Monday, December 29, 2008

Stay on target...

Past entries loaded in? Check.

Link back to main web page installed?  Check.

Just need to point the old blog site to this one and we should be golden, right?

Oh.  And I need some people who don't have Mac-based browers to look at it and make sure it's not all catty-wumpus.

I just may be ready to fulfill my New Year's Resolution to post every week by the new year!  Yee-haw!

Sunday, December 28, 2008

So Far So Good

I've managed to migrate the style (including the awesome photo of the rocks on the bottom of Mullett Lake that my brother photo-shopped so that it repeated without sharp edges (he rocks!)) to the new host.  

Next steps:
1) Can I move all my old posts into this new site's archives?
2) Install a link to get you from the blog back to my main website.
3) Point my main website to this for the blog instead of the old one.

Saturday, December 27, 2008

Testing 1-2-3

Trying to create a more user-friendly blog while maintaining some of the design integrity of my old one without very much programming know-how is kind of a b----.

Friday, September 19, 2008

Why I Love Pikachu


No. It's not a sneeze or a baby game (it rhymes with "Peek-a-boo"). Pikachu is a Pokemon.  If you have no idea what a Pokemon is, you probably don't have kids between six and sixteen. Pokemon is a popular cartoon (Japanese animation or "anime") about kids who train little creatures with special powers to compete in what amount to sort-of science fiction cock fights. Sound awful? Well, YEAH, when you put it that way!

But anime has a way of making the most ridiculous nonsense seem reasonable. Even endearing. And Pokemon is chock full of messages about love, loyalty and perseverance.

Anime is no novelty to me. I cut my teeth on G-Force, Voltron and then Robo-tech and my husband on Speed Racer and Star Blazers before me. So I don't question the characters' huge, moist eyes and jagged hair in an array of dayglo colors. I may roll my eyes a bit at the little Pokemon creatures whose entire vocabulary consists of their own name: "Pika…CHU!" "Turtwig!" "Roserade!" "Timmy!"---No, wait. That's South Park.

Can I explain the massive appeal of this essentially silly show? No. But I don't have to. I just LOVE Pikachu.


Sure, he's adorable. But that's not it.

You see, my son, Gavin, has recently become obsessed with the little rosy-cheeked guy. And while it's disconcerting to ask him a question and receive only "Peekah-peekah!" as an answer, he seems to have learned a few positive things from the lightning-bolt-slinging furball.

Gavin is now in second grade and the spelling tests have begun. During his first practice test at home, my little perfectionist couldn't remember how to spell "this" and the result was a howl of frustrated rage. We were teetering on the brink of a meltdown on par with the effects of firing the Yamamoto's Main Gun. I felt myself begin to panic as I envisioned a whole year of battles over this simple process.

Then inspiration hit me like... well... a lightning bolt.

"Does Pikachu win every battle he's in?" I asked suddenly.

This brought Gavin up short. He eyed me suspiciously, but there was something like hope in his huge, moist eyes.

"No," he conceded.

"Does he give up?" I asked.

"No," he said again.

"When Pikachu loses a battle, Ash just helps him train more so he can do better next time, right?"

If words could only convey the radiance of that boy's smile when he made the connection. It was okay to fail! Pikachu did it and he was still the greatest thing going!

"Peeee-kaaaaaah!" Gavin said joyfully and picked up his pencil again.

The next day, he brought home his first spelling test with twelve out of fifteen right. "Not bad for a beginner," he said, philosophically.

That's probably a line from the show.

Sunday, June 22, 2008

Subtlety Thy Name Is God--NOT!

I recently e-mailed my pastor, lamenting my feelings of directionlessness and how they fly in the face of my strong sense of being called in some way. We enjoyed a candid exchange on faith, ministry and mission, service and purpose in life. I wondered if I shouldn't be attending seminary all the while suspecting that ordained ministry isn't where I'm called. Pastor Rob verbalized my misgivings, lovingly cautioning that seminary isn't necessarily "the answer." Finally, I wrote, "Maybe I just need a reading list."

