Approaching Forgiveness

As I type this morning, I'm not coming up with an idea or story or of my own, so what I'd like to do is share two blogs that have spoken to me lately. One is from Donald Miller's Storyline blog written by Allison Vesterfelt, and the other is from Proverbs 31 Ministries. Both blogs discuss the idea of forgiveness in a very counter-intuitive way: Thinking carefully before taking offense to begin with.

If you're sensitive like me, this is a bit radical, because when you feel things deeply you run into any number of people and situations every day that step on your metaphorical toes and elbow your emotional ribs. The universe [appears to be] constantly out to get you, and there's nothing more you'd love to do than come out swinging.

But both blogs ask us to consider the what's happening on the other end of the conversation or event.

They call us to consider that the other person may be dealing with their own crap-- and perhaps you  got caught in their storm, however nominally or violently. Maybe it wasn't personal, as in, they were out to get "you"; maybe they're mad at themselves or God or their parents and you were the person in their path.

These blogs aren't about not being sensitive, feeling individuals, nor are they about ignoring true hurt or pain or abuse. What they are about is wisdom and perspective in our relationships and circumstances. They encourage us to get out of our heads and get on with the life we WANT to live, not one where our present and future is defined by past offenses, real or imagined; horrible or petty.

One thing these blogs do not address are dealing with conflict directly; that's honestly another topic, and a very worthwhile one.These speak more to our process of perceiving conflict and reflecting on our heart's attitude-- a good place to begin.

On Paper Towels and My Need to Sop Up Life's Messy Mistakes

Image from  http://indianapublicmedia.org/amomentofscience/how-do-paper-towels-absorb-water/

I have a lot of paper towels. Actually just a lot of towels, period.


I grew up around lots of paper towels-- the things you used for drying your hands that might still have a little bit of dirt on them, for patting vegetables dry, for cleaning up anything that you didn't want to fool with having to rinse and squeeze out a sponge. They were awesome-- just wipe and snap! throw it in the garbage. You're done.

When my husband and I married, I merged our collections of bathroom towels, keeping some for public use and others for garage/lake/project towels. I grew up trained in the idea that all towels and materials have a use, so "nice" towels got demoted to garage towels, from garage towels, they turned into rags, and after that...well, you can always use rags.

I might have learned to be too resourceful. Recently I've started having to make NBA-worthy jumps and dunks to toss the garage towels on top of the shelves, we have so many. And recently I discovered that I have rolls of paper towels tucked into nearly every cabinet and shelf in the house.

I might be obsessed with cleaning.

It's laughable, but also it's unfortunately not a bad metaphor for how I often live life--with a mop and bucket, ready to clean and squeegee away any mistakes, pretending as if they never happened. It's a tight, controlling way to live, but it satisfies my need to keep up appearances, to cover up my weaknesses.

This isn't a Biblical way of thinking, nor is it a relational and spiritual way of living. It's surface and succinct.

I wonder what would happen if I ran out of all my towels? If some messes didn't get cleaned up right away, if things were a little stickier? Well, I speak from personal experience in regards to the house--there'd be more ants and grime, so I think I'll try to stay on top of the cleaning as best as I can. But in regards to the metaphor, maybe I can let some things go, risk getting a little dirtier, and not minding the stickiness.

That's life, after all. And sometimes it's in those sticky and dirty places we often learn the most.

Here's to the empty roll.

Where My Creativity Went

Graphic by Andrew Zahn via DawnHyperdrive on Facebook

I've seen these lists on Facebook a lot. Like most memes on Facebook, it's cute, I've seen it before, and usually pass it by. 

But I shared this because I had a conversation with a friend this week that reminded me that these principles aren't just for  artists or self-proclaimed creative people. They're for anyone who wants to do more than drift through the day.

A friend of mine recently described the emptiness he feels since finishing grad school. "I'm not who I was in college, you know?" he said. "I don't know who this person is anymore."

This friend has also been through a traumatic romantic relationship, financial exhaustion, and fruitless job searches. His strength, his energy, is zapped. 

I experienced something similar after grad school (I'm starting to believe that most people do) . I wondered if the cool kid I [thought that I] was in college was there anymore, or if aliens had abducted my spritely, creative self, replacing it with a tired late-20's something who suddenly cared overmuch about bedtime. My soul was tired and I felt emotionally and spiritually empty.

