Burning the Misplaced Pieces of the Past

Not long after Mark and I were engaged, I began to think about our love story, the one we would tell our children. We would share details that make all epic stories come to life: how we met as singing waiters our junior year of college, and how he compelled me to take his drink orders because it was against his moral code - a code I challenged him to find a cogent and systematic thought process to use for his defense. We would also share how he voluntarily bused my tables prior to driving me back to my dorm each weekend night in his white Honda Civic and how we carried take-home containers of chocolate truffe mousse to my room to share. We would even - maybe - confess how he stayed right up to (and even past some nights) the dormitory's visitation hours.

From courtship through engagement, the story of our early romance would convey to our yet unconceived children how our love surpassed all other stories of romance that might have been written for each of us had we not dared to take a chance on dating a type of person we never expected to meet.

I also wanted to safeguard our story from mythology - illusions about our romance or romances we had abandoned along with the romancers who had abandoned us. I wanted our children to know only of our misgivings and mistakes. Our love had not bloomed without rainy days. We had even endured a storm only weeks prior to our engagement. But bloom, it did, even surviving harsh seasons. The hardiest perennials do. Our children would need to know that.

They would need to know that the first bloom appeared about 29 years ago, back when I worried about notes, other love letters written by other suitors, being found by future children. Those scraps of paper outlined stories that should never be told, I believed. Not if Mark and I were to commit ourselves only to each other. We were collaborators of an epic saga, a saga that would birth beautiful children who would know only of the love that bore them.

Therefore, the other love notes had to be burned. No misplaced pieces of our separate pasts should supplant our storyline.

Our tale of love had begun to weave its way from the Chalet Room at Carver's Restaurant, and it deserved a clear path to the lively retirement abode we would choose for our most golden and final years. Our children should never doubt the wisdom we had exercised in our early 20s when we chose to travel a complex but unified path together. "Wisdom" and "early 20s." Could there be such a combination? If so, we needed to affirm it. Protect it. We needed to burn the notes.

Still, what if the relationship that our children would see in the future didn't live as vividly for them as any colorful tales they might freely concoct? Perhaps not having other notes would not matter. Even if evidence did not exist, vividly imagined details could be invented - by them, if not us. What if some mythological storyline - crafted even without the aid of rejected love notes - could unseat our real life story anyway?

Until our children could write the toughest chapters of their own hearts' tales, they could comprehend love. Not really. 

Love - sustaining love - is nurtured through careers and children and broken dreams and dream vacations and experimental vocations and heartaches and midlife crises and ordinary days of non-crises and retirement and, well, things I cannot know of either - not yet anyway. My great love story is far from over, and while I have witnessed other great loves, their endings have not been well documented - not as well as their beginnings. Perhaps endings are so intensely personal, so poignant and full, they cannot be wholly shared. Or maybe the greatest love stories have no endings because they do not end. What a merciful thought.

That is why those other notes - puzzle pieces of unseasoned passion - had to be burned; they were burned, turned into ash that matched the relationships that bore them. Our children cannot resurrect them. Neither can we.

Mark destroyed his on a day and in a manner of his choosing before I had a chance to add mine to his pile. Fitting perhaps, for we had collected them separately; separately they turned into ash.  I am grateful their embers flamed the fire that has warmed us for nearly three decades. Those relationships mattered too.

Today I took out the collection of love letters that survived those years - Mark's cards and hand-written pages to me during our courtship. I read one. Then one more. Still another. I read in search of me and the man I chose to marry. Can we really be found in the words of those love epistles? They are now as mysterious to me as they will be to our children one day when they find them. Hidden in plain sight.

I don't need to read them to recall who I married. According to those love letters, that man does not exist anymore anyway.

Anytime I need to recall the story of my life's great love, I will simply walk into my kitchen at dinner time. He will be standing near the stove, either cooking the evening meal for our family or insisting on helping me do the same. And when our family meal has ended, he'll help me bus our table - plates and glasses into the dishwater, pots and pans washed in the sink. There will be no need for him to drive me home. We will already be there. Our sons have seen that part of our story many times. That might be all they really need to know.    

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Note: The poem that sparked my thinking is "His Elderly Father as a Young Man" by Leo Dangel. I would post it here for you to enjoy as well but do want to commit copyright infringement. I encourage you to find it in Home from the Field, © Spoon River Poetry Press, 1997.

