GK Chesterton and Bill Watterson

Before Christmas I read a quote about feasts by GK Chesterton, and since it intrigued me, I tracked down the source. This involved my embarrassingly asking the Facebook Group which had posted the quote, whence it came - only to be told that the citation was the very first thing in the post, preceding the quote. Much of Chesterton's work is available free online, so I set about to find the entire article, from The Illustrated London News 1906. It may be scanned in somewhere, but not easily searched nor found.

In my searching, I did run across the existence of printed volumes of GK Chesterton's articles, so my next effort was to find a copy at a library to which I had access. In this I was again nearly thwarted by the fact that all the volumes were contained in the same catalog entry, so that I was unsure how to request only one (without driving an hour or more each way to access the library in person). I decided to risk the request, imagining that even if the wrong volume was sent, it would likely be worthwhile to read anyway. The electronic catalog was better than my estimation, and I was today able to pick up the exact volume bearing the article I sought, along with several books about geysers, volcanoes, and pillar-cobbled causeways made from cooled lava flows. 

All of this is a hopefully amusing introduction to my much shorter actual reason for writing this blog post: As I read one entry from the middle of a collection of weekly essays written by the witty Chesterton, and began the next, I had the exact feeling I get when I flip to the middle of a Calvin & Hobbes collection, and realize that I am intruding on a story already in progress, and that I do not know how many editions backward I must retreat in order to enter at the episode's gate. 

And the fact of this coincidental phenomenon led me to the discovery of a fact. Chesterton and Watterson were in the same business; their art delved into the same themes; their skills produce the same enduring delight mixed with education. I don't know if GK Chesterton ever saw a sketch of a phalanx of garish snowmen, but if he had, I feel sure he would have approved. 

To God be all glory.

Retold for the Modern Reader

In a world where (aggressively shifting) vocabularies rule our comprehension and communication is often compressed into a “tweet” or a “text”, the elegant structure of grammar as an aid in clearly passing thoughts and information from one person to another may be a lost art.  How can we withstand it?  Maybe language ought to be more poetic, about the images it gives us, the feelings with which we respond, the ways we wish to interpret what we hear.  In which case, all those little in-between words aren’t so necessary anymore…

I once had an experience with a young woman who believed God wished all people to be vegetarians.  We read together from Genesis 9: “Every moving thing that lives shall be food for you. I have given you all things, even as the green herbs. But you shall not eat flesh with its life, [that is], its blood.”  She picked out a few words on which to base her application: “not eat flesh” and she said this was because of the “blood” and respect for “life”. 

This girl had a subjective interpretation that served her preconceptions.  The last words had more impact on her, too, I believe, because she remembered them better than the first sentence.  She seemed unable to grasp the relationship between one thought and the next, though she used cause and effect words (not rationale, only the vocabulary) in defense of her own position.  People like her know what words sound persuasive, what words make people feel good.  I wonder how often more intelligent speakers are condemned for being judgmental simply because our vocabulary made people feel bad, made them feel that we were dealing in stark absolutes. 

And I am encountering this phenomenon in lesser degrees more and more.  A word in a sentence might just as easily suggest its opposite as its traditional meaning.  A word may or may not be modified by other words in context.  My interpretation of what you say or write is just as valid, just as likely to guide my decisions, as the interpretation you intended.  Ideas cannot be comprehended if they take more than three sentences to build and capstone. 

What is our obligation to combat these trends?  How much are we the communicators responsible to mind our audience and deliver our messages in ways that will have the effect we desire? 

These are the questions I wish to explore with my new blog, “Retold for the Modern Reader” at www.LanguageDeconstruction.blogspot.com

To God be all glory. 

A Very True Story

She stood on the edge, one foot raised above the rug.  That rug captivated her attention so that she first stared, turned shyly away, then went back to watching it ponderously.  She had to choose, and she couldn't forget that.  But once she chose, she couldn't know what the consequences would be.  She lowered her foot, close to taking the step, then drew back.

Daddy had made her a deal: If she stepped on the rug, she might get pinched - or she might get candy - or she might get both.  Without the step, no candy, for sure!

Her daddy loved her.  Whether pinch or candy, he would be doing good to her.  She trusted him, but she still hesitated.

She tried to figure it all out.  What did "might" mean?  Was Daddy making a rule with a punishment for breaking it - or was this different somehow?  Would Daddy pinch hard?  How much freedom did she have?  Could she go away and do something else (as if she'd be able to long forget 'the deal')?  Was the whole rug implied?  She wanted to be sure she wasn't inadvertently getting herself into the risk.

She climbed on the couch beside the rug.  She sat on Daddy's lap for a while, held from the portentous tapestry by his strong arms until she was ready to make her choice.  Then she was back on the edge, testing whether her chances were better if she made a covert move towards touching it.

Daddy spoke, "If you step, I don't want you to do it timidly.  I want you to run out onto the rug and say, 'I'm touching it!' "

A little more consideration, and there she was - feet across the rug, yelling like her daddy said.

He caught her up in his arms and gave her his choice.

To God be all glory.

Ain't Slang a Problem

I used to wonder why parents and teachers and snobby kids a year ahead of me in school insisted against “ain’t.”  We used to chant to an offender, “Ain’t ain’t a word, ‘cause it ain’t in the dictionary.”  We lived in Texas, where they have their own brand of contractions and substitutions and pronunciations.  This probably resulted from the cultural blend of Mexican Spanish, rogue English, and a bit of patriotism to boot.  Some slang words were enshrined in Country Western Music, a segment of the arts arguably as qualified as Shakespeare to introduce expressions (and evidence says that Shakespeare did a lot of word-inventing).  For the most part, I imagine parents and teachers were doing a more mature version of our parroting chant: they just repeated what they’d been told was good and right. 

As I’ve grown up, and denouncing slang has become less and less popular, I’ve formed some ideas about why it’s so bad.  What I have identified is: association, exclusion, comprehension, and preservation. 

