my sweet drugs

(Disclaimer: I'm feeling a little rusty in the writing arena, so please pardon my cliches and badly flowing prose.  It feels like I have something to write about.)

As of Tuesday night, the cable internet at our new house was turned back on, and I indulged in Internet Explorer after being sober for so long.  Of course, I got my fixes of connectedness in the past week and a half... like when we stole our new neighbors' wireless signals, and when our dear Peruvian friends lent me their web-connected computer along with the rest of their house.

I was a basket case two weeks ago.  We had three days to be out of our house, and we had nowhere to move.  The new rental kept being "not quite ready," and despite my optimism in the workers who were supposed to be getting it done, it just wasn't happening.  My other sweet drugs of comfort and having a home to ourselves were going to run out at the end of the weekend.

We stayed the week with our Peruvian friends.  I had been wanting to get to know them more, but if I could have had my way, God should have made that happen in a convenient time, when we weren't living out of suitcases.

I think I realized that God had better ideas than I when I was sitting down with Mili at her kitchen table in the middle of Friday afternoon.  Our conversation drifted beyond "how was your week?" and "how many siblings do you have?"  She taught me about money and family relationships.  She taught me about being a gracious host to two homeless kids and their baby.  She taught me about praise.

And now we're in our own place again (as God would have it, a much nicer place than what we would have had if the first rental had gotten done on schedule).  We have our privacy and our internet, and I'm telling myself to control my addiction to comfort for so many more reasons than I've ever had.

trudge, trudge, trudge

I hate squeezing through books.  Or whatever you want to call it: plowing through rock-hard-soil books, suffering through agony-books, straining under the weight of books.  And it's worst when you know the book is supposed to be good.  At least that's what people wrote all over the cover.

I am scraping my way through The Ragamuffin Gospel.  What a pathetic book to call drudgery, but it is!  It's so thin, not even an inch thick, and I'm sure it's just smack-full of truth that I could relate to, but I just can't seem to absorb it.

And the worst part is that I won't let myself stop.  C.S. Lewis keeps saying in Mere Christianity that if a chapter doesn't work for you, just skip it.  For some reason, that just freaks me out.  You can't skip!  What abomination!

So, instead, I read at an excruciating pace, hoping, hoping, I won't be 30 when I finally finish.

november challenge: loving Kyle

Well, look at me, posting my challenge on the first day of the month!  Uh.  We won't talk about how I skipped last month.  I've been berating myself all of October for that one.

First, a report on the living healthily challenge from September:  I did pretty well.  I slipped up on the exercise thing a couple times because I forgot.  I started to adopt the trading-in-something-bad-for-something-better thing as a regular habit during that month, so I don't know if I did it every day, but I think that's okay.  I got sick for a few days, so I laid off on the vegetable and fruit thing because all I really wanted was chicken noodle soup.  I learned that feeling gross and headachey after a bad meal has more to do with my overdosing on sugar (pop, in particular) than overdosing on greasy pepperoni pizza.  I think that's an important discovery that I should have figured out before now, beings I had gestational diabetes when I was pregnant.  I am feeling dense and boring tonight, and I think it has more to do with running around after a one-year-old all day than my having just eaten a buttery scone.  So, for now, I have no monumental nuggets of wisdom gleaned from my month of living more healthily.

As for November's challenge, it's all about romance.  Whoopee! 

I missed Sweetest Day.  I've never celebrated it before, but I heard on the radio that it was coming up, and I wanted to do something fun as a surprise for Kyle, but things were busy, and I got tired, and, and, and... I missed it.

In general, things are crazy once you have a kid.  Even if he goes to bed at eight, you still feel like a sopping dish rag by the time you're finally alone as a couple.  At least I do.  Really, I feel more like a dry dish rag right now -- the kind that's all crusty and molded into its previously soppy shape.  Sexy.  Very sexy.

I have no more details for you tonight on my incomparable sexiness, but I'll fill you in on the challenge.  (Yikes.  It's November.  That means I start today.  And it's already after 9...)

I resolve to do something romantic for my husband every day.   I can't give details because he reads my blog.  But I want to surprise Kyle, look and feel beautiful for Kyle, and be nice to Kyle more often.

Okay, I admit, even at 9.14 p.m., this challenge sounds like it could be just a little bit... fun. ;)

grocery shopping with isaiah

I line the grocery carts with my padded cart cover.  I bought it when I first suspected that Isaiah got sick from sucking on a cart at Target.  Using the cart cover meant I didn't have to say "no" every other second when Isaiah was in the peak of his sucking-on-things stage.  As a mom, you choose your battles.

We walk down the freezer aisle at Kroger, and Isaiah decides to stand up in the grocery cart, just in time for the Kroger floor sweeper to see him.

"There are straps.  You should buckle him in," he tells me.

"Yeah, I should," I say, wrestling Isaiah into a sitting position.  "I've just never tried to figure out how the straps on this cart cover work."

The Kroger man sets aside his broom, and fits the backpack-looking straps over Isaiah's shoulders.  Isaiah stares at him.  I watch the Kroger man figure out the easy buckles that I've never once thought about buckling.  I feel dumb, so I play dumb.

"I guess it's not too hard," I say.  "Thanks."

"You gotta buckle 'em in," he says.  "Especially the climbers."

Two aisles down, Isaiah tries to stand up again.  No problem.  He just takes the cart cover with him.  With that big, navy cloud strapped to his back, he looks like he's about to go parachuting out of there.  I laugh.  Take that, Kroger man!

But then I notice the Kroger man heading toward us again with his broom.  He sets it aside again.  He shows me how to tie the cart cover onto the cart.  Isaiah stares at him again.  I should probably remind myself how kind it is of the man to stop and help.

"I guess if all else fails, Mom's gotta hold onto him."

"Yeah, I guess so," I say.  Duh.

the curse of anonymity

There are pieces of me I'm afraid to tell, out in the open like this.  I'm afraid to tell of my jourrney in the Apostolic Christian Church, afraid to tell of my journey away from it.  I'm afraid to talk about my family too much, except the parts that exude joy.  I'm afraid to name names, to describe deep hurts, to delve into the details of marriage and money.

But I am a writer.  Sometimes I think I can only be a true writer when I am willing to lay it all out on the table.  In a way, to describe my deepest thoughts and pains and longings is to expose my jugular for anyone who comes along.  Or maybe it's more than that.  Maybe it's also exposing the jugular -- or the private parts? -- of the people closest to me.  My family, my husband, my former churchmates -- they didn't sign up to be written about like any old fictional character.

I wonder if creating is the most vulnerable profession in the world.  There is no taking back, no unpublishing, no privacy.  Unless, of course, you don't write with full abandon.

Sometimes I wish that the stuff I wrote for others didn't have to have a sense of anonymity about it.  I wish I could write whatever was calling to be released from my soul.

awe

We took Communion in joy--
for once--
drinking that bitter cup
with jubilation.
"Drink and enjoy."
And I did,
looking up at my Saviour
with adoration.

in celebration of Madeleine L'Engle

Madeleine L'Engle died last week, at age 88. There are so many quotations from her I love, but this one is enough because it magnifies two of the biggest themes in all her writing -- love and faith:

"In the evening of life we shall be judged on love, and not one of us is going to come off very well, and were it not for my absolute faith in the loving forgiveness of my Lord I could not call on him to come."

september challenge: honoring my body, my physical temple

An hour or two ago, I ate a Schlotzsky's pepperoni pizza for lunch, along with a Barq's root beer. Now I feel sluggish, and a headache's coming on. Maybe they're not related, but the idea that they could be inspired (if you can call it that) my September challenge. I'm going to let this one go till October eighth, to fairly give it a full month.

