Yesterday was one of my weepy Sunday's. I walked into church sleepy and kind of down from my late social Saturday night. I hadn't been able to decide what to wear or get my new haircut to cooperate, and I didn't really want to be there. But upon walking late into my Sunday school class, my friend Amy (and I love her forever for this) exclaimed, "Joanna!", and I melted, and smiled and sat down. Then I ate donut holes that Emily and Adam brought, and went and made some tea in the gym, and talked to Karah about her weekend visiting her family, and how great it is to watch a movie with people who laugh out loud, because then everyone laughs. I was already glad I went and wanted to hug them all.
The service yesterday was unusual for several reasons. The first being that Pastor Hall was away. It was the last Sunday that he would be away until he leaves the position in March. This transition time became the theme of the service, using Philippians as something of a template. The second reason that the service was unusual was that there was no long sermon. Pastor Gene, the assistant pastor, led several meditations, using different passages in Philippians. Between each passage we sang a song, or had prayer. Heart of the Lamb is the youth choir, and they led the singing, and there is nothing like them. There is nothing that compares to the freshness and sincerity of the youth of the church leading worship.
And they sang hymns like "I Will Sing of My Redeemer", and then we sang "I Will Enter His Gates", and Karah and I scoured the congregation for our choir kids who just started learning it last week. Then we sang two other hymns that I can't remember (which hymns were they??? The one in the hymnal and the one at the end? Karah? Mom?), and all though the service was the theme of rejoicing. Rejoicing in times of not knowing, and in suffering, and in God's love, and because he made and is making and will keep making us all more like him, and because he is doing it with all of us all there together. And I fought off tears the whole time. This isn't unusual for me. I cry regularly in church, but not ususally the whole time.
So last night I spent some quiet time at my house. I lit a candle and used it as my one light source, and I prayed. Really prayed. And I am not trying to sound proud of myself. I should pray like that a lot more often. But I thought of the verse and used it as a model and a promise,
Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near. Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. Phil. 4:4-7
I stayed home from Hershey Free Church last night, where many of my other friends attend to spend this time praying. It sounds ridiculously snobby to stay home and pray rather than go worship with friends. But last night I think it was what I needed. I had out a lot of stuff with God. But it turns out that they looked at the very same passage this week in a series on prayer. How beautiful is that? And maybe I would have gained a lot by going.
But I will be back to both next week. EBIC is my church in all ways that a church can be. The people there know and love me and I them. Hershey Free is very special too, as I have friends closer to my home here to spend late Saturday nights with, and have learned to run Power Point. But both love God so very much, and I am very blessed to be a part of both, as large or as small as each part may be right now. So that is the church for me today...
And yes, faithful readers, I have finally finished my series... I hope to not preach so many sermons in the future, but I am sure that I probably will.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Friday, January 26, 2007
Before and After
Before...
After...
Yes, it is like an Italian villa bathroom in a little old farmhouse...
What do you think?
After...
Yes, it is like an Italian villa bathroom in a little old farmhouse...
What do you think?
Thursday, January 18, 2007
the open road
I just got out of the new bathtub. It is still big, which was my main concern, and it feels like staying in a hotel, which is kind of cool. I must have enjoyed my bath a little bit too much though, because I feel overheated and kind of lightheaded now that I am out again. It might be a little bit of melancholy though too, and I thought I would write a poetic post about the dull sort of ache that we all feel sometimes. I had a few great lines in my mind but they kept getting crowded out by song lyrics by poets much better than myself.
My friend Mike made me a fantastic CD of old-time Americana songs, and they do not help a person with melancholy, but they do make you think about who you are, where you come from, and especially where you are going. I have been listening to it almost constantly for a week, and I am about ready to jump in my car and drive south and west until I can't go anymore. Restless, I guess.
I think it is in my blood. The restlessness, and the mountains of Kentucky. My grandmother, Delcie Layne Chafin Ward, what a lovely name, was born in a town called Hode, and the railroad ran right behind the house where she grew up. Her father worked for the railroad, which he preferred to the coal mines. My mom loved to visit her grandparents there every summer, and tells us about pulling water out from the well, and my great grandpa spitting tobacco juice. About purple velvet furniture, always kept covered, and drinking glasses with painted flowers. On one visit as a girl, my Mom ate lunch with a local girl, and my grandma was horrified to learn that lunch was a moonpie and can of Coke. My great grandmother was a midwife, and was known for attending births where the babies lived. Mainly because she knew to be clean. All of these stories have become like legend to me. Even though I saw the house in Hode myself when I was a young teen on a trip with Mom. My great grandparents had passed away and the house was being sold. It was the trip to say goodbye.
But my grandmother, who grew up there hated it. I think of her watching the train cars pass and fade in the distance when I hear lyrics to some of these songs,
"The lonesome sound of the train going by..."
"Come tomorrow, and I'll be satisfied if I can take a fast train and ride..."
When she graduated from high school, she took a bus to Texas and went to college. She studied sociology and married my grandfather and never went back for more than a visit. She hated the music too. My memories of visiting her are in a classy condominium outside of Washington DC. She had a collection of tea cups with gold edges and couch covered with a pattern of pink roses. Her music was classical. She gave me copies of cassette tapes of Mozart and Vivaldi. I so loved her elegance and that she always took what I said seriously, as if it were the most brilliant thing she ever heard.
So now I listen to music from the mountains of Kentucky and think of her. I think of my mom too. Mom loves everything that my grandma left, and would go back in a second. For me, there is a raw and aching truth to these old American songs that there are no words to explain. I want to lean into the harmonies and become like these women who hit the road with their eyes on heaven. I want to be like the matriarchs of my own heritage, who blazed a trail, and knew what they believed in.
I am not always sure that I trust myself, you know? I can be really selfish and impatient. I do not like to wait to know what the right thing is rather than grabbing for what will feel nice at the moment. I can be wishy-washy and change my mind, and watch my emotions ebb and fall with no warning. I can also be bubbly and charming and sometimes I am afraid that I fool myself as much as others, and we'll all find out the the bubble is really just air inside.
Joanna, my namesake, was one of the women at the crucifixion and one of the women who went to the tomb after Jesus had been buried and had risen. My middle name is Layne, after my grandma. Both women loved others, whether in listening to a child or trudging with dirty feet, early in the morning to care for the body of one who was in heaven. Except that he wasn't. He was still here, and he had already hit the road.
My friend Mike made me a fantastic CD of old-time Americana songs, and they do not help a person with melancholy, but they do make you think about who you are, where you come from, and especially where you are going. I have been listening to it almost constantly for a week, and I am about ready to jump in my car and drive south and west until I can't go anymore. Restless, I guess.
I think it is in my blood. The restlessness, and the mountains of Kentucky. My grandmother, Delcie Layne Chafin Ward, what a lovely name, was born in a town called Hode, and the railroad ran right behind the house where she grew up. Her father worked for the railroad, which he preferred to the coal mines. My mom loved to visit her grandparents there every summer, and tells us about pulling water out from the well, and my great grandpa spitting tobacco juice. About purple velvet furniture, always kept covered, and drinking glasses with painted flowers. On one visit as a girl, my Mom ate lunch with a local girl, and my grandma was horrified to learn that lunch was a moonpie and can of Coke. My great grandmother was a midwife, and was known for attending births where the babies lived. Mainly because she knew to be clean. All of these stories have become like legend to me. Even though I saw the house in Hode myself when I was a young teen on a trip with Mom. My great grandparents had passed away and the house was being sold. It was the trip to say goodbye.
But my grandmother, who grew up there hated it. I think of her watching the train cars pass and fade in the distance when I hear lyrics to some of these songs,
"The lonesome sound of the train going by..."
"Come tomorrow, and I'll be satisfied if I can take a fast train and ride..."
When she graduated from high school, she took a bus to Texas and went to college. She studied sociology and married my grandfather and never went back for more than a visit. She hated the music too. My memories of visiting her are in a classy condominium outside of Washington DC. She had a collection of tea cups with gold edges and couch covered with a pattern of pink roses. Her music was classical. She gave me copies of cassette tapes of Mozart and Vivaldi. I so loved her elegance and that she always took what I said seriously, as if it were the most brilliant thing she ever heard.
So now I listen to music from the mountains of Kentucky and think of her. I think of my mom too. Mom loves everything that my grandma left, and would go back in a second. For me, there is a raw and aching truth to these old American songs that there are no words to explain. I want to lean into the harmonies and become like these women who hit the road with their eyes on heaven. I want to be like the matriarchs of my own heritage, who blazed a trail, and knew what they believed in.
I am not always sure that I trust myself, you know? I can be really selfish and impatient. I do not like to wait to know what the right thing is rather than grabbing for what will feel nice at the moment. I can be wishy-washy and change my mind, and watch my emotions ebb and fall with no warning. I can also be bubbly and charming and sometimes I am afraid that I fool myself as much as others, and we'll all find out the the bubble is really just air inside.
Joanna, my namesake, was one of the women at the crucifixion and one of the women who went to the tomb after Jesus had been buried and had risen. My middle name is Layne, after my grandma. Both women loved others, whether in listening to a child or trudging with dirty feet, early in the morning to care for the body of one who was in heaven. Except that he wasn't. He was still here, and he had already hit the road.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Ode to a Bathtub
We got a call at 7:30 in the morning today. It was from our landlord, wanting to replace our entire bathroom. Tomorrow!
So of course tomorrow is the same morning that some author from Italy is coming in to work and wants to check us out and see if we are professional and not a little dinky family Christian business. And he is arriving promptly at 8:00. And I have to tidy up my office and put away all the stacks of paper that I am collecting, so I should really get to work by 7:45.
At least we will have bagels and coffee...
But I am so afraid that they are going to replace my lovely giant old bathtub with one of those little bitty plastic ones that is are shallow that you can't even get all of yourself under the water at the same time. It makes me want to cry and take pictures of it to remember it by. And there are these beautful aqua tiles lining the wall, and the wonderful wrap around shower curtain rod, and I am afraid it will end up all beige fiberglass.
Sigh.
Here I go to say my farewell...
So of course tomorrow is the same morning that some author from Italy is coming in to work and wants to check us out and see if we are professional and not a little dinky family Christian business. And he is arriving promptly at 8:00. And I have to tidy up my office and put away all the stacks of paper that I am collecting, so I should really get to work by 7:45.
At least we will have bagels and coffee...