Love and Other Drugs*

Mark may not have enjoyed the events of his morning, but I certainly did. Well, one thing in particular: the lovie-eyed looks I got when he was waking up in the recovery room of our local outpatient surgery center. Oh! And the loving, drowzy comments that came with them.

“You are amazing.”

His soft eyes locked on my eyes.

“You are beautiful.”

He added a tired smile, still looking only into my eyes.

“You really are incredible. Just beautiful.”

Wow. His face was so love-filled, his voice so sweet. Whatever they put in his IV, I am grateful for it.

For 45 minutes or so, Mark floated in and out of this state of sedated love, and I heard how beautiful and amazing I was at least a dozen times.

Fortunately he wasn’t recovering from anything more than a test that involved looking at his esophagus and stomach with the aid of a scope. And fortunately, his test results were normal.

The sedative that freed Mark’s passionate side made the test more tolerable. It also made him even more lovable; for in addition to the words he spoke, Mark also kept a soft but firm hold onto my hands. He held my hands in his from the moment he first reached out – quite bleary-eyed –until falling soundly back to sleep after hearing the doctor’s excellent report.

Then, left alone to share our dorm-room-sized, curtained cubicle, I felt like we were dating again. And in the brief spaces of time when Mark drifted back into deep sleep, I gazed at his face with moist eyes. He is still the man I fell in love with.

We are both so different from the 25-years-younger versions of ourselves. But we are still soul companions. We are still in love.

I am so blessed to be Mark’s wife. So blessed to have been his caregiver today.

And you know what? He is not looking forward to the colonoscopy scheduled next week for him, but (forgive me, Mark) I am.

Mark, I promise to meet you in recovery again and hold your hands for as long as you want me to.

How about forever?


* Yes, I’m borrowing the title of a movie for today’s blog, but it seems so apropos.

Love every moment

written Tuesday, Nov. 30, 2010

I devour dark chocolate at some point each day - part indulgence, part coping mechanism; my daily ritual is always comforting. Today I also found myself contemplating a new life perspective, courtesy of the wrapper message on a Dove® dark chocolate single. The message read: Love every moment.

Upon first read, I understood the message as an invitation to love each thing that happens to me during the day – an implication that each moment has worth, regardless of what might be happening at the time. Then came my instant revulsion to that thought by way of my poo-on-that-no-way attitude.

You see, I wasn’t particularly in the mood for such a platitude, for only seconds earlier I had walked out of Stross’s bathroom after helping him with a particularly messy colostomy issue. A literal “poo-on-that” moment. I had not loved that moment nor could I imagine loving such a moment until I had another, far-less-revolting thought: What if the message was not a command to love every moment, but to spend every moment expressing love? Love – every – moment. What if I was being reminded to – just as the wrapper read – love in every moment that I am alive? That is an extremely intense challenge; however, it is certainly something worthy of my aspiration. And, truly, love is what keeps me present so I can do my best work when helping Stross during moments that are far from Norman Rockwellian slices of life.

My more nuanced and more enlightened thought solidified when – not content with eating only one Dove® dark chocolate single – I grabbed for another shiny wrapped treat. The second one's message also conveyed a message related to love: Love rules without rules.

Ah, ha! Perhaps, as I suspected, the first wrapper was not a command. Perhaps it was simply a reminder. I have the option – a choice – to express love no matter what might be happening in my life, every moment of every day. I can choose to love every moment.

That’s a tall order when my attention is derailed by poo-on-you incidents. But that is what I am called to do … regardless. To love with all my heart, soul and mind, and to love my neighbors as myself. This call to love should not be easily forgotten, for it is echoed by every major religion in the world. Even by the candy wrappers on my chosen daily chocolates.

Thank you, Dove® dark chocolate singles. You gave me something new to think about today. Love every moment. I will remember that rule even when life feels as if there are no rules.

Amen. May it indeed be so.

The last ones dancing

Now that I have a Flip camera, it seems I have a difficult time not capturing certain moments of life as I see them unfolding. And so many things seem to unfold in the intense moments just before a bride walks down the aisle. Same for the intimate moments of the ceremony itself and the instantaneous moments that occur once the celebrating truly begins.

