk. That will be a day for tears.

It is finished

2011-10-29T16:12:00.002-05:00

I’m not sure what I was expecting when the final assignment was submitted and I knew the work was done. Up until a couple months ago, I still had some tests that I needed to pass in order to know if I would actually be finished when I needed to be. Once those tests were completed and I knew I had only two eight-week classes left, that’s when I felt relief. I was free to enjoy studying Shakespeare and 18^th Century British literature, because the hard stuff, the what-if-I-don’t-pass-this was over. All major obstacles were scaled.

Phew.

That was until a few nights ago I was out with some friends. My friend David leaned forward and said, “I have a question to ask you. I ask this of a lot of people, so I’m interested to see what your answer is.”

I instantly got nervous. I thought all my tests were over. It certainly sounded like a trick question. “Okay, what’s the questions?”

“What did you learn?” He asked.

Yep, definitely a trick question.

So I started talking about the class where I learned about different styles of the autobiography, why I loved English because it was a study of humanity and also a study of humanity throughout history. I went on for a few minutes and than glanced at David. “Is this what you wanted? I could keep going forever.”

“Yes, keep going.”

Later when I’d finished talking about Shakespeare and secular education versus Christian education, I asked him what people normally said when he asked them what they learned.

He said, “The typical answer is ‘nothing, just perseverance.’” David’s wife, Gracie, added that he usually asked that question of people who didn’t love learning or were fresh out of high school.

That was something I’d thought about during the past two years. Sure, I would have loved to have my college degree when I was 22 like everyone else, but then, I wondered, would I have enjoyed school as much without the 6 years of experience that confirmed for me that a college degree was definitely something that I wanted?

Another thing I experienced was the value of rest and relaxation. Taking breaks can actually help your brain work better. For instance, last fall I was working two jobs and plowing ahead with full time school. The season wasn’t so bad when I think back on it and that’s because of this dear, sweet commandment in the Bible about resting on the Sabbath day.

My Sabbath wasn’t always on Sunday, but if I couldn’t rest on Sunday, I’d take a break on Friday or on Monday. I could push myself to burnout level if I knew that day of rest was coming. Thank you, God, for that commandment. I think he was thinking of me when he carved it in stone so many thousands of years ago.

I also learned that good enough is, just that, good enough. A few months ago I was studying with my friend Emily. Emily has been my friend since 6^th grade. I had several classes with her in high school. She was one of the student whom I would try to sneak a peek at her papers or test grades to compare my score with hers. Though our grades rarely matched up, competing with her was one motivation to do well in school.

So the day we were studying we were sitting in Barnes and Nobel. She was working on courses for grad school and I was working on a paper that was due for one of my more challenging classes. After I’d re-read it 15 times, I said out loud, “Okay, every time I read this I find something I could change, I think I should probably stop.”

Emily looked at me from across the café table and said, “Take it from someone who had no life in college. It’s okay to get a B.” Then she went back to her books.

“If I get a B on this paper, I think I’ll probably still make an A in the class,” I said.

“No, I meant a B in the whole class.”

Coming from someone who would inadvertently ask our high school English teacher for more homework, this statement meant a lot.

During the past two years of my life, there’s one word I uttered to myself a thousand times, and at least daily, it was focus, focus, focus. Focus. I’d find myself day-dreaming and I’d command myself to, “focus, Katherine, focus.” People talk about eye on the prize. My eye was on it. I can hear the drumbeats of focus, focus, focus sounding in my mind even now. Everything, and I repeat, everything took second place to school.

I wouldn’t say I was completely one-track minded. I had work, and spent time with friends occasionally, but the majority of my mind was focused on school. As a result, when school was finally finished, there was a very large hole where the focus had been.

There is a feeling of euphoria that one often expects to feel upon reaching a goal, completing an assignment, or entering a new season. But, no matter how many times we try to conjure up that feeling when the season changes, it rarely happens. Hence, when the season changed, the goal was attained, and the work was complete, I was left feeling dazed. After the initial dazziness subsided, the feelings of being forlorn and lost set in. Like that feeling you get when you’re used to carrying a purse everywhere you go and one day you decide to leave it in the car. You’re not weighted down, so that’s a good thing, but you still feeling like something is missing. You habitually reach for the purse that isn’t there till finally it sinks in, “Oh yeah, no purse. I’m free and clear.”

So, that’s the only way to describe the ending of my college experience. No fireworks or happy dances. At this very moment I feel grateful—and tired.

What’s next? That’s the big question. The only good answer is “I don’t know.” I thought about saying “I have no idea,” but I do have some idea. However, to bank on any of those (and there are many) would be premature at this point since they tend to change from week to week. Yes, I’ve officially become that person with a new idea every week.

So, here’s to dreaming. Dreams past, dreams present, and dreams future.

War Eagle.

not very creative Katherine

2011-09-02T13:13:00.000-05:00

J.J.: Will you color with me?

Me: Sure, but I’m not very creative. You’re a better colorer than me.

J.J.: Did you not color a lot when you were little? Is that why you’re not very good at it?

Me: No, I didn’t.

J.J.: That’s why I’m better than you.

Me: It’s true.

J.J.: That’s different. Grownups are supposed to be better than kids at drawing.

Me: That’s true, too. I got in trouble in preschool because I didn’t color between the lines. They said, “Katie, stay inside the lines!”

J.J.: Haha! Katie, stay inside the lines!

Me: It happened. There, I’m done. What do you think of my giraffe?

J.J.: Like you said, not very creative.

Me: Thank you. Maybe I should stick to writing. This giraffe looks like a Morey. I think I’ll write him a story.

This is the story

Of Morey

The Giraffe

He lived in a zoo

Without a clue

That he was a Giraffe

He thought he was a moose

Who was in love with a goose

And together they’d have a calf.

Then one day he saw

(and stood staring in awe)

At a handsome, long-necked Giraffe

He walked away

Because what could he say?

To such a beautiful reflection in the glass.

J.J.: I don’t get it.

Me: Oh well. Maybe I shouldn’t write, either.

J.J.: Are you going to color another one?

Me: Sure. Got another giraffe?

J.J.: No, but here’s a wolf.

Me: Why does this wolf have a head shaped like a heart?

J.J.: I don’t know.

Me: We should send it to your grandma.

J.J.: Yeah! It’ll probably scare her.

Me: Or she’ll think you love her because you’re sending her a wolf with a heart-shaped head.

J.J.: Yeah. Good idea, Katherine. Good idea.

Out of the Darkness Comes

2011-05-03T11:03:00.002-05:00

“I think I just passed the Exxon, but I’m not sure. I can’t see anything.” I said to my sister as I drove 72 towards Scottsboro. Apparently there was a curfew, but there was no way I was staying home alone with the entire city out of power. Supposedly there were looters, taking advantage of the distress of others. They were smart, really. Wicked, but smart. People were too worried about the destruction of the tornadoes, and the police were too busy helping with search and rescue. What crook in their right mind—or wrong, depending on how you look at it—wouldn’t seize the opportunity to increase their supply of chips and sodas from the unguarded gas station?

On top of the alleged looters, I walked into my house at 8:30 Thursday evening to collect a suitcase and get out of town, the light of the flashlight illuminating only the path directly in front of me, the dusty footprints on the stairs and the complete lack of light anywhere made me think that the zombies from I Am Legend were going to appear in any room I entered.

I couldn’t pack my clothes fast enough.

When I got outside, it was better. Stars are way more brilliant when the only lights hindering their glow are the slow-moving headlights of the other brave cars defying curfew (or running away from nothing because they’d watched Will Smith fight off zombies just like I had).

Speaking of curfew (have I mentioned anything else yet?), I found out Saturday, after I’d returned home to Zombieland because I had to be at work, that they’d arrested 27 people for being out after dark.

Rest assured, I was home on time after that.

In no way am I attempting to make light of the devastation left behind by the tornadoes. With over 300 dead, it’s not a funny thing.

There are a few good things that came from the blackout, however, and that’s what we’re hear to talk about:

1. I suddenly realized why so many people in the Pride & Prejudice age had time to play piano and learn all those amazing dances. With no power, Internet, cell phones, movie theaters and the like, what else would they do for fun?

2. With the combination of a fuel shortage, gas being the only means to continue living during a blackout, and all the stores and restaurant closed, you find you aren’t going many places. One of the best things to do when the weather is nice is to play in your yard with your children. When you are in a situation where you have nothing really to do and nowhere really to go, you find that time to talk to your neighbors in an unrushed, I’m-so-glad-we’re-in-this-together kind of way. It’s actually rather nice.

3. Then there is curfew. And the fact that no one can go to work. You find that people have time to come over. The ones you find annoying will usually leave before dusk. The ones you really like will end up spending the night, and you get some amazing quality time because there’s no TV or YouTube to distract you away from playing Pinochle—which is a way better way to get to know a person’s personality.

4. You find an excuse to cook those amazing steaks. You also have an excuse to share them, because you’d much rather share them with people than have them go to waste. And, as always, food brings people together in amazing ways.

5. Church is way more intimate. The people who risked going when they knew there would be no power found that worship was more genuine when you have to sing out of hymnals with only an acoustic guitar. The sermon is way more meaningful, and people are less rushed and more appreciative of each other when they are surrounded by death and destruction.

In conclusion, a power outage can be a beautiful wakeup call to what really matters. It can also be a lot of fun, if you enjoy being creative with how you use your time. It can also be awesome when you’re enduring it with 300,000 other people. Community takes on a completely new meaning.

As a result, when I regained power last night, I found myself slightly disappointed. Call me crazy, but it’s true.

This is Just to Say

2011-05-02T15:09:00.002-05:00

I wrote a little poem in an atempt to immitate “the matter-of-factness of both his subject matter and his means of describing it” (P.1462, Norton Anthology) of Williams Carlos Williams' poem This is Just to Say

Observe:

I’m Sorry for My Lateness

I was doing

Something

Else that I liked

Better

Spending Time

With you

Would have been

Fun for you

But not for me

Hope this won’t

Make you

Mad

But if it does

Too bad

Dear Grammie

2010-11-24T11:13:00.003-06:00

Dear Grammie,

Tonight we had Mandarin Orange Cream Cake in honor of you. We tried to eat the whole thing in memory of your sweet tooth, but that didn’t quite happen. Grandpa came and so did Uncle Dan. It was mostly laughter with a few intermittent comments about the disastrous state of our country made cordially by Grandpa.

One year ago, today, November 11th, you left us and went away to heaven (an event I will forever envy you--at least until the day I get to do the same).

A lot has happened since the day you left. Your great-granddaughter Sophia was born; Matthew got engaged (he’s getting married next weekend); and of course, the most momentous occasion of all, Uncle Dan met Millie, the woman we’ve all been waiting to meet for a really long time.

I wish you could be here to celebrate all these things with us. It’s times like these that I wonder if you wish you could be here, too. Or, is heaven so amazing that you don’t mind missing two weddings and a birth? Is being with Jesus so satisfying that your family melts away to a distant memory and no thought of remorse ever fills your heart?

I won’t be upset if this is true. I don’t think heaven would be heaven or Jesus, Jesus if it weren’t. When I think about you, I always think about heaven. It must be a place of safety and relief. How could it be anything but those things?

Often I miss you and wish you could be here so I could ask your advice. But then I remember that you were never too keen on giving advice. You never wanted to tell someone what they should do. I could never figure out if this was because you didn’t feel confident that your advice would be helpful or because you wanted the other person to figure it out for themselves. It was probably a mixture of both. Either way, there have been several times in the past year that something has come up and the only person I want to tell is you. But you’re not here. So I usually choose to tell no one. God has yet to replace your presence in my life. There is left a small gap in the way things used to be. I wonder if every time I lose someone if that gap is just going to grow bigger. I wonder if those holes never mend.

One thing I am grateful for in being in a family of girls, is that emotions are accepted. Tears for you are shed freely, even one year after you left. For me those tears are a mixture of sadness and joy. Sadness because you’ll miss so much of the lives we still have left to live and joy because you are safe and healthy. Forever. Nothing can remove you from that safety or take away your health.

In Sunday School, we were studying Pilgrims Progress. We reached the end of the first book when Christian finally reaches the Celestial City. Our conversation, understandably, turned to a discussion of death and how we would spend our last days. The pastor who was leading our class said that he often asks elderly people if there is something they wish they could have done differently in their lives. A common answer he receives is that they wish they would have risked more.

I know you risked a lot in your life without really choosing to risk. I hope you were satisfied with your risks when you reached the Celestial City.

All in all, I am encouraged to risk more in my life. Not cliff jumping and sky diving risks, but risks with experiences and career moves and risks with relationships. Lately I realize, living life motivated by a desire to avoid mistakes is one of the greatest mistakes of all.

The Celestial City may seem far away for me. But when I put its distance on the timeline of eternity, its gates are just a few steps away.

So for now, there are things to be done and people to love.

I’ll see you soon,

Katie Girl

Revved Up

2010-09-16T12:18:00.002-05:00

You know that feeling when you get home late at night and all the lights are off? You walk through the dark house and your memory tells you there is furniture in front of you. Though you haven’t felt it yet, your body instinctively prepares itself for contact.

This is how I felt when I was searching for a vision to cling to concerning our singles’ group at church. I could feel it was close—something was coming, but the exact point of contact was unknown.

The vision came one evening when a few of us were hanging out. The dozens of conversations we had had on this subject where bringing us closer and closer, but still no vision. However, this particular evening, our conversation was animated, sometimes confrontational as we tried to discover what exactly we were trying to achieve with the singles. Then someone pulled out first Corinthians 7 and challenged us to be radical for Christ; reckless for the gospel. After all, we had no spouse, no children. We were circumstantially freer and more able to go places that no one else could go. We could be flexible, follow the Holy Spirit’s leading at a moments notice. Singleness wasn’t bondage. It was an excuse to go crazy for a cause.

Bingo. We had contact.

I went home siked. We had the vision. We had a goal. Fumbling in the darkness was over.

Or so I thought.

The next morning I was perplexed again. What were we supposed to do? What was the next step for me personally?

It would be a few months before the vision narrowed a little further and became personally applicable. Throughout that time, I had been reading A Godward Life by John Piper. There was one chapter on revival that particularly stood out to me. He defined revival as a supernatural working of the Holy Spirit, stirring simultaneously an overwhelming number of people to follow hard after Christ. He ended that chapter with a challenge to pray that a revival would begin within yourself. I knew after reading this that God wanted me to pray that if a revival were to begin, it would begin within me.

Last week, I attended a conference. I had been invited by a friend and went without really knowing beforehand what the point of the whole thing was. It just so happened that the conference was centered around the church. What is the church? What’s it supposed to do? What does it look like?

The third speaker of the evening challenged the thinking that church was an institution that you attend on Sunday mornings. He pointed at the audience and said that we were the church. We were the bride of Christ, all day long, Monday through Sunday. He challenged us to live gospel-centered lives continuously, rather than compartmentalizing—separating ministry, work, and family.

Here is where the vision has narrowed, or is narrowing. The personal application is that the reckless, radical, gospel-centered, Christ focused life, that loves God so much that He burns through every aspect of every day is a lifestyle—an existence. It’s not something I have to “do” or fit into my schedule. It’s a change of everything. It’s a new motivation for living life.

Now the next step is imagining what life would be like if Christ truly saturated everything. How would I live if loving and worshiping Jesus were my morning Wheaties, my fuel for being? It’s so all-encompassing that I’m presently feeling overwhelmed. But at the same time, I feel free. I have nothing to prove to anyone. The Good News stands on it’s own and Christ is more than enough.

Now what?

Just like all the puzzle pieces for the vision and its personal application to me have come together, the next thing will be waiting when I wake up in the morning. And sometimes, the journey stops off in one place for a while, just to rest.

But great cost is coming. A life controlled by the Holy Spirit is dangerous. Maybe not on the outside, but on the inside. The Old Man has to die.

I’ll end with the words of one of the speakers from the conference I attended. “If you ever cease to be astonished by the message of the gospel, beware.”

Christ, who He is, what He’s done, and what He is doing should never cease to wow us.

Some Recent Writing Projects (and part of the reason for no blog updates lately)

2010-09-11T12:10:00.002-05:00

http://enterthevillage.net/media/newsletter

Experimenting with Fiction: Cry Scene

2010-07-09T17:43:00.000-05:00

It could have been a scene from a movie. We heard a gasp and turned our heads in the direction of the basement stairs. There stood Lindsey. Her purse was on the ground as if she’d dropped it and her face was wrinkled with pain. She walked forward.

“Are you okay?” I asked stupidly as she approached.

She ignored me. “Mom, what did you say? Is it true?”

My head told me to tell her the truth. My emotions told me we’d all be safer if we lied.

Mom, the saintly figure that she was, reached out and took Lindsey’s hand. She went with the telling the truth option. “I heard from Grayson’s mom that he’s been spending time with an intern down there. It sounds like just a little crush. Nothing serious.”

Go Mom. Smooth delivery.

Neither of us were prepared for Lindsey’s reaction. She exploded into tears and went to Mom. Heavy sobs and intermittent cries of “what have I done. I’m so stupid. It’s all my fault” escaped from her mouth. Mom just held her and rubbed her back.

After the initial shock wore off, suddenly a storm cloud of anger formed in my chest. Yes, it was all her fault. Every bit of it. And she had the nerve to have a breakdown because the boy that loved her when she treated him like shit had the gall to be interested in someone else. What a spoiled brat.

I escaped from the table and the cry scene to my room. Lindsey deserved every ounce of pain she was feeling. And Grayson deserved to know his efforts weren’t in vain. I determined to write him an email explaining everything to him.

I wrote it in fury but didn’t send it. I knew the cardinal rule: never write an email when you’re angry. I saved it to my desktop and was just closing my computer when—like another scene from a movie—Lindsey appeared in the doorway of my room.

The red, swollen face was not a good look for her. I wanted to tell her to get lost and suffer and die. But sisterhood kept me from it as she collapsed on my bed.

I sensed she wanted me to hug her, so I did. Time to play the big sister.

“Do you think I screwed up?” she asked me. “Is there any way he could still like me after everything I did to him?”

“You want to know the truth?” and before she could answer I said. “The last thing Grayson said to Peter before he left was that his goal while he was gone was to get over you. I’m pretty sure this intern, whoever she is, is just an infatuation.”

