Mara No More

Data Entry

2012-02-14T20:16:00.000-06:00

To me there is something very satisfying about data entry. I know it's weird, but I like it. With data entry you sort of know that there is going to be a beginning, a middle, and an end, and I find that sort of definition comforting.

Just for Jim...

2012-01-27T18:00:00.003-06:00

...a regrettably brief review from when I read That Hideous Strength last summer.

That Hideous Strength by C.S. Lewis
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

One of my favorite books of all time. I was amazed upon this reading at how much of the story I had forgotten. The contents of the objective room and Arthur and Camille's attitude towards weather were actually my firmest memories. I also realized how much of Lewis's non-fiction writing was inter-woven throughout as I encountered themes that he wrote about throughout his career. That should come as no surprise considering how integrated was both his philosophy and his theology.

Also, I love this book because at moments the story is very strange. I'll have to locate my own copy of the book and read it again sometime in the next several years.

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A Review of Out of the Silent Planet...

2012-01-21T21:38:00.001-06:00

...which I read in a matter of two days, and it only took me that long because of inevitable interruption. I hardly believe in moderation in the course of reading. I flirted with the idea of telling you the entire story earlier today (why I picked the book up, why I had to stop reading at 2:00 in the afternoon, etc.), but you will have to content yourself with only a brief review. This review is adapted from one that was published on GoodReads only moments before:

Out of the Silent Planet by C.S. Lewis
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

First I realized that I never could have read this book when I was any younger. I lacked the patience, and could never have converted Lewis's descriptions into visualizations of thought. I was a great lover of dialogue in those days, and could not tolerate long expanses of description. It is a wonder I ever got through *Parelandra,* and no wonder I gained little from the experience.

This is a work of science fiction--and all that description implies. It is also a bit of a theological fancy. Makes for a great story of course.

Lewis envisions a society totally unlike ours, but similar to what ours might have been like, and then introduces elements of our own society as distorted by the fall of mankind, introduces them as a stranger would, in fact. You must, of course, read the book to find out what happens in consequence.

This book was of course wonderful, and I certainly suggest you read it.. I don't love it like I love *That Hideous Strength,* the third and final volume in the series, but still I say that it was very good. I like the way Lewis reveals himself as... at the end. I shall not say, for it might just spoil the book.

No really, the Lewis bit is only incidental to the rest of the narrative, but I like it. And it ties the book in more clearly with the first chapter of *Perelandra,* which has long been my favorite chapter of that particular book. Oh, yes, I love, love, love that first chapter. I have even quoted it from time to time.

I look forward to reading the whole book [*Perelandra*]in full again now that I am old enough to appreciate it as I never could have in my youth. I'm reminded of the inscription at the beginning of *The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe,* which I first read when I was very young...and needs must quote here at some much later date.

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Madeleine L'Engle!

2012-01-17T18:57:00.001-06:00

I just finished reading The Irrational Season by Madeleine L'Engle, and I'm still caught up in it. This book is just washing over me like what? Like rain?--Like--I can't even tell you what the book is about because I'm so caught up in gushing over it. All the same, I reprint the content of my review here, if only for your amusement. She's an interesting woman, that's for sure, and probably the most thoroughly feminine writer that I've ever tolerated, much less loved:

The Irrational Season by Madeleine L'Engle
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Oh, I loved it and I love her. She's a challenge, and no mistake. I'm a big fan of complete and utter honesty, and yet L'Engle is sometimes a little too honest even for me. Some of her theology is a mite odd, but she is so incredibly real, and speaks to me in terms I can understand that might seem a bit too intuitive to some folks, but L'Engle must have been okay with that.

L'Engle embraces mystery. That's what I like best about her. She confesses her lifelong bouts with atheism, and yet her theism is more real than some people's sincerest belief, and that is one of the things that appeals to me about her. And her understanding--she understands so much.

Still sometimes she says things I had rather she didn't say.

This is a completely unhelpful review. If you've read much of her non-fiction you already know what her writing is like. Her mind flits from idea to idea, and she captures this beautifully on paper. Her writing is less rigorously structured than most, and yet she circles around certain ideas, repeating phrases, repeating her idea's patterns to form a meditation on what it means to be God's creature.

Mostly she writes about the sadness and pain of living in a world corrupted. She has reproduced her own poetry liberally throughout. So much of this book is autobiographical, in fact that is probably its official category, but L'Engle said that all of her writing was autobiographical, because in order to write something she had to know it, know it intimately, personally and well.

Like I said, not a useful review, but I think Madeleine L'Engle was a marvelous person, who wrote a marvelous book, and this one has me wanting to read or reread everything the woman ever wrote. And that is that.

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Morning has Come

2012-01-04T09:00:00.000-06:00

I was going to save this until tomorrow, but have decided to go ahead and publish it anyhow.

I've told you that I feel tremendous relief with this being a new year and all. I told Michael how I did not understand why I would feel miserable in November and December, then suddenly hopeful with the turning of the year, but the Madeleine L'Engle selection I've already shared with you this week sort of answers that question for me. The chapter of The Irrational Season that I quoted from takes it's title from Romans 13:12, "The night is far spent," where L'Engle speaks of advent, the beginning of a new year according to the liturgical church calendar:

In the Christian Church these weeks leading up to Christmas, this dark beginning of our new near, is also traditionally the time of thinking of last things, of the 'eschaton,' the end.

The night is far spent. The day is at hand (2).

People are so often sad at Christmas. They miss their loved ones who are gone. They miss the sunlight, slogging through days that are so often dark and gray. Most of us miss out on fresh air entirely as we spend our few and precious daylight hours locked away inside an office building, behind a desk. The Thanksgiving and Christmas seasons are hard, hard, hard. There's all the pressure of decorating your house if you have a family, buying presents using money you may not have, accumulating debts: debts of money, of sleep, of routine.

What I never knew before is that with the turning of the year the days are getting longer. I start feeling like I can work again. I start remembering how to keep track of all those little details I must keep track of: the contents of the pantry, the history of our lives documented in receipts. Organization at home becomes just a little easier.

It amazes me that for nine months out of the year I have little difficulty tracking all the details associated with spending. No problem paying the bills. No problem filling out the spending log. No problem doing desk work in the middle of the day. There are three months in the year when the task become virtually impossible. Why? Because of darkness. Because of all the extra tasks associated with the season, when I have a hard enough time coping with the regular day-to-day.

