Hello friends,
I'm going to push to finish the first draft of my novel over the next few weeks. So, for at least two weeks, I'm taking a blogging hiatus. I need to conserve my writing energy!
Thanks for reading... I'll be back. I like our conversations too much to disappear for long.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Aging Grace
None are so old as those who have outlived enthusiasm.
Henry David Thoreau
I've been looking at some shocking photos for the last couple of days.
I'm one year away from my twentieth high school reunion at the school my husband and I call Hogwarts. It's a public boarding school for the gifted and talented; students there form strong bonds with each other and with faculty.
The class that preceded mine just held their twentieth reunion at the school. Many of them posted pictures on Facebook.
Whoa. I mean, whoa.
How did we travel in the blink of an eye from blooming youth to a slightly-crumpled look that says middle age is just around the corner, if it hasn't already arrived?
I remember those in the class of '89 with plump cheeks, sparkling eyes, shiny hair. Like me, they've changed since then. But the changes in my face have crept up so slowly that I've had time to adjust. I haven't seen most of these classmates, however, for at least ten years, and in some cases fifteen or twenty. Thus the shock.
Their faces are the same. Mentally, I strip off the years. Encroaching threads of gray, eyes that droop a little, and laugh lines appear to me like dust on an old framed photo in my attic. If I just lifted my thumb and wiped at it, I think, the faces would come back as I remember them.
When I see them all gathered together, dusted by age, I can't escape the knowledge that we're no longer young adults. We're halfway through. But I don't feel that statement as a loss. I feel tenderness for them, and from the emotion in the photos, they plainly feel it for one another. We're no longer invincible. We understand one another, like aging wartime buddies.
The prospect of aging does not have to threaten gloom. I know a Very Old Man at our church. When I told a female friend that I found him fascinating, she asked why.
"Because his eyes are still alive." I said. "He's truly interested in other people, and in the world around him. His mind is young."
Which brings me to the Thoreau quotation at the top of this post.
I believe that enthusiasm keeps our minds and souls young. Most of us know fairly young people who become old before their time: they spend most of their free time watching fluff television, eating, and serving their own needs. Life becomes an exercise in making as little effort as possible and distracting oneself with passive entertainments. But most of us also know men like my Very Old Man at church.
Aging won't be fun if we spend our time lamenting the things we didn't do, and the bad choices we made. That inward, backward focus characterizes many older people. But if instead we can keep our focus outward and ahead, like my Very Old Man, then we will age with grace.
Henry David Thoreau
I've been looking at some shocking photos for the last couple of days.
I'm one year away from my twentieth high school reunion at the school my husband and I call Hogwarts. It's a public boarding school for the gifted and talented; students there form strong bonds with each other and with faculty.
The class that preceded mine just held their twentieth reunion at the school. Many of them posted pictures on Facebook.
Whoa. I mean, whoa.
How did we travel in the blink of an eye from blooming youth to a slightly-crumpled look that says middle age is just around the corner, if it hasn't already arrived?
I remember those in the class of '89 with plump cheeks, sparkling eyes, shiny hair. Like me, they've changed since then. But the changes in my face have crept up so slowly that I've had time to adjust. I haven't seen most of these classmates, however, for at least ten years, and in some cases fifteen or twenty. Thus the shock.
Their faces are the same. Mentally, I strip off the years. Encroaching threads of gray, eyes that droop a little, and laugh lines appear to me like dust on an old framed photo in my attic. If I just lifted my thumb and wiped at it, I think, the faces would come back as I remember them.
When I see them all gathered together, dusted by age, I can't escape the knowledge that we're no longer young adults. We're halfway through. But I don't feel that statement as a loss. I feel tenderness for them, and from the emotion in the photos, they plainly feel it for one another. We're no longer invincible. We understand one another, like aging wartime buddies.
The prospect of aging does not have to threaten gloom. I know a Very Old Man at our church. When I told a female friend that I found him fascinating, she asked why.
"Because his eyes are still alive." I said. "He's truly interested in other people, and in the world around him. His mind is young."
Which brings me to the Thoreau quotation at the top of this post.