There was a silence and I couldn’t tell if Lindsey was still breathing. Then I heard her say, more to herself than to me, “can you love someone who has infatuations?”

That did it. I shoved away from her. “Ugh!” I screamed. “You are so infuriating!”

Lindsey darted upward to a sitting position. “No! That’s not what I meant. I meant, could he still love me?”

My outburst brought Terry over to my room to see what was going on. I couldn’t answer the questioning look on her face. Neither could Lindsey. Terry went to Lindsey and held her and rocked her. I was so confused I didn’t know weather to comfort Lindsey or tell her what a selfish brat she really was.

All the millions of times I wanted to tell Gray that he could do better surfaced in my mind. The only reason why I hadn’t tried to talk him out of Lindsey was because I was supposed to want what was best for my sister. What was best for her, at that moment, was a good spanking.

“I can’t do this,” I said to the girls. I threw up my hands and again fled the cry scene.

Again, Lindsey followed me. What did she want? I was so horribly angry and confused that I wasn’t comprehending that Lindsey’s depth of despair sent her searching for any inkling of hope for her to cling to. I was the source that could provide her with that hope. And I kept walking away.

Down at the kitchen table again, Mom was still sitting with her coffee. I returned to my seat and I gave her an exasperated look. She responded with a look that pleaded with me to be patient with Lindsey.

I turned to Lindsey, the walking zombie. “I don’t know much,” I said. “He talks about her a lot and makes it sound like he’s having the time of his life. But I also know he was so madly in love with you that no matter how horrible you were, he didn’t even notice. Getting away from here was the best thing that ever happened to him. But believe me, if he still loves you when he gets back, I’ll be astounded because it would be a miracle.”

I looked at Mom for approval and she rolled her eyes.

Lindsey started to sob again and then sank to her knees on the floor. Terry followed her there and hugged her, tears in her own eyes.

At that moment, Dad came through the front door, celery in one hand, computer case in the other. He stood momentarily watching the scene and I wondered how many times he wished God had given him a few sons. “Uh, I could come back later?” He looked at Mom.

“No, no,” Mom said. “It’s time for dinner.”

“I’m not eating,” Lindsey said from the floor. She got up and went down to the basement. The four leftover family members shrugged our shoulders, once again, at the complicated emotions of Lindsey Valley.

The Scenic View of Bible Studies

2010-06-21T12:17:00.002-05:00

A few summers back, I started a Bible study at the request of several girls I was working with. We had our first meeting and it was fabulous (as most kick-off meetings are), full of energy, intimacy, and excitement.

When the following week came around and our first numbers of 15 girls dwindled to 10, I was unperturbed. It happens. People get busy. No big deal.

But when the next week came around and only 2 people showed up and one of those girls informed me that the general opinion was that the Bible study was a waste of time, I was slightly offended.

The next week, Bible study was canceled. If anyone asked what happened--why Bible study disappeared--everyone shrugged their shoulders and pretended not to know.

This was the first time that one of “my” Bible studies had completely tanked, and I blamed it on a lack of spiritual zeal, refusing to take it personally--at least on the outside. But the truth was I was embarrassed. I was also ticked at God, feeling like He set me up to fail.

If I could go back to that summer and tell myself something I learned through that experience, this is what I would say.

I would tell myself that if God calls you to lead a study or small group, you do it. It’s His responsibility to bring people. Yes, sometimes the study fails. But what is success or failure anyway? Is it a successful study when you have consistent numbers and deeply spiritual conversations? Or is it successful when you obey Jesus and get to relax from the responsibility, taking the scenic view to watch God work His magic?

Sometimes the only work He does is in your own heart. When you think about it that way, after sitting across from a girl you meet every week for Bible study (The other girls forgot to come. Again.) You’re not so concerned with “Am I encouraging her? Am I feeding her? Am I helping her?” The only thing you’re thinking about is how God is using this in your life, what He is teaching you, and “What’s in the plan today, God?”

Then, 3 years later, when you get a phone call from a girl who says, “Remember that book you gave me at the end of the summer? I am just now reading it, and it’s meant so much to me during this season of my life” you are surprised, because, well, you forgot you gave her a book. But you get to talk with her and pray with her and you learn that sometimes the fruit grows many years after the seed is planted.

And when you’re walking through the mall and one of the girls from your study grabs your hand and drags you to a store so her fiance can meet her Bible study leader, you’re glad, not because she introduced you as her “Bible study leader” but because you’re going to her wedding in a few months and you’re glad you got to be a part of her story.

I guess it took a couple of failures and several frustrating evenings to see things from God’s perspective. But it’s so much better when you realize that the study really isn’t your responsibility. God says, “I gave you the job. You serve me. You show up, even if only one other girl comes. It’s up to me to decide who comes and who doesn’t. It’s up to me to stir hearts, and to harden them as well. You, follow me.”

And then the fun begins. Because God is always at work, it just takes more focus on His work and less focus on your own to actually see it.

And He can do some pretty cool things...

More memories still

2010-06-14T16:05:00.001-05:00

I suppose it’s a good sign that after school, working two jobs, spending time with family, hanging out with friends, and a book club that has me reading an 811 paged book, I miss writing and wish I could have a whole afternoon every single day just to scribble.

My poor blog. You have been neglected.

But a time is coming when I will be devoted to you in a way never yet seen.

I just completed a poetry class and I am considering writing you a sonnet on how I miss you.

But that class is behind me and I’m on to Marketing and Management. Therefore, that idea will have to remain a thought until the next poetry-type class.

Behold, I have an article pending publication and will post it on your face as tribute to all the times we have had together in the past year.

Fear not, we will have more memories still.

Adieu…

Love Note

2010-05-23T13:35:00.001-05:00

I love You. I love Your unending patience—how You’ve slowly wooed me and called me. I love how You’ve won me over with great things and small things.

I love how You’re creative and artistic. I love how You love beauty and created it purely for pleasure. I love how You’re so good with words and only say exactly what You mean and never tell a lie or exaggerate.

I love how every word out of Your mouth drips with life and feeds my soul.

I love how You give me dreams while I sleep, giving me something to laugh at when I wake up.

I love how You heal my body when I’m sick and hold me when I cry. I love how You know the thoughts in my head before I say them and how I don’t have to explain how I feel—You just know.

I love how when I’m wrong You’re gentle in your correction and are ready to restore me as quickly as I’m ready. You never hold it against me later and are unselfish in Your desires for me.

I love how You loved me when I was young and waited for me to come to You and were so happy when I did.

You’re always ready to talk no matter what mood I’m in. You’re my best friend and the best of friends.

You remove things from my life because they hinder our relationship and You’re jealous and want me only for Yourself—not just because You want me but because You know it’s best for me to only have You.

I couldn’t live without You and I know I’ll never have to. One day we’ll actually get to be together. I long for that day more so than I long for anything else—to see Your beautiful, glorious face. To just be in Your presence without having to speak, to just be in awe of You. You’re so lovely.

Oh I love you! But I love how no matter how badly, how hard, how fiercely I love You, You will always love me more.

My Personal Isaac

2010-05-21T15:52:00.003-05:00

“Take now, your son, your only son, whom you love, Isaac...and offer him there as a burnt offering.” Genesis 22:2

A week ago, I felt the Lord leading me to lay marriage on the sacrificial alter. I kept thinking of Abraham, sacrificing the gift that God had given him--the son whom he loved.

Not too long after that, I felt this leading particularly concerning a boy I believed the Lord encouraged me to like. I wrote in my journal, “God, I feel like this is kind of your fault.”
I was being facetious, but at times I really do feel like He’s the one to blame. I would never have liked this boy at all if I hadn’t felt like the Lord had spoken things about him. I would have been better off if I had never loved, I thought. I never would have loved if God had not done XY and Z.

So when I felt like the Lord wanted me to lay him down, my response to this was, “God, I have laid him down!”

But then I realize how my heart still flutters a little whenever I hear his name or see a picture of him. Even if it is ever so slight, a mere man has a hold on my heart that he has no right to possess.

So I deleted his name from my cell phone. I had to practice first, deleting other names (they were just old contacts from years ago), but then I finally got rid of his name.

Also, I had written stuff about him--thankfully on my computer and not in my journal. Today, those documents went in the trash.

It feels good--to take control of the feelings that have, for so many years, controlled me. It feels good to finally say goodbye and put an end to things in my heart.

But then we go back to my personal Isaac of laying marriage on the alter. Here, also, I had a talk with God. You see, I’ve never been one of those girls who longed for marriage, dreamed about marriage, had my wedding planned by the time I was five, had crushes by the millions, and thought I would die if I never got it.

So what exactly was I sacrificing?

I still shrug my shoulders and am a bit mystified about this moving in my spirit. I don’t know what it means or exactly what it entails. I don’t believe it means I’ll never get married, but I also don’t think God’s about to give me marriage as a result of my surrender.

Usually, I don’t publish things on my blog until I have them figured out. Today is the exception. I’m just writing as thoughts come to my head. All I know is what the Lord told me, and He’s yet to tell me the end of the story.

I hate it when He does that.

But, He’s the Father and I’m the child, He’s the savior and I’m the savee, He’s the Knight in shining armor, the King, the Boss. He’s God--and I’m not. And what God does with His special revelations is completely up to Him.

It might be better if I just forget about it all together.

Or I could just anticipate the ending and hope it comes soon.

But until then, I’ll wait for the Lord.

“And Abraham called that place The Lord Will Provide, as it is said to this day, ‘in the mount of the Lord it will be provided.’” Genesis 22:14

Though I never win...

2010-05-06T22:27:00.004-05:00

Such a title indicates something profound. But really, I'm just trying to be upbeat about the fact that I never win writing contests. Not ever. Never. Never ever.

Nil.

Zilch.

Nada.

Okay. Point made.

But I have had some opportunities to be creative in ways that I wouldn't ordinarily have invented on my own.

Accordingly, the last contest I entered was for Mothers' Day. I really hoped to win my mom a free house cleaning or a full body massage.

But alas, my contest winning streak remans the same.

Even though that is the case, at least I can share what I wrote on my humble blog and maybe make my mom famous for Mothers' Day.

One can only dream...

Here it is:

The Contest was 250 words on how your mom makes dinner special.

For Mom’s three adult daughters, making it home for dinner isn’t always easy. Even so, I always enjoy getting the text from Mom that says, “Will you be home for dinner?” Even if I can’t make it, I like knowing she wants me around (or maybe she just wants to know how much food to make!)

But on those rare times when the whole family is seated around the dinner table—usually a couple times a week—my mom is an active participant, if not the leader, of evening entertainment.

It will usually begin with my mom making a silly comment that makes her begin to giggle (we’ve all learned from her how to laugh at our own jokes). She’ll giggle until her whole body shakes and my dad looks at her in that “heaven help us” kind of way. He roles his eyes as we all join in on whatever is funny and the noise grows louder and louder. Then Dad goes for the Bible and we begin to read Proverbs.

Usually, Mom listens attentively to the Proverbs lesson, trying to set a good example, but she’s also typically the first to pop if there are any suppressed giggles.

I’m grateful to have a mother who makes dinner a good time, and teaches us first hand the meaning of the Proverbs that says, “Better is a dish of vegetables where love is, than a house full of feasting with strife.”

It certainly keeps me coming back for more!

I love you Mom. And I know you're mine so I have to say it; But I really do believe it with all my heart; You're the best. No joke.

some thoughts I've been thinking

2010-04-30T22:13:00.002-05:00

This is an excerpt from a letter I sent to a friend recently. Sometimes thoughts in the form of a letter come more easily than a normal blog entry.

-----

In the car, on the way home this weekend, I was listening to the song "One pure and holy passion." One part of the song says, "give me one pure and holy passion, to know and follow hard after You." I've always loved this song, but have always been afraid to REALLY sing it as a prayer...knowing that following God often entails pain, sorrow, trials, and grief (you and I are acquainted with both). To sing this as a prayer is basically, in every sense of the word, "asking for it." I'd be asking for the pain, sorrow, trials, and grief that come from following God. What idiot would do that?

As I'm writing this, I know the song says, "to know and follow hard after YOU." Follow after GOD. To know GOD. I'm so consumed with the outcome of what that means that I'm missing GOD. I'm confirming that I don't really KNOW God. If I did, I wouldn't care about the pain, sorrow, trials, and grief. Because God would be worth it.

Sometimes I think I know God. I get the warm fuzzy feelings and have sudden urges to read my Bible. I see evidence of His hand in my life and it will stir emotions that make me cry or gawk in disbelief. I get irritated with people who act like they know everything about God...because you just couldn't possible know EVERYTHING about God. He's just too big. And then I feel proud of myself that I KNEW God well enough to know He was too big to understand.

This all leads to a grand conclusion. If I want to know God, it's to know Him for what I can gain from Him or what He can do for me. If I don't want to know God, it's because I'm afraid that knowing God will bring bad things that wouldn't happen if I didn't belong to Him. My motivation for knowing God and following Him are completely selfish and self-motivated. My "passion" for God is not pure or holy as the song says. In fact, it's pretty twisted.

So, all the pain in my life, all the things that I loved that were taken away or the unwanted disturbances to the ambiance of my life, have all been little tugs at my heart. They've been silent questionings, asking me WHO do I love. My answer, for the most part, has been that I love myself.

I do love myself. And unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately) my mind that is determined to understand why I am making decisions won't let me budge until I know why it is wrong to love myself and why it's better to love God. Satan wants me to believe it's not worth it and God has and always will be holding out the good things. Satan wants me to believe that the good things in my life would have been there with or without God. What is the point in following hard after God?

I know I'm not standing on a precipice. I'm not making a decision to walk away from God. But I am making a decision about how much further I'll allow God to lead me. Has it gone far enough? Am I "good enough." Stop already, God, I don't want to go any further.

Is this King, this heavenly Father, this Holy Spirit, this Prince of Peace, worth loving and following...no matter what the cost? Do I want to know Him? Do I want to follow Him? And could I tell any living soul that I meet that it's totally and completely worth it?

When I told you the other day that I was right behind you, it's that I know I'll be able to answer these questions. I know that God will show me the answers. I know freedom is right around the corner. I know it.

But for now I feel I'm just waiting. I'm on the verge of a great discovery. But pushing progress never succeeds. So I'll continue to wait until I meet the answer face to face. I'm as fearful as I am excited.

I'm also really hungry. Literally. And my computer battery is about to die.

And YOU my dear friend, are one of the best things in my life.

I love you.

Katherine

No Fear

2010-04-09T11:32:00.002-05:00

I dedicate the next few blog entries to the celebration of life--not just being alive, but to the life that is lived. There is a difference.

I begin this entry with a question. If you could live your life free from the fear of failure, how would it be different?

This doesn’t mean that you won’t fail or be rejected. It only means that the fear of it is gone.

How would life be different?

Would you apply to the school that you really want to attend?

Would you audition for that play?

Would you make friends with and be friends with the guy you know is interested in the other girl, or would you avoid him?

Would you move to that city?

Would you color your hair purple, just for kicks?

Would you raise your hand in class?

Would you quit the job that’s just a job and go after the one you dreamed about as a kid?

Would you ask her out?

Would you switch churches?

Would you stand up for something?

Would you ask God that question that’s been bothering you?

Would you ask your parents that question that’s been bothering you?

Would you speak up?

Would you sit down?

Would you shut up?

Would you fly to Italy?

Would you move out?

Would you sell everything and move to the mission field?

Would leave the mission field and go back home?

Would you make friends with the girl you thought was too cool for you?

Would you buy that crazy-colored shirt?

Would you volunteer downtown?

Would you go visit your sister across the country?

Would you eat squid?

Would you go bungee jumping?

Would you backpack the AT?

Would you learn to play the piano?

Would you train for a marathon?

Would you speak the truth?

Would you open your heart to someone?

Would you love again?

Would you give it another try?

Would you close the door?

Would you open a different one?

Would you turn your back on the past?

Would you say hello to the future?

Would you start over?

Would you burn regrets and rebuild with hope?

Would you give fear a kick in the pants and give courage a chance?

Only you know what you would do if you had no fear of failure and if rejection didn’t change your resolve.

A few final questions:

Would you be a different person? Would you like that person? Would you be proud of that person if that person were you?

I dare you...

100

2010-03-29T17:01:00.003-05:00

This is a special post to celebrate reaching 100 blog posts.

HOORAY!

I think I will celebrate this evening.

I am very excited.

Onward Christian Soldier...

Oh Me, Oh My! Southern Bells in Mexico

2010-03-25T21:19:00.003-05:00

If you take some sophisticated women with fare skin, bubbling laughs, and an appreciation for cleanliness and detail, and stick them in a foreign country where you can’t brush your teeth with the tap water or throw toilet paper down the lieu, your tasks must come second to relationships, and drug war rages throughout the country, you are likely to get a mixture of chaos and hilarity that makes memories fit for posterity.

Oh, and don’t forget the language barrier.

For starters, in an attempt to copy the pattern of women of old who would come together over quilting to socialize and produce heirlooms for their families, Karen Parks, Ashlyn Sealy, and Emily Park, organized some sewing and cooking projects to give us some common ground with our Latina sisters in Monterry, Mexico.

Though we often picture the pioneer women, sitting stoically in a circle, working on their allotted space, while one woman read a passage from scripture or another shared gossip, it is possible that our imaginations have set us up for a catastrophic downfall. But if this were an accurate picture of what it was like, perhaps those women missed out on some good laughs and some good memories. As our sisters in Mexico taught us Southern Bells—socializing always comes first.

The first afternoon, the community project was a flag that reached floor to ceiling to hang behind the lectern in the church. The loud Spanish chatter of our new friends filled the sanctuary as we attempted to divide up different parts of the flag between them. But as we began to work, it became apparent that perfection would not be the rule of the day.

The combination of the high energy of the Latin women, the distraction of children running in and out, wanting to help but losing interest after 2 seconds, and the momentary pauses for breaks or to share an exciting story, made straight lines crooked and caused a semi-lopsided cross in the center of the flag.

Even so, we shared some good laughs over Sonia—the woman with the bad eyes—and laughs over Emily trying to remember the Spanish word for scissors “tijeras” and Denise (one of the members of Vida Nueva) trying to say the English word, but never quite getting it right.

It took some extra work on the part of Karen, but eventually the flag was completed and looked very nice hanging in the newly painted sanctuary.

