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

Dancing Priest: A Review

Those who know me well know how much I detest exercise. The only way I am able to tolerate the daily climb onto my elliptical machine is if I can crank up some cheesy seventies music and open a good book. I am ever in search of a decent story to keep me distracted long enough to finish my workout.

I’m not interested in stories containing graphic and violent imagery that isn’t part of my everyday experience. Nor am I interested in what is typically offered in the name of Christian fiction; sweet tales of lost pets finding their way home on Christmas Eve after Grandpa finally gets saved. I just want to read a good story.

Dancing Priest by Glynn Young is a good story. And, trust me, in this story no lost pets come home on Christmas Eve.

Michael Kent, the central character in the book, is a university student in England preparing for ordination in the Anglican Church. He is also a bicyclist in training for the summer Olympics. He’s experienced loss in his life. He falls in love and likes Starbucks coffee.  In Michael Kent, Young has created a likeable character; one which seems real, the kind one might actually enjoy meeting in a Starbucks.

One of my favorite lines in the book is the question Michael asks after hearing of his assignment as a newly ordained priest. Michael asks, “By the way, archbishop, would the people at St. Anselm’s mind if I brought my bike?” Glynn Young has told a good story about an interesting, likeable and multi-dimensional man of faith.

Michael Kent’s faith is integral to his story, and I suppose some might decide to pass on a book containing strong Christian themes. I would encourage those readers to give Michael Kent a chance. Michael talks about his faith in a way which is both winsome and authentic. His character embodies what faithful Christian living might look like in the context of a young man navigating the world of career, calling, relationships, and a passion for biking. As a priest, and as a friend, he confronts the ugliness of brokenness and sin. His work dares to ask the question, “Can the gospel actually make a difference in the lives of those who bear deep wounds?”

Young, who among his other titles, serves as a contributing editor for The High Calling, an online network which encourages everyday conversations about life, work, and God. In Dancing Priest, Young offers a story which fleshes out ideas about the sacredness of all work.

I appreciated Young’s suggestion, in the words of one of his characters, that kingdom work doesn’t always take place in expected ways or places. Although Michael Kent’s desire is to serve in the African country of Malawi, it seems he might land a prestigious assignment within the church’s hierarchy. After learning the location of his first assignment, however, Michael’s archbishop offers him these words:

It will be better for you to be on the periphery than at the center because the center is rotting and collapsing. The future of the church is at the edges, and there you’ll find a willingness to abandon what’s dead, to meet the spiritual need . . .

That insight reminded me of the ministry of another, one who many expected to come and establish His kingdom by power and by force. He, instead, showed up and ministered to those in the fringes of society in backwater places like Bethlehem and Samaria.

There is only one thing I didn’t like about Dancing Priest, and it is this: After I finished the book, I realized I would have to wait until this summer to read the next in the series. How am I ever, until then, going to find the motivation to face my elliptical?

Dancing Priest is available in paperback and via download to Kindle.

Empty Nest Christmas Tree

We picked out our tree together, just the two of us, the way we had back in the beginning. Back then, the beloved Swede and I had few ornaments to hang on our tree. During a quick trip to K-Mart one Friday evening after work, we picked up two strings of lights, some ornament hangers, and a package of red satin balls. We decorated our tree to the sound of a couple of Christmas records we had purchased, one by Anne Murray and the other by Barbara Streisand. We owned only a handful of other ornaments back then: an angel tree topper the Swede’s parents had given us the year we’d gotten engaged, handmade gifts from our new friends, another newlywed couple; a straw angel we’d found in a Scandinavian gift shop during our honeymoon. We were young and in love and, in our eyes, our sparsely decorated tree was a thing of beauty.

 Over the years we began to collect ornaments, picking up souvenirs from our travels together. On a summer vacation in Vermont, we picked up a glass ball painted to look like a cow. Friends had offered us free use of their ski cabin, which was about as much as we could afford to spend on a vacation back then. A ceramic mountain goat which has been dropped, broken, and re-glued several times reminds us of our backpacking trip in Glacier National Park. Our tree holds memories of the years when it was just the two of us, years when we were waiting for children.