If you go to slang dictionaries like “Urban Dictionary” online, you will find some unsavory histories of words we use.  Prisoners and gangs will start to use a word differently than everyone in the outside world.  Maybe they’ll use it as a vivid metaphorical reference to some coarse or irreverent thing.  Or they can use it with a sort of morbid sarcasm where what is dreadful to decent people is celebrated by them.  As the usage of the word spreads (and why it may spread I’ll discuss in a following section), the original vulgarity is dulled because the new speakers don’t realize the origin.  This happens with respectable poetic quotes as well, so we shouldn’t be surprised.  It is sloppy to make the mistake whether the origin is noble or base.  However, parents don’t usually want their children to have a lot in common with criminals and gangs, so they discourage language associated with them and derived from their lifestyles. 

Most of us have had experience with inside jokes.  A few people in the room know a story no one else does, and someone mentions it, and they all laugh while you feel left out and clueless.  Slang, especially when it starts, is like that.  People begin to use a word in a way that most people won’t recognize or understand.  They can’t go look it up in the dictionary.  There’s no history of literature by which to decipher the code in which the other individual is talking.  This could be intentionally deceptive on their part, like parents spelling words in front of their young children – or the individual using slang may be so unfamiliar with cultures outside his own that he doesn’t realize how specialized his speech is.  Slang uses words that already belong to English – words that have a meaning to most people.  It may not even be immediately apparent to either of you that misunderstanding is taking place.

Unlike learning a second language, where there are grammars and translation dictionaries and classes to take, picking up this exclusive language involves a sort of immersion.  You have to find out what that speaker is feeling and thinking, what experiences have built his past, to determine what he means when he uses a word that you and the rest of the world know means something he does not mean.  While I am an advocate for relationship and community, I value the ability to skip these elementary steps of familiarization to move on to benefiting each other by what you know, by being able to express feelings of approval or displeasure, the ability to share an experience side by side and know there is commonality because you can communicate it.  Language is a wonderful tool for these things, a tool being undercut by the prevalent use of slang. 

Finally there is preservation.  This point may not carry as much weight with most people, but I believe it is important.  A conservative language is one that has access not only to the ideas in one’s own society, but also to far-distant and different cultures: geographically, socio-economically, and even over time.  Imagine if you didn’t have to learn Old English or endure the mediation of a translator to enjoy Beowulf.  What if the Bible read by the Puritans still made sense to us today?  As our language evolves, isn’t it possible that we are gradually losing the wisdom and values of the past, constantly innovating and evolving our identities and beliefs?  Aren’t our people crying out for peace, for stability, for the ability to commit to something and have it mean something?  Do we want to feel so isolated and lonely? 

I’m not advocating that we all learn Old English now, or go back to the King’s English spoken by the colonists of the United States hundreds of years ago – though I support members of our present population studying the expressions of the past so that we can keep hold of what those ancestors have to offer us today.  I am not going to militate against poetry, or to fight new words for new inventions and discoveries.  If you use the word “nice” to mean “friendly,” I probably won’t think too much about whether you actually meant “precise” and “orderly” as a man used to mean when he used that word.  I will keep in mind that “might” has to do with strength and ability at least as much as “can” when mothers ridiculously correct their children from saying “Can I?” to “May I?”  My fascination for words and their meanings and histories will continue to hone my vocabulary, my ability to communicate with strength and economy.  And I suspect that when my children are tempted to adopt the street language of their days, I’ll join the ranks of parents past by discouraging the use of slang. 

What will you do? 

To God be all glory.

One's Own Motives

Isn’t it strange to be curious about one’s own motives?  Almost as an outside observer I watch myself stop blogging.  And then I wonder what is going on in my life or my psyche or even in my spirit that distracts me and stifles me and prevents me from writing.  This inquiry has produced a few related theories, and though I cannot prove that they are the explanation, they are at least interesting enough realities to share with you, my few remaining readers.

First, I believe myself to be undergoing a change.  Some effects of this are conscious and others, I am proposing, subconscious.  You may understand better if I tell you about the effects.  If you have read my blog for a while, you probably realized that I more or less left the institutional church.  This was not merely a reaction to problems in an individual church, but to learning about how God designed the Church to function.  I left in hope, seeking a more organic and interactive body driven by the Spirit of God and led by the Captain of our Salvation, Jesus Christ.  The man-made programs and pre-designed roles into which traditional churches tend to insert members I have particularly rejected.  Instead, I believe in ministries of pouring into each others’ lives, dependent on “walking in the Spirit” for the words and abilities required to edify our fellow Christians.  This is considerably harder than a clearly-defined responsibility for two hours a week at a church building.  I used to be an Awana leader, one of those established and exemplified jobs in the systemized church.  I did a lot with Awana.  But a year and a half ago, I decided to quit.  I pulled out, grateful for what I had learned and the springboard it had been into a lifestyle of serving God. 

Since I left those two things behind I have spent a lot of money on gas, getting to the homes and activities of my friends; and a lot of time on Facebook, keeping up with the thoughts and feelings and doings of my friends; and a fair amount of hunger on restaurant and fast food, fellowshipping over meals somewhat as prescribed in the Bible.  Sidewalk counseling is another ministry I do that is fairly open.  The times are established, but I’m not scheduled to be there (though I do sometimes promise in advance to see others on specific days).  We have speeches, but sometimes new admonitions or offers or explanations come to our lips.  There is much prayer there, and cooperation by which we are supported outwardly and spiritually. 

When I began this blog, it was an overflow from mass emails I had been sending to several friends (with rare responses).  It was a chance to practice writing – something I still believe God has gifted me to do.  And in writing new ideas down, I learned new things and worked out a lot of what I believe as a twenty-something.  The hope was to find interested people who would interact with me here.  In that way, my blog was less successful than I had hoped. 

