the view from her

My annual list of thankful things. It contains a few things from previous years, for which I continue to be thankful (see #1). And it’s still by no means complete.

1. chocolate. (Reeeally not a necessity, but God created it anyway. Thank you!)

2. new flannel sheets

3. an awesome job at a fun church with an amazing team.

4. a church family and friends – comprised of young and old. I love that.

5. learning that three people in the heartbreak of failing marriages came to Eastside’s “Friday Night of Hope” DivorceCare support group because they got our neighborhood mailer.

6. my cozy, comfy little condo.

7. a guest room for friends that is currently occupied by one.

8. squishy-faced dogs.

9. coffee. And all the fancy seasonal-flavored creamers.

10. a sister who survived cancer this year.

11. a car that runs and gas to run it.

12. the internet. And wireless access.

13. my iPhone. I admit it.

14. new babies in the family.

15. turkey, stuffing, yams, mashed potatoes, and pumpkin pie.

An epic story, according to Merriam Webster, is one that “extends beyond the usual or ordinary in size or scope.” In movies, an epic story almost always spans multiple countries, cultures and people, and lives across generations.

I work at a church with an epic story. Eastside started in 1962, and celebrated its 50th anniversary this year. We have families with three generations who attended as small children, grew up, got married, had children, and now grandchildren who met Christ and were baptized here. And yesterday, one chapter of this epic story ended, as we moved out of the buildings where the Gospel was proclaimed for nearly 50 years. Next week a new chapter begins as we hold our first services at our new campus in Anaheim.

Like any great movie epic, this story also spans multiple cultures. Dong Shin Presbyterian Church bought our Fullerton campus and moves in this week. I love that they’ve posted pictures of our “old” building, and proclaim it a new “vision center.” An evangelical Chinese church is also moving in to their previous facility. This is a pretty busy week in the Kingdom.

I once heard the Gospel described as a beautiful quill pen, writing out a story. The four Gospels were written by disciples who had been in the presence of Jesus. They lived the story first-person. They became leaders of the early church, and passed the story on, and it began to spread throughout the world. Constantine took up the pen and moved the story from the secrecy of persecution to the public acceptance of palaces. Across the centuries, Augustine, Luther, and Calvin each picked up the pen and passed the story forward. And somewhere a hundred years ago, someone you don’t know picked up the pen, and passed the Gospel to someone, who passed it to someone else, who passed it to someone you know – a parent, a teacher, a friend – who showed you your place in God’s family and his epic story.

And now the pen is in your hand, and mine. It’s our turn to write the next chapter in our epic story. To whom will you pass the pen?

In just less than a week, we’ll go to the polls to vote. And every election good Christians bemoan the fact that voting seems to end up a choice between “the lesser of two evils.”

To which I say: Then you must go vote for less evil. As Christians, I’ll go so far as to say we’re obligated to choose less evil. We are to be salt and light in a world of darkness, and to help facilitate God’s will on earth as it is in Heaven. Part of our role here is simply to help restrain evil. One way we can do that is by participating in this world’s primary instrument of behavioral constraint – government.

Some disagree with this view, soberly citing the high and inarguable standard of their conscience as a reason to not vote at all. And I they’re what I like to call… “wrong.” Heh… Here are some reasons why.

We live in a fallen world, and both Christians and non-Christians live lives of varying degrees of evil or good. It’s important to remember nobody’s perfect. So as Christians and citizens of this country, we should look for the candidate who will advance the common good and agrees with us as much as possible. You might convince yourself that by refusing to vote you’re teaching those politicians a lesson, but the reality is you’re failing to take any position and thereby tell the politicians what you believe in.

Over at Stand to Reason, Greg Koukl points out that sometimes compromising is not a compromise. This is an older article, but I think the key points about conscience and voting – especially regarding abortion – are still relevant today. The point is… sometimes we settle for something less than ideal because it accomplishes the most good possible given the circumstances.

Thomas a Kempis in Imitation of Christ said, “Of two evils, the less is always to be chosen.” And a wise friend of mine once said, “Do your best. Expect the worst. And trust God for the rest.” Do your best – get out and vote next Tuesday. Then, pray and trust God – one thing I expect we can all agree on. And then remember: “The Most High is sovereign over the kingdoms of men and gives them to anyone he wishes” (Daniel 4:25).