But I am so afraid that they are going to replace my lovely giant old bathtub with one of those little bitty plastic ones that is are shallow that you can't even get all of yourself under the water at the same time. It makes me want to cry and take pictures of it to remember it by. And there are these beautful aqua tiles lining the wall, and the wonderful wrap around shower curtain rod, and I am afraid it will end up all beige fiberglass.
Sigh.
Here I go to say my farewell...
Saturday, January 13, 2007
Return and Review
Sorry for the long absence. I'm afraid that I have simply been uninspired. Not sure why. I think I have simply been very engaged in real life. I have had some great days at work since the new year, and I have felt like the work I am doing actually matters and makes a difference in the life of the company. And I have been enjoying a lot of time with friends, like the trip to NYC last week, which is a story in itself. But even though real life has been good and meaningful, I am being told that I MUST sign up for facebook. Hmmm.... Maybe.... ;-
But I have been reading this fabulous book, Eve's Revenge, Women and a Spirituality of the Body. I first saw it at Ollie's and was intrigued but didn't buy it, but by luck or grace, it was still there when I went back again a month later and I am plowing through it. It is about living in a body, as simple as that. As the title suggests it is mainly for and about women, but the philosophy that our bodies aren't quite up there with our minds or souls is as old as the sun and has affected men and our culture over the century's just as much.
The other, most momentous thing about this book is that it has been the vehicle for me to post my first review on Amazon. In my job, I have learned that a positive review can make all the difference to a book, and I want to chime in for the ones that I think are really worthwhile. Especially new ones. There are so many books being published that a lot of good ones must but be lost in the fray. So when I find them, I want them to know. So here is my review, as it now appears on Amazon.
I am highly impressed by this book's treatment of the current predicament of women in western culture. But even more, I am surprised at the heart of this book, the revelation of how much our bodies truly effect "who we really are". The topic of bodies is not uncommon for women. We hear and see everywhere the newest exercise craze or most promising facial scrub. But Barger reveals the idea that is so common and so subtle, that who we are inside our body, our soul, spirit, etc. is at odds with the physical body that we live in. We believe that in order to be and express who we really are we must thicken our lashes, pierce our lip, maybe even have surgery to change our gender.
Another facet of this book that has surprised me is the sheer number of ways our body affects who we are as women. It controls our gender and beauty certainly, but also our race, strength, emotions, energy, health, sexuality, and reproduction. All in one body.
I stood in the library several months before picking up this title, and read a page from a little book of meditations about the body, whose title and author I sadly cannot recall. It suggested that we love our body as our most faithful helper and friend, always at work for us. A body as something to care for and love. I think Barger would second this, but she has taken the book even a step farther, and reminds us that in the Christian faith, God decided to become a body too. He didn't manipulate it or struggle to be free of it, but freely chose to live in it as we do, even with it's pain, aging, and awkwardness. The very opposite of what many women, and probably men, would choose for themselves. I hope they find this book and read it.
But I have been reading this fabulous book, Eve's Revenge, Women and a Spirituality of the Body. I first saw it at Ollie's and was intrigued but didn't buy it, but by luck or grace, it was still there when I went back again a month later and I am plowing through it. It is about living in a body, as simple as that. As the title suggests it is mainly for and about women, but the philosophy that our bodies aren't quite up there with our minds or souls is as old as the sun and has affected men and our culture over the century's just as much.
The other, most momentous thing about this book is that it has been the vehicle for me to post my first review on Amazon. In my job, I have learned that a positive review can make all the difference to a book, and I want to chime in for the ones that I think are really worthwhile. Especially new ones. There are so many books being published that a lot of good ones must but be lost in the fray. So when I find them, I want them to know. So here is my review, as it now appears on Amazon.
I am highly impressed by this book's treatment of the current predicament of women in western culture. But even more, I am surprised at the heart of this book, the revelation of how much our bodies truly effect "who we really are". The topic of bodies is not uncommon for women. We hear and see everywhere the newest exercise craze or most promising facial scrub. But Barger reveals the idea that is so common and so subtle, that who we are inside our body, our soul, spirit, etc. is at odds with the physical body that we live in. We believe that in order to be and express who we really are we must thicken our lashes, pierce our lip, maybe even have surgery to change our gender.
Another facet of this book that has surprised me is the sheer number of ways our body affects who we are as women. It controls our gender and beauty certainly, but also our race, strength, emotions, energy, health, sexuality, and reproduction. All in one body.
I stood in the library several months before picking up this title, and read a page from a little book of meditations about the body, whose title and author I sadly cannot recall. It suggested that we love our body as our most faithful helper and friend, always at work for us. A body as something to care for and love. I think Barger would second this, but she has taken the book even a step farther, and reminds us that in the Christian faith, God decided to become a body too. He didn't manipulate it or struggle to be free of it, but freely chose to live in it as we do, even with it's pain, aging, and awkwardness. The very opposite of what many women, and probably men, would choose for themselves. I hope they find this book and read it.
Saturday, December 30, 2006
A New Year
I really like the way holidays fall in our culture. I like that the end of a year is a great big party from Thanksgiving to the end, but that then we pack up all of the ornaments, and pitch the rest of the fruitcake, and buckle down to work on a new year.
I like having a milestone as a fresh start. I have never been a "new year's resolution" person either, but this year I have thought of about 5 already. Like writing thank-you cards. It is just so civilized and kind. I am going to start writing thank-you cards.
But like I mentioned in my last post, I like to review the past year before plunging into a new one. This, like many years has had ups and downs, and I think I have grown. Instead of just listing events, though, I am going to list the things that I have gained, and the things that are coming with me into this new year. There were plenty of things that were tried and amounted to little, or flat out failed, and I don't want to be dishonest by not sharing them, but it seems better to me, in this crazy blogging-world context, to focus on the bright side, and there is plenty there as well...
Here it goes...
1. A job at CAP! Big one! Last year at this time I was jobless with no idea what was going to happen. This job is one of the most inexplicable provisions from God that I have ever known.
2. Started this blog... Speaks for itself. :-)
3. Had immense success with my very first garden last summer.
4. In July passed the one year "living on my own" mark. I love this little house.
5. Kelly has grown much closer as a wonderful friend. Last year, at this time, I don't think we were even sharing who we might be harboring a crush on. Now there is not very much that remains a secret. At least that I know of... She is an amazing woman and is truly gifted in the skill of friendship. She cultivates and cares for her friendships like I did my snapdragons.
6. In the fall I began leading Primary choir at church. Yes, you have heard it a million times. I love it. There is nothing like getting little smiles and waves, or sometimes big hugs around my hips, randomly walking through the church hallways.
7. In May I went on a weekend trip to NYC with other young adults from the BIC Atlantic conference. It was a fascinating trip... Don't even know where to begin to describe it. The thing that I remember the most and hope I continue to take with me, at least in prayer, was a woman named Stephanie, sitting on some random steps in the Bronx, thin as a rail. Her husband had left her and she was going to be moving somewhere else in the city. She didn't know where. Wherever the welfare system would put her. I'm sure I won't see her again on this earth, but I try to remember to keep praying.
8. I began attending a new Bible study in the fall. It has been good getting to know new people who love Jesus, and who happily enjoy smoking a hookah. It makes me feel very comfortable and assured that I won't hear any lectures.
Those are the big ones. I may be missing some but my brain is kind of mushy because of staying up until 2am last night.
But for the new year ahead... who knows? I am praying for God's leading, and that he will keep me on the path he is planning.
PS.
On a very different note, and I am not sure what to make of it, last night I had a dream about Saddam Hussein. I didn't even know that he was going to be executed today until hearing it on the radio this morning. I have seen his picture on the news more lately, so maybe that is why. But in my dream I was at some kind of military camp, and I sat down to watch a movie, and looked over to discover that he was sitting beside me, lauging and enjoying the movie. He did creep me out so I tried to get up, and he sort of held me down, wanting me to stay and keep watching with him. I shoved him, got up, walked away and didn't look back... and that was it. But it is strange that by the time I dreamed this, he was probably already dead. So strange...
I like having a milestone as a fresh start. I have never been a "new year's resolution" person either, but this year I have thought of about 5 already. Like writing thank-you cards. It is just so civilized and kind. I am going to start writing thank-you cards.
But like I mentioned in my last post, I like to review the past year before plunging into a new one. This, like many years has had ups and downs, and I think I have grown. Instead of just listing events, though, I am going to list the things that I have gained, and the things that are coming with me into this new year. There were plenty of things that were tried and amounted to little, or flat out failed, and I don't want to be dishonest by not sharing them, but it seems better to me, in this crazy blogging-world context, to focus on the bright side, and there is plenty there as well...
Here it goes...
1. A job at CAP! Big one! Last year at this time I was jobless with no idea what was going to happen. This job is one of the most inexplicable provisions from God that I have ever known.
2. Started this blog... Speaks for itself. :-)
3. Had immense success with my very first garden last summer.
4. In July passed the one year "living on my own" mark. I love this little house.
5. Kelly has grown much closer as a wonderful friend. Last year, at this time, I don't think we were even sharing who we might be harboring a crush on. Now there is not very much that remains a secret. At least that I know of... She is an amazing woman and is truly gifted in the skill of friendship. She cultivates and cares for her friendships like I did my snapdragons.
6. In the fall I began leading Primary choir at church. Yes, you have heard it a million times. I love it. There is nothing like getting little smiles and waves, or sometimes big hugs around my hips, randomly walking through the church hallways.
7. In May I went on a weekend trip to NYC with other young adults from the BIC Atlantic conference. It was a fascinating trip... Don't even know where to begin to describe it. The thing that I remember the most and hope I continue to take with me, at least in prayer, was a woman named Stephanie, sitting on some random steps in the Bronx, thin as a rail. Her husband had left her and she was going to be moving somewhere else in the city. She didn't know where. Wherever the welfare system would put her. I'm sure I won't see her again on this earth, but I try to remember to keep praying.
8. I began attending a new Bible study in the fall. It has been good getting to know new people who love Jesus, and who happily enjoy smoking a hookah. It makes me feel very comfortable and assured that I won't hear any lectures.
Those are the big ones. I may be missing some but my brain is kind of mushy because of staying up until 2am last night.
But for the new year ahead... who knows? I am praying for God's leading, and that he will keep me on the path he is planning.
PS.
