TC Larson

Stories and Mischief

A reminder when we’re surrounded by dry bones

8
Apr

A valley of dry bones.

Decay

Death

Loss

A life broken down

Hot wind swirls the dust into the air, diffusing the sun, invading lungs. Any move to reposition, to turn your back to the wind shifts your uneven station. Try for stable footing and kick up more sand, amplifying desperate rasping cough. Pull your shirt over your mouth, try to filter out debris, find the good air. All around you are bones and little else, lifeless, evidence of the Final Destination.

////

The building didn’t excite me. I figured if I was going to visit another church, I should at least make it worth my time and do something different, but if the building was any indicator, I was walking into something that had a different name but was just the same ol’, same ol’.

People wore name tags.

The former pastor latched onto me and told me (three times — he’s getting on in years) the same four tidbits about his wife and about the woman playing the piano. He also hugged me, which made me wonder if he thought I was someone he knew instead of a complete stranger.

They had kneelers. We didn’t use them in this service, which both disappointed and relieved me.

The pastor wore a collar.

The guy who sat in front of me must have had some chips stashed in his pocket, Napoleon Dynamite style. The smell of cool ranch kept wafting back to me.

They passed the peace. They did numerous call and response-type readings. They did a Kyrie Eleison (and not down the road where I must travel). The congregation fully participated in the service, if only to pay attention and stand or sit as dictated by the bulletins in our hands.

Sun lit the huge stained glass window, which hadn’t been visible from where I had parked and entered the building. That window was a form of worship in itself, the way it painted bright color blotches on the wall and filled the whole room, all the way up to the soaring roof, with gentle light.

I didn’t expect to have any need met that morning. I just wanted a change of pace from the mega-church I attend, wanted a sense of rhythm and tradition. I wanted to be reminded that the Church is wide and the little mousehole I inhabit is not indicative of the mansion of faith expression.

I didn’t expect God to show up — I didn’t want to put that kind of pressure on Him.

/////

Maybe it’s a normal passage used during the Lenten season.

Maybe it is dictated by church calendar or a book of the order of service that this denomination uses for all services.

Maybe it was a fluke.

That morning, I came to church having just worked through an art journal that focused on a passage in Ezekiel 37, the valley of the dry bones.

[Let me just say, as a general rule, I don’t spend a lot of time in Ezekiel — or any of the minor prophets for that matter.]

Here, let me show you what came out of that attempt:

Dry Bones Flowers

So when the pastor (a woman, also something different (and refreshing) that you don’t see all the time) began her sermon and focused on Ezekiel 37, the valley of the dry bones, my heart gave a start.

Why, out of all the entirety of the Bible, was she working from this text on the one and only time I’d ever stepped into her church?

/////

It is so easy to concern ourselves with the micro, the zoom-in, the close-up.  We get so focused on the inner workings of one system that we forget about the whole organism.

In terms of church, it is really easy for me to focus on evangelicalism. It’s what I know. It informs my worldview in ways I’m not even aware of. It’s the subculture I’ve lived in my whole life.  I can’t stress enough the ways this influences me without me meaning it to — it’s the same way you can’t hear your own accent when you’re around other people who have the same accent. Only when you are around someone with a different accent do you become aware that there are different ways of speaking…and you still think you don’t have an accent!

There have been so many hard things happening in the evangelical world and so many ways in which I feel like the entrance door keeps shrinking and shrinking, even for those who have been allowed in previously. There seems to be less and less room for conversation, less consideration of the conflicting sides of issues (without simply waiting until it is your turn to make your argument) and the merits of a differing conclusion, and suspicion about the true state of someone’s faith should they want to have these discussions. It is disheartening, demoralizing, and to be honest, it makes me want to crawl into bed for a month of Sundays.

This is why it is so essential to zoom out.