But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.” 2 Corinthians 12:9

There are times in our lives when we struggle along the journey as we follow Jesus. We often face wounds, and loss, and seemingly overwhelming challenges. And we cling to the promise “My grace is sufficient for you.” I’ve been in these situations more than once over the past couple of years, and for some reason I would get hung up on the phrase “my power is made perfect in weakness.”

It was incredibly encouraging, and yet the more I considered it, the less I was sure I even understood it at all.

“His power in me is perfect.” His power? This would be the God of the universe, who keeps both atoms and planets in motion. Also known as all-powerful and omnipotent. I try to imagine what one iota of that power in me might be like, and imagine myself swelling up like the Incredible Hulk and then exploding. And how is his power in me perfect? Perfect seems like the wrong word there, and I don’t understand it. His power – his strength – in me should be empowering, fortifying, sustaining, strengthening. Can strength be perfect?

My New Testament commentary says that “divine power finds its full scope and strength only in human weakness… The cross of Christ forms the supreme example of ‘power-in-weakness’.” The analogy of Christ on the cross helps – his supreme power over sin and death was fully realized in the moment of his greatest weakness.

But it is the dictionary that makes a clearer connection. Merriam-Webster defines “perfect” as “satisfying all requirements.” Dictionary.com defines it as “exactly fitting the need in a certain situation or for a certain purpose.” And I see that it is in my moments of fatigue and failure and indecision – my weakness – that the omnipotent power of the Creator is customized to exactly fit my specific situation. It’s perfect.

There are some things in life I just get backwards. I sometimes doubt honest people. Worse, I sometimes trust dishonest people. Things like lettuce and broccoli and bran are good for you, while pizza and donuts and chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream are bad for you. That’s so totally backwards.

I used to think that I had some abilities, and I could use those in a job, and make money, spend it however I wanted, and own some stuff. I thought all that stuff was mine, and it was up to me to decide if I wanted to give any to God. Then, in one year, I got laid off my job, lost my home and most of my money in a divorce, and I realized none of that stuff was ever mine – not really. I had it exactly backwards. It all belonged to God – that and a lot more – and it was He who had decided to give just a little of it to me.

Eventually I got a new job, and began tithing 10% from the very first check. It was easy. I used to have no money, and now I had some – it was obvious God had provided. So it didn’t matter if I had $100, or $1000. I didn’t cling to it tightly in fear, I spent it right back to Him. Then I got daring, giving more than 10%, just to see what happened. I spent money for the poor, sponsored a child, gave anonymous money to friends for mission trips, and left bigger tips. It’s a wonderful feeling not to be enslaved by worry about money. And no matter how much I “spent” on God, I always had enough for my needs. God’s funny with math that way.

If you have any abilities, or talents or “smarts,” it’s because God created you and gifted you with them uniquely. He’s given you those and other resources, not to keep for yourself, but to manage on His behalf. It’s about understanding that all of it is God’s to begin with, and that we must be wise investors with whatever He gives us. And when you invest in what God is doing, you join a wild, completely backwards adventure that pays crazy, impossible dividends of miracles and healing and lives changed forever. Who wouldn’t want to be part of that?

This weekend we were fortunate to have Jodi Hickerson as a guest speaker at Eastside. She had an amazing message on the topic of rejection, and the security of God’s unfailing love (you can listen to it online here). In it, she referred to John’s Gospel, where John declines to identify himself by name, but rather as “the disciple Jesus loves.” And that reminded me of a blog I once wrote on this very point, which I’m reposting here.
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A friend and I were walking on the beach the other day, talking about different spiritual things, and my friend said, “You know, I always kind of suspected that Peter was Jesus’ favorite disciple.”

Wondering which of the disciple’s was Jesus’ favorite is a fine tradition, going all the way back to, well… the disciples themselves. But I think we love Peter because he seems like the underdog – a big, clumsy, uneducated tradesman who was actually dumb enough to climb out of a boat in the middle of a raging storm, who failed spectacularly in the most important test of his life… three times. And yet, Peter is one of only two human beings we know of who literally walked on water. And in John 21 Jesus affirmed Peter’s love three times: “Feed my sheep.”

