Black Out Friday

I am just getting home from taking my friend, Diana, for an unexpected visit to the Emergency Room. They have decided to keep her. This leukemia is no respecter of holidays.

After a week of sickness in our house, I was up early putting the turkey in, fed 22 people, and naturally got caught in the Eagles traffic on the way home from the hospital.

I'm tired.

I think today may need to be more than Black Friday for me. I think I need Black Out Friday. A nice loooong sleep.

See you Monday.

Time to give thanks

Yesterday, a friend of mine from my kids’ elementary school called me on the phone to check and see how we were all feeling (much better, by the way). As we talked for a couple of minutes, I asked where she was spending Thanksgiving. Her answer was thus: “We are headed to my in-laws, but first we are sharing a turkey with the homeless. I heard about a shelter that was asking people to cook a turkey and bring it to share. So, I cashed in a free turkey coupon I had, and we are going over there to serve and eat early in the day.”

I told her how thrilled I was that they were making this choice and she said, “Well, I read your blog.”

Thank you so much. I welled up with tears after we hung up. It may have been because I am exhausted after a vomit filled week, but I don’t think so because I am welling up now.

You know how we all walk around telling each other what we are thankful for? We thank God for good health and for families and for jobs and the list goes on. We join “Thankful” groups on Facebook and create updates intended to praise God for His goodness.

Well, this year (and I don’t just mean today) instead of just being thankful, what if we started doing thankful?

I wonder how many churches had Thanksgiving eve services last night and people were asked to stand up and express what they are thankful for. Not a bad thing, but what if we did thankful instead of said thankful? Sort of like, “God, You have been so good to me. I want to show you how thankful I am by demonstrating Your faithfulness in the world.” Put your turkey where your mouth is and be the answer to someone’s prayer.

Assigns all new meaning to “give thanks,” doesn’t it? It’s time to give thanks.

Promises to Keep

Today, I would like to share this passage from Vice-President elect Joe Biden's memoir, Promises to Keep. It's about the sudden death of his wife, Neilia, and their baby daughter Naomi in a car accident shortly after his election to the Senate in 1992. It is defiantly not an explication of the power of faith, but rather an honest -- and politically risky -- description of what it really felt like:

"They flew us to Wilmington, but I didn't know anything for sure until I got to the hospital. All the way up, I kept telling myself that everything was going to be okay, that I was letting my imagination run away with me, but the minute I got to the hospital and saw Jimmy's face, I knew the worst had happened. Beau, Hunt and Naomi had been in the car with Neilia when the accident happened. Neilia had been killed and so had our baby daughter. The boys were both alive, but Beau had a lot of broken bones and Hunt had injuries. The doctors couldn't rule out permanent damage. I could not speak, only felt this hollow core grow in my chest, like I was gong to be sucked inside a black hole.

The first few days I felt trapped in a constant twilight of vertigo, like in the dream where you're suddenly falling...only I was constantly falling. In moments of fitful sleep I was aware of the dim possibility that I would wake up, truly wake up, and this would not have happened. But then I'd open my eyes to the sight of my sons in their hospital beds -Beau in a full body cast--and it was back. And as consciousness gathered again, I could always feel at least one other physical present in the room--and there would be Val, or my mom, or Jimmy. They never left my side. I have no memory of ever being physically alone.

Most of all I was numb, but there were moments when the pain cut through like a shard of broken class. I began to understand how despair led people to just cash it in; how suicide wasn't just an option but a rational option. But I'd look at Beau and Hunter asleep and wonder what new terrors their own dreams held, and wonder who would explain to my sons my being gone, too. And I knew I had no choice but to fight to stay alive.

Except for the memorial service, I stayed in the hospital room with my sons. My life collapsed into their needs. If I could focus on what they needed minute by minute, I thought I might stay out of the black hole. My future was telescoped into the effort of putting one foot in front of the other. The horizon faded from my view. Washington, politics, the Senate had no hold on me. I was supposed to be sworn into the Senate in two weeks, but I could not bear to image the scene without Neilia....

There was good news: The doctors assured us that Beau and Hunter would make full recoveries. Beau's bones would mend. Hunter had no brain impairment. But Christmas passed with the boys in the hospital, and I began to feel my anger. When the boys were asleep or when Val or Mom was taking a turn at their bedside, I'd bust out of the hospital and go walking the nearby streets. Jimmy would go with me, and I'd steer him wordlessly down into the darkest and seediest neighborhoods I could find. I liked to go at night when I thought there was a better chance of finding a fight. I was always looking for a fight. I had not known I was capable of such rage. I knew I had been cheated out of a future, but I felt I'd been cheated of a past, too.

The underpinnings of my life had been kicked out from under me...and it wasn't just the loss of Neilia and Naomi. All my life, I'd been taught about our benevolent God. This is a forgiving God who is tolerant. This is a God who gave us free will to be able to doubt. This was a loving God, a God of comfort. Well, I didn't want to hear anything about a merciful God. No words, no prayer, no sermon gave me ease. I felt God had played a horrible trick on me, and I was angry. I found no comfort in the Church. So I kept walking the dark streets to try to exhaust the rage."

What I admire about this excerpt, is the raw honesty about a struggle with faith. Senator Biden’s faith did return, stronger than before, but his frank language about what God felt like in the midst of his tragedy actually refreshes me.