When our kids came along, we started building their collections. Each year, the first ornament our daughter pulled out was a baby bottle dated the year of her first Christmas. Her foster parents had given it to her, those who had cared for her while we were awaiting approval to adopt. Next she always hung the cardboard tracing of her hand, the one our pastor’s wife helped her make one Sunday evening in the church nursery. Each year she’d measure her hand against it, surprised to see how much she’d grown. Her collection reflected her changing interests through the years: cross-stitched ornaments she’d made from scraps and pieces of my embroidery supplies; a replica of Samantha, the American Girl doll she’d saved her money to buy, a girl playing a flute, mementos from her trip to Switzerland.

The year our daughter left for college we put up our tree early, during Thanksgiving break, so she could join us in decorating it. Last year I packed up all her ornaments and sent them home with her to the newlywed apartment she now shares with her husband.

I carried my son’s ornaments upstairs this year, wondering if he wanted us to save them so he could hang them when he returns from college. “Go ahead. You hang them,” he said, his interest in family tree-decorating having waned over the past few years. The Swede and I took turns pulling memories from boxes. Some brought smiles; others, tears. We found the ugly Grinch ornament, the one which probably came as a Happy Meal toy and which we used to discourage him from hanging on the tree. It now resides in a prime location, front-and-center on the tree.

I stared at the picture of him, fused to a piece of Christmas fabric; the one of him holding the gingerbread house he’d made in kindergarten. I found a spot for Schroeder and Snoopy, the ornament which plays “Linus and Lucy,” and could almost hear my boy playing it the way he used to on our piano. I pulled Chip and Dale from the box we purchased at Disney World, recalling how my son couldn’t remember which character he’d met at the park was Chip and which was Dale. I laughed at the Elvis cow ornament, the one we’d picked up in an ice cream shop during one of my husband’s many business trips to Park City, Utah. I wondered how much longer my son’s ornaments would reside in our home and tried to imagine where they, where he, will be when they leave.

We decorated our tree together this year, just the two of us, just the way we’d begun all those years ago. We didn’t say much. Christmas music played softly in the background, instrumental CDs we’d picked up in Vermont and in Santa Fe. We remembered, our tree bearing witness to so many good years, years of God's goodness and faithfulness; years which have passed by all too quickly.

Linking with Jen and the sisterhood:

 

 And shared as a Community Post at The High Calling.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year To Be Lucy and Ethel

Mama always says, "Don't wear your bedroom slippers to the shopping mall."

But Mama's wisdom doesn't necessarily apply during Christmas. Especially when you've got some brand new jingling elf slippers:

And you're on your way with Ethel to get your annual Santa picture taken:

But I'm getting ahead of myself. First we had to have lunch and exchange gifts. And nothing quite sets the tone for a Christmas gift exchange like a retro diner which serves 26-inch hotdogs:

Over the years, Ethel and I have adorned ourselves for our photos with some fairly ridiculous accessories: reindeer antlers, elf hats, feather boas. This year, after reading an ebook about practicing Advent, we decided to deck ourselves in purple. Yep, all day I was a long, cool, walking Advent pillar, and so was Ethel (although she's not nearly as long). All day we engaged in our own little secret Advent conspiracy.

Because writer Anne Lamott said, "You don't always have to chop with the sword of truth. Sometimes you can point with it, too."

So we walked around all day bearing witness to the Source of ridiculous joy. And the amazing thing we discovered was: Once you know what you're looking for, you start seeing evidence of it everywhere:

Ethel gave me the most fantastically amazing handmade gift of love:

She saw a picture in a catalog of a sweater beaded in peacock feather patterns and thought to herself, "I can do that." And so she did. God has gifted my friend with amazing creativity and mad art skills.

I gave Ethel ice cube molds in the shape of false teeth. Because I'm classy like that. And because I know that someday, when we live next door to one another in a nursing home, she's the kind who's always going to be stealing my teeth. And I look forward to growing old and ever more ridiculous with my friend.

