Gwen Stewart--

Impressions

2012-02-08T14:02:00.000-05:00

In the last week, two acquaintances made comments which pinpointed my personality in a few succinct words.

Though not negative, the comments made me ponder. My personality must be obvious to the casual observer. But what lasting impression do I leave? Friendly, I hope. Reticent, perhaps. But I wondered about nuances. Would a perceptive observer sense that I prefer to be alone with my stories and my thoughts? Would my bubbly demeanor with children fool people into thinking I'm equally comfortable with a group of adults?

What about you, readers? Has a comment from an acquaintance or stranger given you pause? Do you have a good grasp on how you're perceived? If you had to choose one word to describe the impression you leave with others, what would it be?

I look forward to your responses!

The Worst Day

2012-01-13T21:28:00.000-05:00

I apologize in advance, because this post may come off as a whine. Or a vent. Or a combination of a whine and a vent.

I have long thought that January 15th is the worst day of the year, the dead center of a least-favorite month. The days are short and dark. Limp Christmas decorations sit on curbs or wait for banishment to the basement. We shovel out from whatever January sends our way, be it ice, snow, or sleet. We buckle down to undo the damage Christmas splurges inflicted on our pocketbooks or waistline; we white-knuckle through our resolutions.

Is it clear that I dislike January?

But I'm compelled to find what's good in the dank, cold month that makes my spirits sink.

1. My family huddles together, rarely out of earshot. In July, we are hither and yon--at the baseball field, down the street at a neighbor's, mowing the lawn. In January, we tumble over one another. I like the nearness. I like huddling in when the outdoors is uninviting.

2. We look inward. Here in the north, January either demands our attention or leaves us alone. Snowstorms require planning and accommodation. All other days can be dismissed, weather-wise. We don't feel guilty crawling into bed before nine, or staying abed until ten in the morning. What are we missing but another overcast, cold day? Better to read, reflect, to pray about a new year than to think about what nature might have planned.

3. January reminds me of our blessings. In July, a warm house with a sturdy roof seems a given. In the tempests of January, I lay in bed and thank God for the walls around me and the roof above, for the windows that rattle but don't shatter as the cold front blows through. I thank God for a store around the corner with ready supplies should January send its worst. I thank God for science that allows us notice of such events. I thank God for fireplaces, for flashlights, and a pantry full of canned food just in case.

So, as January 15th nears, I'll try to remember the silver lining. It won't be easy. I'll be prone to grumble. But with God's help, I'll remember that He's the Father of all our seasons, both January and July.

What about you, readers? What's your least favorite month or season, and why? Do you have strategies for making that time easier to bear?

A New Year Begins

2012-01-01T09:10:00.000-05:00

Happy New Year, friends. A Bible verse to start the year well:

The LORD makes firm the steps of the one who delights in him; though he may stumble, he will not fall, for the LORD upholds him with his hand.--Psalm 37:23-24

May God bless you and yours in 2012.

Hush

2011-12-20T20:28:00.002-05:00

We have our holidays mixed up.

We make much of Christmas, little of Easter. The secular world gives careful thought, preparation and money to the former, but almost none to the latter. Maybe folks dye a few Easter eggs, or run to the drug store to fill a basket or two for the children.

Easter is quiet in the world, when it should be full of jubilation and rejoicing.

Christmas, on the other hand, is a noisy affair that overtakes every facet of our lives. Shopping. Entertaining. Baking. Wrapping. Cards, caroling, candy. The clamor is deafening.

How wrong we have it. And how predictable that humanity would get it wrong...until, that is, we finally settle in to listen, usually on Christmas Eve. Because if Easter is an Hallelujah!, Christmas is a hush. Oh, how I love to listen for the hush of Christmas...

A young woman of common means conceived a Baby by the Holy Spirit. Quietly an angel came to her, and quietly she said, "I am a handmaiden of the Lord." She carried her Baby in the normal way, then went into labor at the end of a long journey.

Can you imagine it?

The quiet lowing of animals. Silent starlight. Heavenly angel choruses heard by shepherds, but not, apparently, by the residents of Bethlehem. The tuneful humming of a new mother marveling over tiny fingernails and eyelashes. He is Emmanuel, God made flesh, but He is her human Son, too--with his indescribable baby scent and the mewling noises of newborn sleep: His red lips puckering, a tiny sigh.

The Son of God is a baby.

Draw near. Hush.

This is my Christmas wish for you, dear reader: that among the crackling wrapping paper and jolly carols and houseful of chatting guests, you will find time to draw near the Baby. That you will catch a glimpse of starlight and the echo of angel choruses. That the holy hush among the noisy season will bring peace, comfort, joy, and Light to your soul.

Wishing you a blessed, quiet Christmas, friends.

"I Want Nothing More"

2011-12-17T08:43:00.000-05:00

Regrettably, the world lost a fabulous writer this week. Christopher Hitchens died from complications of esophageal cancer. A self-avowed "anti-theist", he exemplified a philosophy much admired in our postmodern world: carpe diem, seize the day.

A writer, speaker, and political/religious polemicist, he penned several books, one titled "God Is Not Great: How Religion Poisons Everything". He also debated Christians such as William Lane Craig, Douglas Wilson, Frank Turek, and Dinesh D'Souza.

Though I disagreed with Hitchens' position on God, I was taken with his incisive wit, intelligence, and affable demeanor. When the topic wasn't religion, he wrote with poignancy and insight. His Vanity Fair essays are a ramble through a park or a teeth-rattling roller coaster ride. He was one of the best writers of our generation, in my opinion--but only when the topic was not religion or faith.

He lost his stride when God became the focus of Hitchens' pen. Then he descended into vociferous ranting where emotion overcame his considerable intelligence. He penned provocative sentences lacking his signature eloquence. He blurted statements in debates which garnered chuckles from his atheist fans, but which were unfocused and easily refuted by his Christian debate partners.

Why would a man considered the best of the "new atheists" fumble when the topic turned to religion? In sharp contrast to his Christian debate opponents, his anger percolated just beneath the surface, often bubbling over into red-faced blather.

I reflected on this when he passed away.

It is said that we all have a god (or a God). Mr. Hitchens' god, I believe, was life itself, and he defended that god when challenged. He is not alone. Life-worship is such an insidious cultural phenomenon that it passes unnoticed, in the way the sky is blue or rain is wet. Pithy sayings like "live life to the fullest" or "life is not a dress rehearsal" advance the notion that our life is not only precious, but worthy of veneration. We run after gratification because life is short, and we deserve whatever comfort, ease, or pleasure we can get. This is our postmodern philosophy.

Mr. Hitchens said this on the subject: "Life on this earth, with all its mystery and beauty and pain, is then to be lived far more intensely: we stumble and get up, we are sad, confident, insecure, feel loneliness and joy and love. There is nothing more; but I want nothing more." – The Portable Atheist: Essential Readings for the Non-Believer, 2007 (Emphasis mine.)

The end of his life proved his words. He clung to every day. Willingly he entered into treatments which caused extreme suffering, including a radiation rash which caused agony that no painkiller could touch. He lost the ability to speak. He lost a third of his weight. But every day he asked to be propped up to write. Our culture admires this white-knuckled grip on life. To many, Christopher Hitchens is considered a hero for his "will to live".

In contrast, the Bible says:

"Man is like a breath; his days are like a passing shadow."--Psalm 144:4

"Man born of woman is of few days and full of trouble."--Job 14:1

"For what will it profit a man if he gains the whole world and forfeits his soul? Or what shall a man give in return for his soul?"--Jesus Christ, Matthew 16:26

I regret that Mr. Hitchens never overcame his disdain for religion to meet the living Christ, who calls us to die to ourselves, set aside life-worship, and find soul-deep gratification in Him. Dying to self in Christ paradoxically yields abundant and eternal life.

Tragically, Mr. Hitchens did not accept Christ, at least to my knowledge. I pray fervently that his wife and three daughters will, and take comfort in the fact that Christopher Hitchens had many Christian friends. Christians can offer wisdom, hope, comfort and truth for those who white-knuckle through this transient life, no matter how shiny its baubles or how temporarily tantalizing its pleasures.

Finally, my deepest condolences to Mr. Hitchens' family. I am truly sorry for their loss.

A Time to Sing

2011-12-12T05:36:00.001-05:00

This is a rewarding time of year to be a music teacher. Children love the songs we sing, as do adults wandering by the music room. Often the principal will pop in to hear "Winter Wonderland" or a teacher will return early so she can join in with "Children Go Where I Send Thee"--a fun African-American spiritual which tells the Christmas story in numbers.

My Kindergarten students sing simple songs with unmatched gusto. The verse of "Jingle Bells" is too much for them, but the chorus is belted with enthusiasm. And I love teaching my older students the lesser-known songs: "Fum, Fum, Fum" from many centuries ago, or "Silver Bells" from their great-grandparents generation. They beg me for the standards: "Rudolph", "The Twelve Days of Christmas", and "Silent Night". It's hard to say no to kids clamoring to sing, sing, sing--so we make time for those songs, too.

What Christmas songs were your favorites as a child? What songs do your children enjoy? What songs do you love to hear kids sing? I'm eager for your feedback!

Plots and Pants

2011-11-26T10:13:00.001-05:00

When it comes to fiction writing, are you a panster, a plotter, or a hybrid?

For those who don't know writing jargon, a "panster" is a writer who--you guessed it--writes by the "seat of her pants". With only a sketchy concept of character and plot, she starts a journey without much of a road map. This is also called "organic writing".

Plotters, on the other hand, plan their stories with care. They use charts, index cards, outlines, photos, or software to ensure their stories work before they type a single word.

I'm a hybrid. I don't start a story without a firm idea of character, setting, and plot. I have a good idea of how the story begins and ends. But I don't complete chapter outlines or use index cards. I enjoy the surprises that show up on the page unannounced.

However, as I work through a new novel, I'm wondering what kind of plotter strategies work for a panster. The appeal of organic writing is the joy of discovery. But is the joy of discovery worth a rewrite of large sections of the book...or perhaps the entire book?

I don't know, friends. So I ask you: are you a plotter, a panster, or a hybrid? If you lean toward the latter two, what tips do you have for ensuring your story works before you begin? Or do you just type first and fix it later?

I eagerly wait your responses. Thanks in advance!

Give Thanks

2011-11-23T12:35:00.001-05:00

Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays, for a few reasons:

Though not overtly Christian, Thanksgiving turns our hearts toward God.

To Whom should we be thankful? Even secularists have a difficult time answering this question without bringing God into the equation. The Bible says to praise, worship, and thank God for His blessings. In fact, it says that every good and perfect gift is from above! (James 1:17)

The pace is slow.

Aside from the frenzy of cooking, Thanksgiving comes with few expectations. It's not a gift-giving occasion. Few people decorate their homes for Thanksgiving. Though we anticipate good food, togetherness is the underlying theme of the holiday.

Americans celebrate our Puritan past.

Sure, the Puritans get a bad rap for the whole Salem thing (though that involved only a few, of course), and modern Americans tend to view them as uppity church folks. In reality, Puritans were steadfast to their beliefs, willing to make an Atlantic crossing many did not survive. Those who did usually died of disease or starvation upon arrival. Since I can trace my ancestry to the Mayflower, I'm deeply appreciative of those who paid a high price to follow their God and their conscience.

What are your favorite aspects of Thanksgiving? How does it rank among other holidays? Do you have any special traditions in your family?

Happy Thanksgiving, friends!

Special

2011-11-17T18:27:00.001-05:00

One of the highlights of my workweek is teaching the special needs class. Though these kids struggle with emotional and behavioral issues, they have so much to give. And I learn so much from them.

Today we learned Thanksgiving music. First, I played a song celebrating life's joys. Then I asked the kids to share what they're grateful for so we could create a class song.

They provided answers like "pizza" and "video games", but things took a serious turn soon enough. "I'm thankful for God," one boy said.

"Why are you thankful for God? Let's see if we can add more to that thought," I said.

"I'm thankful that He invented FUN!"

I had to smile. Who's not grateful to God for fun? So I added it to the list, and said, "Anything else about God?"

"I'm glad He made us," one child answered. I wrote in silence and let the echo of those words resonate through the music room.

I'm glad too. I'm grateful He made children like my special needs students, who even through their challenges remain open to life. They find such profound pleasure in simple classroom instruments. They're so proud when they play a few notes on the piano. They giggle the giggliest, cry a mournful wail, gobble the smallest word of praise, and make music that is special but in no way inferior to that of their peers.

I'm convinced heaven quiets on the days we sing, dance, and play instruments together, so God can listen. He made special children. How glorious their music must be to His ears!

Sing!

2011-10-25T21:39:00.000-04:00

"Sing to the LORD a new song; sing to the LORD, all the earth."--Psalm 96:1

Our culture is saturated with recorded music. That's not a bad thing, necessarily. . .except that we've allowed recorded music to replace singing.

On the first day of Kindergarten music, I introduce myself by singing. I ask, "Would you listen to my song?" And I sing. My voice fills the room, saturating every nook and cranny.

You should see the incredulous stares of my little students. It's not because I'm Christina Aguilera, believe me. I was a voice major, but I'm not that good. My students are simply shocked to hear an adult sing with such vigor and enjoyment.

Just a century or so ago, if folks were in the mood for music, they had no choice but to sing or play instruments. Remember the "Little House on the Prairie" series? Laura and Almanzo courted by going to "Singing School", where they learned shaped-note singing. Families gathered around the upright piano to fill their houses with hymns and harmony. Singing was second nature.

Over a hundred years later, we've turned the pleasure of singing into a competitive sport for the few, the talented, and the trained. Meanwhile, we play armchair quarterback: critiquing pitch, phrasing, and delivery. . .all while talking rather than singing along, even if the song is Amazing Grace or our National Anthem and we know every word.

God's Word tells us to sing to the LORD a new song, sing to the LORD all the earth! He doesn't say, "Sing if you're talented" or "Sing if you're confident"--but just sing!

What about it, readers? Are you comfortable singing? Did you enjoy singing as a child? If you became self-conscious about your singing, do you remember when?

Have a melodic, musical week!

Moses?

2011-10-21T21:16:00.000-04:00

Yes, this is me, explaining the Tabernacle to our church's Sunday School children. Do I or do I not make a convincing Moses? If Moses were five feet tall and a soprano, that is. I contemplated faking a deep, rich Moses-like voice, but in the end decided to use my normal high-pitched squeak. Amazingly, none of the children were surprised to learn that "Moses" was really Mrs. Stewart!

Have a wonderful weekend!

What Teachers Wish Parents Knew

2011-10-20T18:06:00.000-04:00

It's Parent-Teacher Conference time in my school district, which can be stressful for both parties. So let's talk. I'll let you in on a few things teachers wish parents knew, and you can reciprocate in the comment section.

1. Teachers went into the profession because we love children and love learning.

Most of us did not go into teaching for the summers off. Those who did last about three years, because eight weeks of summer does not make up for ten months of misery. No, most of us went into education because we love children and love to teach. That's why the classroom light goes on at six AM or doesn't turn off until six PM in many cases. There's no "upward mobility" in teaching. So why do we work long hours for no extra pay? Simple: your children are worth it.

2. We know more about your home situation than you think.

Not because we gossip in the staff lounge. (Heck, many of us don't have time to eat in the "lounge" anymore.) We know because your children tell us or we pick up cues, and we're concerned. Not in a Desperate Housewives way, but in a "how can I help my student?" way. So please don't be afraid to let us know that there's a divorce pending, dad lost his job, or there's a serious illness in the family. We understand confidentiality and will not spread news. We WILL gain insight into why your child is more withdrawn, having trouble with homework, or is acting out, and we will help in any way we can.

3. Your child is not our only student.

Your concern is rightly your child's education. So is ours. But we have more than one student, and if your child's behavior negatively impacts other children, a responsible teacher will address it, not because we can't handle your child's (fill in the blank): "energy level", "communication style" or "advanced intelligence". We'll address it because those qualities are changing the classroom climate, and that's not fair to other children.

There is a certain level of conformity expected in schools. For instance, we expect children to walk down the hallway because walking is safer than running and won't disturb other students' learning. Some parents shudder at the word "conformity". But the best teachers know when conformity is wise (as in walking in lines) and when it's not (as in being too rigid with assignments). Which leads me to my last point:

4. We want what's best for your child.

If the rather rigid scheduling of public school life is not for your child, there are options. I think it's wonderful that homeschooling is successful and on the rise; it gives parents choices. And if your child is miserable in public school no matter what we try, than you SHOULD explore every educational opportunity. If your child's teacher doesn't give his or her blessing, that's too bad. Good teachers want what's best for your child, and that's the bottom line.

So, what say you, readers? Tell me what you wish teachers knew about children, education, or parenting. Thank you!

Look Right Through Me

2011-10-07T21:51:00.001-04:00

"Went to school and I was very nervous,
No one knew me, no one knew me...
Hello teacher tell me what's my lesson
Look right through me
Look right through me..."

--"Mad World" by Michael Andrews and Gary Jules

The song "Mad World" by Gary Jules is pure desolation. . .and desperation. Rather like the school landscape these days.

I see so much need in my music classrooms. Children who move away, only to return two weeks later. Children on medication for serious medical and emotional issues. Children who would be served by such medications, but whose parents refuse them.

Children who wear the same clothes day after day. Classroom teachers who smuggle them new pants, a free school shirt, new gym shoes.

My heart bleeds for these kids. Like their parents, I feel stretched woefully thin. I teach over one thousand students per week. For every one of them, I am their only school music teacher. They want to tell me their stories. I want to listen. But they're so many of them, and only one of me.

I feel so small, so insignificant in the onslaught. I do what I can, but I'm only human and, after my tenth class of the day, my resources are stretched thin too. Do I look through my students in my fatigue?

The politicians and talking heads are busy deciding how much I'm worth, if my benefits and pension are too generous, if I'm overeducated and under-intelligent, if I'm out to "indoctrinate" the children. They can talk. I'll attend, the best I can, to children's needs.

And I pray I never, ever, look through them. . .even if I teach over a thousand.

Season's End

2011-09-20T08:15:00.001-04:00

"There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven."--Ecclesiastes 3:1

Do you notice how the seasons fade?

Autumn blazes with color and crunch. It lasts only four weeks before turning barren and deadly quiet. It cedes to winter easily, at least in Michigan. The damp chill settles in long before the calendar signals the season's end.

Winter overstays its welcome, viciously blanketing crocuses and daffodils with a white, snowy blanket, once, twice, sometimes three times before giving in. Winter wants the last word, dodging its demise at every turn. We bemoan its tenacity. Winter laughs at us.

Spring spars with summer. Through midnight thunderstorms heavy with argument, spring holds on despite the rising heat. Having battled so hard with winter, perhaps the battling comes easy for spring, despite the gentle blossoms and new leaves. Unable to quell the warmth ascending from the south, spring exacts revenge on summer by sending heavy rains and rolling thunderheads.

But summer. Ah, summer. It shakes hands with autumn. They agree on shorter days and golden evenings that end late enough for outdoor play, but early enough for a pajama evening indoors, if you like. Summer is happy to exit with bright, clear, sunny days while autumn sends cool evenings that tinge the leaves with gold and red. Almost without notice, summer waves a silent goodbye and steps off the stage, leaving one last stretch of heat for Indian Summer, one last waft of wildflowers to carry us through a long, cold winter.

If it be God's will, I want to go out like summer: a handshake and happy memories in my wake.

***

Readers: do you have seasons where you live? What is your favorite season, and why?