Our family attended the wedding of a former student near the end of August. I caught some of it on video; the bride gave me her blessing to share it with you. If you choose to watch it, you still won't be able to see what I saw. For, like other married persons, I experience weddings as a time of personal reflection. This day was no different. Well, other than the fact that on the way to the wedding, Mark and I argued in the car - loudly. Yes, we exposed our children to the nonsense of a marital fight. I would use the word "disagreement," but who would I be kidding? When a husband and a wife argue, it is a fight with words. Someone wants to win.

Am I ashamed our sons were captive to such? Yes. Does that mean Mark and I will never do such a thing again? I hope so. But odds are against it. We love intensely; we fight intensely. We make up reluctantly, but intentionally. We try to be sure our sons get to see the "it's all better" part too.

Of course I cannot remember what was so important to be right about. After all, winning is about being right. Right? It was something totally stupid, I am sure. I have a feeling if I ask either of our sons, they could tell me. But I won't ask. Who wants to dredge then reexamine stupidity? Not I.

What I do remember from that day is realizing that Mark and I are extremely different from the blushing bride and bursting-with-pride groom we were in 1986. On the Friday of Memorial Day weekend that year, we stood arm-in-arm, listening to the officiant of our wedding, Rev. Larry Trachte, declare that May 30 was "a day marked with joy." Then, as newlyweds during Mark's seminary years, we became Mark and Joy. I'd even say that the experiences of that time period turned us into Mark&Joy - a symbiotic couple whose relationship further deepened and solidified after a miscarriage and the birth of our first child only a few years later.

Nearly 25 years since we said our own "I dos" (I believe we actually said "I will"), it remains difficult to know where one of us ends and other other begins. That isn't necessarily good.

During the summer of 2000, we treated ourselves to some marriage counseling sessions and discovered how intensely entwined our relationship had become. We had not lost our individual identities, but we had to admit that Stross had caused Mark&Joy to become exponentially more important than either Mark or Joy.

That is still true today. In fact, I can't imagine it not being true, and I'm not sure if that is necessarily good, either. But it is, what it is, as they say.

Here is what I do know. When Mark takes a hit, I get bruised; and when I get cut, Mark bleeds. What's more, if someone dares to bare his or her teeth our direction, it is not clear which one of us will have the most difficult time not biting back.

On the day of this wedding, once we had time for tempers to cool - courtesy of a wedding aura - Mark and I welcomed the opportunity to come together at the invitation of the dj: "All married couples, come join the bride and groom for a special anniversary dance." And had we not willingly walked to the dance floor together, our sons would have insisted.

What occurred next, however, brought even more perspective. The dj kept announcing criteria for which couples could remain on the dance floor: "Everyone except the bride and groom who has been married X number of years or less, please have a seat." Finally, four announcements of time increments later, guess which couple was almost the last one dancing? Mark&Joy. According to the bride's estimate, we outlasted everyone but the groom's parents.

This silly dancing game reminded us that long marriages are, indeed, rare. And that, at nearly 25 years, our marriage might be as rare as we have always believed it to be.

When we vowed to spend our lives with one another one quarter of a century ago, we had no ability to comprehend how different we would be from the young man and young woman who stood facing each other, hand-in-hand that day. If that tall, handsome, smiley, Southern Baptist man came to find me today, I'm not sure I'd know what to do. I'm confident Mark would have the same difficulty if he found himself face to face with the dark-eyed, daintier, dimpled darling I used to be.

I wish I could have done a better job capturing all the moments that have shaped who we have become. But I would have needed a Flip camera capable of capturing faith. No piece of film, no byte of data can ever make that come to be. Memory even fails. But that doesn't matter, I will never forget what I have. It is exactly what I hoped for nearly 25 years ago: a life partner who continues to stand beside me no matter what life threatens to throw our way. And his faith in us and our future remains as fierce as it was so many years ago.

For a guy who grew up not going to dances, he's sure an incredible dancer. And I'm incredibly blessed to be the one who gets to dance with him. I sure hope we aren't taking it for granted that - as on the night of that wedding - we are becoming some of the last ones still dancing together.

"For I know the plans I have for you ... plans to prosper, and not to harm; plans for hope and a future."

