Sausage and Peppers and Rock and Roll

(Taking advantage of the summer to do summery things. Re-posting a slightly edited piece from the archives)

Remember when parents used tell their kids to turn off the rock and roll music?

Back in the day when I attended Baptist Youth Camp, one of the speakers called on the young people from my church to reject rock and roll as the devil's music. We were told to gather our collections of records, bring them to church, and throw them into a bonfire. Begrudgingly, I sacrificed my copy of The Partridge Family album, thus protecting my soul from being led down the road to perdition by Keith Partridge. Eventually I backslid, and the music of The Eagles, Steely Dan, REO Speedwagon, Boston, The Cars, and Styx formed the soundtrack to my youth.

Last fall when I saw that Dennis DeYoung, former member of Styx, was playing at a local harvest fair my first thought was, “Oh, how the mighty have fallen!” Then I thought, “I wonder if teenage son would be interested in driving to the fair, eating some unhealthy but oh-so-delicious fair food for dinner, and then going to the concert?”

Instead of telling my son to turn off the music, I decided to drag him along with me for an evening of classic rock.  I had seen a PBS special featuring Dennis DeYoung and knew that, in addition to having written many hit songs for Styx, the guy had some mad keyboard skills. Because music is one of teenage son’s love languages and the keyboard is his instrument, I thought he might be willing risk the embarrassment of being seen in public with his gray-haired mother in order to see an aging rock star perform live.

After filling up on sausage and peppers, corn dogs, and soft-serve ice cream, son and I settled onto the fairground’s bleachers and watched as roadies set up equipment and performed sound checks. Son was intrigued, fascinated by watching people who obviously knew what they were doing and who were very good at performing their craft.

The stage lights dimmed and out walked Dennis DeYoung, sporting the standard-issue white sneakers worn by AARP members on bus tours throughout national parks. I admit, I was more than a little afraid to hear him sing. The long-haired rock star I remembered from my youth is now a sixty-three year old, white-haired man.

Once he launched into The Grand Illusion, however, I realized my fear was unfounded. At age sixty-three, Dennis DeYoung has a voice that is strong and clear and more in tune than most American Idol finalists or Taylor Swift, even on a good day. Man, can he sing.

And his keyboard skills? His fingers moved in directions and at speeds which hardly seemed human. I glanced over at teenage son and saw that he was smiling big. He didn’t even seem to mind that I was singing along to the music. All the words. Out loud. In public.

When introducing Babe, the most popular song Styx recorded, Mr. DeYoung introduced his back-up singer who also just so happens to be his wife of forty years. The two had been high school sweethearts who married, traveled together on the road, and stayed married despite a career within the rock music world. DeYoung told the crowd he had written the song as a personal gift for his wife, that is, until his record company heard it and told him it had to go on the record. It turns out that demand was a good call by the record label. Every girl on the hall in my freshman dorm used to go weak in the knees whenever it played.

I have no idea about Dennis DeYoung’s worldview; nor about what motivates him to remain married to his childhood sweetheart over the long haul. I do know I was privileged to witness a man doing what he was put on this earth to do—write and sing and play music--while honoring his marriage vows.

And on a perfect autumn-like evening, the scent of fried foods hanging heavy in the air, I received the gift of connecting with my son while listening to the devil’s music.

When Heaven Comes Down to Earth

There are reasons, multitudes of reasons, that one of the primary images God gives us to help us picture the fulfillment of the deepest longings of our souls, is that of an eternal marriage feast.  We long for beauty, for joy, for music, for community.  We want to reunite with those who are gone from our hearts, or gone from our lives.  We long for intimacy.  We want to know for sure that a good, holy, wise God has faithfully and lovingly superintended the details of our lives, working all things for our good and His glory.

And when we receive these gifts in this lifetime, however imperfectly, it seems fitting to celebrate them with food and wine and laughter and dance.

Maybe even with feather boas.

I've been talking about my daughter's wedding for some weeks (months?) here in this space, and I beg your indulgence as I'm likely to go on yet for a few more days.  Ann Voskamp, virtual mentor to many of us in blog world, has said that writing helps her to live an event twice.  I think I need to take some time to re-live the events of the past few days, to take a closer look at the details, to see the deeper contours of God's goodness and faithfulness to my daughter and to my family.

Because her wedding was beautiful.  And I feel so blessed by so many and so much.

And that's where I am On, In, and Around this Monday.  And I'm adding to my list of gifts, though I can't possibly begin to count them all.

  

 

(And to so many who have commented in recent days, I beg your forgiveness for not responding.  Know that your words have been life-giving food for my soul, and I am grateful for them.  And for you.)

719.  Wedding snow, falling from heaven, freshening up the ground, making everything beautiful, and coming at just the right time.

720.  Artists--in word, music, pen and paper and paint, even in flowers—doing what they were put on this earth to do, creating beauty, and so imitating the Creator.

721.  Rock star diva, cancer survivor, beautiful friend singing In Christ Alone, My Hope is Found at daughter’s wedding, accompanied by my handsome son, fulfilling a dream we’ve shared since baby girl was five.

721.  Dancing pink glove dance to celebrate the healing work of the Great Physician in friend’s life. 

 

722.  Being escorted down the aisle by handsome son.

723.  Who also danced with me.

724.  Husband who worked long and hard and planned and saved to give the gift of this day to his baby girl.

725.  Seeing them talk and dance and laugh together.

726.  Friends from many times and many places in life, coming together to celebrate with us; knowing that we will all celebrate together again in eternity.