On a very different note, and I am not sure what to make of it, last night I had a dream about Saddam Hussein. I didn't even know that he was going to be executed today until hearing it on the radio this morning. I have seen his picture on the news more lately, so maybe that is why. But in my dream I was at some kind of military camp, and I sat down to watch a movie, and looked over to discover that he was sitting beside me, lauging and enjoying the movie. He did creep me out so I tried to get up, and he sort of held me down, wanting me to stay and keep watching with him. I shoved him, got up, walked away and didn't look back... and that was it. But it is strange that by the time I dreamed this, he was probably already dead. So strange...
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
misc...
Today is one of those slow vacation days that stretches on and on. I am going back to work tomorrow, but until then I will be alternately knitting and reading and eating and sleeping. Eating is specifically mentioned, because I have been reminded again this holiday season how much I love it. I try to be one of those self controlled people who say no to more cookies and chocolate, but I usually, utterly, yet quite happily fail. As a very wise woman once said, I can either be thin or happy.
But enough of that. Today I spent my Christmas money buying the largest quantity of yarn that I have ever carried in one shopping bag. I am going to make an afghan, and it may take until New Years, '08 to finish it, but it will be a lovely celery color and the Egyptian cotton yarn has a soft and elegant sheen.
For the last five years or so at New Years, I have recorded the events of the previous year in my journal, just for my own reflection and record. I think I will post some of it here this year, but I need to get all my thoughts together, and I have a few days until the new year, so stay tuned.
Tomorrow is my big film-making debut. We are re-shooting one of our DVDs at work, and while Rob gets the handheld camera and will be bobbing in and out, doing close-ups, I will be sitting behind the other camera on a tripod, doing a very slow zoom in and out. Maybe a very gentle pan back and forth. Rob had me watch some training videos, so I learned about the rule of thirds, and that you never EVER crop someones chin. Top of head? Yes. Chin? No.
I am also in the middle of reading Peace Like A River by Leif Enger. It has been too long since I have soaked in a novel like this. It is gritty and marvelous and wonderful. The writing makes me want to quit everything, move to Minnesota where the characters are from and be an English major.
But before then, I am going to go upstairs and continue knitting.
I know this has been such a miscellaneous post. No theme. No allusions. No purpose, really. I have been thinking about things. Contemplating life. Like this odd time between Christmas and New Years, where I feel we are just hanging, waiting for our feet to hit the ground running next tuesday. Thinking about how the excess of Christmas ends up making me want to just get rid of things and have open space. Yesterday it made me clean like a madwoman and the bathroom has never looked better. I have been thinking about family, and love and going to NYC. They just haven't all come together yet in to one coherent whole. So here is an appetizer in the meantime. (They may not ever come together in a coherent whole though, which is really ok considering that appetizers are always so much larger than you expect them to be. Who needs dinner anyway? Desert on the otherhand...)
But enough of that. Today I spent my Christmas money buying the largest quantity of yarn that I have ever carried in one shopping bag. I am going to make an afghan, and it may take until New Years, '08 to finish it, but it will be a lovely celery color and the Egyptian cotton yarn has a soft and elegant sheen.
For the last five years or so at New Years, I have recorded the events of the previous year in my journal, just for my own reflection and record. I think I will post some of it here this year, but I need to get all my thoughts together, and I have a few days until the new year, so stay tuned.
Tomorrow is my big film-making debut. We are re-shooting one of our DVDs at work, and while Rob gets the handheld camera and will be bobbing in and out, doing close-ups, I will be sitting behind the other camera on a tripod, doing a very slow zoom in and out. Maybe a very gentle pan back and forth. Rob had me watch some training videos, so I learned about the rule of thirds, and that you never EVER crop someones chin. Top of head? Yes. Chin? No.
I am also in the middle of reading Peace Like A River by Leif Enger. It has been too long since I have soaked in a novel like this. It is gritty and marvelous and wonderful. The writing makes me want to quit everything, move to Minnesota where the characters are from and be an English major.
But before then, I am going to go upstairs and continue knitting.
I know this has been such a miscellaneous post. No theme. No allusions. No purpose, really. I have been thinking about things. Contemplating life. Like this odd time between Christmas and New Years, where I feel we are just hanging, waiting for our feet to hit the ground running next tuesday. Thinking about how the excess of Christmas ends up making me want to just get rid of things and have open space. Yesterday it made me clean like a madwoman and the bathroom has never looked better. I have been thinking about family, and love and going to NYC. They just haven't all come together yet in to one coherent whole. So here is an appetizer in the meantime. (They may not ever come together in a coherent whole though, which is really ok considering that appetizers are always so much larger than you expect them to be. Who needs dinner anyway? Desert on the otherhand...)
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Christmas Eve
It is officially December 24th now, exactly 12:33. I am at my Moms house, sitting in what was once my bedroom, and is now my stepfathers study, complete with fifty five volumes of Luther's Works. It has been too long since I have posted. Time seems to go so quickly in the Christmas season. We complain about stores putting up Christmas decorations as soon as halloween is over, but we get so busy and time still seems to fly by.
I think I touched on it in my Advent post, but it has been sinking into my brain more and more how crazy Christmas is. And I don't mean the hassle and the long lines. I mean that we believe that God was born here and lived with us, and that angels sang about it, and that it changes everything. I am really not sure that I can get my head around it. Lines like, "veiled in flesh the Godhead see." or "Fall on your knees, oh hear the angel voices." or "He rules the world with truth and grace and makes the nations prove the glory of his righteousness." What would that even look like? But though I have trouble getting it all into my head, I can see the incredible reason to celebrate. I'm beginning to feel sorry for non-believers who attempt to celebrate chestnuts and snowmen and magical family-togetherness. It is seems that those things are the myth. The things that we place hope in that don't come through and don't satisfy. And it is the thing that sounds initially most bizarre, a baby born to a virgin, 2000 years ago, who was God, who was "pleased, as man, with men to dwell." that means more than we can imagine, and gives us reason to celebrate, to party, to give a gift, to feast, to hang lights all over the shrubbery.
I discovered this week that you can subscribe to an email version of Garrison Keillor's, The Writers Almanac. There is something indescribably wonderful about Garrison's voice, as any fan knows, so I recommend listening to this poem as well as reading it. And I hope it is ok to post it, since it is used by permission, but I have included the link to purchase the book for anyone who would like to read more. The last line is really the kicker of the poem, and is what I mean when I think about Jesus's birth changing everything.
Poem: "Advent 1955" by John Betjeman, from Collected Poems. © Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Reprinted with permission. (buy now)
Listen to this episode of Writer's Almanac (Highly recommended)
Advent 1955
The Advent wind begins to stir
With sea-like sounds in our Scotch fir,
It's dark at breakfast, dark at tea,
And in between we only see
Clouds hurrying across the sky
And rain-wet roads the wind blows dry
And branches bending to the gale
Against great skies all silver-pale.
The world seems traveling into space,
And traveling at a faster pace
Than in the leisured summer weather
When we and it sit out together,
For now we feel the world spin round
On some momentous journey bound —
Journey to what? to whom? to where?
The Advent bells call out 'Prepare,
Your world is journeying to the birth
Of God made Man for us on earth.'
And how, in fact, do we prepare
For the great day that waits us there —
The twenty-fifth day of December,
The birth of Christ? For some it means
An interchange of hunting scenes
On coloured cards. And I remember
Last year I sent out twenty yards,
Laid end to end, of Christmas cards
To people that I scarcely know —
They'd sent a card to me, and so
I had to send one back. Oh dear!
Is this a form of Christmas cheer?
Or is it, which is less surprising,
My pride gone in for advertising?
The only cards that really count
Are that extremely small amount
From real friends who keep in touch
And are not rich but love us much.
Some ways indeed are very odd
By which we hail the birth of God.
We raise the price of things in shops,
We give plain boxes fancy tops
And lines which traders cannot sell
Thus parcell'd go extremely well.
We dole out bribes we call a present
To those to whom we must be pleasant
For business reasons. Our defense is
These bribes are charged against expenses
And bring relief in Income Tax.
Enough of these unworthy cracks!
"The time draws near the birth of Christ',
A present that cannot be priced
Given two thousand years ago.
Yet if God had not given so
He still would be a distant stranger
And not the Baby in the manger.
I think I touched on it in my Advent post, but it has been sinking into my brain more and more how crazy Christmas is. And I don't mean the hassle and the long lines. I mean that we believe that God was born here and lived with us, and that angels sang about it, and that it changes everything. I am really not sure that I can get my head around it. Lines like, "veiled in flesh the Godhead see." or "Fall on your knees, oh hear the angel voices." or "He rules the world with truth and grace and makes the nations prove the glory of his righteousness." What would that even look like? But though I have trouble getting it all into my head, I can see the incredible reason to celebrate. I'm beginning to feel sorry for non-believers who attempt to celebrate chestnuts and snowmen and magical family-togetherness. It is seems that those things are the myth. The things that we place hope in that don't come through and don't satisfy. And it is the thing that sounds initially most bizarre, a baby born to a virgin, 2000 years ago, who was God, who was "pleased, as man, with men to dwell." that means more than we can imagine, and gives us reason to celebrate, to party, to give a gift, to feast, to hang lights all over the shrubbery.
I discovered this week that you can subscribe to an email version of Garrison Keillor's, The Writers Almanac. There is something indescribably wonderful about Garrison's voice, as any fan knows, so I recommend listening to this poem as well as reading it. And I hope it is ok to post it, since it is used by permission, but I have included the link to purchase the book for anyone who would like to read more. The last line is really the kicker of the poem, and is what I mean when I think about Jesus's birth changing everything.
Poem: "Advent 1955" by John Betjeman, from Collected Poems. © Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Reprinted with permission. (buy now)
Listen to this episode of Writer's Almanac (Highly recommended)
Advent 1955
The Advent wind begins to stir
With sea-like sounds in our Scotch fir,
It's dark at breakfast, dark at tea,
And in between we only see
Clouds hurrying across the sky
And rain-wet roads the wind blows dry
And branches bending to the gale
Against great skies all silver-pale.
The world seems traveling into space,
And traveling at a faster pace
Than in the leisured summer weather
When we and it sit out together,
For now we feel the world spin round
On some momentous journey bound —
Journey to what? to whom? to where?
The Advent bells call out 'Prepare,
Your world is journeying to the birth
Of God made Man for us on earth.'