...and Mommy cried.

2011-09-01T06:34:00.011-04:00

This month, I remember.

I remember the horror of those who suffered unimaginable tragedies ten years ago this month. My prayers are with survivors and the family members of the lost.

9/11 didn't happen to me, not directly. But it affected all Americans to one degree or another. It even affected my young son.

My then four-year-old drew the picture above on September 14, 2001. Part of me feels regret that he reproduced the terror with such accuracy. The other part accepts that I parented the best I could at the time. Some people immediately understood that 9/11 was confined to national landmarks. Others felt unsafe regardless of where they lived. Count me in the latter group. I watched the televison in case we needed to evacuate, and though I tried to keep my children occupied, they clung to me as events unfolded. Not in fear, but in sympathy for my grief and shock.

To this day, my son remembers three things about September 11th: the fiery buildings, playing with his matchbox cars on the coffee table...and that Mommy cried.

***

How about you, readers? Where were you on September 11th, 2001? How did you hear the news, and how did you react? Did you hide your reactions from your children? I value your input.

Landscape

2011-08-05T05:12:00.020-04:00

Last summer, my hungry eyes feasted on the stunning Colorado Rockies landscape.

This summer, I'm taking in the New York skyline.

That humans can overtake a slice of land like Manhattan and make it into the center of the developed world is remarkable. Who cannot wonder at its vitality, its rush of sights, sounds, smells? Manhattan is like a high-end anthill, one that seems ready to topple at any moment, yet doesn't. Year after year, people flock toward that narrow strip of concrete that has launched so many careers, has been memorialized in so many songs.

I stood in the center of Times Square and admired anew the American Dream. We are just over two hundred years old, yet we have created so much. Drink Coke. Eat at Applebee's. Use this cologne and attract the ladies. Use this perfume and be more of a lady, so you can attract the gentlemen. That's what Times Square taught me. Or seemed to want to teach me, before it overwhelmed me.

So I turned away from the flashing lights and reached for the familiar: the stories of the people. Oh, what food for imagination! I turned out novel premise after novel premise just by watching the pedestrians.

Until I noticed their sad similarities: quick steps, reluctant smiles, downcast eyes. Then I looked away, and my stories dried up. I searched the skyline as if by instinct. Nothing but more concrete and a tiny, far-off sliver of sky.

My mind wandered to the Colorado landscape. Those mountains captured my imagination, drawing my attention not to man, but to God. How badly I wanted to view them again, or even the slightly rolling landscape of my Michigan home, where the vista is green and fertile, and summertime beckons a roll in the grass, a climb up a tree, an evening walk to see a flaming sunset over a nearby lake.

An impression is not an accurate reality. I know fulfilled, thriving people live in Manhattan. I know they feast off the pace and challenge of living in a manmade mountain region of skyscrapers. I know many of them left my midwest home for their dream of the big city. Make no mistake: I glimpsed God in Manhattan; I saw Him in the onslaught of His ultimate work, mankind.

But in Colorado, I heard Him whisper in the mountain wind, I witnessed His handiwork in the mountain lakes that reflected the big sky like a mirror. In Colorado, I bumped into God at every turn, sun and sky, mountain and bubbling stream.

How about you, readers? Do you prefer the city or the country? Where do you "bump into God" more readily: among His human creation, or His natural creation?

WordServe Water Cooler--a new blog

2011-08-02T10:21:00.006-04:00

Exciting news, friends! The WordServe Water Cooler blog is up and running today! This blog will offer tips on writing, editing, acquiring an agent, publishing, marketing, and a host of other writerly concerns. All contributors, including myself, are clients of either Greg Johnson or Rachelle Gardner.

Our inaugural post is fantastic and helpful for those seeking agent representation. My Word Serve colleagues tell excellent accounts of how they obtained representation, from meeting agents at conferences to connecting through a friend. Since my story is rather uneventful--I sent a query, Rachelle requested a full manuscript, then offered me representation about a month later--I chose not to include my vignette. Not that I wasn't excited to receive her call; I don't think my feet touched terra firma for at least two weeks afterward!

I'm looking forward to reading, responding, and contributing to the blog. I hope to see you there!

Escape

2011-08-02T07:38:00.010-04:00

Where do you go to escape?

As a child, I grabbed a book, a notebook and a pencil, then escaped to a nesting spot in my yard or home. The more secluded, the better.

I nested under the willow trees in our backyard. Their draped branches created a sun-dappled canopy just perfect for reading. I nested in my brothers closet, where a heating duct created a comfortable seat for a small girl. As an older child, I spent hours in my room, daydreaming, writing, reading.

I'm a true introvert. Though I'm friendly and, I hope, socially gracious, I gain energy from the time I spend alone. When I need restoration or regeneration, I escape to comfort, either in my home or in my head. I sneak away with my thoughts.

Extroverts, on the other hand, escape to the company of others. When they need regeneraion, they find it with people. Oh, how I admire extroverts! They're always ready for a gathering, be it a backyard barbeque or a coffee shop one-on-one.

How about you, reader? When you need escape, do you want a crowd, or alone-time? Are you a classic introvert or extrovert, or do you have facets of both?

Epiphany

2011-07-12T13:13:00.008-04:00

Few people can identify the moment they "grew up". The term is too broad, the event too weighty to contain a single moment.

We can, however, identify moments when our ideas changed. Sometimes they changed so drastically that our mind, heart, and soul were forever altered.

This post details one of those moments. It happened in the summer of 1987, when I traveled to Germany. My friend, who had been a foreign exchange student in my high school, lived in Hamburg. Her family escorted me to a carnival on the East German border.

A banquet of sights, scents, and colors danced around me. Balloons. Festive music. Children laughing. The waft of sizzling German food.

I smiled as we wandered the sidewalk festivities. Soon, something grabbed my attention. The music faded. The colors muted as I walked to the edge of the carnival.

And looked across the divide.

At a wall.

The grey wall captured my attention. It obliterated the music, scents, and scenes, seeming to suction them away. I stood, motionless, and watched. But I wasn't the only one watching. Across the way, a tall, stern man stood guard. He wore a huge gun strapped to his back, with rounds of ammunition traveling shoulder to hip. He, too, was colorless. When he marched back and forth, it was the rigid, purposeful movement of old age. And he was a young man, not much older than me at the time.

At the wall, all was silent. I watched the blatant, unabashed display of life to my right, and the utter absence of joy to my left. I watched.

And watched.

The contrast riveted me. This was not the life I knew in my quiet, unassuming Ohio hometown. This wasn't just across the world. It was a different world.

Had not my friend come to retrieve me, I might have watched all day.

That experience changed me. For years, it remained a neat story, one I could tell my friends two years later when the Berlin Wall fell. But as I grew and gained insight, I realized that the Berlin Wall marked the moment where the world opened up like a split watermelon, and I peeked at the gooey gunk inside.

Here and now, we know no walls of communism guarded by armed soldiers who never smile. We know only the carnival, many of us, and take for granted that carnival living is eternal.

How blessed we are, and how unusual in the course of history. Though these eyes have not seen, these ears have not heard, and these hands have not touched...should trial or catastrophe come, I'll know that we are simply taking our turn in human history--not as outliers, but as full participants.

The Berlin Wall gave me two prayers:

1. Lord, continue to protect us, if it be Your will.

2. Lord, if we suffer, let us remember You, first and foremost.

How about you, readers? Has a single experience changed your view of the world?

Solstice

2011-06-20T09:29:00.013-04:00

"While the earth remains, seedtime and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter, day and night, shall not cease."--Genesis 8:20 ESV

Solstice. The very word conjures images of ancient druids and secretive rituals. Christians don't celebrate the solstice, and for good reason. Many don't even recognize the day.

Though I don't celebrate solstices, they rarely escape my notice. They're another reason to glorify God, who marked the boundaries of the heavens, called the planet into existence, and set the universe in motion. That motion marks our days, years, and seasons, giving our lives dependable rhythm.

At summer solstice, the first blush of sunrise tinges our eastern sky at around five AM. But most remarkable are the long, warm evenings. Because we're on the western edge of the Eastern Standard Time zone, solstice sunsets arrive at quarter past nine o'clock, with full dark falling past ten.

That equals a seven-hour night. With traces of sunset and sunrise on either end, the stars twinkle for a mere six hours.

Long, warm, sunny days. Short, cool, breezy nights. This is summer solstice where I live. I praise God for his stunning creation, for the seasons He has pledged never to obliterate until His Son comes in glory to usher in His Kingdom.

Readers, what do you love best about our long summer days? Are there any disadvantages to summer solstice?

If you have time, look up the time of sunrise and sunset where you live. Let's compare solstices!

Summer!

2011-05-24T19:35:00.007-04:00

This time of year is harried for a teacher. Spring fever is an epidemic. Every other day is a special event: field trips, assemblies, end-of-year picnics and parties. It's enjoyable and off-putting, invigorating and exhausting all at once.

While I'm applying band-aids to springtime scrapes, reminding children not to scratch mosquito bites, and calming the general excitement of over a thousand students, perhaps you can distract me by sharing your favorite memories from the end-of-school.

Bonus points if you can fill me in on what's happening in your children's lives!

1. Did you count down the days 'til summer when you were a child? Or did you miss your friends and teacher during summer?

2. What end-of-year school events do you remember from your childhood?

3. When do your children get out of school? Or, if you homeschool, do you teach during the summer months?

4. What end-of-year activities do your children love? Which do they not?

5. Which end-of-year activities do YOU most enjoy? Which do you least enjoy?

6. What are your summer plans?

Thanks, friends. I can't wait to read your answers!

Cologne-worthy

2011-05-10T19:22:00.006-04:00

I work with elementary students, so I'm used to the scents of school. Wet sneakers. Chocolate milk. Whiteboard markers. Drying snowpants in January; spring grasss in May.

Cologne? Not so much. Especially not a strong cologne that says "special occasion". So when I caught a waft from my teacher desk the other day, I tiptoed to the door to peek at the source.

Outside my room, a fourth grader and his grandfather made their way down the hallway. What a contrast they made. The grandpa shuffled along, stooped and bow-legged. The boy walked with an uncharacteristic lightness of step, rushing two paces ahead, slowing for a second or two, then bounding forward again. He nearly vibrated with excitement.

Not so his grandfather. His limbs barely managed a steady walk, but the cologne and dressy clothes spoke the importance of this day--the day Grandpa came to play board games with the children, or to give a talk on his experiences in the war, or to read a story to the class.

People complain about public schools or "kids these days"--and most often, both. Certainly public schools have room for improvement; certainly "kids these days" face challenges and shortcomings. But oh, the things we get right. Things like inviting seniors to teach math games or give history lessons from life experience instead of textbooks.

The unfamiliar scent, the zip in the step told a story that day--the story of a regular spring Wednesday made unforgettable because Grandpa came to school.

A cologne-worthy day, indeed.

Renewal

2011-04-24T00:05:00.001-04:00

Like many Christians, I love "The Passion of the Christ" movie.

The smallest, unspoken moments in the film resonate deeply. The ending is no exception. One of my favorite scenes is Jesus in the tomb--especially when His eyes drift shut for one, long moment before opening again.

Jim Caviezel, the actor who played Jesus, says so much in that single moment. I sense Jesus gathering strength, accepting His position, looking to the future. I hear the whisper of a grateful prayer.

The Bible says, "I go to prepare a place for you...that where I am, you may be also." (John 14:2,3). Jesus also invites us to take up our cross and follow Him.

He does not, however, invite us into the tomb. And He certainly doesn't want us to say trapped in one.

What entombs you today? Are you burdened with worry and concern for your future? Struggling with addiction, relationship troubles, illness? Burdened by financial or job problems?

On this Easter morning, Jesus bids you to leave the dank, dark tomb of worry, addiction, burden and illness. Like Him, you can whisper a prayer, close your eyes, gather your strength, and walk out of your past. You can be made new!

May God bless you richly on this special day. He is risen--allelujah, He is risen indeed!

Witness

2011-04-22T13:26:00.014-04:00

Would I have recognized Jesus in His day? Would I have seen Him for who He is?

If friends approached me at the well, exclaiming about the healer from Nazareth, would I have run to see Him? Or would I have chuckled, saying, "The heat has addled your brain, friend. Get your water--dinner waits."

Haven't I jested with friends before? Yes, of course I have. And I might have done so in 30 AD...

Would I have dismissed my friends' tales? Surely I make rational decision, at least sometimes. I also make snap decisions--decisions stemming from fatigue, hurriedness, and frustration. Perhaps I would have listened with a discerning ear. And perhaps I would have let the information slip through my mind, even in 30 AD...

Would I have questioning the motive of the healer? Would I have been skeptical, wondering if the healer harbored a secret agenda?

Or would I have hunkered in fear after seeing the Savior? Would I beg God to return things to the old, comfortable ways? Would I push the revelation away, siding with detractors who wanted Jesus to be nothing more than a carpenter? It would be so easy to do, even in 30 AD...

If I stood at the foot of the Cross today, like the women who witnessed Jesus' crucifixion--would I believe?

Or would I walk away?

I'll never know. I can only thank God that He loves me enough to put me in a place and time where faith can grow and, I pray, yield good fruit.

I can only ask for courage should the time for testing come.

What about you, friends? Have you wondered if you would've believed in Jesus' time?

Window-Dressing

2011-04-16T09:01:00.011-04:00

I'm a space geek. A layperson space geek, that is: I love to ponder the mysteries of the universe, but haven't the mathematical or scientific mind to understand the details.

So when I flipped through the channels the other night, I was thrilled to find "Journey to the Edge of the Universe" on the National Geographic Channel. The images on our new television astounded me. To think that our atmosphere stretches but sixty miles into space, yet the edge of our galaxy is thousands and thousands of light years away! Beyond that, billions of galaxies...

Some say it boggles the mind. It numbs my mind. I reach the end of comprehension and give up, distracted by that evening's dinner preparation, or the load of laundry I've yet to fold.

Yet as I went through the week, the images from that show followed me. To think that we're so small, so insignificant...a tiny kernal is a huge, dangerous, seemingly uncontrollable universe. Of course God created us. Of course He protects us. But what if...

What if...

I carried those "what ifs" around for a few days. And then my daughter, who's almost twelve, was invited to a birthday party--a party where she was the only elementary student in a group of middle school girls. I prayed for her as I drove home:

"Father, please be with her. Please allow her to set aside discomfort and enjoy her friend. Please protect her feelings..."

Then I began to falter. I began to think about those images on my television...how small we are...how insignificant..

I continued to pray. "I mean, I know you have bigger concerns than the feelings of an eleven-year-old girl at a birthday party..."

God pressed His answer deep into my heart: "She is the point of my universe, for she is made in My image. She is one of Mine."

And then I felt Him say, "The rest My universe is just window-dressing."

Tears pooled in my eyes as the pictures flashed through my mind. Quasars, the far-flung planets, stars, galaxies. Black holes, nebula, solar systems. The unfathomable enormity of space--all of it window-dressing compared to my daughter's experience.

I will never look at space the same way. From now on, I will appreciate the window-dressing, but never doubt that God's image-bearers are His heart's desire.

Zigzag

2011-03-23T08:17:00.018-04:00

"Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for Him."--Psalm 37:7

So far, 2011 has been one long journey in, "God...what are You doing in my life? What would You have me learn? What is Your plan for me?"

Ever have a year like that?

I know He's near. I see blessing in all the ways He continues to make my life work. I hear His voice when I read His Word. I feel His Son's presence even through the pain in my earthly, finite body. Jesus too suffered the pains of this world. He walks the long road with me.

This year, my prayers zigzag to heaven. I whisper them in soft incantation when my fallen humanity overwhelms me, trusting that the Spirit translates. Seeking quiet places, I pray at length, but feel little peace after. I utter short, disjointed prayers during daily chores.

I ask big questions. I seek big answers. I often strain to listen for the faintest response.

But heaven is not asleep. God drops daily manna at my bedside each morning. Yes, He has given so much! I'm so grateful for His nearness. Yet my humanity desires immediate understanding. God, what are You doing? Why? When will I have the insight I seek?

The prayers zigzag up, whispered, uttered, groaned, sung. The manna comes down, but only in daily doses. I can't know what next week brings. When impatience overwhelms me, I hold today's manna in my hand, close my eyes, and whisper another zigzagged prayer.

Readers, share some stories with me. Do you pray throughout the day, or at specified times? Do you ever pray for the wisdom to see the "big picture"? How does God provide for you daily? I'm eager to hear your answers!

Facets--Part Two

2011-03-16T12:27:00.013-04:00

The Bible teaches that all parts of the Body of Christ are necessary, from the smallest to the greatest.

I've seen that in action. Surely you have, too.

But my Christian friends bring surprising facets of themselves to the Church Body. Our church worship leader, a wonderful singer and guitarist, works on computers during the week. One of our Sunday School leaders is a woodworker in his spare time. Our youth leaders work with adults during the week, while school teachers, like me, write for the church website.

Perhaps we're following in the footsteps of our Lord. He was a carpenter by trade, but His call from God was much different than working with wood, hammers and saws.

How about you, friend? Do you use different talents at church than you use during the week? Or does God call you to the same tasks at both?

I'm eager to read your responses!

Facets--Part One

2011-03-15T06:22:00.008-04:00

I never doubt that we're made in the image of God. Like Him, we're multi-faceted.

One facet of my life is my role as a music teacher. I recently received a teacher's favorite "bonus" when a student wrote, "You fill the world with music."

Wow. I singlehandedly fill the world with music. I had to smile. Certainly I fill her world with music. Since I'm her music teacher, I am the walking, talking embodiment of music for her.

It's a heavy load to carry. For my youngest students, I'm not only Mrs. Stewart, but the art itself--I am music. If I'm kind, music is enjoyable. If I'm engaging, music is fun. If I'm exacting, music requires discipline. If I'm excited, music is rewarding. In those earliest years, it's all on me.

The weight of that responsibility is heavy. When I come home, I need to set it down. I spend evenings with my family, or engaged in tasks unrelated to my musical life. I cook, tend the house, walk, write, or read. I don't sit down at the piano; I've already spent eight hours playing, singing, dancing, moving and listening. The music me is put away. The other facets need attention.

What about you, readers? What facets of yourself do you present at work? What facets would coworkers be surprised to discover?

Puzzle

2011-02-23T07:28:00.010-05:00

I recently had a conversation with an atheist. He said he wants to believe in God, but requires sure evidence of His existence.

I'm no Christian apologetic. Apologetics require a firm grasp of philosophy and logic, and I am not a logical thinker. Logicians would say that renders me a drooling fool, but I disagree. It's possible to think in zigzags instead of formulas. However, my new atheist friend was clearly a logician. So right off the bat, I was at a disadvantage.

But as we conversed, I noticed that the atheist moved the goalposts. Unable to grasp God's nature, he insisted on reducing Him to compartments he could analyze, deconstruct, and dismiss. Yet when asked, he continued to express a desire to know about God. How could this be? How could he be interested, yet discard every piece of information I presented?

Finally, the truth dawned on me. The atheist wanted to wrap his hands around God's nature; to make the unknowable conform to what his fallible mind can understand.

In short, he only wanted to know about God. Yet God only reveals Himself to those who truly want to know Him. Not know about Him. Not twist Him around like a Rubik's cube, trying to get the colored squares to line up to their satisfaction. But truly know Him.

I presented this to the atheist. I said, "If you had a blind date scheduled, would you spend hours and hours studying her dossier, pouring over her family and personal history? If you wanted to really know her, wouldn't you want to meet her?"

