Stephanie Rische

Blogger and Writer: Capturing Stories of God's Grace

Archives for May 2014

Friday Favorites

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Here are a few of my favorite things lately. Enjoy!

For anyone who literally wants to devour books . . .
I was amazed by these lush photos of “the most memorable meals in literature.” Fictitious Dishes

For anyone who spends an inordinate time choosing the right font . . .
If you make a scientific discovery and announce it in Comic Sans, will people take you seriously? How Typeface Influences the Way We Read and Think

For anyone struggling to find balance in their relationships . . .
Shauna Niequist says, “Cooking and cleaning never built a marriage. But listening and memory-making and looking each other in the eye will.” On Laundry and Love Stories

For anyone who wishes they could take their favorite book with them wherever they go . . .
I love books a lot, but I’m not sure I’m committed enough for permanent inking. 20 Book Tattoos

 

 

Looking for Your Next Summer Read?

Yesterday was Memorial Day, which means that summer is officially here! And besides the cue that it’s officially time to switch over your wardrobe and plant your flowers, it also means it’s time to find your next summer read!

Before I give you my list, I should qualify what I mean by summer read. These aren’t “beach reads”—fluffy, forgettable books to pass a lazy day in the sun. They’re books that will take you into other worlds (and generally happy ones, since it’s summer and all).

So here you go—my list of books to read this summer:Guernsey Literary

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Anne Shaffer and Annie Barrows: An utterly charming World War II novel told all through letters.

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime by Mark Haddon: A quirky and endearing coming-of-age story told from the perspective of a boy with Asperger’s.

Bel CantoBel Canto by Ann Patchett: A lush story that will mesmerize you and make you never want to leave.

The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie by Alan Bradley: A Nancy Drew book for grown-ups.Forgotten Garden

The Forgotten Garden by Kate Morton: A captivating story of generations and self-discovery, with a splash of mystery.

Now that I look at this list again, I’m noticing a striking pie theme. Maybe my subconscious is looking for something sweet this summer!

What makes a good summer read for you? What’s on your to-read list?

 

 

Unveiled

It’s there in every look, every conversation, every relationship—that gauzy veil that separates us from each other. We talk about safe things—the rain, how busy we are, how we can’t wait for Friday. But the moment things start to edge toward vulnerable, we blush over the nakedness of our souls and gather the veil a little tighter around us.

This isn’t a new thing. It’s been the human way for a long time—all the way back to Adam and Eve. They tripped, they fell, they shattered their perfection communion with God. And immediately they looked for a covering, something to hide behind (Genesis 3:8). But our God—he delights in uncovering. They tried to hide from him, but he pursued them, found them, loved them.

Then there was Moses. He kept his face veiled before the people because they couldn’t handle the radiance that reflected from his face. But God didn’t want a veil to separate Moses from him. He alone met with Moses face to face, with nothing between them (Exodus 33:11).

And then there was the greatest unveiling of all, on a Friday some two thousand years ago. As Jesus hung on the cross, he felt the weight of our separation from God. He saw how we are veiled from the Father, how we long to meet with him face to face, but we’re held back by our sin, our shame, our fear. And so, as Jesus breathed his last, he tore away all that keeps us veiled from God. The Temple veil sliced open, and in that single moment, he invited us to meet with our God face to face, without fear (Matthew 27:51).

So what can pull back a veil? It is love—only love.

At that critical moment when people say their wedding vows, it is the one who loves who pulls back the veil of his beloved. Like a groom who lifts the veil from his bride’s face, Jesus comes close to us, peeling away each gauzy layer until we are intimate, exposed . . . until he’s so close we can feel his breath on our cheek.

And we tremble, fearing what he’ll say once our flaws are laid bare before him. But when we finally gather the courage to meet his eyes, we see only love on his face. Pure, unstoppable, unquenchable love. It has been there all along. We just couldn’t see it until the lifting of the veil.

So what is holding you back today?

It’s scary. I know. But I urge you to begin this journey toward vulnerable love. Come close enough to let him pull back the veil. Love is waiting on the other side.

To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.
—C. S. Lewis

A Reservoir of Joy

 

Addie joy

We call my niece the Pterodactyl. Don’t worry—we’ll stop when she gets old enough to find such a moniker unflattering (not to mention difficult to spell). But she’s only six months now, so I think we can get away with it for a while longer. (In case you’re wondering what a pterodactyl sounds like, click here.)

