Reformation (Thank You, Martin Luther)

Please don’t read my next sentence as any type of proselytizing (that would be out of character for a Lutheran anyway). But …

I love Lutheranism.
Love it. Particularly the ELCA variety.
The Luther LoveFest (my term) that we observed in worship this morning reminded me how much I do.

In honor of Martin Luther’s most recognized and lasting legacy, we Lutherans pulled out all the stops (literally, I believe, for the organ) to observe Reformation Sunday. Our music director even specially arranged an incredibly creative third verse of “A Mighty Fortress” for the congregation, adult choir and Waldorf College brass ensemble. I have always found that verse, which speaks to Luther’s notion of the earth filled with “devils,” fascinating. Today it was even more so. The director’s version had demonic choral sounds, bold brass fanfares, dramatic organ glissandos, and an abrupt finish – as if “one little word” had “felled” it.

Then we launched into the final verse: Let goods and kindred go, this mortal life also; The body they may kill; God’s truth abideth still; His kingdom is forever.

During this iconic hymn, I filled with so much emotion, so much gratitude for Luther’s kick butt, tenacious faith, that I found no extra room in my throat for music to come out. I simply couldn’t sing any more. I could only take in the fullness of the moment and hold on to one thought: I am at home.

I am a Martin Luther sort of follower – at least the historical Luther that has been championed by scholars and theologians for centuries. The Luther who identified corruption, spoke truth to power, wrote volumes of spiritual musings, and aspired to live serving others.

So why not pull out the stops? It is Reformation Sunday, a bit rowdy and rebellious with large doses of passion and pride.

But, of course, I am prejudiced. I am a baptized Lutheran, who – after two separate sojourns into other denominations – returned to the reformer’s road each time. Once via a liberal arts education at Lutheran college, and once via a move that found my husband and I choosing a Lutheran church as our comfortable, spiritual home.

While a young woman at Wartburg College, I, perhaps like many in the mid-16th century, began to read scripture with a mind more connected to who I was than to who those reading it from the pulpit wanted me to be. Through scripture, I met a personal and relevant God who wasn’t nearly as complex and rule-oriented as authoritarian theologians proposed God to be.

My mind transformed – renewed – without the benefit of a personal 95 Theses moment. Not even an outburst of spiritual rebellion. My personal change – my reformation if you will – occurred more subtly. In fact, it continues to occur; I hope it never stops.

As far as Martin Luther’s Reformation, I recognize that my Lutheran tainting may leave me incapable of objectivity concerning how he changed the world. I may also be too enamored by change itself to be objective.

The way I see it: The world changed in an instant because of what happened on October 31, 1517, and yet it took years for that change to be realized. After Luther nailed his "Disputation of Martin Luther on the Power and Efficacy of Indulgences" to the door of the Castle Church in Wittenburg, temple curtains did not tear and graves did not open with the dead suddenly raised to life. But a barrier of authority had been broken and minds began to open. People had greater opportunities to encounter God personally. To think. To use their minds to challenge prevailing beliefs about God. To pray and meditate on scripture they had read themselves in a familiar language.

Luther helped get the church out of God’s way. It’s a feat I continue to regard as worthy; it’s a goal to which I often aspire. Reformation.

Today we celebrated with red stoles on the usually stole-less pastors and assistants, red flags hanging from the interior buttresses, red orbs on the communion servers and, yes, red wine. All of them witnessed to the presence of the Holy Spirit and what can happen when people get out of God's way and faith gets real.

I am seeing red today, but only the best shade of this powerful hue. For at the end of the day – any day – no matter what has happened or is happening or may happen, none of it matters. God’s truth abides. God’s kingdom is forever.

Unless I am convinced by the testimony of the Scriptures or by clear reason (for I do not trust either in the pope or in councils alone, since it is well known that they have often erred and contradicted themselves), I am bound by the Scriptures I have quoted and my conscience is captive to the Word of God. I cannot and will not recant anything, since it is neither safe nor right to go against conscience. May God help me. Amen.
- Martin Luther’s response to the Diet of Worms on April 19, 1521, after having been asked to recant his writings on the previous day.

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Wartburg College - U - rah, rah, rah !

Of course I have a lot to say about the experiences I enjoyed today. But I don't want to. I would prefer to have these two vlogs say it for me. Of course, what they say to you will depend on how well you know my love for my alma mater, Wartburg College.

The first vlog captures the overall fun of the day; the second vlog toys with idea that there truly might be something known as a quirk of fate - or three.