The atheist blustered. "God cannot expect me to meet Him until I understand Him," he said. I shook my head. Who lives this way? Who insists on perfect understanding before the first meeting? How many married folks fully understand our own spouses, for pity's sake? I would venture very few. Yet we love. We commit. We vow all of our tomorrows. We do all this without twisting the Rubik's Cube forever, trying to make our beloved bend to our specifications.

The atheist and I parted ways. He thinks I'm a simpleton, naive and uneducated. I think he's allowing his intellect to intrude on what could be the most dynamic relationship of his life--one with the Living God. He twists the Rubik's Cube, trying to analyze God. I'm grateful to know God, and to love Him. I believe, one day, I'll glimpse God's mysteries as they waft through heaven. Not to wrap my hands around. Not to twist and swivel as a puzzle. But to enjoy, to praise, and to wonder for eternity.

Long Haul

2011-02-02T19:31:00.000-05:00

A major highway runs through my hometown--a stretch of road so vast it stretches from the Upper Penisula of Michigan to the Florida Keys.

We've traveled that highway countless times. My husband drives it daily to and from work. I hop on to run errands, drive the carpool, head to church.

Once a year, we pack up our biggest vehicle, arrange two days' worth of books, music, games and movies, and point the windshield south. We follow that ribbon of concrete through Michigan, Ohio, Kentucky, Tennessee, Georgia and into Florida for our spring break. Seven days later, we point the windshield north and reverse course.

Christianity is often called a journey. I compare it to driving I-75, our local highway. People drive that thousand-mile freeway to travel the long haul...or they jump on for a cross-town jaunt. They commit to the entire course or use it for short-term needs.

The same is true for Christianity. People turn to God in times of trouble, when they have a pressing need. They hop on Christianity for a time--until their need is met, the trouble passes, the miracle forgotten. How easy it is to fall into the easy-off, easy-on faith! How many Christians have traveled that road.

The long haul is more difficult. It requires planning, forethough, determination, tenacity. Travelers must check maps, watch for pitfalls, and most of all, keep their hands on the wheels and their eyes fixed straight forward. The destination seems so far, the road so long. Only by putting mile after mile behind us can we hope to see the "Welcome to Heaven" sign.

Here is the best news: Jesus promised that if we commit our way, He will never leave or forsake us. He promised to send us a Helper to keep our engine running. He assured that we'd run into construction, bad weather, and bumps in the road. But in the journey, He promised not only life, but life to the full.

I've merged onto the highway in the past, only to frantically look for the nearest exit. Now, thank God, I'm committed to the entire course. How about you, dear reader? What keeps you focused on the destination?

Look Up

2010-12-21T07:58:00.011-05:00

Sometimes I lean a ladder on the Cross, so I can earn my way up.

I know better. I know God offers His Son freely. I know that nothing I can do--nothing--can earn His Gift. I can only choose to accept it or not.

But I want to be valuable. I want to contribute. Won't God be pleased with me if I prove worthy?

So out comes my ricketly ladder. I set it on the Cross. Of course, my attention leaves the Cross while I balance the ladder on its beams. There--just so. Now I can climb.

Oh look, there's the Salvation Army bucket. It's more blessed to give than receive, so I put money in. That's good. Now I can climb one rung.

My kids are whining. I close my eyes, sigh deeply. I want to snap, but I hold my tongue. The Bible says the tongue is a raging fire, but I doused it. Now I can climb one more rung. Getting closer...

My teaching job is difficult this year. Too many clases, too much travel between buildings. I'm frustrated, but determined to be patient with my afternoon classes, who are tired and testy. I grit my teeth and manage to keep my patience in check. Now I can climb four more rungs.

But then, on the way home, the washer fluid in my car dries up. The dirty, slushy snow kicks up on the windshield, blocking my view. It's cold. I'm hungry. The bus in front of me stops at every house, and I have to rush my daughter to dance, and my son is waiting at home, and I'm so tired and why do I have to work so hard and make dinner and throw in a load of laundry...and when I have to pull over to splash fluid on my windshield, unsavory words tumble from my lips.

Uh-oh. Now I have to climb down a rung on that ladder. Okay, two rungs. And I was doing so well.

Such is life hanging out on the Ladder of Works, trying to earn my way to the Cross of Grace. One rung up, one rung down. Pretty soon my eyes aren't on the Cross at all, but surveying my progress up the ladder...and the progress of others. I might not be as close as some, but I'm sure a lot better than those people. You know, the others...the ones who struggle with issues I conquered long ago. Those poor folks, I begin to think. They're just not as mature in their faith as I am. Too bad their ladder isn't as sturdy as mine. Too bad they don't climb as well.

So much of religion focuses on works. Left to our own devices, we lapse into a doctrine of self-ability. Often we do so with good intentions, longing to please the One who saved us. Sometimes we climb for prideful reasons. Either way, soon our entire focus is on what we can do: climb or stall, cling or fall. It's all on us, not on Him.

I'm determined not to rely on a ladder. I know in my heart that I cannot do anything to earn God's Grace--a free Gift in the form of His only Son, Jesus Christ. So rather than set up a rickety ladder, I'll spend my days in the glow at the foot of the Cross. When I'm tired, I'll look up and take comfort. When I rejoice, I'll look up and soak in beauty. When I'm joyful, I'll look up, and when I'm weary, I'll look up. Rather than climb, I'll curl up at the base, sigh in contentment, and look up...

And look up...

And look up...

Music and memory

2010-12-06T06:20:00.009-05:00

Christmas songs hold some of my strongest memories.

Recently, I heard "The Holly and the Ivy". It's a lovely song. But unattached from the memory, It wouldn't be my favorite.

It surely wasn't my favorite on that December evening many years ago. My mother dropped me off at choir practice early, and I arrived before my Grandma Char. I watched her slow, steady gate as she made her way into the sanctuary. Though I don't remember exactly, I'm sure she wore something festive: a Christmas sweater, necklace, or pin. Grandma Char loved Christmas even before Christmas-craziness went turbo speed. Grandma owned Christmas salt-and-pepper shakers, plates, napkin rings, tablecloths. Christmas wasn't just a day for her. It wasn't just a season. It was a state of mind.

That night, she and I took our places in the choir loft. Paging through our music, we landed on "The Holly and the Ivy". I asked her about the song: what does the running of the deer have to do with Christmas? I don't remember her answer, but I know it was succinct, accurate, and worded so I could understand.

The music started. Grandma lifted her voice. She sang like she did everything else: with gusto, to get the job done. Her soprano ranged from pleasant to servicable to slightly screechy. But it didn't matter. I blended my still-maturing thirteen-year-old voice with hers. We sang about holly, ivy, running deer and merry organs.

At one point she laid her hand over mine. Her skin was aged: thin, wrinkled, speckled with tan dots. But it was strong, always strong. And that small gesture said so much, "I love you. I'm proud to sing with you. I'm glad you're my granddaughter."

Something happened during that song. When it started, my Grandma was only my grandma; in the typical egotism of childhood, she existed to fill that role in my life. By the end of the song, with her hand over mine, she became Mildred Charlene Wickham Williston--a woman who had once been an awkward thirteen, who had much wisdom to dispense on how to navigate from thirteen to thirty and beyond.

A few years ago, Grandma Char tired of celebrating Christmas on earth. One week before Christmas, she departed this life for the next, where she celebrated Christmas with Jesus...and with my grandfather. We buried her not in a suit or dress, but in a Christmas sweater. It had a wreath, decorated with holly.

I will never separate "The Holly and the Ivy" from my Grandma Char.

What Christmas songs invoke strong memories in you?

"Everything"--a response

2010-11-24T05:31:00.017-05:00

"In everything give thanks, for this is the will of God."-- 1 Thessalonians 5:18

My students learned a Thanksiving song this week. Before we sang, children provided a one-word answer to this question: "What are you thankful for?" I received great answers: family, food, home, God.

But one child said, "Everything!"

Taken aback, I repeated, "Everything?"

She thought about it. "Well, everything good."

I wrote "everything good" on the board, but knew I had erred. After her class left, I knew how deeply I erred. Below is a response to my student.

***

Dear Child,

You were right the first time. It is good to be grateful for everything.

Thank you for righting my heart on a windy, grey November day. It was a painful day, one where I thought more about my aches and pains than the privilege of teaching great kids, like you. That day, I worried about my to-do list, my job, and my health. I worried about the future of my occupation, family, and nation.

I worried a lot. Let's just leave it at that. So, worried and fretful, I missed the profound joy in your response.

You are thankful for everything. And that morning, I was thankful for nothing. Teacher, meet student. This time, you get to be the teacher.

The Bible says we are to give thanks in everything, just like that verse above says. Kids are usually--not always, but usually--more grateful than adults. Children get sick and take joy in simple things, like popsicles and balloons. Adults fret about the illness. Then they fret about the cure. Silly, isn't it?

Children get bumps, ice them up, then sip the melting ice cube from the ziploc bag. Adults say, "The ice is gone, please throw it away." Children wrinkle their brow and think, "I had a bump, so I got ice. Now I have a bag of ice water that I can't even drink. What?"

Maybe God would ask the same question. Because with the scrapes of life, He hands out colored band-aids. With bumps and bruises, He provides streams of refreshment. Kids understand this. Grown-ups used to understand it, but somewhere between the to-do lists and the worries, we forgot.

Dear student, when I see you next week, I'm going to thank you. Even though Thanksgiving Day will have passed, I want you to know that I thought about your answer. I want you to know that you were right and I was wrong. And I want to thank you for teaching me. For reminding me.

Happy Thanksgiving, dear child. On Thanksgiving Day, I pledge to give thanks in all circumstances. When I do, I'll think of you.

Needy

2010-11-17T16:47:00.009-05:00

Kids seem increasingly needy these days. Needy, or demanding. I can't decide which.

In case you're a new to my blog, I'm an elementary music teacher. I love children. Always have. So I don't mind hearing stories, tending hurts, tying shoes. I don't mind soothing hurt feelings and playing referree for disputes.

But in the last few years, children demand more of my attention--to the point that, if I gave them all they wanted, I would never teach a single song. They would never play a single instrument.

I see my students once a week for thirty minutes. Invariable, I start each class with several children at my side. They tell me their news, I respond, and we move on.

At least that's how it used to be.

Not lately, though. Lately, children have huge issues to handle--at least in their minds. Three-day old paper cuts require band-aids--NOW. Half-tied shoelaces must be retied NOW. I need to hear about their neighbor's cousin's birthday party NOW.

Everything, NOW.

This week I told a student, "We don't have time for tattles. Please go sit down." The child then grabbed my arm, yanking me toward him. Predictably, there was no emergency: he wanted to share a run-of-the-mill, inconsequential tattle.

I wonder what's going on. Do children feel neglected? In this tough economy, are we paying them less attention? In the age of technology, are we constantly distracted? Do we listen with half an ear while we text, email, or Facebook?

Or are they more demanding? Has our child-centric culture finally begun to reap what we've sown? I think about this often: in one century we've gone from child labor (which is abhorrent, naturally) to putting pampered children at the center of our world. And by the "center", I mean the axis on which the universe turns. (And not in a healthy way. Believe a teacher on this one.)

Or, like wealth in America, is the gulf widening? Are needy children more needy, and demanding children more demanding, while the population of well-adjusted children diminishes?

I don't know, readers. But I'd love your thoughts. Do you notice that children are more needy? More demanding? If so, can you account for the change?

November

2010-10-31T21:21:00.008-04:00

I love November.

November's not gaudy, like June. It's not tumultuous like January, nor festive like December, nor burgeoning like May.

November is expectant. It beckons me to quiet, to hunker down. The spindly branches reach into a grey sky where geese call a last warning to the wingless creatures below. Gone are their short jaunts from lake to tepid lake. Now they fly high and fast, spurred by shorter days and cold nights, chased by winter bearing down from the snowswept north.

November pulls us indoors to snuggle with those who share our name. Dinners are warm and hearty, no longer balanced on the paper plates of July, but taken in the quickening dusk of late fall. Soup spoons clink on heaping bowls of chili or stew as our elbows bump together, warming our bellies and hearts.

Thanksgiving fits perfectly in the bosom of November. In times of plenty, it's easy to forget praise. When days are long and abundant, how easily they pass, how quickly we take them for granted! But with each passing November day, we appreciate the hush before the storms of winter. We watch nature shrivel, brown, and deaden for another season. But we ponder God's promises, and know that after the snow, wind and cold, those bare branches will bloom again. We remember, and whisper prayers of gratitude.

The crunch of foliage, the call of geese, the scent of burning leaves, the hush of weary autumn ceding to winter.

I love November.

Small

2010-10-14T19:02:00.007-04:00

I am small. Physically small. And for the first time in my life, my smallness is effecting my life--namely, my writing.

To clarify, I'm not just shorter-than-average or on the petite side. I am petite on steroids. Or whatever is the opposite of steroids. Anti-steroids, perhaps. I receive double-takes from adults and wide-eyed stares children who wonder if I'm actually a grown-up. Acquaintances offer indulgent smiles when I express strong opinions. Apparently, I resemble a miffed Minnie Mouse when I'm upset.

I've never felt particularly small. For most of my life I've felt average in stature and standing. I've felt that way despite numerous comments about my size and shape, which never bothered me no matter how loving, teasing, endearing, or dismissive the delivery. People perceive me as small, I thought. So what.

But this writing. In the writing, I feel my size. For the first time in my life, I feel my physical self matches my self-perception, influence, ability, future, prospects, and even, perhaps, my worth.

I am small.

A friend suggests that God made me small on purpose, to notice the small aspects of life, to record them from my viewpoint. But the modern publishing world does not reward small. They want big. Big stories. Big platforms. Big sales figures. Big names. Big brands. Big marketing. Big. Big. Big.

So I flounder lately, and I shy away even from my own tiny nook on the internet, my personal blog. What have I to offer in a world of big people, big talent, and big followings?

I am small. That is who and what I am. And so I pray that I will take on Mother Teresa's humble attitude of service and love. She was content to do small things with great love. Since small seems my lot in life, I pray God will see fit to bring me through the valley and into an area of service where my smallness won't be for naught.

Lessons

2010-10-01T17:36:00.013-04:00

My young students teach me so much about faith, life, and myself.

A boy in one of my Kindergarten classes struggles in school. He has a kind heart, but is easily distracted and bothers his classmates. I knelt down to speak to him today. He said, "I'm sorry, Teacher" and wrapped his soft arms around me.

The apology was sincere. But five minutes later he was sorry again, and five minutes after that, sorry again. I sighed with understanding. How often do I curl in God's comfort and beg for forgiveness? How many times must I be "sorry again"?

Music class continued. We sang, marched, tapped instruments, and passed "beat buddies"--small stuffed animals students bounce on their knee to the beat--around the circle. My students' eyes tracked the beat buddies, eager to see if their favorite would make it into their hands before class ended.

Predictably, a few students missed their longed-for buddy. And oh, did I hear about it. "Mrs. Stewart, Mrs. Stewart! I didn't get the squirrel! It's my favorite!" said one boy.

"Did you use an instrument and a beat buddy?"

"Yes, but--"

"Everybody gets at least one turn, but you don't always get your very favorite buddy. Remember, though--you come to music class every week. You'll have another chance then."

The boy's eyes darted around the room. I could almost read his thoughts as he tried to trust my words. Yes, he'd been to music class more than once. But what does it mean when Teacher says "You'll be back next week?" Next week is so far away...too many days to count.

He nibbled his lip, nodded, and shuffled to the line. I wanted to assure him, but what do I have at my disposal? Just words. Maybe fingers to count days. A reminder that Friday is music day--and Friday will come again. My assurances would mean little. He needed to see for himself that, in the long run, everything would work out for fairness.

Again I thought of our Heavenly Father. How often do we say, "But, but.."? How often do we lodge complaints? How often does God long to explain that not getting what we want, exactly when we want it, builds character and patience? That holding the second-best is better than holding nothing at all? That being fit and free to sing is blessing enough? How often does He want to explain the future--how He has it worked out for our good--but He can't explain because of our limited understanding?

My youngest students call me "Teacher". Little do they know how much they teach me--about faith, life, and myself.

Longing

2010-09-03T19:20:00.017-04:00

This summer, my family vacationed in the Rocky Mountains.

I miss those peaks with a poignant longing. At first, I was shocked that someone of my nature would miss the mountains so very, very much.

Many folks adore the mountains, especially if they're outdoor types. I am not. I haven't camped a single night in my life. The amenities of modern living are of great comfort to me: I prefer a daily shower and Target stores to a starry night in the woods.

Additionally, I'm horrified of heights. Spiders, snakes, storms, Swine Flu--none of these cause a single shudder. But tall buildings? Airplanes? A mountain cliff at nine thousand feet elevation? Panic time for yours truly.

Yet every morning in Denver, I longed for a western view so I could take in those hulking giants of beauty. In our east-facing hotel room, I closed my eyes and imagined jagged peaks and crystal-blue mountain lakes. I heard the babbling of clear water over smooth boulders, caught the whiff of mountain pine in bracing air. My throat clenched, and I ached to experience them again.

During our visit, I tried to make sense of my fascination with the heights that horrify me. How can a woman who prefers shopping malls, hot showers, and pedicures over camping, hiking, and skiing be so insatiably fascinated with the mountains?

While reading mountaineer tales in a Breckenridge bookstore, I received my answer.

It's the stories.

The mountains tell stories. I love the lyrics in the brooks, the adventure down the cliffs, the poetry in the meadows. I love the character in each valley.

I love that humans inexorably spar with nature. In many places in America, including my home, the sparring is over--humans won. But oh, those mountains. They hold at least as much power as people, even in an age where human-generated technology is powerful indeed.

Examples of sparring abound. Hikers up Long's Peak must start out by three AM or risk a deadly afternoon thunderstorm at fourteen thousand feet. Trail Ridge Road closes from late September through early June--too much snow, too windy. Visitors at high altitudes must acclimate or risk dehydration, shortness of breath, or worse.

In the mountains, there's scope for artistry and adventure, for heroism and foolishness. In the mountains, people cower or conquer. They persevere or peter out. The mountains reveal as much about their human visitors as they do about nature. And in every instance, there's a story.

I try to shake away the mountain-homesickness. I tell myself that, if I lived there, my days would consist of shuttling my children to school, swinging by the grocery store, and teaching, reading and writing, just as they do now. I would rarely visit the mountains. They would become background scenery-- noticeable, but largely ignored.

I tell myself this as consolation.

It's not working.

Because even from here--thousands of miles away--the mountains whisper their stories to me. Even from here, my imagination soars and my breath clogs near my heart to think of the Rockies.

The mountains have stories to tell. I long to hear every one.

*** *** *** *** *** ***

This post is dedicated with love to my dear friend Anne Lang Bundy, who introduced her trembling, terror-filled friend to the beauty and majesty of the Rockies. Dearest Anne, you and the mountains are inextricably linked in my mind, forever. Thank you.

Shackled--a letter to Christopher Hitchens

2010-08-13T07:56:00.006-04:00

"I have more than once in my time woken up feeling like death. But nothing prepared me for the early morning last June when I came to consciousness feeling as if I were actually shackled to my own corpse."--Christopher Hitchens, August 5th, 2010

Mr. Hitchens, since you're a connoisseur of irony, here is a bit you may enjoy: you, a self-professed anti-theist, have penned a profound bit of Christian thinking with one swift, savvy turn of phrase--"shackled to my own corpse".