The craving all along has been for profound communication – and community.  As I caught up to that desire intellectually, and my life caught up practically, a circle of friends has replaced blogging in my hopes for sharpening and encouragement.  I found an audience that speaks back to me – not on demand, but when I need to be reminded.  And they share new things that I wasn’t seeking.  Or they answer questions before I’ve spent weeks trying to answer them on my own.  In doing ministry in community and praying as a group and studying the Bible together, I’ve continued to learn (and grow in my application!). 

I’m in a learning phase of life, changing and questioning and uncertain how things will work out.  A lot of what consumes my thoughts is personal, unsuited to the wall-less worldwide web.  To write down what I think with as much confidence as I used to just isn’t my mood. 

Now when I get online and have something to say, I tend to say it in a personal email or on Facebook: that great responsibility of a social networking site.  It’s a way to know and be known.  That web-world invites cooperative exploration of ideas.  People can be encouraged and challenged when they didn’t go looking for it.  I can find out when a friend is sick and needs orange juice, or discouraged and needs a phone call, or tempted and needs prayer.  Though the danger is that the Facebook world lets people live outside of reality, for me it connects me to reality much more than blogging. 

Sir Francis Bacon once wrote that “Acorns were good until bread was found.”  That’s my life now. 

Though, I always have had a fascination with acorns…

To God be all glory.

Catching Fireflies

She used to love to catch fireflies, chasing around the yard on a summer evening. Those were the best days, the sun up so long, and even after dark you could stay outside because it was warm, buzzing with humidity. And she would laugh to be alive, regular brown hair bobbing as she ran, transformed by the dusk into elven innocent beauty. What could be more fetching than a girl cupping living light between her hands?

But she moved away and started growing up. She didn’t play in the mud anymore, or hold summer bugs in her palms. Butterflies were safe to land on a nearby flower and she would only watch. Dandelions were enemies to uproot, not fairies to set flying on the wind. Sitting behind a desk with a computer and a cell phone now, weeks and months went by without remembering those days of childhood glory.

A few quirks remained, nothing to hint to a judging world that anything of her elven self truly remained. As the clock displayed numbers corresponding to the month and day of her birth, she celebrated. Her clothes demonstrated an independent taste: dark earth tones punctuated every so often by a royal blue or coral. She always had something to say for a dessert that layered chocolate. And mythical monsters like Bigfoot and Nessie never lost their interest.

Then it happened. Enough of her stable, grown-up life fell away; just as she was ready to take a leap into a real responsibility the freedom of childhood reentered her life. She fled to the country, to the remnants of summer twilights under the stars. Seeds, formerly inserted in precisely dug holes round a circumscribed flower bed, flew from her hands into the fallow ground. Rain fell and she learned to dance, not shivering from the night breeze, but turning her face towards it.

Had she grown out of the child she had been, or had her world trapped her in a box of expectations and limited possibilities, a prison from which she had finally escaped?

To God be all glory.

Ad Mominem

An interesting question came up when I was with friends the other day. We were demonstrating unfair arguments to use when fighting. Most people, at least the married ones, I guess, have heard the rule not to bring up old fights when you’re talking about a present conflict. But this is even more important. Don’t bring mothers into it.

As if in-law relations are not already touchy enough, and as though a wife does not already feel the contrast she makes to the mother of her husband, why go and use these sainted women as part of your argument? Example: Your mother is crazy! You’re just like her. Or the slightly better: Your mother is crazy; at least you aren’t as bad as her!

Can’t you just sense the bristling tempers when you provoke an opponent by insulting their mother? I have a sense of indignation and no one has even directed these comments at me or my mother.

There are – you’ll learn something here, I promise – Latin phrases describing invalid arguments and logical fallacies, commonly used in debate. Latin used to be used a lot more when the French were more popular (they introduced most of the Latin roots to English), and old books and the intelligentsia still boast the incomprehensible (literally) attribute of italicized foreign phrases and words that no one in the world uses any more. They may have presented important concepts concisely and memorably, but not memorable enough, since I do not know them.

One phrase still in use is ad hominem. This is, as I understand it, when you attack the person and not their argument. If I am speaking to a dunce and he is arguing that two plus two is four, I cannot point to him and criticize his intelligence to win the argument. Two plus two will still be four. Truth is not relative to the deliverer. Anyway, the official definition for ad hominem is: “asserting that an argument is wrong and/or the source is wrong to argue at all purely because of something discreditable/not-authoritative about the source or those sources cited by it rather than addressing the soundness of the argument itself.” Wikipedia says so. Now, you cannot fairly argue that simply because Wikipedia has an in-credible reputation, we must reject its definition. Nor can you say that I am ugly, and thus it is impossible for me to correctly communicate the definition.

The mother-attack reminded me of this fallacy, ad hominem, so I looked up at my friend, who is a genius, and, assuming he knew Latin, being a genius, asked him to alter the phrase to represent source attack mother variety. However, he is also a computer genius, and did the highly intelligent thing: Google. (You’ve no idea how entertained I am that all these urban-knowledge websites are occurring in this article!) Apparently, we are not the first to desire a name for this ridiculous habit of insulting mothers in an attempt to win an argument. Suggestions for the Latin fallacy are:

"ad mominem" codified at the (content advisory) Urban Dictionary.

"ad urmomum” You might want to read this whole article.

I don’t know why we use italics for foreign phrases. Google reveals merely that it is conventional and thus stylistically correct, but nothing more. Latin and Italics, I am interested to note, both claim Italy as their home country.

This is mostly irrelevant, but came up as I followed my friend’s research. What are those P’s and Q’s we’re supposed to mind?

Didn’t you learn something?

To God be all glory.

