The year is going, let him go...

"Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 
The flying cloud, the frosty light: 
The year is dying in the night; 
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 

Ring out the old, ring in the new, 
Ring, happy bells, across the snow: 
The year is going, let him go; 
Ring out the false, ring in the true..." 
~ Lord Alfred Tennyson, In Memoriam (Ring Out Wild Bells)

Whether 2011 was marked by heartbreak or hope, mourning or celebration, goodbyes or hellos or moving in the same direction, may you look back with gratitude and look forward with wonder. Happy New Year!

I might have gotten a little emotional watching this year in review from Google.



(Thanks Melony McKaye)

You Belong. (2011 Revisited)

The last of the 2011 Revisited posts, originally from September 29. Words can't express how much a weekend in Nashville meant to me this year, but I tried. I also tried again here, in a guest blog for Centricity Nation. Thanks for re-reading these with me the past two weeks... Happy New Year!

I’ve been trying to figure out how to explain this past weekend. When I try to distill everything down to its essence, two words surface over and over again.

You belong.

A week ago today, in a small church tucked in a tree-lined street far from home, a hundred or so people gathered -- a few I'd met before, and most whose names I’d only seen on my computer screen. As Andrew Peterson closed a Square Peg Alliance concert with "Many Roads," a song I'm sure I've heard a hundred times (and at least four or five live), those two words came to mind and settled there like a sigh. Maybe it’s because he saved it for the end instead of the beginning of the show, or maybe it was being in an unfamiliar town, but somehow, I truly heard his words for the first time that night. This time, I was the traveler who had come so far just to take part in a story.

"You can see the roads that we all traveled just to get here, 
A million minuscule decisions in a line. 
Why they brought us to this moment isn't clear,
But that's all right. 
We've got all night."

So began the Hutchmoot.

Hutchmoot is a vague concept; even the people that host it say so. In the weeks leading to the trip, I found it hard to tell people why I was taking off for a few days. What was I looking for?

Was it a conference? A retreat? A gathering for so-called "creatives"? Music and book lovers? A place to learn to be a better writer, musician, or artist?

Sort of?

The thing about a mass gathering of The Rabbit Room is this: those who’ve experienced this community, who love the people behind it, who get a thrill out of stories and poetry, could probably figure it out right away. Those who haven't, I suspect, may find it hard to understand the point, or maybe they will take a curious risk and be pulled right in. And once you’re in, it's hard to walk away unchanged. Maybe even impossible.

Hutchmoot is a place to rally around our passions, where strangers become friends in minutes, and the simplest dinner is a work of art. We can geek out and quote lines from our favorite books without feeling judged, or take a spontaneous walk with people we barely know and feel safe. We know music can transform hearts and a poem can make a slit through the veil between heaven and earth, even if for just a moment.

But most of all, in just a few short days, it became an extended family. It sounds crazy, but like the best crazy things, it just might be true. I won't deny that even though I'd been waiting six months to finally reach that place, the moment I pulled into The Church of the Redeemer's parking lot, the familiar panic of uncertainty set in. I rarely feel at home in crowds of new people, and even though I'd been talking to many of these folks online, there's no way of knowing how those relationships will translate face to face between the very real people behind avatars and screen names.

But by the time we settled down to dinner, the first of Evie's beautiful and delicious meals, I knew it was all going to be okay.

There is far, far more to those four days than I can begin to describe. The sessions were conversations on the art that moves us, whether listening to songwriters share insights on the craft or watching two writers express their unashamed passion for poetry. And there were no walls between us. No pretension or posturing, no sitting with the "cool people," no division between those who "made it" and those who haven't. Even when Redeemer transformed into a full-fledged concert venue for Jason Gray's album release show on Friday night, it still felt more like a bunch of friends celebrating the accomplishments of one of our own than just another event.

We gathered to enter and, just for a weekend, live among each other's stories, share some laughs and tears and food, and be present and alive.

In Marilynne Robinson's Gilead, a lovely little book that seemed to come up a lot in conversation, Heaven is described as this: "In eternity this world will be Troy, I believe, and all that has passed here will be the epic of the universe, the ballad they sing in the streets." If this is true -- and I believe it is, more than ever -- I'd like to think this weekend was a peek behind the curtain, hinting of that time. I'd like to think our new friendships will carry us further into the tale, even as we go our separate ways, and someday we’ll gather at a new table and retell Thomas McKenzie’s story about blowing up the Taylor Mart. (a true one that is already legendary)

I puzzled all weekend over a small card in my folder with the lyrics and chords to "Jesus, We Are Grateful" by Jason Gray. That song was a particularly magical moment live, with the little church about to burst with song, but I never was sure why we were given this. Now that I look back, if “Many Roads” was the welcoming, then I wonder if this was a benediction to send us back to the everyday.