Psalmists and saints have felt the same. If we are daring enough to tell the truth, so have we. Perhaps we have not experienced the anger, but instead our faith has weathered (or is weathering) apathy or fear or foolishness or confusion or paralyzing doubt… Just last week, I was asking God why He refuses to close the gap more (the need for a "physical presence" Biden refers to), why He chooses to stay tangibly hidden. I know the theological answer (sin has separated us, over the generations) but the emotional question, “God where are You and what are You doing?” often outweighs what I know in my head.

Yet my faith exists. Sometimes like a raging river, sometimes like the last ember in the fire before it goes out. I guess this Thanksgiving I am thankful that I have promises to keep, and so does He.

WARNING! Do not read just before your Thanksgiving meal

The Melchior’s have the stomach flu. Well, the MALE Melchior’s do, and here’s the sordid tale:

At about 12:30 am early Monday morning, Steve started to feel a sense of unease in his stomach. Approximately 2 minutes after waking me to make me aware of his distress, another set of hurried footsteps were heard in the hall – footsteps that weren’t fast enough. Noah, whose room is closest to the bathroom, was so overwhelmed that he threw up in the hall and all over the bathroom floor. This particular turn of events was all Steve needed to ignite his pending issues, and since both could not crowd around the toilet at once, my husband grabbed the trash can.

The first violent dual episode lasted about 7 minutes, after which both Steve and Noah were too sick to do anything but climb back into bed (both in the bed that I happen to sleep in) so I was left to deal with the hall and bathroom.

As I scrubbed without gagging, I was reminded of the amazing constitution that God gave mothers. It’s amazing what we can do, and most of us would have never guessed it before our children were born.

Of course, after the time it took me to clean the walls, the vanity and the floors (not to mention the unlucky pile of clothes Noah had dropped and left outside the shower earlier in the day) I was just in time to witness Round 2. The retching and scrubbing episodes continued until about 5:30 am, at which time I sat down into a chair next to my bed (my side still occupied by my son) and patted his back in hopes that he would sleep.

Noah continued to get sick until 8:30 am, just as Steve began to experience a shivering fever and body aches and I was getting my other children on the school bus. Noah’s fever quickly followed, and at 10:15 am, the school nurse called to say that J.J. wasn’t feeling well. I was far from “public-ready” (the smell alone…) but I jumped in the car quickly in hopes of saving J.J. the embarrassment of school vomit.

To add to our collective pain, Mia’s 9th birthday party was scheduled for Tuesday, so I spent the early evening calling her girlfriends to cancel as I listened to my daughter wail in her bedroom. As I got off the phone, I put a few more dollars in her future therapy fund jar and climbed onto her bed to hug her until the sobbing slowed.

You know, I’m sure our drama would make a great illustration – something like how God never gags as He cleans up our messes (I’m actually not sure how theologically sound that is because He does mention that “spewing out of His mouth” business – Rev. 3:16) or how He never sleeps nor slumbers in our distress or the classic truth that He wraps His arms around His children as they mourn – but frankly, my brain can’t put it all together right now.

Besides, I’m feeling a little uneasy in my stomach.

Accountability

I received an email this morning from someone who wanted to challenge me about today's post, "Marching Orders." In many ways, I agreed with his assessment, and so I wanted to be perfectly clear.

My angst is not with a single mother who may have donated her time to ride a float. My angst is with a church who has forgotten to love single mothers. My reply to his email is below:

In some ways, you do understand me. The single mom who volunteered for the float is not the target of my ire - but most churches are not caring for single moms.

You're right to assume that I would do anything to help anyone - the perpetrator and the victim. I am, however, outright angry with the church and its preoccupations. I hope that my anger is a righteous one - the kind that cleanses and burns clean - not the kind that smokes and pollutes the air. My blog is my little corner of the cyber world (thus my sometimes pointed responses - sorry!) to express my angst for the institution that I love so much, but is driving me crazy every time I read the gospels.

Here's a challenge. Soren Kierkegaard once wrote, "Take any words in the New Testament and forget everything except pledging yourself to act accordingly." I have tried to make it through just the GOSPELS with that perspective - without rationalizing things like changed culture and societal limitations. It is a haunting exercise, one that I suspect if you tried (there is a group called RED LETTER Christians who read and reread the words of Christ) you, too, would see the church, and your church, quite differently.

Our churches are so Americanized, so enculturated, that I think they view congregants like consumers - what will "attract" or "satisfy" them. There's a reason that Jesus declared His way was the narrow way - it is not an easy way - but far more liberating than sin nonetheless. We still want, and unfortunately preach, easy.

Your point is well taken, though. I need to be careful expressing my opinion to the point where I may be misunderstood to be criticizing the wrong people. Thanks for the accountability, brother.

Marching Orders

We live in a town that still has an annual parade. Of course, in Center City, you can experience the Thanksgiving Day Parade (it’s probably on your TV if you live elsewhere) and there are the infamous Mummers on New Year’s Day. But in our suburb, the Saturday before Thanksgiving is reserved for the Mardi Gras Parade.

I have attended said parade for over a decade. I NEVER went to it growing up, I don’t even think I knew it existed. My parents weren’t really into community activities and I never played in the marching band or anything. My husband, however, views it as a staple, and ever since Noah could withstand the cold, we have been sitting on the curb watching our parade go by.

It was particularly cold on Saturday. I had already stood in the freezing temperatures for 2 hours Saturday morning while I watched my boys play their final football game of the season. The thought of standing outside for 2 more hours watching Cub Scout troops go by, was not my first choice for the rest of my day.