In churches across the Western world, Christians sing an old hymn written by a slave trader who found Christ: "I once was lost, but now am found. Was blind, but now I see." But here you come, with your golden pen and brilliant, piercing mind, and dash a sentence that will lodge in our collective consciousness.

Shackled to my own corpse.

The most ungenerous believers sniff at your cancer diagnosis, as well you know. "Look who's feeling his weakness now! Look who needs God now! Maybe God is punishing him for that awful book he wrote! After all, anyone who writes 'God is Not Great' deserves what he gets!"

Brush aside those comments, as they reveal self-satisfaction in religion. (In fact, "self-satisfaction in religion" may be a redundant statement.) No Christian can judge God's particular motives concerning you, regardless of the number of Scriptures they've memorized or how many church services they attend weekly. Knowing God does not make a Christian privy to His every thought and intention. Your fate rests solely between yourself and the Almighty.

Perhaps you wonder at the great number of generous Christians praying for you, since you slandered and smeared our beliefs for years. Do not wonder at it. Christians feel affinity for the shackled, Mr. Hitchens, because we were them. In some ways, we still are.

Acutely we feel the shadow of those shackles; well we remember their impression on our skin. The IV pole you write about, the bags of chemotherapy poison that seep into you, the medication that may heal or harm--Christians understand. The rickety dance between the hale and harrowing, between heaven and hell is the Christian's daily walk. We live with one foot hovering over the grave, glimpsing the shadow of our corpse, bound by an earthly construct that simultaneously confounds and tantalizes us. We live with one foot planted in Heaven, a citizenship fully granted us, a glorious home we crave continually, but for which we haven't yet obtained our boarding pass.

We pray for you, Mr. Hitchens, because among us are the kindly nurses you mention, the competent EMT workers, the knowledgeable physicians. We pray for you because we're commanded to do so. We pray for you because imbued in us is a Spirit that supercedes our own limited ability for compassion, philanthropy, and love. But mostly, we pray for you because we understand the shackles. We rise--not on one particular morning, but every morning--bound but hopeful, rooted but free, confined but no longer imprisoned by our own corpse.

Mr. Hitchens, I am praying for your immediate comfort and healing. But mostly, I'm praying for release from your shackles. There is yet time to meet my Jesus, who willingly shackled Himself to a Cross so that our shackles may be forever unbound, who broke the bonds of corpsehood Himself and lives to set men free. Even--perhaps especially--men who penned a book titled "God is Not Great".

Friends, Christopher Hitchens is a brilliant writer and noted atheist who has penned numerous books. He is a contributing writer to Vanity Fair, Salon, and other publications. At 61 years old, he was recently diagnosed with esophageal cancer. Please keep him in your prayers. Thank you.

"Townies"

2010-08-01T14:07:00.013-04:00

Recently I stood in line behind a young man wearing a familiar tee-shirt. Emblazoned on the front was the name of a small Ohio college near my hometown.

I smiled. "Don't see many of those shirts around here."

"You know this place?" he asked, pointing to chest.

"Sure do. I grew up near there."

"It wasn't my first choice. My scholarship at Michigan State fell through, and this place offered me decent money. It's very rural."

"Yes, it is."

"Man, do I have stories about the people there. We call them 'townies'. It's been a real experience, rubbing shoulders with them. But what are you gonna do?"

I guess he missed the pleasure in my voice when I spoke of my small-town roots. But as the line dwindled, he began to squirm. I almost heard the conversation replay in his head--how he demeaned my hometown, my people. "Townies," he called us.

I smiled reassuringly, but did not speak. I felt miffed, but not indignant. How could I be? I've stumbled into the pothole of pride more than once. It's easy to slide into, insidious in its onset: the college student, so much better than the "townies". The wife, so much better than the single woman. The church elder, so much better than the 'sinner' on the street corner.

The writing world is not immune. The published, so much better than the unpublished. The agented, so much better than the unagented. The contest finalist, so much better than the poor dears who didn't final.

But I can't cast aspersions at fellow writers. I must pray like a warrior to vanquish my pride in all areas of life, but particularly in writing. Pride, for me, rarely takes the form of superiority (though it rears is despicable head once in awhile). Instead, it morphs into self-doubt. I read my words and dislike them--dislike them so much I feel helpless. Of course, the rotten core of that thought is that I'm so naturally talented that I shouldn't have to work at writing; I should be able to hit one out of the park without drudgery, sweat, or tears.

As if.

That's why, when the young man squirmed, I let him--just as I allow myself to sit in my own deplorable pride-sauce when it leaks around the edges. We need to hear the echo of our words to know how out of tune we are. We have to whiff the stench before we gain the courage to excise it.

Have you encountered pride lately? How do you deal with it? I look forward to your input.

Tacet

2010-07-15T06:56:00.020-04:00

Yesterday, I took my agent's advice and visited the bookstore.

Perusing books isn't a chore. I love to read. I acquire books from many sources: the library, websites, friends and family. But she recommends visiting "brick and mortar" stores. Her advice is right-on, so to the bookstore I go.

I'll be honest. I both rejoice and grieve at the bookstore.

First, the books themselves. Writers wax poetic about the smell and feel of books. But I love their sound. I can almost hear them hum. Each is a symphony, or a vaudeville show, or a folk song. The words sing and dance, in various forms. I observe this in my writing friends: Rosslyn writes symphonies, like Mozart perhaps, or Copland. Anita writes engaging ballads. Anne writes love hymns to the Almighty. Courtney writes the best of popular music. I love to read my friends' heartsongs on their pages.

At the bookstore, I listen to the quiet hum, and amble to the Christian Fiction section.

Here, my heart breaks a little. For the first few minutes, I can't even hear the books. As thrilled as I am for my fellow writers, my heart-cry overlays their words. Self-pity sounds like a rusty calliope. Wistfulness a February birdsong. Longing a distant French Horn. While I finger the titles, minor melodies play.

Finally, finally, the last chord fades. Grabbing a stack of books, I toss my purse to the floor and curl in a corner. Yes, on the floor. You wouldn't notice me there, the tiny woman with the furrowed brow, a book in hand, a cacophony of expressions on her face. Wonder. Worry. Marvel. Regret. Rejoicing.

It's all so wonderful.

It will never be me.

Eventually, the books stop humming. I slink out of the store. All is tacet--the musical word for silent.

What would God have me do, living in the tacet while I wait for His will in my writing? Is this a long pause before the music explodes? The hush before the oboe plays the warm-up note? Or the silence of a fading dream?

Only God knows. Meanwhile, I remember Jesus at twenty-five years old. God had plans for Him. Monumental plans. But the Bible is silent on His life from age twelve through thirty. If God allowed extended silence before Jesus' ministry, why should I fret about two, three, or ten tacet years in my humble, earthly, fallible writing life?

I'm nothing compared to Jesus. Nothing. Even so, God may have humble plans for me, plans to spread His Truth in the way that suits me best: penning words. Maybe even words that sing.

Meanwhile, I listen to the bookstore hum.

And wait through my tacet.

Intimate

2010-07-04T18:09:00.020-04:00

Many people dislike religion.

In many ways, so do I. I dislike religion the same way I dislike modern parenting, with its constant anxiety and demands.

Religion and parenting are abstractions. The definition of religion begins, "A set of beliefs". The definition of parenting begins, "The rearing of a child or children". It sounds so compulsory. So joyless. So hopelessly uninteresting, like daily chores.

This conundrum was brought home when a friend discussed having children. She questioned her affinity for babies...she simply wasn't crazy about them. After talking with her, I said: "You won't be raising 'a baby'. You'll be raising your baby--a child you know like you own skin. A person who will grab your heart immediately."

About a year later, she had her first child. He wasn't "a baby" after all, but a boy with a name--a name that makes her smile. She's still not crazy about "babies". But she loved her baby with fervor.

Yet we do not apply this concept to Christianity. We live in abstraction, as if we're simply adhering to 'a set of beliefs'. We go to church. Read our Bible. We try not to swear, commit adultery, or hurt people. We give to charity.

Don't get me wrong. These are important aspects of Christianity. But adhering to them alone, without a love of Jesus Christ, reminds me of a new mother describing her baby like this, "Today I ran laundry, made four bottles and cleaned the stroller." A reasonable person might ask, "But how's the baby?"

Christianity--true Christianity--is more than religion, just as parenting is more than caring for generic children. It's about an intimate, loving relationship with a real Person who lived among us, died, and was raised again. He called Himself the Son of God and proved it was true. Then He changed the world. He continues to change it today, breathing life into His people.

I'm ambivalent about 'religion'. But I cannot speak my Jesus' name without smiling. He is not an abstraction. I know Him. I love Him. I am His. The difference between having religion and knowing Jesus is like the difference between 'parenting' and whispering your child's name into their warm hair in the deep of night.

Eve

2010-06-28T18:52:00.010-04:00

Since I'm reading Genesis, I've been thinking about Adam and Eve.

Imagine the delights of that garden. Walking with God, hearing His voice. Marveling at His perfect creation. Frolicking with His creatures.

Only one thing is untouchable. God wants love freely given rather than human puppets. So He presents a choice. "See this tree?", he says. "Do not eat of it."

Easy, Eve thinks. I don't need the tree. I am well-fed. Well-satisfied. Well-loved. I don't hunger, thirst, or yearn for what I cannot have.

Until the serpent.

The intelligent, savvy, cunning serpent slithers into her consciousness like an immediately-addictive drug. "You will not surely die," he hisses. "And don't you wonder about things? Don't you want to know?"

Come to think of it...

She does wonder. In the quiet of night, she gazes at the tree. It's easy enough to resist its delights, but come to think of it...she does...

Wonder.

The serpent makes sense. After all, why should she not know good and evil, like God? Won't that make her wise? Isn't wisdom good?

She plucks.

Bites.

And I wonder if, in the moments between her bite and Adam's, Eve begins to understand her feminine power and mystique, her influence over the man. Perhaps, in those brief moments, she understands why Adam gazes at her, runs his fingers through her hair. Why his eyes light at the sight of her.

She was not, perhaps, supposed to understand--not completely. Perhaps she was just to enjoy. Delight. Be nourished in Adam's love, like the meals she shares with him when the evening shadows fall.

She is woman. And now she knows. She flutters her eyelashes. Tips a smile. Sidles closer. Having ingested sin, perhaps she uses wiles to lure Adam into the same. Adam's strength--his good and godly love for Eve--is twisted into temptation. The serpent is all to happy to exploit the temptation.

Adam complies with her request. In the bite of forbidden fruit, Eve, and then Adam, besmirch magnificent love between man and woman.

Sin then besmirches everything.

In the ensuing years, billions of men will come to ruin for want of a woman's embrace. Billions of women will experience abuse at the hands of men who know the lust, but not the treasure. Men and women both, to this day, twist God's gift of romantic love. Do you see patched-up fig leaves as our culture both revels in depravity and struggles with shame?

I pray you will know One who exchanges our pathetic leaves for white robes of righteousness. He will crush the serpent; we shall be tempted no more. God's promises never fail!

Prodigal

2010-06-11T08:34:00.022-04:00

I did a bad thing. Partly out of ignorance. Partly out of fear. But mostly out of a human desire to avoid consequences.

We visit the library frequently in the summer. I try to keep all of our due dates straight. But recently, my daughter found two library books in her room, and I found another on my nightstand. My stomach clenched with fear and dread. The books were overdue. Very overdue. Ten months overdue.

I wish I could say that I rushed to the library right then.

I did not.

Instead, I stuffed the books under my bed. I had good reasons. The end of the school year was upon us. I was busy. Stressed. I couldn't deal with my library failings, not then. I'd deal with them later.

Those books became like the proverbial monster lurking in the shadows. How would I explain the huge fine to my husband? Why was I so disorganized? How many times would I continue to mess up?

While those books loomed under the bed, I laid on the mattress above them and stared at the ceiling, losing sleep.

In the end, only one option would satisfy my conscience.

So, on the first day of summer, I slipped the books in a bag, withdrew a large sum of cash from my bank account, and drove to the library. With shaky knees and a dry throat, I approached the librarian. I produced the books, explained the dilemma, and politely inquired about the fine. Would be acceptable for me to pay a lost book fee? I would gladly purchase three books for the library in addition to returning the overdue ones, if I could only--

"Don't worry," the soft-spoken young man said, "The fine stops at five dollars per book."

I blinked. Stared. "Five dollars?" I whispered.

"Yep. If the fines are too big, people don't want to return the books." He looked at me. "We just want our books back."

Busted, my conscience whispered. I had toyed with that thought--hide the books. Hide them forever. Never visit that library again. Problem solved.

It's odd to experience guilt and relief at the same time, but I did. I paid the fifteen dollars and expressed my gratitude. I had the librarian check all of our cards to make sure that we had no outstanding fines. Then, without shame, having paid the fine and being so warmly accepted as a prodigal patron, I browsed the shelves for new books to read.

And while I browsed, I smiled and thought of a Throne instead of a library counter. I thought of penalties and prodigals. I thought of our magnificient, forgiving God. While gratitude overflowed, I vowed to donate to the library--not out of obligation, but thanksgiving.

Do you have books under your bed? Confess. You might face consequences, but they will be minor compared to the joy of being forgiven and welcomed back into the fold.

After all, God just wants His people back.

Summer

2010-06-08T19:08:00.012-04:00

Tomorrow's it, friends: the last day of school. The beginning of summer.

I won't make goals for my summer. At least not serious goals...not like the resolutions of January. If there's one thing June, July and August aren't, it's resolute. So instead of resolutions, I'll make guidelines. Instead of goals, I'll make wishes.

Here are five guidelines for my summer:

1. Finish the novel that has pestered me for two years.

2. Prepare interesting lessons for Summer Sunday School.

3. Write for blogs. Write for educational journals. Write for church. Did I mention write?

4. Formulate fresh ideas for next school year.

5. Talk to my doctor about some alternate treatments for a couple of niggly conditions.

Okay, that was rather guideline-ish. Now for the five wishes:

1. Enjoy my kids without the "hurry up" of the school year. Lay in the grass and giggle. Make pancakes in our pajamas. You know--enjoy my kids.

2. Find my muse again. A few quiet days and I hope I can lure it onto my shoulder.

3. Read. Read. Read. Consume non-fiction and fiction in a binge of eating ideas, thoughts, new worlds, new words.

4. Sleep. A lot. I mean a real lot. Naps galore every day until the sleep bank reaches capacity.

5. On the hottest night of the year, sit outside long after dark and let the summer humidity seep into my pores. Save that feeling until next January.

So, readers, how about your summer guidelines and wishes?

Journey

2010-06-06T08:47:00.024-04:00

You could travel a thousand lifetimes and never get to the end of our Heavenly Father. Eternity is not long enough to investigate His power, beauty, and truth.

Start down the road of power. Imagine a vacuum of nothingness from which comes a vast universe, the dimensions of which we cannot fathom. Imagine the blink of a heavenly eye that set the oceans swirling. Imagine the dip of a finger that carved the Grand Canyon. Imagine the breath of life that created your incomprehensible brain. Imagine the breath that created in you a soul--an image of the Almighty, an invisible spirit that longs for Him.

Start down the road of beauty. Picture the deep hues in a single flower, the pale tint of a summer sunrise, the vibrancy when the sun sets, the sky aflame with orange and crimson. Close your eyes and listen to the hum of creation: the birdsong in the morning, the thrum of the sea, the rhythm of our heartbeat buried deep in our chest. Imagine a Creator who reveals Himself in story, so that we cheer with heroes and despair their setbacks. He holds the 'happily ever after' firmly in His hand, and when it is unleashed, the beauty of the most gorgeous earthly vista will shrivel in comparison.

Start down the road of truth. From where mathematics, science, logic? It begins and ends with a divine Mind in whom is the bedrock of all Truth. Do you have questions? Explore His Word. You will never exhaust His wisdom, but He is pleased when we pursue answers in humility. Bind yourself to the Rock of his Truth. You will not be privileged to all knowledge or understanding, but the world will align as a compass points due north, and you will both hunger and be filled with love of Truth daily.

No place on earth holds his power, beauty and truth. You must don the traveling gear that transports you back two millennia, to a time when God took on flesh and dwelt among us. There, Power stands at the door and knocks. Beauty is anointed in aromatic perfume and delights in the gift. Truth says I came that they may have life, and have it to the full.

Your journey begins when you confess with your heart that Jesus is Lord and believe in your heart that God raised Him from the dead (Romans 10:9, NIV). You will never come to the end of Him. But oh, what an adventure you will have when you investigate His power, beauty and truth!

Charms

2010-05-29T08:13:00.019-04:00

To my daughter on her birthday:

Eleven years ago today a nurse clasped a plastic bracelet on your tiny wrist. Your name was printed in typed letters--it was almost all we knew of you then.

In the following weeks we came to know you more fully. How you loved to snuggle. How you slept best in my arms. How your big brown eyes followed your brother. How your first rosy-lipped smiles brought joy to all who witnessed.

Today, we will fasten another bracelet around your wrist--your first charm bracelet. We'll probably glimpse your smile again when you admire it.

We know who you are now. More than just your name, the bracelet reveals your personality, talents, and interests: a heart charm for the love you give so generously. A Bible charm to represent your first love: God. Oh, how your love for God inspires us. Other charms represent budding interests that may bloom into callings, or may be relegated to childhood whims.

Today you are eleven, the age of in-between. It is my responsibility and joy to lead you into the charms of womanhood. They can be outwardly manifested in what you do...even in what you wear.

The women in the Bible appreciated material blessings. Mary pondered the gifts of the Magi. A weary woman poured perfume on Our Lord before His death. Enjoying the adornments of femininity is a blessing from God. But when you play with your charm bracelet, when you smile at its beauty, never forget that your real charms are those which cannot wrap around your wrist: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, self-control, faithfulness, and gentleness.

Never forget that the One who made you, Who knit you together while you nestled under my heart, knows all your charms. He knows the blessings and challenges ahead. When you fasten the bracelet around your wrist today, know that Jesus wraps your name around His heart forever and ever and ever.

No charm bracelet, however silvery and sweet, can compare to that magnficient gift.

Happy Birthday, dear one.

**My daughter and husband are pictured above.

Season

2010-05-22T20:37:00.009-04:00

"There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven."--Ecclesiastes 3:1

I've been struggling with fatigue this year. Not yawning sleepiness, but spine-deep fatigue that often has me curling on the couch after work. My body, mind, and even soul begs me to slow down.

God's Word tells of the seasons of life. This last school year has been a season of struggles. Nothing was horribly wrong, externally. But much seemed a little off internally.

God is pointing me toward the remedy, because He is so exquisitely gracious. If my life is an engine in overdrive-- teaching, caring for my husband and children, running endless errands--what is feeding me? Am I taking time to savor God's provisions? Or simply gulping paltry portions of spiritual, physical, and emotional nutrition, to see me through the next activity?

As much as I try, I am not a gulper. I cannot live a frantic life at school and a frantic life at home. By necessity, I've been forced to slow down physically--especially when I was diagnosed with a mild chronic illness about five years ago.

I've been punishing myself with a boatload of guilt. Why can't I do more? What's wrong with me? Why can't I be the woman who works full time, volunteers at the food bank, bakes homemade cookies for her children, and lives on three hours a sleep a night?

I can't answer those questions. I flinch when I think of them. So my limited energy goes into putting on a brave face. Looking good. Trying hard. Oh, I'm so tired from the guilt and strain. It has sucked so much goodness from my life.

