Would Jesus bail us out?

After I twittered that question yesterday, and continued to read about the failed bailout plan in Washington, I discovered that quite a few people were asking themselves the same question. Thanks for the emails – let’s think it through and feel free to write your perspective in the comments section. Here’s mine:

Jesus is a redeemer. Actually, He is The Redeemer. I wholeheartedly believe that He longs to save (or post bail for) humankind, and in many ways He already has. God is a God of restoration, of repairing what is broken, of healing the diseased person and/or system.

But….

Even though God longs to repair the broken, He outlined the plan for peace and community long ago, a plan that we have voted against for centuries. Being healed requires a commitment to His ways, His philosophies, His life of self-sacrifice.

I strongly suspect that He loves us far too much to bail us out. There are more significant and healthy things for us to learn from our suffering – a suffering that we all created by living in excess, by refusing to share, by looking to our own interests instead of the interests of others, by valuing the wrong sorts of things and accomplishments in our culture, and dare I say, by insisting that our nationalism is righteous instead of understanding our place in God's global perspective. Why would He bail out a system that violates His very heart? He never intended for people to be cared for by trickle down. He intended for people to be loved by His people bending down.

No, I don’t think Jesus will bail us out, and I refused to ask Him to. Instead, I will first repent, then ask Him to give me the courage to live with far less and continue to give in spite of my fear.

We're not forsaken. As a matter of fact, we are currently saturated in grace.

Like seed

It has been raining all weekend here in Philadelphia. I don’t mind rain, sometimes I even like it, but my Dad was especially pleased for two days. He has been in a fierce battle with an out-of-control weed in his front lawn. In late summer, Dad had had enough and he wreaked havoc on his yard by digging up a massive section of grass – grass he claims was polluted by this weed. He has reseeded, and the rain was welcome.

I sat in church yesterday morning and at the very end we sang a song I had never heard of – which is saying something, believe me. I cannot tell you the title of it, even though I googled its phrases without success. I will admit that my attention was cyclical, meaning at times I was paying attention and in the next moment I wasn’t. I do know, however, that the pastor was talking about being a servant of all, an idea that I can get my whole self behind, but it was one phrase of the hymn that grabbed my attention fully.

“Let me be Christ’s hands indeed, spreading joy like scattered seed.”

I thought about my Dad’s balding lawn and how he had thrown the new grass seed with abandon – generously – covering every bare spot in hopes of seeing new life spring up. I remembered the year I was hell bent on a wildflower garden, and I threw the seeds all over, not caring if colorful chaos ensued. Frankly, that was the whole point.

Even though serving one another includes crawling into the lonely and starving places, I was reminded today that it is also like throwing seed with generous abandon. To aid humankind is to throw joy into the wind, not necessarily always aiming, just living with uninhibited hope.

And the winner is...

I really enjoyed this word. I used it several times this weekend and impressed myself. Everyone else just looked and nodded.

This week's winner is:

maureen: "After two years of servitude to a certain cell phone company and countless phone conversations with mind-numbingly obtuse employees, I have come to believe that the newly hired must attend classes in the art of subterfuge and tergiversation, for in this arena they are quite simply...genius."

Genius, indeed. Acceptance speech, please.

Weekend Word

I can no longer remember how many Weekend Words we have conquered, so let's not bother counting anymore, ok? BIG debate tonight, but I suspect this word will not be used - or perhaps it will. Wouldn't that be funny?

Slip on your galoshes (if you live in the east), eat some tilapia, hold the leash with the opposite hand and click on the word below. Genius awaits.

After mulling and thinking and pronunciating, use the word in a sentence and write that sentence in the comments section. Winner will be announced at 10:00 p.m. est on Sunday night. Best of luck.

tergiversation

Do you vote with the same party as your parents?

Things Philadelphians do

PHILADELPHIA - Police say they are searching for three gunmen in another robbery at a Philadelphia doughnut shop where a police officer was gunned down last year. Officials say the three took $500 in cash Thursday from a north Philadelphia Dunkin' Donuts store. Police say one of the suspects may have filled out a job application at the shop, leaving a name and address on file. Another suspect reportedly wore a Dunkin' Donuts shirt.

Why not What

Last night, Steve and I went to our first ever middle school Back to School Night. Our dear oldest son left us a hand written class schedule on his desk in his homeroom, knowing that we would be the only ones to show up without a copy of it on our own.

We strolled from class to class listening to each teacher. We live in a very large school district (last year’s graduating class had over 1100 students in it) but we were thrilled to learn that Noah’s largest class has 17 kids in it and his smallest has 12. Apparently, many of the 7th grade teachers retired recently, so we were doubly thrilled to find young, passionate, capable teachers that still love kids. It was exciting.

The American History teacher is also the football coach. He is big and kind. One thing he said really grabbed my attention.

