TC Larson

Stories and Mischief

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What makes a writer?

4
Apr

 

It’s not smudged pencil on the chubby part of your hand.

It isn’t teeth stained from endless cups of coffee and tea.

It doesn’t depend on long hours staring out the rain-washed window of an industrial loft or countryside cottage.

We’ve created a cloud of mystery and intrigue around the writer’s life, made it full of drama, angst, darkened corners and visits from a fickle Muse.

It can be this way, but also, it is often more mundane than this…

Trips through the slush to the office supply store for more printer ink when feels like you were just there a week ago.

It is forcing yourself out of the toasty covers into the cold morning. Click on the coffeepot, the red illumined button the only light in the house except the nightlights in your kids’ bedrooms…and the hallway…and the bathroom.

The blue-light of the computer screen makes you squint until your eyes finally adjust. In a while you’ll be unable to see the child who emerges from the darkness and makes your heart jump. You’re suffering an alternate form of snow-blindness — screen blindness (related to the screen deafness my children experience if I try to talk to them while they’re watching a show).

This slogging through, grinding it out, is what it looks like for me, but inside the tedium are moments of soaring —

a scene that writes itself,

an connection you didn’t see when you first wrote something but now can be developed into something more complete,

a dialog or exchange that rings with truth,

the glorious satisfaction of scratching that writer’s itch that remains at your outside edge until you sit down to write.

No matter what ends up happening with your writing, if you do the hard work of writing – whatever the topic, whatever the genre, whatever the mode of expression — you’re a writer. Write true. Write bravely. Write beauty, even when it’s ugly. The world needs your words, your voice. Enrich our human experience with your perspective. We need one another. We need you.

Linking up today with Lisa-jo Baker (http://lisajobaker.com) and Five Minute Friday.

 

 

 

 

Discussion: Comments {7} Filed Under: Five Minute Friday, Motherhood, Uncategorized, Writing

Not All Gloom and Doom

2
Apr

I come from a long line of jokesters. Not so much on my dad’s side, but my mom’s side of the family is thick with smart alecks, tricksters, goofballs and what Grandma used to call “turkeys”.

When I was probably ten or so, I was in my room and my mom called to me in a frightened voice from the bathroom. She said there was a squirrel in there and I should bring her something from my room so she could defend herself.

I didn’t bite.

First off, there was no way I was going anywhere near the bathroom if there was a squirrel in there.

Second, she’d messed me with one too many times, so now any claim of something unusual was suspicious.

She used to pop out at us from behind doorways. She’d short-sheet our beds. I’m not sure but I think she swapped out the sugar in the sugar dish (which we rarely got to use so it added to the impact of the joke) with salt.

Beyond pranks, though, my mom is known for being FUNNY.  Funny with an edge sometimes, but funny.

Because of all this, poor Mom was left to handle the fake squirrel on her own, and she had to admit defeat when she came into my room and admitted there was no squirrel. You might think this was the end of her pranks on me, but all this really did was up the ante on the jokes she used in the future, taking the whole thing up a level.

*end backstory*

All of this to say, I recognize that it was gotten pretty heavy around here, and I don’t want you thinking that it’s all gloom and doom all the time. Because it was April Fool’s Day yesterday, I thought I’d list for you the pranks my family pulled. I can’t (and won’t – some of these are so lame I don’t want them to soil my good reputation) take credit for all of these; my kids got really into pranks this year around. *sigh* They’ll learn some good ones eventually.

Here we go:

  • Spray water on someone’s bed.
  • Put the toothpaste cap on really tight.
  • Fall down in the hallway.
  • Water down someone’s coffee (or try to and get caught in the attempt).
  • Fall down in the kitchen.
  • Put on a silly dress and funny hat and tromp through the house.
  • Fall down in the bedroom.
  • Tell everyone there’s a deer at the front door.
  • Put a turkey decoy in the front yard and tell everyone there’s something in the front yard they have to see.
  • Slip a book into someone’s pillowcase.
  • Balance a wad of play dough on the top edge of a door that’s partially open. Get people to open the door so it falls on them.
  • Ding dong ditch (or as the case may be, knock knock ditch) your family, the more doors and the more times, the better.

A Bigger Trick

This was something I did to a group of friends probably five years ago, and since it had been long enough, I thought it was safe to use again but just on my family. It’s the old trick-’em-into-eating-something prank, but unless you don’t like bananas, it isn’t a gross trick.

First, take some graham crackers and crush them into crumbs (using a plastic baggie works best). Set aside.

Slice a banana into segments and then slice those down the middle.

Fake Nugget Banana April Fools 1

Next. cover the banana segments in peanut butter. Getting the peanut butter to stick on the slippery side of the banana can be hard, but sometimes you have to commit if you want a prank to work.

Fake Nugget Banana April Fools 2

 

You will now put the peanut butter covered banana mess into the plastic baggie that holds your graham cracker crumbs. Shake it around to cover the banana. You may have to press the graham crackers in so they stick and form a nice, believable coating.

