Stephanie Rische

Blogger and Writer: Capturing Stories of God's Grace

Archives for October 2014

Book Club Discussion: Glitter and Glue

Glitter and GlueKelly Corrigan says in the prologue, “If you had asked me, after I graduated from college, whose voice I would hear in my head for the rest of my life, I’d have said some combination of my dad’s and my roommate Tracy’s and Jackson Browne’s. I would have continued with ten or twenty or two hundred others before I got to my mom.” But in her early twenties, Kelly traveled halfway around the world only to discover that she was more like her mother than she ever dreamed.

Discussion #1: Are You the Glitter or the Glue?

When Kelly was in high school, her mother summarized the difference between her and Kelly’s father with these words: “Your father’s the glitter but I’m the glue.” In other words, her dad might have been the more charming, fun parent, but her mom was the one who held everything together.

In your home growing up, did you have one parent who was the glitter and one who was the glue? In your home now, are you the glitter or the glue?

Discussion #2: Appreciating Your Mother

Kelly didn’t think she was much like her mother and didn’t understand her very well until she became a nanny and found herself quoting her mom and acting just like her as she cared for the children. After a long day full of meeting the needs of people who were dependent on her, she said: “Maybe the reason my mother was so exhausted all the time wasn’t because she was doing so much, but because she was feeling so much.”

Was there a pivotal season or moment in your life when you starting appreciating or understanding your mom in a new way?

Discussion #3: Leaving Home

It took going all the way to Australia for Kelly to discover that she was her mother’s daughter. As she cared for the Tanner children, she realized she was becoming “less smitten with world travelers and their ripping yarns, and more awed by people who have thrown themselves into the one gig that really matters: parenthood.”

Do you think the author would have had the same epiphanies if she’d stayed home? Have you ever had to leave home to find out who you really are?

Rating

I would give this book four stars. Kelly is a born storyteller, and she has a knack for recounting ordinary events in a compelling way. She delves into the complex relationships between mothers and daughters in an authentic, emotive way. I recommend it—whether you’re a daughter or a mother, or both.

How many stars would you give this book?

{Remember: There will be a free book giveaway for one lucky commenter! Just enter a comment with your thoughts about the book below.}

The One Word I Can’t Pronounce

I don’t know how it’s taken me three decades to discover that I have a speech problem, but I do. There’s one word that refuses to squeeze out of my mouth . . . but it’s an important one.

Yes slides out so smoothly, with its smooth y and its slippery s. Okay, with its friendly syllables and happy-go-lucky ways, falls out just as easily. Sure is tip-of-the-tongue, ready to tumble out at a moment’s notice.

But no, on the other hand, regularly remains lodged somewhere in my esophagus. The word does manage to eke out on occasion . . . but only when it’s followed by problem, as in “no problem.”

Last week I met with two amazing people who have an amazing vision and invited me to be part of an amazing project.

My lips were immediately shaping into a yes. But in those fleeting seconds before I opened my mouth, a series of images flashed through my mind: all my current yeses. What would I have to sacrifice to make this new yes happen?

Here’s the thing: there are already some nonnegotiable yeses I’ve committed to. I’ve said yes to following Christ; I’ve said yes to being a wife; I’ve said yes to being a daughter, a friend, an aunt, a sister, a part of a community.

Would saying yes to this good thing mean saying no to those other best things?

And so I said no. I thought the sky would fall, the world would end, fuses would blow. But to my surprise, none of those things happened. I said no and nobody died.

We must learn the practice of saying no to that which crowds God out and yes to a way of life that makes space for God.
—M. Shawn Copeland

If God is calling you to do something, by all means, say yes. But if this yes is crowding out the best thing, then it may be time to say that word that can be so hard to get out.

Practice it with me now: NO.

***

Is there something you need to say no to today so you can say yes to the best thing?

