…truth is the way God does things, beauty is what this looks (and feels) like.
William A. Dyrness, Poetic Theology: God and the Poetics of Everyday Life (Kindle Locations 3567-3568). Kindle Edition.
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Screened in on your back porch—
you big and boring people
who just learned my name
while milling in the foyer
after service.
Now I’m stuck all afternoon
at your house
because someone has to
feed the visiting pastor.
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Under mom’s silent eye
I fork a bitter, leafy ball.
Chew and swallow.
Chew and swallow.
Victory.
She nods and looks away.
This somebody’s grandfather
drones on, keeping time
with the walnut clock
whose ticking marches down the hall.
If only I could be anywhere,
everywhere else,
but here.
I rinsed bits of wild rice and cranberry off my plate and grabbed my laptop from the table. While the next episode of Gilmore Girls loaded, I nestled into the couch and prepared myself for a Netflix binge.*
The following morning, as I sipped on a cup of french roast, I contemplated my media marathon and the power of stories to pull us in. For centuries, story-telling has kept humans up after dark—around fires, in igloos, and via MacBooks on the couch.
Stories sneak past our mental gestapo and grab us at a level where facts don’t reach. They penetrate down to where emotions shape what we want out of life.
Which makes me wonder…why do we tend to talk about Christianity like a set of beliefs, rather than a story that we’ve been swept up into?
The smell of spices wafted towards me, distracting me from my date’s prayer until he said, “God, thank you for giving Thai food to humanity.”
I choked on my saliva as I tried to hold back a laugh. In one sentence his prayer shattered the sombre Christianity that creeps around America. In thanking God for the heap of rice noodles between us, my date was paying homage to the Grand Chef who injected flavor and fun into the necessity of eating.
This incident reminded me that I need to make room in my prayers for Pad Thai…and electric blankets and Mozart’s concertos and when the Buckeye’s win (if I was an Ohio State fan).
Photo courtsey of Luca Nebuloni via flickr.com
Too often my prayers–and my spirituality–fixate on the abstract. I know God wants me to pray, but does he really care if I love swing dancing? I know he wants me to forgive, but does it matter to him whether I appreciate the artistry in one of Emily Dickinson’s poems?
Dating is not like buying a car. The Kelley Blue Book won’t help you determine–based on manufacturer, year, accident history, and specific features–the market value for the model you’re considering.
Now, I realize this blog isn’t for everyone, but it may help that sector of dating singles who, like me:
- grew up hearing that we should only date people who were “marriage material”
- have a Myers-Briggs personality type ending in TJ (thinker/judger).
- self-medicate their decision-making anxiety with pro-con lists
Photo courtesy of Dietmar Becker via unsplash.com
Dating is risky business, so some of us gravitate toward the Blue Book method. Gather information. Assess cost vs. benefit. Compare. Only invest when we’re certain that we’ve found the best deal.
It’s a good approach for buying a 2009 Honda Accord, but doesn’t help us get to know the man or woman eating tacos across the table from us. Because, unlike cars:
Every minute we’re called to love.
Many hours we’re called to serve.
Some days we’re called to lead.
But we only truly lead
during the days that we’ve been serving
And we only truly serve
during the hours that we’ve been loving
–Adapted from conversations with Dr. Reg Grant, Dallas Theological Seminary
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The sun seeped through my jeans, warming my legs, as I lounged on the sofa and waited for my espresso to brew. One of Mom’s holiday shortbread cookies–edible gold and made from a recipe passed down by my Scottish ancestors (or so I like to think)–waited patiently on a napkin.
Yesterday was a good day for relaxing, and for indulging the senses. Hearing espresso bubble its way up through the Moka Express. Pinching up remnant crumbs from the napkin and breathing the rich steam of roasted beans. Savoring the espresso’s complexity and the shortbread’s sweetness. Watching sunbeams fall into my apartment (and remembering me how badly I need to dust).
Photo courtesy of Kelly Sikkima via creationswap.com
Life bursts with sensory experiences–gratuitous, copious, and lavish moments that speckle each day.
Between bites of kimchi, my friend told me about her goal of developing a weekly rhythm at work. She pinched a clump of rice between her chopstick and explained that this would increase her productivity.
As I drove home, I ruminated on the taste of garlic and the differences between our jobs. My friend depends on weekly and daily goals to keep her from drowning in a sea of details. I don’t have that problem. Each morning I find a schedule laying on the mahogany desk–my marching orders for the day.
Photo courtesy of Marsha Galyardt via creationswap.com
One of the perks to being a nurse practitioner is that when I sign off on the last patient’s chart my day is done. No long-term projects to bleed into my weekend. No need for goals to organize my time.
“Have you been dating anyone?” The inevitable question floated over church pews and hashbrown casseroles during my recent trip home. The question left me wondering if the success of 2014 rose and fell on my ability to snag a life partner.
On Christmas Eve morning, though, the conversation took a different turn. I was sitting at Leaf and Bean, sharing a cinnamon scone with my silver-haired friend.
“How is life going, really?” she asked.
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I took a sip of coffee and weighed my answer. I turned thirty-three in November, without a husband on the horizon. In my twenties I looked forward to these years, expecting to stay up each Christmas Eve wrapping gifts with my spouse–Legos and the latest Disney princess for our 2.2 children. Instead, I sleep on the twin-sized air mattress in Dad’s office and wake up to a Christmas stocking stuffed by Mom.
Yesterday, two police men were assassinated in New York due to racial tension, ISIS continued to bleed its violence across Syria, and nearly 21 million people lived trafficked as sex slaves.
Right about now, I need to be reminded that God hasn’t forgotten Revelation 21:4—his promise to remove death and sadness and pain. I need proof that God is on the move, which means that I need Christmas.
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About 2,000 years ago, two pregnant women embraced—a virgin teenager named Mary and her post-menopausal relative, Elizabeth. Two miraculous pregnancies. One God in utero.