Fake Nugget Banana April Fools 3

 

And so now once you get enough of these put together, you’ve got a pan full of fake chicken nuggets. We don’t eat nuggets much at our house, so they are a treat (eww — why???). I had some real nuggets in the oven, so I told the kids these were homemade but I hadn’t had enough chicken so I had to supplement with store-bought nuggets. As he was coming to the table my oldest son, “Rex”, said that I should make those bananas with the peanut butter and graham crackers sometime. Mwahahahaha.

They don’t look exactly like chicken nuggets, but when you pretend the pan is hot, use a spatula to serve them onto the kids’ plates, and they smell real nuggets cooking in the oven, it makes it more convincing. You may have to sell it a little, but that’s part of pranking someone and being committed to your craft. Here’s the end result:

Fake Nugget Banana April Fools 4

Lest you think no joke is off limits, I do set parameters around what can be used as a joke. Here’s what I tell the kids:

  1. It can’t hurt anyone.
  2. It can’t ruin anything.
  3. It shouldn’t make the person embarrassed or feel bad.

These guidelines will change as they get older (or maybe not), but at this stage they need some guidance about how to pull a prank without humiliating someone or destroying our house.

Overall, it was a fun day without too many obnoxious moments…but we did have to put the kibosh on jokes after supper so we could get our homework done. And so far this morning, my coffee has tasted just fine.

Did you make it through April Fool’s Day without any serious mishaps? Do you have any good pranks you’d like to share?

 

Discussion: Comments {3} Filed Under: Family, Mischief, Parenting, Uncategorized

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!

 

Discussion: Comments {1} Filed Under: Faith, Guest Posts, Uncategorized, Women, Writing, Writing Resources

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.

 

 

Discussion: Comments {8} Filed Under: Can We Talk?, Cancer Sucks, Church Life, Faith, Friendship, Uncategorized

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.

Discussion: Comments {0} Filed Under: Cancer Sucks, Faith, Friendship, Uncategorized

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?

 

Discussion: Comments {1} Filed Under: Cancer Sucks, Faith, Friendship, Uncategorized

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.

|||||

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.

|||||

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

Discussion: Comments {5} Filed Under: Faith, Uncategorized, Women, Writing

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.

|||||

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?

Discussion: Comments {3} Filed Under: Church Life, Faith, Uncategorized, Women

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!

 

 

Discussion: Comments {6} Filed Under: Faith, Five Minute Friday, Uncategorized

Oh dear – one more purity Event

27
Feb

A Christian camp, a place where I worked in my younger years, is hosting a purity retreat.

When I read this news, I groaned.

“What are they going to teach those students?” I said to myself, “And how long will it take them to undo it?”

As someone who was on the early edge of the big evangelical push to churn out curriculum, trinkets, marketing and events surrounding purity and abstinence, I speak as an observer a few steps removed from the hard-core movement. But I remember accountability partners, vague discussion of boundaries, the concern about being a stumbling block for the males of the world, the guilt over “going too far”, and the way it was stressed that sex should be confined to marriage.

At a purity retreat, there will most likely be a challenge to use your mind over your emotions (although I’m sure they’re not above drawing on emotions to motivate the participants), pledges of future behavior, repentance over past thoughts or behavior, and they might even give out some small purity token — a souvenir of significance to mark the weekend and the new commitments people made.

If you are not familiar with the purity/modesty rules philosophy, it goes like this:

Sex before marriage is wrong for lots of reasons.

Foremost of those reasons is that the Bible says you are supposed to reserve sex for marriage.

If you do not reserve sex for marriage, you are messing up God’s plan.

When you mess up God’s plan (a.k.a. ‘the two shall become one’,’ a woman shall leave her mother and a man shall leave his home’, etc.) you give away parts of your heart to each partner until you have but a tiny scrap of a heart left. You are unable to give yourself fully to your eventual spouse (because everyone gets married, you see), you end up with lots of baggage and assumed regrets, and you mess up your spouse’s life because your spouse was a good person and saved sex for marriage.

If you have sex before marriage, you are guilty, blemished, and broken in God’s eyes. Sure, you can be forgiven — there’s even discussion of having your virginity reclaimed — but you’re still going to have to sort out the consequences of your sin, which may play out for the rest of your life.

This also goes for other sexual expression, because the Bible says to stay away from sexual immorality. In some circles it includes kissing and holding hands. Yes. Some people reserve kissing and/or holding hands until they are engaged or married.

I’m serious, and it is a deeply held conviction for them, one they are willing to stick with and in doing so frequently feel misunderstood and judged.

And superior, don’t forget superior.

So if you think Christian culture is quiet about sex, you’d be wrong…except that the thing students hear while they are growing up is that if you wait until marriage it will automatically be blessed, fantastic, fun and natural. You’ll take to it like a fish in water, even if you haven’t ever kissed a person and have, up to that point, convinced yourself that all sexual expression is negative and ridden with guilt and shame.