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Update: Nicole Johanningmeier was also a Page editor and a Maggie award winner!
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Update: Demonstrating another twist of fate, Emily Schmitt informed me today that her father is Steve Schmitt, a high school classmate of mine. Wow!
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Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy

From time to time I, Joy, receive a compliment that sounds exactly like this: “Your parents sure knew what they were doing when they named you.”

Or this: “You sure live up to your name.”

While I am flattered by such a comment, I am not compelled by a sense of obligation. Because my name is Joy, I do not have to be happy. In fact, sometimes, I am not. Sometimes being Joy means being sad or angry. Like last week, for instance, when my name could have been Distraught. That day I was distraught for the best part of an afternoon – until I learned that our insurance company was wrong (as I had suspected). We did not owe them thousands of dollars for four months worth of wrongfully paid healthcare expenses related to Stross’ daily living needs. Thank, God. We did not.

Once they verified the clerical error, I was relieved. Then, almost as immediately, I became extremely tired. Nineteen years worth of tired, in fact. For no matter how well my life might move along for stretches at a time, I know that I can be thrown into instant emotional upheaval over something as seemingly benign as a clerical error – even when I am 98% certain the error is not ours. A 2% portion of doubt can cause a unique version of terror (“Is this the moment we become financially bankrupt?”), even renewed grief. That will always be true. As the mother of a child born with life-shaping disabilities, I am familiar with sorrow and acquainted with grief.

In the instance I shared above, renewed grief looked like this: After the insurance representative apologized for the error, I began to cry. I cried awkward phone tears – the kind that choke your normal speaking voice and have the potential to scare the person who cannot see you. So I forced myself to speak. I didn’t want her to think I was crazy.

“I just want to thank you,” I said. “We will have a new insurance company in a few days, and our family will miss your company.” Sob. Choke. “You have taken good care of us. Especially our son. Thank you for that.” Choke. More tears. More forced words. “And I just want you to know we will miss you.”

It was her turn. She began gently and quietly.

“Oh. Thank you so much. That is very kind of you to say. We will miss you, too. … You know, I don’t even think I got your name before they passed your call to me.”

Now I had to forcefully push out words while trying to hold back a sob ... and a laugh.

“It’s … Joy.”

The irony of my name made me laugh. I could laugh. So could she – at meeting such a miserable Joy. Momentarily miserable, at least.

Let me be perfectly clear: My son’s life is not misery; I am not miserable because of him. Sometimes life brings things that make specific moments miserable. I learned how that can be so, courtesy of Stross, and I thank him for that.

But tonight I am thankful for a new type of understanding. Tonight I am aware that I am not happy. Not really. That also does not mean I am sad. Or depressed. I am just not happy – not content. And it has nothing to do with my children or my husband. It has everything to do with me.

Clarity about my unhappiness began September 7 when I was in Waverly to lead a media relations workshop for rural emergency first responders. The evening before the meeting, I enjoyed supper with some good friends who live there – reconnecting, through them, with periods in my life when I lived with a sense of purpose. Then, before returning home after the workshop the next day, I visited the Wartburg College campus to pick up a dessert and a cup of coffee for the road.

I didn’t go straight to the coffee house, however. I began walking campus. I let my feet take me places that looked new and yet were familiar. I felt the wonder of knowing exactly where I was, even when places looked different. Once I even tried to get lost, but I couldn’t. I knew exactly where I was going even when wandering aimlessly. And I loved the assurance of it.

Please understand. My assurance wasn’t about the physical location of my body as it moved through a familiar place. It came from another dimension. Moving through that familiar place helped me connect to a version of myself who knew exactly who she was and what she believed possible.

I found Happy Joy again. I had not realized I had left her behind.

Happy Joy has actually been with me for at least four decades – long past my days as a coed on that college campus. Of course, I remember her during our engagement, our wedding, our honeymoon, newlywed life, a first job, a second job that began to look like a career, a move back to Iowa, a job that was the start of a career, Stross’ birth (yes, Stross’ birth), and even during Stross’ early years.

Happy Joy even hung in there through some radical career changes for both Mark and me that resulted in a move to a town we likely would have never chosen to live in had a career opportunity for Mark not found him in an uncommon way. Happy Joy loved seeing Mark uncommonly happy, and she loved the challenge of finding a way to stay happy herself. She definitely loved giving birth to her second child, another son who brought her the opportunity to experience what other women did when they gave birth.

