UBP Like It's 2012

 

It’s that time of year again, time for Ultimate Blog Party 2012. If this is your first visit, welcome. Let me show you around. (And if you’re an old friend, you’re welcome to stay, too. Just don’t eat all the snacks)

My name’s Nancy Franson, and I’m Out of My Alleged Mind. As I told my future son-in-law the first time we met, you never can be quite sure about me; whether I’m trying to be funny or I’m just plain crazy. And that’s my edge. This post: About the Blog Title explains, well, pretty much what you’d expect it to explain.

I wanted to have the place all cleaned up in time for the party, but I’m in the process of moving. I’ve been threatening since the fall to transfer my blog over to Word Press. But, as I often say about all things technical, “Things did not go as planned.”

Then again if I were to invite you over to my house, I may or may not have all the laundry neatly folded and put away. I’ve reached a point in my life where I’ve quit trying to hide all the mess, and this is a place where I invite folks to enter into it. I’m convinced that one of the chief purposes of my life is to tell my stories as a cautionary tale for others.

And through my stories, I hope to bear witness to God’s faithfulness in meeting me in my mess.

I’ve written this post about what I believe.  On my blog I sometimes make jokes about being a Presbyterian, because that’s what I am. Sometimes I wonder if there aren’t folks in my church who secretly wish I’d just run off and join the Methodists. But they’re stuck with me. It’s probably predestined.

I’m a freelance writer; and because that’s what it says on my business card, it must be true. I homeschooled my kids for many years and, as they began leaving home, I started looking for writing projects to give me something to do. One of my first was a series of interviews with an elderly friend who was losing her memory to dementia. We gave bound copies of her story to her friends and family members the Christmas before she died.

Another early project was interviewing some folks who are part of the Coalition for Christian Outreach, (CCO). The CCO is a Pittsburgh-based college ministry which, in my completely unbiased opinion, is about the most happening one on the planet.

I love telling stories, my own and those of others who cross my path. My brother, who reads my blog, said he imagines most people think I make up the stories I tell here. He can confirm, however, that they are (mostly) true.

Although I homeschooled for many years, I don’t often write about my experience. I think I need some distance to gain some perspective on those years. I didn’t always love it, and writing about it now might just come across as mean. I hope that when I do tell those stories; the good, the bad, and the ugly, I can tell them with honesty and grace.

Both of my children are adopted, and I gladly tell the stories of God’s goodness in bringing to me the exact ones he knew I needed. I sponsor, through the good work of Compassion International,  a child from the Philippines out of gratitude for my son who was born there.

I love the beach, I love Christmas, and I love my friend Ethel. I’m a huge fan of hijinks, shenanigans, feather boas, and guacamole. I prefer pie to cake. I’m originally from the Pittsburgh area and, yes, I do bleed black and gold for my Steelers. And the mere existence of the Baltimore Ravens makes me sad.

Me with Michelle DeRusha, Deidra Riggs, and Mary Bonner

I often refer to the people I’ve met in blog world as my imaginary friends. It’s been my privilege to meet several of them in real life, and they have demonstrated themselves to be as genuine as folks can be. Some of the communities where I like to hang out on the internet include:  The Wellspring, Graceful, Finding Heaven, Imperfect Prose, Jumping Tandem, and Faith Barista.

Me with Jodi from Curious Acorn

I’m also honored to have been featured at The High Calling, a community of some of the most thoughtful people on the internet discussing the connection between faith and work.

Yes, I am available to guest post. Please ask.

I strongly believe that one of the privileges of being a follower of Christ is getting to speak words of blessing over one another, so may God’s grace and peace be upon you. Thanks for stopping by.

If you’ve enjoyed your visit here, won’t you consider subscribing by email, liking my Facebook page, or following me on Twitter (@nancyfranson) or Pinterest?

UBP2011 Post

Spiritual Direction: Sacred Listening -- A Guest Post by Jean Wise

Several years ago I became friends with a woman who told me she was trained as a spiritual director. I came to faith at a young age and had grown up within the church but, until I met this woman, I had never heard of any such a thing. As I got to know her, I learned more about her work. Her friendship has been a profound gift.

