Meeting: Taste of Heaven

I just met an old friend for the first time, and my heart is aching with happiness and a certain sadness. We couldn’t stop smiling for the joy of it, and the tears were ever-present, there, just behind the smiles, because it was impossible to condense lifetimes into minutes. There was so much we wanted to say, to ask, to laugh, to cry about.

The heart knows a kindred spirit. We have shared our stories online—the joys, the disappointments, the sorrows, the blessings…all of it, blessings. And we know there is more to the story that cannot be shared online. There is more to the person than her words in a book or a blog post. Who are you really? I want to know you better.

I love it that some languages have two words for the verb to know. One is knowing about, and the other is knowing by relationship. Through blogging, you often feel that you know the blogger, somewhat, in both ways. And yet, God incarnated each of us into a body, with a voice, facial expressions, mannerisms and other unique physical characteristics. She’s not just a disembodied voice, or words on a paper, or a beautiful soul; it was a blessing beyond measure to meet my friend in the flesh. And to hug.

Today, we had minutes. Someday, we’ll have millennia.

My friend is famous. Thousands read her blog; millions will read her book. Hundreds of people write to her regularly, perhaps daily, and I can only call myself her friend, because I, too, have written to her, years ago, and she has written me back.

And she’s found time to read my ramblings here. She knows about our move to Wisconsin, our church, our theater adventures and our educational journeying. When we met, I didn’t have to remind her of who I was, my name or my story. She knew me. Knew me, and loved me, as a fellow traveler on a pilgrimage. A kindred spirit.

How many kindred spirits must write to her every day! And yet she knew me.

God knows me, in the same way. Billions pray to him every day, hundreds of thousands are born and die every day, and yet He knows me, knows my story, my every thought, the number of hairs on my head. He knows the best and the worst about me, and He delights in me even more than my friend and I delighted in meeting each other today. I, one insignificant woman, am known personally by the God of the universe.

Today I tasted that reality afresh.

Thank you, Ann.

Ramblings on Writing, Newcomers, and the Inconvenience of Soccer

Well, it's Saturday morning and I left the soccer games early so I could have a cup of coffee in the warmth of Panera and write a post about how wonderful it is that it's the last day of soccer!  I would have stayed and watched except I'm hosting as many as 30 people for lunch tomorrow after church, and I still need to finish cleaning, order subs, make salad dressing, wash 10 pounds of grapes, clear off the school room table and make sure the kids vacuum, dust and clean the bathrooms.

It will be our last of three "Get to Know Light of Christ" luncheon meetings for nine newcomers who are exploring membership, and it's been so good to get to know these folks better!  We continue to be amazed and so grateful to God for how He keeps sending us the most interesting and delightful people, with gifts, talents and interests that complement our existing core in the neatest ways.

On the way here, though, I decided I didn't want to write back-to-back posts about soccer. Plus I think Papa Rooster is taking more photos this morning.

Instead, I wondered why I didn't write a post this past week.  I really wanted to.  I had ideas.  I even had time, I think.  I'm just not sure how to fit writing back in to my life.

Back in the days when I posted almost daily, I used to write in the mornings, before I woke up the kids to start our homeschooling day, or late at night, when keeping up my blog was my final and most enjoyable obligation of the day.

Now, my alarm rings at 7, and I'm busy until the two youngest get on the bus at 8:25.  Then the three oldest boys get up, and the day shifts into full speed as we figure out the day's schedule, I remind them of chores and responsibilities, and they enlist my help with errands and school.  By then, I'm in the "git 'er done" groove and my energy naturally turns to cleaning, straightening up, laundry, emails, phone calls, proofreading essays, explaining geometry, managing mail and paper...every day I cross three items off the to-do list and add five.  You know.

At night, Papa Rooster and I have a routine of the last year or so, of getting in bed by 9:30 or 10 and then watching a 45-minute show or two on his laptop.  It's cozy and comfortable to end our day that way together, and I miss it when he's traveling.  But I also miss my late-night reflection time that I used to get while he read himself to sleep and I typed away.  However, far too often I would stay up too late and pay for it the next day, so I appreciate the regular bedtime that our routine ensures.

But when to write?

I've always relied on our theater class and rehearsal schedule to give me a certain number of hours a week, but now I'm teaching a class, which takes away that slot, and my kids are doing soccer instead.  While theater rehearsals are 3-4 hours long, soccer practices are only 1-1.5 hours, and some nights they are staggered so that one starts and ends a half hour after the other, and the practice fields are on opposite sides of town.