"We will follow into family 
And be seated at your table 
Where matchless grace 
Of an orphan makes 
A child of God in full."

Again, I hear it. You belong.

Random Acts of Awkward Kindness. (2011 Revisited)

Originally posted August 17. More random life/humor. This goes out to my introvert friends.


Most days, I am okay with myself. By that I mean, I'm okay with being introverted, a little weird, but comfortable with my quiet, reflective personality. I used to stress all the time when people wouldn't talk to me (is there something wrong with me? Why don't they like me?) or worry if I appeared standoffish or snobby. But I learned that there's nothing wrong... it's just who I am. Over the years, I've gotten better at relating to people, just enough that sometimes I can even trick others into thinking I'm friendly and sociable. (Ha!)

But then... well... sometimes Introversion's evil sidekicks Neurotic and Insecure show up, and I am back in high school again...

Today seemed like a good day for Chinese food. I have a writing project to edit, and in the middle of a fairly busy week some time away from the office to recharge was necessary. So I grabbed my notebook and drove down the street to my favorite little quick Chinese place for some chicken and broccoli, just me, a pen and paper, and my iPod. Eating alone isn't so bad when I have a way to occupy my ears and hands.

The bad thing about this place is the small size, though every table is built for, like, six. It's not uncommon to see one or two people at a big cushy booth, and right in the middle, there's a row of tables pushed together to seat eight. Sometimes, there are empty seats everywhere, but nowhere to sit alone.

So, I saw a booth, mentally claimed it, and ordered my food, but a smart-dressed young lady grabbed it before I could finish paying. Shoot. Bewildered, I stood in the middle of the place, considering the virtues of sitting outside in Florida August.

"Do you need a seat?"

Long Table was occupied by two guys and six empty chairs. Every introvert cell in my body pushed my brain to say "no thanks," but the small and well-trained sociable part made my mouth say, "Sure. Thanks."

So I sat, at the end of the table with Friendly Hipster and Scruffy Texter. These are their names, because I never bothered to get the real names. Friendly Hipster even kindly picked up some soy sauce for me on a trip to the counter, but for the most part, I just ate my food and listened to them talk about where Scruffy Texter was going to take his girlfriend for dinner.

A billion things go through my already hyperactive mind in a situation like this. What is the proper "sitting with strangers unexpectedly" ettiquette? Politely accept, then let them have their space and conversation? Politely accept, and introduce myself? Converse, make small talk? Or should I have declined because they didn't really expect some random confused girl to actually sit with them?

And so, as Neurotic and Insecure argued over "eating-with-strangers" etiquette, I scarfed down my chicken and broccoli, fiddled with my iPod, and retreated to my comfortable happy bubble. I didn't write a word either.

Finally, as I scooted my chair back, wondering how to properly say thanks and excuse myself, Friendly Hipster smiled really big and said, "Hey, nice talking with you!"

Sarcasm? Yippee. Fortunately, I am fluent.

"You too! Thanks for the seat. Have a great day."

There's an idealistic part of me that really, truly wants to connect with people. An introverted personality (which is, I believe, a gift and not a problem that needs to be fixed) doesn't mean I don't like people. I don't want to seem standoffish, and I believe with all my heart that gestures like these make a better world. All around us are people who are made in the same image, who are loved and unique and have stories.

I want to know those stories. And I want to make everyone I meet feel loved, honored, human. That's how I feel when I'm invited to a stranger's table, but I don't know how to give it back.

So Friendly Hipster and Scruffy Texter: Thanks. Really. Perhaps someday, I'll do the same for someone else. I'm bad at small talk, but maybe I'll find a way to crack the ice, even learn their names, get a glimpse of the life that's being written. Maybe I'll share a paragraph of my story too.

But then again, you might have to talk to me first.


Have you ever unexpectedly eaten with strangers?

Village Facts (2011 Revisited)

Originally Posted July 5. I like writing these random humor posts once in a while. I should do it more often. Also, we tried again with GPS, and that didn't help either.

So this weekend, my sister and I decided to go find the Barnes & Noble 8 miles from our house. I've always known it was there, even visited once, but for some reason never actually drove there myself. Why not? I love bookstores. So we Google Mapped it and went in search of books and coffee and a quiet place for me to write.

An hour and 30 miles later, we gave it up.

