passage

moving my blog

2008-01-04T15:11:00.001-06:00

After three-plus years of Blogger, I decided it was time for something new. Besides, this little redesign I did a few months back didn't turn out too prettily.

In a few days, this page will automatically redirect you to my new blog site -- clbeyer.wordpress.com -- but I wanted to give a heads-up to any of you who subscribe to my feed rather than visiting my blog page.

tradition

2008-01-03T20:55:00.001-06:00

In the church I grew up in, there was this beautiful time of fellowship after the Communion service, when all the members – all 150 or so of them – would lace their way through the pews of the church and greet every other person there. The line would start at the front, with the ministers, and every bench would play “follow the leader” until every person had been greeted by everyone else. It was so beautiful because no one could avoid anyone else. They were – at least for that evening – one body in social unity.

my sweet drugs

2007-12-06T10:00:00.001-06:00

(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

2007-11-01T21:37:00.001-05:00

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

2007-11-01T21:19:00.001-05:00

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

2007-09-25T08:48:00.001-05:00

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

2007-09-24T16:43:00.001-05:00

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

2007-09-24T16:07:00.001-05:00

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

2007-09-12T11:08:00.001-05:00

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

2007-09-08T15:14:00.001-05:00

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?

2007-09-06T10:31:00.000-05:00

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

It came all the way from Australia.

giving milk

2007-09-06T09:44:00.000-05:00

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

2007-08-15T20:20:00.001-05:00

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

2007-08-15T09:52:00.001-05:00

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

2007-08-02T21:26:00.000-05:00

I am Carrie Louise.
I first wanted to be a writer when, as a little girl, I read a biography about Louisa May Alcott.
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.
I love to read Anne Lamott, Madeleine L’Engle, and C.S. Lewis.
I want to be a missionary and a mom to lots of babies.
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.
My favorite root beer is Barq’s.
My favorite pop is root beer.
I’m from a part of the country where people call soft drinks “pop.” And there’s nothing wrong with it.
I get nostalgic thinking about wide open fields.
I was the best bunter on my softball team when I was little.
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…”
I wish I took more artistic photos.
I can be frugal when I want to.
Being frugal gives me a sort of high.
I think we’re getting new neighbors today.
I could be pregnant right now.
But I don’t think I am.
I worry that that was too personal.
Unloving, critical people bother me.
I have a pimple on my forehead. Well, a pimple or two… or three.
I have four big sisters, but they’re all littler than I am.
Opa is my wonderful Serbian grandpa who was a Nazi in World War 2.
I know how to cook and clean and fold laundry better than most American women.
Texas taught me how to cook pretty good Mexican food.
I used to be an email-checking junkie.
Okay, I still am.
Suburbs drive me nuts. Maybe I’ll blog about that sometime.
I am in the middle of writing four novels, but I haven’t worked on them in almost a year.
In elementary school, I always got goosebumps when we sang the national anthem.
I still get goosebumps when I hear touching stories, but not when I hear or sing “The Star Spangled Banner” anymore.
There are 195 (now 196) posts on my blog, and I’ve been blogging since 2004.
I ache for American Christianity because so much of it seems superficial.
I wish I had a larger vocabulary.
I am reading Honey for a Child’s Heart right now, and it’s wonderful – a resource I’ll use all my life.
I love baking sweets but hate cooking supper.
My clean house gives me a high.
My house is dirty right now.
I want to run a coffee shop where people are addicted to the love they feel while they’re there.
Outside my family, I have two very good friends with whom I would feel comfortable sharing almost anything.
When people ask where I met my husband, I say we’ve known each other our whole lives.
My husband is sensitive, helpful, handsome, and driven.
To relax, I read books, watch movies, take baths, and accept massages.
I don’t like shopping.
I feel like a strong, accomplished woman when I mow our lawn.
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.
I got engaged in high school.
I love chips and queso.
I like to support the little independent restaurants instead of the big, chainy ones.
I’ve been to Haiti, Mexico, and St. Lucia.
I’ve been to England, France, Germany, Switzerland, Austria, and Liechtenstein.
I speak a little German with a pretty good accent.
I hate pickles.
I’ve been in Colorado, California, Oklahoma, Nebraska, Missouri, Illinois, Iowa, Michigan, Florida, Georgia, Connecticut, Ohio, Indiana, Minnesota, Arkansas, South Dakota, and Pennsylvania.
My baby’s awake now.
I am so thankful when Isaiah wakes up happy.
My philosophy is to get rid of anything I don’t use, even if it’s in perfectly good condition.
My mom is almost perfect.
I love being in the mountains, but I’m a weenie about hiking.
My first car was a stick-shift red Ford Tempo.
In high school, my after-school pit stop was Sonic for Ched-R-Peppers with ranch dressing.
Growing up, we had desserts called Bear Boo Boo, Goose Gaggalie, and Boob Cookies.
I made Goose Gaggalie Monday.
My Bear Boo Boo never tastes as good as my mom’s did.
I have never made Boob Cookies.
I play the piano, trombone (used to, anyway), and banjo (sort of).
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…
Music I love: bluegrass, Texas blues, hearty jazz (not elevator music), old country, classical, rock oldies, folk
Song that most recently was stuck in my head: "Wide Eyed" by Nichole Nordeman. Good lyrics.
I have had one traffic ticket in my life – for going 74 in a 60 mph zone.
I have worked at a home for handicapped adults, a lumber yard, two schools, an Italian restaurant, and a scrapbook store.
I have never made more than $10/hour.
I am currently learning how to shop grocery store sales wisely.
I have been in hospitals to get stitches on my face (twice) and have a baby.
Dar Williams’s music is playing right now.
I wish I could buy more books.
I would consider breastfeeding someone else’s baby if its mother couldn’t.
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.
My dad used to ask us kids to scratch his back, but he didn’t like us to plug his nose.
I think Edith Pargeter and Annie Dillard have the most beautiful styles of writing of all the writers I’ve read.
Books I love: Uncle Tom’s Cabin (Harriet Beecher Stowe), Blue Like Jazz (Donald Miller), A Wrinkle in Time (Madeleine L’Engle)
I have 23 nieces and nephews.
The Catcher in the Rye made me laugh out loud when I read it.
I would rather be a nun than the President.
I have emotional conversations with invisible people when I’m alone.
A few movies I love: The Spitfire Grill, One Night with the King, The Shawshank Redemption
I publish an Aberle family newspaper called The Genuine Giraffe.
Being a mother makes me feel important.
Recycling stuff makes me feel responsible.
In fourth grade I wrote and acted out a skit called “Always Pay Those Taxes” with my friend Anna Tennal.
One of my good friends from high school just moved 20 minutes away from me this week!
I am ridiculously fond of getting the mail.
My current car is a 2002 burgundy Honda Accord.
Kyle’s current car is a totaled 1995 tan Honda Accord that’s still running great.
I was driving the car when it was totaled.
But Kyle totaled his red Ford Escort two days before, and it’s not running anymore.
My sisters and I all have different noses. (That is, they don’t look alike.)
I have a beautiful nine-month-old son.
I have the most wonderful husband in the world.
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

2007-07-19T20:27:00.001-05:00

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

2007-07-18T12:16:00.001-05:00

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

2007-07-11T18:58:00.001-05:00

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

2007-07-09T22:09:00.001-05:00

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

2007-07-08T22:10:00.001-05:00

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

2007-07-07T18:01:00.001-05:00

"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...

2007-07-02T16:06:00.001-05:00

...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

2007-06-06T23:09:00.001-05:00

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

2007-06-06T22:27:00.001-05:00

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

2007-05-18T15:15:00.001-05:00

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

2007-05-09T22:39:00.000-05:00

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

2007-05-03T19:09:00.001-05:00

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

2007-05-03T16:04:00.001-05:00

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

2007-04-23T14:44:00.001-05:00

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

2007-04-22T21:31:00.000-05:00

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

2007-04-08T23:29:00.001-05:00

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

2007-04-08T23:13:00.001-05:00

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

2007-03-19T10:10:00.000-05:00

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

2007-01-13T16:46:00.000-06:00

"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

2007-01-12T10:24:00.000-06:00

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

2007-01-11T18:39:00.000-06:00

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

2007-01-11T17:53:00.000-06:00

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

2007-01-08T22:04:00.000-06:00

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

2007-01-06T16:55:00.000-06:00

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...

scuff

2006-10-10T09:14:00.000-05:00

Sometimes my poetry
seems so base
it's a wonder I put it out there
like air
flecked with allergens
to sicken those who breathe it.