“Frankly, I don’t care if the kids learn the exact year that the Boston Tea Party occurred, although we will look at the events of that period on a timeline. I am far more interested in whether they understand WHY – what motivated the people to throw all that tea in the water? What were the repercussions of their choices? How did it contribute to shaping our nation? How do we make similar statements in America today or do we?”

I once heard about a man who was a student of the Book of Revelation. He had charts and graphs and timelines and lots of predictions about Armageddon. He argued his perspective endlessly and certainly knew his scriptures by heart. He was harsh with his children and they couldn’t stand him, however, and were estranged from him as adults. But, by golly, he knew when Jesus was returning – within a century or two.

Don’t worry so much about the what. Explore the why.

Wings Night

My children had off from school yesterday for teacher in-service meetings. So, on Tuesday night, about 20 of Noah’s friends showed up to play Manhunt in the yard. They yelled through the neighborhood until 9:30 pm and I wondered what the neighbors were thinking.

I paid them no attention, except to provide the popcorn, and just stayed upstairs watching “Dancing With the Stars.” At about 9:00 p.m., our friend Bob showed up thinking he would catch the end of the Phillies game until he had to take his son home (who was here for the Manhunt). I discovered that Bob was a Dancing virgin, so he sat down and watched Warren Sapp do the Quick Step.

There was a lot going on, with the kids running and yelling outdoors, the fierce ballroom competition on TV and the flipping of channels to keep checking the Phillies score. What happened next was completely unexpected.

As Bob, Steve, Mia and I sat mesmerized by Cloris Leachman, one of our two cats came jumping through the hole in the sliding door screen (a hole that he made to produce easy in/out access at all times). I happened to glance his direction, just in time to see that he had something in his mouth. Quickly, I alerted Steve to the situation, and my knight in shining armor jumped up to grab the cat.

Steve has lived in our town all his life, and I have lived here a few years myself, but what we saw in Bucky’s mouth was a first. I originally thought it was a bat, then a mutant chipmunk, but after closer observation (and some time on the Internet) we realized that we were in the presence of a dead Southern Flying Squirrel.

We all studied the creature with fascination and tried to recall if and when we had ever seen one anywhere. None of us could.

Steve, the mammal mafia, disposed of the body discreetly and we continued on with the evening. Parents arrived to pick up their kids and Bob eventually went home. When it was just the five of us again, still watching Lance Bass cha cha cha, the other cat jumped through the screen. Socks was also in possession of a creature, but managed to run into the living room as we all made chase.

Unbelievably, it was ANOTHER Southern Flying Squirrel and I couldn’t wait to show the boys what they had missed earlier in the evening. Until I realized that this one wasn’t dead.

The scene that followed should have been filmed, but I was far too panicked as the dear thing flew from our mantle to our dining room table, down our stairs and all over the house. J.J. was more than willing to grab it, but I was afraid he’d be bitten, so I told him that we would sacrifice Daddy to rabies instead. Mia stayed in the bedroom with the door shut, asking to be alerted when the crisis was over. Two cats, two boys, one dog and a 6’ 7” husband ran frantically through the house, ducking and bobbing, moving furniture and prodding with broom handles in a hopeless attempt to catch the scared-to-death second flying squirrel we’d seen that night. I watched and made high-pitched involuntary weenie noises.

Noah brilliantly opened all the downstairs doors, and the little guy finally found his way out, scampering across the deck to freedom.

Yesterday, I was chuckling as I remembered the whole thing, but still wondered where they came from. Out of respect, and in order to write a proper eulogy, I studied all about Southern Flying Squirrels today. Did you know:

SFS produce a high pitched vocalization above the frequency range of the human ear?

When flying, the SFS steers with its tail?

The SFS does not hibernate, but lives in close community with other SFS to keep warm in severe winter?

The SFS is profoundly nocturnal, almost never appearing when the sun is up? (which explains the fact that we have never seen one).

SFS are vegetarians?

SFS are commonly captured and bred as house pets?

They can be trained to use a toilet?

OK – so the last one is a lie, but the double visit from them on Tuesday night is not. On Wednesday night, the door was shut.

Blood, sweat and tears

Diana and I went to the hospital yesterday. Diana is my friend that has been battling leukemia for a year now. In May, we heard the word remission. In August, her platelets began to drop again.

The past few weeks have been difficult. She had a bone marrow biopsy last week (I’m the bone marrow buddy) and we knew that yesterday we would hear the results. Neither one of us slept much the night before, we were sweating it, but we managed to laugh all the way down the highway on our way to the appointment. We can always find things to laugh about.

If I tried to tell you how much I love her, it would be futile. She is crazy and talkative and funny and emotional and generous and loud and conscientious. Her wit is unmatched and her driving is slow (although she would strongly disagree). We both love Stephen Colbert, Saladworks and when we are together we cry – whether from laughing too hard or living too honestly.