Good luck with that.

|||||

Alongside the purity culture of evangelicalism is the modesty culture.

During her time at a Christian college, a close friend of mine was brought in to have a long talk with her resident assistant. The reason? It was because she wore a sports bra without a t-shirt while playing volleyball outside on a hot autumn day.

This is pretty common.

Girls are told what kind of swim suits they can wear to church events that involve beaches or water, and shirts and skirts are monitored for length and coverage.

Modesty can be subtly damaging because it is the preamble to sexual purity. If you are immodest, it follows that you are also impure. And if you’re not the one who is impure, you’re making a bunch of other people impure, because you’re causing them to stumble.

So make sure you cover up those mazongas because you shouldn’t “think of yourself more highly than you ought but consider others better than yourselves.” (This is an often-used morphing of Romans 12:3 and Philippians 2:3, both letters from the Apostle Paul.) First of all, who are you to think you look that good anyway, and plus, when you choose clothing you should be thinking of the ways you could be causing your Christian brothers into sin by wearing that spaghetti strap tank top.

(I’m 99% sure that boys are not taught to cover up for their Christian sisters.)

The damage to our young men and women in this is profound.

It makes our young men into mindless primates with little will of their own, held captive by their urges, which they cannot control.

It makes our young women into temptresses who, by nature of their female-ness, lead all men into impure thoughts and impure actions for which they cannot be held accountable. It’s the whole virgin vs. vixen idea of a bygone era when women were presumed to be either wholly sterile in their total lack of sexual desire or appeal, or they were women of low moral character who were ultimately subhuman, meant to be used and tossed aside like an old tissue.

|||||

There is something amiss with the evangelical obsession with sex, either having it or not having it.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think it’s a good idea for unmarried people to sleep around. I’m all about self-respect and I’m a big fan of modesty because sometimes the reason for the lack of it is to gain self-worth from our boobies (or other parts…and yes, I just wrote “boobies.” Focus, people, focus. Stay with me.) When I consider this concern for modesty and the purity culture it spawned, it’s a huge sweater of interlocking stitches. When you pick at one, it turns out that it’s connected to the stitches around it.

Consider: The burden of modesty is set on girls, since boys’ urges are somehow too uncontrollable and they can’t reasonably be asked to take much responsibility in it. Heck, they can’t even look at a bikini without lusting, much less a girl wearing that bikini. Therefore, the responsibility lies with females. But females, by nature of being female, are lesser, the argument goes. And since they are lesser, they can’t be asked to handle such a potentially dangerous mission. Therefore, the only logical conclusion is to enact a no-touch, no-look policy…Or enlist the “leadership” of the girl’s father, and return to the days of dowries and arranged marriages, when the girl was a commodity to be traded.

It follows that since a female form, simply by existing, causes sin in the males who observe the female-ness. The curve of a breast is inherently sexual, rather than just being an added bit of skin over the pectoral muscles. The female body, it follows, must be sinful, otherwise why would it raise such chemical, physiological reactions? Plus, it was Eve who corrupted Adam by offering him the apple so it follows that it is in the nature of women to lead others into sin.

See what I mean about the stitches being interlocked? You can’t pick one stitch without it unravelling the ones around it.

|||||

There are people having conversations about these assumptions, these categorical dismissals of the individuality of each person, the choices placed before us and the attitudes about the worthiness of women. They are talking about a woman’s ownership over her own body, and the dastardly connection between purity culture and it’s potential to tumble down the rabbit hole of making a woman responsible for her own sexual harassment, or worse. There’s a discussion about men NOT being hormone-driven maniacs who have no control over their impulses (for an interesting perspective, read Micah Murray’s piece, http://bit.ly/1dzk1BV ) , and who will do almost anything for sex.

This is too big for one post. And we’re only skimming the surface here. I’m certainly not the only one writing about it, not by far, but we need more people talking and writing about it.

It’s something I take very seriously, as a woman, as a wife, as a mother, as a human.

What I wear should not single me out for harassment, regardless of how much skin I show.

My sons should be responsible for their own actions, their own choices when it comes to purity, attitudes of the heart and physical expression.

My daughter should be free to respect herself and not draw her self-worth from how much attention she garners with her bra straps or short-shorts. And she should be safe from other people treating her as an inanimate object or something inherently sinful.

I’m going to look into this advertised purity retreat at that camp. I want to find out who is organizing it, what its goals are, and how they are treating this topic. I have a feeling it is probably representative of the whole purity/modesty culture that is so intrinsically interwoven in evangelical culture.

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe they’re doing something different with this retreat, bringing in fresh perspectives and voices that offer another way.

I know that, as a woman, I am created in the image of God. And men are as well. And we can all pursue a deeper relationship with Jesus, and that can include all parts of ourselves, even our sexuality. And that is something our students and young people need to hear.

Discussion: Comments {16} Filed Under: Church Life, Parenting, Uncategorized, Women

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