See, the only B&N less than an hour from my house is in The Villages. For those who don't live around here and have never experienced the wonder that is The Villages... basically it's a cross between a touristy theme park and a beach town without a beach. But it's a retirement community.

They have special roads for golf carts. This place is hardcore.

So, after following the directions to the letter, yet driving around and around shopping areas, traffic circles, across bridges, and almost heading straight into more than one gated residential area, I made several conclusions about this magical place.

1) Navigating The Villages is worse than navigating downtown Orlando. I have inside jokes with friends about misadventures in O-Town, with or without GPS. But at least once you find I-4, it's all okay. One way roads aren't quite as scary as circle roads.

2) The Villages is Hotel California. Once I finally broke free from the actual town and found the main road home, we did a little celebrating in the car. And then here I am, driving along, and I see a billboard cheerfully announcing "The Villages! 3 miles then right!" (And yes, I literally screamed, "This place is freakin' Hotel California!!!!")

3) The Zombie Apocalypse will probably begin in The Villages. Actually, Sherri is the one who said this. And if it is, I don't want to be trapped there when Z-Day cometh.

There is one bright spot to this story... we found a yummy froyo place 3 miles from my house. Too bad it took 30 miles of driving to get there.

Moral of the Story: Take GPS next time.

The Cost of Free? (2011 Revisited)

Originally posted June 23. An intriguing topic, though I feel this only skimmed the surface... worth revisiting?


photo © 2008 my dog sighs | more info (via: WylioThis is a really strange time to be in the business of music. Between iPods, digital records, album leaks, and online radio, there is no shortage of new artists to discover and new sounds to explore. Home studios, eclectic playlists, albums streaming for weeks before street date (huzzah NPR First Listen), and the floor open for anyone to share reviews have done a lot to "level the playing field," as it were.

I admit, I consume way more than I probably should, and my dual jobs of music writer and radio girl are partly to blame, even though I suppose keeping up with as much as I can is a necessity. (and how many jobs can claim that?) Factor in Noisetrade and aforementioned album streams, and I get to hear an abnormal amount of music without spending a dime. And I love that. It's awesome to have such a vast world of sounds as close as my iPod.

But what's the cost?

I happened to catch a tweet from Ben Shive last night that got me thinking:

Huh. Interesting point. How often do I flip through my iTunes library and say, "oh! I forgot I had that!" or "Where did I get that? And why did I get that?"

I wonder if the real cost of free is that it cheapens the experience in a way. When I download an album, say from Noisetrade, because it looks cool, or even buy it from Amazon because it's cheap, sometimes I won't listen to it for weeks. Sometimes I forget it's even there.

When I buy a CD, I rip off the plastic and put it in my car stereo first chance I get. If it's good (and I usually want it to be, because I stood in line a store and paid somebody for it), I'll let it sit and spin in my player for a few listens. Maybe even days and miles. I absorb the sounds, the lyrics, the feelings. It feels more real and satisfying.

And then there's Kickstarter. I invested in a few projects this year, including Ben Shive's new record The Cymbal Crashing Clouds. To invest in something before it exists is a strange and wonderful thing that takes appreciation and attachment to a whole new level. I suspect when I get this record in my earbuds, it will become one of my newest favorites.

So again, I wonder... when it comes to art, what is the cost of free? Without some sort of exchange, does art feel less meaningful? Or is it meant to be free to reach as many ears, eyes, minds, and hearts as possible?

What do you think?

Do. Love. Walk. (2011 Revisited)

Merry Day After Christmas! In the "hustle and bustle," I forgot to schedule my last week for 2011 Revisited. Here's a post from May 6, a contribution to Rachel Held Evans' Rally to Restore Unity, in which writers across the blogosphere reflected on Christian unity.

photo © 2006 Jeff M for Short | more info (via: Wylio)In some ways, I suppose there are fringe benefits to growing up in the Christian faith but not necessarily deep in the church. For us, it was simply the thing you did on Sundays: small, quiet, Baptist, with dress clothes, hard pews, old pianos and the dry, ancient smell of hymnals. Maybe things were calmer then, or maybe at such a young age I just didn't know anything about church politics and theological drama. Christians were Christians. Easy enough.

In high school, I got my first true taste of another side when I visited a friend's more charismatic church. For a mild-mannered Baptist girl, it was like stepping into another dimension, and at first, it was amazing. By then, I was hooked on CCM and questioning some of the stronger ideas I'd discovered, and besides, the church of my younger days seemed stuffy, boring, and smelled of potlucks and old lady perfume. I wanted life, and this church felt... well, they felt! Clapping, dancing, joyful singing!