We had a Christmas tree, assembled in our living room, decorated by my children, the first purposed Christmas tree I have had in five years of my first-born's life. I couldn't manage anything else, the boxes remained scattered around for the entirety of the season. The kitchen never got quite clean. Presents were wrapped a few short hours before they were opened. But we had Christmas lights inside our house and we had a Christmas tree. This was a huge deal for me.

But look at Romans 13:11-12 with me for a moment:

And do this, understanding the present time. The hour has come for you to wake up from your slumber, because our salvation is nearer now than when we first believed. The night is nearly over; the day is almost here. So let us put aside the deeds of darkness and put on the armor of light (NIV).

I'll let you find the context for yourself. The point I'm making here is that somehow, and quite miraculously, the dark night of the holiday season is now over. I think we Christians celebrate the birth of Jesus at this time because his was the light which came to illuminate our darkness. Now the new year has begun, and not just symbolically, but also in actuality, we move into the light. Often I think that all of life, God's ordering of the seasons, is a metaphor for our relationship with Him. I think that people who work the land know this better than we do, those whose every activity is governed by sun and rain and wind.

Moving from the sacred from the profane (though if all of life is a metaphor as I've proposed, then all of life becomes more obviously sacred), I'm still behind from 2011. I still have this mountain of work on top of me, and the mountain is growing. Even when I have the unfortunately rare, disciplined day in which I work with a will toward accomplishing my goals, a confluence of events prevents the progress that I crave. The timing of certain things has not yet begun to work out well for me this year. Last night I went to bed feeling buried.

This morning I still feel buried. I'm praying, "God, I can't do this job, but You can. You can get me through this day, help me organize my time to make tomorrow a little better. Because today there is too much and I won't be able to do it all."

You take one step. And then you recalculate quickly, or slowly, then take another. At least that is the plan. If necessary, you break every task down into fifteen minutes increments, and take a break ever forty-five, if you're following the flylady plan. I don't, typically, but when I've had to, it's worked a treat.

When this is published finally tomorrow, maybe I'll be feeling a little better. Maybe things will be just a little less a mess. It is January now, which means it is just that little bit easier for me to hope.

Spiritualizing Bill Bryson on the Brits

2012-01-03T19:35:00.000-06:00

I read something else I thought delightful earlier this week, on a sunny afternoon before the cold came. Another day, another quoted passage, this one from Bill Bryson's book, Notes from a Small Island:

One of the charms of the British is that they have so little idea of their own virtues, and nowhere is this more true than with their happiness. You will laugh to hear me say it, but they are the happiest people on earth. Honestly. Watch any two Britons in conversation and see how long it is before they smile or laugh over some joke or pleasantry. It won't be more than a few seconds....

And the British are so easy to please. It is the most extraordinary thing. They actually like their pleasures small. That is why so many of their treats--tea cakes, scones, crumpets, rock cakes, rich tea biscuits, fruit Shrewsburys--are so cautiously flavorful. They are the only people in the world who think of jam and currants as thrilling constituents of a pudding or cake. Offer them something genuinely tempting--a slice of gateau or a choice of chocolates from a box--and they will nearly always hesitate and begin to worry that it's unwarranted and excessive, as if any pleasure beyond a very modest threshold is vaguely unseemly.

"Oh, I shouldn't really," they say.

"Oh, go on," you prod encouragingly.

"Well, just a small one then ," they say and dartingly take a small one, and then get a look as if they have just done something terribly devilish. All this is completely alien to the American mind. To an American the whole purpose of living, the one constant confirmation of continued existence, is to cram as much sensual pleasure as possible into one's mouth more or less continuously. Gratification, instant and lavish, is a birthright. You might as well say "Oh, I shouldn't really" if someone tells you to take a deep breath.

I used to be puzzled by the curious attitude of the British to pleasure, and that tireless, dogged optimism of theirs that allowed them to attach an upbeat turn of phrase to the direst inadequacies--"Mustn't grumble," "It makes a change," "You could do worse," " It's not much, but it's cheap and cheerful," "Well, it was quite nice"--but gradually I came around to their way of thinking and my life has never been happier. I remember finding myself sitting in damp clothes in a cold cafe on a dreary seaside promenade and being presented with a cup of tea and a tea cake and going, "Ooh, lovely!" and I knew then that the process had started. Before long I came to regard all kinds of activities--asking for more toast in a hotel, buying wool-rich socks at Marks & Spencer, getting two pairs of pants when I really needed only one--as something daring, very nearly illicit. My life become immensely richer (79-80).

I have no idea at all whether any of this is true of Britons. Bryson could even mock this idea of small pleasures and I might never notice (by which I do not mean to imply that he is). All the same I find this passage inspiring and have read it several times already, even before typing it up this evening. Somehow it reminds me of Bonhoeffer, who says our only good as Christians is Christ, implying that every other joy we experience is extra and mediated through Him. It reminds me of Kierkegaard's Knight of Faith. It is almost as though Bryson were describing a quality of life developed through praise.

I see connections in my reading I could never have planned. I've been reading 31 Days of Praise by Ruth Meyer lately, and have even given copies to certain members of my husband's family. It' is a lovely little book and full of truth. Living a life of praise makes one available to simpler pleasures. Though it isn't intrinsic to my nature as an introvert, as a melancholy being given to overindulgence in self-examination, I begin to value praise, and I see something valuable in the attitude Bryson describes, not guilt but exuberance. I wait to see God's glory revealed at every turn.

Why I'm So Excited about the New Year

2012-01-02T16:01:00.001-06:00

A. I hate it when people post extensive quotations on their blogs. I hardly ever read them. I hate it even more when they post very short quotations on their blogs with little or no comment.

B. I am going to post an extensive quotation on my blog. I was reading Madeline L'Engle this afternoon, a woman who astounds me with her insight right down into the middle of my soul, and the peculiar way that God made me.

It's funny how so much of my reading these days seems to have come down to me right from the mouth of God, right into my questions and my longings. Even if no one in the entire world ever understood me, God does. And I am so very tired of being misunderstood.

You know if you've been reading my blog, or my facebook profile, that I struggle with depression during the winter months. The short days seem to suck the life right out of me, and there are many times in the dark and cold when I am sad, or anxious, or afraid. According to what I just read, it isn't only Seasonal Affective Disorder or a chemical imbalance that is to blame. It is something so much deeper than that.