If you read my blog, it's pretty clear I'm on an Omnivore's Dilemma kick right now. Michael Pollan isn't a Christian, and his book doesn't preach that you should eat whole, unprocessed foods in order to honor Christ and your body and the earth; but for me, the book was all about that. Implementing what I've learned has proved to be a whole 'nother baby. It's just too easy to live unhealthily in this culture. A girl's got to go to great lengths to eat whole, healthy, locally grown food from sustainable farms.

(Completely unrelated sidenote: A pick-up pulling a trailer just drove by our house. The trailer had a lawn mower sitting on it. The lawn mower had a man sitting it. I laughed out loud. You don't see that every day.)

My spiritual challenge this month to honor my body through eating right and exercising is a bit of an experiment. I want to see if some of my grogginess (which I've been attributing to being a mother) dissipates. I want to see if I have more energy to do the things I "should" be doing.

Rules for the month:

1. No pop!
2. Exercise for 15 minutes every day, even if it's only a walk.
3. No fried fast food.
4. Eat fruits and/or vegetables at every meal.
5. Every day, substitute something not very healthy for something healthier (e.g. whole grain bread for white bread).
6. Limit sweets and fats.

I didn't do much research on these rules, but they seem to make sense. Please leave a comment if you have suggestions for me.

To good, God-honoring health!

sustainable?

Last week, I ate a 100% grass-fed New York strip.

It came all the way from Australia.

giving milk

In a world literature class in college, I read "Breast-Giver" by Mahasweta Devi. It's Bengali literature -- a story about a Brahmin-class woman who nurses babies at the temple so their mothers can keep their youthful figures. Jashoda's only role is to give milk -- life -- to babies, and "[her] place in the house is... above the [sacred] cows." She is like a goddess.

In my notes I wrote that because of her class and her gender, she becomes lower than the cows when her breasts stop giving milk.

The end of the story is gruesome and sad. Jashoda develops breast cancer, and the story says her breast explodes with infection. It "becomes like the crater of a volcano. The smell of putrefaction makes approach difficult." Jashoda is rejected by the people whose babies she nourished. She's rejected by the babies themselves. Even her doctor -- one of the babies she had suckled -- is not present at her death. She dies alone.

I had to return to the story and to my notes to remember all these details. I remembered the breast-giving -- the suckling -- but I didn't remember how she was revered at the temple. I remembered the cancer and the rotting breast, but I didn't remember the rejection.

When a baby is feeding from your breast, you feel like your heart is swelling with affection. At every single feeding. (Sidenote: this does not happen when you express milk with a pump.) I have only breastfed my own child, but I believe it would happen with any child. Jashoda gave more than milk to the babies she nourished; she gave them her heart and her emotions. And as her breast erupts, I believe her heart is breaking too. I wonder if she regrets the suckling, as she's dying alone. I have never been fully rejected; I have never suffered in that kind of pain. But I still don't think I would regret having given milk to babies. I hope Jashoda didn't either.

I get advertisements for baby formula all the time. The ads sing the praises of formula. It has DHA! vitamins! minerals! These are essential for your baby's development! But, the fine print reads, breast milk is always best for a baby's health.

I have said I would nurse another mother's baby. I think people in our culture might get wigged out to know that, but it seems like a natural sacrifice -- something any woman should be willing to give another. And I call it a sacrifice because there is a connection of flesh and hearts in breastfeeding, a connection I would probably have to sever day after day, and eventually forever, when the baby is weaned.

I remember Jashoda because of how she gave. She kept giving and giving, even when she was suffering alone. If I could be remembered for one thing, I would want to be remembered for giving like that.

getting angry

The whole creation groans. Me. The poor, the widows, the orphans. The trees, the cattle, the chickens, the cornfields (okay, maybe not the cornfields; corn is king).

I've been reading about social justice and food. I've had this perpetual pressure in my sinus area -- tears ready to burst at the injustice in the world. If being an environmentalist means I care about this world and everything in it, yes, I guess I'm an environmentalist.

It started with reading Justice in the Burbs by Will and Lisa Samson. It's only been a week, and I already feel the wisdom of that book slipping from my memory. But I still remember the assignments I gave myself: to open my heart and arms (and not just my checkbook) to the suffering people of this world. Why? Because it's right.

There was an interview on our local NPR station today that made me mad. This lady was trying to convince women that it was too risky to forsake their occupations and stay home with their babies. "Because what do you do when divorce or death claims your husband? You'll have no way to support yourself!" Well, number one, if women kept their vows to their husbands, divorce wouldn't be in today's epidemic proportions. As for the widows, followers of God have been commanded to care for them, so wives shouldn't be left in dire straits even if their husband does die. I could go on and on, but the point is: the system is broken. This is a broken, broken world. Women shouldn't be made to feel like it's risky to be a stay-at-home mom.

Let me change gears.

Reading a book about the history of food -- The Omnivore's Dilemma by Michael Pollan -- didn't seem to be something that would call that slow, dull ache back into my throat. But as I read it, I keep asking, "God, what are we doing to your world?" As for our production and consumption of food, we're so deep in poisonous cow manure (that literally coats the floors of our super beef-producing factories in America's "heart"land) that we can't even find a conceivable way out of it.

I'm so angry with the people who tricked our nation into believing that corn-fed beef is something wonderful, when in fact, it sickens creatures God made to eat grass (the cows, not us). But when you have your plate full of that "prime" corn-fed steak, you're feeding yourself a long, slow death, too. Beef wasn't meant to be poisonous.

I'm fed up with the industrialization and materialism in America, with the lie that says that you can have it all. I'm angry I don't know how to practice the attribute called sacrifice. I'm frustrated that I, who grew up proud to say, "I'm a farmer's daughter," feel my agricultural background crashing in on me, slicing away my idealism that my daddy farmed perfectly. I'm angry that he probably didn't have that option, and I'm angry that I don't have the freedom to do things the best way possible because of how our nation's politics work.

I'm tired of standing in front of the display of bread and being upset because all the healthy-looking hamburger buns cost twice as much as the bleached-white ones. I want eating "natural" to come naturally. But instead, it requires research, money, and... sacrifice.

I want to open a farm. I want to grow things without poison and sell them for the prices they're worth. I want to invite people to work there who need love and a job and someone to pull them up (because they haven't found those bootstraps everybody keeps talking about). I want to know an orphan; I want to know a widow. I want to stop being a glutton for fast food, gasoline, and cheap relationships.

I want to stop being a hypocrite.

august challenge: hospitality

Well, the month is half over and I haven't posted my monthly spiritual discipline challenge. I've had one in my head; I just haven't told you all about it.

Yesterday I delivered a basket of goodies over to our new next-door neighbors Ross and Lindsey. I took Isaiah on a sweaty walk to drop another one off for a man whose wife had just died yesterday morning. I tell this to my shame because in the three-plus years we have lived here, I have never given gifts to people in my neighborhood. I've wanted to, but I've learned that that doesn't count for much in the sheep-and-goat separation.