Then she opened the elf slippers. And we were on our way:

We like to believe we add a little joy to Santa's life, making the season more merry and bright for everyone:

For it is good to be children sometimes, and never better than at Christmas, when its mighty Founder was a child himself.

Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

Happy Advent and Merry Christmas from Lucy and Ethel!

Linking our Advent playdate with Laura @ The Wellspring:

And, even though this may not have been what she had in mind, with Charity @ Wide Open Spaces who is hosting an Advent community writing project for The High Calling:

Chesterton, Lucy, Ethel, and Santa: The story of how our tradition began

Discovering Advent: E-book by Mark D. Roberts

Stewarding Memory

My tombstone is probably going to read: She still doesn’t know where her car keys are.

I’m a relatively intelligent woman. I’ve earned a degree, held several respectable jobs, and raised two children. I can recite most of the dialogue from It’s a Wonderful Life. I remember lyrics from old Partridge Family songs which, as a child, I used to belt out into a microphone I’d built from Tinker Toys. And, yet. Sometimes I forget to mark withdrawals in the checkbook. I forget to order heating oil. I can’t begin to count the number of times I’ve asked a friend to swing by my house to see if I’ve left my iron plugged in.

Memory can be a fickle thing, but like all of God’s gifts, it ought to be stewarded well.

I'm honored to be featured over at The High Calling today. Won't you click here to read the rest of the story?

Fistbump For a Faithful Dude: Review of The Unlikely Missionary, by Dan King

When I met Dan King during the course of a writer’s retreat he was dripping wet, having just been flipped out of a boat and into a river by a work colleague. He laughed, extended his hand, and introduced himself as the Bible Dude, creator of a website by that name, and author of a soon-to-be-published e-book entitled, The Unlikely Missionary.

During the course of the retreat I got to know Dan a little, this unlikely missionary. He told me about his work as a corporate training manager in the telecommunications industry and as social media editor for The High Calling network. He told me about the work he’d done in youth ministry with his church. He talked about how amazing and beautiful his wife is and showed me, on his phone, a picture of his daughter. I got to know The Bible Dude as a regular guy who does regular things in the real world. Dan King doesn’t fit any stereotypes which may come to mind when one hears the word missionary.

And it is Dan King’s regular-ness which makes his book, The Unlikely Missionary: From Pew-Warmer to Poverty Fighter, a compelling read for regular, ordinary followers of Jesus.

In a winsome, conversational style, using excerpts from his travel journals, Dan tells his story of coming to faith in Jesus, digging deeply into Bible study, and learning to care about those things which Christ cares about. In the course of raising a family, doing his job, and taking seminary classes, Dan started a blog which he used to write about and process the things he was learning. He wrote about an organization called Five Talents, a group dedicated to fighting poverty through sustainable job creation. One thing led to another, and Dan found himself working with Five Talents, and putting his corporate training skills to use in remote villages in Kenya and Uganda.

I’m not qualified for this, was his prevailing thought.

After all, I was just some punk blogger who was excited to have access to some really cool stories that would help inspire others to make a difference in the world around them. I believed that the church should be more involved with this kind of stuff, but never imagined that it would take me on a mission trip to Africa.

The story Dan tells is descriptive, not prescriptive; his intent is not to tell anyone how to become a missionary. Rather, The Unlikely Missionary unfolds the tale of how a regular guy, going about his business, attempting to pursue faithfulness at home, at work, and in the church, found himself being used by God in ways he never could have imagined.

An important element in Dan’s story, I think, is the care he took in preparing his family for the time he would be away from them in Africa. He wanted to make sure that his passion for ministering to others didn’t supplant his responsibility to care well for his family. By making sure his family had a support system in place during his absence, and in recording bedtime story videos for his son, Dan demonstrated his belief that kingdom work is not a choice between overseas missions or caring for one’s family; it is both.

Preparing for my family in this way helped them see that the mission was not more important than they were.

