Imaginary Friends

I posted this the other day, then decided it hadn't turned out quite the way I wanted it. Then my friend Mary said she'd read it before I took it down, and she liked it. So I'm re-posting it. Make of it what you will. Yeah. I'm a quivering mass of insecurity.

When my children were in their teens, and this thing called social media was in its infancy, I started hearing rumors about places on the internet called MySpace, Facebook, and something called a blog. I tried keeping up with my kids who seemed able to accomplish almost immediate fluency in all the emerging technology. I kept a careful eye on the kinds of information they revealed about themselves online. Once, I even pulled one of my daughter’s friends aside and gave her a lecture because I thought she had divulged too much personal information about herself online. She’d listed her age, the town where she lived, and the place where she worked. Having watched a Dr. Phil show or two, I told her I’d never be able to forgive myself if some Creepy McCreepy internet stalker-type started showing up where she worked and caused any harm to her.

I also was concerned about the amount of time my children spent online. I wanted them to experience real life in the real world; investing themselves in real relationships, not virtual ones.

And then I started blogging. And I began putting all sorts of personal stuff about myself out there on the internet.

At first, when I had only a handful of readers, I was cautious. I was afraid to post an email link, sign up for Twitter, or even post my last name anywhere. I had no idea who might be reading my blog and felt vulnerable and exposed. And then I got to know a couple of fellow bloggers. We stopped by one another’s places and exchanged comments, and a strange thing began to happen. I started to get to know people I’d never met. And I started caring about them.

I began referring to these people as my imaginary friends.

A friend of mine who teaches sociology at a small college in western Pennsylvania told me he assigned his students a research project evaluating others’ understanding of the concept of friendship. I asked if he’d had his students watch The Social Network. He hadn’t; but said he thought it might be worthwhile for them to discuss it in class, given the way social media is challenging accepted ideas about friendship.

I’m not a sociologist, neither am I a theologian. But it does seem to me that God is at work and doing something important through the context of social media. I’ve developed real relationships with some of my imaginary friends. I care about them. I pray for them and for their families. I share prayer requests of my own with people I’ve never met, except through their words.

During this past year I was able to attend several writing conferences and was able to meet some of my imaginary friends in real life. I invited myself to spend the night at the home of another, a complete stranger I’d met on the internet. (Don’t tell my daughter’s friend)

Except.

She wasn’t a complete stranger. I knew her. She’d revealed her heart through her words online. Each time I met a fellow blogger this past year, I experienced almost an identical reaction. I felt as though I was being reunited with an old friend I’d never met.

And now when I log onto Facebook in the morning, I find myself in the middle of conversations between my internet friends and my friends in real life. They’ve never met, but they are forming relationships. It’s weird. But good-weird.

Because of the presence of social media at this particular point in history, something seems afoot. I’m seeing real community form among people who may never meet face-to-face. And that kind of real community is possible because of relationships forged by union in Christ.

God never intended the believer’s walk to be a solo journey. Throughout the pages of Scripture, God is always at work gathering a people to Himself. I don’t pretend to know the mind of God or understand His ways, but I do wonder if He isn’t allowing me to catch a glimpse, by means of the internet, of His continuing work of gathering His people.

I think about the Old Testament account of the prophet Elisha when God’s people were completed surrounded by a powerful army. God reminded him,

Do not be afraid, for those who are with us are more than those who are with them.

2 Kings 6:16, ESV

The prophet asked God to open his eyes, and he and all the people saw themselves surrounded by horses and chariots in all their blazing glory.

The world is a scary place filled with many dangers: sickness, abuse, poverty and, yes, even creepy internet stalkers. I am thankful that God has not called me to follow Him through it alone. Through sharing stories of laughter and tears with my imaginary friends; as we reveal ourselves to one another with all our wounds and scars, and bear witness to God’s work in our lives, we affirm that we are not alone. We surround one another as those who claim the name of Christ, in all our blazing glory.

Linking with Bonnie (who I've met in real life!) @ Faith Barista. Click the link below to read more reflections on the topic of real community:

A Curiosity Journal

My friend Ann Kroeker posts a weekly curiosity journal to recap her week. She uses the tag words: reading, playing, learning, reacting, and writing to shape her posts. For some time I’ve thought about joining Ann, especially since my primary blogging strategy has been to find people who seem to know what they’re doing and then imitate them. Also, my writing well has felt a little dry lately. So here goes:

Reading

I’ve always been one of those people who is reading multiple books at the same time. Now that I have a Kindle and can download books at the push of a button, my habits seem to have gotten much worse.