The funniest part though, was that, even while I felt exhausted and empty, there was a part of me that told myself that that was the way it's supposed to be. It's part of getting older--it's natural to not feel as fun anymore, it's natural to feel pretty uninspired when you try to pay bills, it's just part of life when your bubble and zip ebb away. 

I'd seen it happen to so many others, so perhaps it was just my turn.

Thankfully I was, and still am, surrounded by resolutely funny, creative, strong people--in my family, at work, and at church--who could counter that lie  for me--and a lie it is. They expressed concern when I seemed lethargic, they wouldn't stop asking me what I was reading, and they kept suggesting movies. And they told me about their projects --whether writing, building, painting, or cooking--and those ideas seeped into me.

Their encouragement and inspiration helped exhume my soul, to reference "Warm Bodies". When my natural zombie tendency towards lifelessness crept in, these friends and family reminded me how to create a life.

It's true, in some ways, that as we age, we have more demands put on us and outputs that we're responsible for. Whether work, or children, or what have you--there are more activities in our lives that demand energy. 

But if that's the case, I'm finding I need a balance of outputs with restorative inputs. I need soul-filling people and activities around me. I'm also finding that I need to check those other demands at the door--whether they're necessary drains (paying bills) or life-suckers (bad relationships, meaningless activities).

The most fulfilling people and activities I invest time in are those who remind me who I am, what I love, what I value. Yes, it's the stuff of art, but art, true art, is the outpouring of creativity. Spend time finding yours.

 

Irony is a Low Tire

I had the day planned.

I slept well.

I ate well.

I was planning to shave my legs this morning.

But such perfect planning is bound to go awry. The hairs on the back of my neck said all was not well when my husband left for work and I started to get dressed.

My hair was thickly lathered with shampoo when my husband knocked on the bathroom door.

"Um, hey, babe?" he called out.

I knew it.

"Yeah?" I answered, with eyes scrunched up under tea-tree shampoo foam.

He breaks the news.

"The tires on the rental car are low, so I'm going to have to air them up before I leave and maybe take the car back to the rental place."

Thus missing a morning of work. Thus possibly needing the truck to drive and/or me to meet him at the rental place...thus one more thing.

Not to mention the fact that the reason he has a rental in the first place is because of a low back tire. Nothing like a damaged replacement to set you on edge.

We had a conversation, basically resetting and replanning our perfectly planned days, as I rinsed my hair, hurridly shaved my legs (no nicks, thankfully) and finally joined him outside to stare at the woebetide car.

Irony.

Isn't that they way it is. We plan and plan and try to be responsible, but sometimes there are simply outside forces are at work. So we center ourselves, eat breakfast (which we did before we made any other rash decisions), and try to focus on the next thing.

Even our solutions don't really work at times, and that's okay. Sometimes you just have to suck it up and revel in the irony.

Some Thoughts on Commitment

This blog is later than usual. No, thankfully The Hubby encountered no other collisions, but rather I had an early assignment this morning to take care of. Funny, this is closing in on 30 posts and I think I can say that blogging is becoming a habit. I start feeling a little itchy when I don't do it.

Because I'm just that committed. Or just that OCD.

There's a fine line between those two. When I'm OCD, I do things almost mindlessly, as if an outside source compels me, makes me, do whatever the task. I do something because in a way I have to--otherwise I feel incomplete and less-than.

Commitment is a different bird. Commitment can have external motivators (for instance, commitment to daily showers prevents unpleasant physical manifestations) but more often it comes from an intentional inner drive. Commitment happens when I say, "No, I don't feel like doing X, Y, or Z, but I KNOW it's the right thing to be done, or it needs to be done."

Similar to what I wrote yesterday, man, this whole "feelings versus knowledge" thing is tough.

I've realized lately that I'm way better at becoming mindlessly OCD at certain tasks than I am commitment. OCD (in the non-physiological condition) in a way is an obsession with my personal comforts and tastes. It makes me fixate on perfection and my idea of it.

Commitment, however, isn't nearly as worried about Self. It places a higher value on honor and truth over comfort and free will.  This is true whether in regards to a relationship or that volunteer project you decided to take on.