Yes, I thought, this is what Christians are supposed to look like. Happy, dangit.

It wasn't until they got to long, awkward silences and slightly frightening praying in tongues that I fully realized I was in foreign territory. Turns out this wasn't for me after all, and I found myself just as disillusioned with their concept of worship. I've had a lot of fascinations since then -- the Reformed passion for sound doctrine, the Emergent embrace of mystery, the rich history and ancient symbolism of the liturgy -- and though I've now settled in a church that feels like home and developed a nostalgic soft spot for pews and hymnals, I've come to see a kind of beauty in them all.

What is it about the people of God that makes us such a fragmented, patchwork group where the austere and emotional, the intellectual and earthy, the thinkers and feelers can all be part of the same family? Perhaps the answer's in the question.

We are a family.

A huge, sprawling, beautiful, dysfunctional family, under the head of Christ, scattered to the ends of the earth, but somehow -- somehow -- a complete body he uses to accomplish redemption.

We have our pockets of smaller families, mini-cultures, and when we cross at reunions, we may look at that crazy uncle or snobby cousin and wonder how we could possibly be related. But look closer. There are common quirks, similar features, a holy DNA that binds us with people we'd just as soon never meet, only gathering because of blood relation and Grandma's chicken and dumplings. (Assuming we're a weird Southern family. Insert your own reunion food of choice here.)

There's a reason Jesus, weeping and sweating blood in Gethsemane, prayed for us to be one. For centuries, we've fragmented and fought over many things, the important and the trivial alike, as families often do. Not all Christians are like this; thankfully, there are many, many thoughtful, nuanced, wise and loving believers who recognize that we can be united and civil without agreeing on everything, and they strengthen each other with their perspectives.

But what do we do when things get heated, when we blow up Twitter with theology wars or get in long, frustrated arguments over everything from proper reactions to a terrorist's demise to pop song lyrics? How do we scrounge together something resembling unity, so the world might see not just the two-faced broken humans we are, but the light that enters to make us something more, priests and royalty?

There's a hint, I think, tucked in the back of a book by one of the minor Prophets, long before Jesus prayed for his people on a night the world would never forget:

He has told you, O man, what is good;
And what does the LORD require of you
But to do justice, to love kindness,
And to walk humbly with your God? (Micah 6:8)

Do -- fight injustice, pursue truth and speak it in love, perhaps even give each other the benefit of the doubt and a fair listening ear before tossing a stone.
Love -- value kindness, seek understanding, and (to borrow a line from two songs) "love mercy more than being right."
Walk -- in the quiet knowledge that none of us are all right, in the truth that none of us have it all together, but by some miracle, grace doesn't leave us as it found us.


All that's required. Bigger than politics, theology, differences and debate.
This is what holds a family together.

***

(my sign! every rally needs one.)

And this is my humble contribution to the Rally to Restore Unity synchroblog hosted by Rachel Held Evans this week. If you resonate with this, I encourage you to check out some of the other posts at Rachel's blog (so much great writing!), and perhaps contribute to the Rally’s Charity:Water campaign. Because we can all agree on clean water, right?

Record Store Day 2011

Originally posted April 18, 2011. One of those "blog about stuff you love" posts... and I love Record Store Day! This was a fun one.

Five Minute Friday was forgotten due to late night birthday partying and helping eight little girls learn how to tie-dye. Never mind that I've never tie-dyed before until now. We made pink awesomeness together.

But Saturday was the best holiday ever invented... Record Store Day! The glorious day in which we wait an hour and a half just to go inside a record store and rush to find exclusive vinyl treasures and celebrate the magical world of indie music sellers.

Trust me, it's fun.

This was my second RSD experience, but the first where I knew what I was doing. Lindsay and Sherri joined me. We met up at the lovely Park Ave CDs fairly early, but not early enough to beat the epic line down the street. But somehow, even with the Florida heat and the waiting, it was still fun. People of all ages (and "scenes," if you will) gathering to pick up some elusive special or other, a local screen printing company making t-shirts in the parking lot, a great live DJ and the friendly PACDs staff making sure every one was taken care of and keeping the chaos to a minimum. We chatted and watched people and tried to guess what they were there to buy. ("What do you think Green Hair Kid is here for?" "My Chemical Romance. And some hardcore stuff.")

There's a thrill to it. It reminded me of a music festival, the real kind where you get sweaty and dirty but don't care because it's for the love of the music. (made me a little nostalgic for Cornerstone FL actually) Mostly, it feels like belonging, and reminds me once again how deeply music has become a part of my life. It's not just a nice thing... it's good and necessary, bringing people together and making the world more beautiful.