Stained Glass Window pews bones

Instagram: tclmn

As much as the evangelical church has a corner on the “right way” to believe, there are other, long-standing (longer-standing, in fact) expressions of faith. These are usually viewed with condescension in evangelical corners, or a raised eyebrow about the validity of the parishioner’s real relationship with God, but these non-evangelical congregations tap into something evangelicalism doesn’t — a sense of history, tradition, and world-wide connectedness. There is a whole history of church movements that I am largely ignorant of, and each movement has an arc — a rise and a diminishing — within the larger story of faith.

I don’t delude myself into thinking that all the answers are simply in a different denomination, something mainline or even non-Protestant (is there anything that is non-Protestant that isn’t Catholic???). I know enough about church life to know that the church, whatever church that is, is made up of humanly human people. There is no perfect church.

However, as a visitor, upon hearing the pastor preach on a fairly obscure verse that I had been focused on in the days leading up to that visit, I have to tell you that I was reminded of the size of God, of His movement and activity in places I will never know about, in people I’ll never encounter, in expressions I might not recognize at all.

God’s crazy like that.

And me, with all my angst and grappling and raging, I am just one dry bone that God breathed into and brought back to life. There is a whole valley around me, other bones God is working with, breathing into, bestowing His Spirit on. He is big enough to handle it.

Thank God for that.

What is your faith tradition? Does it satisfy your desires for expression of your faith? What are ways you incorporate your faith into daily life?

 

 

A favorite story and a guest post

28
Mar

cropped-colorful-abstract-header-02.jpg

I was just going to say that I couldn’t undress because I hadn’t any clothes on when I suddenly thought that dragons are snaky sort of things and snakes can cast their skins. Oh, of course, thought I, that’s what the lion means. So I started scratching myself and my scales began coming off all over the place. And then I scratched a little deeper and, instead of just scales coming off here and there, my whole skin started peeling off beautifully, like it does after an illness, or as if I was a banana. In a minute or two I just stepped out of it. I could see it lying there beside me, looking rather nasty. It was a most lovely feeling. So I started to go down into the well for my bathe.

Thus begins the passage from C.S. Lewis’ Voyage of the Dawn Treader that has stayed with me and resurfaced many times over again since I read it as a child.

Today I am guest posting on the Story Sessions website. Story Sessions is a group organized by Elora Nicole that challenges people to write the hard things, be brave, and push our writing to be its best. It is open to anyone who wants to subscribe and become a better writer. I had no idea what a great thing I had stumbled upon when I signed up. I am so honored to be included on their site today, and I’d love to have you come read the rest of my post.

Here’s the link: http://bit.ly/1myIEqT and thank you for coming by today!

 

Just one word

27
Mar

Can you name one teacher who saw something in you?

Or can you remember a coach who pushed you to improve, knowing your potential?

Do you have champions in your life? People who claim something – call it out – about you before you’re able to see it in yourself?

Calling to you quietly,

Singing over you with words you dare not repeat,

Dreams you dare not claim as your own,

Bolster, buoy you with unearned confidence, trust, and opportunity.

Secret poems written in scrawled pencil, smudged by the hurry to get it down and tuck it away in its safe place.

Songs hummed over and over inside your head, only aloud when the woods or parking lot afforded you safety and solitude.

Have you heard the whisper?

Let it draw near and echo in your ears.

You are mighty.

You are beautiful.

You are powerful.

You are fierce.

You are loyal.

You are true.

You are not alone.

You are not finished,

And no matter where you are right now, God is not finished with you yet.

If you can hear just one word (which is really more than a single word, but it is a single thought) today and let it ring mightily in your ears: you are loved. Now. Here. No modifications or improvements required. You are loved.

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Question: Is there someone who makes you brave, calls out the best in you, someone who makes you be the best version of yourself? How do they accomplish this feat, and how can you do it for someone else?

This is a link-up with Lisa-jo Baker, who just happens to be having her book come out next week. If you want to linkup, read other posts, or find out more about her book, here’s the website to click: http://lisajobaker.com

I’m Taking Death and Suffering Personally

26
Mar

Every death I hear about is now personally connected to me, whether or not it is actually someone I’m close to. I’m not arrogant enough to think I will maintain this level of sensitivity, but right now I embrace all hardship and suffering as an affront to my own person. And death and suffering are suddenly everywhere.