This blog can be a little OCD to me--just one more brick that I use to make my perceived permanent, perfect castle of Self--but it's also become a commitment to write, to develop the gift I have. It's not always easy, but I'm reminded that nothing good in the making is.

Monday Morning Insecurities

Yes, I realize that it's Tuesday.

This was a title that popped in my head yesterday while The Hubby and I were driving around town looking for a rental car because his own Civic died in a car crash Friday morning.


Thankfully The Hubby wasn't badly hurt, only jarred and shaken, as can only be imagined. A blown tire forced the car to roll off the interstate, so, yeah, car's gone. But I'd rather have a new car than a new husband.

What ensued was a weekend of Bio-Freeze and ice-packs, as well as Star Trek, Home Improvement, and anything else streaming on Netflix. It's always fun to relax when you choose to, always a little rough when you're forced to, but we made it, and he's back at work this morning.

So the weekend turned out to be a little busy so that's why I didn't write yesterday.

Let me just say that the whole dealing with insurance thing, getting a car rental, suddenly having to test-drive and seriously consider buying a new car...is weird. It's rough and unfamiliar (which is, I suppose, a good thing since that means we're not in the habit of engaging in accidents). But such unfamiliarity can tear you up. Both my husband and I were edgy and anxious yesterday morning as we prepared for a day of car shopping, even while he was still recovering from whiplash, even as his chest and shoulders felt sore from the tension and jolting of the wreck.

But there was something else, too.

I peered at him over our coffee break while we tried to figure out our next course of action. "You okay?" I asked. "Whatcha feelin'?"

He sighed and looked up at me. "I just feel...so...I don't like this. I don't know how to do this," he laughed. "It's unfamiliar. I'm tired of forging new territories--insurance, new car, rentals."

This from the guy who would gladly research anything online for hours, but when the "have-to" hammer dropped, felt pressured and anxious.

We shared a smile.

I titled this blog "Monday Morning Insecurities" because in general Mondays are my worst days for insecurity. Do you know what I mean? You wonder if things have survived since the last time you worked or wrote something last week, if they're the same, or changed. You realize that most people have a billion emails to answer on Monday, so that's probably why they're not answering yours, but still, you have enough time to think about all of the reasons why they probably hate you and that's why they're more than likely they're not writing you back so that you can't finish your work.

That's what I mean when I say Monday Morning insecurities. However, these feelings can be quadrupled by a car wreck.
As we drove over to test drive some cars at a local dealership, I was reminded how weird insecurities are; how few of them it takes before we're crippled on our knees-- whether it's a car or a job or a relationship.

 I applied for a job recently, one that I really really want (stay tuned!) and even as I felt confident in my ability to take the job, little insecurities have snuck in-- people who unfairly eye me with distrust, others who question my commitment, little voices that ask, "Who do you think you are?" And I quaver back, "Um, can I back to you on that?"

Then I remember who I am and what I can do, and then the joke's over. The insecurity acknowledged, the doubt considered, then answered with what I KNOW that I am--that I am capable, that I am worthy, I am knowledgeable and smart.

Similarly my husband and I had to take a few minute, recount where we were, what we knew, what we didn't know, and even count our advantages. It calmed us-- answering what we felt with what we knew.

And it turned out fine. We got straight answers from our insurance, we secured a great rental car, test drove some promising vehicles, and went to the doctor, who gave positive news on The Hubby's recovery.

It's the same with my other insecurities. Things will turn out fine. External changes will be confusing and unfamiliar and we'll feel uncertain in approaching change. But in staying true to the truth, what we know, the results will take care of themselves.

I still have Monday morning insecurities-- actually I have Tuesday-Sunday insecurities, too, but I'm trying to trade what I feel for what I know--and that's a stability worth having.

Will be in touch about the new car and the new job-- pics coming soon!

Holy Writ, Bat Man!

I've been through some Bibles in my day, from my first Precious Moments-bound NKJV devotional Bible, to my sleek, sophisticated leather-bound ESV.

I remember growing up in church that there was always a big deal made over which translation Christians used. There still is, but in my current church the worry seems a little deflated, whereas in my childhood chapel it was quite the to-do.