This month, I want to learn what hospitality really is. I always think it's about having people over and being a gracious host, but I've heard there's more to it than that.

We're having a group from church over on Saturday, and I hope that will be the first of at-least-monthly parties at our house. I want to fling open our doors and invite the whole world inside. If I can't run a coffee shop now, our house will have to do in the meantime.

one hundred things about c.l.beyer

1. I am Carrie Louise.
2. I first wanted to be a writer when, as a little girl, I read a biography about Louisa May Alcott.
3. The most memorable scene in that book was when Louisa’s dad made her and her sister take their bowls of soup to a poor family for complaining about the food.
4. I love to read Anne Lamott, Madeleine L’Engle, and C.S. Lewis.
5. I want to be a missionary and a mom to lots of babies.
6. There was a notice for a job opening posted on the library door today, and I almost drooled over the possibility of being a librarian.
7. My favorite root beer is Barq’s.
8. My favorite pop is root beer.
9. I’m from a part of the country where people call soft drinks “pop.” And there’s nothing wrong with it.
10. I get nostalgic thinking about wide open fields.
11. I was the best bunter on my softball team when I was little.
12. It drives me nuts when people don’t know how to spell “Isaiah,” and when they don’t listen when I tell them how: “a… i… a…”
13. I wish I took more artistic photos.
14. I can be frugal when I want to.
15. Being frugal gives me a sort of high.
16. I think we’re getting new neighbors today.
17. I could be pregnant right now.
18. But I don’t think I am.
19. I worry that that was too personal.
20. Unloving, critical people bother me.
21. I have a pimple on my forehead. Well, a pimple or two… or three.
22. I have four big sisters, but they’re all littler than I am.
23. Opa is my wonderful Serbian grandpa who was a Nazi in World War 2.
24. I know how to cook and clean and fold laundry better than most American women.
25. Texas taught me how to cook pretty good Mexican food.
26. I used to be an email-checking junkie.
27. Okay, I still am.
28. Suburbs drive me nuts. Maybe I’ll blog about that sometime.
29. I am in the middle of writing four novels, but I haven’t worked on them in almost a year.
30. In elementary school, I always got goosebumps when we sang the national anthem.
31. I still get goosebumps when I hear touching stories, but not when I hear or sing “The Star Spangled Banner” anymore.
32. There are 195 (now 196) posts on my blog, and I’ve been blogging since 2004.
33. I ache for American Christianity because so much of it seems superficial.
34. I wish I had a larger vocabulary.
35. I am reading Honey for a Child’s Heart right now, and it’s wonderful – a resource I’ll use all my life.
36. I love baking sweets but hate cooking supper.
37. My clean house gives me a high.
38. My house is dirty right now.
39. I want to run a coffee shop where people are addicted to the love they feel while they’re there.
40. Outside my family, I have two very good friends with whom I would feel comfortable sharing almost anything.
41. When people ask where I met my husband, I say we’ve known each other our whole lives.
42. My husband is sensitive, helpful, handsome, and driven.
43. To relax, I read books, watch movies, take baths, and accept massages.
44. I don’t like shopping.
45. I feel like a strong, accomplished woman when I mow our lawn.
46. I grew up on a farm in Kansas, but I didn’t have help out with the farming, except to hold piglets and cats while they were neutered.
47. I got engaged in high school.
48. I love chips and queso.
49. I like to support the little independent restaurants instead of the big, chainy ones.
50. I’ve been to Haiti, Mexico, and St. Lucia.
51. I’ve been to England, France, Germany, Switzerland, Austria, and Liechtenstein.
52. I speak a little German with a pretty good accent.
53. I hate pickles.
54. I’ve been in Colorado, California, Oklahoma, Nebraska, Missouri, Illinois, Iowa, Michigan, Florida, Georgia, Connecticut, Ohio, Indiana, Minnesota, Arkansas, South Dakota, and Pennsylvania.
55. My baby’s awake now.
56. I am so thankful when Isaiah wakes up happy.
57. My philosophy is to get rid of anything I don’t use, even if it’s in perfectly good condition.
58. My mom is almost perfect.
59. I love being in the mountains, but I’m a weenie about hiking.
60. My first car was a stick-shift red Ford Tempo.
61. In high school, my after-school pit stop was Sonic for Ched-R-Peppers with ranch dressing.
62. Growing up, we had desserts called Bear Boo Boo, Goose Gaggalie, and Boob Cookies.
63. I made Goose Gaggalie Monday.
64. My Bear Boo Boo never tastes as good as my mom’s did.
65. I have never made Boob Cookies.
66. I play the piano, trombone (used to, anyway), and banjo (sort of).
67. We had the best cat names growing up: Sugi, Olga, Dunstan, Godfrey, Hooga, Ooga, Big Dirt, Little Dirt, Pork, Beans, Reuben, Peter, Muriel, Beetrice, Something…
68. Music I love: bluegrass, Texas blues, hearty jazz (not elevator music), old country, classical, rock oldies, folk
69. Song that most recently was stuck in my head: "Wide Eyed" by Nichole Nordeman. Good lyrics.
70. I have had one traffic ticket in my life – for going 74 in a 60 mph zone.
71. I have worked at a home for handicapped adults, a lumber yard, two schools, an Italian restaurant, and a scrapbook store.
72. I have never made more than $10/hour.
73. I am currently learning how to shop grocery store sales wisely.
74. I have been in hospitals to get stitches on my face (twice) and have a baby.
75. Dar Williams’s music is playing right now.
76. I wish I could buy more books.
77. I would consider breastfeeding someone else’s baby if its mother couldn’t.
78. When I was a kid, I could stick my belly out really far. I used to act like it was bread dough rising; then I’d punch it down.
79. My dad used to ask us kids to scratch his back, but he didn’t like us to plug his nose.
80. I think Edith Pargeter and Annie Dillard have the most beautiful styles of writing of all the writers I’ve read.
81. Books I love: Uncle Tom’s Cabin (Harriet Beecher Stowe), Blue Like Jazz (Donald Miller), A Wrinkle in Time (Madeleine L’Engle)
82. I have 23 nieces and nephews.
83. The Catcher in the Rye made me laugh out loud when I read it.
84. I would rather be a nun than the President.
85. I have emotional conversations with invisible people when I’m alone.
86. A few movies I love: The Spitfire Grill, One Night with the King, The Shawshank Redemption
87. I publish an Aberle family newspaper called The Genuine Giraffe.
88. Being a mother makes me feel important.
89. Recycling stuff makes me feel responsible.
90. In fourth grade I wrote and acted out a skit called “Always Pay Those Taxes” with my friend Anna Tennal.
91. One of my good friends from high school just moved 20 minutes away from me this week!
92. I am ridiculously fond of getting the mail.
93. My current car is a 2002 burgundy Honda Accord.
94. Kyle’s current car is a totaled 1995 tan Honda Accord that’s still running great.
95. I was driving the car when it was totaled.
96. But Kyle totaled his red Ford Escort two days before, and it’s not running anymore.
97. My sisters and I all have different noses. (That is, they don’t look alike.)
98. I have a beautiful nine-month-old son.
99. I have the most wonderful husband in the world.
100. I’m in a lifetime love affair with Jesus Christ.
     