In the past six months…

A friend I had in college died, leaving behind a husband and two children. This was a healthy woman, a woman my age, a woman I had not talked to face to face in more than a decade. I felt her loss keenly.

My uncle is considering drastic steps to combat his multiple, complex health issues, and I count his suffering as one of my own.

My sister-in-law lost her grandmother, and I grieve almost as if it had been my own grandmother.

My grandfather passed away and even though he was 94, it was quick and unexpected.

And now, after a controversial decision and a drastic reversal by a hugely respected charity organization, the level of polarization within the Christian community was revealed.

What are these dark thoughts of inevitability, impending doom and constant bracing for the worst? What is it that makes my heart feel clenched and heavy?

My sister named what I could not: despair.

Isn’t that Melodramatic?

Despair sounds like a pretty drastic word. I think of it being used in a scene from Princess Bride when the albino henchman with the raspy voice starts telling the heroes their location: the Depths of Despair.

I used to be aware of danger, but didn’t bother with the possibility of it coming to me. We bought life insurance, but didn’t really discuss the possibility that one of us would actually DIE. It was all theoretical, and to dwell on it felt pessimistic (and honestly, it really didn’t occur to me to dwell on it anyway – it just wasn’t in my mind). There’s almost always something positive to find, even in the midst of hardships. Sometimes you have to zoom waaaay in to notice it, but the positive is in there somewhere.

Is this what was meant in Romans 12:15, “Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep”? Have I only chosen to listen to the latter all these years, ignoring the challenge to enter into weeping?

Weeping makes me all red, puffy and exhausted. It makes my throat hurt. I’m not a pretty or dainty weeper, and it might be paired with wailing when it happens. It is probably uncomfortable for any parties who witness the weeping, but I’m glad to say that it is only a small number of people who have been subjected to it. (I’m sure you’d be happy to have avoided it if you knew what it looked like.)

Other translations of the verse mentioned above use the word “mourn” and today I feel the burden of the world, and a sense of mourning.

Some may say that word too is dramatic, too extreme for the circumstances.

I disagree.

Mourning is just right.

/////

There are events so significant, their scope so broad in impact that mourning and despair are the only appropriate words.

Tonight, I am focused on the betrayal so many believers feel, on both sides of the issue. Some felt so betrayed by World Vision’s decision to allow gay married couples to be on staff that they withdrew their sponsorship and condemned both the decision and reiterated their abhorrence for homosexual people. People on the other side of the issue got their turn to feel betrayed when the organization reversed its decision, and asserted that they’d make sure their employees signed a document agreeing to a specific lifestyle code.

It feels like the final glove has been thrown down in the ongoing battle. Knives have been drawn in a fist fight. There is no room for middle ground anymore. How can either side try to meet in the middle and agree to disagree when the reactions have been so extreme? Such vehement spewing of un-love in the name of love makes me question if there can be – or should be – reconciliation  after such a display. Where can we go from here?

Despair.

Fracture.

Heartache.

Sorrow.

Sorry I don’t have a tidy end to this post. I would ask that in discussing this, we all keep each other’s humanity at the forefront of our minds, and treat one another with utmost respect in any comments we offer, knowing that we come at this from very different angles.

 

 

One Eye on the Sky

21
Mar

It might be spring in Minnesota.

I say “might” on purpose.

We have safely passed the boys state hockey tournament, and that seems to be a good sign, since there’s almost always a snowstorm during the tournament.

The DNR records say that there have only been a couple historic snowstorms in March (2007, 1997,  and 1985 if you’re curious) so it is possible that I’m overreacting in my hesitancy. Just because it’s…

STOP>>>

The above post was begun two days ago.

Yesterday, it snowed more than two inches. Heavy, wet snow that blew around and made a mess of the nice clean pavement we were so excited about.

