Graceful

Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday: How to Define the Holy Spirit

2012-05-28T00:00:00.000-05:00

Nana, my father’s mother, always referred to the Holy Spirit as the “Holy Ghost.” I remember her dipping two fingers into the Holy Water at Holy Cross Church and making the Sign of the Cross, “In the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost” as she touched wet fingers to forehead, heart and shoulders.

Frankly it gave me the creeps.

As a child, I didn’t find any comfort in the thought of a ghost, holy or not. I often imagined it trailing after us, hovering above our heads as we made our way down the center aisle and into the pew. I was always relieved when we exited out the front doors and down the stone steps after Mass. I assumed Nana put the Ghost back when she made the Sign of the Cross again with the Holy Water before stepping into the parking lot. I imagined that the Ghost swirled back into the basin of Holy Water and sloshed around in there until the following Saturday evening, when the swish of two fingers in the cool water released it again.

As I got older the term “Holy Ghost” fell out of favor, replaced by the less threatening but no less baffling Holy Spirit. This was somewhat better. I thought of the Holy Spirit as a benign force, a little bit like an invisible Tinkerbelle or Glenda the Good Witch, spreading goodness, peace and love like fairy dust.

Those were my two impressions of the Holy Spirit: creepy and vaporous or gentle and sweet. So you can imagine my surprise the first time I read the description of the Holy Spirit in Acts 2:

“Suddenly there was a noise from the sky which sounded like a strong wind blowing, and it filled the whole house where they were sitting. Then they saw what looked like tongues of fire which spread out and touched each person there. They were all filled with the Holy Spirit and began to talk in other languages, as the Spirit enabled them to speak.” (Acts 2:2-4).

A noise from the sky? A strong, gusting wind? Tongues of fire? This was not anything like the Holy Spirits I’d imagined in my childhood. This Spirit was powerful, overwhelming, terrifying.

Just imagine, for a moment, what that must have been like for the disciples. Picture the force of a powerful wind, bending trees, kicking up dirt and debris, the grit stinging your eyes and coating your mouth. Picture the flames descending out of nowhere, coming closer, licking the top of your head, your limbs, your hands and feet. Can you imagine the terror…and the awe?

In the presence of such mighty force, there would be no question: you would know unequivocally that you were in the presence of something far beyond normal, something supernatural and awesome.

Although I’m not a kid anymore, I still try to define the Holy Spirit in a way that makes sense to me. I tend to try to box him in, contain him. I try to understand that which cannot be fully understood. I try to define that which cannot be fully defined. Part of me resists the powerful, forceful nature of the Holy Spirit because I am afraid of it – I don’t want to hand over control, to surrender to something so wild and untamed.

Yesterday, on Pentecost Sunday, my dad emailed me a timely devotion written by Franciscan Richard Rohr – a telling and perceptive observation of how many of us, me included, approach the Holy Spirit and what we miss with our narrow definitions and trepidation.

We still wait behind closed doors; fifty days (Pente-cost), fifty years, five hundred years, we are always waiting and hoping, but not really expecting. It is the day we are always waiting for but never prepared for, the day of the great outpouring of fire-laden love, the day that ties all other days together.

Pentecost is actually every day, if we expect it; but, not surprisingly, this is the greatest forgotten major festival of the entire church year. Most come to church expecting no new outpouring, or maybe not even remembering an old one.

Yet it is Pentecost, the day of the great gathering in and the great sending out. The Holy Spirit must get tired of waiting for us, always hiding behind our closed doors (from Radical Grace: Daily Meditations, day 205).

Today, my prayer for me and you is this: May we open ourselves. May we step out of our boxes and from behind closed doors, not merely waiting or hoping for a benign, milk-toast Holy Spirit that fits within the confines of our narrow minds, but recognizing and embracing Him in whatever form He comes. And may we expect, know, that He comes indeed.

How has your perception of the Holy Spirit changed over time?

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Welcome to the "Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday" community, a place where we share what we are hearing from God and his Word.

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Weekend Meditation: Wait for It

2012-05-26T09:11:00.000-05:00

Though it linger, wait for it; it will certainly come
and will not delay.

Habakkuk 2:3

With the lovelies, Sandra and Deidra...

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Why I'm Not Reading 50 Shades of Grey

2012-05-25T03:00:00.000-05:00

I thought about it, I did. After all, 50 Shades of Grey is a self-publishing phenom – a book that sold more than 3 million copies (electronic and paperback) in the first month it was released by Vintage (and that’s not counting its previous self-published sales). Everybody is talking about it – honestly, I was starting to feel a little left out.

So when I got my Kindle as a Mother’s Day gift, the first book I looked up was 50 Shades of Grey (there’s something wrong with that, isn’t there – that I get a Kindle for Mother’s Day, and I consider buying a sex book with it?). I didn’t buy 50 Shades of Grey that Sunday, though. I bought Jeff Goins’ book You are a Writer instead (hmmm, writing or erotica…she picks writing. That should tell you all you need to know).

I’ve read a couple of posts from the Christian/Biblical perspective about why some have chosen not to read 50 Shades, but I have to tell you, the reason I decided not to read it isn’t because I’m a Christian or because the Bible tells me I shouldn’t. I don’t know the Bible well enough to support an argument like that (I’m reading the Old Testament through for the first time right now, and I've gotten as far as Nahum– I’m on the "Bible in 900 Days" plan).

So…here are the real reasons I’m not reading 50 Shades of Grey:

1. The writing is terrible.

I know, I know, I haven’t read the book…so how can I judge? Well, my best friend Andrea read it, and I trust her judgment.

Andrea is a voracious reader. When we were kids she’d walk two doors up to my house on summer mornings, and we’d plant ourselves on my parents’ screened porch, prop open our books and read together all day, sitting with our feet tucked beneath us on the orange and yellow vinyl cushions that covered the metal rockers. That’s what we did for fun. We read our separate books together.

So last week, when Andrea emailed me her take on 50 Shades – “Horrible writing. Frankly, it's porn. Nothing literary about it so far.” – I thought, “Ok, I'm good.”