I guess, in many ways, a rather large portion of my life is devoted to this art. I can't make music to save my life. But my day job is soaked in it, I write about it, I travel with it and get it stuck in my head. There's the music I turn to for nostalgia, or comfort, or clarification, or just to get outside myself and connect with a kindred soul, some I've met, many more I haven't.

Something sacred happens between the notes, and perhaps that's why we gather around our favorite songs.

Our souls were made to sing.

By the way, this is my RSD haul. Not a whole lot, because I was trying to restrain myself, but I got what I came for...




Anberlin's Cities double vinyl: the big thing Lindsay and I were aiming for. This album has been a very important part of our lives, and this band was the initial glue of our amazing friendship. And there were two left on the shelf when we made it there. Yes!

The Civil Wars' Dance Me to the End of Love 7": My newest musical obsession. And this song, oh, this song. Pretty sure I want to dance to this at my wedding. On vinyl.

Coachella Sampler: One from the freebie table, and my most pleasant surprise. So many good songs on this from a wide variety of genres. So many artists I now think I need to delve further into. Jenny and Johnny, The Swell Season, Cee-Lo Green, Kills... ugh, there's not enough time for it all, but at least this is a great introduction.

Yep. All in all, a successful day.

Pictures at Lindsay's blog. I was going to steal them but Tumblr won't let me. But go visit her anyway, because she rocks. =)

Lenten Lesson 1

Originally posted March 23, 2011. On failing at Lent. :)


photo © 2007 Frédéric DUPONT | more info (via: Wylio)So here it is, two weeks into 40 Days of Water. I guess I should tell you bright and cheerful things about my experience... that I'm sleeping better, my caffeine withdrawal headaches are gone, I'm even making it to work on time (!) and generally feeling awesome. Water only isn't such a bad deal, and I feel honored and humbled to know I'm a small part of a movement to help bring clean water to Africa. All of that would actually be true.

It's also true that Lent is a season of making efforts in some fragile, flailing attempt to honor Christ's sacrifice, but in this yearly quest to be more like Jesus, there are some things I end up learning and re-learning every year.

So here's Lesson 1: You're only human.

In the past, giving up one small thing wasn't such a big deal. I mean I missed it and all, but I could swap my Starbucks for Earl Grey and call it a day. Giving up everything though, has been such a shift in so many habits.

One day in the first week, I went to pick up coffee for some friends at work. No big deal.

Except I was sleepy and moody and just wanted something to quell my nerves and that sick feeling and get me through the afternoon. Is it stupid to admit I was weakened by something so minor? Because yes, I was.

My internal dialogue kicked in, the conversation going something like this:

Man, I want coffee.
No, don't! Remember Africa? You're going to deny two people a year's supply of water???
I know! I didn't forget. I... I'll still count the money.
It's the principle of the thing. You didn't give anything up.
But I didn't take my Sabbath or anything. I'll repent and count double then!
You selfish dirtbag.

Something like that.

So the circle goes, appetite vs conscience, humanness vs my lofty spiritual goals, all the way up to the counter.
I tugged my sleeve over my 40 Days bracelet
and sheepishly ordered a tall iced coffee.

There I was, driving back to work depressed at my moral failure (but perking up after the caffeine), until I realized that, once again, it has nothing to do with the thing I tried to give up. I was in a wrestling match with the tension of selfless sacrifice and prideful self-righteousness.

Is it borderline blasphemy to say I pictured God chuckling and saying, "oh Jen, get over yourself and enjoy your coffee"? I sure hope not.

Sacrifice is hard. Christlikeness is a near impossibility. At least, it is if I try to do it on my own. I delight in freedom from works and legalism and condescending glares, but sometimes it's good to impose a little law on myself as a reminder.

I am bought with a price. I am being made new. I am running, struggling, condemning myself to serve pigs when back home I have a loving Father waiting to welcome me as a daughter, not a slave.

Yes, I know it's only a stupid cup of coffee. I know it's not a sin, but merely breaking my little self-made rules and in the grand scheme of things, not a big deal at all. But it did teach me something, perhaps not to be so hard on myself. That if I fail in my commitment, I can shake it off and start again.

If you're participating in 40 Days, sacrificing something else this season, or even just catching yourself struggling against your vices and demons, know this: you're only human. You're a work in progress. You will fall and you will fail, but you are precious and loved, and that's why holiness is an ongoing pursuit and in the end, grace remains to catch you.