Then I met Jean Wise, another spiritual director who blogs at Healthy Spirituality. I am always fascinated to learn how people got to be who they are. (in other words, I'm terribly nosy) I asked Jean if she would be willing to tell me her story about how the practice of spiritual direction became a part of her story. After reading Jean's words, please be sure to click over to her place to say hi. Hers is a place of calm, quiet, and peace.

Ten years ago, transition and turmoil filled my life. In 2002, two of my three children were graduating and moving out of state, close friends died and others experienced serious illnesses, friends at work betrayed my trust, and my husband’s workload became heavier. I felt restless, lost and tossed in never ending storms.

When Nancy asked me to write this guest post about what led me on my road to become a spiritual director, I knew it began in that turbulent year. I reached for my journals to try to find the moment that set me down that path. I expected to find that one pivotal point in time where God showed his spotlight on this calling.

When I reviewed my journals, what surprised me was that during that dark year, not one clear moment emerged. Scattered throughout the year were many small lamps softly lighting my way.

I was also amazed to rediscover what I thought took place over a 4-6 month time of exploration and discernment actually lasted closer to 18 months. Funny how memory works, isn’t it? Reflecting on past journal entries always bears good fruit.

In 2002 I clung to God to find the solid ground I so desperately needed. But it was dark and I sure had trouble finding Him. I needed to talk to someone, a human someone, about what I was experiencing and really not experiencing spiritually. I needed another person to listen while I sorted my losses and help me give voice to my roller-coaster emotions and muddy thoughts. I felt lost and wanted a companion to walk along with me for a while and help me find my way back to God.

I asked others about spiritual direction. Though it wasn’t highly practiced in my faith tradition, I heard of several directors in my area. Spiritual direction has been part of the Christian tradition for centuries and its acceptance is growing in many denominations. I read more about this ministry and felt God inviting me to explore this spiritual practice.

Why would someone want spiritual direction? To explore their yearning for God -- to understand meaning in their life; to gain a sense of discernment; to understand where they are going and how to live their life more fully. Meeting with a spiritual director is helpful when you want a deeper relationship with God.

Spiritual direction is a vital tool for a healthy spirituality.

Spiritual direction helps people tell their own sacred story and to find the Sacred within their story.

Spiritual direction is not counseling or therapy. Rather, as a reflective, contemplative process, the focus in spiritual direction is always on one's relationship with God. Working closely with a spiritual director, who is trained in the art of sacred listening, one begins to uncover and discover the multiple and often unseen ways God appears in our lives.

A spiritual director listens and gives feedback about what he or she is hearing and sensing about the movement of the Holy Spirit in your life. This feedback is for your consideration only; the spiritual director is not a guru who tells you what to do.

If you decide to meet with a spiritual director ask how and where they were trained. I fulfilled the requirements of a three-year spiritual director practicum at the Dominican Center at Marywood in Grand Rapids, Michigan, and currently help to lead a spiritual direction group here in northwest Ohio.

Spiritual directors do not have the answers and don’t pretend to. In fact, the name "director" is somewhat misleading, as it is not about “directing,” but more supporting people in their discernment and offering a deep listening presence.

A spiritual director is that companion I sought in 2002 and continue to walk with today.

A spiritual director listens both to your story and in prayer, to God, providing light for your journey and promoting health for your spirit.

A great Internet resource for more information is Spiritual Directors International.Their site has resources and a great set of videos to watch about spiritual direction.

Remember the story of the two disciples walking on the Emmaus Road and Jesus joins them? To me that best explains spiritual direction – walking with a trusted companion and Jesus – together on a journey.

Two of them that same day were making their way to a village named Emmaus…discussing as they went all that had happened…Jesus approached and began to walk along with them. – Luke 24:13

Barefoot: Guest Post by Lyla Lindquist

Have you met my friend Lyla? You should. She makes me laugh. And she makes me think. I believe she understands my world in ways many others can't; the world inhabited by tall women married to Scandinavians.