I don’t have anything against erotica per se, but please, can we make the effort to write it well? Honestly, I think the bad prose would distract me too much from the sex anyway.

2. It’s the kind of entertainment that doesn’t add anything to my life.

I’m not reading Shades of Grey for the same reason I don’t watch much reality TV: it doesn’t contribute anything good to my life. Now before you roll your eyes and assume I’m plunked in front of NOVA or Mother Angelica every night, let me explain.

I’d like to tell you I don’t watch Real Housewives or Tosh.O or Chelsea Handler because it’s crap or crass or in poor taste, but that wouldn’t be the whole truth.

The real reason I don’t watch those shows is because part of me enjoys them. I get a lift out of witnessing someone else’s bad decisions; I laugh at other people’s misfortunes; I’m secretly relieved that at least my life isn’t as pathetic or as messed up or as downright embarrassing as theirs.

And then I come away from those shows feeling a little bit gross and a little bit guilty for enjoying entertainment at someone else’s expense.

I also simply don’t feel very good about myself when I watch reality TV. I’m not saying I need to have a spiritual or intellectual experience every time I turn on the television or read a book (I watch House Hunters, need I say more?), I just don’t want to come away feeling more depleted and emptier than when I started.

Although I can’t be sure, I suspect I’d finish 50 Shades of Grey feeling the same way. I simply don’t think I’d feel good about myself. I'm leery that it would leave me with that empty, oogy feeling.

In the end, I decided bad writing combined with feeling like that isn’t worth the $9.99.

What about you? Will you read 50 Shades of Grey (I'm not judging, I swear!)? And if no, why not?

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The Long Bike Ride

2012-05-23T06:00:00.000-05:00

It stops me in my tracks halfway down aisle 7 in SuperSaver: the sweetish, baby-powder scent of Pampers. Suddenly I’m catapulted back four or five years, to a time of diapers, clean bottles stacked precariously in the dish rack, pacifiers, Good Night Moon and pastel-plaid blankets littering the coffee table, couch and floor.

I don’t miss it.

Maybe that sounds startling. And it’s true, most mothers pine at least occasionally for the touch of that soft, new skin pressed against their cheek, wisps of fine hair beneath their palm. Perhaps I don’t because one of my boys was terribly colicky and acted more like a howler monkey than a sweet infant for the first six months of his life. Or maybe it’s just that I love where we are right now with our boys -- still a ways from the sulky teenage years, but old enough to converse about something other than Elmo.

I like being with them. They teach me. They help me see.

...I'm over at Nancy Franson's place today. You know Nancy, right? The coolest feather-boa wearin' girl east of the Mississippi? No? Well then get on over there and check her out - she's zany in all the best ways!

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Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday: Hope in a Text

2012-05-21T00:00:00.000-05:00

I’m about to submit my May column to the Lincoln Journal Star. It’s entitled “What I’ve Learned from Not Publishing,” and it’s a positive examination of how I’ve grown spiritually despite – or perhaps because of – the challenges I’ve faced along this writing journey.

I meant every word I wrote, of course, but what I didn’t say was how hopeless it all feels sometimes. There are days when I want to give up. There are days when I see people I respect and love making the kind of progress I yearn for, and I succumb to jealousy and bitterness. There are days, like last week, when I said to my husband at dinner, “Today I feel like I’m at the bottom of a deep well, and I’m trying to drag myself out inch by inch and am getting absolutely nowhere.”

At 8:43 p.m. that same day, as I sat tucked into one end of the couch, Noah on the other end, both of us with our noses buried in our books, I heard my cell phone chime from the depths of my purse. A text. I didn’t jump off the couch to retrieve it. In fact, I forgot about it until the next morning, when I flipped open my phone in the midst of school-morning bedlam to read this, from Jennifer:

“Praying Isaiah 50:4 over you and your writing tonight: ‘The Sovereign Lord has taught {Michelle} what to say, so that she can strengthen the weary.’”

I had spoken to Jennifer earlier that afternoon – on the bottom-of-the-deep-well day. She had called to ask me for advice, and instead ended up listening as I unloaded all my writing and publishing frustrations into her ear.

And then later that night she sent the text, praying encouragement for me.

I thought of Jennifer, the telephone conversation and that text yesterday as we read these verses from Ephesians.

“I keep asking that the God of our Lord Jesus Christ, the glorious Father, may give you the Spirit of wisdom and revelation, so that you may know him better,” wrote Paul to the Ephesians. “I pray that the eyes of your heart may be enlightened in order that you may know the hope to which he has called you…” (Ephesians 1:17-18).

That phone call? That text at 8:43 p.m.? Jennifer was my Paul that day, encouraging and strengthening me, and reminding me of the hope God has especially for me. She opened the eyes of my heart.

Has anyone been your Paul lately, encouraging you or reminding you that God has a hope planned especially for you?

With Jen and the Soli Sisters:

And with Jennifer on Wednesday:

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Weekend Meditation: Be Silent before Him

2012-05-19T08:45:00.000-05:00

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One Fish...Two Fish

2012-05-18T03:00:00.000-05:00

We picked up six minnows for 15 cents each at Petco and gently poured them from the plastic bag into the black tub. Noah pulled a metal chair across the concrete patio and sat hunched over the water garden, silvery scales glinting as the fish darted beneath the water hyacinth.

Ten minutes later all six were dead, floating glassy-eyed and white-bellied like sardines on the surface.

Noah carried them in a garden trowel to the bird bath tucked up against the oat grass in the back yard. "Why waste good food for the birds?" he reasoned. Later he reported they were all gone but one, who was missing its head.

The next day Brad and Noah came home from Petco with two more fish – this time an orange goldfish and a black googly-eyed creature with a feathery tail. He named them Gills and Arrow.

That night he and Brad emptied a third of the water from the tub and hauled it into the sunroom. The temperature was expected to dip into the 40s, and Noah was worried about his pets.

