God's Not Dead- Whether I Believe It or Not

I finally got to watch the movie,"God's Not Dead."  I was going into it with my best efforts at not being cynical, but as the movie ended I was in tears and shaking with anger. So, I'm super sorry to all my amazing friends who loved this movie, but I'm afraid it has hurt our fellow Christians more than helped them. There were several stumbling blocks I found tucked away in the film, but I'll just mention one. Several times in the film when Christian characters spoke plainly about their faith in God, they used language such as "To me, He's not dead, He's alive" or "I think of Jesus as my friend." Now, maybe this is a simple case of poor writing, but those little words "to me" and "I think of" are cop outs and kinda just plain wimpy. 

When I talk about my husband, I don't say "To me, he's a 34-year-old man and he's not dead." Nope, rather I'll just introduce you to Joshua without any mention of his state of aliveness or how I feel about his existence. His existence does not depend on how I see him nor does His relationship to me. He just is alive and married to me- whether I believe it or not. And so it is with God. I do not claim that "to me" He is God. He simply is God- whether I believe it or not. And He is my friend. This truth is outside of myself and independent of me.

When our fellow humans who are atheists hear Christians talk like this, I can't imagine they are very impressed with our faith. It seems to me that they would rather hear us speak strongly like we actually believe this stuff we're talking about. (My dear atheist friends, I don't want to speak for you so feel free to chime in if you're so inclined.) Wouldn't it be better to be bold and declare that God is who He is without adding in the bits about He is who He is because I feel like it's true?

Yes, I'm being harsh with this movie. If something is going to bear the name I proudly claim then it had better be ready to withstand some scrutiny. The movie itself was sloppily written, but I could have forgiven it a thousand wrongs if only it had displayed Jesus' name boldly without cheapening our faith. I'm not saying we should toss this film out, but we do need to be discerning in the movies (and music) that we support. Just because something has a Christian label, doesn't mean it's making God happy.

My beloved brothers and sisters in Christ, please don't be content with "art" of this caliber. Don't be content to watch movies that make you feel good about being a Christian. Let's strive for excellence in our stories because these stories help shape the way we live our lives. And be careful with the words we use to display our faith. The tiniest word can have tremendous implications. We have power in our words and in our art- let's use them wisely.

A Movie Review

Movies have long been one of my favorite art forms. I love watching and discussing them, critiquing them, and diving into the reality they propose. When a great storyteller crafts their art on the screen, all the details come together to form a whole; the script, the actors, the music, the scenery, and even the hair and makeup each hold tremendous power as they work together to create this experience, this story. Once in a while, a movie comes along that combines these elements so elegantly that the resulting product attaches itself to my heart and touches my soul in a mysterious way. Isn't this what good art is supposed to do?

"Finding Jenua" was one such movie. It is a story about a young woman, Edie, who is running from her brutally painful past as she builds a relationship with an old woman, Jean, who is forgetting most of her own once happy life. This is a story about healing. We watch these two women stumbling through their pain into peace. The story is told in a nonlinear style which only serves to give more potency to the emotions that are swirling about and forces the viewer to lean in as the story slowly unfolds. My tears freely flowed as I witnessed the beauty of hope blooming before my eyes. 

Movies like this are the reason I force myself to dig up obscure independent titles on Netflix and devote hours of time to watching them. I'm searching, not often succeeding, but still searching for beauty. I know there are artists in the movie industry who are dedicated to their art and who make significant sacrifices to share their gift with the world. The least I can do is search for these artists and endorse them as much as I can. They are, after all, making the world I live in more beautiful and more honest by their efforts. And they inspire me to strive as they do and endure the labor pains of my gifts as I wrestle with my art to bring it out into the world.

Flannel Shirt

It drapes across my shoulders, this thick flannel shirt that belongs to him. The stiff fabric, starting to soften from use, billows around me making my bulky frame feel small and delicate in comparison. The collar brushes my cheek. It smells like him. A whiff of his cologne, a whisper of sweat from the last chore he did, keeping our home in good repair. I breathe deeply, filling my lungs with him. A glance in the mirror tells me I don't look nearly as cute as I think I do, but I don't care. The shirt hangs open over my clothes, lending me its warmth like arms wrapped around me. His arms. Holding me though he is not near. I pull the fabric tight across my chest.

