She's doing great and so are we!
Friday, September 16, 2011
Monday, September 12, 2011
Tell me a story
I've been thinking all summer about the power of story. I think it started when we went to the FBC Woodway College Ministry reunion in June. You have to remember that the years we were uniting around were a powerful, formative time for everyone in the room. So how to capture that? Well, we spent the evening telling stories. We told stories around tables and one-on-one and in small clusters and as a large group. We told stories that made us laugh and stories that made us cry but the important thing was that we never had to explain it--the story said everything there was to say.
i was reminded of the power of story again when C and Boo and I went to the first midnight showing of the last installment of the Harry Potter series. We stood in an insanely long line with hundreds of kids who had been waiting for this moment for a decade. They ranged from about 16 to 22, so I guess they were technically young adults but trust me, this night they were kids. They ranged from hipster to socially awkward, costumed simply or elaborately, but they had come together for one reason: to share the end of the story together.
The Harry Potter is THE story of my kids' generation. When the first book came out, conservative Christians predictably saw a story about witchcraft and pointed a finger of condemnation. It's sad, I think, because the saga never was about witchcraft. It was about sacrificial love and about the terrible triumph of good over evil and about the kind of friendship that can change the world. Every single one of the kids who filled the theater that night were there because the story of Harry Potter had touched something deeply in them since they were children, had made them think about things as they grew up with Harry, and had changed something about how they saw the world.
All of us who were there--even the middle-aged tagalongs--knew how things were going to end. There was no longer any suspense. And yet, throughout the movie, we were surrounded by heartfelt sobbing and spontaneous cheering as these kids lived the story with the actors on the screen and with each other. And somewhere in the middle of all that, I had a thought: we failed this generation by not giving them a good enough story. There is no better story than the epic story of the gospel. In our commitment to modernity, though, we turned the gospel story into a systematic theology, better shared in outline form than in narrative. In all the world, is there a better story than the American story? And yet, how many of us had history classes that really conveyed the story of liberty in a way that made anyone want to listen?
I was reminded about the power of story again when we went to see Garrison Keillor the other night. I remember more of his Lake Wobegon stories than I do individual sermons, even though I've gone to church all my life. We started talking about Bill Cosby--we know some of his stories by heart--and about Tony Campolo. I said once that I wanted to have stories to tell like Campolo does and someone reminded me that in order to have stories like he has, I would have to live like he lives. That was a good point.
And then, sadly, I thought about the power of story again as I was glued to the TV for the last two or three days watching the remembrances of the events of 9/11. There are few things as powerful as those stories of people facing the unimaginable and responding with love and courage and faithfulness. As all good stories do, they make us think deeply about our own lives and what we value and why we're here.
And then, just this weekend, C and I were talking with a friend about the weekend's football games and she said, "I''m not really a fan of any one team. I root for the story." Don't we all?
If we want a better world, we have to tell a better story. We can start by telling our own stories with all the courage that it takes to tell a true story about ourselves. We can go back to the stories of the gospel and stop worrying so much if we and others have the theology right. We can tell the stories about our country--the good ones and the bad ones--without defensiveness or rancor. We can listen to the stories of others, even those with whom we passionately disagree or with whom we think we have nothing in common. I think it's the only hope we have.
i was reminded of the power of story again when C and Boo and I went to the first midnight showing of the last installment of the Harry Potter series. We stood in an insanely long line with hundreds of kids who had been waiting for this moment for a decade. They ranged from about 16 to 22, so I guess they were technically young adults but trust me, this night they were kids. They ranged from hipster to socially awkward, costumed simply or elaborately, but they had come together for one reason: to share the end of the story together.
The Harry Potter is THE story of my kids' generation. When the first book came out, conservative Christians predictably saw a story about witchcraft and pointed a finger of condemnation. It's sad, I think, because the saga never was about witchcraft. It was about sacrificial love and about the terrible triumph of good over evil and about the kind of friendship that can change the world. Every single one of the kids who filled the theater that night were there because the story of Harry Potter had touched something deeply in them since they were children, had made them think about things as they grew up with Harry, and had changed something about how they saw the world.