{Let it be known, I had a plastic tub filled with outdoor water plants and fish in the middle of my sun room. Not exactly the House Beautiful aesthetic I aspire to.}

About noon the following day I stepped away from the computer and peered into the tub. Gills the goldfish skirted into a shaft of sunlight. Google-eyed Arrow was nowhere to be seen. I grabbed a flashlight and shined it into the murky depths. Arrow had sunk to the bottom, where he lay on his side next to the brick. He wasn’t moving.

I jiggled the tub with my knee. Water sloshed onto the doormat, and Gills panicked, flitting from side to side, but still, Arrow didn’t move. Not willing to slide my hand into the dank water to touch the slimy black scales with the tip of my finger, I reached for a badminton racket and lowered the handle slowly to the bottom of the tub. I gently poked the immobile fish. He didn’t move. I poked him twice more.

I dreaded telling Noah when he got home from school. The kid had lost two grandparents, Big Blue (his snail) and six fish in the last 18 months, and now another loss, on top of all that? What if this was the breaking point, I fretted. What if this one sent him reeling into depression? My anxiety and dread intensified as the clock clicked toward 3:30. I wrung my hands and forgot to pray because I always forget to pray at times like these.

At first he didn’t believe me. “Maybe he’s just resting,” Noah suggested, brown eyes round, brow knit. I put my arm around his thin shoulders as we walked toward the mini-van. “No, I don’t think so, honey. He didn’t move at all.”

Noah held out hope for Arrow until he saw the state of the fish for himself. And then he fetched the trowel from the garage, gently plucked the tiny, limp body from the water and buried him in the backyard between the bee balm and the day lily.

“I think I’ll just stick with Gills and see how that goes,” he mentioned at bedtime as I pulled his comforter up to his chin. “One fish seems like enough for now.”

I think I may have to add Gills the goldfish to my prayer list.

So tell me, have you ever prayed for a pet?

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Pushing the River

2012-05-16T03:00:00.000-05:00

“Faith does not need to push the river because faith is able to trust that there is a river. The river is flowing. We are in it.” – Richard Rohr

I watched an ant a few days ago on the back patio. He carried something green – at first I thought it was a sliver of leaf, but when I crouched on my hands and knees to get a better look, I saw that it was a piece of shriveled bell pepper leftover from our dinner the night before.

The ant navigated the patio’s perils, plunging into the deep cracks between the pressed concrete, circumventing the floral seat cushion that had blown off the metal chair, all the while carrying his pepper. I wondered what he would do when he reached the base of the metal chair that spanned his path, looming like a flood dike. He stopped, considering the impediment for just a second before turning and scaling the wall backwards, now dragging instead of carrying the pepper. At the top he righted himself, scurried down the other side and continued on. The last I spotted the ant, he’d entered a jungle of tangled vinca vine and was galumphing toward the lady’s mantel. I wondered where he was headed and how long it would take him to get there.

Just recently my friend Andrea and I talked for a bit on the phone, and we laughed at how laborious this faith journey sometimes feels. “Sometimes I wonder,” she said, “am I supposed to work this hard at having faith? Shouldn’t it be easier than this?”

I say yes…and no.

The truth is, sometimes we have to be the ant – pushing, pulling, grappling, persevering. Single-minded and intent on moving forward. Forging new paths, stumbling blindly, re-emerging.

It’s easy for me to get complacent in my faith. I pray only when I’m really desperate. I neglect the Bible. I don’t think about serving, and I get lazy in my efforts to live out God’s kingdom here on Earth. Faith requires intentionality for me, because otherwise it’s too easy for me to forget about God. I literally have to “practice faith,” to integrate faith into my daily rhythms and routines.

On the other hand, though, I think one can be too intentional in faith. When faith becomes too much work, I know I’ve tipped the scales too far toward intentionality. As a person who tends toward structure and routine, it’s easy for me to rely too much on the format, the scaffolding, and not enough on God himself.

Sometimes I realize that I’m practicing how to have a relationship with God, rather than actually being in relationship with him.

So I guess it just depends.

Sometimes I need to step back, to live in and be in the process – not pushing, not planning or strategizing, not moving the journey forward myself, but rather, being part of the journey. Knowing, trusting, that I'm in the flowing river, whether it feels like it at the time or not.

And sometimes, like the ant, I have to push and pull and climb. I have to do a little work in order to avoid the stagnant pool that sits around the next bend.

What about you? Are you ever the ant, pushing your faith? Or do you usually feel like you’re in the river, flowing?

With the lovely Emily...

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Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday: Even on the Raving Lunatic Days

2012-05-14T00:00:00.000-05:00

Mother's Day gifts from the boys {and proof that they still love me, despite the occasional raving lunatic days}

“Would there be anything I could do that would get you to not love me?” Noah asked me the other night as we were tucked under his comforter, watching the pine tree boughs wave against the moon. “No, absolutely nothing,” I assured him. “Even if you did the worst thing you could think of, even if you were in jail for your whole life, I would still love you.”

Yesterday morning, Mother’s Day, Rowan asked me nearly the same question. And I answered the same: “I love you guys every minute, every day, no matter what.”

“Even the lamp day, when you got super mad…did you love me the same that day, too? Or did you maybe love me a little bit less?” Rowan persisted.

Ah yes, the infamous lamp day. Not exactly the parenting moment I wanted to relive during the first 20 minutes of Mother’s Day: the day Rowan hurled a pillow across the living room and broke the lamp, mere hours after my mom had bought me a new lamp to replace the other lamp Rowan had broken more than 8 months before. The day I’d morphed into a maniacal lunatic.

I’d gripped the lamp base white-knuckled in my fist and raised it over my head, shaking it and raving incoherently. My mother stood speechless next to me, paralyzed along with the boys by my bellowing outburst. I ordered the boys to their rooms while I swept up the fragments, ranting about how they’d spend the entire day behind closed doors. My mother followed suit, retreating to the basement guest room as I crashed around the kitchen, slamming the box of fresh donuts into the trashcan and fuming aloud to myself while the boys howled in their bedrooms.