Madeleine L'Engle, from The Irrational Season:

A new year can begin only because the old year ends. In northern climates this is especially apparent. As rain turns to snow, puddles to ice, the sun rises later and sets earlier; and each day it climbs less high in the sky. One time when I went with my children to the planetarium I was fascinated to hear the lecturer say that the primitive people used to watch the sun drop lower on the horizon in great terror, because they were afraid that one day it was going to go so low that it would never rise again; they would be left in unremitting night. There would be weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth, and a terror of great darkness would fall upon them. And then, just as it seemed that there would never be another dawn, the sun would start to come back; each day it would rise higher, set later.

Somewhere in the depths of our unconsciousness we share that primordial fear, and when there is the first indication that the days are going to lengthen, our hearts, too, lift with relief. The end has not come: joy! and so a new year makes its birth known (2, my emphasis).

L'Engle is rather mystical, but then again, so am I. I have always been a big believer in new beginnings, in meaning that is transmitted to us through everything we see, everything we experience, everything we taste. God speaks of Himself to us in this. I am thrilled by the turning of the year, even if the rhythm of the days hasn't changed, or our circumstances, or our surroundings. It's a new year. All has been made new.

If you tell me that the turning of the year is merely symbolic, I ask you what a symbol is if not a representation of truth? I make no claim that every symbol is authentic, that it definitionally means what it claims to. On the other hand, the fact that we call something a symbol does not mean that it is not real, that it is imaginary by default. For a moment L'Engle helps me to understand why this is so.

She goes on to say something in the next paragraph that resonates with me this afternoon, something I have thought over and over again, but I'll save it for another day. This may be a week of quotations.

2011-12-31T09:02:00.002-06:00

It's the end of the year, and I'm thinking about all sorts of things, trying to do a little planning, hoping to make the most of 2012. I'm thinking about doing some gardening and yard work this year, trying to figure out what the heck I'm supposed to be doing to jump-start my five-year-old son's formal education, hoping not to miss the special occasions for celebration that are coming.

The same old spiel: This year I would like to become a better wife and mother. I would like to begin to put the proper emphasis on managing our home: not too much, not too little. I would like to live healthily this year.

I prayed this morning for several things, having copied down I John 5:14-15 in my notebook. "This is the confidence we have in approaching God: that if we ask for anything according to His will, He hears us. And if we know that He hears us--whatever we ask--we know that we have what we asked of Him (NIV--the pronoun capitalization is mine)."

For the past couple of days I have been making decisions about what my Bible reading plan is going to be like this year, having perused this blog post yesterday.

Let me say here that I didn't read Justin Taylor's suggestions very carefully. I did not find out what the strengths or weaknesses of any of those plans were. Let me offer this suggestion:

A schedule you have to print out to follow, that fragments your reading among various books each day, is not going to hold your attention or build interest in God's Word unless you are already quite the disciplined person. If you are more like me, if you want to actually read the Bible this year and get something out of it, Keep It Simple.

I tried for years to follow one of these lovely plans, and never made it very far beyond January no matter how much wiggle-room the reading plan supplied. If you really want to read the Bible this year, this is what I recommend:

Set aside a particular time for reading every day. I don't care when it is. I started out by reading in the evening; now I prefer to do it early in the morning. Set a reasonable goal for yourself, and commit to meeting that goal most days.

This'll be my third year to read the entire thing through.

The first year I read a few chapters each night, and read a little extra on Saturdays. I'd read two chapters from one book, and two chapters from another, unless the first book really captured my attention. Some weeks I didn't read at all, but I never let it go for more than about a week at a time without reading. You might have to be a little more strict with yourself in that regard. My goal that year was simply to get through the material. I wanted to get the words into my brain so that I could be mentally working on thenm sort of in the background.

I'd read a couple of chapters from one of the Old Testament narrative books, and a couple of chapters from the New Testament, or I'd do narrative/prophecy, or some other such combination. Whatever seemed good to me at the time. I think the key was to stick with a book until I had read it from the beginning to the end, and make sure that I covered all 66 books (in the Protestant Bible). At this point I wasn't particularly concerned about reading comprehension.

The next year I was more attentive in my reading. I found that I didn't like separating my reading between two different book as I tended to lose a sense of the book by so doing. My goal that year was to pay attention to what I read, and to write down any questions or inspirations I may have concerning the text. If you look at my notebook you'll see that my notes gradually evolved during the course of the year. I started copying down verses that became important, writing out prayers etc. The only thing I made myself do was summarize, and I was lenient with myself even in that. If I really didn't have time to summarize I didn't summarize. But most of the time I made at minimum a brief summary of what I read in each chapter. It's been a wonderful exercise for me, and has greatly enriched my experience of God.

In the past year I have begun to notice that reading a book wasn't enough. I really need to study it to know what is there. This year my goals is to study a book at a time, and not worry about how long it takes me. I tend to rush, so what I really need this year is to slow down. I also want to try to read through the entire Bible at least once this year, but this is a separate activity from study. For the reading I'm going to use a New Century Version that has been sitting on my shelf for sometime and just read. For study I will use either NIV (New International Version, which is the one I made heavy notes on last year) or NASB (New American Standard, which is the one I have used and carried around with me for the past sixteen years).

That's it. Simple. The point is not to read a certain amount in a year. The point is not to become a renowned Biblical scholar. The point is to make the Bible an integral and integrated part of your daily life.

The best way I know to do that is to make Bible reading a priority, but also to Keep It Simple.

Has anyone ever put a patent on those words?