I have noticed in recent years that local churches have been purchasing parade spots. In between the fire trucks and the high school Homecoming Queen, the Jr. High marching bands and the local meat packing plant, churches are advertising their wares on floats. This year, I counted NINE churches with floats, most of which had colorful homemade poster board signs saying things like “Keep Christ in Christmas” or “Jesus is the Reason for the Season.” One church had an absolutely awful choir signing on top, and one even had a “mobile band” that was so out of tune I felt embarrassed for them. They all had willing congregants wearing their fake beards and bathrobes to represent the manger scene, but they left the summer sandals at home because frost-bite was a real possibility this year.

While these floats went by, other church members walked along side handing out flyers to the crowd with service times and website addresses printed on them. Apparently, this was an evangelical emphasis, and if I am truthful, most of them (if not all) did not present anything that I would be eager to explore or attend.

I stood there thinking about the church and its “advertising.” The old me would have said something like, “If you’re not going to do it with excellence, please don’t do it.” I used to think that the church needed to be better than the rest of the world in its output – video production, worship bands, drama, floats – and if we couldn’t do a decent job of it, we were leaving a lasting impression of ineptness (and heaven knows what that said about God, too).

Now, please don’t hear me incorrectly, I still don’t think that cheesy floats in a parade are a good idea, because let’s be honest, those church folks did it for themselves – they needed to feel like they were “doing outreach.” But no one’s life was changed on Saturday.

The current me sees it all differently. Even though I used to be, perhaps, one of the more capable at helping the church excel, I now understand that none of that means squat. I no longer can swallow the idea that the church should have big buildings or great campuses or smokin' bands and exciting Christmas programs.

Not that those things are wrong, they’re not - but they are distracting, and we are too easily distracted. Honestly, all the enemy of God has to do is distract Christians – get us believing that singing in the choir is serving the Lord or buying a new sound system will impact the world. It is not true, but we spend an awful lot of time and energy on these things, becoming preoccupied with activities that do not even remotely mirror what Jesus was preoccupied with. We are distracted, and unlike the parade bands, we have forgotten our true marching orders, Sure, we program compassion once a month, but the truth is, if we sing more than feed people, we have missed the mission of Christ.

Go love a sick person today without telling anyone. It may not be great advertising, but I suspect Jesus can handle all the marketing He requires.

Friday Chews

I seem to be getting lazier and lazier. After imploding the Weekend Word last week, I am going to post some quotes on Friday's to chew on. These Friday Chews will not be my own thoughts, but ideas and words that have either challenged me, made me think something new or amused me during the week.

Our first contributors are an eclectic bunch. A poet, a periodical and a pope, the last being willing to meet with the other two at Starbucks. Enjoy.

This girlchild was born as usual

and presented dolls that did pee-pee

and miniature GE stoves and irons

and wee lipsticks the color of cherry candy.

Then in the magic of puberty, a classmate said:

You have a great big nose and fat legs.

She was healthy, tested intelligent,

possessed strong arms and back,

abundant sexual drive and manual dexterity.

She went to and fro apologizing.

Everyone saw a fat nose on thick legs.

She was advised to play coy,

exhorted to come on hearty,

exercise, diet, smile and wheedle.

Her good nature wore out like a fan belt.

So she cut off her nose and her legs

and offered them up.

In the casket displayed on satin she lay

with the undertaker’s cosmetics painted on,

a turned-up putty nose,

dressed in a pink and white nightie.

Doesn’t she look pretty? everyone said.

Consummation at last.

To every woman a happy ending.

- "Barbie Doll" by Marge Pierce

At the end of August, as Hurricane Gustav threatened the coast of Texas, the Obama campaign called the Red Cross to say it would be routing donations to it via the Red Cross home page. Get your servers ready—our guys can be pretty nuts, Team Obama said. Sure, sure, whatever, the Red Cross responded. We’ve been through 9/11, Katrina, we can handle it. The surge of Obama dollars crashed the Red Cross Web site in less than 15 minutes.

— from Newsweek’s 7-part series on the secrets of the 2008 campaign

Why, this Satan’s drink is so delicious it would be a pity to let the infidels have exclusive use of it. We shall fool Satan by baptizing it and making it a truly Christian beverage.

— Pope Clement VIII upon tasting coffee

T, T & T

We have “twin churches” in our town. It is not difficult to discover how they got the nickname, because they appear to be identical in every way, except that they face one another from opposite sides of the same road and they are affiliated with differing denominations.

One of them has a nifty little sign out front with a thought-provoking saying that changes weekly. Today, as I drove past, I read a phrase I have seen many times before. It said, “We give our time, talent and treasure to God.”

Last time I saw this particular phrase, it was in a handbook outlining and encouraging church volunteerism and stewardship. For those of you who are not savvy in institutional realities, the church needs a lot of help to maintain its overhead – which, of course, begs the question, “How does God feel about the church’s overhead?”

It’s kind of crazy, but when I have questions like this, I turn to the Handbook of God to see if I can achieve some clarity. Here’s what I know so far:

When I feed someone, I have given my time to God.

When I write an article that raises awareness about the plight of abused prisoners, I have given my talent to God.

When I buy a needy child a winter coat, I have given my treasure to God.

I’m still not sure about air conditioning bills and narthex wallpaper.

But I’ll keep looking.

