Blog – Page 21

October 1, 2014

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.

September 24, 2014

Grammar Girl

I’m part of a writing group, and our assignment for last month was to write something funny. One of the suggested prompts was to imagine you woke up one day with a superpower. This superhero story is dedicated to all my fellow grammar geeks!

***

Surprisingly, it wasn’t the cape she noticed first, scratchy as it was around her neck. When she peeled her eyes open, the first thing she saw, as she did every morning, was the blasted orange sticker affixed to the skylight.

For “repairs” call 1-800-555-2369!

She glared at it, resenting its smarmy, illogical use of quotation marks. Do they mean the repairs will be ironic? She groaned, reaching for the pillow to cover her head. But before she could snooze for a few more minutes, she felt a tingle down her right arm, like a tiny electrical current. What was that? Did I sleep on my arm funny last night?

She looked at her outreached arm and noticed that her finger was pointing precisely in the direction of the offending sticker. She squinted at the orange rectangle more closely and gasped. The opening quotation mark had vanished! She pointed a tentative finger at the closing quotes, and it, too, evaporated, leaving behind no ink trace or grammatical scar.

She jumped out of bed, rubbing her eyes. Spying the Cheez-It box on the nightstand, she waved a hand in the direction of the cleverly misspelled Cheez. “Bam!” she said, and before her eyes, the z melted into se. Cheese-Its. Much better.

As she stared at her arm in wonder, she noticed a swirl of black behind her. Sure enough, she was wearing a cape—one with a gigantic cursive G in the center. In smaller letters underneath, the tagline read, “Saving the world, one comma at a time!”

Her phone beeped. She picked it up, annoyed to see that it was more spam.

UR eligible 4 a lower r8!

Her finger hovered over the Delete button, but then she paused. “Zing!” she cried, pointing a finger at the screen.

You are eligible for a lower rate!

She grinned smugly and got ready for work. Throughout the day she pointed her finger wherever she spotted grammatical violations. When she was stopped at an intersection, she changed the “Slow Children” sign to “Slow: Children.” When she passed the road-side market, she zapped the sign that read “Peach’s for sale,” sending the errant apostrophe into oblivion. At her desk, she scanned her e-mail messages for there/their/they’re confusion and affect/effect mix-ups. She reconjugated verbs, undangled modifiers, and eliminated all figurative uses of literally.

When she got home, she flopped down on the couch, exhausted but satisfied. Just as she put her feet up, she spotted a yellow envelope on the edge of the coffee table. She picked it up and saw her name on the front. What’s the occasion? She racked her brain, trying to figure out which holiday she’d overlooked. It’s not my birthday, not our anniversary . . .

She opened it up, and on the inside, in her husband’s unmistakable script, was this message:

Your beautiful.

She reached behind her head and removed her cape, setting it on the end of the couch. There were some things that not even Grammar Girl could improve upon. Or should that be “upon which not even Grammar Girl could improve”?

It didn’t matter. After all, there were some things even more important than proper grammar.

September 19, 2014

Three and Sixty Augusts Ago

Our third anniversary, in the park we went to on our first date

Three Augusts ago, Daniel and I stood under a tulle-covered arch, surrounded by a small cluster of family and friends (and one stray cat that made an appearance halfway through), and we said some big vows. With eyes locked on each other and hearts lodged in our throats, we strung words together one by one until they became big promises.

Looking back, I see now that we were like kids dressed in grown-up clothes, arms dangling in too-long sleeves and feet tripping over clown-like shoes. But that’s the only way to commit to something as big as “till death do us part,” I think. You put on the big promises and pray with everything in you that one day you’ll grow into them.

Just a day after our anniversary, Daniel’s grandparents celebrated sixty-one years of marriage. In six decades, they have raised a handful of children, doted on a dozen-plus grandchildren, and rejoiced over the births of several great-grandchildren.

But then, about ten years ago, Gramma Lo started forgetting things. It wasn’t long before the diagnosis came: Alzheimer’s. The disease that’s a thief, only it doesn’t take everything at once. It steals slowly—one memory, one mannerism, one life skill at a time.

In sickness and in health.

The day before Daniel and I got married, Papa Jack pulled out a small velvet bag. “I wish Gramma Lo could be here this weekend,” he said. “But I know she would have wanted to you to wear this.” He pulled out a simple, elegant string of pearls. “She wore this necklace at our wedding.”

For better or for worse.

Papa Jack and Gramma Lo at an Alzheimer’s walk

On more than one occasion Daniel and I have tried to tell Papa Jack how much we admire him for the way he loves Gramma Lo during this season . . . the way he trims her nails, reads children’s books to her, and patiently endures her insistence that he is not her husband. But he brushes off our compliments and smiles as if to say, “This is not heroic. This is just what love looks like.”