Then, just two chapters later Peter is bringing It – preaching the Gospel, and he is absolutely fearless. He is relentless. The tradesman is now an inspired orator. The underdog becomes the Rock. We love that about Peter.

Yet it is John who is repeatedly referred to in the Gospels as “the disciple Jesus loved.” Apparently he thought he was the favorite. My friend and I laughed at the scenario… “hey, I get to write my version of a Gospel, so I’ll be clever and not use my name. I’ll just subtly let everyone know I was really the favorite… the ‘disciple Jesus loved.’”

We walked a bit further, and then my friend said thoughtfully, “You know… maybe it’s just that John really understood who he was. Maybe he recognized his true identity…”

I think that happens sometimes. We forget our true identity. We think we are Bob the financial planner, or Debbie the secretary or just a frazzled “Mommy,” a nobody or a somebody. But as followers of Jesus, each one of us can claim the identity of “the disciple Jesus loves.” Think about that.

(posted by the disciple Jesus loves at 09:22)

My Dad would totally tweet. And he would have been a terrific blogger. He was a child psychologist most of his life, and told hilarious stories about unconventional treatments. He loved words and he loved to write. He could never pass up a good pun (or a bad one). He would have loved the challenge of of 148 characters. But sadly, he just missed the onset of the social media revolution. He died a little more than 10 years ago at the age of 71.

I think of him often when I’m writing, and wish you could have known him. He was never frightened by technology, but was fascinated by each new development, always eager to learn. He bought a computer and a printer and figured out how to get internet access so he could email us. Then he bought a scanner and figured out how to scan and send us pics. Then he discovered digital cameras, and figured out how to download his pictures, email and print them. He definitely would have had a blog. And I know he would have loved interacting with his grandkids on Facebook.

In his later years he worked for the Department of Social Security, reviewing applications for mental disability. (Now there were some good stories.) He began to collect “bloopers” from these reports: use of a wrong word, incorrect grammatical order, or simple typo – so that the intended meaning was changed – often with hilarious results. He collected hundreds of these, and called them “Curious Comments.” Here are some examples.

PATIENT: “I go to church when I feel up to it and have gas.”

PATIENT: “A chandelier fell on me. I’ve felt light-headed ever since.”

DR. REPORT: “This gentleman has been under my car since an auto/pedestrian injury on 22 February, 1987.”

ADL (Activities of Daily Living) QUESTION: Who furnished your meals, why, and how often?
A: “My wife because she loves me 90% of the time.”

DR. REPORT: “[Patient] found to have no neurologic deficits as a cause of her chronic left buttock discomfort, which she ascribes to appearing after a rear-end accident in 1983.”

CLAIMANT’S REPORT: “[The Doctor] asked me to stand on one foot and jump up and down. This has been going on for three years and I still have constant pain.”

3RD PARTY ADL: “He hasn’t been able to walk well last month, but I have seen him go down hill, and he seems to be gaining speed.”

CLAIMANT’S ALLEGATION: “Hard to concentra”

My dad was a great example of lifelong learning, and fascination with – not fear of – changing technology. Whatever ability I may have for writing or venturing new things, I suspect I got from my Dad. I can’t tell you how many times as I’m writing I wonder what he would have commented about a particular topic or link. He was a good father, a self-described sinner saved by grace, and an ever-amused student of human behavior. And I miss hearing him say, “Ya done good, kid.”

I can still remember my first introduction to Ray Bradbury. It was in high school, and we were assigned The Martian Chronicles in lit class. I read it straight through. Then, I took it home and introduced The Martian Chronicles to my Dad. He was a psychologist, and I asked him to read a selection called “The Earth Men,” in which the first astronauts on Mars are thought to be hallucinating psychos and are promptly locked up in an insane asylum. My Dad, ever affirming my interest in reading, sat down that night after dinner and read the short story instead of watching the news. We then engaged in a discussion about why we liked it – the subversively misleading story line, the writing style, the unexpected conclusion. It’s a favorite memory of my father.

So I was saddened to hear of Bradbury’s death on Wednesday, and felt a little like I’d lost an affable father-figure, a story teller whose insight into the wishes and dreams and fears of children somehow became inextricably entwined with my own season of growing up.