Now this is where I need to stop trying to explain where Happy Joy went; because, as I said earlier, she has been with me all along. What I have come to understand most recently, however, is this: Her happiness has not been a priority and that has adversely affected her – me – and our family. It might even be harming her and her future.

Because I know people who have wrestled with depression, I know avoiding depression is impossible. Fortunately, I am not depressed. But, as I said, I am not happy. Not really.

There is good news in this. Coming to the realization that I am not happy has helped me identify what gets me there: a sense of purpose, an opportunity to be an agent of change – positive change – that affects someone else’s life in a way they had not thought possible. Happy Joy shows up when I am being the truest version of myself, and in doing so, I cause something to happen that only I could make possible.

I can list examples of what that has looked like in the past. But I don’t want to here. My personal inventory is simply that: personal. Will I share it with you one day? You bet, but it will have to wait until I finish connecting all my dots. I might need to wander a few more familiar pathways and allow myself to reconnect to a few more times and places where I can remember what it has meant to be me.

But the best news is this: I have invited Happy Joy to join me on this journey. And I have given her a new name: Hope.

Yes, we met as singing waiters

Lady Gaga's performance on the Today Show Friday morning made me cry. I'd like to say I was surprised by my reaction. (I mean, Lady Gaga sings and I start to cry?) But now, in my middle years, I'm pretty good at recognizing what is really happening not long after my eyes begin to tear: Lady Gaga's deep joy at performing in New York resonated with me. She was being exactly who she is, in exactly the place she was meant to be. Lady Gaga wasn't working. She was taking people on a joy-filled ride where all was right with the world. And she was thanking them - thanking God, too, I believe - for the blessing that is her life.

I remember that feeling. Not on that scale of course. And I miss that feeling. Probably more often than I care to admit. It's a sensation that makes you wonder if kismet is more destination than destiny (if kismet is even real). And in that moment - a fleeting moment - you believe in kismet and recognize that you may have arrived at a place you didn't even know you were going. And, of course you want to stay in that place ... forever.

The first time I experienced such a moment was performing the leading role in a musical with The Country Road Players. I was 18. But then during my junior year of college, I lived kismet every Friday and Saturday night as a singing waiter at Carver's Restaurant in Waverly, Iowa.

That job is still the best job I have ever had - and not just because it is how I met Mark, my soul mate. (Yes, that young woman in the top photo with really short hair is me, thrilled to be singing next to the tall handsome man with the beautiful smile who could lift the rafters with his voice when he wanted to. I already admitted in Involuntary Joy that I fell in love with his voice first.)

While I loved singing next to Mark the most, I also loved singing with every other member of that wonderful ensemble known as the Carver's Singers. During my time in the group I sang with Jennifer (Jen) Bahlmann, Pamela (Pam) Cross, Elizabeth (Liz) Phillips, Lynette Reynolds, Dan Philippe, Mike McVey, Craig (George) Koeckeritz, Paul Johnson, and Mark Newcom (of course). When we weren't singing together, you might even find us just having fun together, as on the night shown in the photo of the Mardi Gras BASH 1985. That is Paul, Craig, me and Mark. And, what an incredible night that was. It wasn't just fun. It was magical, for that was the night of Mark's and my first kiss.

A photo that shows four members of the group actually shows 50 percent of the Carver's Singers at any given time, for there were only ever eight members in the group - two singing each vocal part. If someone had to leave because of schedule conflicts or life circumstances, they were replaced with another who earned his or her way in by audition. And once you earned your way in, you became a member of this special fraternity forever - even when your performing days were over.

Musical camaraderie, musical excellence, musical memories to fill our lifetimes.

Carver's Restaurant isn't there anymore. It and the accompanying Friar Tuck's Lounge were turned into a Country Kitchen for a while. Then the building was razed to make way for the Waverly Public Library.

I'm not exactly sure how many years there were five-course dinner shows that featured Carver's Singers. One veteran once said they think there were probably only about 20 musicians who have been part of this unique group. Broadway show tunes, modern jazz standards, medleys of patriotic music or music from the 20s, pop staples - you name it, we could sing it; and in between musical sets, we'd serve delicious gourmet-prepared meals. During my time with the group, we even produced two summer musicals with dinner shows. That summer I took the stage as Agnes in "I Do, I Do" and then directed "The Fantastiks" while performing the role of the mute. (Yes, those of you who know me well: That was one of my most challenging roles.)