All of us who were there--even the middle-aged tagalongs--knew how things were going to end. There was no longer any suspense. And yet, throughout the movie, we were surrounded by heartfelt sobbing and spontaneous cheering as these kids lived the story with the actors on the screen and with each other. And somewhere in the middle of all that, I had a thought: we failed this generation by not giving them a good enough story. There is no better story than the epic story of the gospel. In our commitment to modernity, though, we turned the gospel story into a systematic theology, better shared in outline form than in narrative. In all the world, is there a better story than the American story? And yet, how many of us had history classes that really conveyed the story of liberty in a way that made anyone want to listen?
I was reminded about the power of story again when we went to see Garrison Keillor the other night. I remember more of his Lake Wobegon stories than I do individual sermons, even though I've gone to church all my life. We started talking about Bill Cosby--we know some of his stories by heart--and about Tony Campolo. I said once that I wanted to have stories to tell like Campolo does and someone reminded me that in order to have stories like he has, I would have to live like he lives. That was a good point.
And then, sadly, I thought about the power of story again as I was glued to the TV for the last two or three days watching the remembrances of the events of 9/11. There are few things as powerful as those stories of people facing the unimaginable and responding with love and courage and faithfulness. As all good stories do, they make us think deeply about our own lives and what we value and why we're here.
And then, just this weekend, C and I were talking with a friend about the weekend's football games and she said, "I''m not really a fan of any one team. I root for the story." Don't we all?
If we want a better world, we have to tell a better story. We can start by telling our own stories with all the courage that it takes to tell a true story about ourselves. We can go back to the stories of the gospel and stop worrying so much if we and others have the theology right. We can tell the stories about our country--the good ones and the bad ones--without defensiveness or rancor. We can listen to the stories of others, even those with whom we passionately disagree or with whom we think we have nothing in common. I think it's the only hope we have.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Harder than I thought it would be
At the end of May, I gave my word to taking a step toward improving my physical health. After a friend recommended the book Younger Next Year, I was convinced of the evidence in favor of exercise and decided to make a big change. Someone I admire--who is also overweight and sedentary like me--had started the C25K program and so I decided to do that too. I liked the structure and I really liked having a concrete goal--working up to running a 5K.
Whew. So the good news is that I have now gone to the gym at least 4 times a week (and almost always 5 times a week) for 9 of the last 11 weeks. More good news: I've increased my capacity for running by at least 8 times what it was before. I've done things that I've never done before and that I didn't know I could do. The bad news: I am nowhere near running a 5K!
Let's do this by the numbers: Times I had run before June 2011--2. One time in college, I went out to run with my gorgeous roommate. I huffed and puffed while the boys running on the same trail hit on her. Never did that again. The second time, a few years ago, I ended up having foot surgery. So.
The C25K plan is designed to increase your running time by a little every day. I actually have to take each day's workout and do it for a week before I can go on the next workout, so this is going to take me 6 months instead of 9 weeks. And I'm okay with that. I feel great, mentally and physically. (Well, except that my muscles are sore and stiff ALL the time, but I can live with that.) I'm really proud of myself. I can see myself becoming a more physical person. It's all good.
So I'm putting this out there just because it's an important happening in my life and this is a way of staying accountable. But this feels like a deal I've made with myself and so I'm not really wanting any replies or comments. Just wanted to say it "out loud." And someday, when I run that 5K, I'll post pictures. I promise.
Whew. So the good news is that I have now gone to the gym at least 4 times a week (and almost always 5 times a week) for 9 of the last 11 weeks. More good news: I've increased my capacity for running by at least 8 times what it was before. I've done things that I've never done before and that I didn't know I could do. The bad news: I am nowhere near running a 5K!
Let's do this by the numbers: Times I had run before June 2011--2. One time in college, I went out to run with my gorgeous roommate. I huffed and puffed while the boys running on the same trail hit on her. Never did that again. The second time, a few years ago, I ended up having foot surgery. So.
The C25K plan is designed to increase your running time by a little every day. I actually have to take each day's workout and do it for a week before I can go on the next workout, so this is going to take me 6 months instead of 9 weeks. And I'm okay with that. I feel great, mentally and physically. (Well, except that my muscles are sore and stiff ALL the time, but I can live with that.) I'm really proud of myself. I can see myself becoming a more physical person. It's all good.