     The End.
     
     p.s. Let me know if you want to see blog posts on any of these factoids.

my lonely existence

Withdrawal pains are coming on strong. I thought I could quit e-mail and the internet any time, but I miss them so much. Is it only Thursday? Four whole days to go.

Day one was okay. I was busy on the computer, so that was like eating fake sugar. Kills the cravings without the calories.

Day two I thought to myself that this fasting from the internet was a good lesson because I could determine what I really need the internet for -- bank account information, for instance -- and deem everything else as wasting time.

Day three I called some people, but they didn't answer. So I sulked a little and felt very isolated. I came to believe that I need the internet to stay connected to people since I have so few friends with regular, in-person relationships. But I was kind of mad at the world we live in, too, that has become so connected in technological ways that real relationships are often superficial or nonexistent. If I were in a little village, and took all my laundry to the river to wash it, Isaiah would get the grandma-love he needs on a daily basis, and I would get some adult time.

Today it all just got harder, and I began to dread the weekend when I'll have to say "no" to our Friday or Saturday night movie because I just had to add that to my list of things from which to fast. Why am I such an overachiever? But today was good because I got return phone calls from a couple people, so at least I didn't feel so isolated.

I write this so you don't feel isolated, dear readers. If new blogs posts kill some cravings for you, be thankful for Windows Live Writer, by which I can post to my blog without using the internet. It makes me feel pretty generous.

dollars

I was Sapphira and kept back a dollar
Because I wanted to buy a can of Coke.
It cost me seventy-five cents,
And it didn’t taste good.
The rest I gave to the Latino man
Who dried off my car.
And I felt so generous that I expected
A thank you
Or something.
The quarter I put in my secret stash
Of money to give away
Because I couldn’t keep it to spend.

I want a thousand dollars to give to the single mom
Who waits on my table some years hence.
It’s called grace, charity.
I ought to know because I’ve been given it.
She went and got herself knocked up.
She screwed around. She messed up.
And now she’s fighting hard to make it.
So with my thousand dollars in my purse,
I remember the times I screwed around,
And somebody showed me grace.
So I hand her the cash.

Or I will, provided I don’t keep a dollar back
To buy a can of Coke.

expanding my boundaries

I just got my baby to finish eating his supper by singing "Who Let the Dogs Out?" over and over and over.

july challenge: redeeming the time

My tardiness in posting this month's challenge is all the proof you need to know how much I need the assignment I'm giving myself.

Over the weekend, the house got clean for the first time in who-knows-how-long. As Kyle and I cleared away clutter and swept up the evidence of my post-pregnancy hair loss from the carpet, it was amazing: I started to feel sane again... like I actually could focus on something besides taking care of Isaiah and catching up on sleep! I know, I know, clean houses aren't everything, and the Bible does not say "cleanliness is next to godliness" (does it?). But a dirty house is enough to make me believe I'll never, never, never get ahead. It makes me feel guilty for reading books, it distracts me when I worship, it makes outreach seem unreachable.

So, step one is to try to keep the house (pretty) clean. But even if I fail in that, I've gotta move on to step two: redeem moments in the morning to worship through prayer, Bible study, and quietness. And then, step three is creating goals for the day, so I don't get overwhelmed with the (not just physical) clutter of life.

To me, redeeming the time means capturing it from the Devil's clutches -- to claim it for Christ instead of for self. Instead of giving my moments to the sins of pride, anger, or laziness, I claim the time for joy, for pursuing worthwhile passions.

One last thing: For confidentiality's sake, I am not reporting specifically on last month's challenge. As far as my assignment was concerned, I completed it. But it's not enough, I've learned. Walking across the room to one person in a month is not nearly enough. I'm compelled to stretch out my hands and my heart to the lost, to desire their fellowship for eternity.

the hurting

Last night, I heard my neighbor yelling. He’s divorced now, living with another divorced guy. Isaiah woke up around four, so I was waiting for his crying to subside by reading Mere Christianity in the front room. One of the guys’ trucks pulled up, and before long, I heard my neighbor yelling, presumably at his roommate: “Get it out of here! Get it out of here!” I heard something large and metallic clanking. “I swear…” he yelled, but I didn’t hear the rest. A truck roared away, came back five minutes later. Yelling again. Isaiah cried out again with the disturbance.

I ached, even amid my peeking through the blinds into the darkness. These poor men – families ripped apart. They see their kids only part of the time. Moms probably have custody. I once watched my neighbor’s son circling around the tree in our front yard. Ring around the tree, around and around and around. What’s on the little boy’s mind? Why don’t Mommy and Daddy love each other anymore? What’s gonna happen to me?

I ache, too, because I haven't reached out to them. I never do. But then, maybe it wouldn’t have helped. I tried to reach out to the lady across the street but she left her husband anyway. Divorce is all around us, and I still wouldn’t consider it for myself. Why do they? Where is the point where they give in, give up?

We watched Homeless to Harvard last night. True story: a girl who barely attended any elementary or middle school is out on the streets by age 15, after her drug-addicted and alcoholic mother dies of AIDS. Her grandpa doesn’t want her; she has nowhere else to go. So she sleeps on trains, raids dumpsters for food, stinks. But she’s brilliant, and gets herself enrolled in a high school without them knowing she’s homeless. The New York Times gives her a scholarship to Harvard when she applies by telling her story of self-preservation. But she’s a loser, a real loser.

In elementary school, in middle school, I never reached out to Angie Brown, Heather Huninghake, the Fryes, the Marc What’s-his-names, the Jeffrey Beldens. Maybe if I had, Jeffrey Belden wouldn’t have committed suicide.

In high school, I came to a point of politeness with John Koch, but I wonder if it was only for public image. I think I asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up, but behind his back, I wrote – for my entertainment – “John Koch wants to be a computer scientist.” It was a joke – my own personal laughing point – because I knew awkward, chubby, dirty, stinky John could never be a computer scientist. I didn’t seem phased by the fact that I didn’t even know what a computer scientist was.

In middle school science class, John had told us, his tablemates, of things from his home life. I only remember him saying that one of his parents – I don’t even remember if it was Mom or Dad – had thrown dishes across the room in a rage. He shrugged it off with a laugh, but now I think now he was crying out for help.

And I didn’t do anything. I didn’t tell a teacher. I didn’t tell him I was sorry, or ask him if he was scared to go home sometimes.

Kyle says I can’t blame myself – that I wasn’t taught to reach out to the rejects, the “gross people.” But I think I had an innate sense that these people needed love, and I was capable of giving it.

one of the fallen

"There ain't no money in poetry. / That's what sets the poet free. / I've had all the freedom I can stand." -Guy Clark in "Cold Dog Soup"

She gleans hundreds of comments because she can write. I feel like an imposter when I scan her blog posts like they're any old cheap, chatty update on life. I read her latest post from the end to the beginning because I caught a line and tasted the quality, and I had to have more. One doesn't skim poignancy. So I moved up, up, up, and saw how she had molded her thoughts into art.

I had to admit I'm a little like the poor, lost, fallen people our waiter was talking about last weekend. He used to be an artist; now he just works at Fiorella's Jack Stack Barbecue -- which, if you have to be a waiter, at least that's a place with food worth its salt. But our waiter said he's not an artist anymore. People don't care about beautiful things. They only want ugly things -- that's what he said. He said we live in a fallen world where beauty isn't valued. But it'll be redeemed. It'll be redeemed. And then he walked away with our smeary plates of bones and barbecue sauce.