The Spoken Psalms

I've started reading the Psalms for my morning Bible reading since it turns out that trying to read Jeremiah in February is a *bad* idea. I'm reading these Psalms and realizing that they sound, in my mind's voice, like spoken word. I hear the impassioned speech of a desperate poet, trying with all his arts and knowledge to find words to communicate his plight and then his salvation. I hear his voice rise as he describes his anguish and his joy. I feel the pauses, the weight he gives to certain phrases- Selah. I hear the catch in his throat as he is overcome by emotion at the realization of his god's goodness. I can almost see his hand clenched at his chest as he breathes out the final words, "In peace I will both lie down and sleep; for YOU alone, O Lord, make me dwell in safety."

These are not dry words penned by a religious scholar. These are my kind of words. Words that bring tears and tug at your soul. Words from the heart of a man who suffered well and rejoiced even better. These words are balm to my own heart and they spur me on toward hope, closer to joy, and further into the presence of true beauty.  

I Met a Murderer Today

After a conversation I had today about Jeffrey Dahmer, I was reminded of a poem I wrote 8 years ago at a time when I was struck with the depth of my sin and the ridiculous expanse of God's forgiveness. I dug up the dusty words to share with you all. 


I met a murderer today
I hid my eyes and looked away.
His face was too grotesque to me,
His gleaming teeth a fright to see.
I saw the people that he killed-
Their bodies bruised, their breathing stilled.
I heard the screaming, felt the tears,
Saw the culmination of his victims’ fears.
Oh, what horrors this man wrought!
I uncovered my face and for some comfort I sought.
The murderer does the same, I see
And now I know it’s only a mirror in front of me.

Of Magic and Mugs

This past New Year's everyone in our family got a special new mug for coffee, tea, and cocoa. When I was purchasing the mugs, I ended up with an extra snowman mug that I then set aside, thinking it would make a cute gift for someone else at some point. Totally not a big deal. Fast forward to today when Zoe's adorable penguin mug was scattered on the floor in pieces after an unfortunate accident. She was in tears and understandably so. But when I was able to hand her a brand new mug in the shape of a cheerful, rotund snowman, her eyes lit up and wetly sparkled with almost unbelieving delight. My simple error in buying one too many mugs resulted in a magical moment in our house.

My life is filled with moments like this. Most days I hardly notice the magic happening, but it's always there, buzzing in the air. I'm convinced that when I first emerged into this world, kicking and screaming, that God chuckled to Himself. He knew all the little pockets of mystery that awaited me, all the glimmers of magic and miracle, the dusting of the eternal on every surface of my life.

I've been so grumpy today. I don't wanna do, well- anything. But God (there it is again!) took the ugly minutes and breathed His Spring-like breath on them. Out they blossomed, like so many lilies, reminding me that yes, today is beautiful. And, yes, there is magic in my home.

Snow Angel

I wrote this yesterday after playing outside with my children. Lying on a mattress of fresh snow and feeling the snowflakes falling on my face made me feel like a kid again. 

I made a snow angel today,
A clumsy act of former times.
In the frozen white, long I lay
Stealing this moment my only crime.

Eyes shut tight with smiling lines
Then the hush a whisper brings.
Joy curled round me- frosty vines,
On my face, the icy brush of angel wings.

My Children

I'm amazed at my children. I often look at them and think in wonder, "How on earth did I end up with such incredible children? What did I do to deserve these little people?" If you could see us on any given weekday, you'd know that I am hardly mother of the year or even mother of the week. I yell at my kids, I'm impatient with them, time and time again I put my own needs and wants before theirs. 

And yet, do you know what my kids say to me almost every day? "Mommy, you're the best mommy in the world." They can't claim ignorance. They are front seat witnesses to my sins, my short comings. They are the ones feeling my temper and suffering from my selfishness. But their wide, twinkling eyes see with the filter of grace. They are not oblivious to my wrongdoings, but they choose to see goodness instead. They choose to focus on the times when I am being a good mommy. They choose to look past my sin, cover it with their child-like love, and magnify my feeble attempts at doing right by them.

My babies are teaching me how to love. They are teaching me what grace is. I have four little examples of Jesus running around my house. I don't deserve this in the least. I could focus on my guilt, I could duck my head in shame, but instead I will embrace these gifts. I will embrace the love of God in these children and claim this grace as mine, given to me by the Father of Lights. I will watch my children shine, beaming heavenly brightness in this dark world. And I will be ever thankful for the perfect love that theirs is a droplet of- the love that covers ugliness with beauty and turns this sinner into the best mommy in the world.

My Dad

As I was writing about my mom recently, it made me think about how great my dad is. My mom couldn't have been the woman she was if he wasn't the man he is. He was her foundation, her springboard so she could fly.