Hunger

I had a strange thing happen yesterday. I was uncannily HUNGRY. Usually, I have breakfast with the kids, take whatever leftover is in the fridge to heat up at work, and then I eat dinner with my family. I am not really a snacker, and I do not eat before bed, but yesterday all bets were off.

Not only was my stomach growling, but my mind was preoccupied with food as well. At about 11 am, even though I did not yet know that this hunger phenomenon would last much longer, I decided to stop and think about WHY I felt this way.

I quickly erased possibilities like “skipped breakfast,” because I hadn’t. Boredom could not be blamed because I had a lot to do at work yesterday. I grasped at the ever-popular hormonal excuse, but since I was trying to be honest, it didn’t apply. As hard as it was, I finally faced that I was experiencing some sort of emptiness that longed to be filled up.

A quick personal survey revealed several empty possibilities – some I was willing to ponder and others made me tired just thinking about them. I don’t know about you, but moments like these create a restlessness within me and I don’t know whether to try and run from my own skin or brave the storm.

One thing I do know. When I was younger, I practiced avoidance, and as cliché as it sounds, after the temporary reprieve, the longing always grew worse. Lately, I am learning to celebrate the hunger, because one of the most frightening things that I can think of is God leaving me alone.

In many ways, my hunger brings me to a place of indigence, if I let it. Instead of feeding it, I can let myself be vulnerable and needy. God extends to me consistent peace, yes, but He also offers me healing and growth. Part of growing up is seeing where the trouble is. The process isn’t finished (even if I sometimes pretend it is) and so He brings me to these disturbed places to help me discover more Truth, more faith, more of Him.

I love it when God bugs me.

Comment Code of Courtesy

We really have a great group on this blog, but I read others - even Christian ones - that make me shudder because of the way we treat one another with the things we write. I have a great friend named Dave (a former church partner in crime) who posted this note and I am reprinting it. I did not ask permission, so I'm hoping that he read yesterday's post about forgiveness.

Preach it, brother Dave:

I will express myself with civility, courtesy, and respect for every member of the human race, especially toward those with whom I disagree—even if I feel disrespected by them. (Romans 12:17-21)

I will express my disagreements with other community members' ideas without insulting, mocking, or slandering them personally. (Matthew 5:22)

I will not exaggerate others' beliefs nor make unfounded prejudicial assumptions based on labels, categories, or stereotypes. I will always extend the benefit of the doubt. (Ephesians 4:29)

I will participate in community accountability by rating posts up or down based not on what ideas are expressed but on how they're expressed, and will flag posts that violate these rules of conduct. (Proverbs 12:18)

Imagine if the last election cycle would have been conducted by these rules. Did any campaign even come close? Does any church family come close?

Burnside Writers Collective

I have an article entitled, Revolutions, published on the Burnside Writers Collective this week. Check it out!!

http://www.burnsidewriterscollective.com/index.php

I'm still a little ticked at Eve

I’ve been thinking a lot about forgiveness lately. My husband says that I have an uncanny ability to “let things go” and move on. I think that’s true about some situations in my life, but not all, so I’ve been mulling it over.

I heard forgiveness defined once as deciding to give up your right to be offended and trusting in God instead. Sounds simple enough, by why is it SO hard?

Part of the struggle, I think, is because we have swallowed some lies. I often think that what Eve swallowed in the Garden was not only an apple, but a lie. Once a lie is ingested, it gets into the system and begins to influence and affect the whole.

Some of the lies we have swallowed about forgiveness:

1. I don’t have to forgive. Sometimes I want to hold on to my anger, believing it cannot be dissipated until the offender feels my pain.
2. It’s too big an offense to forgive. “Do you know what he/she did to me? Forgiveness is impossible in this instance.”
3. It’s buried and gone, forgiveness is a moot point now. The situation may be over, but buried feelings are often the hardest to resolve.
4. My anger protects me from more hurt. This ingested lie turns into fear – we’re afraid of more hurt so we refuse the vulnerability that forgiveness demands.
5. I do not need to take responsibility if I’m the victim. We want the offender to take the initiative for what he/she has done. We believe that forgiveness should only be extended after being asked for.

Here’s the thing about these lies. Once we entertain them, they cloud what we know to be true. Fact is, the unforgiving person is often far more tortured than the offender. I have seen it over and over – in both big and small issues. To forgive, however, means to challenge the power that the offense and the lie have over us. And if God is for us, who can be against us? (Romans 8:31) We have a supernatural combatant.

One last lie… Saying “I forgive you” one time constitutes forgiveness. I think of Jesus answering Peter, after Peter asks him if he should forgive people seven times, “I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times.” I know Jesus is helping us realize that being forgiving is part of being healed (and healing the world), but I often wonder if He didn’t also mean that forgiveness is an ongoing choice, a continuing activity. Waking up every day and forgiving someone who has hurt you is okay, I think. Good, even. As a matter of fact, I suspect it is a painfully honest expression of pardon because life is a process and relationships are not effortless.

‘Cause we're all what we eat.

And the winner is...

In some weird way, I will miss the Weekend Word. It is cool to think that my friend in Angola, Africa (Stephen) can just jump on the computer and remind me of Dr. Spaulding. And I will miss the mind games that Todd, an old friend from high school, used to play with his anonymous entries. Jared, who I miss a lot, always made me SMILE. But the winner of the final Weekend Word is:

wayne wicks: "Wendy is using circumlocution to tell us that she doesn't want to work weekends anymore."