I believe that enthusiasm keeps our minds and souls young. Most of us know fairly young people who become old before their time: they spend most of their free time watching fluff television, eating, and serving their own needs. Life becomes an exercise in making as little effort as possible and distracting oneself with passive entertainments. But most of us also know men like my Very Old Man at church.
Aging won't be fun if we spend our time lamenting the things we didn't do, and the bad choices we made. That inward, backward focus characterizes many older people. But if instead we can keep our focus outward and ahead, like my Very Old Man, then we will age with grace.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Independent Thinking and Formula
Here's something I learned while observing my students.
Overachievers figure out what will get them an A, and they set out to earn that A. Often, they repackage a professor's lectures and serve them back slightly altered in their papers. They never write foolish things, and eventually they may become pretty good. But they never write inspired things. They can't. The rules don't create inspiration.
Independent thinkers follow ideas, not rules. They think big; they follow trains of thought out to their conclusions. They sometimes think ahead of their knowledge or their technical abilities, and that's when they say foolish things. But they also unearth fresh ideas --ideas that throw sparks of light here and there, idea-diamonds buried in the rough pages of their papers.
Writing of any kind--fiction, non-fiction, critical, creative--always must find a balance between rules and inspiration. I believe in learning the craft of writing. But I hope my writer friends will keep their inspiration alive, and not let anyone stamp it out by enforcing so many writing rules that they crush originality. Follow enough rules, and they'll take you all the way to formula.
Overachievers figure out what will get them an A, and they set out to earn that A. Often, they repackage a professor's lectures and serve them back slightly altered in their papers. They never write foolish things, and eventually they may become pretty good. But they never write inspired things. They can't. The rules don't create inspiration.
Independent thinkers follow ideas, not rules. They think big; they follow trains of thought out to their conclusions. They sometimes think ahead of their knowledge or their technical abilities, and that's when they say foolish things. But they also unearth fresh ideas --ideas that throw sparks of light here and there, idea-diamonds buried in the rough pages of their papers.
Writing of any kind--fiction, non-fiction, critical, creative--always must find a balance between rules and inspiration. I believe in learning the craft of writing. But I hope my writer friends will keep their inspiration alive, and not let anyone stamp it out by enforcing so many writing rules that they crush originality. Follow enough rules, and they'll take you all the way to formula.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Remembering My Grandfather
My grandfather served in World War II on the European front. He came safely home and lived a good life for many years, which allowed me to meet him and know what a special man he was.
I can't help but think of him on Memorial Day. Which of his companions never came home? I regret losing him fifteen years ago, before I ever wised up enough to sit down and talk to him about his wartime experiences. I don't know if he would have told me about them, anyway. He was a very strong man who believed in sparing others the suffering he had experienced. He was a dashing, good-looking gentleman, and a loving grandfather.
He was captured by the Germans and taken to a POW camp. He escaped. He was recaptured and punished. He escaped again, successfully.
It sounds so simple. But the courage and determination it must have taken for him to attempt that second escape have inspired me ever since I learned about his wartime experience. I remember that in a terrible situation, an unbreakable spirit rose from my family--from the same man who would later dance with me in ballrooms, when I was so short I had to stand on his feet.
The poem below was written on the wall of a cell by an anonymous American who was taken prisoner in a German POW camp. Its artistic merit is not great, but it touches me because it sounds like something my very intelligent but not literary grandfather might have written.
I wish you all a blessed Memorial Day as we remember those who have paid the ultimate price for our freedom.
Can You Take It?
by Anonymous - this poem was found on the wall of a solitary confinement cell at Dulag Luft, the German interrogation center where all POWs shot down were taken to be questioned..
It's easy to be nice, boys
When everything's O.K.
It's easy to be cheerful,
When your having things your way.
But can you hold your head up
And take it on the chin.
When your heart is breaking
And you feel like giving in?
It was easy back in England,
Among the friends and folks.
But now you miss the friendly hand,
The joys, and songs, and jokes.
The road ahead is stormy.
And unless you're strong in mind,
You'll find it isn't long before
You're dragging far behind.