Most of the older church members preferred the Old King James version ("If it was good enough for Jesus, it's good enough for me" said an elderly congregate at a friend of mine's church). The kids were expected to read the New International Version because supposedly "it was easy to understand" (there were no more young theologians than there were older ones at my church, I noticed). My own family harbored a lot of suspicions about it, and we mainly kept to the KJVs, and my parents taught me to not be afraid of "thees" and "thous" so it was never a problem.

As early as middle school I learned to love the poetry and cadence of the KJV-- its big words and lyrical rhythms. When I began studying English in college, I gained an appreciation for it as the earliest comprehensive work of the modern English language post-Chaucer. It was something to be revered, honored, and loved...if, um, not always clearly understood.

Fast forward over the years and Eugene Peterson came out with his palpable Scripture translation titled The Message. 

Recently I've begun using it for my morning readings, and I've  come to love it. Its readability is fluid, and its literary-ness--its ease of finding recurring themes and wording-- is wonderfully clear. Right now I'm reading the New Testament and for once I don't feel like Paul was speaking in hieroglyphics (even if he did speak Greek... BAHahahahaha....#Christianjokes.com). His message and intentions make sense now, they even seem consistent rather than confusing.

But...why? I wondered.

Why is it so good? Why I can understand this when I have trouble with other, more revered translations? My inner conservative pressed the matter.

I read Peterson's introduction and found my answer in a story:

"One well-educated African man, who later became one of the most influential Bible teachers in our history (Augustine) , was greatly offended when he first read the Bible. Instead of a book cultivated and polished in the literary style he admired so much, he found it full of homespun, earthy stories of plain, unimportant people. He read it in a Latin translation full of slang and jargon. He took one look at what he considered the 'unspiritual' quality of so many of its characters and the everydaynes s of Jesus, and contemptuously abandoned it. It was years before he realized that God had not taken the form of a sophisticated intellectual to teach us about highbrow heavenly culture so we could appreciate the finer things of God. When he saw that God entered our lives as a Jewish servant in order to save us from our sins, he started reading the Book gratefully and believingly."

The KJV is beautiful and good and true; it was translated that way because Truth is beautiful and good. But Truth is also ordinary and daily, "homespun" as Peterson says. If we forget this about the Gospel then we'll miss the message of how to live our ordinary, daily lives.

I love the KJV, I love the bigness of it. But by being lost in mystery and beauty, my stupid humanity often neglects the practical message. And so here's where The Message has come in for me.

Peterson encourages reading other translations for indepth studies and deeper meanings, but he says his translation is for reading. Start there, he says, just read.

"My intent here...is simply to get people reading it who don't know that the Bible is read-able at all, at least by them, and to get people who long ago lost interest in the Bible to read it again."

A Gift to Give

I feel a little ancey this morning, feeling like there's a lot to do and too little time to do it in.

It's when I feel like this that writing is hard--not as in difficult, but hard to be honest, hard to fully focus.

So I take in a big breath and let it out and begin.

Yesterday I had one of those days where I had a bit of a soul awakening, something that hadn't rustled around in me for a while. It was one of those times where I was reminded that each of us has something to offer, no matter how weird, how small, or seemingly unpopular it may be.

Once a week I help with an "after school" program at one of Rutherford County's housing developments. Of course, it's summer time, so right now it's kind of like a summer care program. Basically it means that I and other people from my church come in for about 2 hours on Tuesdays and provide any kids who are around with snacks and a craft activity. We hang out with them, talk with them, and theoretically give the employees of the center a little break.

I found out at the last minute yesterday that the lady who coordinates our crafts and art activities for the kids wasn't going to be there. My heart sank. I'm REALLY not an artsy, craftsy person. I'll write all day, I'll draw something, but coordinating children's crafts is NOT my thing. 

I'm still scarred from the tissue roses I had to make when I was 3 at some Sunday School class party. The teacher wouldn't help me make it pretty and kept telling me just to figure it out.

I hate crafts.

And then the last time this happened with this particular group, all I could come up with (after a frantic Pinterest search) was 4th of July wreaths made out of paper plates.Yeah, they were pretty lame.

So I got mad, feeling put-upon and taken advantage of. But after some prayer and sucked-in breaths, I was reminded why I volunteer here in the first place-- to be with the kids.