The news at the hospital was mixed. Diana is sorely in need of a bone marrow transplant. In today’s post, I am asking for something.

If you are person who prays, who you join me in asking God for a donor? You may want to mention that it’d be great if He’d act quickly.

If you are a person who has blood in your body, would you consider registering for the bone marrow bank? It is just a simple blood test. Click here for info.

Who knows? You may not match Diana, but you might save another witty, laughing, talkative, crazy, slow-driving person that someone else loves desperately.

If the truth be told

Last week, I received a call from a friend. I saw her number on my caller ID, but she left no message. I got busy later that evening with homework and music lessons so I decided to call her the next day when the house was less hectic.

She tried to hurt herself that night. Actually, she tried to die.

I have experienced such a wide range of emotions since I received the message that she was hospitalized. I feel sadness for her, I feel pain for her husband, I have grieved for her son, and I have a lot of love for all of them.

What I feel about me is an entirely different story.

I have always been puzzled/troubled by the concept of “healthy boundaries.” Some experts claim we need “me” time and we need to guard our personal space, etc. I understand the idea of being available to my children and how carrying the weight of the world on one set of shoulders will lead to distress.

And yet I do – carry the weight of the world, that is. There is so much pain, so much anger, so much miscommunication, so much hunger, and I feel heavy. I so grieve for my world. It is not a grief without hope, but it is a deep inside me sadness for how lost we all are. Strangely, the weight does not create lethargy, but births an urgency within me to move. And it helps me forget about me and my boundaries.

I’m not sure what to confess here, if the truth be told. I think I failed. I may feel the grief, but I failed to step into it. I failed to join it. Healing and hope won’t happen if I don’t embrace the mourning.

I’m sorry.

Wires crossed

The main light in my kitchen is broken. My father thinks it has something to do with some wires coming loose or becoming crossed, and he plans to fix it this week, but for the past six days I have been working in the dark. Well, not dark, but dim – especially at night.

Last night, I had this strange moment as I was making sure everything was clean before going to bed (I have late-night cereal eaters at my house). I was at first contemplating that my difficulty seeing in the dark was because of my advancing age. I have worn bifocals most of my life (except for the vain high school and college years when I refused but couldn’t read anything). I was laughing at this memory, when I thought of a scripture in 1 Corinthians. I originally learned it in the King James version, so that is what I recalled:

For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.

It was such a great reminder for me of how hard it is to see and be seen – how much is truly unknown. Sometimes I put “seeing clearly” too high on my list, so I end up inventing truth that isn’t there in order to know the whole, instead of just sucking up that I understand in part. I think a lot of people do, because we love to have the whole story, and we love to be in the know.

I suspect there are more important things than clarity or knowing. Look at the verse in context (this time in NIV):

If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames, but have not love, I gain nothing.

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when perfection comes, the imperfect disappears. When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me. Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.

And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.

Crystal clear.

And the winner is...

The entries may have been few but the quality was fine. For using the Weekend Word no less than THREE times in his entry, the winner is:

sean from Boston: "I like Sarah Palin, but the propinquity of the November elections makes me wonder whether mere awareness of Alaska's propinquity to Russia is evidence that she possesses anything with sufficient propinquity to foreign policy experience."

Congratulations. Even though you may dare root for the Red Sox, this Phillies fan must take her hat off to your wordsmithing. Acceptance speech, please.

Weekend Word 17

I think 17 is right, but if it's not, feel free to correct me. Well, it's a weekend, that means a WORD!

Put on a jacket, root for the Eagles, write with the opposite hand and show your skills at wordsmithing. Click on a word below, use it in a sentence (feel free to practice pronouncing it on innocent bystanders) and type that sentence into the comments section. A winner will be declared on Sunday evening, 10 p.m. est. Good luck.

propinquity

Sunday is closer than you think...

Max

I met yesterday with the finest man. He is a pastor in my town. He is talkative. As a matter of fact, within the first five minutes of knowing him I learned that his children were adopted because he has a low sperm count.

He is French, but never visited Paris. He is overworked and was wearing a suit with the tie up tight. There was caution tape on the railing outside his office door because of repairs being done to the church building.

The other really obvious thing about Max is that he is content. Max has been through a lot physically and emotionally, and he has seen God reveal Himself a time or two (or three or four…), so Max has learned to count on Him. He was raised Catholic, attended a Pentecostal school, went to a Baptist seminary and serves in a Methodist church. Max’s perspective is wide and inclusive, and I loved it. He has a graciousness about him that I was in sore need of, and as I listened to him talk, I just knew that every person that has ever met Max has felt loved. Genuinely loved.

Max is the real deal.