You've got to climb the hill, boys;
It's no use turning back.
There's only one way home, boys,
And it's off the beaten track.
Remember you're American,
And when you reach the crest,
You'll see a valley cool and green,
Our country at its best.
You know there is a saying
That sunshine follows rain,
And sure enough you'll realize
That joy will follow pain.
Let courage be your password,
Make fortitude your guide;
And then instead of grousing,
Just remember those who died.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Whose Plasma Is in Your Screen?
Isn't it strange how in this high-tech world, our televisions are made of "plasma?" Televisions are now organisms not quite human and not quite machine. If you prick a plasma TV, does it bleed? Will your TV donate plasma to you when you need it? Is your TV your friend?
Many years ago, I read a sci-fi story set in a future in which people spent every waking hour plugged into virtual reality machines. With the aid of full sensory body suits, players could experience every possible physical sensation as they moved through virtual worlds.
We're not far off from that future. High-tech video games, reality TV, Second Life, World of Warcraft, and social media like Facebook can keep us zoned out all day and night. Increasingly, people are choosing those virtual options over communal activities with real people.
We all need people, even if we don't know it. Real, flesh people to hug us and argue with us and occasionally breathe stinky carbon dioxide in our direction.
For believers, the ultimate counter-cultural act that separates us from a postmodern world is to have flesh people into our homes.
We're about to do it tomorrow night, and I'm looking forward to it.
Our house is not grand and not in perfect repair, but it is large enough to host a party.
Here's the thing: anyone's house is large enough and clean enough to host a party.
I say no to the coldness and isolation of virtual life: to the mentality that thinks we shouldn't have to make that much effort or lose our "privacy." I will host people in my home not because it's easy, but because a life of faith requires hospitality as a way to show others that we value them. Yes, I get pleasure from hosting, but I also understand it as a duty. Duty's not a bad word; few things in life are more rewarding than performing a duty with love.
Jesus stood out from all other voices in history because he told us that everyone matters--everyone is worthy of very personal love that calls us to make time for others and break bread with them. We need to follow his example. If we as individual believers don't assume the responsibility to show every church member and every visitor that they matter, then nothing else we do will work. We can have all the programs, worship changes, and gimmicks in the world, but our communities will be hollow clubs instead of loving faith communities.
In this isolating world, people need to feel connection with others. They need to be invited into other people's homes in the ancient custom of hospitality.
Many years ago, I read a sci-fi story set in a future in which people spent every waking hour plugged into virtual reality machines. With the aid of full sensory body suits, players could experience every possible physical sensation as they moved through virtual worlds.
We're not far off from that future. High-tech video games, reality TV, Second Life, World of Warcraft, and social media like Facebook can keep us zoned out all day and night. Increasingly, people are choosing those virtual options over communal activities with real people.
We all need people, even if we don't know it. Real, flesh people to hug us and argue with us and occasionally breathe stinky carbon dioxide in our direction.
For believers, the ultimate counter-cultural act that separates us from a postmodern world is to have flesh people into our homes.
We're about to do it tomorrow night, and I'm looking forward to it.
Our house is not grand and not in perfect repair, but it is large enough to host a party.
Here's the thing: anyone's house is large enough and clean enough to host a party.
I say no to the coldness and isolation of virtual life: to the mentality that thinks we shouldn't have to make that much effort or lose our "privacy." I will host people in my home not because it's easy, but because a life of faith requires hospitality as a way to show others that we value them. Yes, I get pleasure from hosting, but I also understand it as a duty. Duty's not a bad word; few things in life are more rewarding than performing a duty with love.
Jesus stood out from all other voices in history because he told us that everyone matters--everyone is worthy of very personal love that calls us to make time for others and break bread with them. We need to follow his example. If we as individual believers don't assume the responsibility to show every church member and every visitor that they matter, then nothing else we do will work. We can have all the programs, worship changes, and gimmicks in the world, but our communities will be hollow clubs instead of loving faith communities.
In this isolating world, people need to feel connection with others. They need to be invited into other people's homes in the ancient custom of hospitality.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Very Last Say So
Someone out there might be blessed by this song--I know I was! Listen to the whole thing, if you have a few minutes. It's worth it. The second verse is my favorite.