Not exactly indicative of the kind of overflowing love Paul talks about in his letter to the Philippians:

“I pray that your love will overflow more and more, and that you will keep growing in knowledge and understanding.” (Philippians 1:9)

As Pastor Greg preached about how parents must practice sacrificial love, tough love and gracious love, I thought about how much I'd failed as a mother on the lamp day. I thought about how I’d spread fear, how I’d burned with anger, overflowing not with love, but with bitterness and resentment; how I’d epitomized gracelessness.

But as I slumped in the pew, I also thought about the conversation that had taken place in the kitchen on Mother's Day morning, and the answer I’d given Rowan when he asked if I’d loved him less on the lamp day. “Even though I was really mad, and really disappointed about the lamp, and even though I really yelled a lot, I still loved you just as much,” I assured Rowan. “My love wasn’t even a tiny bit less. Love stays the same no matter what.”

My answer seemed to satisfy Rowan as he slurped the remainder of his milky cereal. And you know what? Later, after Pastor Greg's sermon, I realized that my answer applies to me, too. No matter how disappointing my behavior, no matter how God may grieve my raving lunatic lamp days, he still loves me just the same, not even a little bit less. No matter what.

How does God's limitless grace make you feel {especially on those raving lunatic days}?

With Jen and the Soli Sisters...

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Weekend Meditation: Fully

2012-05-12T03:00:00.000-05:00

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10 Lessons from My First Week as a Full-Time Writer

2012-05-11T03:00:00.000-05:00

1. Anticipating a major career change is much more stressful than making the actual leap.

2. A short haircut may be in my future, as clearly I am going to wear my long hair in a ponytail every single day (and really, what's the point of that?).

3. Having writing work now does not mean I won’t lie awake at night worrying that I won’t have work later.

4. Mascara will no longer play a featured role in my morning beauty routine. Lipstick still will.

5. I will need to ramp up the exercise program to balance the effects of daily afternoon tea and lemon biscotti.

6. Cleaning the bathtub grout is highly enticing when facing a major writing assignment.

7. I still have trouble defining myself as a Writer – evidenced by the fact that I called myself a “stay-at-home writer” when chatting with my sister on the phone this week (“What the heck does that mean? Call yourself what you are – a writer,” she said. Duly noted.).

8. I need to allow myself a half-hour of transition between writing and the time the kids get home from school so I can act like a human being rather than a zombie.

9. Email, TweetDeck, Facebook and the Internet need to be entirely shut off (not merely minimized) for any real productivity to occur.

10. There is no better feeling than finishing a day of writing and thinking, “I get to do this all over again tomorrow!”

Ok, your turn...tell me 3 (or 10!) things you learned this week!

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Let Us Proclaim the Mystery of Faith

2012-05-09T03:00:00.000-05:00

Let us proclaim the mystery of faith…

The words rang out singsong, a little off-key, echoing across the altar, tumbling down the stone steps and the center aisle, awaiting our response.

We sang our prayer back to the priest on cue, our voices monotone with the droning organ: Christ has died. Christ has risen. Christ will come again...

I never thought much about those words, neither the proclamation the priest sang at the altar, nor our answer from the pews. I simply repeated the required lines, yawning and shifting from foot to foot.

Just recently, though, more than 25 years later, I’ve come back to them.

I fill the dishwasher, toss errant sneakers and flip flops into the shoe basket by the door, raise the matchstick blinds over the living room couch, singing the old familiar words as I work.

Let us proclaim the mystery of faith…

My voice rises and falls. I dig deeply, remembering the cadence of the priest’s voice, practicing to match the tone just right as I throw muddy socks and stained tee shirts into the washer, as I dump a basket of warm clothes on the bed, as I butter bagels hot and yeasty from the toaster oven.

My kids glance warily at me over their books, leery of the chanting. They're not entirely surprised their mother is acting like a monk, but not entirely comfortable with it either.

I don’t much like mystery. I prefer answers, concrete, black-and-white answers. I like to know the beginning, middle and end…even before I’ve begun -- to know where I am going and exactly how I am going to get there. I would have made a great urban engineer or city planner. Except that I can’t navigate my way out of a one-way alley, even with the GPS lady chastising from the dashboard.

The thing about faith, though, is that very little of it makes sense. At least to me. My kids lob questions at me that I can’t answer. I read about inexplicable tragedies that can’t possibly compute with my understanding of God. I can’t even wrap my mind around the very basic tenets of Christianity, like the resurrection and eternal salvation. It’s all simply beyond me.

It used to really bother me, that there was so little I could know for sure about God and Jesus. But I think I might be beginning to lean into it a little more, to rest more comfortably in the not knowing.

It seems I might finally be ready to proclaim the mystery of faith.

“People who’ve had any genuine spiritual experience always know that they don’t know. They are utterly humbled before mystery. They are in awe before the abyss of it all, in wonder at eternity and depth, and a Love, which is incomprehensible to the mind.”
-- Richard Rohr

What about you? Do you proclaim the mystery of faith? Or do you fight against it a little bit?

With Jennifer...

And Emily...

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Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday: The Vine

2012-05-07T00:00:00.000-05:00

As Pastor Sara lifts the bread high, the boy in the plaid shorts with the crown of whorled blond hair climbs onto the padded pew. Grabbing his dad’s shirt with one hand, he raises the other hand toward the ceiling, fingers splayed like a small, creamy starfish.

The dad knows what’s next – clearly this is a weekly routine. He lifts the boy until his flip-flops rest on the back of the pew in front of him. Clenching a fist-full of polo shirt, the boy straightens tall and steady, feet firmly planted on the back of the pew, his father’s arm encircling his waist like a lasso. And then the boy watches, steady and solemn, as Pastor Sara lifts the cup of wine toward the sky.

The little boy with the blond hair knows instinctively what I so often forget. He reaches, he climbs, he clings. He rests steady, comfortable and secure in his father’s arms.

He knows and accepts what I can never seem to remember: that apart from his father, he can do nothing.