Dear God, search us and know our hearts; test us and know our thoughts. See if there are any wicked ways in us, and lead us in the way everlasting. And, dear God, please keep us close. Allow us to keep feeling your heart while we dance for we wish to remain with you through it all - until the last ones dancing.
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Storybook Romance, Storybook Wedding

Andre' Franco and Eva Mills met when freshmen at Waldorf College in Forest City, Iowa. He needed a math tutor; she was the tutor. They got married May 8, one week after graduation.

Mark Newcom and Joy Bowden met when juniors at neighboring colleges. He began to bus her tables during their shift as singing waiters; she looked for opportunities to stand next to him when a song required a male partner. They got married 14 days after he graduated from the University of Northern Iowa and five days after she graduated from Wartburg College.

Sometimes you discover that you have fallen in love with your best friend, and that what you are like when together seems exponentially more wonderful than even your most wonderful day spent apart.

You may even realize that your best friend is your soul mate.

You may even - one day - get to live a storybook romance that leads to a story book wedding.

Best wishes to you both - Andre' and Eva - from both of us. Thank you for having shared in our lives and for allowing us to celebrate this wonderful day with you.

Many blessings as you continue sharing life together - only now as husband and wife.

New Heaven, New Earth, New Way

May 2, 2010: Fifth Sunday of Easter

Scripture:
Acts 11:1-18
Psalm 148
Revelation 21:1-6
John 13:31-35

Please pray with me. Let us pray together: “We offer praise to you, O Lord. We join the sun and moon and shining stars in praise to you. We praise you from the depths and from the highest of heavens. We join with the fire and hail, the snow and frost, the mountains and hills – with all wild animals and all living things – with all people everywhere – in praise to you. May the words of my mouth, and the meditation of my spirit, be acceptable in your sight, and bring you praise, O Lord, my rock and my redeemer.” Amen

Every once in a while, something happens that causes us to view our life in a new way. Actually, it may even help us see others in our lives in a new way.

When I was a sophomore in high school, I believed that my high school music teacher didn’t think I could sing well enough to perform a solo – and what she thought about me and my abilities mattered to me – likely even more than I knew at the time.

I mean, my elementary music teacher had given me some solos, but Mrs. Bieber, who was both my middle school and high school music teacher, had never given me one. Not once in four years. To be accurate, she had placed me into some small ensembles, and as a result, I had the chance to sing a few solo measures simply because they were written into the music. But I was never chosen for what I considered a real solo.

And so where I once believed I was capable of performing a solo, I now began to resign myself to the role of back up singer, and I decided I might need to learn how to be content as a member of the choir.

Still I began to wonder if my teacher had favorites that she thought of first when a song had a solo in it. And I wanted to be one of her favorites. Perhaps you can identify. Don’t we all want to be a favorite somehow? Some way? Of somebody?

“Favorite.” It’s an interesting concept, isn’t it? We probably could all make a list of favorite things. You know the song (and please sing along if you'd like): “Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens. … brown paper packages tied up with strings.

Everybody now: “These are a few of my favorite things.”

Having favorite things is comforting, isn’t it? As we just experienced, it even feels good to hear the lyrics of a favorite song, sing along and simply relax into the familiarity of it. When a song comes on that you can sing along with, it somehow makes a day better, even if just for a little bit.

And it’s not just a music thing. From Binkies® to blankets to Buicks®, we seem to pass from one phase of life into another, keeping favorite things close to us for comfort – perhaps even a sense of belonging.

I think that is why I have always been interested in the idea of “favored” also – as in “God’s favored people.” In today’s New Testament lesson, we see Peter being confronted with a need to expand his concept of who is regarded as “favored.” Peter, a Jew, grew up as a student of the Torah. The Torah, or the first five books of the Old Testament, were – and still are, in fact – regarded by those who are Jewish as a gift from God to them, his chosen people. In other words, God loved his chosen people enough to provide them with instructions on how to live.

Listen to this love note from God to the people of Israel in Deuteronomy 14:2, "For you are a holy people to YHWH your God, and God has chosen you to be his treasured people from all the nations that are on the face of the earth."

What a beautiful message of love: “chosen (as) treasured people from all the nations on earth.”

It sort of reminds me of love notes I got from Mark years ago. Now, don’t laugh, but on a note in a box tucked away for safekeeping, I have written proof that Mark believes I am the most beautiful woman in the world. The world, mind you. Now, am I going to argue with him? My husband? No way … (Well, not on that topic.) ☺ From the earliest of days of our relationship, Mark has made me feel treasured, chosen and most wonderfully favored. What a blessing!