727.  Flowers from far-away friends who wanted to be present with us and share our joy.

728.  Being with all my siblings and our mother for the first time since father’s funeral, eighteen years ago.

729.  Pastor moved by the joy of officiating at marriage ceremony of covenant child he baptized.

730.  A married daughter.

731.  A new son.

732.  Providence, which is God’s good gift and His “…most holy, wise, and powerful preserving and governing all his creatures, and all their actions,” being the basis of our day of celebration.  (Westminster Shorter Catechism)

A Work In Progress

A year ago today, I posted these words in this space:

Seems like a blog should have some introductory language. Here's mine: I started this blog about a year ago, hated everything I wrote, and took it down. Now I'm starting over.

That's it.

So, I've kept at this blogging thing for a full year without deleting everything I wrote.  And along the way, I've met some amazing people, read their beautiful words, and joined in prayer for folks I've never seen.

And that's pretty cool.

And I've gone a full year without quitting, so that's pretty cool, too.

And I've learned a few technological tips and tricks, although if anybody can fill me in on what I'm supposed to do with that "Links to This Post" feature, I'd really appreciate it.  I can't for the life of me figure out how that's supposed to work...

In the year ahead, I want to think more about what I'm doing in this space, maybe define my focus or come up with some kind of mission statement.  I'd like to be more thoughtful about balancing face time with family and friends and screen time here in this parallel universe.  I want to work on writing better.  I'd like to do some good.

I'm still trying to figure out what it is God has me on this earth to do.

Anyway, I just wanted to take a moment to say, "Thank you," to those of you kind enough to stop by here from time to time and read my words.  I hope they've blessed you, or made you smile, or made you think.  Maybe they just made you stop and say, "Huh?"  And that's okay, too.

I really wanted to sponsor some sort of blog anniversary giveaway kind of thing, but I'm not crafty, and it's Advent, and my daughter is getting married, and well, you know...best intentions and all of that.

Thank you again, dear friends.  Blessings.

With a Little Help From My Friends

Sometimes, Christmas comes early.  Yesterday I received the loveliest of gifts, a complete surprise.  David Rupert, newsletter editor at The High Calling, was kind enough to feature one of my posts in his monthly "Around the Network" article there.  I am truly grateful to have been included along with some very, very gifted writers.

The purpose of the community at The High Calling is to encourage every day conversations about work, life, and God; in other words, encouraging artists and writers to do the work God put them on this earth to do.  This work is very near and dear to my heart.

In this space, I want to extend my thanks to David and to the good folks at The High Calling.  Do yourself a favor; stop by and get to know some of the writers there.  Also, be sure to stop by David's site at Red Letter Believers.  The words he wrote in tribute to his father are heart-achingly beautiful.  You can read them at this post:  Can Death Be Holy?

David, thanks again.  Friends, happy reading.

The Pure in Heart

(Reposting an edited piece from last spring, joining emily and friends again this week at imperfect prose)

Most of us probably have distinct memories of that kid from sixth grade who was picked on mercilessly by the rest of the class. The one who didn’t fit in, who was unattractive and socially awkward. Sadly, many of us would have to admit to joining in on the teasing, much to our shame and regret.

In 1977, that person in my brother’s classroom was Johnny, although often the unwelcome attention was lavished equally upon him and his friend Lon. Intelligent, well-mannered, and nerdy, Johnny and Lon were target-rich for their classmates’ ridicule. My brother remembers once asking Johnny if he ever listened to rock music. Johnny responded that, why, yes he did. Rachmaninoff!

He may as well have had “Kick me” tattooed on his forehead.

A funny thing happened to my brother, though, as he watched and sometimes participated in the classroom ridicule. He started getting a kick out of Johnny’s oddities and quirks. He began to get to know and respect him, and they became friends. Their friendship lasted throughout high school, college, and into their adult years.

Johnny lived alone, having been raised by a single mother for whom he cared until her death several years ago. He was led to the Lord in the living room of a godly neighbor, a Sunday school teacher from a nearby church. On the day she moved out of her home, Johnny visited to thank her, pointing out that it was in her very living room that he came to know the Lord Jesus Christ. A caring and compassionate young man, Johnny made a point of visiting and checking in on my elderly widowed mother from time to time. My brother believes that Johnny was incapable of thinking badly of others. If he heard something shocking or scandalous about someone, he would shake his head as though the report couldn’t possibly be true.

Johnny never married. He became a high school biology teacher. Last April, Johnny collapsed in his classroom while tutoring several of his students and died at the age of forty-four. The outpouring of love and grief expressed by his students, both past and present, as well as parents and coworkers has been simply astounding. They’ve posted their comments online: I knew he really cared about me. He made biology fun. Remember his bee dance? He always asked when I would be working at the local donut shop and then made a point of stopping in to see me. I wouldn’t have graduated from high school without his encouragement. He was there for me when my sister was sick. I am in medical school because of him. Who knew there were still teachers like Johnny who were so committed to their work and passionate about investing in the lives of their students? Upon hearing the news of Johnny’s death, the local school board canceled its scheduled meeting. The school district arranged bus transportation so that students could attend his funeral.

My brother last saw Johnny this past year at Christmastime and has two distinct memories. He remembers giving Johnny a hard time about not having a cell phone, and hearing Johnny respond, “Who is going to call me?” The second memory he had was of feeling jealous of Johnny and the joy and satisfaction he had found in his work.

Johnny has finished the work he was put on this earth to do, and the rest for this saint triumphant is won. His students, his coworkers, and his friends mourn the loss of his sweet and gentle soul. And the familiar words of Scripture ring with their truth, blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.

Hats

One of my favorite scenes in the Julie & Julia movie occurs when Julia Child, portrayed by Meryl Streep, asks her husband what she should do while they are living in Paris.  She tells him she's learned she could take hat-making lessons.  In a later scene, with a roll of her eyes she tosses away a hat in frustration.  Clearly, hat-making was not Julia Child's calling.

This week, I had the pleasure of meeting someone for whom hat-making is both a calling and a joy.  I had Googled "Women's Dress Hats" just for fun to see if I could find a hat to wear to my daughter's wedding.  Some people are just hat-people, and I'm one of them.