L Vocabulary

Recently I was thinking of several words that remind me of each other, if for no other reason than that they begin with L and are long words. Those account for the first three members of this list. The latter reflect extra interesting or important expressions I ran across during my composition.

litigious - inclined to dispute or disagree, argue; desiring to make something the subject of a lawsuit

liturgical - of or pertaining to: a form of public worship, ritual; a collection of formularies for public worship; a particular arrangement of services; a particular form or type of the Eucaristic service.

lethargic - being drowsy and dull, listless and unenergetic, or indifferent and lazy; apathetic or sluggish inactivity.

lackadaisical - without interest, vigor, or determination; listless; lethargic; lazy or indolent

literal - in accordance with, involving, or being the primary or strict meaning of the word or words; not figurative or metaphorical

lambent - running or moving lightly over a surface; dealing lightly and gracefully with a subject, brilliantly playful; softly bright or radiant

latent - present but not visible, apparent, or actualized; existing as potential

Thanks to Dictionary.com for supplying the definitions.

To God be all glory.

Context Matrix

The other night I watched a movie with a friend. It was a thinking movie, the kind I love. Do people ever tell you a movie is "about" the plot? I mean, a movie or book is rarely about what happens. The events and characters are about something else. Jane Austen was kind enough to tell us in her titles what her books were about. Some people don't realize the subject of their art until they themselves step back to view the metaphor against the big picture.

This movie, it quoted Shakespeare. And even though I'm familiar with about two Shakespeare plays (a comedy - translate: happy ending and a tragedy - translate: everyone dies, but only in the end) and a sonnet, I've figured out that Shakespeare wrote about things. I don't always know what. And so to quote a line from Shakespeare is to imply the subject of his play.

Because my examples are limited, I'm going to use the one I can think of. In Hamlet, the title character arranges for a pointed stage drama designed to convict his mother of her sins. (He ruins the effect by talking straight through the play; Shakespeare should have better appreciated the power of art when left to speak for itself.) In this drama within a play is a woman who worries aloud about whether she is making the right decision. She hesitates to give into temptation. At the end of the play, Hamlet asks his mother for her review of the performance. "Methinks she doth protest too much," says the mother. And so we have a commonly quoted phrase of Shakespeare.

When someone quotes that line, they are often and most correctly implying the context, too. They're even bringing with them the end of the tale, with its vilifications and justifications. Being familiar with the anthologies referenced in works of art can go a long way towards comprehension. Another advandage to interpretation is to have already made a thought venture or two into the subject. The Matrix, I believe, is about fate. How powerful is the human will? Whether I agree with The Matrix's statements on this subject or not, I can more readily grasp those statements because I've spent a lot of time investigating free will and the sovereignty of God.

These references to shared philosophical questions, literary experiences, etc. make up a story-mosaic within the larger story. And it can be done in a movie, in a poem, in witticism, in art, and even in everyday conversation. A frequent form of Context Matrix is the inside joke phenomenon.

Image from DiyHappy

My brother writes poetry. Sometimes he just writes whatever is in his head that jumbles into verse form. Some evolutionists wrongly suggest that organisms acquire additional DNA information (to change them into new species) by sort of colliding with other organisms with different DNA (we have the eye factory organism over here, going through generations of natural selection to finally reach vision, and he'll share someday with the organism working out wings and flight). This is not a sufficient mechanism for biology, but it seems to happen in the thought realm of my brother's mind. But he isn't in control of his mental context matrix, of all the things he encounters in his life to fuel his thoughts and shape his experiences. I believe there is a designer at work on each of our lives, and sometimes before we are even aware, He is writing patterns into the mosaic of experiences. Those patterns come out like (good) toxocology reports on my brother's thoughts.



Let me tell you, though, that unless you know my brother on a day-to-day basis, interpreting his poetry is impossible. He doesn't care. For whatever it's worth to you, whatever the words mean to you, take them or leave them. I suppose a lot of art is like that, subjected to the needs and interests of the connoisseur.



I'm really bad at getting metaphors. There is probably a common representative language among poets into which I, for lack of study, have not been initiated. When I do catch on to a metaphor, I'm really excited.



One breakthrough recently is the willingness to admit my ignorance and ask for help in understanding things. (For years I've been trying to help my "blonde" - literal or figurative - friends appear smarter by teaching them to wait a while and see if they catch on before they admit themselves to teasing by that inimitable expression, "Huh?" Now they're teaching me to learn by being willing to ask.) Having a brother like mine helps. Sometimes, you just have to ask the source. Such was my plan of action for a blog I read.



A friend told me that his friend was disappointed in the lack of response to his blog. I've been blogging for two and a half years, and let me tell you, the blog world is big; finding an audience is hard. Out of compassionate curiosity, I found the blog and read it. It didn't make any sense. I mean the words made sense, but they were the plot, not the subject. Months later I checked it again. This time I was convinced that the blog was more than the product of bored hours of creatively mimicing archaic literature. The author was getting at something flying over my head at light speed. So I asked.



And today the author answered. By now I forgot most of what I read, so I have to re-read the post, too. Here it is: The Perilous Journeys of St. Upid I dare you to leave comments (on my blog as well as his) with what you think it's about.



My point here is that my friend understood his friend's blog because he knew the context matrix his friend was using. They've talked in unambiguous language about these topics. They've also both seen Monty Python, which may have helped me if I'd seen more of his stuff. That's your only hint.



To God be all glory.

Word Order

Why do we say "thunder and lightning" when lightning happens first?

To God be all glory.

Poetry Month?

Impossible that it's ten o'clock. April is poetry month, so I'm told. Happily I already celebrated unknowingly by spending time with some friends passing Longfellow back and forth. Our favorite was either "Maidenhood" or "The Village Blacksmith." When I was in school my mom/teacher made me write poems. On demand. Come on! Inspiration does not come at my beckoning. And how often do I feel inspired without any words to express the perfectly poetic sentiment of my day? I think that's what I mean by "romanticism." Anyway, I did so want to write a poem for my sentiments, and it is poetry month, so I gave myself the assignment and resorted to the means I used to complete my high school English assignments: list what strikes you as poetic about your thoughts today, and form them into some sort of verse. Except they used to rhyme. So ignore my ridiculous form. And forgive the fact that the strongest point of my poetry is using words with precision, but not so much creativity or parallel.

Friday afternoon, mind swimming with Synonyms
For diligence and self control, perseverance and temperance
I’d rather think of poetry, of rain and wind and crashing seas
Scottish shores and Celtic tunes, flutes and violins wailing.

Sitting to think and compose and to focus,
I lie back against the pillow on my bed,
Fully awake, I let my eyes close
Mysteriously, just being, with a hand above my head.

Missing my friends, strange loneliness dull
As the soft throb of my heart behind
High, keen thrills of longing and wishing
Ready for a change and afraid of what it might be

Needing one to excite me, to share
The passion of a poem, a truth, or a care
Tears are more fitting for the sorrow of life
And days still come with love and laughter

Sisters eating cookies together, not looking at each other
Barely talking, but just being
Existing, Individuals not stories
Being personal and together

Books are exciting, words speak for themselves
Metaphors alternately dry or compelling
History the truest voice into my need
Casually combines love, war, and theology.

That's it. Are you a real poet? What do you have to share?

Oh, by the way - I found this real sonnet by an authentic poet, and I bookmarked it on del.icio.us today. My wordpress has a pathetic sidebar link to my recent del.icio.us tags - most of which are not so recent. I say that and then trying to retrieve the link, del.icio.us isn't working. But I'm sure it will be sometime.

To God be all glory.

Nathanael's Dark Night

So the Saturday before Easter, the Sabbath between Jesus' death and resurrection, is one of the most fascinating periods in the Bible to me. I wonder each year what Jesus' disciples experienced. Scattered, afraid, sad. Peter denied him. Judas committed suicide. John was no doubt taking care of Mary. But there were others: the rest of the twelve, the band of companions who had seen to the physical needs of the group, including women who saw Jesus crucified and made plans to go to His tomb on Sunday. What did they all thing? How did they cope? Did they just sleep? Were they self-centered, worried Judas would betray them next? Did they think? Did they think they'd been wrong, that Jesus wasn't Messiah after all? Did they remember what He said about dying and rising again? Did they believe still that Jesus was the Messiah, but had been defeated?

The last question is part of the subject of a little story I wrote several years ago, and which I published on When the Pen Flows in July: Nathanael's Dark Night.

To God be all glory.

If You had Nothing to Do and were Sitting with Me at Work Today

The book I just finished, A Walk with Jane Austen, is about a regular Christian girl who wouldn’t want me to call her that any more than I would want to be called ordinary. But she is a Christian, single, no one born important. She loves Jane Austen, knows a lot about her books and life, wanted to go to England, and so she did. This authoress has her ups and downs, struggles wandering about England looking for sites associated with her heroine. There is romance and analysis of romance and longing for the love that lasts beyond the wondering.

Lori Smith, the Austen fan, writes, “I long for someone to care about the quotidian things, to know about the daily turmoil and disruptions.” Whereas in context she was speaking of marriage, I can relate to her as a writer. We’re obsessed. I’m not writing these things because I think they’re important, but because I think them in sentence form.

For example, I want to tell you that I didn’t feel like being in a hurry this morning, so I ran conditioner through my hair and styled it like an elf (inspired by Deborah Barone on Everybody Loves Raymond last night, and my dad noting that her ears stuck out of her hairstyle), straightened up a bit, and rather than making a lunch (realizing at the last minute that I have zero cash in my purse after Village Inn Tuesday night and not yet cashing my paycheck), I loaded my backpack with juice and water bottles.

On Saturday I think I might try to be silent all day, but now I’m conflicted, because I want to go to the abortion clinic and pray, and while I can do that without talking aloud, I can’t figure out what to tell my friends who also gather there and who already think I don’t know how to talk while they themselves are not known for their timidity.

When I was in third grade, my teacher praised a four-line long sentence, and so I began for spelling assignments to attempt one ultra-long sentence each week. I got some a page long, but they were horrible sentences, filled with commas that should have been periods, delighting in the recent discovery of semi-colons, and profusely employing conjunctions. I think they call them run-on’s. But the practice, of trying to fill a page with one connected thought without stopping for a period, has contributed to the writer I am today (see above paragraph). Perhaps it is what wants me to see the unbroken theme of a passage of Scripture, too.

My doctor is on break, and no doubt listening to the fluttering clack of keys as I type out thoughts as fast as I possibly can, interrupted by the discordant beat of the backspace key when I get ahead of myself. I wonder what she thinks. Once I told her I was writing a book, which was true, but I’m not sure I’ll publish it. A published author wrote the advice to aspiring authors that they should write a book, and then write another one, then another one. Forget about publishing the first one you finish, was basically their point. At the time I read it, I couldn’t imagine abandoning the first full-length, actually ended novel I wrote, but now I’m quite unimpressed by it (though I do love parts of it), that I may take the advice and write something else. I am so not-diligent.

The use of the word “so” just there reminded me. Last week a friend went to a Bible study expositing John 3:16. I know, we think there can’t be much there if everyone knows it and it hasn’t taken over the world yet. One of the things he said was that “God so loved the world” was not a statement of how much God loved the world, but how God loved the world. It refers us to the context, drawing a comparison (usually we would use like or as). Though this John 3:16 usage is older and more correct, I can see how it developed into its present form, and if one insisted interpreting a word literally, my sentence would still make sense.

Patients come in and, noting how quiet and secluded is my office, inquire what I do all day. If only they knew that I sit at my computer and type out my thoughts, goaded by the wise words of books and Bible, by recollections of conversations. Here, in fact, is where I wrote most of my book that may or may never be published. I might as well write in silence, and publish it on my blog. There’s little difference in the result, and I’m more satisfied to have my thoughts offered to the world even if few people take them.