It’s Going to Get Better

A few weeks ago, Daniel and I went out to dinner and got seated by a table of 20 or so kids celebrating homecoming. We sat there and just watched them for a while (not that we had much choice—we couldn’t have heard what the other person was saying above the teenage racket).

Now that we’re about two decades out from homecoming ourselves, we found the scene fascinating, like some kind of sociological study. The guys were all on one end of the table, jockeying to be the loudest or make the funniest joke. The girls were pulling out lip gloss at two-minute intervals, adjusting their teeny dresses and trying to get the attention of the guys, who had eyes only for their burgers.

After they left, Daniel and I looked at each other, slightly dazed, ears still ringing.

“So,” Daniel said finally. “If you could go back and say something to your 17-year-old self, what would you say?”

We laughed as we considered tips for our former selves:

To the former Stephanie: You know, those high-waisted, tight-rolled jeans are not really as flattering as you think they are.

To the former Daniel: Dude, you should really cut your hair.

But most of all, when I think about the 17-year-old me, I want to cup her face in my hands and say, It’s going to get better. Those things that seem to matter so much right now—the girls who are mean to you in the locker room, the boys who seem to think you’re invisible—it’s not going to matter that much someday. There is so much more to life than you can see right now, and those things that make you feel out of step with the rest of the world . . . you will recognize them as gifts one day. Yes, maybe you’ll get teased as the yearbook’s biggest bookworm, but someday you’ll get to read and write books for a living. And there’s going to be a really handsome man (he with the once-long hair) who will love you just the way God knows you need to be loved. And best of all, you’ll be comfortable in your own skin.

***

Last week a beautiful woman from our church was taken from us after the tumor in her brain gained too much ground. She was one of those people who was sunshine in human form—always offering warm hugs and greetings, beaming her genuine smile, making people feel loved and welcomed.

Daniel and I stood in a three-hour line at Kim’s visitation, surrounded by hundreds of other people whose lives had been touched by this woman of God. Story after story poured out about how her life had been marked by love and service—to God, to her family, to her church, and to anyone whose path she crossed.Kim McCart

As we looked at the photos around the room—the one of Kim with her husband’s arm around her, the one of her laughing with her children and grandchildren, the one of her hugging kids on a service trip in Ecuador—it struck me in a fresh way what really matters. I get so caught up in the things that seem urgent, the things that clamor for my attention and keep me buzzing from one item on the to-do list to the next.

I have to wonder if Kim would cup my face in her hands and say, “Things are going to get so much better. And those things that worry you, the things you think are so important? They’re not going to matter all that much one day.”

I’m not so different from those high school students, I’m afraid, so focused on the here and now. But I want to hang on to the legacy Kim leaves behind: Love God. Love people. This is what really matters.

I have no doubt that when Kim went home to her Father, she was greeted just as warmly as she’d greeted people on this side of eternity. And I’m confident these words echoed off the streets of gold: “Well done, Kim, my good and faithful servant.”

Forget the sequined dresses and the loud table talk. That’s the ultimate homecoming.

Do I Have Anything in My Teeth?

When I was in high school, the group of girls I sat with at lunch had a ritual before we headed to our next class: the daily “teeth check.” We’d flash our pearly whites at each other to make sure no bits of sandwich had unceremoniously lodged there.

(Keep in mind, this was the era of braces and retainers, not to mention just a teensy bit of insecurity.)

Most days the teeth check passed without incident, but on occasion, one of us might be known to say something like, “You don’t have anything in your teeth . . . but you do have something hanging out of your nose!”

(Yes, our humor was very sophisticated back then.)

We may have been a little over-vigilant about the post-lunch hygiene, but there’s something to the idea. It’s infinitely better for your friend to point out your social faux pas than to have the popular kids snickering about you behind your back or to have that cute guy see you with a piece of spinach stuck between your front teeth.

Oscar Wilde once said, “True friends stab you in the front.” And I think that’s about right, whether it’s about lunch . . . or your gossip habit or how you’re not being yourself or your tendency to hold back out of fear.