It's not the elevated voice
I thought "poets" used
(who keep me writing)--
but it's dirt, debris,
the wreckage of
weak living--
mess-ups, mishaps--
instead.
It's words out-of-place
stuck here--
together--
where they grope--
grasp--
at making sense
and making amends
for me

but are honest enough
to admit they're just
a scuff on the floor.

dedicated to M
Thanks, chica.

reality check

2006-10-09T17:42:00.000-05:00

This morning I sat in my chair and prayed. Enough of stale words, I thought. I need to get out of this funk.

"Lord, increase my faith," I said. I hadn't prayed that well-worn line in awhile. I thought of all the bad things that happen to people -- faith-increasers. And from somewhere in the depths of me, I heard the words "but don't take the life of my son."

I shut my mouth and didn't let them come out. My son? Less than three weeks from his womb-to-world journey, do I think he's my son?

The Lord gives... takes.... Blessed....

"I'm sorry, Lord. He's Yours. Before You even give him to me, he's Yours. And after You do -- if You do -- he's still Yours. Every breath he takes of this earth-air is a breath enabled by You and not by me."

Increase my faith.

And now, I sing to myself Keith Green's song:
"I pledge my son to Heaven for the gospel,
though he's kicked and beaten, ridiculed and scorned..."

bathsheba

2006-10-08T21:00:00.000-05:00

I disrobe myself -- paste it out there for all to see. And you see; you take it all in like famished children. A few of you smile, or nod; you acknowledge me.

The others stand and stare behind sheets of one-way glass. I know you're there. My sensors are up; you leave your evidence -- food wrappers and footprints.

My food! My soil! But I can't tell who, or why. I only know when, and I know how many. Sometimes the footprints are few. And they match the soles of the shoes of those I love. Other times, the footprints are that of an army -- uniform, cold, silent. I disrobed before an army.

And now I disrobe again...

touched

2006-09-30T22:34:00.000-05:00

Sometimes the beauty of words just amazes me. The way that words can touch the soul, breathe life into the barren mind... it's just indescribable. Take our local McDonald's, for instance. They capture the hearts of the world with their sign out front, which reads: "WE ARE CELEBRATE THE PEOPLE DAY."

We are celebrate the people day.
We are celebrate the people day!

Can you feel the passion? It's almost as if the heart of McDonald himself just emanates from the restaurant. So few words can say so much. A splash of life -- with just a slice of mystery -- is enough to bring tears to one's eyes. This is poetry, this is life. This is a picture of hearts beating together: we are celebrate the people day.

Treasure it. Let it inspire you. And never let it go.

the test strip and the coward

2006-09-30T10:20:00.000-05:00

It's Tuesday, and I look over at Isel. She's riding in my passenger's seat, chewing on one of my used blood-testing strips that I've tossed into the door handle compartment. I hope my inward gulp isn't splattered all over my face.
"But I've got to tell her!" I think. "She has no clue!"
"Sweetie, can you stop chewing on that?" I hear myself say... in my head. In real life, I don't say anything. I think: At least I don't have any communicable diseases. And she doesn't know what she's doing. Telling her -- the girl who freaks out when I pick up a moth ("Gross! Ew! Ew! Ew!") -- would only alarm her unnecessarily.
So I don't tell her. I grip the steering wheel and keep glancing over, hoping something big and important will capture her attention before she looks over at me with her dark Latina eyes and asks, "What is this thing anyway?"

booksbooksbooksbooks

2006-09-29T09:27:00.000-05:00

Hm.

So, do you think I'm in the middle of too many books right now? (See right panel.) They're all interesting, which is why I can't give up on them altogether. You know. That would just be wrong.

Reader survey: What books are you reading right now?

i, nebuchadnezzar

2006-09-28T13:07:00.000-05:00

I feel this pressure to write, but I don't have anything. I'm blank. I know the pressure comes from everybody-else-doing-it, and if everybody else is -- Rachel's friend Jill, newly-married Michelle -- well, then, by all means, I ought to be too. After all, I'm the "writer."
Till now, my blog hadn't been updated in probably weeks. When I read, all I can see is everyone else's proficiency in words and sentences, and my total lack thereof. Everything I write sounds the same.
I wish I could break free from my intense desire to compete, and really just write for the sheer joy of it. Then, when I read, I wouldn't feel so inadequate (or is it that I feel challenged?); I'd just glean the authors' beautiful harvest of words without feeling like I'm stealing their food. I do find some sense of joy in the writing process, but too often I just bask in the glow of "I wrote something comprehensible. I am a writer."
But writing isn't the only thing I macerate in pride. I do it with about everything, I just realized.
I wash the windows and think: "I bet these are the cleanest windows on the street, even if they're not perfect." I even said to Kyle yesterday: "I bet hardly anyone washes their windows." What was I thinking? That I deserved an extra pat on the back for being so above average?
And then I look at my successful pregnancy. I walk through my house and say to my imaginary inquirer: "Actually, I'm feeling great for being eight months pregnant! I never expected to feel so good at this stage." What a wonderful body I must have to be so suited for carrying and bearing children! Never mind the fact that the notoriously hard part -- childbirth -- looms somewhere in the future.

"At the end of twelve months [Nebuchadnezzar] walked in the palace of the kingdom of Babylon.
The king spake, and said, Is not this great Babylon, that I have built for the house of the kingdom by the might of my power, and for the honour of my majesty?" -Daniel 4. 29-30
And, well, we all know what happened to him for the next seven years.

Here's Kathleen Norris, who brought me back to earth (or maybe up from it): "Christians often speak of having a call to a particular form of ministry. But from the earliest churches, it has been brought to our attention that this is mostly a matter of a pedestrian inheritance. When Paul, in his first letter to the members of the church of Corinth, asks them to 'consider your own call,' he emphasizes that 'not many of you were wise by human standards, not many were powerful, not many were of noble birth.' Declaring that it is for this very reason that God chose them, so that 'no one might boast in the presence of God' (1 Cor. 1: 26,29), Paul makes it clear that if we take inordinate pride in the spiritual gifts we have been blessed with, the joke is on us" (from Amazing Grace: A Vocabulary of Faith).

displacement

2006-09-28T12:35:00.000-05:00

And so in spite of city life
sucking,
it is my home.
I live here and
happen to believe
God put me here.
And in spite of it being
unhealthy--
or whatever--
perhaps it bolsters
my immunity.
Perhaps it teaches me
lessons that
your town never could.

temple

2006-09-08T16:55:00.000-05:00

Shoddy human, did you know you're enough? Did you know what you've been given is... enough to be the temple of the Holy Spirit? Did you know that? 'Cause I don't mean to insult your intelligence or anything, but... you really don't seem to know it. Or at least you don't seem to believe it. You keep sitting around, like you're waiting for God to make your muscles more capable of lifting, your heart more capable of caring. And I don't know, but I've been watching you for a long time, and nothing seems to be happening. At least nothing beyond what's already happened. You just keep sitting, waiting. And I just keep watching you.

There was this news bulletin awhile back, and I'm sure you saw it, 'cause... well... quite frankly, everybody else saw it. But in case you forgot what all the hype was about: the Holy Spirit's moved in, along with all His stuff, and that's, like... everything. You don't need anything else.