I cling to my words, and I hope for art. But on the days when I'm feeling weak and tired, when I'm in subordination to tasks instead of Beauty, I just serve my tables and wait for redemption.

i'd rather be reading...

...but I feel like I owe something to the two beautiful people who deposited comments in my inbox after nearly a month of blog silence on my part. I definitely didn't deserve three comments this morning [last Thursday], so it was like a handful of grace extended to a woman in desperate need some verve. So, my dear commenting friends, I give you what may be my day's most valuable moments: naptime.

I just laid Isaiah down in his crib after he fell asleep in his carseat. (He's in such a chatty stage right now. "Da-da-da-da, ta-ta-ta, buh-buh-buh, pbpbppbpb [blowing bubbles, a.k.a. spitting]" are his favorite things to tell me these days.) I was thinking, Please don't wake up. Please don't wake up, when he opened his eyes and said, "Da-da-da-da," and then went right back to sleep. It gave me a good laugh. That's the kind of thing that keeps me going.

of books and babies

Yesterday I opened the cover of Middlemarch, the first book I had tried to read for pleasure in probably a month. I made it through the introduction, but my brain was already hurting. In that moment, I told myself that I would never be this era's great American novelist. If I can't read George Eliot on my worst of days, I can't write timeless fiction on my best of days.

Today I settled for The Adventures of Tom Sawyer instead. Eliot will have to wait for another day -- maybe a day without diapers and nursing and chasing after a baby who's much too young to be pulling himself up stairsteps.

I read the first three chapters out loud to my little boy, rolling out the Missouri twang like no one was listening. I imagined days when I'd lie in bed with all our little children, reading it again when they're old enough to actually understand. And I decided it was okay if I"m never a famous writer.

I might survive motherhood to pump out some readable nonfiction. I might even try to finish those novels I started in the days when pumping didn't bring breasts to mind. And I'll fall back into reading books like a natural, I'm sure, wondering what I ever found so difficult about Middlemarch. But in reading and writing and feeling intellectual again, I'll be thankful for having done more important things with my life -- things relating to diapers and nursing and chasing after a baby (who's much too young to be pulling himself up stairsteps).

june challenge: evangelism

As I complete each month's challenge, I realize how I can never stop developing each of the spiritual disciplines I've tried to tackle. Committing myself to prayer has revealed to me how much more I need to communicate daily with God in a genuine and humble way. Focusing on loving my neighbor as myself has not closed the door on ways to give of myself but rather opened a flood of new ones.

And now this -- evangelism. I'll complete my monthly goal and move back to life as usual, right? I doubt it. I hope not. If I thought about what giving myself to evangelism might mean for my future, I might back away at the whelming pressure. But the most daunting of disciplines begins with a single step. That single step is all I will try to commit to this month: reaching one person.

Our small group from church is walking through a study series called Just Walk Across the Room, based on the book by Bill Hybels. Hybels argues that it's not a Christian's job to present a four-point gospel message to every unbeliever she knows (or whatever her preferred method is). Instead, a Christ-follower should simply be sensitive to the Holy Spirit's promptings... maybe to present that four point message, but maybe not, too. Maybe it's just walking across the room to introduce myself to a stranger or inviting someone to church. The point is that I'm available, not to do all the work myself (I'm not capable of converting a soul anyway; that's God's job!), but to do the job God wants me to do -- speak a word, lend a hand, extend an invitation.

I don't know what part of the evangelistic journey God will call me to take, but I'm praying to be open to His opportunities, starting this month.

grains for hope

I'm proud of my hometown today, doing more than I've ever done to wipe out world hunger. I'm proud of the people brave enough to move an idea past conception into production. I've met these people. Hey, I'm even related to some of them!

Sometimes I'm hard on Sabetha. I count the people in it as closed-minded -- far from progressive. I figure most of them can't see past their little corner of northeast Kansas. Well, let's just say I've been proven wrong.

God bless Mrs. Spangler, a woman who cared enough to get my high school involved. Because of her, students did the research to discover the needs of people in Mozambique, and now Sabetha businesses are partnering with these kids to package and ship vitamin-fortified rice to Africa.

Watch this Topeka ABC news broadcast or check out the Grains for Hope website .

They're really doing it -- and all in my hometown of 2500 people. You wanna change the world? Move to Sabetha.

words without pictures

A picture may be worth a thousand words, but there's no need for both, at least not on this blog. And since I'm a novice of photography, words are my tool of choice.

My generation has lost previous generations' hunger for words -- for novels, for poetry, for the ability to express oneself with the pen. And it's really sad, you know? People would rather sit in front of a television to see a story with their eyes than to have it painted in their minds by reading words on a page. All this film media dulls the imagination, I'm telling you.

I volunteered to keep a blog for our small group at church. One of the first comments I received was "more pictures!" More pictures? Aren't my words worth enough? To top that, I heard someone else (who considers himself a bit of a guru of writing composition) call blogs without pictures "boring."

So many blogs out there post a picture with every entry. "Oh, look! There's a picture of a guy with a beard! I bet I'd be interested in this post!" The photograph may draw me in, but as I scan through the post, my attention wanes. The words hold little value. And then I realize that the pictures are only there to cover up the writer's empty brain. Lured in again... and left to dry and die in the sun.

Call it boring if you want, but I have resolved to keep passage picture-free. It challenges me to write words of value, to think before I post. I'll try not to waste your time; I'll try to keep you coming back. And hopefully -- someday -- both of our brains will get a little exercise.

may challenge: loving my neighbor as myself

I admit it: every time I set a goal, I imagine that at the end of the time period, I will have mastered whatever I had set out to master. I guess that's a good thing because I am now a faithful prayer warrior! Ummm... whatever.

But I did decide that instead of kicking myself in the shins for failing to meet my own expectations, I would rejoice in the grace of improvement. My prayer life is more solid than it was a month ago, praise God! I expect that my future spiritual discipline challenges will be reason enough to keep praying.

I struggled to choose a specific discipline for the month of May. I feel compelled to practice reaching out to people -- my literal neighbors, the poor, my husband, just to name a few. I considered focusing on hospitality or generosity, but I decided to start with something more general because of the things I want to accomplish this month. If I need to develop a more specific discipline in a later month, I will.

I think the biggest challenge this month will be practicing genuine love. I have some specific ways I would like to reach out to others -- actions that I hope they will interpret as love -- but to know in my heart that I really love the people I am reaching out to is an entirely different thing. First Corinthians 13 keeps going through my head: "and though I give all my goods to feed the poor, but have not love, it profits me nothing."

song of the middle class

We don't ask for much -- just a simple house in a clean, safe neighborhood. We need a place without crime, so the kids can sleep soundly at night, each of them in their private rooms. The schools need to be good, quality institutions with caring, well educated teachers.

Our landscaping just needs some healthy bushes, a few bright flowers. Our neighbors need to be friendly -- people we could ask for a cup of sugar when the need arises. There should be a good church within reasonable driving distance. The church should be passionate and preach sound doctrine.