I'm not like Lisa-- I don't have a magic box full of paints and pens and pencils to swirl gorgeous designs on any surface. I don't have the ability to outline entire montages on paper.

But I can write. So I came up with my idea-- journals.


I found some cheapo spiral-bound journals at the grocery store and pulled together construction paper and magazines so that the kids could loosely decoupage their journals with cutouts.They would create a two-way functional piece of art.

I texted another volunteer who pulled together a bunch of sports magazines to bring. When the kids showed up, they got the idea immediately, several of them losing themselves for over an hour and a half to create their journal.

The most rewarding parts of the afternoon was a teenage boy who shared some of his poetry and journals he had written on his phone with me, and then later I saw two boys reading aloud from the magazines because they thought some wording was cool to put on their journals. These are kids who don'tdon'tdon'tdon't read if they don't have to.

Like I said, I'm not an artsy craftsy person. I'm a writer and part-time doodler, a part-time picture-clicker. But this, well, this felt natural. It was doing something I love and showing someone else how to do it and love it too. I could use my gift and give it to others, even in wacky, weird collages.

Each of us has a gift to give, I was reminded. Maybe it's beautiful artwork, maybe it's cooking, maybe it's writing. But the best way to use a gift is to give it. It's kind of amazing what can happen.

There All Along

The thing about traveling is that wherever it is you go, especially if it is someplace brand new, some place you've never been, you go expecting to be surprised.

I do, anyway.

Whenever I leave my comfy little house, full of all the familiar things I love, in a city I've lived in since I was 3, I expect that I'll find new things--new shops, different people, possibly clothes I've never seen before, etc.

In my old age of 30, I've recently started looking at horticulture. With all the hoopla about local flora and fauna and preserving ecosystems, I've realized that I actually don't recognize a great deal of indigenous flowers or plants. Mostly I only recognize whether or not they're tagged by Lowe's or Home Depot.

Ahem, so anyhow, when I and The Hubby went on our little camping trip to Center Hill Lake this past weekend, I had my eyes peeled for new and interesting greenery.

There were the usual bushy cedars and firs, along with ferns, dandelions, etc. But then there was this little purple flower.

I kept noticing it in the oddest places--at the base of trees, in modest clusters off the path. It was usually hidden, normally alone or in tiny groups, and absolutely adorable. I snapped a photo, pleased that I had the pleasure of getting to see some such new little treasure I had never seen before.

After we returned home, I went for a run on a back road, framed by farms and homes that have been there for forever. As I ran, I noticed some clusters of Queen Anne and dandelions....and at their edge a huge bunch of the purple flower.

I run the road at least once a week. And I had never seen the purple flower before.

I had to laugh at myself, but at the same time it was a great reminder of why travel--near or far--is essential. When we get so stuck in our ruts that we no longer expect to be surprised in our day, when everything becomes wrote and normal and just part of the usual fare, we start overlooking the beauties, the truth, the delicate mysteries around us, woven into the normal. It may be that they're not even hidden, just sitting out in the open, waiting to be noticed.

This picture, that flower, is a good reminder for me to notice.

Taking Time for Eternity

Okay, so The Hubby and I are back from vacation-- the first one we've taken since our honeymoon.

We discovered that we really like vacations.

I learned a lot this trip, mainly because camping really wasn't my family's thing growing up, and it was for Nathan's. So I had the chance to learn about building fires, backing up trailers, and pitching a tent this weekend.

**Um, P.S.-- bear with me as I blog about all this. I didn't write at all this week--not one tittle of journaling or typing--so I'm a little backed up with ideas. I imagine they'll look kind of goopy when I start to write about them, but I'm going to plunge ahead anyway and see what I can work out.

The hard thing is that the ideas are so lovely in my head, but look so muddy when I try to put them down. So that'll be my job this week-- trying to stir and clear the waters as these ideas settle.**

So to begin, this was the first vacation Nathan and I've taken since we've been married, as in, an extended time together with nothing planned. And it was great.

We didn't do anything fancy. We found a campsite along Center Hill Lake where you can rent camping "pads"--literally, gravel squares with water and power hook-ups-- for $18 bucks a night. You're only about 100 feet, if that, from the water, and are within walking distance to a public shower and restroom facility.