The next afternoon we had a cooking class. The first order of business was a taste test of Strawberry Pretzel Salad. Marta, the wife of Rafael, one of the church planters, remarked “How wonderful! Now you are able to get married!” to Ashlyn after she had handed her her plate.

We were off to a good start and it looked as if the cooking class would be uneventful—for about 20 minutes. Then, about a dozen children came running into the house asking for water and for a taste of the salad. I had been helping translate for Karen when the influx of children began. In the midst of the frenzy, I at one point turned to Karen and began giving her instructions in Spanish. The bewildered look on her face told me I was doing something wrong. We were quite loopy by this point, and when we realized the magnitude of the craziness, we both began laughing.

The following day was our final sewing class. The project was personal t-shirts for each of the women. These women must have known it was our last day so they attempted to just enjoy our company and each other’s. Time was of no importance to them as they chatted away and calmly went about their task. Our repeated reminder that we didn’t have much time left, dinner was at 6, we needed to hurry or we wouldn’t be able to finish, had little affect on the speed of the project. No stress revealed itself. They were in no hurry. Time had little meaning.

This important lesson of time, and going with the flow, would come in handy in the next day or two. We had yet to experience the largest lesson in the importance of time that would come at the very end of our travels.

Day 8: the day to surpass all other days. Goodbyes had been said with tears and laughter at a party the church threw for us the night before. We brushed our teeth with bottled water for the final time and gratefully threw the final wad of toilet paper into the trashcan.

We arrived at the Monterry airport, brimming with excitement over the stories we had to tell our friends and family when we returned home. The 11 team members, with luggage in hand, gathered in the line at Continental Airlines counter.

Then, a heart-stopping phrase was heard above the sound of announcements and other passengers. “The flight has been canceled. There are no other flights today.”

We looked at one another in bewilderment. What would we do now? Over an hour passed with rapid discussion with Continental and several other airlines. The final result: half the team would stay in Mexico for a few days, the other half would cross the boarder in Laredo and fly out on the following morning.

3 of the 5 Southern Bells would be in boarder-crossing group—Karen, Emily, and myself. A little excitement accompanied our time-sensitive adventure as we crammed 7 people and luggage into a minivan and headed for the Mexico/Texas boarder.

The next bump in the road was the 2-hour line of cars we had to wait in to make it to the boarder. We watched the American flag in the distance slowly creep closer and dreamed of sweet-smelling bathrooms and comfortable hotel beds.

When we finally reached the checkpoint, we were told our visas needed a stamp. We would have to go back as we had missed the passport office as we were crawling forward in the tight line of cars.

To make matters slightly stickier, we were asked to pull over. We had been selected for inspection. Thus followed our diminished team standing in the cold wind as security guards carefully inspected each article of luggage and then scoped the entire car. They left us to put our luggage back in the car.

By this point it was nearing 9 o’clock. We were becoming loopy again and each new disaster only caused us to laugh and wonder what was going to happen next.

Once the difficult task of finding a place to leave the car so we could walk back to the passport office was completed, we donned our spare jackets and made the walk back across the boarder, from whence we had just come. During our pitiful trek backwards, two of our Southern Bells discovered that they had to use the baño, after asking several people and taking several detours, no bathroom was found.

In awe, we finally reached America with stamped visas and no anticipation of having to go back. The lights of the hotel loomed as celestial gates and the strangeness of not having to ask for the elevator in Spanish slowly began to take affect.

Yes, it was chaos. Sometimes so chaotic that it was hilarious. Though Southern Bells and Chaos try to avoid one another, sometimes they meet each other by chance. When this happens, sometimes the only reaction is to laugh—hard.

But there are other reactions, too. I didn’t mention the tears we shed. Neither did I mention the times we sat on the benches in one or more of the airports with open Bibles in our laps. I didn’t mention crying out to God for wisdom, for reasons, or for peace. I did mention looking in the face of strangers, wondering if we would find the reason in their eyes.

I don’t know that I personally learned any great lesson from the experience. And maybe that wasn’t the point. Maybe the point was time—more time spent talking to Jesus. More time in the unknown and waiting on God.

It was certainly a lot more time laughing.

There were a hundred times over the course of the several days in Mexico where I had to tell God I trusted Him and I knew He was good—all the time. It was more a reminder to myself and a truth that was tested. Over and over. Did I really believe it?

There will always be times where we shake our heads in bewilderment and shrug our shoulders. There will always be times where we say, “God, what’s up with that?” There will be times where no reason seems to exist and no answer is found.

In such times it is good to remind ourselves that God is worthy of trust and that His mercies endure forever.

Then, we must chuckle to ourselves, look around at our friends, shrug our shoulders and say, “Wow, that was just plain crazy.”

you little worm

2010-02-28T14:47:00.001-06:00

“For I am the Lord your God who upholds your right hand, who says to you, “Do not fear, I will help you.”

“Do not fear, you worm Jacob, you men of Israel, I will help you,” declares the Lord.

Isaiah 41:13, 14

I giggled when I read this. God calls Jacob a worm. As if to say, “You’re such a little worm, and you think I won’t help you?”

I’m such a little worm, to worry about how the Lord will help me. And no sooner has He finished helping me with one thing, then I begin worrying about the next thing. The words “thank you” are barely out of my mouth before I start saying, “help me!” again.

I think it helps to acknowledge the source of our provision. It helps to have God give you encouragement.

And it helps, every now and then, to acknowledge our worminess.

Article

2010-02-19T17:32:00.003-06:00

http://community.wrecked.org/?filename=provoking-the-enemy-reflecting-on-amy-bishop-shooting

Isaiah Speaks

2010-02-10T15:54:00.004-06:00

I’m in one of those places where I can sense the Lord is in the process of communicating something to me. It has to do with a verse in Isaiah. I began reading through the book of Isaiah, simply because many verses that have meant a lot to me, in this season of my life, seem to be coming from this book. So I decided to join the game, just to see what’s up.

The first verse was Isaiah 43:10. “You are my witnesses, declares the Lord, and my servants whom I have chosen, so that you may know and believe Me and understand that I am He. Before Me there was no God formed, and there will be none after me.”

This verse has become the theme verse for a small team from my church that is going to Mexico in March.

What I noticed about this verse is the unique role of the terms “witnesses” and “servants.” So often we picture these two types of people as doing something. But in this verse, we are witnesses and servants so that we might know and believe God—not someone else.

This has meant so much to me as I think about “bringing the light,” because, of myself, I bring no light at all. I think I’m going for the people, but according to this verse, I’m going for myself. I’m going so that I might know and believe and understand God more.

Secondly, a passage from Isaiah 10 stood out to me:

“Is the axe to boast itself over the one who chops with it?

Is the saw to exalt itself over the one who wields it?

That would be like a club wielding those who lift it, or like a rod lifting him who is not wood.” vs. 15

I have a Bible study with some girls on Friday mornings, this Bible study has been unusual for me in that I think I may have finally learned that if God calls me to a task, I should do it regardless of the outcome. I should not be concerned who attends, for God will bring the girls He wants to be there. I should not be concerned about the numbers—smaller is often better, anyway. I should not be concerned about what the girls think of the study, only that they are growing. I am the axe, the saw, the club, or the rod in the above verse. Not that I actually destroy something, it’s only that, without the hand of God, I am a piece of dead wood or metal. Nothing good is possible without God. Any progress or success is from God. I am God’s tool, His vessel for His own use. He can set me aside and pick up a different one any time He chooses.

I suppose these two themes run together and will eventually connect very soon. I’m not yet half way through Isaiah, but I’m sure I’ll pick up some other clues as to what the Lord is telling me.

I feel as if I’m on a treasure hunt. I know God can tell me very directly, but what would be the fun in that? This way it’s a mystery, with a very exciting conclusion at its end.

When Desires Blow Away

2010-02-03T08:38:00.001-06:00

Last year, I watched a friend fall in love with a man who was more than she ever expected. Often I heard her say things like, “I had no idea such a man existed.” It was so right, so perfect, so God. No one could argue with that.

Then this man, this perfect man, decided he no longer loved her, in fact, he never had.

This story happens so often. Not just in the area of love, but in other things. The idea of shattered dreams and broken hearts are not a foreign concept to any of us. We all know what it’s like to feel jilted.

Then there is me, in my own story, standing opposite something that was perfect. But instead of embracing it, I watch it fall to the ground as dust and watch the remains of a dream blow away in the wind.

Why would God give, if He only meant to take away? Why tease the child you love? If you told this story with just the facts, it would sound like a He was a heartless Zeus playing games with the mortals.

But if you could see what was going on in my heart, it wouldn’t look that way. I see God removing that dream, not forcefully or arrogantly, but slowly, lovingly, with tears in His eyes. The same God who begged the children of Israel to repent so He could restore them and heal them, asks me to let go of a dream that stirred my heart, so He could be everything, so He could give me more of Himself.

It’s what I really want, you know? To have God, to draw so near to Him that He becomes my everything. To love Him so much that I want what He wants.

I know the Lord knows our deepest desires. He knows them, even when we don’t know them or have the courage to formulate them into prayers. He knows the dream that turned to dust would not have fulfilled my deepest longing to know the Father’s heart. But He couldn’t just tell me, I wouldn’t have understood. He had to show me.

And show me He did. In a way that was painful for a time. But then He showed me that joy comes in the morning. And that joy is made full when it comes from the hand of a God who loves.

All According to Plan

2010-01-27T15:42:00.005-06:00

A scene from my past rises in my mind. The scene is of a bride with a radiant smile on her face as she stands at the alter exchanging vows with the man who, in just a few moments, will be her husband.

My eyes pan to the left, ever so slightly, and see the bride’s sister smiling and looking on. Then a slight ache in my heart causes the joy of the wedding to recede just a little.

You see, the sister is older than the bride by several years. The older watches the younger enter a world that she has yet to experience. The little sister does the leaving while the older sisters stays behind in the world of singleness.

Today, such a scene haunts me. For in a few months or a few years, that older sister could be me.

It never used to bother me, the idea that one of my sisters might marry before me. Years ago, a boy asked my dad to court my younger sister. When I heard this, I went to my room, sat on my bed, and took a few moments to ponder the reality: it could happen.

After five minutes of getting used to this thought, I was able to rise again, comfortable with the possibility.

A year or so later, I remember telling three of the four younger sisters that, in the event that one of them actually did marry before me, I did not want them to rein in their excitement because they were worried about me. I wanted them to know that I rejoiced with them and would not let this hinder their joy.

Today, the fear of the possibility tries to take control of my thoughts. I fear what people will think. I fear that I’ll be the bridesmaid that people ache for. I fear I’ll be the object of pity. I fear I’ll be the object of ridicule.

And then I fear no one will care. I fear one day to be cast off as the spinster sister that no one expected to get married anyway. I fear the comments of, “she had her chances but she blew it,” or “I think it’s too late for her now.”

Then I recall things. The Holy Spirit brings things to my mind. One of which is a question: How many of the things we fear actually happen?

Very few.

Elisabeth Elliot records in her book Quest for Love this conversation that a single woman has with God.

The woman says, “[God] You promised to supply all my needs. You said that they who seek the Lord will not lack anything good. So where is my mate?”

God replies, “In my sovereign wisdom, knowing…the fulfilling life which I now have for you, singleness is my most precious gift. Do not use my promises against me as though by loving me you would be able to obtain your own ends.”

The woman then asks, “Why did you pass over me and not my friend?”

God responds by saying, “I have other things for you, specially for you. She walks a different path with different problems which would only bring you much unhappiness. Do not envy, but rejoice and be glad for her.” Pg. 150

Do not envy, but rejoice and be glad for her.

By God’s grace, if the thing I fear comes upon me, I’ll be able to rejoice and be glad. I’ll be able to recall the truth that God has different plans for me. I’ll be able to recall the truth, that in a few months, I could be just like my younger married sister, but she will never be like me, single and able to relate with other singles. One day I will experience what she experiences. But she will never experience what I experience.

I have a gift, the ability to know what it’s like to be single and wonder When? Where? How? And I wonder, maybe the world doesn’t need to see more marriages or hear more amazing stories about how someone met their spouse. Maybe the world needs to see happy single people who are content to be so until God leads otherwise.

Maybe…

Unrequited

2010-01-13T11:39:00.001-06:00

This is the story of hundreds of girls. Some of these girls I know personally. This is my story, my friend's story, and the story of many others. This is the story, the end, of what happens when you don't get what you wanted, but you know God gave you something better.

Do you remember when we first met?

You said something that caught my eye,

I don’t understand exactly,

But in that moment,

You became beautiful to me.

Over the weeks, you continued to grow,

Said things that made feelings rise,

Feelings I’ve never felt before,

I didn’t know I could.

I thought for a second you liked me too,

Did I do something wrong?

You acted as a brother should,

I felt I wanted more.

I asked God for you.

It was a simple prayer.

I felt He heard and understood.

I thought He’d answer, yes.

Then your eyes slowly turned,

At me they never looked.

It was cold and empty truth,

That finally stilled my heart.

I know now that I really loved you,

Because I let you go.

I want to never have you,

If that is what’s best for you.

I wasn’t what’s best for you,

This I know for sure,

But what I didn’t think was,

You weren’t what’s best for me.

Looking at you now,

Without the eyes of love,

I see more clearly now,

You never were mine to love.

Still I wonder sometimes,

As my story continues on,

If there was a reason why,

I ever loved you at all.

Was it to show me how it feels,

To have a beating heart,

And know the painful hurt,

When that heart fell apart?

Was it so I could understand,

When another felt that way,

To offer my own story,

Of enduring the same fate?

Is it because I’d wrapped my heart,

Securely, with iron mail,

That the only way to break it out

Was to love you as you are?

Maybe my love for you,

Was not the curse I’d thought,

Maybe you were a gift,

To free my haughty heart.

You were the only thing,

That could tap into its core,

A driving, constant thorn,

To make it bleed once more.

I asked God for you.

It was a simple prayer.

I felt He heard and understood.

In a way, He answered yes.

Not to give me what I asked,

But to give me something more.

A heart that was filled with passion,

For a different and better god.

Was it wrong to love you,

To wish for love returned?

If it was, I wouldn’t trade

The experience I have earned.

A certain Man loved a maid,

In response she turned her back.

She hated and cursed His name,

Then she stabbed Him in the back.

The why’s and wherefore’s are not clear,

The reasons are confused,

But such is the path of suffering,

That cannot be deferred.

To love without response,

Is an ageless and endless kind.
I was not the first to have this love,

And I will not be the last.

The pain is real. I cannot lie.

A tragic end this would be.

Instead, you shed your tears,

You state your heart,

And prepare to love again.

Short Story

2010-01-05T15:51:00.000-06:00

DRINKING COFFEE IN THE MORNING

LINA BOOM

Doris

August 6; 6:30 AM

Debora and Amy are coming over today. So are the Wilcotts and Snudgrasses. I haven’t seen Amy since she graduated. Her mother’s kept her busy with all those job applications, grad-school applications, and all those other things. Poor girl. Last time she was here, she broke down because she was under so much pressure. I wish I could tell Debora, but she wouldn’t listen to me. She stopped listening to me…I don’t remember when. Sometime at college. Maybe it was after college. I don’t remember. One day I just realized that I wasn’t getting through. One day I realized that I’d lost my daughter.

It’s a terrible thing to lose a child. I’m not just talking about death. I’ve asked Debora what I did wrong. Her jaw just got really tight and she answered me, cold as ice, “If you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you.” That’s when I really knew I’d lost my daughter.

I guess that conversation confirmed that it was my fault, too. I guess I’ve known that the whole time. I just don’t know what it was. The only person who knows the answer isn’t really talking to me. Don might have known, but he’s gone. Debora and Don were really close. It’s a terrible thing for a daughter to lose a father, no matter how old she is. He was too young. He barely got to see Amy walk. But that’s all over now.

It’s getting late. I need to go start cleaning. My coffee is getting cold, anyway.

Debora

August 6; 7:30 AM

Today was sprint training for the half marathon. I just finished. I’m drinking the Kona Blend that Amy bought me for my birthday. I’m not supposed to add coffee back into my diet for another month, but I decided I needed it today.

I’m going to Mom’s for lunch. It’s only for a couple of hours and Amy really wants to go. She’s so good to her grandmother. I’m glad they have a close relationship. Mom doesn’t seem to annoy her as much as she does me. All Mom’s judgmentalism seems to just roll off Amy’s shoulders. Amy is so precious and so smart. I appreciate her so much. I wish Mom would have appreciated me that way.

Oh stop it Debora. You haven’t thought about that in years. There is no reason to start remembering the past, just because you’re going to see Mom today.

Mom is making her Chicken Cordon Blue. It’s been ages since I’ve had that. She can always get it so tender. I could never quite cook as well as she did. I’m okay with that, though. I like it that I’m good at other things. I’m sure Amy doesn’t compare my cooking to her grandmother’s. She’ll be a good cook, one day. She seems to enjoy it at least. But I hope it’s a few years before she has a family to cook for. She’s been getting really serious with Roger, but I’ve told him not to even think of getting married until she has her Masters. He just smiled and said, “Don’t worry, Mom, I’ll keep the engagement ring in a safe place until then.” If he wasn’t so cute--and so brilliant--I would have slapped him.

Roger is an engineer. I wish Amy would have wanted to be an engineer. But teaching is important, too. It will be tough to study for her Masters and do her first year of teaching, but I know she can handle it. She’s just that smart.

Coffee is getting cold. I’m going to make another cup and finish up a project for work before I get ready to visit the old woman. I’ll be shaking from the caffeine but at least I’ll have energy to get through this day.

Lord help me…

Amy

August 6; 7:30AM

Dear Diary,

I haven’t had any time to write. I’m getting ready to start teaching for the first time. I am so excited! I have a bunch of little second graders and I’m sure I will love them. I can’t believe I am actually going to be a teacher! My dream is coming true.

Of course, Mom has me doing grad school AND teaching. She’s such a slave driver! I don’t know if I can handle this. I had her talked into letting me take a year off and just teach, but she told me that I needed to get my masters before I got married (which is a good plan). If that is the case, I need to get busy. This is going to be a very stressful year. If Roger and I can make it through, I’m sure he and I will get married in the next couple of years.

Ah! What if I can’t wait that long? Dad told me he thought Mom was crazy for wanting me to get my Masters. I understand why she does. But she’ll flip out if I ever told her I wanted to stay home with my kids.