After hearing many, many, many of my friends recommend Grace for the Good Girl: Letting Go of the Try-Hard Life, by Emily P. Freeman; I’ve finally gotten around to reading it. So far, the only thing I don’t like about this book is that Emily didn’t write it thirty years ago. I’m planning to write a review or maybe a series of posts about Emily’s book when I finish it. I’ve highlighted so many passages; however, I’ll probably end up re-reading the entire book when reviewing my notes. One particular passage I’m mulling is Emily’s reflection on the lives of Mary and Martha. She wrote:

Martha’s desire to please clouded her willingness to trust. . . . Given the choice to please God or to trust God, good girls become conflicted. We know we’re supposed to trust God, but trust is so intangible. It almost seems passive in the face of all there is to do.

Emily’s words read like she’s been living inside my head. Or my heart. Oh, and at the beginning of chapter twelve, Emily admits she never liked the phrase quiet time all that much. I think she really is a kindred spirit.

I’m also reading The Dancing Priest, a novel by Glynn Young. I postponed starting this one, again after reading many, many, many recommendations. Some folks said they started reading this book and couldn’t put it down it. I keep putting it down, savoring it. I’m thoroughly enjoying this story and don’t want it to come to an end.

I downloaded and started reading The Jesus Creed, by Scot McKnight. I kept seeing references to this book, and then I learned that McKnight is a professor at North Park University where my son goes to school. After I started reading The Jesus Creed, I saw a reference to it by Ann Voskamp. I figure, any day I’m on the same page as Ann Voskamp has got to be a good day.

Playing

Alumni Chapel. Photo by Tamara Gerhard

Most of the playing I’ve done lately, I’ve done vicariously. My son just returned to college after having been home for four weeks for Christmas break. During that time he played piano with some of his buddies during an alumni chapel at his former school, attended a New Year’s Eve swing dance party, went ice skating, attended a dinner party for which all the guests dressed up, and got together with former youth group members to play and record hymns and praise music. I sat back and watched these young people interact, delighting in each one and growing in gratitude for these friendships in my son's life.

I'm also thinking, maybe my writing well wouldn't feel so dry if I did some playing of my own.

Learning

I’m working my way through another book, an E-book by Sharon Hujik titled, How to Move From Blogger to WordPress. I’m learning, or threatening to learn, about all sorts of interesting things like File Transfer Protocols, DNS Servers, and CHMOD.

At one point the instructions read: “If you make a mistake here, you will lose access to your blog.”

If you notice my blog’s gone missing, assume I didn’t follow the instructions. Or have been raptured. Even if I destroy my blog, I figure I will have learned something. And I can always start over, right? I’m actually kind of jazzed about playing around with this stuff, and maybe engaging my brain in this way will help me fight off dementia somewhere down the road. Or maybe I’m just playing around with this technical stuff because right now it seems easier than writing.

I’ve been talking to some folks about helping me with some site design stuff. They’re good folks, and I hope I get to introduce you to them soon. I just need to earn a few more dollars first. In the meantime I may play around on my current site, rearranging the furniture a bit.

Reacting

It got cold and finally snowed for the first time since the freak storm back in October. I’m not reacting well. Also, my Christmas tree is still up. Don’t judge me. I don’t react well to the transition from the joy and beauty of Christmas to the cold and gray of January.

Writing

See above sections on playing and learning. Have I mentioned my well’s a little dry? Anyone interested in guest posting?

I know that writing helps me write, and I took a long break from doing so while my son was at home. I don't regret my decision to take time off, but I'm finding it awfully difficult to get back in the rhythm of writing.

So there you have it: my first ever Curiosity Journal. And a completed blog post.

Let me know your suggestions for when the writing well runs dry. Or your gears get rusty. Or whatever overworked metaphor for getting your butt back in the chair and starting over works for you. Maybe I’ll try some of them.

You know, if I don’t blow up my blog.

Broad Brook Anthology: A Vermont Playdate

Lately, it seems as though checking my email feels an awful lot like walking down the driveway to my mailbox. The real mail, the stuff worth making the walk or logging into my account, lies buried beneath ads for Black Friday and Cyber Monday. I glance through my mail, both virtual and real, toss most of it into the recycle bin, and return to my writing or to household chores. Last week, however, in the course of scanning and dismissing most of my messages I nearly missed an important invitation from an old friend.

