miracles in small letters

2011-10-09T21:58:00.004-06:00

Singin’ in the Brain

Having grown up in the Baptist church, I know a lot of hymns. Most of the time I’m grateful to have the classic words rumbling around in my subconscious, to have the old melodies humming just below the surface. But sometimes having all those lyrics in my brain works against me.

Not long ago I was in a meeting with one of the men from my company’s upper management. It was a very small gathering, just four of us around a table. I sat directly across from the man making the presentation. The company I work for is a Christian ministry and the man was talking about the kind of “culture” our organization should have.

He said, “Love and grace should be the anchor of our organization.”

That did it. Next thing I know my mind is off on its own little rabbit trail trying to remember the words to “We Have an Anchor.”

“Will your anchor hold, dum, de-dum, dum, dum.” What is it? “ . . . in the” something “of life.” Is it “storms of life”? I think so. “Will your anchor hold in the storms of life.” That fits.

Before long I remembered I was still in a meeting. Focus, Becky, focus. But after a minute the man speaking said “anchor” again, so it really isn’t my fault that I launched back into my silent word search.

“We have an anchor that”—um, is it “keeps”? I think so. “. . . keeps the soul. Steadfast and sure while the ages”—no, not ages—“billows roll. Fastened to the rock which cannot move.” Is that right, cannot move? I “cannot” think of anything else. That makes sense—oh, wait, I should get back to the meeting.

So I struggled to focus on the man across the table. It’s not that he wasn’t interesting—he’s one of the most dynamic people in our organization. But my mind can’t help making associations with certain words. It just does it all by itself. I can’t stop it.

Problem is, just about any word can launch my brain into song. And in the right situations, I’ll actually start singing. I embarrass my children at times. Other times they join in. And when I’m with my sisters—forget about it. Every other line in our conversations seems to be lyrics of a song.

And sometimes the word only sounds like the word in a song. It might rhyme with the real word, like, if you were to tell me you were going to get your hair cut in a “bob” I’d probably start singing the old Silhouettes hit, “Get a Job” replacing the word “job” with “bob” making it, “Get a bob. Na na-na na, na na-na na-na.” And the “na-na”s in this case are the actual lyrics, not my brain’s attempt to remember the words.

I do prefer when my brain brings hymns to mind. It’s much more enriching than “Na-na-na” or “do-be-do-be-do.” But sometimes these things are beyond my control. I can’t help myself.

“I love you and nobody else.”

See?

2011-06-24T20:39:00.004-06:00

Branded

In the last few years, my job in organizational communications has allowed me to learn a little bit about “branding.” Simply put, a company’s brand is its identity. The idea comes from the branding done on cattle ranches. As you’re probably aware, each ranch has a unique symbol that they burn into the hide of every cow on the farm with an iron “stamp,” or brand. The “Double D Ranch,” for example, might have a brand of two “Ds.” If a Double D cow wanders off, other ranchers know where that cow rightfully belongs because of the two Ds burned into its hide.

The idea is similar in corporate branding. There are certain things that identify a company—a logo, colors, slogans. These help create an identity for an organization. But my boss is quick to point out that branding is not just about logos and color palettes. It’s about experience. People should have a uniform experience whenever they encounter a particular organization. Whether you patronize a company in Boise or Boston, you should have the same experience.

One of the most successful brands in existence is Coca-Cola. With some slight modifications, Coke tastes the same across the country. The classic red and white swish is identifiable from Argentina to Austria.

I read recently that after the Coca-Cola company had been bottling their product for a while, they decided they wanted a unique bottle, something that would be identified as a Coke bottle even if it were shattered against a wall. And they succeeded. The shape, the color, the texture—everything about that bottle says “Coke.”

Now imagine having all this branding business in mind and reading this verse:

“ . . . I bear on my body the brand-marks of Jesus” (Galatians 6:17).

While commentators offer different interpretations of what the apostle Paul might have meant here, the most obvious meaning is that Paul was referring to the many scars he carried from being repeatedly beaten and scourged. His body was literally scarred because of his association with Jesus.

But the word “brand-mark” is also the word used when slaves of that century were branded—like we brand cows today—with a mark burned into their skin that identified that slave as belonging to a particular person.

The word “brand-mark” is powerful enough when it’s taken to mean Paul’s physical scars. It’s even more profound when you consider that Paul may have had a double meaning in mind—that he was a slave of Jesus Christ and bore His brand. But I can’t help but expand the application still more as I consider some of the present-day meaning associated with the word “brand.” I ask myself--

--Do I clearly identify myself with Jesus?

--Do people have the same experience whenever they encounter me? Am I consistently Christ-like?

--If I were to be thrown against a wall and broken into a million pieces, would people look at those pieces and see Jesus?

Oh! to be like Thee, blessed Redeemer,

This is my constant longing and prayer;

Gladly I’ll forfeit all of earth’s treasures,

Jesus, Thy perfect likeness to wear.

Oh! to be like Thee, oh! to be like Thee,

Blessed Redeemer, pure as Thou art;

Come in Thy sweetness, come in Thy fullness;

Stamp Thine own image deep on my heart.

Oh! to Be Like Thee, Thomas O. Chisholm, pub. 1897

2011-05-28T23:00:00.001-06:00

Happy Tears

I shed a few tears on my bike ride this morning. It wasn’t because of the wind in my face, though there was some of that. It wasn’t the pain building up in my knees, though there was some of that. It wasn’t even the Cujo dog that tried to take me down, though there was some of that. (Note to leash owners: The leash device works best when one end is fastened to the dog’s collar. Waving the leash menacingly at the dog is not the preferred use of the device.) No, I shed a few tears because I was thinking about my daughter Kate.

Kate graduated from high school a few days ago. This morning, as I pedaled along, I remembered how cute she looked in her white cap and gown, her blue eyes shining, her curly brown hair cascading down from beneath the universally awkward graduation cap.

I remembered her poise as she crossed the stage, pausing briefly to shake hands with her principal and other school dignitaries. She didn’t even trip in her snazzy red heels, purchased especially for the occasion.

Then my mind went back to when Kate was about four years old. We were at one of our favorite parks (the one with the merry-go-round) and I was sitting on a blanket downhill from the playground. Suddenly she left the sandy swing and started down the hill to me. She spread her arms wide, broke into a huge smile, and aimed herself toward me. Her legs could hardly keep up with the momentum pulling her down the hill. But she stayed upright, and fell into my waiting arms.

“Lord,” I prayed, “help me never to forget this moment.”

Kate has brought us many hugs and smiles during her 17 years. And it made me tear up a bit thinking about it this morning.

She’s headed to college in the fall to study chemistry, 700 miles away, and I’ll miss her terribly. But I’m excited for her. She’s so ready for the next phase of life. She’s still running full steam ahead, arms wide open. But this time she’s headed into the arms of her future, bright, hopeful, smiling.

2011-03-31T08:37:00.003-06:00

How do you spell “success”?
I wrote the following article for a website targeted toward young adults, especially those who might be in transition from college to career. I’d been percolating on the topic for a while and I enjoyed the opportunity to blend my thoughts together and create a fully brewed idea. That analogy would mean a lot more to me if I liked coffee.

“I feel like such a failure,” my friend Lucy told me over the phone. “I got my degree in music ed and now I’m a bank teller. My college education was a complete waste of time and money.” “You are not a failure,” I assured her. But beyond that, I wasn’t quite sure what to say. In the days that followed I thought about what I’d like to say to my friend, and to others struggling with the fact that things haven’t gone as they’d hoped after college.

1. College is about more than career training. Yes, most of us attend college to prepare for a specific vocation. But it doesn’t take long to realize there are a host of other life lessons we pick up along the way. How to get along with difficult people. How to organize your time. How to depend more fully on God. I even learned how to crack an egg with one hand while working the breakfast shift in the college cafeteria. Think about the friends you made, the challenges you overcame. The benefits of college go beyond preparing us for a job. So don’t measure the “worth” of those years solely by your rung on the corporate ladder.