Roger and I have already talked about it. He’s an engineer, so we won’t struggle financially. Especially if we have to wait 2-3 years to get married! By then I’ll be ready to be done with school and teaching. Though, at this point, I can’t imagine ever getting tired of teaching. I haven’t even started yet!

Today Mom and I are going to Grandma’s for lunch. I haven’t seen her all summer. I miss her. I may take some stuff with me and spend the night. Then we can watch the sun set while we sit on the back porch (our tradition) and then we can have cookies and watch old black and white movies. Then I’ll get up and she’ll make me Mickey Mouse pancakes.

I sound like a little kid. Mickey Mouse pancakes? Dear Diary? Oh well, I guess I’ll make a good elementary school teacher!

Love,

Amy

---

Doris

August 7; 6:45AM

Yesterday was a good day. Amy and Debora came for lunch. So did the Snudgrasses and Wilcotts. After the families left, Amy and Debora stayed for a little while.

Then Amy announced that she was spending the night. Debora looked a little hurt. I guess she was waiting around so Amy could stay longer. If she had known Amy was spending the night, she might have left earlier.

To make up for the fact that I was stealing Amy from her, I invited her to stay the evening and watch the sun set on the back porch. It’s Amy and my tradition. But she said no.

It was my turn to be hurt. I don’t know why it hurt the way it did. I guess every time Debora comes over, I’m reminded that I failed somewhere. I tried so hard to be a good mom. I guess I just tried a little too hard. Somewhere in life, I just pushed my own, lovely daughter so far away I feared I wouldn’t get her back.

But she did come back. I accidentally got three coffee mugs out. I decided to leave the third for Jesus, if he decided he wanted to join us. I left the creamer and sugar out, too.

It was sort of a silly accident, but I’m glad I left those things out. Debora came back. For the first time in my life I didn’t ask why. I love that girl. She was my pride and joy. She still is. That’s why when I see her making mistakes, it hurts so badly. I want to take all the pain away. I feel her pain like it were my own. It’s a mother’s lot in life.

Debora didn’t spend the night. I didn’t expect her to. But she did stay for the sunset. Then Amy and I got to watch our movie.

I prayed for Amy after she fell asleep. I did the same thing for Debora when she was young. Last night, I said an extra prayer for Debora. I sensed she might still be awake.

God, thank you for my daughter and my granddaughter.

Debora

August 7; 9:20AM

Why, oh why, can’t I shake this? This feeling of regret, of inadequacy, of never meeting up? I hate going to Mom’s, and this is why. It makes me remember. It makes me realize how I’ll never meet up, never be good enough.

I try so hard with Amy. But I can’t shake the feeling that she loves her grandmother more. They are so much alike. They both like domestic things, like sewing and cooking. I was never like that. I liked exercise and computers. I wanted to do school, have a career. Mom used to tell me that I’d never get married because I was too independent. Those words were always haunting me because I thought there was some truth in them. They haunted me even after I married Keller. I always feared that I settled when I married him. Then, when things got bad, I could almost hear Mom saying, “See, if you hadn’t been so independent, so involved with your career, you might have saved your marriage.”

I’ve never written those thoughts down before. I was afraid if I did than I would realize they were true. I just couldn’t handle that.

There is always a bubble around Mom and Amy. They seem to connect. To get one another. I’ve always been happy that they had at good relationship, but it just wasn’t for me.

Today, after lunch (which lasted about 4 hours, by the way), it was just me, Mom, and Amy left. Amy announced that she was spending the night. Mom looked at me and said, “You can stay, too, Debora. We’d love it if you did. I’ll make some coffee and we’ll all sit on the back porch and watch the sun set.” Mom always drinks too much coffee.

I looked at Amy. I wanted to know if she really wanted me around. She smiled in her friendly way. Then, I had fear take over. I felt like they were just being nice. They didn’t really want me around. How could they? So I shook my head, no. I prepared to leave.

But I did notice that Amy looked sad. So did Mom.

I drove away. I got all the way to the end of the street. Then I decided, what the heck. The sunset was beautiful. Why should I miss it? And they did invite me, after all. So I went back.

I could hear them talking on the front porch. I was overwhelmed with a desire to join in.

The coffee pot still had coffee in it. The creamer and sugar were still out. There was also a clean mug sitting on the counter, waiting for me. Had they known I would come back?

I drink black coffee. Not because I like it better, but because it makes me feel more in control. I also don’t want to eat the cream and sugar. But today, I made an exception. I just wanted to relax, to enjoy myself, my daughter, my Mom, and the sunset.

I was wired last night from the caffeine. I couldn’t fall asleep. I slept in this morning and skipped my workout. I haven’t done that in a long time. Even though I couldn’t sleep last night and missed my workout this morning, it was worth it. That sunset was beautiful.

Amy

August 15; 9:15AM

Dear Diary,

Tomorrow is my first day of school. I’m a little nervous, but I’m excited, too.

Mom had breakfast ready for me when I woke up this morning. She actually cooked. Eggs, bacon, biscuits, fresh fruit, juice, coffee. It was delicious. I asked her if she was going in to work. She said she was taking the day off and would help me get my classroom ready.

She seems different. She’s quieter, but not sad or melancholy or anything. Come to think of it, I think she’s relaxed quite a bit in the past few days.

The other night, when we were at Grandma’s, Grandma invited Mom to stay for coffee and watch the sun set. She said, no. Typical Mom. I felt stupid for thinking, even for a short second, that she might actually stay.

But then she came back. She said no, but low and behold, she came back. It was a little strange, but I didn’t ask why. I was afraid I would scare her away. She actually seemed like she was enjoying herself. I wish she would do stuff like that more often. Gram’s and I always have so much fun and Mom always misses out.

Well, Dear Diary, I won’t be writing much in the next few months. But I’ll see you soon.

Love,

Amy

Dear Grammie

2009-12-31T16:25:00.000-06:00

Dear Grammie,

Everything is good here. Really. We miss you. It didn’t feel like Christmas until Wednesday the 23^rd. I wasn’t sure why, but something inside me told me not to try and figure it out. It wasn’t until that Wednesday, when the fam, Uncle Dan, Grandpa, and Nana all went to Nashville to see the Rockettes that I could put a finger on why.

It’s because something was wrong, something was missing. Then I looked around and realized someone was missing. You were missing. That’s when tears would start to come to my eyes and a knot would form in my chest. That’s when I had to start cleaning or baking or talking really loud to get the feeling out of my stomach. But sometimes I’d just let myself cry. Because I think it’s okay to miss you.

Someone in church on Christmas Eve, said, “I’m sorry about your grandmother. But you know she’s in a better place.”

I replied, “She sure is, I bet she’s having a good time right now.”

I don’t know if they celebrate Christmas up there, but if they do, I bet the mint brownies, Christmas trees, and Christmas lasagna are way better than here.

As far as Christmas goes, I think the Lord gave us a special one. I think He knew it would be hard for us so He gave us some extra joy. Grandpa and Uncle Dan spent a lot of time with us. Grandpa is really happy. I know he has hard days, but he pulls it together when he’s with us and makes us all laugh. (He creamed us in Texas Hold ‘em, by the way. And this time I know he didn’t cheat. He seriously just got lucky.)

Gramps gave me a Starbucks gift card that someone gave him but he doesn’t think he’ll use. If he wasn’t already the worlds best grandfather, that act alone would put him in first place.

Coffee has been my connecting source with him, lately. On Christmas morning, Mom and I got up early, before all the kids, and went to visit him. He had the table set and coffee made when we got there. I commented on the set table and he said, “Of course I set the table, I have women visitors.”

We had a good time that morning, just talking, drinking coffee, and eating cinnamon rolls. I wish you could have been there, too.

Aunt Karen and Uncle Mike and Matthew and Sarah Beth came the Saturday after Christmas. It so happened that this year was one of the best Christmases we’ve had. There was a connection like there used to be. It didn’t feel as formal. I really enjoyed it. I think it’s safe to say, that since we lost you, we all feel a need for each other that we’ve never had.

Oh, and I decided I’m going to decorate my room with art. I didn’t used to care for it, now I think I’d rather have art then photographs on the wall. And my first piece of art to frame is that painting you gave me for Christmas several years ago. It was the same year you made me pillows to match my bedspread.

The painting is of a girl, standing in the midst of geese she’s supposed to be tending. But instead she’s just staring at a feather in her hands. The title of the painting is “Dreaming.” I’ve always liked it because it so perfectly defines me.

I think you knew I was a dreamer, even before I did.

And you always supported my dream of writing. I’m sad you won’t be here to see my first book published, but since you can’t be, I’ll just imagine that the library in heaven will get a copy of it. I just might dedicate it to you, just in case you do get to read it.

Today is the last day of 2009. 2009 was a sad year; the saddest event was the day I lost you. I’ll miss you. I’ll miss you not being in 2010. As I say goodbye to 2009, I say goodbye to you, because 2009 was the last year you lived here on earth. But one day I’ll wake up and be with you again.

But until then, here’s to thinking of you.

Cheers.

Love,

Katherine (Your Katie-Girl)

Christmas Special

2009-12-24T13:56:00.001-06:00

Christmas has been sad for me. This year, it’s been a reminder of unmet desires and unfulfilled dreams. It’s a reminder that my grandmother no longer lives--she died two weeks before Thanksgiving. My dog, Cindy, who I prayed for since I was old enough to pray and finally received when I was 11-years-old has been with us for 13 years. She has a tumor and thankfully has held on until Christmas but probably won’t make it until the new year. That’s just one more thing that makes me feel less like celebrating this usually festive holiday.

It was December 23^rd and the family headed to Nashville to watch the Rockettes perform at the Gaylord Opry Concert Hall. Among the usual family party were my recently widowed grandfather, my long-time widowed grandmother, and my bachelor uncle. I was so glad to experience this event with them, but having them with us was just another reminder of loss and deferred hopes.

Upon entering the concert hall, our seats that we had acquired—the only seats remaining when I called to reserve them—were directly behind a family we knew from home. This family had experienced loss greater than anything I can imagine. The mother had died from a brain tumor while two of her children were still in high school. She had held on for several months, waiting to see her first grandbaby only to be present when that grandbaby died at birth.

I knew instantly that God put us behind this family on purpose, but not until the very end of the performance did I realize exactly why.

A secular concert made a live Nativity its finale. No movie, play, work of art, or performance that I have ever seen of the Nativity was able to capture the irony of great, magnificent kings traveling a great distance to bow before a little child that was born to a poor, misfit family.

With tears sliding down my face, I rose to my feet with my own misfit family and the misfit family in front of me, and the thousands of other concert attendees. We cheered and applauded and joined in the singing of Mendelssohn’s Messiah.

King of kings, Lord of lords.

There was no way that everyone in the room, of all the thousands of people present, was actually a believer. Yet though they were not followers of Christ, in that moment, they worshiped Christ.

And I worshipped Christ. My family worshiped Christ. My widowed grandfather worshiped Christ. The family standing in front of me also worshiped Christ.

And He is King of kings and Lord of lords.

And from the moment of His conception He experienced loss and pain.

But He remained King of kings and Lord of lords.

And in the midst of our pain, our loss, our unmet desires and unfulfilled dreams, He is King of kings and Lord of lords.

Hallelujah.

Our Messiah.

Hallelujah.

Friend Search

2009-12-23T11:28:00.000-06:00

I didn’t have a lot of friends when I was growing up. I had a few friends that I called best friends, but looking back, our friendship was just silly girl stuff.

My mom wrote me a letter when I graduated from high school. It said, “As I look back in my journals over the years I’m always praying for you to have a friend...I don’t know why the Lord has never answered that prayer the way we think he should.”

I never understood why friendships were so hard for me, either.

My older brother, Nathan, was my friend. My mom would tell us that we were each other’s best friend. I’ve come to realize that this is something a lot of moms tell their children. Either they really believe it’s true, or they think that if they say it enough it will become true.

Nathan and I fought a lot. Probably all the time. Even after he left home, we fought. I don’t really remember why. I think it had something to do with him bossing me around and me not liking it very much so I retaliated. I was good with words, but he was good at making himself scary and coming up with creative threats.

But he was a good big brother. We did have our own share of memories and he was good at including me with his friends (I don’t remember if he ever lacked them).

I went to Guatemala the year after I graduated. I stayed for two months. At the end of the two months, Corrie and Lauren came down and joined me on a mission trip. We flew home together and had a three-hour layover in the Atlanta Airport.

We had planned to shop during the layover, but we sat in a coffee shop and talked instead.

That’s when I realized that my friends didn’t have to be my age or walking through my same season of life. They could be younger; they could be older. They could be in high school; they could be married with kids. They could be part of my family.

Limiting my friendship search to peers had been one of my problems.

At my birthday party when I turned 20, most of the people who came were younger or older than me. Maybe 2 or 3 people were actually close to my age.

The party was a blast.

It wasn’t too long after that that things changed. It wasn’t too long after that that I was able to make friends my age and do stuff with people who were walking on the same path that I was on. That was a blast, too. My 21^st birthday party was completely different than my 20^th. It was a surprise party that my sisters threw for me with lots of guys and girls my age. I’d met them at church groups and with campus ministries, much the same way that normal people meet their friends.

God wasn’t holding out on me or waiting until I learned some important lesson before He gave me what I wanted. He just had different ideas about what was going to bless me.

He was right.

Friends don’t have to be your peers. And through that season, I made friends with my sisters. They became my best friends. I learned that when all the other friends come and go (and they always do), my sisters would always be around. Any time I spend with them is not wasted. Any memory I make with them is worth it.

Omelets at Midnight

2009-12-16T13:25:00.000-06:00

It was 11PM. I was almost to dreamland when I received a text message from Lauren that interrupted the journey.

Omelets?

I sighed and texted back: coming.

So much for getting to bed early.

I arrived downstairs where Corrie and Lauren were already busy cutting up onions, cracking eggs, and buttering the frying pans. The several doors that lead to the kitchen were closed to conceal the noise, though we would still have to talk in whispers.

I don’t remember what we talked about that night. We’ve had so many middle-of-the-night kitchen parties that they all run together. That evening was omelets. On other nights we’ve made pancakes, warmed up leftovers, or cooked a pizza. It would just depend on what we felt like. Sometimes, we’d even run down the street to Sonic and get slushies.

I was addicted to making memories with my sisters. Even if it did interrupt my sleep, I didn’t want to miss anything. I’m pretty sure Corrie and Lauren felt the same way.

Closeness was an understatement. There was a time where I would describe my shadow or my conscience as one or all of my sisters.

Though it’s not so much that way anymore—circumstances changed and we all lead different lives—that was bound to happen some day. We were always aware of this and constantly lived under the belief that it would not be this way forever.

That’s why sleep wasn’t so important when omelets were on the menu.

Even so, what I had with my sisters—and still have, to some extent, today—was magic. Very often, this magic would extend beyond our family and would envelope a girl who didn’t have sisters. That would make the magic stronger.

One summer evening, Lauren and I sat on our roof and looked at the stars. By light of a candle, we read Isaiah 40, where God gives names to all of the stars.

What would it be like to name a star?

I’m sure it felt a little like having omelets in the middle of the night. I’m sure it felt like sitting on the countertops because we didn’t want to make noise pulling out the chairs around the table. I’m sure it felt like suppressing laughter at something that caused you to double over, but when morning came you couldn’t remember why it was so funny.

I’m sure it felt like magic.

Pretty-Girl Day

2009-12-07T09:48:00.000-06:00

We’re girls. We love clothes. We dig shoes. Hair is a verb. Dressing up is a hobby.

We like to feel pretty.

I think my sisters are stunning. I don’t know if they really are, but I like to think the world thinks so, too.

But like every girl in the whole wide universe, they struggle sometimes with feeling pretty.

Lauren is four years younger than I am. She is 5’10” and the tallest girl in the family. She’s a personal trainer and loves exercise and working out.

She’s got some muscle.

On top of this, she likes to wear bright clothes and 3” heels. You can’t miss her. Blending in was never a priority.

I wrote this poem for her one year:

MY VERY OWN FRIENDLY GIANT

I have my very own giant.

She is built with arms of steel.

She shakes the house when she walks

And the room thunders when she talks

I have my very own giant

She’s good for moving things

When I’m in a heavy-lifting pinch

She helps without the slightest flinch

I have my very own giant

Her height is her greatest gift

High shelves cause her no problem at all

You don’t need a ladder when you’re tall

I have my very own giant

She’s a very sensitive soul

She doesn’t like to see people treated badly

Those bullies will need a doctor, sadly

I have my very own giant

Though tall, she enjoys being a girl

Perming her hair is an amusement source

And buying curvy Gap jeans (long, of course)

I have my very own giant

She’s friendly and a social guru

Enter a room and everyone looks

Easily remembered, she’s hard to overlook

I have my very own giant

I think I’ll keep her around

Not only is she useful aplenty

She’s my sister and best friend times twenty

Though most of the time Lauren loves her height, she still has her vulnerable moments.

There was one evening where I walked in on Corrie and Lauren. Lauren was crying. I’d brought them pizza and was planning on having a relaxed girls night. But the atmosphere of the room told me that wasn’t what was going on.

Lauren was really distressed. These weren’t little tears. I wanted to help.

The pizza had just come out of the oven when I’d cut it and placed pieces on paper plates. I’d stacked the plates so I could carry my drink, too. When I separated the plates, the cheese on one pizza stuck to the bottom of the other plate.

I stood for a moment, in Lauren’s room, looking at the cheese stuck to the bottom of the plate. For a brief second I wondered what I was going to do.

Then Lauren and Corrie laughed.

That has nothing to do with why Lauren was crying. I guess it stood out to me because I’d planned to swoop in and be the big sister that saved my little sister from the big bad wolves.

Then cheese got stuck to the bottom the plate and the mission changed.

And Lauren was struggling with feeling fat and ugly, so we ate pizza.

In this moment of Lauren’s vulnerability, she asked us to speak truth to her. I distinctly remember her saying, “Don’t tell me I’m beautiful, tell me the truth.”

I remember thinking that the truth was that she was beautiful.

But that’s not what she wanted or needed to hear.

There is a Psalm that says, “O God, How lovely are your dwelling places.” I had a Bible study leader point this out. Because we’re also the temple of the Holy Spirit, that means we are God’s dwelling places. That means we are lovely.