The message contained an announcement about an upcoming performance on which my friend had collaborated. Just over the border in southern Vermont, the town of Guilford was celebrating its 250^th anniversary. A local resident, a poet named Verandah Porche, had spent several years interviewing elderly town residents, mining their recollections of a lifetime shaped within the farmlands of the Connecticut River Valley. And until I typed that last sentence, I didn’t recognize the whimsy in the name of the woman who authored this project.

My initial response to the invitation was to dismiss the play as a small-time production, most likely performed with poor acting and amateur props. Then I stopped to think about my friend, a gifted photographer, and the quality of work I’ve seen him produce. I begin to consider the possibility that this little local production might actually be very good, perhaps even better than every Christmas pageant I’d ever attended throughout my life. Besides, I hold a special place in my heartfor old-timey family history, even if I don’t have a personal connection to those involved in the stories. The beloved Swede and I found we had some free time on our schedules, so we decided to make the drive to Vermont.

I am so glad we did. The production, titled Broad Brook Anthology, combined the recollections of local townspeople into a play for voices. The work was named for the stream which flows through the community connecting many of the family farms which provide context for the stories. Performed in the town’s historic meeting house, a company of six actors local to Vermont and New York gave voice to the reflections of the town’s elders. My friend had photographed the residents in their homes as they had told their stories; and he projected their portraits, interspersed with historical photos, throughout the course of the performance. Another resident composed original music for the play which a trio of local musicians performed.

We heard stories, stories about working hard on the family farm and of getting up early to deliver bottles of milk. The words: We were poor but we were satisfied, echoed throughout a number of the narratives. We laughed as we heard tales of mischief wrought in the days of one room schoolhouses, of children who fled to the hills at the sound of the recess bell never to return for afternoon studies. We saw photos of a devastating flood, one which shaped the earliest memory of a resident who watched as the current swept away his young cousin. We eavesdropped on courtship stories, many of which began at square dances at the local Grange hall. We viewed wedding photos of brides dressed in vintage gowns standing next to handsome men in uniform, some of whom had just returned from the war.

The final line of the performance came from a man who is now widowed but remains in the small community where he lived, loved, and raised a family. He said he finds peace in his solitude, surrounded by familiar landscape. He wanders the woods and hills of a place which shaped his life and considers the awe of existence itself.

This effort by local townspeople in celebration of their shared history accomplished so many good things. The play, and the years of work which went into creating it, honored the stories of ordinary men and women who had lived, loved, played, and worked in community with one another. Many of their stories have now been preserved in both image and word. A local poet, photographer, and composer; several actors, musicians, and audio and video technicians exercised their crafts, combining their efforts to produce something which was beautiful and good.

After the performance we returned to the home of our friends, nibbled on slices of fresh apple and chunks of Vermont cheddar, and told stories of our own. We caught up on one another’s histories, and shared our narratives of living, loving, playing, and work. At the end of the evening we said goodbye and turned down their dirt road, heading away from their place and toward our own.

And this morning I can’t stop thinking about the awe of existence itself.

Photography for Broad Brook Anthology provided by Jeff Woodward.

Linking with L.L. Barkat for On, In, and Around Monday:

And with Laura Boggess at the Wellspring:

Relevant Gifts

When I visited England with my daughter several years ago, I found this version of a Russian nesting doll in a gift shop at York Minster:

The outside doll represents King Henry VIII, and nestled inside are dolls representing each of his wives in the order they were dispatched: Divorced, beheaded died; divorced, beheaded, survived. I thought I desperately needed one of these quirky dolls until I flipped one over, saw the price tag, and calculated the conversion from British pounds to American dollars. I decided I’d be satisfied with just a picture.

Attending The Relevant Conference was, for me, like receiving the gift of a nesting doll. I didn’t receive a single gift at the conference; I received many, layered within one another. The outer shell, the gift holding all the others inside, was the extravagant one my husband gave me. In paying my registration fee, picking up my expenses, and agreeing to sacrifice the presence of my delightful company for several days, the beloved Swede encouraged me to continue writing and telling my stories. He is a good man, and so much better than I deserve. And as all the ladies at Relevant who saw pictures will attest, he is one good looking Swede.