When I found the web site for Maggie Mae Designs and learned that the business was located on the Cape, I knew I had to make a pilgrimage.  (It's Thanksgiving week, and I was just on the Cape and near Plimoth Plantation so I've got Pilgrims on the brain.  Sorry).

I any case, I had the privilege of meeting Sally Faith Steinmann who lives and works in Harwich, Massachusetts in a studio/apartment she shares with artist-husband Tom Steinmann.

 

Sally creates beautiful, one-of-a-kind hats for weddings, holidays, church services, and other social occasions.  Combining her love of horses with her craft, Sally designs and sells hats for events like the Kentucky Derby and the World Equestrian Games.

Each is a work of art.

I asked Sally how she got started making hats.  She told me that she was trying to decide what to do after graduating from Wellesley College with degrees in women's studies and psychology.  Her mother had given her a pattern for a wool hat that was to be shrunk in the dryer.  After making that hat, she was hooked.

Meeting Sally, trying on hats, and listening to her talk about doing something she loves, was a gift.  Clearly, she is doing what she was put on this earth to do.

And, yes.  I ordered my mother-of-the bride hat, because I believe you're never too old to stop playing dress up.

And besides, I will need something to wear on William and Kate's big day.

Let Me Call You Sweetheart

Introducing...Ethel!

Until now, you've only read about her.  In today's guest post, you get to meet her and read her words.  Although she is infinitely more comfortable sitting on the floor reading a picture book to preschoolers or creating something amazing with crayons, paint, glitter glue, yarn, felt, beads, flowers, paper, stickers, or anything else but words, Ethel agreed to write and deliver the devotional for my daughter's shower.  She did it because she loves my daughter and she loves me, but mostly because her Heavenly Father loved her first.  And because she got to use her watercolor colored pencils.

Dearest Emma, Sweetheart,                                                                                               October 16, 2010

                You are an amazing covenant child of God. And for the past 21 years we have had the blessing of watching you grow in faith. These experiences have brought both smiles and grey hairs to your lovely mother’s head and joy to all of us. Your Mommy would sing “Let Me Call You Sweetheart” while holding you and dancing with you and laughing with great happiness. The love your parents have for you, dear Emma, is surpassed only by the love of our heavenly Father. Now you are grown and God has blessed you with a special man to share your life; someone who joins in their love for you, someone new to call you Sweetheart. 

                “Sweetheart” is a special term of endearment meaning one who is cherished and adored. Thanks to your Aunt Sue and Uncle Chaz we all have better understanding that God has uniquely created women with a need to be cherished above all else.

                When love is new and gloriously exciting it can be hard to imagine difficulties coming ahead.  Bliss just seems natural and easy and eternal. Then, someone leaves their clothes on the floor inches from the laundry basket, or an expensive cut of meat comes out of the oven too blackened to be called Cajun. The life style of a young couple is much different than that of the long established household you have been accustomed to, it takes adjustment. The reality of daily living is mundane and sometimes someone will forget to bring home flowers or someone else will be too tired to bake cookies.  None of it is intentional but each time someone feels just a little less loved~ a little less adored. We are not perfect beings; we get tired, maybe cranky, and even at times a little bossy.  Our behavior does not always create a desire in others, even a special other, to cherish us.

                At times like these we must remember that we love because He first loved us. As I thought and prayed in preparation for today (and stared at the word Sweetheart) I found some words of encouragement:

S is for serving and sacrifice. God has called us to love one another as He loves us by serving and sacrifice.

 We serve with love because He loved us first.

 W is for worship and work.   It is a joy to worship our LORD and that joy is magnified when we  worship together.  The work that He gives is a blessing of provision and working shoulder to shoulder strengthens the bonds that unite a husband and wife.

 We worship and work together because He first loved us.

E is for eat with your husband.  It starts with a piece of cake- the intimacy of feeding a loved one.   Never be so busy that you just grab and go. We nourish more than our bodies when we share food together.  Be intentional with your mealtimes.

  We enjoy our daily bread because He first loved us.

 E   is for enjoy ~ take pleasure in little and big things. There is wonder in all of creation, in all that God provides ~ share that sense of wonder and praise of the Father with each other.

 We have joy because He first loved us.

T is for talking. Always share your day, both the good and the bad of it, share your ideas and  your dreams. It is easy to justify keeping small things to yourself, like going over your budget slightly or a small scratch in the car; easy to say it’s not important or worth the time… fear  motivates taking the easy way. Don’t! Love casts out fear. 

We do not live in fear because    He first loved us.

H is for home and hospitality.  “A happy home is but an earlier heaven.” J. Bowring and “Nothing warms a home more than the gathering of friends” anon. Home has nothing to do with new and shiny and everything to do with warmth and love~ hospitality has little to do with fine things.  A  drink of water from a paper cup offered in sweet fellowship is always sweeter than one from fine crystal offered in haste.

 We welcome others because He loved us first.

E is for esteem. As deeply as a woman desires to be cherished so is the need for honor in a man.  As old fashioned as it may sound~ never argue with or correct your husband in front of others. The satisfaction of being right is never worth the price of a loved one’s pride. Your   husband is a blessing from God, created in His image; this is reason enough. 

We can honor each other because He first loved us.

A is for affection. God created us physical beings~ always be affectionate, never stop reaching for  each other’s hand ~ sweetly touch  your loved ones shoulder in encouragement~grab those quick kisses as much as you desire the long ones~ sincere affection is a blessing not only to those who share it but also to those who witness it.

 We celebrate love because He first loved us.

R is for remembering. Remember the blessing of witnessing godly marriages all your life ~ allow those memories to guide and encourage you in times of doubt or confusion. Rejoice in what

God has given you. 