Not only is his sentence funny, it is true. AND he is my truly wonderful Canadian cousin. Actually, all my cousins are Canadian, but I do not hold that against them.

Thanks to all who played over the months. What will we do next weekend? Yeah, I can think of zillions of alternatives, too.

Weekend Word

I believe this will be the last Weekend Word. Interest is waning, and so I will follow the advice of Jerry Seinfeld and say, "I refuse to run." I would hate to be like one of those athletes that should retire years before they do and end up being pitied by the whole world. Okay, maybe that's a little dramatic, but you get the idea.

Grab a Kleenex (for the tears you are bound to shed), remember the good times (have you ever won the Weekend Word?), and realize that it was never really fair. Click on the word below and let it marinate in your mind. When you have invented a satisfying sentence using said word, put it in the comments section below. A winner will be announced at 10:00 pm est Sunday night.

Ten or more entries may keep the Weekend Word alive (on a ventilator) but not the anonymous kind. I may be unfair, but I'm not stupid.

circumlocution

Working it out

I had the most interesting conversation with my middle child, JJ, yesterday. The business, where I ineptly work part-time, is owned by the parents of one of his best friends, Corey. As a matter of fact, he and Corey have played baseball together, gone to school together and hung out all summer together for a couple of years. Both boys are great kids and great friends.

JJ asked me yesterday morning, “Are you going to keep working there?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I like it.”

“It’s kind of weird though, Mom.”

“Weird how?” I asked.

“Well, it’s hard to explain at school that you work for Corey’s parents,” he admitted.

“Why is it hard?” I waited.

“Well, you used to be a pastor and then I told people you were becoming a writer.” Now he waited.

I considered how to answer my son. My first impulse was to say something like, “I am becoming a writer, it’s just a long process…” or something in that defensive vein. But then I thought better of it.

“Are you embarrassed because Mommy works for Corey’s parents?” I finally said.

“Not embarrassed exactly,” he looked away. “I just don’t know what to tell people.”

“I think it’s fine to tell people that I work for Corey’s parents,” I kept packing his lunch and let that sink in.

“What do you do there? Just answer the phone?” he looked at me again.

“Yes, I answer the phone but, you know what? If that was the only thing I did all day, it would be okay. I’m a good phone answerer,” I smiled at him, “and my value is not wrapped up in what I do or do not do. I started working there to provide us with more income while Daddy gets launched in his new job. But you know what? I like it. It’s fun.”

JJ thought about this for minute as he ate his eggs. He took a bite of his toast and asked with his mouth full, “You’re not going to give up being a writer, are you?”

“Nah, but being a writer is no more important than being a phone answerer. It’s great when people get to do things they like, and I happen to like both, but neither one defines me.” I pondered how to explain being defined by something as I searched my brain for any illustration that didn’t involve the dictionary.

“What does define you?” JJ questioned me and I learned he was smarter than I realized.

I sat down across from him.

“Being your mom and being Daddy’s wife are both a big part of who I am. I am a daughter and sister and friend. But the most important thing in my whole life is being a Christian.”

He kept chewing. “So, God defines you?”

“Yeah,” I was looking at genius, “God defines me.” I waited for any questions that were forthcoming, totally immersed in the moment we were having.

“Mom?” JJ asked.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Do we have any jelly besides grape?”

Grab a spoon

I made chicken soup yesterday. No, I’m not sick, although my knees have been staging a revolt since Monday. I just wanted chicken soup.

Don’t you love it? There is something so comforting and warm and generally wonderful about chicken soup. I suspect that is why we have those strange little “Chicken Soup for the Soul” books that I can never quite figure out, but are nevertheless immensely popular. The title of the book implies that something universally soothing happens when we have chicken soup and we have come to believe it promotes well-being.

I was thinking all these things as I had a bowl yesterday afternoon. As I swallowed each spoonful, I could feel the warmth flowing down my throat, imagining it heading straight to my knees to ease and reassure them too. I was amazed at how good I felt, even if it was simply the placebo effect.

I want to be like chicken soup to people. I suspect if I was comforting and warm and generally wonderful all the time, people would feel soothed around me. Unfortunately, I am often soup impaired, and I act more like liver and onions that have to be choked down.

At the risk of stretching this idea so far it may break, I think the chicken soup thing is a great way to understand how we are made different by God. The more of God that I take in – through prayer and the Scriptures and serving others and living in community – the more I am filled up with the right stuff, the God stuff, the comforting, warm and wonderful stuff. Being right inside leads to doing right outside. It’s called having the fullness of Christ (Colossians 2:9-11).

I have a friend, who I love a lot, who keeps intimating that my faith is the result of a gene that scientists have successfully identified. Some people apparently have a propensity to need a god and dear Bill Maher investigates it in his new movie, Religulous. Kind of like the placebo effect, I guess.

Feedback like that is like having someone standing in the grass telling me how wet the pool is. Until you dip your own toe in, it’s pretty hard to understand the reality of it all.

I am not unaware of the issues, however. The practice of religion has screwed up the world significantly and I can clearly see why we long to explain it away as a biological anomaly. It has messed up people, but mostly because of messed up people. I saw a great bumper sticker last week that simply said, “SCREW GUILT.” I laughed out loud and thought of how twisted our view of God is and how we choose to live with so much unnecessary baggage.