And how, in fact, do we prepare
For the great day that waits us there —
The twenty-fifth day of December,
The birth of Christ? For some it means
An interchange of hunting scenes
On coloured cards. And I remember
Last year I sent out twenty yards,
Laid end to end, of Christmas cards
To people that I scarcely know —
They'd sent a card to me, and so
I had to send one back. Oh dear!
Is this a form of Christmas cheer?
Or is it, which is less surprising,
My pride gone in for advertising?
The only cards that really count
Are that extremely small amount
From real friends who keep in touch
And are not rich but love us much.
Some ways indeed are very odd
By which we hail the birth of God.
We raise the price of things in shops,
We give plain boxes fancy tops
And lines which traders cannot sell
Thus parcell'd go extremely well.
We dole out bribes we call a present
To those to whom we must be pleasant
For business reasons. Our defense is
These bribes are charged against expenses
And bring relief in Income Tax.
Enough of these unworthy cracks!
"The time draws near the birth of Christ',
A present that cannot be priced
Given two thousand years ago.
Yet if God had not given so
He still would be a distant stranger
And not the Baby in the manger.
Monday, December 11, 2006
long awaited newsletter
Today we sent it... BY ACCIDENT! Who knew that "Finished" in bulk email sending lingo really means "Send". It was not supposed to go out until tomorrow. Not for any very good reason other than that Monday's are busy after the weekend, and by tuesday, homeschooling moms or teachers are already settled into their weekly routine.
This e-newsletter has been weeks in the making and is the first one we have ever done. Writing this, designing that, editing ten times, overcoming technological hurdles, and just today doing our first recording. Yes, today we finally "laid down the vocals". All of that and by pushing one button it could have gone down the e-toilet. It didn't. That must be grace at work because by the time I pushed (yes it was me) the "finished" button, the final drafts, all of the links, the edited recording, had gone live. And before leaving work, after it was out for about an hour, we'd already heard (nice things) from three happy customers. And no, three out of 1,400, is not that many, but I have high hopes for my inbox tomorrow.
Soooooo, the moral of the story is,
Do not push the "Finished" button until you are really finished.
And, everything just might turn out ok.
And for your visual, intellectual and auditory pleasure,
Here it is,
Classica from CAP
This e-newsletter has been weeks in the making and is the first one we have ever done. Writing this, designing that, editing ten times, overcoming technological hurdles, and just today doing our first recording. Yes, today we finally "laid down the vocals". All of that and by pushing one button it could have gone down the e-toilet. It didn't. That must be grace at work because by the time I pushed (yes it was me) the "finished" button, the final drafts, all of the links, the edited recording, had gone live. And before leaving work, after it was out for about an hour, we'd already heard (nice things) from three happy customers. And no, three out of 1,400, is not that many, but I have high hopes for my inbox tomorrow.
Soooooo, the moral of the story is,
Do not push the "Finished" button until you are really finished.
And, everything just might turn out ok.
And for your visual, intellectual and auditory pleasure,
Here it is,
Classica from CAP
Friday, December 08, 2006
advent
Tomorrow morning I will running around my church with about twenty five bouncy choir children. We have rehearsal for our Christmas performance, and they have actually learned the verses to How Great Our Joy, and will be performing it a week from Sunday evening. If anyone wants to come see the spectacle, come! What could be better than kids dressed as shepherds and angels?
It is Advent now. Christmas time. Tonight I saw the Nativity Story, and it brought home the stark difference between what we celebrate, and how we celebrate it. The rocky desert of Isreal looks vastly different than any other Christmas image that I can think of. Snowmen. Christmas trees. Egg nog. None of that. And somehow we celebrate because of a mother giving birth to God as a child, in the most dirty, dark corner of a tiny ramshackle town, two thousand years ago. I sat watching the movie thinking that either we are all crazy or that this was the most profound, unpredictable, complete and powerful plan that a God could have made.
At work I have been feverishly and excitedly creating our first e-newsletter. Does not sound exciting, I know, but it has become my baby. It is possibly the one thing that I am most proud of producing since I began this job, and it is going to have flipping pages and animation and a contest for logic students to enter, and it is also supposed to have a Latin Christmas Carol. I am supposed to be helping to sing said carol and it was supposed to be done already, several times, and today was the day that I was hoping to send out the newsletter. But instead I am waiting, and I have become very familiar with the Latin words to O Come, O Come Emmanuel.
Veni, Veni Emmanuel
captivum salve Isreal,
qui gemit in exsilio.
privatus Dei Filio.
Gaude! Gaude! Emmanuel,
nascetur pro te Israel.
The Nativity Story opened with these words and this song. Deep voices, fortelling the future of a Savior coming. And heaven knows, after seeing this movie, Israel needed a savior. I also find it interesting that these words, in Latin, are in the language of their greatest oppressors.
Now though, the carol, O Come O Come Emmanuel is one of the most important anchor points of Advent for me. I always knew we sang it during Advent at church, and knew it is about Emmanuel coming, but it is based on very specific prayers, called Antiphons, each focusing on a different attribute of the Messiah. Each verse gives Emmanuel a new name...
Key of David, Dayspring or Morning Star, Rod of Jesse, Wisdom from on high.
And I don't know all of the details, but each of these verses are prayed separately through Advent. Each name considered and desired.
I love that Advent is about waiting. I don't like waiting, but I love the reminder that I am not alone. We are all waiting for something. Our culture looks down it's nose at waiting. It says to get what you want right now. But the striving doesn't seem to work, or never for very long.
Last sunday, in the sermon, our pastor gave the best example of waiting on God that I have ever heard. It was a quote from Henri Nowen, and I will only paraphrase it here as I remember it. He used the example of a trapeze team. The person on the team who lets go of their bar and flys up in an arc high in the air, must simply hold very still. They must not ever try to catch the catcher. It is the catcher's job to find their arms and grasp them, and the one in the air must simply trust that their catcher will be there.
I'm not sure why this resonates so well. Perhaps because I can feel it in my muscles and bones and can imagine the suspended stillness. Suspended stillness. That is where God calls us to be during Advent. That is where he meets us. In dry, barren, places. That is where he comes to live.
There will however, be no stillness tomorrow morning, and there will be no floating little cherubs, so no suspension either. But I must admit, I can hardly wait. And I really can't wait to send the newsletter!
It is Advent now. Christmas time. Tonight I saw the Nativity Story, and it brought home the stark difference between what we celebrate, and how we celebrate it. The rocky desert of Isreal looks vastly different than any other Christmas image that I can think of. Snowmen. Christmas trees. Egg nog. None of that. And somehow we celebrate because of a mother giving birth to God as a child, in the most dirty, dark corner of a tiny ramshackle town, two thousand years ago. I sat watching the movie thinking that either we are all crazy or that this was the most profound, unpredictable, complete and powerful plan that a God could have made.
At work I have been feverishly and excitedly creating our first e-newsletter. Does not sound exciting, I know, but it has become my baby. It is possibly the one thing that I am most proud of producing since I began this job, and it is going to have flipping pages and animation and a contest for logic students to enter, and it is also supposed to have a Latin Christmas Carol. I am supposed to be helping to sing said carol and it was supposed to be done already, several times, and today was the day that I was hoping to send out the newsletter. But instead I am waiting, and I have become very familiar with the Latin words to O Come, O Come Emmanuel.
Veni, Veni Emmanuel
captivum salve Isreal,
qui gemit in exsilio.
privatus Dei Filio.
Gaude! Gaude! Emmanuel,
nascetur pro te Israel.
The Nativity Story opened with these words and this song. Deep voices, fortelling the future of a Savior coming. And heaven knows, after seeing this movie, Israel needed a savior. I also find it interesting that these words, in Latin, are in the language of their greatest oppressors.
Now though, the carol, O Come O Come Emmanuel is one of the most important anchor points of Advent for me. I always knew we sang it during Advent at church, and knew it is about Emmanuel coming, but it is based on very specific prayers, called Antiphons, each focusing on a different attribute of the Messiah. Each verse gives Emmanuel a new name...
Key of David, Dayspring or Morning Star, Rod of Jesse, Wisdom from on high.
And I don't know all of the details, but each of these verses are prayed separately through Advent. Each name considered and desired.
I love that Advent is about waiting. I don't like waiting, but I love the reminder that I am not alone. We are all waiting for something. Our culture looks down it's nose at waiting. It says to get what you want right now. But the striving doesn't seem to work, or never for very long.
Last sunday, in the sermon, our pastor gave the best example of waiting on God that I have ever heard. It was a quote from Henri Nowen, and I will only paraphrase it here as I remember it. He used the example of a trapeze team. The person on the team who lets go of their bar and flys up in an arc high in the air, must simply hold very still. They must not ever try to catch the catcher. It is the catcher's job to find their arms and grasp them, and the one in the air must simply trust that their catcher will be there.
I'm not sure why this resonates so well. Perhaps because I can feel it in my muscles and bones and can imagine the suspended stillness. Suspended stillness. That is where God calls us to be during Advent. That is where he meets us. In dry, barren, places. That is where he comes to live.
There will however, be no stillness tomorrow morning, and there will be no floating little cherubs, so no suspension either. But I must admit, I can hardly wait. And I really can't wait to send the newsletter!
Sunday, December 03, 2006
one restless, anxious, grumpy, extremely cold, very bad day
The subject gives it away, but that is how the day was. I changed my mind about what to do in it about thirthy-seven times, mostly wanted to lay on the couch. But I didn't want to feel like I was wasting my weekend by being a bum laying on the couch. And the most interesting thing, and the real reason I am posting this, is that it was not only me. A good chunk of my family had the same sort of day. My brother is sick anyway, so maybe he doesn't count, but he sure sounded miserable sniffling and hacking all over the place. Mom was on the grumpy side, for no good reason, and freely admitted it herself. Poor Bekah has been furiously knitting a scarf for the last several days, and it will do nothing but curl into a skinny cylinder. She tried ironing it, stretching it, scolding it, all to no avail, so she will now be unraveling it. She stopped by her boyfriend John's house this morning after her choir practice, and woke him up, and you can guess it, he was grumpy. Bekah got annoyed, stayed for literally one minute, and then went home to spend the rest of the day bored and restless and didn't know what to do with herself either. I am pretty sure that even Maggie, one of the Daschunds, was more anxious and high-strung than usual, and she went potty on my jeans when I gave her her usual hello sqeeze.
So we are baffled.
Did anyone else have such a rotten day? And it is Saturday too!