I drove home, with my classical music blaring (I’m such a rebel), and I looked at every person in every car and on every corner for the few miles it took to get home. I wondered what the world would look like if everyone knew Max. What if everyone felt genuinely loved? What if everyone had tangible proof that contentment is possible? What if everyone was included?

Remember when Michael Jordan played basketball and everyone said, “I wanna be like Mike?”

Not me. I wanna be like Max. Minus the sperm.

Unbelievably funny video

Stole this from my buddy Maureen in CA. Too good to pass up. Thanks, MEG.

The smallest of gods

This is what God the LORD says—
he who created the heavens and stretched them out,
who spread out the earth and all that comes out of it,
who gives breath to its people,
and life to those who walk on it:

"I, the LORD, have called you in righteousness;
I will take hold of your hand…”

I read those words yesterday in Isaiah 42, and I have been thinking about the bigness and smallness of God ever since.

I suspect that many people, both Christians and those who believe differently, misinterpret Jesus’ words found in John 14, "I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me. If you really knew me, you would know my Father as well. From now on, you do know him and have seen him."

For some strange reason, Christians have walked around declaring this statement as if it were an ultimatum – an exclusivity of sorts. In other words, “You cannot get to heaven unless you believe in Jesus,” a statement which sounds like Christianity requires a membership card. The idea that God is being choosy and narrow-minded turns off many (go ahead – say it – the Gospel is offensive, right?) Perhaps there is yet another way to look at it.

When I was in China, I watched a lama in fascination one day. Lama as in monk, not the spitting Peruvian mammal llama. This dear man was walking to the lamasery (temple), which was miles away, but he was getting there like this: two steps, kneel on ground, bend over and kiss ground, stand back up, two steps, kneel on ground, bend over and kiss ground, stand back up, two steps, kneel on ground…you get the picture. I asked someone why he was doing such a thing, and the answer was, “To prove his devotion.”

I know that I can never prove my devotion. When I look at other great religions, I see this pattern of striving, of modifying behavior in order to measure up. Christians are fooled by this false truth too – and believe me, I’ve done my share of trying my damnedest to do things right.

I think what this gracious Jesus was saying, is that He knows we cannot measure up, we cannot close the gap that exists between Him and us – no matter how much kneeling and kissing we do or how hard we try. Simply being a good person won’t do it, avoiding bad behavior won’t do it, just doing no harm won’t do it. So, He, being God, decided to come get us. He just went ahead and closed the gap.

To reject God’s coming must hurt Him. He gave up a lot to get us, but He did it out of a compelling love that wants to restore us to our real intent, our real state of being in love with Him and each other – something that is now so foreign to us, so clouded by crap, that it requires an overhaul of our minds and hearts.

Jesus isn’t making statements about an exclusive club. He is telling us that God came to get us through Him. This massive, great God, who stretched out the sky, has reached down for my hand.

That’s why I believe in Jesus, and how I know He is the real true way to know God and be restored. Not because I am afraid if I don’t choose Him that I’m screwed in the afterlife, but because He is the only big God that became small enough to see the smallness of me.

Can you feel it?

Hitting the Wall of addictions

If I consider my life thus far, it has been full of short term addictions. The earliest one I can recall was an unhealthy love for Donny Osmond, and I still have the purple socks to prove it. Over the years I have worked the steps and recovered through obsessions with Toni Tennille haircuts, Simon & Garfunkel music, William Shakespeare, church growth strategies, and Birkenstocks. My latest challenge is an over-zealous attachment to NPR radio.

On Monday, I listened to a fascinating discussion about the state of the American economy. If you have never tuned in to “Talk of the Nation” it is worth a minute. People call in and ask questions or make comments on the subject of the hour. I was intrigued as I listened to both the fear and the concern that Americans are experiencing as Wall Street struggles. One woman was so put out that she admitted that it would be good to see the CEOs of some of these companies jump out of windows as many had done during the Great Depression. That would somehow be satisfying for her.

I want to believe that God has something to say about everything we experience. I was reading in Psalm 16 yesterday and was reminded that, “I will praise the LORD, who counsels me, even at night my heart instructs me.” I’m not God, but here is what I sense in my heart:

I am troubled by the consumerism that prods our economy and system along. When I consider the Gospels, I struggle to locate the part that encourages consumerism. Even our need for energy. Why is it that some see the answer as finding more fuel to feed our needs, instead of helping us learn to curb our desires?

Denying self is such an essential part of what it means to be like Jesus. He, who made Himself nothing (Phil. 2), continues to counsel us in His ways – the way to be healed – even our Wall Street.

I would love for a leader to declare the unpopular. “We need to eat, drive, buy and use less! We need to face our addictions!” Excess is not an unalienable right, and what Christians are claiming their rights, anyway?