Just wanted to make sure you knew that.

summer's last hurrah

2006-09-05T21:44:00.000-05:00

They called it "summer's last hurrah," but here it rained all day, which was okay with me. We listened to the rain and to each other. We bought hot drinks and could at long last enjoy them. I counted the weeks left -- one, two, three... seven-and-a-half -- and knew we wouldn't have much time left to just do nothing.
Summer's over; fall's coming. I love fall, so I think it'll all be okay. The dripping rain keeps my heart from pounding, so I close my eyes and listen. It teaches me to stop... and read... and praise... and wait. And the next day, the memory'll remind me to sit and listen to the fountain splashing on the water. It'll teach me to be calm about wondering what tomorrow brings. God knows so I don't have to.

carnality

2006-09-05T21:42:00.000-05:00

for not caring,
for not wanting
to try
or feel
or live,
for wanting to go back
to the mundane,
the earthly,
the everyday--
forgive me.

tablemates

2006-08-23T16:26:00.000-05:00

In his book The Ragamuffin Gospel, Brennan Manning writes about a friend of his who said her greatest anxiety about going to Heaven was not being able to choose her tablemates at the heavenly banquet.

And then someone told me this joke a couple months ago, in which St. Peter was giving some new residents of Heaven a tour of their new home. He walked them down the streets of gold, showed them the various mansions, and let them see what was behind the doors. The group walked down a small hallway, past a closed door, and Peter shushed everybody -- finger on his lips. "Now you have to be very quiet," he said. Everybody wondered why. "Because behind that door..." Peter said, "that's where the [Southern Baptists, Catholics, Apostolic Christians -- you fill it in as you choose] live. They think they're the only ones here."

I laughed.

The humor has faded; the joke is not funny. It is sad and sick and twisted. Whether exclusive Christianity is common in one denomination or another is not the question. The question is: how often do thoughts of my exclusive acceptance in Heaven cross my mind, not necessarily excluding Christians of different denominations but individuals?

How do I love with the love of Christ, the love that says to the sinner, "Yes, you were a prostitute, a liar, a miserly tax collector, a homosexual. But go, and sin no more. You are a child of the King now -- His child. I love you." Under the blood of Christ, I have no room for haughtiness, looking down on the people I think are more annoying than me. I have nothing to boast about. I'm as sinful as the next guy. Do racism, anger, pride, little white lies displease the Lord any less than murder, homosexuality, robbery?

In Heaven, my forgiven tablemates are overcomers. There is no heirarchy. God looks at my brother who, on earth, struggled with pornography and sees "clean." God looks at me -- my lips that used to drip with complaints, my body that used to be drenched in slothfulness, my mind, my eyes, my feet, my hands, my heart -- and sees "clean."

We sit together at the table (in Heaven... or is it right here, today?). And when my tablemate tells me he never had a church because he never stopped going to mosque after he started believing in Christ, I don't want to have to doubt how that could be possible of a true Christian. I want to rejoice that I know such a man, an overcomer, covered in the blood of Christ just like me.

discouragement

2006-08-21T09:36:00.000-05:00

written 06.july.2006

Dear God, this is the part when I’m supposed to remember that You are more than enough for me. This is the part when I’m supposed to feel You fill all my inadequacies and rest in the peace of knowing that You have.
I’m not remembering.
I’m not feeling.
Instead, I’m wresting in my incompleteness. I’m knowing I’ll never measure up. I see my failures all over the board and can’t see the above them. In spite of being “smart,” I can’t figure out how to succeed. In spite of being passionate, I have no passion for You – or at least I don’t know how to live it out.
Your Psalms await me. I can’t face them.
Every part of me wants to pull through, but I try one thing: it fails. I try another: it fails. I fail, and fail, and fail again.
Oh, God, when? When do You rain Your power on me? When is the part when I realize I need to be broken? And when’s the part when everything makes sense because You breathe sense into it? When, Lord? When do I get to stop feeling like a failure? When do I find purpose? When do I learn it’s not about me?

falling in love with God

2006-08-18T16:56:00.000-05:00

I believe we have to fall in love with God again before we desire to spend time with Him, reading His thoughts that He left with us, talking to Him in quiet whispers. We have to feel Him reaching down and touching us with a sunset, with rain, with delicious food, with the quietness of rest or the beauty of forgiveness. And all of a sudden we remember why we fell in love with Him the first place. And then it’s harder to face the day without Him; we desire Him then, in the morning hours; we need Him like we never knew we needed Him.

When we aren’t intimate with someone, we forget how much we love that person. And then it happens again, and we remember -- in a wash of beauty and grace and love and peace and joy -- and all we can do is catch our breath and bask in the remembering.

baby training

2006-08-17T16:19:00.000-05:00

My mother-in-law Karen says that God does little things with our pregnant bodies to prepare it for motherhood. I don’t think she has any medical or spiritual proof of this, but I believe it. The getting up at night because your bladder is about to burst is good practice for getting up all the time with your wailing newborn. (C’mon, I know you see the similarities.) And I think maybe, too, my arms are being strengthened by pushing myself up into a sitting position, because my abs sure don’t work anymore.

I think God does other things to sort of make the landing on the motherhood pad a little softer than it could be. For instance, I was baking pumpkin bread today. I scooped the pureed pumpkin out of its can, getting it over all over myself in the process. It looked like baby food to me, squishy and orangey-brown. I had pumpkin bread dough splattered all over my shirt and arms by the time I was done mixing the batter. I thought, “This is great. I’m going to have to get used to looking and feeling like a sticky, poopy slob for days at a time.” (I’m not saying I want to look like one.)

I wonder if God’s training my feet, too. I don’t know for sure, though. Seems like if they had a break they wouldn’t be the worse for it. Two nights ago, they were all red and swollen from standing up practically all day. I had been baking monster cookies barefoot, and my heels were all callused and dirty from the kitchen floor. I gave my ankles sympathetic glances every once in a while because I had never seen them so swollen (although, I’ll admit, they were normal enough to make me question whether they really even were swollen at all). But I was still able to coerce Kyle into a foot and leg and lower back massage, and he was an absolute darling about it.

I’m getting up earlier these days, and completely voluntarily. I don’t have to get up very early, now that I only leave the house for doctor’s appointments and getting groceries, so I usually get up at eight. This morning, though, I woke up at 7.15, and I thought to myself, “You know, I really don’t need any more sleep.” So, I got up. It was a big victory, so don’t scoff at it. I think God puts the desire for earlier rising in me, and I thank Him for it. There’s something peaceful and miraculous about mornings, and there’s no other way to feel that except to get up for them.

Nesting is another way of God preparing me for motherhood, I think. It’s hardly instinctual; it’s more what I expect myself to do, so it’s very planned. I’m wiping down doors, touching up the walls with paint, baking for all I’m worth. I told Kyle I thought we might need to get a deep freeze by the time I’m done making all the food I want to make for when the baby comes. Aside from the red, swollen feet, it’s really rewarding to have made so much food lately. I’ve got pumpkin splatters on my shirt, but I’ve also got two lovely loaves of pumpkin bread cooling on the counter.

Something’s happening in my heart, too. This morning, when I was swimming in the pool, fretting about the sign that had warned, “Adults should not swim alone,” I was thinking how I was ready to plead to my murderer for my life “for the baby’s sake.” And I meant it, too. It wasn’t some cold-hearted, selfish scheme to get him to change his mind about killing me. In fact, I thought about arguing next that he could kill me as long as he called 911 first, so they could at least rescue my premature baby.

I’m trying to figure out where I got this love for this little being I’ve never seen or heard. When he kicks, Kyle says he practicing soccer, but I know the truth: he’s sending little love messages and playing games because he knows we’re out here, wondering quietly, waiting for his next move.

falling up

2006-07-25T11:52:00.000-05:00

The great paradox is that getting to the point of living radically and wholly for Jesus means we must fall rather than go or get anywhere, do anything, or be something more than nothing.

those days

2006-07-24T20:53:00.000-05:00

There are those days--
when words and works
just don't come--
energy, enthusiasm--
buried beneath
layers of "just don't feel like it."
And the things
you know you're
s'posed to do
lie stagnant, still. So--
you wait for grace
to drip down
in its gentle shower.
But still
you know--
grace is already
driving down--
in torrents.

practice run

2006-07-21T10:04:00.000-05:00

I've been learning some things about writing. I've been learning that if I want to be a writer, I need to write like crazy, and get all (read some) of the bad writing out of me before I even start to pretend it's good and before I think I need to share my profoundness with other people. (Disclaimer: This blog is the exception -- I promise. I've just been blessed with some nice, non-critical readers, who let me make believe that I'm a real writer when I'm really only just practicing.)