Not bad at all.

So we hitched the Master Craft up to the Ridgeline, and tucked in the kayaks. We stuffed the truck's cab to bursting with towels, bedding, tent, clothes, food stuffs, and the necessary cooking and picnicking utensils. The Hubby constructed a portable wood "box" around one of our air-conditioning units, so yeah, we would have air-conditioning in our tent.

Mainly The Hubby was trying extra hard to make sure that I liked camping so that I'd be willing to do it again.

Once we arrived, we had no schedule, so we were free to take as long as we wanted to do anything--set up camp, make a fire, cook dinner...talk. There was no rush. And for nearly three full days there was really no time. We barely checked our phones except for weather alerts (storms surrounded the area, dousing us several times) and to make sure we received no emergency communications from family.

Because there was no time, we talked longer, breathed more, laughed more, didn't get irritated. Not once did I feel the need to hustle him along; not once did he look concerned about "getting to do everything he wanted to do"because frankly there was more than enough time for everything. Even time to get a little bored, but it was actually nice, because we didn't know what that felt like. So we lazily picked up books to read around the campfire and then we weren't bored anymore.

In Sheldon Vanauken's spiritual autobiography, A Severe Mercy, he writes about his and his wife, Davey, and their desire for timelessness-- a space where time didn't matter, where there was no rush, no distractions, no hurries or have-tos, only the eternal present, which is of course only a foretaste of the Real Eternity.

I watched Nathan buried in his book or poking the fire contentedly. I realized that for some 48 hours I had felt neither weary nor stressed nor inadequate nor late nor lacking. We were just being ourselves without reference to other time or someone else's expectations or demands. I felt whole. And I wondered if this is what Vanauken meant and what Eternity must feel like, just a little.

I hope to carry that sense of timelessness, back with me into the dailyness today. In being away, it was good to practice a little bit of eternity, even if for a little while.

Downtime

Hittin' some down time with The Hubby over the next week, camping, etc., so blogging will be on hold for the next week. Looking forward to tapping the keyboard when we return. Love!

Martha, Martha

 Image from http://dreamers.marthastewart.com/photo/new-years-eve-2011-thirty-three/prev?context=featured

No, not that Martha, although they're very similar and ironically named the same.

I mean, Martha, the sister to Mary and Lazarus, friend of Jesus, who was so busy serving that she forgot that Jesus was a guest in her house?

That one.

I'm a Martha. Anyone else? Let's see a show of hands.

I don't see any, but that's okay. If you're like me, it means you're too busy writing out the week's grocery list, cleaning dishes, folding laundry, and getting that stubborn stain off the bath tub floor.

We Marthas like to get things done.

But often, like the first Martha, I forget that Jesus comes to visit. Well, let's put it this way, I guess I don't forget that someone's coming to visit (that's why I'm cleaning in the first place--one of the reasons I have company over, to remind me to clean!), but I often forget WHO is coming to visit. And by that I don't just mean Jesus.

Seldom have I met Christ the Lord donning Chacos and jeans to come through our front door. I don't weekly have a choir of angels sing in lieu of our doorbell to announce His arrival.

Instead, I might have a rescue cat, sometimes a neighbor, frequently a family member or friend dropping something by. Occasionally a dinner party.

But Scripture says they're all pretty much the same. Jesus said, "in as much as you have done this unto the least of these, you've done it unto me," or the writer of Hebrews, "be not forgetful to entertain strangers; you may entertain angels unaware."

And yet, as soon as I know someone is coming over, whoever that might be, my attention is radically turned to the kitchen floor that hasn't been mopped, the bathroom without towels or toilet paper, and the weeds that have been growing at mutant speeds in the front flower beds. I fling myself into overdrive, frantically panting as I try to whip the house into shape before the first knock on the door.

But I've forgotten who's coming over.

During my cleaning frenzy, my state of keeping up appearances, I often lose sight of the actual needs and gifts bundled up the flesh and bone of another human being.

I forget that their dog died as I cheerfully call out, "Hey, how's it goin'!" as I busily light the scented candles. I neglect to ask how that work project last month went as I dash about sweeping up dust bunnies. I'm so blinded by that spot on the wall that I barely notice how tired my guest looks, or perhaps how radiant, that maybe they have news to share.