Slowly, God has worked on me, reassuring me that my penchant for pondering, noticing, and appreciating His blessings may not be wasted. He reminds me anew that musing, singing and writing is what He intends for me. Over and over He extends His grace, carrying me on eagle's wings when my weary feet trudge a path I can barely see through a sheen of tears.

He reminds me that my fruit can grow quietly, along the shady underbrush of a moonlit path, and does need limelight to prosper.

With God's help, I'm determined to feed God's sheep, to work for His Kingdom--but only as He leads. I will also rest, savoring God's blessings without the burden of guilt that has so long encumbered.

For I know that I am fearfully and wonderfully made. I am not perfect; I shall never be. But with His help, I can be a more effective me--a ponderer, a noticer, a scribe who records His immeasurable glories in words. In song. And yes, even in rest.

Inexorable

2010-05-16T08:14:00.006-04:00

All of life is rhythm to me. Days. Weeks. Months and years--and particularly, seasons.

In the unfolding of the seasons I see God's handiwork. In every leaf and blade of grass, I see the Truth of His existence, the beauty of His plan, and the inevitability of His Word.

My favorite part of spring happens in a twelve-hour span.

Tree limbs reach their spindly branches into the sky. They are barren. It's hard to imagine them otherwise--they've been so long without color. Without life.

One day, the buds appear as swollen red beads.

Then I begin to watch. Then I begin to wait.

On a sunny, warm day, I know the buds are ready. I drive to work and return to tiny, spring-green leaves bursting from fat buds. In other years, the buds seem to pop literally overnight.

It's inexorable. The earth tilts. The buds pop. Tiny green leaves shoot out. Once they do, there's no putting them back. There's no stopping their growth. The spring baby-leaves grow to lime-green adolescent leaves--even if it grows cold again, even if it snows. No matter the weather thereafter, those leaves will grow.

God's plan for my life, for your life, and for all of life can no more be stopped than those baby-leaves in the buds. Life begins. Life grows. Life ends. All of it, every step along the way, belongs to the One who set life in motion.

This Sunday morning, while we praise, I will sing and look out the window to the forest just beside our church. I will notice the flora, and praise God for His provision.

His glorious fingerprint is on every leaf.

Momentum

2010-05-02T07:39:00.009-04:00

I often think of the pace of modern life; the ease with which we travel, touch base, and inhale information.

Compare us with our forefathers, who knew only their family and neighbors. That was their circle. That was their world.

Perhaps they read about faraway lands. Perhaps a traveler told stories by a licking bonfire while the villagers sat, rapt, and learned about a culture they could only imagine but would never experience. Couldn't. Between the farming, shopkeeping, and demanding chores, it was enough to travel to the cousin's home once a year...and they lived thirty miles away.

Thirty miles away.

Compare generations past to ours. It astounding, isn't it? We have the same curiosity about faraway places. But with a click of a button, we can access images, stories, video. We can live chat with someone half a world away. We can travel there in a matter of hours.

The deluge of information, the speed of our lives condenses us--packs us down into whirring bits of humanity. We consume at a frantic pace. Information. Ideas. Possiblities. Research. Knowledge. What it would have taken our forefathers a year to process, we learn in an afternoon. What it would have taken our ancestors a lifetime for which to save and plan, we reserve in a day. The next day, we can explore a different continent.

Momentum. We live in constant momentum.

And so I monitor in what direction my heart, soul and mind changes. Where is my momentum taking me? How am I being changed by what I read, experience, research? I must watch myself, my children, even my beloved spouse, because in these times, ideas are a snap. Information is a dime a dozen. Resulting changes in worldview are no longer inexorable, but swift and sure.

At no time in history has momentum been such a blessing--and a stumbling block. So I keep this verse tucked deep in my heart:

And we, who with unveiled faces all reflect the Lord's glory, are being transformed into his likeness with ever-increasing glory, which comes from the Lord, who is the Spirit.--2 Corinthians 3:18

"Ever-increasing"--momentum. The momentum of the Holy Spirit has always been unstoppable. Modern life attempts to keep pace. It fails, of course--the Spirit has all-consuming Power. But in the lives of many, technology, information, connectedness, ideas--these all threaten to supercede the momentum and influence of the Holy Spirit.

Where is momentum leading you? Closer to God? Or further away?

Rest

2010-04-19T05:51:00.006-04:00

"The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not be in want. He makes me lie down in green pastures, He leads me beside the still waters."--Psalm 23:1-2

Does God ever press a message on your heart?

Yesterday, my message was "rest". So after church, I did just that; in fact, I spent the day in bed. I intended to nap and return to full function in a hour or two. But once abed, my body and soul cried for rest. I listened, and obeyed.

My kids sat with me. My husband brought home dinner. I watched television and slept and lounged.

Perhaps I needed a day of rest to recover from what's behind me. Perhaps I needed a day of rest to prepare for what's to come. Only God knows, and I trust Him when He bid me to come beside the still waters. Now I face a new week refreshed and renewed.

What message has God pressed on your heart lately? How have you lived it out?

Cog

2010-04-13T06:15:00.004-04:00

I'm not a great flyer. So when I travel by air, my adrenaline is spiking--I'm alert, awake. To distract me from the flight, I people-watch...and reflect.

While flying this past weekend, I leaned my forehead against the windowpane and watched the western Michigan shoreline pass by. I thought of the complexity of air travel, from the woman who tagged my luggage, to the pilot, to the air traffic controller. As we flew toward home, I thought of the intricacy of guiding all those incoming jets to a tiny runway among a sea of homes. I thought about how often things go right--and how very, very seldom they go wrong.

Then, I thought about my job.

I don't keep people from crashing to the ground.

I don't assure that their precious belongings get home.

I don't design the mechanics and the technology to keep steel planes airborne.

I sing songs. With children. That's my job.

So yesterday, midway through my day, I took my feet and my mind and my downtrodden heart for a walk around our school. I put my iPod earbuds on and walked in the tenuous spring sunshine--strong but not yet warm enough for shirtsleeves. I huddled in my jacket and ambled by the recess playground.

Four girls approached me. Their shy smiles told me they knew the situation: I was clearly on my lunch, listening to my music. Would I mind the interruption? I smiled an invitation, and they hugged me. One asked to hear my music, and I was happy to pass an earbud around so they could hear the songs the music teacher enjoys.

High above, perhaps travelers in an airplane saw our sprawling white school. Perhaps they even spotted the white sidewalk that circles the building.

They probably did not see a petite music teacher walking the sidewalk on her lunchtime. But if they had, they might have glimpsed a slice of American life; a cog in a very big, complex wheel.

I'm not saving lives. I'm not jetting folks home.

But for me, hugs and music are enough.

Glitches

2010-04-08T10:54:00.003-04:00

A couple of blog glitches:

First, if you left me a comment and it did not post, PLEASE forgive me and try again. I approve almost every comment made--the only exception being those which are trying to sell me something. For some reason, Blogger eats comments lately, and a few of the comments I approve disappear into cyberspace.

Second, I'm having trouble commenting on blogs lately. Blogger goes into this horrid overdrive of opening window after window. Sometimes even rebooting my computer only stalls the process. It makes me nervous...I'm afraid the frantic action is going to fry my hard drive or something.

I hope to get these issues settled soon. In the meantime, is anyone else having these problems?

Time

2010-04-07T08:39:00.004-04:00

Aside from God and family, what is your most treasured gift in this life?

For me, the answer is time.

This week my family is on vacation. More than experience, I am treasuring time.

Time to be together--to laugh, love, enjoy each other's company without the rush and grind of everday life.

Time to rest.

Time to read and write.

Time to think.

Time to gaze up and the blue sky.

Time to watch the ocean lick my toes.

On vacation, I thank God for time. I'm so grateful that eternity has no limit of time to love, rest, gaze, watch, and reflect.

Risen!

2010-04-04T04:11:00.002-04:00

He is Risen!

I hear it in the birds' cries on a spring morning. Their throats can scarce contain the joy of the redemption message.

He is Risen!

I watch it play over the smiling faces of those around me, who trust in a secure, joyous, eternal future in the Presence of the One Who knit them in their mothers' womb.

He is Risen!

I share the astonishment of the women who stumbled upon the empty tomb. Why do we look for the living among the dead? The angel shines, and tells of Glory.

He is Risen!

It's the hope that pulses through my every day from January through Advent. It's my truest Truth and my steadfast assurance. It's joy, full and complete and vibrant and whole.

He is Risen! Hallelujah, He is Risen indeed!

Whisper

2010-04-02T05:35:00.009-04:00

This is how the world changes: with a whisper uttered while it spins on its axis, a day punctuated by a sunrise and a sunset. A day some noticed--and many did not.

Some glimpsed the seachange: an earthquake. A darkened sky. The torn curtain. Crying women. Jesus' grieving mother.

But on the other side of the world, birds chirped and people planted crops. Babies were born. Families laughed and quarreled. Children played patty-cake.

So it was with Jesus' birth, and so it was with His death. The pinnacles of history occured not with worldwide fanfare, not with trumpet blasts heard sea to sea, not with marching armies, but with quiet words spoken into the heart of good and evil, right and wrong. Spoken into the heartbeat of life.

"It is finished," Jesus said. Who heard, but a few bystanders? It wasn't written in the sky or shouted from the rooftops, but whispered at the moment of a single death.

A single life--and death--that changed the course of history.

And so it is until this very day. God bids you believe--quietly but insistently. You may depend upon the veracity and import of whispered words. You may depend upon that calling on your heart, that tug that pulls you toward the Almighty. Though God can and does work in mighty ways, He often chooses spoken words:

"You shall bear a Son..."

"Blessed are the meek..."

"I am the Light of the world..."

"Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."

And finally, "It is finished."

The earth spins to this day. The sun rises and it sets. But listen to the words; depend on the heart-tug. For now, God speaks mightily through the whisper.

Remember

2010-04-01T04:10:00.001-04:00

Immediately the rooster crowed the second time. Then Peter remembered the word Jesus had spoken to him: "Before the rooster crows twice you will disown me three times." And he broke down and wept.--Mark 14:72

Now from the sixth hour darkness fell upon all the land until the ninth hour. About the ninth hour Jesus cried out with a loud voice, saying, “Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?” that is, “My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?” --Matthew 27:45-46 NASB

"Love is not a victory march, it's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah."--Leonard Cohen "Hallelujah", as sung by Jeff Buckley

The week leading up to Jesus' death and resurrection was full of failings.

Peter denied. Judas betrayed. Disciples slept. Pilate washed his hands. The chief priests discredited. The crowd yelled "Crucify!"

Jesus watched His closest friends fall away like chaff on a spring breeze. He witnessed Jewish scholars suppress their knowledge. In the Garden of Gesthemane, He felt the weight of human failure: those who pledged good, but who could not finish the race; those who, in their duplicity, betrayed Him.

On the cross, Jesus uttered His own heart-cry--not because He was less than perfect, but because for one instant, He took the sin of humanity on His shoulders. He felt our separation with God, and it wrenched His soul, prompting Him to ask God, "Why have You forsaken Me?"

On Good Friday, I remember our brokenness. I recognize it as a desperate void, grinding and inescapable but for the sacrifice, power, and beauty of a Savior who endured agony to rescue us from our lot. I remember that even Jesus uttered a thin, ragged Hallelujah to His Abba-Daddy, the Holy of Holies, the Almighty God.

Easter awaits.

But first, I remember Good Friday.

Holy

2010-03-28T06:46:00.007-04:00

"And being in anguish, He prayed more earnestly, and his sweat was like drops of blood falling to the ground."--Luke 22:44 NIV

My Holy Jesus is not a character.

The story of Holy Week is not a play or a movie. It is a battle--the battle for and of the ages--a battle that is the most vicious reality ever encountered.

How quickly, how easily we forget. Buried in chocolate, bewitched by cute bunnies, Americans too often think of Easter in nebulous terms of "awakening" or "renewal". Those soft words don't offend--they don't demand our notice.

But Jesus does offend, just as He said He would, and He does demand notice. To this day, His Name carries power. It is used as a blessing, a prayer, a soul-cry of praise or agony. It is also used as a curse. His Name has power, and people use it for good or ill.

That is the battle of Holy Week--good and evil, life and death. Today, Palm Sunday, honors Jesus' power and glory. Hallelujah! The King has come! Later in the week, we remember our Lord harrowed on a cross. Beaten. Bloodied. Bereft of His Father's support as the sin of all time dropped on Jesus soul--Jesus, who never committed a sin in His life, yet took the penalty of our sin willingly.

During this Holy Week, I pray that as I enjoy the spring around me, I also marvel at the gravity of a mighty battle. I pray that I appreciate what my Savior endured. For ME, He received the pain of a lashing, bloody whip. For ME, He suffered blunt nails through soft flesh. For ME, His soul took on every sinful thought and deed I have ever committed--and those yet to come.

May God bless you richly, friends, as we remember the sacrifice of our Lord Jesus Christ. May He be glorified this week and for all eternity!

First

2010-03-25T05:30:00.004-04:00

I often write about the delight and inspiration students bring.

Sometimes they discourage me, too. Especially when I witness their basic human nature. When we're slogging through a long March, that nature comes to the fore.

Recently, I witnessed students squabbling about this momentous, first grade battle: who gets the fourth place in line. My shoulders rounded. I frowned. How many times must I explain that being fourth in line rather than fifth means you step into your classroom one second earlier than the person behind you? That we're all going to the same place, anyway? That the line is not a status symbol?

This is our human nature. From a young age, we will jostle and squabble to gain advantage--sometimes even when that 'advantage' is negligible. We hurt our friends, step on toes, and pull at limbs in order to 'get ahead'.

The News, however, is still Good: God trumps human nature. He shows up in the first grade line, when justice prevails and the scolded child shuffles to the back. Discipline is lovingly-applied teaching, and teaching succeeds when consequences--for good and ill--are felt. We suppress our selfish nature when we learn that the result is not worth the squabble. When we feel the bruise on our conscience and see the hurt expressions on friendly faces, we learn that being first is overrated.

Some learn this lesson in first grade.

Some, much later.

Some never learn it, unfortunately. But all of us need constant reminding: in the Kingdom of Heaven, the first shall be last, and the last shall be first.

And if you seek that Kingdom first, the petty squabbles of the world fade into inconsequence. Even if you are fifth in line, rather than fourth.

God in School II

2010-03-22T05:30:00.003-04:00

Many folks have the perception that God is persona non grata in public schools.

I can't speak to all situations, of course. But I've been in school since age five, either as a student or a teacher--in two states, three districts, and close to two dozen buildings.

Perhaps because I teach music, I hear about God regularly. Without prompting, students tell me they think of God, Heaven, and Jesus while listening to music or singing.

At the word "Jesus", some students proclaim, "You can't say that in school!"

I don't encourage theological discussion. Neither do I scold children for mentioning it. When kids tell me about God, I listen, just as I would if they told me about their family. Then we resume making music.

We've heard the stories of teachers who told Kindergartners they cannot pray, or a third grader she can't say "God" in school. But I suspect many more teachers let children speak and move on--quietly, without notice. That is completely right, and completely American. Just as I wouldn't dream of scolding a Hindu or Muslim child for mentioning their faith, nor would I scold a Christian child for mentioning theirs.

As long as children believe in God, He will come to school. In fact, I encounter Him daily, in the songs and the faces and the smiles of my dear students.

Concerts II

2010-03-18T05:30:00.001-04:00

Dear readers, since I'm in the heart of concert season, I'd love to hear about your elementary concert memories.

Be honest. Trust me when I tell you that plenty of adults have told me their stories, for good or ill. I've heard wonderful tales of enjoyable evenings. I've heard horror stories about the music teacher who said, "Mouth the words, but don't sing." I've heard about parents shedding tears of joy, and kids getting ill on stage. You can try to surprise me, but I'm not sure you will!

I'll start. I sang "Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree" with a small group of students in our third-grade concert. I wore a pretty dress and felt like a princess. That year, singing a solo in church became my highest aspiration (I reached that goal in seventh grade).

Your turn! I can't wait to read about your experiences.

Endure

2010-03-15T05:30:00.000-04:00

To my dear ones, who have experienced the budding of life inside them and suffered its quick demise--

Today, I walked through forty degrees of dampness. I caught the whiff of newly-exposed earth through the snowmelt. I felt cold drops of rain pelt my skin.

And I smiled.

I smiled because I have lived through worse. I have shoveled snow so heavy I can barely lift it with my spindly arms. I have shivered under layers of clothing. I have suffered bitter, pewter-skied Michigan winters.

Because I endured winter, even the dampness of March encourages me. Even a bird's first, tentative trill stirs hope. Even the sound of rain brings visions of bright daffodils, sun-soaked afternoons, and fat, red tree buds fit to pop.

Dear ones--

You have endured a horrid winter. You have leaned into a stiff wind with aching hearts and empty wombs--an unrelenting pain that cuts through whatever comfort you can patch together.

I can't pretend to know that pain. If it were within my power, I would wish your winter away. I would wish for the first bud of life to have sprung forth uninhibited, robust--and incorrigibly, undeniably alive.

I cannot wish your loss away. But know this--

On the day you hear the fetal heartbeat of your first-born child, you will experience joy I could never imagine. You will hear the music of angels in the strong, healthy, vigorous pulse.

When that first kick flutters your belly, you will gasp and touch your abdomen. When it happens again, you will hold your breath--and when it happens again, you will feel as if God handed you the sun, moon and stars. The baby moves. Oh, what joy! The baby moves.

When the baby grows and limits your breathing, your sleep, your movement and appetite, you will embrace every change and thank God for each one. What is insomnia, but an excuse to sneak into the nursery and marvel over teeny tiny baby clothes? What is the uncomfortable heaviness of pregnancy but an excuse to lean on your husband's arm?

And when labor comes, you will ride the waves with strength. Having faced the agony of emptiness, you will not meet the pain of life with dread or fear. You will walk through the grey days of pre-labor and see new life everywhere--and despite the discomfort, you will beam.

No one cherishes spring more than those who endure harsh winters.

No one parents better than those who cherish life--and understand its fragility.

In the meantime, we wait with you. We wait for the first tenuous buds of spring to burst from muddy earth. We wait for strong sunlight to burst from sodden skies. Life will come. With joy and triumph, in God's perfect time and in His perfect plan, in one form or another, it will come.

Have faith, my sisters. Endure. And wait for your spring.

Concerts

2010-03-11T05:30:00.001-05:00

Concerts here, concerts there
In the month of March, they're everywhere!
Every week a circled date
Excited singers just can't wait!

Please excuse this poor, poor rhyme
I find I just don't have the time
For catching up with writing friends
The candle's aflame at both ragged ends

Out like a lamb, the saying goes
And by that time, heaven knows
I'll need to retreat to the oasis of story
To the beauty of words in all their glory

I'll sign off for now, my poetry lacks
Subtlety, metaphor--I'm afraid I'm a hack
But what can I say? My kids are aglow
For this music teacher, it's on with the show!

Tangled

2010-03-08T05:30:00.002-05:00

"Whoever of you loves life and desires to see many good days, keep your tongue from evil and and your lips from speaking lies."--Psalm 34:12

"Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive."--Sir Walter Scott

We've all told a lie--or two. Or ten. Or ten dozen.

They emerge from our hearts, but burn on our tongue. We rationalize their aftertaste: it's just a little white lie. Everone does it. I can't tell what I did--and no one ever has to know.