Which brings me back to celebrating the last day of soccer, anyway!  Woo-hoo!

I suppose I just need to make appointments with myself, put them on my calendar and tell my family I'm unavailable for that hour or so.  What was it that that one famous author said?  Google tells me it was Somerset Maugham, who said, "I write only when inspiration strikes.  Fortunately it strikes every morning at nine o'clock sharp."

Further questions arise, though.  How to put inspiration on hold when my allotted time is up? And where to focus my writing energies? Should I build my blog? Query magazines for articles? Dare to write a book proposal? If I'm going to spend more time on writing, I guess I want to make it count.

So I think about writing, instead of writing.  Guess I should just start writing.

Ahhh, thanks for listening.  I think that helped.

But my allotted time is up.  The grapes and the dust await!

Soccer Ball, Soccer Fall

I could also have titled this post, "Suckers for Soccer."  It sure has taken over our lives for the last 9 weeks!

But it has afforded Papa Rooster many opportunities to practice capturing action shots, and he's become so good at it, it's tough to choose just a few.  Especially with four kids playing this year!

(You can click to enlarge any of these great shots.)

Since B16 isn't attending a brick-and-mortar school this year, he joined the recreational league to keep up his skilz.  He's managing to hold his own playing with varsity girls who are there for the same reason, since their season is in the spring.

BOOM!!  This solid kick was one of 5 goals he made in this game.  

B12's team moved up to the biggest field this year, so he spends a lot of time running.

The tongue spends a lot of time out of the mouth, too.

  Here he gets a foot on the ball.  Isn't his body at a beautiful angle?

This is Chicklet's first time playing competitively, and she is determined!

She also has the tongue thing goin' on. 

She also has kind of a ballerina thing goin' on with her arms...

And it's workin' for her!

B6 is in his element on the soccer field.

Such energy!  

They've been working on passing. B6 used to be something of a ball hog, but he's really getting it. Today he was proud to tell me about a team-mate who made his first goal today because B6 passed it to him and gave him a chance.

He loves to use his body.

He also has the tongue thing going on.  

I don't have a pic of B16 to post as an example, but trust me, it's a family trait!

Who is the foolish-looking woman in the background?  That would be me.

  (I just can't stop chuckling over this incredibly flattering photo!)

GOAL!!

Nothin' but net.  And yes, that was my boy who kicked it in.

But he's just as exuberant when it's his team-mate who gets the goal.

I could do a whole post on the many faces of B6.

But maybe I'll just save those photos for next Saturday, our last day of games.  

Yes, I am counting down the days!

Sabbatical??

My friends keep asking me, with big grins and voices dripping with irony, "So--how that's sabbatical going?"

It's true:  I'm still really busy.  But I KNEW I would be.  In fact, I could have been planning a wedding in addition to all I'm doing now, and without my "sabbatical," I'd be homeschooling on top of everything else.

So it's actually been a pretty manageable fall.

And it's about to become even more doable in ten days, when soccer is over!  Then we'll have 8 weeks before auditions for the winter show, when theater will replace soccer as our big activity.  Except the time commitment is about half, and the running-around factor is exponentially decreased.  (One place, three times vs. seven places, ten times.)

Even better--and for the last two weeks of soccer--I finally have another driver!  B16 passed his road test last week, and now he can drive himself to guitar, voice, soccer, soccer coaching, and band practice...and help me out with the younger kids' activities as well.

That's going to help me a lot.

Meanwhile, I'm still home educating.  The Bantams 16 & 12 are rockin' the virtual school--keeping up well and getting decent grades--but I'm the geometry tutor that B16 is going to need all year, I'm afraid.  He doesn't need my help at all with English or Spanish, and only occasionally for history or physical science, but math has always been his downfall.  Sigh.  I liked geometry in high school--it was so much more interesting than algebra--but that doesn't mean I'm eager to re-learn it.

So far, so good with the two youngest in public school.  They both have excellent teachers, and they're learning good stuff and are motivated to learn.  I am pleased that they have hardly any homework, except reading aloud, so we have time for flashcards and me reading to them.  I knew Chicklet would probably suffer as a third grader who didn't know her math facts, but whenever we worked on them last year, she just didn't retain them.  This year, she has a test every Wednesday on her "fridge facts" for the week, so she's finally learning them.  She's excelling in other areas, but like her big brother, math is her bugaboo.  It's also her favorite subject, she says.  Go figure.