The next layer, the gift I was most anxious to open, was that of meeting friends I’ve known only through online words and pictures. Hugging Bonnie, our gracious hostess here at the Faith Jam, was a highlight of the conference as was meeting Michelle and Deidra. I met Mary, a new friend in real life, and am now looking forward to getting to know her through her words and pictures online.

We shared stories, laughter, and tears together as friends; we prayed with and for one another. I listened to others, those who have lived stories similar to mine, and I heard their encouraging messages, “Yes it is hard, but God is faithful. All will be well.” I sat with these women and shared meals; we joined our voices together in singing praise. And I know we will do this together again someday.

Layered deeper inside the conference I found the gift of challenging, thoughtful words from so many. Like so many others, I’d come to the conference eager to hear from Ann Voskamp, she whose life-giving words I’d found during dark days in my life. As humble and gracious in real life as she appears in her writing, Ann eschews the very notion of fame. Yet in response to God’s call to sacrifice the quiet anonymity of Canadian farm life, she offers to Him her words for the feeding of many. Blogging, she reminds a room full of women, is not about us, but about “washing the feet of your sisters.”

Singer and songwriter Shaun Groves, who organizes trips for bloggers on behalf of Compassion International, spoke about the power of words to keep God’s mercy in view, even amidst the reality of devastating poverty. Shelly Noonan, in telling her story of walking through pain, reminded us that “even our pain doesn’t belong to us,” but can be offered for the healing of others. Laura Booz encouraged us to believe, “You become passionate about Jesus when you understand His passion for you.” Tsh Oxenreider spoke about “finding our sweet spots,” the intersection between our skills and our passion.She also showed us some pretty happening tools for navigating the world of Twitter.

I unearthed layer after layer of gift during my weekend among fellow bloggers at the Relevant Conference and also received a hefty gift bag filled with books and other treasures. I’m sure I received gifts I have yet to discover as I read back through my notes and chew on words I heard. I came home from the conference deeply convinced of the power of story. My stories matter, and so do yours. They are gifts we offer to one another.

Linking with Bonnie and high-fiving her on the news of her new book contract!

Also adding my link over at The Relevant Conference Blog.

The Heart and Voice of a Friend

It was the first time I’d heard her voice.

We’d met, through words and pictures on each other’s’ blogs. I first started blogging by posting a weekly gratitude list and linking it with Ann Voskamp’s community. I knew absolutely nothing about the rules of etiquette governing blog world. On Ann’s site I saw thumbnails, small pictures linking to the gratitude posts of others, lists each had made of weekly thank offerings. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to read and comment on others’ lists; if it was nosy or creepy or stalkerish to do so. But I did. I looked through the thumbnails and at the other blog titles and found one called Curious Acorn. I figured whoever chose that title must have been some kind of marketing genius. The curious word choice drew me in. Is the writer curious about acorns? I wondered. Or, is the blog about acorns that are curious? That doesn’t make any sense.

So of course I clicked. And I made my very first internet friend.

I met Jodi, an artist. And, as a left-brained, linear-thinking, spreadsheet-loving gal, I can tell you that very little of the way artists process life makes any sense to me.  And I think I’m only beginning to realize how desperately I need them in my life. I just don’t let them do the math when we’re eating out somewhere and it’s time to calculate the tip.

Despite our differences, I found a kindred spirit in this artist girl I’d never met. We love the same movies, we laugh at the same things. She is the Diana Barry to my Anne Shirley in the same way my friend Ethel from real life is the madcap counterpart to my zany Lucy.

How is it I’m always the redhead?

Anyway. Jodi and I have walked through similar pain in our lives. We’ve prayed for one another and for the other’s family. We love the same Jesus. So when I realized I would be in her neighborhood for The Relevant Conference, I dared to ask if I could come and meet her.

Come hungry, she said.

An early October snowstorm moved in during the course of the conference, disrupting and delaying travel plans for many. I called Jodi to update her on my plans and let her know when to expect me. And I heard her voice for the first time.

I found my way to the home of the Curious Acorn; I met Jodi and her family. She told me the stories behind the pictures on her refrigerator. She introduced me to her grandbabies. She spoke in a calm, quiet, deep, soothing voice; one like an NPR voice but without all the smugness.

I saw the famous chalkboard pantry door from pictures on Jodi’s blog. She wasn’t kidding when she’d told me to come hungry. She fed me well; she nourished my soul.

On a sideboard next to the table she’d written words she’d asked the Father to give her, words just for me:

If it’s possible for a house to breathe peace, Jodi’s does.