So I'm putting this out there just because it's an important happening in my life and this is a way of staying accountable. But this feels like a deal I've made with myself and so I'm not really wanting any replies or comments. Just wanted to say it "out loud." And someday, when I run that 5K, I'll post pictures. I promise.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Working girl
I heard on the radio this week that the unemployment rate for teenagers has gone up dramatically this summer and far outpaces the national average. I thought about my daughter and son and their various efforts to make money as teenagers (Mowgli has worked at a grocery store for several years, then painted houses and worked on an organic farm; Boo has worked as a nanny and takes all the babysitting jobs she can get.) Then the commentator pointed out that the last time that the teen unemployment rate was this high was . . . the late 70s, when I got my first job.
I was 15, about to turn 16, hanging out at my friend John J.'s house with our other friends, when my dad called to tell me that I had a job interview in just a couple of hours. He told me to go home and put on nicer clothes ("Sunday night clothes," as we called them in those days, referring to Sunday night services at church, which meant nicer than "school clothes" but not as dressy as "church clothes"). I showed up for the interview at the school district print shop and got the job, not surprising since my dad was the school superintendent.
That summer, I operated the district's new copy machine, which was the size of a Volkswagon and could copy at the rate of about 1 sheet per second and could also (miraculously!) make two-sided copies, collate and staple. Operating it meant using a simple computer screen, which I had never used before, and for eight hours a day, five days a week, I copied coloring sheets, syllabuses, student handbooks, and worksheets. I actually spent at least half my time clearing paper jams and starting the copy jobs over and collating by hand when the machine got confused, but I was so excited to have a real job that I don't think I ever minded.
That school year--my junior year--I got a job as a waitress at the Pizza Hut restaurant not far from the East Gate of Fort Hood. We served families and couples from the neighborhood but we also served young soldiers coming off of training maneuvers, filthy and hungry and very focused on finding beer, pizza, and a "date"--in that order. My boyfriend was the cook (and later the assistant manager) and we worked till closing, then played the juke box and flirted while we broke down the salad bar and refilled all the tabletop parmesan cheese containers.
In the summer, I added another job--mostly volunteer, this time--as the intern to my church's youth minister. I created newsletters and handouts, made phone calls, led discipleship classes, and mostly felt important and useful, with a taste of what meaningful work would feel like.
I also got another job out of the blue--this time as a news announcer for a popular country radio station in a nearby town. Every Saturday, I went in from 8 to 4 and pulled long yellow sheets of text off the teletype machines and created a five minute news program for every hour of music and commercials. I worked alone in a soundproof booth next to the DJ booth but the DJs rarely talked to me. For one thing, in those days, nothing was computerized and the DJ was literally spinning records and providing commentary on the music. Also, looking back, I can imagine that these adult family men were not impressed with having a teenaged coworker and possibly even a little uncomfortable about being closed up together in our small studio. Every hour on the hour, the DJ would point to me through the soundproof glass that separated us and I would read my newscast, followed by the weather on the half hour. No one ever trained me or supervised me and when I think of the kinds of things that I--at 17--considered newsworthy, I don't know whether to laugh or cry!
In the summer, I went back to the print shop. This time I used a printer/typesetter the size of a large upright piano and practiced my typing and layout skills creating the district's handbooks and forms. I continued to wait tables and work at the radio station until I left for college in the fall. My first month at Baylor, at age 18, I became the youth/children's minister at a small (and I mean small) church about 45 miles from Waco--a job I held and loved for three years until my teens were over.
So, that's my jaunt down memory lane. What jobs did you do as a teenager? How did you get your first job? Comment and let me know you were here--
I was 15, about to turn 16, hanging out at my friend John J.'s house with our other friends, when my dad called to tell me that I had a job interview in just a couple of hours. He told me to go home and put on nicer clothes ("Sunday night clothes," as we called them in those days, referring to Sunday night services at church, which meant nicer than "school clothes" but not as dressy as "church clothes"). I showed up for the interview at the school district print shop and got the job, not surprising since my dad was the school superintendent.
That summer, I operated the district's new copy machine, which was the size of a Volkswagon and could copy at the rate of about 1 sheet per second and could also (miraculously!) make two-sided copies, collate and staple. Operating it meant using a simple computer screen, which I had never used before, and for eight hours a day, five days a week, I copied coloring sheets, syllabuses, student handbooks, and worksheets. I actually spent at least half my time clearing paper jams and starting the copy jobs over and collating by hand when the machine got confused, but I was so excited to have a real job that I don't think I ever minded.