2. You probably won’t be in this job forever. My father worked for the same company for 40 years. That was fairly common in his era. But it’s not so common today. The U.S. Bureau of Labor reports that people change occupations about every five years. My husband, for instance, studied broadcasting in college and worked in a radio station after graduation. Then, after discovering how much he enjoyed teaching a class of junior high boys at church, he went back to college to become a math teacher. After a few years teaching he decided he’d be better suited to a business environment and spent the next 20 years in information technology. So if you’re unhappy with the job you have now, remind yourself that you likely won’t be in that job for 40 years.

3. Find another way to put your education to work. Lucy—a trained music educator—could fulfill her passion for teaching by volunteering. I suspect her disappointment about not being a high school choir director would be softened if she volunteered to lead a children’s choir at her church or if she helped out at an after school music program at an inner-city school. Instead of bemoaning the job you don’t have, ask yourself what you could be doing with your non-work hours that might put your hard-earned college education to work.

4. God is more concerned about who you are than what you do. This is the most important thing I’d say to Lucy. As I read the Bible, I find scores of verses about good character and much less about career choice. God values honesty, compassion, kindness, . . .

Teach me your ways, O LORD, that I may live according to your truth! Grant me purity of heart, so that I may honor you (Psalm 86:11).

For God saved us and called us to live a holy life (2 Timothy 1:9).

Even when Scripture does talk about our jobs, it emphasizes how we work, not what we do:

Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters, since you know that you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as a reward. It is the Lord Christ you are serving (Colossians 3:23, 24).

I sincerely doubt our loving heavenly Father shakes His head at Lucy and says, “Too bad she’s not a music teacher.” No—He’s looking for things like how she treats her clientele, how she relates to her co-workers, how her words reflect His character.

This reminds me of a trip my husband and I took to Africa several years ago to visit my husband’s sister and her family who were missionaries. They lived on a remote, mountain compound with a hospital, a Bible school, and a church. One day we toured a row of cement block rooms that housed the Bible school students. The rooms were bare—no beds, no desks, no electricity. But my sister-in-law told me that these rooms were a huge step up from the mud shacks these students usually called home.

Throughout that trip, as I observed the contrast between my affluent American lifestyle and the simple ways of these African believers, I realized pleasing God had nothing to do with laptop computers or clever word combinations—the tools of my trade as a writer. Whatever God “required” of us as His children had to be something that could be accomplished in this simple village, in a busy urban center, or a quiet farming community. When I returned home I read the Bible with new curiosity—what does God require of me?

Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world (James 1:27).

But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you (Matthew 5:44).

Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you (Ephesians 4:32).

. . . live a life worthy of the Lord and please him in every way: bearing fruit in every good work, growing in the knowledge of God (Colossians 1:10).

Over and over again God talks to us about the way we treat people, doing good, getting to know Him, bearing fruit—things that have nothing to do with occupation.

It’s easy to say those things, even believe them mentally. It’s harder to embrace them when you spend 40 hours a week doing something that doesn’t fulfill or satisfy. But don’t give in to the temptation to measure success by your job. Success is living your life—the whole of your life—in a way that pleases God.

Whether you’re a music teacher or bank teller.

And that’s what I’d tell Lucy.

This article originally appeared on the NavConnect website, a ministry of The Navigators. http://navconnect.navigators.org/2010/12/08/success/ Used with permission.

2011-03-16T21:54:00.004-06:00

Scattered thoughts from a busy week

I can’t imagine living through an earthquake and a tsunami, and then spending several hours wondering if my family was alive.
How in the world are the Japanese people going to clean up all the garbage created by the tsunami?
It’s wonderful to have friends that understand without me having to explain everything.
Skype is fun. We just got it set up at home and talked to Doug’s sister and her husband as our test drive.
I’m not a huge cake fan, but I shared an enormous piece of chocolate cake from a restaurant with Kate and Eric that was served with fresh fruit and raspberry sauce. Of that, I am a fan.
A friend of mine just gave birth to a beautiful ten pound baby boy. Fifteen years ago I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy who was 9 lbs 13 1/2 oz. I’m a little upset that she beat me.
Everybody has troubles. Everybody.
The other night I was making gumbo while my husband and our three teenagers played Monopoly on the dining room table. In that moment, all was right with the world.
In the grocery store, I thanked a soldier for serving our country. I’m going to do that more often.
I’m getting very gray.
I don’t know what the future holds but I know who holds the future. That’s a little trite but I like it.
Birds. I’m delighted to hear them singing now, but I know I will come to curse them some summer morning. I shouldn’t do that.
I miss my parents.
Barber’s Adagio for Strings. It makes me cry every time.
I’d love to have a typewriter. (But not in place of a computer.)
You don’t have to be old to be grown up.
You can be old and not very grown up.
I love citrus “flavored” lotion.
“Rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.” 1 Thessalonians 5:16-18

2011-01-25T11:43:00.000-07:00

"Oh, That's Okay"

Squeak, squeak, scrape.

That’s the sound of me pushing my soap box across the floor. I’m about to step up and give you an ear full. Be warned.

“I’m sorry.”

These two words cause me a lot of anguish. But it’s not what you might think.

It’s not that I find it difficult to apologize (or that I find it easy). It’s not that I think anybody owes me an apology. It’s that our society doesn’t really know what to do with those two little words.

First of all, we quite often use “I’m sorry” when we really mean “I apologize.” The phrase “I’m sorry” means “to be filled with sorrow.” For example, it’s a common practice to say “I’m sorry” to someone who has just experienced the loss of a loved one. You’re letting that person know that you are filled with sorrow over his or her loss. You’re not apologizing for anything.

I doubt that I’ll be able to get the entire English speaking world to say “I apologize” when that is what they mean rather than “I’m sorry.” And I can’t say it’s wrong to use “I’m sorry” in this way. I’m sure I do it myself. But it would be more accurate and more clear to use “I apologize” when that is what we’re really trying to say.

What bothers me even more is that our society doesn’t know how to respond to an apology. Let me give you a for instance.

After a recent shopping trip, a friend of mine discovered her four-year-old daughter came home with a candy bar that was not paid for, if you know what I mean. After confirming the suspicion that the candy was hijacked from the store, and after a conversation about the fact that stealing is wrong, my friend returned to the store with her daughter so little darlin' could confess to the manager what she’d done and ask for forgiveness.

With a little help from Mom, the sweetie told the store manager she’d stolen a candy bar.

“I’m sorry,” the child humbly confessed.

“Oh, that’s okay,” the manager responded.

My friend wanted to strangle the shopkeeper (though that would have required more apologizing so she refrained). “Don’t tell her it’s okay,” my friend wanted to say. “It’s not okay!”

I was equally appalled. We the people need to learn how to say “I forgive you.” That’s the proper response to an apology (provided you’re willing to extend forgiveness). Or perhaps "I accept your apology." Or at the very least, “Thank you for the apology.” And sometimes it’s appropriate to say, “That’s so nice of you, but I don’t feel like an apology is necessary.” Anything but “that’s okay.” If it were okay, there would be no need to apologize!

Please, people. Formulate a good response of your own, practice it privately if you must, but don’t tell me “it’s okay.” It’s not okay.

Squeak, squeak, scrape.

2010-10-29T10:31:00.003-06:00

Remodeled

Sometimes I wish things wouldn’t change.

I recently saw a photograph of the Iowa farmhouse my Aunt Betty and Uncle Bill lived in when I was growing up. Back then, it was a simple, two-story brick house, with an insanely steep staircase going from the main floor to the bedrooms above.

The house sat across the road from the cornfields my uncle farmed with my grandfather. A pair of binoculars sat in the living room windowsill so we could track Uncle Bill and Grandpa in their day’s work, or watch the storms coming in, at times welcomed, at times not.