A Review of J.P. Moreland

2011-12-23T07:40:00.002-06:00

The following is a book review I just added to my profile on goodreads.com. It concerns Love Your God With All Your Mind: The Role of Reason on the Life of the Soul by J.P. Morleand. I'm afraid the voice was influenced by a television review I read this morning on hulu.com. I started working on a blog post yesterday that was inspired by this self-same book, but I may not get to finish that one, so here's the review:

I loved reading this book. It filled a need for a week and a half that I've been feeling for over a year: the need for someone to open the discussion of what it means to have a Christian intellectual mind. I don't think the book is perfect, not by any means, and sometimes I considered Moreland's logic to be less than convincing, mostly because he holds logic so highly, and applies it so pain-stakingly in his appologetics that he misses certain non-logical but valid objections to his case. His argumentation wasn't perfect, in other words, but I think his view of things is very sane, and useful to those who feel like they have missed something in their pursuit of a Christian education. He offers plenty of practical suggestions for the church, which he posits should be seriously considered and discussed, if not assiduously implemented (and I did have to look up the word "assiduously" to make sure I was using it correctly). In the last chapter he comes right out and says, "If you don't agree with the ideas and suggestions to follow, then at least argue about them among your brothers and sisters. Find out where and why you think I am wrong and come up with better suggestions." I love this. Moreland says, if you disagree with me, that's fine, but please take the time to figure out how and why so that you may be edified. This is exactly how I think any suggestion in any book should be read and evaluated. This book offers a useful (if slightly confusing) introduction to logical constructions. I'm pursuing supplementary material in that regard. J.P. Moreland's overall point is that every Christian ought to be equipped in such a way that they are able to think through quandaries they encounter in every area of life and hold them up to the light of truth. They must be confident in what they believe so they can be fearless (and non-defensive) in their interactions with others. And those Christians are pursuing the life of the mind should be supported in this so that they may be effective in their service to the cause of Christ.

Hastily Written Commentary on the Hustle and Bustle Associated with Christmas

2011-12-20T16:54:00.000-06:00

I'm feeling grumpy about gift-giving. Why? First of all, I'm not very good at it. My mind and heart are not alert to notice what might make a nice gift for someone I care about, except at the most incongruous and inappropriate times. Second, I hate shopping, and the very last thing I want to do is be in a store when it is at it's busiest. Third, I am absolutely no-good rotten at planning ahead. I thought that I would be very good at it, but I'm not.

This is a problem when it comes to birthdays and at Christmas time. It just so happens that all of these things happen in our little family unit in the space of three short months. It certainly doesn't help that I suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder, to top it all off. If you look at the symptoms as described on Pub MedHealth's website (linked above), you'll know quite a bit about what my life tends to feel like during the winter months. Add to that the lovely and enchanting pressures of the holidays.

But wait! What's this? Nancy Wilson wrote a true and lovely piece about gift-giving that she posted on her blog today. Reading Nancy's post doesn't exactly make me feel better, but it does give me hope that even though Christmas is often threatened with the danger of losing it's meaning and specialness, all is not loss. Gift giving isn't just about the gifts. And with Nancy's words in mind, maybe I'll get to have a better attitude about it when it comes around again this time next year.

My Love of Books Is Quite Ridiculous For the Moment, I Admit

2011-12-16T08:26:00.000-06:00

It turns out that I have little interest in writing right now. Reading has been my focus for several weeks, and shall continue, it seems, to be so for the foreseeable future. I invite you to visit my profile on GoodReads, or to view the sidebar to the right of this post to see what I am currently reading.

The Mystery of G.K. Chesterton's Wonderful Facility with Argument

2011-12-08T07:40:00.001-06:00

I would like to know G.K. Chesterton's secret, how he could debate with such men as George Bernard Shaw, and disagree in such a way as to criticize ideas without alienating the man. How does one learn how to do this? How can I learn to take an idea, analyze it thoroughly, and criticize its weak points, while still elevating the dignity of my opponent? I'm beginning to hate that word, opponent, as I become more and more aware of its singular negativity. I've noticed recently that it must be human-nature to see anyone who disagrees with one as an enemy to be crushed, and I wonder if therein lies the problem? Why is it so difficult to disagree as friends, with the purpose of sharpening one another, instead of seeking rhetorical annihilation? I would very much like to develop such a skill.

The desire to do so, at least that is a place to start. My Dad seems to do this well, somehow managing to make opponents into friends. Our egos are generally so fragile that we tend to take contradiction personally. A shame it is, a shame. or—A shame, it is a shame.

excerpt from a version of The Living

2011-12-06T07:24:00.000-06:00

An excerpt from Annie Dillard's "The Living" as published in its longer short-story form:

He was aware that common wisdom counseled that love was a malady that blinded lovers' eyes like acid. Love's skewed sight made hard features appear harmonious, and sinners appear saints, and cowards appear heroes. Clare was by no means an original thinker, but on this one point he had recently reached an opposing view: that lovers alone see what is real. When he courted June he thought it a privilege to wash dishes with her in river sand. He thought it a privilege to hold her cutaway coat, to look at Mount Baker from her side; he thought it a privilege to hear her family's stories over tea and watch her eyebrows rise and fall. Now, he knew it was.

Is this too romantical? I don't think it is. For several years now I have been observing the mystery of beauty, and I don't believe I understand it any better now than I did when I began. I notice that love uncovers beauty. Infatuation, which carries with it an intrinsic lack of knowing, is what covers ugliness and blinds men's eyes. Love redeems the beloved in the lover's gaze, cherishing what is there even as it seeks for betterment. I think the conflict one experiences within marriage betrays a lack, or failure, of love, a lack that may only be made up when we ask God to let us see the beloved as He sees, and love them thus as well. And this too is love: the commitment to seek God's love when our own limited capacities for love fail.

I love, and cannot love, and this is a mystery as mysterious as beauty. That those who have rejected God can sometimes love as He does, this too is a mystery, though I believe it happens sometimes because of grace, and because of His mark upon them.

Is this mystical? It is. Articulated well? Perhaps, perhaps not. I can't say that I know, but I think it is true. I'm trying now to remember the Spanish phrase we translate into English as "so-so." Asi'-asi'?

The Artist, Conflict, Voices, and the Inner Mono(Dia)log

2011-12-05T08:00:00.000-06:00

Anne Lamott in Bird by Bird, writing about the internal conflict that occurs while the writer writes or the artist creates:

If you're not careful, station KFKD will play in your head twenty-four hours a day, nonstop, in stereo. Out of the right speaker in your inner ear will come the endless stream of self-aggrandizement, the recitation of one's specialness, of how much open and gifted and brilliant and knowing and misunderstood and humble one is. Out of the left speaker will be the rap songs of self-loathing, the lists of all the things one doesn't do well, of all the mistakes one has made today and over an entire lifetime, the doubt, the assertion that everything that one touches turns to shit, that one doesn't do relationships well, that one is in every way a fraud, incapable of selfless love, that one has not talent or insight, and on and on and on.