That school year--my junior year--I got a job as a waitress at the Pizza Hut restaurant not far from the East Gate of Fort Hood. We served families and couples from the neighborhood but we also served young soldiers coming off of training maneuvers, filthy and hungry and very focused on finding beer, pizza, and a "date"--in that order. My boyfriend was the cook (and later the assistant manager) and we worked till closing, then played the juke box and flirted while we broke down the salad bar and refilled all the tabletop parmesan cheese containers.
In the summer, I added another job--mostly volunteer, this time--as the intern to my church's youth minister. I created newsletters and handouts, made phone calls, led discipleship classes, and mostly felt important and useful, with a taste of what meaningful work would feel like.
I also got another job out of the blue--this time as a news announcer for a popular country radio station in a nearby town. Every Saturday, I went in from 8 to 4 and pulled long yellow sheets of text off the teletype machines and created a five minute news program for every hour of music and commercials. I worked alone in a soundproof booth next to the DJ booth but the DJs rarely talked to me. For one thing, in those days, nothing was computerized and the DJ was literally spinning records and providing commentary on the music. Also, looking back, I can imagine that these adult family men were not impressed with having a teenaged coworker and possibly even a little uncomfortable about being closed up together in our small studio. Every hour on the hour, the DJ would point to me through the soundproof glass that separated us and I would read my newscast, followed by the weather on the half hour. No one ever trained me or supervised me and when I think of the kinds of things that I--at 17--considered newsworthy, I don't know whether to laugh or cry!
In the summer, I went back to the print shop. This time I used a printer/typesetter the size of a large upright piano and practiced my typing and layout skills creating the district's handbooks and forms. I continued to wait tables and work at the radio station until I left for college in the fall. My first month at Baylor, at age 18, I became the youth/children's minister at a small (and I mean small) church about 45 miles from Waco--a job I held and loved for three years until my teens were over.
So, that's my jaunt down memory lane. What jobs did you do as a teenager? How did you get your first job? Comment and let me know you were here--
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Stay Close
My dear friend pcmfo has been introducing me to the rich blogs and books of Patti Digh. This poem is from "What I Wish For You" and really spoke to me. Some of my deepest regrets in life have come from not heeding its wisdom. Let me suggest that you read it slowly, aloud.
Stay Close
When sorrow comes
to those you love
stay close.
When sadness is
more powerful
than words
more powerful
than deeds
your warm hand
your quiet company
your self in a chair
saying nothing
will be a gift.
You may wonder
"What can I do?"
There may be
nothing
you can do.
You may wish
to run.
Do not run.
Hold hands.
Eat soup.
Listen.
Trace a sunbeam
with your fingers
on the table.
Let yourself smile.
Let yourself cry.
When sorrow comes
to those you love
stay close.
When sorrow comes
to you
let others
stay close too.
---by Amy Ludwig VanDerwater
Stay Close
When sorrow comes
to those you love
stay close.
When sadness is
more powerful
than words
more powerful
than deeds
your warm hand
your quiet company
your self in a chair
saying nothing
will be a gift.
You may wonder
"What can I do?"
There may be
nothing
you can do.
You may wish
to run.
Do not run.
Hold hands.
Eat soup.
Listen.
Trace a sunbeam
with your fingers
on the table.
Let yourself smile.
Let yourself cry.
When sorrow comes
to those you love
stay close.
When sorrow comes
to you
let others
stay close too.
---by Amy Ludwig VanDerwater
Friday, July 29, 2011
Praying for Nixon
I heard the other day about a little boy commenting on the Washington fiasco, saying, "So the NFL can work out their problems but Congress can't?" It made me think about a vivid memory I have from my own childhood.
It was 1973 and I was about 9 years old. The Watergate hearings were on TV every day and I was aware that the men behind the green felt covered tables were in trouble and the men behind the microphones on the big benches were in charge. I wasn't allowed to watch much TV but even PBS children's programs were pre-empted by the hearings and there was nothing to watch after school. I didn't really understand what was going on but I knew it was bad for the president.