I uploaded one slide just to give you something to look at while you listen to the song.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Butterfly!
I'm so excited that my daughter's science project butterfly emerged from its chrysalis.
It reminds me of another of my favorite moments from our time at Pepperdine.
Kevin Woods said that he saw two butterflies dancing around each other in his back yard.
"That is one of the most inspiring sights for me," he said. "Because it reminds us that caterpillarhood is not all there is."
Email Pathology
This morning, I will take my daughter to a speech pathologist.
She has a lisp.
The speech pathologist tells me that it will take ten sessions plus homework to correct the lisp.
Apparently, if a lisp of this type is not corrected by age 9, it can be very, very difficult if not impossible to correct.
Isn't this amazing? A problem can be so easily fixed at age 6, yet only three short years later it will become incurable?
Nip it in the bud.
As I've grown up, I've learned how to nip certain habits and tendencies in the bud. I still struggle with a few things. One of them is understanding the opacity of email. Every six months or so, I will send an email in which I say something that might be offensive to the recipient--something that I should really discuss in person to promote understanding and harmony.
You would think that after nine years of email use, I would have learned. But during times of emotion or stress, a veil still descends over my power of discernment and makes me think "Oh, it's OK this time."
Perhaps my email pathology could have been corrected before the age of 9. :-) Since we've only had email for about a decade (Can you BELIEVE it?), that wasn't gonna happen.
Seriously, I think I need to post a notice on my computer that says: "No emails while agitated!"
I already have a notice up on my monitor that says: "True, Honorable, Just, Pure, Pleasing, Commendable, Excellent, Worthy of Praise." Clearly, that's not doing the trick for impulse emails.
What do you think? Does anyone else still occasionally send emails that should be in-person conversations instead?
She has a lisp.
The speech pathologist tells me that it will take ten sessions plus homework to correct the lisp.
Apparently, if a lisp of this type is not corrected by age 9, it can be very, very difficult if not impossible to correct.
Isn't this amazing? A problem can be so easily fixed at age 6, yet only three short years later it will become incurable?
Nip it in the bud.
As I've grown up, I've learned how to nip certain habits and tendencies in the bud. I still struggle with a few things. One of them is understanding the opacity of email. Every six months or so, I will send an email in which I say something that might be offensive to the recipient--something that I should really discuss in person to promote understanding and harmony.
You would think that after nine years of email use, I would have learned. But during times of emotion or stress, a veil still descends over my power of discernment and makes me think "Oh, it's OK this time."
Perhaps my email pathology could have been corrected before the age of 9. :-) Since we've only had email for about a decade (Can you BELIEVE it?), that wasn't gonna happen.
Seriously, I think I need to post a notice on my computer that says: "No emails while agitated!"
I already have a notice up on my monitor that says: "True, Honorable, Just, Pure, Pleasing, Commendable, Excellent, Worthy of Praise." Clearly, that's not doing the trick for impulse emails.
What do you think? Does anyone else still occasionally send emails that should be in-person conversations instead?
Monday, May 18, 2009
Colorado Christian Writers Conference
I spent some time last night writing a blog post with my heartfelt personal response to the Colorado Christian Writers Conference. My husband nixed it, quite rightly, because it contained thoughts about my writing that are too personal to be shared in a public forum just yet. Here's the censored version.
CCWC was a good conference.
I met my agent in person for the first time and found her to be just as kind and sincere as I expected from our phone contact.
I was thrilled to see agents take strong interest in my critique partner's political thriller. He's new to the writing world, but he has developed his craft so quickly over the past few months that his creative ideas can now shine through clear prose and an organized structure. I love to see his dedication and humility rewarded!
One editor gave a seminar so frank and helpful in its analysis of the Christian book market that I'm still ruminating on what I heard in his class. I'm grateful for his sympathy for writers. His wise counsel will assist my ongoing attempt to predict whether or not my particular style of writing will find a place in the CBA.