STOP>>>

Now we’re up to the current time and it is 40-some degrees, sun is shining, birds tweeting in the trees. It seems like one should be able to relax into believing it is truly spring.

Except that I can’t.

I can’t believe it and get sucker punched once I relax. And by sucker punch I mean another foot of snow, or an epic ice storm, or a Noah-esque flood.

STOP>>>

Ooookay, for real, now we’re really up to the present time and it is 20 degrees and it is forecasted to be a slushy, icy mix of nasty over night.

Why do I even listen to these forecasts? It’s not like I have some major cross-country travel plans. I’ll probably stay within a five mile radius, and maybe not even leave my house (who am I kidding? I will leave the house. We need milk, eggs, and there’s always a reason when you have a need for a fountain-drink…every day).

‘Is this going to be an ongoing, herky jerky post about the weather?’ you may be asking yourself.

http://mrg.bz/D8JWTr

http://mrg.bz/D8JWTr

Well, I am in Minnesota, so the weather is like a person. We all like to talk about her behind her back. It brings the rest of us together to gossip about her, like “Did you hear that they got another six inches of snow and had to close I-94 out west? That’s crazy!” You can say this to just about any total stranger here, and you’ll be able to keep a conversation going for a solid three minutes without ever knowing the person’s name.

To answer your question though, because, Dear Reader, I am a mind-reader and I’m sure that’s what you were asking yourself in not so many words — No, this is not going to continue to be about the weather. Shall we move on?

The way I feel about the weather is the way I feel about life right now.

Just without the hopeful expectancy of spring thing.

This is unlike me, because I tend to be a blind optimist, someone who sees possibility in the most hopeless circumstances, someone who can find a positive angle in almost any situation. It’s like I need the positive, to be without it is something I get frustrated with and remove myself from. Most people have friends who they might categorize as an Eeyore friend, someone who leans towards being mopey, negative, down-on-their-luck all the time.

I don’t have many of those people in my life.

It’s not that I’m actively anti- Eeyore when I walk around all day. I’m just not drawn to them, nor they to me. We’d probably drive each other nuts, because our approach to the world is so very opposite.

Thing is, I’m starting to see the merits of being more Eeyore-ish.

Waiting for the other Shoe

My family’s been listening to a book-on-tape (but they’re CD’s now – did you know that? It doesn’t have nearly the same ring as “book-on-tape” does it?) of The Magician’s Nephew by C.S. Lewis. Near the end, there’s a statement that goes something like this:

In life you’ll find that when things go bad, the tend to go on getting worse for a while. But when things start looking up, they go on getting better and better.

It’s not a direct quote, but that’s the basic idea.

Right now, things are in a downward trend. It seems like things just keep piling up on top of one another. Rather than expecting things to turn around or start easing up, I have started to wait for the “other shoe to drop” and since nothing has specifically happened to me yet, it’s probably going to drop on my head.

I know with my brain that God doesn’t make bad things happen.

I accept that the world has a lot of pain and brokenness, even while it has beauty and joy.

However, with this series of events, my heart has become more superstitious, waiting for the next bad thing to happen, preparing that it will happen to ME, and keeping an eye on the sky. It’s not that I don’t trust God, I just feel like He’s asleep at the wheel right now. I’ve got top watch Him from the corner of my eye, keep my abdominals flexed so I am braced for whatever will come flying at me next.

And I don’t like it.

If only there was a nice, neat way to wrap this up, a good lesson that came from it or a tidy way everything worked out.

There’s not.

It might not work out nicely.

That’s the truth of it. And to face that square on is a scary dose of reality that I’d rather avoid.

Floating Together

17
Mar

Lately I’ve been fixated on an idea, trying to find the right way to express it.

That’s not as easy as it sounds, even in general, but you see we’ve also been on Spring Break over here.

We didn’t go on any exotic trip to distant lands, but we stayed plenty busy.

I hope, then, that you’ll indulge me if my expression of this idea is less than beautiful.