So here's my memory: I'm sitting at the kitchen bar on a tall barstool watching the news (or maybe some kind of news special) with my parents when I have a terrific idea. I get up and go to my room and pull out my box of hot pink stationery with my name embossed on the top in gold. I got the stationery for Christmas and I love it and I love the box it came in. I get a sharp pencil and head back to the bar to begin my project.
"Dear Mr. Nixon," I wrote in my best third-grade penmanship. I still remember the satisfaction of seeing those words at the top of the page. I don't remember exactly what else I wrote except that I closed by saying that I knew he was innocent and that I was praying for him. My parents must have helped me find the address and mail the letter because I don't think I would have known how to do that but I know that the letter was mailed because I received a thick manila envelope from the White House with a "personalized form letter" and a book about the Nixon presidency.
Just a few years later, in Mrs. Mauk's sixth grade class, we were introduced to writing research papers and each of us chose a topic. I decided to write about the Watergate scandal, analyzing political cartoons from the era. I loved writing that paper but pretty soon, it became clear to me that my confidence and my prayers had been misplaced and I felt a tiny twinge of cynicism for the first time in my life. I felt so grown-up--because now I understood how the world worked and I determined not to be so foolishly naive again.
I think the world changed dramatically for Americans of all ages in the early seventies. Another memory: I am laying in my bed only a few feet from the den where my parents are watching the news on TV. The reporter describes guerillas killing American soldiers in the jungles of Vietnam and I become upset thinking of these brave men being attacked by wild animals. I feel genuinely sad and confused about how scary the world is.
Anyway, as the world changed, we became more cynical about authority, more determined not to be duped, more negative about Washington and public service. I think we see all of that now as things disintegrate in Washington and the chatter on the internet and on cable news shows is smug and full of cynicism and resignation and conspiracy theories and contempt. It makes me think about sitting at the kitchen bar with my hot pink personalized stationery and a pencil and praying for Mr. Nixon.
It was 1973 and I was about 9 years old. The Watergate hearings were on TV every day and I was aware that the men behind the green felt covered tables were in trouble and the men behind the microphones on the big benches were in charge. I wasn't allowed to watch much TV but even PBS children's programs were pre-empted by the hearings and there was nothing to watch after school. I didn't really understand what was going on but I knew it was bad for the president.
So here's my memory: I'm sitting at the kitchen bar on a tall barstool watching the news (or maybe some kind of news special) with my parents when I have a terrific idea. I get up and go to my room and pull out my box of hot pink stationery with my name embossed on the top in gold. I got the stationery for Christmas and I love it and I love the box it came in. I get a sharp pencil and head back to the bar to begin my project.
"Dear Mr. Nixon," I wrote in my best third-grade penmanship. I still remember the satisfaction of seeing those words at the top of the page. I don't remember exactly what else I wrote except that I closed by saying that I knew he was innocent and that I was praying for him. My parents must have helped me find the address and mail the letter because I don't think I would have known how to do that but I know that the letter was mailed because I received a thick manila envelope from the White House with a "personalized form letter" and a book about the Nixon presidency.
Just a few years later, in Mrs. Mauk's sixth grade class, we were introduced to writing research papers and each of us chose a topic. I decided to write about the Watergate scandal, analyzing political cartoons from the era. I loved writing that paper but pretty soon, it became clear to me that my confidence and my prayers had been misplaced and I felt a tiny twinge of cynicism for the first time in my life. I felt so grown-up--because now I understood how the world worked and I determined not to be so foolishly naive again.
I think the world changed dramatically for Americans of all ages in the early seventies. Another memory: I am laying in my bed only a few feet from the den where my parents are watching the news on TV. The reporter describes guerillas killing American soldiers in the jungles of Vietnam and I become upset thinking of these brave men being attacked by wild animals. I feel genuinely sad and confused about how scary the world is.
Anyway, as the world changed, we became more cynical about authority, more determined not to be duped, more negative about Washington and public service. I think we see all of that now as things disintegrate in Washington and the chatter on the internet and on cable news shows is smug and full of cynicism and resignation and conspiracy theories and contempt. It makes me think about sitting at the kitchen bar with my hot pink personalized stationery and a pencil and praying for Mr. Nixon.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Not a rant
I imagine that almost every American is sick to death of the machinations in Washington these days. I am too, although not for the same reasons as many of my Facebook friends, apparently. But what has me thinking has to do more with the moral questions that we (and our representatives in Congress) are all wrestling with these days.