Levi Weaver posted this video last week on youtube. It too is about conflict. I leave you to draw your own conclusions:

Books piling up on my desk, and a house beginning to smell of yellow lab.

2011-11-30T07:20:00.001-06:00

I expected to have plenty of time for writing, and to be fair I must realize that distraction during the holiday season is to be expected, but man, right now it is hard to get anything done. Hardest to get done is any quality writing, or any writing at all, for that matter. Other things keep crowding the writing out.

I surely am glad I didn't try to participate in NaNoWriMo this November. I've been reading Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird, among other things, and like Orson Scott Card, she makes the act of writing fiction seem possible. On the other hand, who has time to stare at a computer screen for an hour waiting for the words to come? At this time in my life I do not, but I have to remind myself that I have other priorities chosen for me by our amazing, sovereign God.

This week I'm reading books about marriage (Love Busters by Willard Harley, Jr., The Language of Love and Respect by Dr. Emerson Eggerichs), I'm trying to type up a recommended resources list for my Sunday School Teacher (who is also my brother-in-law), and I'm trying to handle the vast array of detritus that accumulates the day you not only move you're formerly outside-dog into the house, but also erect the Christmas tree and pull out every decoration you can find. On top of that I picked out an intense book for my spiritual reading (Desiring God by John Piper). I've done this to myself. You know that metaphor people like to use that describes drowning? I just had a vivid mental image of myself holding my nose under water and trying not to breathe. I can almost imagine the burning sensation about the nostrils, based on memories from the swimming pool where we spent so many days during my childhood summers. But there isn't an item on my list that I haven't chosen. Well, at least there isn't a book or administrative task on my list I haven't chosen.

You can always see my book list, what I'm reading, in the right hand column of my blog. This list changes often because I've obviously prioritize reading as a constant in the midst of whatever else is going on.

I am a studier. It's clear. I may not pursue degrees, but I will always pursue study. This article, I find, has helped me reconcile myself, or at least helped me to see the course I should pursue in terms of school. Yesterday I was at the church surrounded by books and Tim (my associate pastor and worship director), passing by, asked me if I was studying Systematic Theology. Well, I would never dream of going to seminary, but thanks to many influences, including the aforementioned article, I know now I can study these things that interest me to my hearts content. Though classes are great (and I really, really like taking them), they are not absolutely necessary.

So there you have it.

The Attributes of God by Arthur Pink

2011-11-25T08:00:00.000-06:00

This morning I wrote a review of The Attributes of God by Arthur W. Pink. I used to be able to publish reviews directly from Goodreads, but it seems that they have made some changes to the way they do things over there, and I haven't figured out how to work it. So here I am, cutting and pasting. Enjoy.

I think this is a very good book, though not without its problems. What it does it does rather well. Pink's intention is to present the excellent attributes of God, and he emphasizes those ways in which God is so far above us in His person, in His goodness, in His wrath. I do think that it presents rather a one-sided picture of God's relations with mankind. At the same time he takes great pains to correct some misconceptions, for instance, our tendency to believe that God owes us something by virtue of the fact that He created us. This is a very human way of thinking, and I think Pink's intention is to liberate us from it.

The book comes off as harsh, probably because Pink takes what he believes to be a very objective view of man, by which term I mean all persons created in God's likeness, both male and female. He describes and examines God's wrath, which is certainly a necessary exercise as we tend to misunderstand what it means to fear the Lord. We just want to respect Him, or think of Him as our pal, instead of granting Him the fear that is His due. On the other hand, God has always dealt very gently with mankind, if you'll take the time to think about that a bit. I feel like Pink errs to some extent in his emphasis on God's eternal punishment of evil-doers, mostly in the satisfaction he derives from such. Though these are very different books, I feel that I have benefited from having read *Reflections on the Psalms* by C.S. Lewis so recently before embarking on this book.

I liked this paragraph from the chapter titled "The Love of God" enough to post it on facebook:

Here then is abundant cause for trust and patience under Divine affliction. Christ was beloved of the Father, yet He was not exempted from poverty, disgrace, and persecution. He hungered and thirsted. Thus, it was not incompatible with God's love for Christ when He permitted men to spit upon and smite Him. Then let no Christian call into question God's love when he is brought under painful afflictions and trials. God did not enrich Christ on earth with temporal prosperity, for 'He had not where to lay His head.' But He did give Him the Spirit 'without measure' (John 3:34). Learn then that spiritual blessings are the principal gifts of Divine love. How blessed to know that when the world hates us, God loves us! (81)

This helps me to think about the difficulties I have often had with faith. I took some time a while back to make some notes about the way I think about trusting God, but I never finished them. I find it easy to trust God in the sense that I know He is good, He is trustworthy, He has blessed those who have trusted in Him with every spiritual blessing. I have a hard time trusting that the sources of my stress will necessarily be removed. "Christ was beloved of the Father, yet He was not exempted from poverty, disgrace, and persecution." Even if we aren't facing imminent disgrace, persecution, and who's to say we aren't, there are things I have to trust God for that are not guaranteed. On the other hand, there are things I can trust God for that are guaranteed, even if they aren't the "things" that seem desirable to me at any given moment, if you know what I mean. More on that at some later date, I hope.

Pink's book is a valuable resource, to be read prayerfully, and with much thanksgiving, but read it with the understanding that he has not presented the entire story of how God has interacted with mankind. This book is about God more than it is about us. And of course the Christian life is meant to be more about God than it is about us.

Don't worship Pink or Pink's representation of God. Worship God. Use Pink's book as a tool to help you develop the proper awe that inspires worship.

A Morning for Thanksgiving

2011-11-22T08:00:00.000-06:00

Thanksgiving is coming. It's almost here. Two quotations for which I am thankful, that have lodged themselves in my brain so recently:

...seeing that His divine power has granted to us everything pertaining to life and godliness, through the true knowledge of Him who called us by His own glory and excellence. For by these He has granted to us His precious and magnificent promises, in order that by them you might become partakers of the divine nature, having escaped the corruption that is in the world by lust.

