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

Brother Jed, Sister Cindy, and Me

They reappeared on campus each year, returning faithfully as did spring robins, blooming daffodils, and budding trees. As warm weather coaxed students to linger outside classroom buildings, street preacher Jed Smock and his faithful sidekick Sister Cindy drew crowds on the walkways between Sackett and Willard on the Penn State campus. They shouted and preached, proclaimed and condemned; emboldened, it seemed, by every act of ridicule and insult tossed in their direction.

I remember discussions, among members of my campus fellowship group, about how best to respond to the spectacle of Brother Jed and Sister Cindy. We couldn’t pretend we simply hadn’t noticed them. It was hard to ignore the wild-eyed recovering disco queen wearing a floppy hat while shaking a tambourine and stomping on the devil.

Some thought this pair and their brand of street theater created an opportunity to engage students in thoughtful conversation about what the gospel really said. A few brave souls attempted to out-preach Jed and Cindy, setting themselves up across the quad in a kind of battle-of-the-street-evangelists.Several thought we should embrace these two as members of the family, distant and perhaps crazy, but family members nonetheless.

Frankly, they embarrassed the living daylights me. I just wanted Jed and Cindy to shut up and go away.

I hadn’t thought about these two for years, until I read on Sunday about David, Israel’s king, and his bold proclamation of love for God. Near the end of his life, he sang a song of praise to God, describing His mighty acts of deliverance. In the words of Psalm 40, David said:

I have told the glad news of deliverance
    in the great congregation;
behold, I have not restrained my lips,
     as you know, O Lord.
 I have not hidden your deliverance within my heart;
    I have spoken of your faithfulness and your salvation;
I have not concealed your steadfast love and your faithfulness
    from the great congregation. (Psalm 40:9, 10 ESV)

David was not embarrassed to speak up and tell others about God’s faithfulness and deliverance. He did not restrain himself from speaking up about God.

I think when I hear the word proclaim, I get a mental image of Jed and Sister Cindy on the steps of that Penn State classroom building and I think, “I don’t want any part of that.” I’ll probably never take to the streets and preach. Nor am I wild about knocking on doors to ask strangers if they want to hear about Jesus.

But here, in this space, I tell my stories of God’s faithfulness and deliverance. I aim to do so with compassion and humor. Since reading David’s words yesterday, I’ve been wondering about how bold I am in proclaiming the glad news of God’s deliverance here, where I have the opportunity to do so.

So here goes.

In general, I would say the historic words of The Apostles’ Creed summarize what I believe. But in my own words, in an attempt to proclaim boldly the story of God’s deliverance:

I believe that in the beginning there was God and that He made everything and it was good. This is a free country, and many people believe there is a different story which explains how everything that is came to be. But I believe that, ultimately, only one of two possible explanations makes sense: either something came from nothing, or Something always was.

I believe that Something always was; and He is God, and He is good.

As I walk this earth and look around, I see evidence that things are no longer good. Something went wrong. Everywhere I see echoes and whispers of God’s goodness, but I also see sickness and suffering and pain which cry out, “This is not the way things are supposed to be.”

I believe that sin entered the world through one man’s rebellion, and all the grief in this world flowed as a consequence of that original sin.

Sin separated man from a holy God and, though we try, we cannot attain His standard of perfection. Not only man, but everything in creation groans under the consequences of man’s rebellion against God. Creation itself cries out for deliverance.

But because God is rich in mercy, He sent His Son as a sacrifice as the only means of reconciling sinful man to himself. If there were any other way for God’s wrath against sin to be satisfied, then Christ’s death on the cross was both unnecessary and cruel.

By grace through faith in Christ’s death and resurrection, I have been reconciled to God; not because of anything I have done. And Christ offers this same forgiveness and the promise of eternal life to anyone who desires it.

Not only have I experienced forgiveness, but I have also known God’s provision and protection throughout many seasons of life. He walked with me through years of treatment for infertility and led me to the adoption of my children. He sustained me through the grief of my father’s death. He has taught me to extend forgiveness and receive it from others. I see ongoing evidence of God at work healing, repairing, and restoring brokenness in my life and in the world around me.