Perhaps it is because of this extreme, super-duper temperature switch from seventy-two degrees yesteday, to thirty one today. Kurts (stepdads) theory is that we are approaching approaching the last full moon autumn (Dec. 5). "Sounds like you are being affected by the stronger than usual effects of this years autumnal bigmoonox."
So please tell me if you had a bad day too. We will pretend that this is a scientific study and compile statistics and debate bad-day hypotheses, and see if there is some external factor at work...
Or else it's just in my genes. And what's on my jeans doesn't help either.
So we are baffled.
Did anyone else have such a rotten day? And it is Saturday too!
Perhaps it is because of this extreme, super-duper temperature switch from seventy-two degrees yesteday, to thirty one today. Kurts (stepdads) theory is that we are approaching approaching the last full moon autumn (Dec. 5). "Sounds like you are being affected by the stronger than usual effects of this years autumnal bigmoonox."
So please tell me if you had a bad day too. We will pretend that this is a scientific study and compile statistics and debate bad-day hypotheses, and see if there is some external factor at work...
Or else it's just in my genes. And what's on my jeans doesn't help either.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
family thanksgiving
It has been a blessed holiday weekend. Rich and warm and full of family. I even got up at 4:45 in the morning on Friday to go shopping with Dad. We stood shivering in the dark in a line in front of Super Shoes so that I could get an extra ten dollars off of my long anticipated Birkenstocks. He jokes to the lady in front of us that he could have just given me ten dollars and stayed in bed! He made us a wonderful Thanksgiving dinner the night before, with a seventeen pound turkey for just Jon and Bekah and me and him. It was one of those perfect dinners that was delicious, but didn't give that awful stuffed-too-full feeling, that has followed many other Thanksgiving dinners. The night before that, on Wednesday evening, I attended a huge surprise party for Bryan, thrown by his wife Karah, my friend and kid's choir co-leader. I stayed until nearly two in the morning and went to spend the night at Moms, sneaking in, trying not to wake the dogs. There was some wimpering, but they settled down again until my brother trudged up the stairs, unable to sleep, slammed a cupbord door, and the barking let loose. Mom stumbled down the hall, grumpy as always when woken up. She takes the dogs out to the bathroom and Jon and I stand and look at each other sheepishly.
The other day Kelly mentioned a novel that she had just started. It is a novel that I have seen in Christian bookstores. The type that I usually turn my nose up at. Historical fiction romance romance romance. A Christian, laden with sexual tension, romance. Kelly dosen't take it with her when she leaves for Virginia and I pick it up and start reading. It predictable, with a few reverent little nods to God and faith before the characters start making out (they were previously, most conveniently, already forced into marriage). But I take it with me to Moms, and read before I go to sleep Wednesday evening. I read it at Dad's on Thursday evening. I finish it at Moms on Friday evening. And the thing that surprises me by the end is that the characters begin to seem like a family. They wash dishes and have a child and put wood into their fire-place.
I love families so much. I love my own. This morning, after playing with the dogs, and drinking tea I go with Mom, Bekah, Jon, and his girlfriend Tara, to a craft show in Lancaster. We split up into two groups and Jon, Tara and Mom wander off. While my sister looks at jewelry in the neigboring booth, I spontaneously buy a beautiful bowl. It is ceramic and painted shades of green with pale orange water-lillies. The edges are pinched up like a the ripples of a leaf sitting on water, and I decide that I want it for the rest of my life. It is made by a local, central PA artist, a young woman about the same age as me, and it is expensive. Way out of what is left of this months budget. This is coming right from savings. We walk around the show, and I feel the weight of the bowl in my hand and the misgiving that inevitably comes with an impulse purchase. For heavens sake, I just bought a pair of Birkenstocks too. But you can't return something that you buy from a local artist at a craft show. So I tell myself it was a good thing to do, to support the arts, etc. though I still have a bit of a knot in my stomach.
Upon returning from the craft show I head home. There is some problem with Kelly's and my phone, and when dialing the caller only gets a busy signal. I come home, unpack my new bowl and sit it high up on top of the counters with some blue pots and pans. I try the phone and find that I am not able to call out either. The bowl doesn't look right up there. It looks awkward and too crowded and it doesn't match. It is a very vulnerable feeling to have a problem with a phone and not be able to call anyone to help. The answering machine is buzzing strangly though, and I remember the advice that you should always have a simple, plug-it-into-the-wall phone, in the case of a power out. So I go purchase a new phone and answering machine, and the problem is, thankfully, fixed.
So now I am sitting home alone. I wash the dishes and pick up the pieces of hand-made paper that I made yesterday. I left them all over the living room floor drying on dishcloths. Thirteen perfect, embroidery hoop sized circles. They are white with brown flecks looking as much like flour tortillas as paper. I had forgotten to move my laundy over to the dryer yesterday, so I toss the dishcloths in and run the load again. I am lonely. I want a family. One right here in my own house. I tell this to God, and I think the first thing that I thought of was my bowl. That he has a home for me, like I gave a home to that bowl. That I am not a useless object that he wished he hadn't purchased, sitting on his top shelf, mismatched with the rest of his people and his plan. That he doesn't have any regrets. That I am adopted into an amazing family.
I climb up on a chair and take my bowl back down from the shelf. I clear off the table and place it right in the middle with candlesticks on each side. In the last delivery of our organic vegetable box, we got four ears of popcorn. They are to sit and dry for another couple of weeks before scraping off the kernals, so I lay the cobs of corn in the bowl. It looks perfect. Like harvest time. And I light a cinnamon candle and sit it beside me, watching the warm flame flicker as I write.
The other day Kelly mentioned a novel that she had just started. It is a novel that I have seen in Christian bookstores. The type that I usually turn my nose up at. Historical fiction romance romance romance. A Christian, laden with sexual tension, romance. Kelly dosen't take it with her when she leaves for Virginia and I pick it up and start reading. It predictable, with a few reverent little nods to God and faith before the characters start making out (they were previously, most conveniently, already forced into marriage). But I take it with me to Moms, and read before I go to sleep Wednesday evening. I read it at Dad's on Thursday evening. I finish it at Moms on Friday evening. And the thing that surprises me by the end is that the characters begin to seem like a family. They wash dishes and have a child and put wood into their fire-place.
I love families so much. I love my own. This morning, after playing with the dogs, and drinking tea I go with Mom, Bekah, Jon, and his girlfriend Tara, to a craft show in Lancaster. We split up into two groups and Jon, Tara and Mom wander off. While my sister looks at jewelry in the neigboring booth, I spontaneously buy a beautiful bowl. It is ceramic and painted shades of green with pale orange water-lillies. The edges are pinched up like a the ripples of a leaf sitting on water, and I decide that I want it for the rest of my life. It is made by a local, central PA artist, a young woman about the same age as me, and it is expensive. Way out of what is left of this months budget. This is coming right from savings. We walk around the show, and I feel the weight of the bowl in my hand and the misgiving that inevitably comes with an impulse purchase. For heavens sake, I just bought a pair of Birkenstocks too. But you can't return something that you buy from a local artist at a craft show. So I tell myself it was a good thing to do, to support the arts, etc. though I still have a bit of a knot in my stomach.
Upon returning from the craft show I head home. There is some problem with Kelly's and my phone, and when dialing the caller only gets a busy signal. I come home, unpack my new bowl and sit it high up on top of the counters with some blue pots and pans. I try the phone and find that I am not able to call out either. The bowl doesn't look right up there. It looks awkward and too crowded and it doesn't match. It is a very vulnerable feeling to have a problem with a phone and not be able to call anyone to help. The answering machine is buzzing strangly though, and I remember the advice that you should always have a simple, plug-it-into-the-wall phone, in the case of a power out. So I go purchase a new phone and answering machine, and the problem is, thankfully, fixed.
So now I am sitting home alone. I wash the dishes and pick up the pieces of hand-made paper that I made yesterday. I left them all over the living room floor drying on dishcloths. Thirteen perfect, embroidery hoop sized circles. They are white with brown flecks looking as much like flour tortillas as paper. I had forgotten to move my laundy over to the dryer yesterday, so I toss the dishcloths in and run the load again. I am lonely. I want a family. One right here in my own house. I tell this to God, and I think the first thing that I thought of was my bowl. That he has a home for me, like I gave a home to that bowl. That I am not a useless object that he wished he hadn't purchased, sitting on his top shelf, mismatched with the rest of his people and his plan. That he doesn't have any regrets. That I am adopted into an amazing family.
I climb up on a chair and take my bowl back down from the shelf. I clear off the table and place it right in the middle with candlesticks on each side. In the last delivery of our organic vegetable box, we got four ears of popcorn. They are to sit and dry for another couple of weeks before scraping off the kernals, so I lay the cobs of corn in the bowl. It looks perfect. Like harvest time. And I light a cinnamon candle and sit it beside me, watching the warm flame flicker as I write.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
the last supper
This afternoon I went with my Dad to the nursing home in Rheems to sing with him. He goes every two weeks, and he and one of the pastors of his church have a low-key sort of service for the residents there. I have gone with him in the past, but it has been many months now and there are many new faces, and a conspicuous lack of old ones. My Dad has been studying and compiling old american hymns, and created a songbook for the people there with the music in the first half, and large bold print words in the second half. The songbook contains hymns like Shall We Gather at the River, His Eye is on the Sparrow, When the Roll is Called up Yonder, and many other more obscure tunes that Dad finds and teaches us. The residents know them all. My Dad loves this music, and I think we sang eight songs in a row, all the verses. I try to look at the white and gray haired crowd in front of us between following the words and the alto line. They span the range of being spunky and vocal to quiet with heads tilted to the side and oxygen tubes feeding into their noses. When we finish singing, Are you Washed in the Blood, one man in the front row, Mr. Green, shouts out that the song is terrible, that war is terrible, and his eyes tear up. Dad acknowledges, that, yeah, some people don't like that song, and moves on to a new one.
When pastor Jerry stands up for his sermon he asks, as his opening question, what holiday is coming up this week? There is some mumbling of the correct thanksgiving answer, but Mr. Green again jumps in with,
"Billie Holiday! I knew her, she was gorgeous." I decide I like him best.
"She was a great jazz artist."