I Peter 1:3-4

I felt like God gave this verse to me in the midst of a miserable Bible study I was doing. It was miserable for me, but out of it came this verse, so it was totally worth it. And I believe I have shared this one before, but it is such a blessing:

"Say not you cannot gladden, elevate, and set free; that you have nothing of the grace of influence; that all you have to give is at the most only common bread and water. Give yourself to your Lord for the service of men with what you have. Cannot He change water into wine? Cannot He make stammering words to be instinct [imbued, filled, charged] with saving power? Cannot He change trembling efforts to help into deeds of strength? Cannot He still, as of old, enable you in all your personal poverty 'to make many rich?' God has need of thee for the service of thy fellow men. He has a work for thee to do. To find out what it is, and then to do it, is at once thy supremist duty and thy highest wisdom. 'Whatsoever He saith unto you, do it'" (Canon George Body, b. 1840, and quoted as written in Keep a Quiet Heart by Elisabeth Elliot)

I was reading I Corinthians this morning, and it was almost a random choice that set me to reading it. Looking back over this that I typed up last night, I see the connection between the two. Paul says, "For Christ did not send me to baptize, but to preach the gospel, not in cleverness of speech, that the cross of Christ should not be made void (1:17)," and he was writing this to people who were greatly impressed by clever speech, people who loved to attend orations. If anything, I am encouraged by this because of the difficulty I have in explaining these things to people who don't already understand. God can use even stammerings, and faulty conversation, to show His glory through the gospel.

From my notebook this morning, on I Corinthians, chapter 1:

It seems that Paul was writing here to people who were very impressed by intellectual abilities (what Paul calls wisdom), and physical prowess. Corinth was one of the major cities of ancient Greece, remember. But Paul tells them that God doesn't operate according to these things. Instead He uses foolish things to confound the wise (27). Paul preaches the cross of Christ, which is "foolishness to those who are perishing (18)." So God gives intellectual ability to whomsoever He chooses, but it's almost a consolation prize, because it isn't what He uses to spread the gospel, and not only that, it is a block to receiving the gospel. I think of two wise men: Daniel, who was faithful; Solomon, who was not. One thing I've noticed lately is that intellectual ability is not guaranteed, but the cross of Christ is. There are diseases and injuries that can destroy brain function, but since salvation is not up to us, it cannot be stolen away. Too, our intellects are not what makes us an effective witness for Christ.

And I am thankful for this.

Material things are great, and I am thankful for them. Having a useful brain that does (at least some of) the things I want it to do is great, and I am thankful for that too. Spiritual things, that come from God alone, these far outweigh them all.

Embarrassment at the Grocery Store: What it Really Means

2011-11-21T08:00:00.000-06:00

This isn't a terribly Thanksgiving-ish blog post, but I thought I'd just go ahead and post it anyway. It is the fruit of my very first dedicated morning writing session, which happened last week.

I find I like to be thought well of. I feel terribly embarrassed if I do something I think makes me look stupid. Physical embarrassments don't bother me. Intellectual or commonsensical embarrassments do. That's why going to the grocery store can be such a chore. Tuesday night I told my husband it is an exercise in humiliation. I feel like such a ditz when I'm in the grocery store.

On Tuesday night I bought a gallon of milk in addition to those items purchased with WIC vouchers. First she asked me if I wanted to pay for the milk, which is protocol, but still rather embarrassing. When she told me the price, $4.35, for some reason I got it in my head that when I gave her a five dollar bill and the necessary coins that would be it. Consequently I was surprised when she handed me back a dollar. I looked at that dollar confusedly for a moment, which prompted the cashier to ask me if anything was wrong. I explained, using far more words that were necessary, and I imagine the cashier didn't notice that I was bothered, but I was. I don't always notice my own feelings until many moments later, at which time they sink in very painfully. This is part of what I mean when I say it is difficult being a person like me.

I came home. I complained to Michael. I wondered aloud why it was God has to humble me like this on almost a daily basis. A few moments later I started singing the chorus of a song, which struck me as truthful only after I had repeated it a time or two. “I'm a stranger in this la-and/ Won't You take me by the hand/ I can hear that distant band/ but I'm still a stranger in this land.” It turns out my pain in the grocery store isn't about humbling. It's a reminder that, while God has made me with the roots of all the attributes and character traits He means for me to have, I never ought to get too comfortable here. If I were always comfortable and self-actualized (whatever that means) I might become complacent; I might forget how very much I need God as my comforter and sustainer. Don Chaffer's song goes on to say, “And all I've got to do-oo/ is to believe on You-oo/ then every struggle seems worthwhile/ I can see the promise of Your smile...”

Yes, I'll say it again. Those Don and Lori Chaffer/Waterdeep songs mean a lot to me. I had to take a moment to go online and look up those lyrics, which pulled me briefly out of the writing-process. Now I'm struggling a bit to get back into it.

I used to think I didn't embarrass easily, but I do. I really, really do. It's only that I don't get embarrassed by the same things others are embarrassed by. I am embarrassed my my habit of misinterpretation, which wouldn't be a big deal if I weren't committed to care in interpretation. I most often have trouble interpreting visual information. When Michael and I watch a movie together, particularly one in which the characters all have Western European accents, I often am able to explain dialog to my husband, but he has to explain anything that is only shown on-screen. If it is spoken, I'll usually get it. If it is only shown, I'll usually miss it. This catches me by surprise every time, and I have to ask him over and over again what just happened. He is very tolerant of me in this. I am also surprised by the fact that, while Michael does not tend to remember names, he is very good with faces. He'll recognize an actor that we've seen in other productions, and I'll wind up checking on IMDB (Internet Movie Database, one of my favorite and most visited websites) to find out he is right.

Other things that embarrass me. Standing ovations at concerts or plays. Clapping in church. It doesn't matter who is doing the clapping, or for whom, I always feel a guilty smile coming over my face, as though I were the one on stage. Even though everyone around me is doing it, still I resist. I almost always stop clapping before everyone else does, unless I am really, really pleased, as when we went to see Gillian Welch at the Work-Play.

Joy on a Gloomy Day

2011-11-17T08:00:00.000-06:00

I wrote this a month ago, on a gloomy day, the same day in fact when I wrote this, the day I found the Kay Arthur and the Sarte. I had my voice recorder with me that day, and part of the following is what I recorded. Then yesterday was again a gloomy day, even if the light turned golden come late morning:

I'm walking out of the library. I just found a book called Logic for Philosophers, which may or may not meet my needs for a logic text. I see a guy sitting on a bench with a backpack, and I think he's reading a book. I didn't look carefully enough to tell. I see two other guys testing out a sprinkler system belonging to the library and just seeing those people out there makes me smile, makes me think that the world out there is a wonderful place.