Taking the “hard” out of Hard Drive

Well, after a not so welcome break, both the blog and my computer are up and running. I must admit, however, that this week has been a hard one. My cellphone – remember the one that no longer rang? – finally bit the dust and I can’t quite figure out the new one. My friend, Rick, sent me a text message and I didn’t know it for 3 days. The new one is the color of eggplant.

Even though my computer is essentially the same, it has a new hard drive. I feel like I am spending time with an old friend that has dementia. Its memory is completely gone, so it feels the same, but it doesn’t relate the same and it fails to laugh when I tell it our old jokes. Everything I had on my old hard drive has vanished, like a history that happened but can’t be proved, not too mention there were quite a few things I was fond of. Like my book.

Yes, yes, I had saved it elsewhere (most of it), but it is difficult to let go of the original file. It somehow represents the moments of typing and thinking and tears that produced those thousands of words. I am planning on asking my agent to send the copy I sent to her recently back to me. It’s a clone, I know, but it will have to do.

There’s a strangeness that accompanies a clean slate. On one hand, there is excitement and possibility (with no evidence trail) but on the other hand, there is regret and loss. I have felt this awkward/ambivalent/mixed feeling many times, and it’s usually far stronger than I felt at my hard drive funeral, like when someone forgives me, or when leaving people I loved, or when taking a new path. I have discovered that it is a tension worth living into, even though it’s hard, because it often leads to a deeper place.

I can already see the perks of my recent loss. My files were SO disorganized, that I had trouble figuring myself out really. I have a brand new chance to make a mess again.

Hallelujah.

I need some serious Geek Squad

This poor blog is experiencing technical difficulties - which means that Wendy had a massive computer crash late today and the expert that looked at it tonight starting singing a dirge. A kind soul loaned her a moment on his laptop to write you this message, but there is no guarantee that she will talk with you tomorrow. She will be computer shopping and mourning the fact that her latest 2 chapters had not been saved. Yes, that is the sound of her sobbing herself to sleep.

See you in a day or two.

Faceless friend

I want to introduce another blog to you. I have a faceless friend named JOHN (I don't think he is actually face-less, but I can't be sure because I've never seen him). He is a beautiful and interesting writer. Today's post entitled, "Hidebound," touched me deeply. Click here for http://www.thedirtyshame.blogspot.com/.

A tale of two kitties

At the risk of adding “Crazy Cat Lady” to my growing list of labels, I will today admit that we have two cats. They are brother and sister, and their names are Bucky and Socks. Bucky was named after an ill-fated American Idol contestant by my children, and Socks – well, you get it.

They are indoor/outdoor cats, kind of like Astroturf carpeting. Much to my husband’s chagrin, they have made a huge hole in the screen of the sliding door in our bedroom and they come and go as they please. Bucky is brazen and nomadic, but returns home for meals and a long afternoon nap. Socks is far more conservative, and she hangs around at home.

I was at the church one Sunday afternoon, hosting a Newcomer’s Luncheon (don’t get me started about that), when my children ran into the café excitedly and said, “Mom! Can we please get two kittens? Daddy says it’s fine as long as it’s okay with you.” The hopefulness in my children’s eyes, coupled with the fact that twenty potential new church members were staring at me, forced me to refrain from shooting my husband the look I wanted to give him. It was entrapment and he knew it.

The kittens had been rescued from a neglectful and abusive situation (yes, rescued by another crazy cat lady) and somehow Steve heard about them needing a home. We already had a dog, multiple gerbils, a rabbit and a young man trying to detox off of Methadone living in the house – not too mention the five of us. What was two more?

At first, the kittens produced and experienced all sorts of tension. The dog was unsure of them and they were unsure of the dog. We heard a lot of hissing. With three children, but only two cats, there were moments when I thought the felines might be dismembered, but each managed to stay in one piece. The cats themselves were crazy about the gerbils, but a few of the little rodents had heart attacks as a result of the looming felines. A few escapees even met a worser fate, and the cats left little evidence for forensic experts.

The kittens kept their distance at first, watching from across the room, and nervously jumping when anyone made a sudden movement. They needed to approach us on their own terms and in their own time. After awhile, and our patient care, they discovered that they (and we) were safe. Who knows what they had experienced before becoming Melchior’s, but now I can’t get them to stop sleeping on my head at night.

Now, years later, these crazy cats have taught me so much about wounded people. I have a piece of paper on my fridge that says, “Challenging behaviors are messages of unmet needs.” When we’re hurt, we are fearful and jumpy and unwilling to trust and often difficult to love. I know I am. But, wow, what happens when the world becomes safe! I think that may be the Christian’s main job in the world, you know? Just make the world safe for people in the name of Jesus. Think about it. Wherever you go, how can you make the world safe for everyone you meet? Listen? Go slow? Feed a stray? Hold someone? Patiently answer questions that you find silly? Pray with the dying? Learn someone else’s language? Accept the unacceptable? Lavish praise on someone else? Give someone shelter?