After hitting "Send" I turned my attention to a new e-mail from my best friend, Susan, who lives a thousand miles away from me in Maryland. It was a forwarded message from her sister-in-law's pastor and it contained--wait for it--a reading list.

On that list was Walking On Water by Madeleine L'Engle, a work about faith and art. The description spoke to me. Still reeling from the "coincidence" of receiving this email, I buzzed out to my local library's web site wondering if the system had a copy and how long it would take to get it if I reserved it today.

There were at least a dozen copies in the Hennepin County Library system and my local library had one. Checked in. Right now.

I noted the Dewey Decimal number and hopped into my car. Upon arrival at the library, I bee-lined for the proper section, found the general area and looked down. The book fairly jumped off the shelf at me. I am dead serious. It was smaller, thicker and more colorful than any of the books around it and it was literally the first one I focused on. For good measure, I perused the rest of the section to see if anything else was screaming to be picked up. Nothing. I was home fifteen minutes after I'd left.

I am halfway through the book. My conviction that creativity is a divine call has been reinforced. My faith in fiction as an acceptable Christian discipline has been restored. My reading list is suddenly longer than I can possibly imagine, yet I am excited to tackle it.

One unexpected side effect of this everyday miracle is a feeling of bereavement. I deeply regret than unlike my mother or my best friend, Susan, I will never have the opportunity to meet and speak with Madeleine L'Engle in the flesh. I recall my casual reaction to her dying as just "one of those things" and now I fervently wish I could write her a letter, send her an e-mail, somehow physically acknowledge this profound connection to her I suddenly feel.

If nothing else, I can write. And likely, she will know it.

Wednesday, June 4, 2008

My Grandmother's Hair

Somewhere I have a photocopy of an old newspaper clipping announcing my Grandmother Fergus's graduating high school at the top of her class. Though her photo looks more like a drawing in my nth-generation copy, it's clear enough to notice her striking resemblance to me. Or mine to her, I should say.

There was a time I was not so pleased about this. My grandmother had a strong German nose which, more obviously than any other feature, I inherited. The memory of walking into my bathroom at eight months pregnant, in a cotton night-gown with my hair in a bun and being startled to see my grandmother looking back at me from the mirror will always stay with me.

Which brings me to her hair--that bun I mentioned. My grandmother never had one of those old-lady short perms that halo the head in order to hide the thinning. She wore her hair in a bun at the base of her head all day every day. Only rarely did I see it any other way, and then it was down. At bedtime, once in a great while, she would emerge from her bedroom at the cabin in her nightgown and when she would turn to go back in, I would see her long hair trailing down her back. It was fine and gray, and it was wavy from having been bound up all day. It must have reached close to her waist. I remember thinking how cool it was that my grandma had long hair. Not even my mom had long hair.

At the moment, my hair is longer than it has ever been. It has reached the point where I can no longer braid it without bringing it forward over my shoulder. It is so long that when I roll over at night, it gets caught under my shoulders and needs to be pulled free. Sometimes I worry about snagging it in the weight equipment at the gym. And I adore it! Because just recently I realized that I have my grandmother's hair. When I pull it into a bun it has to be wound at least four times and with each twist I think of my grandmother and smile.

Someone once told me that I was lucky I was still young enough to wear my hair long, because at her age (40-ish) it just wasn't acceptable to do that anymore. Hah! My grandmother was 84 when she died, and I assume her hair was as long as ever. How cool is that?

Although there are still moments I think it might be nice to have a nose job, by-and-large I have "grown into" my face and my grandmother's nose suits me. Not the inheritance I might have chosen, perhaps. Her hair, on the other hand, I adore, just as I did in those childhood moments at the cabin. I am grateful to have it and I only hope I can do it justice.

And anyway, wearing my hair long makes my nose look smaller.

Wednesday, May 21, 2008

Box of Bees

I dreamt I was holding a box, perhaps the size of a child's shoebox. I don't remember receiving the box, but I knew I'd gotten it from my father. It contained bees. A new hive, partially built, housing mostly larval bees and a few young adults. The hive had grown considerably since it had first been found--it had then been maybe the size of a finger. But it was growing rapidly. I could expect the hive to double in size in the very near future and, it would seem, nearly all at once. If I didn't find a larger box soon, the hive would literally explode sending a swarm of angry bees on the rampage.

I held the box deliberately between my hands as I and a couple others walked through a quiet wood. Although I can still remember the beauty of the forest, in the dream I was too distracted by the box to enjoy the reverent hush. The box was my responsibility: whatever happened to the hive was up to me. My burden made me very nervous, for I am none too fond of bees. As a biologist, I can certainly appreciate them, but as a person who has been stung more than once, I am wary and mistrustful of them. When it came down to it, what I wanted most was to be rid of the box completely.

But there were limitations to what I was allowed to do with the box of bees. I wondered why I couldn't just throw the whole thing in the lake and drown them and be done with it. But one of my companions told me that, no, the water wouldn't kill the bees and my action would just make things worse. I thought of a few other possibilities for destroying the box but these were similarly shot down. No one said anything to imply that I had any moral obligation to the hive or the bees, to guilt me into thinking my desire to get rid of it was necessarily wrong. It just wasn't practical. It couldn't be done that way.

I remember feeling frustrated at this point in the dream, wondering why the hive hadn't been destroyed when it was tiny and harmless. I didn't get a definitive answer from anyone, just the feeling that, once again, that hadn't been an option.

One corner of the box was starting to wear and break along the edge of the lid and I became quite concerned. I found myself with Dan in a house, the two of us observing the box as it sat on the breakfast bar. We could see through the lid, the little fuzzy bees gently undulating and humming as they drank nectar and grew. It was almost sweet, this little nursery I had charge of. But that tear in the lid was worrisome.

Then it struck me. I could tape the rip with clear packing tape. And if I could do that, I could tape the entire box completely shut. Seal it with layers and layers of packing tape. That would prevent the box from exploding when the hive suddenly grew and effectively suffocate the bees.

As I started wrapping the box, a few of the young bees escaped. Eiledon came up the stairs at that moment and smiled to see the little bees flying around. I, on the other hand, felt sick with anxiety. While Ledon saw cute, bumbly baby bees, out of the corner of my eye I could only see them as sinister wasps with long, skinny bodies and trailing hind parts hanging threateningly--and far too close.

We managed to return them to the box. Eiledon accidentally killed one with her fingers but only giggled and said, "Oh, they're squishy!" I continued to wrap the box as tightly as I could, hoping if I just covered every speck of surface, my problem would be solved. Yet I was aware of someone telling me, "No, you can't do that. At the very least, you need to allow a small hole for thus-and-so" (I can't recall the specifics) and I kept thinking, Why does it matter if, ultimately, I was supposed to destroy the box, or at least dispose of it? Wasn't I?

I awoke still with that awful, heavy feeling of unease. I was grateful the dream was over and I no longer had to try to figure out what to do with this silly box with which no one seemed to be able to help me. I couldn't destroy it, though I felt I was supposed to be rid of it. I couldn't give it away but I had no idea why I had it in the first place. When I tried solving what I thought was the problem, it created more problems. And through it all was this sort of dull dread that at some point soon, if I didn't figure all of this out, the box would explode.

What could it mean? I wondered, half awake. What on earth WAS that box of bees?

"Eiledon," said a voice. Not an actual voice, but the revelation was so clear and sudden it seemed spoken aloud.

The previous night she had been particularly difficult. I could grasp the significance of that fear I have of being stung. I want to do what's right, to be a good parent, but I'm tired of being the target of her anger. Much as I try to blow it off, those cute, fuzzy bees lurk, wasp-like just out of clear view, sinister and frightening. I find my worst character defects rising in response: anger, self-righteousness, the need to WIN the power struggle. I find myself seriously disliking my own child—or worse, wanting her to THINK I dislike her in an attempt to shock her into common courtesy or, at least, obedience.

It doesn't work, of course. Backfires every time and then I've my own guilt and shame in addition to the heaps I've just ladled onto her with my icy stare and dark scowl.

I don't know what to do with this box of bees. As a parent, I have to grapple with the implications of realizing that I wish she were other than she is. That she comes to me in my dream as something dangerous and unpredictable. There must be some instruction in the dream. Is it enough that I identify my own part in creating the problem? It's a start, I suppose. Maybe the box is my own heart and it needs to have room for the WHOLE Eiledon, not just the cute and fuzzy parts.

Bees are wild and beautiful, they fly, they sing, the make the world more verdant and bountiful. Eiledon is all these things. And ready or not, she is growing up. I need to find her a bigger box, and soon.

Monday, April 14, 2008


My grandfather lent me a biography of Dietrich Bonhoeffer quite some time ago. I still had it on my shelf, unread, when he died in January of 2007. I'm not sure what possessed me to pick it up and read it this past week, but on the heels of the Children's Summit, it was a potent reaffirmation of the need to DO something in this life.

Bonhoeffer was given a teaching position in New York during WWII, but after only a month in the United States, he felt he had to return to Germany because he deeply believed you could not be a person of faith and stand idly (and safely) by while others suffered gross violations of human rights. He later wrote, "...our being Christians today must consist of two things: in praying and in doing what is right among men."( 1 ) He also wrote in verse:
Daring to do what is right, not what fancy may tell you,
valiantly grasping occasions, not cravenly doubting--
freedom comes only through deeds, not through thoughts taking wing.
( 2 )
Is it enough to be a writer? I wonder.

As I struggled with the implications of Bonhoeffer's ideas and my own feelings of being called to service, I had an assignment in my 12-step program to discuss the following quote from the book Alcoholics Anonymous: "We are sure God wants us to be happy, joyous and free. We cannot subscribe to the belief that this life is a vale of tears, thought it once was just that for many of us." ( 3 )

This quote refers, of course, to the self-manufacture of misery in which I, as an addict, used to wallow. But I grappled mightily with the juxtaposition of this idea that God wants us (not just ME, but everyone!) to be "happy, joyous and free," the horrifying realities of the Holocaust, and the current epidemic of poverty, oppression, war and genocide.

Do I give up family, safety and comfort and wade into the fray at the cost of my own life, as Bonhoeffer did?

At the moment, I will return to Bonhoeffer's words: "...our being Christians today must consist of two things: in praying and in doing what is right among men." I will pray and in so doing, I will ask that I might be shown how to do what is right and for the courage to do it.



( 1 ) Wind, Renate, Dietrich Bonhoeffer: A Spoke In The Wheel, Eerdmans, p. 168

( 2 ) ibid, p. 169

(3) Alcoholics Anonymous, p. 133

Monday, April 7, 2008


I want to go to Seminary. No, wait. I want to go to the U of M and study human development and spirituality. Scratch that. I want to create, write and edit an ecumenical magazine for grade-school kids. Actually, I want to start an ecumenical online community called "FaithBook" that will focus on acceptance, justice and mission and stay away from the hate- and fear-mongering of so many so-called "faith-based" media resources. Whoa--too much? I know: I want to start a kids drama group at church that acts out Gospel lessons during worship. Or an intergenerational worship-experience program. Or a kids' mission partnership with an inner city church Sunday School. Or...

I left the April 4th and 5th Children's Summit at Luther Seminary absolutely overwhelmed with joy, hope, ideas, excitement, purpose and motivation. I actually had to leave Saturday's keynote address ten minutes early lest my heart and head explode: I simply could not take in any more.

Now it's Monday. My kids are back in school after an eventful Spring Break. The house is quiet. I have time to think.

I am still overwhelmed.

During the "Public Summit on the state of children and how Christian communities can respond," I jotted this in my journal: There is so much hope in this room it is overwhelming. I am filled and moved almost to tears. How do I maintain that hope when faced with the day-to-day realities we are all confronted with?

Before I could even end my last sentence with a dangling preposition, one of the Summit speakers, Dr. Lisa Kimball, of the University of Minnesota, opened her mouth and spoke my heart, rhetorically asking the entire assembly this same question, albeit with more eloquence. Even though I know God works that way, it still brought me up short to have my unspoken question voiced by another.

I thought I was a novelist.

Yet all I can hear are the words to a piece I once sang in choir:
Listen, God is calling;
Through the Word inviting;
Offering forgiveness, comfort and joy!
All I can see are images of the children at Kinyago Dandora school in Kenya whose needs were supported by our Vacation Bible School mission project a couple years ago.

All I can feel is this crushing urgency in my gut at direct odds with a sense of directionless paralysis.

I am a mom. A writer. A Lutheran. A singer and actor, a public speaker, a teacher, a church member, a volunteer, a dreamer of dreams and a seer of visions, a planner and organizer... What is it that God wants me to do? Because in the end, a much as I'd like to, I cannot possibly do it all. I can't single-handedly change the state of children in the world. All I can do is serve where I can.

And where, O God, might that be?

Wednesday, March 12, 2008

The Laws of Nature

I hate entropy.

I feel like I spend my life in a constant battle to defy the laws of nature. In fact, maybe that's the long-sought answer to the question of how we should define life. If it has a compulsion to defy entropy, it's alive. Then again, by that definition, my children would be dead.

Now that I think of it, the physicist who first concluded that all natural systems tend toward maximum entropy must have been a parent. Or, at least, when he announced that law to the world, all the moms must have said, "Well, duh!" I think the law of entropy is probably the only rule my children willingly--even gleefully--obey.

The other day, my daughter cleaned her room. Entirely. By herself. (You could've knocked me over with a sub-atomic particle). I'd like to joke that it was the first indication that she is, in fact, alive. But the past eight years have been all too lively.

I'll buy the idea that systems tend toward minimum enthalpy. At any given moment, my system's energy is close to nil (it's all that time I spend fighting entropy). So of course, my children defy this law. Their energy never seems to run out, and rather than shut down when they get tired, they actually appear to ramp up.

Physics schmisics. I need a nap.

Monday, March 3, 2008

...who we will eventually become.

There was a time (and not so long ago) when just the thought of a high school reunion made me break out in a cold sweat. I suppose I'm not unique. Throw a bunch of adolescents into a big pot and stir over medium heat and someone is bound to get hurt. My best friend was recently informed of an incident more than two decades old in which she deeply hurt someone she thought was really cool. She has no memory of the incident and, moreover, what this person remembers doesn't even sound like something she would have said! But for the recipient of the remark, the wound was deep enough to last twenty years. I'm left wondering how many people I inadvertently offended in my formative years.

They were, of course, "formative." As in: I was still being formed.

As the earliest murmurings of a reunion turned into an actual planned event with actual dates, I had to seriously confront my childhood angst. I mean, it had been my best friend's idea that we try to pull this reunion together in the first place. I certainly couldn't back out on her when it became clear it was actually going to happen.

As usual, God helped with my attitude adjustment. A high school acquaintance checked out my website and found my personal story of depression, "Full Circle." She emailed me with her reactions, and ended with: "I know this is a lot in one email from someone you haven't seen in almost 20 years and probably thought you'd never see again--but after reading your essay, I have a clearer understanding of who you are and what I was interpreting back in 1988."”

It occurred to me that none of us, in high school, is who we will eventually become.

And it's a good thing, too. Because I was a disaster in high school. Painfully insecure and socially inept, I fell back on intellect to create my identity and wound up a jumble of glaring contradictions: the arrogant wallflower, the naïve know-it-all, the show-off completely unaware of how idiotic she looked to her fellows. Well, I can't say completely unaware. Therein lay the humiliations of having my insufficiencies pointed out by my peers. Directly or indirectly, hurtfully or helpfully, I got the message that I wasn't okay just the way I was.

Can I safely assume we all got the same message? I’m sure I gave it to others. I know for a fact, now, that my best friend gave it to our mutual acquaintance and yet she has absolutely no recollection of giving it!

It is only in the last few years that I have learned to have grace for myself--even the teenaged me, clumsily stumbling my way through high school's often confusing maze. And if I have developed grace for myself, I can also have grace for all those who stumbled alongside me, however mal- or well-adjusted each of them may have appeared at the time.

None of us, in high school, is who we will eventually become. This coming July, I'm actually looking forward to seeing who everyone is.

Saturday, March 1, 2008

Oops. Blinked and missed February.

And I even had an extra day this year!

Stay tuned for my rambling musings on my upcoming 20-year high school reunion. . .

Friday, January 25, 2008

"But Mary kept all these things, pondering them in her heart." Lk 2:19

As Thoreau would say, Gavin marches to the beat of his own drummer. He is at times a serious challenge to me and/or my husband, Dan. In particular, church on Sunday mornings can be an ordeal. Gavin won’t participate in music so he tends to spend the first half of the Sunday School hour wandering around the church and causing trouble. I teach Sunday School so Dan is left to run interference and, for whatever reason, the more Dan tries to restrict and control Gavin, the more crazy he becomes. Many a Sunday morning has been spent in the car, with Dan fuming and Gavin hell-bent on pushing buttons until he hits the one that will make Dan explode.

Gavin is overwhelmed by gatherings of many people in large rooms and he responds physically, by fidgeting, making paper airplanes, and generally trying to distract people from participating in worship. It can be maddening. More recently, we have had some success getting Gavin to at least participate in his classroom lesson and project, and I no longer approach worship with an “all-or-nothing” attitude. If he needs to leave after the children’s sermon, that’s okay so long as he doesn’t disrupt anyone in or outside of the sanctuary.

So that’s the background leading up to Sunday, January 13: The Baptism of our Lord. The congregation’s children were invited to bring their baptismal candles to worship for a ceremonial reaffirmation of their own baptism. After talking about this for three days, we still managed to leave the kids’ candles on the dining room table. Dan, already in a foul mood and dreading his Sunday morning Gavin ordeal, agreed to go back home and get them. I went to teach my class, reminding Gavin that if he wasn’t going to participate in music, he needed to go to his classroom and play or color while his teacher did prep. He agreed to this so off I went.

An hour later, I left my classroom and found Gavin standing at the water fountain with four glass coffee cups. Two were already full and he was positioning a third to catch the arc from the spout.

“What’cha doin’?” I asked casually.

“It’s for my game,” he announced. “The kids have to find the cups and then they can drink the water.”

Hmm, I thought. Sounds pretty ‘typical Gavin.’ But my Automated-Mom-Response-Box intoned, “Honey, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

“It’s my game,” he insisted. “It’ll be great!”

I said nothing further and continued down the hall. As I rounded the corner, I met up with Dan.

“Hi,” I said cheerfully. “How was Adult Forum?”

He sighed. “Well, the 15 minutes I caught were good.”

“It took you that long to go back for the candles?” I asked, incredulous.

“No. I had Gavin issues.”

“Really? Did he disrupt the adult class again?”

“No,” Dan replied, growing irritated. “He was taking cups of water and hiding them behind doors. He said it was for a game. I could just see them getting knocked over, spilling water everywhere and someone tripping…”

Uh-oh, I thought. But I said, “Was he bothering anyone?”

Now Dan was getting ticked--especially when I wasn’t automatically on his side. “I couldn’t let him put glasses of water all over the church, Bek. I just can’t allow him to do that!”

“So you got them all back and he went to class?”

“Yeah,” he said, and then added, “I am so sick of this. If he’s not going to participate, I don’t think we should even bring him. I hate Sunday mornings with him. I might as well just keep him home.”