I just stopped, stretched, and looked at the clock, wondering whether I have time to read Ephesians and get some semblance of an idea of what we’ll talk about at church on Sunday. And the clock reminded me of one of my favorite Mark Schultz songs, about life in corporate America. I sing it twice a week after church (Mondays and Wednesdays), when I’m almost the last to leave the empty parking lot, and I see how close I can get to 80 mph. Most of the time I get within 50 mph of the song’s 80, before I have to slow down for the corner and re-admittance into society’s roads and regulations. But in the song, he sings about an afternoon smattering of looking at the clock, spinning in the chair, and solitaire. Any minute now I’ll be busy with real work again, and I’ll probably stop writing and get back to Ephesians.

To God be all glory.

Mugs and Cocoa

To think this pile of brown dust turns into a delicious, warm, indulgent chocolate drink is wonderful. And if I pour the steaming water from several inches above the brim, the cocoa will be frothy. After a few minutes, casually stirring and waiting for the cup to cool, the bubbles are still there, but smaller, a foamy chocolate layer on top featuring swirls and spots of darker chocolate, not totally blended yet. Marshmallows keep hot chocolate warm longer, by insulating the cup from the top, like the ice on top of a lake that allows fish and life to continue beneath. One small sip, breathed rather than drunk, promises a mug full of pleasure, a sweet and filling substitute for a healthier lunch.

I love my mugs. The one at work, whence I type this, is cobalt blue with white etching of Colorado evergreens. I can slip most of my fingers through the handle to warm my hand without doing anything useful. It’s a thinking position, the cozy act of a multi-tasker not really thinking about her work. The brim of the mug has no lip, is simply straight, allowing the breathe-sipping and preventing strange sticky mustaches from forming on my lip.

At home there is a large, paler blue glass mug that promises abundance, luxury, a long afternoon to enjoy its contents. There is a rounded goblet-like mug that looks like a candle-lamp, with a small, finger-sized ring for a handle near the bulbous bottom. It looks more like dessert and beauty than comfort and ease. And I have my Chicago cup, short and wide, purple and unappealing except for the complete redemption of having Chicago written on the outside, reminding me constantly of my favorite city.

Ok, so I have several more mugs, and sometimes I even feign British propriety and use a teacup and saucer (which is almost always profaning the use, as I drink cocoa much more readily than tea). Each of my mugs is a privilege to use, and makes me wish that I stayed home more, reading a good book, instead of shopping or skipping about to work and libraries (the last thing I need is to read books I do not own instead of the stacks of those unread editions that I do).

The very fact that I’m writing about cups and cocoa proves that I am absolutely given over to a writing craze. I’ve been reading a lot, and every thought forms itself into a communicative sentence that insists on being written and remembered. I will try to be an Elinor, of Sense and Sensibility, to push aside my instincts and follow my sacrificial duty. Perhaps my sense of story will infiltrate my responsibility and make it poetic. Wish me luck.

A few hours later I have most irresponsibly finished reading a book. My cobalt blue mug contains a half inch of cold, watered-down cocoa, having been refilled with hot water to make the last bit last longer. I cannot get into the story of Ephesians 5 and 6 sufficiently for it to say what I thought it said, so maybe I should start over and let God say what He says. I want connection, though, between what God has been saying and what He will say.

To God be all glory.

Things Too Profound for Words

I want to write about things that mean a lot to me: ideas that keep me going or inspire me. But some things are too close, too dear, for words.

Today I wanted to write stories, but when I tried to form sentences I realized all I want to do is practice. Don’t write; do. And I want to do coy debates and romance and being a wife to an incredibly faith-filled man. As that is clearly not God’s plan for my day, I had to ask what to do with this surge of inspiration. I’m emotional today, and I need a vent for all this rapture.

So on my way home from work I looked at the sky (stubbornly trying to rationalize how I could be grateful the sun wasn’t down while still hating Daylight Savings Time). I want to own this day. A photo wouldn’t capture it, and a painter would have to be a master to get even one glimpse of this day right. The sun lit the dark blue clouds in the east, intensifying their color and varnishing them with a glorious haze. Between the clouds and me were trees, still bare from the cold of winter, every twig illuminated separately. Where the light didn’t reach, the shadow asserted itself with depth and variance and character. The little whiter clouds nearer the zenith blew in and out of formation, constantly contrasting with the colors and shapes around them. Praise God who created shape and color!

And it was all a gift to me. Songs I have not sung in months came to mind, and I sang of my Savior coming for me. “Hear the roaring at the rim of the world… Behold He’s coming with the clouds.” The clouds and glimmering landscape captured my eye and imagination, as though cracking the door open on the edge of the world. I sang of who my Savior is, what He did on earth, and of His passion. And then I dreamed again of when He will come back. “I saw the holy city… and now our God will dwell with them.”

And this is all about waiting, and love, and faithfulness, and longing, and worship, and beauty, and glory. I want to write how I feel at those times, and what I know, and the million connections being made between the things I know about my God… but I can’t. For now the topics that mean the most, that are most gifts of God, must stay that. I pray that someday He will call me to share them, and bless me with the words I don’t have today.

To God be all glory.

PS: Michael Card’s Unveiled Hope album is a soundtrack to Revelation, and a soaring symphony to the King on His White Horse coming back for me.

Amy's Touching Tale of Valentine's Day

So writing the last post took so much time that I know it's past Valentine's Day now. I wore pink today, and brought chocolate hearts to work - for myself. After spending some eagerly anticipated time studying the Bible for a Sunday school lesson, I read more of Persuasion, which is better every time I read it and especially compared to the movies. In fact Persuasion the book is better than any and every Jane Austen movie. The hero is too wonderful (while remaining human), and the heroine is so easy to relate to in one way or another. In the book there are four men in love with Anne Elliot. In the movie you're lucky if you get the impression any more than one was. I digress.

Every time I sit down to blog, I think I'll just write my thoughts down and push "publish." When I started blogging, that was the way. God must be teaching me discipline, patience, and hard work, because I have to think and draft and revise to put a blog up anymore. Before I know it I've spent three hours blogging instead of: reading Persuasion, writing books, finishing a Sunday school lesson (are those ever finished?), cleaning my room, making breadsticks, eating supper, or watching movies. Actually, I did make breadsticks.