Jerry pulls everyone back to thanksgiving, but I am afraid I didn't pay very much attention as I looked around the room, and wondered how I would feel being told to celebrate and be thankful in their situation. Many of the songs that Dad chooses to sing are about suffering, about waiting for heaven, about death really, and I feel uncomfortable singing it with them, to them, being young and healthy and able to drive my car anywhere I want to go. I wonder if that is comforting, singing about "loved ones in the glory" and "understanding better by and by", or if they would rather just forget for a while. I guess I won't know until I am with them someday.
"There is a beautiful painting here. The Last Supper." Mr. Green interupts the sermon. "It is beautiful. Right in this building." And again his face scrunches up with tears again, for just a moment and then it is gone. I like him better and better. At the end of the little service, after finishing with "Brighten the Corner Where you Are", another one that might make me furious if I were them, though they appear to be fine, Mr. Green tells Dad and I that we should make a recording. I ask him about The Last Supper. "It is right in this building! Do you want to go and see it?"
"Sure" I say.
"A lady, a resident here made it and gave it to us."
"Really?" Now I have no idea what to expect. I had planned on a print of the Leonardo, neatly matted under glass. I follow him through the corridors. We set off the alarm, since he holds the door open for a small lady pushing a walker. He leads me to their dining room, with bright colored table cloths and sunflowers in little vases. And he leads me to The Last Supper. It is printed on fabric. Sewn together around the edges, like a little quilt. The image is certainly based on the Leonardo Da Vinci, but redrawn, with much less grace.
"Look at their faces, their expressions" he says. "Look at the bread and the wine in the cups. Look at their hands and look at our Lord in the middle. Isn't it beautiful. What do you think?" His eyes begin to tear and there is a shiny splotch under his nose.
"It is lovely. It is very beautiful. Thank you for showing me."
"I was a colonel in the army for 44 years and then had a stroke. War is a terrible thing. My wife was an artist, and loved to paint. We traveled all over the world But she doesn't see now. A disease in her eyes."
"Oh." I nod.
"Sometimes that's just the way life is".
We walk back to through the hallways, I try not to look into the rooms too much. We set off the alarm again, he doesn't seem to mind. I find my Dad and he finds his wife.
"She is 101 years old", another lady tells me as they leave the room together.
I pick up the music stand and walk out with Dad and pastor Jerry. We push the button codes to go out the door and step out into the cold air.
I have noticed the tension of choice a lot lately. I hadn't wanted to come this afternoon. I had wanted to go home and nap. But as I always find, when I attempt to do somthing a little bit better than what I want, that I am glad I did. There are so many choices, day after day, between doing something for myself and doing something, that I somehow know in my gut, is what Jesus wants. And he probably wants it to teach me something really important, and maybe I will learn to love others a little bit along the way.
When pastor Jerry stands up for his sermon he asks, as his opening question, what holiday is coming up this week? There is some mumbling of the correct thanksgiving answer, but Mr. Green again jumps in with,
"Billie Holiday! I knew her, she was gorgeous." I decide I like him best.
"She was a great jazz artist."
Jerry pulls everyone back to thanksgiving, but I am afraid I didn't pay very much attention as I looked around the room, and wondered how I would feel being told to celebrate and be thankful in their situation. Many of the songs that Dad chooses to sing are about suffering, about waiting for heaven, about death really, and I feel uncomfortable singing it with them, to them, being young and healthy and able to drive my car anywhere I want to go. I wonder if that is comforting, singing about "loved ones in the glory" and "understanding better by and by", or if they would rather just forget for a while. I guess I won't know until I am with them someday.
"There is a beautiful painting here. The Last Supper." Mr. Green interupts the sermon. "It is beautiful. Right in this building." And again his face scrunches up with tears again, for just a moment and then it is gone. I like him better and better. At the end of the little service, after finishing with "Brighten the Corner Where you Are", another one that might make me furious if I were them, though they appear to be fine, Mr. Green tells Dad and I that we should make a recording. I ask him about The Last Supper. "It is right in this building! Do you want to go and see it?"
"Sure" I say.
"A lady, a resident here made it and gave it to us."
"Really?" Now I have no idea what to expect. I had planned on a print of the Leonardo, neatly matted under glass. I follow him through the corridors. We set off the alarm, since he holds the door open for a small lady pushing a walker. He leads me to their dining room, with bright colored table cloths and sunflowers in little vases. And he leads me to The Last Supper. It is printed on fabric. Sewn together around the edges, like a little quilt. The image is certainly based on the Leonardo Da Vinci, but redrawn, with much less grace.
"Look at their faces, their expressions" he says. "Look at the bread and the wine in the cups. Look at their hands and look at our Lord in the middle. Isn't it beautiful. What do you think?" His eyes begin to tear and there is a shiny splotch under his nose.
"It is lovely. It is very beautiful. Thank you for showing me."
"I was a colonel in the army for 44 years and then had a stroke. War is a terrible thing. My wife was an artist, and loved to paint. We traveled all over the world But she doesn't see now. A disease in her eyes."
"Oh." I nod.
"Sometimes that's just the way life is".
We walk back to through the hallways, I try not to look into the rooms too much. We set off the alarm again, he doesn't seem to mind. I find my Dad and he finds his wife.
"She is 101 years old", another lady tells me as they leave the room together.
I pick up the music stand and walk out with Dad and pastor Jerry. We push the button codes to go out the door and step out into the cold air.
I have noticed the tension of choice a lot lately. I hadn't wanted to come this afternoon. I had wanted to go home and nap. But as I always find, when I attempt to do somthing a little bit better than what I want, that I am glad I did. There are so many choices, day after day, between doing something for myself and doing something, that I somehow know in my gut, is what Jesus wants. And he probably wants it to teach me something really important, and maybe I will learn to love others a little bit along the way.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
the church: yesterday, today, tomorrow
I had this great plan to lay out in three posts my history in the church, how I have grown, what I believe and to make it all sound great. I thought that I "got it". Got the church and knew my place in it. Today I feel like I am five years old and have to learn everything all over again. The senior pastor at my church announced his resignation this morning. He has been there for eighteen years. Since before my family and I began attending. It turns the church upside down and we have to look at ourselves again, see who we are, together, individually.
The fall of my freshman year of college, my parents seperated. I don't remember that time very well. I remember sitting in the lunch room at school, pulling the peel off my orange, and I remember my art history class, but I don't remember what was going on with church, or even very much at home. I do remember that after the separation, neither of my parents felt comfortable in our church, understandably, and both eventually left. As far as I know they were the first couple in our church to divorce. My brother and sister had begun to attend a large Evangelical Free church for the larger youth group, and homeschooled friends. I think I went to church with my friend Joella during this time. We tried a lot of different places, but were pretty snobby and nothing was ever good enough. But I didn't think that I could go back to Elizabethtown BIC, my home church, because I was the kid of the divorced people. And I didn't fit in. And I was an art major of all things.
Choosing to study art was really hard to explain to people in churches. I felt like I got raised eyebrows and it immediately stopped conversation. An art major. Nothing more to say. I think it was just before the church got saturated with the movement to embrace art. Now they are trying, and in some forward leaning congregations, artists are wonderful and are super-encouraged to produce relevant work that will both glorify God and wow the secular culture. But I think that is just as awkward for artists and much more pressure. They are just people who work hard hard hard to communicate something that they see. If you are going to do it right, it really isn't very different from any other job. You work. You get dirty and practice a lot. You just don't get paid.
So I floundered for three whole years. Three. No church home. A community of art students. A couple of christian friends here and there. A family that was broken, but very committed to faith, and my Mom and Dad both saw me though a lot. I was so thirsty for a community that cared about me. But looking back, though I would never recommend the church hopping thing to anyone, I am thankful for what I learned about the church at large. I visited a lot of places. Big, non-denominational churches, lutheran churches, mennonite churches. My favorite was an Assemblies of God church in Lancaster City. It was gospely and noisy and the people raised their hands and said "Amen". The worship leader had the hugest smile on her face.
By the end of my junior year I kind of hit my low point. It had been a tough year academically and relationally. I'd had my first romantic relationship with a classmate and it ended terribly. My mom was close to being engaged and my best friend Joella was getting married and was moving to New York City. The main thing that helped sustain my faith that year were some talks at the local Borders bookstore. I had been introduced to them the previous summer by Doug, a non-christian co-worker. A pure artist. He still sends me email updates about building a raft out of who knows what, and sailing from Manhattan to New Jersey, about hanging from some art installation on the ceiling of a museum in Sweden, about producing a radio show in Paris. He wanted to go to this talk at Borders one night because they were discussing the movie, The Elephant Man. He said it was being led my some pastor. I was highly suspicious, but thought I should go in case this pastor said something that I would later have to defend and explain. Not the case. It was like a drink of fresh water. I was introduced to Presbyterians. They were ahead of the curve, embracing art, the real world. They were savvy and cool and as solid as a rock. I was amazed and went every month that year. At the end of my junior year, I went to one meeting of the Reformed University Fellowship group at Millersville University, led by the Borders talk pastor.
And, I can't remember why, but one sunday I stepped back into Elizabethtown BIC, somehow dragged myself into the young adult sunday school class, received an immediate hug from an old youth group friend, and decided to stay.
At the end of my senior year I attended a conference in Florida with RUF, and attended a seminar about the church. Presbyterians are pretty tough about church. They say, in no few words, that you should be in one, and that you need it, that it is God's only plan for his people. I almost became Reformed myself that year, still dance on the edge sometimes, but at that conference, both because of learning, with a good deal of surprise, about the five points of Calvinism, and because they pushed so hard to commit to your local church, I ended up still Bretheren in Christ.
Tonight I was planning on going to a Derek Webb concert. Derek is the other influence for church of my college days. His sound is acoustic and folky and he is one of the most courageous, plain speaking christian musicians that we have right now. He has sometimes been called a prophet for our time and place, and he both calls the church to obedience, and also depicts God's huge love for the church in lines like these...
So when I got up this morning and got my shower, got dressed and drove to church I planned on hearing Derek tonight. But I walked in the doors and heard the end of the first service and knew something wasn't normal. There was a woman speaking, reading a letter about how much we appreciate the service of Pastor Hall in the last eighteen years. I stood out in the hallway, leaned against the cinder block walls under the loudspeaker and listened. He is leaving. And there would be a meeting in the evening to learn more. I so wanted to go to the concert. To be encouraged. To get away and think. But I knew way down in my gut. This is my church. I need to love it. I need to go and hear. Derek would tell me to anyway.