There's no innocuous sin, no transgression that doesn't separate us from God. Sin is sin. The smallest, unforgiven bit condemns us forever. God's holy, perfect Presence simply cannot abide a single stain.

But in this life, degree of sin does yield varied results. There's a difference between the lie you told your best friend about her new haircut ("It's not that bad.") and the continual, devastating lies that a husband tells his wife about "late nights at the office", or a politician speaks to his constituents, then the lobbyists.

The former burns, but the latter weaves a tangled web that ensnares and consumes entirely, like a hapless creature caught in the vise of a black widow. By the time you realize you're stuck in the silky strands, the first painful bite has been taken.

As in all things, prayer protects us from our own follies:

Father, keep our lives simple. Simple lives require no disguises.

Father, keep our paths straight. Straight paths offer no tempting side trips.

Father, keep our hearts humble. Humble hearts do not seek after attention or praise.

Father, keep our minds pure. Pure minds seek after truth.

Father, keep our tongues from speaking lies. Protect our hearts, so that burning words have no foothold there.

May God bless you richly this week, dear readers.

Qualified

2010-03-04T05:30:00.009-05:00

As you probably know, schools are facing horrible budget crunches.

I recently read a parent's suggestion for fixing the problem. She claims that parents should teach elementary school--because certified teachers are necessary only at the high school, where the subject matter is more challenging.

Friends, I'm not an elitist teacher. Children thrive in many school situations: home, private, public and charter. At least half of my Christian friends homeschool, and I respect their choice immensely. I'm not an unshakeable advocate for public school teachers. Some are fabulous, some good, some mediocre, and a few should leave the profession.

But.

If you believe that the only requirement for becoming a teacher is knowing the information, that teacher education is worthless, and that research, curriculum and teaching methodology are overrated--fine and dandy. But if nothing else, at least the time and labor involved in earning a teaching certificate should prove intention. In my state, no one in a public school classroom "fell into" the profession. No one escaped college without learning the basics of child development and teaching practices. Every teacher endured an internship, where they were constantly assessed and discovered if they had the chops to deliver for children, day after day, week after week, for months on end.

The parent mentioned above thinks she can teach elementary school, and she may very well be right. The question is: does she want her child to attend a school staffed by parents who think likewise? Or would she rather have her child attend a school where teachers are uniformly educated, tested, vetted, and required to maintain rigid certification requirements?

I welcome all honest reponses. I love to talk school, learning, and kids! :-)

Birthpains

2010-03-01T05:30:00.001-05:00

These are the beginning of birth pains.--Mark 13:8

I have experienced the pain of disease. I have twice experienced the pain of childbirth.

The pain of disease is shrouded in a red haze. I remember long nights of constant prayer--praying God will get me through. Praying the doctor will return my call. Praying that the medicine will work. Praying to find relief in sleep.

I remember feeling antipathy toward my body. What was wrong with me? How could an infection cause such agony? The pain came with a dose of anxiety. It all happened so suddenly, so unexpectedly.

And then there's childbirth.

"Does it hurt?" my daughter whispers when we talk about her birth. It does, I tell her--but it's a different kind of hurting. A good kind of hurting.

The pain of childbirth is laserlike and focused. It's not bacteria run amok. It's not a virus on overdrive. It's an escalating reminder of a significant event--new life.

Where other pain is contentious--the body fighting injury, infection, or disease--the pain of childbirth is cooperative. The woman cries and moans through the beginning phases. The wise woman learns to give over to an experience so encompassing that she loses self, time and place in the rhythm of it: Pain. Push. Pain. Push. Pain. Push.

Finally, a cry. Instantly the agony recedes, to be replaced by lightness and joy. The memory of pain fades under the euphoria of a baby's first song.

*** *** *** *** ***

Jesus understood women. Jesus, being knowledgeable beyond His human experience, knew the pain of childbirth. He knew it was an apt analogy for the days to come.

The pain of the end will not be shrouded in mystery. He has told us what is to come.

The pain of the end will not come unannounced. He has told us to look for Him.

The pain of the end will not groan with futility. The war is won. The outcome is sure.

The pain of the end will, at times, overwhelm us. Then, hold onto what you know. Focus. Breathe. For this we were born--at just this time, in just this place.

The beginning of birth pains may be today, in a thousand years, or in ten thousand years. But Christians have already seen the "positive" sign. We have already heard the heartbeat that threads through God's Word. We have not circled a date on the calendar, but we await fulfillment nonetheless.

It will come with pain. But oh, what a glorious conclusion! Every tear will be wiped away, and someday, we will call the pain a blessing. Some day, in glory, we will whisper, "It was a good kind of hurting..."

Remember?

2010-02-25T05:06:00.005-05:00

Every week, I teach eight hundred students at four different schools.

Yesterday, a girl approached me in the hallway. She wore her winter gear and a wide, bright smile. "Remember when you taught me?"

I did remember, thankfully, though I forgot her name. So I said with a smile, "I sure do. We had fun in music class last year, didn't we?"

I have taught elementary music for seventeen years. Though the role I play in children's lives is minimal, the concept of one for many has seeped deeply into my conscious. One of me. So many of them.

Being human, I am limted by my experience. I try to imagine a heavenly Father for whom I am one of many--and yet Who has enough for me. Enough time. Enough love. Enough resources.

I can scarcely imagine it. How can He have enough for me? Who am I among billions of people?

Here is where I must rely on faith. My limited human mind envisions a God who loves me, but forgets my name. Who wants to remember, but has too much to do. Who hopes the best for me, but is waylaid by other concerns. After all, who am I to ask, "Remember me?" when children are dying? Who am I to tug on his sleeve when earthquakes destroy and airplanes crash and cancer strickens?

The Scriptures assure me that He is a God Who knows me; indeed, Who numbers every hair. I cling to that Truth. I rest in it when my imagination can't grasp God's care for me.

"Remember?" my spirit whispers, and I imagine tugging on Jesus' robes. "Remember me?"

"Yes," His Spirit responds.

Unlimited in mind, boundless in Spirit, unconstrained by time--our God remembers.

Slumber

2010-02-22T05:30:00.010-05:00

"I will lie down and sleep in peace, for you alone, O Lord, make me dwell in safety."--Psalm 4:8 NIV

"He will not suffer thy foot to be moved: he that keepeth thee will not slumber. Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep."--Psalm 121:3,4 KJV

The prodding on my heart bids me to ponder these Psalms, to store them up like little creatures store provisions for long, cold winters.

Oh, to sleep in peace. What a blessing it is to sleep in peace. To slumber among pillows and blankets of soft, clean fabric. To know that my husband sleeps feet away--the man whose name I share. The man who is related not by blood, but by vow. The man who houses the shadow of my heart in his chest.

At night, our limbs converge. His are much bigger than mine. I whisper in his ear, "Move over, love. You're heavy." He smiles in his sleep. Sometimes he moves. Sometimes not. But I always drift into peaceful sleep again, regardless.

A few steps away, my children sleep the deep, constructive slumber of childhood. Their heads grow warm. Their limbs curve sweetly. Their beautiful red lips, so like their father's, part in breathing. They each have their own bed, their own pillows, their own blankets.

Nearly nine years ago, I had a taste of the Psalm above. Just a teeny taste. For two nights, on September 11th and September 12th, 2001, I was afraid to sleep. That first night I stayed up, crying. Nervous. Shaking my head. Crying some more.

The second night, the immediate fear abated, to be replaced by a niggle of discomfort. I woke every couple of hours, wondering. I left the television on to keep tabs. No more attacks. No planes in building. I could return to sleep.

For several nights after, blankets and entangled limbs did not ease my heart. Those nights, I laid in bed, wondering if the world I'd left behind--the one of uninterrupted sleep--would ever return.

It did. But the memory resides deep, deep, where jarring experiences always furrow. Though I am far from New York City, we all lived a little piece of 9/11.

Sleep, my spirit whispers tonight. Sleep now. Sleep well. But know there may be a time--perhaps soon, perhaps not--when you will need to pray through dark hours, when closing your eyes means ceding to vulnerability. Then, when pillows seem a luxury of the past and dreamy sleep an abundance of the exceedingly blessed--remember the Psalms.

Remember that, no matter the imminent threat, eternal safety is yours through a heavenly Father who neither sleeps nor slumbers.

Remember, the voice prods.

And I drift to sleep.

Sing

2010-02-18T05:30:00.001-05:00

I sing with children for a living.

I love the songs of childhood. I love nursery rhymes and holiday songs. I love "Skip To My Lou" and "BINGO". I love "The Hokey-Pokey" and square dances.

I adore the more sophisticated music of older children. I love when a class conquers their first round--in two parts to begin with, then three or four. Countermelodies and partner songs add richness to our melodies. I love experiencing vocal harmony with kids.

The older children learn history and geography through music. We feel like soldiers singing battle hymns, or African children playing rock-passing games, or Indian maidens grinding corn. We lift our voices and move our bodies, or lift our voices and stand quietly while we listen. Either way, we lift our voices.

I sing with kids all day long. What a job! What a joy! What a blessing!

Readers, what songs do you remember from school? Which were your favorites? Which were your least favorites? Thanks in advance for sharing your singing memories!

Vision

2010-02-15T05:30:00.002-05:00

My daughter told me her preschool vision of God the other day:

"When I was three, I pictured God playing with us in preschool. He sat 'criss cross applesauce' on the floor, just like us, but He was bigger than us--bigger than anyone. He wore a silly hat to make us laugh. And He played pattycake with us.

He was really nice and I loved Him. But I remember that I never pictured His face."

Is that an amazing, childlike vision of God or what?

My daughter has loved God since I can remember. Even today she prays at length in her bed before falling asleep and loves to read His Word.

She is ten now. We laughed at her vision of the hat. She wondered aloud if she could bring one for God and Jesus when she dies. I imagined their laughter at the gift--and their joy.

God the Father. God the Almighty. God the Three-in-One. God the Creator. And God of pattycake, in the eyes of a big-eyes, pudgy-fisted baby girl.

May He be forever praised!

Boys

2010-02-11T06:05:00.004-05:00

I love my piggy-tailed, dress-wearing, obedient little girl students. I also love my giggling, rough-and-tumble little girl students.

But oh--how I love my boys.

Until about third grade, the boys run into my classroom. They know they're not supposed to. I tell them every week. But my room is large and rectangular, and why walk when you can run?

"Slow down, fellas," I remind them. So they race-walk, their arms pumping at their sides.

Most of my classes have free seating. We sit on a big, colorful carpet. Almost without exception, the boys gather at the back and the girls sit close. I used to worry that my teaching wasn't impacting the boys. But I've come to learn that, for elementary school boys, sitting in the back allows for a few hijinks that wouldn't be possible up front.

I allow their hijinks within reason. Boys will not alway sit still while they listen. Some of them simply cannot. They wiggle. They squirm. And if you ask them later to repeat the direction, they can. They hear every word. They just need to move while they listen.

Boys are funny. Really funny.

They say most entertaining things. Their group activities revolve around humor. So while the girls work together to assuage feelings and foster cooperation, boys figure out how to make the motions to the verse as silly as the human body will allow. Because I love to laugh, I sometimes ask them to perform again and again.

Oh, those boys. I love my sweet little girls. But oh, those twinkle-eyed boys.

Balance

2010-02-08T05:45:00.004-05:00

I think the most challenging aspect of modern life is the balancing act we monitor and maintain.

I often think of my grandmother. Her firstborn child, my aunt, was born seven decades ago. My grandmother needed her labor induced. Her doctor gave her a choice: did she want to delivery on Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday?

My grandma's choice? Wednesday, of course. Monday was washing day. Tuesday was ironing. Wednesdays were free.

Now I enjoy high-powered washing machines and irons that heat up in sixty seconds. Now I can throw in a load of laundry, start dinner, help my children with homework, call my husband, change out of my work clothes, neaten up the living room, and check my email. When that's all done, I throw the load into the dryer. While the clothes dry, I can read a chapter of a book, write a blog post, eat and clean up dinner, check to see that my children's homework is done, ready my clothes for the next day, chat with my husband, call a friend, check my email again, make a grocery list, and arbitrate a sibling dispute.

Convenience allows us to do more. But it also robs of the quiet hours my grandmother spent rubbing clothing on a washboard, wringing them dry, hanging them on a line. It robs us of the repetitive tasks that allow minds to wander and imaginations to flourish.

If my grandmother were alive, I'd love to ask her about her days at home. Did her arms ache? Did she tire of the mundanity of washing clothes by hand? What did she think about as she washed and ironed for two entire days?

We fool ourselves into thinking life is easier these days. Physically, perhaps it is. Mentally, emotionally, spiritually, our attention span suffers and we look haggard, exhausted, scattered.

That's why I'm convinced that the minutes we spend at the feet of our Savior--listening, praying, worshipping--are more vital than ever.

To that end, I'm reducing my posts to twice per week rather than three. I'll post my Faith First Mondays. On Thursdays, I'll post Tales from School. My free-writes, called Grace Notes, can pop up anytime, but I suspect while I'm in the thick of concert season through the spring, they'll be few and far between.

Friends, I hope you find some quiet moments of reflection in these crazy times we live in. May God bless you richly this week.

Recess

2010-01-21T17:38:00.006-05:00

It's time for me to take a blogging break, friends.

I mistakenly thought January might be a slower month for me. I was wrong. With concert season approaching, I find myself behind at work, home, and in my writing. For the next couple of weeks, something has to give.

I hope to resume posting on Monday, February 8th. At that time, I may decide to reduce my posts to two a week rather than three. I'll let you know when I return.

God bless you, and thank you for your online friendship, support, and encouragement. See you soon!

Weep

2010-01-16T09:18:00.028-05:00

"I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless...Touch it; the marble eyelids are not wet, it if could weep, it could arise and go."--Elizabeth Barrett Browning

"The universe we observe has precisely the properties we should expect if there is...nothing but blind pitiless indifference."--Richard Dawkins, atheist

"Jesus wept."--John 11:35

Passionless.

Blind, pitiless indifference.

The first two quotes above cut straight to the soul--past social convention, past experience, past religious affiliation. They hit on our deepest fears.

I assert that our worst fear is not death, but inconsequence. We fear that we are insignificant in an indifferent universe. That we are utterly, completely alone.

Two thinkers--one a poet, the other a biologist--ruminate on these. Elizabeth Barrett Browning illuminates hopelessness: not wailing, not tears, just a hardness of spirit which she likens to deserts and marble statues. Touch it, she suggests. The marble is cold and dry. "If it could weep, it could arise and go."

Richard Dawkins perceives coldness in our universe. We are here by pure accident. We are born, live and die by our physical being--slaves to genes, matter, and chemistry. Here, tears are drips of emotion which serve no purpose. They may fall to the earth. They may briefly water the flora. But no supreme being exists to see them--or to care.

Blind, pitiless indifference. That's Richard Dawkins' perception.

Then there's God.

God reached from outside time and stepped into the temporal. God, the three in one, knew that communion is vital. God shaped His creation and called it good. God formed Adam and breathed into Him passion, empathy, compassion, love. God said, "It is not good for man to be alone. He needs communion." So God created woman from man, and the two become one flesh--warm, luminous flesh.

Touch them. They have tears and skin and there, just there, feel their hearts beat in their chest. God says that's where He wrote His law. God says that's where He wrote His love.

We have mucked it up. To God's vibrant creation--because we chose to walk away from Him--we added grief as an opposite of passion, loneliness as an opposite of communion. God could have called it curtains right there. God could have used His power to snuff us out, because even in the Glory of His Presence, we did not obey one, simple command.

God counted the cost. God decided that love is worth pain, passion is worth grief, communion is worth loneliness.

Blind, pitiless indifference?

No, God wasn't satisfied with indifference, and did not withdraw His Presence. Instead, He came nearer, nearer, pressing His Truths on the minds of men so they sacrificed sleep and time to write His words night and day.

Then, at just the right moment, He regarded His only Son and declared, "It's time."

Jesus, like Adam before Him, wore flesh. He hungered, thirsted, bled and ached. Jesus could not maintain passionless, dry, blind, cold, pitiless indifference in human form, even though He was God Incarnate, even though He knew the beginning from the end and back again.

No.

Jesus wept.

And so, I say--weep, collapse, mourn, ache. Feel heaviness without allowing it to fossilize your soul. Know the pain is not met with pitiless indifference, but shared by a God who felt the cold weight of grief and glimpsed, for one moment, humanity's horror of being alone...completely, utterly alone...in an vast universe. The moment Jesus felt that pain--and wept with the onslaught of it--He vanquished it by calling forth life from death. Again and again He asserted and proved we are not alone: "Lo, I am with you always, even to the end of the age."

On one hand, a universe of passionless, blind, pitiless indifference, as dry, cold and unaffected as marble.

On the other, a God who formed warm flesh, then sent a Savior who walked, lived, and wept with us.

Consider the worldviews. I choose to love and follow a weeping Savior today. Have you made your choice?

January

2010-01-15T05:00:00.001-05:00

I used to refer to January as the armpit of the year.

The weather is horrible. Days are dark and long. The holiday letdown sets in. Neighbors seem to disappear as people hibernate.

But recently, I saw an amazing video of our lovely little planet, hung in space by the very hand of God, set in motion all those years ago.

We enjoy an atmosphere that sustains life. Our planet teems with living things, from tiny bugs to giant redwoods to the people who share my name and greet me at the end of these grey January days.

We have nighttime to rest, daytime to love and learn and serve. We have water to drink and food to eat.

Most importantly, we have God to love--to love with all our mind, soul, body and strength.

Armpit of the year? That was last year. This year--a little older, a little wiser, perhaps--I thank God for the wonder of the home He fashioned for us. I thank God for every day. Even the cold, short, snowy ones.

Hand

2010-01-13T05:52:00.001-05:00

It was an exhausting teaching day.

The long hallway felt chilly as I walked toward my next class. The winter air came off the children in waves as they removed snow pants, gloves and hats. Post-recess arguments ensued. They usually do in cold weather.

I stepped over boots and frowned, wrapped in my dismal thoughts. I love my job, but on rare days the press of humanity nearly overwhelms me. That day I had already seen one hundred children, with many more ahead.

And then, as I walked, I felt the warmth of a tiny hand tuck into mine.

I looked down and smiled at the girl who took my hand. She returned my smile as we walked down the hall together. We didn't speak. I squeezed her hand, lightly. She squeezed back. And in that simple touch, the world seemed right again.

Children, they say, can be so cruel.

But children, I know, can give with no expectation of reward. They can give instinctively, with a quiet generosity that neither offers nor requires words.

Because of the hand of a child, I breezed through my afternoon. Because of that tiny hand, I saw in that chilly hallway a glimpse of a great, coming Kingdom.

Thank you, dear student.

Lines

2010-01-10T05:05:00.000-05:00

My family enjoys Minivan Theology: talks about our faith while we're in the minivan. Some of these are deep discussions, some not.

Last week, I talked to my daughter about Paul. We spoke about the Damascus Road and Paul's remarkable conversion. My daughter said, "Mom, you want to meet Paul when you get to heaven, don't you?"

I chuckled. "Honey," I said, "Almost everyone wants to meet Paul!"

That thought brought a dilemma. Millions of people, perhaps billions, wanting to meet Paul. Yet, of course, there's only one Paul. So we wondered: will there be lines in heaven, like at an autograph signing?

My daughter said yes. She could envision no other way for each to get their turn. I said no, because heaven is joyful, and lines are anything but joyful.

So, friends, share some interesting discussions your family has about faith, either lighthearted or not. Where do your most "faithful" talks take place? And--what do you say about Paul? Line? Or no line?