And nothing is more comforting than that.

40 Days in the Wilderness (sort of)

Originally posted March 9, 2011. On Lent and participating in Blood:Water Mission's 40 Days of Water campaign.


Up until a few years ago, I barely understood the concept of Lent... I mean, I grew up Baptist. Relationships, not rituals. In my mind, purging on Tuesday, ashes on Wednesday, and fasting until Easter Sunday was just another "Catholic thing."

It was only several years ago that I finally understood, when I noticed that quite a few of my friends -- Protestant, non-liturgical friends -- were giving things up for Lent. Coffee, chocolate, meat... even Facebook. So I read about it. I contemplated it. I wasn't sure what to think... isn't grace enough? Does God really care if you refrain from checking your Twitter feed or grabbing a Starbucks? Doesn't he want us to enjoy life?

Then I felt it. Not in a "God told me" dramatic sort of way, but a little nudge inside.

"Give up coffee."

Um, sure. Very funny. I like my beans, but I'm not addicted. I can quit anytime I want. Freedom in Christ, yo.

My friend Jeff decided to give up meat. Not that he was a really big meat guy anyway, but he was going to live the life vegetarian for 40 days. "It's not about what you give up," he said. It was about sacrifice and self-denial. He'd been practicing the Lenten sacrifice for years.

"Give up coffee."

Well... it kind of made sense. But I wasn't sure I was ready.

Then I read this and it made even more sense:

"And lately I'd been noticing how Easter kept sneaking up on me. Suddenly it was there, without warning...which never happens with Christmas. Christmas never sneaks up on us, because we begin preparing for it as soon as we get the dishes washed after the Thanksgiving meal. I realized that was the role the Lenten season played: it made me anticipate the coming of Easter, which made the celebration of the resurrection that much more meaningful."

On Ash Wednesday, I was driving home from work, so tired I honestly thought I'd fall asleep. I stopped by Starbucks and picked up a coffee. Normally no big deal, but I felt that little tap on the shoulder again, that little vague notion that Easter did sneak up on me. Every year. It would again. It always did.

So I gave up coffee for 40 days. And then I understood.

Because that's the thing: anticipation. Sacrifice. Forty days in a self-imposed wilderness. Oh sure, giving up some luxury you could live without anyway isn't exactly bread and water. When you think about it, it's suffering lite compared to... well, anything Jesus went through.

But it shifted something in me. It wasn't about the coffee or even really the giving up. It was about looking forward to a celebration. Waiting. Expectancy.

On Easter morning, I arrived at Sea World way before dawn for the annual Sunrise Service to volunteer, greet people and collect offerings. I had never in my life been so elated to see one of those silver pots of liquid goodness. And let me tell you... for this not-morning-person, it was the best coffee ever.

But when we were there, thousands of us singing in the face of a new day breaking, I knew. In the tears and the shouts and the wild, crazy hope, I knew.

And it wasn't about the coffee.

This is my third year observing Lent, a practice that has transformed the way I look at Easter. Normally, I'd be simply swapping my cup of java for a cup of tea, but this year, the "nudge" is in a different direction, this time, looking toward Africa and the work of an organization called Blood:Water Mission.

B:WM was founded in 2004 with the mission to promote clean blood and clean water efforts in sub-saharan Africa, building wells and sharing hope in some of the world's poorest nations. They host a number of projects and campaigns throughout the year, but one of the biggest is 40 Days of Water, a nationwide campaign that coincides with the Lenten season to not only raise awareness for the clean water crisis in Africa, but also raise funds to do something about it. It's about giving up all beverages other than tap water and donating the money you save to B:WM who will in turn use it to build wells.

A dollar can provide clean water for one African for a year.

A year. For less than the cost of one typical drink eating out.

And imagine the dollars and efforts of many put together. It's sobering and inspiring all at once.





So, starting today, it's water only, with hope and knowing that redemption is happening, even now. That is the truest story of Easter.

My Least of These

Originally posted February 21, 2011


photo © 2009 Sean Hickin | more info (via: Wylio)A couple weeks ago, my sister and I ventured out to Mt. Dora to check out the local art festival. It was a beautiful day for it, just a little cool and overcast, but at least not raining. After circling downtown for a while, we finally paid the 5 bucks to secure a quiet spot behind a run-down gas station, then took the several-block walk down Fifth Avenue to find the party.

Downtown really comes alive during this festival, drawing artists from all over the country with colorful booths to display, share, and sell their work. But there was one group I didn't expect to see...

Sign-carrying street evangelists. Yup.