Maybe if we understand that it’s far more like chicken soup. God wants to comfort the world by warming people from the inside. So, imagine something universally soothing, and once it enters and fills you up, you are truly different. Jesus the soup.

And just think, without liver and onions, things sure would smell better too.

No names

The business where I work is near a farm. My boss began feeding the barn cats that roam around the surrounding fields months ago, always trying to find homes for the new kittens that are born before they get too wild and skittish. My in-laws have one such adoptee named Cookie.

When I arrived yesterday, my boss was fretting over a rather small little kitten that seemed cold and weak. She brought said kitty into the office with us and allowed it to eat in peace – we were both guessing that the larger cats were edging him (her?) out of the food bowl. The precious thing had something to eat, and then braved his way into our indoor world. He briefly looked around the desks before falling sound asleep on my boss’ lap for most of the day. As he slept, we took a closer look and realized that he was going to need veterinary care.

We wondered what we would do if we failed to find him a home. My boss’ husband (the other boss) refused to make him “the office cat” as we suggested and told us to stop fussing. Later, I suggested we name him and I was told, “No, never, ever give them a name, ‘cause then you’re sure to get too attached.”

Last night, I was thinking about how true a statement that is. I can remember how the church promoted missions, how somehow writing a check to pay budgets or support someone in a far away land was somehow fulfilling the command to care. Once in a while, we would program an outing to the city or work day or a food drive for the homeless, but it was always a temporary emphasis and nobody had to get too close to the sickness or coldness or hunger. You certainly never had to stay there and you never had to know someone’s name.

Shakespeare asked, “What’s in a name?” Knowing someone’s name creates attachment. Sometimes it initiates a haunting. At other times, it has forced me to evaluate my own life. But worst of all, a name generates a sense of responsibility and solidarity – a sense of our collective brokenness and need to heal each other with Grace. Just two hungry strays.

Jesus knew names. One of my favorite moments is this one from Luke 19:

Jesus entered Jericho and was passing through. A man was there by the name of Zacchaeus; he was a chief tax collector and was wealthy. He wanted to see who Jesus was, but being a short man he could not, because of the crowd. So he ran ahead and climbed a sycamore-fig tree to see him, since Jesus was coming that way.

When Jesus reached the spot, he looked up and said to him, "Zacchaeus, come down immediately. I must stay at your house today." So he came down at once and welcomed him gladly.

All the people saw this and began to mutter, "He has gone to be the guest of a 'sinner.'”
But Zacchaeus stood up and said to the Lord, "Look, Lord! Here and now I give half of my possessions to the poor, and if I have cheated anybody out of anything, I will pay back four times the amount."

Jesus said to him, "Today salvation has come to this house, because this man, too, is a son of Abraham. For the Son of Man came to seek and to save what was lost."

It cracks me up how the crowd calls him a “sinner,” but Jesus walks right up to the tree and uses his name, “Zacchaeus…” Jesus doesn't make him a category, He knows an individual. In essence He tells Zacchaeus, "I know your name, I am going to your house, I will hear your story, I am invested in you, I will eat at your table, I don't care what anybody else thinks…we’re friends."

And in the end, Zacchaeus is so valued, so safe, that he is free to change. It’s the same thing Jesus did for me, minus the fig tree.

“Wendy…”

A little eschatology is good for the sole

"I love the sea, so beautiful, so mysterious...so full of fish."

Kevin Kline as Luc in French Kiss

"Well, I don't really think that the end can be assessed as of itself as being the end because what does the end feel like? It's like saying when you try to extrapolate the end of the universe, you say, if the universe is indeed infinite, then how - what does that mean? How far is all the way, and then if it stops, what's stopping it, and what's behind what's stopping it? So, what's the end, you know, is my question to you."

Michael McKean as David St. Hubbins in This is Spinal Tap

All the Things You Are

I had a long, but great, weekend. Besides my kids’ usual activities (football, birthday parties for friends), I officiated the wedding of Steve’s cousin AND I got to bring my friend Diana home from the hospital after a lengthy stay. There was a lot of joy associated with both things.

So last night, kind of exhausted and with aching knees (I wore very high heels to the wedding – my 90 year old knees are protesting), I decided to relax and read. If you know me well, you know that I read everything. The subject matter doesn’t really matter – I’ve learned some very interesting things by persisting in reading something that didn’t seem interesting at first. I was listening to Charlie Parker’s song, “All The Things You Are”, but I didn’t really know anything much about his life, so I decided to google him while I got lost in his sounds. What a treat.

I think I’ve written before about the joy of learning someone’s story, but with artists that is often an understatement. To try and understand the path to creative genius is often fascinating and confusing. Artists are often tormented, but their work is so beautiful. It is a puzzle – sort of.

Charlie Parker, or Bird as everyone called him, was one of the most influential jazz musicians ever. The New York nightclub, Birdland, is named after him. He was born in Kansas City, the only child of a frequently absent alcoholic father and a mother who worked nights at Western Union. Charlie did not pick up a saxophone until he was 11 years old, and the high school band director thought Charlie was so terrible, he was kicked out of the band! Briefly, Charlie considered giving up.

Besides growing to be an astonishing musician, Charlie battled an addiction to heroin. He was known to steal and beg in order to get a fix. He was once quoted as saying, “Any musician who says he is playing better either on tea, the needle, or when he is juiced, is a plain straight liar . . . You can miss the most important years of your life, the years of possible creation.” And yet, some of the music he created during his addiction is said to be the most passionate, yet imperfect, jazz ever played. Bird was incredibly intelligent, and his songs reflected his propensity for deep thinking.