Years ago, when I was still in high school, I had to come to terms with certain features on my body that had always caused me grief. What helped me was suddenly realizing that God had a plan when he designed my body. It wasn’t an accident. The Baby Machine didn’t explode in my mother’s womb and God didn’t say, “Oops, I guess that’s as good as it gets.” He really wanted me to look this way.

And He really likes it.

There was this one time when I ran to Wal-Mart real quick. I was wearing grungy clothes, no make-up, and my hair wasn’t fixed. It was Wal-Mart, after all. Who dresses up to go to Wal-Mart?

But that day it was Pretty Girl Day. Not really, but it looked like it. Our little po-dunk Wal-Mart was filled with gorgeous women. I saw guys turn their heads and crane their necks to look at packs of them as they walked by.

On this day, as I walked through the produce department on my way to get some ground beef, I asked God, “God, is there anyone looking at me?”

He replied, “I am.”

And, stupid girl that I am, I answered back, “I mean, anybody else?”

Because, that’s why we feel ugly, anyway. That’s why I was self-conscience about those certain body features. I was mortified to think that anyone else noticed them.

That’s why I was self-conscience on Pretty Girl Day at Wal-Mart. I was mortified to think that no one was craning their neck to catch a glimpse of me.

But when I go back to think of God creating me in my mother’s womb. I’m not so self-conscience anymore. In fact, I’m pretty pumped.

Because, even when no one else is looking and thinking I’m beautiul or pretty or whatever, God is looking, and God says, “You’re a knock-out.”

God likes what He made and He did it on purpose.

Somehow, that’s enough.

Other Worlds

2009-12-01T21:00:00.000-06:00

Why are books like Harry Potter, Twilight, Lord of the Rings, and The Chronicles of Narnia so popular? Because they tell of another world. Why do we discover other countries, explore different places, or travel to outer space? Our innate humanity wants to believe that other worlds exist. And we want to find them.

When I was young, probably 7 or 8 years old, I had an imaginary friend. Her name was Jane. I talked to her a lot. She was my best friend. Sometimes, she would go on vacation to Imaginary Friend World. She would come back and tell me about it.

One time I visisted Imaginary Friend World. I was dreaming when it happened. I couldn’t get all the way inside, but I could at least see it. It was beautiful. And I had lots of friends there, waiting for me.

Even when I was a child, I wanted to believe other worlds existed.

Heaven is another world.

My grandmother died a few weeks ago. While she was sick, the family would take turns sitting with her, talking to her, reading to her, and singing to her. I talked to her about heaven. I wished I could describe it to her, but I couldn’t. I’ve never been there. I was excited that she got to go, and I wanted to go with her.

In C.S. Lewis’ book, The Last Battle, he talks about heaven and what people felt like when they got there.

The Unicorn summed up what everyone was feeling. He stamped his right fore-hoof on the ground and neighed and then cried:

“I have come home at last! This is my real country! I belong here. This is the land I have been looking for all my life, though I never knew it til now. The reason why we loved the old Narnia is that it sometimes looked a little like this.”

So I can imagine the prospect of dying to be a thrilling one. Of course you’d probably be nervous because you don’t know what to expect. But that comes with doing anything new and exciting. You’re always a little bit nervous.

But your excitement far outweighs the nervousness.

Someday, maybe soon, maybe in 60 years, I’ll go to that place, that other world that is way better than this world. I won’t care that I never got to see the Australian Outback or go on a Safari in Africa. (That is, if I don’t ever get to do those things. I’m still holding out hope.)

And, I think it’s going to be pretty awesome.

from the archives

2009-11-24T22:00:00.001-06:00

As I am working on a project and studying for a deadline, I am forced to dig into the archives of other writings, instead of coming up with something new. This, I'll warrant, takes a big swipe at my pride. But I'll just have to live with it.

Thanksgiving is in a couple days and Christmas shopping begins (or has begun). In our family, the children draw names for gift-buying so we only have to focus on one person instead of 8. This tradition began when my brother got married (we try to make it easy on the newlyweds). Every year, I'll write a poem of sorts to tell everyone who they'll be buying for.

This is from this year...

Christmas 2009

I thought this year to take a Christmas Poem Fast

For I am in serious need of a poetry class

But tradition won out (as traditions always do)

So I begin this poem with barely a clue

Lauren buys presents for her BFF Kate

Who buys for soccer star: Little-boy-Cabes

Caleb is able to kick a big score

By landing safely in buying for Cor

Corrie has the Ranger hunk, Nathan from the east

And while he is busy keeping the world at peace

Julie will receive his gifts with many a thanks

As she turns to take Sherry’s name from the ranks

Sherry will enjoy being creative with Jax

And Lauren will be her big sister’s task

As Jax has Lauren as her Christmas peep

She’s pretty easy, so Jax won’t loose sleep

Now it’s time for the final stanza to close

The difficulty in writing this part only shows

That poems with names are hard to complete

But shopping for presents will be an easy feat

As you probably figured out from that beautiful display of poetry, I have to shop for Caleb. I had Nathan the first year that we did this. The boys are the hardest to buy for. If I run out of ideas, I can't just go out and get accessories from Anthropologie. I actually have to think about this one.

Oh me, maybe I'll just write him a poem.

Laundry Like Crazy

2009-11-17T11:26:00.000-06:00

The way to avoided laundry gridlock when you have several people sharing a washer and dryer is to have separate, organized days for washing clothes. However, on the rare occasions that there is a crisis in the family or all family members arrive home from vacation on the same day, you’ll need to follow a few rules.

The best, most sure way to guarantee that you will be able to wash your laundry on the intended day is to rise early in the morning. Before 5AM is the recommended time. But try to avoid going back to bed for any extended period of time, or you might return to find a pile of your washed, wet clothes in a clothes basket, waiting in line for the dryer.

If you can manage to get your clothes in the washing machine, you’re pretty much guaranteed to finish a complete load of laundry. Once they make it to the machine, the person wanting to wash clothes after you is obligated to transfer your clothes to the dryer before they start their own load.

However, if you have clothes that must be line-dried, you’re at an impasse. The person wanting to wash clothes after you will take the time to remove your clothes from the washing machine but will not always be interested in hanging them up for you. You’re on your own if you need this done.

The line of clothes baskets filled with clothes waiting to be washed is not, as a rule, the order in which the clothes are washed. If you happen to be in the laundry room when the washer is free, you are not obligated to wash clothes in order. Simply insert your own clothes—regardless of where they stand in the line—into the machine. Ignore the irritated remarks you receive later. They are worth it to have your laundry completed by the end of the day.

In summary, if you need your laundry done by a specific time, you must stay alert. No falling asleep at the dial. Cell phone alarms come in handy during crisis laundry days such as these. Making a deal with opposing laundry-washers is also a good idea. Sometimes, all you need is a smile and sweet speech. But sometimes you actually have to sacrifice time, do extra work, or—on rare occasions—dish out money.

Whatever the situation, having a washing machine and dryer is much more comfortable than washing clothes by hand. But if you really get into a time crunch, it’s always good to have a metal pail and washboard handy.

Just in case.

Observing Grief

2009-11-10T14:46:00.000-06:00

There aren’t just two or three standard ways to deal with grief. There are fourteen. They are as different as the personality of each person. One person likes to give orders. It’s his way of not losing control. Another weeps and wants comfort from others. One stays busy, cleaning, cooking, making phone calls. Another jokes and talks about things, anything to keep from talking about—it. And another just wants to be near, even if it’s only curling up in a ball close by.

There is no moral or lesson to be deciphered in these ways of grief. It just happens. There isn’t a certain way that a good Christian should grieve. Sometimes it just isn’t pretty.

And sometimes it’s beautiful.

Sometimes it’s a time for people who have never connected to find a common ground.

It can be a time to find creative ways to make each other laugh.

It’s a chance to say “I love you” without using words.

It’s a chance to say “I love you” if you haven’t said it yet.

Amidst the abnormality, normal begins to develop. Normal is the back porch where everyone goes to talk on the phone. Normal is coffee in the coffee pot. Normal is friends stopping by to give hugs and bring food. Normal is eight cars in the driveway. Normal is five pillows on the couch and taking short naps whenever there is a chance. Normal is trying to be normal when normal is the last thing you really care about.

There aren’t just 2 or 3 standard ways to grieve. There are 6,783,745,476. At least that’s current world populations.

Ice Cubes in a Glass of Water

2009-11-03T16:08:00.000-06:00

My latest project is called House of Spinsters. Here is a blogified version of a piece of it. This one has a lot about my younger sister Sherry.

Your siblings don’t have to be your friends. Sometimes, it just doesn’t happen. Of course you’ll always have some things in common: same parents, same upbringing, same last name, and so on. But such things are, when you really think about it, rather unimportant.

With each of my siblings—particularly my sisters—there was a specific phase of time where they really became my friends, rather than just the girls who shared my house. The most recent of which was with Sherry.

Sherry is the sibling that gets lost in the shuffle. Every large family has one of those. People will go through the list of names, knowing there are seven of us but they can only name six. When we talk about Sherry, very often people will say, “Sherry? Now which one is Sherry again?”

It’s true. We joke about her being the forgotten child. For the most part, I don’t think she really cared. She was pretty shy and hated being center of attention. She was content to play alone and remain invisible. All through her childhood, she got her wish.

Then, one day, Sherry decided she had had enough of living in the shadows. One day she just grew up. Suddenly she was out, so out that people noticed her. It literally happened so fast we didn’t see it coming.

The kid who romped with the boys, fought with her younger brother, hated dresses and the color pink, was suddenly wearing make-up, having hour-long phone calls with girlfriends, talking about boys, caring about her clothes, her hair, and everything else.

She also developed what we affectionately referred to as a “’tude.” It’s that thing that happens to girls when they start to become women. It’s hard to describe. But all women know what it is and all men who have any experience with women know what it is. ‘Tude is the best word for it. It’s the thing that makes your hips sway and makes your eyes light up when you get a new pair of shoes. It’s also the thing that gets blamed when you get so firey, stinkin’ mad or burst into tears and you have no idea why. It just happens. It’s just a ‘tude.

I had been best friends with Corrie and Lauren for a while. A few years later, Julie joined the ranks. We loved it. The four of us had a good thing going. Honestly, one of the best parts about living at home was that I got to be there for when Julie became a woman. I loved watching her sprout up. I loved watching as people outside of our family got to enjoy the girl that I enjoyed every day. The more confident she grew, the more fun she was to have around.

We never contemplated what it would be like to have Sherry join in the fun. Suddenly, the sister I thought would be little forever wasn’t so little anymore.

The thought of actually being friends with Sherry was so far down the road for me. She is ten years younger than I am. I never really thought we’d actually have anything close to a peer relationship. If I did, it was way in the future.

But from out of nowhere, Sherry was asking me how old was too old to marry. She talked to me about God, and she really had a relationship with Him. She was helping me get ready for parties, giving me advice on my wardrobe, and telling me she wouldn’t help me paint my nails because she always messed it up. The girl who used to have trouble coming up with things to say would sit in my room and talk for hours.

My mind didn’t envision what it would be like to be friends with Sherry. But now it does. Thinking about the friendships I have with Corrie, Lauren, and Julie, makes me wonder if it’s possible to have any more. Not that I can’t handle it. I can!

The strangeness of it all is this: I didn’t meet my best friends at school or at church. They just, grew up and became. It’s like they were born to be just that.

If feel like a glass of water that is full to the brim. Toss in an ice cube or two and the water spills over a little. Toss in four ice cubes—one for each of my sisters—and the cup overflows.

two-edged sword

2009-10-28T11:51:00.000-05:00

Jesus answered the men who were getting on to Him about working on the Sabbath (i.e. healing a man by making him walk). He told them many things, but one thing that stood out to me was this: “You search the scriptures, because you think that by them you have eternal life; and it is these that bear witness of Me; and you are unwilling to come to Me, that you might have life.” Jn. 5:39

The scriptures don’t hold life. They speak about life. They speak about Christ. They show us the way to Christ. But they are not Christ.

Recently, I’ve become frustrated with Bible studies, Sunday schools, and church services where milk is being fed to people who ought to be grown adults. I hear the same things over and over, ceasing to be challenged, stimulated, or encouraged. Sometimes I’ll find myself leaning forward in my seat, listening intently, thinking I’m about to gain something to feed my hunger. My anticipation grows as one sermon after another, one video Bible study after another, one testimony after another, dances on the edge of being substantial.

Then my heart sinks a little. I walk away with no change taking place in my life.

This summer I was in a Bible study with some girls. I remember telling them at the beginning that I wanted to be changed. The info in the book we were doing was really good and I wanted it to stick and transform me. I was tired of having emotional responses to the good things, only to forget and continue life as always.

So on one hand I’m not being fed. On the other hand, I’m having an emotional response to the good stuff without actually being changed. All this indicates to me is, if I were being fed, I still wouldn’t be changed.

Referring back to the above verse, I wonder if the Bible even has the power to do that. I hear so many churches claim to be Bible based: then they disagree with the Bible-based church next door. I hear godly people claim “scripture alone” is their foundation.

You search the scriptures, because you think by them you have eternal life…

Is it possible the Bible is not enough?

It is these that bear witness of Me; and you are unwilling to come to Me, that you might have life.

Life, eternal life, the gift of righteousness, grace, reconciliation to God. These, all of these, come through Christ.

The word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword. It is the instrument in the hand of the Holy Spirit.

But it is not the Holy Spirit.

If I expect a pastor, a friend, a Bible study leader, a book, a Bible verse, to have the power to change me, I will always be disappointed.

Simultaneously, if I expect to change people by my life, my writing, my good works, I am sadly mistaken.

Christ alone is the source of all life.

Writing Again

2009-10-26T22:48:00.000-05:00

This past week, I was offered a job. It wasn’t the perfect job, but it fit the criteria for what I need at the moment. It was flexible, not high-stress, and paid well enough. It was a good atmosphere, and I wouldn’t have to work nights or weekends.

I was crazy not to take it.

However, the three days between accepting the offer and when I was actually to begin work, a series of miscommunications led to the job being given to someone else.

I was a slightly shocked.

The would-be employer called me and apologized, offering me first-dibs on a different job. This time I turned it down.

I didn’t turn it down because I was bitter or angry or anything. I turned it down because I realized something. I’m not sure if I’m seeing things clearly. I’m not sure if I’m just using it as an excuse to be lazy. But sometimes, you have the opportunity to do what you really want to do.

I believe God has called me to writing. And I have to walk on in that belief, trusting Him to lead me as He chooses. Because a job isn’t just a job when you’re working for God.

I have the luxury of not having to choose a job that is financially stable. I can live with my parents for forever. When they get sick of me, I’m sure by then a few of my siblings will have their own homes and I can move in with them and be the super-cool aunt who watches the dog when they go on vacation and gives the kids candy before bed time.

If anything I will be like Donald Miller who says this about writing in his book Blue Like Jazz:

Writers don’t make any money at all. We make about a dollar. It is terrible. But then again, we don’t work either. We sit around in our underwear until noon then go downstairs and make some coffee, fry some eggs, read the paper, read part of a book, smell the book, wonder if perhaps we ourselves should work on our book, smell the book again, throw the book across the room because we are quite jealous that any other person wrote a book, feel terribly guilty about throwing the shmuck’s book across the room because we secretly wonder if God in heaven noticed our evil jealously, or worse, our laziness. Then we lie facedown across the couch and mumble to God to forgive us because we are secretly afraid He is going to dry up all our words because we envied another man’s stupid words. And for this, as I said before, we are paid a dollar. We are worth so much more.

So I guess I’m just scared to have faith that God can really provide for me through writing. But why am I afraid? What is there to be afraid of? I have no idea. I guess I’m just floundering, hoping a miracle will happen.

But sometimes the miracle is just digging in and doing it. Get my hands dirty and see what kind of mess I can make. Maybe it’s time to be driven just a little bit. Maybe it’s time to stoke the fire.

I have no idea what this looks like.

I can’t do this by myself.

It’s a good thing I don’t have to.

I think it’s time for bed.

Let's Pretend

2009-10-14T11:41:00.000-05:00

Sometimes, I pretend that I am a columnist. My blog is this super-sonic magazine or newspaper that has thousands of readers. My Column is due every week.

I meet with my editor on Fridays. During this meeting I inform him that I don’t want to reveal my idea for the column, it’d be easier to just write it.

This, of course, is code for “I don’t have an idea but I’m sure I’ll think of one before the deadline arrives.”

Then the deadline is upon me. My excuse for not having written my column yet is because I’ve been so busy answering fan mail; I didn’t have a chance to come up with anything.

So I go to friends and family and ask them for an idea. Their ideas are mediocre but definitely something I will keep in mind for the next time I can’t come up with anything. But this week, they just aren’t working for me.

Then I go check my list of future column ideas. These ideas are saved for rainy days when I can’t come up with anything to write. I survey this list and, unfortunately, they just aren’t working for me, either.

I spend a few hours stalking other columnists and Facebook profiles, trying to come up with that one, grab-me, idea.

The deadline is here. I have only a few hours. I’m staring at the screen. I have to start writing something. Anything.

So I begin to type. It begins with “Let’s Pretend.” I imagine that I am a columnist for a super-sonic magazine or newspaper that has thousands of readers. My column is due every week…

Gotta Love Pole Dancers

2009-10-06T19:44:00.000-05:00

A topic of conversation has lately been circulating throughout the house. This conversation began when my younger sister Sherry informed me that she told one of her friends that she (the friend) shouldn’t like Miley Cyrus because she (MC) pole dances and calls Brittney Spears her role model.

The friend replied that God loves everybody so she, in turn, loves everybody and Sherry should also love everybody, because doesn’t Sherry sin too?

This became a conversation about weather or not God really does love everybody. Such a question doesn’t have an easy answer. It certainly doesn’t have a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answer.

The final answer that we came up with is: maybe. Maybe He does love everyone and maybe He doesn’t. There is indication of both in scripture. So the final prognosis is that God has a much greater capacity to love than I could ever dream of being capable of. He has an over-abundance of love that is pouring out constantly on nations that mock Him and spurn Him daily. Life itself indicates that God has more tolerance for people than I can even fathom.

So the answer is: There is a good chance that God could love everybody in the whole world. There is also a good chance that there are a few who have actually earned His hatred. Who are those unlucky few? I guess we’ll never know.