There was a porch with a swing in the front, and an enclosed porch on one side next to the kitchen. I loved that house.

But in time, Aunt Betty and Uncle Bill needed a place without an insane staircase, and they moved into town.

A few weeks ago, one of my sisters traveled through Iowa and she drove by Uncle Bill and Aunt Betty’s old house, stopped the car, and snapped a photograph.

When I saw the photo I was shocked—and a little horrified. The new residents added a whole wing onto the old farmhouse. In fact, it’s like two houses, joined with a window-lined passageway. Very modern. Lovely. But wrong.

I liked it the way it was. With the porch and the swing.

And Aunt Betty and Uncle Bill.

And that’s the point, really. I miss knowing Aunt Betty is bustling around kitchen making Rice Krispie Treats. I miss seeing Uncle Bill on his tractor, or rubbing the head of his favorite dog.

The remodeled house is just another reminder that time is marching on, that nothing stays the same. Except our unchanging, eternal God. And that’s where I need to place my hope and my joy. Yes, houses come and go. Even the people we love come and go. But Jesus? The same yesterday, today, and forever.

2010-10-08T20:28:00.000-06:00

Stories from the ER

One of my friends works in a local emergency room. Every once in a while she will pass along a story about some strange case she encountered—usually involving a lot of blood. But today I heard about a 20-year-old patient who died and whose parents chose to donate 17 organs and other tissues from their child’s body to that many sick, suffering strangers.

I don’t know what 17 things were donated beyond some of the obvious ones—eyes, kidneys, heart. During the surgery there were 17 medical professionals on hand to receive a particular body part for a needy recipient. My friend observed that each of the people transferring the body part to its destination paused to thank the donor before leaving the room.

Can you picture it? I’m sure each person knew the urgency of handling the donated item quickly. But they acknowledged that each organ, each piece of tissue, had come at the cost of a human life.

My mind went quickly to Jesus. He died so that I might know life. His back bled, His joints popped, His eyes closed, His heart stopped. For me. For you. For the world he loved.

So I pause . . .

Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, Jesus.

2010-09-28T17:18:00.003-06:00

Weight Control

I blame my mother. And why not? Isn’t that how we all explain away our various phobias and addictions? She once admitted she’s probably to blame for my dislike of cats. It’s either that or the fact that cats are self-absorbed, boring, redundant little creatures. But I digress.

As the title of this article suggests, I’m blaming my mother for my issues with weight control. I don’t blame her for my weight problems, mind you. My propensity for carrying a little too much cushion around the middle could have just as easily come from my father’s side of the family. No, I blame my mother for my preoccupation with diets and weight control.

Mom was a beautiful woman who apparently thought she needed to shed a few pounds. I confess, she wasn’t svelte, but she certainly wasn’t heavy. But from the time I was old enough to notice, I noticed Mom was always on some kind of diet. I can picture the little BBs she lined up on the kitchen windowsill to reminder her to drink eight glasses of water a day. I remember the cartons of cottage cheese that she ate because they were low in calorie (and because she genuinely liked cottage cheese, especially with a canned peach on top).

I also remember the time she told me about my father’s weight loss plan. If he thought he had put on a few pounds, he’d cut out the graham crackers and milk he ate before bed. And sure enough, that brought his weight back down to where he wanted it to be. And I assume he reinstated the crackers and milk. That’s so not fair.

I recently heard of a diet plan that even I am unwilling to try. It’s the Dixie Cup Diet. (Don’t Google it. You’ll discover a very different, very gross diet plan that involves spitting out your masticated food into a Dixie Cup. There. I just told you the gross version so now you really don’t have to look it up.) The Dixie Cup Diet I recently heard about is this: Eat only three Dixie Cups of food a day.

Yes, the little cups. Yes, three. Yes, a day.

Apparently, that’s how much food a person can eat who has had their stomach stapled.

When that diet plan seemed a bit out of reach, I decided to see what was recommended for people who have diabetes. I Googled “Diabetes Diet.” In addition to suggesting the eater avoid sweets, red meats, fried foods, fast foods, and a few other fatty things, the website I selected offered the following meal plan:

One serving of protein (3 oz of chicken, lean beef, or fish)
One serving of bread (whole grain roll, tortilla, or ½ cup pasta)
One serving of dairy (cheese, milk, or low-fat sour cream)
One serving of vegetables (fist sized portion or a small bowl of salad)
One serving fruit (tennis ball sized or ½ cup sliced)

I interpreted the above diet plan to mean I could eat one of everything. Now that is a diet I can live with.

2010-07-09T12:41:00.002-06:00

The Trouble with Texting

I should give up texting altogether.

I trust you remember the “hat feet” fiasco. (If not, read the blog post from September 17, 2009.) Since that experience I have learned how to form coherent sentences when texting, complete with proper punctuation. Just when I thought I’d mastered the whole texting thing, I got a phone call from a Colorado Springs homicide detective.

Let me explain. This week, my 19-year-old daughter, Abby, has been taking care of some friends' cats and zucchini while said friends are out of town. I should just trust that said 19-year-old is on top of things, but I’m a mother, and sometimes I don’t do so well with the whole “keep-your-nose-out-of-it” thing.

I was a little worried that our friends would come home to feline fatalities, so before settling in at the office one morning I sent Abby a friendly—okay, motherly—little text: Did you feed the cats yesterday?

Everything was spelled correctly; it was a full sentence, proper capitalization and punctuation—good to go. I went to select Abby’s phone number. There were two very similar numbers in my “recently used” list. At one time in the past I misdialed her number and now both numbers are saved on my phone. Was Abby’s number xx7-xxxx or xx9-xxxx? I know I’ve selected the wrong one a few times. I held my breath and selected xx9-xxxx.

Send.

A few minutes later I got a call on my cell phone. The phone number on the display screen was a little odd. It wasn’t a standard seven-digit number. Maybe it’s the phone company, I told myself and answered it.

“Hello?” I said.

"Hello. Is this 5xx-xxxx?” a deep voice asked, reciting my phone number precisely.

“Yes.”

“This is Detective Howard with the Colorado Springs Police Department.”

My mind raced. Eric is on a camping trip—did something happen? Did someone break into the house? Has my car been stolen?

“Yes . . .” I responded tentatively.

“My phone number is xx9-xxxx. I’ve been receiving some unusual texts from this number. Can you explain this?”

Flooded with both relief and embarrassment, I began to babble. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Your phone number is one digit different than my daughter’s. I texted your number by mistake. I had both numbers on my list and I wasn't sure if she was 7 or 9 and I chose 9 when I should have chosen 7. It will never happen again. I'm so sorry—”

Officer Howard chuckled. “Oh, that’s a relief. I’ve been known to get harassing calls from people I’ve worked with as a homicide detective. I’ve had to change my number more than once.”

“I’m so sorry,” I continued, my heart beat back to normal. “I’ll be more careful.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. Now that I know it’s not a disgruntled citizen it’s okay. Text away.”

Feeling comfortable with the friendly homicide detective I asked, “So, did you feed the cats yesterday?”

Anyway, like I said, I should just give up texting altogether. Or at least be sure of my phone numbers. In the future I’ll be sure to use xx7-xxxx. Or is it xx9?

2010-06-23T11:19:00.002-06:00

Paonia, Colorado

I'm going to set aside any attempt to write a clever or well-crafted post (which is probably evidence of my prideful nature anyway) and give you all a quick update on our missions trip.

For the uniformed, I am with our church's youth group on a service project in a small western Colorado town, Paonia. We're leading a Vacation Bible School in the mornings and doing community outreach in the evenings in the park.

A couple quick impressions. The first morning of VBS, Pastor Rob closed in prayer and said, "Thank you for sending your Son to earth." When Rob finished praying, one little boy asked in a loud voice, "God sent His Son to earth?" I realized then and there we had our work cut out for us. Some of the children are from the church, but obviously some have no knowledge of Jesus.