Each chapter ends with a praxis section, opportunities to step out and take action toward a life of world-changing mission. These are not intended as mandates toward a particular action or as an effort to produce a guilt trip in anyone. Instead, they are suggestions for opening doors and considering possibilities in the context of everyday faithful living. A consistent invitation echoes throughout the pages of Dan’s story, and the invitation is this: pursue faithfulness in every area of your life, and then watch and see what God can and will do through you. He says,

I am asking you to start a journey of discovery that will transform your life if you let it.

The Unlikely Missionary: From Pew-Warmer to Poverty-Fighter is available for download on Kindle.

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?)

Serving a Risen Savior

On Sunday mornings, when my sister and I had spent the night at my cousin’s house, we would often awake to the sound of my uncle cranking out the morning’s church bulletins on his mimeograph machine. My sister, my cousin, and I folded the pages, and I thought my uncle must have been a very important man in his church to have had his own mimeograph machine. He was.

My uncle was killed in a car accident on a Sunday afternoon just four days prior to marking his sixtieth wedding anniversary. A quiet man, this uncle had been present at the family farm most Sunday afternoons among all the aunts, uncles, and cousins. These were God-fearing people whose Bible was King James and whose theology was black-and-white. They stood on the promises and served a living Savior. At my uncle’s funeral, the sermon he had lived required the combined efforts of four pastors to preach.

We gathered at a funeral home in Fryburg, PA, a tiny, rural community on the outskirts of places like Sawtown, Fertigs, Coal Hill, and Venus. Built to hold roughly fifty mourners, the building was quickly filled to overflowing. Over two hundred crowded inside as others waited out in the January cold. These were working men and farmers, some dressed in camouflage or their coveralls and work boots the way my uncle would have known them. Some dug out suits which had rarely seen the outside of a closet. Poorly fitting suit jackets stuck out beyond the sleeves of red NASCAR coats.

These mourners knew my uncle from church and from his machine shop. One of the pastors mentioned that, if my uncle couldn’t find a part to fix something, he made one. Many of those crowded into the funeral home had spent hours in his well-ordered shop watching a master craftsman at work. He fixed broken things with his hands and welcomed broken people into his shop. Sometimes he employed some of these local folk, people who were out of work because of bad economic times or because of bad choices they’d made in life.

My uncle was a pastor’s friend. Serving often as the peacemaker and voice of reason at church meetings, my uncle made a point of visiting his pastors to encourage them in their work. He prayed for them, and they knew it. They sought solace with him in his shop. One pastor spoke of the number of times he’d been on his way into the hospital to visit an ailing church member, only to cross paths with my uncle already on his way out. Another had had the opportunity to attend graduate school because my uncle had paid his tuition.

One of the pastors said that when there was work to be done at church my uncle was there, even in advancing years, declining health, and debilitating pain. He showed up even when young, healthy, able-bodied members didn’t. When asked why he continued to work so hard, he responded, “God gives me grace to endure.” He said it in a way that didn’t sound trite. It didn’t sound like a platitude. It sounded true and made things like grace and endurance and service seem like things that really are true and really are gifts from God. He said it in a way that made me want to desire them more and want to complain less.

News of my uncle’s death reached one of his former pastors just as he was about to step into the pulpit for the Sunday evening service. Members of his congregation had never met my uncle but, after hearing testimony of his life, felt as though they had. One woman said, “I didn’t know men like that still existed.” I will never craft a machine part with my hands, but I pray for grace to serve my risen Savior as he did.

Writing in community with Jennifer @ Getting Down With Jesus and The High Calling. This post is a revised version of an earlier piece I had written and then removed because it contained details which weren't my story to tell. I'm grateful for this opportunity to retell my memories of the life of a godly man.

Witness

When I hear the word witness, several images come to mind. I think of actress Kelly McGillis sitting on a bench at the 40^th Street train station in Philadelphia, dressed in Amish garb which was useless in concealing the beauty of her striking eyebrows. I think, too, of the time I sat in the backseat of my dad’s blue Chevy Impala after he and my mother had gone inside an unfamiliar house on one of our church’s weekly visitation nights. I wasn’t sure who they were visiting or why. The folks inside may have needed to hear about Jesus, or they may have already known about Jesus but backslid. I just knew my parents had responded to a call to go out witnessing.