And the meeting was good. It will be a long journey. There will be an interim pastor and we will take our time relearning who we are. But as Pastor hall said tonight, our church dosen't belong to him, or to us, it belongs to Jesus. And He is the same yesterday, today, and He will still be the same tomorrow.
The fall of my freshman year of college, my parents seperated. I don't remember that time very well. I remember sitting in the lunch room at school, pulling the peel off my orange, and I remember my art history class, but I don't remember what was going on with church, or even very much at home. I do remember that after the separation, neither of my parents felt comfortable in our church, understandably, and both eventually left. As far as I know they were the first couple in our church to divorce. My brother and sister had begun to attend a large Evangelical Free church for the larger youth group, and homeschooled friends. I think I went to church with my friend Joella during this time. We tried a lot of different places, but were pretty snobby and nothing was ever good enough. But I didn't think that I could go back to Elizabethtown BIC, my home church, because I was the kid of the divorced people. And I didn't fit in. And I was an art major of all things.
Choosing to study art was really hard to explain to people in churches. I felt like I got raised eyebrows and it immediately stopped conversation. An art major. Nothing more to say. I think it was just before the church got saturated with the movement to embrace art. Now they are trying, and in some forward leaning congregations, artists are wonderful and are super-encouraged to produce relevant work that will both glorify God and wow the secular culture. But I think that is just as awkward for artists and much more pressure. They are just people who work hard hard hard to communicate something that they see. If you are going to do it right, it really isn't very different from any other job. You work. You get dirty and practice a lot. You just don't get paid.
So I floundered for three whole years. Three. No church home. A community of art students. A couple of christian friends here and there. A family that was broken, but very committed to faith, and my Mom and Dad both saw me though a lot. I was so thirsty for a community that cared about me. But looking back, though I would never recommend the church hopping thing to anyone, I am thankful for what I learned about the church at large. I visited a lot of places. Big, non-denominational churches, lutheran churches, mennonite churches. My favorite was an Assemblies of God church in Lancaster City. It was gospely and noisy and the people raised their hands and said "Amen". The worship leader had the hugest smile on her face.
By the end of my junior year I kind of hit my low point. It had been a tough year academically and relationally. I'd had my first romantic relationship with a classmate and it ended terribly. My mom was close to being engaged and my best friend Joella was getting married and was moving to New York City. The main thing that helped sustain my faith that year were some talks at the local Borders bookstore. I had been introduced to them the previous summer by Doug, a non-christian co-worker. A pure artist. He still sends me email updates about building a raft out of who knows what, and sailing from Manhattan to New Jersey, about hanging from some art installation on the ceiling of a museum in Sweden, about producing a radio show in Paris. He wanted to go to this talk at Borders one night because they were discussing the movie, The Elephant Man. He said it was being led my some pastor. I was highly suspicious, but thought I should go in case this pastor said something that I would later have to defend and explain. Not the case. It was like a drink of fresh water. I was introduced to Presbyterians. They were ahead of the curve, embracing art, the real world. They were savvy and cool and as solid as a rock. I was amazed and went every month that year. At the end of my junior year, I went to one meeting of the Reformed University Fellowship group at Millersville University, led by the Borders talk pastor.
And, I can't remember why, but one sunday I stepped back into Elizabethtown BIC, somehow dragged myself into the young adult sunday school class, received an immediate hug from an old youth group friend, and decided to stay.
At the end of my senior year I attended a conference in Florida with RUF, and attended a seminar about the church. Presbyterians are pretty tough about church. They say, in no few words, that you should be in one, and that you need it, that it is God's only plan for his people. I almost became Reformed myself that year, still dance on the edge sometimes, but at that conference, both because of learning, with a good deal of surprise, about the five points of Calvinism, and because they pushed so hard to commit to your local church, I ended up still Bretheren in Christ.
Tonight I was planning on going to a Derek Webb concert. Derek is the other influence for church of my college days. His sound is acoustic and folky and he is one of the most courageous, plain speaking christian musicians that we have right now. He has sometimes been called a prophet for our time and place, and he both calls the church to obedience, and also depicts God's huge love for the church in lines like these...
So when you hear the sound of the water you will know you're not alone...
When you taste my flesh and my blood you will know you're not alone.
I haven't come for only you, but for My people to pursue. You cannot care for Me, with no regard for Her.
If you love Me you will love the Church.
So when I got up this morning and got my shower, got dressed and drove to church I planned on hearing Derek tonight. But I walked in the doors and heard the end of the first service and knew something wasn't normal. There was a woman speaking, reading a letter about how much we appreciate the service of Pastor Hall in the last eighteen years. I stood out in the hallway, leaned against the cinder block walls under the loudspeaker and listened. He is leaving. And there would be a meeting in the evening to learn more. I so wanted to go to the concert. To be encouraged. To get away and think. But I knew way down in my gut. This is my church. I need to love it. I need to go and hear. Derek would tell me to anyway.
And the meeting was good. It will be a long journey. There will be an interim pastor and we will take our time relearning who we are. But as Pastor hall said tonight, our church dosen't belong to him, or to us, it belongs to Jesus. And He is the same yesterday, today, and He will still be the same tomorrow.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
a little christmas, a little early
So I know that it is only the beginning of November, but this is way too funny to wait.
Click HERE to listen to what has now been labled the "Most Abominable O Holy Night" in the history of caroling. I know, I know, I'll do anything to make your season brighter. :-)
Monday, November 06, 2006
the church: adolescence
Hey, not sure why this post wasn't saved and got replaced by post below. If you've already read it, go down and read about birds. If not, enjoy.
I have had an off again, on again relationship with my church. My family began to attend Elizabethotown Bretheren in Christ when I was in third grade. I went to Sunday school and made friends, learned songs, colored pictures, memorized verses, made macaroni neckalces, went to camp. Overall, as a kid, church was good.
But as fun and enjoyable as church was as a kid, that is how awkward it became as an adolescent. In fourth grade I began to homeschool, and continued, except for ninth grade, until graduation. The youth group at church was big and I was the kid on the outside. Literally. Sometimes the group of kids would stand in a tight circle and laugh and talk about last night’s Saturday Night Live, which I had totally never seen, and it was physically impossible to squeeze in. But youth group... That is where I learned to love Jesus. I joined the quiz team in junior high. The others on the team were older, and were nice and very funny and I loved it. Our youth pastor Jim, was an amazing teacher. One of the best spiritual mentors I ever had. So, by the time I finished my ninth grade year in school, and decided to homeschool again, two factors in youth group were decided. I wasn’t gonna mesh with the SNL/ Austin Powers clan. I wanted to, they were incredibly cool, it just wasn’t happening. And I knew that Jesus really loved me.
Here is an evening that stands out as one of the most special in my life. I attended a smaller Bible study, maybe eight people. I remember praying together, sitting crosslegged on the floor. We were studying something like Ephesians. What I really remember was the struggle inside. It is one of those things that is easy to trivialize now, but I was in love, for real I think...and he was starting to see someone else. She was my friend, an amazing young woman that I looked up to. And they both sat in that room praying with me, and my heart ached. At the end of the evening, one of our leaders asked me to wait a minute before leaving. He left the room and came back with the flowers from the alter that sunday. Pink carnations. He and his wife were deacons and it was their responsibility to take the flowers that week and give them to whoever they chose. And he gave them to me. I went home that night and photographed those flowers from every possible angle, then I laid down on my bed and lifted my arms to the ceiling and I am sure that Jesus gave me a hug that night. A real one.
In tenth grade, when I began to homeschool again, I joined a co-op with other homeschooled students my age. I made some great friends and felt like I was in heaven. They read books instead of watching late night tv, and that year I read GK Chesterton for the first time. And we talked about it! Me and my tenth grade homeschooled friends. So I invested more there and began attending a little charasmatic church called Capital Christian, where many of my new friends went. It was a switch. They sang songs for a long time and I went through the whole, “am I ok if I don’t speak in tongues question”, and decided that I was. But it is interesting now that of the other students that went there, one became Catholic, one Messianic, one Presbyterian, so not many really stayed in the loose charasmatic tradition. Probably because we read too much Chesterton.
I think I maintained somthing of a dual relationship with both churches until graduation. Maybe I went to youth group in E-town in wednesday nights, and Capital on Sundays. By the time I graduated, I was fairly unconnected with both. Jim left his position as youth pastor to a new position as a senior pastor at another church, and all my homeschooling friends graduated and scattered. A lot was brewing with my family as well, and I entered college feeling very disconnected from any particular church. My faith was strong, but there was no support system to handle the changes to come.
I have had an off again, on again relationship with my church. My family began to attend Elizabethotown Bretheren in Christ when I was in third grade. I went to Sunday school and made friends, learned songs, colored pictures, memorized verses, made macaroni neckalces, went to camp. Overall, as a kid, church was good.
But as fun and enjoyable as church was as a kid, that is how awkward it became as an adolescent. In fourth grade I began to homeschool, and continued, except for ninth grade, until graduation. The youth group at church was big and I was the kid on the outside. Literally. Sometimes the group of kids would stand in a tight circle and laugh and talk about last night’s Saturday Night Live, which I had totally never seen, and it was physically impossible to squeeze in. But youth group... That is where I learned to love Jesus. I joined the quiz team in junior high. The others on the team were older, and were nice and very funny and I loved it. Our youth pastor Jim, was an amazing teacher. One of the best spiritual mentors I ever had. So, by the time I finished my ninth grade year in school, and decided to homeschool again, two factors in youth group were decided. I wasn’t gonna mesh with the SNL/ Austin Powers clan. I wanted to, they were incredibly cool, it just wasn’t happening. And I knew that Jesus really loved me.
Here is an evening that stands out as one of the most special in my life. I attended a smaller Bible study, maybe eight people. I remember praying together, sitting crosslegged on the floor. We were studying something like Ephesians. What I really remember was the struggle inside. It is one of those things that is easy to trivialize now, but I was in love, for real I think...and he was starting to see someone else. She was my friend, an amazing young woman that I looked up to. And they both sat in that room praying with me, and my heart ached. At the end of the evening, one of our leaders asked me to wait a minute before leaving. He left the room and came back with the flowers from the alter that sunday. Pink carnations. He and his wife were deacons and it was their responsibility to take the flowers that week and give them to whoever they chose. And he gave them to me. I went home that night and photographed those flowers from every possible angle, then I laid down on my bed and lifted my arms to the ceiling and I am sure that Jesus gave me a hug that night. A real one.