And that's all, folks. My spousal censor has descended with his big black marker to deprive you of the juicier stuff. ;-)
CCWC was a good conference.
I met my agent in person for the first time and found her to be just as kind and sincere as I expected from our phone contact.
I was thrilled to see agents take strong interest in my critique partner's political thriller. He's new to the writing world, but he has developed his craft so quickly over the past few months that his creative ideas can now shine through clear prose and an organized structure. I love to see his dedication and humility rewarded!
One editor gave a seminar so frank and helpful in its analysis of the Christian book market that I'm still ruminating on what I heard in his class. I'm grateful for his sympathy for writers. His wise counsel will assist my ongoing attempt to predict whether or not my particular style of writing will find a place in the CBA.
And that's all, folks. My spousal censor has descended with his big black marker to deprive you of the juicier stuff. ;-)
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Introducing the Car Tent!
On our way home from Pepperdine, I made a startling discovery.
I've never been able to read in the van. I get *very* queasy.
On this particular trip home, I absolutely had to critique some of my partners' chapters. I just could not waste all that time. Unfortunately, my first attempt to type comments on the screen brought on the same extreme nausea as reading in the car.
The sunlight saved me. When I tried again, the light was pouring in the van windows, and I could hardly see my screen. I had to put my raincoat over my head backwards and drape it over the computer tent-style to get rid of the glare.
Ladies and gentlemen, this is the cure for reading-induced motion sickness. It felt pretty strange, but blocking my peripheral vision was the key. I critiqued for two hours without any nausea at all.
I hope this will help anyone else who needs to work on car trips.
I've never been able to read in the van. I get *very* queasy.
On this particular trip home, I absolutely had to critique some of my partners' chapters. I just could not waste all that time. Unfortunately, my first attempt to type comments on the screen brought on the same extreme nausea as reading in the car.
The sunlight saved me. When I tried again, the light was pouring in the van windows, and I could hardly see my screen. I had to put my raincoat over my head backwards and drape it over the computer tent-style to get rid of the glare.
Ladies and gentlemen, this is the cure for reading-induced motion sickness. It felt pretty strange, but blocking my peripheral vision was the key. I critiqued for two hours without any nausea at all.
I hope this will help anyone else who needs to work on car trips.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
The Song in the Heart of a Friend
I want to share this Longfellow poem, which is simple but great for music-lovers. I read it to my daughter at bedtime tonight.
The Arrow and the Song
I shot an arrow in the air
It fell to earth, I know not where;
For so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.
I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I know not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?
Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.
This poem reminds me why I teach music theory and singing to children at church. Despite the occasional temptation to give up--despite my confusion about why some people love to sing but don't seem to care whether others learn to love it--I have heard some reports about what my lessons are doing for the children. I know what I am doing is lodging in their hearts, and that this enhanced love of music will stay with them for the rest of their lives.
Our children's minister told me the other day that one of my youngest students, a first grader, watched a Passion movie with her grandparents the night before Easter. Apparently, at the scene in the garden of Gethsemane, this little girl spontaneously started singing one of the Passion hymns I taught her class.
He could have called
Ten thousand angels
To destroy the world,
and set him free.
He could have called
Ten thousand angels
But he died alone
For you and me.
What is there to say after a report like that? Just thank you, that I have the privilege to teach something so important for these children.
I may not be able to save congregational singing by myself, but I can certainly keep throwing the starfish back into the sea, and making a difference for that one.
The Arrow and the Song
I shot an arrow in the air
It fell to earth, I know not where;
For so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.
I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I know not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?
Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.
This poem reminds me why I teach music theory and singing to children at church. Despite the occasional temptation to give up--despite my confusion about why some people love to sing but don't seem to care whether others learn to love it--I have heard some reports about what my lessons are doing for the children. I know what I am doing is lodging in their hearts, and that this enhanced love of music will stay with them for the rest of their lives.
Our children's minister told me the other day that one of my youngest students, a first grader, watched a Passion movie with her grandparents the night before Easter. Apparently, at the scene in the garden of Gethsemane, this little girl spontaneously started singing one of the Passion hymns I taught her class.