Most parents, I imagine, are as concerned as I am about the amount of time their children spend on the internet, and rightfully so. We warn our children about its dangers; we tell them not to reveal personal things to strangers. We encourage them to get outdoors, to embrace life in the beauty of God’s good creation. I believe God made us embodied spirits and placed us in particular places in space and time. We have been created for community and intended to reflect God to our neighbors. We are to inhabit the places we live.

I can’t quite make sense of what is happening in my life, in and through the strange reality of blog world, but something is. One of the speakers at Relevant asked, At what time in history can we go and make disciples around the world while in our pajamas and in our living rooms? I seldom know what is going on in the lives of people on the other side of this screen, those who are reading the words I’ve tapped out. I tell my stories, I get to know people; God is doing something. That’s all I know.

As I was loading up my car to leave, Jodi packaged up some of her fancy homemade gingerbread for me for the drive home. Who does something like that?

A kindred spirit. A real friend. A sister.

(The state of Connecticut is, once again, experiencing widespread power and internet outages. Linking late with Laura and L.L.

And with Jen and the sisterhood:

This is What a Bosom Friend Looks Like

Yes, I've been on the road forever, and no I haven't written a single sentence in that time. Today I just need to point you over to my friend Jodi @ Curious Acorn. You'll understand.

Heading home to the beloved Swede. Grace and peace to you all.

Pink Glove Dance

Originally published January 14, 2011. Re-posting in honor of Breast Cancer Awareness Month and Rock Star-Diva Girlfriend:

When rock star-diva friend started treatment for breast cancer, a friend sent her a link to this video:


It made her laugh.  And when your friend is going through the horrors of cancer treatment, you become profoundly grateful for anything that brings to her laughter and joy.  So, bride-to-be baby girl and I decided to honor our friend and celebrate the completion of her treatment by doing the pink glove dance at the wedding reception.  (It was really hard keeping that secret.)

This is my baby girl introducing the bridal party who got things started:

The wait staff at the reception facility placed bags of pink gloves at each table.  Attached to each bag was a note which read:

The Pink Glove Dance was made popular on YouTube by employees of the Providence St. Vincent Medical Center in Oregon, dancing in support of breast cancer awareness.

 Today we celebrate in honor of our friend, breast cancer survivor, and rock-star diva, raising hands in thanksgiving to the Lord Jesus Christ, the Great Physician, for His healing power in her life.

 And this is what happened on the dance floor:

Young.  Old.  People who knew her, people who didn't know her; people who knew others battling this evil disease, all joined in.

And my friend felt loved.  And it was a beautiful thing.

Old Friends Who've Just Met

Just a little something extra for my friends who attended The High Calling writing retreat. I think others might enjoy it too.

I know. I swore I was done writing about the retreat. Technically I'm not writing about it today; I'm posting a video. Not that I'm a legalist or anything.

Anyway. As I was standing around in the parking lot, waiting for my shuttle to the airport, I had a brief conversation with speaker Jeff Overstreet about his (and Kermit's) rendition of The Rainbow Connection. It was a moving performance about which the delightful Kelly Sauer wrote a thoughtful piece over at her place. During the conversation, Jeff mentioned an even more powerful song from The Muppet Movie. I'm just glad he didn't sing this one at the end of the retreat:


(On the road for a few days, leaving the beloved Swede to guard the castle. Digging into the archives and scheduling some posts my husband refers to as "filler." But you enjoy them anyway, right?)

What Happens In Texas

Is it what you expected?

I was never quite sure how to answer the question. Throughout the weekend, several people asked whether or not the writing retreat was turning out to be what I had expected. Truth was, I hadn’t known what to expect.

I knew what I feared. I feared I would have to sit down in front of a blank piece of paper and try to write something that wouldn’t sound awful. I feared being surrounded by a circle of talented writers who would whip out their pens and bleed red all over my amateur efforts. I feared that the generous gift my husband had given me, investing in me as a writer wannabe, would turn out to be an unwise decision on his part.

So much of what happened at Laity Lodge, however, was neither what I feared nor expected. I didn’t expect that meeting so many for the first time would feel like a reunion of old friends. I was surprised to learn that a lovely, talented photographer from South Africa would, with a glimmer in her eye, dare to flip a colleague into the Frio River. I had no idea that a grown man with a frog puppet could move so many to tears.