Now I am keenly aware that isn't always the case in marriage relationships. And I don't share this as a way to brag. I'm simply letting you know what came to mind for me as I attempted to climb into a frame of mind close to what Peter, one of God's chosen people, might have had. I think it is important for us to try to understand Peter’s frame of mind during the passage we heard read today from Acts 11, and that is the closest analogy I could think of.

You see, Peter is Jewish. That means Peter knows he is favored. The Torah is his love note from God telling him that he is among the most treasured people on earth. And when very Jewish Peter receives a vision from God, he is seeing and hearing it as one of God’s chosen people. He feels treasured by the God who created him and then called him as a disciple.

I'm not sure if you noticed it, but the last stanza of today's Psalm is a praise to God from "the people of Israel who are close to him." Peter has grown to adulthood understanding that he belongs to God’s chosen race, and as a disciple of Jesus – the Christ – he even likely feels even more chosen.

Just think of what it was like to be Peter:
• He was invited by the Son of Man to become a fisher of men.
• He watched Jesus walk on water and then tried to do it himself.
• He was the only disciple to follow Jesus as far as the house of the high priest, but when recognized, he denied that he even knew Jesus – three times – just as Jesus said.
• Finally, Peter encountered a risen Christ while he was fishing. He didn’t recognize him at first. But he soon did. And then when he was eating with the risen Jesus, he received some pretty interesting – and persistent – instructions to feed Jesus’ sheep.

By this point, I believe Peter must have been looking at Jesus in a whole new way. How could he not? Peter, who had been given the name ‘Petra’ or ‘Rock’ by Jesus, was probably wondering if he would ever understand what Jesus had meant when he said: “Upon this rock I shall build my church.”

Now … back to me, my music teacher, and that elusive solo. Will I ever feel favored by her?

Well, on the Friday before Easter that year (my sophomore year) my parents invited Mrs. Bieber to stay overnight in our home the evening before we music students were to leave for small group music contest. Mrs. Bieber lived in another town and my parents’ offer made it possible for her to avoid a 90-mile round-trip prior to a 5:30 a.m. bus departure. Interestingly, my parents and little sister were out of town that night, so it was just me and my high school music teacher “hanging out” on a Friday night at my house.

After we ate supper together, I gave her, her space, and she gave me mine. It was a bit awkward … but, mostly, it was really cool. I mean, Mrs. Bieber was at my house. And, what I remember most: She wore blue jeans and tennis shoes that night. This was a big deal, because Mrs. Bieber never wore anything to school that wasn’t a dress or a skirt or slack outfit with a matching jacket. I wasn’t really sure who I was looking at that night. I was essentially seeing Mrs. Bieber in a whole new way.

There’s more to this story. You see, Monday at school, as she was reading through the judges’ comment sheets, she saw a note about a “rich, beautiful alto tone” on one. (That was my voice the judge was commenting on.) Mrs. Bieber looked up at me and asked: “Joy, why didn’t we have you take a solo to contest? Next year we really need to do that.”

Finally! She was seeing me in a new way ... just was I was her.

And, now, what about Peter? He had always lived in the confidence of favored status, remember? He was Jewish. Just like Jesus. And he had seen the Messiah. At the time of this vision, Peter lived in the wonder of the resurrected Christ for about three years, attempting to make sense of a very human world. But now he was encountering the Spirit of God – Jesus – through a vision. Yet another way to witness God at work in the world.

And remember the point of the vision? Peter was being told that Gentiles were favored too. Gentiles – non-Jews, non-chosen people.

How could it be that all the things that signified Peter’s favored status didn’t seem to matter any more?
For instance:
• He was circumcised. Gentiles were not. But that didn’t seem to matter.
• He didn’t eat animals considered unclean- hawks, ferrets, owls, eagles, herons, raccoons, snakes, wolves, squirrels, lions, lobsters, mice, camels, and swine – to name a few. Gentiles ate all of those, but that didn’t seem to matter.
Not only that, in the vision, Peter was being told that he could eat those things now as well.
“Get up, Peter; kill and eat.”
“By no means, Lord; for nothing profane or unclean has ever entered my mouth.”
Hey, Peter … said the Spirit of God: “What God has made clean, you must not call profane.”

This was new. Radically new. And now Peter was seeing God – seeing the world – in a whole new way.