I've been reminded about the practice-makes-closer-to-perfect thing a few times in the last couple days, but Anne Lamott said it best in her newish book, Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith: "I know that with writing, you start where you are, and you flail around for a while, and if you keep doing it, every day you get closer to something good."

You'd think I'd have known by now that it takes years and reams of paper to get good at writing. And I know I've read it in books about writing before because it sure sounds awfully familiar. But I've only believed it for about one day.

How do I know I believe it? Because I'm writing. I'm writing junk -- whatever comes to mind -- and I'm not expecting it to be profound or publishable. I'm just writing.

(I hope the belief sticks; that'd really be something.)

"yes, ma'am"

2006-07-20T16:15:00.000-05:00

I think I must be getting old. Maybe it's being pregnant, or reading books in public -- alone, or maybe it's the fact that I now wear a wedding band. These things confirm to strangers that I have moved to a new stage in life. To be honest, I don't think I look a day older than I did when I graduated from high school. Well, maybe a day, but that's it.

I certainly didn't look a day older than those two girls I saw in Taco Cabana (which, by the way, is the most wonderful of all fast food taco joints. There, you can get two tacos, access to a full salsa bar, plenty of chips and queso, and a drink for only four dollars. But I digress...). The girls were really polite. I was standing in front of the door, rummaging in my purse for the keys to my sexy, totaled Honda (maybe that was it -- the digging for my keys), and when I realized I was blocking the exit, I moved aside, apologizing. They apologized, too, like they were getting in my way, which I thought was really nice. In the meantime, I found my keys, just as they were walking out the door. They both checked me over, and the girl with tattoos across her back held the door for me.

"Thank you," I said, wondering if it was the pregnant belly that prompted such kindness.
"Yes, ma'am," she said.

Yes, ma'am? I've been called ma'am by grocery store clerks and by people who are trying to get my attention and don't know my name, but never in that tone, not with so much respect. It was a warm Southern salute, and I basked in its afterglow.

I have a middle-aged friend who used to say it made her feel like an old lady to be called ma'am -- like it was a bad thing. I always thought that was dumb, since she really was noticably older than the people who addressed her. But me? I thought it was wonderful, even though as I've said, I was hardly those girls' elder.

I hope I never grow tired of being "yes, ma'am"ed. I think Solomon says somewhere that to be older is to be wiser, and it's a beautiful thing -- that there's honor in it. And I choose to believe that. There's nothing sad about wrinkled eyes and veiny legs, the sagging breasts of mothers who've nursed their children, or calloused, peeling feet (please don't ask me in ten years if I still believe this). They are as beautiful as... being called ma'am.

she adores you (to number 53)

2006-07-19T17:11:00.000-05:00

She adores you, you know. When it was Tuesday night and she fell to pieces before you -- oh, she was a mess, 54 was. She didn't know which side was up. She didn't know how to be comforted or what to do once she was. She could only melt into your arms and pray you knew she loved you.

How do you make her smile again? How do you bring hope to that helpless wreck and make her believe she's worth something beyond Send/Receive and an empty title on the wall of her study?

You love her -- that's how. You love her in spite of her disrespect. You're brave enough to let her cry, to break the cycle, to give grace... one more time. That girl -- she adores you.

the living church

2006-07-19T16:59:00.000-05:00

Before we fell to what we are, I believe there was a living church. I believe there were men and women in community who had faith -- not merely that God exists, but they had faith in Him; they trusted Him radically.

The living church lives through relationship -- and not relationship forced because "we both are faithful attendees of Church B," nor relationship that merely exists "deeply" until attendee A or B sins too grievously for that deepness to continue. The living church lives through relationship with the God-Man Jesus. His amazing grace flowing down over lost and broken souls catalyzes human relationship -- automatically and miraculously. It's not forced. In our innate humanness, it may be hard, but it's never out of obligation, and it's never based on anything less than the awe of the gracious blood of Jesus.

I believe the passion of the living church is getting God the maximum glory, and I believe this exists only by making missions the primary thrust of the church. Worship, fellowship, Biblical study -- they all combine to push forward the mission mandate of Matthew 28.19-20* and the promise of Matthew 24.14**. Wanting the world to be, as Keith Green would say, bananas for Jesus -- that is the goal of the living church. Missions ignites when the town drunk is embraced, when the hurting one finds love and hope through people who admit they know what hurting means too. And missions exists when the living church uses its resources to get the gospel to those who won't hear it any other way. Missions is at the very heart of a church.

I believe the authentic church still exists today, but I don't believe it's in the forms of "proven methods" of worship. Worship, after all, is anything but methodical. It's often spontaneous; it's always risky; it's heart-felt and heart-inspired. I don't believe the living church is made up of anyone convinced of their own righteousness. I believe the church is made up of the hopeless, the broken, the fallen, the abused -- the scalawags and sinners who know that by doing they can't prove anything to God about how they deserve to get into His heaven. At all levels, the living church does not forget how to say "I was wrong," "I'm sorry," "I forgive you," and "I love you." And the living church does not forget to mean it.

And then, people of the living church, in their radical faith -- though they may doubt, cry, pray, and drag their feet -- are not afraid to say, "Yes, Lord, I'll go to Lebanon," "Yes, I will give away all I own," "Yes, I will invite this dirty, bedraggled stranger into my home..." simply because their Lord asks them to. The living church has no power to do this of themselves; yet they claim the sanctifying power of the Holy Spirit, and through it, create a presence in the world so rare, so precious, so alive that it cannot be mistaken for anything but the living church.

* "Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost: Teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you..."
** "And this gospel of the kingdom shall be preached in all the world for a witness unto all nations; and then shall the end come" (italics mine).

the shield

2006-07-19T16:57:00.000-05:00

I hide behind my shield. Behind it, I laugh, I cry, I dance, I scream. With abandon I live -- behind the shield. I know you are real -- all of you readers.
And you can be
because you can't see me.
You only hear the dance, the laugh, the cry, the scream, the echoes of which are long subsided before you see me again.
And so I'm protected.
And you're protected.

solitude

2006-07-19T14:13:00.000-05:00

Thank God for family. Because then when the chasm between new and old friends is so wide, you still have somebody to keep you sane, somebody to just love you for being you.

I wonder what would happen if I took off the Band-aids and showed my big, ugly scars, if the sopping emotions bared themselves as part of the me-package. I fear people would run. "Those things are supposed to be kept under wraps. Don't you know everyone suffers? But we don't have to talk about it."

Is this growing old? Is this moving away? Is this life? Was I just super-blessed before? Is this leaving "the fellowship"?

You get to loving your solitude, or at least you tell yourself you do. Perhaps God has built a bridge -- a narrow one -- out to our island, and we wait for someone to wander across the gap. But the bridge is narrow and hard to find. Folks can see the island, and they judge: interesting enough? smart enough? normal, average enough? real enough? enough?

And so we wait, still wondering: is this growing old? Is this moving away? Is this life?

homecoming

2006-06-20T10:26:00.000-05:00

We didn't know which words to say, so we just picked some and hoped they were okay. We hoped they didn't make the wound deeper; we hoped they bridged the chasm. Days pass -- and we feel the distance tightening in. That's a good thing, we decide.

I choose to believe we're all gonna come home someday, and maybe it'll be because of you. Maybe you'll teach us how to say the right words, and to love, and to forgive -- not out of duty, but because you know like none of us knows: there's no other way.

to mom

2006-06-13T17:43:00.000-05:00

I remember the day I first loved you
and knew it

You were standing in the kitchen --
little you -- so big to me
Woman of grace
and honor -- woman of God
There was a day I couldn't have told you
I love you
But that day's over now

Now you can just be my mom
and I'll be happy

writing love: thoughts on a tuesday

2006-06-13T17:31:00.000-05:00

This may be my one last chance to write before the baby comes. When he is born, and life is more about him than us (and shouldn’t it be?), the writing will be secondary – weak – compared to showing the love I could be writing.