One of the things I admire most about Lyla is her understanding of the Word of God, one which is deep and is rich. She retells familiar Bible stories in ways that make me slow down, think, and see things I'd never seen before. In the words of another tall Midwesterner who knows a thing or two about Scandinavians, she "puts the hay down where the goats can get it." (Garrison Keillor)

Lyla blogs at A Different Story. Do stop by, kick your shoes off, and make yourself at home there. You'll be glad you did. 

Photo by Lyla Lindquist

Socks hold great priority in my world. None of this panty hose business. Nor barefootedness. Socks, even with flip-flops. Nearly all cotton, just enough other material to help them keep a snug, secure shape. I remove them for bed, usually, and the shower, always.

This morning, I left them off briefly and slipped my tender toes into the fleece-lined slippers my son gave me for Christmas. By the time everyone was out the door and I took the stairs down to my office, my feet had grown hot. Sweaty, even.

So I stepped out of the slippers before I hit the floor at the bedside for some alone time with the Father.

The morning chill hit my damp feet, and it felt refreshing. But I had misgivings. Approaching the throne with bare feet trailing behind left me feeling exposed, and not just a little irreverent.

Is it okay, You know, to meet You with my socks and shoes off? I had to ask.

I'll admit that a part of me wished he would say no, and motion me to the dresser to retrieve them.

He did not.

So I tucked sweaty, naked feet under me and reached for my Bible. Somehow, I knew I would not be reading forward from where I'd left off, but would be flipping back a few books. I needed to see about a fellow who approached without his sandals.

::

Moses had not set off to find God that morning in the desert. He worked for his father-in-law, looking after sheep. He'd just reached the west side with his flock, down around the foot of Horeb, where it's fair to say he was minding his own business. Out of the clear blue, a bit of shrubbery burst into flame.

Curiosity drew him closer, for there was fire, but no smoke. A bush was in flames and yet it did not burn.

He stepped toward glow, and tipped back on his heels when the voice of God called to him from within the fire, telling him to slip off his sandals.

The ground where he stood -- it was holy ground.

There were reasons, cultural reasons, why removing shoes in the face of holiness was important. It marked a practice of reverence in nearly all Eastern religions, rooted at least in part in not tracking in filth on the soles of dusty footwear.

But whatever the reason, with the sandals gone, Moses stood skin to skin with God: dirty, calloused feet kissing holy ground. Nothing between, not even a strip of leather sole. Nothing to cover his hairy man-toes.

I found myself wriggling my own feet around a little, noticing myself all the more vulnerable there in His bright morning light. And I considered how He bids us enter His presence uncovered, unhidden.

How His invitation into blazing holiness is one of unprotected exposure. 

And is that how I will practice reverent worship today? Check with me a little later. For now, I'm lacing up my rubber-soled work boots.

Desperate and Deceitful

Most people who commit to memorizing Scripture begin, I imagine, with passages which are familiar to many both inside and out of the church. John 3:16 is a likely starting point. The reference shows up on signs in the end zones of professional football games and on the eye black of Denver Broncos quarterback Tim Tebow. For God so loved the world, John 3:16 reads, He gave His only begotten son . . . The verse is a succinct explanation of the gospel message, one well worth committing to memory.

                                        

John 11:35 is another easy entry point into the discipline of Scripture memorization. Two simple words: Jesus wept. Hiding a verse in one’s heart doesn’t get much easier than that.

Those two verses were probably among the first I memorized as a child. Another I remember vividly, and in the King James, was this:

The heart is deceitful of above all things, and desperately wicked. Who can know it? Jeremiah17:9:

I don't remember who assigned me the task of memorizing that verse from Jeremiah. It may have been the elderly neighbor who hosted an after school Bible club, or it may have been assigned as part of an AWANA club program. I do remember, as a young child, thinking it was a strange verse.

I'm honored to be spending my Valentine's Day sharing this heart story over at Healthy Spirituality, the blogging home of my friend Jean Wise. Won't you click the link above to join me over at her place?