Till death do us part.

As I watch Papa Jack and Gramma Lo, I’m starting to think that maybe love isn’t so much the grand gestures, the significant milestones, the scenes captured in photos. Maybe love is those small moments of choosing to love in the healthy times and the sick times, in the good times and the worse times. And maybe those little moments get strung together one by one, like pearls on a string—beautiful, shimmering, timeless. Something that can be passed on to the next generation, and the one after that.

Daniel and I have a long way to go before we grasp the kind of love we see in Papa Jack and Gramma Lo’s marriage. But by the grace of God and the examples set before us, we will wear these big vows until we grow into them.

And so we say it this year, just as we did three Augusts ago:

We do.

For all that is now and all that is to come, we do.

September 16, 2014

A Book for the Little Princess in Your Life…

If you have little girls in your life, you know that princesses are everywhere—in the dress-up box, at birthday parties, on TV, at the store. And there are good things about this princess era we live in, because it’s important for girls to feel special and beautiful.

But most of us long for more than pretty dresses and tiaras for the girls we love. Our desire is for them to become beautiful on the inside as well. We want them to know where their real identity is found—that since God is their Father, they are daughters of the King. That makes them true princesses.

To read the rest of the article and to find out more about my new book about princesses, bullying, and Queen Esther, you can check out Tyndale’s blog here.

September 12, 2014

Friday Favorites for September

It’s that time again . . . time for a few of my favorite things! Enjoy!

For anyone loyal to their home state . . .
If you’ve ever wondered how your home state would be depicted in LEGOs, this post is for you. 50 States in LEGOs

For anyone looking for an excuse to read . . .
Apparently reading helps you read people’s minds and stave off depression. Sold! 12 Health Benefits of Reading

For anyone who gets that a marriage is about more than a wedding . . .
This is a great letter from Kristen Welch to her daughters about her wedding: “I can’t think of a single pin-worthy picture from the day. . . . But I wouldn’t change a moment of it.” What I Want My Daughters to Know about My Wedding

For anyone planning a literary-themed wedding . . .
I know I just said a marriage is about more than a wedding, but you have to admit these book-themed cakes are pretty amazing. You have to check out the one inspired by The Lord of the Rings. 10 Awesome Literary-Themed Wedding Cakes

For anyone who’s a word geek . . .
Apparently this is the longest word in the English language. Dictionary.com

September 9, 2014

Sojourners Here

A few weeks ago on a brilliant Sunday afternoon, my grandparents’ friends, a couple in their 80s, took their own lives. I didn’t know them personally, but I am grieving anyway. I’m grieving on behalf of their children, on behalf of their friends, on behalf of all those they left behind.

***

You were almost there, almost at the finish line. I know you wanted to end in a sprint, with triumph and vigor, arms lifted high. But somewhere along the way you forgot that finishing well sometimes just means finishing. Even if you have to limp across the line.

I wish you could have seen the crowd in the stands . . . all the people who were cheering you on, urging you forward. All the people who loved you.

I suppose you knew what King David knew—that we are but sojourners here on earth.

We are strangers before you and sojourners, as all our fathers were. Our days on the earth are like a shadow, and there is no abiding. (1 Chronicles 29:15)

Life in these shadowlands is hard, it’s true. The losses take our breath away, the pain doubles us over, and it can be hard to see the finish line through the tears.

But with these encroaching shadows, we needed you all the more. We needed your light. We needed the conversations over Sunday brunch, the phone calls to check in, the recipes to swap. You reflected God’s light in a way no one else can, and now your unique brilliance has been snuffed out.

If you were still here, I would hug you first and then chastise you. Instead, I’m left with the secondary grief of mourning you on behalf of those I love.

“People needed you,” I would have said. “My grandparents needed you.”

You were afraid to be a burden, but this burden you leave behind is so much heavier.

All I have is words, and they come too late for you to hear. And so I write in the hope that someone else will read these words and it will not be too late for them.

I want you to know that you are irreplaceable.
That the world needs your light.
That you can make it to the finish line.

So please. Please, fellow sojourner. Do not end your sojourn too soon.

September 2, 2014

Announcing the Next Book Club

Thanks to everyone who participated in our discussion about The Invention of Wings, which we talked about here. Congratulations to Maggie, the winner of the free book giveaway!

Please join us for our next book club discussion on Glitter and Glue by Kelly Corrigan. Here’s the description of the book taken from Barnes and Noble

From the author of The Middle Place comes a new memoir that examines the bond—sometimes nourishing, sometimes exasperating, occasionally divine—between mothers and daughters.