When I first heard Addie’s pterodactyl shriek, I couldn’t see her face, and I assumed she was “hangry” (hungry, angry, or some combination of the two). But then she turned her head, and I saw that she was scrunching up her nose and smiling the biggest one-toothed grin you’ve ever seen.

Whenever something delights her—the wagging tail of a dog or a spoonful of sweet potatoes or the entrance of one of her people into the room—she kicks her legs, flails her arms, and lets out a string of squawks. As her grandpa put it, she laughs with her whole body.

As you might imagine, this made for hours of entertainment when Addie was recently in town for a visit. With a six to one adult-to-baby ratio, you’d think we would have gotten a lot accomplished. But in reality, it just meant there were six grown adults hovering ceaselessly around our little bird, attempting whatever antics we could think of to evoke a squeal.

I had fleeting thoughts that we might be irrevocably spoiling her, but then I talked to a wise friend who said, “I think it’s great. She’s building up a reservoir of joy that will serve her well the rest of her life.” A reservoir of joy. Now that’s something I can work with.

My prayer buddy Marilyn tells a story about a little boy who loved watching the lightning whenever it stormed. Every time a flash lit up the night, he’d say, “Yay, God!”

After watching this happen several times, his mom finally asked him, “Why do you say, ‘Yay, God’ whenever there’s lightning?”

The boy grinned. “Mom, don’t you know that God is taking my picture?”

When do we lose that, I wonder—that sense of delighting in God and knowing we delight him? More often than not I come to him sheepishly, shamefacedly, my record of sins and shortcomings fresh in my mind. The thought that he’d hover around me, delighting in my smile, trying any antic to make me laugh, rarely crosses my mind. If the thought of God enters my mind when lightning flashes, I’m more likely to assume judgment than doting.

But take a look at this image Scripture paints of God’s character:

He will take delight in you with gladness.
With his love, he will calm all your fears.
He will rejoice over you with joyful songs.
—Zephaniah 3:17

Whether or not you ever had a gaggle of grown-ups surrounding you, may you know today that your Father delights in you. He rejoices over you. He sings over you, grinning over your every squawk and squeal. And may the knowledge of how treasured you are become a reservoir for you . . . a deep reservoir of joy.

Carbonated Holiness

DesmondTutu

Last week I had the privilege of hearing Desmond Tutu speak. Having long admired him for his opposition to apartheid, his commitment to reconciliation, and his compassion for the oppressed, I was eager to hear what he had to say.

As he walked up to the podium, escorted by one of his daughters, he looked just every bit as dignified as I’d imagined the Archbishop of Cape Town would be. Dressed in a clerical robe, with professorial glasses perched on the tip of his nose, he exuded confidence and peace.

Just as I’d hoped, his words were full of wisdom, drawn from several decades of turmoil and hard-won victories in South Africa. But there was one thing I wasn’t prepared for. His laugh.

Oh, that laugh! (You can listen to it here.) The first time I heard it, I glanced around the stage to see if someone else had joined him up front. It was a high-pitched sound, full of utter glee—more of a giggle, really. Surely it couldn’t be coming from a man of such distinction—someone who had witnessed so much suffering during his lifetime. But as his talk went on, there was no denying it: that laugh was coming straight out of the mouth of Archbishop Tutu. And it was contagious: every time he let out his trademark giggle, the rest of us couldn’t help but laugh too.

As I sat there trying to commit the sound to memory, I was reminded of the quote by Anne Lamott: “Laughter is carbonated holiness.”

As a human race, we tend to take things pretty seriously. We take our jobs seriously. We take our relationships seriously. We take our faith seriously. We take the problems of the world seriously. We take ourselves seriously. And this is good . . . to a point.

But God never meant for us to trudge through life so soberly. As the book of Proverbs puts it, laughter is good medicine. Perhaps the best thing about the prescription of laughter is that it chips away at our pride; it reminds us that we are merely human.

Archbishop Tutu recounted a story of a woman who had approached him on the street while he was traveling. “Oh, I’m so happy to meet you!” she exclaimed, shaking his hand. “You’re Archbishop Mandela!”

He could have been indignant about her error. He could have enumerated his impressive credentials. Instead, he laughed. Recalling the moment, he couldn’t contain his delight. “It was as if she got two for the price of one!” And that giggle again.

I want to be more like Archbishop Tutu—treating important things with the gravity they deserve, but remembering that we’re also wired to laugh.

So this week, what will I choose?

  • Will I be humble enough to laugh at myself?
  • Will I experience the freedom of not taking myself too seriously?
  • Will I make sure pride doesn’t steal my opportunities to giggle?
  • Will I experience the healing that comes from medicinal laughter?