When I was a freshman in college I, too, was sent out as a witness. I had joined a campus fellowship and, on one night for no reason that was apparent to me, the leadership decided to pair up the men and women in the group and send them out to share on campus. Armed with gospel pamphlets I, with my partner who I’d never before met, set out to do our modern-day Paul and Silas thing. We descended on some poor student in the engineering building who, on a Friday night, was doing what he had paid considerable tuition dollars to do. My partner began his sales pitch for Jesus, but the student politely interrupted to tell him, “No thanks.” He already had one.

True story: Years later, after I started going to a different fellowship group--the one the good-looking guys on campus attended--I met and married that dedicated engineering student.

Witness. According to Merriam-Webster, the word witness can mean a number of things. It may act as either a noun or a verb. As a noun, it might mean one who has personal knowledge of something. As a verb it can mean to testify to, to furnish proof of, to have personal or direct cognizance of or, to bear witness.

During TheHigh Calling writing retreat I attended at Laity Lodge last weekend, I heard and thought quite a bit about the idea of bearing witness. Author and speaker David Dark encouraged us to write and tell the truth about the things we see, “to expand the space of the talk-aboutable.” As we engage in the call and response, he said, of telling and receiving one another’s stories, we bear and receive witness about truth. Artists and writers who are followers of Jesus  bear witness through image and song and story to That which was from the beginning, which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, which we have looked at and our hands have touched. (I John 1:1, NIV)

Over the course of the weekend, I sensed an expansion in my ideas about the meaning of the word witness. My thinking was drawn away from memories of paperback pamphlets and sales pitches toward the awareness that I am at all times and in all places bearing witness to something. As a writer, I have the opportunity to bear witness through my words to my redeemer, the One toward whom all stories flow. And I don’t have to do it, in fact it might be better if I didn’t try to do it, through crafting sexy sales pitches.

At times I have, as I assume most writers do, wrestled with doubt and insecurity about whether or not I should be writing; whether or not I am any good at it. It is important, Dark said, to receive the witness of others, to believe and accept their little affirmations. If they tell you your words have helped or healed, or pointed them toward all that is good and true, believe them. Tell your stories. Receive those of others. The world needs them.

I make no promises about this kind of witness helping you find a handsome husband like I did, but you never know. But maybe telling your stories might help you, or someone who reads them, fall more deeply in love with Jesus.

David Dark is the author of The Sacredness of Questioning Everything. He blogs at Peer Pressure is Forever.

Joining Jen and the sisterhood:

How Art Hurts. And Heals.

Down the hill from the lodge at the retreat center sat an art studio, staffed for the weekend by the artist-in-residence. We were invited, during free time, to come and play in the studio, to learn techniques and dabble with papers and brushes and paint. The artist talked of creating a project for others who had been on retreat; businessmen for whom the world of art supplies and creation was a foreign land. She had invited them, as those who hadn’t seen themselves as artists, to venture into the world of creativity. She called us to come and play as they had.

“I’m a Type-A person,” I told the artist. “I like lists, and schedules, and structure.” I told her of trying to do art with my friend Ethel, she who created beauty with child-like abandon and joy while I carefully counted sequins and beads and double-checked instructions. The artist dared me to be brave, to come down to the studio and play.

I wandered down the hill, found a place at the table, and sat myself on a tall stool. The artist demonstrated dry brush, wet-on-wet, and crayon resist painting. She suggested that we, as writers, add words to our work, inviting us to write using our non-dominant hands. On the wall were posted samples to inspire creativity and the words, “Give yourself permission to play.” Surrounded by every kind of art supply I could imagine, I was free to play and explore, to wander way outside the boundaries of my comfort zone and create.

And I felt like I was in prison.