In tenth grade, when I began to homeschool again, I joined a co-op with other homeschooled students my age. I made some great friends and felt like I was in heaven. They read books instead of watching late night tv, and that year I read GK Chesterton for the first time. And we talked about it! Me and my tenth grade homeschooled friends. So I invested more there and began attending a little charasmatic church called Capital Christian, where many of my new friends went. It was a switch. They sang songs for a long time and I went through the whole, “am I ok if I don’t speak in tongues question”, and decided that I was. But it is interesting now that of the other students that went there, one became Catholic, one Messianic, one Presbyterian, so not many really stayed in the loose charasmatic tradition. Probably because we read too much Chesterton.I think I maintained somthing of a dual relationship with both churches until graduation. Maybe I went to youth group in E-town in wednesday nights, and Capital on Sundays. By the time I graduated, I was fairly unconnected with both. Jim left his position as youth pastor to a new position as a senior pastor at another church, and all my homeschooling friends graduated and scattered. A lot was brewing with my family as well, and I entered college feeling very disconnected from any particular church. My faith was strong, but there was no support system to handle the changes to come.
blue heron, white egret
There is a white egret that lives down at the creek that we can see from the new office. At least there was. Rob named him Fernando, but like a great ship or explorer he may have sailed down south now. I am not sure if he was a snowy or a great egret. It was amazing watching him, though, always at a distance, such a bright pure white. There are gulls that sometimes sit at the creek too...and are also white, and sometimes seeing them, you'd think it might be Fernando, but weren't quite sure. But when you saw him, you knew. He was so brilliant and I could just make out the curve of his long neck. It reminds me of how CS Lewis describes hearing the voice of God in Till We Have Faces,
A god's voice...is not to be mistaken. It may well be that by trickery of priests men have sometimes taken a mortal's voice for a god's. But it will not work the other way. No one who hears a god's voice takes it for a mortals.
I am one of those people who asks God things and then waits with my brow furrowed until I think I can hear an answer. I usually think of some cool answer myself and then spend a fruitless amount of time trying to convince myself that God might have been part of that too. I am trying to stop doing that, because I do know that when God wants me to know something, he lets me know.
Last night I went walking on the trail behind our house. I have been very into Pilates for the last month, but I can only do it every other day to let my muscles heal. So I went for a walk because the fall air was lovely and I had to do something to make up for the hot fudge sunday at lunch at McDonalds. There is a crosswalk at the end of our road and the path crosses the street and then winds around a little pond. I stood waiting at the corner to cross, watching the SUV behind me. He stopped and honked and waved me on and just as I turned my head to cross the road, a Great Blue Heron landed on the bank of the pond in front of me. Herons are remarkably graceful. Even more the the Pilates instructor on my video. It was like his body and wings were water that had lifted from the pond. Like a swimmer treading water, moving in slow, smooth and perfect motion. I got across the street somehow and carefully moved around the pond watching him. I stopped directly across from and watched what I never thought I would see. He did what he was designed for and caught a fish. I could see it flapping and silvery in the his beak.
I walked on for a while and enjoyed the remaining patches of color in the understories. Some bright Maples and Beeches are still looking lovely. I ran a little bit and tried to walk remembering to hold in my stomach. When I got back to the pond a father and son were there fishing. The heron stood beside them, perhaps to rub it in that he had caught a fish and they had not. The boy watched him for a while and then cast his line over near the bird and scared him. On purpose. His father appeared to scold him, but then walked toward the heron himself, the bird cautiously stepped away, and the father took his spot at the pond. I guess to try to catch a fish. I felt like the guardian of the bird. Not that he needed it. He could have flown any time he wanted to, but I wonder why we have this tendency, as humans, to take advantage, to display our dominance, over something as amazing and awe-inspiring and "just minding it's own business" as a Great Blue Heron. Perhaps because it truly is better at fishing and more lovely than any dancer. But it is still so vulnerable compared to our fishing lines and SUVs.
I have had the hardest time this election season deciding who to vote for, whether I could stand to vote at all, and it might simply depend on which side of the bed I roll out of tomorrow. My mom told me that I need to decide what issues are important to me and then follow my consience. These two birds are important... I'd vote for someone that wouldn't shove them over to take the better fishing spot. Just not sure who that is.
So how does the voice of God come into this? I didn't have an outline for this post, and it's amazing how a writing takes a shape I wasn't expecting. But it ties together because his voice is our source. It called us, the earth, and every creature into existence and to being exactly what he wanted it to be. May he continue to do that everyday. Because his creation, all that he touches and shapes, is real, there is no mistaking it for anything else. The cell phone tower may look like a tree for a moment, but there is no mistaking a brilliant golden maple. There is no mistaking that our creator knows what he is doing.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
socializing
Today was an odd day. One of those days that I had to stay in a perpetually socially "on" state, (except for the pilates break after work), and I got sort of moody, and tried to hide it and still be "on", but I never succeed, the moodiness still comes through. So good grief, I am glad the day is over and it is time to go to bed. We did FINALLY get the internet at work, but are STILL waiting for furniture. Our stress level is definitely running higher than usual. It's like we have been hanging in mid-air for the last three weeks waiting to settle in and get back to normal. Then I had dinner with some friends from church... It was good to see Amy, a friend who was a part of our church and young adult class for several years before moving back to her home in western PA. This woman is amazing. She is running and managing her father's dairy farm by herself since he passed away last summer.
And then I went to a new Bible study at a little tea shop in Hummelstown. I got a decaf Chai from the frenchman who owns the cafe, with a huge mustache, and we sat down to discuss Philemon. I am liking this group. It is exciting to be meeting new people, but it is also stressful. It feels like it takes a long time for me to settle in and be comfortable and act like myself... and to learn about the other people too, and who they are and to see them act like themselves with me. I have finally gotten there at church with my Sunday school class. We just know and like each other. But more about that later!
So tomorrow will be pretty much the same. I am heading to work, will have a meeting with my boss Chris from 4:00-5:00, will rush to my car and fight through traffic to get to church E-town, almost an hour away! There is dinner at church, which is such a blessing and then Primary choir, the highlight of my week, and then I am going to hit the bar. Yeah, really. I am meeting with an old co-worker, Stephanie, who called me out of the blue last night (the other huge highlight of my week :-) and we are getting together to chat at a little pub in e-town, and then there is some sort of trivia game, and other people, ironically from this new Bible study come, so I am excited and nervous and trying to decide whether to order a gin and tonic and how to act like I do this kind of thing all the time.
Thank goodness nothing is going on Thursday night. Unless someone gives me a call.
Because really, lately I am so happy to spend time with people. I'm generally an introvert and I like time to myself to do things like write super long blog posts, and I do get stressed and feel awkward being a social butterfly. But sometimes, and rather often, I'll admit it, Me Myself and I are not good company.
So there is the rundown on life these days. It is good. And thank you all for your friendship. Much love, Joanna
And then I went to a new Bible study at a little tea shop in Hummelstown. I got a decaf Chai from the frenchman who owns the cafe, with a huge mustache, and we sat down to discuss Philemon. I am liking this group. It is exciting to be meeting new people, but it is also stressful. It feels like it takes a long time for me to settle in and be comfortable and act like myself... and to learn about the other people too, and who they are and to see them act like themselves with me. I have finally gotten there at church with my Sunday school class. We just know and like each other. But more about that later!
So tomorrow will be pretty much the same. I am heading to work, will have a meeting with my boss Chris from 4:00-5:00, will rush to my car and fight through traffic to get to church E-town, almost an hour away! There is dinner at church, which is such a blessing and then Primary choir, the highlight of my week, and then I am going to hit the bar. Yeah, really. I am meeting with an old co-worker, Stephanie, who called me out of the blue last night (the other huge highlight of my week :-) and we are getting together to chat at a little pub in e-town, and then there is some sort of trivia game, and other people, ironically from this new Bible study come, so I am excited and nervous and trying to decide whether to order a gin and tonic and how to act like I do this kind of thing all the time.
Thank goodness nothing is going on Thursday night. Unless someone gives me a call.
Because really, lately I am so happy to spend time with people. I'm generally an introvert and I like time to myself to do things like write super long blog posts, and I do get stressed and feel awkward being a social butterfly. But sometimes, and rather often, I'll admit it, Me Myself and I are not good company.
So there is the rundown on life these days. It is good. And thank you all for your friendship. Much love, Joanna
Sunday, October 29, 2006
the church: introduction
The church is a hot topic in blogging and discussion. Both Troy and Susan, my two favorite bloggers, have been writing about the emerging church. I attend a Bretheren in Christ church, which has strong anabaptist roots, but my local congregation has been transitioning slowly to a more liturgical style. My Dad and sister attend evangelical churches, my Dad's small and familiar, my sister's very large and professional. My brother and all of my co-workers are Reformed, and my stepfather, Kurt, is Lutheran. My mom attends church with Kurt, and sometimes they will hop over to a service with me, but she will calmly tell you that she dosen't feel that she fits anywhere, and is just a believer. So the lines smudge and blur quite a lot and I am not simply assigning labels, but as you can see, church comes up...
I have been thinking about this post for the last week, and the subject has just grown and expanded, so I am going to post in "chapters", sharing my history over several periods of time. I have it broken down into three sections, childhood through highschool, then college, and post-college, so stay tuned. This will be an interesting exercise for me as well, simply to think about the path that I have taken... Please feel free to comment along the way.
I hope, though, that what comes through as I write is a clear picture of my love for the church, in all it's frailty, in all it's mundane sunday to sunday repitition. Something huge is going on there, something that blesses when we least expect it. I think it is Jesus's love for his people. And every once in a while, usually a lot more often than we think, it comes through his people too.
I have been thinking about this post for the last week, and the subject has just grown and expanded, so I am going to post in "chapters", sharing my history over several periods of time. I have it broken down into three sections, childhood through highschool, then college, and post-college, so stay tuned. This will be an interesting exercise for me as well, simply to think about the path that I have taken... Please feel free to comment along the way.
I hope, though, that what comes through as I write is a clear picture of my love for the church, in all it's frailty, in all it's mundane sunday to sunday repitition. Something huge is going on there, something that blesses when we least expect it. I think it is Jesus's love for his people. And every once in a while, usually a lot more often than we think, it comes through his people too.
The Church by Don Cohen
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