Unlike many of the talented photographers present, I hadn’t packed a camera. The snapshots I took, I carried home with me in my head and my heart. With a fistbump, I was given honorary dude status. I was introduced to the best cookies one could make using four simple ingredients. During a workshop, I used the phrase “merry band of crazy.” (and am right here and now, on the internet, forevermore claiming intellectual property rights to those words) I was assigned a roommate who couldn’t promise she wouldn’t try to kill me in the middle of the night. I found people who get me.

We talked together, my writer friends and me, of our lives at home; and we wept and prayed together. I worshiped alongside a woman for whom I had prayed online. I had a meltdown in an art studio. Throughout the weekend, I received small affirmations. Before heading home, I was invited to consider pain as something to steward well.

Not real writer-ly stuff. Or maybe it was.

I’ve been reading all week, posts from others who participated in the retreat, and I keep thinking about how alike and different our experiences were. We shared in many of the same activities and broke bread together, but we’ve each come home with different stories in our back pockets. My kids’ high school youth group leader used to say that each kid who went on a mission trip had the exact trip God intended for him or for her to have. I think something like that happened at Laity Lodge last weekend.

I need to pause here and say, “Thank you,” to the beloved Swede for sending me to Texas last week, for believing enough in me to invest in me as a writer.  Truly, you are the lingonberries to my Swedish pancakes. As for return on investment, I’m not sure I come home to you a better writer. But I believe I’ve come home a better person.

And while what happens in Vegas may stay in Vegas, the lessons of Laity Lodge, I believe, will continue to echo far beyond the walls of the Rio canyon. Even in the airport, as many of us were queuing in security lines, the conversation and the friendship continued. In an airport restaurant I shared a table with David before we went separate ways, he home to steward pain of his own.

Before leaving the restaurant, I happened upon Kathy, the artist-in-residence whose studio I’d fled in tears. She’d been wondering, she told me, what had happened as I sat surrounded by water colors and ink. We shared a table, and I was given the opportunity to fill her in on the rest of the story. I’d had a painful experience, I told her, but one I needed to have.

As it turns out, few things about the retreat were what I expected. And perhaps that’s the greatest lesson I brought home from Texas.

Friends Help Us Finish the Song

There is a video making its rounds on the internet, of a young man with autism singing the National Anthem at the beginning of a Boston Red Sox game. Midway through the song, the young man began stammering and fumbling his way through the words. The performance could have turned into an embarrassing disaster. Instead the crowd at Fenway joined the young man in singing the familiar words, and he was able to finish his song triumphantly.

Throughout the pilgrimage of faith I often stammer and fumble, even when the way is familiar. From childhood I have known the Holy Scripture which is able to make one wise unto salvation. Psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs are lifelong friends; I know many of their words by heart. “I know Whom I have believed, and am persuaded that He is able to keep that which I’ve committed unto Him against that day.” 2 Timothy 1:12, KJV.

But sometimes the way of faith becomes hard. The road turns rocky and steep. I grow weary and my steps begin to falter.

In Pilgrim’s Progress, John Bunyan wrote of two friends—Christian and Hopeful—who journeyed together on their way to the celestial city. They relied on one another to keep from falling into weariness and slumber.  Along the way, Hopeful sang this song:

When Saints do sleepy grow, let them come hither,

And hear how these two Pilgrims talk together:

Yea, let them learn of them in any wise,

Thus to keep ope their drowsy, slumbring eyes.

Saints' fellowship, if it be managed well,

Keeps them awake, and that in spite of Hell.

Pilgrim's Progress, by John Bunyan, [1678], at sacred-texts.com

The One who created us and invited us to walk with Him in a pilgrimage of faith never intended us to journey alone. The One who has eternally existed in communion with Himself as Father, Son, and Spirit calls us to walk in community with one another. Three times a year the people of God journeyed together to Jerusalem to climb holy Mount Zion. They climbed together; the older helping the younger, the strong encouraging the weak. Together they sang Psalms of Ascent, joining their voices in praise while helping one another remember the familiar words of faith.

I am grateful for those friends in my life, the ones who rejoice with me in my triumphs and weep with me in my sorrows; the ones who have been there to share with me the joys and challenges of parenting. The ones I can call in the middle of the night when I can’t sleep. The ones who laugh with me about embarrassing medical procedures we have had or are about to have. The ones who sit in silence when there are no words.