We remember what love looks like because He first loved us.

T is for taking time out for God. Set aside time to be with God personally. Drink deeply from the   well of Living Water and be generous sharing it with each other.

“We love because He first loved us.” 1John 4:19

Sarah Louise Loves Art

I have a piece marinating in my head that's not quite ready for imperfect prose this week.  Instead, I'd like to introduce you to a young artist friend of mine.  (I know, I'm probably cheating, so I ask your kind grace this week.)

Sarah Louise loves art and loves Jesus and sometimes wears a tiara when she needs to feel brave.  I met her through my daughter when they were friends together in high school youth group.  Since then, I've gotten to know her and love her so much that I've stolen her from my daughter and, in the words of Napolean Dynamite:

We're pretty much best friends by now.



Her illustration was chosen as the cover design for a chemistry book which was published recently.  (Link to the illustration is here.)  I am so enormously proud of her and her talent that I told her I was going to blog about her today.  Trust me, if you knew the degree of fear and loathing I feel toward the sciences in general and chemistry in particular, you'd understand that it's a pretty big deal for me to devote a blog post to a chemistry book.

I am excited to see, in the years ahead, how God uses Sarah Louise and her gifts to restore beauty in this broken, fallen world.  Friends, won't you stop by her blog, introduce yourselves, encourage her, and welcome her to the imperfect prose on thursdays community?

Sausage and Peppers and Rock and Roll

Remember when parents used tell their kids to turn off the rock and roll music?

Back in the day when I attended Baptist Youth Camp, one of the speakers called on the youth from my church to reject rock and roll. We were told to gather our collections of the devil’s music, bring them to church, and throw them into a bonfire. Begrudgingly, I sacrificed my copy of The Partridge Family album, thus protecting my soul from being led down the road to perdition by Keith Partridge. Eventually I backslid, and the music of The Eagles, Steely Dan, REO Speedwagon, Boston, The Cars, and Styx filled out the soundtrack to my childhood.

When I saw that Dennis DeYoung, former member of Styx, was playing at a local harvest fair my first thought was, “Oh, how the mighty have fallen.” Then I thought, “I wonder if teenage son would be interested in driving to the fair, eating some unhealthy but oh-so-delicious fair food for dinner, and going to the concert?” Instead of telling my son to turn off the music, I decided to drag him along with me for an evening of classic rock.  I had seen a PBS special featuring Dennis DeYoung, and knew that, in addition to having written many hit songs for Styx, the guy had some mad keyboard skills. Because music is teenage son’s love language and the keyboard is his instrument, I thought he might be willing risk the embarrassment of being seen in public with his gray-haired mother in order to see an aging rock star perform live.

After filling up on sausage and peppers, corn dogs, and soft-serve ice cream, son and I settled onto the fairground’s bleachers and watched as the roadies set up equipment and performed sound checks. Son was intrigued, fascinated by watching people who obviously knew what they were doing and were very good at performing their craft.

The stage lights dimmed, and out walked Dennis DeYoung, wearing the standard issue white sneakers of AARP members on bus tours throughout national parks. I was a little afraid to hear him sing. The long-haired rock star I remembered from my youth is now a sixty-three year old, white-haired man.

Once he launched into The Grand Illusion, however, I realized my fear was unfounded. At age sixty-three, Dennis DeYoung has a voice that is strong and clear and more in tune than most American Idol finalists orTaylor Swift on a good day. Man, can he sing.

And his keyboard skills? That man's fingers move in directions and at speeds that hardly seem human. I glanced over at teenage son. He was smiling big. He didn’t even seem to mind that I was singing along to all the songs. All the words. Out loud.

When introducing Babe, the most popular song Styx recorded, Mr. DeYoung introduced his back-up singer who also just so happened to be his wife of forty years. They had been high school sweethearts, had gotten married, traveled together on the road, and stayed married despite his living the life of a rock star. He told the crowd that he had written the song as a personal gift for his wife, that is, until his record company heard it and told him it had to go on the record. Turns out that was a good call by the record label. Every girl on the hall in my freshman dorm used to go weak in the knees whenever it played.

I have no idea about Dennis DeYoung’s worldview; neither about what motivates him to remain married to his childhood sweetheart over the long haul. I do know that I was privileged to witness a man doing what he was put on this earth to do—write and sing and play music, and honor his marriage vows.

And on a perfect autumn-like evening, the scent of fried foods hanging heavy in the air, I received the gift of connecting with my son while listening to the devil’s music.

Linking up with Emily at Chatting at the Sky, unwrapping the gift of connecting with my son.

A High Calling And a Double Scoop of Gratitude

Continuing to learn how to navigate the landscape of blog world, I've joined the community at High Calling Blogs.  There, folks are uniting to consider the intersection of faith and work.  While in college, I was connected with the Coalition for Christian Outreach (CCO), a Pittsburgh-based campus ministry committed to equipping students to live out their Christian faith in every area of their life.  The good folks at the CCO were gracious enough to allow me to write some of these pieces about lives transformed through their ministry.

I'm not sure exactly what on earth it is I'm doing out here in blog world, but I do know that I have been called to faithfulness in this arena as well as in every other corner of my life.  Connecting with the good folks at High Calling seems to be a good step for me in pursuing faithfulness in my writing/blogging life.  If you haven't gotten to know any of the bloggers at High Calling, I encourage you to stop over and make some new virtual friends.

