Me In 10

I couldn't sleep last night because I was inspired. Every few minutes, between midnight and 2 a.m., I flicked the switch on my bedside lamp, squinting as the room filled up with harsh light. I couldn't risk losing the words. I've learned, after years of writing, that you have to capture those kinds of thoughts quickly. They are like lightning bugs. They flash and sparkle momentarily, but they will disappear if you don't cup them tightly in your hands or cram them into a jar--I like to think of my little red notebook as my lightning bug jar.

I know that my husband doesn't particularly like it when I have inspired nights. But he likes me a lot, so he has learned to sleep through the chaotic lamp show. He's my number one reader. He reads everything I write--even the bad stuff. I'm not sure if he has read any other books since college, so I believe him when he says that I'm his favorite author.

During the day, I'm a mom. I drive the kids to school and baseball practice and boxing lessons--yes, I gave in. They are boxing now. My husband says it's healthy for little boys to let out their aggression in the ring. I still think it's a horrible sport, if you can even call it a sport.

I read cookbooks and write my bi-weekly column on my laptop in the car while I wait for the boys to get out of practice. It isn't the most glamorous life, I know. I don't have a real office, unless you consider the desk in the basement an office. I dress up once a month for conferences or book signings, which is a nice escape into grown-up world. But most of the time, I'm just mom with a ponytail, proofreading pages for my new book when I have a rare minute.

The writing life isn't as fabulous as I thought it would be. After college, I had to write a lot of silly magazine articles and devotional blurbs to help pay the bills. But I reached my ultimate goal, I wrote my first book before the age of twenty-five. It was good. It had a cute cover. My parents were proud and stockpiled copies in their basement. When I read it now, all I can see are the typos and cliches. Sometimes I am my own worst critic.

After that book, I continued writing magazine articles, which led to a column assignment, which led to more book proposals. So now, here I am, writing my fourth book, waiting to pick up the boys from baseball practice. I'm a wife and a mom and a writer. I'm not famous or rich, but I am wonderfully happy.

Written for a Fall 2009 Sentence Strategies assignment: Write about yourself and your daily life as it might appear 10 years in the future.

God in a tube

Sometimes I like to be tube-fed my spirituality. I like the way it casually oozes into me on Sunday mornings or in chapel at my small, Christian university or during the five-minute “Faithful Friday” readings from a well-meaning professor. Allowing the nutrients to pass through me, I sit. I wait to feel something about life again. I wait, craving fullness, disappointed when I can’t remember a sermon one hour after it was pumped from the pulpit. It must have leaked out of me, I think.

The Protestant Reformation was about a lot of deep, theological things. Things I don’t fully understand. I know that Catholics were tired of paying a lump sum to their local priest every time they sinned—a bogus scheme called Indulgences. I know that priests were corrupt, stealing money, sinning sexually, paying for power. But I know that the most important thing about Martin Luther and his 95 Theses was that people were demanding to feed themselves again. They were ripping out their mindless-spirituality food tubes, taking ownership of their soul’s health.

I believe that Luther broke free from the church partially because of its corruptness but also because he realized that it was numbing him. When Luther and his crew of rebellious Catholics spit boldly in the face of religious tradition in the 16^th century, I guarantee they never imagined Christians in the 21^st century who would return to lukewarm living on purpose. But in many ways, I think we have.

If I’m honest with myself, I am comfortable letting others do the hard work for me. I like it when my pastor researches recipes, prepares the meal, serves it to me, in 30-minutes, on a TV tray. It’s much easier than trying to sauté, poach, bake, stir, measure, or grill something for myself. While I know that meals in a tube don’t make me stronger, I still fight the urge to be a passive follower of Christ. Sometimes I make the effort, rustling up a nutritious meal for myself. But sometimes I still settle for mush through a tube.

Book Review

This book wasn’t written for grouches, so I’m sorry that the words can’t wiggle into the grooves of your brain and tickle you with insight. Maybe that’s why you find no pleasure in the delightful descriptions or quirky quips. Yes, that’s it. You’re a grouch.

This book wasn’t written for the tame, so I’m sorry that the energy exhausts you. I’m sorry that you cannot appreciate the way the passion, personality, and positive spirit seem to splatter across the page. Maybe you should read something quieter, something with less life oozing out of it. It might fit you better.

This book wasn’t written for philosophers, at least, not the regular kind. But it wasn’t written for the mindless, either. It will challenge you to view everyday life—the moments of clarity, the times you failed, the nights you almost peed because you couldn’t stop laughing—as something meaningful, beautiful, and spiritual. I’m sorry if you’re looking for dull theories or tired metaphors on the Christian life. You’ll have to read something else.