After Mark and I married and moved to Texas, we stayed in touch with a few members of the group. Paul was in our wedding, and we hosted he and Kris (then girlfriend, now wife) when they came to Fort Worth the following year. We'd see members of the group at Wartburg College homecomings, and then when we moved to Des Moines in 1989, Kris and Paul had an apartment near ours. So did Craig. So we got to see them off and on then, too. But when Paul and Kris moved to Texas (how ironic), our correspondence waned to things like greeting cards and birth announcements. Until last week.

Last week we reconnected with them during their trip home to Iowa to see family. We got to meet their two sons and to spend time talking while dining. We didn't do any singing, but we sure reconnected with what those days were like and recorded some of it in the vlog. I hope you enjoy listening to we middle-aged (former) singing waiters (and one #1 fan), as we remember some of our glory days. Glory evenings, really, when everything felt right with the world for five-hour stretches that carried us - and those who came as our audience - to places where only music can go.

I wish we could fully carry you back there with us; I wish you could hear what I do when I close my eyes and take myself back to the Chalet Room with its curved brick walkway and stone fireplace. But you probably have your own Camelot, your own time of kismet. And if you don't, I pray you will one day. I know I haven't given up hope of finding my corner of the sky once again.

One day, sometime soon I hope, I'll be somewhere and start to feel tears fill my eyes because I'll be there - in that place - doing exactly what I'm supposed to be doing because of who I am called to be. It likely won't involve music again. Not in a Carver's Singers way. But it will be right - kismet. And I will be blessed to be part of blessing others.

Amen. May it indeed be so.



P.S. - A big thank you to restaurant owner and musical director Larry Kussatz for allowing us to be part of your dream that became a reality.

A double-dog dare? Really?

I broke one of my "rules for living" tonight. I took someone up on a dare. Actually a double-dog dare. And, actually, it was made by three someones. Three Waldorf College alumni, all former students from three different class years who were in town to spend time together with still more alumni at, well, let's just call it a local libations establishment.

The double-dog dare came via a Facebook post - a public calling out of sorts - from Josh Damm, Melanie Lane and Ryan Workman.

When I showed it to Mark: "What do you think I should do?" He, who had just returned from washing our van, answered: "I think you should go. Just don't drive the car on gravel."

Ummm ... not a problem. So off I went, enticed by the idea of witnessing their utter surprise that teetotaller me would actually show up and enticed by the opportunity to see what really happens when they all get together. (Well, the little bit I got to see.)

None of us was disappointed. (At least I don't think so.) They got the thrill of calling me out, and I got the thrill of their delighted reaction. Josh and Melanie have both made an Injoy Blog before, so tonight was Ryan's turn.

Ryan has been working as the sports information director at Coe College since graduating in 2006. I remember him setting that goal as a student and watching him earn his way to his dream job after writing numerous Lobbyist articles, producing many WAL-TV sports shows and broadcasting countless KZOW remotes at Warrior athletic events.

Those are proud moments for educators. Not that we can take credit when a student lands a coveted first job, because it is a student's individual drive to succeed that makes the difference. The pride comes from watching a student seize opportunities that help him or her gain the experiences necessary to make a dream become a reality. As an educator, I know that any position I play is simply background noise during that student's center court press. (Pretty pathetic, huh, Ryan? You could have written something sporty much better.)

Anyway, please allow me to introduce you to Mr. Ryan Workman, a great guy and a skilled sports information director who will, I'm confident, wear a national title ring someday - if not for a Coe team, for an athletic team at an even bigger college.

And, Melanie, thanks for the camera work. (Yes, Josh, you could have done a good job, too. But as you know, Melanie actually took the class.) Also, the vlog has shout-outs to Mary Ann Mitchell Tierney, Lauri Pyatt, and Kevin DeVries. Oh! And the cameo appearances are by alumni Andrew Hunt and Whitney Hagen. They'll get their vlog one day too.

How Does Your Garden Grow?

Those of you who have read Involuntary Joy might understand how my husband's place of employment (which has also been, at times, mine as well) has shaped our lives in the same way a person would. Our arrival on campus – almost exactly 17 years ago – felt a bit like coming home. The "call" to kinship with her DNA was undeniable. And so, we uprooted our lives, trading old dreams for new ones in order to share a future that we believed was full of promise.

Before I write much more, I feel the need to share this: Waldorf College is one of the easiest and, paradoxically, most difficult topics for me to write about. When I've had the opportunity to write copy for marketing or public relations pieces, the words flow easily, for I know Waldorf intimately and honor the wonder of her, cherishing the personal transformations that have occurred on her campus since her beginnings in 1903.

This is not that kind of piece; therefore, my task is exponentially more difficult–as difficult as writing about a family member and wanting it to be "just right." Doubting that is possible, I'll forge ahead anyway.