A small crowd in red t-shirts, holding up garish signs announcing that Jesus Loves You and Repent Before It's Too Late and such. A gray-haired Southern preacherly type paced back and forth announcing, "God wants to have a relationship with you! You think you can serve God however you want and still be saved? You can't just have it on your terms!" They were everywhere, stretched across the entrance to the festival, lining the sidewalks to hand tracts off to anyone they could.

I don't say this to be rude or disparaging toward them. Actually, with the exception of the preacher and the loud signs and the fact that they were kind of clogging up the entrances, they weren't doing anything disruptive, mostly just hanging back and offering tracts. I remember the guy that used to stand on the corner at UCF, handing out horror tracts and screaming at students in an effort to get them saved, so these guys were nothing in comparison to him.

But there was still something... I don't know... embarrassing about it? Maybe because CynicalJen was holding her breath waiting for them to do something crazy? As a Christian, I cringe a little inside at this sort of thing, because I know there was a time I would've relished being a part of this. Now, I just wonder if anyone's ever been argued into the kingdom with a badly-designed tract when they wanted to shop for art. I wished that they had perhaps been giving out water or something, doing tangible things, loving on people.

I thought about them all day. And later, I had a scary thought.

Like it or not, I am part of the same Kingdom family. I'm supposed to love these people.

“The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’" - Matthew 25:40

We all know this verse.... the one about loving the least of these. From the earliest days of learning Jesus' teachings, we hear that when we treat the least either kindly or terribly, we are, in a sense, treating God the same. And often, this is interpreted to mean loving the poor, because right before this he was talking about food and clothing and visiting the sick and imprisoned.

But what if the least of these is more than that?

Loving the poor is easy. I can do that. I can love the lost and the losers, orphans and widows. Even enemies can be easier to love, because at least you don't expect much of anything from them.

But what about those right in my own family? What if "the least" includes the least popular, the least lovable, the least "normal"?

What about the legalists and cynics?
The screaming street preachers and smiling televangelists?
The sheltered and scared, too chained to religiosity and rule lists to realize they're free, tossing stones at those who stretch their wings to fly a little further?

Oh God... do I have to love the Westboro Baptist people too? That's really pushing it.

These are the hardest for me to love, and try as I might, I don't think I really can... at least, not in my bent, all too fragile human way. Oh, but I want to. I long to be so full of of Christ's light and love that it overflows and evaporates in the air around me. I want to radiate just the smallest fraction of the love that brings dead things to life and undoes the chilling winter of the soul, even if only enough to warm the ice.

I don't know how to get there, other than let him love through me and try, in the tiniest of ways, to see them as human, and yet more than that... beloved, sacred, crafted in the Maker's image.

Just as I've been seen. known. loved.

Who is your "least of these"?

Why I Hope You Don't Read My Blog (2011 revisited)

So the Advent series is pretty much concluding, with a Christmas post next Sunday, of course. (!) In the meantime, I thought I'd steal an idea from Jon Acuff and spend the last ten weekdays of 2011 reposting ten favorites of the year. Whether you've seen them before or not, I hope you enjoy revisiting these with me!


This was originally written February 2. And I needed to read it again now. Enjoy!

photo © 2009 Markus | more info (via: Wylio)I've never been a fan of saying "God told me so." I've heard it said, and I believe it happens, but I never really had it happen to me. At least, not in a "voice-from-the-clouds-says-do-this" sort of way.

But it happens. Differently. It's more like a subtle needling, a little quiet poke here and there that works into my soul until I can't shake it. Sometimes, it's like God and the whole universe keeps setting down these little rocks for me to trip on until I learn. Typically, it's running into a truth over and over until it finally slaps me in the face and makes me listen.

This happened during our staff devotions last Thursday. We just started a study on Biblical peacemaking, but oddly enough, this lesson taught me about writing and fear.


To be honest, I don't fully remember why Esteemed Sensei Reggie Kidd referenced Albert Camus' The Plague in this lesson. (In fact, I'm going to confess to the Internet and the world that I was trying to catch up on my reading because I failed to do my homework the week before. Sorry, Sensei.) I think it was in a discussion of how the ultimate end of the deadly sins of pride and sloth is death, either murder or suicide in some fashion. But then he said something that snapped me back to attention...

There's this character in the book who's a writer. But he never finishes or shares, only talks about writing, and spends his days endlessly revising and tweaking and dreaming. All because he fears rejection.

And that, in a way, is "an extended form of suicide."

Ouch.