When you first look at my dad you'd think he is simply a serious, deep thinking, solid, wise, Reformed pastor. Well, yeah, because he is. But what you may not notice at first is his fun side. His laugh has cheered many a gray day for me. He gets excited and giddy as a schoolboy when he buys a new electronic "toy" like a tablet or phone. He tickles grandkids and lets them pile on him until only a glimpse of his salt and pepper hair shows me he's still under all the wiggly bodies. His hugs feel like coming home.

Growing up in my dad's house was pretty awesome. Mom made life full of wonder and Dad made life full of knowledge. That's a pretty unstoppable duo. Dinnertime conversations often revolved around math concepts, fascinating new words (remember "lacrimatory"?) or theological questions one of us kids would bring up. If all of life was school, then dinnertime was Advanced Placement.

When I was a preteen, I would often come to my dad with the many concerns of my dramatic life. He would gently counsel me, always pointing to scriptures in his old Bible, with the cover made of duct tape. His door and his Bible were always open to me. Because of that, my heart was open to him.

It's been almost thirty years now since the day my dad held me in his arms in that big rocking chair, just moments after I was born. My parents often told the story of how Dad got to hold me first when I was born until my mom demanded, "Give me my baby!" I always liked hearing that story. It summed up how my parents made me feel all through my childhood and beyond- I was wanted.

My dad is one of my best friends. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I'm his favorite kid. (Of course, my siblings say the same thing, but in my case it's true.) I don't know how it's possible for a man to make all his children know they are his favorite, but the thing I do understand is that this very trait makes me understand my eternal Father's love a bit better. It's because of my dad that I can comprehend, in the smallest way, what God's love for me looks like. I know what unconditional love feels like.

Thank you, Father, for my other father. He's the one who showed me what you look like. Thank you for loving me enough to give me this gift of a parent, mentor, and friend all bundled up in the package of a bearded man with a contagious laugh and an unconquerable passion for you.

My Mom

I was thinking about my mom's career and marveling once again. My mom was a counselor for the Women's Care Center here in Erie. Scared, pregnant young women would come to her, needing help, and she would lovingly help them get through the situation they were in and give them a boost into a better life. Sometimes she would help facilitate adoptions, other times she would invite them to come live with us until they could get back on their feet. I don't actually remember the Christmas Eve that a prostitute had dinner with us, but it makes for a great example of the way my mom brought her "work" home with her. She loved this job- this stressful, sometimes terrifying job that allowed her to help people and show them the gospel in action.

So when she left that job to stay home and homeschool us, she made a sacrifice that I'm not sure I'll ever understand. She was saving lives when she pointed scared, unsure mothers toward adoption. She broke cycles of abuse and misery when she gave hurting women a new home. And yet she knew that her children were more important than any of that. This blows my mind, quite frankly.

I know I was a big part of the reason for this career change. I was in 5th grade and struggling in school. I cried on the drive to school in the mornings. I cried at home. I was friendless and despondent. My parents saw the situation and weren't content to leave it alone. (I want to mention briefly that I had an incredible teacher at this time. None of my struggles were because of her. She was the kind of teacher that made you want to dive into books full of adventure and expand your imagination and when she read aloud to us, it was the greatest treat. But even with an amazing teacher, I was not doing well. I needed more.)

My mom stayed at home with my sisters and me (my brothers were older and mostly done with school) and our unconventional education began. We traipsed about historical locations and read plaques and pamphlets ad nauseam. We baked bread once a week, all gathered around the long, flour-covered dining room table, thumping and bumping the bread dough. We wrestled with math, grappled with grammar, and splashed into literature. These were the days I learned to love Shakespeare and dislike Dickens. We would read history out loud while my mom knitted and interjected her comments on various eras. We studied Greek and Latin root words and that is when I fell in love with the mystery of our language. I learned how to cook, how to keep to a budget, and how to refinish furniture. These were the days when I learned that all of life is school.

Please understand me, I'm not saying that all women need to quite their jobs to stay home and teach their children basket weaving. This is just my family's story. For my mom and for her children, it was the right choice. She left a job she loved to be with her kids whom she loved more. She gave us a great childhood and an amazing and unique education. I'm eternally thankful for this gift. She didn't just give us her time and energy, she gave us herself.

Thank you, God, for my mom's willingness to sacrifice for us. I'm starting to understand that now. Help me to be more like her.

Nighttime Walk

Moving in the dark, He speaks to me

Over the sound of the wind-
Through the wind.

He walks with me, He talks with me.
I tell Him my worries,
He speaks love.