Perhaps all great novels – all novels whose characters’ morality far exceeds yours or mine – have their roots in love. Love is the theme; love is the point; love is their only reason to exist. I believe this about A Wrinkle in Time, Les Miserables, The Death of Ivan Ilyich. God is love, so if novels are to show God at all, they have to speak love.

Steinbeck and Lee -- they inspire me. They break my dead, hard earth with their rain of life-words. They make me believe in fiction again. They make me believe that novels will always be stronger than the essays that that analyze them.

It’s appalling that men think they’re capable of creating goodness. Goodness – and the expression of it – is a God-gift. All expression of goodness in written works is straight from God. I’ve read novels that men call great, but they have no hope and they have no love. Madeleine L’Engle wrote in one of her books (Walking on Water, I think, or maybe A Circle of Quiet) that if a story offers no hope it’s… well, hopeless. A story needs to offer the reader something other than a dead end. I agree with her. But I don’t think I can place that hope there on my own. I didn’t come packaged with the most hopeful thing of all: love. What I know of love is my God-gift, so I give my words to Him and ask Him to spin something out of them that’s far beyond the borders of my being, my intellect, or even my soul.

you muslims

2006-05-09T22:14:00.000-05:00

I visited your house of worship thinking, "This will be such a strange people, with a religion much different than anything I've ever known."

We watched in a dark room, overlooking you men bowing, standing, praying, bending, worshiping "God Almighty." The imam sang the Arabic words; a hundred men responded. You believe this is true worship -- shoulder to shoulder, toe to toe.

But who is Jesus to you? A prophet -- equal with Muhammed, but one given miracles instead of the Qur'an. He was a man -- only a man. His death was an illusion and so he lives until the end times when he'll die a natural death. That's who you say he is.

But what of the things He said? I wanted to ask you. What of His claims to be the way, the truth, the life? What of His claims to be the Son of God? Was He a liar as well as a your prophet? If you believe in the virgin birth, then who -- Who? -- was His Father?

You Muslims sat on the floor and talked for over an hour as I shifted my legs under me, beside me, in front of me. You answered questions like it was easy, and so I know you truly believe everything you've said. You believe in everything you do.

Everything you do. That's the other thing. You believe God is holy. Perfect. Sinless. And we're not -- you and I. Funny -- I believe that too.

But what do you do at the end of the day when you recognize your depravity and God Almighty's glory, perfection, omnipotence, beauty, worth, holiness? You say, "It's time to work. It's time to get in good with the Creator of the universe." And it's funny because the story you're telling -- the one I thought would be so strange -- is so familiar, almost like... the thoughts that rattle around in my mind. But you Muslims -- you work. You do. You live like you're supposed to. You put me to shame. You are good. You Muslims are so good.

in my eyes.
but I am not God.

So at the end of the day, what do you do? What can you do...

without Jesus the Christ?

me and the drunk

2006-05-04T13:39:00.000-05:00

Me and the drunk -- we gathered up our pieces, the only ones we saw of our tattered lives. There could have been pieces more important to the big picture, but that was all we could see, so we had to work with what we had. We picked a few up -- broken shards, memories, and the like -- hoping, knowing we'd be able to see better soon.

afraid

2006-05-04T13:35:00.000-05:00

I'm afraid to move
afraid to breathe
to work and live

but there's nothing else
to do

except not move,
breathe,
work, live

and I've already tried that
and discovered something
better

this is freedom

2006-04-26T13:16:00.000-05:00

This is my little piece of reality from the world. This is what convinces me the writing must go on in spite of me. There were weeks -- months? -- of silence, but they break at this sight.

Who told me it was all about me? Who told me I must have one last snippet of freedom and laziness before children break my individuality? "Sleep all you can now." That's what she said.

No, live all I can! Write all I can! Worship, sing, fly all I can! Not because I'll miss my chance come October (though I may), but because I'll miss my chance -- come tomorrow -- if I don't.

This is freedom.

the man in the middle of the street

2006-04-26T13:14:00.000-05:00

There's a man in the middle of the street.
And his wheelchair has replaced his legs.
He holds a sign for help.
And I drive by,
wondering what his life is like
and why he chooses sign-holding as his career.

But I never ask him,
so I never know.

for all lost

2006-04-26T13:10:00.000-05:00

For months lost,
for readers lost,
for opportunities,
for words
lost.
For worship lost,
for all lost --
I have gained.

finding the hero

2006-02-02T18:30:00.000-06:00

I found the hero today. Or I found his edges. He was off in a corner full of the dust of my house, still as heroic as ever. I set him up on my table and asked him about his heroic deeds and why he had done them. And he told me it was all because of the love that he had and the love that was him. I smiled because I knew that answer. And he didn’t offer anymore information about his heroism because I already knew, and he knew I knew.

But he remained with his eyes just fixated on me, so I decided to keep talking so things wouldn’t get uncomfortable. So we just talked about all sorts of stuff – marriage, my problems and depression, other people’s problems and depression, and more about him.

And I asked him what else he did for a living. And he named a lot of things, but what I remember is that he said he really liked art. All kinds of art. And I thought that was cool. He said his art reflected him but that it was not him. And I thought that was kind of an obvious thing to say, and kind of weird. But I just nodded. He offered me one of his paintings then, and I took it gladly, thinking that that made it all worth my while, taking him out of the corner and onto my table like I did. He seemed glad that I liked the painting, so I smiled. And he was smiling back.

I think he liked me a lot and liked to talk about his stuff too.

And then I backed up and looked at him because, you know, I had just realized that I really liked him too, and I couldn’t believe I had left such an intriguing guy to sit and get dusty in the corner. I backed up mentally, too, just to take it all in. He had told me about all these things he had done and how wonderful his character was and everything, and for the first time in my life, I kind of felt like he was the only guy who really deserved to talk about himself like that. And I just found him so interesting, you know? So perfect and talented and good and loving. So that’s why I backed up – because I had suddenly realized that my stuff wasn’t even really worth talking about and his was.

And when I backed up, he was just so beautiful… I can’t… I can’t even… His beauty just so outshone mine that I really just disappeared – kind of like a fragment of color in a whole big painting. Then we just sat silently together, admiring all his stuff and him. And he was God.

clamour

2006-02-02T18:25:00.000-06:00

They shot around words and ideas
like they were the enemy
instead of the tools of the enemy.
Others dodged bullets and called
for fairness and a fight.
They called for “justice for all”
and liberty now and here,
unaware that they’d have it
if they’d just shut up.

I watched and smiled – and cried –
because I felt like I was on the other side
and in the hand of peace,
still sad to know that they thought
it was all about the fight.
But maybe I was still in the fight.
I didn’t know because everything
was just so loud.

I told myself I was on the safe shore now –
the dangerous one –
where we take the hits and speak love
and all for the glory of God.

think it's about you?

2006-01-31T22:16:00.000-06:00

"And Jonah stalked
to his shaded seat
and waited for God
to come around
to his way of thinking.
And God is still waiting for a host of Jonahs
in their comfortable houses
to come around
to his way of loving."

-Thomas Carlisle, from "You Jonah"

poetry

2006-01-19T18:36:00.000-06:00

I don't know much about poetry. I've always been intimidated about posting my own, for fear someone who knows more about poetry than I do will read it and my secret will be out: I don't know the rules of poetry.

And then I changed my mind. (I do a lot of that.)

I decided that that's the freedom of poetry. Think of it as God-freedom, salvation-freedom, freedom from forms and formulas and checklists and periods and punctuation. Poetry lets you use the words that mean something, the words that expand your heart larger than it deserves to be expanded.

To accept poetry means you can say things like "bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh" (Genesis 2.23) even though others may say, "That doesn't mean anything." But oh, what it means! Poetry means everything; it means there's life beyond what you see and hear and smell. It means there is life, and it's to be had.

Poetry lets you feel deeply, hurt deeply, and love deeply. Poetry says, Yes, you can repeat that as many times as you want because "his mercy endureth forever" (Psalm 136). And it also says you can put words beside words they've never been beside, and the words will commune and interlock and bear offspring of truth. And then the truth will set you free.

miracle

2006-01-19T18:35:00.000-06:00

heal heal heal
touch
and wince
and cry cry
listen

for once

it’s the breaking moment
look
at her
she’s your friend
not your foe
she hurts
cries
longs
like you

maybe
you can help
each other
now

:: written 03.january.2006 ::

war and Jesus

2006-01-19T18:29:00.000-06:00

I’ve never known if it’s okay to hate war. I have a lot of patriotic Republicans in my life, and I like George W. Bush, so that makes for a tough combination if I hate war. But then, all those people surely hate war, too.