The Hard Work of Christmas

Each year I make traditional Swedish Pepparkakor for Christmas, and each year doing so is one of my least favorite tasks. Working from a family recipe handwritten by my sister-in-law, I roll and cut out nearly a hundred thin ginger cookies; a job which keeps me on my feet for several hours. I wish I could cut the recipe in half and make fewer cookies, but it calls for only a single egg and I have yet to figure out how to cut a raw egg in half. Although I enjoy them, Pepparkakor are hardly my favorite cookie. The dough is dry, crumbly, and hard to work with. The older I get, and the more excess weight I carry on my hips, the more my joints object to the hours I spend standing at the counter rolling out crumbly dough.

So why do I do it?

I'm honored to be hanging out with my friend Michelle DeRusha @ Graceful today. Won't you click here to read the rest of the story?

Introducing The Beloved Swede

I was going to take this week off from my blog. My son is home for Christmas break, and I expect my daughter and her husband to arrive mid-week.

However, my husband sent the following to our pastor in response to his sermon last Sunday evening. The text was I John 2:7-11, Paul’s admonition to love one another:

Beloved, I am writing you no new commandment, but an old commandment that you had from the beginning. The old commandment is the word that you have heard. At the same time, it is a new commandment that I am writing to you, which is true in him and in you, because the darkness is passing away and the true light is already shining. Whoever says he is in the light and hates his brother is still in darkness. Whoever loves his brother abides in the light, and in him there is no cause for stumbling. But whoever hates his brother is in the darkness and walks in the darkness, and does not know where he is going, because the darkness has blinded his eyes.

The Swede isn’t a writer; he’s an engineer. But both my pastor and I thought he had some good things to say, things worth sharing. Besides, posting his words here gives me the opportunity to show you a picture so you can see just how good-looking he is. So, as this week’s offering for Michelle’s Hear It, Use It Community, meet the Beloved Swede:

I mentioned the movie Gran Torino last night–in the context of Frank (I think that was his name) allowing himself to be subdued in order to subdue his enemies. That ending was unexpected and powerful in many ways.

It has been a long time since I saw that movie, so some of the details are fuzzy. But, I mean to watch it again.

Real sin is ugly and disturbing. Gran Torino deals with real sin. It also illustrates real sacrifice and redemption—which is why the movie is so powerful. I think it also does a decent job of illustrating real-life hate and love, and the often-times difficult path between them.

Frank probably really hates his Hmong neighbors—at least because they remind him of his real war enemies. Frank is a lost soul. A life already ended. Setting aside what initially motivates Frank, (a beer I think) he ends up taking small steps of being near these people he thinks he hates—but, really does not even know. The edges start to come off as Frank simply spends time and learns about the struggles of these people. Simple knowledge turns to investment. Investment leads to caring. It is an imperfect process. In the end, Frank gains back his life and sacrifices it so that former strangers might simply have the chance to live their lives in relative peace.

Frank is a complex character, sometimes ugly—so are we as sinful people. I think the process illustrated in that movie, however, while extreme in its circumstances, is not far at all from the way it works for all of us. We can’t simply command ourselves to love others. We need to stand alongside, invest, give; sacrifice. It is in these actions that we learn how to love. Christ did these things and we need to practice them. In doing these little things, we are loving—even if the real caring does not come until later. I think we have a tendency to think that loving always starts with a warm fuzzy feeling – or that it should. So, we wait around for the warmfuzzyfeeling before we make our move. I think more often it starts with an uncomfortable feeling and awkward steps.

The darkness is passing away. The true light is already shining. May God give each of us grace to love one another well as we gather to celebrate the One who surrendered Himself.

Linking with Michelle @ Graceful:

And with Jen and the sisterhood:

Also look for me at Michelle's place again on Wednesday, where she has graciously invited me to guest post.

Family Reunions

During each summer of my childhood, relatives gathered for extended family reunions. On a given Sunday afternoon, in the blazing heat of July, my grandfather’s people assembled in a park in rural western Pennsylvania. The following week, my grandmother’s folks would gather, each bearing a Styrofoam cooler or picnic basket carrying a casserole or dessert.

For many years I had a hard time remembering which relatives belonged on which side of the family, or how any of them were related to one another or to me. For many years I probably didn’t care. All I knew was that for two Sunday afternoons in a row, I would get to load up my plate with all sorts of good food, there would usually be watermelon, and I would have an entire afternoon to play with my cousins.