I’ve been thinking about the body of Christ, the fellowship of believing people.

When I began picturing it, probably because I have three elementary-age kids, I thought of gack…

(Or is it officially Gak with a little circled TM after it?)

Start with Jello,

Goo,

Slime,

Flubber,

Something smushable, physically both solid and liquid, translucent or opaque, a state of plasma.

Gooey and messy, mesmerizing even while it is a little bit gross.

This is the mystical body of Christ.

Okay, not the gross part, but stick with me for a minute.

Imagine an enormous, floating state of suspension off in space somewhere.

And you’re inside of it, along with a LOT of other people.

This is how I picture the body of Christ.

It’s not a physical body, of course, but the community of believers aiming in the same direction, aimed at resembling Him more and loving more fully.

Don’t try to google map it, you won’t find it.

Don’t bother making a pilgrimage, you won’t get there.

It is what happens when you understand that there is world full of people who fill the air full of holy moments, full of whispered hopes and tear stained prayers.

These people are your people.

Their theology may look different.

Their details may not line up with yours.

But when the brush of angel wings pass by, they feel it.

When the Spirit settles heavy in the room, they know.

These are my people.

Maybe the image of a river current works better for your stomach than the idea of being surrounded by and submerged in breathable Gak. I can’t blame ya.

Let’s go with the river idea (but I have to say that the tangible, textural surrounding of plasma, almost like being “underwater” in a ball pit has a sense of a full-body hug, which does work for me).

A river…Ahhh…that’s nicer.

Creek River Tunnel Mud

Like a quiet river, the body of Christ carries me along when I can’t paddle myself. Their current lifts me and I lean back into the knowledge that they can pray on my behalf. They can believe for me when my belief is reduced to a pebble. There will come a time when I can carry someone else along, hold them up so they can safely drift. Right now it is my turn. It is my turn to trust their prayers will be heard, since I cannot form them on my lips. I trust their candles, their worship, their long obedience that will pull me further down river until I can regain my footing and my strength.

My own lack of activity does not diminish or detract from the river itself. I am still an addition, and I am enveloped before I need ask.

I glide along beside them, safely held until I regain, or form in a new way, the faith I’ve always had.

Even though this post has a sense of lightheartedness, I mean this in every serious way.

There are days when too many things are piled on top of an already heavy burden.

There are days when God’s hand seems withdrawn.

Sometimes, I want to take issue with God and the slapdash way He’s running the place.

Sometimes I don’t want to think about Him at all.

In these times, be they long or short, I have a sense that I don’t have to muster up faith. I don’t have to pep-talk myself into belief. There is a whole ball-pit, Gak blob, river full of people who can do that for me. Until I can do it myself, they can float me along, regaining my strength, hope, optimism, trust.

And if you’re one of those people in the river, I thank you. I hope that one day I will be able to carry you along on the current of my belief, and I hope that is soon. Until then, I won’t struggle. I will allow myself to depend upon you.

Don’t let me get water up my nose, okay?

 

She is Returning to Me Now

8
Mar

In second grade (or thereabouts — it’s been so many years now) I had a wonderful babysitter. Her name was Kris, which was so cool because it was a name for a boy or a girl, a new concept for me.

She taught me how you don’t pronounce the ‘R’s at the end of words in pop songs, and used Bette Midler’s song, ‘The Rose’, as a case study.

She sketched beautiful faces that had eyes drawn in exquisite detail — at least they were to my second grade mind.

When we moved to a new neighborhood too far away to continue seeing her, I wrote letters to Kris. They were long, descriptive letters, probably aimless and for all I know, unintelligible in my eight year old chicken-scratch, smudgy-pencil handwriting. I was enamored with describing the texture of a quilt, the glint of water on a mermaid’s tail when she flicked it and in one movement dove back under the water.

Kris kindly wrote back to me, brief letters but letters I saved, folded in a special box, her drawings hidden behind the cardboard backing of a framed photograph.

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Fast forward to high school.