He could have called
Ten thousand angels
To destroy the world,
and set him free.
He could have called
Ten thousand angels
But he died alone
For you and me.
What is there to say after a report like that? Just thank you, that I have the privilege to teach something so important for these children.
I may not be able to save congregational singing by myself, but I can certainly keep throwing the starfish back into the sea, and making a difference for that one.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Reaching the Edge of the World
I am going to break down and do something I never thought I would do.
I'm going to buy a thesaurus.
Perhaps this initiates me into the society of real writers.
I have a good working vocabulary. I love words. I recently told a fellow writer that I will never write contemporary fiction because contemporary language is too limiting.
Writers and characters of the past spoke and thought in more metaphorical, literary ways than do people today. They lived before the age of the image, so words were the chief vehicle for knowledge and imagination. When I set a novel in the nineteenth century, my characters can use vocabulary in thought and dialogue that would be ludicrous for contemporary characters (except for college professors).
I've made it through 160,000 words (one and two-thirds novels) without using a thesaurus. I wrote novel number one without ever reaching for vocabulary; my working vocabulary supplied all my needs.
I have now reached the edge of my lexical world.
As I head into the last third of novel number two, I find myself dissatisfied with my working vocabulary. A casual reader might never notice that my word choice is similar in a few places in novel number one and novel number two. But I know.
So, confronted with the spectacle of the waters spilling off the rim of the world of words, I have two choices.
I can turn around and sail back into the familiar waters of my working vocabulary.
Or I can rig the wings of a thesaurus and go steampunk on the world of words, lifting off the surface of the water and up into the clouds. Yeee-ha!
There's another element to the solution, too. I need to make time for more reading. Reading the work of great writers of the nineteenth century is very inspiring to my vocabulary.
Now I have to echo Kat's recent thought: if only I could add a few more hours to each day!
I'm going to buy a thesaurus.
Perhaps this initiates me into the society of real writers.
I have a good working vocabulary. I love words. I recently told a fellow writer that I will never write contemporary fiction because contemporary language is too limiting.
Writers and characters of the past spoke and thought in more metaphorical, literary ways than do people today. They lived before the age of the image, so words were the chief vehicle for knowledge and imagination. When I set a novel in the nineteenth century, my characters can use vocabulary in thought and dialogue that would be ludicrous for contemporary characters (except for college professors).
I've made it through 160,000 words (one and two-thirds novels) without using a thesaurus. I wrote novel number one without ever reaching for vocabulary; my working vocabulary supplied all my needs.
I have now reached the edge of my lexical world.
As I head into the last third of novel number two, I find myself dissatisfied with my working vocabulary. A casual reader might never notice that my word choice is similar in a few places in novel number one and novel number two. But I know.
So, confronted with the spectacle of the waters spilling off the rim of the world of words, I have two choices.
I can turn around and sail back into the familiar waters of my working vocabulary.
Or I can rig the wings of a thesaurus and go steampunk on the world of words, lifting off the surface of the water and up into the clouds. Yeee-ha!
There's another element to the solution, too. I need to make time for more reading. Reading the work of great writers of the nineteenth century is very inspiring to my vocabulary.
Now I have to echo Kat's recent thought: if only I could add a few more hours to each day!
Sunday, May 10, 2009
A Cross-Eyed Optimist
I like to watch Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. My favorite moment is when the family first comes running out of a ramshackle house, sobbing with joy because they know their impossible hope has just been realized.
Hope is not just for the afterlife. People need to see hope applied in this world. Optimism is applied hope.
Cross-eyed optimism doesn't deny the possibility of setbacks and suffering.
How could we deny the misery of a broken world when the very symbol of our hope is also a symbol of suffering?
The optimism of the cross is knowing that we will persist and find joy in the walk, whether it's uphill or downhill, whether we have help or not.
The optimism of the cross is a man whose lifelong blindness reveals the glory of God.
The optimism of the cross is finding that the best wine is served last.
The optimism of the cross is a woman who tells the mountain to move.
The optimism of the cross is knowing that even the most grievous, long-time wounds can be healed by the power of a single word... or by one hand reaching out in faith for the dusty hem of a robe.