There are challenging patches, but the Melchior menagerie has just decided to love and accept each other – making our house safe – even when one of us eats another.

And the Weekend Word winner is...

Well, not being laconic in any way (I'll be careful not to call Todd), I could just go on and on about this week's entries. From VERY funny, to long-winded, to cheering for others' sentences (kate's mom and maureen may have discovered a kinship, too bad you're on opposite coasts), I smiled with every read (yes, franswa, you're right). It was so difficult to choose, that I finally broke down and consulted the O Great Wise and Impartial Steve to sit on the judges panel this week, and here's what he said:

"I would go with Stephen Porter for his sheer amusement factor, but it's not technically a sentence. Equally amusing was anonymous."

After sorting out which anonymous he was referring to, the winner is:

anonymous: "Is it ironic that "laconic" generates so many responses?" I have no doubt the rhyming helped.

Congratulations, O Great Anonymous Winner of the 15th Weekend Word Contest (someone told me today that I have miscounted and it was really 16th). May you go on to anonymously wordsmith in bigger and better places - or at least in next week's contest. Acceptance speeches are now the norm. We'll look forward to yours.

Weekend Word 15

FIFTEEN Weekend Words. Unbelievable. This blogging business is love/hate.

If you are new to the Weekend Word Contest, click here to discover the original lunacy behind it. As a matter of fact, I may click just to remind myself why I keep doing this.

Eat some salmon, write with the opposite hand, go back to school and click on the word below. Use it in a fabulous sentence and put that sentence in the comments section below. A winner will be announced at 10:00 p.m. est on Sunday evening (on time this week, I hope).

laconic

That's it.

JJ and Mia's first day back at the bus stop

My very first book review - The Shack

While away on vacation, I twittered that I was reading The Shack, by William P. Young. Since that simple Twitter, friends and colleagues have sent me a ton of opinion-filled emails and links about this novel. For those of you who have never heard of the book, it is creating a highly charged dialogue between all sorts of folks – from fundamentalist Christians to transgender groups (that’d be quite a party, wouldn’t it? I’d LOVE an invite).

One old college friend, whose opinions are very different from mine, but has tremendous influence on my thinking nonetheless (has something to do with mutual grace), suggested I do a book review on my blog. I have never done such a thing, so here goes:

Oh, wait, I guess before I officially start, I should give a SPOILER ALERT. If you haven’t read The Shack, I highly recommend that you stop reading this blog and buy it. I mean it, stop reading this instant. The book deserves your unblemished attention.

Okay, I’m ready.

WHAT I THINK ABOUT THE SHACK (ahem).

By Wendy W. Melchior (I really want to rescue the poor “W” as a middle initial. Dear thing is so maligned these days… Perhaps in late January I’ll have more success).

The Shack by William P. Young is an interesting book by an author who is better described as a wonderful theologian than as a wonderful fiction writer, and yet his attempt at combining the two has real merit and is worth the time, and thinking, it requires.

Main character, Mack, is a man haunted by tragedy. Young describes the “great sadness” that has descended on Mack’s heart after being raised by a violent father and the later abduction and murder of his own young daughter, Missy, by a serial child killer. In many ways, Mack is in a more frightening place than the understandable “angry with God” spot. He has spiraled to numbness, a good man who is choosing not to feel his life.

In the middle of an ice storm, Mack receives a note from God in the mail. His name, but no address, is typed across the front, and God invites Mack to spend the weekend with Him at the very shack where Missy was killed. The visit that follows is unforgettable.

I had really mixed feelings about The Shack, but not for the reasons you may guess. The Shack is a work of pure fiction, quite interesting fiction, but it is not a great work of literature. Sometimes the dialogue seemed canned and familiar, even awkwardly written, but thankfully the writing itself isn’t even close to the point of this fascinating book.

While reading, I was forced to realize that I have no real grasp of how much God loves me. It was overwhelming, really. God really loves me. I found myself wishing that I consistently lived like I believe it. Critics have called Young’s idea that God would meet with a man for the weekend crazy, but when you consider the great lengths that Christ has already gone to meet us – why is a weekend retreat so hard to allow in a work of fiction?

Unlike some others, I do not take issue with the liberties that Young took in portraying God as a large African American woman. Frankly, I am more concerned that Young’s portrayal of the African American woman was somewhat stereotypical. I half expected my bottle of Aunt Jemima syrup to start quoting scripture this morning. Whereas some think that Young went way out of the box here, I found that he stayed disappointingly within it. If you’re going to freak people out anyway, why not include the idea that God seems to always challenge our preconceived ideas and stereotypes?