We watched Doctor Who: Gridlock Tuesday night. The episode takes place in this world where people get on the highway and travel for the rest of their lives and they're never heard from again. The world is full of pollution. The sky is hidden from view, nothing to see but the roof of this tube over-head. People get high on emotions that they buy in the form of stickers that they place on their necks. There is no outside. There is only smog. There is no taking a walk. The only way to travel six miles is to get in your car and drive and it's going to take you twelve years.

This New, New, New, New, New, New, New, New, New York (and that may not even be enough news), the setting for “Gridlock”, is an imaginary world, but here we live in a world where we can go outside any time we want. The sky is beautiful even on a cloudy day like today. There are puffy, cotton-puff clouds in the sky as I drive my car. It's beautiful. The sprinklers made me smile because I had to walk around them not to get wet and that made me happy. There is so much joy to be had in these tiny little things: the fact that I walked into the library book store today and found books that I wanted; the fact that I had my little tape-recorder with me to record my amusement over being wet by sidewalk sprinklers; the fact that people sit on little benches, and sometimes they even still read books, the fact that even though I walk alone, I can share the joke with you.

I'm up; I'm reading; I'm writing; It's marvelous

2011-11-15T08:48:00.001-06:00

For now I'll pretend we've been in communication all this time. If I find the time I'll get you blog readers caught up later.

I think that Michael and I made a very good decision last night, all at my husband's instigation. I've observed recently that my most productive working times are certainly in the morning, but only the first hour or hour and a half of any given morning has been free to me. I'm struggling with Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) now that the time on the clock has shifted, which means my afternoons are good for very little. This makes it hard to read theory, hard to write, hard to do much of anything other than sulk, and of course sulking is no good.

At five o' clock this morning, instead of sleeping in, my husband took over. We had some time before the children woke to work on Bible study and devotional reading. This has been my habit for a while now, but historically the children demanded attention very early, occasionally as early as 5:30. This morning, when my almost-three-year-old awoke at 6:00, Michael took care of him. He told me that I had until 9:00 to work on whatever it was I needed to work on.

It occurred to me to want this several months ago, this aggregate of four hours in the morning to work on my brain-stuff, my unpaid self-employment, before my husband would start his working day at nine. At the time I did not really consider such a thing possible.

This morning I made the beds with five-year-old Parker, which is a practically a miracle in itself, and then returned to my office, my study, the laundry room, whatever you'd like to call it, to spend an entire hour reading a difficult French literary theorist. I still don't understand Lukács per se, but for once I got to read him during one of my brain's more active and alert times. And now I have this hour in which to force myself to write. The distractions are still there, but they are minimized. If I am right, this simple schedule change could revolutionize my day.

A friend of mine often talks about limiting obstacles to success. Working in the morning, and allowing my husband to start his working day at what is still a reasonable hour, will go a long way toward limiting those obstacles I've been facing every day. That is our intention in this change, anyway. Only time will tell of it's success.

I've also been doing some different things with the children recently. There will be plenty of time to talk about that later.

For weeks Michael and I have been talking about purposefully setting aside a certain amount of time for writing so that writing will happen more often than not. For weeks I've found the task of sitting down to the computer without allowing myself to do other things to be impossible. But now it's morning. I can sit at the computer and force myself to write in the morning. Knowing that this necessary work is behind me, I hope will stimulate me to use those times so full of family responsibilities more wisely.

I admit to you I harbor hopes that this will combat my SAD more effectively than candles and warm socks ever could. Of course that remains to be seen.

I know better than to pin all my hopes on a single idea. I know that the excitement of beginning often dissipates once routine sets in, and sometimes routine gets irretrievably disrupted. This disruption often turns out to be for the better, but the truth of this rarely reveals itself immediately. I feel like every day is another experience in having God humble me. But for now I am excited because this is the first time in many weeks that I've sat down at the computer and expressed myself in any media other than the brevity of facebook. And the day that begins today is more hopeful than those that have begun otherwise in recent weeks.

I am going to have to find a different time to walk the dog, though.

A Poem, A Poem, A Wonderful Poem about Language: English More Specifically

2011-11-07T09:13:00.000-06:00

Last week sometime I was going through my inbox making changes due to Gmail's helpful new design. There were plenty of starred messages I had once intended to revisit, but never had. It took a while for me to get things into manageable order, but in the process I found an email my brother sent me months ago. His email contained a link to a poem that I immediately fell in love with, having a rudimentary passion for languages, as I do, and the ways in which they are spoken.

To see the poem, click here.

I read the entire thing right way, out-loud, and am surprised I didn't draw the comments of my family. There were, in fact, several words I had never seen before, and my pronunciation has adjusted slightly as I have read the poem out-loud daily since I found it (except that I forgot to read it yesterday). Give it a try. I think it is fun.

Note the poem has not been properly attributed. If you'll do a google search you'll find more information. Pronunciations, of course, vary depending largely on where you live. You're better of seeing the poem as it is being read, or reading it out-loud yourself.

Don't Psychoanalyze Me: Another Fragment

2011-11-04T08:00:00.000-05:00

This one written this week. I used the same name as before because I couldn't imagine another one that wouldn't feel trite to me. I had been considering participating in National Novel Writing Month, which is why I began working on this. Note that I haven't worked it; this is just what came out. Compared with what I wrote months ago and posted earlier this week, it seems to be more of the same.

I can't actually imagine writing a novel, coming up with characters, naming them, researching things I know nothing about. How did Walker Percy do it? How does Buechner? How does anyone?

Not this anyone.

She ran down a corridor that seemed never ending. Never ending. Never ending. Rending. Past the soda machines. Past the closed doors with their glazed-in openings. Yes, the corridor seemed never ending, but so did the running. Her memory of her running had no beginning, and it seemed quite possible at the moment that it wouldn't end. Running toward something? Or away?

True that the corridor branched off in other directions at times. For some reason the turnings seemed ominous and she couldn't remember having taken any of them.

Running and Running and Running. Never foot-sore. Ever fleet.

“I've been reading too much symbolist crap,” she said out loud. And that was it. There was nothing after that. Not even a transition.

Waking. Walking. Not even out of breath. Outdoors. Sunshine. Sidewalks. No running.