The other thing is, we have a great group of teens. These students genuinely love the Lord. Three of them share their testimony each night at the park and it has been terrific. They each relate their story of how they met Jesus, a bit of the gospel, and how God makes a difference in their lives today. The first night Pastor Rob followed up with some comments and last night J.D., another of our adults, made some closing comments. The Good News is being clearly presented in beautiful Paonia.

I'll try to write more later. Thanks for your support and prayers.

2010-06-14T21:22:00.002-06:00

Worth a Thousand Words

The other day I received some terrible news at work. (No, I’m not going to tell you so don’t ask.) My friends could tell something had happened by my conversation—cubicles are unforgivingly public.

One friend called over the cubicle wall, “Everything okay?”

“No,” I replied, “but I don’t want to talk about it.” Nice, huh?

I was so glad he asked, even though I didn’t want to talk about it. Especially to a “guy.” Sorry, Randy.

But then Kris came over and offered a hug. I took it. Didn’t say a word, but boy did that hug help.

Then today, I heard sniffles coming over the painfully public cubicle wall. “Tina” was on the phone, obviously upset about something.

In times past I might have been concerned, but unsure what to do. But today I knew exactly what to do. When Tina got off the phone I walked over and gave her a hug. I knew Tina well enough to do so, of course. I wouldn’t hug just anybody. (She and I had a conversation a while back about being “criers” so I knew it was okay.)

She didn’t speak. She just cried. And I just hugged. And somehow that said everything.

2010-03-27T12:03:00.002-06:00

Old Friends

One Wednesday evening not long ago, I was watching television when the doorbell rang. I turned off the TV and made my way to the front door. I opened it, and there stood a middle-aged man with a half grin on his face. He said nothing.

“May I help you?” I asked him, more than a little suspicious.

After a slight pause, he told me his name.

Recognition overtook suspicion. He was an old friend from our days in Illinois—going back to college, in fact—someone I hadn’t talked to in years. He was in town on business and decided to look us up.

“Doug,” I called to my husband. “Look who’s here!

Our friend said, “My wife and I always like it when people drop by, so I figured you’d like it, too.”

To be truthful, I was self-conscious about the papers spread across the coffee table and the blanket thrown a little too casually across the couch. But our friend didn’t care. So I tried very hard not to care with him.

I introduced our children—teenagers now. Then we three middle-aged friends sat and caught up with one another.

We reminisced a bit, us remembering his children as pre-schoolers running through the halls of their old house. But now he was showing us wedding pictures of those same children, cute little girls grown into beautiful brides.

Our friend was open and honest with us, recounting business failures, children who didn’t believe in God anymore . . . We brought him up-to-date on us, too, though we had no real adventures to report.

“This is so great,” he said, “sitting here looking at the two of you.”

When he left to return to his hotel room an hour or so later, I was glad he’d gone to the effort to look us up, drive through an unfamiliar town, and ring our doorbell. I’ll remember his visit next time I consider calling up an old friend. Instead of assuming he or she won’t want to hear from me, I’ll assume my friend will enjoy hearing from me as much as Doug and I enjoyed visiting with our old friend.

2010-03-15T20:53:00.001-06:00

A Matter of Life and Death

When my daughter Kate asked about my day at work I told her, “It was pretty good, until the end of the day.”

I explained that I was in a meeting and someone told the story of a young woman in another country who had been killed by her father and brother because she decided to leave the family’s religion and follow Jesus. There are other details to the story that I can’t share publicly, details that brought the story close to home. Some mistakes had been made that compromised this woman’s safety, mistakes that I could have made as easily as anyone.

The thought of this young woman losing her life left me stunned and almost unable to concentrate on the rest of the meeting. I still feel a heaviness as I write this.

“We have it so easy here,” Kate said.

She’s right, of course. Believers in the United States are not usually tortured for following Jesus. Some people are shunned by their family. I was not. Some of us might experience teasing. I have, but just a little. Discrimination on the job? I’ve only worked for Christian organizations so I’ve never been passed over for a promotion because I was a Christian. I’ve had it easy. Maybe too easy.

What have I sacrificed for following Jesus? Virtually nothing. I’m asking myself some hard questions tonight. I don’t want this young woman’s life and death to pass by my consciousness without changing me somehow. If nothing else, I want to live more courageously. I want to be more bold in declaring that I am a follower of Jesus. It is a truth worth dying for. And a truth worth living for.

2010-01-14T08:01:00.002-07:00

New Year, Old Ways

For the last few years I’ve used an electronic calendar device (an old Palm Pilot the office had laying around) rather than a printed organizer. It has its advantages. Primarily, I can update it electronically with the push of a button. Meetings that have been added to the calendar on my work computer through e-mail are added to my hand-held device with the touch of a button. It will also buzz to remind me of things. Plus, it doesn’t suffer from my messy handwriting or from things being crossed out. It’s very tidy. And it has fun games.

Even so, I found myself longing for my old notebook. The tabbed dividers, the pen holder with its sleek Parker, the pretty paper. So this year I’m going back to it, back to the old way of doing things.

One advantage of the notebook is that it gives me a place to write notes to myself, to track ideas. Yes, I know, I can do that on the electronic calendar, but I didn’t. Plus I can tuck pieces of paper in this notebook—receipts, announcements, . . . . I also have a few address labels, a gospel tract, a ruler, and other goodies stashed in the back. And I can’t do that with an electronic organizer.

I know some of you live completely in the electronic age, and my hat is off to you. But I guess my love of pens and paper and all office supplies has won out.

How ‘bout you? How do you keep yourself organized? If you have a good idea, I’ll write it down in my notebook.

2009-12-25T07:43:00.002-07:00

Following Yonder Star

It must be challenging for a pastor to preach about Christmas. The story is so familiar—what could he say that is new or fresh? How can he make the story compelling to those of us who have heard it all of our lives?

Thankfully, the power of the Christmas story doesn’t lie with the messenger. The news of Jesus’ birth is inspiring without any embellishment.

Our pastor, Pastor Lance, preached a mighty fine Christmas sermon last Sunday focusing on the three wise men. (Though, as he pointed out, we’re not told how many wise men there were. We just assume there were three because three gifts are mentioned.) He described their journey, comparing it to the travels many of us make at Christmas time. I had to smile when he pointed out that the wise men stopped and asked for directions.

But the comment that really hit home with me was when he described the magi’s destination: “Their destination wasn’t a place,” Pastor said, “it was a person.”

What is my "destination" this Christmas, where do I hope to end up? Beside a perfectly decorated tree? At the register with the ideal gift? At the dining room table, serving the quintessential Christmas dinner? If any of these are my destination, then I need to reset my compass. I need to end up at the feet of Jesus on Christmas morning.

I hope you, too, find yourself at the right destination this Christmas Day. Merry Christmas.

Thanksgiving Invitation

2009-11-20T13:21:00.003-07:00

Thanksgiving Invitation

Some people bring out the wacky in me. It's always lurking right below the surface, so it isn't very hard to raise.

One of those people is my friend Amy. She and I sit together at choir practice. Usually we keep things under control. But last night, she and our friend Emily and I got a little loopy. Sorry, Pastor Todd. But that one song, with the monotonous alto line, we just had to laugh a little.

Amy is coming over for Thanksgiving, and this morning I wrote her an e-mail with some details about the day. I thought you might enjoy this glimpse into our Thanksgiving celebration.

Dear Amy,

I'm so glad you're coming for Thanksgiving. We pinned down some plans. We'll have "dinner" at 1:00. (My mother always said "Sunday dinner" so to me certain noontime meals are "dinner." But my kids always say, "You mean lunch?" So, yes, I mean lunch.)