As the fruit of Lutheran education (Go, Wartburg Knights!), I have lived my adult life in kinship with all sister institutions as if they were members of the family. Because I grew up United Methodist, I never really thought much about my spiritual heritage (I was baptized Lutheran) until I was courted by the admissions staff at Wartburg College. And then, thanks to encouragement from then President Robert Vogel, I soon forsake scholarship packages from other institutions for the chance to become a Wartburg Knight – a decision that had my Lutheran godmother, Aunt Lois, rejoicing. Once transplanted on the Wartburg campus, it was as if a seed had found the soil it needed to grow deep roots and flourish.

You see, I know what it means to "Be Orange." But I also know what it means to "Live Purple."

Waldorf College ... what am I to do with you? You helped bring some of my husband's vocational dreams to life and coaxed me into the classroom. You didn't seem aware that I'd vowed to not follow in my educator parents' footsteps. And, yet, I became an educator in spite of myself – all because you needed someone to teach the knowledge and skills I enjoyed using while employed in a career I loved.

So, year after year, as young men and women found their way to campus to discover their individual callings, my roots stayed watered and even deepened. I felt myself growing with Mark and, in turn, both of us felt strengthened by colleagues who shared a vision for educating "the whole person" in an atmosphere where faith and reason divinely mingled.  

In recent years, the people who are Waldorf College have experienced personal pruning and even transplanting – each event as difficult as the circumstances that are represented by the change. For instance, this summer our family will say good-bye to friends who have lived in this community for 26 years – nine years longer than we have. They came as a couple and have raised four children here. We have been in a Bible study with them for more than a decade and have celebrated our children's confirmations, graduations, and various school accomplishments. We have grieved together. We have been frustrated at life together. We have been awed by life together. Now they are moving on - transplanting their lives to a place where they can continue to be nourished and grow.

It's not as if we have never seen people come and go from this fascinating place. We have. In fact, when we arrived 17 summers ago, we were taken under wing by several elderly couples who had recently retired from Waldorf. The kind of emerita and emeritus (now no longer living) whose names and spirits are infused in the hearts of thousands of alumni. They saw Waldorf through some of her darkest days and believed we had come to help her transition into an expression that would help her withstand unforeseen days to come (i.e., changing from a junior college into a baccalaureate institution).

Their tutelage testified to us in recent years when we needed it most - when our roots felt exposed, and we wondered what remained for us in this place they had built with love. As the ground shifted under us, we wondered: How deep do our roots go? How much nourishment do we require? Are we healthy enough to withstand inclement times? I even found myself wondering if I was more like a hosta or a rose – or if it even mattered.

I still don't really know.

Whenever Mark and I hear of another friend who has decided to uproot – to transplant their life in a place with soil that promises rich nourishment – we look for the sun and stretch to search for water. Are we still able to flourish where we are planted, or are we in denial about the condition of our garden?

This past week we got some unsolicited nourishment from two former students - Melanie Lane, class of '07, (the first vlog) and Justin Hawley, class of '99 (the second vlog). We had a chance encounter with Melanie, who works at Mayo Clinic, in the Rochester subway, just outside our favorite lunch spot. She joined us for lunch, bringing stories and memories full of life and light and love. And when she spontaneously thanked us and shared what we have meant in her life, I cried. I didn't know how much I needed to hear what she said.

Obviously, I didn't ask her repeat what she said for my vlog and I won't type her kind words verbatim here (even I am not that tacky), but I did ask her to repeat a story she shared about her volleyball coaching experience. Waldorf communication alums, you'll see why.



When we got back to Stross' clinic exam room, I posted on Facebook that we had run into Melanie during lunch. That generated a posting with an offer to share dinner from Justin Hawley, another communications alum who has transplanted to Rochester, Minn., where he is flourishing. And, fortunately, we were able to – almost as spontaneously – make that reunion happen as well. Then, during dinner he, too, volunteered extremely kind words about Mark and I in an expression of affirming gratitude.

I've spent a lot of time tending to my garden this week - figuratively, of course. Perhaps Mark has too. We both seem to need reassurance that our lives are still in a place where we can - not just grow - but flourish.

Hey, Waldorf College Communications alumni. If we haven't told you lately, please know that we love you. Your lives continue to nourish ours. We are grateful. Many blessings to you - each and every one.