A cranky teacher. He looked more like he belonged on a stereotypical cop show set in Philly, with his bushy black mustache and heavy dark hair. He should have been in uniform, eating donuts and writing tickets for jaywalking.

He was the one stuck with teaching an unwilling class how to diagram sentences, the seventh circle of hell for any teacher, I’m sure.

He told me I was a good writer, that I should write for the school newspaper. I couldn’t hear him. I thought he was just having a hard time finding students to do the job, so I wrote one or two articles, and let it fade away. I dismissed his affirmation even though the idea that I was a good writer made my heart sing.

http://mrg.bz/009hwv

http://mrg.bz/009hwv

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The world of books and words was one I cherished all through college, our department a place where earnest attempts at poetry were allowed, where experimental-run-on-sentences-were-viewed-as-Virginia-Woolfe-esque and therefore acceptable. I majored in English but didn’t work to know what careers this might offer me, be it a life in academia or a position in publishing. I loved words but thought they need all be directed at lining the path toward God.

I didn’t see they were already infused with His presence, and had no need of my spectacular tour-guide skills.

Even though I was an English major, got to read, analyze and write about literature, my occupational focus shifted to the skills I was learning outside of classes. I held in my mind my love of story and also my assumption that I was called to something other than books. One semester of “Foundations of Education” and a field experience, and I arrogantly declared that I wanted to teach students about things that really mattered, that I didn’t like thought of teaching students in a classroom about literature and not being free to address the way all truth points to God.

What an ass.

As if books and stories hadn’t been the things that fed me along the way, and continued to be my special respite, the way my spirit was replenished. As if I needed to point this out for others when I hadn’t needed anyone to point it out for me.

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And now, things come full circle.

Now, to write about the texture of that quilt, the places where it is threadbare and the batting has started to escpae, the life it has had and the stories it has heard, this fills me with great joy.

Now, the flash of sun on the rippling scales, glowing green, blue and golden,

the line of light as that mermaid tail slips silently back into the quiet depths, this fills my mind with songs of fullness and a strong, brave heart.

The echoes of who I was remain as I reach into the shadow to draw them back to me. I pull them in, pet each one, and set it on the windowsill so the light and air can fluff them, help them grow strong again. Even though I did not feed or water them, did not acknowledge their importance, did not trust their purpose, I see now that they had a patience I could not imagine, a longsuffering I could not emulate. They waited, peeked out now and again — never intrusive — just to see if I was still there, until I discovered they’d been there all along.

The girl I once was, the one who saw pictures with words, who knew the power of a word-image, the importance of saying it out loud into the air even when the outcome was unknown, the one who noticed the slant of light and the far-off sound of a train, who had questions which no simple answers could satisfy, she is returning to me now.

I will not put her back in the shadows again.

*****

This post is part of the Story Session link up “The Girls We Once Were” and is part of International Women’s Day. Join us or find out more: http://bit.ly/1hX2mZ1

Missing Ash Wednesday

5
Mar

One year when I worked as the junior and senior high youth coordinator at a church, I got to participate in the Ash Wednesday service.

My background was in the same denomination but we hadn’t really marked Ash Wednesday in any particular way that I recall. We always had Wednesday night church, so an Ash Wednesday might mention of the start of the Lenten season (the lead up to Easter), and even go so far as to encourage us to give up something for Lent. There was no somber service that I remember, no special candles and certainly no marks made on people’s foreheads. That was something Catholics did, and we weren’t totally sure about them anyway (I’ve come way off my high-horse about that, by the way.).

The Wednesday when I helped with the congregation’s service, I was asked to administer the ashes. It wasn’t only me up there, but I was the youngest, and I was female. I would stand alongside two other people, both older. The man next to me was a longstanding fixture of the church.

I felt the significance build as I approached the event.

The service went along smoothly and the time came for me to go up front and play my part.

It was a divine and holy moment.