We'll need a big-screen television -- not because we can't do without it -- just to relate to the culture, you know. We ask to have a night or two out to dinner every week, to get a break from the stress of cooking our own meals. A vacation every year -- just a week or two -- will be the escape we so desperately need from the usual rat race of the working life.

We need a reliable car -- nothing fancy. Just as long as there's a good CD player, cruise control, air conditioning, leather seats. Also, it'll make our life so much easier if we could just have a laptop in addition to our desktop computer. Since we spend so much time on the computer and all. Our wardrobes don't have to be elaborate. We just need some trendy clothes so we don't look like total dorks; we ask for enough variety that we don't get bored with what we wear.

We'll need a large enough salary to build a stable 401K for retirement. We don't want to have to worry if we'll make it through our sunset years. We need to have a little extra to pay off our debts, to pay off the mortgage, and live comfortably... so that we can give to the poor.

the one-woman circus

I am a mom;
I am a one-woman circus--
a jungle gym,
comedian,
snack bar
all-in-one.
I can do
the juggling,
the balancing,
acrobatics,
and dancing.
I'm a
trust-builder,
smile-maker,
noisemaker
supper-baker.
I can stand up,
sit down,
lifting weights
with one arm.
I handle the manure,
the cries,
and the razor sharp claws.

I am a one-woman circus.

How's the pay?
Not too great.

But the applause--
smiles, first moments,
looks of awe
and adoration--
is deafening.

prayer challenge update

I think I was about to be swallowed up in failure, but then one of my new blogreaders asked me, "How are you doing with your April challenge of prayer?" and "What are you doing to develop this discipline?" Nothing like a good dose of accountability to kick me in the butt and onto my knees again.

I've been trying to give God a chunk of my evenings because something about the early mornings is just too intimidating after a patchy night of sleep. Speaking of patchy: my evening prayer times are still patchy, but I'm hoping the prayerful patches will keep getting bigger and bigger until they cover up the blank, prayerless evenings. I'm making a mental note to pray for that to happen.

I decided to learn about what the Bible has to say about prayer while I'm trying my hand at it. I started in Habakkuk 3, which is primarily a prayer. It wasn't the prayer that inspired me, though. It was the last few verses -- Habakkuk's profession of faith in God -- which put me in the right spirit for prayer:

"Although the fig tree shall not blossom, neither shall fruit be in the vines; the labour of the olive shall fail, and the fields shall yield no meat; the flock shall be cut off from the fold, and there shall be no herd in the stalls: yet I will rejoice in the LORD, I will joy in the God of my salvation" (Habakkuk 3. 17,18).

In spite of the worst of circumstances, God is worthy of my praise and my attention... and my prayer times.

april challenge: prayer

I couldn't think of any other way to start. Without crying out to God, I don't know how to start this year of practicing spiritual disciplines. (See previous post if you don't know what I'm talking about.)

I chose the discipline of prayer because it's the only way I know to improve communication with God. It's the best way I know of to fully offer myself to God, to open my heart to what He has for me.

If the first month of this plan goes well, I hope to have developed a regular daily prayer time as well as become more instant (spontaneous) in prayer. I hope to become more familiar with what the Bible says about prayer and more earnest when I pray. And I hope God will teach me much more about prayer than I could have ever imagined.

(Again, I invite you to join me as I develop this spiritual discipline. I"d love to know if you're journeying with me, and if you're adopting my spiritual discipline choices or coming up with your own.)

journey to intimacy

Maybe it was Easter, maybe it was talking about the future and where we want to "end up"... but this weekend compelled me to know the Lord more deeply.

Sometimes I try to blame this stale spiritual valley on post-partum life changes, but I know that's no excuse for me to be distant from God.

It seems that there have been too many decisions lately that I try to pray about, but then I run out of time (or so I think). So, I make the best decision possible, crossing my fingers that that's what God would have had me do. Wow. What a testimony. Not.

My life needs revival. I need to get to know my Lord again. And I invite you to join me. From Easter 2007 until Easter 2008, I plan to implement one new spiritual discipline at a time, which may include growth areas such as:

Hospitality
Global outreach
Community outreach
Giving
Prayer
Bible study
Evangelism
Friendship
Exercising talents
Enjoying and honoring God’s creation
Solitude
Prioritizing/managing time
Scripture memorization
Controlling the tongue
Dedication to home, husband, and family
Denying self

And now for the plan. Too many times, I've implemented yearly plans (Write 1500 words every single day!) and petered out within a few weeks (or days?), feeling like a failure. My husband had some indispensable wisdom he borrowed from software project planning -- stuff he tries to implement at work.

He said a sure-fire way to miss a long-term goal is to have only a long-term plan. As you miss each consecutive deadline, you've dug yourself in so deep a hole you'll never catch up. Kyle recommends setting small, three-week milestones, taking time to review after each one.

I'm going to go for month-long milestones instead, just because it's easier that way. I won't decide on each month's spiritual decision until I'm almost ready to implement it. Only God knows what journey this year will take me through, so there's no need to pretend I know.

In spite of having small short-term goals, having one long-term goal is invaluable. I haven't had enough time to come up with a formal description of my long-term goal, but roughly, here it is:

To grow in intimacy with God; to know Him more deeply, to hear Him more clearly, to serve Him more passionately, to believe Him more actively, to love Him more radically.

on politics

Just a minute ago, I unsubscribed from the AFA ActionAlert email list. I was tired of hearing the rampages: “Ford supports homosexuals!”, “NBC allows unsuitable programming!”, “Prayer is silenced at such-and-such-a high school!” It was just too much. I despise the negativity. In the name of “American Family Association,” this newsletter seems like little more than conservative propaganda.

I sound like a liberal, and I sound like a Democrat. Who’d-a ever thought it? I don’t think I’m a liberal, though, and I’m sure not ready to say I’m a Democrat. But I can also say I’m not a die-hard Republican either. I’m just really sick of evangelical Christianity being used as a political position, that's all. Since when are Christians called to stand up for their "rights" and dignity at all costs?

Today I’ve been reading Loud and Clear, by Anna Quindlen. Quindlen used to be a journalist, and she’s a Democrat. While only some of the book’s contents is focused on political issues, it’s enough to make me reevaluate my political stances. I don’t agree with everything Quindlen says – maybe half, maybe not quite half. But she makes me less mad than Don Williams – author of the AFA ActionAlert emails – does.

The thing is, AFA claims to be a Christian organization, and it just seems like there’s more finger-pointing out there than love these days, and I’m really sick of it.

Let me dig myself into a deeper hole: I firmly believe homosexuality is a sin. But until we prohibit heterosexual adulterers and fornicators, liars, swindlers and greedy businessmen, idol-worshippers, and angry women from certain American freedoms, homosexuals shouldn’t be treated as worse than any other sinner (I’m not suggesting we persecute all sinners, by the way). I’m embarrassed on behalf of my “conservative Christian Republican” brothers and sisters. And to the liberals out there that don’t know Jesus, I’m sorry you’ve been given such a distorted view of him through people that I used cheer on.

I am so far from a political commentator. There are so many issues I simply don’t understand – namely, the war on terror and the war in Iraq (or are those two wars one and the same?).
And while we’re on the issue of war, let me also say I’m tired of Bush-bashing (Bush, obviously, being the number one name associated with the war[s]). I don’t think it’s any more appropriate than homosexual-bashing. Respecting authority is hard, but it’s also the mature thing to do. That’s all I’ll say about that.