B6 is doing just fine emotionally, now.  He still tells me he misses me, but only occasionally.  The only thing he asks about on a daily basis is whether it's a regular day or a short day.  Every Wednesday, they get out one hour early, so he has to keep straight what day that is.

So I'm enjoying my sabbatical, being busy...but not as busy as I could be! I've even started adding cooking back in to my life.  Not my favorite way to spend my time, but my family sure appreciates it.  With soccer ending, and my new driver, I may even find time for true sabbatical activities.

I'm not even sure what those would be.  The things I've always liked to do, I suppose.  Reading, writing, maybe a decorating or organizing project. Spending more time with my husband.  Reading more to the kids.  Having friends over for dinner.  No grand plan.

Just more of the good stuff.

Alpha Mass

Tonight, Papa Rooster, B16 and I are singing with the Choral Arts Society of Southeastern Wisconsin, at a church in Racine.  You actually would have to pay to come hear us!  We've been practicing with them for the past six Tuesday nights.

The director of this group is a new friend of ours; he and his wife have been coming to our church for the past six months or so.  He was so excited about this piece--Glenn Burleigh's Alpha Mass--that I expressed interest, and he invited not just me, but Papa Rooster and any of our teens, to join his choir for this special performance.

Alpha Mass is a traditional choral mass following the Latin form, with a Kyrie, a Sanctus, a Gloria, an Alleluia and other elements like a Credo and a setting of the Lord's Prayer.  But the music is in a non-traditional gospel style, often easing into something more like a spiritual or a gospel hymn, accompanied by a jazz ensemble of piano, organ, bass and percussion.

Oh, here is an article all about it.

I've never sung gospel before, and I'm really enjoying it!  I'm singing second soprano, and mostly it's melody with the firsts, so I've had it pretty easy.  Papa Rooster is pushing himself to reach the first tenor notes and find those difficult harmonies, since that section needs the most help, and B16 is sitting with the second tenors and singing what he can.  He wasn't particularly eager to join us at first, but we knew it would be such a good experience for him that we provided an incentive, and he's warmed up to the group and to the task as we've gone along.  We've all been so impressed with the director and how inspirational and helpful he is!  Wow, does he ever know how to draw out the best in a group, and lead you safely through a complicated score.

I woke up this morning with one of the sections stuck in my head--words of joyful praise and affirmation.  I'm so excited for tonight!

If it had been Mother,
Who opened doors when doors were closed for me,
I'd give her the praise.
I'd give her the praise.
If it had been Father, Sister, Brother,
Who set my spirit free,
I'd give 'em the praise.
I'd give 'em the praise.


But it was Jesus,
Who opened doors when doors were closed for me,
I'll give Him the praise.
I'll give Him the praise.
But it was Jesus, 
Who opened doors and set my spirit free,
I'll give Him the praise.
I'll give Him the praise.


Let's give Him the glory...
Glory...
Due His name!


Let's give Him the glory...
Glory...
Due His name! 

Joseph, the Problem of Evil, and a Book Review

"Come closer to me," Joseph said to his brothers. They came closer. "I am Joseph your brother whom you sold into Egypt. But don't feel badly, don't blame yourselves for selling me. God was behind it. God sent me here ahead of you to save lives. There has been a famine in the land now for two years; the famine will continue for five more years—neither plowing nor harvesting. God sent me on ahead to pave the way and make sure there was a remnant in the land, to save your lives in an amazing act of deliverance. So you see, it wasn't you who sent me here but God.

~Genesis 45:4-8, The Message

This past summer, while I was in the musical Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, I read Joseph's story in Genesis from my new copy of The Message.  It's one of my very favorite Bible stories.

I admit to some unsettling thoughts, though, as I read the passage above.  I was expecting the famous "What you meant for evil, God intended for good" line; it actually comes later, after Jacob dies and the brothers worry that with their father gone, Joseph will now take his revenge.  Instead, Joseph is all excited about how God is saving a remnant from the terrible famine that has only just begun...and all I could think was, if I were Joseph, wouldn't I be wondering why God didn't just send rain?