God bless you this Monday morning!

Handiwork

2010-01-06T07:45:00.004-05:00

As much as they try, secularists cannot take God out of school. For as long as children remain in school, I will see God reflected in every young face. Every time I walk into my classroom, I am surrounded by the creation of a Creator whose majesty and artistry boggles the mind.

A little girl stands at my desk. She looks like a china doll, all creamy skin and big blue eyes and a heart so transparent the kindness pours off her in waves. She is cognitively impaired and will need academic support through school. It matters not. She is beautiful.

A boy with a body he can't control picks up a large drum. I told him not to, but he just wants to help. Plus, the drum makes noise, and the noise only happens when he moves his body, and his body was made to move. Constantly. He will need help to overcome his impulses--skillful help, so that his energy can be channeled but not stifled. It matters not. He is beautiful.

My students have gap-toothed smiles and disheveled hair and loud voices. They are imperfect in this fallen world. But the beauty of God's creation in childhood astounds me at least once daily, and often more.

Would you like to see God welcomed back to school? So would I. In the meantime, I'll rest in the knowledge that where His children go, so does His handiwork. I glimpse Him daily in the smiles, the hugs, and the faces of my dear students.

Hunger

2010-01-02T20:33:00.009-05:00

"Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled."--Matthew 5:6

A few years ago, I had a raging hunger to see the ocean again.

It had been decades since I'd seen it. Vague memories tantalized me: a smell I knew was strong, but couldn't conjure. Sounds that lulled me to sleep every night, but that I couldn't recall. I remembered that the sand squished between my toes, and that we collected seashells. But the memories were like photos in an old album, faded and curling at the edges.

So when we planned a family vacation to Tennessee over spring break, I asked my husband to make a last-minute change. I said, "Let's drive a few more hours south. Let's go to Florida."

Within hours, we scrapped our Tennessee vacation and packed swimsuits and flipflops. A couple of days later, we were halfway to Florida.

The zing of anticipation tantalized me as we approached the Atlantic. Oh, the salty tang in the air--fresh, but tinged with the richness of sea creatures. We rolled the windows down, and the wind teased my hair as we rode closer to the water.

We parked at the beach. I barely waited for my husband to stop the car, but popped out of the seat, kicked my shoes off, grabbed them, and rushed toward the water.

The ocean.

I thought I remembered. I hadn't. I forgot the pound of waves. I forgot the coolness of the sand in the wake of water, and its heat in the sun's rays. I forgot that the vastness of the view makes you feel like the tiniest sand dollar on a thousand seashores.

Joy overtook me, and I walked until the water tickled my toes and licked my ankles and splashed my calves. I lifted my sundress until the water hit my knees and my preschool daughter cried, "Stop her, Daddy, stop her...the water's going to take her!"

I listened and watched and scented the air, and it wasn't enough. The experience of the ocean filled my senses. Still, I hungered for more. How is it possible to hunger and be filled simultaneously?

I don't know that answer. Not fully. But this year, I hope to explore the hunger and satiation of relationship with God. I have a head start, because I know that God is bigger, heartier, more compelling and more insistent than the most beautiful of all His creation combined. I stand only on the lip of His love, mercy, graciousness, goodness, power and Truth--and I am filled.

And like standing on the edge of the Atlantic, I hunger for more.

2010

2009-12-29T05:41:00.003-05:00

Happy New Year, friends!

As my Christmas vacation winds down, I'm taking a blogging break for the remainder of this week. But I'd love to hear from you! What fun New Year's Eve plans do you have? Do you have any traditions to ring out the old year and ring in the new?

May God bless you as 2009 winds down. Happy New Year!

Afterglow

2009-12-28T05:59:00.006-05:00

Most everyone comes to the stable on Christmas Eve.

We sing Silent Night. We light candles. After church, the snow crunches under our feet. We look up at the stars, up, up, and it almost seems...tangible. The miraculous seems close enough to touch.

Then we go back to the crunch and grind of real life. The starlight fades. The carols stop. The candles are snuffed out. The Baby, born two thousand years ago, seems less important than the next meeting, carpool run, or errand.

I know that grind, too. What we've gained in convenience these days, we've lost in meditation. We don't spend hours at the wheel or the millstone, talking or contemplating. We rush. We fill our heads with information. When we do find quiet moments, we turn on the radio, the television, or the computer.

But this year, what if we lingered in the stable just a few days longer? What if we bathed in the afterglow?

Better yet, what if the afterglow warmed us as we follow the Babe who become Man? We've made much of Christmas--and oh, what a beautiful episode it is. But Christmas is not the most important part of Jesus' Life.

The Cross is.

This year, I pray that legions of people find the Cross. For though Christmas is holy and wonderful, Easter is life. Easter is everything. And while the stable awes, the Cross has the power to save, sanctify, redeem, and seal for eternity.

Wonder

2009-12-23T07:08:00.010-05:00

This Christmas, I pray you accept the Gift.

I pray you feel the wonder.

Do you hear the clipclop hooves of the beast of burden? Do you see Mary clutch his back? Do you marvel at her quiet strength as she pleads with Joseph to find her a place, anywhere, to have the Baby, for the time is close at hand?

Follow them to the stable.

Can you scent the barn, the sweet waft of hay, the sharp tang of animals? The star is so bright you can almost hear its rays shimmer through the clear, cool night air. Yet Mary's cries pierce the calm. Like her ancestors from Eve, in pain she brings Him forth. For this moment, God made her female. Through the center of the pain her spirit rejoices that God made her woman, to bear a Son. To bear His Son.

Hear the Baby's first cry.

He is not born with a purple cape nor a crown of thorns. He is naked and cold and hungry and fully human. Mary's motherly instincts react in an instant, and she clutches Him to her heaving chest, crying, covering Him with blankets and the strips of cloth they carried for this purpose. Oh, look, He has eyebrows and fingernails, perfectly formed. Imagine a Baby like this. Imagine His smooth skin and tiny toes and the way He twists His mouth before He cries, like an old man who tasted sour milk. "Look, Joseph," Mary laughs. "Watch Him."

Oh, the sweet heaviness of the Baby in her arms as she holds Him hour after hour. "Mary," Joseph says, "Rest. I will take Him." Her arms reflexively tighten. She won't let Him go. "Rest, wife." Joseph smiles. "I think I can hold Him. If He cries, I'll wake you." Mary smiles as she drifts to sleep. Joseph will be an excellent father, but he doesn't know. He doesn't know that she will wake at the slightest coo, that she would walk barefoot through a campfire to get to her precious Baby if He's hungry.

Watch the Baby sleep.

Mary is awoken by His hungry cries. She feeds Him and smiles and smooths His dark hair. At the entrance to the stable, shepherds. Mary can see them through the light of the star that seems fixed over His birthplace. They hesitate, wary, wide-eyed, wondering. Mary gasps, seeks Joseph's face. He smiles, "For this He was born." Mary nods and the shepherds shuffle in, bringing with them clinging cold from the night air and the scent of sheep and man. They whisper of angels and music like they've never heard before. Joseph catches Mary's eye, and they smile and wonder if it was Gabriel they saw.

Feel the shepherd's wonder.

This Christmas, I pray you will contemplate the Gift, who came as a Baby and returns as a soon-coming King. I pray you will feel the power of the stable, the faith of the humble, the privilege of "the least of these" who were given first news of Jesus' birth. To accept God's free Gift is ultimate wonder, ultimate faith, ultimate privilege.

Merry Christmas, dear friends.

Advent

2009-12-21T04:21:00.003-05:00

Can you hear the quiet turn of the earth? Do you feel it in the rhythm of your days? Each day is much like the last. Each day you wake at about the same time and embark on routine of eating, cleansing and caring for your family, home, and responsibilities. Perhaps you read, or pray, or exercise.

The earth spins quietly, a blue-green orb hung in space. We depend on its consistency. We rely on its constraints. Twenty-four hours a day, three hundred sixty five days in a year, sunset and sunrise.

Quiet.

Routine.

And then, in one little rotation of our earth, in one God-chosen moment in time--

Breakthrough.

Advent.

An angel appears to a poor, humble Nazarene woman. She is young. Lowly. Yet she believes God, though she wonders if the next day will dawn just like the last.

It does. In the next twenty-four hours she cares for siblings, visits the well to get water, prepares meals. Mary rests her hand on her abdomen and wonders: did I dream it? Could this really happen in this quiet life I live?

Joseph, her betrothed, prepares for a wedding. He choose Mary and awaits the time they can be fully husband and wife. Joseph is loved by God, a man of deep faith, but accustomed to hard labor. On one day--one unbelievable day--his beloved tells him, "I am with child." It is an outrage. It is not to be borne. He must condemn her or not--let her live, or not. He chooses to let her live, though he doubts her virtue.

And then...

Breakthrough.

In a dream, the angel comes. "She tells the Truth, Joseph. The baby shall be named Jesus."

A pregnancy blossoms. Mary and Joseph face the disapproving stares of their neighbors, a long journey to Bethlehem, a stable birth. Mary feels every ounce of pain, just as every other woman who gives birth in that one twenty-four hour rotation of the globe. The Baby cries, like any other baby. The Baby eats and sleeps, just like any other Baby.

Mary lays Him in a manger, a question on her heart. Was the Son of God really intended to be born in such a humble estate?

And then...

Breakthrough.

Shepherds come, telling reports of angel visits. They fall on their knees to worship.

Since the birth of Christ, days, weeks, months, years, have passed. Generations. Centuries. Millennia. Skeptics say, "Every day is the same as the last. Technology and science provides all the breakthrough we need. We know more now than we ever have..."

And one day, in the very moment the deniers speak...

BREAKTHROUGH...

Nativity 2

2009-12-18T03:37:00.001-05:00

"He (Joseph) went there to register with Mary, who was pledged to be married to him and was expecting a child."--Luke 2:5

If you've been pregnant, do you remember the latter weeks of your pregnancy? For me, the unrelenting heaviness of the child was only relieved when I could lie on my side. When standing, my abdomen and back ached constantly.

Mary didn't enjoy the luxury of lying down in her latter pregnancy. She likely rode from Nazareth to Bethlehem on a donkey that swayed and rocked and undulated beneath her. We often see pictures of Mary with her back bowed, head down, silent. Any woman who has borne children understands why. She must have felt a steady rhythm of suffering: pain, discomfort, fatigue.

One wonders if the rhythm of the rocking beast hastened Mary's labor, if perhaps she missed the early signs because of her constant pain. This we know: there was no room at the inn, and the Baby of all babies was laid in a manger.

Imagine Mary, a virgin betrothed to be married, but chaste. Imagine her labor, attended by midwives rather than women of her family. Perhaps, as the legend suggests, the town was so full that no midwife could be arranged. Perhaps Mary's betrothed delivered the Son of God, born of a wife Joseph had never touched.

Mary, the chosen mother of the Messiah, brought Him forth in agony, in circumstances four times as humble as women face today. Mary, who might have expected her Heavenly Father to alleviate her pain but who, by His perfect will, intended her suffering to point toward the suffering, sacrificing Christ.

Mary, who wondered how she would endure, who cried out and panted and thought her body would burst with the pain. Who, like us, felt swept away by the power of the female body when trapped in the throes of what God designed it to do.

Compared to Mary, God has trusted me with an infinitesimal ministry, one less significant than a single piece of straw in a thousand of Mary's barns. Yet how often I question the pain of the calling! How often I wonder why the task has to be so arduous, so long?

When I remember Mary, I wonder at the faith of the humble.

When I remember Mary, I still my complaining tongue.

God in School

2009-12-16T04:55:00.005-05:00

"You can't say 'God' in school."--My fifth grade student

Dear student,

You are both right and wrong.

You are wrong regarding your classmates. Your friends can certainly say "God" in school. Imagine what rights would be trampled if we banned them from talking about their deepest held beliefs. Imagine your Muslim friends not allowed to speak about Ramadan. Imagine your Hindu friends not able to speak about Diwali. Imagine your Jewish friends not able to speak about Chanukah, or your Christian friends not able to speak about Christmas.

You can say "God" in school. So can your friends. You must remain respectful of one another in every case--but you can speak His name.

You are right in saying that public school teachers cannot teach God--I cannot and I do not. But I also don't shoehorn Him out of our culture. I do not change the lyrics of songs, for example. I will never read the story of Joshua from the Bible. I will teach "Joshua Fought the Battle of Jericho" because the African-American Spiritual is the foundation for every innovative American music that came after--probably including the music you enjoy on the radio.

I will teach music of many cultures. Those songs mention God too. Why? Because faith is important to people. They sing about what they value, what they cherish. That's why there are millions of love songs on the radio, but no songs about doing laundry.

Not allowed to say "God" in school?

If we start dictating to children and teachers what they can and cannot say, what will our rules look like? Of course children cannot threaten one another or say swear words. But should we not allow children to say "hamburgers" because it will offend vegetarians? Should we not allow teachers to teach about George Washington because he was a general in a war, and some people think war is always wrong?

Where would it end? What would you be able to say in school that would not offend someone, somewhere?

I'm sorry, dear student, that you're being taught a diversity and tolerance that sorts people, labels them, and tolerates only what it calls acceptable. I'm sorry that, though you still have so much to learn about life, you have learned well from the culture that permeates even the lives of our young ones.

I'm sorry that from it, you gleaned, "You can't say 'God' in school."

--Your teacher, Mrs. Stewart

(With apologies to Frances F. Church's famed editorial)

Abundant

2009-12-14T04:42:00.005-05:00

"I came that they may have life, and have it to the full."--John 10:10

To the full, said Jesus. What does that full life look like to you?

Here's my take:

Jesus brings full joy in every circumstance. Joy is not happiness. Happiness is fleeting and depends on my mood, the weather, the behavior of my children and students, and the response of others. Happiness depends on whether I am satisfied in the moment. Jesus doesn't always bring happiness, but He does bring the deep-down joy of assurance, no matter what this world dishes out.

Jesus brings full peace to the believer, that we are reconciled in the most vital of relationships--with our Creator. The peace of Christ doesn't mean that we won't confront strife in our world, community and relationships. It means that we will know that in the midst of all turmoil, we are reconciled.

Jesus brings full forgiveness. In Him, our sin is not forgotten; it is eradicated. Trapped in this sinful world, we will stumble, even as believers. But we are free from the tyrrany of living in our own skin, forever chosing the next sin and trying to cover up for it later. We can choose not to sin. We are forgiven if we stumble and sin anyway.

Jesus brings love. Love for God, first. Love for humanity second. Love in difficult times. Love that endures.

How about you, readers? What's "full life" for you?

Nativity

2009-12-11T04:00:00.002-05:00

"My soul glorifies the Lord and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for He has been mindful of the humble state of His servant."--Mary, mother of Jesus, Luke 1:46-48 NIV

Mary of Nazareth--lowly and humble, obedient and godly. What an astounding woman of faith. When asked to give up her most precious commodity--her reputation as an unmarried, chaste Jewish woman--she said to the angel, "I am the Lord's servant. May it be to me as you have said." (Luke 1:58)

Imagine a young girl, untouched by her betrothed, with the secret knowledge that a Baby grew inside her. Imagine how she held that secret in her heart--perhaps for hours, days, or weeks.

We can only imagine the favor bestowed on a woman so close to God she was chosen to bear His only Son. When Mary prayed, her words must have fast-tracked on angel's wings straight to the ear of God. How He must have cherished her prayers!

Yet I imagine, being human, that Mary suffered moments of inner turmoil--at the well, at the wheel, or preparing food. How would her parents react? She was betrothed. Her purity was not only expected, it was required. Penalty for lost chastity was harsh, costing not only Mary, but her entire family great shame and loss of status.

And what of Joseph? He was a godly man, a good one. A man intent on providing her a worthy home. How would he take the news that she was pregnant?

Were there moments she wondered if the angel visit was a dream? The night after his visit, did she lie awake in her sleeping space, palm spread over her abdomen, and pray? Did she smile with joy while her family slept nearby? Or did she sneak outside to weep tears of gratitude, incredulty, and perhaps uncertainty?

Oh, Mary. How incredible and pure your faith. Though chosen, though highly favored, how lonely you must have felt among the women who surrounded you. They were either unmarried and naive--your peers and friends--or married and accustomed to the ways of the womanly body in all its functions, including pregnancy and childbirth. Could you rely on them to support you?

How affirming it must have been to visit Elizabeth, who rushed to greet her with tears of joy--so affirming that Mary's exuberance emerged in a song of praise that echoes through the generations.

Next Friday I'll continue my musings on the wonders of the Nativity. May God bless you richly in this special season!

Dialogue

2009-12-08T12:17:00.015-05:00

I love to talk about school. As a teacher, I learn so much from honest feedback. So today, I'm opening my blog for dialogue about education.

To get us started, I've posed questions below. Feel free to answer any or all of them, anonymously if you like. Thanks so much for your feedback!

(PS--this public school teacher knows that children can succeed in ALL kinds of schools...research proves that to be true, and I know it from experience. So please feel free to answer honestly. Thanks!)

1. Tell me the most beneficial aspect of your children's educational experience (or yours, if you don't have children).

2. Tell me the least beneficial or most difficult aspect of their educational experience.

3. What is the best attribute a teacher of young children can possess? How about a teacher of older children?

4. Complete this sentence (that sounds so 'teacherish'...heh): "I love it when teachers__________________."

5. And/or this sentence: "It irritates me when teachers___________________."

6. How did you arrive at your choice of home school, public school, or private school? Could you ever envision choosing a different school?

Have a wonderful Wednesday, and I look forward to your answers.

Mirror

2009-12-07T04:58:00.004-05:00

"Let's pray that God would set you free from the mirror, the curse of the condemning mirror, and let you begin to think about Christ. Your measuring up will never happen on planet earth. You will never be good enough, ever, ever, ever. . .and the righteousness you so long to have has been provided perfectly in Christ. . ."--John Piper, from the message "The Glory of Christ"

What keeps you from drawing nearer to Christ?

Pride? Self-sufficiency? Love of intelligence?

Addiction? Shame? Fear of being scoffed at or scorned?

Or, like me, do you live under the curse of the condemning mirror?

I am not alone among women. I learned early in life that the way to earn favor is to please--and with it, to never, ever, ever, ever offend others. Not in word, not in deed. Not even in appearance.

However, I have no problem offending myself. And after all these years on the planet, even after accepting Jesus, the voices from the past still hiss in my ear, chanting my unworthiness, inadequacy and shortcomings in all things.

The wisdom of God is so different from the wisdom of the world. The world tries to build women up of their own power or attributes. "No, no, you're not stupid! You're not ugly! You're not failed or worthless!" Countless "self-help" programs offer to build "self-esteem" by propping up our tenuous "self-image".

Notice the word "self".

And then there's Christ.

Jesus is the Savior of the addicted, the guilt-ridden, the bold, impulsive and violent. Jesus leads people to the mirror so they can finally see who they are and what they've done. In the mirror, they face their brokenness and turn to Him.

Jesus is also the Savior of those who face the curse of self-absorbency and its two manifestations: vanity and insecurity. Jesus leads people away from the mirror, into a life much grander than the one they found perpetually measuring the worth in their own reflection.

There is none like Him, who took every sin and curse and shortcoming upon Himself and understands them all, who leads people to and away from their reflection according to their need.

There is none like Him, Who is bigger than any curse, obstacle or trouble.

There is none like Him.