“Abide in me as I abide in you. Just as the branch cannot bear fruit by itself unless it abides in the vine, neither can you unless you abide in me. “ (John 15:4)

Missing

2012-05-05T06:00:00.000-05:00

“Mommy, do you think you miss people when you’re in Heaven?” he asks, calling the question over his shoulder as we pedal across the empty parking lot.

“You mean the people we leave behind on Earth?” I ask. My eyes are on his back. His shoulder blades jut sharply beneath his tee-shirt.

“Yeah,” says my 10-year-old son, Noah. “Do you think when you’re in Heaven you miss the people still on Earth? Because, you know, it seems like you would.”

The question springs out of nowhere. They always do. The boys’ paternal grandparents have both died in the last 18 months, and, as a result, I’ve fielded dozens of questions about illness, dying, death, God, Heaven and Hell – most of which I can’t answer. At least not definitively.

...I'm so pleased to be guest posting at one of my favorite writers today: Rachel Held Evans.

Will you hop over to her place to read the story? [and do you know about Rachel's upcoming new book, A Year of Biblical Womanhood? I've already pro-ordered it...and you can, too, by clicking here].

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Item #10

2012-05-04T03:00:00.000-05:00

Anita and me this week at the office

A few years ago researchers at Gallup interviewed more than 5 million workers in a massive study that aimed to identify which workplace traits lead to high productivity and profitability.

Gallup’s list of 12 elements include many you might expect, like clearly outlined goals and expectations; a positive, impactful mission; a fair and encouraging supervisor, professional development opportunities. But one item on the list, #10, was a surprise to many. Gallup found that the employees who answered yes to this statement – I have a best friend at work – were seven times more likely to be engaged in their job. They got more done in less time, made fewer mistakes, had more engaged customers and were more likely to innovate and share new ideas.

Yesterday, as I packed dusty picture frames and stained coffee mugs into a cardboard box and untacked faded drawings and finger paintings, paper crinkled, edges curling, from the bulletin board, I thought a lot about why it’s been so hard to leave my job this week. And I realized it’s because I am in the minority.

I am one of only 30 percent, according to Gallup, who have a best friend at work.

Anita and I met 10 years ago. She was a single mom; I was a transplant to Nebraska. Our sons were both barely one year old. She managed the donor database; I wrote press releases and fundraising copy. Her office, filled with cactus and African violets and piles of paperwork, was two doors down from mine.

Our friendship bloomed in ten-minute increments. Once or twice a day, on the way to retrieve a letter off the printer or a stack of bills from the mail cubbies, I’d stop to chat, leaning against the doorframe of her office. Occasionally I’d sink into the 50s-style chair with the worn grey upholstery next to her desk, or she’d pop her head into my office as I sat hunched over the keyboard.

I swear we raised our kids together in those ten-minute bursts of conversation a day. All the joys and frustrations and fears, the euphoric highs and the cataclysmic lows that go hand-in-hand with parenting, and life, really, were exchanged within a 12-foot-by-12-foot office.

Looking back, I can see now how Anita and I both floundered a bit in those early years. Lost and unmoored, uncertain and afraid, we were shell-shocked, I think, bewildered at how in the world we’d ended up where we were. I see now how we grounded each other; how we were each other’s life preserver in a wildly tossing sea.

I don’t claim to understand exactly how having a best friend in the office impacts workplace productivity. I’m sure there are algorithms and spreadsheets to explain all that.

But what I do know is this: you don’t leave the rest of your life tied up in a neat bundle on the kitchen counter when you go to work each day. You carry your burdens and your joys, your anxieties and your sorrows along with you, packing them like you pack your lunch box and toting them right into the office where they sit in the guest chair next to your desk.

And if you’re lucky like me, if you’re one of the 30 percent, you get to unpack those burdens and share those joys and sorrows a little bit at a time, leaning against the doorframe of your best friend’s office with a stack of mail pressed to your chest.

Do you have a best friend in the office? How do you think having an office best friend might impact productivity?

And a note about tomorrow: I don't typically publish a written post on Saturdays, but I am super excited to be guest posting tomorrow over at one of my favorite writers...so will you pop by here for a Saturday read? Thanks!

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Stepping Out

2012-05-02T03:00:00.000-05:00

Six weeks ago I gave my resignation at work. After nearly 10 years, tomorrow will be my last day at NET Televison and Radio. And Friday will be my first official day as a freelance writer.

“It’s like you’re at the end of a long, dark hallway,” my officemate Pam said to me one morning. We sat at our desks, the sun slanting through the blinds as I hemmed and hawed aloud about the pros and cons of a career change. “You just have to take the first step,” she said.

“Yeah, but I’d like to see a couple of doors down that hallway first,” I replied, laughing. “They don’t even have to be wide open, a sliver of light would be fine. I just want to know the doors are there first.”

...Will you hop over to read the rest of my story over at the Lincoln Journal Star? I'll see you over there...

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Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday: A Crowd of Witnesses in Real Life

2012-04-30T00:00:00.000-05:00

(in) Real Life: (back row): Lelia, Marge, Karna, Sarah, MJ, Erin;
(front row): me, Deidra, Stacy, Amy, Libby, Frances, Amanda

Yesterday was confirmation Sunday at church, and I cried my way through most of the service without a shred of Kleenex in my purse. The young people kneeled straight and tall, white gowns cascading onto altar steps, scarlet carnations pinned to their chests, and as our pastors prayed over them while their parents crowded behind with bowed heads, hands on their shoulders, one word rang in my head: community.

In her sermon, Pastor Sara talked how each of us is surrounded by a “huge crowd of witnesses to the life of faith” (Hebrews 12:1) – those who run the race of faith with us, paving the way before us, carrying us along as we grow weary.

“The people who have gone before us and who we spend our time with now help us tell our story,” Sara acknowledged. “The spirit of people both past and present cheer us on in our faith.”

As I listened to Sara I thought about the community of women Deidra, Erin and I hosted in my home on Saturday. Some of these women I know well – friends, colleagues and neighbors – and some I just met for the first time Saturday.