When Shauna Niequist wrote Cold Tangerines she wanted to reinvigorate the way we think about blessing. She wanted to reveal something hopeful about the world through her personal stories. She wanted to be honest with her readers about faith, family, and the messy parts of life that we all try to hide in our basements or junk drawers or closets—because those are things worth writing about. If you don’t want a book that infuses you with joy from the ends of your hair to your crooked, big toe, don’t read this book. If you don’t want to celebrate the gift of life, put this book back on the shelf. I’m sorry. I just don’t think you will like it.

Credo Magazine

Check out my third piece for Credo! Go to www.CredoMagazine.com and click on "What Not To Be This Halloween." Then, get outside and enjoy the day. The leaves are falling and it's beautiful.

Try Journaling

KNOW GOD--PART FOUR

Journaling is powerful because it lets us reflect on where we’ve been and how God has walked alongside us during the good times and the bad. It doesn’t mean you have to keep a diary. Just write about the ups and downs of your life and the needs of the people around you. Then, go back and reflect on how God has proved his faithfulness.

Or here’s another idea. Pick a short Psalm (or part of a larger one) and rewrite it in your own words. This doesn’t mean that your version will be better--duh! But sometimes it’s easier to hear God’s voice when we take time to understand his Word in our everyday language. If you don’t know where to start, try Psalm 5.

Something to See

It’s hard to do nothing. Once I had chosen my spot beneath the shade of a big tree, I tried to get comfortable. I took off my shoes and wiggled my toes into the grass. It was starting to turn brown, but there were still patches of soft, green blades left over from summertime. I took a deep breath of Sunday afternoon air. It smelled crisp and rich, like the beginning of fall should smell in the Midwest. I looked at my watch. It had only been 10 minutes and I was already feeling anxious. I wished that I could walk around or listen to my ipod or read a book. But I forced myself to sit there, determined to just be in nature.

It required concentration. I had to continuously bring my mind back to that spot, back to the arching of trees, the glimmer of sunshine, the hum of insects. It was beautiful, of course. It wasn’t difficult for me to admire nature’s general beauty, but I realized that I often don’t pay attention to the specifics.

The crickets sounded like a classroom full of little boys grinding their teeth and sloshing their spit. The bugs hid somewhere in the tall grass, chanting: wwheeeha wwheeeha, we weha we weha. After a while, I caught the subtle rhythm. One overzealous cricket could be heard above the others. I wondered if he was the “class clown” telling a joke above the ruckus, or maybe he was the teacher trying to get control of his English class. As I sat on the ground, a tiny one landed on my shoe. I inspected him for a moment, and then brushed him back into the grass.

After the bugs, I noticed the leaves. They waited anxiously for the wind, as if they were surfers waiting for the perfect wave. Then they made a calculated but chaotic leap from the branches to the ground. Once they landed, they flirted with each other. Swayed back and forth like giddy girls, dressed in gold and red and green, at their very first dance. The leaves bubbled up in a burst of excitement and then paused, breathlessly, on the floor until the next wind-song began.

Next, I thought about the trees. I thought about how they have been there the longest out of everything in the park. I imagined them with eyes; I wished they could talk. I wished they could describe how the world looked when they first budded out of the earth. It must have been a lot different. Things were probably slower, there were probably more trees and maybe they didn’t see people pass by for a while. Poets have always described trees as wise. I think they are right. Trees have watched it all, endured thunderstorms, learned to change with the seasons, stood patiently in one spot for their entire lives. Yes, they must be wise.

After my time in nature was over, I felt calm. I’m glad that I forced myself to be an observer and to sit quietly. The nothingness turned out to be beautiful.

As I left the park, a little boy ran up to me and said, “I hope you enjoyed your day, lady. It’s really a nice day and there are lots of creatures to see out here. I hope you got to see some.” His mother grabbed his hand and apologized, “He’s just too talkative.” I just smiled and waved goodbye to him because he was right. It was a beautiful day and there is plenty to see if you are willing to look.

Create Something

KNOW GOD-PART THREE

God is creative. Just think about it, he designed Saturn and the hippopotamus and dandelions and your eyelashes. He crafted the entire world into existence; his imagination is endless. And because God is an artist, he must be filled with joy when we express our love to him through art. It’s like we’re speaking his heart language.

So, go create something. Read your favorite passage of scripture and draw a picture about why it’s significant in your life. Paint yourself sitting on your Heavenly Father’s lap. Just use your imagination! You don’t have to be the next Van Gogh. God will be delighted when you create something to bring him glory.