I forget not only where my ministry lies, as in, what I have to give, but I also forget, as Martha did, that my guests have something to give me; that I need their wisdom and insights; I need their humor, help, and love.

I am a Martha, I'll own that. I love hosting people at our house, and I'm grateful for a husband who enjoys the same. But even as we seek to provide a clean and comfortable space for our guests to be (sometimes more than others), I have to remind myself that my focus is to be on who comes to visit; the preparation, the service, is not an end in of itself.

This is likewise a good reminder for us, as it was for the first Martha, about worship-- that the things of Christ, the work of Christ, is not the end-- Christ is. That is where our vision lies. So it is with hospitality. The Soft Scrub, the Windex, the tile cleaner and vacuum are all good tools, all  important things for hosting, but they are not the end: the guest and our relationship is.

And don't let a Martha tell you anything different.

Charter for Compassion

"And another thing," I announced to The Hubby as I cooked supper, "I just hope they see how destructive their lifestyle is and how that affects us," I harumphed as I turned back to frying the hamburgers.

My husband and I have a few friends going through a pretty rough time right now. It's just life stuff, kids, house, parents, jobs, the usual. It's taken some of them down for the count pretty hard, and suddenly we've found our friendships on different terms than before--not the easy going, go watch a move and eat popcorn together kind of terms, but the terms where lots of forgiveness and grace is needed on both sides as we tread these new waters.

I tend to be the critical kind of friend, the kind who gladly will point out the minute wrongs going on in the other person's life; almost gleefully unrolling the interconnecting logic between the causes and effects of said choices. Even if I don't say it all, it's how I think.

I have my master's in literary theory, it's what I was trained to do.

My husband, on the other hand, is a builder, an engineer, a person who is always optimistically looking for solutions and ways to create new things.

So yeah. One of us is really good at stripping down while the other one really good at building up.

If we can ever get in sync, we'll be a dynamic duo.

As we talked about our friends and as I chittered my frustrations, I saw The Hubby getting quiet--always a sign that he's diving deep to bring up his thoughts.

I quieted and waited for his reply.

"It's interesting," he finally said. "One of the last time I spoke with them, I told them they were better parents than they thought." He paused. "It seemed to calm them down some."

That's my husband--the Great Diffuser.

As we continued to talk, my husband reminded me how all of us are harder on ourselves than anyone realizes. Few of us need to be told how wrong we are--lots of us need to be reminded that we're doing okay, that we are doing good things, even if we have some bumps along the way, even if we or those closest to us cause problems. Perhaps more than reminded of our wrongs, we need to be affirmed of our rights.

Such is the nature of compassion. Such is the nature of giving grace to each other.

The Brightest and the Best, or Not

Take a good look, friends, at who you were when you were called into this life. I don't see many of  "the brightest and the best" among you, not many influential, not many from high society families. Isn't it obvious that God deliberately chose men and women that the culture overlooks and exploits and abuses, chose these "nobodies" to expose the hollow pretensions of the "somebodies"? That makes it quite clear that none of you can get by with blowing your own horn before God. Everything that we have...comes from God -St. Paul, in his first letter to the Corinthians.
 
Recently I've been gnawing on this idea-- "take a good look at you."

Do you know who you are?

It's a good question for anyone, but especially for those of us who purpose to make a living, or at least a name, for ourselves, being creative. To be vulnerable and honest, you have to know what's there to begin with, otherwise your work always sounds as fake as the veneer finish on my dining room table looks.

And sometimes, if we're honest, what comes out of our crazy stories  looks foolish.

And sometimes it looks like stuff we might prefer that we could stuff under the bed or wad up and toss away.

But those foolish things, those small things, seem to be what God delights to use.

Last week I had the privilege of listening to my dad participate in local veterans oral history project at Middle Tennessee State University. I sat and listened for three hours as he related hist personal history, from growing up on Lookout Mountain to finding himself in the middle of the Evacuation of Saigon as a marine.

I watched as his arms tightened and he sometimes held his knuckled fist. Sometimes he almost choked up as he recounted the terror of possibly not coming back home.