I'm sorry, I've damaged again,
I mutilate, I tell Him. See, I mutilate
What I touch.

A wicked witch, I groan, yes, a beast
This fairy tale cuts me down,
My heart sinks.  

I contemplate, I gaze inside, inspect all corners.
Blackness, darkness, wretchedness
Covers all.

His hand comes as the wind whipping my hair,
"Uncover these eyes," He commands.
Scales fall hard.

They say the sun can dazzle, its fire too much to bear
What brightness it boasts falls short.
Oh, this light!

There is good in the blackness, there is good
In my depths, there is cleanness, brightness,
There is good.

I know it is Him, all Him. I whisper,
"What good is in me, is You, my love,
It is you."

They say the sun can dazzle, its fire too much to bear
His smile beams, a thousand suns
Shine on me.

I bask, I warm. His arms surround.
Whispers travel as clouds, enchantments
Brush my ears.

"'Princess' is hardly enough, 'Queen' can't compare.
What shall I call you,
My Beloved?"

I look behind, for surely He speaks to another.
But no, Charming's gaze, like magic
Draws my own.

They say true love's first kiss is all in all,
I know, they are close, but that is too small.
I know it.

"This prince's happy ending has not yet come."
He waits for her, He says- for me.
Still He waits.

What reward can my prince hope for?
For all these years of bitter waiting?
He smiles still.

"Turn the pages, Princess, look through them, Queen.
See the story's ending. See it coming-
E'er after."

Bliss, bliss, yes this. The Prince is waiting
For his prize. The battle was fought,
Blood ran swift.

Bliss, bliss, oh, more than this!
The pages flutter, the pages flip.
He reaches

He takes my hand, away we run, the Prince and I, 

His prize, I, his bride, I, His happily ever after. 

Close the book-

The story is here, in the wind that rushes
His caress tells me I am (can I speak it?) I am-
Beautiful

That is all I need, that is all I know.
My name is Beauty, not the Beast.
The wind blows. 

The Lesson I Learned From My Keurig

This morning I was taking pictures of my coffee maker like a crazy person in my pajamas. See, there's this little metal piece that covers a drip tray that catches all the little spills that happen around a coffee maker- excuse me, I mean a Keurig gourmet single-serving coffee brewing system.

You can see that this metal tray has a star punched through it with little holes that allow the gourmet beverage drips to pass through, collect below, and bother you no longer. But why is it in the shape of a star? A grid of these holes in straight lines would also serve the same purpose just fine. Yet, the makers of Keurig chose a star design. Why? Because it's pretty. It makes the user feel a little classier, a little more special. It adds charm and whimsy.

Well, the reason I was taking pictures of this tiny detail of my kitchen was because I wanted to mark the moment I saw a real-life example of how I want to live. Sure, a life of straight lines would work just fine, but why not do a star instead? A nicely decorated house would serve my family well, but why not paint murals on the walls or use chalkboard paint with abandon? A well-ordered day would be a useful thing, but why not occasionally toss the chores and schoolwork out the window and go run on the beach? Or make lunch in the shape of silly faces? Or write a poem about a dream you had? 

I never want my life to be straight lines. Yes, we need order and structure, but we need beauty and whimsy just as much- and sometimes more. If ever given the choice between straight lines and a star, I want to always choose to add that touch of charm, that gentle kiss of beauty that makes life pop off the page and become worth living.

Why Are You Cast Down, O My Soul?

I'm having a rough day. I'm feeling down, discouraged, uninspired. My self esteem (whatever that is) has plummeted and I keep telling myself that I'm unlovely, unneeded, unwanted- a failure. Days like this are not abnormal. I know there are many of you who, unfortunately, can relate only too well with what I'm describing. But the thing that hit me today was the sudden realization that I haven't had a day like this in a while. There was a time when this was my everyday. Depression covered my eyes like a gray curtain that I could never dream to have the strength to pull back. 

That was my then, but not my now. Now I'm happy. I really am a happy person who loves her life. My brow furrows as I type those words that I know are true even though it feels strange and foreign to say that today. But the sunshine reminds me that what I'm feeling isn't what is true. I am lovely. I am wanted. I am not failing in every part of my life.

So I lift my chin high, push back my shoulders and stubbornly refuse to believe what my heart is telling me. I'm not listening to you, Deceiver. I know what is the truth- clouded and blurry though it may seem right now.

Days like these are becoming rarer and rarer in my life. I'll focus on that. On how I'm being rescued, instead of on the trace remains of this curse that haunts me. 

The sun is shining today. I think a ray just broke through the clouds.