People I cared about, people I served, students I led, these all came to the altar. As they stood in front of me, I made a smudgy cross on their foreheads and repeated a phrase, the specifics escape me now but it was to the point of “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

The ashes were a sign of penitence, contrition, and acknowledgment of sin. It almost felt as if I was bestowing a blessing upon these friends. I remember being teary and wishing I could kiss everyone right on their mark of the cross.

And at the end of the service we all wore the ashes.

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This year I wanted to attend an Ash Wednesday service.

Something in my spirit desired the ritual, the darkened space, the high ceiling and quiet corners. But despite my research and efforts, I couldn’t make it happen.

I know that the outward sign of ashes are not necessary, that it is a condition of the heart. My heart. But there is something about wearing the ashes as a mark that lines up the image I project with the inner state of things.

My inner state is such that I get mad and raise my voice with my kids.

I bend the truth rather than have the hard conversation.

I ask leading questions or make (what I intend to be) subtle suggestions to try and get my way.

I’m self-centered.

I lack generosity.

But I wouldn’t let you know it by looking at me.

Wearing the ashes reminds me that no matter how much progress I’ve made in taming my inner turmoil, I still screw up. And there is a freedom in those times when our outside and our inside line up, when the façade and neatly colored lines get wonky and the gaps can be seen.

There are still theological ideas that get my brain in a twist and I want to dig deeper into the various school of thought on alternative to substitutionary atonement, but I know this:

Jesus, out of His great love, came for me. He came for you. And whatever you decide to do with that – accept, reject, ignore – is up to you.

I’m missing Ash Wednesday this year, like I have many other years. Even though I’m not in a church today, my heart is in the right place.

Do you have a tradition of participating in Ash Wednesday or Lent? How does that look for you, and are there elements that make it especially significant?

Come into the light

28
Feb

You stand under a bridge.

An old cottonwood tree throws off tiny clouds of cotton that parachute down and gather in pools.

The light creeps closer, closer to the edge of your toes.

From your spot in the shadow, the strength of the sunlight warms the air to a shimmer, and you smell the combination of dust and grass.

Will you step out from the darkness and take the chance of being exposed

to the light,

to the risk,

to being seen?

You toe the line of light, and wonder how much further it will come. You resist the way it invades your safety, forces the decision between moving forward and retreat.

The sun passes overhead, the day draws out and darkness slowly returns, and from your place of shelter you feel the moisture seep from the ground, feel it fill the air with coolness and relief.

Will you choose to trust that the sun will return?

Does the darkness hold

danger

or

possibility?

Will tomorrow bring hope or destruction?

Instagram: tclmn

Instagram: tclmn

You can choose — hope, joy, faith, belief in goodness — these can all be plucked out of the air, as cottonwood fluff can be chased and captured.

Even in the night, after you skinnied up that nearby tree, you can trust there are not jackals circling beneath it.

But in those times when there are jackals, you can trust that your high branch will keep you safe from the teeth and claws, even as you keep your eyes open all night long.

Do you find it difficult to hope in the face of hopelessness? How do you approach risk? What areas of your life might there actually be a choice — even in your own attitude toward the situation — where it seems there is none? 

This is a post written alongside lots of other people who participate in Five Minute Friday through Lisa-jo Baker. She gives a word prompt, you set your
timer and write for five minutes flat. No editing (okay, I read over mine and do spellcheck it — is that cheating??), no self-criticizing, just go for it. You can read more posts and find out more at http://lisajobaker.com . And as always, thank you for coming by and reading today!

UPDATE: In an interesting convergence, the Creative Blog Hop was focused on the word “choices” so I decided to include this post there. If this is your first time coming by the blog, thank you for reading!

 

 

Not Just a Pretty Face

18
Feb

There are times when a blog looks nice but has little to say.

It is easy to navigate but when you see the content that’s offered, there’s not much to keep you interested.

Some sites have content that’s combative, argumentative, created to stir up strife and visceral reactions, many times with the purpose of driving traffic to the site, if only for the chance to spout off about how the author is nuts.