Mr. Craig Bennett - Thanks for Staying Connected

Last weekend I did something that too often I only talk about doing. I called a friend I hadn't seen in years with an invitation to drop by so we could spend the evening reconnecting. Even though Mr. Craig Bennett and I grew up only eight miles apart, we didn't connect in a real way until our college years. In fact, after the conversation we had last Saturday night, I think we might even agree that we may only be connecting in a real way now, for we are now both old enough to understand the inherent risks of being real.

I think you'll see what I mean.

It's taken me awhile to get this video placed into my blog.
• First, I had to edit our wealth of wonderful words to no more than 10 minutes.
• Second, I had to convince myself it would be o.k. to post it to YouTube in order to share it that way. You see, as open as I am with sharing whatever might bubble forth, you might have noticed that I've kept my vlogs off the wide wonderful world of YouTube. Plus, it won't let me rename my channel to match my blog, so welcome to my WestOnion.
• Finally, I accepted Craig's invitation to not hold myself back. "You know, Joy, you are the only one holding yourself back from what you really want to do," said my cunning friend Craig. He is absolutely right. Perhaps this merging of my blog and my YouTube channel (previously used simply to send video to grandparents) is my coming out. That means I'm no longer holding back. But it also means I really need to figure out what I want to do next.

Can you hear me, Inner Scarlett? We'll have to think about that tomorrow. After all, tomorrow is another day: Valentines Day even. A great day to both cherish and ponder your heart's desire.

Until then ... thanks, Craig, for a fantastic evening. So glad we remain connected. My life would be less without you in it.

Note: I now need to figure out how to make my HD framing fit in a standard YouTube window. At least it didn't cut out Craig! Oh, so much for an old dog to learn.

Hemmed In and Invincible

Many Bible passages have a special meaning to me. I’m sure you may be able to say the same. You have likely read or heard a piece of scripture at a certain time in your life when the moment connected deeply – and now you always remember the special significance of that passage. Even though I have ascribed personal meaning to quite a few passages myself only one Bible passage holds this particular distinction: I can remember specific details about where I was when the words grabbed me in an intense, personal way. It was Tuesday, Jan. 12, 1982, and the passage was the 139th chapter of Psalms.

I hope you won’t be disappointed to learn that I wasn’t in need of a dramatic intervention at the time. Or, that there was nothing life-threatening occurring or no situation where I needed to be supplied with dynamic words to share for a specific situation.

I was simply sitting on a twin-sized bed in the home of my host family in Owatonna, Iowa, reflecting on my day.

You see, I had arrived in the city the previous day at about 4 p.m. to join 19 other young women from across the state of Iowa – all seniors in high school – who were competing in the Iowa Junior Miss program. Seventeen of them had arrived at various times that Sunday morning, and two on Sunday afternoon – one who had even arrived by snowmobile. I, who lived four hours north, had been delayed nearly 24-additional hours by a monster blizzard that had closed most major highways in the majority of counties on the eastern part of the state: The Great Blizzard of ’82.

(Hummmmm… a bit like this January it might seem.)

Anyway … I was 48 hours behind them, as all the other young women had already held multiple rehearsals and had gotten a big jump on learning the choreography to the poise and physical fitness routines for the pageant nights.

Now … I think I’d like to pause here a moment to reshape some possible misconceptions. I was in Ottumwa to participate in a scholarship program to earn money for college, not a program that invited others to scrutinize my personal physique – (not that there’s anything inherently wrong with the kind of scholarship competitions that require women to walk past judges wearing hardly any fabric) – this just wasn’t one of those deals.

This was a scholarship competition in pageant form with the heaviest scrutiny placed on academic standings and a judge’s interview to learn your personal philosophies and your understanding of current events. The talent portion and other routines were primarily for the show aspect –for the audiences that would be attending at the end of the week. Still, the judges would be watching and scoring those portions, too. I needed to learn the routines as quickly as possible, hoping the others would help me even though we were competitors. I had a lot of catching up to do before the pageant nights on Friday and Saturday.

So on Tuesday night as I sat on the pale, flowered and ruffled twin bed that really belonged to my 7-year-old host sister, I probably was feeling a tad overwhelmed … a little bit lonely … and probably a lotta bit out of my element. But I wasn’t scared. Not at all. My wee-bit-arrogant psyche got energized at times like these – not scared. I wasn’t even apprehensive.

So, what was I?

I was … well … maybe the best word would be: eager. I was eager to see what might be possible.

I wanted to know what was God planning to do with my life, because I was certainly ready! – whatever ready meant.