When Kelly Corrigan was in high school, her mother neatly summarized the family dynamic as “Your father’s the glitter but I’m the glue.” This meant nothing to Kelly, who left childhood sure that her mom—with her inviolable commandments and proud stoicism—would be nothing more than background chatter for the rest of Kelly’s life, which she was carefully orienting toward adventure. After college, armed with a backpack, her personal mission statement, and a wad of traveler’s checks, she took off for Australia to see things and do things and Become Interesting.

But it didn’t turn out the way she pictured it. In a matter of months, her savings shot, she had a choice: get a job or go home. That’s how Kelly met John Tanner, a newly widowed father of two looking for a live-in nanny. They chatted for an hour, discussed timing and pay, and a week later, Kelly moved in. And there, in that house in a suburb north of Sydney, 10,000 miles from the house where she was raised, her mother’s voice was suddenly everywhere, nudging and advising, cautioning and directing, escorting her through a terrain as foreign as any she had ever trekked. Every day she spent with the Tanner kids was a day spent reconsidering her relationship with her mother, turning it over in her hands like a shell, straining to hear whatever messages might be trapped in its spiral.

This is a book about the difference between travel and life experience, stepping out and stepping up, fathers and mothers. But mostly it’s about who you admire and why, and how that changes over time.

We’ll be discussing this book at the end of October. Hope you will join us! (And remember—there will be a free book giveaway for one lucky winner!)

August 29, 2014

Book Club Discussion: The Invention of Wings

Thanks to everyone who read The Invention of Wings this month (which I introduced here). Here’s how it works: I’ll throw out a few topics for discussion, and you can write your responses about these topics (or others you’d like to discuss) in the comment section.

Discussion #1: Multiple perspectives

I liked the use of two narrators (Handful and Sarah). It gives us a perspective we wouldn’t have if we saw the story from only one character’s point of view. It also allows us to get inside their heads and see their real struggles—they feel like real people with complex personalities and challenges.

Did you relate to any of the characters? Did you have a favorite?

Discussion #2: Characters finding their voice

I appreciated the way the author wove in the theme of struggling to find one’s voice. Sarah literally fought to express herself despite her stutter, and she also strove to find her voice as a woman in an era that didn’t give her many outlets to do so. She tried to speak up through the platform of the law and the church, and eventually found her voice by joining the abolitionist movement.

Charlotte, too, struggled to find her voice as a slave and as a woman, and she ultimately found a way to express herself through the story quilt: “Mauma had sewed where she came from, who she was, what she loved, the things she’d suffered, and the things she hoped. She’d found a way to tell it.”

Have you ever struggled to find your voice? What helped you express yourself?

Discussion #3: Passive evil vs. active evil

One of the sobering realities portrayed in this book is that evil isn’t just perpetuated by those who actually inflict the cruelty (like the slave owners who beat the slaves). Evil also grows as a result of those who sit back and allow it to happen. It was heartbreaking to watch Sarah start out with childlike idealism, creating the manumission paper to free Handful, and then gradually become cynical as she grows older: “I was very good at despising slavery in the abstract, in the removed and anonymous masses, but in the concrete, intimate flesh of the girl beside me, I’d lost the ability to be repulsed by it. I’d grown comfortable with the particulars of evil. There’s a frightful muteness that dwells at the center of all unspeakable things, and I had found my way into it.”

What evils in our world today have we become desensitized to as a culture?

Discussion #4: Quest for freedom

The thread of freedom runs deep and rich through these pages, and I was captivated by the author’s lovely turns of phrases to express that longing for freedom of body and soul. In one striking moment, Handful says to Sarah, “My body might be a slave, but not my mind. For you, it’s the other way round.” Then there’s the soaring speech by Lucretia Mott: “God fills us with all sorts of yearnings that go against the grain of the world—but the fact that those yearnings often come to nothing, well, I doubt that’s God’s doing. . . . We’re all yearning for a wedge of sky, aren’t we? I suspect God plants these yearnings in us so we’ll at least try and change the course of things.”

What’s your wedge of sky? What wings have you found to help you find freedom? What’s scary about learning to fly?

Rating

I would give this book 3 stars. The words and sentences are masterfully crafted, the relationships between the characters are well developed, and I enjoyed reading about this topic from dual perspectives. But I thought the plot fell flat, and the ending felt especially anticlimactic. It almost felt like the author was trying so hard to keep true to the historical accounts that the novel itself came up short.

How many stars would you give this book?

Remember: There will be a free book giveaway for one lucky commenter!

August 26, 2014

Announcement Part 2 (Everything You Wanted to Know, Plus Some!)

As promised, here is part 2 of my announcement! (See here for part 1.) Thanks to all of you for being so supportive and encouraging—I am so thankful for each one of you.

So, I’m writing a book. (I need to keep saying that in the hope that I’ll start believing it. . . .)

Ready?

It’s a memoir called Was Blind Dating, but Now I See.