Most importantly, Peter understood that there was no longer a “them” and “us.” He saw that when he began to speak, the Holy Spirit had fallen on them, just as it had fallen on the Jewish disciples of Jesus.

As Peter explains it: “If then God gave them the same gift that he gave us when we believed in the Lord Jesus Christ, who was I that I could hinder God?”

Peter was seeing that God had brought about a new heaven on earth where all people were favored. The good news of a risen Christ was not just for those who were Jewish, but for Gentiles, or non-Jews, as well.

I’m not sure how we 21st century humans can fully appreciate the breath and depth of this new invitation and how shocking it must have been to those born Jewish 20 centuries ago.

According to Levitical law, Gentiles were to be regarded as unclean from birth. A Gentile, according to Jewish cultural practices, could not be entrusted with care of cattle. Not only that, Gentiles should not be allowed to nurse Jewish infants, provide medical care to those who were Jewish, or even walk in the company of anyone who was Jewish unless absolutely necessary – and only then with the utmost of caution, for Gentiles were not to be trusted. In fact, Gentiles were to be avoided if at all possible, except in cases of necessity – or for the sake of business.

Can you think of a class or a segment of people that you might regard as the modern day equivalent of Gentiles? Can you?

Perhaps they are people with whom we don’t want to associate …

Or people we think live an unclean life …

Maybe they are people we believe are so sinful that they fall outside the bound of God’s love …

Can you think of someone you have regarded as “unclean?” I can. And I am so ashamed that I am capable of such thoughts, that I don’t even want to say what I’m thinking aloud. Perhaps you can identify.

But God knows our thoughts and God is calling us to a new way.

God is reminding us of what Peter was told in today’s passage: “Do not call anything unclean that God has made pure.” This is truly big stuff.

Jews were the chosen ones – Jews were clean. We were the Gentiles. We were unclean … but God through Christ has made us new. The good news of the gospel is that everybody has been made pure. Witness a new order in heaven and on earth. Witness a new way to see the world.

That is the vision that John shares in our passage from Revelation today as well. John sees a new heaven and a new earth; for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away. John, like Peter, hears a voice. And his message is also about seeing things that we might not be able to be comprehend without God providing us a new way to see.

Listen to John’s words regarded as prophesy in Revelation: “…the home of God is among mortals. He will dwell with them as their God; they will be his people, and God himself will be with them.”

Do you see? God is making all things new. That is good news, indeed.

We of the Lutheran tradition regard this as “living in the now and the not yet.” Throughout the New Testament, Christ regularly proclaims “the kingdom is here” but also “thy kingdom come.” So which is it?

Peter was fortunate enough to live a first-person account of this kingdom come to earth. But so are we. Remember: “…the home of God is among mortals. He will dwell with them as their God; they will be his people, and God himself will be with them.”

That is both now (the kingdom on earth) … and not yet (the kingdom to come).

The gospels are full of stories about Jesus teaching – through parables and conversations – that even when the disciples would no longer be able to physically see Jesus, he would not leave them forsaken. He would provide them a Counselor, a Comforter – the Spirit of God. It was this Spirit guiding Peter into his new way of living in the world, reminding him of Christ’s words that we heard in today’s gospels: Love. It is all about love.

Forget about the law, Peter. Focus on love.

Everyone was – is – in God’s favor. Everyone had been – has been – chosen by God.

And being a disciple of God, means loving others as Christ – as God – loves you.

This divine love is a tall order, for it is a selfless love that calls us to put others above ourselves. What makes it difficult is this need we have to be treasured by others we encounter in life. We want to know that we are favored. That we are somebody’s favorite even as we are called to help others feel the same.

Guess what? We can do that simply by letting them know they matter. By showing them love in action. For they will know Christ through our capacity to love.

You know, I am grateful I got to know that Mrs. Bieber thought I was a good enough singer to take a solo to contest. And I’m grateful that happened when it did. Because Tuesday morning, the very next day, Mrs. Bieber didn’t come to school. She had been killed in a car accident the evening before. Just when I felt I had earned her favor, she was gone.

I still cherish the gift of affirmation and acceptance she gave me. And, sometimes, I still think of her when I want to sing solo. I also think of her every Easter, because her funeral was on Good Friday. She was 33 years old when she died. The same age as Jesus. Had she died without me knowing that I had found her favor, I think I would have always wondered.