Truthfully, I’d been nervous about hosting this event. In fact, I’d awakened the night before at 3:30 a.m. in a panic. Should I buy flavored creamer? Did I have enough chairs? Should we wear name tags? Would I have to pray out loud? Would we stand around with our arms folded over our chests in awkward silence? Would people notice how sprongy my couch is with the broken springs?

How is this going to work with such a disparate group of women – women who don’t even know each other, who aren’t even in the same place in life, I wondered as I tossed and turned, sleepless and sweaty.

I worried about the fact that we were probably all at different spots on the spiritual spectrum. “What if it’s too Jesus-ey?” I worried. “What if it’s not Jesus-ey enough?” I fretted.

You know what?

It worked. It worked beautifully.

Sure, some of us had never met before. And it’s true, we were different, all of us at various life stages – married, single, divorced, empty nester, grandmother, young mother, working, stay-at-home, retired. And yeah, we were undoubtedly at various points on the spiritual spectrum, too. But despite all that, we laughed. We shared stories. We ate scones.

We connected.

And when I dashed out the door to head to work before the meet-up had even officially ended, and I saw Deidra up to her elbows in a sink full of soapy water, and Frances with a dish towel in her hand and Amanda clearing my table (two women, by the way, I’d only just met two hours before), I knew I was witnessing something beautiful.

As I stopped for a second to glimpse those three women cleaning my kitchen, I witnessed in-real-life community unfold right before my harried eyes.

Where have you found unexpected community?

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With Jen and her lovely community of Soli Sisters:

And beautiful Laura at The Wellspring:

Weekend Meditation: You Will Live

2012-04-28T03:00:00.000-05:00

With Sandy and Deidra...

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Broken, Forgiven

2012-04-27T03:00:00.000-05:00

Quieting the scrape of metal chairs, the conductor taps his baton with three sharp raps on the metal music stand. The reed smells faintly of mint and moist wood as I wet the cane once and then again with my lips. Fingers positioned over the holes, I take a deep breath and play, mouthpiece vibrating between my teeth.

One foot taps the linoleum floor as black notes ebb and flow on the white sheet in front of me. The brasses blast bold, trumpet, saxophone, trombone, tuba, while flutes flirt, skipping breezy through grassy meadows.

I glimpse parents and grandparents, Kodaks poised as they sit crunched knees to backs in folding chairs.

The band plays. I turn sheets on the stand.

And then...

It slips through my hands like a silk scarf, hitting the floor with a crack audible over the heavy thud of the bass drum. One black piece rolls beneath the oboist’s chair. The other rests next to my left penny loafer.

My clarinet has broken clean in two, in the middle of the sixth grade band concert.

I reach down behind a tangled curtain of long hair, retrieve the pieces and hold them together with sweaty hands, pretending to play, blowing empty air. Music notes blur through the welling.

Stealing a look at the audience, I seek out my father. I know where he’s standing. He leans against the painted cinder-block wall at the back of the cafeteria, arms crossed over his chest.

The conductor pivots toward the crowd, bows and turns back toward the band. He motions to us, and we stand and bow, too.

I walk toward the back of the room, weaving in and out of parents and children embracing, a half of broken clarinet in each hand. When I finally make it back to where he still stands with arms crossed, I hold the pieces out to my father.

He reaches out. And pulls me in.

Do you ever remember a time when you received unexpected grace?

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The Whiny Pants Post

2012-04-25T03:00:00.000-05:00

“Mommy, are you famous?” he asks, as I butter a bagel still hot from the toaster oven.

I laugh a little bit. “No honey, I’m definitely not famous.”

“Well, are you famous in Lincoln then?” he asks.

“Nope, not in Lincoln.”

“What about in our church; are you famous in our church?”

“Honey,” I stop buttering and turn around to look Noah straight in the eye, “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not famous anywhere.”

He looks disappointed.

“Really, though, I don’t care much about being famous,” I add. “I’m happy just to write for a few people, knowing that God is glad that I write about him.”

I felt pretty good after that conversation, confident that I’d helped my son understand that there are qualities more important than fame to pursue in life.

Except for one problem...

Turns out that story I gave Noah about fame was a bunch of bull-oney.

I didn’t lie intentionally. In fact, at the time I really did believe that a desire for fame played no part in my writing. In fact I didn’t even know it was baloney until a couple of weeks after that conversation, when “the lists” were published.

It started with Kent Shaffer’s list of Top 200 Church Blogs, followed by his list of Top Christian Women Bloggers, which he published largely in response to the question of why so few female bloggers are included in the original list [a disclaimer here: I was sort-of included on that list, as a contributing writer for The High Calling].

Then, as a response to Shaffer's lists, Sarah Bessey published her own list of 50 Church and Faith Lady-Bloggers, based on the following criteria:

"Lady Bloggers that love Jesus, make beautiful art, challenge the Church, and wrestle with theology and generally influence the Church far and wide - with or without a power ranking badge on their website."

And then, as a response to that list, Diana Trautwein published a list of 21 Church and Faith Lady-Bloggers over 50 (with an additional five bloggers close to age 50) at Sarah’s place, noting that this group is even more marginalized in the world of Christian blogging.

So (if you're still with me) here’s the ugly part:

I scrolled through all the lists with the sole purpose of seeing who was included and whether or not I made the cut.

I know, I know. It’s gross. Even admitting this gives me the hives. But it’s the truth. Worse, I scrolled through all the comments, too, to see if anyone mentioned me there. And then, to top it all off, I berated myself for not being gracious like the bloggers who weren’t included on the lists but posted encouraging, cheerful comments anyway.

I tried to climb onto my holy soapbox by telling myself that I blog for God alone, but the pit that persisted in my gut told me that’s not the whole truth. Yes, I write for God. I write because it helps me glimpse God and live out my faith in the everyday. I write for community. I write because I love to write and because I love to tell stories.

But I know something else now: I write for fame, too. I want to be included. I want to be noted and noticed.