Bird died at 34. Since it was 1955, it is not surprising that the circumstances of his death were considered scandalous - a black man found dead in a Park Avenue suite with a white European baroness. When the coroner examined his body, he mistook Charlie for a 60 year old man because of the damage the drugs had done to his system.

Charlie’s life begs me to ask so many questions. Why does great pain lead to great art? Why is it, when people’s inhibitions are numbed away, they are able to access a place of creativity that is otherwise hidden? How does God feel about all the things we are? How can Charlie’s torment offer me so much relaxation?

God obviously made Charlie Parker to be something special, even if Charlie lost his way sometimes. Here is audio of, "All The Things You Are." Enjoy what God made:

And the winner is...

Welcome home, my friend. This blog prays for you. Screw leukemia.

You're the winner:

militia207: "With the economy everybodies holiday may be a little on the light side with the gift giving but when it comes to the delicious holiday food and cookies everbody can still be a trencherman."

Acceptance speech, please, Diana.

Weekend Word

I am marrying Steve's cousin and her fiance tomorrow. We had the rehearsal tonight and all went well. In the theatre, we used to say that terrible dress rehearsals made great opening nights, but I hope that doesn't hold true for weddings.

If you are new to the Weekend Word click here. If not, smell the cider, rake some leaves and devein the shrimp. Click on the word below, mull it over in your brain for a minute then use it in a fantabulous sentence. Write your sentence in the comments section before 10:00 pm e.s.t. on Sunday, for that is when a WINNER will be declared.

trencherman

I think I could go for a late night snack...

Pitching for President

I have been experiencing a curious phenomenon lately. Between people from my past finding me on Facebook, and the fact that I keep bizarrely running into old high school/college friends in the strangest places, my responses to these encounters has been intriguing to me.

Yesterday, my son Noah contemplated a run for the Presidency. Mind you, he decided to pitch for the Phillies last week when the news was full of our World Series win, but this week he plans to live in the White House. Interestingly, I suspect that Noah would make a better President than pitcher. He has the heart of a servant and he is articulate, kind, bright, deeply cares for the welfare of humankind, and has a lot of integrity for a twelve year old.

When he asked me what I thought of this new career idea, I said the craziest thing. The FIRST thing I said was, “Just be sure you don’t screw up in high school or college. Keep your nose really clean, because, believe me, the press will hunt for that stuff when you hit the national stage. They will broadcast any and all mistakes you’ve ever made.”

HAVE I LOST IT COMPLETELY?

Fortunately, I recognized my insanity right away, and went on to tell Noah that I thought he would be the finest President the world has ever seen if that’s the path he chooses, and I verbally listed all the wonderful attributes that he possesses. I then promised to vote for him.

Later, as I was thinking through the moment, I began to understand the awkward/uncomfortable/queasy feeling I have had lately. I did a lot of bizarre things as a young person, some of which I am not proud of. When I run into someone who may or may not remember these antics, I am reminded of my former self. It’s a little…well…humiliating. I feel the urge to either run, or ask the person if they have 5 hours to sit so that I can explain a lot of stuff.

Some of these feelings are natural consequences for sin, and I may always feel that little shudder of embarrassment. On the other hand, these moments are turning into a real treat, too. God, who doesn’t remember my former self, invites me (every single time) to see the gap – the space between now and then that He has created by transforming me so utterly.

These moments of brilliance are so bright and clean and thrilling that I’m tempted to run for President too.

Newness

My husband, Steve, has had a new job for about six weeks. Even though it uses the best of his gifts, he is now working in an area that is new to him. Steve grew up in our town, his Dad was a mailman, his Mom is a nurse, and they all lived in a suburban rancher.

Steve’s new territory is in some of the most depressed sections of Philadelphia.

During his short tenure, he has encountered a hungry, stray pit bull; he has stepped in sidewalk vomit outside a methadone clinic; and he has encountered people of so many wonderful ethnicities. When he first began, Steve was nervous about figuring it all out, but now he loves the new of everyday and eagerly tells us his tales at dinnertime. Just yesterday, he was blessed enough to feed a hungry man on the street.

New can be so hard. I have struggled with new myself at times – and I am a new lover. New often creates fear and insecurity and often we do and say things that misrepresent our hearts and our faith.

I was disheartened yesterday to read some of the updates of my friends on Facebook. The angry and accusatory comments made, over what they consider to be a disappointing election, reinforce what the rest of the world is trying to tell the Church. In our insistence to “stand up for what is right” we have forgotten Christ’s central message of grace. I am starting to believe that the way we communicate truth is just as important as the truth itself.

And, while we're at it, we may need to consider if our opinions are indeed truth.

I know new is hard. It’s almost as scary as different. And yet, God is always doing a new thing in me and He somehow manages to do it all with grace. Of course, He’s not on Facebook… maybe it's harder there.

World leaders weigh in

Leaders from around the world are offering statements about the U.S. election.

Israeli President Shimon Peres said, in part, "… When President Obama was here, he asked me what he can do for Israel. My answer was: Be a great president of the United States of America. If you will be a great president of the United States of America, you will have great promise for Israel as well, and for all of the region and for all of our neighbors. Nobody should look at whose side the president is on — he just has to be on the side of peace. And if he will be on the side of peace, peace will come closer and more possible."