Identity

2009-12-02T19:01:00.015-05:00

Recently, I picked up a group of first graders from the playground to take them to music class. As I approached, they began chanting and clapping, "Mu-sic Teach-er, Mus-ic Teach-er..."

I smiled at their greeting, and thought about the wonderful simplicity of childhood. They don't balance a boatload of identities, nor do they attach them to adults. What does it matter if I am a mother, wife, writer, avid reader--a woman who loves clothes but lacks the female gene for home decorating? What does it matter if I love to sing, play music and create stories but dislike cooking and crafts?

None of that matters to my students. "Mus-ic Teach-her! Mus-ic Teach-er!"

And though God knows ALL my particulars, I thought about the labels I have that matter most to God:

Redeemed!

Saint!

Precious Child!

Daughter!

Good and Faithful Servant!

I do not deserve any of those labels, nor have I earned them. Believe me, I feel my brokenness. Daily. Hourly. Sometimes by the minute. Like Paul, I do what I do not want to do, and what I don't want to do--that I do (Romans 7:18-20). But because of God's glorious Son, I am His. All the earthly labels I carry matter not compared to the list above.

Do you hear Him as He calls you? Do you feel His pleasure? A cloud of witnesses cheers you on, friends. Hear the names God has for you, and run the race with gusto today!

Bonus

2009-12-02T06:34:00.007-05:00

Times are tough. Budgets are stretched to the limit, and families are having a difficult time finding money to buy gifts for dear ones.

Then comes the dreaded teacher gifts. What to get your child's teacher this holiday season?

Perhaps you've read that teachers appreciate hand written notes of thanks. Maybe you thought, "Yeah, right." Maybe you even rolled your eyes as you trudged through the drug store to buy a box of chocolate for your child's teacher.

But guess what? An envelope containing a thank you letter from you and your child is the most valuable Christmas bonus a teacher can receive.

I know this will come as a shock, but we did not go into teaching for the money. Most of us rise each day with the hope that we will reach one child, that we will spark curiosity, understanding, or imagination. That we will find just the right approach to make a struggling reader feel confident, or a student who faces challenges in math feel competent.

In the deluge of memos, emails, and paperwork teachers receive, a handwritten note at the holidays is a treasure we tape by our computer, or put in a special file that is probably thinner than you know. With holiday gifts we might receive a generic, "Thanks for all you do!", which believe me, is deeply appreciated. But a note detailing an event or time that your child was encouraged, engaged, and learning is pure gold. Not only does it encourage us, it helps us understand what matters. It molds us into better teachers.

So if the budget is tight this year, may I suggest you give your childs' teachers a generous bonus anyway? If they're doing a good job, let them know.

May God bless all students, teachers, and parents richly today!

"What is truth?"

2009-11-28T08:11:00.017-05:00

"'What is truth?' Pilate asked..."--John 18:38

Ah, Pilate, living in a posh palace, protected from hunger and want. Pilate who, like many of us, had the privilege and the curse of time aplenty--time to ponder philosophy and lofty ideas.

"What is truth?"

Do not ask a hungry person that question. Their truth is their desperate urgency for their next meal, the scraping of dirt to find a grub or a piece of edible root. Don't ask a sick person: their truth is hoping for the next moment they can rise from their bed and walk without agonizing pain.

Don't ask a person fighting off addiction. Their truth is the next high, or not. The next drink, or not. The next click of the mouse, or not.

Don't ask a person living with the weight of grief. Their truth is the next moment they turn toward a spouse in the night and find an empty bed, or the next time they pass a child's bedroom and smile before they momentarily forget that the child is gone.

"What is truth?" This is a question of luxury, of satiated stomachs, fulfilled desires, and an inability to take one's own spiritual temperature.

If you feel the weight of desperation, you search for truth. You do not stop until you find it. Just as a starving man seeks food, an ill man seeks remedy, and a grieving man seeks consolation, the spiritually bankrupt man seeks meaning. If you seek, Jesus said, you will find. If you truly seek, you will know Truth when you glimpse His glory. You will recognize, as Pilate's wife did, that there is something inconceivably special about this Man who is also God, the Alpha and Omega, the Savior of the world.

Pilate, in his spiritual desert of complacency, missed Truth even as He presented Himself, bloodied and perfect and holy, just before the sacrifice that would save mankind.

Today, I pray that the complacency and world-weariness of our society won't stop our search for Truth. I pray that our self-sufficiency won't render the question rhetorical, but essential.

Most of all, I pray, readers, that the Way, the Truth and the Life will be your treasure today.

Thanksgiving

2009-11-24T05:03:00.005-05:00

"Enter His gates with thanksgiving, and His courts with praise; give thanks to Him and praise His name. For the Lord is good and His love endures forever, His faithfulness continues through all generations."--Psalm 100: 4-5

Friends, I'm taking a few days off blogging to concentrate on tending the blessings God has given: my spouse, family, career, friends.

May God bless you all richly in this special season. See you Monday!

Wisdom

2009-11-23T00:05:00.007-05:00

"Where is the wise man? Where is the scholar? Where is the philosopher of this age? Has not God made foolish the wisdom of the world?"--1 Corinthians 1:20

The wisdom of this world is like a tattered robe on which we affix our merits, awards, and achievements. We can't wait to show off who and what we are. Look, look, look what I have done. What I listen to. What I read. What I watch. What I do with my time.

Look who my friends are. Listen to me talk. Don't I use fine words? Aren't I perceptive, analytical, logical, witty? Look at the group I hang out with. Aren't they smart, funny, cool, rich, learned?

The wisdom of this world is overt and predictable; it's one big rock climb where the next foothold is your neighbor's hand, or their shoulder, or their heart. It's snickers and irony and eye rolling; superiority and smugness and snide disdain.

What is wisdom from God?

It's humble. It begins with fear of the Lord. It says, I only know enough to know that I don't know enough. It says, can you teach me? I will listen. Can you help me? I seek. Can you guide me? I'm lost.

The wisdom of God is inviting, like a soft blanket that opens gladly to let in a friend, a child, a neighbor. It advises with soft words and a gentle heart, yet it is durable, subtle, rich and fine. It's not laden with gaudy awards, the names of conquests, or past victories.

The wisdom of God stands strong, not smug. It speaks truth couched in love, not opinion couched in self-righteousness. The wisdom of God forsakes bluster for brevity. It recognizes Truth and vibrates in sympathy with it, though the full scope of Truth cannot be understood by the finite, incomplete mind of man.

The wisdom of the world scoffs. "There go those Christians again. They can't explain it. They just believe, and call it truth."

Wisdom from God says, "I know enough to trust, and trust enough to rely on that which has been made known."

Do you seek wisdom today? Ask God. His wisdom is eternal, welcoming, and unfailing.

November

2009-11-20T00:05:00.003-05:00

We don't like the quiet. The dark. The wait of November.

We wake to gloomy skies. The sun rides the horizon all day, casting watery sunshine on our faces, making shadows long. We bemoan the leaves we haven't raked, a remnant of the glorious October. We bemoan the winter cold and snow ahead.

We look back. We look forward.

We don't notice where we are--or if we do, it's only to complain. It's damp. It's brown. The ground is barren and fallow. The growing season grinds to a halt, slowly, inexorably. Lawn mowers go silent. Birds fly to warmer climes, flying high, high, too frenzied to dally in small ponds and sing evening songs.

Beauty behind us; celebration ahead.

November waits.

How are you, in the waiting? How do you react when beauty becomes dull and brittle and lies in useless, dry piles at your feet, like the leaves that were once October? How do you anticipate the glorious burst of joy ahead? Do you simply discard these waiting-days, crossing each one off on your calendar--one more day gone? One more day you can look behind or ahead, try to forget where you are?

Like most, I dislike waiting. I become impatient and question everything I know with my head and feel with my heart. Maybe the beauty of the past meant nothing--as much as the piles of crackling leaves on my lawn that must be moved and discarded. Maybe the season ahead won't yield the anticipated joy.

This year, friends, I've decided to wait. Just wait. To make November a state a being for as long as God keeps me here.

So I notice what's around me. The branches reach like the stickly arms of emaciation, reaching, reaching. I reach too. Like them, I never touch the sky.

But that's okay. I'm waiting. I don't cross days off my calendar. I don't ring bells and sing carols. I fold my limbs, lie on the cold-but-not-frozen, grassy-but-not-green ground.

One day, I will wake. In the dark of a long November night, God will transform barrenness into the whiteness of snow. The glory of each branch, robed in icy purity, will make all things new.

Not now, though.

Now, it's November.

In November, I wait.

Solo

2009-11-18T05:11:00.000-05:00

True confession: I enjoy television commercials more than television programming. I don't know if that's a sad commentary on television or my attention span.

One commercial recently caught my attention. A boy of about nine tries sport after sport with no success. His mother cheers him on or enters the game with him, always encouraging.

Despite his mother's support, his every attempt at athletics fails.

At the end of the commercial, the child steps forward to sing a solo of appreciation for his mother. He sings like an angel. I tear up whenever I see that vignette, because I know the story well--not from the viewpoint of the child or mother, but from the music teacher on the piano bench.

As a specialty teacher, I face much discouragement. My young students link my art with my self--I am that which I teach. If they like music, they take to me. If they don't, it's hard for them to connect with me. Since I teach about two hundred children a day, I miss knowing many wonderful kids. Most days, I hear the resigned sigh of at least one child who asks, "When do we go to gym?" or "Do we have to practice for the concert again?"

But about once a year, I get to see the commercial play out on the stage. Things being equal, or even slightly disparate, I choose the soloist who does not have the opportunity to excel in other areas: the one who doesn't play sports, receive invitations to every birthday party, or earn awards for academics. I have seen many a mother cry while their children sing solos because--finally--their child found success.

My basket of fruit is so modest, friends--just a single piece now and again. By the grace of God and nothing else, once in awhile I bask in what He does. Sitting on the piano bench, watching the faces of glowing children, hearing a mother quietly sob behind me--it is enough.

Question for you: Tell me an aspect of your career (at home or away from home) that gives you the nudge to keep going and brings you encouragement or cheer.

Such As These

2009-11-16T00:05:00.001-05:00

"...'Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. I tell you the truth, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.' And he took the children in his arms, put his hands on them, and blessed them."--Mark 10:14,15

When you picture this scene, what do you see? Do you remember artwork with a serene Jesus, unsmiling Jesus laying hands on children who seem wooden and also strangely unsmiling?

I have a different picture. I've been around enough children to imagine this scene by sound, action, touch, dialogue. I cannot pretend to know what it's like to be in Jesus' presence. But I can hear the words and see the faces of the children when they heard Him say, "Come."

Perhaps there was a short period of uncertainty. Perhaps children, wide-eyed and wondering, crept close to the edge of the crowd. Perhaps the shyer children had to be encouraged. Perhaps their mothers whispered in their ears, "Go, child, go."

Even in shyness, how they must have been drawn to Jesus' Light! How they must have recognized it at first glance: overwhelming love, eternal wisdom, a font of joy that never runs dry--for no one reads faces and attitudes better than youngsters. Can you imagine Jewish children, peeking from behind the skirts of their mother at this Man who was like no other Man?

He calls them, "Come." He sees a child with a clenched fist and says, "What do you have in your hand?"

The small fist, speckled with dust, unfurls to reveal a colorful rock, polished and smooth. "I found it by the river."

Jesus does not dismiss the precious rock, or the pleasure the child takes in carrying it, but smiles, exclaims over the color and shape, and offers open arms for a hug.

A girl comes forward, showing Jesus a gap where yesterday her first baby tooth fell out. Jesus smiles and puts a warm hand on her head.

A boy comes from the crowd, carrying a toy meant to be kicked. Jesus looks on, smiling and clapping with the throng, as the boy demonstrates his command with the ball.

Perhaps, at times, Jesus' encounter with children was peaceful and serene. But I'm sure that at other times, Jesus enjoyed their boisterous enthusiasm as each showed their treasure and sought His smile--a smile that lit them up inside, that whispered to their open hearts, "I know you. Will you know Me?"

We are to be like the children. Don't be afraid to reveal the dirty spots on your hands, though your mother admonished you to 'clean up your act' years ago. Acknowledge the dirt and embrace Him anyway. After all, if Jesus only accepted the squeaky-clean children, His disciples would be few in number. As few as...none.

Show Him the treasure you grip in your hand, treasure you won't release. Is it in Him? What pleasure He shares with you! What joy He has in store! Even pain will bring forth a good crop.

Or is it something else you hold tight in your fist? Money? Goals? Recognition? Status? Possessions? Unclench it. Show Him. Tell Him you can't let go of it, and ask for help. You will receive it, in His time.

Are you shy? He loves you.

Are you rejoicing? He rejoices with you.

Did a friend cause hurt? His heart hurts too.

Like the little children, come to Him today, and feel His touch. The kingdom of heaven awaits.

Training

2009-11-12T05:29:00.012-05:00

You don't have to read my blog long to discover that teaching is not a job I fell into by accident, circumstance, or lack of imagination.

Teaching is a passion for me.

I may report to school tired, cranky, in a funk and full of self-pity. By nine-thirty, I'm over it. Try to maintain a sour attitude while skipping to my Lou. Try to nurture self-pity while kindergartners play "tangerines" with scarves tied around their necks, because it's a parade and they insist capes are required. You can't do it, friends.

Indeed, I adore teaching.

I used to love writing the same way: an on-fire, passionate, overwhelming, "oh my goodness this is what I'm supposed to be doing" conviction.

That was about eighteen month ago, when the words flew from my fingers, when I was convinced writing was given to me as gift from God with no return policy. And who would want to return it? It was exhilarating. It was amazing. It fed me.

That was then.

Now I have doubts about everything: every word, sentence, and chapter in every story I have ever written. I think my agent took leave of her senses when she signed me, or perhaps thought she was acquiring Gwen Stewart, singer of Broadway fame, and not Gwen Stewart, the singer of "Flies in the buttermilk, shoo fly shoo."

I wrestle with writing. The wrestling is agonizing. Teaching is like swimming with dolphins, flying with birds, running with cheetahs. Teaching is as natural as the sun rising in the morning.

Why isn't writing like that, I ask? Why must it be this agonizing?

The other day, it hit me--I'm in training.

I remember the training period. It runs the gamut from unpleasant to horrid. The same was true in college, when I trained to be a teacher. The arduous music classes, most every one attached to a lab: listening, piano, ear training, sight singing (or, as we called it, "ear straining and sight screeching"). The requirements to visit schools. Student teaching felt like a tedious obligation, to the point I wondered if I should even continue.

Me, the most passionate of the passionate teachers, disliked my teacher-training and faced moments of such deep doubt that I begged God to quit. He answered with a resounding "No", but I actually got to the point of pleading for release. Release from teaching, one of my greatest joys.

I have vowed to remember that now, while I slog through a valley of unimaginable doubt, dried up motivation, and no refreshment; when the goal is so distant not a sign of it appears on the horizon.

I'm in training--and I pray, some day, that I will rest in the results of the yearning and angst and uncertainty that training always requires.

Question for you: where are you in your writing journey? Training? Enjoying the results of your labor? If you're not a writer, tell me about a time when you trained for a position, career, or achievement.

Rules

2009-11-11T04:58:00.005-05:00

My husband and I break all the rules.

We've been married for fifteen years, and love each other more than we did on our wedding day. He tells me repeatedly that I'm it for him, and he is definitely it for me.

Here's the thing, though. We don't "communicate" or even "fight fair". For days on end, our communication consists of short sentences about who has to pick up what child where and at what time. We talk a lot about what to throw in the oven for dinner, and almost never about our "feelings". When we fight, he flares like a flash fire and I smolder in a slow burn. So when he's done with the argument, I'm just getting started.

He doesn't respect me by calling me by name. He never, ever, ever calls me Gwen. His pet names started with a small creature and morphed from there; over the years some of those names are so silly they turn heads in stores. People turn to see the woman whose parents named her "Mouse" (and all the derivatives of small rodents you can imagine).

We have some common interests. We both love to be home. Our idea of a perfect Friday night is cozying up with our kids for TV tray dinners and movies. We also, paradoxically, love to travel.

Other than that: nothing. My husband adores sports. I have no use for them. I'm what he calls "artsy-fartsy", and love daydreams and music and writing and dance and art...all things creative. We don't golf together, bowl together--nothing.

But we laugh, a lot. I still laugh honestly at his jokes, some of which are truly funny and some of which are just plain corny (sorry, love). My husband never, ever "bugs" me. His personal habits and idiosyncrasies do not irritate. I can be with him in silence or speech for hours and hours and not feel the need to escape or rip my hair out.

What if this long-time married woman, whose husband is her best friend, most trusted ally, and devoted love interest, said that for us it's not "communication" or "common interests" but chemistry, prayer, and a certain "je ne sais quoi"?

What if it's secretly the pet names that keep us unified and happy? What if it's the shared laughter, or the fact that our Friday nights are the best part of our week? What if it's the very rules we break, that are supposed to prove the health of our marriage, that keep our marriage fresh and fulfilling?

Question for you: If you're married, does your marriage "break the rules"? Can you name a single aspect of your marriage that keeps it lively? If you're not married, share your thoughts about what you hope for in marriage or experience in courtship. Have a wonderful weekend!

Skip

2009-11-09T00:05:00.019-05:00

Once in awhile, I glimpse our school not as my place of employment, but through the eyes of the students who are our daily responsibility and joy.

Through their eyes, I see long hallways, made for skipping. Beautiful pictures hanging on the walls, made for touching. Friends next to us, made for sharing whispers and giggles.

"Don't skip," say the teachers. "Walk please."

"Please don't touch," we say. "That belongs to someone else."

"Please don't talk in line, friends. We need to be quiet in the hallways."

All true. All valid. Allowing five hundred children to run in the hallway is a recipe for calamity. Allowing them to touch the artwork of others, without permission, mars the beauty of the work. Talking in the hallway makes for a chaotic, noisy learning environment.

I'm not an advocate of chaos. Children thrive when given clear, fair boundaries. I understand school rules, and I ask children to abide by them.

Most of the time.

That's right: I said most of the time, even though consistency is important. Usually.

But walking down the hallway yesterday, I saw the tail end of a Kindergarten class. Kindergarten classes stretch for miles. Lines are not lines in Kindergarten; they are a vague formation of one child after another. There might be three feet of space between children, or twelve.

The teacher had rounded the corner and walked halfway to the gym. The four little girls in the back skipped tra-la down the hallway, bright grins on their faces.

The reminder was there, on the edge of my teacher-tongue: please walk, girls.

I smiled instead. Several feet of space separated the skippers from the walkers. They weren't running. They weren't disturbing anyone, so I bit back my reprimand. "Where are you going?" I asked.

Skip. Smile. Skip. Smile. "To the bathroom!" They said.

"Then what, girls? Lunchtime?"

Skip. Smile. Skip. Smile. One little girl tipped her chin up, squinting through her adorable glasses. "No. We're going to learn the number seven--then lunch!"

Well. If you're going to use the bathroom--the cool one down the hall with the foaming soap--then learn number seven, then eat lunch with your friends...how can you be expected to walk? And why would you, when you can skip instead?

The Kindergarten teacher turned around to monitor her line. One gentle smile, one tiny shake of her head and the skippers walked. I understood my colleague. I understood her reasons for squashing the skipping.

But I felt affinity for the skippers as I walked to my music room. Once there, I considered the instruments begging for little hands, the inviting marker boards full of hand-drawn music notes, the big, open space.

I closed the door, smiled, and skipped across my room to the storage closet. Why walk when you can skip?