We never need to wonder what God thinks of us. We never need to wonder if we are favored.

We are God’s chosen.
We are loved.
God – through Christ – has made us clean.
God – through the Spirit – lives with us today. Immanuel – God with us.

We live in the “here and now” even as we look forward to “the not yet.”

We have been made one in the Spirit.
We have been made one in the Lord.
Jews. Gentiles. You. Me.

Christ came and established a new heaven, and a new earth.
A whole new way of living in this world that has nothing to do with laws but everything to do with love.

So, what do you say, Favored One?

I hope you know how special you are.
I hope you understand that you have been made clean.
Most of all, I hope you know that you are loved, and because you are loved, you are called to love others as well.

Amen. May it indeed be so.

God Does Not Pinch

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Sometimes - more often than you would think - I encounter someone who shares a remark such as: "God sure knew what he was doing when he gave Stross to you and Mark." Or "I think God gave you Stross as a gift because he (Stross) can help you learn something about God."

I don't ascribe to the theology that shapes those statements - a belief that God causes babies to be born with birth defects, albeit, if only for a good reason.

I don't ascribe to the theology that shapes unspoken (but known to exist) thoughts either - a belief that God gave us Stross because of something we had done and that we needed to be taught a lesson. Stross, they assert, was to be our tutor.

Now here's what is most fascinating to me: Stross has been a wonderful life tutor - a definite gift from God. But I have never believed - nor can I imagine ever believing - that God knitted Stross together in my womb defectively. Not on purpose and certainly not accidentally. It simply happened, because that's the way things go sometimes in this imperfect world we live in.

Usually those who make the comments noted above are uncomfortable with my refusal to believe in a God who makes malformed babies. Even if for a reason. But I simply cannot believe in a God who "pinches." (That sentence won't make sense until you watch the video.)

In today's vlog I share a guilty story about something I did when I was probably 9 or 10 years old. What happened on the day I describe is likely the reason I never - not even for one second, honestly - have been mad at God about Stross. Oh, I get mad at the world and other people sometimes concerning circumstances related to Stross - but never mad at God about Stross' life condition or how it has shaped our future.

I wonder what you will think after you listen to the story.

I also wonder if the people who make the comments I shared above ever stop to think this: If they are right about God giving me Stross to teach me a lesson, he or she should really pay attention to what I have learned because of Stross, despite my protestations.

God has given me a lot to say.

Thanks for listening.




P.S. - I was sick last week: a monster cold. Feeling better now, thankfully!
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Love - or, What Happened to Mark and Joy?

It is practically impossible to avoid the topic of love this time of year, isn't it? On Friday, I was compelled to record my thoughts on the topic. Here's what bubbled forth.





What happened to Mark and Joy? I am not fully sure. If I had to sum it up in a word: Love. Love happened to Mark and Joy. And I'm so grateful. I'll never be the same.


Stay tuned for how we celebrated Valentine's Day. I'll post it sometime tomorrow. And guess what? Mark vlogged with me! Truly. Now that's love.

Kingdom Living

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*Find a quiet time, a quiet place for the 7 minutes you'll spend listening to the video. You won't regret it.

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I see myself as a dot connector.

It's as if certain moments in life are tabbed as memories worthy of future reference: dots, if you will, that – when linked to events I'm living in current time – help create contours that deepen and enrich my existence.

The moment I realized I was falling in love with Mark is such a dot.

I let him know this way: "I'm in love with your voice."

It was December 1984 during downtime in a Christmas performance of our singing waiters' group – two months before we would dare to share our first kiss. Letting him know I loved his voice seemed a safe start. Loving all of him seemed too scary, too real.

I didn't want to find my life partner yet. Still, I think I knew that I had started to fall in love with a higher percentage of him that what his voice represented. Somehow, his voice was my safe entrance to a relationship that had the potential to last our shared lifetimes.

His voice was most vibrant when singing; what I loved about his singing was the way he interpreted music. For Mark, singing was a full-bodied experience, and if the music had a happy theme, his broad, toothy smile couldn't be contained no matter the complexity of lyrics and rhythm.

But his transparent spirituality is what ultimately captured me, promising to challenge my notion of faith as long as my heart had ears to hear.