But I really hate war. I think it should never have to happen. I think if we really believe the Bible, we wouldn’t say that war is just something a nation has to do when our values are attacked. We’d do something more like Jesus did – love the enemies, and suffer if they torture us. There would be a lot of other things we could do without physically defending ourselves – evangelize, speak the truth about peace and love.

That’s the boldest message of all.

People probably think we – the good people – would be exterminated if we just took all the hits as they came. But I don’t think so. I don’t think God would let His witnesses be completely exterminated.

Or maybe if they were, one of the Jesus-hating enemies would find a Bible among the rubble and read about Jesus and about how he loves his enemies, and about how love is God, and how physical death isn’t the end for those who love God. Maybe then the enemy would look at the bloody, rotting body lying at his feet and see the peace all over the dead face, and he’d feel sorrow for the first time in his life. And then all the witnesses wouldn’t be exterminated anymore; there’d already be a new one.

why I disagree

2006-01-17T13:40:00.000-06:00

So Sunday we had a Bible study around the kitchen table: a mix of family, some so seldom seen. We talked about the Holy Spirit -- His character, His functions, His history. Someone -- I don't remember who -- threw out the comment that what was most important was that we as Christians know what we should be doing; studying God's character is such an immense task that we can never know everything about the Holy Spirit. So it went without saying that learning about Him shouldn't be our focus; doing our job should be.

I nodded; that sounded logical.

But wait. What exactly is our job? And if understanding God is too massive a task, is that saying that understanding and doing our job isn't?

I'm feeling sheepish for agreeing with such an idea. Putting my whole heart into understanding God is central to my relationship with him! To claim otherwise may be one of the most dangerous fallacies in Christian theology.

Let's say that in my marriage, I wanted to serve my husband according to biblical doctrine. I'm told to submit to my husband, and reverence/respect him. Okay -- time to do my duty. I start taking care of the home -- which I heard about in the Bible -- and I submit to the things he tells me to do. Check. Check. Check. But get to know him? Men are complicated -- way too complicated. And as a woman, I can never fully understand how my husband's mind works, so I might as well stop focusing on that and keep doing my job. Forget this relationship stuff. I'll just do what the Bible tells me to do.

It's ludicrous, isn't it? I can't even understand how to do my job as a wife unless I know my husband, unless I try to understand what makes him feel respected and what makes him tick. Relationships, learning about God's character: these things are not the fluffy stuff; they're the foundational stuff.

So, you say, what about "if you love me, you'll keep my commandments"?
I would answer: this does not say, "in order to love me, you'll keep my commandments." It says "if." First comes love; commandment-following is the fruit.

"And this is life eternal, that they might know thee the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom thou hast sent." -Jesus Christ, John17.3, italics mine

january fifth

2006-01-10T15:31:00.000-06:00

And then they stopped -- the empty words, the clattering of my brain. They reached to God and asked for power and meaning. And God said, "I will give in my time. I will make all things new."

God kept his promise to Abraham. The son was promised -- again and again -- and the promise was kept to the very letter. So God will give the words He has for me. He will not hold them back to cause me pain. He will give and give and give again. As He now gives.

* * *

Drink from me--
the water
Drink from me.

Love, live, laugh,
grow.
slow.

There will be words
love
actions

Wait
and drink.

* * *

My nose is sore, my eyes dry from all the crying. But I am at peace. The pain, suffering, crying -- you know it would be yours, will be yours, if you would have the Saviour. The cross -- it is an instrument of torture. Torture me, then, and I will sing Your praise.

The itchy nose reminds me of the fight. It reminds me that the fight is not done; it is only begun. It reminds me of the soft arms -- strong -- the lips upon my head, saying, "My daughter, my bride." Most precious roles ever had. I would not be other than a daughter and a bride.

best books of 2005

2006-01-10T15:20:00.000-06:00

Whoa. I've got practically all nonfiction on my best book reads for last year. Pride and Prejudice is on my list, but I'm not sure it really counts, beings that I had read it in high school. I just added it to balance things out a bit. I read some other fiction during the year, too, but I guess the books weren't as powerful for my life, so they didn't warrant this esteemed blog posting.

Hard to Believe by John MacArthur: "If any man will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross daily, and follow me" (Luke 9.23). This isn't a how-to manual, although there are plenty of points I could've added to my to-do list. MacArthur's thesis claims that Christianity isn't some softsoap belief system whose tenets one can pick and choose as he pleases. Rather, true life in Christ compels its followers to a lifestyle of daily surrender and worship.

Blue Like Jazz by Donald Miller: Wowee. I loved this book. Miller is witty and talented in his essays on what he calls "Christian spirituality." He blazes over some of the hang-ups of the modern evangelical church, pointing readers' minds toward the love that should be central to every beleiver's life. He's honest and, in his own raw way, charming.

God's Smuggler by Brother Andrew: Okay, so you're getting the idea that mainly Christian nonfiction has overtaken my "best books" list this year. I did read other genres; this time around, they just didn't measure up. But back to God's Smuggler. This book challenged me in ways I didn't expect. Brother Andrew tells account after account of how the mighty hand of God worked miracles as he brought hope to believers behind the Iron Curtain. As a car ran hundreds of thousands of miles when it should have been in the landfill, and Bibles became invisible to border patrolmen, Brother Andrew's message became crystal clear: God is really, really big. There is no excuse for shaky faith.

Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen: So after groaning my way through this book in high school, I decided to pick it up again. After all, too many women had said they loved it; it was their favorite book. While I can't claim all that, I will it say it was a pleasurable read. In high school, I only saw ball after boring ball; every once in a while, someone would get married. Yawn.
This time around, I was patient enough to pick up on some of Austen's wit and satire. Go, Elizabeth! Way to be a normal woman, marrying for something other than money or in desperation. I'm excited to see the movie.

Traveling Mercies by Anne Lamott: I got interested in Lamott from what I read on the back of Blue Like Jazz -- that Miller was like Anne Lamott on testosterone. My sister was right about what she told me when she lent me this book: Miller is way toned down compared to Lamott. Lamott sometimes made me want to hide the book cover while I was reading in public. But she's loving and honest and passionate. She takes a similar approach to Miller: here are some blurbs of my life and things I learned. In spite of the temptation to think I was an infinitely better Christian than she, I will admit -- Lamott did teach me a thing or two.

Mere Christianity by C.S. Lewis: A must-read. Or a must-listen -- however you can get to it first. I listened to this one (and for those of you who think that's cheating, it was unabridged). Starting at the simplest stage possible, Lewis argues why there is a God, and he later delves into a rational but powerful case for Christianity in particular. A good exercise for the brain and the soul.

romans 14.8

2006-01-10T13:01:00.000-06:00

And now I feel the freedom.
It washes down like gentle rain
that will mingle with tears and joy.
It will not despise the dry season,
for dryness deserves its respect,
for dryness and Sun make things grow.

But now I feel the freedom.
And no one would tell me to stop this
to do my duty.
For this is duty -- in freedom.
And freedom waits, loves, seeks,
and joys in the Giver of freedom-
and not only in the freedom itself.

embrace

2006-01-03T17:26:00.000-06:00

Together – you women are all alone. You have no friend, none that really cares, none that loves you as much as you love. Do you love? You scorn them that don’t love. Can you love and scorn at the same time?

Together – you women are alone. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. It isn’t supposed to be this way. Touch the hands that are reaching out. Touch with your cold fingertips as you stand in a circle – together. As you are reaching, with eyes closed, you will feel the fingers that are reaching out, belonging to the woman – the women – with eyes closed.