I have read critics claiming that Young suggests that there are multiple avenues to God. He never even comes close to saying such a thing. The author does infer that people, who pursue world religions other than Christianity, are revealing their searches for God. I happen to agree wholeheartedly. Let’s get rid of “us and them” language. It’s really just us, and if God was willing to walk the crazy roads He walked to find me, I suspect He is willing to meet people in the midst of other religions in order to bring them to His Son.

The Shack was a very emotional experience for me. It forced me to consider all the things that I allow to keep me from fully relating to God. Young so beautifully expresses the relational nature of God, that after I read a chapter or two, I would head out to the ocean with my boogie board and talk to Him on the waves about what I was being asked to think about.

I highly recommend The Shack. Have at it.

Any other readers of The Shack have thoughts?

Cindy McCain's Tuesday evening RNC Convention outfit

Oscar de la Renta dress: $3,000

Chanel J12 White Ceramic Watch: $4,500

Three-carat diamond earrings: $280,000

Four-strand pearl necklace: $11,000–$25,000

Shoes, designer unknown: $600

Total: Between $299,100 and $313,100

source: Vanity Fair

I'm shedding

My children started school two days ago. Noah, who started his first year of middle school, leaves much earlier than the other two. I wake him up, he jumps in the shower while I make breakfast and pack his lunch.

The lunch packing has been nerve wracking for me. I ask what kind of sandwich he wants, but beyond that, I have all sorts of anxiety about whether or not his complementary side items are cool enough for middle school.

It is important for me to tell you that Noah would never want to hurt my feelings, and would probably just suck it up if I put an apple juice box in there, because he knows how hard I have to try – not being a natural born June Cleaver. He’s a terrific kid.

On the first day, I packed PB&J, pretzels, a nectarine, string cheese and a Capri Sun which I hoped was more like a juice bag than a juice box. Noah came home and told me that after drinking his bag he was still thirsty at lunch and could I pack a bottle of water? I’m not sure if this was secret code talk or actual need for more hydration, but he had a water bottle the next day.

I resisted every temptation to walk him to the bus stop, which is the end of our driveway, or at least sit on one of the benches outside the front door. Instead, I stood fixed by the kitchen window and fretted about the Capri Sun as he stood there and waited by himself for the bus to come.

Off he went, without a look back.

It was different with the younger two. I packed all their favorites in their lunchboxes (one of which says, “High School Musical” across the front). We walked to the end of the driveway together where I took multiple pictures of them as we waited. We remembered our manners, how we give everything a try even if we’re not good at it, and that God is the One who gives us value. They both kissed me as the bus rounded the curve, and waved from their seats as it drove away.

I was just thinking the other day that I wonder what it would be like if I could shed my grown-up skin. I’m sure that I wouldn’t be such a study in contradictions, and yet I often find that grown ups are as good at pretending as kids are – if not better. As I watch Noah grow, I understand his need to do things differently, but it also makes me reflect on the growing sense of independence from God that I developed as I got older. Perhaps what Jesus meant by child-like faith, was just an acceptance of the need for total dependence on Him and complete interdependence on one other. Just eagerly waving to one another and sharing juice boxes without fretting about what anyone thinks.

Yes, I was sitting outside on the bench by the front door waiting for Noah to come home. I sort of felt like Forrest Gump. I took a book out with me, and as soon as I heard the familiar sound of the bus engine up the street, I quickly opened it and pretended like I’d been reading for hours. I only casually looked up after he was well off the bus and it had driven away.

Noah smiled at me sitting there. He walked toward me and sat right down next to me. One by one he described his teachers, his new friends, his failed attempts to open his locker and his dictator of a math instructor. I laughed and listened and realized that no matter how big we all get, we really do need each other.

Country first?

Yes, I have been thinking about Republican nominee for VP Sarah Palin’s daughter, Bristol. Remember, years ago, when young unmarried women got pregnant and were sent to a convent in secret to avoid embarrassment? Not a good solution, but dear Bristol Palin is caught in the opposite of convent containment. Can you even imagine how this 17 year-old feels this week as news agencies and bloggers and politicians discuss what must be the most difficult, stressful and potentially shaming moment of her life thus far?

Imagine.

Bristol, you can come live with me. You are not campaign fodder. You are not a living example of pro-life values. You are not needed to prove anyone’s commitment to family values. I’m sorry this is happening, and I’m sorry that ideology and ambition and country have come first. Regardless of what others tell you, Jesus really isn’t interested in most of the other stuff. He’s interested in you.