Since that question can’t be answered easily, I’ll turn to an easier one.

As this conversation was finding it’s way between siblings, another question arose. Should we, as God’s children, love Miley Cyrus and Brittney Spears?

When Caleb asked me if I thought we were supposed to love pole dancers, I replied, “Sure. And sometimes it’s easier to love pole dancers than it is to love some Christians.”

This question, at least, has an easy answer. God says, “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.” Phew. That was simple enough. And I wouldn’t exactly put Miley Cyrus or Brittney Spears in the “enemy” category. We’re in safe water; it’s okay to love them, even if they do dance with poles.

You Follow Me

2009-09-29T12:11:00.000-05:00

I’ve been convicted about something today: people watching. I do it a lot. I’m not talking about sitting in a park and observing cute couples strolling in romantic aura, or joggers sporting the latest exercise attire, or young mothers sporting the latest stroller from Kids-R-Us. I’m talking about watching people to see if they are doing what is right. Or, if they are doing something new and daring, watching to see how it turns out. I’m talking about comparing my actions with the actions of someone else. I’m talking about constantly standing my life next to someone else’s and saying, more times a day than I care to admit, “If I do this, my life will turn out that way. But if I do that, it will turn out another way, because that’s what so-and-so did and that’s how it turned out for them.”

That’s when the dear old C.S. Lewis came into my quiet time this morning to give me something to think about. The title of the excerpt from Mere Christianity was Follow Thou Me. It refers to the last scene in the book of John where Jesus tells Peter how he (Peter) is going to die. Peter than asks Jesus how John, the disciple whom Jesus loved, is going to die. Jesus replies, “…What is that to you? You follow Me!”

I worked at a Christian concert one year, selling goods for TobyMac. The great thing about working the TobyMac stand was that I could go to the concert for free. On breaks from working the stand, of course.

During the evening, a lady came to buy items from the stand. Well, she actually didn’t buy anything, she just looked. She gave me an odd feeling by the way she looked and smiled at me and because when I asked her how she was doing she replied, “Blessed.” You don’t hear that every day. It was a little weird.

Later I saw her in the concert and she was really into the music, even though the song playing wasn’t really a get-into sort of song. The same odd feeling came over me that had come over me when she said, “Blessed.” Right there, amidst he colored lights and banging drums, I asked God what He thought about the lady.

God didn’t answer.

I instantly knew why. The lady was not my responsibility. She was God’s. What was it to me to know what God thought of her? I must follow God. Her walk with God was between her and God. And, for the record, there was nothing wrong with her saying, “Blessed” or getting into the music.

So many times I try to figure out my life by looking at others. But Christ says, “You follow Me,” and He means it. It’s such a simple concept. At least, it sounds simple. Even so, I’m a long way from figuring out exactly what it means, or exactly what it looks like.

I guess that’s why I look at other people. I’m trying to figure out what following Christ looks like. But maybe, if I looked at Christ instead, I’d have a little better idea.

But what exactly does that look like?

First-Generation Dorks

2009-09-22T14:09:00.000-05:00

We have all experienced it—the embarrassment of admitting we were homeschooled. Equaled with the embarrassment is a swelling of pride when someone is shocked at the news, because they “never would have guessed.”

Just as rebellious teenagers ruin the image of all teenagers everywhere, those socially inept, fashionably challenged homeschoolers have ruined the image of every homeschool graduate that exists today. Though we try so hard to fight the stereotype, we can never break away from the labels or defeat the image of a metal-mouthed, bad-acned, dork who wrote code for a college entrance essay at the age of 16.

Our parents tell us to be proud. But somewhere in the late teens we realized that the ease with which they encourage us is aided by the fact that they were never homeschooled. Perhaps the labels and images applied to homeschool mothers is another topic altogether.

True, there was a period of time where we took pride in our homeschooledness. This usually occurred in the company of adults who were amazed at the ease with which we conversed with them and passed on accolades to our parents, marveling at our maturity in handling circumstances beyond our years.

Our peers might have told us a different story if their parents had not silenced them first.

As the product of first-generation homeschooling, we experience many phases of Post-Homeschool World. One of which is to be, dare I say it, disgusted with other homeschoolers. We resort to tactics that propel us far from this world. Sometimes this includes strange piercings, colored hair, and, occasionally, tattoos. But alas, these tactics only prove to reveal our homeschool heritage even more, for we do not know how to wear our differences with confidence. As the usual tactics fail us, we approach the phase of reconciling our pasts with our futures.

It often takes a while for a former child homeschooler to realize the benefits of their homeschooled life. It often takes us a while to go from “I will never homeschool my children,” to “I am open and willing.” Often we reach a place where we can say that homeschooling is the only option unless providentially inhibited.

To add to this future confidence is the observation of our previously homeschooled friends. They pioneer a new age as second-generation homeschoolers and they actually seem to be enjoying it. The initial fear of a homeschool mom is non-existent (they once wrestled through this with their own mothers). Balancing house cleaning, friendships with other women, and friendships for their children, seem easier as there are fewer unknowns. They know from experience that their children will learn what they need to know when they need to know it and relax around the academic world. This provides more learning opportunities as stress is expended to other areas. They enjoy their children. Their husband, who is also a product of homeschooling, is supportive and encouraging, as he has watched his own mother struggle with unnecessary fears and stresses. Maybe, he even helps out a little. These women actually homeschool because they want to, not because they feel an obligation or duty. This adds a completely new element to homeschooling that we, as the first generation, rarely experienced in our secluded sphere.

Time can only tell what sort of adults the second generation will produce. Meanwhile, as homeschooling continues to increase in popularity, the threat of the stereotypical homeschooler continues to lessen. We grow strong as we recognize that we, too, have a place in this world. Our childhoods, though perhaps dysfunctional and misdirected, were merely the birth pains of a different sort of people who are comfortable with creating new traditions. If this alone were the only result of our parents fumbling efforts, we can be confident that such an enormous feat of societal rebellion has had its reward.

For who can stand against the metal-mouthed dork who has come into his own?

Some days are a total waste of make-up.

2009-09-18T10:48:00.000-05:00

In the midst of turmoil, one often has the urge to lighten life’s mood with sarcasm or something akin to wit.

A few weeks ago, I wrote about how my sister and I spent an entire day climbing, only to discover that we had accidentally climbed the wrong mountain (this discovery was made after we reached the summit). I did not write that when we reached the top—tired, grumpy, and discouraged as we were—we decided to let out the string of profanities that, on a normal day, we would never admit to thinking. After all, we were on a 13,995ft mountain; no one could hear us; and why are curse words bad, anyway?

Another time, I arrived home late in the evening and went on a search for Corrie and Lauren, the two sisters who were usually awake at that hour. I found them in Corrie’s room. Corrie was cleaning her room (often a sign that things are not right in the world). She was crying and Lauren was attempting to comfort her, or at least be an ear to vent to. I climbed on her bed that was covered with the bedspread that no one was allowed to sit on and, instead of offering the big sister advice or encouragement that was usually expected at such moments, I advised her to “eat chocolate and die.”

At such times as these, death by chocolate seems like a good solution to all of life’s problems.

Last night, Lauren spent the night in my room. We talked about serious things at first. We also cried a little. Our conversation eventually drifted to our appearances. Lauren informed me how a guy-friend of hers had discovered she was insecure about her height (she is 5’10”) and other things. He, instead of making fun of her, wisely made positive jokes about her appearance. This increased her respect for him as well as made her feel good.

As we lay on my bed, I mulled this over. I have always called Lauren my Very Own Friendly Giant. I wondered if this was considered a positive or negative joke. I then realized that I should follow this fellow’s example of being encouraging about her insecurities, rather than making fun of them. At which point I decided to give this whole “positive joking” thing a try. So I told her, in the most encouraging voice I could muster, “You are a really great friendly giant.”

She laughed, but this was followed with an admonition to work on my positive joking skills.

Sometimes in life, you just need a little pick-me-up. Like chocolate Moose Tracks ice cream, or a cup of coffee with lots of cream and sugar, or a chick flick with lots of cheesy lines.

I once saw a greeting card that had this old lady on the front. She was wearing tons of make-up, had her hands on her hips, and was wearing an angry expression. You open the card and it reads, “Some days are just a total waste of make-up.”

I must find this card and send it to a friend who is having a rough week…

Cramming

2009-09-08T21:35:00.001-05:00

Cramming for a writing assignment that is due in a few days. After that, I'll be back with another "article." Can't decide if this next one will be funny or serious. Maybe it will be both. Maybe, it will be so spectacular that I'll win the pulitzer and never have to write again.

Wouldn't that be nice...

Being Whole in Him

2009-08-31T20:51:00.000-05:00

Below is an outline of a talk given by Jessica Mills. She was single until the age of 29. During her single years, God taught her many lessons and she has committed to pass on what she learned to the next generation.

I was present for the talk and found it inspiring and encouraging—not cliché or condescending, as some “singleness” talks can be. The talk was directed towards young women, but there were men, and married couples, present.

Jessica’s learning ground was a series of bad relationships with the wrong guys. She shared her testimony (including how she met her husband) at the beginning of her talk. Today she is married with 3 children.

Being whole in HIM – Jessica Mills

Deer Valley – AUGUST 2009

Lessons learned:

* Only God can change people – I can’t

* I must trust God with HIS best for me.

* I learned from the WORD how precious masculinity is. I needed to learn to treat it with respect, just like I like my femininity to be treated.

* Establish and nurture mentoring relationships with older and younger sisters in the Body. Make sure that there is giving and receiving. Wise older sisters need to be approached for advice, prayer and counsel.

* Position yourself to have relationships of accountability and always check how teachable you are– constantly monitor the condition of your heart .i.e motivations, attitudes, etc.

* Recognize what you don’t want in a man; in life.

* Constantly work on your identity being rooted in Christ, not the need to be needed. My need to be needed was the bait for the bad guys.

* Be careful never to stand between a person and the cross. Get out of the way and stand beside them—not in front of them.

Doing Life: day-to-day practical tips:

Realize that your walk with the Lord is YOUR responsibility – always – and we will all stand before HIM – alone!

Can you answer the following questions for yourself?

- Are you in the centre of God’s will for your life? If not, seek and you shall find.

- Can you hear God’s voice?

- What are your dreams, desires, calling, purpose?

Do you actively take your thoughts captive?

(Recommended reading ‘The battlefield of the Mind’ by Joyce Meyer)

Are you guarding your heart? Watch out for romance novels and films, fashion magazines, etc – they do not line up with God’s Word. A great Christian fiction author – Francine Rivers.

Speak life about yourself and others – watch your tongue. Beware of man bashing and negativity about your singleness.

Journal – keep notes of verses and share your dreams and desires with the Lord. Leave them in the journal and LIVE. Watch the Lord come through when you read it all later and be encouraged.

Verses that have really encouraged me:

Love the Lord with all your heart……………..

(Mat 6:33 NIV) But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.

(Prov 3:5-8 NIV) Trust in the LORD with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight. Do not be wise in your own eyes; fear the LORD and shun evil. This will bring health to your body and nourishment to your bones.

(Psa 121:1-8 NIV) A song of ascents. I lift up my eyes to the hills-- where does my help come from? My help comes from the LORD, the Maker of heaven and earth. He will not let your foot slip-- he who watches over you will not slumber; indeed, he who watches over Israel will neither slumber nor sleep. The LORD watches over you-- the LORD is your shade at your right hand; the sun will not harm you by day, nor the moon by night. The LORD will keep you from all harm-- he will watch over your life; the LORD will watch over your coming and going both now and forevermore.

(John 10:10 NIV) The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.

(Gal 2:20 NIV) I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me. The life I live in the body, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me.

(2 Cor 3:18 NIV) And we, who with unveiled faces all reflect the Lord's glory, are being transformed into his likeness with ever-increasing glory, which comes from the Lord, who is the Spirit.

(Luke 6:38 NIV) Give, and it will be given to you. A good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over, will be poured into your lap. For with the measure you use, it will be measured to you."

My prayer for you: (Eph 3:16-21 NIV) I pray that out of his glorious riches he may strengthen you with power through his Spirit in your inner being, so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith. And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the saints, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge--that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God. Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen.

The Climb

2009-08-27T10:11:00.001-05:00

“I can’t do this,” I said. Another rock slipped from under my footing, broke loose, and tumbled down the side of the mountain. “I can’t do this, God. I can’t.” Sobs that formed in my chest made breathing even more difficult than the altitude of near 14,000 ft.

I looked behind me, back at the place I had come from. Fear flooded me as I saw the height. The boulders that were as big as I was looked like pebbles. I turned away and focused my gaze upwards. But that didn’t help. My sister was far ahead of me and was growing smaller by the second. As she grew smaller, I became more aware of how far I still had to go.

I was terrified.

I couldn’t believe that people did this for fun. They were all insane. I was never going to climb again. I wanted desperately to stop where I was and end the misery. The further up I climbed the more work I was creating for myself. For once I reached the top, I only had to climb back down again. The thought made me angry and scared at the same time. What was I doing? What was the point?

I reached the top a half hour later. I was shaking with exhaustion and had to force myself to not think about the descent. Not five minutes after I had collapsed on the rocks to eat my lunch, Lauren wanted to know if I was ready to go back down.

No! I wanted to scream No, I don’t want to go back down! I can’t even move right now. How am I going to make it back down? I wanted to cry. What was I doing? I was stuck at the top of a 14,000ft Mt. I had to go back down. There wasn’t another option.

Going down was almost as difficult as going up. It was certainly more painful. My knees and feet told me to back off and slow down. The rocks were uncertain and sometimes slipped or shifted when I stepped on them. Once I slipped on a rock, fell backwards, and hit my hip on another rock. I felt the pain take over the lower part of my body and I began to cry.

I rolled my ankles several times. One time I rolled it so bad that I fell over completely. I’m still shocked that I didn’t break or sprain anything. If I had, I would have been stuck in the wilderness, miles from civilization and from help.

After walking miles through woods we finally reached our car. Relief that the hike was over was overshadowed by the realization that we had been hiking for 9 hours. I climbed stiffly into the car. What in the world had I just done?

As we drove away from our adventure, I wished that I could say something profound. I wished that could say that the view from the top of the mountain had made the hike worth it. I wish that I could say the fun Lauren and I had, the few jokes we cracked, or the memory that we made had made the pain more bearable. I wished that I could be proud of myself for persevering when the going got tough. I wish I could see it as a wonderful spiritual experience where I saw the hand of God bring me through.

But I couldn’t. It hurt all the way up, and the mountain’s summit was only half way, rather than a huge accomplishment. Sure, I got to rest at the top. But I knew I was only resting up for a more painful climb back down the way I had come. I couldn’t see half way as almost over. Even when we reached the base and had to hike the trail through the woods, back to the car, it seemed longer than when we first began. I hurt and was miserable. And God seemed very far away.

Because of the pain, I prayed and cried out to God the whole way up and the whole way down. I begged for some sort of deliverance, for the pain to go way, for some encouragement that He was with me and had not forgotten me.

In life, out side of the mountain, I was going through a trial. It was a trial that plagued me my whole life. When I was younger, I kept waiting expectantly for it to end. I knew it would all be over someday.

Then, I snapped. A thought hit me that it might never be over. A thought hit me that I might be dealing with this trial my entire life. A thought hit me that the little breaks I got were not the end; they were only a rest before the trial began again. And each time the trial seemed to be growing worse, rather than better.

I had reached a breaking point. I was tired of my trial and I hated it. Because God had failed to deliver me, I decided I had to deliver myself. But, like the mountain, there was no way out. Once I went up, I had to go back down. There was no deliverance. Anger and fear gripped me. There were no happy words or cliché statements that would make it all better. It was and always would be.

I felt as if my life were crumbling. I felt as if I had no hope. Would it ever end?

Worse than the fear that it would never end was the fear that it was all for nothing. I didn’t mention before that when Lauren and I reached the top of the mountain, we opened the canister that was attached at the top with a chain. In the canister was a logbook for all the climbers that had made it to the top. When we opened that canister, my heart sank.

We had climbed the wrong mountain.

Rather than the 14,000ft Tabuash Mountain it was the 13,995ft Grizzly Mountain. It was the tallest thirteener but did not qualify as a fourteener. And it was the wrong mountain.

Seemingly meaningless pain that dragged out longer than I thought it should. What could be more miserable? Just when it seemed to be getting better, it got worse. I was faced with having to climb down when it was the last thing I wanted to do. But I didn’t have a choice.

I didn’t choose the trial that plagued my life. The pain was there, constant and steady. The end had disappeared from sight.

What now?

I had to keep going. I didn’t have a choice. I could crumble under depression. I could scream at the sky. I could curse the day I was born.

Or, I could keep going.

Amidst it all—the climb up, the climb down, and the trial in my life—my spirit was asking me a question. It was a question that determines all things, the outcome of our life, and how we are going to get through. Is God still good?

Is God still good?

Well, is He?

Even when the circumstances around me are dictating a different story, I know He is. I don’t know this because I have evidence, gifted knowledge, or a glimpse into the future. There is something inside that knows this and reminds me of this, even when my head and heart are dictating something different.

I am in the bubble of present circumstances. I can’t see anything outside of the bubble. What is behind me doesn’t look good. What is in front of me looks even worse. But…

Is He still good?

Yes.

The past hurts, and the thought of going forward is painful.

But, God is good, and He loves me.

Job may never have known what was taking place in the heavenly realms as his misery began and slowly became worse. He may have never known that his story would be written to encourage billions of people. But who his God was never changed.

And his God was good.

So is mine.

Sunsets Don't Wait

2009-08-19T13:57:00.000-05:00

I remember her greeting and her smile. It was the first time I remember her singling me out to be nice to me. I’d been to her house several times and rarely received more than a hello. This time, she said my name and asked how I was doing. We talked as if we were friends—as if we had always been friends. She said goodbye.

She didn’t know she would find her brother dead in his house later that afternoon.

I talked to a friend on the phone this week. She told me how a car accident caused the death of an older woman in her life. She commented on the funeral: “They didn’t talk about her occupation, they talked about the way she lived her life.”

The way she lived her life.

Last week, I read through one of my favorite books of the Bible: Ecclesiastes. The way I perceive the book, it appears as if the writer is saying, “You might as well enjoy life. It doesn’t last very long.”

A recent study of Psalms brought to my attention several verses that say, “Cease striving,” “Do not fret,” “Know that I am God.”