Let me tell you what else I did today: I watched Oprah. Oprah was interviewing Barack Obama, a guy more and more Americans are admiring on both the left and right wings. I’m one of them. I think he’s got a lot of sense, and Democrat or not, I can’t say I wouldn’t vote for him if he decided to one day run for President. One thing he said in the interview was that, aside from all the partisan bickering that happens in Washington, regular, everyday Americans need to come together on the things they do agree on – things like family values, things like our parents taught us when we were growing up: honesty, empathy, things like that. I agree. As much as that may sound like political schmoozing, I think it’s true. There’s so much truth out there that doesn’t come in the form of partisan politics.

I have decided that the truth I want to stand on is the truth of God’s word. And if that means doing something “notoriously” liberal like standing up for racial tolerance, then I need to do it. And yes, there are poor people in America who haven’t figured out how to pull themselves up by their own bootstraps, and I believe I’m partly responsible for their trials. What can I do about it? On the other side of the coin, I don’t believe abortion is justified, but how am I approaching its supporters?

What do I care about, and how do I show I care? What should I just let go?

As much as I want to justify myself by saying I came to these conclusions solely by knowing what Jesus would do and what would please God, I’m sure the political subtlety of Anna Quindlen and Barack Obama do have their bit of influence on me as well. But I also think I’m being fair by listening to what they have to say. They aren’t ultra-left-wing, so I don’t think I’m being too irresponsible in hearing their point of view (not that hearing the ultra-left-wing point of view is necessarily irresponsible). I think the important thing is that rather than making me angry – like I become whenever I received a new AFA email – they make me think. I don’t always agree with them, but they’re mature enough to take a moderate approach, and that deserves the honor of at least being heard.

:: written 18.october.2006 ::

leaving home

"Everybody has to leave, everybody has to leave their home and come back so they can love it again for all new reasons." -Donald Miller, Through Painted Deserts

I'm glad I left home--
its brome grass
waving a goodbye
and a hello;
its long dirt lanes
still there,
still solitary;
its public places
full of unguarded
character;
its kitchen
warm with
simmering soup
and some sort
of fragrant
love;
its faces--
Mom Dad
Rachel Jeanne
Myra Sarah--
meaning more
than labels on
the family tree.

So, I'm glad I
left home.

the minimum space

After dwindling my belongings to 55, I realized we'd have to get rid of this monstrosity of a house, trade it in for something a little... littler. And that called for a sequel to my post the bare minimum.

I discovered the Small House Society, an organization that encourages people to trade in their spaces for something more economically and environmentally responsible. They started up in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, after seeing so many homes ravished in the waters. The shed-sized houses the society promotes are often built on a trailer, so the owner can just pull out when they want (and avoid paying property taxes).

I think I could do without the trailer, but if we could sell this house, I'd be game right now for a little place -- one you can see from one end to the other and clean in less than an hour. I'm just not sure if my future children are ready for growing up in a 100-square foot space. Or maybe it's Kyle and I who wouldn't be up to the... closeness with them.

However, something smaller could still respect our individual privacy and chip away at our current excess of space, and we wouldn't be paying to heat and cool over 2,000 square feet of space when we use less than 1,000.

I'm still torn about how to live in a minimum amount of space while still being available to entertain guests. I guess you just have to be creative; taking more frequent advantage of your limitless outdoor space is an easy solution.

Well, I'm off to design my miniature house. BlueSky MOD and Alchemy Architects have some designs that really float my boat.

childbirth

You prepare like the dickens (or you have good intentions to), hoping Kegels and breathing will somehow make this a painfree experience for you, the most prepared woman in the world. By the time the contractions start in earnest, you've forgotten all about breathing and you know you're in for a long ride.

You kind of wish you could just go to the hospital and get it over with already, but you call your doctor, a nurse, the hospital, the hospital again, and everyone keeps saying, "Just wait until the contractions are closer." Closer. Harder. Closer. Harder. If you have to have this baby at home, they'll be responsible, you vow. So you talk to your sisters and your mom because they'll know best, better than those doctors and nurses, who haven't had near as many babies and don't have experience with your family's genetics. Talking to family makes you cry, but at least they assure you that the medical professionals are probably as whacko as you think they are. But still you stay at home because you think you can take it just a little longer, but the whole thing has been going on for over a day now, and you wonder if this labor part will ever turn into delivery.

Four o'clock in the afternoon and you say "enough is enough." You're not waiting for closer contractions because you know your husband's not keen on delivering his firstborn in the car.

You get to the hospital, feeling like a champ for laboring so long on your own. The nurse tells you you're doing such a good job for being at this stage, but who knows if every woman gets told the same thing. You walk around, you lean over, you read your book, you crunch on some ice chips, you take a bath. You sit on a big blue ball, convincing yourself it helps. The hours drag on; the pain gets worse. The television noise has got to go. The big blue ball has long since stopped fooling you of its helpfulness. You climb into bed. You ask yourself if you will ever have more children. Is there a back-door exit to this delivery thing? You try to breathe calmly, but it's no use. Enough of being macho: where's the painkiller?

The moments get hazy -- of seeing the head, of counting and pushing. Somehow in the midst of all your straining and breathing and pushing, someone up and steals your brain... or it wanders away when you're not paying attention. (Sometime after delivery, you'll realize it's gone and can only hope it'll find its way back soon.) But you don't notice because a flood has just been released from your body, your soul. It's over. It's over. It's over. The squalling baby is alive. It's alive. It's perfect. It's your baby. It's yours.

You try to catch your breath as they place a living being on your chest. You have just experienced a miracle.

The next day or two are blurry due to lack of sleep, but you're delirious (and sore). Before you know it, you're home and wondering who exactly was crazy enough to trust you with something so perfect, so fragile. Didn't they check your list of credentials? Didn't they realize you have no idea what to do with a live baby? As you sit there in the darkness and try to nurse, you realize that despite your brain being AWOL and your body being subject to a stronger force of gravity, you still remember how to love. And you figure that's a good place to start.

everyday perfection

I see the wind whipping across the grass outside, and I tell Isaiah, "It's a blustery day." His face blossoms into a perfect grin. I repeat myself then, several times, just to see that perfection again. He thinks I'm hilarious, and probably the best singer in the world, too. But then again, he smiles at the light in our study -- ignores me, even, just to look at that light.

He's utterly free of self-consciousness -- free to smile, free to cry, free to fart at will. For him, there's nothing better than being naked. Forget hunger, forget cold, forget tiredness -- nudity eliminates them all.

I'm convinced Isaiah is the most brilliant and physically talented baby that ever lived. He doesn't always perform for relatives, friends, and doctors, but it's okay. We know. I read books to Isaiah. Usually he bears with me, hyperventilating at each new page, convincing me he's a genius. Instead of burping against my chest, like a normal baby, Isaiah likes to stand up (and look at the light in the study). Of course, at two and a half months, he has no sense of balance, but his legs are as strong as a couple of horses.

(When he's not eating or burping,) Isaiah loves to lie against my arm or my chest, his face buried in the folds of my shirt. I usually move his head to keep him from suffocation. Obviously, security and comfort are more important to him than breathing.