Despite the hivey horror of this admission, two positive results have come of this:

I realized I’m guilty of the same thing around here. As of 9 p.m. yesterday, Graceful included a blogroll over in the right column. I called it “Great Reads." So how did I decide who was included and who wasn't? How did I decide who qualified as a “great read” and who didn’t? Yesterday I wondered if I ever hurt a fellow writer who didn’t see himself or herself included in my “Great Reads” list. I don’t know for sure. But I’m guessing probably yes.
I realized I need to pray about this. Seriously. I need to ask God for assistance on this one, to help me focus my writing on him and him alone and to let the comparisons with other writers go, once and for all.

I’m not famous. But I know now that at least a part of me wants to be. And I suspect I seek fame for all the wrong reasons.

What about you? Do you ever crave fame?

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Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday: Heaven Doesn't Feel Real

2012-04-23T00:00:00.000-05:00

I’ll never forget the evening Brad and I walked past Noah’s bedroom a couple of weeks after Brad’s mom had died. Cat Stevens’Morning Has Broken was blasting on his CD player, and Noah sat tucked under his comforter next to the wide-open window. “I open my window and put this song on loud so Haukebo can hear it while she’s painting in Heaven,” Noah explained matter-of-factly to us.

Heaven doesn’t feel real like that for me. I know I’m supposed to believe in it, and I do, in a vague, religious kind of way, but it bothers me that I can’t wrap my head, or my heart, around it concretely.

I wish I believed in Heaven the way my kids do, but all I have is an amorphous, Christianese vision of Heaven. Frankly my view doesn’t offer much comfort; it doesn’t sustain me the way I suspect it does other people. I get some comfort from the thought of eternal life and the opportunity to spend face-to-face time with God, but Heaven? When I think of Heaven I draw a big blank.

Biblical descriptions of Heaven don’t help either. Pearly gates, streets of pure gold and a river bright as crystal sound like someone else’s vision (and I guess it is someone else's vision: it's John's). Like Brad said yesterday after we heard the description of Heaven from Revelation, “Gold streets don’t appeal to me. I think I’d prefer a softer, spongier material to walk on.”

When Noah was very young, his definition of Heaven consisted of “lots of white pine trees and mint chocolate chip ice cream all the time.” Yesterday after church when I asked him if his view of Heaven has changed since then, he told me that now he envisions “really puffy, soft clouds that you can walk on, and Ailanthus trees everywhere, growing right up out of the clouds, because Ailanthus means ‘tree of Heaven,’ you know.”

Rowan added that he thought Heaven will be a place where there’s “lots of fun stuff to do all the time.” I suspect he envisions infinite Mario Bros…without the nagging mother who puts a limit on screen time.

In the wake of my in-laws’ deaths, we’ve talked about Heaven more than usual in the last 18 months. I know I’ve used Heaven as a balm for the fear and pain that’s come with that loss, a way to offer brightness and hope for my kids in the midst of their grief. As a parent I’m desperate to ease my kids’ suffering, so I toss out Heaven as the only antidote I know. But to me, it feels like a weak consolation when they are missing their grandparents in the here and now.

I often ask the boys what they think Haukebo and Papa are doing in Heaven in an effort to create a link, a lasting connection between them and their beloved grandparents. But I think part of me is also trying to cement a vision of Heaven that they might carry with them into adulthood. While I know they won’t always believe that Heaven is comprised of mint chocolate chip ice cream, Ailanthus trees, Haukebo painting landscapes and Papa dancing to Johnny B. Goode, I hope that talking about Heaven now will somehow keep a sliver of it real for them later.

What about you? Does Heaven feel real to you?

{As an interesting side note: when I looked for images of Ailanthus trees on the web, I came across this description on the Duke University site: "More appropriately called the tree from hell, this common weedy tree is a seriously invasive species from China, most often found in disturbed areas and along roadsides." Hmmmm. Mabe Heaven really is in the eye of the beholder?).

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Welcome to the "Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday" community, a place where we share what we are hearing from God and his Word.

If you're here for the first time, click here for more information. Please include the Hear It, Use It button (grab the code over in the sidebar) or a link in your post, so your readers know where to find the community if they want to join in -- thank you!

Please also try to visit and leave some friendly encouragement in the comment box of at least one other Hear It, Use It participant. And if you want to tweet about the community, please use the #HearItUseIt hashtag.

Thank you -- I am so grateful to have you here!

Weekend Meditation

2012-04-21T09:59:00.000-05:00

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The Nudger

2012-04-20T03:00:00.000-05:00

“So, would you ever be interested in ghostwriting?” my agent, Rachelle, asked me over the phone a few weeks ago. “Sometimes that’s a good way for writers to supplement their income.”

“Huh. I hadn’t really considered ghostwriting,” I told her. “But I already have a job, so I can’t really see how I’d have the time to work, write my own stuff and help write someone else’s stuff, too.”

“That’s totally fine,” she said. “I just thought I’d ask.”

Later, when I told Brad about the conversation, his response surprised me. “So…haven’t you been talking about wanting to become a full-time writer? And wouldn’t ghostwriting be a way for you to do that?”

Oh.

Yeah.

I guess I never considered that.

I’ve been talking about wanting to become a full-time writer for almost two years now. In fact, if you ask my husband, he’ll probably tell you that I’ve complained about it ceaselessly.

“Why’d God give me the skills and this love of writing, but not the opportunity to do it every day? What is he thinking?!” I'd rant from time to time.

Frankly, for a while it seemed like everyone around me was being showered with opportunity, while I stood by, watching and imploring, “Hey! God! When’s my turn?!”

Sometimes, though, I think the opportunities are there, but we simply don’t recognize them.

The problem was that I had defined “full-time writer” a particular way in my own head (i.e. writing and publishing my own books), and I couldn’t see beyond that limited image. It took a nudge from Brad – “Ah, hello? This could be great, you know!” – to get me to broaden my view of what writing full-time might look like.

The nudgers are important in this journey, aren’t they?

They are the people who know you inside and out.

They are your trusted advisors, the ones who will help you walk through a hard decision.