This week, may laughter bubble up inside all of us until we have no choice but to let it out, like so much carbonated holiness.

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Do you think laugher can be holy? Have you ever felt the healing effects of laughter?

Whatever You Do, Don’t Cartwheel with Gum in Your Hair

Mom1When I was a kid, I didn’t so much walk down the hallway at home. Instead, I cartwheeled from one end to the other, or, if I was feeling fancy, I walked on my hands.

Mom was okay with this, under two conditions:

1) I had to look behind me before I launched into cartwheel mode. (Sorry for all the times I kicked you, Little Brother.)

2) I was not, under any circumstances, to tumble with gum in my mouth.

I cartwheeled to my heart’s content without incident for some time . . . until that fateful afternoon when I was six. I was chewing gum while turning cartwheels, and sure enough, the bright green wad fell out of my mouth and landed squarely in my bangs.

I raced to the bathroom, closing the door behind me so I could assess the damage. I tugged, I yanked, I wrestled, but to no avail. The gum would not budge.

I can’t let Mom find out! In a panic, I raced through my options until I finally hit on a stroke of genius.

Aha! I’ll cut the gum out with the nail clippers! Mom will never know.

It was a foolproof plan . . . until, that is, I opened the bathroom door. I’m sure you’ll be shocked to hear that Mom noticed immediately—whether because of the large notch of hair missing from my forehead or because of the guilt etched on my face, I’ll never know.

Mom2Mom and I had a heart-to-heart at that point about what I’d done and why the rules were there in the first place.

Then Mom gave me a hug, tussling my freshly hacked bangs. “Now what are we going to do about picture day tomorrow?”

It was only then that the magnitude of my transgression struck me. Between sobs, I managed to squeak out a dramatic pronouncement: “OH NO! I CANNOT go to school tomorrow!”

But as usual, Mom came to the rescue. Armed with authentic haircutting scissors, a curling iron, and some well-placed barrettes, she managed to make me look somewhat presentable for the school photo.

As I reflect on Mother’s Day, I’m reminded how much God’s love looks like mother-love. Like a mom, God knows precisely how we’re going to fail from the very start, despite his fair warnings. Then, after we come to him in repentance and he talks through the consequences with us, he holds us and comforts us—and even helps us fix the mess we’ve made.

And later, after our bangs have grown out and the school pictures come in, I have to believe he shares a gentle laugh with us too.

So happy Mother’s Day, Mom. Thanks for faithfully showing me what God’s love looks like.Surprised by motherhood

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In honor of Mother’s Day, do you have a story to share about how your mom or another woman in your life has shown you God’s love?

If you comment below, you’ll be eligible to win a free copy of Lisa-Jo Baker’s new book, Surprised by Motherhood.

Announcing the Book Club for May 2014!

Ann PatchettCongratulations to Kelli, the winner of last month’s book club! You can find out more about our discussion on lighthouses, moral dilemmas, and rule following here. (Kelli, I’ll send you a separate message about getting your free book.)

The book club selection for this month is This Is the Story of a Happy Marriage by Ann Patchett.

This is a collection of essays about writing and art and relationships and life. (The title is a bit misleading—it’s taken from one of the essays, but that’s not the theme of the book.) Here’s the description from the back cover:

Blending literature and memoir, Ann Patchett, author of State of Wonder, Run, and Bel Canto, examines her deepest commitments—to writing, family, friends, dogs, books, and her husband—creating a resonant portrait of a life in This is the Story of a Happy Marriage.

This Is the Story of a Happy Marriage takes us into the very real world of Ann Patchett’s life. Stretching from her childhood to the present day, from a disastrous early marriage to a later happy one, it covers a multitude of topics, including relationships with family and friends, and charts the hard work and joy of writing, and the unexpected thrill of opening a bookstore.

As she shares stories of the people, places, ideals, and art to which she has remained indelibly committed, Ann Patchett brings into focus the large experiences and small moments that have shaped her as a daughter, wife, and writer.

We will discuss this book in June, so stay tuned!

If God Is Leading, Why Am I Going in Circles?

circle signI’m over at Pick Your Portion today, writing about what happens when you feel like you’ve heard from God, but it feels like you’re just going in circles.

Have you ever felt like God was leading you so directly . . . but then the path took you on chaotic twists and turns, detours, and maybe even what seemed like a dead end? You were doing your best to listen to your spiritual GPS, but somehow you just weren’t getting straight from point A to point B.

You can read the rest of the article here.