Of course, from my vantage point, I can see the bigger picture of how God used the famine to get the whole nation of Israel relocated to Egypt, so that they could eventually become enslaved and then rescued from bondage.  It's the most significant incident in Jewish history and identity, and the informing metaphor of salvation.

I can see that, but Joseph?

From the typical American perspective, it's hard not to imagine Joseph's suffering during those lost years, imprisoned, enslaved, ripped away from his family and home before he was even old enough to join his brothers in the fields.  All that time gone, all those potential childhood memories, opportunities, education erased from his youth.  Sure, he ended up in a position of power and what he had lost was restored, but at what personal cost?  He could never have those years back.

Couldn't God just have sent some rain?

These are the kinds of questions my kids ask me all the time.  Couldn't God just (fill in the blank)?  Our perspective is so small.

Around the same time, I read Notes from the Tilt-A-Whirl, by N.D. Wilson.  It's a kaleidoscopic look at the world, at God, at good and evil and faith and suffering--and it's extremely well-written and exceedingly funny. I haven't enjoyed a non-fiction book so much in ages, although half the time I was only guessing at what he was saying.  It's helpful if you've had at least an introduction to philosophy, and like all philosophy, it's helpful if you read it fast, and then go back for the finer points.

As he says in the preface:  "This book does not go straight.  It is not a road in Wyoming.  ...It attempts to find unity in cacophony.  The barrage of elements (philosophy, poetry, theology, narrative, ad nauseum) may at times feel random.  ...It is intended to be symphonic:  dissimilar voices and instruments moving from dissonance to harmony.  ...Like the earth and the Tilt-A-Whirl, you will end at a beginning."

And it refreshed my faith that in the midst of suffering, we don't have to understand why or obsess about the personal cost to ourselves.  In fact, we take ourselves way too seriously.  Like hobbits, he says, we are in the midst of an epic story, and we can trust the Author of the story.  Just like Joseph.

N.D Wilson wraps up a section exploring different views of God and death:

Three postcards await our perusal, yea, three visions of the world.


One:  I see a theme park where there are lots of rides, but there is nobody who can control them and nobody who knows how the rides end.  Grief counseling, however, is included in the price of admission.


Two:  I see an accident.  An explosion of some kind inhabited by happenstantial life forms.  A milk spill gone bacterial, only with more flame.  It has no meaning or purpose or master.  It simply is.


Three:  I see a stage, a world where every scene is crafted.  Where men act out their lives within a tapestry, where meaning and beauty exist, where right and wrong are more than imagined constructs.  There is evil.  There is darkness.  There is the Winter of tragedy, every life ending, churned back in the soil.  But the tragedy leads to Spring.  The story does not end in frozen death.  The fields are sown in grief.  The harvest will be reaped in joy.  I see a Master's painting.  I listen to a Master's prose.  

On our role in the story:

Who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?


...Who sinned, this little bit of black oil paint or its parent elements, that it would be used by Rembrandt to do the dark scary bits beneath the windmill?


If you are a glop of blue paint, blessed to be sitting in the sky overlooking Van Gogh's sunflowers, are you there by any effort or righteousness of your own?  Why are you not more grateful?


...The problem of evil is a genuine problem, an enemy with sharp pointy teeth.  But it is not a logical problem.  It is an emotional one, an argument from Hamlet's heartache and from ours.  It appeals to our pride and our nerve endings.  We do not want to hear an answer that puts us so low.  But the answer is this:  we are very small.

And a lot of the rest of the book is about how small we really are, and how grateful we can be for that, and how much we can trust the Creator of  it all, the Author of the story.  The book is also full of wonder and appreciation for the amazing and miraculous world we live in, the story that is played out all around us in creation and in our everyday lives.  It echoed Ann Voskamp's One Thousand Gifts in its emphasis on seeing, sensing and appreciating the world around us.  Notes from the Tilt-A-Whirl is zanier and funnier, but heart-stopping in a similar way in its breathtaking descriptions of beauty in the world.

So, back to Joseph. I think Joseph trusted God completely with the big picture. Sure, God could have sent rain. He could have thought of some other way to get the nation of Israel down to Egypt. But the Author of the story wrote this role for Joseph...and Joe didn't balk at playing his part, even if he was a victim.

Do we really want to skip straight to the last chapter?   Or do we want the whole novel, tension, struggle, conflict and all?

God didn't leave him there.