Please come as early in the day as you can. Okay, maybe after 9:00 so Kate will be dressed. She'd wear her jammies all day if she could. We'll have parades on the TV, games going in the living room, maybe a puzzle, cooking in the kitchen. a veggie tray for snacking, Chex Mix . . .

Then stay as long as you can. We'll have more of the same, but parades will give way to football. If you need to take off, feel free, but we'd love to have you all day! Besides, we're going to have so much food we'll need you to stay and have some leftovers during a football game.

Wear comfie clothes. Unlike my mother, I do not dress up for Thanksgiving dinner. Unless you consider a hat adorned with a turkey head and feathers dressing up.

Also, I like Thanksgiving Day to be about more than parades, football, and food. So if you have a favorite poem, story, Scripture, or song you'd like to share, please bring it. As in, "bring it along," although if you want to "bring it, sister" go right ahead. If you just want to sit back and listen to Doug read President Lincoln's Thanksgiving Proclamation, that's fine, too.

If you hear of someone who needs a place for Thanksgiving, bring 'em along. (Is your roommate set up? And I don't man to imply she's gelatinous or something.)

That invitation is open to you, too. Just give me a call and I'll set an extra plate at the table. If you can't join us for dinner, then join us in taking some time next Thursday for something other than food and football. Take a minute to look at the person across the table from you and tell her you're thankful she's in your life. Read Psalm 150 before you dive into the cranberry sauce and "praise him for his surpassing greatness." Thank God for his everyday grace that allowed you to survive another year.

It might sound a little wacky, but give it a try.

2009-09-17T11:54:00.003-06:00

Texting Lessons

Before sending Abby off to college, Doug and I broke down and bought her a cell phone. A room full of other things, too, mind you, but the cell phone was a pretty big deal. Doug and I have resisted getting our children cell phones. We just don’t think it’s necessary. Our children have a million reasons why they “need” their own phones, but they have yet to convince us. But then one of them said this: “I’m going away to college.” Yeah, that convinced us. But it’s only worked for Abby so far.

As we added Abby to our cell phone plan, we also added unlimited texting. We knew that would be an important feature for Abby. So, suddenly, I have this new communication tool at my disposal.

Kate is already a pro at texting. When I first got my phone a few years ago Kate thought we had unlimited texting as part of our plan. (Doesn’t everybody?) But no. We didn’t even have limited texting or text-your-ten-best-friends texting. What we didn’t know was that when I gave Kate permission to use my phone for what I assumed was a phone conversation, she was texting her friends. We didn’t discover this until the bill came at the end of the first month. At least that bill made the regular monthly charges seem really, really low. Really.

So anyway, Kate is trying to teach me how to text. I have a rather dated phone and it doesn’t have a full keyboard. The letters are grouped together under the number keys. The number “2” has the letters “a,b,” and “c.” You’re probably familiar with it. Even rotary phones had letters with the numbers.

There is a snazzy feature on my phone where the phone figures out the word I want when I type in a certain combination of keys. I don’t have to painstakingly type in every letter. Kate had turned on this feature (and used it) before giving me a lesson in how to use it.

One day, shortly after getting Abby her phone, I decided to send her a text message as she headed off to go shopping. I was going to write, “Hi. Have fun.”

To start the word, “Hi,” I hit the “4” button where the “h” is. My smart little phone spit out the word “Hi.”

Sweet! I thought. This will be really easy.

The phone automatically put in a space and waited for the next instruction. I started typing the word “have.”

“H-a-” so far so good. But then it spit out a “t” giving me “hat.” It automatically gave me a space and moved on to the next word. I hit “clear” and tried again. “H-a-” and again with the “t”. By this time it was beeping and flashing and I decided, “Okay, I’ll go with ‘hat.’ ”

“Hat fun” is almost “have fun.” Abby’s a smart girl. She’ll figure it out.

On to the next word. I hit the “3” key three times trying to get to the “f.” But the phone thought I was asking for three letters from the “3” key. So it selected “fee—“ which led it naturally to the word “feet.” Again, I cleared out the word and tried again. Hitting “3-3-3” gave me “feet.”

I began to giggle.

Then, sitting alone in my parked car, I started to laugh. I hit send.

“Hi. Hat feet.”

Abby deftly replied, “Hat feet?”

Laughing harder, I abandoned texting and called Abby.

“Hello?” she answered.

By that time I was laughing uncontrollably, tears rolling down my face.

“Mom?”

Then Abby started to laugh, too.

I still don’t text well or often. But one thing is certain—I now have a whole new way to hat feet.

2009-09-02T22:23:00.003-06:00

You Can Trust Your Car*

Our teenage daughters, Abby and Kate, have spent the last year learning to drive. They completed a formal drivers education course taught by Mr. Matthews, a friend of ours in the drivers ed business. The course included the usual book learnin’ and four driving sessions where Mr. Matthews took them on residential roads, city streets, and the freeway.

Before teenagers can receive a driver's license in Colorado, they are required to complete a certain number of driving hours under adult supervision in both daytime and nighttime. The state also limits the number of passengers teens can carry for the first several months. If Colorado didn’t set these rules, Doug and I would have. I’ve heard too many stories about cars full of teenagers crashing and . . . Yes, we’d already decided our children wouldn’t drive cars full of friends.

It’s quite different from when I learned to drive. I took a week of classes, a few loops around town with my teacher, and I was licensed to drive. My sister Ellen gave me another course in driving my father’s Datsun (it was a stick shift) but there were no limits on passengers and such. I soon had my first speeding ticket, issued while I was driving a few of my friends around. I haven’t had a speeding ticket since, I might add.

Anyway, because the girls had to have 50 hours each of supervised driving hours, it fell on Doug and me to ride shot gun and advise. Doug did a lot more of this than I did. He’d take the girls out driving for hours at a time, just so they could get their time in. I may have done that once or twice. I reluctantly let the girls drive when we were going to church or to the store. I wasn’t eager to submit my personal well-being, my family’s well-being, and, yes, my vehicle’s well-being to a novice driver.

It was a little easier for me when Doug was in the front seat with one of the newbees. I knew he was able to reach over and correct steering or rescue us from a bad lane change.

It reminded me a little of the Christian life. As I travel along, I may think I’m the one in control, the one making all the decisions. But I’m not. God is the trustworthy one. His wisdom guides, His hand directs.

A couple weeks ago Kate and Abby became bona fide licensed drivers. Now they can drive on their own without Mom or Dad. But even so, they’re still under God’s watchful eye. I’ll have to learn to trust God in a whole new way.

*Did you hear the men’s chorus singing, “You can trust your car to the man who wears the star. The big, bright Texaco star”? I know lots of old commercial jingles. I’ll have to write about that another time.

2009-07-20T22:39:00.002-06:00

The Eagle Has Landed

"One small step for man; one giant leap for mankind."

I clearly recall hearing those words on July 20, 1969, the day man first walked on the moon.

I got to skip church to watch the moon landing. And we never skipped church. I felt a little guilty but this was the moon landing. I wasn't going to miss it. I remember my mother and one of my sisters went to church and got back home before the astronauts actually walked on the moon. I remember seeing my mother and sister walk past the basement window and thinking how ironic it was that they went to church AND got to see man walk on the moon. Though I'm sure "ironic" was not in my vocabulary when I was ten. While I can picture myself in the family room watching the moon landing, it's the skipping church part that remains most vivid in my mind. That says something about my family, I guess. Moon landing, skipping church, equally monumental.

I remember my father telling me that when he was in high school his science teacher told his class that man would walk on the moon in their lifetime. "We all thought he was crazy," Dad said. Wonder if that teacher was still alive in 1969. I hope so.

Like most Americans during those years I was enamored with space. I had a poster in my bedroom of "The Earth Rising," a now famous image of the "half earth" suspended in a black sky above the surface of the moon. The space program gave us all something to be proud of in a time when our country was greatly divided over a great many things.