They are the people who will give you a poke and say, “Hey, I think this might be it. I think this might be what you’ve been waiting for all this time.”

They are the people who recognize opportunity when you can't see it staring you in the face.

After that initial phone call from Rachelle, Brad and I talked off and on for a couple of weeks about the possibility of me transitioning from my stable, part-time job of 10 years to freelance writing. The more we talked, the more real and possible the opportunity seemed. Eventually I called Rachelle back.

“So,” I said to her, pausing, “I’m interested in this ghostwriting thing. Tell me more.”

Two weeks later, I gave my resignation notice at work.

Who are your people? The ones who nudge you when you need it? The ones who recognize the opportunity when you can’t?

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The Necklace {part two...after 35 years}

2012-04-18T03:00:00.000-05:00

Once upon a time I stole a necklace. I was eight years old, and the necklace was my classmate’s. I reached alongside her as she worked on a math problem, stealthily snatched it out of her open desk and balled it into the front pocket of my pants until I got home from school. Safely in my bedroom, I buried the faux sapphire pendant and the black velvet strand beneath Ice Capades ticket stubs at the bottom of my seashell treasure box and then stashed the box in the back of my closet.

I never returned the necklace to the owner, and I never admitted to anyone that I stole it until, two years ago – nearly 35 years after the incident – when I wrote about it here.

Fast forward to Easter Sunday 2012, when I opened my in-box to discover an email from a former classmate. She’d come across my blog, read the story about the stolen necklace – her necklace, as it turns out – and wrote to tell me that she was, in fact, the girl.

I read her brief email three times, my stomach churning more with each word as I realized that during the span of more than three decades, I had never once considered her story. Not the day I took the necklace nor in the weeks afterward as I wrestled with the fear of burning in Hell for my sin. So wrapped up in my own guilt and spiritual angst, I never once considered how she must have felt the day she realized her necklace was gone, stolen by a classmate right out of her own desk. I never once imagined how she’d undoubtedly felt betrayed, targeted, isolated and scorned. And I never considered how she might feel should she read about the incident three decades later – how it might open old wounds, tear open scars never entirely healed.

I never considered any of that, until two weeks ago on Easter Sunday, when I opened my in-box.

We exchanged a couple of emails. She graciously accepted my apology, insisting that it was a long time ago, apologies not necessary. “I wish you peace, love and happiness for the rest of your life,” she wrote at the end of her last email. And I know it sounds silly and stupid because it happened forever ago, but I felt gratitude and relief when I read those words on my computer screen.

The terrible irony in all of this is that I don’t remember her. I clearly remember the necklace, although I finally threw it away several years after the theft. I remember our teacher and where we sat in the classroom. I even remember the pants I wore that day, navy blue corduroys. But I can't for the life of me picture her face or even remember her real name. I gave her a pseudonym, Kim, when I wrote the story, but I couldn't have come up with her real name if I'd tried.

Still, I’m so grateful for her email. I’m grateful I had the chance to say that I am sorry after all these years. I'm grateful for her forgiveness. And most of all, I’m grateful to have heard and finally acknowledged at least a little bit of her story.

Peace, love and happiness for the rest of your life, too, "Kim." And thank you for grace.

Have you ever had the chance to apologize to someone for a wrong you inflicted a long time before?

With Jennifer...

And with Ann, writing about the power of the Resurrection this week...

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Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday: On Reaching 1,000

2012-04-16T00:00:00.000-05:00

I recorded my first gift -- spring song of chickadee -- on the pristine pages of a brand-new, spiral-bound notebook six months after my mother-in-law's death, 11 months before my father-in-law would follow her. I suspect God knew I would need this tool to see. I think he knew I would need it to believe he was with us, even when darkness descended.

Today I flip through a notebook full, pages crinkled and curling, spattered with dish water and coffee droplets, pencil smudged.

I notice how many of my gifts involve food...

16 Beef Bourginon in the crockpot... 19 Coffee and biscotti... 21 Buttery bagels

I glimpse the change of seasons...

36 purple crocus buds...156 giant bumble bee...184 scent of fresh mown grass... 706 autumn sunshine on sunroom walls... 767 a husband who scrapes my windshield.

I see how my eyes have been opened in the most mundane places...

82 nun wearing a backpack at the bus stop... 738 mom and little boy watching big rigs drive by... 936 elderly man with his hand on his wife's back in grocery store.

I see how my definition of gifts has broadened and grown...

60 sitting on the front stoop...177 smiling at strangers... 969 the gynecologist... 995 tornado sirens.

I spot my kids' handwriting...

6 Dad hug... 353 sweet lime popsickle... 973 butterfly landing on my shirt.

And my husband's...

121 big homecoming hugs at the airport... 349 carbs... 993 full-court basketball.

In the end, the moments are small, but strung together, one after the other, they comprise something monumental, something transformational, something much bigger than me. I see it written right there, line after penciled line:

A life of daily thanks.

And these small moments, all 1,000 of them, are why I will keep listing. The notebook will stay open on the kitchen counter. The pencil will sit sharpened and ready. The pages will absorb breakfast spatters and our living minute by minute in God's grace.

For everything created by God is good, and nothing is to be rejected, if it is received with gratitude; for it is sanctified by means of the word of God and prayer. 1 Timothy 4:4-5

990 Maple seeds helicoptering in the wind
991 3,200 words written for my project
992 Early morning sun on dandelion seed fluffs
993 Full-court basketball
994 Laughing with friends at dinner
995 Tornado sirens
996 The scent of air after rain shower
997 A husband who remembers to bring the patio cushions indoors before it storms
998 "A dog as big as a cow!"
999 Remembering the Holocaust victims and survivors
1000 Looking for #1001

Grateful for Ann Voskamp, for setting me on this course toward 1,000 gifts...
and beyond.

And linking with Laura...because looking for God in all the small places has been
one big long playdate!

{And thank you, friends, for grace today as I depart from the Hear It, Use It theme. Sunday was a crazy day of work events and soccer games and choir concerts...leaving little time to write!}

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