As painful as it can be to have someone tell you that you have the spiritual equivalent of spinach in your soul, how much better is that than to know you’ve been walking around like that for days or weeks or years? And all the better for it to come from someone who loves you.

We will speak the truth in love, growing in every way more and more like Christ.
Ephesians 4:15

I’m thankful to have people in my life who give me spiritual checkups. I’ve invited them to stab me in the front when I need it, and they do. They gently point out my blind spots, they tell me the truth in love, they remind me who I am and who I want to be. And they invite me to do the same for them.

As vulnerable as this whole process is, I’d much rather have it this way than go on living with something ugly stuck in my soul.

***

How about you? Do you have a friend who is willing to give you accountability when you need it? What would it take to get there?

The First Word of Jesus’ Prayer

Jesus’ disciples wanted to pray, but they weren’t quite sure how to go about it. So Jesus gave them a lesson in prayer—a model that Christians all over the world still use thousands of years later (Matthew 6:9-13).

I’ve said the Lord’s Prayer countless times, heard sermons about it, read books about it. But there’s one word in the prayer that I’ve brushed right by in the past. It’s a small word, just three letters, but it’s a critical one.

How could I have missed it for so long? It’s the first word, for crying out loud. Our.

Our Father who art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name . . .

Why, I wonder, didn’t Jesus instruct his disciples to address their prayers to God individually? “My Father who art in heaven . . .”

But from the very first line of the prayer, it’s apparent that Jesus sees prayer as a communal activity. Certainly we are to spend time with the Father one-on-one, but our default should be to come to him remembering that we are part of a community. He didn’t create us to be lone-wolf Christians, howling our prayers from the isolation of our dens.

Jesus tells us to call God our Father, which means that fellow believers are our brothers and sisters. We have the privilege of linking arms with them as we talk to our Dad about the things that are close to our hearts. Together, we can share our burdens. We can cry out for healing, for peace, for a relationship to be restored, for a prodigal to come home. And together, we can share our joys. We can offer thanks to God for his faithfulness, his goodness, his answers to our prayers.

My friend has a twentysomething-year-old son who cut ties with his family several years ago, leaving no forwarding address. Ever since, she and her family have tried everything shy of hiring a private investigator to find him. She wants more than anything to let him know that he is loved, that he is wanted, that there is a spot reserved for him that no one else can fill. I’ve had the privilege of praying with my friend every Thursday, begging God to reunite them and to show her son how much he is loved—by God and by his mother.

Our Father . . . please.

In Matthew 18:19-20, Jesus says, “Truly I tell you that if two of you on earth agree about anything they ask for, it will be done for them by my Father in heaven. For where two or three gather in my name, there am I with them.” I don’t know exactly what it is about praying to our Father with other people that makes it so sacred. Obviously God’s ears are just as attuned to the prayers we pray in solitude; it’s not as if we need to meet some kind of quorum for him to answer us.

But perhaps communal prayer is more for our sakes than for his. God knows how easily we lose hope, how quickly we get discouraged when we’re left on our own. But when our brothers and sisters stand united with us, they can believe and hope on our behalf when we grow weary.

On Mother’s Day weekend of this year, my friend received the best gift she could ever hope to receive: an unexpected reunion with her beloved son. As she held him in a long-awaited embrace, with tears streaming down both their faces, the hundreds of prayers that had been uttered on his behalf over the years seemed to swirl around them.

When my friend shared this news with me and the other friends who had been praying, I experienced another gift of communal prayer. Not only does it allow us to share our burdens; it also gives us the chance to multiply our joy and our gratitude.

Our Father . . . thank you.

So whatever we find ourselves up against this week, may we embrace the model Jesus gave us in his prayer. In our moments of need, we can come before him as our Father. In moments of rejoicing, we can come before him as our Father.

We can come to him together, as brothers and sisters. For that is exactly what we are.