Mark's faith was fearless, a youthful arrogance tempered by a willing inquisitiveness. My brain found the mix annoying, even challenging; yet as a matter of the heart, it intoxicated me. I was arrogant; I was inquisitive too.

Imagine my drunken delight upon hearing him sing a song that spoke to my soul's passion: justice for life's least of these, a category of people I knew of intellectually yet kept at an emotional distance.

I liked the idea of the least being greatest among us – of the poor regarded as rich and the downtrodden lifted up. The life I saw laid out before my 20-year-old eyes had me claiming a role as one of the fortunate people who could understand the power of such paradoxes without having to live them. I could, I believed, share their truth without sharing in their heartache. I could be one of the good rich ones, couldn't I, because I already got it.

Less than two years later while listening to Mark sing lyrics about God's kingdom come to earth, I felt ready to assume my adult role with him at my side. We were soul mates bonded by an understanding that our lives were to be used for good. We would marry. We would minister together as we saw need, and surely, we would be rewarded for our efforts.

Imagine my wonder 25 years later upon realizing my life's richest moments have come as one of the least of these – as one who identifies with the poor, the lame, the powerless. A weary woman with an often tired spirit who feels she can do nothing more than profess that God's kingdom truly does exists – not on a mountain, but in the messy, dirty streets.

My life's dots continue to lead me into the murkiness of life – into the kingdom of the streets.

Thank you, Mark, for capturing my heart with your voice, and for continuing to remain fearless even when harboring fears about our future. I promise to keep walking with you down the darkest streets; and as we walk, I can tell you quite a story, and you can sing me quite a song. Let's keep dreaming about tomorrow in the darkness of our nights.


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* In memory of our dear friend Beth DeBerg, our first and most fervent accompanist. We miss you, Beth. You've been gone for so long now, but we still remember; we will never forget. Thank you, also, to Ken Medema, for an unbelievably beautiful song. Incredible.
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What is at Life's Center Anyway...

...what IS at my life's center? Sometime I'll write about this as follow up to the metaphor entry. And then I'll address this question: Is Stross really the center of my life? Sometimes it feels like it, but the real answer is basically: No. He's just the center of my perfect storm. There's a difference.

Of course, that response leads to this question (which really was the point of the first question): What centers your life, Joy?

Ah....good question....

My shortest answer: Love

My shortest, more complete answer: The fulfillment of my identity as a child of God (defines how I grace-filledly share love).

My longer answer: (To Come!)

Exponential Thinking

I found out that the next 500 copies of "Involuntary Joy" will ship around Sept. 27. So, really, it's only a matter of days before I need to sharpen my focus on the business of selling books again. Let me clarify: The books are still selling; but when I get 500 more in stock, I'll want them to sell at a pace that allows me to climb out of the debt I incurred to print them. A pragmatically practical concern. (Interest rates are related to the concept of exponential growth too, but that's not what this blog is about.)

Back to the books: As it is, I'm down to less than 60 copies of the first 500. And that's a bit unreal, considering they arrived July 20--less than two months ago.

I've learned a bit about book selling and distribution these past six weeks. The most fascinating thing: How one book is read by multiple persons--usually by at least one other person, but sometimes as many as three to four others. Therefore, there may be 440 copies of "Involuntary Joy" circulating, but it's possible that more than 800 people have read it.

I'm still trying to grasp the scope of that. What does it mean--if anything--beyond learning that one person loaned (or gifted) his or her copy to another?

Please don't assume that my exponential musings are linked to grandiose concepts. More like anecdotes from childhood--like a hair care commercial from the 70s where a woman tells her friend about it, then she tells her friend, and so on and so on. I can still see the TV screen fill with two boxes, then four boxes, then eight, and so on--each showing smiley women with flowing hair. News of the product took off exponentially, growing in proportion to the hair product's fans.

Accompanying this commercialized memory is something more spiritual: A song from Bible school about love being like a magic penny. The lyrics went something like:

.. It's just like a magic penny--
.. hold it close and you won't have any.
.. Lend it, spend it, you'll have so many,
.. they'll roll all over the floor.

.. Love is nothing 'til you give it away,
.. give it away,
.. give it away.
.. Love is nothing 'til you give it away.
.. You end up having more.

I love that image.
Love spilling out all over the place.
Exponential love.

Now that's some kind of involuntary joy.
Amen. May it indeed be so.