Such a large part of life is Rest. Such a large part of life is daily, little things like saying someone’s name when I say hi to them.

An author and speaker, Margaret Jensen, who last year went to be with Jesus, tells a story about a time when she was cleaning her kitchen and cooking. Her son came into the kitchen saying, “Mom, the sunset is beautiful. Come watch the sunset.” She replied, “Oh I have so much cleaning and cooking to do. I don’t have time right now. It will have to wait.” Her son replied, “Mom, sunsets don’t wait.” So she dried her hands on her apron and went to watch the sun set.

Sunsets don’t wait.

Saying hi doesn’t wait.

Living life won’t wait.

The Scoop

2009-08-10T12:47:00.000-05:00

I am looking into a writing contest for Good Housekeeping magazine. My grandmother found the information on the contest and passed it along. I love it when people give me writing ideas. Sometimes it can be burdensome, but a lot of times it stretches my views and expands the walls of my writer’s box.

That’s also exactly what a writing contest does. I enter contests for the exercise. Usually the topic is something completely foreign to me (like an essay on one of Tolstoy’s short stories). It’s a chance to experience something new and see how far my imagination will carry me.

It’s also a chance to try out my writing on something that might actually turn a profit. I always enter contests with a little inkling of hope that maybe, just maybe, I’ll be the grand-prize winner. So far, no money yet, but when your chosen profession is an art, everything you try your hand at is a risk. And just like all other risks, you’ll always grow and learn, even if you fail.

The winners for the contest are not announced until December, so I can’t post my story until after that. I hope to share it on the Coffee Shop of Talk at the beginning of the new year.

To Please God

2009-07-22T12:53:00.000-05:00

Can pleasing God become an idol? Can the desire to do the right thing become out of balance? Is it wrong for the phrase that I utter so often, “I just want to do the right thing. I just want to please God,” to become odious to me?

I am surrounded by people who just want to make God happy. As I stand in a room, watching these wonderful, God-fearing people, strive for God’s approval, my heart begins to hurt. My throat constricts with the tears that I suppress.

Something is wrong, but I don’t have the words.

How do you tell someone—better yet, how do you tell yourself—that pleasing God is out of balance? It’s what we were created to do. The motivation behind all of our petty purposes in life is to be pleasing to God. But this purpose in life has become a god in itself. But how?

A man in a pulpit, or just at his kitchen table, speaks the truth with force and conviction. I’ve seen it happen so many times. There is this confidence, this power, that embodies his words. It’s as if, before he began speaking, he said to himself, “Aha, I have found out what pleases God. Let me tell the world.” He is able to communicate it in a concise fashion, easy for his family or congregation to understand, because it makes so much sense to him. To have a one-sentence answer to the question: “What is your purpose in life?” is freeing and powerful.

It is also infectious.

We all want to know what we can do to make our lives go well. The shorter the list the better; but a list nonetheless. Scripture verses for support add weight to our convictions. We use our minds to decipher the way. The more intelligent, more articulate the person, the more likely that person will be our leader.

My heart is aching for a place. A place to go where striving can cease. I am weary of this unachievable goal. I am weary of the competition to be most pleasing to God. I am weary of seeking after His approval. I ache to come unto Him as a little child. I ache to rest in His arms. After all, He says He is a refuge and strength. He protects us in the shadow of His wings. He promises me nothing will separate me from His love.

God! I can’t do it anymore. Where is the blood of Christ that saved me? Did it wash me at the door, simply to let me in, but once inside, the dirt can come again?

Sequel to The Games We Play

2009-07-08T14:23:00.000-05:00

I just finished playing a game of “Seek and Suck” with my nephew Eli. The game consists of placing an object a few inches in front of Eli. He pushes himself along until he can grasp the object with his tiny hands and then pull it into his mouth where he proceeds to suck or gnaw the object into obliteration.

One time the object was a juice bottle. The bottle was round so every time he touched it it would roll further away. Five-month-old babies have more patience than grown adults. Long after I was frustrated for him, he kept after the juice bottle with determination, clueless as to why it wouldn’t stay still.

In considering the games we play, relationships—the modern day excuse for love—are a lot like that juice bottle. And we are the five-month-old baby. As soon as we come close, so close, to grasping that much sought after true love, we do the thing we think will bring it closer. We reach out and touch it. But this act proves to be the very act that pushes it away. Then, like Eli, we cluelessly start the process all over again.

Sometimes, we clueless infants will manage to push that juice bottle into a corner. It holds still so we can get a hold of it easily. When people ask us, “how did you do it?” we don’t really have an answer. Our infantile brain has no idea what happened. We’re just happy we got lucky and can suck on our very own juice bottle while everyone else is still seeking—cluelessly—after theirs.

If Eli had the metal capability to form a plan, he might have figured out what was wrong with his approach to the juice bottle. If he was wiser than the average baby, he might have been able to figure it out without ever making a mistake. But as an infant, we wouldn’t expect him to be able to figure it out. Instead, we’ll reach down and help him. We’ll place the bottle directly into his arms so he can suck as much as his heart desires. And he would accept our help without even realizing what happened.

Lately, I’ve had numerous discussions with different people about the games we play. Everyone has a different approach, but the major rules are the same. Most everyone agrees that the guy should do the initiating and the girl should do the responding, or the rejecting, based on the situation. Most everyone agrees that if one or both parties are not happy in the relationship, the relationship should discontinue until further notice or terminate altogether.

But that’s just Act I. What about the rest of the story? What about the “how do you know it’s right?” part? Or better yet, how do you know it’s not right? That is the most important question and until we figure it out, our juice bottle will continue to elude us.

If the answer were concrete, black and white, and, for that matter, simple, we’d have a lot fewer heart breaks and a lot more successful marriages. If only there truly were a formula to follow that equaled happiness in matrimony one hundred percent of the time.

Alas, the books upon books of wise literates have never been able to discover this foolproof—or infant-proof—formula. Some of these books have guided us towards the truth. Others have done nothing more than to cause more harm and confusion to an already confusing process.

But the keys of the helpful books have been simple. Difficult, but simple. And those keys lie in the one truth that when it comes to relationships, we truly are infants. We are not mentally capable of figuring out how to corner our juice bottle. If we were, there would be no need for God.

When I handed Eli his juice bottle, I was bigger, stronger, wiser, and I was the one who had placed the juice bottle in front of him in the first place. I desired that Eli have his juice bottle, so I gave it to him and enjoyed watching him play with it.

Similarly, God is bigger, stronger, wiser, and is the creator of the juice bottle (i.e. relationships, love, marriage, attraction, the works). When he gives us our juice bottle, it’s because he wants us to have it and enjoys watching us enjoy his creation.

Sure he allows us to seek after and push our juice bottle away. He also allows us to corner it ourselves. But through it all, he is the overseer of the process.

Success comes not when we’ve discovered a formula for capturing our juice bottle. Success comes when we recognize, and are content with, our infant state. Juice bottle or no juice bottle, our wisdom is only equal to a newborn’s when it is compared to God’s.

God loves his children. I believe, for our sakes, he let’s our lack of success in these areas cause us to depend on him like little babies. Sometimes we get our juice bottle before we’ve learned infant dependence. Some of us learn dependence but have to wait a long time before God hands us our juice bottle.

I wish I knew the why’s, when’s, where’s, and how’s of God. But infant dependence requires faith in God and his mysteries. Infant dependence requires faith that the juice bottle will be handed to me when it’s time.

Meanwhile, we have to remember that we’re all just babes.

The Games We play

2009-06-29T11:00:00.001-05:00

Low and behold, I was having one of those relationship talks with a good guy friend. It was one of those talks where you get all the juicy info about what guys are thinking and you share what girls are thinking and you both just help each other out.

I love having talks like that, especially since my big bro lives far away and my little bro is…well, he’s little. They can’t really help me out much. I need my guy friends’ supreme knowledge.

Anyway, we came up with a list of what is meant by the phrase: “I don’t want to ruin the friendship.” It’s humorous to me, but, at the same time, so true. There are 2 for the girl and only 1 for the guy. We couldn’t come up with any others, so the list is incomplete as of now. But I’d thought I’d share.

#1 Girl: “I could care less about the friendship, I just don’t want people to think I’m a jerk.” (Also, the girl doesn’t want to hurt the guy’s feelings by saying, “dude, I just don’t like you.” So “I don’t want to ruin the friendship” is usually the cop-out answer).

#2 Guy: “I want to ruin the friendship with something more, but I don’t want you to stop talking to me, so in hopes that you will one day like me too, I’ll keep things ‘just friends.’” (this is usually used when the guy knows the girl doesn’t like him—whether she’s stated it outright or not—but he still likes her so he’ll keep things casual so she won’t tell him to get lost).

#3 Girl: “I like the attention so please don’t stop. But I have no interest in you whatsoever.” (The girl is aware that the guy likes her—maybe they’ve even had a conversation—and she knows he’s not about to leave her alone and technically she doesn’t want him to. She’ll tell him to cool it by saying, “let’s not ruin our friendship.” He, in turn, wants her to keep talking to him—as stated in the example above—so he abides by her wishes while maintaining hopes that she’ll come to her senses.)

Then, there are those rare people who truly enjoy the friendship for the sake of the friendship and have no selfish motivations for wanting to preserve it. But, in the affaires of love, I’m becoming more convinced that this is all but extinct.

The only solution to this problem—if it is concluded that this is even a problem at all—is to return to the ancient system of arranged marriages. But I’m sure the system of arranged marriages has it’s own share of problems (which is why we no longer abide by this tradition). The problems of our day would only be exchanged for others.

In the affairs of love, there are mysteries beyond our comprehension. The guy-girl dynamic is constantly keeping me, and all of my friends, guessing, speculating, and on the edge of our seats. This is sometimes annoying but oftentimes fun and invigorating. I have to remind myself that I can rest and let the Great Matchmaker God do His thing while simultaneously being thankful that I don’t live in an era where I have to look forward to meeting my husband, for the first time, at the alter on our wedding day.

The games we play are much more welcome than that.

Laugh or Cry? You choose...

2009-06-15T16:41:00.000-05:00

After I wrote this, I went back and re-read it. I laughed because of the melodrama.

However, I let two sisters and two friends read it. They said they cried and that it left them feeling depressed. I suppose I only laughed because I was the author.

What feeling does it give you?

---

Once upon a time, there was a girl. She was not an ordinary girl, but no one knew this. Everyone—her aunts, uncles, cousins, parents, grandparents and brothers and sister—all thought she was quite normal.

This girl had a heart that was broken. Like Eleanor from Sense and Sensibility she had a secret love that she could tell no one about. She loved a boy, but the boy did not love her back. And unlike Eleanor, she knew with certainty that the boy was her friend. Only her friend.

So this girl, this unordinary girl, lived an ordinary life. She worked, laughed, sang, and enjoyed her small circle of family and friends. She lived as if her heart were whole, and every time she lost a piece of it to the boy that she loved, she would pretend as if the piece were still intact. She lived the life of a woman who had never endured rejection, but every day that she loved a boy that did not love her back, she endured a silent rejection that a month of tears could never mourn.

Therefore, the girl hoped, the girl waited, the girl dreamed. In the moments when she was alone, she would laugh at herself and call herself crazy. Then she would cry. She would cry so hard that she feared her chest would burst.

Once, when she was sitting at the dinner table with several aunts, uncles, cousins, sisters, brothers, and her parents, she placed a hand over her heart and remarked, “My chest hurts.”

In a family such as hers, such remarks must be repeated several times in a series of days in order for anyone to take notice. Perhaps she received a look from one or two aunts that could be understood as sympathy. But those looks were quickly distracted by something more important.

It was no matter. The girl did not want sympathy. The girl did not want someone to understand. The girl did not want an excuse to eat chocolate or weep in public. The girl only wanted the boy to love her. And she knew the boy never would.

Calm My Anxious Heart

2009-06-08T13:50:00.001-05:00

It was impossible to keep our conversations from being overheard by the rest of the Panera Bread constituents. With ten girls crammed around a too-small table, we had to speak rather loudly so girls on both ends of the table could hear us. This meant that anyone within 15 feet of our table could also hear us. We soon gave up trying to be quiet, glad we had the freedom to read our Bibles and talk about God in a public place. We hoped our fellow customers would be understanding.

When I agreed to be a part of the Friday morning Bible study, I didn’t plan on getting much out of it. The study of the book Calm My Anxious Heart was on a topic I didn’t think I needed. I’m not a habitually anxious person. But after I read the first chapter, I realized how much anxiety really existed in my life.

When I used to think of anxiety, I pictured a worrisome old lady that had to take heart medication because she allowed anxiety to rule her life. That example truly exists in the world, but this is anxiety in its extreme. Anxiety, I have discovered, is any form of worry, discontent, or feelings of apprehension, nervousness, or disquiet.

Wow. Anxiousness goes much deeper in my life than I had realized.

As soon as the study began, I started seriously pursuing agents and editors for my writing. Actually, I’d been seriously pursuing them for a while, but suddenly I was anxious about it. This past week I have had an overwhelming weight in my chest that no amount of praying has been able to lift.

I’m re-memorizing Philippians 4:4-8. I’ll tell myself several times throughout the day, “Everything, through prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. Be anxious for nothing, be anxious for nothing, be anxious for nothing…”

The title of the book Calm My Anxious Heart has become my sometimes hourly prayer. I had no idea that true anxiety was so present in my life.

Though praying and memorizing scripture has been helpful and has proven to calm my anxious heart whenever I focus on it, it’s not a recipe for success. It’d be too easy if it were. I’m having to learn to present my requests to God and then leave those requests with Him instead of carrying them away with me when I go throughout the day. Reminding myself that God is King forever and ever has more of a calming affect than anything. What does worrying accomplish? God has the power to fight for me, more so than I have to fight for myself.

It’s an ongoing struggle, battle, and possible all-out war. As I remember seasons of spiritual struggles in the past, I am able to see how anxiety was just one more thing I was fighting against. Just because I wasn’t hyperventilating or screaming hysterically, doesn’t mean I wasn’t worried.

Now, with writing I have to remind myself that if God called me to this profession, He already has a plan of action formulated. He tells me pieces of the plan when it’s necessary for me to know. I guess He knows that if He told me the whole plan, it’d overwhelm me and I’d feel responsible for making it happen. I guess it’s best to be delightfully ignorant until the appointed time. God knows how worrisome we can be so He takes steps to keep us in the dark as much as possible.

I used to think He was being mean. Now I realize He’s being good, protective, sparing me more responsibility than I can handle. What I used to see as God withholding is really God taking care of me and doing what is necessary to calm my anxious heart.

Distracted to Devotion

2009-06-01T08:49:00.000-05:00

The word “devotional” is used in my vocabulary like the words “quiet time.” It’s something you do. It’s something every good Christian practices and knows the meaning of. But today I thought of that word differently. Or at least, I actually thought about what it really means.

The first part of the word “devotional” is “devotion.” Definitions for devotion are listed as: committed love, dedication, and enthusiasm. With this as the guidance for my daily devotional, I’ve always been concerned that I would grow bored of this small thing I do in the mornings, intended for focusing on committed love, dedication, and enthusiasm for God.

I sat on the front porch. It was a cool morning. Perfectly cool. Neither too cold nor too hot. I love summer for the very reason that I can do my quiet time outside, rather than in my room. I felt tingles of pleasure the moment I left the indoors.

There on the swing, with my Bible and journal in my lap, I tried to focus on this act of devotion. But I was being distracted. The birds sounded like they were singing to themselves. Then they were whistling to each other. Or maybe they were calling to me. Maybe they were saying, “look up and see!”

I did look up. I couldn’t help it. The sun was gloriously shimmering as it broke through the branches of the many trees in our front yard. The grass was that brilliant green that can never be captured in photographs. You just have to see it with your own eyes. Little, white, puffy flowers raised their heads just above the grass.

After a few seconds of gazing, I remembered that I was supposed to be spending time with God. As if we’d already been in the middle of a conversation, I smiled and told Him, “Your world is distracting me.”

Another time on the front porch, I began to write a poem. It is far from poetical excellence, but that doesn’t matter. There is nothing like gazing at creation to make you feel small and insignificant. Yet, there I was, talking to the God who’d made it all.

You would stoop to think of me. Me, the little one.

You would call me wholly Yours, to be Your little one.

You would make holy, pure—perfect for Your Holy One.

Speaking softly in my heart, the Spirit’s gentle nudge,

Keeps me safe, secure, and shorn, a humbled little one.

I cannot fathom why You’d choose, this tattered little one,

Call me lonely, call me poor, to be Your little one.

You would die a wicked death, a dark and angry road,

To be with me forevermore,

The filthy, wretched one.

A cost so dear, I cannot grasp

I’m just a simple one.

Your wisdom is to high for me, Your thinking out of reach.

I’ll snuggle deep into Your love,

Forever, always, Your little one

Eli

2009-05-27T16:05:00.000-05:00

I held the tiny infant that was my nephew and reclined the rocker. I could feel the bones of his ribs as I cuddled him and he lifted his head to observe the surroundings. As my brothers and sisters made crazy faces and talked in baby voices to try and get him to smile, he stared at them in confusion, having not yet reached a point were he’d completely figured out how to smile on command.

Whenever Eli visited with his parents--my older brother Nathan and his wife, Jacqueline--there was always a line of eager aunts, uncles, and grandparents waiting to hold him. He received too much attention for any one baby. But he was loved. He was adored. And there wasn’t enough baby to go around.

As I enjoyed my Eli Time on the recliner, I remarked to my sister-in-law that he needed a little brother or sister to share the attention with. I’d experienced in a family of 7, that it’s always good to have a sibling around to share the attention, both negative and positive. “But,” I added for Eli’s future benefit. “When you do have a younger sister, try not to put handcuffs on her ankles and drag her down the stairs.”

Jacqueline chuckled. “Did Nathan do that to you?”

I confirmed that he had.

It was a long time ago, when Nathan and I were little. Back then I didn’t appreciate the goodness of shared attention. Understandably for an older brother, Nathan took the brunt of the negative attention. And, oldest daughter, do-gooder as I was, I took the brunt of the positive. Almost every single childhood memory was shared with Nathan. I find it a little peculiar how someone who shared so much of my childhood could be such a small part of my adulthood. Then again, maybe the fact that he was such a part of my childhood, also makes him a part of my adulthood. I wonder, as we grow and have our own families, how much our childhood memories will be a part of our future.