I’ve visited sites where I wanted to read the content but the visual layout or intense colors made my eyeballs burn and I actually said something to the point of: “You’ve got good things to say but I can’t read this.”

I find myself with elements of all these dilemmas as I launch this new site.

  • Will I have anything to say?
  • Will you, dear reader, resonate with the words I write?
  • Do I adopt a reactionary stance and give myself an ulcer from dealing with all the negative stuff out there?

The goal of this site is to be more than just a pretty face, even though I do have to say that I like the way it turned out don’t you?

What You’ll Find Here

While I know it is standard practice to “find your niche” and zero in on one certain area of expertise, I find that I’m a dabbler and have written about many different things. In trying to narrow it down, I’ve found a few themes in the past four+ years of blogging.

Tone

First and foremost, I desire that this be a safe, encouraging place. That doesn’t mean we won’t address difficult, sometimes painful topics. We can do so, however, with respect and an appreciation for the nuances of life. Over time I have come to realize that just about everybody is doing the best they can with what they’ve got, and if we can approach one another with a posture of honesty and trust, our conversations will be much more productive. Let’s treat each other with an extra measure of grace.

Now shut up and bring me that cookie dough. Can we all agree to that?

(Just teasin’ about that ^^^, but if you have cookie dough to share, I’ll bring my own spoon.)

Stories

As a blogger, writer and aspiring novelist, I walk all day around collecting stories. It is hard to unsee the stories once you’ve noticed them, and so they are now everywhere. It’s a little bit maddening, but in a good way.  Writing is a way I order my thoughts and when I find a helpful tool or a way to further develop as a writer, I like to pass it along. The practical side will be a small portion here, and primarily you’ll see the curtain at the front of the house, and not the backstage workings.

I’d also like to support other writers, so when I find that I have the opportunity to spread the word about their work, I plan to do so. That may come in the form of book reviews, but also helping host book launches and guest writers, and events from other bloggers. There is room at this writing table for all of us.

Mischief

As we get to know one another, you’ll discover that I like making a good memory almost as much as I like a good story. Some mischief here, some silliness there — there’s almost always a reason to laugh a little, even in the most mundane, uneventful day. I hope you’ll find this site has a good sense of humor.

Spirituality

In almost every corner of our lives, I believe we can find traces of God, whispers and shiny stones He leaves to lead us back to Himself. Or Herself. …Either way, my relationship with Jesus and desire to better reflect his character and priorities is something as intrinsic to me as breathing.

In this area of spirituality, I have observations about the Big C “Church” and theology, especially as it pertains to evangelicalism and women. There are a lot of things we could be doing a whole.lot.better. I recognize that I can be a part of the solution.

Family/Parenting/Woman-ness

I’m a wife and a mom. These roles/relationships inform  my perspective and are ever-present as I approach the world. I am not a perfect wife or mom (or person) but I really do try, even when it may seem like I’m in over my head (but if we’re honest, aren’t we ALL in over our heads when it comes to this stuff?). I’m a work-in-progress so I learn a lot from the mistakes I make and the interactions I have with my kids and family.

I can’t escape the way being a woman affects my perspective, nor do I wish to escape it. We are an amazing and dynamic group, full of power, tenderness, creativity, intelligence and resources. There are times when events impact women in very specific ways. I would like this to be a place that discusses womanhood and the issues that effect us.

Your Role

You play an important role here. I have room for guest writers, as I mentioned, if that’s your thing. I love to interact with your reactions to posts, your thoughts an insights to questions I’ve raised. I truly believe we’re better when we help one another, and because of that, the more people we bring here to get involved, the better off we all will be. Shares, likes, retweets, pins, and all other forms of support, including notes delivered via carrier pigeon, are deeply appreciated.

Thank you for joining me here. Even though we may not know each other (yet), I hope in some small way, this blog can help to make your day a little brighter.

Here and I’ve done all the talking. Would you care to say hello? Introduce yourself? Please do so in the comments — I’d love to meet you.