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.