That brings me back to Eli. Eli makes me think about having my own kids some day. I see how much of an impact my childhood has had on my adulthood, and wonder what kind of childhood my kids will have. I wonder what kind of parent I will be. I wonder how many kids will share the negative and positive attention with each other.

It’s strange to think that the ones who were once children are having children of their own. Not to be too mythological, but that circle of life thing is happening. And it happens again and again.

There will always be a new baby to indulge. New life will always be born. It’s exciting and gives me hope. It’s also a little weird.

I’m glad life didn’t end at childhood. I’m glad there is still so much of life yet to be lived and so many weird and exciting things left to experience.

A little nephew is just the beginning.

mysterious happenings

2009-05-17T16:39:00.001-05:00

If it had been Sunday, the room would have been used for Sunday school. A groom and 8 groomsmen were chilling out, eating nachos and drinking Dr. Peppers. Their room was calm and the atmosphere playful when I entered with a box of boutonnieres.

As I was pinning the boutonniers on to each of the groomsmen’s jackets, the best man poked his head into the room to inform the groom that he had to stay put, the bride was entering the building.

Instead of fidgeting nervously, as I’d seen some grooms do before, this groom calmly pulled out his Bible, took a seat in the corner, and relaxed as he awaited his turn for photographs in the sanctuary and the beginning of one of the most momentous occasions of his life.

The image of the serenity surrounding the groom at that moment remained in my mind throughout the day, as it was the only patch of tranquility during a harried wedding where so many things seemed to have gone wrong.

Every wedding has its mess-ups, it glitches—a missing letter in the program, a grandmother shows up late for her entrance, or the wrong color cake frosting. That’s part of the package and most of the time those aren’t the things we remember. But this particular wedding had several major mishaps that can’t be excused as coincidence.

Though spiritual warfare affecting a wedding sounds shady and unlikely, it cannot be ignored that two sold-out Christians, both members of a church filled to the brim of fireball believers, might be a particular target of the enemy.

Throughout the week leading up to the wedding, it became apparent that not just the wedding, but many people related to wedding were being targeted. Now that I look back, it does not surprise me that Satan would try to rob a small portion of the body of Christ of some of its joy. And it all began with a lingerie shower.

Though the shower in itself was the most enjoyable bridal shower I’d ever been too, there was a small pervading presence of disquiet among the single girls and even some of the girls who were in serious dating relationships. One of these girls mentioned to me that she thought some sort of spiritual battle was going on among the girls at the shower. The laughter and unity of the event was not diminished, but the feeling that Satan was trying to discourage us never left.

Then there was the night before the wedding. My sister, who was the florist and a bridesmaid, came home discouraged and disheartened after a fun evening at the rehearsal dinner. Her discouragement could have been excused as exhaustion, but she claimed not to be tired and her feelings were odd ones to have after laughing and fellowshipping with other believers. Strange things was, I was feeling the same way.

The day of the wedding, the sun was shining. Though rain was predicted, we all felt sure the Lord would hold back the waters for this young couple and all the people gathered to celebrate with them.

I was at the location for the reception, putting together a kissing ball so my sister could get ready with the other bridesmaids. Though I’m not near as skilled at flower arranging as she is, I’d made kissing balls before and did not expect it to be difficult. However, I had to change working locations and call my sister twice to get ideas as the kissing ball wilted and fell apart in my hands. In the end there was no kissing ball.

After the fiasco with the kissing ball, I prepared to go to the wedding. As I was leaving the reception location, 30 minutes before the wedding began, the storm approached and the rain began to pour. Friends and the kitchen ladies were scurrying around at the outdoor reception area to pull tables and chairs into dry areas.

Next, I was driving back to the church and I came upon a terrible car accident where a car had flipped and hit an electrical pole. This, I heard later, caused the power at the church to go out momentarily. This also caused all the wedding traffic to take a detour on the way to the reception. An inconvenience that, standing alone, may not have drawn so much attention, but joined with the other mysterious happenings, gave more indication of the enemy’s hand.

The rain continued to come down during the final minutes before the ceremony began. The time it was at its worst was the exact time that the bride was being transported by van from her dressing room to the lobby outside the sanctuary.

Despite the rain, however, the ceremony took place and was a joyous, God-honoring celebration. Despite the rain, everyone made it to the reception safely. Despite the rain, the celebration continued during the reception that took place inside a garage and under canopies.

But as the rain did little to diminish the joy, the Devil tried a few other tricks. A table of food mysteriously collapsed, breaking a score of glasses. Almost as soon as the bride and groom arrived, the power in the house went out and did not return for the rest of the evening.

A groom, reading his Bible on his wedding day, could encourage the one believer who saw it, or it could encourage more. That’s why I’m writing this. That’s why Satan didn’t like the wedding. That’s why the burden that so many people felt leading up to the wedding, during the wedding, and after the wedding were evidences that Satan may have gained a small victory.

But as the story usually goes, he gets his little victories here and there, only to be mightily defeated by the Lord Jesus Christ. God allows spiritual warfare because a greater glory and a greater joy will be achieved when it is finished.

It was 11PM. 5 girls gathered together in a living room. They had left a wedding where they had all sensed the devil at work, trying to diminish their joy.

He did get an upper hand at some points during the day. They all admitted it. But the evening ended with prayer. Prayer for the new couple in Christ; prayer for each other; and thanksgiving to a God who displays His power in ways we don’t expect.

It would have been easy for God to hold back the rain. That’s what we would have expected. But the rain, and the other mishaps, made an even greater occasion for God to be glorified, as well as an even greater celebration with a more lasting joy.

I'm afraid

2009-05-12T19:15:00.000-05:00

I’m afraid to stand alone

I’m afraid to make enemies

I’m afraid of a world that doesn’t serve the Lord

I’m afraid of those who claim they do

I’m afraid of the priest in the white robe

I’m afraid of my neighbor in the pew

I’m afraid of people who aren’t afraid of me

And I’m afraid of myself

I’m afraid to find out who my friends are

I’m afraid I’ll scare them all away

I’m afraid to be hated

I’m afraid to make a mistake

I’m afraid I’ll fail

I’m afraid I’ll succeed

I’m I afraid I won’t make the cut

I’m afraid I will

I’m afraid to be the center of attention

I’m afraid to be ignored

I’m afraid to be scorned

I’m afraid to be loved

I want to praise God and not be ashamed

But I’m afraid I’ll make others uncomfortable

I don’t want to be afraid to raise my hands in tears

Or fall to my knees in worship

I want to face the fire like those 3 men in the Bible

I don’t want to be afraid to have my flesh ripped to shreds like Daniel

I don’t want to say things I don’t mean

And I don’t want to mean things I’m afraid to say

I’m afraid to do great things for God

I’m afraid I’ll do nothing

I’m afraid I’m going to rock the world

I’m afraid I won’t

I’m afraid of being persecuted

I’m afraid of comfort

I’m afraid of danger

I’m afraid of normal

I’m afraid great men and women don’t exist

I’m afraid they do

I’m afraid some people are special

I’m afraid that I am not

I’m afraid loving God means lots of pain

I’m afraid loving God is hard

I’m afraid of loving something else

I’m afraid I’ve got it all wrong

I’m afraid God loves me the way He loves Christ

I’m afraid that means sacrifice

I’m afraid to suffer

I’m afraid to die

I’m afraid I’ll be forgotten

I’m afraid no one will remember my name

I’m afraid to be hurt

I’m afraid of not knowing why

I’m afraid to be alone

I’m afraid of the dark

I’m afraid of attack

And I’m afraid I’m not strong

I’m afraid I have no talent

I’m afraid I have no skill

I’m afraid I’m weak

I’m afraid

I’m afraid in the end I won’t be afraid

I’m afraid I’ll find that this will all makes sense

I’m afraid that I’ll find fear far away

I’m afraid God will win in the end

I’m afraid fear doesn’t have a prayer

I’m afraid Satan will lose after all

I’m afraid I’ll realize the power of God

And in the end I won’t be afraid

The Cooleys

2009-05-02T17:32:00.000-05:00

When I was a kid, I didn’t like Christmas with the Cooley family. The two oldest boys, David and Austin, were 3 and 5 years younger than me. When you’re a kid, 3 and 5 years makes a big difference.

The boys idolized my older brother Nathan. When he wasn’t around to wrestle with them and teach them new ways of getting into trouble, Corrie, who was close to David’s age, and Lauren, who was close to Austin’s age, got all the attention. My Christmases with the Cooleys were confined to reading. I can remember some of the books that I read in less than a day because I usually read them at the Cooley’s house.

Then, we all started to grow up. Nathan moved off and joined the army. David and Austin became teen-agers and got girlfriends. Corrie, Lauren, and I, well, we didn’t need any big changes to become adults. I guess it just happened. First for me; then for them. With this growing up came less of a desire for those typical kid things. The desire to be entertained was replaced with a desire to chill and enjoy each other’s company. And with all of these changes, time with the Cooley family became more enjoyable.

My first transition from the anti-social, older cousin to the semi-cool, it's-okay-if-we-talk-to-each-other cousin was on a road trip between Atlanta and Ft. Benning, GA. Long story, but somehow David and Austin road with me to watch Nathan graduate from Ranger school. From then on, if I was at the Cooley’s or the Cooleys were at our house, I would hang with the cousins and books were forever—almost—laid aside.

David and Austin had a good time with this. Jokingly they were in awe that I actually talked to them. I, on the other hand, finally got to enjoy two cousins that I had formerly dismissed as immature. Discussions between the Spearing girls and the Cooley boys now range from love life, to social life, to life life. And there is always more laughter than not.

Also, there is plenty of random fun to go around, signified by our activities on the last Christmas together. We divided up into teams and created a scavenger hunt for each other. We spent the entire afternoon driving around town, goofing off and making just a few more memories.

This past week, I went to Atlanta to go to some stores that we don’t have in Huntsville. My sister Julie and I stopped by the Cooley’s and ended up going to a Braves game and then spending the night. I hadn’t seen my cousins in a long time and it felt good to hang out with them in an unplanned setting.

I also got to enjoy spending time with the younger Cooleys. They are growing up, too. The older they get, the more fun they become. It’s a treat to watch them grow up along side my younger siblings.

Today, I look forward to Christmas with the Cooleys. I treasure them, knowing we’ll all be so grown up some day that we won’t do them any more.

But for now, I’m just going to enjoy them and anticipate what fun we’re going to have next.

Singin' Praises

2009-04-29T19:19:00.000-05:00

My friend Emily and I found ourselves sitting in an old Broadway theater. But instead of seeing a play or musical, we were there to attend a church service.

I had heard the music was good at Time Square Church, but I was in for a wonderful surprise.

The first song was called, “Holy is the Lord” by Chris Tomlin. The congregation rose to its feet and an energy that I had sensed the moment I entered the building became magnified as praises from thousands of people surged throughout the theater.

As we sang, I marveled at the diverse colors in the choir. The singers were uniform because of the matching choir robes they wore; yet they were so different because of the color of their skin and the texture of their hair.

Emily leaned over and said, “This is what heaven is going to look like.” I had never thought of that.

The third song was “When the Roll is Called Up Yonder.” The gospel hymn was sung with a passion and enthusiasm seen only at concerts. The congregation clapped their hands, stamped their feet, and smiled as they joyfully sang the verses that I had never before heard.

Then, the sermon came. It was a sermon on praise. The preacher went through the Psalms and outlined the reasons for praising God. The service ended with several more praise songs to back up the sermon.

My heart seemed to dance with the choir. It’s hard to describe what it felt like to be in a packed house and know my praises, along with a multitude of others’, were for my Jesus.

It was an edifying couple of hours. It will be in my memory for a long time. And I have more reasons for praising God.

As if I didn’t have plenty already.

The Coffee Shop of Disconnected Reflections

2009-04-14T17:11:00.000-05:00

As I’ve searched many a random blog out in cyber world, I’ve noticed a common theme. The common theme is that of having a theme about which a blogger will blog.

I think I was aware of this theme when I named my blog Coffee Shop of Talk. It encompasses a broad theme, a vague them, a theme that has little restraint. Though my intention was to discuss various topics while remaining impersonal, less than two months after the birth of this blog it has already become a public diary of my life.

So the Coffee Shop of Talk is no longer a place of discussion. It is, rather, a place of reflection. Discussion involves more than one person. Reflection requires only the person doing the reflecting.

With this in mind, I will now reflect upon a topic that has long consumed my interest. That topic is the topic of people.

People comprise of several different classes. Those classes are: Male and Female, Children and Adult, Single and Married, Young Adult and Old Adult--the longer the list of classes continues, the more narrow those classes will become. There are similarities in every one of these classes (being that we are all human) as well as major differences. For now, I would like to focus in on one class and the differences between those classes.

Just a moment. I have changed my mind mid-blog. I had thought at the beginning that I would like to ramble on about the differences between males and females but the topic didn’t quite set with me. Here’s another go:

I have noticed that you can never really know a person until you have spent a lot of time with them. And not just a lot of time with them in one setting alone, for a person that you have spent a lot of time with at work, may turn out to be a completely different person when you try to sit down over coffee and have a serious discussion. A person who is animated, funny, and appears to take a deep interest in people may turn out to be someone who is opposed to getting his hands dirty in service to the people about whom he seems to care so much.

Continuing down the same tunnel, I once had a friend who was a faithful pen pal. We would write long letters and I was impressed by the person I saw on colorful, handwritten stationary.

After several years of correspondence, I made long-awaited plans to visit this pen pal. When I did, I discovered that this friend had conveniently neglected to reveal certain parts of her life. She had also managed to twist the truth into a perfect package that would cause me to admire her. Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately—what was well hidden in letters could not be hidden when I spent a weekend in her company.

I’ve made two observations about this experience. The first is the importance of being completely honest in letters, emails, and during phone calls. Even if you manage to hide the truth for a time, it will not be hidden forever. Better to tell on yourself then to have others discover that you have been misleading.

The second is to realize that people are flawed. Some of these people may twist the truth or even outright lie to you. It is better to wait until a person has proven himself to be trustworthy before you honor them with your trust. And it is possible to love a person without trusting them (something I’ve had to realize when working with car dealers, mechanics, salesmen, and so on).

As a result of this blog entry, I’ve wonder if I should rename the Coffee Shop of Talk to the Coffee Shop of Disconnected Reflections…

The Sweetness of God

2009-04-06T16:36:00.000-05:00

I was going to write a story about a sweet gift the Lord gave me yesterday. But I have changed my mind.

It’s Monday night. The NCAA championship is tonight. Michigan State vs. North Carolina. I remember the last time that NC won the National Championship. My memories are vivid and I have a very specific reason for cheering for NC.

Four years ago, I was living with a friend near Highlands, North Carolina. This friend was expecting a baby and was on bed rest for the duration of her pregnancy. I was staying with her and her husband to help with the house and the cooking.

In the end of January 2005, Drew was born two months premature in a hospital in Chapel Hill, NC. He was healthy, for the most part, and there were times when it really looked like my friend and her husband were going to have a son for keeps.

Sometimes, pain comes. When it does it often appears useless, meaningless, pointless, and any other adjective that fits. It doesn’t make sense. My friends had lost three babies before Drew was born. It seemed unfathomable that God would choose to take another baby away from them.

The last week in March, I drove up to Chapel Hill to stay for a week. I held Drew in my arms and thanked God that He had seen this baby that I had spent so much time with en utero safely into the world.

The evening after I met Drew for the first time, I watched the Final Four with my friends. I became a Tar Heels fan. I returned home, rejoicing that my friends had a son and that I had finally been able to meet that son in person.

A few days later, Drew became sick. His little life quickly spiraled downward. During the week that I held my breath, praying God would spare Drew’s life, I watched the National Championship in which North Carolina took home the trophy.

That same week, God chose to take Drew home.

But what a sweet God who gives us the assurance that every story of one of His children always has a happy ending. Always.

Last week, I joined with thirty other friends in an Airport and waited eagerly for three travelers to arrive. Two of those travelers were my friends who had lost their baby four years ago. The third traveler was their adopted little girl from Guatemala.

Stories, good stories, always have a little pain, a little heartache, and a little conflict. Stories, good stories, always see their characters triumph over that pain, that conflict. We close the book, satisfied that the characters will live happily ever after.

In our own stories, the stories where God is king and we belong to Him, we can be satisfied that no matter what pain, what heartache, what conflict, we will triumph over it and live happily ever after. Even if that happily ever after is not here on earth, it will be forever in eternity. What a blessed assurance.

Oh God, who could ask for anything more?

Life Bloopers--things that made me laugh

2009-04-02T11:35:00.000-05:00

In the company of tears:

My sisters and I received some sad news on Saturday. An older woman in our life, a spiritual mother, has an aggressive cancer. She has survived cancer twice already. We cried when we thought that maybe, just maybe, God has decided not to heal her this time.

We heard the news in the morning. For the rest of the day, we walked around the house, going about our normal life. But this time normal life was accompanied by tears.

As I passed all my sisters throughout the morning and saw their gloomy faces, I was impressed with a desire to say something that would make us laugh. I wanted to say something that would put a humorous spin on a sad situation.

When I was walking near my sister Lauren, I thought of Cheeto’s and thought, hey, that’s funny. So I said, “No more Cheeto’s.” (We always had Cheeto’s at this woman’s house).

Lauren didn’t hear me so I said it again, “No more Cheeto’s. We always have Cheeto’s at her house.”

Instantly after I said it, I realized that it wasn’t funny at all. Lauren and I began to sob and we hugged each other.

Through my blubbering I said, “I was trying to make us laugh.” Then we did laugh, because my attempt at making us laugh had had a completely different result.

When I told the other sisters the story later, we laughed—and cried—again. I think tears and laughter make a good pair.

The Blind Boy:

We had several children at our house this past week. One of those children, Colin, was blind. He had a cane and was using it as we played in the front yard. Eventually, he lost his cane. Colin’s brother, Nathan, was in charge of keeping an eye on him, so Nathan took off to look for Colin’s cane.

I stepped in to help by saying, “Okay everyone, let’s find Colin’s cane.” I then turned to Colin and inquired, “What color is it?”

He replied sweetly, “I don’t know.”

“Oh yeah,” I said. And was glad he couldn’t see my face.