One of the things I have been trying to do through my blog is to join regularly with Ann Voskamp and others in the Gratitude Community, intentionally giving thanks for gifts received, great and small.  This is one of the ways I am endeavoring to keep my soul diligently:

Only take care, and keep your soul diligently, lest you forget the things that your eyes have seen, and lest they depart from your heart all the days of your life. Make them known to your children and your children's children. Deuteronomy 4:9

Last week, my baby girl was home and we worked on wedding plans, did battle with the department of motor vehicles, packed up more of her childhood, and had a family bridal shower. I didn't post my gratitude list last week because it seemed more important to spend time with my daughter than with my computer during the brief time she was home.  I find myself all-too-often tempted to steal away to my computer to check in with my blog friends instead of being present to and receiving the gifts of precious time with my family and friends.  As part of my effort to pursue faithfulness in my blogging life, I took last Monday off.

Continuing to number the gifts, I think over two weeks past:




458. Three incredibly gifted musician friends deciding to have a recital and perform together just for fun and for the love of music and for absolutely free.

459. That a violin can sound like a Lark Ascending (piece composed by Ralph Vaughan Williams)

460. Musicians who have worked to honor and perfect their craft and know how to use all the piano keys and all the violin and cello strings.

461. A pastor who will get down on his hands and knees and help four and five-year olds draw an eight-foot picture of Goliath on brown craft paper.

462. My mother-in-law who not only raised a fine man for me to marry, but can also set a lovely, gracious table.

463. The family bridal shower.

464. Wise and gracious words from Grandma.

465. Being asked to pray with my son.

466. Answered prayer that is so immediate and obvious it can’t possibly be missed.

467. God’s people showing up when they are most needed.

468. A door not quite slammed shut = an invitation to continue to pursue, to continue to wait on the Lord.

469. The gift of a perfect day to run away to the beach by myself, drive with the sunroof open, 70s music blasting, read, reflect, eat another lobster roll, delight in children playing (having no responsibility for any of them but simply to delight in them), sit in silence, and cling to one more piece of this glorious gift of summer.

470. Stolen items being replaced.

471. God’s promise of salvation being more certain than the promise of the sun rising and setting (Jeremiah 33:25).

472. That when we call to Him, He will answer us and tell us great and hidden things that we have not know (Jeremiah 33:3). He will give us eyes to SEE!

Mangia!

I love good food.  Cooking, eating, and sharing good food are some of my favorite ways of glorifying God who "...makes grass grow for the cattle, and plants for man to cultivate--bringing forth food from the earth:  wine that gladdens the heart of man, oil to make his face shine, and bread that sustains his heart."  Psalm 104.

Sadly, in my house, cooking is often limited to opening a jar of Prego and boiling some spaghetti noodles.  The beloved Swede does most of the "show cooking" in our home, creating meals and experiences that we enjoy sharing with others.  What that man can do with a venison tenderloin could drive me to fall more deeply in love with him, if that were humanly possible.

So when a friend of mine invited me to come to an Italian cooking class she was teaching, I had my apron on and was out the door before she could say, "Buon appetito!"

(Okay, that's not really true.  I don't even own an apron.)

Nonetheless, I did sign up for the class, and I did learn how to make some really, really good Italian food like: 

Saltimbocca

Insalata Rustica With Candied Walnuts (Yum!)

Bucatini all"Amatriciana with Chicken Parmesan

We also made Cappuccino Panna Cotta with Chocolate Whipped Cream.  I don't have a picture of it, but trust me--anytime you steep espresso beans and add heavy cream, sugar, and cocoa powder, only good things can happen.

This is chef Becky teaching us the proper method for determining whether or not pasta is done:

And me, looking like I know what I'm doing.  Told you I didn't have an apron.

The afternoon I spent at this class will most certainly rank as one of my favorites of this summer.  The food was delicious, and I had a great time both making and eating it.  Becky taught us that true Italian cooking was about honoring the authenticity of the ingredients.  Most of the recipes were simple, requiring very few spices--so unlike my handy jar of Prego.

What I enjoyed most, however, was the time spent with my friend learning about her time in Italy and what motivated her to go there to learn to cook.  I was reminded of the exchange between Julia Child and her husband in the Julie/Julia movie when Julia was trying to figure out what to do with herself in Paris.  Her husband asked her,

What do you love?

May we all find the things that we love and do them to the glory of God.  Buon appetito!

Things With Wings*

Bats creep me out. That’s probably a fairly typical, if not universal, reaction to these winged, furry night-time creatures but, where bats are concerned, I’ve got some baggage.

My first memories of bats take me back to Baptist Youth Camp, along the shores of Slippery Rock Creek in western Pennsylvania. Evening chapel attendance was mandatory, and I struggled to stay awake while sitting in the steamy open-air chapel, my body drenched in OFF insect repellent. I occupied myself by thinking about what I would buy at the snack shack after the final altar call. I was usually thirsty for grape soda but also tempted by the possibility of red shoestring licorice. Sadly the taste of bug spray usually rubbed off my hands and onto the shoelaces, ruining their delightful artificial strawberry taste. While mulling my choices, I watched as one bat, then another, then an entire winged furry army began circling the heads of the Baptist youth, dive-bombing the same mosquitoes we were trying to repel with our layers of OFF. I had heard that bats could get tangled in one’s hair, and mine--this being the seventies--was long and straight and very enticing to bats, I was sure. I had also heard that if a person were bitten by a bat, he or she would be subjected to multiple rounds of rabies shots injected into the stomach. I couldn’t wait for the last verse of Just as I Am to finish so the last sinner could get down the aisle just as he or she was, and I could retreat to the safety of the snack shack.

One summer, I returned from camp and spent the evening working at my school’s science club booth at the local downtown street fair. I’d worked for hours at the booth serving kraut dogs, cheeseburgers and fries, standing on grease-soaked pavement in my flip-flops until I could barely feel my feet. I remember coming home and sitting on my bed, trying to massage some feeling back into my toes, and looking up to notice something hanging from the frame of my bedroom door. It looked like a clump of dust, but as I walked over to grab it and throw it away I realized it looked like a mouse. It looked like a mouse hanging upside down from my door frame. In slow motion, my brain processed that what looked like a mouse but hung upside down was probably a bat, and I would have to pass through the doorway from which it was hanging in order to get someone to rescue me. And I still had that problem with the afore-mentioned long, straight hair which was so enticing to bats. I have no memory of how I got out of that room, nor of how the bat was dispatched, nor by whom, but I do remember that bats were rapidly moving up on my list of things that filled me with fear and loathing.