I watched as others circulated through the room, considering and collecting scraps of paper and supplies, arranging and re-arranging their designs. They tried things, saw possibility, made changes; adapted. Soft music played as laughter filled the studio. I looked at the others and then looked at the paints and papers before me. I tried something. I tried something else. I couldn’t make sense of what was in front of me. I l watched the others at play and tried to imitate. Nothing looked right. I saw no beauty. I had no way to judge my efforts, to tell if anything I was doing was any good.

My heart began pounding; my breathing shallowed. Feeling hot and dizzy and trapped, I began to imagine myself toppling over from my tall stool and doing a face-plant in a puddle of Gesso.  I walked away from the studio leaving my art project behind.

I walked away from this foreign land, this place where I couldn’t make sense of the language and the rhythms and the customs. In that studio, I tasted the life of an artist, a musician, a dreamer; one who had grown up trying to make sense of a world governed by lists, and schedules, and structures.

And it made me want to say, “I’m so sorry.”

Joining Laura @ The Wellspring:

And L.L. Barkat @ Seedlings in Stone:

 

Good Medicine

We excused ourselves from our father’s hospital room; my siblings and I did, and slipped out quietly. It was a Saturday, near lunchtime, and we were headed to the Pizza Hut across the street. Our father, the man who had labored all his life to keep food on our table would, we knew, receive nourishment for the remainder of his days from a plastic bag dripping into a tube. We kissed our father, promised we wouldn’t be long, and walked toward the hospital elevator.

When the elevator reached the first floor, its doors opened to a deserted lobby in a major Pittsburgh medical center. Both the lobby and the city street beyond the glass doors seemed uncharacteristically quiet, lacking people and activity. The security guard desk sat unattended, and the silence which filled the lobby was downright creepy. When I said I needed to stop and use the restroom before leaving the building, my sister said, “Make sure you sing so we know you’re alright in there.”

As my siblings waited in the abandoned lobby I began, in my best Ethel Merman voice, to belt out,

I like New York in June, how about you?

I like a Gershwin tune, how about you?

I walked out of the ladies’ room and was met by the formerly absent security guard. He looked at me and, in all seriousness, asked, “Do you need any help?”

I believe my sister may have suggested to him I’d just been let out of the psych ward on a weekend pass.

Once the laughter started, it was impossible to contain. We crossed the street, got ourselves seated, and placed our orders; but I have no idea how we managed to eat. The laughter was the kind that built on itself, the kind that escalated in response to things not remotely funny on most days of the week. It was the kind of laughter that made our eyes water and caused us to choke on our food and spew it out of our mouths. Our laughter was messy, loud, and simply would not bed down and keep quiet.

I sincerely hope we tipped our poor waitress well that day.

It seemed wrong, indulging in laughter so outrageous and deep, as our father lay dying in a hospital bed across the street. “Even in laughter, the heart may ache,” reads the proverb. (Proverbs 14:13) While seated in that pizza shop in downtown Pittsburgh, mine certainly did.

I wonder, sometimes, why God created us with the ability to laugh. He certainly didn’t have to. There was no instruction manual He was commanded to follow. When He gathered up that first fistful of dust and began forming us, there were no laws, regulations, or requirements obligating Him to include laughter as part of the package

Scripture tells us God created us in His image, and so I have to believe our ability to laugh reflects something of His character.  When I allow myself to think about the laughter of God, I start thinking that feasting with Him and the rest of the family throughout eternity might be an awful lot of outrageous fun. I imagine all of heaven filling with peals of unrestrained laughter and joy. I think sitting around the family table in heaven may, by comparison, make lunch with my siblings look no wilder than a Sunday afternoon catechism class

I think another reason God created us with the capacity for laughter, though, is this: He knew how desperately we would need it. We get glimpses, now and then, of just how painful and broken this world is. Having to bear the weight of the grief and sorrows of this world without the respite of laughter would, I imagine, undo the heartiest among us.

A joyful heart is good medicine, reads another proverb. (Proverbs 17:22)

And on a quiet Saturday afternoon in a pizza shop in Pittsburgh, it was for me.

Writing in community with Deidra @ Jumping Tandem as part of The High Calling writing project on laughter.

And linking with emily for imperfect prose: