Kevin's Assignment

I'm having a hard time with Kev's assignment to write about a time when God's grace or helping hand were most evident (see comments under "Play that tape again"), because there's not one big story that stands out right now. I keep hearing Tom Hanks in Sleepless in Seattle saying, "It's just a million little things..."

-the grace to forgive someone I'd held a grudge against for a long time (not a little thing, really, but not a story for telling)

-the chance to make my Pa-Pa laugh one last time before he died (when he was bed-bound and mute from a massive stroke)

-a dead squirrel on the stoop when I had gone through long season of writer's block

-the exact song/sermon I needed to hear being sung/preached at church or played on the radio (how many times has this happened?)

-the time I found a bunch of cheap copies of Wild at Heart to give to my guy friends

-receiving the wrong CD in the mail from GPB (folk songs when I'd ordered classical as my free gift for contributing) and listening to find a song that brought me to my knees with its pleading lyrics ("Lord, Revive Us") and pertinence to my situation

These are just some tidbits of a life that is touched every day by little miracles and stories of grace. I'm ungrateful so often.

Most exotic visitors

Sitemeter is so cool (I know my friends have already discovered this, so Duh, Leah!)! But so far my most interesting visitors have been a person from South Africa who googled "My soul remembers," and a person from Romania looking for that picture of a baby ginger monkey I got from Wikipedia. Foarte interesant!

Play that tape again...

Last night at my ladies' group we were talking about our recent experience at Tres Dias, some of us as workers, some as attendees. It was awesome to do together what Bobbe, leader of the weekend, said she had done individually all week long: replay the weekend in her mind.

When she used that phrase, the Holy Spirit brought to mind a particular part of our theme verse for the weekend. Psalm 103:2 says, "Praise the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits" (NIV). I got the picture of me and God viewing a tape of my life. Forgetting not His benefits is like rewinding back to all the best parts--the times He's proven his faithfulness so indisputably, the promises He's fulfilled, the healing He's granted, the truths He's illuminated--and dwelling on them. Everyone who knows me well has heard me quote lines (repeatedly!) from You've Got Mail, Pride and Prejudice, and Sabrina. I rewind to those funny or poignant moments I love time and time again. As Christians, we're called to do that with the moments of our lives, offering them back to God in praise, repeating them to others as testimonies of His grace.

I believe the Father loves it when we come to Him, childlike, and say, "Daddy, 'member dat time...?" Of course He remembers, but isn't it fun to tell those old stories? There's no quicker way to build faith than to replay the tape.

Jesus, Jesus, how I trust Him; How I've proved Him o'er and o'er!
Jesus, Jesus, precious Jesus! O for grace to trust Him more!

Good stuff from Oswald Chambers

A portion of today's reading from MUfHH:

When we are born again, the Holy Spirit begins to work His new creation in us, and there will come a time when there is not a bit of the old order left, the old solemnity goes, the old attitude to things goes, and "all things are of God." How are we going to get the life that has no lust, no self-interest, no sensitiveness to pokes, the love that is not provoked, that thinketh no evil, that is always kind? The only way is by allowing not a bit of the old life to be left; but only simple perfect trust in God, such trust that we no longer want God's blessings, but only want Himself. Have we come to the place where God can withdraw His blessings and it does not affect our trust in Him? When once we see God at work, we will never bother our heads about things that happen, because we are actually trusting in our Father in Heaven Whom the world cannot see.

A poem from my thesis that will never get published

I won't share any poems that might make it into a journal someday, but here's a poem from my thesis that was okay at the time but not really publishable. It's one of a series about the Poet, a stereotypical old white male poet type on at least his second marriage; "recovering" from some religion or other and vaguely associated with Buddhism; supremely pompous, though in an Everyman sort of guise; and so well-known in the poetry world that anything he writes will be published, good or not.

The best of my Poet poems will hopefully get picked up by a magazine, so it won't appear here. This one was more something I had to write, a working-out of some issues about Poetry that I was dealing with at the time. Most poets who talk about religion in their work are post-church people, and the dreaded f-word of academe is not that nasty one that rolls regularly of most tongues these days, but fundamentalism. Truth is fluid, art semi-divine--really, it's the only thing safe to believe in.

The in-jokes (among other things) are what make it less a good poem than a good exercise (or exorcising of some stuff), but it's thought-provoking, at least.

The Cult of Art

The Poet, a Buddhist if he’s anything,
says I can’t believe in poetry and capital-G
god, says I’ll have to choose.

I always knew it.

But how to give up poetry, how to
shun her goddesses with an oh-well
shrug? Can’t I just mix spirits
and saints, chants and prayers?
Drink bubbling potions and
communion wine?

No, he warns. We dare not
risk such mixing. Leave experiments
to science—this is Art. Here
is the blank white page. We
write holy writ. Your muse is
jealous, Dearie, jealous as any
O.T. God, and, Vengeance—
well, she saith it’s hers, too.

How can I risk the silence
of the goddess? How dare I
risk the holy wrath of God?
How much longer can I live
in the eye of this Venn, these
intersecting rings of flame?

Other writers circle us, say
the Poet’s full of mumbo-
jumbo, say I’m too dramatic.
What choice? What incompatibility?
Think of Milton, they say,
of King David, of Gerard
Manley Hopkins. Worship
is Art, Art worship. Jesus,
Allah, YHWH, it doesn’t matter.
You might even follow the Poet
as he follows the Buddha. We are
all artists here, followers of
Art—full of love and
questions. Seekers.

From the corner, Art eyes
us, an elephant wild for
peanuts just beyond her
reach. Should the seekers
notice, they would dress her
statuesque in red and gold,
call her shrieks songs, make
obeisance. But they’re not
paying attention, and I don’t
care to see the spectacle.
My reasonable act of worship:
to remember she’d like to devour
me, and to fear that power.

Words I occasionally have trouble spelling

license
exercise
separate
conscious
some -ible word that I can't recall at present

I usually catch myself, but my first instinct is to misspell these words. Also, more often than not, I type to when I mean too and you when I mean your.

That is all.

Two Years Ago...

I looked like a hippie and Aubie was a little tiny thing. I missed Mountain Day this past weekend (we're at Berry in the video for that very occasion), so I guess I'm a little sentimental.

But our boy will be able to enjoy it next year. Can you believe how small Aubs was? I love this funny little moment in time.