I keep hearing many people (in person and yes, I admit, on the radio) saying, "It's not the job of government to care for the poor and the needy in our society. That's the Church's job. We need to take that responsibility away from the government and give it back to the Church where it belongs." I can sympathize with that point of view. I think it's very well-meaning and attempts to take seriously the command of the gospel to care for the poor. I also disagree with it, since I personally believe that government is a God-given means for providing for the common good. That's also in the constitution and I believe it's wise. It's been said that government is what we decide to do together and I'm glad to be part of a society that has historically used government to provide for the most vulnerable among us.
Of course, that's beginning to change, partly because of economic realities and partly because of changes in our political philosophy. And I sincerely hope that the Church I love will step up and fill in the gaps. But here is what I want to ask when someone says that caring for the vulnerable is not the job of the government but the job of the church:
What does that look like? As poor children, the disabled and the elderly are experiencing devastating cuts in their benefits, are Christians going to dramatically increase their giving to make up the difference? In my congregation, there are a number of intellectually disabled adults who live partially on public assistance. When that is cut, will we--all 400 of us--provide the hundreds of thousands of dollars that it costs to care for them? What kind of infrastructure will there be to do this? I'm sure that they would prefer to live in their group homes but if that becomes unaffordable, who among us will take them into our homes and care for them? And that's just this particular group of men. We're not even talking about the chronically poor, the physically disabled who can't work, the severely mentally ill, the elderly or the unemployed--all of whom receive some kind of public subsidy. Just in our congregation alone, that would be a significant number of people. There are even more in our community who don't attend our church or any church. Will we be willing to sacrifice deeply to ensure that they are cared for, at least at the level that the government currently does? We will have to completely change the way we do church. I doubt that we will be able to do all of this and maintain our buildings and our programs. Will we be willing to make those sacrifices?
This is not a rant, I promise. I really want to know what others see that I don't. I personally believe that government is a legitimate way to care for the vulnerable but I'm also intrigued by other models, especially as the government model may be losing viability. I don't want to suffer from a failure of imagination and if this is possible, I want to see it. I just have some questions.
I keep hearing many people (in person and yes, I admit, on the radio) saying, "It's not the job of government to care for the poor and the needy in our society. That's the Church's job. We need to take that responsibility away from the government and give it back to the Church where it belongs." I can sympathize with that point of view. I think it's very well-meaning and attempts to take seriously the command of the gospel to care for the poor. I also disagree with it, since I personally believe that government is a God-given means for providing for the common good. That's also in the constitution and I believe it's wise. It's been said that government is what we decide to do together and I'm glad to be part of a society that has historically used government to provide for the most vulnerable among us.
Of course, that's beginning to change, partly because of economic realities and partly because of changes in our political philosophy. And I sincerely hope that the Church I love will step up and fill in the gaps. But here is what I want to ask when someone says that caring for the vulnerable is not the job of the government but the job of the church:
What does that look like? As poor children, the disabled and the elderly are experiencing devastating cuts in their benefits, are Christians going to dramatically increase their giving to make up the difference? In my congregation, there are a number of intellectually disabled adults who live partially on public assistance. When that is cut, will we--all 400 of us--provide the hundreds of thousands of dollars that it costs to care for them? What kind of infrastructure will there be to do this? I'm sure that they would prefer to live in their group homes but if that becomes unaffordable, who among us will take them into our homes and care for them? And that's just this particular group of men. We're not even talking about the chronically poor, the physically disabled who can't work, the severely mentally ill, the elderly or the unemployed--all of whom receive some kind of public subsidy. Just in our congregation alone, that would be a significant number of people. There are even more in our community who don't attend our church or any church. Will we be willing to sacrifice deeply to ensure that they are cared for, at least at the level that the government currently does? We will have to completely change the way we do church. I doubt that we will be able to do all of this and maintain our buildings and our programs. Will we be willing to make those sacrifices?
This is not a rant, I promise. I really want to know what others see that I don't. I personally believe that government is a legitimate way to care for the vulnerable but I'm also intrigued by other models, especially as the government model may be losing viability. I don't want to suffer from a failure of imagination and if this is possible, I want to see it. I just have some questions.
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