Just an hour later, I found that my writerly blogfriend Kristin shared a link to this on Twitter: Why You Secretly Want to Fail (Or Why Sharing Your Creativity is Like the Dream Where You're Naked) Turns out it's about how creatives suppress themselves to please others, proposing that some of us want to fail:

"Because if we bare all in our work, and our work is rejected, then we feel rejected as a whole person. We think we are our work."

Um... double ouch.


I am guilty of this. I hide my poetry in notebooks. I demean my work with names like scribblings and ramblings. Shoot, every time I post something on this blog, I second-guess and secretly hope nobody reads it (which is dumb, because if I didn't want anyone to read my stuff, I wouldn't have a stupid blog in the first place.) My most vulnerable (and often, my favorite) posts languish forever in a drafts folder, because I don't want to annoy anyone or go too far.

And yet, the blogs and stories and poetry and songs I am most drawn to are vulnerable. Honest. True. Things I desperately want to be, but seldom manage to pull off.

Extended suicide. That rings in my head.


I used to think my reluctance to share things I write was a kind of modesty, but these two little tripping stones taught me that it may be the opposite. I always believed stringing words together -- or any form of creativity -- was a gift, the sort of weird compulsive thing that gets in your blood and defines you forever.

So if it's that entwined in who you are, isn't denying and suppressing that thing actually smothering a deep, mysterious, beautiful part of your God-breathed being?

Ugh. So conflicting.

As I finish this, I'm second-guessing hitting the "publish post" button. I'm worried you'll think this is another whiny, self-indulgent, emo tortured writer tale, and I'm sure it possibly could be. But I also feel a need to name the fear and insecurity before I can go on. Hey, I might even share a link to this and start admitting I do this writing thing so people will actually read it. Who knows?


After reading the post, I tweeted Kristin to thank her and share the irony of her timing, concluding with "I think I'm supposed to learn something today..."

She replied, "yes, I think maybe you are supposed to learn something today. God is pretty wise, eh? :)"

Oh yes, yes he is.

Advent: Peace

"You could've swept in like a tidal wave
Or an ocean to ravish our hearts
You could have come through like a roaring flood
To wipe away the things we've scarred

But you came like a winter snow
You were quiet
You were soft and slow
Falling from the sky in the night
To the earth below..."

***

Busy week. I didn't get to write a post about peace... but that's okay. I'll just let Audrey Assad's lovely song speak for itself. :)

Advent: Joy

"No more let sins and sorrows grow
Nor thorns infest the ground;
He comes to make his blessings flow
Far as the curse is found,
Far as the curse is found..."

***

This verse rarely seems to make the cut in modern versions of "Joy to the World." Maybe it's because hymns are often lengthy and difficult to get the head and voice around, or maybe thoughts of sorrow, thorns, and curses don't exactly drum up holiday cheer. But a lot of truth is in that forgotten third verse; it captures the soul of Advent, the waiting, the intense anticipation for reversal.

Far as the curse is found. Maybe farther. Hope, renewal, joy, flooding across the nearly-dead earth to drown the weeds.

The first great curse is that we toil, surviving by sweat and tears and waging battle against thorns and drought and disease. Of course the beauty is there, but our joys and sustenance are tempered by futility, the sense that we can never do enough, or be enough, or win.

But take heart, because the memory of Paradise sustains us, and the hope for renewal leads the way from winter's bitter sting to spring's gentle rain. The reversal has begun, and with the with heaven and nature we can sing.

Joy to the weary, broken, beautiful world.

Advent: Love

"No hiding place
Ever kept her safe
So she hides inside herself.
Now to reach her heart
The only way
Is to hide in there as well
I will hide
in there
as well...."

***

It's a mystery, this Incarnation thing. It's no small wonder that into our chaos, peace could only come like this, quietly. In our human way, we would have expected a Messiah to be the kind that split the sky open, bellowing "Enough!" and slaying the evil, righting all that was broken. Wouldn't that be appropriate to a Pillar of Fire God, a God of Justice and Holiness?

But would we accept? Would we love? Or would we "die from the fear"?

Maybe the messy beauty of the Incarnation is in its simplicity and audacity. Star Igniter, World Shaper, one who could fling planets like pebbles into the universe then tenderly breathe life into a fistful of dirt, descending and entering among us, knit together in the womb of a frightened yet faithful girl, only to be born in the dirt and stench of a barn.

"How could she not love the helpless babe who is waking in her womb?" 
How could we run from a Redeemer who loved enough to bend so low to meet us?

***

This song captures the spirit of Advent to me more than just about anything. And it messes me up every time I hear it. In a good way.