Now I have a confession to make. If you click on a link from my blog, I can tell. I don't know who you are, but I know what links you like. So I know that the del.icio.us sidebar on my Wordpress blog doesn't get any attention. On the blog run by Amy of Humble Musing fame, the del.icio.us sidebar is one of my favorite parts. I love her little article recommendations. So I copied her, and did a sidebar on my blog, too. Sorry blogger readers! I'm too lazy to put one on Lady of Longbourn.

Since I know you don't click on those any more than many of you comment, I'm spending a portion of this post directing you to Amy's Valentine's Day: Love it or Leave it? I read the story once and told it two and a half times, and came near to crying with each encounter. But don't be afraid; it isn't mushy. It's gallant. So read it; the post is short.

Hm. A secret to blog writing (but don't ask me; I'm not all that successful): Write your disconnected blog, and name the title after the last thing about which you talk. That way your readers will at least scroll to the end to see what you're talking about. A great picture near the top helps too.

To God be all glory.

Works of Art

After this weekend, I’ve been thinking about art, and the levels by which it becomes more difficult. Here are my rough draft thoughts:

Art is work. Have you ever thought of that? One of my favorite words for the product of art is wrought. Dictionary.com defines it as (among other things):
3. elaborated; embellished.
5. produced or shaped by beating with a hammer, as iron or silver articles.

Art:
Writing tends to be the most vague. Composition can be creative, poetic, skilled and beautiful. But it always relies on the reader’s imagination and experience to get a mental image of the suggested idea.

Painting or drawing is a two-dimensional representation of an idea. The observer has no freedom to add to what is given, but the artist must put more definite thought into his work. He must take the risk of his specific expression being rejected.

Sculpture, set design, home decorating, costuming – these are three-dimensional, still manifestations of an idea. I crave this sometimes. I will be inspired with an arrangement, or want to imitate a form – a shape that is not quite expressible in a drawing. A room may be visited. As a connoisseur of art, I want to tour locations of beauty or meaning, not just read about them or look at postcard-pictures.

These last two art forms get more complicated. There is more work involved in their creation, and less control. There is risk not only that the concrete vision may be rejected, but that it may be marred. On the other hand, our visions can benefit from the dye and sculpting of human interaction.

A moment may be crafted. The idea that comes to mind is when a man proposes. Or it could be like a party. Last night I was at a Christmas party – yes, in January – where the hostess had engaged in three dimensional art (her clothing and hair, and the table setting) which contributed to the moment she created when she made a speech (really a toast without glasses). She designed a moment to make us feel special. We lived through gifts, smiles, and words that communicated emotion, atmosphere, ideas.

Life is a work of art. Fundamentally a life is God’s work. Paul tells us as much in Ephesians 2:10. To different extents friends and parents are artists shaping moments for others, which in combination shapes the friends and children. Those who are molded in this way go on to make a series of decisions, to have a sequence of experiences that come together to make a life. Here we have relationships, characters, feelings and thoughts, intentions – and failures.

2 Corinthians 3:2-3 - "Ye are our epistle written in our hearts, known and read of all men: Forasmuch as ye are manifestly declared to be the epistle of Christ ministered by us, written not with ink, but with the Spirit of the living God; not in tables of stone, but in fleshy tables of the heart."

To God be all glory.

Shameless Plug

In case you're new, or you've forgotten, or you just needed an excuse to visit one more web page, Lisa of Longbourn posts her creative writing snippets at When the Pen Flows - and invites you to share the creativity by submitting your own stories or poems for publication, by commenting, and by telling your friends. Get inspired. Practice your writing skills. Give me an excuse to practice mine.

To God be all glory.

Real Relationships, Blogging, and Taking Life Seriously

Do you know how much more I blog when I know I have an audience? Before I blogged, my friends received long, winding emails quite frequently. I’d threaten them that if they didn’t respond, I’d keep writing, desperate to have some contact with them. Then I’d warn them that if they did reply, it would inspire me to write back. Evidence imposes reality on my realization: I write more when I know you’re reading. I talk when I know you’re listening. The substance is better in conversation than in desperate attempts at starting a friendship, or drawing attention: advertising.

I’ve been looking at my life, and praying about what I see. Some days I can’t do that; my prayers are focused on survival. God gives us phases, I think. Like the moon. I love the moon: always there, always the same, almost always visible, almost always seen in a new light. And the light is beautiful.

Why do I have better conversations, ones that “hit the spot” via blogging, or with an eclectic group of admittedly eccentric protesters outside abortion clinics? I don’t agree with all the theology, but we can pray together. When they ask how I am, I can answer that God is teaching me about grace, and share a little. They share. I want to know. Not just their stories, but the stories of my friends, and the people at church and Bible study. But in the hallways all I hear is “How are you?” and all I can answer is “fine,” unless we were going to cancel nursery service, worship, and lunch. Then I could talk. That’s the beauty of blogging and abortion protests. There’s no schedule, no interruptions that matter. So I can’t be online at work... The conversation picks right back up, no awkwardness, more forethought.

In my prayers I keep telling God I don’t want to play. I don’t want to play at life. Gas prices shouldn’t drive me crazy; I don’t want to play. Hard decisions aren’t on my shoulders; I don’t want to play. It’s pretending to say I have the wisdom or strength to decide. And at church, I am so tired of playing. What I do there is superficial. I believe in being there, and in making the most of what is there for the sake of bringing the body towards perfection (Ephesians 4). There is something so wrong about the way we do church. Why do we bother singing and praying and listening to lessons when we don’t even know each other?

People move away or change churches, and we never talk to them again. Why? When they were at church activities, we admired them. We enjoyed doing ministry together. Their comments in Sunday school were challenging, and their smile uplifting. They’re gone, and we miss them. But there was never anything more. We never met for lunch. I didn’t know what they were thinking, the little things that they might say as commentary on life, but would never think worthy of a special phone call.