Because the gospel is about more than restoration of my personal relationship to Christ. It is about all things being reconciled to God. Christ came not only to forgive sinners, but also to establish His kingdom. He came to make all things new.

And he invites me to participate in His work.

So here I tell my stories, attempting to bear witness to God’s acts of faithfulness and His work of deliverance in my life. I’ve never had anyone disagree with me here, trying to shout me down on the internet, having taken issue with something I’ve said. Perhaps someday someone will.

I have no interest in creating a spectacle or of drawing a crowd like Brother Jed and Sister Cindy. I hope my words are not an embarrassment to the cause of Christ. But I also, like David, don’t want to restrain my lips.

I want to proclaim publicly that God is good.

Joining with Michelle @ Graceful:

With Jen and the sisterhood @ Finding Heaven:

And shared with the Write It, Girl Community:

Write What's In Front of You

Though gas prices had topped four dollars a gallon, I loaded my beach chair and sunscreen, my journal and pen, and opened wide my sunroof to drive south toward the Connecticut shoreline. Although my calendar told me it was just the first day of spring, my car’s thermometer kept inching higher into the seventies.

I thought I should be using the day responsibly, sitting at my computer and trying to write something. But I knew I would just keep looking out the window thinking, “On a day like this, I should be at the beach.” I couldn’t imagine a better way to celebrate winter’s end than by sticking my toes into the forty-seven degree water of the Long Island Sound. So I obeyed the call of the salt water in my veins, packed up my journal and a book full of prompts, and decided to indulge in a day of free writing.

My husband reminded me that temperatures would be much cooler along the shoreline and suggested I stay closer to home. As I watched my dashboard’s temperature display drop slowly, degree by degree, I realized he probably was right. Maybe I was being foolish heading to the beach so early in the season.

When I’d left the house, I hadn’t yet decided on which beach I was going to camp out. I figured, since I wouldn’t actually be going in the water, I could skip the swimming beaches and head for the one with picnic areas, formal gardens, and the sweeping lawn which sloped toward the water. If the day turned out to be too cold to sit near the water, I reasoned I could still curl up somewhere in the corner of a garden and breathe in some salt air.

I parked my car among few others and found only a handful of people sitting at picnic tables in the park. Most wore jackets and long pants against the chill of sea breeze in early spring. My husband had been right. I’d wasted gas and my morning making this drive. Still, because I was there, I needed to walk down to the boardwalk and onto the sand to feel it rub between my toes.

There was no wind, and the sand felt warmer than I’d expected. The sun, shielded by fog and mist, seemed determined to burn its way through and offer me some blue sky. I opened up my pink beach chair, sat down in the sand, and picked up my pen.

Write what’s in front of your face, said my book of writing prompts.

While in my neighborhood spring was erupting in a symphony of color, at the beach beige sand yielded only to gray. Gray fog enveloped gray water and gray sky. Water vapor rose out of warm sand, coaxed by sun still shielded by mist. Rocks cloaked in seaweed and silhouettes of waterfowl skimming the surface offered the only hints of boundary between earth and heaven. Rows of seashells washed ashore during winter months waited in abundance to be picked through and pocketed by summer visitors.

Quiet waves of water lapped against rock and sand. Low, somber notes of a foghorn warned in the distance. On a day like this, the necessity of foghorns along the rocky New England coastline became obvious.

Few others walked the lonely beach. In the distance, near a rocky outcropping, a trio of dogs on leash strained toward the water. Every so often one was set free to do what dogs were put on this earth to do, retrieve something tossed into the surf.

As I looked into the gray searching for things to write about, I noticed a man walking by himself along the water’s edge. He seemed lost in thought. As I watched him, I started thinking he looked an awful lot like my brother.

My brother and I live about ten miles away from one another. We attend the same church. Each Sunday, during coffee hour, we ask each other, “What’s new?” We exchange greetings. We compare notes on our most recent conversations with our mother.

What were the odds, I thought, that my brother and I would both end up on the same beach on the same early spring day, miles away from where either of us lived?

I watched the man walk further from me and tentatively, assuming I was mistaken, called out my brother’s name.

“I was just thinking I should have called you,” he said.

We sat together on the beach, each of us confident the sun was going to burn through the fog. We talked about beaches we’d visited together as children. We talked about family and faith and work and church and God. We swapped stories about raising teenage boys. We drank in salt air.