Now, why did I reach for my Bible that night? To petition God for a good showing later in the week? For a special blessing of success? No. I knew that was a bit silly. Perhaps I grabbed my Bible as a way to quiet for bedtime … or to summon a bit of holiness as I took on the challenges that faced me that week … or maybe it was simply to curb my loneliness. Whatever the reason, that night as I read the words of David, the psalmist king, I felt as if God had asked David write the words so they might speak to me in that moment.

“You have searched me and known me. You know when I sit down and when I rise up. You discern my thoughts from far away. Even before a word is on my tongue, O Lord, you know it completely.”

Right there: Those were the words that shot into my core and then suspended my thoughts in time – a moment that I continue to hold close. “Even before a word is on my tongue, O Lord, you know it completely.”

How incredible … How purely horrifying. How … well … How: Wow!

And how – ultimately – reassuring.

I don’t know about you. But I’m compulsively candid and sometimes – many times – I say things before thinking about the consequences. I did it in 1982. I do it today. With Facebook, I’m even likely to type things without thinking.

Even when I try not to, I do it anyway. (Paul wrote a great passage about such a problem, but I’ll save that for another time.)

In this passage, David let me know that before a word as on my tongue, God knew it completely. Therefore, despite my human malfunctions, I could be confident God knew my Spirit in spite of my misspeaks and misdeeds. Yet, the words David wrote in the 139th Psalm don’t speak of predestination or forethought – they speak of David’s awareness that God knew him intimately. Verses later we learn that David has enemies – people who had accused him of things. David was being wrongly accused of something – and through the words he pored out in this Psalm, it’s clear David took comfort in the fact that God knew better.

God – David tells – us was acquainted with all David’s ways. And David was so confident that God was pleased with him, he invited God to “search him” and “know his heart” to “test” him and “know his thoughts.” David – we can tell – feels up to the challenge of living as God’s child because he knows God will always be with him.

Wow.

Sitting on that bed in Ottumwa that January night, I knew God was well acquainted with me too. I knew I could withstand unforeseen challenges – even when I felt out of my element – because I had God as my constant - intimate - life companion.

The divine closeness I felt in that moment was too wonderful for me, too lofty for me to attain and too vast for me to out flee – not that I wanted to, mind you. I simply felt fantastic knowing I couldn’t escape God if I tried. That sort of relationship can make you invincible. It might even help you lead a nation as one of the most notable kings in history despite your human failings. Surely it could even help a 17-year-old girl learn choreography quickly and make new friends even quicker.

I was tempted to not tell you now I did that week, because it really doesn’t matter. I’d already gained something extremely important that Tuesday night. I did, however, finish as one of the judges' top finalists (2nd runner up) and was voted by the other young women to receive their top Junior Miss honor – the "Spirit of Junior Miss." As you can imagine, that award meant far more to me than anything the judge's presented that night. Perhaps even more interesting: One of the judges that year happened to be the president of Wartburg College (Dr. Robert Vogel) and the scholarships I earned that night helped me pay for the four years I spent on that campus – four wonderful years that have shaped the rest of my life.

Perhaps you can identify with feeling an affinity for such place of learning.

At a minimum I hope you connect with this: the Creator God who formed you in your mothers’ womb continues to hem you in behind and before – don’t try to understand it for its knowledge is too high to attain. And, I guess you can try to flee such a relationship, but know that it won’t work.

God’s hand is holding you fast.

And tonight as you are preparing to lie down for the night, take a moment to sit on your bed and think of God. See if you can’t think a thought that God doesn’t already know as it’s forming in the depths of your being. See if you can imagine a place God won’t already be… I don’t believe it’s possible.

You – fearful and wonderful child of God – Go in peace to love and serve God. You are invincible. Amen.

How to Know You're Home

It's finals week, and college students are eager to take exams, if for no other reason than to go home. Freshmen may return in January having discovered something a bit surprising–even unsettling. They may discover they now have two homes: one where the people they think of as immediate family reside and one where they live daily with new friends.

I discovered that phenomena sometime during my freshman year at Wartburg College. I felt at home with Mom, Dad and Jill; and I felt equally at home on campus. In fact the closer I got to graduation, my definition of "home" got quite broad–broad enough for me to feel at home with Mark (whom I married five days after earning my college degree) whenever and wherever we were together. In fact, we had no dwelling to share as our own for about the first month of married life. Truly, if we were together, we were home.

I've had few occasions to ponder the meaning of home since. In nearly 24 years of marriage, Mark and I have spent only a few nights apart and only two nights together while apart from our children. On that weekend outing 12 years ago, it took us nearly a day to feel comfortable without Stross or Skye–especially in a location that wasn't our home.