Several summers later, I had a very different encounter with bats. I was sitting by the fountain in the town park on a lovely, warm summer evening, about to have my heart broken by my high school boyfriend. Somewhere in the midst of the “We can still be friends” conversation, a bat flew down and landed on the soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend’s chest. To this day, he believes I have evil powers and had used them to summon that bat to do my bidding.

And I was okay with his believing that.

Recently, my husband and I were enjoying a quiet Sunday afternoon floating in the pool when something flew close to my head. I thought it might be a butterfly or a hummingbird but, as I got a better look at it, I realized it was black and it wasn’t humming. A bat was dive-bombing us in the middle of the day. We splashed water towards it, trying to scare it away, but that must have made it think we were just really big insects. It seemed inspired by the challenge we presented, its dive-bombing intensified in response to our splashes. Clearly that bat was out of its mind with rabies, and I could almost feel the needles as they injected vaccine into my stomach. That bat demonstrated the truth of what scripture claims: creation is, indeed, in rebellion.

Given my history with these creatures, I was surprised recently to find myself enjoying an evening of bat-watching from the lounge chair in my back yard. My husband and I were sitting outside talking; watching the silhouette of tree tops form against the sky as daylight faded. We saw stars come out one-by-one, and then the bats appeared. Swirling gracefully in the sky, they dove for insects; they darted and danced, putting on a spectacular show. They were doing what God had put them on this earth to do, and I found myself delighting in them.

Maybe I’m ready to make peace with bats, to appreciate their role in the cosmos and the Creator’s design in making them. But I really need them to stay where they’re supposed to and do what they were created to do. And come to me when I need them to do my evil bidding, obviously.

*The title is taken from a piano arrangement written by a songwriter named Liz Story. It is intended to sound like bats in flight, and I tried learning how to play it back in the day when I was taking piano lessons. I wasn’t very good at it, but it’s a cool song.

Linking up with emily and others today, working on perfecting our imperfect prose to the glory of God.

Fight Like a Girl

My beautiful friend Sue is having breast cancer surgery on Thursday.  She describes herself on her Facebook page as:  wife, mama, musician, piano teacher, and loyal friend.  Singer, songwriter, and pianist.  She is all of those things, and I love her.  Sue is most definitely doing what she was put on this earth to do.  I wrote a little about her here:

The song in her heart and on her lips of late has been:  In Christ alone, my hope is found, He is my life, my strength, my song.  While these words are true for all of us at all times, they are especially dear and precious to her now.

She's also been singing this:



which is the official song for the Susan G. Komen Race For the Cure.  In my never-to-be-humble opinion, Sue rocks the song even better.

So, if you wander by my blog today, would you mind breathing a few words of prayer for my sweet friend Sue?

The Pure in Heart

Most of us probably have distinct memories of that kid from sixth grade who was picked on mercilessly by the rest of the class. The one who didn’t fit in, who was unattractive and socially awkward. Sadly, many of us would have to admit to joining in on the teasing, much to our shame and regret.

In 1977, that person in my brother’s classroom was Johnny, although often the unwelcome attention was lavished equally upon him and his friend Lon. Intelligent, well-mannered, and nerdy, Johnny and Lon were target-rich for their classmates’ ridicule. My brother remembers once asking Johnny if he ever listened to rock music. Johnny responded that, why, yes he did. Rachmaninoff!

He may as well have had “Kick me” tattooed on his forehead.

A funny thing happened to my brother, though, as he watched and sometimes participated in the classroom ridicule. He started getting a kick out of Johnny’s oddities and quirks. He began to get to know and respect him, and they became friends. Their friendship lasted throughout high school, college, and into their adult years.

Johnny lived alone, having been raised by a single mother for whom he cared until her death several years ago. He was led to the Lord in the living room of a godly neighbor, a Sunday school teacher from a nearby church. On the day she moved out of her home, Johnny visited to thank her, pointing out that it was in her very living room that he came to know the Lord Jesus Christ. A caring and compassionate young man, Johnny made a point of visiting and checking in on my elderly widowed mother from time to time. My brother believes that Johnny was incapable of thinking badly of others. If he heard something shocking or scandalous about someone, he would shake his head as though the report couldn’t possibly be true.

Johnny never married. He became a high school biology teacher. Last week, Johnny collapsed in his classroom while tutoring several of his students and died at the age of forty-four. The outpouring of love and grief expressed by his students, both past and present, as well as parents and coworkers has been simply astounding. They’ve posted their comments online: I knew he really cared about me. He made biology fun. Remember his bee dance? He always asked when I would be working at the local donut shop and then made a point of stopping in to see me. I wouldn’t have graduated from high school without his encouragement. He was there for me when my sister was sick. I am in medical school because of him. Who knew there were still teachers like Johnny who were so committed to their work and passionate about investing in the lives of their students? Upon hearing the news of Johnny’s death, the local school board cancelled its scheduled meeting. The school district arranged bus transportation so that students could attend his funeral.

My brother last saw Johnny this past year at Christmastime and has two distinct memories. He remembers giving Johnny a hard time about not having a cell phone, and hearing Johnny respond, “Who is going to call me?” The second memory he had was of feeling jealous of Johnny and the joy and satisfaction he had found in his work.

Johnny has finished the work he was put on this earth to do, and the rest for this saint triumphant is won. His students, his coworkers, and his friends mourn the loss of his sweet and gentle soul. And the familiar words of Scripture ring with their truth, blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.