Min's life was quite conventional, in fact. There was the waking every morning, both suddenly and early. The stumbling to the coffee pot, pouring a cup in the dark, using the light from the microwave to insure she wouldn't spill. Not even feeling her way as she walked silently through the dark. At least Min hoped her steps were silent. There was no way to be sure. Getting dressed. Walking the dog. A quick breakfast and then to work. The evenings were practically the same, only in reverse.

It seemed like there might be an element of haunting going on, though she wasn't sure what it was that gave her that little chill at an unexpected moment—an undisclosed moment almost, as she had a very hard time finding a way to frame it. Was it before or after the wine was poured, or somewhere in between? Was it in the second between turning the tap at the sink and the water rushing out?

A Fragment of a Story About Min

2011-11-02T06:36:00.000-05:00

I don't have the discipline or the imaginative scope to write fiction. The best I can do is drift along with the thoughts that occur to me in the space of ten or so minutes. Yesterday I tried it. The results were directionless, but I hope they were at least interesting.

Here's a fragment of fiction I tried many months ago, with introductory rambling. My brother, David, provided the name:

If I were to write a story about a character named Min, what sort of story would it be? Is Min male or female? Where does she live? Does that even matter?

My imagination is too underdeveloped for me to know how to do this.

She made pancakes one morning, but she couldn't find the syrup. She was out of butter too, so she had to eat them dry. But the coffee was hot and black.

In the corner of the room sat an angry pile of abandoned art supplies. She had used her entire paper ration in the space of two weeks, and though she was unsatisfied with her drawings, she had yet to make the decision to throw them away. The ideas had refused to come. The lines, though often converging at the appropriate angles, refused to represent either her thought, or her view of the abandoned meeting house across the street.

She longed for the meeting house across the street, with a longing that made no sense at all. She thought, how sad that the space had been left empty for so long. There should have been someone there to care for it, someone to fill the rooms with lamplight by night, someone to trim the hedges, repair the wall, sweep away the cobwebs, bring it to life, fill the halls with voices of spirit and joy, but there was none of that now. Hadn't been for some time.

At least there was light in her little room, and she had windows. Windows to watch from, windows through which to see. The windows were what made her life possible. Without light from the sun by day and the moon by night, she might just curl up into a ball and never try again. The light called her out of sadness. It called her out of gloom. But what it wouldn't do, and never could, was restore to her what had once been lost.

He was watching her. She knew it. Waiting to see what she would do. Would she reject the gift that he had left her? Would she ever remember to ask him what it was for? She had such a hard time remembering, remembering to ask him that question. Sometimes it was there, right at the tip of her tongue, but then she would swallow it, embarrassed. She thought somehow to know without asking. She thought perhaps that for once he would refuse to do his duty by her, maybe just this once, she would fall and he wouldn't catch her. Maybe just this once, if she stayed very, very still, he would forget about her, let her plunge. Maybe just this one time she would lose his grace, and she would finally get what she had coming to her. The earth had bewildered her, until now she preferred his judgment to his love.

I thought about her that day, as I tried again to understand myself. Why would she prefer his judgment to his love? Did she think his judgment would be easier to bear? Did she think that judgment was better because it gave her a measure of control? I thought of her as nothing but a dream I'd dreamed myself. I had never been quite sure if she were real. And maybe that was her problem too. She couldn't figure out whether she were real either. That might explain why the drawings never worked.

Whatever the truth of the matter might be, it was time for me to go about my business.

How to Calculate a 15% Tip

2011-10-26T08:00:00.000-05:00

I remember the day I learned how to calculate a fifteen percent tip. I was having lunch at the 15th Street Diner in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, with my mom, when I overheard a woman at another table explaining it to her teenage daughter. First calculate ten percent, she said. Ten percent is easy. It sounds complicated when I say that all you have to do is move the decimal point back a space, but you can probably make that calculation without hardly trying. Then you divide the ten percent in half to get five percent, and add the two together. However she explained it was very clear and simple, and I'm afraid my explanation isn't nearly so.

Here's an example: Say you spent $32.82 on your meal, and you're on a tight budget so you only want to leave a fifteen percent tip. 10% of $32.82 is $3.28. Half of that 10% is $1.64. Add the two together ($3.28+$1.64) and you wind up with $4.92. $4.92 equals 15% of your total food bill. If you're dining with my husband you're going to tip more than that. To quote My Blue Heaven, "I don't believe in tipping; I believe in over-tipping," though what we do can hardly be referred to as over-tipping. My brother, who has worked in food service for a time, suggests a $3.00 minimum tip.

Once you know how to calculate 15%, 20% becomes easy.

Thoughts on God and us

2011-10-25T14:36:00.002-05:00

Sometimes I only want to tell you everything I did today. Sometimes I don't want to expose myself to criticism. Sometimes I'd rather not talk about it. Sometimes I cannot shut up. I learned a useful prayer from reading Elizabeth Elliot, useful when you need to pray but don't know what to pray, useful for praying for anyone, in any situation.

Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on us.

This has become part of my prayer today and every day:

Have mercy on us, Oh Lord, have mercy. You know the secrets of our form, how weak we are, both how much we can endure and how little. The mysteries of our human existence are no mystery to you. Be gentle with us, Lord, we beg you, but at the same time make us more aware of your limitless grace.

I appreciate that we are never useless tools in the hand of a mighty God. I liked this quotation, very much, as shared by Elisabeth Elliot in Keep a Quiet Heart:

Say not you cannot gladden, elevate, and set free; that you have nothing of the grace of influence; that all you have to give is at the most only common bread and water. Give yourself to your Lord for the service of men with what you have. Cannot He change water into wine? Cannot He make stammering words to be instinct [inbued, filled, charged] with saving power? Cannot He change trembling efforts to help into deeds of strength? Cannot He still, as of old, enable you in all your personal poverty 'to make of many rich?' God has need of thee for the service of thy fellow men. He has a work for thee to do. To find out what it is, and then to do it, is at once thy supremeist duty and thy highest wisdom. 'Whatsoever He saith unto you, do it.'" (Canon George Body, b. 1840, exactly as quoted by Elisabeth Elliot.)

I quote it here because in my prayers right now I have nothing but stammering words. When I meet with my friends to discuss what seem like important things I have nothing but stammering words. When the Jehovah's Witnesses come to my door I have nothing but stammering words. Have mercy on us, Oh Lord, have mercy.