This made me mad. “No,” I snapped. “Gavin needs to be here. He may not behave the way we wish he would but this is God’s house. He is learning things, picking up what he hears. We can’t just cut him off. Just because you’re crabby doesn’t mean he shouldn’t be here!” (Meanwhile, I was feeling a little guilty knowing what was going on at the fountain around the corner and that it really didn’t bother me.)

Dan scowled but conceded that yes, Gavin should be at church. Just then, Gavin came around the corner and announced that all the cups were hidden and his class could find them now!

I saw Dan tense and put a hand on his arm. “It’s okay,” I said earnestly as Annie, Amy and Eiledon allowed themselves to be led to the various cups and then drank them down.

“I’m going in to church,” Dan muttered and stalked away.

I sent Eiledon in after him and helped Gavin put the four cups in the kitchen now that his game was over. “Are there any more cups out there?” I asked.

“Nope,” he reassured me. Hand-in-hand, we headed for the sanctuary.

As we crossed from the Sunday School wing into the narthex, a curious feeling descended upon me. It was a kind of peace, a breathless hush, through which a voice quietly said, “Gavin is going to be a pastor.”

Inwardly, I started at the notion, but then smiled at how absolutely right it felt.

True to his promise to stay in the sanctuary at least until the Baptismal ceremony, Gavin sat beside me in the pew, now fidgeting with his candle (until I took the brass holder away) now following along with the liturgy. When at last it was time for the children’s sermon, Eiledon and Gavin ran eagerly forward with their candles. I walked up just behind them because kids and fire aren’t always the best combination.

We stood in a group around the font while Pastor Rob and my mom read the service and prayers. (At one point, Gavin said, quite audibly, “Hey, when are we gonna light these things?”) At the appropriate time, Rob invited everyone to dip their fingers in the font and make the sign of the cross on their own forehead, which we all did. In Auto-Mom Mode, I wiped off Gavin’s forehead. He whipped around with a scowl.

“Why’d you do that?” he hissed.

“I didn’t want the water to get in your eyes,” I whispered back.

“Don’t do that again!” He stuck his finger back into the font and made another cross. “I want it to stay there!”

We lit our candles, held them up and sang the first verse of “This Little Light of Mine.”

The ceremony over, Gavin was free to leave the sanctuary and chose to do so. The rest of worship passed without incident and we headed for home. Dan was in slightly better spirits and after lunch, I helped him fold laundry before sneaking off for my afternoon snooze.

“Oh, by the way, I had the oddest experience at church—about Gavin.”

“Yeah?” Dan asked, without looking up.

“I got a pretty clear message that Gavin is going to be a pastor. Isn’t that wild?”

Dan stopped folding.

“When did you get that feeling?” he asked.

“On the way into church. Why?”

“Because I got a message, too.”

I goggled. “Really? When?”

“When the three of you were up front doing the Baptism thing. I got the distinct feeling that this was where Gavin needed to be and to get out of the way.”

The hair rose on my neck. “You’re kidding me.”

“I’m dead serious,” he replied.

We had to laugh about it. Gavin? A pastor? The kid who can’t even sit through a hymn without getting ants in the pants? Yet, I wonder...

Friday, January 4, 2008

Thought for the Day

This came to me in the shower this morning. Is it as profound as I think it is? Did someone already say it? Or is it straight from "the Man upstairs?"

Nothing is as simple as you wish it was. But nothing is really as complicated as you make it.

Wednesday, January 2, 2008

What? No December Entry?

As time passes, I have come to accept, appreciate and even embrace the fact that I am a true introvert. I LOVE Advent and Christmas. I LOVE having the kids home from school. I LOVE spending time with my extended family. But two or three days ago I started to feel just a little nuts from the complete lack of alone time. I have been told that there is a well in my spirit and if I don't stop to take the time to fill it up with what I need, it goes dry and I have nothing to give anyone else. I'm certain this page will fill up with entries when I can spend a little time alone with God and my well starts to “runneth over.”