Tonight I watched a documentary about the moon landing. It brought up some things I didn't realize as a child. Nixon was president. He spoke to the astronauts by phone by way of the Houston Space Center. Why don't I remember that? Five other Apollo missions landed on the moon, the last one in 1972. I knew there were other missions to the moon but I couldn't have told you there were that many. The Six Flags amusement parks ought to capitalize on that somehow.

The documentary also talked about the importance of Apollo missions 1 - 10. Each one tested an important part of the moon landing, with Apollo 10 hovering above the surface of the moon without actually landing.

As I watched the documentary I noticed I was smiling. I was reliving the excitement of those space travel years. I smiled realizing I remembered the day man walked on the moon. I shared that experience with "my fellow Americans." And I was proud.

2009-07-16T12:49:00.002-06:00

Chef Eric

The other day, my son, Eric, made sausage gravy for dinner. This excited me on several levels.

1) Eric is 13.

I didn’t know how to make gravy until after I was married. I’m amazed that Eric can make gravy—and good gravy at that—at age 13.

2) Eric loves to cook.

He’s always enjoyed cooking. As a kid he loved watching the popular and charismatic chef Emeril Lagasse on television. Eric isn’t afraid to experiment and try new things. I’m tied to recipes and seldom deviate. He’s going to be a much better cook than I am.

He helped make hamburgers on the grill recently. They needed a little extra cooking time in the microwave, but otherwise turned out really good.

“Did you put something extra in the meat?” someone asked?

“Did you grill them differently?”

“No, all I did was shape them into patties,” he said.

He must have magic hands if he just has to pat the meat for it to turn out just right!

3) Eric is part of our family support network.

When I was offered the option to work full-time after working part-time for a few years, I asked my family what they thought about it. One of my concerns was getting dinner on the table every night. I could join the ranks of those who cook once a week—or once a month—and prepare enough food for a week—or a month. But I’m not that organized. Nor do I want to be. My family offered to share the cooking chores. Each of us (Doug, the three kids, and I) agreed to cook one weeknight and clean up one weeknight. Doug and I work together on weekends.

We set the schedule around each person’s availability. We each had regular activities like music lessons or small group meetings that we needed to accommodate. Plus, short-term activities like play practice required a little flex in the schedule. Now, Abby is heading off to college so we’ll have to shift things around more.

I can’t say we all do our chores without grumbling, but we do get it done. And we’ve learned to cook and clean and cooperate. Talk about life skills!

4) I love sausage gravy.

‘nuf said.

2009-07-08T12:27:00.003-06:00

Goodbye, Michael Jackson

Michael Jackson’s death made me sad. Not so much because I was a fan. I liked some of the earlier music by the Jackson Five, but I didn’t follow Michael’s solo career so much. I heard a man say that Michael Jackson’s music was the sound track of his life. That does not describe me. I was touched more by the deaths of John Denver and Karen Carpenter than I was Michael Jackson. Their music did weave itself into the fabric of my teenage years.

I was saddened by Michael’s death for different reasons. In a strange way I was sad because he and I were the same age. He was just two weeks older than I. So, somehow, that made it more personal. Someone my age died.

But I wasn’t saddened only by the tragedy of this early death; I was saddened by the tragedy of his life. It appears he had a domineering father that robbed him of his childhood. I’m sure Michael genuinely enjoyed performing, and it sounds like he wanted to be famous. But from my humble perspective I think he should have spent a little more time riding bikes. That’s what I did when I was 11. Michael Jackson was on The Ed Sullivan Show.

I also think his numerous cosmetic surgeries reveal an inner sadness. The day he died, Kate and I were watching some of the retrospectives on TV.

“He was a cute kid,” Kate said. “Why did he get so much plastic surgery?"

“Because he wasn’t happy with himself,” I told her. I don’t mean to imply that all plastic surgery is wrong. I’ve seen cases where surgery corrected some disfigurement or altered an unappealing attribute and the results were worthwhile. But was there anything wrong with Michael Jackson’s face? I don’t know what he saw when he looked in the mirror, but it wasn’t what the rest of the world saw. The cute 10-year-old boy singing his heart out on The Ed Sullivan Show turned into an addicted, disfigured, and bizarre man.

And that’s just sad.

---------------------------

P.S. The Sunday after Michael Jackson died I read these words in our church hymnal:

I’d rather have Jesus than men’s applause; 

I’d rather be faithful to His dear cause; 

I’d rather have Jesus than worldwide fame, 

I’d rather be true to His holy name.

Than to be a king of a vast domain 

Or be held in sin’s dread sway, 

I’d rather have Jesus than anything 

This world affords today.  

by Rhea F. Miller, 1922.

2009-05-13T15:57:00.002-06:00

Lucky me

I won a drawing today. I attended a luncheon with a group of people I’d never luncheoned with before and I won a book in a random drawing.

It happens to me all the time. A few months ago I won a painting in a drawing at work. Last fall I won concert tickets by being the ninth caller to a radio show. I won $1,000 once by calling a different station when they played the song of the day. Which just happened to be “Windy,” the song my third grade class sang for a school program.

I thought it was so cool. All the other classes were singing “Edelweiss” from The Sound of Music but our class was singing a song by The Association. Our teacher bought the 78 and we played it over and over again on our little classroom record player until we had all the words transcribed. We didn’t have the option of finding the lyrics on the Internet.

Yeah, my third grade teacher was cool. I wish I remembered her name. Aiken Elementary School, Ontario, Oregon, 1967. She had a blonde beehive and wore pink lipstick and miniskirts. She’s the teacher I credit with igniting my love for writing. Actually, it started with poetry. My teacher thought one of the poems I wrote was good, and I was a changed person.

I can remember sitting in my bedroom closet with a flashlight—probably looking for a place to be alone—and writing a dictionary of rhyming words. When somebody as cool as my third grade teacher says you’re good at something it’s pretty inspiring.

My sister Jenny tells a story that once when she asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up I said, “I don’t know, but I want to write poetry in my spare time.”

So anyway, I won a book today. It happens to me all the time.

2009-05-01T01:07:00.002-06:00

Soley Because Thou Art My God

We sang a new song in choir tonight. Actually, it's an old song, but new to our group. The words are based on a 17th century poem, “My Eternal King.” As I sang the words I had a feeling I'd heard them before, but I was moved by them afresh.

My Eternal King

Poem (anonymous)
from 17th Century Latin
Translated by Rev. Edward Caswall

My God, I love Thee;
not because I hope for heav’n thereby,
Nor yet because who love Thee not
Must die eternally.

Thou, O my Jesus, Thou didst me
Upon the cross embrace;
For me didst bear the nails, the nails and spear,
And manifold disgrace.

Why, then why, O blessed Jesus Christ,
Should I not love Thee well?
Not for the hope of winning heav’n,
Or of escaping hell;

Not with the hope of gaining aught,
Not seeking a reward;
But as Thyself hast loved me,
O ever-loving Lord!

E’en so I love Thee, and will love,
And in Thy praise will sing;
Solely because Thou art my God,
And my Eternal King.

2009-04-28T17:46:00.002-06:00

Kindle, Barnes and Noble

If our local Barnes and Noble bookstore were any indication, I’d say print communication was alive and well. It’s an enormous store filled with books on travel, science, history—any topic you could imagine. As I sit here typing away on my computer, others around me contentedly turn book pages and leaf through magazines.

Yet I know traditional publishing is in trouble. It’s expensive to print books these days. And with the invention of electronic books—like Kindle—people can download a book off the Internet for much less than it costs to buy a print version, and they can carry multiple books with them in a device about the size of Reader’s Digest.

I recently looked over the shoulder of a friend as he explained his Kindle to a couple of us. He can enlarge the size of the type—a real advantage to those of us who wear reading glasses—and copy portions of the book to be saved in a separate document. My friend is one of those who goes through a few books a week, so his Kindle serves him well. He can get a new book without leaving his chair. No trip to the library or Barnes and Noble.