For him, I give up reading and cleaning. For him, I give up writing this down the first time it crosses my mind; it'll never sound like it did the first time; it'll never be better than mediocre writing. Oh, well. It's best to lie on the couch, his tiny body nestled against mine. In his peacefulness, I believe along with him that all is well with the world.

the bare minimum

Dan Ho's minimalistic lifestyle inspires me. In the New York Times article "The Imperfectionist," he is described as a man who, in an urge to unburden himself from plush, materialistic living, dwindled his possessions down to about 55 items.

For Ho, it was the constant "keeping up with the Jones's" that disgusted him about our society: you have to retain a certain standard of living and shoot for that magazine-cover decorating style just for the sake of folks -- virtual strangers -- who might drop by. In his opinion, all that stuff is just for show; it really isn't what makes us happy.

Ho's got a point. Aside from how our houses are decorated, why do we have such extensive wardrobes? Why an extra set of "company" dishes -- china that's rarely used?

Now, I do believe there's a need in a Christian's life for a hospitable home, contrary to what Ho believes about not needing to be ready for guests unless you're running a bed-and-breakfast. But are your home's company qualities for guests' comfort, or just for show-and tell? Ho's right: people set a mood far more than a scented candle ever will. But I think, too, there's room in a home for beauty. Sorry, Mr. Ho, but my bright red kitchen does make me happy. I didn't paint it for my next-door neighbor's sake.

Here's an exciting proposal, though: what if you really did dwindle your possessions down to the bare necessities? I've read the New Testament passage in which Jesus commands a follower to sell all he has and give to the poor, and the one about giving our coat along with that requested shirt, and I've often -- okay, always -- thought, "Jesus isn't being literal. He's not talking to me." Well, maybe He is.

What Ho didn't mention is that there's a lot more to getting rid of stuff than just to free ourselves in this life; we need to free ourselves for the next one.

In the past year or two, I've donated so many clothes to the Salvation Army that probably only a sixth of our closet space is now being used. It is a big closet, but still -- it is so freeing to get rid of junk (for good, not to make space for more!).

The strategy for my wardrobe was to get rid of things that I was only keeping "just in case." While my clothing breathed out their faux-security for me, someone else could have been using them on a regular basis. But even though my closet reduction was relatively easy, I think it'd be harder to prune down my kitchen, for instance. Just for fun, though, I made a list of my 55 belongings. (Check the comments link on this post, if you're interested.) It was fun and challenging, but it was a heart-searching exercise, too. I had to weed out some things that I found out I was attached to. And then, I had to ask myself if it came down to it, could I let go of the final 55?

best books of 2006

My list of favorite books is long this year, but I guess that comes from reading more books than I did in previous years. I read 37 in 2006. Yes, I keep track... in an Excel document, complete with authors, genres, dates I hope to finish, and dates I actually finished. The really good ones get an asterisk in the final column, and those are the books that make this honorable best of... list.

Searching for God Knows What, Donald Miller
Hmm... Should my failure to remember anything about his book automatically strike it from my list? Oops. Not exactly a compelling way to start. I do remember that this book flows as a whole work more than Blue Like Jazz did with its stand-alone essays, and if I know Donald Miller, it was chock-full of bold spiritual truths that I needed to hear. This is an embarrassing review; let's move on.

Eats, Shoots and Leaves, Lynne Truss
A panda walks into a bar (or something like that; I'm trying to remember from the back cover.) He eats, shoots and leaves. Hold it. A punctuational error just made him a criminal! Yeah, serious misunderstandings can result from you failing to put punctuation where it belongs. Lynne Truss is my hero.

The Screwtape Letters, C.S. Lewis
Like virtually all of Lewis's work, a classic. This one is an entertaining yet sobering series of letters from a senior demon to his nephew. The reader gets an inside peek into conversations of how to effectively tempt a human to sin. It'll wake you up to Satan's subtlety!

The Elements of Style, William Strunk and E.B. White
Every literate, English-speaking person should read this at least once in his life, even if it's painful. Better yet, read it once a year. This is an irreplaceable handbook on the ins and outs of grammar and style -- the best in its class.

To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee
I'm ashamed I've never read this before now. It's such a warm story about family values, respect for all people, and standing up for what's right. You'll fall in love with the characters. That's a generic comment, I know, but I read it before I had a baby, and now half my brains are gone. Oh, I did discover that Harper is a woman.

Mystery and Manners, Flannery O'Connor
Dear me, another book on writing. I think I may be addicted to them. At any rate, here's one of my favorite quotes from O'Connor's take on how to write well: "I think that if there is any value in hearing writers talk, it will be in hearing what they can witness to and not what they can theorize about." Here's another one: "There is something in us, as storytellers and as listeners to stories, that demands the redemptive act, that demands that what falls at least be offered the chance to be restored." Oh, yeah, and this one: "The writer should never be ashamed of staring. There is nothing that doesn’t require his attention." That one might be my favorite. Okay, I'll stop. Flannery O'Connor just really knows her stuff.

Bird by Bird, Anne Lamott
I decided to read this after I listened to "Word by Word," a lecture Lamott gave at a writers' conference. As in all her books, Anne Lamott is honest and unsparing in this book about writing. My favorite piece of advice is to seek enjoyment -- not publication -- in writing because publication doesn't bring fulfillment.

Operating Instructions, Anne Lamott
I ought to be writing this book right about now. This is a collection of journal entries Lamott wrote during the first year of her son's life. Sappy tears, frustration, sheer amazement at this little dependent human being -- they're all there hanging out. (sigh) I ought to read this book again.

Amazing Grace: A Vocabulary of Faith, Kathleen Norris
Sometimes I disagree with Norris's theology, but as with Anne Lamott, there's enough truth and candor in her writing that it makes me step back and rethink why I believe what I believe. One of the things I love most about this book is its seemingly exhaustive list of topics. Norris writes about everything from apostacy to grace to the Holy Ghost, giving each its short, manageable chapter. She tackles the "vocabulary of faith" with her own spin and her own experiences, maybe for people who don't have a handle on all that Christian terminology, or maybe just for herself. I think it'd be fun to rewrite my own version of this book.

Out of the Dust, Karen Hesse
When I first opened this book, I thought, "Ugh. Poetry." Isn't that horrible, coming from one who tries to write the stuff? Using my better judgment, though, I decided to check out the book anyway. I figured there had to be a good reason it was a Newbery award-winner. Not only was the poetry readable, the story was compelling, gritty, beautiful. It's an Oklahoma tomboy's account of her family's survival during the depression and dustbowl of the 1930s. Check it out; you can finish it in less than a day.

An American Childhood, Annie Dillard
I loved this autobiography. Beginning with age five or maybe even younger, Dillard tells with amazing detail of her life growing up in Pittsburg. One of my favorite chapters is about the physical ugliness of adults. With hiliarious and believable charm, she describes studying and playing with the veins in her mother's hands. I forgot how important things like that are!

I think I was more discriminatory in my book choices in 2006, and as a result, I'm coming away with a genuine respect for writers who can really write. In reading quality work, I expanded my repertoire of authors I enjoy, but at the same time, doing my own writing seems all the more intimidating. But why? As Anne Lamott says, I just need to enjoy it. Who's keeping score?
But aside from writing, the more I read, the more I know I have to keep reading. There's too much good stuff out there to waste any time! Now it's time to snuggle up with Francine Prose's Reading Like a Writer...