Hope is not just for the afterlife. People need to see hope applied in this world. Optimism is applied hope.
Cross-eyed optimism doesn't deny the possibility of setbacks and suffering.
How could we deny the misery of a broken world when the very symbol of our hope is also a symbol of suffering?
The optimism of the cross is knowing that we will persist and find joy in the walk, whether it's uphill or downhill, whether we have help or not.
The optimism of the cross is a man whose lifelong blindness reveals the glory of God.
The optimism of the cross is finding that the best wine is served last.
The optimism of the cross is a woman who tells the mountain to move.
The optimism of the cross is knowing that even the most grievous, long-time wounds can be healed by the power of a single word... or by one hand reaching out in faith for the dusty hem of a robe.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
The Book You Never Knew
Our speaker at the conference this evening closed with a really memorable thought.
His name is Rich Little. He told us how his whole family came to faith one at a time. One family member was very resistant, but in the end, he saw the reality of Christ through the unconditional love of the believers in his family.
Rich Little used this example of the influence of one family member upon another to make the following point:
You see, what you've believed this whole time, that there are only 66 books in the Bible, it just isn't true.
There are 67.
You are the 67th book.
His name is Rich Little. He told us how his whole family came to faith one at a time. One family member was very resistant, but in the end, he saw the reality of Christ through the unconditional love of the believers in his family.
Rich Little used this example of the influence of one family member upon another to make the following point:
You see, what you've believed this whole time, that there are only 66 books in the Bible, it just isn't true.
There are 67.
You are the 67th book.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Quality Children's Entertainment with a Positive Message
My six-year-old daughter gave me the following review of our latest children's DVD.
Hermie: Skeeter and the Mystery of the Lost Mosquito Treasure
The lost mosquito treasure was given by the father to Skeeter and Sinclair, Skeeter's brother mosquito. Sinclair is really amazing, but Skeeter feels like he's not so amazing.
The two brothers found the treasure, which was in two chests. Sinclair opens the first one and there's only a note. It says at the bottom: "P.S. I left you something that you both love in the other chest." They find out that it's Ooey-Gooey Butter Cakes from Bismarck.
Sinclair learns that nobody is perfect. Skeeter learns that God loves him even though he has a stinger that's all crooked.
The best thing about the movie is that they learn a lesson.
My favorite part of the movie is when they find the treasure because it looked like pound cake.
My friends Austin and Amber would like the movie because it's funny. When Skeeter runs into the raspberry tree, the raspberries fall down on his head.
To her comments, I'll add that she has watched this movie several times and likes it just as much as her favorite DVDs from Disney.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
A Room of One's Own
My daughter just asked me what kind of bedroom I would like if "Extreme Home Makeover" remodeled a house for us.
I told her that I want my bedroom to look like a library. I want floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covering the walls, and on those bookshelves would be hundreds of old-fashioned leatherbound books. None of them would be moldy.
My bed would be a canopy bed with opaque draperies, so I could go in there and nest.
One of the bookshelves would rotate at the touch of a button to let me into my secret writing alcove, where I would keep my computer desk and my research files. In the secret alcove would be an intercom so my family could communicate with me. But if I chose, I could turn off the intercom for long periods while I wrote.
Can anyone say INTROVERT? LOL!
What would your ideal bedroom look like?
I told her that I want my bedroom to look like a library. I want floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covering the walls, and on those bookshelves would be hundreds of old-fashioned leatherbound books. None of them would be moldy.
My bed would be a canopy bed with opaque draperies, so I could go in there and nest.
One of the bookshelves would rotate at the touch of a button to let me into my secret writing alcove, where I would keep my computer desk and my research files. In the secret alcove would be an intercom so my family could communicate with me. But if I chose, I could turn off the intercom for long periods while I wrote.
Can anyone say INTROVERT? LOL!
What would your ideal bedroom look like?
Monday, May 4, 2009
The Antidote for Soul-Poison
I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.
William Blake, "The Poison Tree"
Something has really been bothering me lately. I mean the kind of bothering that's deep down under the skin.