“I can be sitting in the airport and purchase a new book in less time than it would take someone else to walk across the waiting area to the bookstore and purchase a hard copy,” he illustrated.

I’m kind of torn between my love of books and my love of electronic organizing. To think I could copy portions of a book and save them in a document, all referenced, to review later for an article or a speech—that would be pretty sweet. But I’m torn. I love the smell of books, the feel of the pages. And I adore magazines—seeing them displayed on the newsstand, reviewing the headlines in the supermarket, reading in the car as I wait for a child to get out of school, cutting out my favorite recipes to file in my recipe book (or stick in a file box to someday be pasted in a book). And you don’t have to worry about a magazine’s battery running low or interfering with an airplane’s take off or landing. And if a printed book “crashes” you can just bend over and pick it up.

I think I’m going to have to give up on print, though. I really believe things are going electronic. But as I look around at the beautiful leather bound journals and glossy magazine covers it makes me sad . . .

2009-04-14T10:36:00.005-06:00

Merry Easter

My pastor greeted us Sunday morning with, "Merry Christmas." We laughed, knowing he was referring to the large, fluffy snowflakes falling outside. Yes, Easter in Colorado Springs usually means snow.

That same pastor's wife later posted this on her Facebook status: ...sung to the tune of "Silver Bells"...Easter snow.....Easter snow....it's Easter time in the Rockies. Try to find....Easter eggs...they're hiding under the snow!

Nice to have pastors--and pastors' wives--who are so much fun.

Kate and I thought up a version of "White Easter" (with apologies to Irving Berlin).

I'm dreaming of a white Easter, just like the ones I've come to know.

Where the tree tops glisten, and children listen, to hear church bells in the snow. (ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding).

I'm dreaming of a white Easter, with every jelly bean in sight.

May your days be merry, and bright. And may all your "Easters-es" be white.

We got a few inches of the cold stuff. It was perfect for building a snow man, which Kate and Eric did with their friend Mary in her front yard. The rest of us sat inside with Mary's family and a group of friends watching The Masters on TV, admiring the lush green lawns of Augusta National Golf Club in Georgia.

I admit, springtime is when I wished I didn't live in Colorado. By March, I'm ready for some tulips and daffodils. I long for the rhododendrons of Portland. Something--anything--green.

During a business trip to San Diego a few years ago, my friends and I walked from our hotel (which had a rose garden) to a nearby mall. We passed a flower bed filled with small, beautifully fragrant white flowers. (One member of our group said they were jasmine; I'll take her word for it.) Feeling the warmth of the sun, smelling the jasmine in the air, I turned to my friend Kim and said, "Tell me again why we live in Colorado." She said, "I'll give you three reasons; June, July, and August."

She brought me to my senses. Come July I won't be longing for Illinois, Iowa, or Oregon, green as they may be. I'll be happy to live in dry, brown Colorado. And I may even smile at the memory of our Easter snowman. And besides, "home" is where I can sleep on the couch during The Masters. It didn't really matter that it was snowing outside.

2009-04-06T20:34:00.003-06:00

The Cuteness Factor

Have you heard of the cuteness factor? That's when the cuteness of the performer is measured against the actual skill demonstrated in the performance. Small children generally have a high cuteness factor. Execution may score low, but cuteness will score high. That's the cuteness factor.

Case in point, the four-ish-year-old boy who played the teeny tiny violin at Kate's recital yesterday. The recital was for all the students of Kate's private viola teacher (who also teaches some violin students). This little guy played two songs, the first called "From D to E." The title was not some cryptic message about making forward progress in life or anything like that. The song consisted of two notes, and I'm fairly certain the notes were "D" and "E". He played pizzicato, meaning he plucked the strings. At the completion of the song, he paused, kept the violin under his chin and extended his right hand. His teacher placed his bow in his hand, and the mini-maestro set bow to string and played "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star."

When he finished, he placed his violin at his side, stuck his chin in the air to gain momentum, and bowed at the waist to abundant applause. Huge cuteness factor with this performance.

Kate was hoping for a few points from the cuteness factor. She wore a new dress and did, indeed, look very cute. She said, "Well, if I mess up, I might as well look good doing it." She didn't mess up. She played "Prelude to Suite #1 in G Major." You'd recognize it if you heard it. It was written for cello but she played it on her viola. Not perfectly, but beautifully. I was proud.

Perfection wasn't the goal. Everyone there made mistakes. But Kate stood alone in front of a room full of people (including her parents, sister, and brother--and her teacher) and played very well. That takes courage. She worked hard, and did her best.

The cuteness factor counts when you're four. When you get older, you need to score high on other things--preparation, hard work, and courage.

2009-03-09T10:44:00.008-06:00

Perspective

It's easy for me to become preoccupied with "me." So I thought I'd take some time and list a few things that will improve my perspective.

Life and Death

I recently held a one-month-old baby. He was so sweet and snuggly. What else really matters? Meanwhile, I'm praying for some co-workers whose 13-year-old son is fighting cancer. For them, the battle really is between life and death. My concerns pale by comparison.

Eternity

My mother-in-law is fond of saying, "Will it really matter 100 years from now?" That helps me not to get too worked up about the small stuff. What I really need to ask is, "What will really matter in eternity?" That's an even more important question to answer.

Creation

"When I consider your heavens,

the work of your fingers,

the moon and the stars,

which you have set in place,

what is man that you are mindful of him,

the son of man that you care for him?"

(Psalm 8:3,4)

Blessings

Ask my friend Terry how he is and he'll say, "Blessed." I know he has things going on in his life that are difficult, but he chooses to focus on his blessings. I need to take a lesson from him. I have so much more to be thankful for than I have to complain about.

Sovereignty

And if I do complain, it's like telling God he's not doing a very good job at running my life. Have you seen the movie "Bruce Almighty"? I've only seen it in parts on TV, but the premise is that God gives a human the chance to run the world. In the end, the man realizes he doesn't want to do it and gives control back to God. I'm quite sure I'd come to the same conclusion in the same situation.

The Great Exchange

"He made Him who knew no sin to be sin on our behalf, so that we might become the righteousness of God in Him" (2 Corinthians 5:21).

When I look around me, I can see hard things happening. What I need to do is change my focus a little and see the good things instead. It's a matter of perspective.

2009-03-02T21:16:00.004-07:00

Out of Order

I'm still figuring out this blog business. Apparently if you start writing a post one day, and don't finish it until, say, a month later, and then post it yet another day later, it will appear on your blog under the date it was originally created.

So if you go to my blog looking for the article I posted today about my childhood, it's waaaay down under January 30, because that's when I started writing it.

There may be a way to change the order of the posts, but I didn't see it right off.

Sorry for the confusion. I'll try to keep things in order from now on.

2009-02-10T13:28:00.005-07:00

A Little Water, Please

I've never been great with plants. Not that we get into arguments or anything, I just tend to ignore them. And for plants, that's not a good thing. I do best with plants that thrive on neglect.

I like plants, though, and wish I were better at keeping them watered. If I remember to water them once a week they seem to do okay. But if I miss watering day, then I may not think about it for another whole week. You see the problem.

I discovered that plants seem to do well at my office. I guess it's the florescent lights. So a year ago or more I took one of my sad little plants to work with me. It wasn't even "Take a Plant to Work Day." It was just a mission of mercy.

I don't know what kind of plant it is. I used to think it was called a Creeping Charlie, but I've since been told that Creeping Charlie is a weed that grows in your grass. My plant is kind of vine-esque with flat, shiny leaves.

Well, most of them are shiny. I noticed recently that there was one small group of leaves in the center of the pot that were decidedly unshiny. They were downright dull. Upon closer inspection I realized that that particular stem had become dried out where it joined the rest of the plant (no doubt due to the aforementioned "neglect" issue). It wasn't exactly dead, but it was not entirely healthy either.