I mentioned last week that my perspective on Christians in politics is going through a transformation. I have always thought that “Christian” is a verb, but I’m getting even more worked up lately. I want to ask every Christian who has made commentary on candidates or parties or ideologies to tell me what they did last week. Really, what did you do last week? If you did not feed a hungry person (and I don’t mean write a check) or care for a widow or befriend the fatherless or visit the sick and imprisoned or help another person heal, frankly, I am not interested in your rhetoric about family values or your ponderings about smaller vs. larger government or your answers for social justice. Jesus was full of ideals, but He was also a Man of touching and doing. He didn’t see Himself as the leader or the communicator who simply taught others the principles so they could live it out, He lived it too. He clearly understood “grass roots movement” and wasn’t above trudging through the dirt to sow the grass seed.

The church is too big for her britches. We need to humble ourselves and withdraw from the political conversation until we do what Jesus has asked us to do. Period. A vast number of the issues facing America (and the world), many of which are being discussed at political conventions and used to support both candidate platforms, would not even exist if the church was not swollen to impotence with a morality that somehow excuses inactivity.

I am not endorsing either party or candidate. I've decided to shut up and put up before I dare head to any voting booth.

Frederick Buechner on writing

"You avoid forcing your characters to march too steadily to the drumbeat of your artistic purpose. You leave some measure of real freedom for your characters to be themselves. And if minor characters show an inclination to become major characters, as they're apt to do, you at least give them a shot at it, because in the world of fiction it may take many pages before you find out who the major characters really are, just as in the real world it may take you many years to find out that the stranger you talked to once for half an hour in the railroad station may have done more to point you to where your true homeland lies than your priest or your best friend or even your psychiatrist."

Regular old pagan

On Sunday, after church, I stopped by the grocery store. Yes, I was breaking all the blue laws that our forefathers put in place to make this country great, but my niece’s birthday party was at 1:30 pm and I was to bring some sort of green salad that I had no ingredients for.

I parked the car, jumped out, and started walking towards the entrance. Still in the parking lot, I got behind a very sweet old woman who was pushing a cart towards the store as well, and I decided to walk slowly behind her. I’ve always wondered how older people, those that move more slowly, feel when the rest of the world speeds by them. Marginalized? Jealous? Unconcerned? Just slow?

As I took pride in my patience, we eventually made it to the sidewalk. The store was busy and people were quickly moving in and out. I noticed that the shoppers fit into two dress code categories – those who had come from church and those who hadn’t. Now, I am big on the casual church thing, so I could have easily fit in with the potential “just got out of bed” third category, so I realize that there aren’t any hard and fast rules (or laws) at work, but it seemed obvious to me that some folks were looking rather spiffy.

One couple, in particular, caught my eye. As they marched toward the store they were either coming from church (I would guess the big time fundamentalist church right across from the store, but I suspect that those members can’t shop on the Sabbath) or they were headed to a Sunday morning wedding. The man was immaculate in his tailored suit and tie. The woman was in a flowery, yet appropriately modest, pleated dress and her hair was perfectly coiffed. I was moving so slowly that I had plenty of time to watch as they interacted. She asked him to grab a cart, and as they continued to the door, I could hear her humming a well-known Christian song. Confirmed! The wedding thing was too much of a stretch anyway.

They came to the door, the same door that the sweet old woman and I had finally reached, but as the man looked at us and sized up the situation, he and his hairsprayed hair decided to get in before the sweet old woman at all costs. If I tell you that the church couple SMASHED into the old woman’s cart as they attempted to beat her in, you’d be shocked right? But – if I went on to tell you that after banging into her, that they turned and made ugly, impatient faces and derogatory remarks about her carelessness, how would you feel?

Situations such as these, and by “these” I mean what I consider “injustices,” have always gotten me into deep doo-doo. Somehow, in my attempts to save the underdog, I end up losing my own salvation (the only moments I wish I was a Calvinist). It’s tricky business, and in hindsight, I’m not sure whether I was more angry on Sunday about the old woman being startled and disrespected or the fact that “church” folks were behaving demonically, but either way, I was pretty ticked off.

Since this is my blog, and not the spiffy couple’s blog, I do not need to tell you everything that transpired in front of that store. Suffice it to say that I did not actually break my grace-o-meter, but merely tested it. As other shoppers, coming in and out of the busy store, witnessed the Christian brawl, I was suddenly glad that I was dressed down and could fake being a regular old pagan if need be.

Not surprisingly, the dapper duo ended up going in first as the older woman and I yielded to them after our valiant protest dwindled. I stood there with my new friend, somehow my arm was now linked through hers (perhaps I subconsciously considered using her as a human shield if things came to blows), and I turned and looked right at her. As I stood there and anticipated the tender moment that was about to transpire between us, the sweet old woman looked back at me and said, “Jesus Christ! What an a**hole, huh?!” I'm fairly confident she was referring to the man with the cart and not the Savior of the entire world. I helped her to the deli counter.

If I told you that the song the coiffed woman was humming was, “People Need the Lord,” would you believe me? No, I wouldn’t either, because she wasn’t. It was “Faith of Our Fathers.”

I should have observed the blue laws.