To read other leaders' comments, click here.

The morning after change

After all the hype of yesterday – long lines at polling centers and election results rolling in – I woke up today and everything inside my bedroom looks the same.

I’m glad we voted yesterday in a historic election. But today, let’s:

Use less
Love someone who is unlovable
Listen longer
Take time to pray
Pick up some trash that we didn’t drop
Give up something we want in order to bless someone else, whether he or she has earned it or not
Respect both the winner and the loser
Advance peace

Change is more than rhetoric. Regardless of who you voted for, it’s time to move. It was never really about one man anyway.

A reasonable amount of time

I started a part-time job recently. To say that the job forces me to work outside of my gift group is an understatement. A good friend of mine owns a business. The employee who performed these tasks before me recently discovered that she has a malignant brain tumor, so I am filling in to help my friend. The woman is receiving treatment with the intent to return to work.

Being new and stupid has its advantages. The way I see it, I have a reasonable amount of time - about a 6 week window - where my mistakes are easily blamed on a learning curve. After that, it’s pretty much incompetence. The job is full of attention to detail, focused tasks and organizational requirements. You’re smiling right now, aren’t you?

As of this writing, I have not made any huge accounting errors or a mistake that cannot be fixed, but I have laughed at myself a time or two as I have slipped off into a daydream in the middle of a task that requires my complete attention. I just go back to the beginning and start again.
Today, as I sat at the desk and thanked God that the company had been audited before my arrival, I was once again reminded of the grace extended to me.

I have been concerned about the polarity of Christian opinion this election season, and admittedly, there are fellow Christians that I strongly disagree with. “A country divided” is a phrase that I have heard many times in recent years, with red and blue states becoming almost prideful about their leanings. But a Church divided? I do not remember a time in contemporary history when Christ’s Church has had more fundamental differences of opinion, and even though I believe that many of these opinions are righteous and honorable, I cannot help but wonder if the disagreement overshadows their virtue altogether.

God then reminds me of the reasonable amount of time that He extends to us all. I have often been thankful for the chance to make mistakes and start again. I must offer the same learning curve grace to my fellow believers – all while allowing their ideology to test my own faulty thinking. I honestly believe it is a Spirit-led process.

But at the end of the day, particularly this Election Day, I think it might be prudent to lovingly ask each other, “When does our collective stupidity become incompetence?” Because, in less than 24 hours, there will be no more candidates or campaigns or pollsters to blame.

A.D.D.D.D.D.

Today is one of those days when I am sure I could be diagnosed with A.D.D. There is so much going on in the world, in our country and in the church that my mind is spinning and unable to focus. I heard a sermon yesterday that could be considered a study in contradictions and when I walked to my car afterward, my windshield had no less than three political flyers tucked under the windshield wipers – placed there by a zealous someone in the church while I sang hymns unsuspectingly.

I am determined to get a haircut this week.

Have you ever wondered why all superheroes are flawed? Superman and his kryptonite, Mr. Elastic cannot be frozen, Ironman and his pride… Do the comic book writers think this makes them more likeable, more accessible to Joe the Plumber? Are they hesitant to make one like God or are the built-in imperfections simply a device to add suspense and drama? I mean, if there was no kryptonite, the only thing stopping Superman would be his nerdy alter ego. I bet Clark could be cooler if he chose to be.

Bono puts the Church to shame.

There seems to be a let down here in Philadelphia after the excitement of last week. Kind of like a city-wide hangover and most of us are pinching ourselves repeatedly to assure ourselves that we really won The World Series. Who named it The World Series by the way? Don’t you think The North American Series would be so much more honest? No one seems to notice the lie.

I think James Dobson owes the Christian community an apology after his 2012 letter.

My vacuum cleaner stopped working last night which is a very serious issue in a home with three kids, a Golden Retriever and two cats. It is an Oreck, and I normally love it, but it is temporarily disappointing. I say “temporarily” because I am essentially an optimist and because I know where the nearest Oreck repair shop is. Healing is often a combination of prayer coupled with knowing good doctors. Miracles happen every day, but you’ll miss them if you don’t see them in the most ordinary of things.

I earned $118.00 in my first paycheck.

If kryptonite were real, would Jesus have whittled it into some carpentry thing just to speak to future generations of His power? Jesus just avoided the whole superhero thing, didn’t He? He keeps refusing to impress us in ways that we long for. How cool would flying have been, huh? No, He healed and touched and taught and served and partied and died. Jesus’ nemesis was made of wood.
I’m not sure whether to make eggs for breakfast or Ritalin.

And the winner is...

Well, I must be honest. When I chose the Weekend Word, I was thinking Halloween, but we seem to have other things on our minds. That's okay with me. I love to be wrong.

The winner is:

steve: "This election season has transmogrified me into a brusque, complaining, irritable, angry, whining, opinionated, negative, humorless shell of my former self; I must be an American."

Yeah, I get it man. You win for your wit and for being my baseball soulmate. Acceptance speech, please. Preferably one that promotes your personal agenda. We'll love it.

Thanks for playing.

Weekend Word

It is 12:26 am est and I have just gotten home from a Halloween party (a family party believe it or not). After Phillies parades and costume collaborations, the party was great fun, but I am tired and partied out. SO, I do not think I can think of anything witty to say (not that I ever do), so here's the weekend word:

transmogrify

Have at it.