Isaac On the Altar

The beloved teenage son, after years of being homeschooled and attending private school, has piles of scholarship money sitting at his feet.  And he's not sure he wants it.  Uncertainty, indecision, and fear follow him about, clouding his thinking.  His gifts and talents are held in tension by the way his brain holds onto and processes information.  And this is all part of His loving Father's design and plan for him.

And he talks about the army.  And I picture drill sergeants yelling and bullets flying and soldiers hoping to come home safely from dangerous desert places.  And I weep.

And I think of how many times I've stood and wept at Memorial Day parades, watching the flags waving, watching the veterans march by.  I remember how many times I've spoken up in support of the military, expressing my gratitude for their willingness to sacrifice and put their lives in harm's way.

Their lives.  Not my son's.

And I hear the voice of his school principal saying that perhaps the Lord is asking me to put my Isaac on the altar and trust in God's provision.  And I remember hearing that story as a young girl in Sunday School, watching my sainted teacher act it out.  Pretending to march up Mount Moriah, carrying the wood.  Placing the imaginary son on the altar.  Looking to see the ram, caught by its horns.  It was a powerful story then.  I never thought I'd be asked to live it.

And a friend, an army chaplain calls him while on vacation with his family and talks to him and encourages him.  And my son brightens, expressing gratitude for the gifts of time and encouragement.  He sees the possibility of challenge and success and the opportunity to test himself and become a man.

I tell my brother about the phone call and say, "Wouldn't our dad be proud of his grandson?" he who proudly squeezed himself into his army uniform and marched in his hometown Memorial Day parade, year after year.  And my brother tells me the story (how is it that I never heard this until now?) of the army chaplain who befriended our father, he who as a young boy used to walk past churches, wondering what went on in there.  And that chaplain sowed the seed of the gospel.  And it took root.

And I know that God is in this and He will provide.  And I hear His voice saying, "Never will I leave you.  Never will I forsake you."  And He means it.

And I am so grateful.  The list of God's gifts, great and small, continues:



230.  The men and women of our armed services.
231.  The families who love them and let them go.
232.  The blessings of being in the body of Christ--what our pastor called, "the privileges of membership."
233.  Seeing the men in the church speaking truth and grace and encouragement to my son.
234.  Witnessing the baptism of a new convert--a hard-core atheist transformed by the gospel, wooed out of the kingdom of darkness and welcomed into the kingdom of light.  Being reminded, once again, that it is all, all true.
235.  Being surprised, once again, by the first chorus of spring peepers.

236.  The snow fountain which blooms so briefly but so beautifully each spring.

237.  Swans on the reservoir.  Yes, they are fierce and aggressive, but so lovely to look at.

238.  Childhood friends.

239.  Learning of a saint triumphant who has earned his rest.  Reading the legacy of the lives he touched.  Knowing he had done what God had put him on this earth to do.

240.  Faithful Sunday School teachers.

241.  The ministry of CareNet.  Lives transformed by the gospel.

242.  The Pirates winning their first game of the season, reawakening memories of my dad.

243.  The beloved Swede, reaching out to a young man being raised by a single mom, sharing his love of hunting.
244.  The hard-working, salt-of-the-earth, God-fearing farmer who runs the hunting camp and finds joy in introducing young people to the sport.

245.  The young man shaking like a leaf after getting his first turkey.

Saving Libraries--An Update

So I write this little blog and refer to myself as a freelance writer on my Facebook page.  Ah, the beauty of the internet where you can say anything and declare it to be true.

Anyway, I write this little blog and do some freelance stuff as a volunteer for the CCO, but to date have yet to earn a dime as a writer.  All eight of you who stop by and read my blog from time to time know that I sometimes have issues with things like grammar, syntax, or simply making any sense whatsoever.  I know I've got work to do to feel like I've earned the street cred I need to call myself a bona fide writer.

In any case, a friend of mine--we'll call her Ethel (and we'll refer to me as Lucy--you get the idea), took an idea from this post about talking with the elderly and recording their stories.  Ethel needed to design a classroom service project for an education course she was taking and decided to use the idea of having students interview nursing home residents.  She told another friend, who is a teacher, and that friend decided to implement Ethel's idea in her classroom.

So, bona fide or not, and having an appalling lack of dimes to show for my efforts, today I'm happy to call myself a writer.  And thankful to all eight of you who show up now and then and read me.  And aren't I doing a nice job with my hyper-linking?

Love, Lucy

This Is It

When the Michael Jackson documentary This Is It was showing in theatres, a friend asked if I wanted to see it. I was more than a little embarrassed to admit that I did. My friend is active in directing high school theatre, so she had a quasi-legitimate excuse for wanting to see the movie with all its behind-the-scenes production footage. I didn’t really have a good reason; I’m just one of the multitudes of people who couldn’t get enough of Michael Jackson’s Thriller when it came out on MTV. And, I’m probably more interested than I should be or care to admit about the lives of celebrities. But I’m glad we went. It was a good movie—fun and entertaining, full of life and energy and artistry. But it was also a sad and tragic movie, and it made me think.

My friend and I met at the local multiplex one afternoon, having told absolutely no one of our plans. The movie opened with brief interviews of dancers auditioning for the opportunity to be a part of Michael’s show. They talked about how much Michael Jackson had inspired them. One gave credit to Michael for everything he had accomplished as a dancer. Several choked back tears, overwhelmed by and in awe of the opportunity they had to audition to dance with the one who had inspired them. These interviews had been conducted with the dancers prior to their auditions, before Michael had died.

Once the footage of Michael singing and dancing began, my friend leaned over and whispered, “And suddenly, we’re back in the eighties.” We sang along to the soundtrack from our college years, mustering every ounce of self-control we could to keep from getting up and dancing in the aisles. Had our teenage children been with us, I’m fairly certain they would have reached a new pinnacle of embarrassment. Before long, my friend whispered to me again, “He doesn’t look like he’s on death’s doorstep. He looks ... happy?”