I couldn't help but find a spiritual comparison. When I fail to draw daily from the Word of God, when I neglect spending time in His presence, I, too, become unshiny. Not dead, but certainly lacking in the kind of vibrant life I could have if I were better connected to the Vine. Jesus said, "I am the vine; you are the branches. If a man remains in me and I in him, he will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing" (John 15:5).

I cut the unshiny stem off my plant and stuck it in some water. I'm trusting it will sprout new roots and start growing some new, shiny leaves. Maybe that's what I need to do for my times of spiritual dryness. Cut myself off from the rest of the world and saturate myself in God's Word.

Sounds refreshing.

2009-01-31T15:38:00.005-07:00

To Envy Robert Frost

Eric and I went to the library a week or so ago. He wanted to check out some books on tape (or CD, as they are these days). Looking over his shoulder I saw a plastic case with the title, "The Voice of the Poet: Robert Frost." I'd always enjoyed Mr. Frost's poetry so I thought it would be fun to hear him read his own work. I checked it out and took it home.

The recordings were made at different times in different places, all later in his life. His voice warbled a bit. That, and his New England accent, reminded me of Katherine Hepburn. He read simply, evenly, sometimes too quickly, I thought, with less drama or emotion than I expected.

I realized again why I like his poetry. He wrote about ordinary things: birch trees, owls, apple picking. He discovered the poetry of simple conversations with people, of a leaf covered path, the grass.

Dust of Snow

The way of a crow

Shook down on me

The dust of snow

From a hemlock tree

Has given my heart

A change of mood

And saved some part

Of a day I rued.

(Robert Frost, 1923)

I found myself envious of his talent. But as I read the brief biography accompanying the recording I learned his life was filled with tragedy. His father died when he was 11 years old. His first son died of cholera at age four. His sister was institutionalized.

If his tragic life somehow birthed his genius, then I'll pass. I'll remain content with my simple prose and keep my mostly happy life.

Anonymity

I'll never win a Pulitzer,

Though Robert Frost won four.

My prize—a happy family;

I'll want for nothing more.

(Rebecca K. Grosenbach, 2009)

2009-01-30T10:54:00.008-07:00

Things I Miss From Childhood

The complete lack of responsibility. My mother even fed the dog. But lack of responsibility also meant a lack of freedom. I was pretty much at the mercy of those with cars and the license to drive.

My dog. Pebbles was a chihuahua mixed with who knows what else. She wasn't a particularly nice dog, at least not to strangers. But she loved our family. I can remember getting her to chase me as I ran around the house. Then I'd turn around and chase her. She could sure run, that little thing. And she was always so happy to see us. My parents had a split level home and she had her spot at the top of the stairs, out of the traffic pattern, where she'd sleep during the day. When someone came in the front door she'd do a little happy dance at the top of the stairs. She'd stand on her hind legs, paw the air with her front legs, get back on all fours and wag her tail so hard her entire body wiggled. She knew how to make a person feel welcomed.

Roller skating with one skate in the garage.

We had one pair of roller skates in our family. They were the kind that you'd clamp on your shoes. My sister Ellen and I would each strap on one skate (I don't remember if I had the same skate every time or not) and skate in circles in the garage. Dad kept it clean and it gave us a large, smooth surface. Push-glide . . . push-glide . . . There was something special about it. Sharing, making do, . . .

Dance routines with Jerilyn.

One of my best friends in late grade school was my church friend Jerilyn. I got to spend the night with her once and we made up a routine to the song "Seattle" by Bobby Sherman. I've long since forgotten the steps, except that when we'd sing the word "Seattle" we'd stop and extend an arm toward a painting on the wall of her living room--as if the painting were of the soggy city. Dancing was frowned upon at my house, so dancing--to the music of Bobby Sherman, no less--was like enjoying a forbidden pleasure.

The farm.

The farm was my maternal grandparents' home in Iowa. The house was a simple two-story building, with a rarely used front porch. Everyone came in through the side door, between the kitchen and the cellar. Grandpa was a quiet, stoic farmer who didn't go out of his way to impress anybody. Granny, on the other hand, fretted over everything and everybody. She made sure there were filled candy dishes in every room, bottles of pop on the cellar steps, and ice cream bars in the freezer. And I loved the farm itself. Fields of corn, noisy crickets, smelly cows. I could write an entire book about life on the farm. So maybe I will. It'll be my generation's "Little House" series.

Riding my bike.

I would go for long rides by myself, for what seemed like hours. If my kids did that today, I'd worry about them. But there wasn't much to worry about in Boise. Once, I rode with my friend Karen all the way downtown--at least five miles. Becky (yes, I had a friend named Becky) and I rode to our favorite spots where we'd climb trees or catch snails. My bike was a way to get to special places. But it was also a joy in itself. Just riding, riding, riding. Sometimes I'd rubber band my dad's transistor radio to the handlebars and enjoy some music as I rode along. I guess this doesn't have to be something I miss; I could still ride a bike today. But I don't.

What's the common thread? I think it's finding joy in the simple, carefree pleasures of life. Yeah, I miss that. Being a grown-up isn't as much fun. But at least I get to drive a car.

2009-01-20T16:51:00.007-07:00

Hail to the Chief

I watched little bits of the inauguration Tuesday. I was supposed to be working, after all. One of my co-workers, who is very internet savvy, showed me a site from CNN and Facebook that showed live video of the festivities accompanied by live conversation from people all over the world.

I was amazed at the technology--watching "TV" on my computer and reading what people thought about the event at the same time. The comments came almost too fast to read. Most were excited about what they saw, writing about tears, goose bumps, even dancing.

I was able to select an option that would show me what my group of Facebook friends had to say. Some of my friends weren't as supportive. One person even said something about the end of the world.

My feelings fell somewhere in between. I don't agree with many of President Obama's views so I'm not overjoyed that he is our leader. I felt no goose bumps. (Except during the parade, but that had more to do with the five rows of fife players in the fife and drum band. My piccolo-playing heart nearly burst with pride.) But at the same time I share a sense of collective accomplishment that our country has elected an African American president. In a way, it is the ultimate expression of the crumbling of racial barriers. That is something to be very proud of.

But at the same time, I also believe many people voted for Obama simply because he is part African American. To me, that says race still divides us. We haven't become colorblind, we've become color blended. We happily coexist, but we're still very aware of our differences. I'm proud that President Obama's color didn't keep him from office. But it may have helped him get into office, and that isn't right either.

I look forward to the day when race really isn't a factor, when people are elected because of their ability to serve, their stand on important issues, their character. I'm praying President Obama will be the kind of leader I'll be proud to support. I'll let him prove himself. Then I'll start dancing.

2009-01-17T09:38:00.001-07:00

Why "miracles in small letters"?

As I considered changing my e-column into a blog, I realized it would be a good opportunity to give it a new name. “Thank God It’s Thursday” seemed like a good title four years ago, but now it seems rather trite. And I wanted something that wasn’t tied to a particular day of the week. Because you all know how faithful I was at writing you every Thursday.

I wanted something that would say, “Finding God in the everyday stuff” but better than that. I considered “Extraordinary Ordinary,” “Burgers and Fries,” or “And another thing,” but none of those cranked my tractor.

So I went online and looked up quotes of well-known writers. Shakespeare, T.S. Elliot. But then I thought, “Why not go to your favorite, the guy who inspired you to be a writer in the first place.” C.S. Lewis.

After a little reading I discovered the quote that is now the basis of my blog name: “Miracles are a retelling in small letters of the very same story which is written across the whole world in letters too large for some of us to see.”

I knew that was it. My original idea for the title was “Small Letters” but that was taken. So I added “miracles” and now I like that even better.

So there you have it. “miracles in small letters.”

I will no doubt write the same kind of self-preoccupied prose as I did when it was known as “Thank God It’s Thursday.” But it’s different, somehow. It’s a blog. About miracles. In small letters.