A faithful friend comes alongside to say, “I know it’s hard for you to believe right now. I will believe for you. I know you can’t find the words for prayer right now. Let me pray them for you.  I know the path is difficult right now. Grab hold of my hand until your weak knees regain their strength. The one who says, “I know you know the song by heart but are too weak to sing it. Let me sing it for you—at least until you begin to remember the words.”

A faithful friend helps us finish the song triumphantly.

Joining Bonnie at Faith Barista who has invited us to share thoughts on Faith and Friends. Click the link below to read more thoughtful posts on this topic.

And with emily at imperfect prose:

(Thanks to Deb Colarossi for sharing the video link)

How to Grow Old, If You Really Must--Unbirthday Playdate

Linking with Laura, sharing a Playdate with God:



The plan for my birthday had been to spend the day giving things away. I've lived long and well, and there are few things I really need to make me happy. Besides, I figured handing gifts out to strangers would provide me with some good stories to tell.

Handing out presents was fun, and I had some laughs, but I found the real stories were elsewhere.

Ethel and Rock Star Diva arrived at my house early to begin our day at the beach. Along the way we stopped at Rock Star's childhood home, and the first gift of the day was getting to see the house that built her.

Our next stop was The Art Cafe.

There was coffee, and there was art.

We chose to skip the coffee and start the day with champagne instead. Then we looked around in the gallery and enjoyed the gift of watching little ones learning to make art, clipping their masterpieces to a clothesline to dry in the summer breeze.

The big project for the day was using making prints using real fish:

So grateful for the beauty of this place and all I had witnessed there, I left a favorite quote by Evelyn Underhill on the outdoor chalkboard:

Our next stop was the trailer owned by Rock Star Diva's sister. She calls it her tin can on the beach. For the joy of listening to the waves wash ashore each night, and in order to wake each morning to a view like this:

I would gladly spend my summer in a tin can, a shoebox--heck, even a port-a-john. The view was just that lovely, reaching all the way to Martha's Vineyard. On the beach, Ethel and I were introduced to many lovely people, one of whom had given the gift of a kidney to the sister who sat next to her on the sand.

I thought about how my friend had been blessed last summer, soaking up salt air, summer sun, love and prayer as she sat on her sister's deck overlooking the ocean while recovering from cancer treatment. This year I received the gift of sitting with her on that same deck, breathing in gratitude for God's healing work in her life.

The day ended at a local Rhode Island vineyard where we listened to a Beatles cover band named Abbey Rhode. Get it? Beatles cover band? Rhode Island? Their music was every bit as good as that joke.

But we raised our glasses and toasted our friendship, celebrating a day none of us wanted to see reach its end.

The celebration ended, or so I thought. As it turned out, my friends had taken me to the beach and to a Rhode Island vineyard merely as a ruse to distract me from finding out what they were really planning:

The next evening, at a local Connecticut vineyard, there was food, there was music; there were balloons, bubbles, and laughter. There were friends ranging in age from two to sixty:

There were friends I've watched grow from children into young adults, and I realized that one of the gifts of getting older is the joy of seeing God's faithfulness throughout the years in the lives of those whom I love:

Ethel made cupcakes and made magic, because that's just what she does. I encouraged all the little ones to be sure to eat at least three cupcakes. It was definitely a three-cupcake kind of night.

At the end of the evening, I gave away my last unbirthday gift to Lauri, who blogs at Living to Die Well.:

Lauri had left me a comment on my blog, telling me a story about an unbirthday gift she had given. And, as I've always said, tell me a story and I'll love your forever. (Okay, I've never actually said that but, to steal a line from Harrison Ford in Sabrina, it sounds like something I would say)

Lauri is a huge fan of the noble giraffe, and since I'd found this giraffe dress in a thrift store the day before I decided to declare her the first runner-up in my unbirthday give-away. I figured it was my contest so I could do whatever I wanted.

At the end of another perfect summer evening, (How many perfect summer evenings is one old, gray-haired woman entitled to enjoy?) I received a final gift from the hand of my loving Father:

Praise the LORD, my soul;
   all my inmost being, praise his holy name.
Praise the LORD, my soul,
   and forget not all his benefits—
who forgives all your sins
   and heals all your diseases,
who redeems your life from the pit
   and crowns you with love and compassion,
who satisfies your desires with good things
   so that your youth is renewed like the eagle’s.

 Psalm 103:1-5, NIV