Bradbury was called a Science Fiction writer, though it was not in the slimy-drooling-monster, man-eating blood-gushing style of today. He wrote to our simple fears – walking home alone at night (Dandelion Wine), the unexplained prickling of the hair raising on your arms or neck (Something Wicked This Way Comes) – as well as human emotions such as the longing for home… while viewing it in the sky from a settlement on Mars.

I actually met Ray Bradbury in 1992, in Lake Arrowhead, California, when he was 70 and had already been writing for 50 years. My then-husband and I attended a lecture, and waited in a very long line to get an autograph and take a picture. I had him sign a 40th anniversary edition of The Martian Chronicles, which I gave to my Father as a gift that Christmas.

The obituary linked above, provides Bradbury’s perspective on writing:

“It’s a God-given thing, and I’m so grateful, so, so grateful. The best description of my career as a writer is, ‘At play in the fields of the Lord.’ “

Science fiction author Ray Bradbury died today at age 91. As one of my all-time favorite authors, I’m inspired to write about the incredible impact of his writing in my life – a post that will take considerably more time than I had today. So for now, here is a previously written post that I think now perfectly applies: Bradbury was a “library” of different places and worlds – from 1920s Illinois to the future to life on Mars.
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A living library is a very cool idea. “It’s like reading a biography, but more interactive because you can talk to the person and ask them questions.”

Imagine talking with one of the few remaining World War 2 vets. I still remember when I was in high school and my parents had a family from church over for dinner one night. Mr. Harper had been a fighter pilot during the war, and told story after incredible story of his experiences. Reading online or in books is nothing like hearing it first-person. If Mr. Harper were in the living library, I’d borrow him again in a minute.

It makes me think of Steven Spielberg’s Shoah Foundation, which is made up of recorded stories from survivors of the Holocaust. Spielberg had the amazing foresight to record a “living library” that would preserve all those incredible stories beyond their individual lives.

It also reminds me of another way to consider these living stories – from an old Ray Bradbury book, Dandelion Wine. An excerpt from one story in particular (Section 10):

“The Civil War,” suggested John Huff quietly. “Does he remember that?”
“Do I remember?” said the colonel. “Oh, I do, I do! …”
“Antietam,” said John Huff. “Ask about Antietam.”
“I was there.”
The boys’ eyes grew bright. “Bull Run, ask him. Bull Run…”
“I was there.” Softly…
“Shiloh, then. Fort Sumter?”
“I saw the first puffs of powder smoke.” A dreaming voice. “So many things come back, oh, so many things.”

The boys sat for a long while without moving. Then Charlie turned and looked at Douglas and said, “Well, is he or isn’t he?”
Douglas breathed twice and said, “He sure is.”
“I sure am what?” [the colonel] asked.
“A Time Machine,” murmured Douglas. “A Time Machine.”

Just regular people with stories of times gone by, and lives we would otherwise never know anything about. We just have to take time to listen.

Last week, the Strategic Monk wrote a perceptive post called Living Life Out Loud. He began by describing a conversation he’d had with someone, in which they described to him a particularly painful experience, and observed “Saying it out loud makes it more real.”

“We depend on our stories. We believe the stories we tell ourselves; we understand and take control of our lives and the world around us through our stories… Our stories are important; they express who we really are. It can be painful and difficult, and it can be an experience of great joy, to tell our story. Each time we share part of our true story it becomes more real to us.”

Telling our stories makes them real to us, and makes us real to those who hear them. Yet telling our stories requires (a) time, and (b) an engaged listener, two things increasingly hard to come by in today’s on demand, attention-deficit-disordered world.

There are two potential dangers. First, unable to find an audience for our stories, we begin to lose our place – to feel less real – as if we are fading into a shallow, transparent ghost of our true selves. Secondly, as listeners we falsely assume our smart phone multiplies our abilities – virtually allowing us to be in several places at once – when the truth is it fragments us, creating ever more diminished versions of ourselves as we multi-task. We become a culture of faded shadows and scraps brushing by one another in busy efficiency.

Someone around us has an important story they need to say out loud. We need the enrichment of fully engaging in that story. So put on a pot of coffee. Open another bottle of wine. Settle in and get comfortable. I’m listening.