It's not something I could share with anyone. And it was really festering.
As a last resort, I went to a professional counselor for a one-time counseling session to ask about this particular problem.
The result is amazing. Just talking about it in a safe environment lanced the infection. It's gone. The situation is unchanged, but the poison has drained from me.
Confess your faults one to another, and pray one for another, that ye may be healed. James 5:16
There are times when divulging information to anyone but a professional counselor is not righteous behavior. Sometimes, the fault of another person is so closely tied up with one's own fault that to discuss it qualifies as gossip or damaging criticism.
Yet obeying the scriptural imperative to confess is inarguably good for us, if we can trust the confidentiality of our talk.
It's a shame that so many people are not quite trustworthy with confidential information. Some people can only afford to see a professional counselor if the service is provided free of charge. At the same time, many people feel (with some reason) that church staff and elders may not be completely trustworthy in the way that a professional counselor must be. If a counselor violates your confidentiality and you can prove it, his career is over. If a church staff member does it, oh well. Too bad you made the mistake of confiding in that person. Too bad your deepest secret now belongs to someone else because Minister X thought it was acceptable to tell just one person. After all, how could anyone actually expect that Minister X would not tell anyone at all?
Confession is necessary and good. There are many ministers out there who are completely trustworthy. Some believers have honorable friends who would take serious personal consequences rather than betray a confidence.
I was angry with my friend
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe,
I told it not; my wrath did grow.
Confession doesn't happen enough in today's Christian culture, except perhaps for Catholics who have the assurance of the sealed confessional. Though it would be ideal to take our anger to the people involved every time, circumstances and personalities sometimes prevent that from happening. We still need to confess in a spirit of openness and humility.
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.
William Blake, "The Poison Tree"
Something has really been bothering me lately. I mean the kind of bothering that's deep down under the skin.
It's not something I could share with anyone. And it was really festering.
As a last resort, I went to a professional counselor for a one-time counseling session to ask about this particular problem.
The result is amazing. Just talking about it in a safe environment lanced the infection. It's gone. The situation is unchanged, but the poison has drained from me.
Confess your faults one to another, and pray one for another, that ye may be healed. James 5:16
There are times when divulging information to anyone but a professional counselor is not righteous behavior. Sometimes, the fault of another person is so closely tied up with one's own fault that to discuss it qualifies as gossip or damaging criticism.
Yet obeying the scriptural imperative to confess is inarguably good for us, if we can trust the confidentiality of our talk.
It's a shame that so many people are not quite trustworthy with confidential information. Some people can only afford to see a professional counselor if the service is provided free of charge. At the same time, many people feel (with some reason) that church staff and elders may not be completely trustworthy in the way that a professional counselor must be. If a counselor violates your confidentiality and you can prove it, his career is over. If a church staff member does it, oh well. Too bad you made the mistake of confiding in that person. Too bad your deepest secret now belongs to someone else because Minister X thought it was acceptable to tell just one person. After all, how could anyone actually expect that Minister X would not tell anyone at all?
Confession is necessary and good. There are many ministers out there who are completely trustworthy. Some believers have honorable friends who would take serious personal consequences rather than betray a confidence.
I was angry with my friend
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe,
I told it not; my wrath did grow.
Confession doesn't happen enough in today's Christian culture, except perhaps for Catholics who have the assurance of the sealed confessional. Though it would be ideal to take our anger to the people involved every time, circumstances and personalities sometimes prevent that from happening. We still need to confess in a spirit of openness and humility.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Hit Cup for Servise
Behind these pillows lies something so intriguing, you'd better do what the red sign says.
"Hit Cup for Servise."
You know what it means. Hit it on top, like a buzzer or a bell.
When you do, a tiny girl will pop out from under the table behind those pillows, saying: "May I help you?"
You will then receive a menu with your choice of crackers, cookies, or applesauce.
It's the best snack store in the whole U-nited States.
One blessing of having only one child is that Mom and Dad absolutely have to play. Not all the time: our daughter is a great self-entertainer. But we play every day-- enough to give us time away from life's cares.
How did you play this week?
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