I have a friend at my church, and we’re going to start praying together. I’m really excited. She selected an anonymous envelope to “adopt” a teen from our youth group, and I wanted to ask her who she got. I wanted to enter into even this little facet of her life, and so many more things like that.

Tonight I babysat for a church plant. I sat with three little boys while they ate dinner, and the parents and friends talked around the kitchen island. I care about the adults, but the kids know me, and I love them because I watch them eat. When one does some weird thing with his spoon, I get to know him. The middle kid imitates the oldest, and you see how relationships are developing. I intentionally sit with them when they eat, to build the relationship. But do I do that with adults? When is the last time I sat by someone not to start a conversation, but just to be there in case there was commentary?

Speaking of the church plant, I could hear from my position in the basement of the pastor’s house uproarious laughter, evidence that the group is bonding. They feel free to be loud, to be humiliated, to laugh, and thus are invested in the details of each others’ lives. Eventually I think the plan is to have a “normal” church where there is preaching and singing, but I believe they want to keep groups like this one as core to their church. Once they are loving, unified friends, they can march in sync in their ministry. In fact, the pastor told me a couple weeks ago that he believes the church’s primary purpose is evangelism, and I’ve been thinking about my disagreement, looking for what the Bible says instead of just what I’ve been taught. I see the great commission. And I see Jesus’ prayer in John 17 for what He planned his followers to be. I read Ephesians, and see that the church is about unity, edification, maturing into the image of Christ. But that unity of the Spirit is what produces the striving together for the faith of the gospel, the reaching out to the world with the gospel.

So another thought: I get challenged like that from this friend, who is a pastor. His church asks him questions like that more than some, but I think they’re in awe of him, and respectful of him as their leader. (His wife was originally on my side, properly heeding his perspective and coming early to the conclusion that we’re basically saying the same thing different ways/different emphasis.) My pastor doesn’t talk to me like that. I get answers from people who run blogs. They dare to address my real questions. But a lot of times their own friends and churches aren’t asking. What a mess. Why can’t we be real with the people in our churches?

I want everyone to read my blog. But I’m fair about it. I would want to read everyone else’s blogs or journals, too. I don’t want to play at friendship, to pretend to be the Body of Christ, anymore. I, me, personally, want to be real. And I want to be a real friend. May God take me, sold out, take my every hour, to be invested in Him and in building people.

As a crowning point to how this whole topic is being driven home to me today, in one day-long thought, I was telling all these things to my brother after watching some of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. I have no idea how much we missed, but I wouldn’t dare go back to find out; there’s a reason you can skip tracks on DVDs. (I’m definitely NOT endorsing the movie, but I’m not all that sorry I watched what I did. Just read a review, and make an educated, prayerful decision if you ever think about watching it.) Anyway, the premise is that this guy is getting his memories of his girlfriend erased, so he’s going backwards through the memories. And timelines are just a bit confusing, but if you watch it twice I suspect everything would make sense. Watch the hair colors. It’s a key. We discussed how our brains have to extend to the furthest reaches to follow the movie, and the implications of the story. It’s too far out, to complex to put our arms around, to hold. But you can follow it, if you try. That’s relevant, but this is commentary, windows into my world that produces these thoughts.

After I said most of the things above, and actually some are his additions, I was talking about being tired of friendships being fake; I want to hear what is going on with people. I want to read blogs, and my blog to be read. In an amazing double-irony, he asked, “Did you read my blog?”
“No.” We both laughed and I was crying, too, from the irony. I knew of course that I was contradicting myself because I hadn’t read it in the past couple days, and that he must have written about basically the same thing, or he wouldn’t have brought it up. And maybe we’re both thinking about the same thing because we read the same things, and talk, and (sometimes) read each other’s blogs. So here is his perspective on real listening and real friendship. You have to promise, if you are reading this post, to read his too, and to read it like he meant… every… word.

Oh, and less crowning but still continuing, we’ve had an ongoing conversation with some friends of ours about “heads bowed, eyes closed” altar calls, whether it be for salvation or other things God’s doing in your life. We’re tired of playing, and want to be the Church to those around us, at least. If we can’t see each other, and we’re silent, not praying together at all, how are we going to rejoice with those who rejoice and weep with those who weep? What are we saying about the shameless gospel of our God’s great grace?

To God be all glory.

PS: My brother reminds me, and I thought it important enough to make clear: being serious does not exclude joy or smiling or fun. When I say "I don't want to play," I don't mean I'm opposed to silliness and recreation. Actually, we should even take our fun seriously; be intense, and sincere when you play.

When People You Know Read Your Blog

It's good.

I appreciate the friends who read my blog and see the life that provides the matrix from which seemingly unrelated posts spring. They know what I'm saying when I try not to be obvious. And if I do anything really irresponsible, they can hold me accountable.

In theory my friends and family can catch up on what I'm thinking. To some extent that would be encouraging. Then again, what would we talk about when we're together? I like blogging as preparation for that inevitable question, "What's up with you?" or some similar inquiry; blogging orders my thoughts. On the other hand, if everyone at church and work and home knew what I was thinking, and what I believe about church, family, politics... Let's just say I might be uncomfortable and they might be shocked to find out all at once. Maybe they are reading. That's ok. I'm working to be more transparent. Just take a deep breath and reassure yourself that you know me. I can't be as weird as all that.

I love getting comments on my blog. Making friends, getting encouragement and challenges and insight from people online is profitable. Comments from friends are exciting, too. Even if they just say hi.

When I read blogs written by other people, it brings a smile to my face when their personal friends and family comment. I know Amy's (of Humble Musing fame) husband reads her blog. He even updates it from time to time.

So here's the challenge. If I know you, comment. If I don't know you, please comment. Note the please. Why are we always kinder to strangers?

To God be all glory.