And then open your eyes. See beauty. Start to see love. First, and always.

the hours of doubt

2005-12-22T17:41:00.000-06:00

These are the hours of doubt, when too many words have spilled out -- unchecked -- like contraband. They're editable, erasable. Too many are harsh, too many revealing, too many true. And part of me flees to the drawing board -- the erasing board. And part of me clutches at my own sleeve, drawing me back to the chair to relax and to say, "what's done is done, and it is you."

my fear

2005-12-21T18:30:00.000-06:00

I’ll own that it’s energizing to think of words upon words to write – but the energy is always coupled with one of my greatest fears: that the words will be utterly without hope, without the ability to show the slightest glimmer of God.

blank paper

2005-12-21T18:28:00.000-06:00

What an amazing thing, when you’ve got more words than paper, and then you suddenly find the backside of a paper square, totally unused. What a gem.

about lamott

2005-12-21T18:26:00.000-06:00

I thought these sounded like good book-cover quotes, and it just so happens that I believe them:

"Anne Lamott is one of the few people – perhaps the only person – who makes me think of things to write while I’m reading her. Reading Lamott is a highly productive exercise." -me

"Lamott gives a lot of skill, a lot of truth, and in the end, a little hope. I think I’d be content with a little less skill, if I could only offer more hope – lots of hope – scads and scads of hope." -me

(Okay, maybe the second is more a critique than book-cover praise. But it's still quite quotey.)

prejudice

2005-12-21T15:11:00.000-06:00

As I was walking into the library, I met a woman all decked out in her police officer costume. I wasn't sure what she was an officer of, or if she was even an officer at all, since I had never before seen an officer with a Muslim shawl over her head.
I smiled at her, though. Sometimes I do that when I feel sorry for a person, and I usually feel sorry for Muslims. She didn't smile back. Maybe in her lifetime, she had seen one too many smiles of pity directed her way. So I guess I couldn't blame her lack of charm.
Later, when I was reading my book, she was back in the library, quietly patrolling it and never smiling. She really seemed to be on duty, except for the string of wooden beads behind her back, which she click, click, clicked through her brown-black fingers like a Catholic praying through her rosary. For a moment, the thought occurred to me that she might blow the place up -- or something -- but then I realized it would hardly be worth her while. Better a Christian church than a public library.
She stood near the kids awhile, as they whittled away time on the computers. Perhaps she was with one of them -- a mother, no doubt.
But then the black officer clothes walked behind me, and I hurried to shield the words I had written about her. She stopped. Click. Click. Click. Telepathy. She could feel the prejudice emanating from me and my covered words. Maybe she'd just blow my head off.
Then, the library lady came and called the names of children whose time on the computer had expired. My Muslim officer watched the whole thing. I guess the library was having trouble with kids abusing their public computer rights. So it turns out she was there to keep people from getting out of line. Kids who disrespect authority -- people like that.

observation and judgment

2005-12-21T15:05:00.000-06:00

The Asian man opposite me has been stuck in his newspaper for over an hour now. I’m happy he’s finally stopped sucking food from his teeth. That lasted a half-hour. I was about to offer him a toothpick, a safety pin, the corner of a book cover, anything that would work better than tongue and saliva. He’s got to have perused the whole paper by now.
Once he took notes from an Ace Hardware advertisement and once he said something out loud – something I didn’t understand, something that sounded like wick-a-low. A little tot just came up, looking hungrily at the library’s globe, but when he saw my Asian friend sitting right beside it, he sneered at the globe and went for the window blinds instead.

. . .

A man in Starbucks started coughing loudly while I was reading my book. Okay, so I didn’t see that it was a man, but it sounded like a man-cough. I felt my eyes get closer to popping out of my head each time the loud car-offing continued.
And then, it got worse. A quick, bluesy song came through the speakers, and he started tapping the table to the rhythm. Twitch your foot, sway your body, do anything but tap the table. Okay, so I’m not positive the cougher was the table tapper, beings my back was to both… but I just couldn’t imagine two equally annoying people in one place at the same time.

like kids

2005-12-21T15:00:00.000-06:00

I want to be like the little girl who crawled under the library tables -- just because she wanted to -- before rushing back to her mother's side. I'll admit to having somersaulted through the aisles of the store where I used to work, but that doesn't count: no one saw me.

I want to be like the 3-to-4-year-old girl -- with glasses too big for her face and curls too big for her head -- who grabbed book upon book from the stash of Harlequin romances... simply to find satisfaction in examining the cards and mail-order forms stuck in its binding. I want to be satisfied in things like that.

I want to be like the girl who didn't care so much about the thrill of watching a falcon fly around at a Medieval Times dinner show as much as she cared about the consequences: "what if it poops on our plates?" Hey, good question! Why didn't I ask it first?

the joke

2005-12-18T21:43:00.000-06:00

She sees this thing called caring, and she hates it. If caring is caring, how can it come in words not spoken? She dreams like they do, and scorns the lack of friends. If it's purpose she needs, she wonders where theirs is. Hypocrites -- the whole lot of them.

She hears the sounds of laughter. The words "blessing" and "prayer" keep coming and coming and coming. With looks of sympathy -- or hate? -- they cross her gaze, and she feels small. So very, very small.

There are things withheld from her. She sees the secrets behind the hands of the holy, and she knows they're talking about her. Sinner. Loser. Lost one.

Everyone knows she needs to find her way to where they have come because obviously they have arrived. But no one will show her where to step, or how. No one will ask if she even wants to find her way. They just stare at her. They stare and keeping talking behind their hands. And wait for something...

She wishes she knew what that something was. But the biggest joke of all is that no one will ever tell.

come together

2005-12-18T21:22:00.000-06:00

Pride glints off both of our pupils as we stare at each other.
"You move first."
"No, you."
"I'm a farmer's daughter. I'm tough. I'm brawny. You give in."

We will come together. We work together, and all those strange people swarming around draw us to the only ones we really know: ourselves. We are not enemies any longer, nor strangers. We are acquaintances. Our eyes meet in the courtyard; we try at a smile.

I see you looking sharp and talented, and my heart remembers that I love you. "Love thinks no evil." We melt at a wink, at bumping into the wall and a pat on the butt. It's over. The long wait is over.

And if we never see the pathways for the proud sunlight in our eyes, we will find each other -- come together -- in the darkness.

zhi yuang and the lights of christmas

2005-12-15T15:36:00.000-06:00

The name of Pastor Zhi Yuang on a card in my coat pocket is supposed to remind me to pray for a man who suffers for believing in Jesus. I have a hard time comprehending he exists until I remember what I was told last year about the duties of imprisoned Chinese pastors like Zhi Yuang...

A blister bursts on Zhi's finger as he inserts another bulb into its socket. How many hundreds more must he assemble before the day is over? For all the tiny bulbs strung out in front of him, the prison cell is dim.
A man sharing his cell told him that these were called Christmas lights, and that they'd be shipped to America after leaving the prison. Americans would buy them to decorate trees in winter. The man said he had seen twinkling trees in a picture book once.
Zhi feels like he has assembled enough bulbs to light a tree for every person in the entire world.
Another blister breaks open and blood spills across his fingers. Zhi is quick to wipe it away before it damages his work. He isn't allowed to make errors.
For a moment, the pain tempts Zhi to feel hatred toward the Americans that will wind these Christmas lights around their trees, oblivious to the hands that have cracked and bled and throbbed with pain over the strings upon strings upon strings of miniature light bulbs. Zhi feels the Spirit of God, then, prompting him to love instead. If there were not Christmas lights, there would be something else to assemble.
So Zhi decides pray -- for Americans, for any eyes that see the world brightened by these Christmas lights -- that they would have their hearts brightened by the true Light of Christmas.

semi-rest

2005-12-15T11:45:00.000-06:00

My heart is at semi-rest. Armies on opposite hills face each other -- retreated -- but still at war. Dried tears, slaughtered bodies lie after the battle's hushed, but no one's counted the fallen yet. No one knows who's won.

Rumors run 'round about the valient fight put up by the northern army, but -- I know -- the general wants more than stories told of one soldier's fancy swordsmanship or another's skillful evasiveness. He wants victory and won't settle for less.