Well, last week I discovered something delightful: Home is also a way of being.

I hope you enjoy listening to what happened when I, a worst-case scenario planner, spent the first overnight of my married life in the home of my childhood without my husband and children along, and how my parents aided my plan to travel to a speaking engagement just after a nighttime snowfall but before a 24-hour blizzard.



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Best of luck to all you taking finals. May you fully enjoy every minute back home–wherever that may be and whatever that may mean.
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Peeking at the Past

Trudie, a friend from my college days, posted a comment in response to a recent blog that sounded as if she could see one of the photos hanging on Mark's office wall all the way from her home on our nation's east coast. The photo is a personal favorite: a black and white, 11x 14 of me singing "New York, New York," while dressed in an 80s-era white jumpsuit."

A friend named Patrick Simmons took the photo; and I remember feeling grateful that he'd captured the moment, for I had not wanted the song to end. If I could, I'd have hung that note – that night – in the air forever. Because of Pat's photo, it sorta has.

But, that was 1985, and since then, the photo has only existed on Mark's wall and the pages of a Wartburg College Fortress yearbook. Trudie's e-comment this week prompted me to go to Mark's office, take the framed print down and scan it into my computer so the image can exist in the digital realm, maybe forever. Right?

But a funny thing happened on my way to the scanner. I found a paper hanging from the same nail as the framed photo, hidden behind it apparently since 2004 – according to the date on the paper. It was a print out of a memory I'd posted on a message board known as Millaweb, a forum for Waldorf alumni and friends who are all somehow connected to Brian Miller, class of 1998. My memory - a contribution to a thread topic on romantic memories - described the first Valentine's Day Mark and I shared in 1985, two days before our first kiss.

That five-year-old paper is evidence that Mark also tries to capture memories, and interestingly, he's now given me a new romantic memory to treasure: finding his hidden archive.

Our differences are striking. Mark constantly cautions me to live in the moment because life is perishable, while I constantly collect moments to relive so they won't have fully perished. He secretly archives memories, while I post them for the world.

I hope our differences deepen our alliance, keeping us fascinated about the history we've shared while anticipating a future we are creating moment by memorable moment. I guess I'll find out when Mark discovers that I've now posted his hidden memory for the whole world to see.

I simply can't help myself.

While I had not forgotten our first Valentine's Day, I had forgotten that I'd once shared the story with others. Thanks to Mark, I again have the story for safe keeping as I told it in 2004, because Millaweb – once a lively forum for Brian's college cohorts and colleagues – has become his personal place of preservation, a home for photos and stories of his young family's perishable moments. As it should be. (And, come on, alliteration is fun, yes?)

Therefore, I must post my memory of our first Valentine's Day again – this time in a digital realm that might outlast the paper that's still hanging behind the photo on Mark's office wall – because we need to peek at the past every once in a while, don't we. We need to cherish moments as we live them, for life is perishable - each minute as fleeting as the next.

So capture your cherished moments. Suspend them in time anyway you know how, for one day you'll appreciate the capacity they have to propel you into the future, bolstered by the formidable fuel that is your invincible past.

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My First Valentine’s Love

Once, when I was a junior in college, I was on my dorm floor making fun of all the girls who were being visited by the floral delivery guy. When the guy ventured onto our floor again (for like the fifth time) a couple other girls and I started taunting him: “You’re back? So who’s it for this time? Don’t you have anything better to do?”

Well, he said: “These are for someone named Joy.”

Man, did those girls turn on me! I had no idea that this very cute guy I worked with as a singing waiter was planning to send me a dozen roses! I’m certain I blushed; I know I was very embarrassed. Best of all, the card read: “Friends are Friends Forever.” (See … I’d been telling the girls that we were “just friends.”)

Needless to say I started to pay even closer attention to this man with an incredible smile who’d spent dozens of evenings lingering while saying goodnight, but never once attempting a goodnight kiss. Insanely enough, he’d managed to have me fall in love with his voice, then become increasingly intrigued by all other aspects of him simply by driving me home, hanging out to eat boatloads of chocolate (hot chocolate with chocolate truffle mousse topped with Hershey’s kisses was a favorite), and arguing about whether or not women should be ministers.

Yes, those girls were at our wedding and still hold a very special place in my heart. They are probably the last ones to see me as a young woman whose life was fully her own and the first ones to see what it meant for me to become blissfully attached to someone forever.

*leaving to go find Mark*
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