As I sat there, hearing some stories I had never heard before, pieces began falling in place, suddenly explaining who my dad is, why he sometimes does the things he does. I also understood why he has tried to love and protect my mom, brother, and I so fiercely. I can also understand a little bit better the pain he's felt for so many years.

It was actually a bit of a grapple to get Dad to tell his story, he couldn't understand the value of it--he thinks it's sad and horrible and even boring. He's not sure what value anyone would get out of it.

 I'm still trying to explain that it helps me understand him; that it will help others understand more veterans.

I wonder how many of us do this--undervalue our own stories? Thinking, wondering what good it will do? Assuming it's not valuable, assuming it's foolish or stupid.

St. Paul says these stories, these things have value. It's the kind of thing God uses for His purposes.

A good reminder for writers. Perhaps we cannot always see the value in our stories yet, but our job is to write them. The results are not up to us.

Writing Like Faith

This is a piece recently published on the The Well Written Woman today--something I wrote over a year ago when I took up the writing process again.

I hope you'll be encouraged, too.

Madame Mouse, The Purple Cat, Keeper of the Underworld, and Lover of Medieval Songs

I'm waiting for a piece of mine to be published on a website.

I'm very excited.

I'm very nervous though, too, because I wasn't sure my bio information was funny enough. Everyone else published on the website has very snappy, witty bio sketches. Mine sounded like a 5th grader's first day of school. "Hi, my name is Laura Beth and chocolate is my favorite."

Not quite that bad, but I did resort to talking about my cat..

But the site is for writers and literary people, so writing about your cat is legit, right?

Meh....

Anywho, the cat in question is Madame Mouse, etc. whose full title is the title of this blog. I'd like to explain myself.

We had no intention of getting a cat. Not a one. Especially not a stray. I already had one, my 18 year old Daisy, a feline who had more than earned her rest and right to a competition-free household by the time my husband and I married. We occasionally encouraged the neighbor's cat, Mister Jackson, to come over and give her a good staring contest to get her heart rate up, but otherwise we let her live out her golden years in peace.

But Mouse was something else. We had never seen her before the day she showed up with Mister Jackson on our front driveway--the day we got back from our honeymoon. It seemed like Mister had found himself, like Nathan, a new bride...or in cat terms, a sugar mama.  Anyway, Mouse became part of our landscape. Her name, like Mister's, came from the Dresden File book series.

Writers like irony, and I liked having a cat named Mouse. But obviously it wasn't her only name.

Her name developed more after we were sure she was there to stay, a fact that became evident the morning after Daisy had to be put to sleep. Like church ladies with casseroles, Mouse, along with Mister, came prowling, curious and concerned, the next morning, sitting with us as we sat on the deck and looked over the little plot where Daisy lay.

So Mouse was adopted.

Even though she had proved herself faithful, I sometimes interchanged Mouse's name with "Dixie Tramp" because of the way she hung around Mister just to eat when he did. I began calling her "Madame" when we figured out she was Mister's booty call, as well as discovered that she had two perfectly shaped saber-toothed fangs on her bottom and lower teeth. With her dusky black coat, yellow eyes, and those teeth, she exuded vampiric tendencies.

After having her around the yard for a while, we both realized that her coat had no distinctive color, her black fur sat on top of white skin and hair, and streaks of bronzed brown ran through the coat. In some lights, these blended to look positively purple, so that too became part of her name.

"Madame Mouse the Purple Cat" seemed to encompass most of her being, but the title extended.

Her small, dainty, china doll head with its slanted eyes and calm stares were other-worldly. But it wasn't until we watched "The Mummy" that I was able to invoke her noble heritage of Underworld keepers.

But the Medieval connection, that's a new one. It came about one morning while I was having coffee, normally a time when Mouse comes inside, sits on my Ottoman and purrs while I read in the morning. This morning she was restless, wanting to be petted more than tolerated.

I ignored her and opened up one of my hymnals and began singing "Of the Father's Love Begotten", a beautiful piece from the 5th century. I like this song because it has lots of wonderful minor key strains in it and sounds mysterious and ethereal, like space.

From the door, Mouse cocked an eye  in my direction, and quickly scampered up on the chair to see what I was reading. She continued to stare and purr at me for all four verses. Afterwards she blinked at me as though asking, "Is that all?" and jumped down and scampered away.

I promptly added the last touch to her title.