I look at my wounds. My heart is at semi-rest.

to the moon

2005-12-15T11:39:00.000-06:00

To the Moon
Sara Groves

It was there on the bulletin: "We're leaving soon-
After the bake sale to raise funds for fuel.
The rocket is ready, and we're going to
Take our church to the moon."

There'll be no one there to tell us we're odd,
No one to change our opinions of God-
Just lots of rocks and this dusty sod,
Here on our church on the moon.

We know our liberties, we know our rights.
We know how to fight a very good fight.
Just grab that last bag there and turn out the light-
We're taking our church to the moon.
We're taking our church to the moon.
We'll be leaving soon...

all shocked

2005-12-15T11:23:00.000-06:00

"Someone shot out our window last night," the lady at Banana Republic said.
We were all shocked. "You wouldn't think something like that would happen in Southlake," we all said.

But it did. Something like that happened in Southlake.

"Did you know Kenny Thompson left his wife? Supposedly, he's got a girlfriend -- right out of his own congregation. And I thought that church was so stable."
"Brett told me he only gets around to reading his Bible about every other day. He says he wants to do better, but his job's just too busy. Can you believe it?"
"Kathleen cussed -- right in front of Grandma!"
"Jim and Peggy -- they're going to marriage counseling. I wonder what the problem could be."
"Annie confessed that she doesn't tithe. She only gives eight percent."

We were all shocked.

receiving praise

2005-12-15T11:15:00.000-06:00

You know how you praised me the other day? The words of blessing just kept flowing out and I couldn't stop them. I couldn't say a single thing out loud, though my heart shouted, "No! No! No!" The tears welled up in my throat and hurt so badly because I wouldn't let them out.

I witnessed more praise this morning, not from you but from God via Paul. He said something about "work of faith" and "labor of love" and "patience of hope in our Lord Jesus Christ." I wondered if the Thessalonians could take that type of praise better than I could have. How could there be that much good to say?

You said someone "laid it on thick" yesterday. They mean to praise you -- genuinely, I think -- although I doubt you realize it. Maybe you think there's some ulterior motive or something.

Sometimes I hate to look at the good because there's so much work to do, you know? With me. With you. With everybody. But sometimes I wonder what will happen if I don't look at the good. Will I just rot? Will you?

hypocrite

2005-12-15T11:04:00.000-06:00

I'm the biggest hypocrite of them all. I'm guilty of standing like the Pharisee and thanking the Lord for teaching me things about Him, things that He didn't teach my publican friends. But I wish they knew, I wish they knew.

I wish they were as religious as I.
Almost.

I have a hard time understanding why they don't learn the things I'm learning. I mean, I've told them a thousand times how it ought to be, how I've been convicted to serve God better in this way. "So, come on, let's all do it together! What, you aren't joining me? But it's God's word! Can't you take me seriously?"

I put this confession way down here, at the bottom of my new postings, so it has less visibility. I'm not sure if I want you to know that I'm the biggest hypocrite of them all.

For all the things God's teaching me, you'd think I'd learn...

step on toes

2005-12-13T19:50:00.000-06:00

It it time to step on toes. It is time to drop the bomb and hope I don't blow hearts up in the process. I bump the hand that's begging; then I clench it in my fist to pray. It's raining outside, and my heart is sad. Sad I have to say "no." Sad I don't understand. Sad I do.

I find joy in the peace. I find joy in the freedom, in the giving, in the hope. I clutch the hand God's given me and thank Him for it.

a scene

2005-12-06T10:01:00.000-06:00

I slump further down in my booth and stretch my legs out under the other bench. I look taller that way. It’s just me, concentrating on that pose, when a plate smacks the table in front of me. It’s busting at the seams with meatloaf, potatoes, corn. No ketchup to be seen anywhere on the plate. Just my luck.
“Can I have some ketchup with that?”
The apron beside my booth leans in closer. I notice the white of the big, black lady’s eyes are not so white. She slings a towel over her shoulder. It’s streaked with red, brown, and yellow. I don’t even want to know. The empty hand lands on her round hip.
“You taste that meatloaf?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then why you askin' for ketchup?” It sounds more like keechup.
I feel my nose wrinkle. “I put ketchup on everything, ma’am.”
“Then, boy, you ain’t never had Miz Beulah’s cookin', now have you?” The look she gives me makes me feel shorter than a toadstool.
“No, ma’am.”
“You taste that meatloaf, then you tell me you need ketchup.”
I’m afraid to disobey. Miz Beulah’s bigger than a house. I stick my fork into the meat with the most impertinence I can muster, but the impertinence comes off more like clumsiness. I think I hear Miz Beulah saying, “Anyone ever teach you how to eat, boy?”
I stick the forkful in my mouth before any more can fall off of it.
“Okay, you happy?” I say with a wad of meat in my cheek. “Now, get me some...” I stop. “Umm... napkins, please.” That is some meatloaf.
Miz Beulah’s scowl suddenly breaks into the biggest happy face I have ever seen. “That’s right, boy. That’s right.” Her laugh is more like a guffaw. “The only thing you need with my cookin' is some extra napkins.”
I nod, shoving another forkful in my mouth. My stomach has no bottom. Not right now.
“Now what’s that you say about puttin' ketchup on everything? Don’t your momma know how to cook?”
I shrug my shoulders, then shake my head. “Why do you think I’m eating here?’
She nods.
“What your momma do for a living, that she can’t learn how to fix you proper food?”
I stop. Not this. Please not this. “She… works… down on Sixth Avenue,” I say with all the composure I can muster.
Miz Beulah gave, at most, a two-second pause. “Your momma a prostitute?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, then. You go home, you tell your momma that ain’t no job.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then, you tell your momma she needs to come work for me. You got that? We’ll teach her to cook food that don’t need no ketchup.”
I don’t think my momma is going to like that idea. But Miz Beulah’s still talking.
“Now, she might have to work longer and harder than she does now, but you tell her that Sixth Street job, that ain’t no job. That ain’t no job.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I wipe my plate clean with the slice of potato on the end of my fork. “I gotta go.”
“You do what I said, now, you hear? You tell your momma, be here at ten tomorrow morning. You got that?”
I’m not sure Miz Beulah understands my mother. But I nod anyway. “Thanks for the meatloaf. I’ll be back.”
Miz Beulah’s furrowing her eyebrows at me as I swing out the door onto the sidewalk.

:: written on 12.January.2005 ::

conversations

2005-12-04T23:25:00.000-06:00

I could spend 20 more years without hearing from you through these people -- these random people. I spent my first 20 years without them, after all. Why the contact now?

I think the first was at the McDonald's in Waco, Texas, begging for money to haul his truck. He wasn't really there for me, but maybe that was because I wasn't there for him. There were plenty of others to do the dirty work so I could sit back and be the judge. They failed, I was thinking; they majorly failed.

The second was in Fort Worth, driving by downtown. You really stepped into our car for that one. The answer was an easy one. We had the resources: time, money, relative safety. It was comfortable to send the guy away with gas, not cash. But then, he didn't really ask for cash.

Number three took us by surprise, and he spoke well. Took us round the loop of his crazy mind and onto dark streets. The answer to that one? Who really knows, even now? The answer we wanted wasn't one of your options, so... we just left it blank. Sometimes I wonder about that guy...

There have been handfuls more -- four, five, six. You know, we've passed so many by, it's a wonder we're still in the game. I guess that's what they call it grace. They've stood by the road, with signs and without signs, all wanting something. Yes, they're all wanting something.

And then the next came in a pair. Cleaner cut than previous ones, slower moving too. It's a tricky one, I'll give you that. Love seems to be the only option. A little bit of wisdom, but mostly just love. We'll see how we come out on that one.

Where are we -- number eight? Oh, you know we're farther than that. But all the same, these things don't get any easier, do they? Number eight needs money. No, he really needs it. But do you give money when you don't understand or agree with all the ins and outs? Oh, I'll give my time, my talents. But my money? Oh, that could be abused, don't you know? Theology and principle mix with service on this one. What a catch.

And those are just the unscheduled ones -- the pop quizzes. We can look everything over and say, "Huh. We've sure had a lot of weird experiences lately." But they're too intricate to be coincidence. And the questions keep getting harder and harder and... harder.