He did look happy. He was singing and dancing and he was having fun. And, he had surrounded himself with enormously talented singers, musicians, and dancers and was challenging them to do and be their best. It was astonishing, seeing the number of times Michael Jackson stopped musicians because, in his head, he heard the music moving a beat faster, or a note being held half a second longer. He critiqued and revised movements, staging, and arrangements all based on the masterpiece he could see and hear in his imagination. And, oh, how he could move.

Michael Jackson was doing what he was put here on this earth to do. And then he died. And it was tragic.

The word tragedy has been watered down to the point that it is used to refer to almost any sad or distressing event. In its most classic sense, however, tragedy refers to a drama in which a noble character possesses a particular weakness that leads to his downfall or even his death. The tragedy of Michael Jackson’s life was not that he was an extremely talented man who died much too young. Rather, the tragedy of Michael Jackson’s life was that, although he was doing what he was put on this earth to do, he was unable to find peace and joy and contentment in so doing. Michael Jackson looked for those things in bizarre and harmful places--places which often made him an object of ridicule and, ultimately, led to his death.

I wonder about those dancers who looked to Michael Jackson as their source of inspiration for everything they hoped to do and be. I wonder where they now find meaning for their life’s work.

I think about my life and wonder if I’m doing what God put me here on this earth to do and if I’m inspiring others to do the same. I hear the words of the ancient Westminster divines asking, “What is man’s chief end?” And the answer comes, “Man’s chief end is to glorify God and to enjoy Him forever.” This is it.

I will never glorify God through song and dance; I’m neither wired nor gifted in that way—ask my kids who roll their eyes whenever I even threaten to break out into my mommy dance. As I look for ways to use the gifts and talents I have been given, however, may God give me the grace to pursue excellence and to find His peace, His joy, and His contentment in this life and forever.

Of Puzzling, Quilting, and Writing

I love jigsaw puzzles.  I have fond memories of many late nights spent with my mom, usually during Christmas vacations, hunched over a folding card table trying to find that one last piece before calling it quits and heading to bed.  We didn't talk much, or about anything that really mattered.  We just worked, side by side, trying to find that oddly shaped piece with the little bit of treeline or the missing edge piece to complete the frame.

Sometimes I think working on jigsaw puzzles is just a colossal waste of my time and an excuse for me to check out of life for a while.    Put my brain on cruise control and just handle the oddly shaped pieces while ignoring important work that needs to be done.  But there is something comforting, soothing, addicting about surveying the mess and putting it back together the way it was meant to be.

As I take tenative steps into the writing world, I've wondered if there are other writers out there who enjoy a good jigsaw puzzle.  Or perhaps they're more like quilters.  Once, an instructor of a writing course I was taking asked us to describe the kind of writing each of us did.  I wasn't quite sure how to describe what it is I'm trying to do.  I said it was sort of like quilting, or at least my pathetic efforts at quilting.  Buried in the bottom of a closet are scraps of material which, theoretically, will become a quilt.  Someday.  I collect scraps and pieces of stories, knowing that there's some value to them.  Knowing that they matter and ought to be preserved and assembled into something that is useful and beautiful and good.  I'm not exactly sure what to do with my scraps and pieces of stories, but I'm working on it.

In the title essay of her collection Twelve Baskets of Crumbs, Elisabeth Elliot wrote about the process, after the death of her second husband, of gathering up the fragments of his life.  Clothing, wallets, golf clubs, diplomas, letters--all important pieces of his life.  She then talked about Christ, after feeding the multitude, sending his disciples to gather the fragments of bread and fish, that none of it be lost.  Somehow, the leftover broken pieces matter.

I think the value of writing, of quilting, and even of putting together a jigsaw puzzle, is in seeing the value of the fragments.  It's about recognizing something that hints at something larger and greater and more important.  About assembling pieces and bringing order out of chaos.

Or maybe I'm just trying too hard to justify the hours I've spent putting puzzles together.

Saving Libraries, One Story at a Time

The death of an old person is like the burning of a library.  Alex Haley

During my childhood, most Sunday afternoons were spent at my grandparents' farm with aunts, uncles, and cousins.  At lunchtime several of the cousins sat on an old farm bench, trapped against the windows by the adults who sat around the table for an insufferable length of time talking about the most boring things in the universe.  All we wanted was to escape the confines of the kitchen and the boredom and get outside to play in the woods and in the barns.  Sometimes we would crawl under the table through the tangle of grown-up legs and feet to make our escape.

One of those sitting around the table was my Uncle Chuck, a bus mechanic.  It never occurred to me to listen to anything he had to say, boring grown-up that he was.  Sometime after his death, I learned that he'd served as crew chief of a C-47 aircraft during World War II.  He'd received a medal for meritorious achievement for dropping paratroopers ahead of the Normandy invasion which, as history would have it, turned out to be sort of a big deal.

I wish I had known that.

What on Earth

So why do I tag some of my posts as "What on Earth"? I probably should tag them as "vocation" or "calling" because I'm thinking and writing about people pursuing those things. People who, I believe, are doing what they were put on this earth to do.

In the excellent movie Julie & Julia , Julia Child is portrayed as a woman who tried her hand at a number of pursuits in order to fill her time while her husband was working in Paris. She tried hat-making lessons and bridge lessons, but found these to be meaningless and unsatisfying. Ultimately, she found her true passion and gift in cooking and teaching others how to do it.

Now that my children are nearly grown and almost launched, I too am trying my hand at any number of things, trying to figure out what it is God has left me on this earth to do. Sometimes it seems as though I am just filling my time with hat-making lessons.