And we talked about the providence of God which, as it turns out, is sometimes right in front of our faces.

Joining Jennifer:

And KD Sullivan and the Painting Prose community:

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.

A Playdate in Which I Don't Ski

Snow falls quietly outside my window at the ski resort where I sit with laptop, books, water bottle, paper, and pen. I’m not a skier so it makes no sense for me to take up space in a ski resort, except I need a place to stay while the beloved Swede has gone off to play.

He’s spending the day at a men’s only sporting clays shoot. The event is a fundraiser in support of campus ministry, but nobody’s fooling anybody. It’s an excuse for guys to spend the day outside with other guys, away from the office and blowing stuff up. It is playtime, and a chance for my man to spend time with the man who stood next to him on the day we said, “I do” to one another.

I’m playing, too, in my own way. Jim Brickman plays quietly in the background, through the magic of the internet and Pandora. I’ve got time to sleep and pray; to read and write. I just scribbled pages and pages of nonsense about coffee and Jell-O. Maybe I’ll turn my scribblings into something someday. Maybe I won’t. But I had fun remembering.

I’ve packed St. Andre cheese and some crackers.  I’ll nibble on those later while waiting for my daughter to come join me for dinner this evening. Tonight will be our first night alone together since the day she walked down the aisle and said, “I do.”

Today is a quiet playdate, the restful kind. I am reminded of days when, as I child, I stayed home from school because of a sore throat or the flu. I played quietly in my bed or on the sofa. I rested and slept and allowed myself to heal.

I sit watching the snow fall, tipping the edges of evergreens with frosty white. And I wonder why anybody would rather be out there skiing.

Linking with Laura @ The Wellspring, embracing the God-joy:

And with L.L. Barkat @ Seedlings in Stone for On, In, and Around Monday:

Five Minute Friday: Vivid

Although it kills me, not being able to go back and edit, I'm joining The Gypsy Mama once again for her Five Minute Friday writing prompt: Vivid.

Start:

The shopping mall felt sad. I picked through the racks of leftover clothing, finding only gray and black. I noticed the absence of busy shoppers, decked in festive clothing and jingle bells. I missed the songs of snowmen and reindeer, angels and hallelujah. January felt cold and gray.

It snowed last night. Today I look out y window at blue sky, clumps of white hanging heavy from evergereen branches. Chunks of venison simmer atop my stove in Madeira, onion, and bay leaf and thyme. The frangrance fills my home. I cranked the Pandora station loud on the TV downstairs. I hear, “Holy, holy, holy. The whole earth is filled with your glory.” On a day like today, when colors and smells and sounds are vivid, I hear the truth in these words.

But we see through a mirror dimly, scripture says. And I know that the brilliance and beauty of this January day will one day seem gray compared to what will be. Colors and scents and sounds will be vivid and alive when angels and stars join the song of hallelujah.

Stop.

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.

Five Minute Friday: Roar

I've never done this before, joined Lisa Jo's Five Minute Friday writing prompt community. The challenge, write for five minutes about a single word, not stopping to edit or correct. Control freak that I am, putting unedited work out there that I haven't agonized over and second-guessed really doesn't get my juices flowing.

But today's prompt spoke to me: roar. So here goes:

Start:

The devil is a roaring lion, so Scripture says, but he has no idea who he’s messing with. Especially when it comes to my kids.

Because when I see him prowling around, tempting them to sin, or doubt, or fear, this momma roars right back. I’ll knock on heaven’s door with all my might. Persistent widow? She’s got nothing on the persistent knocking of a momma who loves her children and wants the protection of the Lion of Judah. I’ll pray as I walk, sit, stand. I’ll get down on my knees. I’ll text prayer requests to my friends asking them to pray with me now.

The world is a dangerous place, and a lion Is on the prowl seeking to devour the ones I love. And there’s no way I’m going to let that happen.

God’s word says, “No weapon formed against my people will stand.” No weapon. No enemy. No animal roaring in the distance. I join my roar to the Lion of Judah and send the enemy slinking away in defeat.

Cowardly lion.

Stop.

Click the button above to read more five minute responses to the word: roar.