Enjoying the hospitality of the fabulous Deidra Riggs over at her place at Jumping Tandem. Won't you join me there for the rest of the story?

How I Stopped Being a Food Snob and Learned to Embrace The Message

“Why would you settle for hamburger when you could have steak?”

I had asked a good friend his opinion of Eugene Peterson's The Message, and received the above response. My time in Scripture seemed to have grown dry and stale. Others had recommended trying a new paraphrase or translation to keep God's word fresh. I had grown up in a church, however, which considered any other version than the King James to be a per-version, so I was wary of trying something which seemed so conversational, casual, and hip.

Jen Ferguson @ Finding Heaven has invited others to write about how they find nourishment for their souls. To continue reading, click here to head over to Jen's place.

Sometimes You Just Feel Like An Ostrich

Admit it. You clicked on the title expecting to find some kind of emo rant from me about wanting to bury my head in the sand.

Wrong! Ostriches don't bury their heads in the sand. And, yeah, I googled it.

Today I'm honored to be guest posting over at  Ostriches Look Funny because I bugged JoAnn until I wore out her last good nerve JoAnn is kind, gracious, and inviting like that.

Many of you who stop by here already know JoAnn and know her to be both hysterical and wise. She's a wife and momma to three adorable boys, the youngest of whom I'm fairly certain would have been named Nancy. If he'd been a girl.

So stick an ostrich plume in your hair, throw on a feather boa, and click here to head on over to JoAnn's place. Browse around and look at pictures of her boys, then say nice things to her. Today we're talking about God's goodness.

(Then feel free to come back here and say nice things to me. Cause I'm kinda needy like that)

To Plant Seeds. A Guest Post

The first time I read these words written by Amy at To Love, I knew a seed had been planted in my heart.  The beauty of Amy's words and of her life story capture my attention and bear witness that everything I say I believe is true--God really is in the business of transforming lives.

I return to this piece often, and Amy has graciously agreed to allow me to share it in this space.  Dear friends, meet Amy--a beautiful triumph of God's grace.

to plant seeds

I haven't a thing to say to her, and I try not to look at her, but my eyes keep gazing in her direction.
She is girl who is hurting in so many ways,
and I am woman who was girl hurting,
and I have overcome through Him who gives me strength,
and she can be too,
but my mouth won't open
and my feet won't move,
plastered into the sidewalk
like the horrible statue of Puck in the downtown center,
all I can do is stare...

I see me in her,
that long ago, attention hungry, willing to do anything to get people to notice me girl,
and it tears me up inside something fierce,
when I see myself,
and know what is happening,
and I know the Answer,
but I don't think I can give it,
because I know I wouldn't have taken it.

And it all comes back...
the shaking hands,
the empty stomach,
the tears and the ache and everything I wrote and
everything I did.

And I remember the Peace 
which surpasses all understanding,
how it stilled my hands,
filled my stomach
and caused that ache to cease...

And I long to give it to
girl dressed in black who
wears sorrow on her face the way most girls her age wear makeup,
but I see those who tried to give it to me,
who only pushed me further away...

and I recall the one,
the woman with children,
all smiling and laughing those beautiful smiles and sweet laughs,
and I remember thinking she would glare at me with eyes
that said,
why must you sit there, why do my children have to see you, why can't you just go away
and she would walk as far away from sad, life-hating girl as possible,
the way most mothers with their little ones did.

But then, she didn't.
Holding love together while she held her children's hands,
walking right in front of me,
so close I could touch them with my scarred hands,
she smiled at me,
real, caring, love-sending smile,
and staring in my eyes spoke words which woke my dying soul,
"Beautiful day, isn't it?"

And though she didn't give me life that day,
she was planting seeds which would be watered one day by someone else,
and would begin to sprout into this beautiful mess of a tangled but still growing garden
that I am...

I walk right by her,
silent girl crying out louder than all the noise this downtown makes,
holding hands with two of my little gifts,
and I find her eyes, dark and full of pain,
and I smile at her,
hoping to transfer love with this smile,
and I say to her,
"Beautiful day, isn't it?"

Walking away,
whispering prayers for her,
let these seeds be watered and grow...