Here’s the premise: Eight setups. Eight awkward dates. Eight things God tried to teach me along the way. (A few of which I learned in a messy, roundabout sort of way, and some of which I’m still trying to figure out.)

***

As my twenties slipped by, with the formidable 3-0 lurking around the corner, life didn’t look quite the way I’d imagined. I had a career, my own home, a queen-size bed, and bridesmaid dresses of every hue jammed into my closet. But notably absent was a wedding ring on my left hand . . . and the man to accompany it.

Although I’d never been one with visions of frothy wedding gowns and sparkly tiaras, I did figure I’d get married and have a family one day. But “one day” was starting to breathe down my neck, with no suitable suitors in sight.

In the decade after college, as my friends jumped into relationships, got married, and moved on with their lives, I couldn’t help but wonder if God had missed me somehow when he was dishing out the marriage and family blessings. Why would he be so quiet about something that was so close to my heart? And so I started praying in earnest for God to bring the right man into my life.

Instead, he brought me matchmakers. Eight of them, to be precise.

Thus began a five-year journey of blind dating mishaps, misadventures, and heartaches, in which I encountered the likes of the Professor, the Linebacker, Uber-Fundamentalist Boy, and Mr. Paper-Perfect. But along the way, a funny thing happened. While I was looking so hard for one thing, God snuck up on me and showed me things I hadn’t even been looking for—things like hope and community and gratitude and joy.

And perhaps most surprising of all, he revealed to me his grace. Grace so amazing that it left me lovestruck.

***

And there you have it—the short version! The book is scheduled to come out in February 2016 (think Valentine’s Day). Thanks for coming along with me on this adventure!

Your turn: Have you ever experienced God’s grace in a totally unexpected way or in a unique way during a certain season of your life? I’d love to hear about it.

August 19, 2014

That Big Announcement I Was Telling You About

Note that my book even had a ribbon tie and a custom spine. Classy!

When I was in fourth grade, I wrote a book called Molly Mouse Returns Home, the riveting sequel to my third-grade debut (curious minds can read about it here).

I loved to write under any conditions as a kid (especially if I had those cool multicolored gel pens), but there was something special about Young Authors week, when everyone in the class got to write, illustrate, and bind our own books. (Mrs. Strukel, if you’re out there, I’d like to thank you, as I now realize what an undertaking it must have been to help some thirty ten-year-olds complete this project, no doubt requiring excessive amounts of time, patience, and rubber cement.)

When it was Young Authors week, suddenly I wasn’t just a writer anymore; I was an author. My words weren’t merely tucked in a notebook in my dresser drawer; they were out there for the world (or at least my twenty-eight fellow classmates) to see. In short, I was getting published.

The final day of Young Authors week was an all-out literary party. We read each other’s books and signed them in the back, and as I read my classmates’ stories, I marveled at these people I thought I knew. Wow, Jackie is so creative! Who knew Darren could draw so well?

The pinnacle of the day was when the local acting troupe came in. They chose one story from each grade to act out in front of the whole school at an assembly, and we all sat on the edge of our seats, wondering whose stories would be chosen. My mind swirled, recalling all the amazing tales I’d read that day. The one scenario I never imagined was what actually happened.

When it was time for the last skit, the emcee stepped up to mic. “Our next story is . . . Molly Mouse Returns Home!”

I sat there stunned. Of all the stories, they had chosen mine?

Fast-forward to 2014. Just a few weeks ago, I received a twenty-six-page packet in the mail, filled with big legaly words like indemnities and proration and force majeure—and also the two most important words: BOOK CONTRACT. It has taken me a while to get my mind around it, but it’s true: For the first time since fourth grade, I’m going to be published.

After I watched my story about Molly Mouse come to life onstage, my ten-year-old self was shaking out of sheer gratitude and awe. That’s when I saw my mom in the crowd. I didn’t know until later that my teacher had called to fill her in on the surprise, but at the time it didn’t matter how she’d gotten there; it just mattered that she was there.

This is me rocking the side ponytail with the actors who acted out my book. I have so many questions about this. For starters: Who exactly was Molly Mouse in this scenario?

I threw all my fourth-grade bravado aside and ran straight to my mom’s arms. This big thing had just happened, and I got to share it with someone who knew me and loved me. (Added bonus: My teacher let Mom emancipate me for an hour to get lunch off campus.)

And you know what? That’s kind of how I feel right now. As exciting as it is that someone is making my words come to life in a real-live book, it’s equally an honor that I get to share it with all of you. You have encouraged me, loved me, and shared your stories with me for the last several years. And it feels amazing that God has allowed me to share this adventure with all of you.

I got rather long winded with this post (I guess that happens when you start by going back to the fourth grade), so I’ll save my announcement about what the book is about for the next post.

Until then, I want to know about you: What’s something you’re looking forward to, big or small?